Marcus squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. It felt euphoric. Homicidally euphoric. Every muscle in his body was flexed, trembling with the joy of killing. He felt the Angel’s horrid body being crushed. He felt the tremors of ribs snapping, and he knew the moment that the baby’s skull popped. It was all glorious, and would never have stopped if not for the part of his mind that was conscious of the Harvester’s bulk sliding by above him, and of the monsters and walking dead of all kinds moving around him.

Finally, knowing she must be dead, he relaxed his grip. His coils slackened and slid from around her. His torso rose and he looked down on her crumbled, lifeless form. For a moment, seeing her in death, he felt sated. Full. Satisfied in his exhaustion. And then he looked around. The chaos was as before, only it looked less chaos now and more like the world that was and ever would be. It was, he realized, a world he could triumph in, as he just had. He had only to kill. To kill and eat and take what he wanted and think of nothing else. Such a pure way to be. He felt it all so clearly. Not fear at all. Just bloodlust.

Keep killing, he told himself. Keep killing forever and ever. It was just a matter of who was next. He looked about, searching. There were so many to choose from. The killing would be very, very—

The impact was so complete that at first he didn’t know what had hit him. Something crashed into his side, lifted him in a viselike grip, and swept him up from the world with such force his brain rocked in his head. The world went black for a second, and then came again, all motion, him above the ground, everything a blur until the grip loosened and he was slammed into a tiny compartment, jammed in with the bunched length of his tail. He looked out on the raging battle now far below him. He saw those giant arms working below him and he knew he was in the Harvester. Panicked, he tried to push himself out, like a person leaping from a balcony. But he couldn’t. Something held him in place.