Isiah sat down on a big rock, wiping the head of the day away from his brow. Popping a bottle, he downed some rot-gut whiskey, produced in some godforsaken nowhere. Looking beyond the other Rangers with one blue eye and another brown, he saw something the others had apparently missed. The sight of it prompted Isiah to draw his gun slowly. “Mind informing us?” Ezra asked, eyeballing Isiah with a big, swollen orb that never did fit in his skull properly. “I sees a Moreau coming down the ways, cannae tell if he’s friendly, desperate or just plain mad,” Isiah replied, “probably all three… his pace ain’t no good sign.” Ezra and several of the others looked to the west, but saw no one. To them, the rolling plain was empty, just long grass moving in the wind. Someone kicked dust on the fire and Ezra drew his rifle and swore “ain’t no one but nothing there now. We got us a sneaky bugger.”The grass was high, high as a man’s nipples grown tall by neglect and radiation and the Rangers had cleared a large circle where they sat. Isiah felt something on his neck and turned to stare at a lion-face stitched, roughly, across the skull of a human. It roared and reached and in a moment Isiah was gone and Ezra and the others were only left with his screams.