A/N - Please bear in mind that this is a very rough draft. Greyzone is my NaNoWriMo-novel for 2005. It was written in 30 days, with little attention paid to quality, and very much attention paid to get as many words down in as little time as possible. Feedback is, as always, appreciated.

Greyzone is rated M for language, violence and disturbing imagery. In short, if you area child,faints at the sight of blood,or happens to be my grandmother, stay away.

And English is not my native language.

Welcome to the Greyzone. The refuse dump of Europe, where society puts away the inconvenient existences. A so-called freezone, where there are no laws, no authorities, no rules except for what the zoners make for themselves. It’s no wonder the Greyzone’s residents affectionately has dubbed it the Dive.

Welcome to the Greyzone. This is the last place anyone would think of visiting. This is a place outside civilisation as we know it. This is a place where the junkies, the thieves, the whores, the killers, and the politically radical roam the streets.

There are people who call the Greyzone the step stone to Hell. Then, there are people who call it home. Often, they are one and the same.

Welcome to the Greyzone. Leave your ethics behind. You will find no use for them here.

Chapter 1 – Cannibal Jazz

The man on the floor has been eaten. Large chunks of flesh have been removed from his belly with a sharp object. It looks like someone has gnawed on his neck and his face. His nose is gone, only a red/purple/white mass where it used to be. One sunken eyeball lies on the puke-green carpet, the other is thankfully still in its socket. It’s a sight that would put most people off eating meat for a lifetime. Chris Chapelle silently considers whether or not eating at all would be advisable for the next few days.

He kneels beside the body, no, the carcass, and suddenly wonders if there were any truth to those old zombie-movies Rico made him watch last month. This is certainly something you wouldn’t want to come lurching after you with a newfound taste for brains.

Tearing his eyes away from the body that used to be a living person, before he became somebody’s dinner, Chris meets the steady blue gaze of his companion. She leans against the doorjamb, looking relaxed, almost bored. It takes someone who knows her exceptionally well to realise that she’s so angry she has to make an effort not to shake with rage. K.C. Davis is well and truly pissed, and Chris feels a very short, very faint stab of pity for whoever it was that decided to change this ragged little flat from your everyday run-of-the-mill junkie pad into a regular slaughterhouse. The only things missing are the meat hooks.

The unbidden thought makes him want to laugh. His lips must’ve twitched, because K.C. sends him a glare.

She’s dressed up in her hunter attire, the things she likes to wear when she’s planning to scare the living daylights out of anyone who’s doing the mistake of looking at her the wrong way. Black boots, black jeans, black tank top, and it accentuates the tattoos on her arms, the intricate pattern of geometrical shapes snaking over her skin from her fingertips to her shoulders.

If the Dive is the Kingdom of Posers, then K.C. is its queen, she gladly admits it herself. But for some reason, it works for her. Chris knows without looking, that she has at least five blades hidden in different places on her person, and she knows how to use every last one of them to perfection.

She raises an impatient eyebrow.

“Well?”

Chris turns back to the thing on the floor that once was a man, and fights back the bile rising in his throat. The blood is everywhere, sticky in places, already a dried brown crust in others. There are parts of the human body that were never meant to see the light of day.

“You’re going to owe me for this one, Cee”, he says. ”You’re going to owe me big.”

K.C. shrugs. There are enough debts going back and forth between them that one more doesn’t make that much of a difference. “Just hurry up and do your thing. I’ve gotta stop this one before there’s any more damage.”

“I would think this is more than enough damage already”, says Chris as he slowly gains his feet. He doesn’t want to put his hands down anywhere for support. “Who was he?”

“Manny something-or-other. Small-time dealer. Never caught my attention ‘til now.”

“Well, now he’s leftovers. Hell of a way to end.”

K.C. doesn’t deem that comment worthy of an answer, and Chris has to admit to himself that it wasn’t. Those morbid jokes always sound better in his head than they do when they come out of his mouth.

He stands in the middle of the room, viewing the devastation, knowing that he should try to look at this with an objective mind, take in as much as possible, since every little detail is important. But his eyes keeps wandering over to the corpse oh god are those teeth marks on that rib and the expression of horror on what remains of the face.

Chris sighs. It’s no use to continue like this. He reaches into his pocket for his case of cyber-gear, and glances over at K.C., trying to judge her mood. Pissed off and impatient. Never a good combination with her. He takes out the cyberpack, straightens out the contacts and jacks them into the two holes on his forehead, one on his right temple and one over his right eyebrow. The cyberpack a thin metallic little box, about four inches wide and shaped to fit on his brow. It contains the tech and the databases he can’t handle to have permanently stuck inside his head.

It always takes a moment to adjust to his perception of the world changing. The nausea of things connecting, starting to make sense, becoming simple, far too simple, is not a thing he’ll ever get used to. Now he can see that there are faint footprints on the carpet, places where the fibres lie in a different direction, a subtle change in colour. He can see that there is a spider’s web outside the dirty window. He can see, from the pattern of the blood, that Manny something-or-other was still alive while he was being devoured.

“Talk to me, Cee”, he says, needing her voice to ground him in this little part of reality. She knows what to do, starting to give him facts to put together. Scraps of information about this man and his life.

“Last time anyone saw him was yesterday evening”, says K.C. calmly. “He went home from a bar, Terry’s I think it was, together with his new girlfriend. Some kid found him this morning, the door was open.”

Chris nods to himself. There are signs of female presence in the tiny one-room flat, a sickening sweet flowery smell of a perfume no man of Manny’s sort would ever wear. Stray pieces of clothing, something purple with lace on, and he won’t have to go through the bathroom cabinet to know that a woman lives here.

“What have you got on the girlfriend?”

“Jazz, no last name that I know of. Used to work the streets down at Fifth before the Westside girls took over those blocks. Good fighter. Entered the contests last year and finished among the ten best.”

K.C. keeps track on all the blade fighters in the Dive. She must know what competition she has, what threats there are to her position.

“So she wouldn’t have been helpless against an attacker.”

K.C. shakes her head. “Nope. She’s real good. Ran protection for the other girls.” There’s a hint of something in her voice and Chris knows she remembers the past. K.C. started out as a protector to whores herself, at the humble age of eleven.

All right, back to business. :::Compare statistics. Blade fighter contest, top ten. Compare: Centre, Westside, Dockside. Search for matches. Results, estimated level of skill after one year. Run search.:::

With the search humming softly in the back of his mind, Chris turns his attention back to the corpse.

“Did our friend Manny have any enemies?” he asks K.C.

“Not that I heard of. Nobody liked him, but nobody hated him enough to do somethin’ like this to him either.”

She pulls out a cigarette. Chris gives her a look, a very tired look. He so wants a smoke right now, but it’ll have to wait. Not that K.C.’s going to get the pleasure either.

“Go outside if you have to smoke. I need to be able to feel what it smells like in here.”

“It fucking stinks”, K.C. mutters, but puts away the cigarette and stays in the room.

The blood overwhelms all other smells. He catalogues it in his mind, puts it aside. Underneath the blood. Sweat. Yeah, obviously, Manny doesn’t seem to have been the showering kind of guy. Semen. Must be from the stained sheets on the bed, not touching those, thank you very much. Grease. Grease? Oh, yeah, there are some engine parts lying on a spread-out newspaper on that table. Now, what else…

Under the grease. Some kind of chemical smell, not matching any of the substances he knows of. He walks over to the table, studies the things spread on the dirt-white plastic surface. A plate with the dried remains of a meal. Empty beer-cans. A crunched-up napkin, like Manny would ever bother with something like napkins. Must’ve been the girlfriend.

There. A powder, almost the same colour as the table. Only minute traces of it, he wouldn’t have noticed without the cyberpack.

“Look here. Some kind of drug, I think. Remind me again why I’m doing this.”

K.C. snorts. “’Cause you sleep on my couch and eat my food, ‘s why.”

“Well, sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

He draws a finger through the powder on the table, smells it carefully.

::: Run parallel search. Chemical substances, powder form. Search for matches. :::

“You said he was a dealer. What kind of drugs?”

K.C. shrugs again. “Nothing big, or I would’ve heard ‘bout it. Some weed, some rave drugs. What’s that you got there?”

“I’ll know in a minute.” He leaves the table, debates with himself whether or not to check out the bathroom. Judging from the state of this room, the bathroom is bound to be truly disgusting.

“All right”, he says aloud. “Manny plus girlfriend leaves the bar. They come here. Were they alone? Did they pick up anyone else on the way?”

“It’s not impossible. You tell me.”

“Well, I can’t exactly dust for fingerprints now, can I? So, we have Manny, we have his ladyfriend Jazz, we might have a third person. And where is Jazz?”

“She’s sure as hell not here. You think someone took her away and ate her too?”

“Could be. But in that case, why not do it here?”

K.C. walks over to the corpse, studies it with a tight expression. Very very pissed. She didn’t know Manny, and if she had known him, she wouldn’t have liked him, but she’s still pissed. Centre is her blocks; no one goes around eating people without her permission.

::: Chemical substances search complete. No full match. Partial match: phencyclidine, C17H25N :::

“Damn!”

“What?”

Chris wants to punch the wall. “I’ve only got a partial match on the drug. My databases are too old.”

“What’d you get?”

“PCP.”

“Fuck PCP. No-one deals in PCP anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. My sources are outdated by thirteen months. It’s got to be something new.”

They look at each other. K.C.’s going to ask. She has to ask. Chris tries his best not to hate her for it.

“Can’t you do something?”

Here we go. ::: Investigation must proceed. Take necessary measures to enable investigation to proceed. :::

“If it comes out we’ve got a cannibal in the Dive and I’m not doing anything ’bout it, I’ll be hanging very loose”, she says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“The next person to become a meal might be someone we know. What if it was ‘Leesh or Rico?”

::: Civilians must be protected. Take necessary measures.:::

“I know, Cee!” He sighs, resignedly. “I’m going to need my laptop. It’s in the truck.”

As they leave the flat and the blood and the remains of the man who used to be Manny something-or-other, Chris can’t help but wonder if K.C.’s doing this on purpose. Usually, she wouldn’t take advantage of his programming, but this is an extreme situation. This killer is a threat to the Dive, to her people.

While Chris technically is one of those people, he also owes her enough to be compelled to do these kind of shitty jobs for her. She would be crazy to have a cyber agent at hand and not use him.

Still, these are the kind of scenes he wishes he would never have to see again. It reminds him too much of another murder scene from three years ago. He wonders if he’ll ever get the sickly-sweet metallic smell of blood out of his nostrils.

K.C.’s truck is parked in the street outside the four-story house where Manny used to live before he became cannibal-food. It’s not locked. Everyone in the Dive recognises K.C.’s ugly rust-flecked dark red truck, and they’d be insane to try to steal it, or anything in it.

“I’ll have to hack into the Cyber Division’s databases”, says Chris, as he opens the door on the passenger side. “It’ll take a while to download the updates to the pack.”

“We might not have a lot of time”, says K.C. absently, her mind obviously still up in the blood drenched flat. Chris really really wants to swear at her, because she just took away what little choice he still had left.

::: Take necessary measures to protect civilians. :::

Fuck you too. How about necessary measures to protect me?

::: Does not compute. :::

The short laugh that slips over his lips sounds bitter, and K.C. glances at him from the driver’s seat.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He pulls out the uplink wires, enters one of them in the port on his laptop and the other one in the small port in his neck, hidden under the braid.

::: Logging in, wait… :::

::: Logged in, cyber agent C-17B, Christopher Chapelle :::

::: Please enter your command. :::

All right. He doesn’t want the nice people at the Division to notice this innocent little download, so he makes his way into their system through the back alleys of cyberspace. Creates a dummy cover so he won’t leave any marks in the log. The Cyber Division’s systems are ridiculously easy to hack. Then again, no one thought about protecting them against their own personnel. You would’ve thought they should have learned their lesson after Cain Wolfe pulled his little stunt, but that doesn’t appear to be the case.

He enters through backdoor, sneaks past the defences like a buttered eel, and then he’s in. Piece of cake. Now begins the unpleasant part.

::: Download new databases.:::

This is going to hurt. So. Very. Much.

The download hits him like a sledgehammer wrapped in barbed wire. He feels his jaw tighten, his teeth press together, and there’s nothing he can do but let the information flood him and try to remember how to breathe.

::: Download complete. Run new search. :::

His brain feels sore, and he knows that he really should have let the cyberpack take the direct hit, but that would have taken longer. He also knows that he’s far sloppier sneaking out of the Cyber Division’s system than he was sneaking in, but it can’t be helped. Right now, he doubts he could even hack some teenager’s blog successfully.

“Your nose is bleeding.” There’s a hint of concern in K.C.’s voice, and he thinks: Yeah, that’s what happens when you download 100 gigs of information directly into your head, fuck you very much.

“I think we have a problem”, he mumbles while the cyberpack processes the new data and finds the match almost immediately.

“What?”

“It’s Devil Dust.”

K.C. punches the dashboard. “Fuck!”

PCP, when it was the trend, was called Angel Dust. This is a new drug, quite similar on the molecular level, but much more vicious. Therefore, the nickname Devil Dust. It gives you the best high of your life, nothing can take you down, and it lasts for days. Among the side effects are the violent tendencies. Devil Dust removes all inhibitions, makes you live out your most secret inner desires. A person high on Devil Dust could very well get into their head that eating human flesh is a good idea.

“What now?” asks Chris, only now daring to open his eyes and see if the world outside his head is the same as before. It looks the same, but he can never be sure after a download. He once woke up from an upgrade and found that he couldn’t see colours anymore, and man, was that a pain to get fixed.

K.C. frowns. “I don’t think there was a third person”, she says. Her voice, while quite soft to be hers, tears through his eardrums and makes him wince. He wipes the blood from his nose and leans his head back against the seat to get the bleeding stopped.

“His girlfriend ate him? What makes you think that?” he hears himself say. His voice sounds muffled, like he’s speaking through a wad of cotton. He knows there wasn’t any cotton in his mouth last time he checked so it’s probably just imagination. His brain does strange things to him sometimes.

“Intuition”, says K.C.

::: Does not compute. :::Oh, shut up, stupid machine. Cee’s intuition’s better than a hundred computers.

“Then you’ve got a blade fighter on drugs. Bad combination. Where do you think she went after she had her little fun with Manny up there?”

K.C. thinks for a while. There’s a tiny little wrinkle between her eyebrows. Her fingers do a tap dance on the steering wheel.

“Fifth”, she says then.

“Why’s that?”

“Just a feeling I’ve got. After what I heard, Jazz wasn’t so happy when the Westside girls took over.”

“It’s worth checking out, I guess.”

“Damn straight.” She starts the engine, manoeuvres the truck between the burning oil-drums. Chris winds down his window and lights a cigarette to get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

::: Terminate blade fighter search. Subject found IRL. :::

It takes a certain amount of skill to drive a car in the dive. K.C. has mastered the technique, and hardly has to watch the road in front of her. Now and then, she swerves to the side to avoid the occasional stray dog, heap of rubbish, or drunken person in the middle of the street. She uses the car horn in a way that could only be described as offensive. If she should happen to run anyone down, they would only have themselves to blame.

Chris leans back in the sagging seat and tries to ignore the pounding in his head, as he watches the Dive flash by outside the window.

Twenty blocks wide, surrounded by walls and guard posts. They think they exist to keep the Greyzone in, when in reality it is to keep the Outside out.

When Chris first arrived here, thirteen months ago, he was amazed at how a society run by criminals and crooks could work. It’s not perfect in any sense of the word, but most people here have food on the table and a roof over their head.

Now, when he’s a part of it himself, he understands better. The residents of the Dive have to make it work, because if it doesn’t, they have nowhere else to go. This is the last place where they can have a shot at freedom. The only thing waiting for them on the Outside is prison or death.

Fifth Street draws the line between Westside and Centre, the two largest sectors of the zone. Centre is K.C.’s, and she runs it by the power of all her five feet and three inches. Westside belongs to Charlie Wu. The two of them has an agreement to let Fifth Street stay a no-man’s land, and don’t interfere with business. Right now, the Westside girls run the trade. Next month, the control might be back to Centre.

Even though they know K.C. isn’t here to interfere, the girls at Fifth still moves out of her way as she jumps out of the truck. She walks up to one of them, a long-legged blonde in a leather outfit that looks very uncomfortable. Chris doesn’t move from his seat just yet. He doesn’t really trust his legs right now.

Blonde-hair-and-leather points down the street and says something Chris can’t hear. K.C. nods and comes back to the truck, peering in through Chris’ open window.

“Jazz is here, all right”, she says. “I’ll go find her. Stay by the truck.”

“Sure.”

“Give me my blades, will you? They’re under my seat.”

He bends over and fishes out the two arm-long blades in their leather sheaths from under the driver’s seat. K.C. takes them from his hand and fastens one sheath on each thigh, pulling at the straps to make sure they’re secured and won’t move around when she does.

“Be careful”, says Chris. She sneers, but it’s a good-natured sneer. They both know she will be exactly as careful as the job demands. Then she’s off, and Chris is left alone with his headache. The whore in the leather outfit smiles at him. He smiles back and waves. She whispers something to another of the girls and then they giggle.

He opens the door and gets out of the car, a bit shaky, but better with every minute, except for the stubborn pounding pulse in his head, right behind his eyes. He’s in for a bad evening, he knows it, and doesn’t look forward to it. K.C. will owe him, all right.

Leaning his back against the side of the truck, he lights another smoke. The leather girl and her friend wink at him, and then they both saunter down the street, wiggling their asses, advertising the merchandise.

Fifth Street is small and narrow; the houses on both side tall and grey and covered in graffiti. It’s concrete and corrugated sheet metal, and the burning oil drums here as well. There are even smaller alleys intersecting the street, convenient for customers who can’t be bothered to pay for a room by the hour. Not much light makes it way down to the street. Not much light makes it down to the Dive, period.

Chris finishes his cigarette, counts the ones he has left and debates with himself whether or not he should smoke another one while he waits for K.C. to come back with her prey. It starts raining. Again. For some reason, it always seems to be raining in the Dive. He pulls up the collar of his jacket, and opens the car door again to go back inside. He hates being wet more than anything.

Then he hears the noise. Somewhere, someone, or something is making a noise. A tapping staccato, much like the sound the hilt of a knife makes against a lamppost, the traditional challenge between blade fighters. K.C. has found Jazz then. Or Jazz has found K.C. The latter is more probable. K.C. never challenges people. They challenge her and pay the price.

The noise continues. Is it his imagination, or does it seem to be coming closer? Trap? Maybe he ought to go and check it up, just in case something’s gone wrong.

::: Not advisable.:::

Well, that’s is. Definitely checking it up. No damn computer is going to tell him what to do. Instinctively, he feels under his jacket for a holster that isn’t there, after thirteen months still isn’t there. No guns are allowed in the Dive.

In the usual heap of junk on the truck bed, Chris spots a crowbar. He picks it up, swings it a couple of times to get a good grip. It’s better than nothing, he thinks, and sets out in the way the tapping taunting noise comes from.

::: Not advisable. :::

Shut up.

All right, now he’s arguing with the voice in his head. Never mind that the voice belongs to a computer and he’s not really schizophrenic, though the line feels pretty thin sometimes.

He keeps his back to the wall, noticing that the place seems to have turned very empty very fast. The girls know when to keep away, and the word about K.C. Davis being here must’ve spread.

The tapping noises lead him into an alley, pieces of debris littering the ground, a half open door with darkness inside, and the rain is all but pouring down now. He’s almost soaked through and the crowbar is freezing cold against his fingers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What now? K.C. is nowhere to be seen, but the sound came from in here, didn’t they? He decides to check out the door, and if he doesn’t find anything suspicious, he’ll head back to the truck. He can think of better ways to spend an evening than to be freezing in the rain with a cannibal on the loose.

The darkness behind the door is like an entity in itself, the kind of darkness you feel like you can touch. He reaches out to open it, and something inside his chest and his skull screams, …

:::Not ::: It’s :::advisable::: a :::Not::: fucking :::advisable::: trap :::Not::: idiot :::adviseable::: !

The blow to the back of his head leaves him on his hands and knees with black and white blinking lights in front of his eyes. An arm snakes around his neck, and when he finally regains his sight, blurry as it is, he finds himself a chokehold, kneeling on the wet ground. The crowbar is far out of his reach.

If you say ‘I told you so’ I’ll throw you in the trashcan the moment I get home.

The computer is silent. Instead, someone whispers in his ear.

“Found you.” Voice low, raw, very hoarse. It makes him shudder inside. “And the zoneguard’s cyber lapdog at that. Aren’t we going to have fun with you?”

Jazz.

He wants to say that his opinion on ‘fun’ probably differs quite a bit from his, but the arm around his throat makes it hard for him to breathe, let alone talk. From the feel of the body behind him, he can tell that he’s quite a bit taller than her, and possibly stronger, but one of her legs holds both his in firm place, and he can’t get the leverage to rise.

“I think I’m going to play a bit with you”, she whispers. “Have you ever seen a cat play with her prey? I’m going to play with you just like that. Then I’m going to eat you.”

Something wet traces over his neck, his throat. Her tongue, it has to be her tongue, and her breath is warm and rotten against his ear. Oh fuck, get that thing away from me, I know exactly where it’s been and I don’t want it anywhere near me.

“I ate Manny. He tasted good. He wanted to fuck me, but I didn’t want to. So I hit him in the head, like I did with you. Then I ate him. You should have heard him scream when I bit his nose off.”

Jazz draws out the ‘s’ in ‘scream’, and a few more drops of her saliva sprays over his skin, and he wonders where the hell K.C. is, and why she isn’t here.

“I’ve never eaten a cyber. I wonder what you look like inside. Is it all plastic and metal and wires? Manny was pink and wobbly inside.”

Yeah, I guess I’m pink and wobbly too, but I don’t want to find out, thank you very much. Shit, shit, shit, I never should’ve gotten out of bed this morning…

Something cold and sharp presses against his chin, the edge of a knife, and he swears he can feel the point of it puncture his skin. All right, I know I forgot to shave, but you don’t have to do it for me. Hysterical laughter, bubbling up inside him, and he fights to get control over it. He tries to get air down his lungs, and wishes that Jazz could aim her killer breath in another direction than his face.

Then, there is the lovely sound of steel-capped boots against the street and somehow he can hear Jazz start to smile.

“Look, it’s the zoneguard, here to save you. Think she’s fast enough to take me down before I rip out your windpipe?”

K.C. looks like an angel, a very short angel, all dressed in black.

I know she is, bitch.

K.C.’s eyes are narrowing, her hand moves towards her waist, and now is the time to do something if he’s ever going to. He grabs Jazz’ arm with both his hands, hopes with all his might that the knife won’t pierce something important, and then throws his full weight to the side, rendering them both off-balance.

Hot blood sprays against his cheek, and the smell of it makes him sick, there’s been too much blood already for one day. The death-grip around his neck loosens. Jazz makes a gurgling sound, and crumples to the ground. One of K.C,’s small throwing knives is stuck in her throat. Jazz twitches once, twice, and then she dies. Her eyes are still open and Chris can see that they are green.

He draws in a deep breath, rubs his neck where he will have a good-sized bruise tomorrow, and looks at K.C. who is wet from the rain, but completely free from blood and dirt and cannibal spit.

“What took you so fucking long?” he asks, his voice hoarse. It hurts to talk and it hurts to breathe, and it damn well hurts to think too.

“Thought I told you to wait in the truck.”

“Fuck you, Cee.”

He gets to his feet, unsteady, wavering like a drunk, and gets as far as the closest wall before he slides down with his back against it. It’s not until he tries to light a cigarette that he realises that his hands are shaking so hard that he can’t hold the lighter steady. K.C. kneels in front of him, puts both her hands around his, and helps him to light the smoke. He inhales, feels the nicotine rush through his system, and closes his eyes, sits there for a moment. His head hurts even worse now, since Jazz hit him. He feels like he’s going to throw up, but he can’t find the energy to do so. He smokes instead, and wonders how long it’s going to keep raining.

K.C. walks over to the body, checks to be sure that Jazz really is dead and who wouldn’t be dead with an inch of metal through the throat and then gathers up the body in a fireman’s carry. It looks ridiculous; Jazz must’ve had at least four inches on K.C. and her feet dangles dangerously close to the ground.

“Let’s get this back to Centre”, says K.C. She’s got blood on her now as well, and somehow it makes Chris feel a little bit better. He gains his feet, still weak-kneed and trembling, but able to walk and breathe.

“Thanks for not letting me get eaten”, he says, his voice steadier now.

K.C. doesn’t answer, but she grins, and he can tell that she’s quite pleased with how the little hunt turned out. He’s going to have words with her later, but right now all he wants is a dark room and a soft bed where he can lie down and sleep until the persistent headache goes away. He picks up the crowbar and follows her back to the truck.

::: Result acceptable. :::

Fuck you.

To be continued...