Chapter 3: Chapter 3: The Cleaning

Chapter 3

The Cleaning

Twenty hours later, a nondescript box van pulled up to the safe house, gravel crunching as it came to a squeaking halt. The light of dawn had just begun to shine from behind the back of the domicile, glowering purple and orange. It had taken time for Carrion to gather the necessary supplies, especially the plastic which was not sold to the public. It took several called-in favors to procure, what he hoped, was the proper amount.

A swift breeze felt like a warm kiss against Carrion's skin as he stood behind the van, still shirtless, and wearing only dark black jeans, with matching black boots. His stark white skin seemed to shine against the dawning light. Standing well over six-five, he held the top of the truck, leaning down his torso to stretch out his back. The move did wonders for his arms as well, extending chiseled forearms, and biceps as thick as boulders. Arms bent at the elbow and twisting at the hip, he caught glimpses of petrifying bodies on either side of the lawn as he twisted left and right to further loosen his lower back.

“To begin, the lawn needs to be cleansed,” The medi unit's voice said in his ear, and Carrion nodded.

A quick pull with both arms swung up the twin doors of the van with a squeak of the hinges. Straps from a brown butcher's apron were pulled over his head, cinched at the waist, and the leather fanning out about just above his boots. A special liquid impenetrable coating shined in the rising sun along the garment. The specialized bib had arm attachments that he pulled his hands and arms through, ends removed so his smoothed tipped finger could poke out of the hand guards. The leather was cool against his skin, a slight relief from the damp morning air, as he restrained the arm extensions against his biceps with leather pull straps. Sitting on the edge of the van's open bay floor, he leaned over and pulled waterproof black-colored silicon coverings over his boots, tightening them with velcro straps just above the ankle.

Leaning in the truck, Carrion pulled a long black bolt of shining plastic that he tossed over his shoulder easily as he would a feather pillow. Holding the large bolt with his left arm, and bending at the knee, he pulled out a colossal wheel of dark gray material that he pinned against his hip, then under his armpit so he could walk towards the lawn without losing the heavy spool. The grass crushed under his heavy weight and shoe coverings. Reaching the first body, he tossed both the bolt and wheel next to the head with a thump.

A small nudge of his boot rolled the bolt of plastic out with three pealing and lolling rolls that spread it out on the lawn. Looking down, Carrion scanned the body, thinking how the poor bastard never stood a chance because the wounds struck perfectly at various kill points, his finger frozen just above the trigger, and obviously full magazine from the way it leaned towards the ground.

“Never got a shot off, huh kid?” he mumbled, then crouched down. “Well, at least your death was quick. Furst is a professional and knows what he's doing. Unlike his asshole partner.”

The soldier did not reply, except for the flies his rotting flesh had buzzing around Carrion's head. Leaning in, he clutched the body just under both armpits. Standing, and stabilizing himself with both legs, Carrion pulled. Gently, and with care, the body tore slowly away from the grass, ripping grass and sodden earth from the blood that had congealed from the baking sun. The removal was going well until the rigid legs decided to be difficult and remain stuck even after several tugs.

“Come on kid, give me a break. Don't make me separate your legs to get you out of here,” Leather squealed as Carrion used a portion of his strength to wrench the legs free. He turned and gently laid the full corpse onto a large portion of the plastic that accommodated the soldier's full height. Closing his eyes, Carrion mouthed a silent prayer, then touched the top of his forehead, the center of his chest, then the left and right shoulders. Cleaners told of being haunted and cursed by vengeful spirits, so it was important to give these unknown soldiers their proper rites if he wanted to avoid such a fate.

Satisfied that no ghouls would be sneaking into his home and accusing him of keeping them from experiencing the everlasting, Carrion rolled the stiff body up inside the plastic, tucking it out when it rolled too far in one direction or the other. A normal human being would have struggled to fold the tough material with the reinforced carbon-carbon composite lining inside the threaded material. It was the same hardened substance that was used on space shuttles to protect against heating. The special plastic cost a fortune, but was necessary for a proper cleanse. Only the best offered such material, and that was the main reason he was able to charge such a high fee for his services.

With his package wound tightly, Carrion leaned over the hump of the soldier's shoulder. Extending a index finger, his nail turned gray as it extended, long and thin, shiny minerals within the nail sparkling in the sun. Shuffling down with his knee on the grass, the nail cut through the plastic material like a bread knife. Finishing at the bottom, Carrion held the material in place and grabbed the gray wheel. Using his free hand, he pulled at the edge of the threaded tape, it too was reinforced by the same carbon material, and pulled away several inches. Turning, he wrapped the tape around the plastic that curved in at the ankle. Putting the bound legs over his shoulders, and with both hands free, he used the wheel to send strands of thick tape over the body of the corpse, wrapping it around multiple times to keep it secure. This was repeated about the head and neck, making the entire body look like a bulky reefer joint when he was finished.

“Not going to smoke you. Well, not in the conventional sense,” Carrion laughed. Then he looked around at the sky and forest, saying another prayer to keep the spirits at bay. Sighing, he looked at the other bodies. It was going to be a long morning.

It took much of the morning to pack the rest of the bodies into the protective material, piled high like a stack of timber. The tips of his fingers touched the tips of his toes so Carrion could stretch out his back once again. Muscles fully relaxed, one powerful arm lifted a body off the top of the pile that he curled up to the side of his neck. His white eyes stared up into a milky white cloud that lazily floated by. Lungs breathed in, then breathed out.

Staring at the long stretch of grass he had chosen for a runway, Carrion took a short hop and began to run. One, two, three steps he counted until he reached eight, the number his trainer found was his sweet spot. Next came the cross steps. Left foot first, then the right, crossing over each other for three more steps, the apron keeping his stride perfect. Strong fingers clutched the plastic, creating a hand hold. A stronger arm lifted the body and held it next to his head.

“Eyes forward,” Carrion reminded himself, like his trainer had drilled into his head. “Visualize the target.”

The cross step movement lasted for five additional steps.

“Don't jump,” he thought, another bad habit that had been beaten out of his muscle memory.

The left leg created the impulse step, the reminder that there was only one more crossover. Carrion lifted the package higher. The right leg planted, the left leg extended wide with the foot pointed in. The unburdened left arm went up, curved at the elbow, creating a counter force. A twist of the hips made the left foot twist straight. Carrion pulled the package back behind his head as his back arched into a reverse C-shape. Then the release, breathing out as he pushed his arm forward, fingers curling below the plastic to add a twist. The perfect throw, sixty degrees, that sent the black object sailing, whistling as it cut through the air into the blue sky.

Carrion stumbled forward, apron flapping, still keeping his eyes on the package. The screeching faded with each second. Twisting, the package curled through the clouds leaving clean circles like cigar smoke being curled from a mouth, until it disappeared into the atmosphere. Out of his eyesight, the package would tear through the atmosphere, the special packaging keeping the content protected from the searing heat of escape velocity. Once free from the gravitational pull of earth, it would be yet another corpse curling on a parabola, constantly moving forward until something stopped its momentum.

It was the perfect cleanse. There could be no crime without evidence. No murder without a body. The cleaner guild used to let the bodies burn in the atmosphere, tossing the body straight up at ninety degrees, letting the friction do the job for them. But, as the bodies disintegrated from the heat and fire, sometimes particles would fall back to earth. Always those damn particles, landing in lawns, pools, or bones creating another crime scene. Clean escape was the best thing. Nothing to fall back to earth if the entire body was gone.

Looking back, Carrion mumbled, “Only a dozen more times.”

And he repeated the steps nine more times.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee.

It wasn't until there were three bodies left that he heard that familiar tune in his head. Holding the latest body close to his head, the afternoon sun made sweat itch his eye that he twisted out with a knuckle on his free hand. The tune grew louder the longer he procrastinated on answering the call.

“What am I going to do with this bitch,” he sigh and tapped his finger into his ear. “What. I'm working. No I will not be back today.”

He lifted the body to his ear.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee.

Grunting, he stumbled forward from the momentum. “What?” he breathed out. “No, you're crazy. No, I'm not with another woman. Why would I even answer the phone if I was? Huh? If you have to know, I just threw a dead body into space. Are you happy?” He listened to the reply. “You are? That does something for you?” He laughed. “You freak.”

While the conversation continued, so did Carrion's work. Soon, the entire lawn was clear of bodies, leaving behind a dried lake of red on green. Even without the corpses, it looked like someone had died on the scene. That could not do.

“Hold on Vick,” said Carrion. “Shut up. I said hold on. In fact, move your ear away. Don't argue, you want to have an ear ache again? Didn't think so.”

After the shuffling on the other end of the receiver ceased, Carrion walked to the lawn, stopping a foot away from the outline of the red-stained grass. Shortened breaths blasted back and forth through his nostrils, chest rapidly rising and falling, lungs expanding. As the heat rushed up his neck and cheeks, Carrion leaned over, allowing the breath to rush from his lungs.

Walking forward, cheeks swelling, minuscule black particles flowed like a swarm from his open mouth, igniting in a brilliant flash of orange and white, igniting as they touched the air. Fire licked where his eyebrows would be that had burned away years ago. The orange light curled behind his mouth as he walked, saturating the lawn with the inferno that pumped outward like a spray hose from his open mouth. Burning away like newspaper, coral color crawled down each blade down to the root, turning the plant and its red blood dye a charcoal gray that twisted in the wind. It took two lung fulls to clear the stains Carrion saw on the lawn, taking out clean grass as well to ensure proper cleaning.

Small geysers of fire shot from his mouth as he breathed, surveying the small puddles of fire that smoldered on the lawn. Where the fire had gone out, he saw patches of brown soil streaked with dark ash.

“Excellent,” Carrion said, white smoke curling from his mouth. A classic burn, where the ash would aid in the next phase. “Huh? What Vick? Yes I'm done. Why are you even still on the phone?” he asked, walking away from the controlled burn.

Stopping to pick up the plastic bolt, he walked toward the domicile where the real mess had yet to be touched. Standing atop the reinforced door, he looked about and the bodies on the floor in a pool of their life essence, the ruined carpet and couch that looked as if someone had stood over it and tossed a bucket of blood from a pail. To the right, he saw the dining area with its corpses and the monstrosity dangling from the wall.

“You should see this mess,” he said to the guest in his ear. “Yes, very messy. Your sick ass would love it. Hey! Do not talk bad about my mother!” He shouted, dropping the heavy bolt with a thud. “Of course it is! You called me a son of a— What? No, don't start with me about that, Vicki, I'm not in the mood.”

A roll of plastic over the stained carpet was enough material to create tidy packages of the three slain soldiers in the living room that were taken outside.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee, times three.

Standing next to the couch, Carrion found the most inundated portion of the carpet, which coincided with the couch that looked a deep scarlet that lightened as it circled out. Pulling up his apron, he knelt and placed one hand on the center of the dark couch stain, and the other on the carpet that was similar in color.

Closing his eyes, Carrion said, “I'm going to need you to be quiet.” He waited for silence, but heard Vicki's voice continue to chirp through the device in his ear.

His pale white eyes shot open. ”Vicki shut up! I need to do that thing. Yes, it's going to hurt. And stop that moaning.”

Closing his eyes again, a breath whistled passed his lips. As he breathed in, the tips of his fingers throbbed, feeling like sharp painful pins were being plunged into the flesh. Each breath brought the pain further up his arm, coursing through veins that bulged and snaked up to his shoulder. As the pain spread, the color of his skin darkened on his cheek and neck, moving from pale, to an alabaster color tinted with a glow of scarlet. Where his hands touched the couch and carpet, the red began to liquefy, rushing outward like a wave, until the course was reversed, pulling the red back through his fingertips.

His left arm twitched from a particular sting of pain that elicited a minor groan. “I'm fine,” Carrion said through his teeth. “Vicki, be quiet. Yes it hurts just as much as last time.” He sighed, almost losing concentration. “Yeah. Wish you were here too. Now shut up again.”

Fabric was far different than grass or earth. For a cleaner to replace fabric, he would have to find the exact same pattern down to the strand. Early cleansings were thwarted by eagle-eyed detectives noticing the trivial cream of a pattern flowed back against the tan instead of with it. Now, cleaners absorbed the blood into themselves, leaving not a trace behind, and Carrion's body was thirsty for the substance. Soon, the couch and carpet were free of the red, still soiled from whatever had stained it before the blood was introduced.

Perfect replenish.

“Okay, I'm back,” Carrion huffed. Replenishing blood was painful, but it was an exquisite pain, an exhilaration that made his heart race. The sensation lasted as he cleaned upstairs next, taking more time to absorb the fluid that threatened to soak through to the ceiling below. The medi device interrupted Vicki when needed, much to her anger and chagrin, reminding him of objects he might have overlooked. The five additional soldiers too were put in a nice neat package and taken to the lawn. The plastic glistened from the afternoon sun that now made the leather apron feel like a tanning lamp on his skin.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee, now, by five.

“Why are you eating so late, it has to be nearly two there, right?” he said out loud, but speaking to the earpiece. He wiped the sweat that pooled on his forehead while checking the state of the lawn. The controlled burn had died in the hours he spent in the home, leaving behind a large brown patch of earth marked with gray ash. Metal screeched as he leaned into the van and pulled out a long cultivator, its four-pronged spurs rubbing against the floor of the van as he pulled. The handle was wooden, but thick, the entire apparatus heavy and tremendous, four feet wide and a foot longer. While inside the van, he happened to glance at the clock in the middle of the dashboard.

As he dragged the machine behind him, he said, “What are you hiding, Vicki? Why won't you tell me why you're just now eating? It's almost three there, not two.”

His right arm flexed after he passed over the grass and onto the exposed earth. The cultivator's iron spurs dug, then cut and churned into the earth as he walked, leaving behind dark clumps of dirt and clay. Walking back and forth over the dirt, ignoring the crunching of the churning earth, he noticed that Vicki had done her best to ignore and change the subject.

“No, I am not buying that Vick. No way you would miss your lunch for a three o'clock meal for no reason. Why am I asking? Because your lying to me!” His hand tightened on the wooden rod, curling veins on his forearm. “Don't do that. Don't throw me having to leave for work back in my face. Don't put this back on me.”

He paused, listening to the voice go shrill, hurling colorful string of put-downs and epithets that only his Vicki could perform without prompt. While she was in the middle of a particular rant, questioning his manhood, Carrion clicked the device in his ear, making the line go dead. And he ignored the instant Vicki theme song that played a second later. Her incessant talking had already drawn out the day.

As the tune faded, he finished up the last churning of the burned grass earth. A quick stowing of the cultivator was replaced with a large canvas bag that he ripped open with a sharp nail and poured the contents out onto the churned soil. Small yellow seeds found the grooves and crevices in the dirt as he walked, emptying the bag. The seed was of his own design, a mix of strong St. Agustine, fine fescue, and Kentucky bluegrass. The land would choose which one thrived or died, matching the grass that remained. Finished with his planting, the bag was curled in his hands, it too destined to become a part of a package and sent into orbit.

Without Vicki in his ear, Carrion was able to double his effort, realizing from their conversation that he had missed his own midday meal, although the blood satisfied a different hunger. Listening to the Medi device, he searched and found the missing head that had rolled beneath the dining table. Brown eyes staring past him, the head preserved inside the helmet. The head along with the bodies were quickly packaged and the blood where they rested drawn into his body, enough to make his skin a darker shade of olive. Flecks of blue shined in his irises. Using his strengthened nails, he sliced out the body that he knew Bloody had pinned purposefully into the wall to make his job troublesome. White dust floated away from where he traced a large square in the double pane drywall that took the body with it. All of it would be packaged together and cleansed into orbit.

After the dining room had been cleared, Carrion carried a much smaller bolt of plastic over his shoulder, and made his way to the back room where more violence had taken place. The medi sent another reminder. As he walked down the long hallway, canals on either side of his inside cheeks distributed a tart substance that he spat at intervals into the blood he had noticed during his drone scan. Gray streaked from his open mouth. Reacting to the chemical, the blood bubbled on the wood surface.

Wood was not as difficult as fabric. Instead of pulling up entire boards and finding the exact replica to replace them, or spending time crawling on his knees to replenish every drop, it only took a caustic chemical to cleanse the pores in the structural tissue. The same went for the concrete that line the hallway. The sizzling noise of the blood breaking down bounced off the walls as he passed through the opening at the end of the hall, passed twisted hinges that hanged from bent metal spikes.

In the back room, the twisted metal doors would be saved for scrap, a bonus atop his fee. Replenishment soaked up the blood in the fabrics, bringing even more color to Carrion's skin, while the chemical made other pools hiss, and bubble on the floor. The fizzing sounds of deconstructing blood played a little tune as he went to work on the dead. There were only three bodies that Bloody had done the unintended favor to dismember before hand. Given the limited length of plastic left, he was able to pile two bodies into one package, saving space. He needed as much as he could spare for the Mal he now recognized as Stun in the wall.

Dark blue eyes scanned the walls. A scorched electric socket needed to be changed and the surrounding plaster painted on one, while the other was an entirely different problem. A dead eye was split in two. Stun's mouth was caught in terror, drowned with drywall. An arm jutted from the wall, stiff as a board, fingers turned into a claw from rigor mortis. The one visible leg was also petrified, bent at an odd angle from Stun's dying weight. Staring at the Mal melded into the wall as if he were born from it was a reminder to Carrion to keep his mouth shut about the job. He had heard that Stun had been caught squealing to the Meta-Human Defense Command about the Consortium. It was like a snitch squealing to the cops who had their very own dungeon for Mal's, and look at him now.

As if the fates were tempting him to break that oath of silence, Vicki's musical tune played in his ear. Relentless by nature, she was not going to give up calling until she had the last word, and it was almost worth turning himself in to not have to hear it.

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“What?” Carrion said in a glum tone, clicking the device in his ear. “Yes, I have a tone, are you ready to be honest with me yet?'

There was a silence at her end that Carrion used to take the time to clutch the stiff arm. A ripping and tearing sound vacillated back and forth as Carrion used his elongated nail to saw at the appendage just below the elbow. The nail on his index finger was now silver, the bottom cut with serrated teeth that first chewed through the fabric of Stun's costume caked in dried blood.

“What? Yes I'm sawing Vicki, this guy is stiff as a tree trunk. It's his arm,” he said, his sawing growing faster. “That moaning is not going to work this time. Stop changing the subject.” The arm tilted down, the bone making a cracking sound as it split in two. A pocket of cold dark blood burst as the knife went through the bottom meat, and splashed against Carrion's lips and chin, which he licked in broad strokes.

“You're sick Vick,” he replied to her smacking her lips when she heard him licking his. “Now take a minute and decide if you want to lie to me again, while I saw this loser's leg. No, I will not put the earpiece closer.”

It took longer to take the leg, with the rigor in the meat and thicker bone density. Dark blood slowly oozed from the thigh still left in the wall as he hauled the rest back to the line of plastic he had laid out for the body parts.

He slammed the appendage into the pile. “Dammit Vicki, enough with the orgasms,” he said, his voice elevated. “Come clean, no pun intended, or let me get back to work without you bothering me.” He walked back to the wall. “I'm yelling because you've wasted my time all morning. All day actually, making this job drag out. I'm covered in sweat. It smells like a shit-covered butcher's shop in here still. I'm hungry, but still have renovations to do, and my girl is lying to me about something while I'm doing all of this, so yes, consider me a bit perturbed.”

Forgoing the knife nail, and leaning back, Carrion's rock-sized fists moved like jackhammers, pummeling the wall with deep thooming sounds, leaving round holes as he moved from the top, and dropping to one knee to reach the bottom. He repeated the motion on the other side, leaving a line of jagged holes on either side of Stun's body. Gritting his teeth from all the things he wondered Vicki could be hiding, his fingers dug into the holes on either side. With a tug, he heard the nails squeak as the wall gave from the wood studs. Another twitch of his muscles pulled the entire wall away. Laying it down, he was surprised to see that the rest of Stun's body was intact on the other side.

“Son of a bitch,” Carrion mumbled as the wall wobbled from the stiff body. “What? Oh nothing. Just never seen anything like this before. Thought I would see a horror show on the other side, but Nunn's skill is amazing. No, I won't describe it. Not until you tell me.”

Turning back around and peering at the hole left behind, Nunn had chosen an alcove to pull the body through, leaving the majority of the body unharmed and easy to dispose of. A kick broke and shattered the drywall from about the body and cleanly split along the line where Nunn had pulled the targeted Mal. The blood from Stun's body was mostly regulated to just the drywall, soaked into the fibers. An easy cleanse. The scraps of bloody drywall were placed atop Stun's body, and taped up nicely. The package was bulkier than the regular soldiers, but not so much that it would not reach escape velocity.

With the package taped and bound, Carrion said, ”last chance Vick. Once I cleanse these packages, I'm done with this conversation and we're over. Yes, I mean it. I brook no liars around me. That is a luxury I cannot afford in this business and you know this.”

Where Carrion was a Malevolent with the power of blood rush, along with a compliment of several others, Vicki was a Sympatha. Sympatha's, being the sister organization to his cleaning guild, derived pleasure from others' pain. Often working in conjunction with a cleaner, a Sympatha could quell the sometimes excruciating painful process of replenishment. Oftentimes they were also found sneaking away, hunched over, torturing kill-sight survivors who clung to life with various devices, only ending the life when the cleaner urged them to. Vicki, above all others, knew trust in their industry meant the difference between life and having a cleaner, Sympatha duo visiting their home.

Cradling all four packages in his strong arms, Carrion walked back through the hallway.

“Spill it Vick.” He grumbled.

Passing the clean cut drywall hole, and moving past the dining table into the living room, he listened to his woman, who finally broke down to tell him what she was keeping at bay. After she told him, Carrion wished she had kept the truth to herself.

“You talked to Lusian?” he asked, swallowing hard to wet his dry throat. Strained orange light made his eyes flutter when he exited the domicile. Afternoon had bled into mid evening, the sun setting in the west, its golden rays twinkling through the tree branches and leaves. “How did you get a meeting with Lusian? I've only met the man once, and that was when he initiated me into the guild. What did you talk about?”

Picking up one soldier, he hefted the package up to his shoulder.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee.

“What?” he said, turning away from the sunlight. “Your mother is the Patroness of the Sympatha's? Why didn't you tell me Vicki? Are you kidding me? Why would I use you? What can the Patroness do for me, our guilds are separated, besides, you know, cutting me from nuts to throat with that knife of hers for fucking her daughter!”

He lifted another soldier up to his shoulder.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add another to your fee.

Then he took care of the remaining soldiers.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee, now, by two.

“Stop laughing Vicki, you know what I mean,” Carrion said. “Wait, what did you talk to Lusian about?” He reached down, clutching the larger package that held the remains of Stun. He lifted the package to his shoulder.

“You talked to him about us!' He shouted, sticking a finger hard into his ear. “Why would you do that, Vicki! You know it is forbidden for our two sects to mix romatically. Huh? I don't care if you are good with him and the Patroness. You could get us killed!”

His breath increased, sweat caused by the conversation and his pumping heart stinging his eyes. Carrion stared down the runway, grass worn thin from his cleaning of the packages.

“Tell me everything you said,” he said coldly to Vicki while balancing the package against his neck.

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing straight.

Non-dominant arm up by hip, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing out.

Forty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Add to your fee.

“He said that? Those exact words?” Carrion turned away from the package that sailed into the evening sky, breaking through the clouds. “How did he sound when he said it? Dammit Vicki, this is serious! I could be kicked out of the guild at the very least, if this got out! Especially since your the Patroness's daughter! Now, how did he sound when said it?”

Looking around, he had stopped on the churned dirt where he had planted the seeds. The moon will be out soon, and there was still so much left to do.

“He said it just like that, huh? That's not good Vick. Not good at all,” Carrion bit his bottom lip, gleaming white canine tooth drawing blood that ran down his pale lip. “I need to go.” And he hung up again over Vicki's protests.

If what she said was true, he had run out of time.

Carrion walked briskly to the edge of the dirt clearing. The canals within his cheeks vibrated and widened. His mouth opened wide. Instead of the black pyrophormic flakes that ignited exposed to oxygen, mud brown liquid spewed out, frothing like fire extinguisher spray. Walking back, and turning his head left to right, Carrion coated the clearing in the liquid, turning the dry dirt into mud. As the secretion flowed, the lively color of Carrion's skin drained away, moving from pink flesh, to olive, then back to his chalky white. The mixture he sprayed was a concentration of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium that he mined from the replenished blood.

After he had finished inundating the clearing, Carrion leaned over and spat out the sour remnants. The foam was a special element supplied by the guild that would use the light from the moon to accelerate the seed growth. Around the same time the next day, if the safehouse wasn't stumbled upon beforehand, no one would be able to tell the grass had been disturbed at all. Carrion gave the clearing one last look over.

Crickets sprang from the grass as Carrion sprinted to the back of the van. He clipped a tool belt about his waist, over his apron. Three slates of drywall stayed beneath his arm, the other carrying a tool box and pale as he jogged to the dining room, dropping off two slates, then moved to the back room where Stun was cleansed. It took just minutes to change the electric socket. Eye measuring the jagged opening his fists had made, a long black nail cut down the new drywall to the proper size that fit snug into the hole, with small spaces on either side. Drywall screws drilled the drywall into the studs. The last of the plastic was made into a large bag using his nails and a touch of fire that was perfect to put the leftover drywall pieces in.

It didn't take long to mix spackle into the pail with water produced by his canals. Forgoing any tool, he used his hand to draw the material, filling the hole on either side of the drywall, up and down, clearing the access with the back of his hand. With the mixture spread thin along the wall, Carrion's cheeks thinned. Whistling, fire streamed out between his lips, tickling the spackle, turning it from dark and wet, to egg-white everywhere the flame touched, smoothing it down until it matched the remaining wall.

Satisfied with the repair, Carrion picked up the pail and hustled to the dining room, replacing the double drywall with the same maneuvers. After burning the spackle dry, Carrion ran back to the van, tools jostling inside his box and against his belt with each step. Feeling a invisible countdown, there was little time to stow the tools properly, instead, tossing them inside the back of the van. The security doors that he usually carried one at a time, he now carried together, balancing the heavy iron on his head. Huffing, and biceps flexing, he jogged through the home, tossing down the doors near the entrance where Stun had died. Holding the heavy material in place with his left hand, a few turns of his electric drill replaced the missing doors. A quick wash of a rusting agent spat from his mouth would give it the proper worn look to blend in with the aesthetics of the home.

“Medi, memorialize. What have I missed?” Carrion said, breathing heavily from his efforts.

“Painting the drywall,” the Medi replied through the earpiece.

Carrion smacked his hands, and took a hop before running back to the van to retrieve the paint can, tray and rolling brush. The sweat atop his forehead doubled as he rolled the paint on the places where he replaced the drywall, dried it with his flame, then painted a second coat, and flamed again to stun the brightness.

Breathing through his mouth, he asked again, “Medi, memorialize. What have I missed?”

“Painting the scorch around the electric socket,” the Medi replied.

Carrion looked at the socket and the darkened wall around it, and his jaw clenched. “Why are you just now reminding me?”

“The Medi unit is going down the list,” it replied.

“Break protocol. Anything else,” Carrion said between his teeth.

“Painting and repairing the entrance door will end the cleanse,” came the robotic voice.

“Thank you,” Carrion breathed and took off toward the van at top speed, getting the separate paint color, a new tray, and replacement roller cover. Paint, fire dry, and repeat until there was no spackle to be seen.

All materials used in the repair were stacked into the plastic bag, and taped close, nice and tight. Just outside the back of the van, Carrion took off his leather apron and arm attachments, all soaked through with sweat, and dark with grime and dirt that he tossed into the back of the van. The night air felt like cool ocean water to a man who had been trapped in the desert against his skin.

The blood stained entrance door was carried to his van so he could replenish later and sell at a premium. The SCT-4 was put in its place and weathered with his chemicals to look sun-beaten and worn.

“One last thing,” Carrion said and picked up the last package. “Before I have to fix the mess Vicki has made.”

He brought the package up to his cheek, and thought, “Hope there is even something to go back to with Lusian, or this could be me riding the parabola.”

Run.

Cross steps.

Right leg planted.

Left leg extended wide, foot pointing in.

Non-dominant arm up, creating a block.

Twist at the hip, pushing the left foot pointing straight.

Sixty degree release.

Escape velocity.

Get away without a trace.

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