Irene made lemonade after a while, and Rosie sat on the couch with Jean-Marie, keeping quiet as the other girl's grip crushed her fingers. "She didn't quit," Jean said for the dozenth time. "She didn't come home Monday, but I knew she was working a double shift into Tuesday so she could go out and see her Nan Wednesday and Thursday, she had a mid-week weekend, you know that awful shift. So I didn't worry because I wasn't going to see her until yesterday. But last night, her Nan called me, and Ruby's Nan is way older than telephones, she doesn't trust them, she thinks someone's listening in. And they are, of course, party lines always have people listening in, but she called anyway because Ruby hadn't gotten there."
"Ruby was supposed to visit on Tuesday and her Nan waited to call until Thursday? Why did she wait so long?" Rosie wondered.
Jean gave a tight, watery smile. "She thought Ruby maybe just forgot and she doesn't like using the phone except on Sundays because she thinks fewer people listen in then, so she kept putting it off. But then it got to be Thursday evening and she hadn't heard from Ruby so she called. She said she knew girls would be girls and that Ruby had probably forgotten or was working, but she wanted to be sure, and that's when I knew she hadn't come home. It's that new supervisor," she snarled, reserve suddenly giving way to rage. "He did something to her, I know it. She was fixated on him."
"Aw, honey." Irene came out with the lemonade, set it on the coffee table, and crouched to take Jean's hands. "Girls go and fall in love all the time. Doesn't mean something's happened to her. Maybe they're having a fling, she's staying with him?"
"Not Ruby." Jean cast Rosie a desperate glance. "Tell her, Rose. Ruby never fancied any of the boys at school. We're, we're pals, her and me. There's nobody else."
"Could just be he's the one, honey," Irene began, but Rosie shook her head uncomfortably.
"Ruby's pretty, Rene. I mean, pretty like you, Hollywood pretty, not just home-town pretty like me or Jean. Boys were after her all the time and she never went with any of them. All us girls were jealous, we wished we had a girlfriend like Ruby and Jean, together through thick and thin. Ruby leaving would be like splitting up peanut butter and jelly. I can't imagine it. They'd be married if one of them was a boy." Rosie winked and Jean's cheeks turned red under the tear stains. "Well, you would be!"
"Aren't we lucky we don't have to bother with all that," Jean whispered, but her eyes flooded again and she wiped them dry. "Rosie, it's not like Ruby, it isn't. Something's happened to her. I know it. I feel it. I called the cops, even her parents called them, but the police wouldn't listen, they think it's like Irene says, that she ran off with some sheik. She's a grown-up woman, they said, she'll be fine. But she's not, I know she's not, Ro."
"Why do you think it has something to do with the new supe? Johnny, you said his name was?" Rosie shot a look at Irene, who nodded.
So did Jean, bitterly. "Private First Class John Goode. He's all right, if you like the consumptive look. He works the midnight swing shift and half the girls are out of their heads over him. It was like he'd mesmerized Ruby, Ro. She kept talking about him, she even made us sit at a different table at lunch so she could look at him. But then when we'd get off shift she could barely even remember what he looked like, never mind being hot and bothered over him. Carol Ann was like that too, and she's gone too. Something's not right, Rosie. It's not right."
"Did you talk to the boss?"
Jean sneered, such an ugly expression that Rosie wished she hadn't asked. She hadn't really needed to, anyways. The plant supervisors were men, and most of the girls knew their concerns would be chalked up to women being unable to handle doing a man's job. Worse, if the complaint was about one of the supes themselves. A girl concerned about a newly returned war hero's effects on her friends would be laughed out of her job.
"I'm sure Ruby's okay," Rosie said with less conviction than she wanted. "Tell you what, sweetie, I'll go back to the factory tonight and talk to some of the other girls under Goode's supervision. Maybe one of them saw Ruby, or maybe I can find out what he's doing to make them all like him so much."
"He's a handsome man just back from the war, Ro," Irene said. "That's all he needs to do."
Jean and Rosie both shook their heads, though Jean let Rosie do the talking. "No, not if Ruby and Carol Ann were mad for him. Ruby never cared very much about boys and Carol Ann's a prude. She wouldn't admit she had ants in her pants if Gary Cooper put them there himself. I'll just go talk to a few girls. It won't take long."
"But the USO!"
"Take Jean-Marie," Rosie said firmly. "No, don't argue, Jeannie. You need something to take your mind off Ruby, and Irene needs someone to make sure she doesn't get married before morning. I promise I'll be there before midnight."
"It's only six o'clock now!"
"Then I have lots of time." Rosie squeezed Jean's hand, then stood up and made a shooing motion at her and Irene. "Go, get burgers and milkshakes and have a good time."
"You'd better drink this lemonade first," Irene muttered, and Rosie did, gratefully, before she left to catch another tram. Even with a breeze flowing through the open windows, the heat stuck and clung worse than ever after Jean's fan-cooled living room. A worm of regret squirmed in Rosie's chest. Odds were she'd volunteered to go back to the sweltering factory instead of out for an evening of fun for no good reason. Especially if Goode worked the night shift, eleven at night to eight in the morning. He wouldn't be there for hours yet.
But him not being around yet might make mid-shift girls, the three-to-midnight crew, more willing to gossip, and if she could learn anything that would make Jean feel better, that was worth it. Besides, at least she could get a look at the PFC before going to the dance, maybe even talk to him. Maybe she would find something, something to find Ruby or something to make even the cops take notice if Ruby couldn't be found. The dance would still be there later, after all, and Jean could have fun if she knew Ruby was okay.
She donned coveralls when she got back to the factory, and slid heavy boots over her feet to clump along the concrete halls in. Clocking in would be too much, but at least she could look the part. No one would question another girl hurrying from one station to another.
Hardly anyone, anyways: a couple girls caught sight of her and called her name teasingly. Rosie waved them off with a laugh. "I couldn't stay away. Decided I needed that extra dollar in the bank!" Which wasn't so far from true, though she had other things to worry about just then. She picked up a riveting gun and slipped into place on the line, half-acknowledging the curious women around her. "Taking over for Ruby. What happened to her, anyways?"
"Got married."
"Got bored."
"Got sick."
"Got out," said someone beneath the more usual answers. Rosie ducked to get a look at her, a girl she didn't know. Slim and almost pretty, more a face they'd call interesting or handsome, she met Rosie's eyes, then glanced away. She was pale, unhealthy pale, like she'd forgotten the sun even existed. Rosie nodded and changed the subject, grousing about the gun's weight, about her own weight, about tight-fitting shoes and an utter lack of a romantic life. Others picked up on the cheerful complaints, muttering about sweat and steel and veering the discussion into territory that made even the least modest of them blush. Rosie's own ears burned, but she laughed too, and wouldn't commit either way when the girls next to her wanted to know if she'd gone all the way with her boyfriend before he left for war.
She had, as a matter of fact, and had dated a couple of other boys seriously since, too. Rich didn't know about that, but Rosie reckoned what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him any. Three years was a long time, and if boys could sow some oats, she figured she could too. She was a little proud of that. Rosie Ransom, liberated woman with a job and a sex life and a future of her own, if only she could figure out how to build it. Hardly anybody she knew went to college, especially women. She wanted to do something bigger than herself, like learn to design the planes she'd been building for years now, or—or, well, she didn't know, not yet. Something that used her brain and her body, because she loved the weight of the riveting gun, loved the kickback and even the bruises it sometimes left. Her mother understood, at least some. Her mother had been a suffragist, working for something bigger than herself. Even so, Rosie hadn't told even Mom that she wanted to go to college, for fear she'd be told not to be silly, that education wasn't for women and she should accept things the way they were.
But then, if the suffragists had done that, women wouldn't have the vote, never mind the chance, no matter what the reason, to work in a man's job like this one. The scent of hot metal and blue flame, the squeak of steel sheets and the relentless thud of rivets driving home would always be a part of Rosie's memories now. They might take the job away, but they'd never take the knowledge that she could do it, and if she could do this, she could by gum do anything.
Somehow it sounded more certain in her head than it felt in her heart. Rosie set aside her riveting gun to help balance a stack of metal sheets being lifted across the floor, then took up the slack on a line of welders, idly asking about Ruby every time she shifted into a new group of workers. No one had seen her, and as the shift got later, fewer girls wanted to chat. Fingers, hands, arms could get crushed in the machines if somebody got careless, and mid-shift started out tired already. Rosie fell into the pattern of work too, focused entirely on the bang and thump of machinery.
"Why were you asking about Ruby?" The pale girl stopped at Rosie's elbow, startling her. She turned her welding torch's flame off and stepped back from the job, flipping her face guard up and rubbing an arm across her forehead to wipe sweat away.
"She hasn't been home since last Monday, is all. Her roommate's worried. Have you seen her?"
"No." There was no conviction in the girl's whisper.
"You said ‘got out'," Rosie said. "Why'd you say that?"
The girl's gaze shifted like she expected trouble from any side. "I can't tell you here or now. He's coming on shift. In the locker rooms later, where for sure he can't hear."
"Already?" Rosie glanced for a clock she wouldn't be able to see. The factory had a few, always obscured by pieces of machinery or vast steel girders. Time went faster when they couldn't see it passing, and whistles told them when to take a break. Eleven o'clock meant she wouldn't make it to the USO at all. Irene hadn't believed she would anyways, but Rosie had thought she might. She hoped the girls were having fun, and hoped even more that she'd have good news to bring Jean. "Well, that means the last break is coming up. We can talk then?"
The pale girl nodded and hurried away, leaving Rosie looking down a line of shifting bodies, each doing their part to support the war effort for just a while longer. The European war was over. Japan couldn't hold out much longer, not against America's determination, Rosie just knew it. Almost knew it for sure, at least. She rekindled the torch flame again, but the supe—PFC Goode, it had to be—crossed the head of the aisle and caught Rosie's eye.
She shouldn't be able to tell from the distance that his eyes were brown, not just shadowed. She shouldn't be able to see circles under his eyes, either, or the gaunt line of cheekbones under bare light bulbs. His hair was almost black and tidy, but not a soldier's crew cut. Not the parted wave that lots of men were wearing, either, but somewhere in between, a military cut growing out. He wore slacks and a shirt, but they did nothing to hide a thin frame that reminded Rosie of the pre-serum Steve Rogers. He looked like he couldn't have passed the physical to be a soldier, never mind have gone to war and come back alive.
Consumptive, Jean had said. Handsome if you liked that sort, but a chill ran down Rosie's spine as he broke gazes with her and moved on. She didn't see his appeal at all, and if she didn't, it seemed impossible that Ruby had.
A few minutes later the lunch whistle blasted. Women up and down the line put tools down, patted the section of airplane they were working on—for good luck, everyone agreed—and became gregarious again. Rosie trailed behind the bulk of them, veering off toward the changing rooms when she got the chance. The pale girl would be waiting, if she hadn't chickened out.
She hadn't. She waited among the clothes racks, hiding her slim form between slimmer pickings for dresses. The late shift came in already wearing dungarees and shirts, with no expectation of dolling up to face the morning, and the racks showed it. Still, the girl chose to hide. Rosie's heart went out to her. Rather than make her more uncomfortable by exposing her, she idled near the end of the racks and murmured, "I'm here, if you want to talk."
"You gotta get out of here." The girl's intensity drove her from her hiding spot. Color was high in her cheeks, making her prettier than she'd been on the plant floor. "Honest, miss, just go before he notices you. You're just what he likes. All the girls who are disappearing have dark hair and light eyes like you do. At first it was some of the Negroes, some who could almost pass. Girls with soft black hair and those funny gray-green eyes a lot of them have? But there were only two or three even working in the factory and once they were gone it started being the white girls." She picked up speed as she talked, until the last words were a blurt. "I feel terrible, I didn't even see the pattern until the white girls started going missing, I guess I'm gonna go to hell for that, but maybe God'll take a little time off my sentence if I get you out of here safe. You gotta go, miss, you really do."
"He already saw me." Rosie knew the confession was a mistake before it left her lips, but couldn't stop herself. The girl's shoulders slumped like all the air had been squeezed away. Rosie came up to her carefully, offering a hand. "What's your name, honey? Oh, sweetheart, your hands are like ice. If the supe's got you so scared, why are you still here?"
"Pearl. I'm Pearl, and where else am I gonna go? I'm not his kind." She gestured at her light brown hair. "I've got no husband, not even a boyfriend, and this job is my only way out. I can't quit, don't you see?"
"I understand." Under different circumstances, Rosie would have commiserated with the girl—with Pearl—and might still, later. But now she squeezed Pearl's hand and tried to sound encouraging. "Tell me about them going missing, okay? You're sure it's missing, not girls quitting to get married?"
"Some, sure, but some of everybody quits. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, Negroes, everybody. And they talk about it before, they're excited that their fellas are coming home, or that they've met somebody and are giving up work for the easy life. Carol Ann and Ruby and some of the others, they never said a word except for to the supe, and had stars in their eyes when they were doing it. And then they were gone, just gone, between one day and the next."
A whistle blasted, drowning Pearl out. They both turned to the break room clock, which said lunch hour was nowhere near over. The intercom crackled as the whistle gave way to the blare of an alarm. Pearl paled. "Something's happened. That's how they blow the system when someone's gotten hurt or killed on the line. It happened once before while I was here."
"Maggie Byrnes." Rosie nodded. It had been the only really bad accident in all the time Rosie had worked for the factory, but it had been enough to scare everyone, even those who hadn't been there. A lot of girls had quit after Maggie's death, but more had come to replace them, their need greater than their fear. The rest of them had gotten more cautious, and almost two years later the caution still lingered.
Pearl tugged Rosie's hand. "We'd better go. You can get out of here and be safe. Don't come back, miss." They hurried from the break room, other women leaving the lunch room well ahead of them. The whistle and alarm roared again, making both Rosie and Pearl jump. Both sounds faded away, leaving the lingering thin edge of a scream behind.
Rosie stopped, resisting Pearl's pull, and looked back into the factory. "She's still alive. Whoever's hurt is still alive. Someone must be helping her, right?" Another scream cut through the air, and another whistle blast tried to cover it. Rosie pulled away from Pearl. "You go. I'm going to check on her. I know someone's there, someone's helping, but—"
"Don't go," Pearl pleaded, but her grip loosened. "Miss, please don't go. The factory's not safe at night, not for a girl like you. He's out there."
"Go on." Rosie broke away and into a run, following the echoes of the scream. Halfway across the factory, with only one more whistle-drowned cry to guide her. Someone was doing that deliberately, they had to be, and that could mean whatever girl was trapped wasn't getting the help she needed. Rosie cursed the weighty boots she wore, and stopped to kick them off after she careened into a long room with the belly of an airplane hanging from the ceiling. The cement floor felt rough under her feet, but at least she could move fast now.
But nobody lay hurt or screaming on the factory floor, or even tangled in machinery. Everything looked right: abandoned riveting guns, shut-down welding torches, drills and hammers, screws and nails. Someone's red kerchief was slung over a ladder's step, left behind in the expectation of a quick return. Tools of the trade, familiar items to Rosie's calloused hands.
And, bewilderingly, an old wind-up phonograph, hissing the song of an empty record as black vinyl spun endlessly on the wheel. It screamed as Rosie approached, and she shrieked too, then clapped her hands to her face in embarrassment. "What on earth!"
"I told you not to come, miss," Pearl said from behind her, miserably.
Rosie startled again, spinning to face the other girl. "You … you lured me?" she asked, as embarrassed by uncertainty as she'd been by her shriek. "You brought me to the break room so I'd be behind the others? So I'd hear the screaming … " She looked at the phonograph, then back at Pearl.
Pearl shrugged, sad motion emphasized by a lack of hope in her eyes. "He said he'd kill me if I didn't. I saw him the first night, see. When he took Tildy, the first Negro girl. I saw what he did and he … he said find him girls, or I'd be next."
"Next for what? What's he doing? Pearl, you can't—" Rosie reached for Pearl, ready to shake her until she started making sense.
The phonograph shrieked, not the recorded woman's scream but the high squeal of a needle scratching vinyl. Pieces broke from the turntable and the distinctive ping of metal bouncing against the concrete floor rang out. The record player itself thudded more loudly, its days as an entertainment piece ending with what Rosie guessed had been a sharp kick.
Pearl flinched and backed away with her hands clenched at her mouth. A spike of dread shot through Rosie's heart, breathtaking and cold. She turned to see the phonograph sprawled across the floor in pieces, and PFC Goode crunching the record beneath his feet as he approached.
He looked like Pearl, up close. They shared the same pallor, like neither of them had seen sunshine in far too long. Her eyes, though, were haunted, and his were dead. Rosie didn't see how he could inspire the lust Ruby and the others had felt, though she understood Pearl's fear well enough.
Then he smiled, and everything about him changed. Gauntness became slenderness, dead eyes became bright, his quick wink charming. Rosie smiled in return without meaning to, then, uncomfortable at having done so, shook herself and backed up a step. Closer to Pearl, in hopes the other girl would be made braver by Rosie's presence. "Whatever you're doing, Mr Goode, it has to stop. It will stop."
He grinned, full of fresh healthy American good looks. "‘Mr Goode'? Jeez, miss, that's my dad. You call me Johnny, why don't you? What's your name?"
"Rosie." Rosie bit her tongue too late, astonished that she'd answered. Like she'd had to. Like she'd wanted to, even though she hadn't intended to give this oddly threatening man anything. "Mr Goode," she repeated, more firmly and maybe, if she told herself the truth, maybe more desperately. "Pearl says a lot of girls have gone missing, that you're responsible. It's going to stop."
"Shucks, Rosie, of course it's not. You're not even going to remember a bit of this, are you? It's just me and Pearl here, stealing a cig in the factory when we're not supposed to be." He came closer as he spoke, and Rosie forgot she'd meant to back up farther. Goode glanced beyond her at Pearl, offering the other girl a smile of her own. "Good job with this one, Pearl. She's got a lot of life in her. She might even finish the job for you."
"The job?" Rosie made her feet move, concrete cold through her socks. That helped her keep moving: as long as she didn't stay still long enough to warm the floor where she stood, she was doing all right. But Pearl was following her now too, boxing her in. Rosie edged toward the belly of the plane, trying not to look like she was running. "What job? Pearl's got a job here, she's a riveter like the rest of us … "
"Not that kind of job. Some of the blood splashed on me, see," Pearl whispered. "I thought it was my own, I'd cut myself earlier, so I stuck my finger in my mouth. But it was his, and now I just keep being hungry for more. I'm almost there, Johnny says I'm almost there, just a little more to drink, but he's gotta keep refreshing his own, too. You shoulda run, Rosie. You shoulda done what I said."
Bile filled Rosie's throat, though she barely understood what the other girl meant. She swallowed and forced a laugh. "Blood? What, you think he's a vampire? Sweetheart, you have to stop watching all those Dracula movi—"
Goode picked up a welding torch, twisted it into uselessness, and tossed it away. Rosie's words died in her throat. Cold drained from the top of her head to her fingertips, through her chest and all the way to her toes, numbing her body with disbelief. Half of forever passed before her heart started up again, a single thick beat that pushed back against cold. Not hard enough, though. Rosie just stood there, frozen with astonishment, until Goode spoke again and she jerked hard in response to his voice.
"Most of it isn't true. Turning to mist, turning into a bat, no reflection … " Goode brushed his hair with his fingertips, familiar action of a vain man. "Good thing, too. Nobody would cut a man's hair they couldn't see in the mirror."
"Vampires aren't real," Rosie said blankly. "They're not—you can't be … "
Goode shrugged and picked up another torch, flicking this one on. "Whether they are or aren't, I'm sure something, aren't I? Tell you what, Rosie. You start running, and if you get away, I'll never hunt you again. I'm not fast," he promised with an unnervingly sweet smile. "Go on, Rosie. Run."
Rosie's gaze flickered to Pearl, who nodded once. "He always lets them run," she whispered. She looked worse than pallid now. Fragile, desperate. Hungry. "Better go."
Rosie took another step back. It jarred her out of stupefaction, let her think again with the clarity of fear. The plane was above her now, burnished steel hanging too far overhead to touch. Ladders still leaned against it, abandoned by the women who had been working there not long before. Women who would find Rosie's own body, maybe, crushed in some machine's teeth. The other girls who had gone missing hadn't been found, though. She clung to that, reaching for an answer like it would save her life. "Where are they? The others, what did you do with them?"
Goode waved his torch, hissing blue flame making a short streak in Rosie's vision. "I ate them, Rosie. A man can't live by blood alone, you know. I made bread with their marrow." His eyebrows flicked together. "It's harder than it looks, isn't it? Making bread. My loaves are like logs."
Rosie's stomach turned, though macabre humor washed some of the sickness away. No wonder Goode wanted Pearl. A wife to cook and clean for him, just like every other man back from the war.
Except every other man couldn't bend steel, or dance his fingers through blue-hot flame the way Goode was doing now. Rosie's heart lurched again. Everyone had gone on break, leaving no one nearby to hear her scream. No one would save her. No one but herself. Her hand closed around a riveting gun. She lifted it, the familiar weight a sudden comfort, and Goode's voice dropped with disappointment. "Oh, Rosie, what are you doing?"
The riveting gun's weight steadied the jackhammer beat of Rosie's heart, letting her whisper, "There's nowhere to run and you know it. This factory's full of machines more dangerous than you are. I'm not going to let you chase me into one of them so I can be written off as a terrible accident."
"Pearl." All the niceness left Goode's voice, making him the unsettling man Rosie had first laid eyes on.
He might not have been quick. Pearl, though, moved way faster than Rosie expected. Quick with desperation, maybe. She veered wide of the riveting gun, springing at Rosie's shoulders from the side. Rosie spun, the gun's weight giving her momentum. To her own shock, metal hit flesh with a resounding thunk. Pearl collapsed to the floor, her temple already bruising. Rosie drew in a sharp breath, gaping, then snapped her attention back to Goode.
He gazed at Pearl with surprise before lifting his eyebrows at Rosie. "Guess I should've picked me more of a fighter for my first wife. You might just do instead, Miss Rosie." He took a step forward.
Rosie, though her cheeks hot with horror at having downed Pearl, hefted the riveting gun at arm's length with hands that remained cold and steady. "Not one more step, Mr Goode."
He smiled, almost recovering the mask of charm he'd worn before. The one that had almost drawn her in, that had made Rosie give up her name when she didn't want to. It wouldn't work again. Not with her heart fast with fear, not with Pearl a huddle at her feet. Maybe men at war felt this resolved, facing the enemy. Goode's smile widened, showing teeth, and he spread his hands. "Or what, Rosie? You'll shoot me? An unarmed man?"
Showing teeth. Showing a mouthful of too-long, hollow-looking teeth, like snake fangs except by the tens instead of just two. She couldn't see their bottoms, but they narrowed as they pressed against his lower lip, and Rosie just knew they ended in vicious points.
"You're something wrong, mister," Rosie breathed. "Something unnatural and wrong. Men might put up a sweet lying front, but they don't bend steel and they don't cup fire in their palms. I don't know what you are, but you are not a man."
"I was once," Goode said, and took one more step forward. Put his chest against the gun, and reached for its neck, to throttle the air flow and render it useless.
Rosie shot him.
The gun made the same sound it always did, a familiar, comforting bam! of air slamming a rivet into place.
Goode sounded nothing like airplane steel being punctured.
He made a soft sound, a wet sound, one that went with the sudden red mist and chunks of white that were things Rosie didn't even want to think about. He looked surprised in the instant before his hands splayed open and his whole body caved backward, away from her. Blood smeared first the air, then concrete. Goode was louder hitting the floor than taking the rivet, a pop like a hollowed-out grapefruit when his skull made contact.
Revulsion and relief tore through Rosie. Her hands shook, though she didn't release the gun, didn't even lower it. Couldn't if her life depended on it.
Her life had depended on it.
Rosie gave a short ugly laugh that did nothing to push away the dizziness sweeping her. Gold light unlike anything the factory had to offer danced around the edges of her vision. It coalesced above Goode like it was drawn to his blood, and gathered into a small dust devil that spun ever tighter. She took a step back, riveting gun still choked in her grip. The light comforted her with its warmth and beauty, but Goode had almost tricked her into believing in his beauty, too. She didn't know what happened to vampires when they died, but if she had to shoot the burgeoning light, too, then she would.
It became a column, spinning so quickly it wobbled. Goode's body arched as its pull lifted him a centimeter or two from the floor. A silver glow stained with blood eked out of his pores, drawn toward the golden column. Rosie wet her lips, knotted her finger around the gun's trigger, and waited in horrified fascination.
The bloodstains stretched and loosened, coming free from Goode's—soul, Rosie thought, and wanted to laugh at herself, but couldn't. The stains spiraled upward, taken into the whipping gold column, then spattered outward, cast away. Rosie's gaze snapped to follow them, but they disappeared before they reached her, even though she stood just a couple steps from the man she'd killed.
Unstained, unblemished, uncorrupted, Goode's soul rose after the blood, sucked into the column's vortex as well. But it shot upward when released, a bright streak reaching for Heaven. The column collapsed, and Goode's body fell to cold concrete.
Rosie edged forward. Under the hard factory lights, Goode had the skin tones and musculature of a youth who had been badly injured and a long time recovering. He looked handsome now, a cheeky all-American boy despite the trauma his body had seen. The horrible hollow-looking teeth shrank back into his gums as she watched, distending his mouth and then disappearing. With their retreat, his sickly pallor faded, more than just vitality fading in death's cool grip. It was as if a poison had been eradicated, thoroughly cleansing the young PFC of his life's misdeeds.
Whole, Rosie thought. He was whole, when he hadn't been before, and without knowing why, she dropped to her knees and cried.