The Pallbearer: A Hundred Tiny Hands Part 3

The Depths

Holly deserved better. She deserved a real funeral, with friends and family in attendance. A classy ceremony, a eulogy, and a wake. She deserved a better tombstone than one charred helmet in the middle of a trash heap.

She didn't get it.

I was three days walk away and more than a mile underground when I woke up. I still stank like peeled tires, cigarettes, and scorched carpet. Neither set of eyes would open and my Brute refused to budge. Crippled. Nice.

The Pallbearer: A Hundred Tiny Hands Part 2

Cook-out

Even when she's naked, she won't let you see the scars. She's afraid of them. Not just of what they were, but of what they mean. Something's eaten her, and wants more. Always more.

She was eight when her house burnt to the ground. Everybody survived but she was the last one out. Made it out her bedroom window. No one had worried about going back for her.

The flames had sunk their teeth into her back and slithered their way up her spine as she leapt from her window. Broke her ankle in the fall. But she was more worried about the flames licking at her back.

Stop, drop, and roll. Stop, drop, and roll.

The Pallbearer: A Hundred Tiny Hands Part 1

Mouth

Nothing but cunt fruit Neil, they're nothing but cunt fruit. Why shouldn't we make a couple bucks off of 'em?

Holly Ka and her exterminators; the Tulugal.

C'mon. We go flush the sewers looking for blind brats, collect some souveneirs, make a killing.

I scraped my teeth across my tongue and spit. She had kissed me with that mouth before I met Cassie.

On my shoulder, a scared five year old was singing "Pop Goes The Weasel." At the furthest tips of my ear, I heard gunfire.

"Samson, hold on."

"Yes s-s-sir."