Purgatory

   Under the light of the moon, and slices of warm color from the battered warehouse's door, I made my way across the scrub. The plants were cold and dead, rustling and cracking under my feet, and seeping ice into my soles. I rapped on the door to have it opened by my comrade, giving me a look equally frustrated and confused. The centerpiece of the room seemed like a Satanic ritual at this point. Another of my associates watched over the crimson-dipped figure on the chair, who had decided to take the temporary reprieve to let dry, heaving coughs consume her frame.

   I tore my face away from the scene - that kind of pan where your skull moves before your eyes - and slowly removed my trench coat and fedora once again.

   "This one's something different, boss." His voice had a slight crack to it, a disappointing reveal.

   "I can see that," I said, pulling him to the side. "Don't let them see any doubt." A raised eyebrow and a gesture towards the spare limb lying beside the chair made my next point.

   "Sorry, boss. Caulker, he got a little bit excited," he replied, tapping a bloodied chainsaw lying on the table of instruments. "How did your two o'clock go?"

   "Fine. He didn't know anyone. Clean up's gonna be pissed at you," I sighed, before stepping to the mark. "And what if she had escaped when it regenerated?" Frustration ebbed into my voice, I could hear it. "I assume you've been going at her all day? What have you tried?"

   "The usual, boss. Plus the chainsaw, of course. Knives, fire, acid, my special -patting the gun at his hip-, the works."

   "You know slouching like that could give you health problems. Chin up," I said to the girl. She looked to be about 22, but was almost certainly older, due to the effect of the regeneration on constantly-discarded skin. She simply gave another rasp, leaning as far forward as her restraints would allow. Again I noted the multitude of scars running up and down her arms, legs, sides - scars that were given before she had been turned. Some seemed rather detailed and almost artistic, others jagged and brutal.

   Dropping my blade into hand, I slid it between the fourth and fifth ribs, conveniently marked by a long scar winding between them. A sharp gasp escaped her as I twisted the knife. "So it does affect you," I smiled.

   "Spare me. I already heard it - from you, no less."

   "Indeed. We'll have to try a different route. Caulker, the gag, please," I said, snapping the antenna on my mobile phone and. "Believe it or not, miss, you are not the first to display extra-ordinary resilience." A number, rarely used but still known, punched into the phone. "We have other methods." Watching as Caulker finished tying the knot, someone answered. "Yes, I'd like to rent a cement truck."