Another stain on the sleeve. Mahogany blotches lay scattered over the jacket; a living tally of self-defense. This was the 7th life he had taken. Every kill was as gut-wrenching as the first. A crumpled human form lay bleeding on the asphalt. The killer stood above them, overtaken with a thousand-yard stare. He had taken a life. This was a human being, complete with thoughts, emotions, and dreams. Just another victim of the Human Fallout. A conscious and intricate web of neurons guided this body though all the stages of life, just to end up here. A beautiful thing, halted by a snap of rust and wood. It's kind of ironic, how this complex machine can be turned off with such a crude tool. The man smirked at this, then felt immediate disgust with himself for finding this situation remotely funny. He let the bat fall from his hand; the body slumped over. As if to illustrate the point that the dead man was a complete human being, the bat he used to carry bears it's own personality.
	A standard wooden baseball bat, with some custom touches. Paracord wrapped around the handle. Nails had been pounded in every which direction though the head. The brand had long since worn off; “Jack” had been scrawled lovingly in it's place. Whether Jack was the dead man or the bat, the man in the jacket didn't know. He didn't really care to think about it, anyway. The kill itself was stressful, without dwelling on the emptiness of the human body that may have called itself Jack.
	Eight minutes had passed. The man had let these thoughts brood as he stared at the vacant flesh on the ground. The fresh stains in the jacket had darkened. He needed to leave again. The sun was fresh in the sky. It was anywhere between 7 and 8, as far as he could guess. The guilt was starting to fade. It was turning into annoyance as he got back onto the bus.
	Before the rude awakening, the man in the jacket was home. Back with his wife and daughter. He moved forward every day for them. Who did this bastard think he was, waking another man with a jab in the ass with a spiked bat? Now his life was gone again, as he awoke to the baked snapshot of what he determined to be probably New Mexico and a lumpy figure gloating about his intentions of theft. Fuzzy thoughts connected lines. He was not home anymore. He had nothing. This asshole intended to take what little the man had managed to scrounge, erasing the visit of his family in the process. The man in the jacket heard himself start to scream. It was savage. It was the scream of a man dealing with the plight of having nothing to lose, and still getting robbed. The robber stepped back, not expecting that reaction. The man stood, screaming. The robber turned and started to run. The man chased him. The robber tripped. His bat clacked onto the ground. It was picked up. It was raised above the man's head. It came down unforgivingly on the robber's head. The hand the robber brought up to protect him was now attached to his forehead by 2 inches of rusty steel.
	The entire event played over and over in the man's mind as he continued down the Interstate. Every time he had to kill, he became someone he didn't know. His name was Francis Campbell. He managed a department store 158 days ago. Since then, he has had to fight for his life 7 times. In 12 miles he will learn to accept the most recent kill, and forgive himself. In 50 miles he will run out of food. In 59 miles he will be shot to death by a woman holding supplies in an abandoned mobile home. She would forgive herself in 2 miles.