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your chest. This is the end of you, and another man would think it a sad thing. It was I who argued that your life should be forfeit. Others have seen fit to intervene on your behalf."
    "You're quite the poet," glasses were plopped in front of them, and amber liquor was poured. "You're also full of shit."
    "We will make a deal," Santiago drained his glass and gently replaced the glass on the table. The entire room remained silent as the spectators watched their legendary leader as if his actions were foretold. He was simply an actor playing the role of a man whose fate was intertwined with mortal folly and sorrow.
    She slammed her own glass and felt the warmth course down her throat. While it burned, her fingers convulsed against the glass. She wanted another sip; the rush of heat to the top of her skull satisfied a primordial need.
    "Waste your time," she suggested to him. "Dr. Lynch wants me for something. Whatever it is, you're playing his game, too. I'm supposed to be alive. Why don't you get your dirty ass off that chair and go sulk in the corner with your friends."
    The beaten man on the floor sat up and wiped blood away from his face. Santiago watched him for a moment, and then returned his gaze to Bannan. He continued as if she had never spoken at all.
    "Your life will become a hellish realm fraught with torment and pain. I may promise to kill you now, in exchange for information. This is the best I can do for you. You will tell me all about your experience on the train."
    She had tried to erase the fight on the train completely from her mind. Once again, she saw those fleshless, hungry creatures bleeding and crawling along the floor of the train. She could hear Carter scream through a face that had been ripped into loose ribbons.
    Bannan shuddered.
    "Let me think for a moment," she said. "I'm afraid I can't give you an answer unless you give me another drink. It takes a few sips to loosen up a girl—I can't be seen talking to an unsavory character like yourself in front of all these gentleman. What would they think about me?"
    "You're a fool," he leaned back in his chair and slipped his fingers into his belt loops.
    Her face grew hot. "Really? Do you have any idea what those things are? Why do you want to know what happened so badly? You people put me through this shit, and you expect me to just cooperate?"
    Santiago shook his head slowly. "I don't know what they are. I've yet to see them. I never wanted to make a game of this. I thought it would have been better just to kill you, when we had you in our possession."
    "We're going to make a trade. You'll give me the fat boy on the floor, and I'll let you walk out of here. Now, I think that's a fair trade."
    Santiago leaned forward again. "This man is a Union spy. I will give him to you, but you will trade your life for his. He is a dead man, and now, you have taken his place. This is the way of things. It matters not what Dr. Lynch wants. His project will move on without you. I will ask you to renege…"
    "You can't help me. You won't answer my questions, so what good are you?"
    "If you still had your memory, you would remember what we've done, what we've seen, together. I gave you a chance to return to the Collective, but you became a weak, emotional woman…"
    She inclined her head upward, a signal for him to leave. "I've had enough of your shit."
    Why didn't he get the hint? He wasn't going to intimidate her with his death-stare. Besides, he was bluffing. He had "allowed" her to live this long for the sake of some un-nameable project. Santiago wanted information; without it, he was clearly crippled. It meant everything to him.
    Santiago slowly stood from his chair. "It is done. You will die as a dog in the middle of the street. When you are finished with the pig, you will come outside, where I will give you the courtesy of a duel. The gun which clears the holster first takes a life."
    He gestured for his men to exit the saloon, and they moved languidly, picking up