A pair of teenaged girls had Jesse cornered near the side of the trailer. His ax lay on the ground just out of reach, and he stood in a half-crouch, sizing up his opponents. They were thin and bony, one dark-skinned and the other light. Yin and Yang, Ash thought with a mental snort. Five-foot-five was generous in estimation of height, but size meant little when dealing with newly infected half-Bloods–which she guessed from the still-fresh wounds in their necks–because they were controlled by bloodlust. Many fell into it and went insane. Some learned to control it, as Kearney apparently had.

The room was no larger than a prison cell, but a more apt description–had the temperature of the room been any lower than a sweaty eighty-something–would have been a meat locker. At the thought, bile rose into Ash’s throat.

The stink of igniting paint stripper and searing goblin flesh stayed with Ash during the drive across town. Their new target lived in a trailer half a mile east of Mercy’s Lot, near the city freeway loop, in one of the poorest sections of the city. Single- and double-wides dotted several blocks in a landscape of poverty and despair. Few Dregs came out this far, preferring the closely-packed bodies of the city. Ash was a little surprised anyone cared enough to bother reporting the strange smells and noises coming from Mrs. Bettina Kearney’s trailer at night.

Stone turned her attention to Jesse, as though he would offer her an alternative reply. They got along well, often joking with each other as freely as he and Ash did. Stone may have seen in him an ally in the conversation. To his credit, Jesse remained silent, arms folded across his broad chest. Unable to play father off mother, Stone returned to glaring at Ash.