A fog. “Here it comes! Here it comes!” Beatrice shouted, almost singing the words. The motorcycle slowed down. “According to my notebook, they were in this stuff when the first three bought the farm,” the warrior said, raising the machine gun he’d been carrying. Setting the barrel on top of the handlebars, he shifted it slightly, testing how the weapon would react. “You can’t slay a Noble with that,” D told the man. “Don’t worry. I’ve got that covered,” Beatrice replied, tapping the chest of his leather jacket. There was the sound of wood knocking on wood. “Get off. There’s no point broadcasting our location. It was just ahead where we got hit.” “Do you remember what killed them?” D inquired. “Not at all. But it said in my notes that all of ’em had their necks split open. I caught my sleeve on a branch, which slowed me down and apparently saved me.
