But there was simply no need to shoot the man, because he took his final few breaths – strange, animalistic, heavy breaths – and his eyes rolled back to his head and he died. His only surviving cohort stood up from his corner of the van and looked deeply into the eyes of his deceased friend. He delivered his black and dingy hands to the man’s face and slowly closed his eyes while muttering something in audibly. There was a moment of silence, and the doctor forgot his austerity, and Mitzi forgot his loathing at the man who seemed so pitiless only moments before, and the van floated down the darkening street with not a homeless man to be spoken of except the mourning one inside that moving shell.
It was night now and they drove in silence. The corpse still lay on the stretcher because no one dared open the sliding doors. And if they did, no one would know what to do with the body anyways. The sweet smell of blood ran thick in the air, though Mitzi’s shoes had become crusty as the blood was beginning to coagulate. Outside, the night was darker than any Mitzi had ever seen: the buildings contained nooks which could hide the most abominable creatures in their depths. The pilgrims began to talk of Katz and weed again, always under their breath. The whispering made even more eerie this horrible mission.
Dogbert and Virgil, who remained hidden during the catastrophe under some fire-retardant blankets procured from the first aid kits, eyes wide open and stuffed with fear, were silent. They looked around them with brutish instinctive eyes. None of them, including the pilgrims, had been this deep into the District. The motor hummed above all else, as Mitzi steadily waned on the gas. They were almost to where Katz had been last located. A sinister mood had arisen in the van: no one spoke unless to utter something about their destination and the communal focus was on finally meeting Katz for the first time. An eerie, eerie silence ran deep through the vehicle. Even the last homeless man felt it, and showed his curiosity with tiny beads of sweat.
His remaining beef was starting to rot. Nevertheless, he chewed it every once and a while with slow drawn out bites. The rest of the van was sickened, but too tired to make a point of the nauseating ritual. For once, Mitzi thought of him as a man with carnal hunger, a man who hadn’t eaten a good meal for months. He was showing signs of serious anemia, but it didn’t jade him. He might make it through Katz’s recovery, but his being alive past that would be a miracle.
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