Emily emerged from the barn to find Roy standing 20 feet away, the barrel of his 9 mm pressed against the side of Tristen's head. Tristen was a blubbering mess, crying and shaking his head, mouthing the word sorry.

While Frank and Jane had been fraternizing in the barn—while Emily had found a Jeep and tracked down the keys, Roy had discovered Tristen. He'd been hiding out under the helicopter, hugging his knees to his chest and trembling. Roy startled him as he knocked a few times on the side of the metal panels with his gun. He tried to smile when Tristen looked over—but judging from Tristen's horrified expression, the smile didn't translate without a lower jaw and came off looking completely ghastly.

Tristen had tried to crawl away, but Roy managed to get a hand around his ankle. He pulled the skinny kid out, clawing at the dirt and kicked him hard in the stomach. Tristen doubled over, wheezing, his arms folded across his midsection.

This is convenient, Roy thought. This is the same kid we tried to kill on the lawn. I think. Hard to tell without the mask. But I think this was the kid that managed to escape.

Apparently, God was still showing him the way—providing in Roy's greatest time of need.

Roy had wrenched Tristen to his feet and forced him to walk forward, prodding him in the ribs and spine with the barrel of his gun. After a few minutes of traversing the grounds, stepping over corpses and avoiding small fires, they arrived at the front of the barn. And now, they were face to face with Emily.

Frank peered out around the corner of the barn door and took a tentative step forward.

"I got this," Emily said sensing Frank's presence.

"He's got Tristen!" Frank took a few more steps, clutching Bundy's rifle.

"I can see that."

"Nnnngghhhh!" Roy bellowed.

"Jesus, look at his face," Frank said, scrunching up his own.

"He sounds the way Tristen did back at the Target," Emily reflected.

"Nnnnggghhh!" Roy said again.

"We... can't... understand... you," Frank said in a slow deliberate voice. Then to Emily, "Jesus, what's he thinking? He wants to trade Tristen for Jane? We're not doing that."

"I know," Emily scowled.

Roy was losing his mind listening to the two talk about him like he wasn't standing right there. He pressed the gun harder into Tristen's head and tried to say, "Fuck you guys." It sounded the exact same as when he'd tried to say, "Don't move," and "Where's Jane?"

As Roy's luck would have it, his question pertaining to Jane's whereabouts was answered in the next second. Once Emily had mentioned that asshole zombie's name, she'd armed herself and exited out the back of the barn, come around the side and crept up behind Roy and Tristen. She was holding the shiny fire axe they'd discovered, which she'd lifted above her head and was currently bringing down into Roy's right shoulder. The side with the gun. The heavy axe rend tissue from bone, splitting open like an overripe watermelon, levering Roy's gun hand up and sending a bullet into the treetops.

Tristen crumpled to the ground at the sound of the gun firing, leaving Roy confused and lopsided standing unguarded. Emily depressed the trigger on her machine gun which she'd had perched on her hip, sending an angry swarm of rounds into Roy's chest and abdomen.

Jane launched herself to the side, staying low and reached out, grabbing Tristen by the collar of his filthy shirt. She pulled him hard, getting him out of harm's way as Emily continued to fill Roy's shredding body with bullets.

Once Jane and Tristen had scampered back toward the barn and relative safety, Roy crumpled to the ground. He tried to use his good arm to reach for his gun that had fallen in the dirt a few feet away.

Emily walked up and stepped on his wrist, kicking the gun away. She looked down at his huffing and bubbling form.

"Pathetic," she said, shaking her head. "Too easy."

Roy peered into her eyes, doing his best to transmit his hatred. All the malice and vitriol he had coursing through his dead veins poured, unfiltered into his gaze.

Emily tilted her head to the side. "That's the same look I gave you after you raped me. After every time you raped me." She put her free hand on her jutting hip. "Doesn't feel good to be the helpless one, does it?"

Roy squinted and made wet, indecipherable noises.

"No, no. No need to respond. I know the answer."

Tristen was weeping in Jane's arms as Frank stepped up next to Emily.

"Well... kill him so we can get on the road." Frank looked over at a nearby tent. "Is that the Jeep?"

Emily didn't look up. "That's the one. But I'm not going to kill him yet." She leaned down to Roy. "God how I wish you could feel pain," she spat.

"You could shove a gun up his ass," Jane said, considering Roy as she stroked Tristen's matted hair. He pulled out his inhaler and took a deep hit then looked up at Jane, disgusted.

"You're sick," he croaked, to which Jane offered a loose shrug.

"Yeah... I don't know," Emily said, considering. "I feel like it's gotta be something worse."

Roy writhed on the ground, trying to worm away. Frank had gone over to the Jeep and placed the heavy duffle of guns in the back.

Roy glared at Emily and Jane.

Here they were.

The two worst women in the world. Frail, skinny, weak and stupid women. The inferior sex. They had smaller brains, no upper body strength and were driven by emotion. All the science pointed to them being the perpetual victim. And yet... here he was, totally at their mercy.

Roy knew this was not going to end well for him.

"You could cut off his dick and shove it down his trachea," Jane mused.

Tristen gagged at her words.

"That's not bad," Emily raised her eyebrows. "He can't feel it but it's just the right kind of indignity, you know. I like that."

"You guys are both sick," Tristen coughed.

"Calm down sweetie," Jane consoled. "God, he is so... fucked up," she said as she helped Tristen to his feet—though it was unclear if she was referring to the shredded zombie or the insubstantial, quivering boy in her arms.

"I know," Emily breathed as she reached down and unbuckled Roy's belt. She still had his good hand pinned down under her boot to avoid any retaliation. His pants were difficult to slide over his hips, as Emily discovered a section of pelvis had been shattered by the barrage of slugs she'd directed into his body, giving him a wider waistline. It was like trying to take raw meat out of Saran wrap. But she managed.

"There it is," Emily said, standing up with a repulsed look on her face. "Still intact. That fucking dick has been in me more times than I care to count." She nudged the shrunken mushroom head with her free boot.

"Jesus," Jane said, pausing on her way to the Jeep.

"I know. Awful, isn't it?"

"Totally."

"Can we go?" Tristen asked meekly, averting his eyes.

"That gross little thing—felt a lot bigger than it looks," Emily said, ignoring him.

"Grower not a shower," Jane nodded.

"Suppose so," Emily said as she pulled out her boot-knife, reached down and lifted the stretchy thing over the blade. In one swift motion, Roy's severed penis was in her hand, shriveling and dripping.

Roy wished he could say something. But even if he could've, he wouldn't have had time. His cock was abruptly stuffed into his gaping windpipe.

"Nice move with the axe," Frank said, picking it up as he rejoined the girls, testing the weight of it in his hand. "Oh god. Is that his dick."

"It sure is," Emily said.

"That's fucking disgusting."

"Yep," she said as she took the axe from Frank's hand and commenced with cutting off Roy's good arm. Frank helped Jane get Tristen, her blood bags, and the freezer packs full of brains over to the Jeep as Emily continued to dismember Roy.

It was true, Roy couldn't feel anything, but he still winced every time the axe hit its mark. Old reflexes lingering.

Emily had been right, of course. He was pathetic. He hadn't stood a chance against her. Obviously not with Jane either.

Where are you now, God?

Roy received no answer as he lay there with his own cock jammed down his windpipe, the withered head nestled against his useless vocal cords.

He had been forsaken.

Emily finished hacking off his limbs and kicked them aside. Roy was just an oozing torso and head, lying limp and defeated. Through the canopy of trees, he looked at the blinking stars in the pitch-black sky. He felt a tear emerge at the corner of his eye.

No, not a tear.

It was, in fact, the tip of Emily's boot knife which was being used to scoop out his left eye. And then his right. As they were removed, Roy was reminded of the sound of someone pulling their boot out of thick mud.

Emily looked at the eyes, slick and luminous, in the palm of her hand. She grinned at them. She'd never have to see them again, staring at her under hooded lids, strained and vapid, employing the hollow glazed look of conquest. She hated those eyes—the way they seemed to disassociate when Roy was raping her. Like they weren't actively participating. They'd look past her—through her as though she wasn't even there as Roy's grotesque form pounded into her. She hated them because they feigned innocence—denied complicity—while every day in that bunker, they leered at her, lusted for her, and catalogued her fear. They were Roy's eyes—evil eyes—the eyes of the Devil.

Emily dropped them in the dirt and squished them under her boot.

"Let's go, Emily!" Frank shouted from the passenger side of the Jeep. Jane was in the back sucking on another blood bag, her arm around an uncontrollably shivering Tristen.

Roy heard Emily's boots crunch in the dirt, getting closer to his one good ear. He felt her grab a handful of his hair as she dragged him over to the Jeep.

He was unevenly hoisted into the air and startled by the loud bang of the back of his head hitting metal. Emily used a few ratchet straps she found in the rear of the Jeep to secure his dribbling body to the hood. He looked like freshly caught game, a monstrous hood ornament.

The Jeep's engine roared to life a few seconds later, vibrating Roy's skull.

"Souvenir?" Jane asked.

"Only for a short time," Emily replied.