The recycling center on the edge of Villa Marrón was just a few more miles down the road from the abandoned storage rental Tasìa had invaded. To her surprise, as she drove by, it appeared that the cops never showed up the previous evening.

There were no ribbons of yellow tape nor pylons to designate an area to be left undisturbed along the service road entrance.

Tasìa decided to turn her bike around to take a few minutes to investigate.

As she rode through the lot, lined as it was with a maze of storage units now with all the exterior lights off, she was certain of her assumption. The corpses of Dragos and the ghoul she had killed lay undisturbed where she had shot them, even still.

Tasìa got off of her Virago 750 while looking around for any activity. The entire facility seemed deserted. She glanced up at the tall, curvy lamp posts.

If so, if entirely abandoned, then who came back to turn the lights off?

She searched around the maze of storage units quickly and thoroughly. A pervasive stench, similar to the smell of a pigsty, reeked from one back row. As she approached the row of storage units, wheels from an overhead door gave off a shrill creaking noise just before it popped in place and the door fell for the rest of its path downward.

Tasìa regarded it with caution, for she knew what the sound meant. Someone heard her bike as she approached and hastily pulled the door down. The door got stuck near the bottom of the twin tracks. It had just now corrected itself.

Tasìa pulled out her Desert Eagle and put on the IR goggles and set them to low-light vision as she approached the unit.

Dead quiet. These cats know how to stay still.

At the door, she pressed the release switch down with the heel of her left boot. The overhead door, now smoothly set in place, tumbled up in the rattle of the loud, tight wind of jaggèd metal chains.

The two ghouls stood perfectly still, except for their twitchy little tongues, just twelve feet in front of her. They must have assumed she could not see them in the dark and waited for her to enter the storage space where they were positioned to spring forth and pounce on top of her.

They held long, curvy cleavers, and were readied to attack, as they stood to either side of a flayed corpse hanging from a rope between them.

Tasìa centered a red dot from the Desert Eagle just above the forehead of the ghoul to her left side. With steady hands, she shot the top of his head off.

Out of the corner of her eye, Tasìa saw his companion reacting with deadly speed. Tasìa pushed off of her right foot and slid into the floor with her left knee.

The last ghoul missed her when he lunged forward, swinging his cleaver in an arc at waist level in the space she just had inhabited.

He was thinking about extracting your kibbles for a fresh dining experience with that swing, Tasìa told herself.

Tasìa pivoted on her knee to face the ghoul. Before she could line him up to take another shot, Tasìa caught sight of something. There was a tall robed figure holding a menacing scythe standing by the far wall that she had somehow missed on her initial inspection of the storage space interior.

Unfortunately, she could not stop her reaction as she realized the figure was not giving off a heat signature. Tasìa shot it in the head. Two horns popped out with each one smacking the ceiling and back wall in turn.

It was a statue of San La Muerte.

Before the ghoul had a chance to take advantage of her distraction, Tasìa rolled beneath the corpse.

She heard the ghoul give out a wobbled, pneumatic gasp.

"You dare," he yelled, evidently offended she had shot the shrine's centerpiece.

As the ghoul spoke, something smacked hard against the corpse, and it began to swing as she crawled out from beneath it. With much gnashing, the ghoul attempted to wrangle the cleaver free from where it was now embedded in the hip bone of the corpse.

Tasìa pointed the Desert Eagle in the ghoul's face. She barked an order.

"Back up."

The ghoul turned to her as he raised his arms.

"You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you, sweety?"

Tasìa noted to herself that he did not comply with her request to back away from the cleaver. She pushed the gun up against his jaw and pulled the trigger.

As she watched the body fall, Tasìa muttered under her breath, "Non-compliance from an opponent denotes bad intent, as my father used to say."

Before putting the Desert Eagle away, Tasìa turned to check for any other opponents at the portal of the open door. If there was anyone out there, they did not approach.

She took out the long pin-light that she kept tucked beneath the stiletto's leather sheath and she shined it on the corpse. It was a female and her former occupation was quite evident. The prostitute's face was still intact and covered in a heavy gloss foundation, mascara, false eyelashes, and neon rouge lipstick.

The little that remained of her dress, still covering her shoulders and breast, were threadbare party clothes common to streetwalkers.

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Poor thing. God damned wretched-souled poverty-tourists preying upon our most vulnerable people.

It offended her as Tasìa spat to relieve the tension in her jaw and mouth.

Tasìa did not let up on her steady examination of the corpse as she held the pin-light fixed upon the remains.

It was evident the corpse had been hanging there with the ghouls cutting slices and organs from it for at least three or four days.

With nothing more to learn from it, Tasìa shut the door and backed away. She thought of Sinclair. The Canadian woman with whom Tasìa had become friendly.

Surely, she had dined on that same corpse.

Tasìa heaved and gagged at that very thought. The pain from doing so was intense; she had nothing left in her to hurl to ease the burden.

Before she was willing to take off, she did another quick search up and down the rows of storage units. This time she found someone.

Eddy leaned up against the back wall of a storage unit close to the downed wire fence. His pants were down to mid-thigh. One arm spread against his stomach as if to hold his guts in, and the other held onto his shriveled penis.

A pool of thick, nearly dried blood caked the sad-looking appendage.

Tasìa squatted down beside him. She shone the light in his brown eyes. No reaction, for he was dead, as she suspected. His cheeks were caked with dry tears.

Beside him on the wall was another bloody piss stain sprayed on the wall like commemorative artwork to acknowledge a futile, unhappy existence.

"My dear lady Annebél really fucked you up. I can't imagine the pain you went through as your kidneys failed you. I also have to say, given the decrepit shit you pushed on Annebél, to some degree between one and infinity, you likely deserved it."

Tasìa stood back up and glanced up past Blackhead Snake Hill at Terry and Roberto's house. With a small bribe, they were kind enough to let Sinclair stay for a few days until Tasìa returned.

She checked her watch. Just another matter that needed to be penciled in on her itinerary.

Tasìa parked her bike by the porch with the swing. There was not a single light on inside. Tasìa darted up the steps and she was about to knock on the door when she noticed it wasn't closed-shut all the way.

Tasìa opened it halfway.

"Hello," she said, loudly. "Terry? Roberto? Sinclair?"

No answer.

Tasìa walked in. Running along the den wall, brushing against furniture in haphazard collision, a cat sprung past her and through the door.

A lamp had been knocked over, along with many picture frames and porcelain figurines. Though Tasìa attributed the mess to the cat, she did not take any chances when she pulled the Desert Eagle back out.

She walked quietly to a hall that adjoined the den. All the doors in the hall were closed. A stairwell opened up at the end of the hall.

Tasìa stepped back out into the den. She crossed to the other side of the room and stepped into the kitchen. A chair was knocked over. A window was broken and mostly knocked out with a splintered wooden frame and shattered glass above the sink.

On the table was a single plate holding a half-eaten raw steak with something spread thickly on top of it. Tasìa took out her pin-light to make better sense of what she was observing.

It was merely a thick sauce of horseradish and greens, likely spinach.

She was elated to see Sinclair embracing a post-cannibal lifestyle.

Definitely, she is trying to substitute for any iron deficiency.

But, what to make of this? Sinclair was eating her dinner when someone broke into the house. A struggle occurred, and now no one was here. No lights on, it had to have occurred during daylight.

Did the power cut off? No, Tasìa heard the water pump running.

Tasìa began to wonder if she put Roberto and Terry in danger by asking them to give Sinclair shelter. So near the storage facility, perhaps it was a bad idea. An oversight of conscience on her part.

Tasìa shook her head. No reason to assume it is related, and, besides, Sinclair needed more help than Tasìa could provide at the time, given her own compromised state of being.

Tasìa checked all of the rooms of the house. No one was around. No sign of struggle, nor damage except for what she discovered in the den and the kitchen.

Most likely the couple wasn't there when it occurred, Tasìa decided to her relief. There would have been more signs of disorder, of a greater struggle, if they were involved. Roberto was physically imposing. Yet, there wasn't even any blood anywhere.

Whoever it was, they caught Sinclair when she was alone.

Tasìa decided that she had nothing else to go on, she would make one more sweep, and then leave. On that sweep, she did find something she missed the first go around.

A needle was embedded in the ceiling above the kitchen cabinets. It left a little wet mark when she plucked it out of the ceiling tile.

Without spectroscopic equipment, she could only hazard to guess what was inside the needle.

Her gut said it was a horse tranquilizer.

Tasìa wrapped the needle in a rubber tube that she found in a kitchen drawer and then she stored it away in her fanny pack.

A ruckus filled the house with noise. It came from just outside. Squawking birds and yelling kids. Tasìa peeked out the door.

It was the cockfighters at it again, holding their birds while circling one another.

Two kids faced off inside the circle. All the other boys and a few tomboys stood around it, yelling and shaking their fists in a commotion.

Many of them held roosters in slings wrapped around their shoulders. The roosters all cackled along with the children.

One boy in the ring suddenly went low with his cock. Its talons clutched into the knee of the unfortunate kid that was his opponent.

He yelled, "I give! I give! I give!"

The winner raised his rooster triumphantly over his head. The bird squawked with its chest puffed out while its head jerked in a cocky strut.

Its happy owner smiled as blood poured down from a gash on the side of his head.

Stupid kids.

"Hey," Tasìa yelled to get their attention, "did any of you see what happened in here? In this house?"

The losing boy pushed through the crowd, suspiciously, as he limped away, holding his knee.

"Hey you," Tasìa called out to him. "Did you see something?"

The kid turned around and glared at her.

"The bad-ass-looking dudes said not to talk to you."

"Tell me what you know!"

"No. Dudes said not to talk to you."

He hobbled off down the street as another match began.

Tasìa decided it was useless to grill these lads. Their limited little minds would not retain anything of value, anyway.

She cursed as she started her bike. Several roosters squawked as the current match got bloody.

Look at them. All the stupid little cocks think they are winners.

Tasìa turned her bike away from the gathering before she floored the accelerator.