Garlich thought he was crazy. But he did not say so, and he would not say so in front of Myer anyway. He did not know Myer. But Garlich knew Roeder. He was a professional to be respected and listened to.

But, and Garlich's eyes swept over the body before him, Jesus Christ.

Myer was running his hands over his face now. He was sweating freely, and his skin had lost all color. He was still with them, although he dearly wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else.

"How... are you defining this?" Garlich quietly asked Roeder.

Roeder smiled weakly. "Well, that's my question to you. How would you define this? Besides being something unnatural."

Across the table, Myer giggled. Both Garlich and Roeder looked questioningly at him. Myer stifled it.

Another groan, the softest of sighs, left the area where the mouth would have been if the body had been whole. The sound brought the three men to attention.

"She's been here for two days," Garlich stated.

Myer nodded with enthusiasm. Garlich studied the way the woman's right hand had been rolled to a pulp. It looked like a purple-black oven mitten made of flesh and bone fragments.

"Is this..." a joke Garlich was about to say, but the expression on Roeder's face was the honest to Christ truth. "This is..." he gestured with a hand, as if performing a feat of magic. He could not finish his sentence.

"There are brain waves," Roeder informed him. "We've determined that much. No pulse. No heartbeat. No breath. No other regular determiners that signify life."

"Autopsy?"

"We were in the process of performing an autopsy when she started... making noise," Roeder told him, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. He pointed to a place in the woman's dull, black torso, "This is where Myer made his first incision, and when she first cried out. We tried again, in the same spot, and the same reaction. That's when we did what tests we could without... causing her much discomfort."

Myer's hand found his throat. He pulled up a small silver crucifix hanging from a chain and began rubbing it between his fingers. Garlich caught the gesture and chose to ignore it. He built his career on knowing facts. He wasn't ready to start thinking about the undead just yet. He sighed inwardly. He shouldn't even be thinking the thought, but he was no fool... and he had seen enough zombie movies to know what was up.

The three men stood silently then, regarding the animated non-corpse on the examination table. Myers continued to rub his crucifix. Somewhere, coming from the stainless steel sinks, a single drop of water plucked against metal.

"What do you suggest?" Roeder asked, more than willing to follow Garlich's lead.

Garlich thought about it. "First, morphine," he said quietly. Then he nodded towards the examiner's table. "For her, too..."

Chapter 43.

At the same time Roeder was fixing a painkiller drip for the crushed woman in the morgue, other things were developing across the globe. A Jordanian man, accused and convicted of strangling his three children, was led to the prison gallows in the brightness of early morning. Prayers were said, as well as curses, for the soul of Habis Akbar as he was led up the steps, positioned over a metal trapdoor and blindfolded with a black cloth bag. He felt the rope going around his neck, felt it tighten and waited for death, whispering to himself that the afterlife would not be as miserable as the events that drove him to take the lives of his children.

When the lever was thrown and the trapdoor flew open, Habis fell the regulation six feet into emptiness, the rope and his own body weight snapping his neck with little effort. He spun clockwise, and the officials watching noted how the man's legs kicked once, twice and then were still. The execution was quick. Habis's neck broke. His spinal cord severed. They let him hang for several minutes, and in that time, he was deprived of oxygen. His carotid arteries, unable to drain blood, caused cerebral oedema. Under his mask, Habis's eyes bulged and his tongue plunged out. Little blood marks from burst capillaries slowly appeared on his face and eyes. His bladder released, his bowels let loose and the sweet, strong stink of s.h.i.t flowered the air.

When the prison official lowered him to the ground and released the rope, they removed the mask to see a purple-faced Habis, stretched neck and all, blinking frantically. From his mouth came the growing gush of a soundless scream. The prison officials, taken aback by the blunder, nevertheless were professionals. They quickly masked the criminal, replaced the rope and, rather than carrying the man up the step to the platform once again, simply used a mechanical winch to haul his carca.s.s up until it dangled again, motionlessly, a good foot from the ground.

They hung him for ten minutes this time.

When they removed the mask a second time, the strangulation marks around his neck were ghastly, but not near as frightening as Habis's eyes, bug-eyed and bloodshot from burst capillaries. He blinked at the world and tried very, very hard to scream.

One shaken official did not want to hear that scream. He drew his service revolver and shot Habis at point blank range in the chest.

Habis continued to blink.

The officer shot three more rounds into Habis's chest, exploding it.

Habis made low grunting noises when he should not have.

Sweating now and fully aware that the others were swearing aloud and calling for holy intervention, the officer steeled himself, took careful aim and blew out the back of Habis's head with one shot. Right between the eyes.

He felt his knees tremble when the grunting continued.

Most men fled the room then. The shooting officer and two others remained and gathered around. Composing themselves as best as they could, they removed Habis's ruined body to his final resting place, covering his head so that they did not have to stare at his destroyed face. They buried him in the late afternoon in a desert graveyard for criminals, hurrying away quickly before they could hear the soft grunts of the still-not-dead Habis escaping from the earth-little, pathetic, G.o.d-frightening noises that continued on even as they were throwing the dirt in on him.

The after effects of the sloppy execution were quick. All the men were immediately counselled for the disturbing events of the morning. One man, however, the officer who had shot Habis five times, quietly returned home. He locked himself away in his apartment with his own firearm, and sat before a window overlooking the great city of Amman. It was evening, and the sky was becoming orange at the edges. He lit himself a cigarette, placed his loaded revolver on the table nearby. He thought about his career and life and the gun on the table. He thought about the grunting Habis, and how they buried a man that should have been dead. He thought about that for a long time. And as the sun dropped below the cityscape line, and the day became black, he took longer draws on his cigarette. When he finished it, he lit a new one.

Finally, in the darkness of his room and the glow of the moon, he eyed his weapon on the table. Eventually, with fingers trembling, he touched the gun metal, caressed it.

And took it into his hand.

Chapter 44.

In the blackness of unconsciousness, Tony heard voices speak once in a while, loud and clear. They said nothing important to him, and he would not be able to recall exactly what it was they were talking about, but he heard them, like a child setting his ear to a thick door and listening to big words spoken on the other side. He would hear them twice, and then no more.

Then, he woke up.

It was cold. That was the first sensation he felt. With his chin resting on his chest, he kept his eyes closed as he came to his senses. He sat there, in between two warm bodies of people he did not know, in the rear seat of the car he had once pursued. He did a damage check on himself and noted with satisfaction that nothing else hurt except his head. It felt like there was a nail in his skull, and it was gouging out a message on the inside of his brainpan. Tony cringed and felt the sticky, moistureless, gummy feeling that came with the morning after a night of heavy drinking. He smacked his lips groggily and wished for water.

Then, he realized his mistake.

"Think he's coming around," said a voice to his left.

"Mhm," agreed a voice on his right, quick like a PC stereo check.

"I think he's playing now."

Tony felt someone shift beside him. A stinging backhand slapped across his face. His eyes went open in reflex, and he raised his fist to protect himself.

He felt something cold at his throat and froze.

"That's right, d.i.c.ksuck," the voice on the left purred. "That's right."

The Minion named Peters turned and stared Tony in the eye. Tony cringed, both from the nail in his head and the steel at his throat. He couldn't remember ever having a knife this close to him. Peters studied him quietly seeing what he was about. Tony saw the back of Death's head between Peters and the giant that had subdued him. The big man was now driving. From what Tony could remember, before being laid out cold on the highway, they weren't in the front seat in the beginning. Why had they changed positions? Why would anyone change positions while driving? To give the lead driver a break?

Jesus and Mary, Tony thought, where were they?

"You just sit there and be good." Peters winked at the Hanson holding the knife, and Tony felt the blade drop away. "There's no need for rough s.h.i.t. We can get that anytime we want. Anytime we want."

"He's awake?" Death asked, interested.

Peters altered his gaze just a bit so he could stare at the side of Death's head. He did not speak right away but merely stared like a carpenter, instinctively focusing on where to hammer in the next nail.

"Now what makes you so G.o.dd.a.m.n concerned?"

"Just askin', is all."

Peters continued to stare at Death's profile. He stared at the contours of the man's ear, inhaled and smelled the budding sweet odour of a body gone for a long time without a shower.

"Funny s.h.i.t," Peters said then. "You askin' seems to me like you're worried about this piece of s.h.i.t. And why would that be? I mean, you're here, aren't cha? If you gave a good G.o.dd.a.m.n in the first place, you wouldn't even f.u.c.kin' be here. I'd still be back at the station, waitin' for the call. But now, I'm here, we're here, driving, and you're right here with us." Peters smirked then, showing yellow teeth. "You are a f.u.c.ked up piece of work."

"Only asked if he was awake," Death muttered back. "No need for a f.u.c.king speech."

The grin disappeared off Peters' face, and Tony felt the temperature in the car as cold as it was drop even more. He had a sense for things like this, and he sensed that right here and now, this man talking to Death from the pa.s.senger side was about to kill him.

But Tony was wrong.

Instead Peters reached up and gripped Death's chin. He leaned in close to his ear and opened his mouth and hissed. It was a hiss of pleasure, just before the bite that would release a blast of blood. Tony cringed for a moment. He thought the man was going to bite Death's ear right off.

"Here's a speech for you, old man," Peters said in a low voice.

Tony knew Death would not like the old man reference.

"You just sit there and keep your tongue inside your head, and when we get to where we're going, you'll be just alright. You'll see. But if you keep asking stupid questions or just keep on shootin the s.h.i.twhich would bewilder the f.u.c.k outta meI'll make a mental list of it and remind you later of every stupid thing you said. When I'm peeling the skin off you, and putting' fire to what's exposed."

For a moment, Death did not say anything, and Tony was both relieved and surprised. He was surprised Death did not say anything back. In the short time Tony had known Frank, he always seemed to have the last word. But this time...

"f.u.c.k you," Death said clearly.

Peters' expression slackened in surprise.

"What did you just say to me?" Peters said in a menacing tone.

"You heard me," Death replied, and c.o.c.ked his head away from his interrogator.

"I don't think I did,"

"Then, you're f.u.c.kin deaf, as well," Death said in a voice that was filling up with a sad, sad anger at the other's repeated failure to recognize just who in fact he was addressing.

Peters did not feel the same way. He leaned in close. Death pulled away. Peters grabbed Death's skull and pulled it towards him.

"f.u.c.kin' stupid, too," Death said.

In the rear view mirror, Tony caught the brow of the big man driving arch upwards in surprise, his attention diverted.

Peters pulled Death's ear in touch to the angry gash of his mouth. "You listen to me now, old man, and you listen good. We still got a ways to go, but when we get to where we're going, the first f.u.c.king thing I do is tie you down and shoot you up."

"Just like I said, f.u.c.kin stupid. What do you think torture is gonna do, hm?" Death countered.

"I'll ask the questions, s.h.i.tbird."

"You wanna bring him into this? Hm? Go ahead and torture me or try and f.u.c.k me up. You'll bring him along faster than s.h.i.t through a sick b.i.t.c.h of a goose."

Peters bared his teeth. "That's where you're wrong, f.u.c.ker. Think we were driving you all the way up here without any toys to play with? Think we would miss out on the motherf.u.c.king, almighty ending? We asked for this s.h.i.t, motherf.u.c.ker. We asked for it. When the time comes down, we're going to be inflicting pain on your a.s.s like you've only just begun to imagine. And f.u.c.k if'n I'll make a vow right here to hear you sing out. I'll make you sing, you old cowf.u.c.ker. I'll make you. And there'll be no need to wait. I got something special back in the trunk. That was my plan all along, see. Some of that spinal s.h.i.t they inject into women just before birth. Right into your spine. You won't feel a thing." Peters was smiling now. "You won't feel s.h.i.t when we start taking turns cutting pieces off you and cooking them right in front of you. That's right, you righteous old f.u.c.k, we're heading out for a midnight barbeque, and you is the main steak. You won't feel a f.u.c.king thing. At least, I don't figure you'll be able to feel anything. All you'll be able to do is watch us cut and cook. We'll start with your b.a.l.l.s first. Do us up some honest to gawd prairie oysters."

That drew chuckles from all around, except Tony. He had no idea what prairie oysters were, but the fate these maniacs had planned for Death made him panic. They had to get out of here.

"And the nice thing about the cook up," Peters went on, "is that you'll be able to talk or curse all you want. I might even feed some of you to you. How's that sound?"

"f.u.c.ked up," Death admitted.

Peters grinned at his own wickedness.

"In all my existence," Death went on quietly, "I've met Minions before. And as a f.u.c.king rule, Minions are the stupidest G.o.dd.a.m.n motherf.u.c.kers ever to grow out of fly s.h.i.t."

Peters blinked and released his grip on Death's head.

Death went on. "I mean, I've met and carried over Minions that without a doubt have done s.h.i.t, the stupidest s.h.i.t, just like the s.h.i.t you're talking now, and think 'this is the smartest s.h.i.t-the smartest s.h.i.t I've evah, evah done'. And it's simply too G.o.dd.a.m.n annoying for me to listen to anymore. I'm so f.u.c.king bored and fed up listening to stupid f.u.c.ks like you. The truly special kind of stupid. You know that level of stupid? Of course, you don't-because you're a f.u.c.kin dolt. Why am I even asking you such a question? I know the answer. And you, you know who I am? I mean, do you honest to f.u.c.k realize just who you got here? Beside you? Huh? You know who you got here, you dipf.u.c.k? Who you're conversing with?"

Peters' face was crimson, "No one talks to me that way."

"No, I can see that you don't," Death went on, ignoring the Minion at his ear. "And that just proves my f.u.c.king point. There has never ever been a Minion of any f.u.c.king G.o.dd.a.m.n worth, and there never will be. You're all just too f.u.c.king stupid. And you, in particular, are a f.u.c.king moron. All of you. A t.i.t has more intelligence. No, wait, a t.i.t is a f.u.c.king genius compared to you. The Mundane I can forgive because he doesn't know what's what, but you should. Who gives a flying squirrel s.h.i.t about you little chicken f.u.c.ks? And you still don't know who I am? I can see that you don't."

Then, Tony saw it, clear as the day beyond the windshield. The man listening to Death went silent and his eyes narrowed with caution... and fear. He suddenly knew who he had caught and he drew back, sensing with growing dread something he forgot. A vulnerability he only now realized. Tony knew who he had, too, just as clear as he was sensing something very bad about to happen.

And then Death, for this was Death in all of its frankness, made it so.

"Listen up, Tony," he said.

Death looked ahead at the narrow highway, flanked on either side by snow-capped wilderness. Then he gazed into the rear-view mirror, and Tony met his dangerous stare there.

"It's time to introduce myself."

Tony's eyes d.a.m.n near bulged out of his head. He had been warned so many times now, so many times, that even as Death finished his warning, Tony knew he should have known this was going to happen.

The Minions had left Tony's hands free for whatever reason, and he clamped them over his ears and shut his eyes. His palms were practically in his ear ca.n.a.ls, and for the needed second, he heard nothing, but expected something very bad to happen. Then, he felt a vibe ripple through the air like spent lightening, and wet warmth washed over him and made him open his eyes. The short time he had his eyes open, then closed and then open again was like a mad animator flipping one page of a very short but horrific cartoon. What had once been a clean and intact interior was now madness. The four men-now four headless torsos-fountained blood into the cold air like sputtering fire hydrants clearing their pipe system. The two bodies on either side of Tony were spasming like bodies being fried by an electrical current. Reaching and clinching hands waved in front of and around Tony's face, striking him harmlessly, searching for anything to grab onto for reality's sake. Tony was covered in blood, bone and brain matter. The car seats were covered in more blood, bone and brain matter. The windshield was covered in a thick blood stew.

And that thought smashed through Tony's mind.