Earth Angel

by Tanicus

The valley of the shadow of death stretches from boofoo Afghanistan to smalltown USA, and washed-out Air Force veteran Beatrice Lynch is dead set on being the meanest motherfucker in the valley.

4. Oblivion

Fred's shaking, calloused hand reached out to push aside cigarette butts and sweep empty beer bottles off the nightstand. Glass shattered on the floor as his fingers wrapped around the creased, faded Polaroid resting in the ashes and dust. He gently lifted it up and held it above the spot where he laid in the middle of the large, neatly made bed. His hard gaze softened, and for a moment, it almost felt like the scruffy, baggy-eyed, baggy-clothed man in the photograph was still here with him.

Resting the photo atop his broad chest, he reached into the pocket of his distressed black jeans and pulled out a switchblade. Flicking it open, he closed his eyes as he twisted the point into the tip of his ring finger. He tucked the knife back into his pocket and took a tentative look at the blood beading up from the little cut before his gaze shifted to the stubbled face of the man in the picture. With a sigh, he dragged the finger across the man's neck and left a little trail of red there.

Fred set the Polaroid on the pillow beside him and hoped he was resting well, wherever he was.

Dragging himself out of bed, he paced around the room, bits of glass crunching under his scuffed cowboy boots, the dim lamplight casting hard shadows into his eye sockets. He stopped suddenly and whipped around, plowing his fist through the drywall. He pulled it out and shook off the dust as he stared into the numerous other holes riddling the crumbling wall.

Turning his back to the ruins, he sat down on the floor and ran his hands over his face and through his graying chestnut hair. His phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?" he said, his voice hoarse.

"Good evening, Freddie. My niece and I are in need of a delivery," the old woman said. "A little pick-me-up. You know, the usual."

"I'm busy."

He could hear the old woman on the other end chuckle. "Now, now, my little workhorse. Stewing in your trailer hardly counts as being busy. It would do you good to get out for a bit."

"I just went out earlier."

"My dear boy, how we already miss you so! Would you really deprive two ladies of your presence?"

"Alriiight, fine! I'll head over n' a minute."

"Wonderful. We'll be waiting."

The line went dead and Fred flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out the black leather horse mask and slipped it snugly over his head. He stood and walked out of the bedroom, the sound of his boots clomping against the marred floor echoing through the desolate trailer.

---

Adelaide set the phone receiver down and brought the smoking cigarette to her lips. Fixing her squinted eyes on her young niece, she sat back and exhaled a plume of smoke. "He should be here soon, my sheep. And in the meantime, I believe you and I have a few little things to discuss."

"Ah, yes… That…" Lorna kicked back in the loveseat, swinging her legs over the armrest. "Fred and I went to her apartment earlier. She wasn't home."

"How convenient." The old woman's forehead creased as she tapped her ashes into the porcelain dish on the coffee table. "Luck of the Irish, I suppose. But it'll run out soon. It always does, whenever someone is foolish enough to cross the Beast." She closed her eyes as a slight, warm smile curled across her lips.

"How is Mr. Edelwood doing? It must be awful, for a man like him to be locked up in such a cramped little cell."

"Yes, the man does enjoy the fresh air," Adelaide said. "He's holding up; the guards know better than to give him a hard time. Though I did receive a rather… perturbed phone call from him earlier. I'm sure you heard about the little gaff in today's paper."

"Mhmm…"

"I told him I'd have it fixed by tomorrow, but you know how fussy he gets sometimes. Though I can't blame the man; I'm sure the trial's got him very high-strung."

"Fix the paper or fix..?"

"Both, God willing."

Lorna sat up in the chair, lacing her hands over her knees. "Auntie?"

"Yeeeess, child?"

"Do you really think…" She stopped and looked to the ground before bashfully glancing up at Adelaide with big eyes. "Do you think Beatrice really has to die?"

Adelaide frowned and puffed on her cigarette.

"I mean, she must be… tired, and hurting. I'm sure she won't get in our way again."

The older woman reached over and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Where is this foolishness coming from, Lorna? No one crosses the Beast without paying the ultimate price. Plenty of dime-a-dozen thugs and hoodrats meet the same fate every other week, why are you suddenly so worked up over a potbellied junkie?"

Lorna pulled her knees in to her chest and looked away. "I- I don't know, I just thought that maybe-"

"Enough, Lorna. I don't want to hear it. Lynch is going to die one way or another and that's that." Adelaide took another cigarette from the carton on the end table. "You're spending too much time around older women, dear. It's clouding your judgment."

The pale girl's face flushed. "It's not like that, Auntie. I just-"

There was a loud knocking at the door. Adelaide motioned with her hand before lighting her cigarette and bringing it to her lips. Lorna stood and straightened out her skirt as she walked across the dimly lit room. She opened the door to see the strong man in the leather jacket and horse mask standing beneath the porchlight.

"Hey, little girl. Is your Auntie home?"

"Ever the charmer, Fred," Lorna said, stepping aside to let him in. She followed behind him and soon retook her place curled up on the loveseat.

"Freddie, there you are! So good to see you," Adelaide said, smoke pouring from her mouth. "Did you bring me what I asked for?"

The horse man reached into his jacket and pulled out two baggies. He tossed them both to the coffee table, and Adelaide leaned forward and examined the fuzzy green buds and fine white powder.

"Very nice product, my boy. You make an old woman very happy," she said, sitting back and crossing her arms. "In fact, I think such nice product deserves better payment than some smelly old crumpled-up dead presidents, don't you?"

"No."

"Think about it for a moment, won't you? What could make your night better than a nice hit or two and a turn with my niece?" She took a drag from her cigarette and didn't notice Lorna tense up as she stared, wide-eyed, at the huge man in the center of the room. "You can't put a price on that, Freddie."

The horse head slowly turned, the empty eye sockets contemplating the young girl for a moment. He looked back at the older woman. "Stop playin' games with me, Adelaide. I want cash."

Adelaide scowled. "I'll get you interested in the fairer sex or die trying, Fred."

Fred crossed his arms. "Pay up. Now."

"Alright, young man, you drive a hard bargain. But I have an offer you simply can't refuse. Go look in that cupboard over there," she said, pointing over her shoulder with her cigarette.

Fred stared her down as his boots thumped across the floor to the kitchen. He reached up and opened the cabinet with a drawn-out creak, and a little gleam of light glinted at him from the darkness of the back corner. Grabbing out the glass vial, he held it up in the light. "KCN," the label read in a fine, fading script. He glanced over his shoulder at Adelaide.

"Come here," she said. He obeyed, lingering at the side of the couch. She held up the baggie of white heroin. "You and I both know that you like to cut your product, boy."

"I never cut my-"

"Yes you do. But I won't judge." She pressed the baggie into his hand. "I'm going to look the other way. And I'm going to give you something far more valuable than money: vengeance."

Fred stared down at the vial and the powder in his hands, his heavy breaths echoing through the thick leather.

"The woman who killed your friend in cold blood and desecrated his remains…" Adelaide smiled as she watched Fred's hands clench. "…Happens to have a nasty little habit. And I'm sure she'd appreciate a good fix now more than ever. And yours is the best, isn't it Freddie-boy?"

He rolled the vial over and over in his fingers. "Yeah, it is."

"Now, I have to warn you not to use too much of this cutting agent; it's very, very potent. Deadly, even in small amounts."

"Mhm."

"We're talking less than a milligram per pound here." Adelaide leaned forward and turned her head. "Lorna, you got a good look at her, about how much would you say..?"

The lightest dusting of warm pink settled on Lorna's cheeks. "Hundred and ninety, if we're being generous. M-mostly muscle…"

Fred glanced over his shoulder. "Jeezus, that's a big lady."

"She's a brick house," she murmured, looking away and covering her face with the slender hand resting under her jaw.

Adelaide sat back and blew out a cloud of smoke. "So now I'm sure you understand the importance of careful measurements…"

"Don't worry, ma'am," he said, "I'm nothin' if not careful."

"I'm sure you are, my boy." Adelaide brought the cigarette to her smiling lips. "Is that good enough payment for you?"

"All I ever needed," he said, slipping the baggie and the vial into his jacket pockets. He held out his hand to Adelaide, and she took it and fretted over the cut on his finger for a moment before shaking with him.

"Pleasure doing business with you, my little workhorse."

The two released and the room became quiet and still. The horse head sat high atop its monolith of scuffs and bruises and hard muscle, silently surveying the den of depravity. The older woman took a long drag and seemed to forget his presence. The younger girl stared up at him deeply with pale, anxious eyes. He looked down and tugged his mask tighter around his head, then strode across the soft old rug and disappeared through the front door.

The lingering silence and stillness in the little house only broke with the tiny crunch of Adelaide's cigarette butt against the porcelain ashtray. She glanced over at the girl in the loveseat. "Don't look so sad, dear." Sliding open the rickety end table drawer, she took out the glass pipe and handed it to Lorna, then passed her the plastic bag from the coffee table. "Smoke this and forget about whatever wickedness is going on in your head."

The pale girl curled up and opened the baggie, pulling off a few pieces from one of the fat, orange-haired buds and packing them into the bowl. She placed the pipe against her lips and leaned forward, and Adelaide flicked the flint wheel and dipped the little flame to crackle the dry leaves. Lorna laid back in the seat and took a long pull before holding the pipe out to the older woman.

Adelaide looked over at the girl through lidded eyes. Slowly, she reached out and took the pipe, bringing it to her lips and taking a few small puffs. She watched Lorna languidly recline, smoke streaming from the girl's nose as she propped her head up against her hand, smoky eyelids fluttering shut. "What are you thinking about, child?" the old woman said.

"Hmmm…" Lorna sighed, exhaling the last of her hit. "Nothing."

"Good," Adelaide said, handing the pipe and lighter back. "Keep it that way. And before long, this little problem will be off our hands, Fred will finally stop wearing that stupid mask, and Beastie will walk free. Everything will go back to normal, Lorna. You'll see."

The girl curled up a little deeper in the loveseat.

"You know, I'm sure Mr. Edelwood will be very happy to see you. It's been so long. Once he's back to his old ways again, he'll have something nice for you. You're like a niece to him too, you know."

"Did he tell you that?"

Adelaide laid down on her side. "We are all trees in his forest, dear. All he asks of us is to obey him."

But how could a young woman stay obedient when there were such beautiful creatures running amuck out there? Mr. Edelwood's forest stretched far and wide, but what a cruel man he was to tempt her with an untouchable tree! She could hardly bear the thought of her one and only forbidden fruit rotting away on the vine. She took another long hit from the bowl, but the troublesome thought lingered in her mind.

Sighing away the lungful, she set the pipe to the side and stretched across the seat, her smooth legs dangling over the armrest. She stared up into the warm glow of the ceiling, suddenly feeling very, very lonely. Auntie Adelaide and Fred and Mr. Edelwood all made for nice company, and even Auntie Whispers on a good day, but still, there was something they could not give her. Right now, she wanted nothing more than a pair of strong arms around her.

Strong, tattooed arms attached to a glorious bullet-wounded body…

Lorna sat up quickly, reaching down the front of her sweater and pulling out her phone. She glanced down at the blank screen. "Ah, Auntie Adelaide, I-I've got to go," she said. "Auntie Whispers needs me."

"Let me guess, she forgot how to eat again?"

"That's not a very nice thing to say about your sister."

"Please, Lorna. We both know she isn't too fond of me either. I'm sure she's gotten herself all worked up over you hanging around here so much lately. She just doesn't understand business, I suppose. But go on," Adelaide said, waving her hand, "You wouldn't want to keep an old bird waiting."

"Thank you, Auntie." Lorna stood and made haste to the front door. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight. Oh, and Lorna?" Her niece paused and glanced over her shoulder. Adelaide peered at her through beady, piercing eyes. "For God's sake, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Of course, Auntie." But Auntie Adelaide didn't have 190 pounds of savory, delectable meat getting dangerously close to its expiration date. Stepping outside and shutting the door behind her, she made her way down the porch steps and looked over the street. She saw the black '78 Mustang still sitting in the driveway.

There was a tap on the window, and the black horseman in the driver's seat looked up from the digital scale balanced on his knee to see a pale face staring back at him. He rolled down the window and rested his elbow there. "Whaddaya want?"

"Hi, Fred," she said, her voice little more than a breathy sigh. Her slender fingers stroked over the sleeve of his leather jacket and he jerked away from her touch. "You know, there's really no rush," she said. "You don't want to be out any later tonight anyway, do you?"

"I got a job to do."

"Oh, yes, I know." She leaned against the car. "But what difference would it make, if she died tonight or tomorrow? She might not even be home yet. It would be a waste of a trip."

He was quiet for a moment. She could feel him frowning at her. "What's it matter to you?"

"All I'm saying is, if she were home…" She paused, nonchalantly examining her nails. "…You wouldn't want to bother her too late, you know? Since she's got a mean streak and all."

Fred reached down into his pocket. He held up his switchblade, leaned through the window, and flicked it open. "I don't care."

"Alright," she said, stepping away from the car, "but when you're lying on Auntie's coffee table, and I'm picking lead out of you… don't say I didn't warn you."

Fred craned his neck, peering through the eyeholes as her slight figure vanished into the darkness, reappearing for brief moments in the glow of streetlights. She turned down another street and disappeared behind the side of a house. "Dumb slut," he muttered, shaking his head and pulling himself back through the window. Dumping the rest of the vial into the bag of white heroin, he tied it off, tossed the scale in the glovebox, and slowly pulled out of the driveway.

---

Lorna knelt before the door at the end of the hallway, beset on all sides by stained carpeting and unpatched walls. She dipped her head down and reached behind to pluck a bobby pin from her hair. Bending it straight, she slid it into the slit below the door handle. After a minute of work, there came the telltale click, and she turned the handle and crept inside the black apartment.

She gently eased the door shut behind her and looked around. The apartment was already familiar to her, having visited some hours before, and she breathed in deeply the sweet scent of stale cigarettes and death. She immersed herself in the temple of unbound human savagery, wading through the shadowy forms of beer bottles and pizza boxes looming in the edges of pitch darkness. Stopping beside the ruins of a coffee table, she admired the tableau of empty cigarette packs stacked up next to an energy drink can, surrounded by several candy wrappers and one old needle. It was a shrine to the undying lioness, deep in the heart of her den. Lorna turned her head and stared through the doorway at the other end of the apartment. She followed the trail of bottles, cans and cigarette butts to the bedroom, and there her lioness lay, silent and still atop the stained sheets hanging off the bed.

Had Lorna not known any better, she'd say she were already dead.

Stepping around the metal bedframe, she laced her hands in front of her and stood at Beatrice's side. The moonlight through the crumpled blinds left stripes across the older woman's face, and Lorna saw the rare, temporary peace that resided there. She ran her fingers through Beatrice's long, wavy hair as she looked around the bedroom. Turning around, she saw a closet door slightly ajar, a pile of old T-shirts and jeans spilling out of it. She slid it open and several beer bottles rolled out.

Her gaze shifted upward to the few shirts remaining on the hangers. She sifted through them. Led Zeppelin… Motörhead… Miller Lite… she stopped as her fingers touched an older, softer fabric than before. It was a light gray shirt, printed with the words AIR FORCE ACADEMY in crackling navy-blue ink. And there beside it, at the end of the narrow closet, was an olive drab flight suit. She ran her fingers across the coarse material in awe until her touch wandered over a haphazard line of stitches running down the back. She stroked it gently, her gaze drifting downward to the frayed leg cuffs. Her eyes widened as she saw the barrel of a gun poking up out of the mess on the floor and leaning against the wall. Kneeling, she dug through the dirty clothes and pulled out the battered Kalashnikov. She ran her hand over the weapon, from the grimy metal to the smooth grip. She felt a little row of lines carved into the wood and carefully traced them with her finger.

Tally marks.

Thirteen.

She quickly set the rifle down and stood, glancing over her shoulder at the older woman lying sprawled out in the middle of the bed. What a brutal, charming creature she was. How many more secrets did she have, just waiting to be uncovered? Lorna sighed and paced around to the other side of the bed. Those mysteries would be taken to her grave, it seemed. How cruel it was, to leave a poor girl wondering!

Lorna slowly crawled atop the mattress and curled up at the mad brute's side, resting her head where her firm shoulder connected with her broad chest. Her slender fingers traced down her neck to the collar of her shirt, and she began to slip the buttons from their loops. She was welcomed by the bruises and bitemarks she knew very well, now looking more purplish-brown than the last time she had seen them, and the faded bluish tattoos broken by bullet holes. Unbuttoning the last few buttons, she found plastic bag resting on the woman's belly. Lorna shifted it just enough so that the label laid in a moonbeam. Morphine Sulfate – IV USE ONLY, it read.

Oh, what a clever, conniving woman. Lorna lifted the IV bag, revealing the image of a gallows pole on the skin of Beatrice's stomach. The woman twitched.

"Hrrmph… Huh, hwah..? Hey- what're you…" She picked her heavy head up off the pillow. "Who..? What the hell..?"

"Shh, it's alright, I won't hurt you," Lorna murmured, her pale blue eyes staring down at Beatrice with a twisted fondness. She gently stroked across her lap and slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a needle. She stuck it into the bag and drew out some of the fluid. "I won't hurt you."

"Hey, wait a minute-" Beatrice moved to push herself up as the needle slid into her forearm. She slowly slipped back down as the fluid warmed her veins. Her eyelids drooped, and she stared up into the pale blue eyes looming over her. The girl laid beside her, wrapping her slender arms around her muscle-packed frame, dipping her head into the nook of her neck and breathing in her scent.

"I won't hurt you."

Beatrice's breathing grew deep and slow. Closing her eyes, she laced her hands atop the girl's back.

"You won't hurt anymore."

Beatrice slipped away.

---

The combat boots strode across the hot pavement, and hot gusts of air and sand whooshed around the helmet. She stood before the F-16, and the old dog padded up alongside her and ran excited little laps around her long legs. She knelt down to pet his head and scratch behind his ears, and he stared up at her with his tongue dangling out of his mouth. She couldn't remember his name.

"Go back inside," she said, her knees surprisingly limber as she stood upright again, "it's not safe for you out here." The dog scampered out of view.

She looked back up to the fighter jet, a bright beam of sunlight glinting off the open canopy. Her chest suddenly grew heavy and tight, the burning desert air wheezing through her lungs. Bowing her head, she fitted her oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, and when she looked up again, her visor was filled with miles of pale blue sky. She gazed out through the cockpit into the peaceful nothingness. Her muscles relaxed and cool blood floated all throughout her. Gently easing the stick into a turn, gravity made itself scarce. The ground became the sky and back again as the jet rolled lazily through the air. She eased a little deeper into the pilot's seat, and there was no pressure, and there was no pain.

A faint buzzing sound drifted into her ears. She glanced to the spot where the radio ought to be, but it became lost in the array of switches and buttons and displays that she once knew like the back of her hand. The buzz shifted to a sharp crackle, and garbled voices spewed from the radio as deafening alarm beeps pulsed through the cockpit.

"SAM lock… BB… Break right..!"

The pilot glanced over her shoulder to see a thin trail of smoke crossing in front of the sun. Her rapid huffs of breath echoed through the mask as her shaking hand jerked the stick to the right. The jet made a sharp turn and she felt the forces of gravity coil around her, crushing her large frame and squeezing the air from her chest.

"BB, are you there? Status..!"

The pilot set her jaw, her sharp intakes of air stabbing at her lungs. The Fighting Falcon's engine roared as she cut across the sky.

"Break! Break!" The radio transmission fizzled out into a blanket of static.

She rammed the stick forward and the jet's nose dipped. "Aaaagh, God!" she cried as she barreled towards the earth, her stomach leaping up into her throat.

"Altitude… Altitude… Altitude…" the monotone warning repeated.

The pilot pulled the jet back up, and in her fading periphery, she saw the surface-to-air missile hit the ground and throw up a great burst of sand, flame and smoke. She clenched the control stick, her face hardening and her muscles tensing as the F-16 climbed through the air. She leveled out the jet, closed her eyes, and waited. The radio crackled, but the words that came out were crystal clear: "Another SAM launch, southwest!"

The haunting warning ended with a sharp pop of static. She opened her eyes, and a deep, gentle lull floated through the light crackling: "BB… Obey me… BB… Obey me… BB… Obey me…"

She let go of the controller as the words repeated again and again, and the Viper sailed through the sun. Fuzzy, distorted images flashed through the fluorescent green light of the head-up display. She stared deeply, and mutilated figures began to take form in the beams – decapitated and eviscerated bodies drenched in blood, slumped over counters and sprawled across dusty floors. The radar chirped and the alarms sounded, but the soothing voice remained. "Obey me… Obey me… Obey me…"

A thundering sound blasted through the pilot's head as her body jerked forward against the harness. Black smoke spiraled all around the canopy as the jet dived nose-first on the long way down from the heavens. As the ground grew nearer, red hell swirled in the pilot's eyes. She rocked the stick back and forth in desperation, and the ground grew nearer still. The ringing faded from her ears and twisted screaming cut through the alarms.

"AL-UZZA! AL-UZZA! ALSHAYTAN AL'AMRIKIU!"

She took a deep breath and yanked on the ejection handle, staring for a few seconds at the detached yellow cord in her grip as she remained firmly seated in the cockpit. Gritting her teeth, she awaited the outburst from her lips:

"Son of a-!"

---

There was a heavy pounding at the door. Beatrice awoke with a start, gasping for air with beads of sweat on her forehead and her arms wrapped tight around the skinny woman at her side. Shoving her away, she sat up in bed and dragged her hands down her face, rubbing her eyes. "Where… where the hell did you come from? How did you get here?"

The girl folded her arms and shrank away from Beatrice. "Ah, I- I…"

"'I- I- I' what?' Spit it out!" Beatrice said, reaching over her and turning on the lamp at the nightstand. Her eyes widened at the sight of the pale woman with the blue irises and the deep eyebags and the stringy hair and nice clothes. "Wait, you?" She got up and stepped back from the bed. Looking down, she realized her floral-print shirt was unbuttoned. She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. "Jiminy Christmas, what did I do this time…"

The knocking grew louder. Frowning, Beatrice dragged her hand down her face again with a groan. She balled her fists at her sides and began to head out of the bedroom. She lingered at the doorframe, looking over her shoulder and pointing a rigid finger at Lorna. "Stay here."

"Wait," Lorna said, her voice wavering, "don't answer it," but Beatrice had already left the room.

She stumbled down the hall, half conscious, a gust of desert wind blowing through her smoldering brain. Wading through the trash of the living room, she flicked on the light, rubbed her eyes, and opened the door a crack. There was a tall man in a leather mask standing there, basking in the dim, flickering hallway light. Beatrice moved to shut the door, but he jammed the toe of his cowboy boot in the opening.

"Hold on there, miss," he said, "I'm offering goods and services that I believe ya might just be in the market for."

Beatrice had to look up to meet the black holes of his eyes, something she wasn't used to. She didn't like it. "Go away, man. You're freakin' me out."

"You look like you could stand to relax a little," he said, reaching into his pocket. Beatrice's grip on the doorknob tensed, and Fred strained to push it open a little wider with his other hand. He pulled out the little baggie of heroin. "Now, this here is some gen-yoo-wine, bonafide blow, straight from the opium fields of Afghanistan, pure as the driven snow. And I'm sure you'll find my prices beyond reasonable."

She stared down at the white powder, an itch working its way up her veins. She ran her fingers through her hairline to the back of her scalp, tugging on the red locks before resting her hand on the doorframe. "Is this… is this some kinda prank or something?"

"No jokes, ma'am. Just good ol' fashioned wholesome door-to-door salesmanship."

"I'm not interested; ain't nothin' good ever come outta Afghanistan. Get lost."

"Alright, I don't mind doin' this the hard way." He tossed the baggie away and whipped out his switchblade. Beatrice rammed her shoulder against the door with all her weight and was sent stumbling backward when the larger man kicked it open. Flipping the knife in his hand, he stepped into the apartment with an upward swing. The tip of the blade caught against her cheek and sliced up into her left eyebrow. She held her bleeding face in her hand before glancing up at the glint of the switchblade in the air. Fred reached out and yanked at a handful of her hair as he drove the knife downward. Beatrice's bloodied hand caught his wrist and struggled to hold him back, the shaking blade inching closer to her throat. With hunted eyes, she looked into her attacker's inhuman face, shrouded in black.

She broke out in a cold sweat as nausea and adrenaline swirled around in her gut. Fred plowed his fist into it and vomit spewed from her mouth and splattered against his jacket. He looked down and huffed in disgust, his rage bound and simmering beneath the mask. Rearing back, he cracked his knuckles against her face. He struck her again and again, bruising her eye and busting her lip. Her strength failing, Beatrice grabbed at Fred's knife-wielding arm with her other hand, blood dripping from her nose as she bowed her head.

He wrestled against her grip for a moment, grunting in frustration. Unable to break it, he placed his hand on her shoulder and drove his knee upward between her legs. Beatrice doubled over, clinging to his wrist for dear life, heaving as she panted.

Fred's gaze drifted past the crumpled woman's form to the hallway, where he saw the pale girl hovering at the edge of the shadows, a timid look on her gaunt face and an AK-47 held low in her hands. He froze. "…Lorna?"

Beatrice's right hand slipped from Fred's arm and shot up under the horse's muzzle into his jaw. He stumbled back, stunned, his hands floating downward as the knife slipped from his fingers. Lorna called Beatrice's name and she turned, reaching out just in time to catch the rifle.

Fred shook his head, his dizzied vision coming back into focus to see the redhead holding the weapon at her hip. He stared down the barrel for a long second before turning heel and scrambling out the door. Beatrice shouldered the rifle, watched him sprint down the hallway, and pulled the trigger. The Kalashnikov gave an empty click, and she lowered it to see that the magazine had been removed. Slowly, breathing hard, she smeared away the blood from her nostrils with the back of her hand and flicked the droplets to the carpet. She dragged her feet to the door and pushed it shut, thumb-turning the deadbolt and sliding the chain lock into place.

She looked over her shoulder at the girl standing mannequin-still in the hall. Holding up the rifle, she approached her, pointing to the empty magazine well. "You tryna get me killed?"

"N-no, I was just-"

Beatrice stepped closer to Lorna, and the smaller woman backed deeper into the shadows. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"W-what?"

"You break into my apartment, drug me, go through my things…" She dropped the gun and kept walking. "…And when another degenerate in a mask shows up here and tries to kill me, it's just a coincidence that he knows you by name, huh?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know him, I swear! I didn't mean you any harm, I just-"

Beatrice reached out and snatched Lorna by the throat. She shoved her against the wall, wringing a gasp from her lips. A trickle of blood dripped from her furrowed brow into her green eye. "You better tell me what's goin' on real quick, whore."

Beatrice's rage was a beautiful thing, but being on the receiving end of it made Lorna feel sick inside. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Please don't hurt me, please, I'm so sorry..."

The back of the older woman's hand struck her cheek. "Shut up!" Reaching down into her pocket, she fished out the folded $100-and-change and held it up in front of the girl's reddened, weeping face. "Is this what you want? Take it!" Tossing the money at her, Beatrice unwrapped her fingers from the girl's throat and stepped back, holding her arms out at her sides. "Either kill me and get it over with or leave me the hell alone!"

Lorna held her cheek in her hand, shuddering gently as she smeared the dripping mascara. Through the shadows of the hallway, she saw deep pain and rage eating away at the woman standing before her, with her shirt hanging open and bruises as numerous as her freckles dotted all over her body. Lorna placed her hand over her mouth. With a few cautious steps, she approached Beatrice and wrapped her slender arms around her, and the older woman lowered her arms and tilted her head down. The younger girl pressed the side of her face against Beatrice's chest, slicking the little drips of blood across the bare skin. After a moment of hesitation, she felt Beatrice's heavy arms resting on her shoulders, her big hands laced in the middle of her back.

The older woman gave a shaky sigh and leaned against the wall, pulling the girl in close. She rested her chin on the crown of Lorna's head. "What do you want from me, kiddo?"

Lorna wanted many things from her. She pulled back, reaching up with feather-light fingers to stroke Beatrice's jaw. "I only want good things for you. I want to tell you everything... And I want to fix your face."

---

Beatrice sat on the lid of the toilet and Lorna turned off the sink, stepping carefully around the old needles lining the black-grouted tile floor to dab a wet washcloth against her face. "…I know a lot of people in ways that… aren't exactly personal," Lorna said, the rag turning red as she spoke. "He might have been one of them. You're one of them, too, for different reasons… But I want that to change."

"And why's that?"

"You fascinate me." She set the washcloth in the basin and took Beatrice's left hand, guiding it beneath the faucet and running warm water over the dried blood in her palm. She massaged it gently with her thumbs, working her way out to her long, calloused fingers, scrubbing away the scabs caked under her fingernails. "I can't seem to keep you out of my mind, after you saved my life."

"You saved mine too, so we're even now."

Lorna giggled, taking a towel from the edge of the counter and drying her hand. "I take it that you're not too upset about me going through your things?"

Beatrice stared at Lorna, her face becoming cold and serious. "That gun has seen things you'd never believe."

The girl opened the mirror and looked around in the medicine cabinet. "I'd believe them if you told me."

"No, I… I don't tell anyone that story." She looked away.

"No one?" Lorna sat herself up on the counter, a box of bandages in her hand. "Based on all the things you've done in these past few days, I'm certain I have at least a pretty good idea. Look at me." The older woman turned her head and Lorna smiled at her, awkwardly sticking a band-aid over the cut on her eyebrow.

Beatrice blinked a couple times. "I'm startin' to question the things you find fascinating."

"I suppose we're both not quite as we seem."

She gave a low humm. "That reminds me: that thing you said earlier, 'bout knowing lots of people… You shouldn't do that to yourself." Beatrice took the pack of cigarettes from the pocket, placing one in her mouth and offering one to Lorna.

Lorna was about to place another bandage on her cheek, but stopped, pulling back her hovering hands. She took it and pulled a lighter from her sweater, sparking them both.

"Thanks." The older woman closed her eyes and inhaled, then looked back to Lorna as the smoke streamed from her nose and mouth. "Anyway, I mean… a lotta those people are bad news, like that one freak," she said, motioning aside with her cigarette. "And me too, I guess. Point is, you don't need any of that in your life, y'know? Just think about how your aunt would feel if somethin' happened to ya."

Lorna stared into the reddened sink as she puffed on her cigarette, the smoke curling upwards to mingle with the greenish light from the dim incandescent bulbs.

"I just know what it's like, to be young and to do things just because they feel good. But keep that up for a while and next thing you know, you end up being a wasted bum with no money, no friends, and four bullets in your chest…" Beatrice coughed, her brow creasing as she stood up. "Anyway, I guess things have been heavy enough tonight, huh?"

Lorna stared at herself in the mirror, her hair becoming stringier and her eyebags growing darker in the grimy reflection. Or maybe she always looked that way. "No, it's… It's fine."

"Let me walk you home before you're missed. Do you live close?"

"It's fine," Lorna said, hopping down from the counter, looking up to see Beatrice shifting her brow. "I mean… Let me stay here tonight, please? It's safer that way." She wrapped her arms around herself. "And it's cold out."

"Hmm… Wouldn't your aunt get worried, if she wakes up and you're not there?"

"I'm grown, I can go where I want." She reached out to stroke the taller woman's crossed arm. "I just want to know you're safe."

Beatrice exhaled through her nose, smirking a little. "I will be fine, it's you who needs to be safe. But… alright."

"Thank you," Lorna said, giving her a brief hug.

Beatrice pushed her back and held a hand on her shoulder, turning her chin with the other. "Hold on, you, uh, got somethin' there." She licked her thumb and wiped away a few smudges of dried blood from her face.

Lorna gave a slow, appreciative blink and stepped out of the bathroom. Beatrice lingered in the doorway, stretching out her arms and resting her hands on the frame. "Well, the bedroom's down that way," she said, nodding to her left, "but I guess you already knew that. Or you can have the couch. Neither is too comfortable." She rubbed the back of her neck. "And, uh… If you see any funny stains, they didn't come from me."

"I was thinking… I'd feel a little more secure if we were… close."

"Either way, I'd be just down the hall."

The girl stared at her for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth across the older woman's unchanging face. "…Right. Well, goodnight Beatrice."

"Night." Her head turned to watch the young woman walk down the hall toward the living room. "If you need anything, you know where to find me, but try not to need anything because I'm tired as hell." Beatrice turned out the bathroom light, shambled to her bedroom, and shut the door behind her.

Lorna stared for a moment and blinked before turning her gaze to the living room. Beatrice was wrong; the place was comfortable as could be, only Lorna didn't feel much like sleeping. She nudged over a Styrofoam box with her foot and a large roach scuttled out from beneath it.

Maybe the apartment could just use a little freshening up.

---

Beatrice rolled over in bed and winced as her stinging cheek made contact with the pillow. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and gave the wound a tentative poke. A few crumbles of dried blood came off on her fingers. She smoothed her peeling band-aids and glanced to the old digital clock on the nightstand, its digits obscured by an ashtray. She pushed it aside. It was 1:36 p.m.

She dragged herself from her tangle of sheets, frowning as she looked around her bedroom. She couldn't place why, but it seemed emptier than usual. The soft, frayed legs of the threadbare flannel pants she managed to change into before passing out swished as she walked to the door. She opened it and the smell of bleach immediately washed over her, stinging her sore nose. As she approached the bathroom, the odor sharpened and a dull ache pulsed through her head.

She flicked on the light, and the skeletons on the church flier taped to the mirror caught her eye. Pulling it off, she saw a note scrawled below the illustration in dainty handwriting – Meet me here tomorrow at 7.

The girl was gone already, then. She folded the flier and stuck it in her pocket, resting her hands on the clean white counter and staring at her reflection. A woman with a black eye and a fair handful of scattered gray hairs stared back at her. Her strong shoulders were slouched, her broad chest was broken. And now she was alone again. Beatrice sighed, dipping her head down and peeling back the tape from one the wounds in her chest. Slowing her breathing and gritting her teeth, she pulled the stained wad of gauze from where it was tucked beside her heart and tossed the old dressing into the empty trash can by the toilet. She opened the medicine cabinet, grabbing out a box of gauze, a roll of tape, and a little pair of scissors. Cutting a strip of gauze, she wet it under the faucet, poked it into the hole, and sealed it with a piece of tape.

She looked disdainfully at the three other wounds. Splashing a handful of water in her face, she lazily scratched under her arms, trying to find the motivation to finish changing her dressings. Drips of water fell from her jaw to the noose on her stomach, leaving tiny trails as they ran to her waistband. Her hand slid down to her forearm, itching at the scabs and bruises dotted over her veins as her guts twisted. Her eyes widened.

Her morphine.

She stumbled into the doorway and the wall as she sprinted back to her bedroom. "Oh God, Oh God…" Frantic, she nearly threw the drawer out of the nightstand, swiping her hand through the assorted junk. She tugged at her hair as she paced around to the other side of the room, ripping the sheets and pillows from her bed and tossing them against the wall. Nothing. She turned and threw open the closet door, and she was greeted by the sight of her shirts on hangers and her jeans folded in a neat pile on the floor. Beatrice breathed heavily, leaning with her hand against the doorframe, staring down at her gun propped up against the wall with her old combat boots beside it.

She was tired, she was hurting, she was alone, and the whore stole her only fix.

Sighing, she dragged herself down the hall to the living room, stepping on a faded blood stain as she slumped into the couch, its old pillows fluffed and positioned with care. She propped her elbow on the armrest and rubbed her temple, eyes closed. Everything was so empty now.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw the tall blue can sitting on the table. A needle and an open switchblade lay crossed in front of it. Leaning forward, she took the knife and stared at the streaks and specks of her blood on its edge. As she replayed the memory from the night before, her mind's eye fixated on the little baggie of white powder in the man's hand. She knew she was living in a bad town when she couldn't even trust the heroin anymore. Maybe she should've just bought it anyway and gotten it all over with.

She pushed the switchblade closed with her finger.

---

"You may not like the things we do, only idiots ignore the truth! It's easy to lay down and hide, there's a warrior without his pride..!"

The bell above the door jingled and the clerk looked up from the radio. He turned down the volume and cracked a grin at the dazed woman in the aviator shades and the flannel pants tucked into her combat boots. "Hey, how ya doin'?"

She mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a "hey" and headed straight to the coolers at the back of the store, leaning against the flimsy plastic shelves and racks all the way. A minute later, she came back with her arms full with cans of Monster and three bottles of Pepto-Bismol. She stood in front of the cashier and dumped the cans onto the countertop.

"Wow, I really got you into those, huh?" Greg said as he began to pick up the cans and scan them one by one.

Beatrice ran a hand slowly back through her scalp. "I really just need some caffeine or something," she said.

"Been there, felt that, ma'am."

The redhead tapped the toe of her boot to the quiet song playing on the radio. She listened a little harder, trying to tune out the repetitive beeping of the scanner.

"It's easy to lay down and hide, there's a warrior without his pride! You may not like the things we say, what's the difference anyway?"

She glanced up from the floor to the tall, pudgy, slightly stubbly and zit-faced teen behind the counter. Squinting her eyes, she read his name tag. "Say, uh… Greg, you don't have a brother named Wirt, do you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Uh…" Beatrice crossed her arms. "I, um, talked to him yesterday. He told me to tell you he said hi."

"That's nice," he said, tucking the last can into the plastic bag. "Maybe one of these days that brother o' mine will stop by and say it himself." He smiled, but the tone of his words betrayed him. "That'll be $33.67."

She dug into her pocket for her wallet. "Yeesh, those things don't come cheap, do they?" Opening her wallet, she handed him two 20-dollar bills. As he reached into the register drawer for her change, she clutched at her stomach through the thin fabric of her black t-shirt, sweat beading up on her forehead as she stifled a groan.

"You okay, ma'am?"

Her insides turned to liquid, swirling around as they climbed up into the back of her throat. She swallowed, but the feeling remained. Deep, deep pain sank through her guts, and coldness washed over her face to the palms of her hands. "I'm fine," she breathed, reaching into the bag and digging through the cans. She pulled out one of the bottles of Pepto-Bismol and cracked it open. She took several long gulps, the bubblegum-pink liquid streaming out the corner of her mouth and dripping down her chin. "Ahh," she sighed, screwing the lid back on tight and grabbing the bag. "Y'know what? Keep the change."

"You sure?"

"I'm supporting local business," she said, heading for the doors. As she reached for the glass, she heard light footsteps behind her and a nasally croak.

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"What? I paid for these!"

"No, look, you gotta see this." Beatrice turned and looked down to see a small, gangly man with big hair holding a newspaper in her face. The main headline was about the events at the hospital the day before.

"Yeah, I know, I was there. Can I go now?"

"Read this part," Jason said, tapping on a paragraph towards the end of the article.

She leaned in, lowering her shades and squinting her eyes, mumbling the words under her breath. "Veteran n' hero,' hmph… 'Recovering from injuries… gunmen entered hospital…'" She straightened out, her brow shifting. Jason stared into her black eye, and she pushed the sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. "'Caught in the crossfire and shot dead..?' Well, that's a load of bull."

"It's more than that," he said, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. "This might sound craaazy, but… I think someone wants you dead."

Her face became hard and she turned her back to him. "If you find out who it is, tell them to try harder." The bell above the door jingled again as she stepped out into the parking lot, crushing the wisping dead weeds beneath the soles of her combat boots as she walked. The woman stumbled to a stop, doubling over and splattering bright pink vomit against the faded black asphalt. She wiped her mouth with her hand, pausing for a moment before grabbing her stomach and sprinting down the street. Jason glanced to the cashier, who only shrugged and turned the radio back up, sitting with his chin in his hands.

Radio interference crackled in as the song trailed off. "It makes me proud, so proud of you, I see innocence shining through…"

---

Mr. Forrester slouched in his creaking wooden chair, his hand resting on the desk as he slowly twirled his fountain pen through his stiff fingers. He closed his eyes, creases settling on his forehead and between his bushy gray brows. The deep, sickeningly mellow voice of his client drifted through the fuzzy courtroom speakers.

"Yes, I think we ought to clear a little space on the property… The owners let it go for so long, it's shameful. Yes, yes… Weeds, ivy… The grass is so tall I'm certain a snake would jump out and bite you if you weren't careful. Of course, that can be taken care of – I have ways of making such nasty creatures obey me, you know. But I think the trees deserve the most attention. Wayward saplings, still young and small, but green and spry…"

Mr. Forrester grit his teeth, his hard gaze shifting up to the tall man on the stand. His all-black ensemble was broken only by the pocked white marble of his face. He stared into the ceiling light, smiling for a moment before bringing his hand to his jaw to smooth his thin, short beard. His expression vanished and he lowered his hand, lacing his fingers as he angled his head down to pierce Mr. Forrester with a pale, cold stare.

"…We'll handle them the usual way. Cutting and burning."

The recording stopped, and the prosecutor stood before Mr. Edelwood at the stand. In the quiet room, Mr. Forrester could hear the smooth metal of his pen gliding against his calloused fingertips. He set it down and rested his hands in his lap.

The padded shoulders of the prosecutor's large suit jacket jutted as he crossed his arms behind his back. "What do you do, Mr. Edelwood?"

"I own a landscaping business."

"Is your business successful?"

"I would like to think so, yes."

"And the recording that the court just heard – was that a business call, Mr. Edelwood?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell us about the property you were discussing?"

"Certainly. It was a yard on the far side of town, belonging to a widow."

The prosecutor faced the jury. "The phone call the court heard a moment ago was made on Sunday, October 22, 2017, at 1:36 a.m. Now, Mr. Edelwood…" He glanced over his shoulder. "…Why were you making a business call so late at night?"

The man in black was quiet. "I have terrible insomnia," he said, "and I suppose the thought of such a daunting job was keeping me up."

"Right. And according to your financial records, you had a rather large expense the day just before this phone call," the state's attorney said, adjusting his glasses as he picked up a document from his table and thumbed through it, "amounting to $65,000. What was this money used for?"

Mr. Edelwood tilted his head, glancing to Mr. Forrester. His attorney nodded. "I was planning a party," he said, straightening his spine and broadening his shoulders in a subtle, fluid motion. There were murmurs in the courtroom.

"Did this party take place on Halloween?"

"Correct."

"I would like to remind the jury that five children went missing during the week leading up to the 31st. And $65,000 is a lot of money for just hosting a little get-together..." The prosecutor paced a few steps before stopping and turning to the stand, white light glinting off of his round glasses and silver hair as he stared into the defendant's burning eyes. "What was really going on with that property, Mr. Edelwood? What were you really doing with those 'trees'?"

"Objection!" Mr. Forrester stood, scowling from more than just the pain in his knees. "Argumentative."

"Sustained," said the judge. "Control yourself, Mr. Langtree."

The prosecutor pursed his lips, shrinking into his jacket. "So your company cleared saplings out of a widow's yard, and a week later you had a $65,000 Halloween party." He sighed and walked back to his seat, arms crossed behind his back. "No further questions."

Mr. Forrester clenched his shaking fists as watched the state's attorney sit down, wanting nothing more than to wring the incompetent coward's neck. Uncapping his fountain pen, he pressed the nib into his fingertip and twisted until ink mingled with blood.

---

The newspaper laid spread out over the scratched antique coffee table. "Correction," it read, "yesterday's paper erroneously stated that Beatrice Lynch was killed in the shooting at the Our Lady of Benevolence Hospital. Lynch (right) is alive and well, and was discharged from the hospital without incident. We apologize for the mistake." Beside the text was a grainy photo of the floral-printed brute with her middle fingers extended. Adelaide took a final drag from her cigarette and extinguished it against Beatrice's head, burning through the paper and leaving a black pockmark on the mahogany.

She picked up the phone from the end table, reclining in the couch as she punched in the number. The call went straight to voicemail. She briefly slammed the handset down before dialing the number again, sighing as the ringing tone soon cut to the familiar recording of Fred's voice – "Stop callin' me" – followed by a beep. Massaging her creased brow with her fingers, she held the handset close to her thin lips and snarled into the mouthpiece: "Fred. Call me. Now."

Slowly, her hand shaking, she hung up the phone and reached into the carton on the end table. She felt around inside until her fingers rested on the last two cigarettes tucked into the corner. Taking one out, she lit it and closed her eyes as she took a long drag. A plume of smoke streamed out of her mouth and rose up into the stale air of the dusty living room.

---

Smoke streamed out of the window of the black '78 Mustang as it barreled down the street. Fred took another crackling hit from the grimy glass tube and chucked over his shoulder. He heard a distant shattering as his pupils dilated. He tugged the leather back down over his face, and smoke huffed through the horse's nostrils and eyeholes.

The wailing of a siren drifted over the engine's rumble and into his ears. Shooting a look into the crooked rearview mirror, flashing red-and-blue lights filled his eyes. Maybe it was one of Mr. Edelwood's boys. Maybe they could help him sort out this mess. He swerved to the side of the road and the police car rolled up behind him.

The officer stepped up beside his open window. "License and registra…" She stopped when she saw the leather horse head staring back at her. Memories flashed in the deep, empty holes of his eyes; the skulls of the three gunmen as they lay bleeding out on the linoleum, the dripping ski mask gripped in a knobby-knuckled hand. She blinked. "Sir, I need you to take that mask off."

The man in the driver's seat didn't move.

"I'm not going to ask you again," Officer Jones said, reaching for her gun, "take the mask o-"

Fred slammed the Mustang into gear and hammered his boot against the gas pedal, and Officer Jones was left in a cloud of dust as the black muscle car shot off down the street. Sprinting back to her police cruiser, she threw herself into the seat and grabbed the radio's microphone. "Unit 3136 to Dispatch."

The radio crackled. "3136, go ahead."

"Got a Code 5 for a 10-80 on South Warsaw Boulevard; suspect is a white male of a large build, wearing a… horse mask… and driving a black muscle car."

There was a pause. After a moment, there came a low response from the dispatcher. "Don't worry about it."

"…10-9?"

"I said, don't worry about it. It's getting late, Jones. Don't you want to go home and get some rest?"

"What? Did you not hear what I just said? I need backup!"

"You will not pursue that suspect, Jones. You will return to the station. That's an order."

She watched the Mustang's tail lights shrink away into the distance. "…10-4," she said, setting the mic back in its place. Then she flicked on the cruiser's sirens and lights, hit the gas, and sped down the boulevard.

Glancing to the rearview mirror, Fred saw the police car coming up hot on his tail. Depressing the clutch, he yanked back on the e-break and skidded into a sharp turn down the next street. Officer Jones' cruiser closely followed. Through the roaring of the engines and the howling of the siren, Fred could hear the echo of his heartbeat inside his leather cage. He saw another set of flashing lights emerging on his right, soon leaving his periphery as he flew down the street.

The police car swerved out of the intersection and skidded to a stop in front of Officer Jones' cruiser. She slammed the breaks, pulling the e-break as she turned sideways, coming to rest just inches away from the interceptor. Gasping for breath, she stared wide-eyed into the dark tinted windows. With a shaking hand, she reached out and flicked off the siren.

"OFFICER JONES, YOU ARE TO REPORT TO THE STATION IMMEDIATELY," a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "THAT IS AN ORDER. YOU WILL OBEY."

She bowed her head, the flashing red-and-blue lights casting hard shadows into her eye sockets. The squad car pulled away and she slowly followed.

---

"Officer Jones, do you know what this is?"

White light glinted off of the plastic bag dangling from the police chief's fingers. Sitting at the bottom of it was a snub-nosed .45 revolver.

She could feel herself shrinking into her chair. She sat up a little taller. "Yes, sir."

"Tell me, then, since you're so smart."

"It's one of the weapons used in the hospital shooting, sir."

"Right," he said, dropping the bag with a thump onto the desk. "But that's not all. You're not as smart as you think you are, Jones. You know why?"

She gritted her teeth. "Why is that, sir?"

"You don't recognize this weapon as well as you ought to. The serial number on this gun matches the one from your apartment."

She stared down at the gun, blood running cold as she slowly looked up to meet the police chief's eyes. "I- I already told you it was stolen, sir, I filed a report on it right after-"

"And look at what good that did," he said. "Four dead and six injured, all because of your gross negligence."

"Wait, I can explain-"

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Jones! Do you have any idea how bad it looks when one of our officers of the law can't handle her own guns in her own home? I'll tell you, Jones: it looks…" He clenched his shaking fist, running a hand through his slick blond hair. "…bad. It looks real bad. This little blunder has dragged down the reputation of our entire police department. We'll be lucky if anyone takes our position of authority seriously after this."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Enough. I don't care," he said, leaning forward. "I'm letting you go."

"What? No, wait, please, I can-"

"Get out of here and don't come back," he said, swiveling his chair around and motioning towards the door.

Sara drew in a shaky breath, her heart sinking. "Sir, please…"

He snapped his fingers. "Go. Now."

She stood, watching him stroke the hairs of his mustache with fire in her eyes. Removing her badge and pulling her Glock from its holster, she set them on the desk and left the office.

---

A half-empty six pack sat on the carpet by the couch, and a bottle of lukewarm beer hung loosely from Wirt's thin fingers. He raised the bottle to his whiskered lips and took a tiny sip, his dark, stinging eyes glazed over and his heart heavy in his scrawny chest. He heard the door unlock and the beer slipped from his hand.

Sara stepped into the apartment, her downtrodden expression replaced by a scrutinizing cocked eyebrow as she glanced across the room to the small man on the couch. "Since when do you drink beer?" she asked, shutting the door behind her and locking it. "Oh, wait. Nevermind."

"Sara, I told you, I'm sorry. I only went out because Beatrice wanted me to, and I didn't even do anything."

"And I told you that you're allowed to do things without me. I'm over it, Wirt."

Wirt rolled onto his back and took a deep, shaky breath, holding his hands over his eyes. "I thought you weren't coming back," he choked out.

"Wirt…" She sat down on the armrest of the couch and ran her fingers through his hair. It was greasy and disheveled. She sighed. "Look. I need to tell you something."

He sat up a little and looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"I got fired."

He searched the wall behind her for his words. Settling back into place, he stared off into the off-white expanse above the couch. "Well, maybe… Maybe that's a good thing."

"How could it possibly-"

"Sara, it's dangerous out there. This world… it isn't safe anymore, Sara, and I worry about you so much every day. Every morning, when I watch you put on your uniform, I can't help but think…" He wiped his eyes with his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't help but think if this'll be the day you don't come home in the evening. All these shootings…"

"Are you kidding me right now, Wirt? I've been in the force since we graduated high school, I- I've been working so hard to try to make this city safer and you really think… You think that doesn't mean anything because you're afraid?"

"No!" Wirt's haunted, wide-eyed gaze bored into her, and the whiskers around his lips quivered. "S-Sara, listen, we haven't had any time just for us in years, i-it's been so long since I got a chance to show you how much I care, I… You'll never have to work again, babe, I'll work two jobs, I'll work ten jobs, I just want you home safe, I just want to have you…"

"Wirt," she said through clenched teeth, "this isn't all about you."

"Wh-what?" He blinked, his gaze darting across her face. "How can you say that? Everything is about you, you're all I think about! I'm trying to make it up to you for how terrible I've been, why won't you let me-"

"You didn't even ask me why I got fired, Wirt! Tonight was completely insane, and you're expecting me to come home and coddle you after I've been humiliated? You expect me to just get over it and sit at home all day for you because you feel guilty?" She stood up, snatching one of the beers from the six pack and twisting off the lid. She tipped it back, drinking half the bottle in one pull before wiping her lips and pointing at Wirt. "None of this would've happened if you didn't go out with that dyke junkie!"

The apartment was suddenly quiet, and as Wirt and Sara stared at each other, they could hear footsteps through the ceiling and the dryer running through the floor.

Sara held her hand over her mouth. "Wirt, I- I didn't mean that-"

Wirt slowly sat up. "What do you mean it 'wouldn't have happened'?"

She stepped closer to him. "It wasn't your fault, I didn't mean to say that, I was just-"

"I thought you said you were over it," he said, crossing his bony arms and looking away.

Setting the beer on the coffee table, she knelt in front of him and placed her hand on his knee. "Wirt… Look at me."

He turned his head. Two pools of water rested at the edges of his eyelids.

Sara ran her hand up and down his thigh. "It's sweet that you worry about me, it really is, but you have got to get a grip. You gotta be strong for me, Wirt. I know you can."

"No, I can't," he said.

She cupped his jaw in her hand, stroking her thumb over his cheek. "You want to make it up to me, right? Show me you mean it and pull yourself together for me. Please?"

Wirt sighed and leaned into her touch. "Okay." He closed his eyes for a moment, lacing his fingers atop hers. He slowly looked up at her. "Are you going to try and get your job back?" he asked, his voice soft.

She stared into his eyes and blinked. "No," she said. "I just want answers."

"Thank God," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. He buried his face in the nook of her neck, and she rested her chin on his shoulder.

As Sara stroked over the ridges of his spine with her fingers, she stared into the empty white wall. She saw Wirt lying there curled up on the floor of the bar, she saw sprays of blood and masked faces, she saw the broken woman in her hospital gown sitting there on the cold linoleum tiles with eyes that looked like they had seen everything and nothing at the same time. Answers. All she wanted were answers. And that woman had to know something about all of this.

Sara sat back and held her hands on Wirt's narrow, sloped shoulders. "Let's go to bed," she said. Wirt nodded, and she took his hand as she stood, pulling him up with her. With his arm wrapped around her waist, the two walked together to the bedroom. Wirt flicked off the living room light as he shut the door, and the half-empty bottle of beer sat on the edge of the table in the dark.

---

A swirl of blood mingled with the bright pink liquid as Beatrice lowered the half-empty bottle from her gnawed lips and set it on the curb. Sitting in her stained robe, she dragged her fingers down her mouth, smearing the reddened Pepto-Bismol over the bile and spit dried on her chin. She rested her hand on her knee, curling her stiff fingers and staring with glassy, dilated eyes into the street. She felt pebbles digging into the soles of her feet through the holes in her dirty socks and didn't notice the pair of black boots approaching her from the sidewalk.

"Uh, hey… you."

Beatrice looked up slowly and blinked. Sara looked down at her, shifting her weight as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket. Her gaze dropped from the older woman's bruised, busted face to her torso, fully visible from the loosely-tied robe hanging open around her shoulders. Streaks of crusted blood ran from her pitted wounds across her chest and stomach. The redhead licked her teeth, sucked her lips, and spit to the sidewalk. "Are you gonna arrest me?" she asked slowly, her voice raspy.

"No, don't worry about it." Sara sat down on the curb beside her. Beatrice reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a pack of American Spirit Blues, offering it to Sara. There were two cigarettes left. She took the one that wasn't upside down and Beatrice lit it for her, lighting her own shortly after. The two women sat together, wordlessly puffing on their cigarettes and watching the occasional car go by.

After a while, Sara turned her head and stared at Beatrice's black eye, creased and swollen half shut. Oblivious to her gaze, Beatrice lowered her cigarette to take a sip of the Pepto-Bismol, chilled by the brisk morning weather.

"Hey, so, uh… What happened to you?"

Beatrice glanced to the side, then closed her eyes as she downed the rest of the medicine and tapped the ashes of her cigarette into the empty bottle. "What?"

"I mean, what happened to your face? And, uh… all that," Sara said, pointing to the woman's bloodied, slightly flabby torso.

"Oh. Well, this, I did to myself," she said, looking down. "I was gonna change my dressings but I got… distracted." She flexed her fingers and, becoming suddenly conscious of the blood caked under her nails, wrapped her arms around herself, hiding her hands beneath her robe.

"That's how you get an infection," Sara said. "What did I tell you about letting your wounds heal?"

"Okay, mom, I know. I know."

"What else happened?"

"You're not gonna believe me," she said, "but – get this – a guy in a horse mask broke into my apartment and, uh…" She rubbed the back of her neck. "…Beat the crap outta me. Kinda literally, too."

Sara's eyes widened. "Horse mask?"

"Yeah, sounds wild, I know, but you shoulda seen the guy, he was huge! Bigger than me, even."

"I pulled over a guy in a horse mask yesterday," she said, her voice low.

"Huh. Small world. Guess he didn't beat the crap out of you, though?"

"He got away."

"This is what my tax dollars are going towards?" Beatrice noticed the troubled look on Sara's face and held up her hands. "That was a joke. I was joking."

Sara's distant expression quickly shifted to a smirk as she exhaled through her nose. "Bea, we both know you don't pay your taxes."

"Hey, now. I'm nothing if not an upstanding citizen," she said, crossing her arms. She leaned in close and lifted an eyebrow. "You're not workin' with the IRS, are ya?" she added quietly.

She could smell the blend of bubblegum flavoring, ash and vomit on the older woman's breath. She tried her very hardest not to make a face. "No."

"Good." Beatrice took a final drag from the nub of a cigarette pinched between her fingers before dropping it into the pinkish bottle. She offered it to Sara, who also deposited her cigarette butt, and set it down on the curb. Lacing her fingers between her knees, she stared into the curtain-drawn windows of the apartment complex across the street. "So, why are you here, then?"

Sara dug into her jacket pocket. "I wanted to give you this." Taking Beatrice's hand, she stared into the older woman's veiny green eyes as she firmly pressed something small into her calloused palm.

Beatrice opened her fingers and looked down. Sitting there was a black lump wrapped in plastic. She glanced up at Sara. "Where did you-"

"I know these streets like the back of my hand. I can get anything, anywhere."

"Impressive." She rolled the plastic bundle in her fingers. "I appreciate it, but this is only half a gram. This ain't enough for me to-"

"I'm not helping you get high," Sara said. "I'm helping you come down."

A light grumble rose up in Beatrice's throat. "Ah, there's always a catch."

Sara stood, and Beatrice sat in her shadow as the sun beamed down around her head. "Come by our place when you need more. But make it last."

Beatrice cradled the black tar in her palms, cupping her hands around it and holding it tight. "Thank you," she said after a while as she looked up. But all she saw was the other woman's back shrinking away down the sidewalk.

---

"…If you had just taken care of it the first time like I asked you to, we wouldn't be in this mess."

The pendulum on the old clock over the fireplace swung steadily as it ticked. Adelaide scratched her nails into the end table and held the receiver tight in her clawed grip.

"No, no, don't you dare try and pretend you're not part of this! We paid you for a job you didn't finish, and now that you have the tools at your disposal, you want to back out?" She stared out through the crack in the curtains to the dead, sundrenched front lawn and sighed. "I know I already sent someone else to do it, but I don't know where he is! If he finished the job, I would've heard from him by now…"

She rubbed her brow as the man on the other end spoke, wanting nothing more than to box his ears.

"Now listen to me, Enoch. I need the poison oak cleared out of this yard, and I need it done with a quickness. My niece has been playing dangerously close to it lately, and I would just hate to see her get hurt. Think of the children, Enoch. Please." She paused.

The line was silent.

Adelaide's frown deepened. "If not the children, then think of your flock. She- the, ahem, poison oak already took three of your sheep. Where's your righteous indignation, Enoch? I know the angels would smile upon you if you avenged them."

Silence. Then, a grumble. "If you have any idea where I'm supposed to find her, then let me know."

Adelaide smiled. "I most certainly will." Just as she set the phone down, the front door opened. "Ah, Lorna, you're one of the two people I was hoping to see."

The girl shut the door behind her. "Who's the other one?"

"Fred," Adelaide said through clenched teeth, propping her jaw against her knuckles. "I haven't seen or heard from him since Monday night. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to him, would you?" Through squinted eyes, she sent her a pointed look.

"Ah, n-no, I haven't got a clue," Lorna said, stepping over to the loveseat and sitting down.

"That's a shame." The old woman reached into the carton sitting by the phone, pulling out the last cigarette and placing it between her lips. She looked up to see Lorna's arm already extended, the flame of her lighter at the ready. Adelaide leaned forward and the tobacco crackled as it ignited. She sat back and took a drag. "Mr. Edelwood's already upset with me over botching this hit the first time. Now one of his best men is MIA, and we can only assume Lynch is still alive. He's going to throw a conniption fit."

"It's not like he can really do anything about it right now."

"Please, Lorna, now isn't the time for jokes." She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray, covering up a little blue flower painted on the porcelain. "I just got off the phone with Enoch. He agreed to take this problem off our hands… Honestly, it'll take nothing short of an act of God to kill her at this point. He just needs her address."

A beam of dust flittered around Lorna's head, illuminated by the window to her back. "An act of God," she repeated, her lips numb as she slowly slumped back into the cushions.

There was a heavy thump on the door and a slam as it dented into the wall a second later. Adelaide and Lorna both looked up to see a black cowboy boot sticking through the doorway. A tall man in a wifebeater and a leather horse mask stepped inside. He raised his fists, the sunlight glinting off his brass knuckles as he clenched his fingers around the zip ties and ball gag in his grip.

---

The cool black leather slid from Beatrice's bicep as she removed the tourniquet and slipped the belt through the loops in her jeans. Tossing the needle into the sink, she rolled down the sleeves of the pale blue shirt she borrowed from the old dress uniform stashed under her bed. She gave herself a quick look in the mirror, running her fingers through her scalp and plucking out some of the more noticeable gray hairs. The light thumping of her polished boots against the tile floor echoed through the bathroom as she turned out the light.

After a short walk out into the cool evening air and down the block, she found herself standing before a walkway leading to the open doors of a small church. White chips of paint crackled off of the weathered boards of the walls. The congregation members approaching up the sidewalk gave her dirty looks as they stepped around her and filed inside. A large man in a tweed coat, who Beatrice could only assume was the pastor, held the door open and greeted his people.

She took the flier from her pocket and unfolded it. According to the crooked letter board sign in front, this was definitely the right place. She peered over the heads of the people, craning her neck to peer inside the church. But there was no sign of Lorna.

She felt someone small bump into her side and gasped with a smile. "Oh, hey!" Looking down, she saw a young girl with brown hair and a black sweater standing there. "Oh."

"I- I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," the girl stammered, quickly heading for the doors. The pastor smiled warmly at her, patting her shoulder and saying a few words as she entered. He looked out to the street and the smile dropped from his round face as he locked eyes with the tall redhead. Glancing over his shoulder, he stepped outside, easing the door shut behind him. He stepped down the walkway in his worn brown leather shoes, giving a slight half-wave and lacing his fat fingers over his protruding stomach.

"Uh, hello, I don't think we've met," he said.

"Beatrice," she said, offering her hand. The reverend stared at it. She lowered it back to her side.

"Wh- what…" He cleared his throat. "What brings you here?"

"I was invited."

"Who invited you?"

She cocked her brow. "Girl named Lorna. I haven't seen her around, though." She shifted her weight and crossed her arms. "Do you interrogate all your attendees like this?"

"Ah, of course, Lorna. Sweet young girl. Must be running a little late," he said, running his fingers through his beard. He extended his hand. "I apologize for my standoffishness. We don't see new faces too often around here. I'm Reverend Enoch. Welcome."

Beatrice shook it. "I guess your fliers must not be working."

He chuckled, his eyes blank and open too wide, his smile strained. "Right." The handshake continued for an uncomfortable amount of time before the reverend withdrew. "Why don't you come inside?" he said, looking over his shoulder as he turned and stepped slowly up to the entrance of the church, placing his palm against the door and pushing it open a crack.

Beatrice dug her hands in her pockets and looked around the street before shrugging her shoulders and following him inside.

---

"…In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… Amen."

For a moment, she saw herself as a girl, golden sunbeams shining down on her green face as she sat crammed into a pew with her family, too busy punching one of her brothers in the arm or bickering with a sister to focus on the sermon. But here she was now, ill-fitting and blue, isolated at the back of the church, listening to the reverend's words only to take her mind off of her loneliness. She looked out the window at the darkened sky, rubbing her thumb over the back of her hand. "Amen," she said, her voice low.

The reverend blessed his congregation and bid them goodnight. As he watched the crowd disperse, his eyes drifted to the back row. Beatrice met his gaze and furrowed her brow, sidestepping out of the pew and turning to the exit.

Enoch felt sweat beading up on his bald head. He stepped down from the stage and jogged through the aisle, placing his hand firmly on Beatrice's shoulder just as she began to pull open the door. "Beatrice," he said, his voice smoky and honey-thick, his fingers curling slightly. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot earlier. Would you mind meeting me in my office for a chat? I'd like to get to know you a little better."

"The service was nice, Reverend, but I wanna get home before it gets too late. I can't see too good in the dark."

The edges of his grinning lips started to quiver. His mouth was getting dry. "I can give you a ride afterword."

Beatrice looked out to the dark street. The cold air stung the wound on her cheek and numbed her knuckles. She stared until she saw the figure of the horseman lingering in the shadows, and when she blinked he was gone. She let go of the door.

---

Beatrice sat down in the rickety wooden chair as Enoch stepped into the tiny office and shut the door behind him. Stepping around the heavy desk in the middle of the room, he glanced over to the redhead. "Do you smoke?" he asked as he eased himself into his leather chair.

She crossed her arms and leaned back. "A little."

Enoch slid open the desk drawer, taking out the cigar box and setting it down between them. He laced his fingers in front of him. "Go ahead."

She gave him a questioning look. He took off the lid.

"I'm not one for vices," he said, removing a cigar, "but I find that tobacco is one of the Lord's finest crops." He held it upright between his fingers, admiring it for a moment before offering it to the woman across the desk.

Beatrice took the cigar. "Thank you, Reverend."

"No problem," he said, slipping the lighter from his breast pocket. "I think everyone ought to enjoy the Lord's blessings at least once in their life," he said, his eyes lidded and his lips pressed as he passed her the lighter.

She placed the cigar in her mouth and moved to light it before pausing, lowering the lighter and staring at the shiny brass in her palm. "This is a pretty engraving," she said. "Is it custom?"

He glanced down at the image of the cat hunting in a field. "Ah yes," he said, propping up his chin with his knuckles, "an old friend of mine did that for me a long time ago. I engraved the other side myself."

Beatrice flipped over the lighter. Psalm 23:4 glowed up at her, burning into her eyes like the desert sun. She closed her eyes and great mountains rose up on all sides to block out the light. As she stood in their shadow, the blood from her boots stained the sands, and tongues slithered up from rows of needle-sharp teeth to lap it away. She brought the lighter to the end of her cigar, hearing the snapping of hollow bones as she flicked the flint wheel.

"Nice craftsmanship," she said, puffing on the cigar and handing the lighter back to the reverend. Her lungs were filled with sweet, earthy smoke.

"Thank you," he said, pushing the ashtray across the desk. He rubbed his thumb over the cool metal of the lighter and settled back into his seat. "Are you saved, Beatrice?"

"I… I dunno. I haven't been to church in years."

"Lorna must care a good deal about you, if she invited you here. The state of one's soul isn't something to be taken lightly."

"Somehow I don't feel like she's the churchgoing type," she said, tapping her ashes into the dish.

"On the contrary," he said, leaning forward and lacing his fingers, "she never misses a service for anything. In fact, it's unusual that she didn't show up tonight."

Beatrice's brow creased. "Oh… Really?"

"Mm. I don't mean to cut our talk short, but maybe I should check up on her…"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, you should do that. We can talk some other time."

"Yes, some other time." Enoch stood from his chair and stepped around his desk. "Come to think of it, it seems like you two are close," he said, staring down at the woman. "How about I bring you along, and I can drop you off at home afterword?"

"…Yeah, that's fine," she said, gripping the back of the chair and pushing herself to her feet. She took a long drag of her cigar and set it down in the ashtray.

"My car is around back, I'll be there in a moment." Beatrice nodded, and Enoch watched as she left the room. He walked back around his desk and opened a drawer. Reaching in, he pulled out a small, shiny pistol and tucked it inside his suit jacket. He took a cigar from the box for himself before walking out of the office and shutting the door behind him.

---

A soft country gospel song played on the radio as the old Chevy farm truck rolled down the road. Enoch stared ahead, his neck rigid and his large hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. Beatrice stared out the window, running her tongue over her teeth to taste the lingering flavor of the cigar.

The truck slowed down and Enoch squinted his eyes. There was a black Mustang parked on the street in front of Adelaide's house, with one tire over the curb. He turned his head to see warm light shining through the open doorway. He pulled the truck over and put it in park.

Beatrice leaned forward to see. "What the hell..?"

"Something isn't right," Enoch said, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door. Beatrice followed suit, and the two walked together across the front lawn. Enoch reached into his jacket and rested his hand on the pistol. Beatrice rolled up her sleeves and wrapped her fingers around the switchblade in her pocket. The sounds of shouting grew louder as they approached.

The redhead stepped inside, the reverend close behind her. Their eyes widened at the scene laid out before them. The fine antique coffee table and couch were overturned, and the horse man stood in the middle of the room kicking an old woman bound on the floor. Lorna struggled against the zip ties bruising her wrists and ankles, mascara running down her face as she sobbed around the gag in her mouth.

"The Beast wants me dead, doesn't he?!" He kicked the old woman in the face. "What have I ever done to you?" He kicked her in the chest and a bloody tooth dripped out of her mouth as she wheezed. "This was all just a trick to get me killed," he said, pacing around her body, "but I ain't playin' your games anymore!"

Fred held his head in his hands, his hard shoulders drooping as he heaved. From across the room, he heard a switchblade flip open. He looked up and froze. "You…" His eyes drifted past the redhead to the man behind her. "You!" he roared, pointing his finger. "You're in on this too?!"

Enoch swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the pistol, waving his free hand. "Hold on, now, this must all be a big misunderstanding-"

The black cowboy boots pounded across the floor as Fred sprinted towards them. He reared back, a brass knuckle gleaming in the lamplight, and Enoch pulled the pistol from his jacket. His fist narrowly whooshed past Beatrice's head as she shifted to the side, grabbing him by the shoulder and plunging the knife in his guts. Groaning, he slumped against Beatrice before she shoved him back, dropping him to his knees. She yanked the mask off and tossed it aside.

With wide eyes, Enoch stared down at the bleeding man, his face long and his tousled brown hair stuck to his forehead by sweat. "Frederick..?" he asked, his voice soft.

From where he knelt on the floor, Fred saw a brilliant halo of golden light shining around Beatrice's head, her red hair aflame, her face a shadow. She was neither male nor female; she was divine animalism incarnate, she was the disemboweler of the universe. His eyes glassed over in awe of the God-sent angel of the Earth, come to bring him home and reunite him with his-

She grabbed his head and rammed it into her knee. He fell to the side, hitting the floor with a dull thump, unmoving. "Stand back, Reverend," Beatrice said, flipping the knife in her hand, "I'm gonna gut this fool like a fish." She heard the click of a pistol slide behind her.

She turned slowly to see the barrel of a gun pointed at her head. The girl in the chair started to thrash and scream through the gag, and the old woman on the floor watched silently through a crack in her swollen eye, her head lying in a pool of blood.

The knife slipped from Beatrice's fingers as she held up her hands. "Put the gun down, Reverend."

Enoch's hands shook, tears brimming behind his glasses. "You've killed too many members of my flock," he said, choked up.

"W-what? What are you talking about?"

Enoch pressed a hand over his mouth and glanced over at the two tortured women, a pained expression on his face. He looked back at Beatrice, her brow creased with helplessness. Slowly, decisively, he pointed the gun at Adelaide and pulled the trigger. The room went silent as smoke drifted from the barrel and blood trickled from the hole in Adelaide's forehead.

The reverend cleared his throat. "I think we're all in agreement," he said, slipping the pistol back under his lapel, "that the police will not be involved in this little situation in any way. Excuse me." He turned and walked out the door.

Beatrice numbly watched him go into the night. She looked over the carnage, her gaze rising from the bodies on the floor to meet Lorna's tear-stained eyes. "Oh my God," she said, snapped out of her daze. Grabbing the knife from the floor, she rushed to the loveseat, kneeling to cut the bindings from her ankles and wrists. "It's okay, it's okay," she said, unfastening the gag with her quivering fingers and throwing it away. Lorna immediately jumped forward, throwing her slender arms around Beatrice and holding her tight, burying her wet eyes in her shoulder. Beatrice gently rubbed her hand over the girl's back, feeling the bumps of her spine beneath her palm. "You're safe now, it's okay."

Beatrice placed her arm around Lorna's shoulder, easing her off of the loveseat and walking her towards the door. Stopping by Fred's body, Beatrice nudged him with the toe of her boot. She bent down to fish around in his pocket and pulled out the keys to his car. The two walked out onto the front porch to see Enoch standing on the lawn with a rusted metal gas can under his arm. "Both of you, meet me after the service on Sunday," he said, "or we're all going to be up a creek." Looking straight ahead, he stepped around them and entered the house.

Lorna placed her hand in the middle of Beatrice's chest, craning her neck to watch him. Beatrice took her chin in her fingers and turned her head. "Come on, let's get outta here before we get barbecued." She knelt to scoop up Lorna's legs and carried her to the Mustang. Opening the door, she set her down in the passenger seat before walking around and getting in.

Enoch trailed the gasoline out through the front door, looking over his shoulder to see the Mustang backing off the curb and driving away. He poured the can down the steps, leading the trail out to the middle of the yard. Taking the cigar from his pocket, he lit it, staring into the warm lamplight glow pouring out from the doorway as he smoked. He closed his eyes, took one last drag, and dropped the cigar to the dry grass as he walked to his truck. The trail ignited, and as he drove away, he could see the house going up in flames in the rearview mirror. A silhouette of a man emerged from the thick black smoke, and he stood in the embers of the grass with the blazing orange inferno to his back. Enoch's eyes widened. He pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal and sped down the street.

---

That night, beneath the soft, tangled white sheets, Lorna slept in Beatrice's arms.