The Black Betties

An Average Day:

I

Stop me if you've heard this one: A bloodsucking monster walks into a bar, slips a little something into one of our girls drinks and there I am, sitting in the mens restroom of said bar, reading a magazine with my feet propped up on the door. Occasionally I’d look about at the writing on the bathroom stall. People sometimes communicate with us in this way. They use graffiti and etchings on these plastic walls to give us their testament. its street scripture. On this occasion all I found to read was the useless banter between blue pen and red pen. On the other side the phrase "My piss smells of chips!" was written in sharpie. ill admit it, I laughed at that one. I have The Black Betty herself nestled in my arms like the baby she is. Passed down to me from the previous leader of the tribe, this black baseball bat is a living legend. Stakes of Oak, Blackthorn, Ash, Elder, and ceder jutted out from its top joined by nails of steel, iron, and silver. Another set of nails arranged in a ring circled the middle of the body. This is my addition to the weapon. Razor blades and other sharp tools of the trade lie embedded throughout the business end of the bat which was also wrapped in barbed wire. Teeth of various sizes and origins were each individually strung up to the handle. The legend just wont work without them and it was never explained why. Thing about a legend, it has to be more than what the reality is. it has to be what is expected, what the tall tales make it out to be. The story goes, and I'm not sure on how true it is, that back in the fifties when our outfit first started, the first wielder of this magnificent knocker-outer of teeth actually claimed that each tooth, which she placed herself, marks the first kill of past wielders. She went about making up stories of how they were obtained and making up who obtained them. This is when we first learned the power of a story. It started to swing faster, feel lighter , hit harder, and resist more stress and abuse than the Louisville Slugger could ever do on its own. As time went on, the stories piled up and she kept getting stronger. I'm Beatrice, another living legend for much the same reasons. its crazy to think I started out as this wide eyed sixteen year old girl with jet black hair and a messiah complex. Now, many years later at 40, I run the show. I'm the first of the black Betty's to think: if this kind of power can work for a baseball bat, why not a person? I was right. News of my heroism spread and got more inaccurate every time the stories were told. I even pitched in. To this day I have never given my actual origin story...or have I. To be honest I cant even remember. I started to gain more speed, and my punch would knockout any heavyweight boxer in seconds. Now by no means am I unbreakable. I'm still squishy, like most humans. I'm not Supergirl, and god I wish I fought heavy weights. So here I am, sitting in a foul smelling restroom waiting for this thing to show itself. My hair and makeup is all done up and wrapped in a black bandanna. My black jeans and cut up t-shirt radiated that rockabilly style me and the girls are famous for. I hear the door squeak open and the loud clumsy stomps of the thing start reverberating off the tile walls. We know now that it was human and in retrospect, I should have known better. We thought it may have been Noctis Albinoss, an albino vampire. But his skin wasnt pale enough and his teeth were too crooked. They have a nasty habit of using illusions to disguise themselves. They’re not big on imperfections. I leapt into action. I opened the stall ever so casually and ,With Betty swinging from side to side in my cloth wrapped hands, quickly waltzed up to him. He didn't even see me until it was far too late. He looked up from washing his hands into the mirror in front of him and saw me swing. The bat made such a lovely sound. it always gives me goosebumps. Its like the classic crack of a baseball being hit mixed with the sound of thunder rumbling overhead. The razors and barbed wire cut and shaved as the impact sent him face first into the mirror which obviously shattered into countless little pieces. I set Betty against the wall and lifted the man up by the scruff of his shirt and drug him over to my stall. He was bleeding heavily and definitely suffered a concussion. I heard the commotion outside of the bathroom as the other girls took their positions in case anything went wrong. I slammed his face into the bowl and watched as the toxin I poured into it...did absolutely nothing. The trick with hunting anything is knowing your prey. The Tonic prepared previously by our resident herbalist/mad scientist Della was a complex mixture of herbs and chemicals that create the perfect poison for Noctis Albinoss. Sadly, this was not an Albino vampire. Imagine my surprise as I stared and cocked my head in confusion as he struggled to be free of me. I spent that single second to look back and see what I’ve missed. something was hunting young women and draining them of blood, though we didn’t know how or to what extent as we had no bodies. I remembered the mans mile long stare and thought Ah thats it, mind control. I released the man and he bolted up out of the bowl and looked about the room just as confused as me. It would seem the tonic or the adrenaline knocked him out of the trance. He looked at me then, muttered something like "who are you" and then I was launched back into the far wall that Betty was leaning on, shattering the tiles on impact. I tried to shield my face from the incoming mix of concrete, drywall, and brick. I looked up and saw something that wasn't in the books. The thing was massive. it stood at eight feet and had broad shoulders. it was bipedal and humanoid in shape but not in its features. One arm was long and four needle like fingers with equally needle like claws extended out. The left arm however wasn't an arm at all, but instead branched out into, I believe ten, yes ten slender tendrils with a scorpion like stinger at the end of each. The creature made no discernible sound. If it wasn't for its heavy step and the screams of the man caught between me and it, the only sounds to be heard in the bathroom would be the florescent lights humming above. What struck me as odd was a bucks skull biologically welded to what apparently served as the things head. Without the bone face the thing would look like a mass of animate muscle. I have heard of this type of welding before but I’ve never seen it. The skull jutted forth from flesh the same way tusks do for an elephant or rather antlers to a buck. it was an eight point buck that donated its skull to the cause. The antlers jutted out and gave the creature a intimidating demeanor. The creature wasted no time and sought to cease the mans screaming, reaching out with one of its tendrils. The man tried to escape but the stinger latched into him and almost instantly before my eyes I saw the mans skin tighten and depress around his frame as he let out a final slurping rattle, the blood drained out of him leaving a pale shriveled husk behind. I had never seen anything like it and that image just sticks with you. I immediate ran toward the door and cried out "Fire." as I dove to the floor. the creature pursued, only the sounds of fleshy thuds from its muscular, yet thin legs and bird like feet. The loud bursts of gunshots sounded off, deafening me slightly and bullets of silver, iron, and lead burst through the wooden door and linoleum walls. I scrambled for the doorway, the door having been blown away, and saw the line of women, each with a firearm, shooting at the thing behind me. Cash broke from the line and grabbed my hand. He dragged me out of the bathroom as the gunshots went off. Then I heard a thunderous rumble. I turned around and saw the thing running away through a large hole it made in the far wall. It was amazingly fast. I spoke quickly into the radio so all could hear as I picked up Betty from the rubble. "its running into town. go to plan B. Meet at East Maine street and Lee avenue ." I heard the roars of engines as the bar emptied. Outside, Cash’s truck was already in pursuit. Cash is always one step ahead. I heard the gunshots go off. Several flashes of light illuminated the night from the truck bed as they tried to lead it toward the specified location. I jumped on my cycle, a 2011 black ninja. Cash even prepped it for me. He knows I never do. With the temperature just right, I revved it and took off down the opposite road. A black 68' Pontiac GTO traveled with me then branched off on another road leaving me alone. I was topping 160 praying for a clear route as I toured through red lights. I had to dart past a few cars but made it out okay. The gunshots were getting close enough to hear over the cycle as I jumped off and brought Black Betty to bare. I stood with my back to the wall at the corner entrance of an alley. I felt the adrenaline pumping, the feeling of time slowing down to a crawl. I nudged my body back and forth slightly as my blood boiled the way an Olympic runner does moments before beginning the race. I heard the revving of engines. The monster was practically galloping down the sidewalk. I braced myself and in a single instant the GTO zoomed by, and I took a swing. The bat practically split the air and hit the thing square in the chest. It was like popping a water balloon. I was dripping red. I stepped back as the creature got up and followed me into the alley. Each step was carefully chosen. The thing silently followed. raising its tendrils. Each one drearily danced hypnotically from side to side like cobras.I was prepared. I wasn't about to get sucked dry. I don't even donate blood. it stays inside right where it belongs. The stingers came down fast and I back-stepped. The Stingers drove into the ground sending up a rain of oil stained gravel. My foot stepped over a steel cable tied into a loop. The stingers came again and I dodged again and the creature lunged for me. I swung the bat at its head. The skull fractured, half of the lower jaw dangled from the fleshy tissue as another crimson shower drenched me. The creature fell down and I kept swinging. I brought the slugger down onto its body from overhead repeatedly. A dark puddle began to form around it then receded back into it like a sponge with each blow. I caught my breath as the body went limp. I stepped off and wrapped the cable around its legs. Within moments a large truck sped off towing the thing behind it. I watched as it left smears on the concrete, hitting walls and debris as it traveled. I jumped on my cycle and followed close behind, joined by the other vehicles in the convoy. We traversed the winding Louisiana roads to The Thunder bird Garage. This is our home and HQ. A two story out of the way bar adjacent to a auto repair shop ran by Cash, Joe, and Dalia. We pulled in and one of the girls pulled the cable over a beam. The truck pulled forward and the blood sponge-because I want to call it a blood sponge- rose up by its feet like a fishermen's catch. I parked the bike, went straight upstairs and took a shower. Cash was waiting for me downstairs. He hadn't said a word all day. His feminine figure, diminished by the wrap that flattened his chest and boyish face always made me smile. I recently loaned him the money to start his testosterone treatment, and he was feeling a little self conscious. I thanked him for the assistance, and looked back at the girls wrapping the body of the sponge in large plastic sheets. We dispose of the corpses in the swamps. They left the garage, the blood sponge in tow, and me and cash were enjoying a nice long cigarette. I asked if we lost anyone and he reluctantly replied, his voice cracking occasionally like a boy going through puberty. "two dead, Joy was picked up off her bike at sixty miles per hour. I saw what it did. That'll haunt me forever. Kara was in the Mustang. it pulled her through the damn window." its tradition to place the photos of those we lost on one of the walls of the garage. Cash had already seen to it. Joy and Kara were good friends. Moments later the flashing red and blue lights came on the backs of sirens. Funny thing about the authorities. They hate us. They can never prove anything illegal, but they knew we were up to something. This always made relations...tense to say the least. They've been trying to get us in jail for years. it was kind of always like that, now that I think about it. it also made cases more difficult to solve without access to reports and such. See the shows and movies make is seem so much more simple. one clue leads to another, then another, then they figure it out. Real life is rarely so straightforward. Tracking the blood sponge was hard enough. it took us weeks to actually track it down and we were completely wrong about what it was. No one has ever seen something like that. Seems a bit of head trauma will kill them though, so thats a plus. The cops roll up, get out and next thing I know, I'm in the back of the squad car on the way to the station.


"And you know the rest." I said sitting in the interrogation room with my arms crossed. The two men in front of me wore suits. The tall and skinny one with blond hair and blue eyes was sent from Chitin. One of the heavy hitters of Article 8. Big shot bankers wanted in on all the action, so they created a collaborative group. its purpose is two fold: First and foremost, they're investors. They find local outfits like ours and funnel money into them hoping something like tonight happens. Something new and never before seen. I really hope they stick with blood sponge as a name in the reports. It’s growing on me. Secondly, they develop new technology and research the darker world. The other man, stocky and gruff with brown hair and way too good of a tan to be natural, is a counselor from Hatfield and Harriot. Bail bonds, law, occasional exploitation of loopholes in said law, these guys are the best lawyers money can buy. They insure we can go on doing what we do without any severe punishment. I’ve spent a night or two in jail before but never more. They pull strings and call in favors. They organize prisoner transfers to fake prisons, releasing the prisoners when they arrive with a completely different identity. They are my saving grace and keep the whole Web of conspiracies going. Now an average day for us depends on a variety of factors. Nine times out of ten theres a disappearance with no body found and the police in whatever locality we find ourselves operating in get out of their depth. Were the suicidal maniacs they call in when either all other resources have been exhausted or every one else is either too busy or simply wont bother to help. One girls disappearance isn't enough to call in the governments own spook exterminator task forces, of which there are many. It isn’t enough to attract the many organizations who consider themselves more "long term, and big picture oriented" either. were the redheaded step children of the The Article 8 Organizations. Were on the list, but the high rollers of this Web of Conspiracies tower over our backwoods, blue collar startup. In other words, if they’re Walmart, were that mom and pop grocery store in the middle of nowhere thats always out of milk and charges far too much for booze. Were divided in purpose but we understand one another. The analogy isn't just about money, or prestige, or even our outfitting. It goes down to customer loyalty too. Some people will only go to us to sort out their spooky problems. We feel more local, more caring, and we don't hide behind some faceless logo. Back in the eighties the UN created an unwritten list and with it a set of unwritten laws. The list contains names. The laws are to be followed by anyone associated with one or more of those names. This is what Article 8 is. It’s a method of controlling secrets, a method of fighting and researching all things that go boo, a method of controlling all parties on that list, and more than anything else, a way to help world leaders sleep at night. They wrote the article and put it out of sight and out of mind. It’s highly likely many current members of the UN are unaware of it. Its been silent for a few minuets. The blond keeps writing something in a small leather notepad, the gruff one just sits and looks gruff. "Well, Mulder, Sculley? any questions?" "uh. yeah." says the blond. "its, Mark, please, is any of this false or...embellished? This is an official report for the after all" I widened my eyes and placed a hand on my chest acting like I was offended. "I never," I began, "Why would I do such a thing?" "its kind of your thing." The tan man replied. "Now, Sculley," the man’s eyes narrowed, "Oh stop, of course your gonna be Sculley. Whats a good story without a little embellishment or two? its accurate regardless. Let it be. Indulge me." Mark put his pen away and smiled. "OK so heres the deal. We've made an arrangement. We can get you out fairly easily, they don't really have anything on you apart from being at the crime scene." "Oh really? they seem to be slacking." "Or…The locals like you too much to put in hot water. We want the body though. Were sending it to UA for study." "Your contracting the university? Why? Alexandria is quite a ways away from London." "The Chitin Group lacks the resources for this particular subject. until we know more, we may not be able to gain much." "Makes sense. ill have them dig it back up." "Oh no need," The man I’ve named Sculley said. "We've procured it." "Swell." I said standing up and motioning to the door. "After you?" "One more thing." mark said. I shoved my hands in my pockets and sat back down. Sculley handed me a Manila folder that was actually pretty thick. I didn't bother to open it. "All right," I began taking the folder and walking toward the door. "We'll look into it."



I got back to the garage and sat at a couch. I say I sat, I really plopped onto it and sent a cloud of dust up. An old corvette was parked in front of me. Two skinny legs jutted out from underneath. I looked aroung and admired the decor of the garage. Much like the adjacent bar, it had a fifties diner kind of feel. The black and white checker board style with the old cars and coke signs. I turned my attention down to cash, who was still working underneath the car. "Cash of Cartage! Hold the fort down, did ya?" "Oh..." Cash said, sliding out to look me in the face. He looked, how should I put this? He looked like he was done with everyone's shit. Its his normal look to be honest. It comes with being a Carthage magician. The School of Carthage is more of a public service to the other conspiracies. They train recruits and send them out to fill in the ranks of other organizations. Magicians are trained in many talents. They practice illusions and basic Signomancy which allows one to do arcane tricks with their hands. Magicians are, more importantly, skilled exorcists. Spirits, ghosts, demons, and the like are their specialty. The process of becoming a magician however can lead to emotional scarring or just straight up emotional nonexistence. Cash was from Nashville. After being disowned by his family, he lived on the streets for a while. Eventually he helped us out with a particularly nasty tribe of ghouls. A few month with us and he applied at the school of Carthage. He’s been an asset ever since, particularly in interrogations. with his Magician mojo, I don't think Cash has ever asked a question twice. His eyes demand truth, and he always gets it. He kept shaking his head at me as a great commotion started up in on the other side of the garage. "Your not going to like this, B." I surveyed the garage a moment and saw what he meant. Hope and a group of my girls were standing over a man that laid on the ground hogtied and bloodied up. "What the hell is this." I casually asked, gesturing with my upturned palm. Cash shrugged in response, picking up a socket wrench. "You remember the Lafayette Angel maker?" "Yeah." "Thats him." "Oh Jesus." I sprang up from the couch and ran to the far corner of the garage. Half the gang was there now, causing a commotion. They were beating on them, kicking them in the gut and cutting on them with knives and other sharp tools. "What are you doing?" I cried, my arms outstretched as I approached. "Killing monsters." Hope replied in her deep voice. Hope was a tall girl, skinny and girly in almost every way. Her red hair showed vibrantly in the light. I had to be careful here not all monsters have claws after all, but this was wrong. "Oh yeah?" I said pulling out my colt 9mm. I pulled the trigger popping him directly through his left eye. His body went limp occasionally twitching on the floor. This man murdered at least twenty people and while I think punishment is due, its not ours to give. "What kind of justice was that?" Hope's voice rose above the clamor of the girls surrounding the bodies in her southern bell accent. "A serial killer, a man who should be removed from the gene pool. You just let em off eas-" "Oh I'm sorry." I said sarcastically."who gave you the right? Are you the avenger of all women? Hmm? Lemme ask you a question there hope." I pointed to the corpse "Were you or someone you know killed by this man." "No I wasn't." "Than who do you think you are. You denied the women justice. You denied those families justice, punishment that was theres to give. I don't understand how you are all so angry. Killing humans makes things complicated. These are monsters we must be careful with." "I thought you'd be pleased." Hope actually looked sincere. I placed a hand on her shoulder and sighed. "Look, Hope. I get it, I do. The world is certainly better off without him. I’m not irritated about your actions. I'm mad about your lack of foresight. I mean every second you keep him alive is a chance to escape. its not likely, but its possible. Thats what I'm mad about. Next time, don't get carried away. One bullet is all it takes. You know what this man did?" She nodded and helped with the clean up. It was more than that of course. Humans are trickier than the more obvious monsters. its harder to prove their monstrous natures. If he was innocent then I broke the rules.


IV After the incident I felt a need to unwind. My usual way of doing so was to go to Michael’s house. Micheal is one of the Black Box Medics. An organization of medical professionals that swear neutrality and patch up the wounded of anyone in need of it, even things with more exotic anatomy. They patch us up, and Michael is the nearest one. He’s also my moral support. I stood outside the house and admired it for a moment. A doctor sure makes bank. I knocked on the door and as usual, he has a client. A tall woman with flowing blond hair, and a thin nightgown was sitting on a makeshift operating table. “Do you mind?” he asked her while pointing at me. She shook her head. She wasn’t human, I knew that much. She was far too symmetrical. Most would have turned her away but Micheal doesn't discriminate. She had two bullet wounds in her stomach. One looked tampered with and the other was being prodded by Micheal as he dug for the bullet. Her mouth had recently been sewn shut and bruises covered her body. He removed the bullet and placed it into a small dish. He was a slender man with soft hands and a tender smile. His eyes were a gray-blue and his brown hair was cut short and clean. “You're lucky Agda.” He began in a soft tone, pulling the final bullet from the wound, “They used silver.” He threw the pan down on the table and sat beside her. “OK look at me now.” She obeyed as he pulled out a pair of scissors. “Amateurs, animals. You stay away from that farm. If they start using iron, your done.” He removed the stitching and thin streams of blood began to seep out. He dabbed then gently with a cloth. “Thank you.” She said, her European accent thick even through tears. She hugged him and I smiled. This is why he’s mine. When Agda left I regaled him with the days exploits over a glass of bourbon. “The young eat the old, hun.” He responded, “Your just coping with it.” Micheal was like that. He was smart and always wrapped things up in neat little boxes for you to digest. I'm not unintelligent by no means, but he always helps me understand. “Your old fashioned system of duty and honor and morality. its fading. The new blood washes it away and creates new rules. There isn't anything wrong with that. Would your predecessor approve of the changes you've made?” I laughed as I took another sip of whiskey. “Not at all.” “Exactly. You cant blame them. The Black Betties are constantly fighting a war of extinction. its us or them, am I right? Then you have Agda. It’s like watching someone fall into poverty. These once proud creatures hunted down. Natural selection is going to catch up with you. it already has.” “How do you mean?” “Remember your first werewolf?” I nodded. “Remember how easy it was. One silver bullet to the head. Done. What about the last one?” “Had to pump it full of bullets before it even slowed down. Now we resort to beheading.” “See? They’re adapting. You upset an ecosystem, even the world beneath the world has an ecosystem, and the whole system changes. its like this…blood sponge. Nightmare fuel that humans couldn't even dream of are popping up and we have no means of fighting it. We have no texts, no myths, no legends, and no reference to what these things are. I have a bad feeling: The old blood is dying everywhere. Agda, That old wolf in the swamps, I got to operate on my first Vampire today- Noctis Victoriana. I thought that strain had been wiped out. She lives underground Beatrice. A once proud species reduced to nothing. The old blood is dying and the new blood is carrying the disease. Were seeing it all over. New things popping up and we cant do anything.” I nodded once more and finished my glass. We sat outside and shared a cigarette. He lectured me about quitting and I shrugged it off. Eventually we got comfortable in his king sized bed. It was soft and nearly swallowed me whole. He laid beside me and I wrapped him in my arms. He stared off into space for a moment while in deep thought. “May I ask a favor?” “Go for it.” “Agda, The farm is just south of here and-” “Give me the address.” I said softly, leaning in to kiss him, “We’ll deal with them.”




The farmhouse was old, decaying in the moisture surrounding it. The air was hot and muggy and I sat on an upturned tree trunk with a cigarette in hand. Betty rested on my lap as I observed each point of entry. Agda sat on the hood of a beat up Cadillac, picking off flakes of rust from its surface. Clouds were rolling inand the smell of rain blew in on the wind. I planned each move carefully then stood up, flicked the butt out into the tall grass , and popped open the trunk. Agda watched curiously as I pulled a bucket out of the trunk and set it down on the dirt road. I carefully removed the lid and an chemical odor seeped out. The gree, viscous fluid inside bubbled slightly at the movement. This substance, a creation of Della's, is used to clean off our blades after a hunt. Its extremely caustic, melting off even the toughest of bloodstains and chunks of flesh that get caught on the blade. Occasionally, when were in the mind for it, we use it to coat our weapons before a hunt. The green dip evaporates slowly. Even when congeled onto a surface the dip will continue to eat at any biological matiriel it comes in contact with. If we want someone to hurt, this is what we use. I dipped Betty into the bucket and it hissed and boiled. The blood from the night before still lingered on the sharp edges of the bat. I held my breath casually. The smell always got to me. Ive thrown up many times during my adventures. Its something about the smell. I have a very sensitive nose and for some reason certain smells immediate cause instant vomiting. Apart from the reaction in the bucket, those smells include but are not limited too burnt hair, rotten food, stale grease, and the worst of all: the smell of vomit itself. I pulled Betty out and began walking toward the door of the homestead. Agda followed close behind and as we neared the door, she hid off to the side to avoid being seen. I knocked five times. I heard movement from behind the door and knocked again. The door knob turned and I felt a surge of adrenaline. The door opened and my face was met with the barrel of a shotgun. I caught the barrel and forced it aside and lightly grazed a tall bearded man’s bare leg with the treated end of the slugger. The man in a panic looked down and cried in pain. The skin grew red, then blistered and bubbled as layers peeled off. The wound was extensive growing rapidly as I poked at it with the stakes and nails that crowned the bat. I let myself inside and found a smell to add to my previous list. Decaying food was tossed about and flies buzzed en masse to each dish. I didn't have a mirror but judging by Agdas reaction, the look on my face was that of sheer horror. Agda, however, was unmoved by the sight and smell. She leapt forward with terrible speed and began slashing at the mans throat. She was drenched in his blood in seconds. A gunshot left a ringing in my ears as another two men came into the room from upstairs. I pushed forward and swung the bat. The blow landed one man’s face. The other grabed the bat and immediately regretted it as his hand began to corrode due to the caustic burns. I held my breath as the smell of searing flesh entered the exotic symphony's of an aroma the house was already blessed with. I started to feel the nausea set it. I didnt bother looking at the mans face. He was dead from the blow, and as I learned last night, there are some things you cant unsee. Agda stood and tilted her head. She began to quietly hum to herself in the most beautiful voice id ever heard. I then heard the dragging of feet above and began to move. Agda grabbed my shoulder and continued to hum. The dragging grew louder and the humming did with it. I made a mistake of taking a breath in a moment of thoughtless elation and immediately threw up onto the already filthy floor. Another man came, followed by a woman down the stairs. He was mezmerized by the sounds of her song. She stopped humming and began to harmonize her voice. I found myself mezmerized as they were. They tried to resist but their bodies disobeyed. The woman tilted her shotgun back and pulled the trigger. Her body fell to the floor, her face now gone. The man simply edged closer, dropping the pistol in his hand. She reached forward and stroked his greasy face. I watched enammored by the scene, completly unaware of the nausea that overtook me. She gently brought his face forward as she sand, placing each thumb over his eyes. She began to apply pressure as her song decended into deeper notes. By the time she was done, the man had no eyes and was dead, smiling on the floor. Agda stopped singing and the nausea hit me again. I ran out of the house. Agda soon followed, dragging the bodies behind her with immense strength. The look on her face was callous and bitter. She tied ropes the their feet and bound their hands. She threw each rope over a different tree brance and pulled the bodies up swiftly. When she was done she wandered over to me and patted me on the back. She hummed gently, easing the nausea. “Thank you.” I sputtered. “Thank you.” She replied. I watched the bodies blowing in the breeze and wondered how this could be covered up. I then felt a buzzing in my pocket. I pulled out my phone and answered. Cash was on the other side. “B, I have the files from carthage.” “On my way.”