Prose.

The vast wasteland of carnage expands in a cold gray panorama of decay. Cars, buildings, bodies and trash twist up and out like black foliage, hanging over the road. Something flies through it at speeds never seen in a mere automobile. It burns across the crumbled, beaten up asphalt. This is a monster. A living, breathing machine on 10 treading wheels. Inside is a man, desperately trying to get away. He doesn't know what's coming, he just knows it is. He looks in the rear-view mirror, his bloodshot green eyes are tearing up uncontrollably. He knows he has failed; he did something bad and he will be punished for it. It's that simple. He also knows it doesn't matter how far he runs, they will find him. The tracer on the back of his fat head gives them the signal of his location; he'll die if he removes it. The rear view has been empty since he left the scene hours ago...since he killed the last witness...He tries to focus but he chokes on the phlegm filling his throat, drooling out of his nose and mouth.

Everything jerks forward and while he's gathering his wits, another crash. Behind him is another behemoth of a vehicle, this one doubled in size. It grinds against the ground with hard alloy treads. Everything about this vehicle is five times better than his. He floors it and gains a few feet ahead of the tail. This is when the shooting begins. Pieces of his car disappear by the second. The rear door collapses and falls away from him, followed by the passenger side. Then before he knows it, the roof goes and he's staring a monster in the face carrying a large gun on his shoulder, riding parallel to him. The lens-like eyes focus on the front section of the car, wheels and engine in view. They've just gotten to the desert when the armed man shoots a round into the hood of the car. There is no explosion; he rides for about two seconds without anything past the windshield...he can see all of the car's innards fly to his right. The fat man catapults about 40-50 feet while the mini tank flips forward.

He lands in a mass of white dust. The salt flats resemble a minimalist painting of a landscape, and he's the subject. The tailing vehicle comes to a stop and out of the driver's seat steps a high heel. The passenger, a dusty, dirty boot. The passenger stays at the tank, while the high heels keep walking. A harsh wind picks up as she walks. Her scarf flies backward in the deep breeze. The fat man tries to look in the distance, but the salt gets caught in everything; in his eyes, in his teeth, his sweat pores and his snot. Almost as tight a cover as the one she has on him.

He tries to speak, "I...I'm sorry Miss Rose...I'll never..nughh" his words phase in and out of coherence. Paralyzed, he slowly falls out of consciousness. "Don't waste your breath, Larry." She turns him around, blade in hand. The wind dies down as she goes in for the tracer...and she isn't clean about it. He quickly jerks back up, choking and vomiting blood and food violently; his mouth froths up and he falls face flat into the pink muck.

"You wouldn't listen while you were alive to I guess I'll just say it to you now...my father is dead, Larry. You killed him. John Beetle killed him. And I killed him. He was going to get rid of the voices in my head and the scars on Silas' face...You just had to fuck everything up though like EVERYONE ELSE!!!" Dianna shoots the dead body until the gun locks up and Silas comes over to console her. "He can't feel it, love. We still can...but he can't."