. . .
After waking to Drip Rifle fire, Patrolman Hynen heartily threw himself into entrenching duty. Unsure still what to do with the video on his phone he busied his mind with heavy labor. The bonus of the work was that he might not get killed in his sleep. Around the tents they dug slit trenches and erected sandbag walls, while proper entrenchments were made around the perimeter with log bunkers and the like. D.R.S. engineers fired up their equipment and began shifting dirt into twenty-foot-tall berms, cocooning the barracks and nearby field hospital. The area was turning into a proper fortress and would soon be immune to all but the heaviest of attacks. After a full week, what had been a mental escape and genuine concern for physical safety turned into drudgery. He was ready for a change.
Sergeant Simmons was doing his part filling duty rosters and was taking volunteers during morning formation. "Alright, last item; best for last. Brass says we are going to be making a move. A big one, and soon. There isn't much in way of details yet, but they're asking for volunteers. They say it is going to be very dangerous, and you'll be at the front of an attack. But… it'll be a dual-op with real, honest-to-gosh, Red Star Marines!" Many bored sets of ears pricked up. "How about that?! If you're looking to make a good impression this's your chance. Think how good it'll look on a service record when The Red Star takes over full management. Just keep that in mind. Now… lemme see if there's anything else..." Simmons consulted his notes. "Just that if you end up going, you'll be answering to... huh, that's interesting, okay... you'll be answering to Caleb Kauffman. SO... who's feeling ambitious?"
Hynen put his hand up. "Does this mean I don't have to fill sandbags anymore?" This wasn't his true reason. Hynen was wondering why someone whom he had picked up for public intoxication and drug possession would be put in charge of anything. The last time Patrolman Hynen had interacted with Caleb, the man had been as stoned as a gravel road, unable to form coherent sentences, and was babbling to himself in the middle of Philipsburg's Revolutionary War Park; desperately clinging to a cannon monument for dear life. It had taken Hynen and two other troopers to pry Caleb loose, and then two more to wrangle him into a patrol car. If for nothing else but morbid fascination, he had to see this.
Sergeant Simmons sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, Patrolman, I suppose it does."
"Then I'll volunteer."
"That's hardly a good reason to volunteer. Maybe a little more heart, some enthusiasm next time, eh?" Simmons marked him and others that offered their service. "That's settled then. Everyone's got their assignments. Volunteers, you're to head over to the basketball court and will get further briefed from there. Rest of you, dismissed!" Hynen and a handful of others headed around the barracks, joining several groups until there were about a hundred from the various departments. Within the basketball court were waiting for them three figures. Two they recognized. Caleb Kauffman (to many officers this was the first time they had seen him sober) who was smoking a cigarette, and The Man in Black, holding a steaming flagon of coffee. But the third, face and all features hidden behind his respirator and smoked out goggles, was a Red Star Marine. At their feet were several crates, each labeled the same: "U.u.u.u. Tirid ketak Kut In Go". The patterning of the letters was not English, Cyrillic, or any language the officers recognized. Some of the crate lids were open and Hynen could see the uneasy eyepieces and uncanny valley face of a gasmask; and folded in other crate looked like jumpsuits. Before anyone could ask about this, the Red Star Marine spoke. The Marine's voice was harsh and rasped through his respirator but was strong and confident. The Man in Black, sneaking in quick sips of coffee, translated.
"Ingdutse ketak luk so in in lud, ludtiridketak inudutbernot!"
"Greetings and good day to you all, valiant volunteers!"
"Syrinx ittiriddut le in tatirid inse."
'One word in there I know.' Hynen thought. The Red Star language was spoken in a strange dialect that couldn't be pinned down except to say it sounded 'old, beyond years old' on the listener's ear. Listening to it made Hynen uneasy, as if whomever was speaking to him was massaging the words into his brain. Then again, it could have just been the Marine's personal speaking style. He would have to endure, keep his wits about him, and endeavor to find out more.
"Syrinx smiles on you this morning."
"tirid lud Tiridetliketak Faive."
"I am Lieutenant Faive."
"inso Tirid tirid dut kwamsobuse, ketak ludin dutluduse in, kwam ah udut in in Ulelitiridinlud Luding dutohtiridli."
"Today I will be instructing, and also evaluating you, in the use of our Unconventional Warfare equipment."
"in dutl dutin tirid dut."
"Your best effort is expected."
"in in tiridludinkwam dut."
"Do not disappoint me." The Man translated, spoke quietly in his native tongue with the Marine, then switched back to English. "This should not need be said, but for clarity's sake: none of what you do here is to be discussed in any shape, form, or fashion with anyone. This includes any superior in rank or title. Failure to do so will result in immediate discipline. Does everyone understand? Good. Tiridetliketak, temgodut lekwamudut."
"Bernotludkwam, Uhisnebrebgwis. dut u dutkwam tiriddutlud."
"Let us begin immediately."
"indut inlud ketak luddut ledut tiriddut ahin gotot eeluddut."
"Come forward and take one item from each crate." So began a grueling day for all involved. The entire getup included a head-to-toe suit, gloves that went up to the elbow, knee high boots, and a gas mask. These masks were more advanced than the ones they had worn for riot gear, with communication equipment built in and displays on the eyepieces that indicated the status and time remaining on their filters and a few dozen others Hynen did not recognize. For hours they took off and put on the equipment dozens of times, learned how to move in it, adjust to the claustrophobia of the mask, and the suite of electronics and controls. On the side of the court a small retinue of other Red Star Marines watched them; some taking notes. Unsure how to feel about being watched like a rat in a lab, Hynen did his best to ignore them. Finally, a halt was called, and they were allowed to fully remove the gear. By this point about a quarter of the volunteers had quit or been dismissed, being too slow to understand the equipment, unable to learn how to wear it or complete the movements asked of them to satisfaction of Lieutenant Faive. Lined in formation they waited for whatever was next. Lieutenant Faive confided with The Man for a moment then stepped center stage to the formation. In slow, deliberate words he addressed them, in English.
"You have... done, well. There will be, more... training. You have passed your... entrance test. In... good faith, let me show myself." He nodded to The Man in Black, who moved to stand next to him. Lieutenant Faive unbuckled his helmet and hooked the chin strap onto his belt. He then lifted off his goggles and after a deep breath, with a depressurizing pop, removed his respirator. "If you... are to, serve with, me... then you must... know me."
Before them stood an unmasked Red Star Marine. At a quick glance he would pass as Human but closer inspection would reveal his alien nature. His skin was a pale, smooth ashen color. If forced to guess, Hynen would have placed Lieutenant Faive in his early thirties. The forehead was reasonably high, the translucent hair cut perfectly short and trim. Cheekbones were high and pronounced, nose Grecian and proud. The face was free of beard or mustache, thin, and worn with a sort of regal, confident air about it. The eyes, however, were the most dominant feature. Around them flanked a permanent coloration of an almost purple hue. The eyes themselves were golden where a Human's would be white, and dark in the center with round pupils. And with the golden sclera in contrast with the dark pupils and immediate coloration around them, the eyes appeared to glow even in daylight; giving all present the feeling they personally were being stared at with possibly vicious intent. Hynen likened it to how a mouse felt when being sized up by a hungry owl.
"Now you... know, there is a... living being, under this... helmet, and not... a, machine!" Lieutenant Faive cracked a smile, showing a mouth of brilliant white but otherwise normal teeth. "But I, cannot... keep this, device, off... for long. I apologize." The respirator went back on, and his normal breathing pace resumed. Then the goggles and helmet followed, obscuring the starkly patterned Marine behind layers of masking black again. "Thank you... for indulging, me. My voice skills are... still developing. I have, practiced... your language... a little. Very soon, you... will learn, my language. For tonight, you are... released. We will, resume... in the, morning."
Dismissed and sworn to secrecy, the volunteers left in silence. Patrolman Hynen's head spun with the revealing of what a citizen of The Red Star looked like. Having seen The Man in Black who looked indistinguishable from a Human, except for whatever secrets lay under his sunglasses, he wasn't sure what he had expected. Gills? Literally four eyes? The skin to be blue or some bizarre color combination like green and pink? It was so unexpected and striking that he had seen a Marine's face he almost forgot about what he was training for. Something that required the equal to MOPP Level 4 gear, that much was clear. Maybe they expected their enemy to try something drastic in their desperation? Whatever it was he would have to travel further down this road to find out. Exhausted from the day, Patrolman Hynen retired to his cot and immediately fell into his first dreamless sleep in weeks.
. . .
Another day on the road, wasted weeks blended, another hunt that came up empty, and another cheap motel. Haruko had found this one twenty-five miles west-southwest of Bairoil, Wyoming. The road in was lit by brilliant flares at the natural gas plant. Hissing and roaring they threw flashing, flickering light across the blacktop and even from the road Haruko could feel the radiating heat. In town proper, name unknown to her because there was no sign, there wasn't much of anything. The combination bar/restaurant/general store/oil change and tire center/casino/lottery with a rusting sign that read "LITNERS" looked like a stiff breeze would topple the moldering structure over. But there was a fleet of cars, trucks, and motorcycles outside, the lights were on, and she needed fed, watered, and paid. Haruko pushed the front door open. The door swung too far, pulling on its hinges, and banged off the wall. On her first look, it was packed from wall to wall. All heads snapped her way and through the grey cigarette smoke haze, every eye was on this stranger that had rudely interrupted their evening. Never one to leave a silence hang, she held up a flyer from three towns and several hours more away.
"Poster said you needed a bass player. Pays fifty bucks and beer. Who'm I s'posed to talk to?"
"That'd be me!" The shout came from across the bar and next to a narrow hallway crammed with blinking slot machines. A band was setting up on the postage-stamp sized stage. To Haruko's amusement, and mild concern, it was fenced from floor to ceiling with chicken wire. To get in you had to go around the bar, through a back hallway that doubled as storage, and then through another door, made of chicken wire, onto the stage proper. On her way through the room, she noticed several things that did nothing to alleviate her growing concern.
All the tables and benches were made of smooth polished concrete and bolted to the floor. On each table were several ashtrays, and all were bolted to the tables. The bar itself was also concrete and reinforced. No one had a glass bottle or cup. Everything was served in either plastic cups or in aluminum cans. There were no dartboards and no billiards tables. A sign by a side door informed the reader there were no indoor bathrooms, which explained why she had passed Port-A-John's in the parking lot. Another wire cage surrounded the part of the bar with the cash register. Inside this cage and standing guard next to the cash register was a ruthlessly dour faced man of preposterous height and strength. This man, in addition to looking like he benched pickup trucks, also had on his hips a wicked Bowie Knife and a 1911A1 pistol; with enough spare magazines on his belt and in his pockets to take on the entire town. The last straw was the five-item food menu. Number three was the Beef Liver and Onion Sandwich. But now she was already inside the wire, and it would be an everlasting shame to her pride if she backed out.
The guitarist seemed to oversee this trio. All three of them together made a rough looking bunch. They appeared to have just gotten off shift at the gas plant, still wearing steel toe boots and stained with oil and grease. A massive paw enveloped her hand and nearly crushed it. Tapping her strength, she upped the pressure until their grips matched. The guitarist seemed unfazed. "How long you been playin'?"
"All my life. Kind of stuff you guys into?" Haruko refused to let the handshake go until the guitarist released first and upped the pressure further. "Let me guess... K-Pop?"
"The fuck's K-Pop?" The drummer asked from behind his kit.
"You can play Motorhead, right?" The singer slid along the front of the stage, pressed in the by chicken wire. "Or are you some kind of weird groupie chick? 'Cause if you are, you can still make some money tonight, but you'll just have to wait 'till the show's over."
"Of course, I can fuckin' play Motorhead. Can your bargain-bin, knock-off brand lookin' ass sing?" The singer started forward, but the guitarist blocked him.
"Alright, alright." He released Haruko's hand to hold up his arm. "Take it easy, she's obviously got some bite to her. Let's just be chill here. Besides, you can't be fighting anyway with your hand like that."
Haruko looked at the singer's right hand and saw it was in a cast from fingers to wrist. "What happened there? Are you usually the bass player as well? Hey, just like Lemmy, eh?!"
"Yeah, I am. Was. Still am. Just not today." The singer showed the cast, covered in signatures. "Broke it last week. My first, middle and ring knuckles are broken, and the bones behind the middle and first finger are broke, too."
"Who'd you hit that hard to break that many bones?"
"No one, he hit no one." The drummer explained. "He punched his mailbox."
"Okay... but why?"
The drummer had an answer ready. "We were shit-faced drunk." No further words meant he assumed that was all the explanation needed.
"Oh, well. Of course."
A drumstick was aimed at the left side of her face, still under wraps. "What happened there? Or is that just a fashion statement?"
She lifted the bandages up to show the jagged and raw red line. Even these three hardened men winced seeing how the split in her face had been gouged out. It still was stubbornly refusing to heal, and several blobs of gunk peeled off with the bandage. "Nice, huh?"
"That... that looks like a gunshot to me." The guitarist leaned in with a critical eye. "Whaddyah think, Corbin?"
Corbin, the singer, looked with experience. "It does, does indeed. How'd that happen?"
"Had a fight with a... cop, of sorts. And he was losing so he went for his gun. As you can tell, he couldn't even manage that properly."
"Did'ja get him?"
"I walked away. He didn't."
"Atta' girl." The guitarist nodded in approval. "'kay, we're gonna be on the clock soon, so you'd better be ready to put up, or you're out on your ass. I'm Welch, that's Corbin singing, and Silveria's on drums. And tonight, you're in the ranks of No Rest for Roughnecks... Miss...?"
Unwilling to repeat her previous mistake, she searched her memory for the first name that came to mind. "Voyze. Glad to be in the gang."
"Voyze? Kind of name is… Dude, every other word outta your mouth is weird. Anyway, get tuned and plugged in. Set list's right here." A sheet of paper was stapled to the fence frame with songs added in the margins or crossed out. Haruko scanned it and while it wasn't her usual library, she could handle it. They finished setting up and by slapping on the chicken wire notified the head bartender they were ready. A breaker was flipped behind the bar. Lights shifted to showcase them and a cleared area for dancing, and the speakers hummed to life with their controls turned to Eleven. There was no fanfare or introduction for the crowd. The guitarist counted a quick, quiet 'one, two, three' and that was it. He and Haruko started off, the guitar sharp but echoing notes and bass heavily humming. Then the impressive backing work and timing from the drummer kicked in while the singer started working up a flow smooth as polished glass. Sketchy and crude as they were, Haruko could not deny that when on stage, they knew what they were about.
*Come my lady, Come-come my lady!
You're my Butterfly, sugah baby!
Come my lady, Come-come my lady!
You're my Butterfly, sugah baby!
Such a sexy, sexy pretty little thing!
Fierce nipple pierce, you got me sprung with your tongue ring...
And I ain't gonna lie 'cause your loving gets me high!
So, to keep you by my side, there's nothing that I won't try!
Having pre-gamed at home before coming to the bar, the patrons went wild. The dance floor was crushed with a flood of bodies, writhing, and rhythmically bobbing to the drummer's time and Haruko's pulsing waves of bass.
Butterflies in her eyes and the looks to kill!
Time is passing, I'm asking could this be real?
'Cause I can't sleep, I can't hold still!
The only thing I really know is she got sex appeal!
I can feel... Too much is never enough!
You're always there to lift me up, when these times get rough!
I was lost, now I'm found!
Ever since you've been around...
You're the women that I want
So yo, I'm putting it down...
It was radically different than her last venue, closer and intimate with dancers pressed against the wire. Sound filled the bar, bouncing and reverberating off the concrete surfaces. Soon the space was full of music and Haruko was getting pulsed with her own bass and the kicks of the drummer behind her; but several times over for both as the sounds made their trips around the room. Every band member had a mike, so they provided the whispering backing vocals for the lead.
I don't deserve you unless it's some kind of hidden message...
To show me life is precious...
Then I guess it's true.. But to tell truth, I really never knew...
'Til I met you, see, I was lost and confused, Twisted and used up!
Knew a better life existed but thought that I missed it...
My lifestyle's wild, I was living like a wild child!
Trapped on a short leash, paroled in police files...
So yo, what's happening now?
I see the sun breaking down into dark clouds!
And a vision of you standing out in a crowd, so...
The singer pointed through the wire at a group of girls, sweeping his finger across each one; all of whom screamed in joy at being noticed. Haruko felt an eye roll but lost it to an irrepressible grin that had been spreading over her face.
Come my lady, Come-come my lady!
You're my butterfly, sugah baby!
Come my lady, you're my pretty baby...
I'll make your legs shake, You make me go crazy!
Come my lady, Come-come my lady!
You're my butterfly, sugah baby!
Come my lady, you're my pretty baby...
I'll make your legs shake, You make me go crazy!
Come and dance with me (yeah)...
Come and dance with me...
Come and dance with me (yeah)...
Come and dance with me...*
. . .
Chartier was ushered into the G&R Fabrication office and collapsed on the waiting couch. He had already been through a hell of a day just getting to this meeting. It would be another full day just to get home. Tommy Carson pulled the door tight with a snap and he too collapsed into his chair. Both men for a moment sat in quiet and stared at the ceiling.
"I have only been in this country for seven years, and I'm still not sure if I understand it." Chartier broke the silence. "Coming from France, I had heard many a joke about Americans and their guns. Tobacco? Oh, no thank you." He declined the offered tin. "But I never thought I would be shot at this many times in an afternoon; never mind a lifetime."
"You're in the middle of a statistical anomaly, I assure you." Tommy swung his feet off his desk and hit his boots on the floor with a sharp crack. "It is never this bad. Why, before our little war here kicked off, I had only been shot at three times; in America that is. And that's not counting my time in the I.I.B.! More importantly, did your guys make it in okay?"
Chartier recounted running police checkpoints in boiler plate steel armored trucks with everyone aboard each vehicle firing for all his worth; Chartier included. "We pushed through without grievous injury. A few were wounded but are being looked at and will be ready to fight on our way home. How about you, yourself? How are you holding up?"
"Well, there's good and bad. Good is..." Tommy held up his shirt and traced an angry red line on his chest. "You see this line, the little fucker that's trying to get at my heart? It used to be at this rib, but now, it's back down to this rib! I'm making progress."
"Congratulations on your daily defiance of death. What of the bad?"
"Bad is everything else. When I'm stressed and don't sleep well, I get these ulcers in my mouth; feels like little craters in the roof of my mouth or in my gums."
"Oh, no, please...please don't ever say those words again." Chartier's stomach turned thinking about it and his own tongue reflexively ran a check on his own mouth. "What else troubles you, besides ulcers of the mouth?"
Tommy went on. "I've got those, and probably another ulcer beginning in my stomach. I'll just pour hot coffee on that and burn it shut; that'll take care of it right? I'm also terrified that I'll lose control over everyone now that there's been time for word to get around about what happened to Jerry, Sara, and Hi-Way. And that doesn't help me either, because we, I, asked them to help us; as an early warning post and feeding us. Because of that, they are dead, and their life's work burnt to ashes. And I know it's my fault, both in recruiting them and letting them go with such a small escort. I should have sent ten times as many guys with them, they were important enough to warrant the manpower. Then there's the guys who were overrun trying to defend the elementary school, and the squad who we can't account for... my cousin Jeff still hasn't gotten over that or what happened at Hi-Way and I'm afraid he's going to do something astoundingly stupid... Shaufner is still recovering and on oxygen until his lung fully heals and chest properly seals up. So, until he is cleared for duty again, we are down our one Hunter, and I'll bet my truck that a Man in Black will be back in action by this week's end, if one isn't already. And on top of it all if the Farmer's Almanac is to be believed..."
"Do you really take that book seriously? Isn't it old superstition and tales of wives? Can you rely on it?" Chartier nodded at the book atop a pile of other books and papers.
"Absolutely. It's never failed. I don't know what magic, hoo-doo, voodoo that they do, but does it do. And it's not that they're always right: it's just that they're never wrong. The Almanac says this winter will be utter murder in both cold and snow. And who knows what that'll do to our ability to fight. So, in summary: shit's fucked."
"Is that all you wanted to tell me today?" Chartier smiled to show it was only in jest. "A phone call would have saved a lot of time, and stress too. One less ulcer for you."
"Hey, you ain't wrong. No, you're not here to listen to me complain. Far from it. You're here to help me do something about my bitching's and moaning's. We discussed it some at the big meeting, but I want to run over with you again our plan and make sure there's no confusion."
"What's that about confusion?" Commander Amarao cracked the door and reached in to rap his knuckles on it. "My apologies, I'm not late, am I?"
"Just in time, I would think." Chartier pushed an empty chair across the office. Amarao pulled the door tightly shut and sat himself down. "I was just saying to Thomas that I wanted this meeting to make sure we eliminated all traces of confusion."
"You can never have too much clarity. None for me, thanks." Amarao agreed, waving off Tommy's offered tin of tobacco. "Straight to it, then?"
"Let's begin." Tommy drew a map from a desk drawer. Several hours of discussion began and the evening slipped into night. Over the last half hour, as they wrapped up, the office windows began to rattle and shake in their frames. A heavy heartbeat of bass notes was echoing from close by. Tommy and Amarao seemed to ignore them, but Chartier finally found them too distracting. He put down his pencil, stood and threw open the office blinds.
"What's eatin' you?"
"ç'est quoi ce bordel?! Euh, pardon... what is that noise?!"
"Oh, that. It's Jeff and Naota practicing. Is it too distracting? We're almost done here."
"No, no, it's fine. I just had to know and make sure it wasn't coming from the crazy side of my brain. They are playing like they're trying to blow the windows out."
"Really, I can have them stop it they're bothering you."
"Non, non…it's just me remembering being that young once." Chartier reminisced and looked longingly back at the window. "Oh, for this fighting to be over and my darling Evangeline home again..."
"Then let's finish up!" Tommy urged and the trio returned to their schemes. As they worked the sun sank behind the mountains and the moon rose to take its place. For now, all was calm.
. . .
The darkness of night was dashingly lit by snapping lines of interlocking tracers and broken occasionally by the bursting of parachute flares. Mana Kitsurubami sprinted across the field, leaping over tangles of barbed wire. She then dove for the ground as machine guns swept the field in another set of deadly arcs. Flat on her stomach and up to her ears in shivering cold mud and muck she crawled forward, now wriggling under further lines of barbed wire, their claws raking her back. Somewhere a howitzer boomed, and its screaming shell landed nearby, exploding with a shower of pummeling dirt clods and rocks. All seemed to target the too-large bucket of a helmet she was wearing, drumming on her head. Still, she crawled forward, soaked from head to toe, teeth chattering in the autumn nightly chill. Every nerve in her screamed that she needed to get away, as far away from where she was and as fast as possible. Even if that meant standing up in front of the flurry of shrapnel and flashing tracers, her entire being implored her with every desperate plea it could muster that she had to run. Mana pressed herself down further into the muddy, rocky sludge, bit her knuckles and screamed into the murky, stagnant water until the taste of blood ran thick on her tongue, her lungs burned, and she calmed enough to think again. Her fears temporarily suppressed, she slogged forward, pushing dirt and rocks out of her way and tried to avoid drowning in the pungent muck.
"Kitsurubami! Kitsurubami, is that you?!" One of her I.I.B. fellows spotted her a few yards away, temporarily lit by another flare. They began to crawl over but much too fast, rising too high for their safety.
"Stay down! Stay down and over there! Don't come near me!" She warned, putting her head on her cheek to see who was yelling her name. "You'll get hit, stay down!"
"We have to go back, we're dead out here!" She recognized the face, caked with dirt and mud as it was.
"Just stay down! Keep your head down, keep moving and we'll be okay!" Mana ordered back over the deafening noise. "Just, just follow me! Get, get behind me and follow my path!"
"No, no I can't! I can't do it, I can't, I can't! I, I have… I can't do it…"
"Sifa, yes you can! You can…" Another howitzer shell screamed in and exploded with another shower of debris. Mana dunked her face down into the water, rifle cradled in her elbows, and waited for the pummeling to stop. The torrent of scooped up dirt over, she pulled her face out of the water and took a heaving breath. "Sifa, where are, where are you?!" Sifa had crawled at an angle but was now directly in front of Mana, where Mana had told her not to go. Even with all the noise and shouting, she could hear Sifa uncontrollably sobbing. "Sifa, don't…"
"I can't do it, I have to get out of here, I can't stay here, I can't take it, I can't fucking take it, make it stop! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! I CAN'T DO THIS, GET ME OUT OF HERE, PLEASE MAKE IT STO…"
"No, no, no! No, please Sifa! PLEASE DON'T, SIFA DON…!" Mana screamed as she realized what was about to happen. Sifa broke under the pressure and amid the flying shrapnel and buzzing tracers, began to stand up.
K-TH-WHACK-WHACK-TH-WHACK-TH-WHACK!
Before Mana's eyes Sifa was ripped apart by shrapnel and machine gun fire, slashed to ragged pieces. The bloody, liquid aftermath completely coated Mana from head to belt. On one knee, Sifa's body stood for a moment, seeming unaware it was dead, then staggered, then slowly toppled over towards Mana. It crashed into the mud and water with a gut-wrenching splat. The ragged, shot away remains of what had been a face turned towards her, the one remaining eye already glassed over. The impact jarred loose the exposed brain pieces, throwing them into Mana's face. The initial shock over and covered in the viscera of what had just happened, Mana looked down at her hands and arms, then saw her reflection in the water. Her normally tanned skin was fully painted a grisly dark red, heavily splattered with a sticky coat of bits and chunks of flesh, skin and bone. Feeling her stomach turning and nerves failing, she channeled her recoil of horror and anguish into a lung splitting shriek, audible over the chaos…
. . .
*Butterfly - Crazy Town