You don't forget the smell of blood thick on the back of your throat. Like it would sink down into your lungs, your stomach and heart, a black miasma that has that gore taste, that red scream ready.

Philip's door is open, a fire roaring and its heat billowing a humid death into the hallway. Will's hand strays to his side and unholsters the handgun, boots muted in the carpet. From their perch, he and Hannibal watched the masses tear each other down and eat the entrails when they, for all intents and purposes, lived in a land of plenty. Insanity has taken root and Will can't find any boughs overhead except Wonderland's, seeds dropping into minds fertile and receptive.

An orange-limned silhouette in Philip's shape reveals nothing, no change that would tell Will why blood clogs his lungs, what madness skipped him this time and planted itself in new soils. The gun angles slightly downward, ready to be raised again.

"Philip?"