Emory’s weak, round features were wild with terror. His green eyes lanced laser-like at me out of their folds of flesh, burning with terror and with rage. “Traitor!” he shrieked.
I pointed my gun at him. “Who’s the Fat Woman?” I said.
My voice sounded bizarre in my own ears, drawn out and distorted like a recording played back at slow speed. I was drowning in the feverish atmosphere down here. I was losing myself in it, falling away from myself, farther and farther away.
“You think you’re Justice?” Emory screamed—at least that’s what I remember. He started to cry. “You’re a traitor to everything!”
But his voice was growing distorted. He was slipping off into the atmosphere, slipping away from me. Both of us were lost and swirling in the swirling and unreal confusion that crossed and erased the borderlines between me and the world I saw.
The rest is all like that, all darkness and confusion, all mist and smoke and bright white gleaming lights and the choking stench—all of it filling me up with darkness—filling up all reality with darkness—so that reality and I became one dark thing, darkness itself, darkness alone.
I think Emory went on screaming in that darkness. I’m not sure. I don’t remember.
I don’t even remember killing him.