Riding the slow oscillations of the chain, I lift my gaze from the dead men and stare out into the darkness of the empty hanger. The hook’s cold in my shoulder, and the blood pouring from the wound feels warm, almost hot, running down my arm.
“Cause right now, I can tell you fairly exactly what’s in it, or what will be.”
“Tell me,” said Moneybags.
In my dizzy thoughts, I try to place that voice.
“Right now,” I say, “there’s nothing, or not much. Bones, mostly, and dust.”
“Must be some important bones,” says Moneybags with that familiar voice.
Tale Told 