Apocalypse has come like gravity to a rotten fruit, and the old world has burst open. Their grand buildings are ashes, their roads buckled and green; the mighty wander the streets, armed to the gums, sobbing and frail.
Beausoleil loves it. Oh, hates (maybe) the cost they paid, the loss of life, the corruption pulled to the surface, the stupid waste, but in the wide heart of her rejoices to see it all come apart. Nowhere to go but up, and she’s swallowed enough blood for a lifetime: let them choke themselves coppergreen for a change.
She pushes inland, crossing the river. What’s left of the roads is thick with people, owners and slaves both, werewolves and virgins. She wears an army rifle slung on her back, barren of shells, just to prove that she can. They shrink down into the bushes when she passes, stride long and brave as the sun, afraid not of what her empty gun can do, but just to see the world so upended.
Beausoleil walks west. Out there, in the sage and the sky, there’s a town with her name on it, and cattle the color of dawn.