Sarah Killian: The Marching Tides

1Do we have to do this Julie Andrews Getting To Know You bullshit again? I have to bury my mother today—well . . . there isn’t really anything to bury, but it’s her fucking funeral and I’m not here to argue semantics, you get the point—and I am so not in the mood for this. Okay. Fine. Let’s just get this over with. Previously on The Universe Shits On Sarah Killian:My name is Sarah, and I work for a super-secret organization called the Trusted Hierarchy of Everyday Murderers (T.H.E.M.) that employs Professional Serial Killers (P.S.K.’s) and assassins. I hate, hate, hate assassins—so I find it particularly appropriate that their title starts with two asses.T.H.E.M. is contracted by various entities—a few wealthy private citizens and corporations who can afford us, but most of our work comes from the government. Completely off the books, of course.Assassins’ work is pretty boring and straightforward, so I won’t waste my time on them. The P.S.K.’s is wher

3My Lyft driver drops me off at the T.H.E.M. headquarters—a warehouse in Chatsworth that fronts as a porn distribution warehouse. As I get out of the car and walk towards the warehouse, I can feel the driver’s eyes on my ass, no doubt imagining me performing in one of the movies stored within the building. Pig. He’s lucky I’m still—at the moment, at least—under contract with T.H.E.M., otherwise, I very likely would have killed him then and there just to work off some of my stress from mother’s funeral. Maybe if Zeke fires me, I’ll get lucky on my return home and get the same driver . . .  A girl can dream. I flash my I.D. badge at the desk security guard, who no doubt believes he actually works for a porn warehouse, and make my way to the back of the building, past aisles and aisles of storage boxes of smut. At the very back of the warehouse is a standard bookshelf lined with DVD’s. I look for the current secret video—Jurassic Puss, tagline: ‘Life finds a way .&

5What the fuck did Jason say to you while I was out? Did he say I don’t have Tourette’s? He said I don’t have Tourette’s, didn’t he? I have Tourette’s, Porcupinedamnit!Ugh. Whatever. As long as he didn’t tell you about Pinny. Wait . . . he told you about Pinny, didn’t he? Son-of-a-crotch-cuddling-lemur-loving-carpet-cooking-turd-licking-bastard-I’m-going-to-motherfucking-kill-him-and-no-I-don’t-mean-that-figuratively!Whatever Jason told you, it’s complete bullshit. The man is a lying, cheating, bastard. You’ve known him for one chapter. You’ve gotten through two whole books with me, and have I ever led you astray? Don’t answer that. I realize I shot myself in the foot with that argument.I can’t believe that son-of-a-cricket-choker took over a chapter of my story. Who the fuck does he think he is inserting himself into my narrative? Typical, arrogant man.Fuck it. We’ll deal with this bullshit later. But don’t think this is over. You and I have som

7The first thing I notice on stepping outside is the sky. It’s not the usual sickly gray smog that Los Angeleans take for granted on a day-to-day basis, but rather the apocalyptic orangish-gray haze of death that signifies a nearby brushfire; you can even taste the toxicity in the air. Sure enough, a glance at the news on my smartphone confirms that some embers from the bombing in the valley got caught on the wind and started a raging fire in the Simi Hills. Now I’m no tree hugger, though I suppose I’ll admit I’m more likely to hug a tree than another human being, but the fact that these assholes are wantonly causing such chaotic destruction all for the sake of tormenting me really, really pisses me the fuck off.The trip to Jason’s fourth safe room in North Hollywood goes smoothly. However, that makes me concerned our luck will probably run out when we get to my place. We get in; Jason retrieves his hidden stash of supplies, I.D.s, and cash from underneath a loose floor

9“You pack quickly, I’ll go check it out and try to buy you some more time,” Jason whispers, as he deftly ducks out of the bedroom. I must confess it’s handy having a trained assassin on hand. P.S.K.’s are great at killing large numbers of people covertly and under the radar, but when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, the assassins are much better equipped.I grab my suitcase from under the bed and carelessly hurl as much clothing and essentials as I can fit into it in the few seconds I have to spare. I really want to get the fuck out of this dress and into some real clothes, but that will have to wait . . . again.I slam the suitcase shut and head for the door, when I remember my most important possession: my knife, who I affectionately call Borden. It was the knife I used to kill my first thirteen victims before T.H.E.M. recruited me—and several of the plush stuffies after said recruitment—and is without a doubt the closest thing I have to any sort of sentime