The rest of the guys looked from behind the curtains into the murk—and they spotted the silhouette figure of Reeves returning back alive after his daredevilry attempt to deliver the moonshine to the enemy. When he stepped inside the door, they surrounded him with their weapons in arm. Joe babbled out...

"We heard gunshots, what happened?"

"That was me shooting," Reeves turned to True Bob with a grin...

"They got the 3 spiked jars and they are drinking it now."

"Excellent," the chuckling half-breed Indian replied, he started to do his own native jig while the rest of the team wondered if the mysterious herb was as potent as the Chief claimed to be—or else, they are all 'fucked.'

Reeves removed his shirt and smelling it before he tossed it away. He washed up the stench on his body at the kitchen sink, looking out the window at the Jamaican campfire...

"Joe, pack our gear, we are leaving soon."

He glanced with the rest of them looking out of the window of the Jamaicans drinking the spiked moonshine at their campfire.

"Bob, what will happen to them now?"

"Well, the effect is not immediate but once it hits the bloodstream—they will either see heaven or hell."

*

The Jamaicans drank away at the campfire, Kujo invited Vishon...

"Mon, dis is strong stuff and it tastes like an awful buffalo piss—hey come, try some, Vishon." The big-haired Jamaican reciprocated...

"No Kujo, don't waste your mountain dew on me coz I will not feel di high—I pass."

"No-no, shut up, you must try it, you pooper-childbirth of a Rasta-brother!"

Vishon took the clay jar and drank it with disgust, the amused Kujo chuckled away.

Nearby, Zinga swigged the moonshine from his jar, pointed at the main house with his machete...

"We finish di booze and we go over—di whities are all now drunk over there like Jensen, and then we do them really bad—then we throw their chopped off heads into di lake and we go and have a good night sleep after that...

"We head back to Hajja's camp at daybreak."

Busta clinked his homebrew jar with Zinga's for the good favourable air-tight plan—they both laughed out loud saying that they will be soon leaving this cursed place at the lake for good.

*

The shirtless Reeves entered into Capt. Howdy's bedroom and grabbed an empty duffel bag from the top of a cupboard, and he dusted the cobwebs off. He spotted a tandem of Mrs Howdy's hair wigs and cosmetics on the dressing table—he threw the miscellany into the bag.

*

True Bob drank up and dropped the mug into the kitchen sink with his eyes locked outside at the Jamaicans' campfire—hearing them getting loud at the cabin. Reeves came over to him wearing a corduroy jacket and noticed Bob was in a zombie-like state while he spoke...

"The effect will start any time now, they will all be docile soon—now feel free to leave to Los Angeles, I will take care of the rest"

"Are you sure, Bob?"

Reeves was troubled about his hasty departure but True Bob remained silent while his mind was slipping further into his kill-zone—he tugged a pistol into his belt and he picked up his passé six gauge Benelli shotgun—and he was loading Foster type shells into the chambers.

Reeves felt shoddy that he had disappointed True Bob the most in the team. Bob had taught him most survival skills since their Tombscradle days and right up to their present whereabouts at Lake Huntington—the half Cherokee had been the most supportive, and he even believed that Reeves will be the one who will someday assassinate Cory to end her supremacy reign of power...

But tonight, Reeves has abandoned the mission—and he was the first to be leaving the group to go his separate way...

"There are four of them—do you want backup?"

Reeves offered help but the sullen half-Cherokee snubbed back instead of in fleering laughter...

"No thank you, I can take it from here. We are not going out there to shoot a fucking Bambi—I think I can do it on my own by wasting those stoned groids bastards sitting out there—but not you, Reeves—you can't do it because your heart is still soft."

Reeves sighed inwards before reaching his hand out to squeeze Bob's shoulder—he felt that True Bob had somehow seen right through into him, and knew the fact that the real Reeves was more of a pacifist—it was just like how he told off the Preacher at the desert that he wanted no part in any more killing—and it was time for him to be more of his libertarian-self and move on, and focus instead on finding his mother, Laura Jensen.

"See you, Bob...thanks for everything, bro."

He looked at True Bob opening the backdoor and stride into the shadows, bidding his farewell in the dark.

"Be safe out there, Reeves Jensen—and take care of the fat-fuck, although he was such a lousy customer."

Earlier, True Bob has volunteered to extricate the team's freedom for all—Reeves recalled back again of the temerity of True Bob's first kill—chasing after Headbull Anderson before blowing her brains away, crying out to all, 'One bullet, one bitch."

Now there will be four more body counts out there tonight.

Reeves paced towards the front door where Troy and Joe were in the porch, both saying goodbyes to each. Troy gave a GPS device to Joe that he had hacked—so that it will give safe passage for the Mustang to avoiding roadblocks ahead.

"Here you go, I have set it to the Cedar-Sinai Medical Center as the final destination in LA." Troy Norton turned around and hugged Reeves; departing after their five over years of friendship since TC.

"Thanks for everything, Troy."

"The pleasure is all mine and it was a great honour serving you, Commander Reeves. Now go find Mimi Jensen and drop me a postcard once you all get to Canada," Troy responded with laughter while he wiped a tear with his back of his fist.

"You too Troy, and be safe out there with Bob, bro." Reeves sank into the passenger side seat of the Mustang with heavy despondency.

*

The half-Cherokee walked alone under the clear full moon with night clouds passing away, True Bob chanted a prayer and in his Native language to the spirit world—seeking for guidance and for his safety. He has bad eyesight, especially in the dark—in his blurry perception ahead, he witnessed the effect of the Hoasca on the ternary of the Jamaicans at the campfire...

Kujo was crying, standing naked while he was masturbating his elongated phallic. The swarthy Zinga stood zombie-like, transfixed at the three floatplanes in the dark nebula lake as he held the stake with the remaining moose meat leg attached on—he bit chunks off the fleshy roasted meat to the bone and spat it into the campfire. Busta was talking in his native Patois to the empty moonshine jar that he held—and kept hitting it on his forehead and was cursing the name of his father...

Two Bob realized that one of black Jamaican was missing—the one with the biggest blond hairdo among the four, that looked like a ferocious male lion that was vigilant to kill. Bob trained the Benelli shotgun around into the dark surroundings before turning and stepping forward towards the cabin's closed-door...

*

Reeves stretched his neck back for a final peek at the campfire while Joe drove a bit before he switched on the headlight of the Mustang onto the dark gravel path. He heard Reeves was disclosing his troubles...

"I don't feel right with True Bob going in all alone." Joe appeased back, "no Reeves, let him at it—the Chief knows what he is doing. I saw him looked very weird a moment ago like he was fucking possessed."

"Yeah, I saw that in his eyes too; he may have taken the Ayahuasca for his own courage—so to go out there to kill them all," Reeves substantiated.

"I am glad we are going away now, bro because I can't bear to see any more killing—I have seen enough death for a lifetime in TC—especially what those fuckin' Jamaicans did on Capt. Olsen—that Swastika bit under that ceiling fan using her chopped off hands and legs—that was really horrid and a total nightmare."

Reeves too remembered a similar horrid like the image of the nefarious grinning Busta inflicting slow vivisection by sadistically slitting up the throat of Nurse Heller in the prison projector room—Reese also thought back to all the death that he too had seen and had committed in the name of liberty to survive in the Preacher's prison uprising...

He now felt really sick inside.

*

Bob put his boot hard on the cabin door and he charged in after the kick-in—he pointed the shotgun around to find it empty. He stepped out in search for the swarthy subterfuge Negro—he paced a few steps out of the cabin and resumed his searching in the dark. The three deliriously drugged Jamaicans were ahead—caged into their abstract cerebral fantasies...

The half-Cherokee raised up the shotgun—deciding to kill the docile mentally displaced trio first...

The volant Vishon leapt down from the other cabin's roof onto True Bob's back—they both were rolling on the sand, knocking off the Benelli from his hand as they both tussled and struggled when they sparred.

The bigger framed Bob pulled out his pistol next from his belt but once again the Jamaican skillfully writhes and wrested to disarm the weapon. They both were on their feet, ready to engage in unarmed combat. Vishon who was trained in Brazilian Capoeira martial art discipline—he performed the fluid Ginga-move while he circled around the twice thwarted half-Cherokee; humming out the tune of the berimbau-instrument to psyche True Bob out...

Vishon released a skilful series of quick lightning 'rasteira' leg sweeps—and he floored the challenger on his back, while still dancing around on the move, he was chuckling back...

"Not tonight, John Wayne!"

Two Bob pulled out his trusted bow knife—his final weapon in hand for his final assault; seeing the grinning dusky opponent with the big lion-like dreadlocks slipped on his own weapon of choice—a brass knuckle-duster...

He got up on his feet and again stepped up and faced the underrated Vishon—the sober Intersexual who cannot be inebriated by alcohol nor drugs.

The Jamaican was still looking sharp on his toes. True Bob lunged forward taurine-like in his attempt to slash and stab the nimble moving adversary who steered clear from the blade—the black finally closed in to land a 'tesouras' knee-strike into True Bob's chest that reeled him back in twinge...

The Jamaican moved in fast and brass-knuckled True Bob in the cheek that speckled out blood—the half-Cherokee dropped on his knees and Vishon struck the brass again into his temple which knocked the haemorrhaging True Bob out unconscious.

Vishon did not finish him off with a kill—but instead, he begins to tie the half Cherokee Indian up—he needed hostages after sighting the red Mustang taking off a few minutes ago; just as how Zinga always said to them to be always alert—because Reeves Jensen was the cunning escape-artist sort among the whities.

**

A bucket of water was splashed on Zinga's face, with Vishon hollering his name up close.

"Can you hear me, Mon?"

"Busta," the leader looked at him in a daze; Vishon corrected him...

"No, I am not Busta, it is Vishon! Hear dis, Mon—Jensen has escaped."

"No it can't be—his singing head is thrown into di lake towards the giant in di water."

"No Zinga, he is not dead yet! Their car is gone—he has escaped!"

"We must ask di giant...Busta is over there too, I ordered him to throw di singing head to di giant," responded Zinga who cannot seem to notice that Busta who was seated nearby them, talking to the empty moonshine jar...

Vishon looked terrified that his three comrades who all possess the deep looks of death inside their haunted eyes. Vishon was both thwarted and aggravated at the moment. He hurriedly left the trio behind—running towards the lake-house with a vengeance...

**

Troy Norton was packing both his and True Bob's gear up before they hit the road—he was mentally anticipating the Chief's gunshot blasts but he had not heard any firing yet...

Troy fell trashing next on the furniture ahead when the Jamaican surprise attacked him from the rear—but Troy lunged back as he kept trying to tensile his reach for his rifle. Vishon head-locked him from the back—and he plugged in his two fingers into Troy's nostrils, hooking it upwards as he yelled into his ear...

"Where dis Jensen has gone to, you motherfucker?"

"Arrr—fuck you, groid..."

Vishon used Two Bob's bow knife tip and scourged up Troy's chest—he screamed out and flinched in distress with crimson pearls of blood droplets trickling on the wooden floor...

"Tell me now!"