Now I’m definitely sure: it was a mistake to lead them along. To offer them even one morsel let alone hope for survival. Anybody who would dare ask for help doesn’t deserve the amenities of living, even in the pickled shitslums of this dust zoo. I walk faster.

​

“At least give us some tips!” Miriam boldly decrees, flustered. “We deserve that much.”

​

Tips. As if one could learn the indelicate skills of survival needed in this mausoleum of mucus. Fair enough.

​

I flash three fingers, then mime the first of the tips by tapping my sword and thumping my rifle. “Learn how to use them.” Jam two fingers together for the second tip and slash my lips, indicating the sacredness of silence and its potential usefulness in keeping them attached to their skin a little longer. Lastly, I wave three fingers in front of the youngest’s face. “Follow her instead. That other one’ll get you killed.”

            About that time Peter presents himself, looking upon me with holy disdain.

            “Get away from him,” he commands the others.

            “Her!” Morrow is quick to correct him.

            “Get away from her,” he tries again, slowly placing himself between us.

            I can tell by the look on his face he’s seen some of my work. I just don’t know what yet.

            “It’s OK, Peter! She’s gonna help us! She”

            —NOW,” he tugs at Morrow, looking upon me as if I’m the angel of death.         I am.

            “There’s bodies. What’s left of them, anyway. Mostly bones. In a pit.”

            Ah huhhh.

Morrow is the only one who seems the least bit concerned about this newest revelation, smiling up at me still. “They were all bad I bet,” she is so sure. “Right, Coda?!”

​

⸎

​

Red. All I can see is red. Rush of fur. Gleeful glint,  snarling fanged tooth through darkness of tunnel.             Hopeless opus of memory.

​

It is times like this I remember what I am.

Mausenstein more fitting than my real face:

Some stitched-on smile worn by a monster beyond repair.