The police are nice, but since the bullets went through the wall (instead of into the Internet) and almost hit her neighbors, they take her gun away. It bums Starla out. Why is there even an Internet if you can’t shoot anybody through it?
Then she discovers remote hunting: a webcam on a gun, in the woods, and when you click the button, the gun shoots where the webcam is looking. Starla pays up and clicks as fast as she can, until the clip’s empty. She giggles at the puffs where they hit dirt and trees.
“Pyeew pyeew!” she whispers. “Pshow!”
In the bathroom, dead, Barlowe examines his teeth. It’s either the fluorescent light or the way his eyes are now, but everything’s tinted blue, which is maybe why his teeth look so white. But no: he rubs them with a finger and they squeak. They’re the cleanest they’ve ever been.
The rest of him is indubitably rotting. No maggots, yet, but he smells like somebody peed in the maple syrup and that can’t be good. Also, his tongue appears to have rotted out.
“Hrrh hrh, brh mmrhr,” he tries. Then: “Hmm.”
Barlowe’s just realized he’s hungry, and, with surprise, for what.