LEFT, part 7, A human written thriller in parts.
Michael Gray Griffith
His arms are already sore. His muscles are burning for him to stop, but his feet find purchase and bit by bit he descends. His heart is racing. He stops, once to catch his breath. If only he could see the walls. He wants to, but now there isn’t enough light. This is it. This is death. That’s what it is. Just darkness, endless darkness and him lowering himself deeper. And he’s still not there, he has to go deeper or he will die. Down he goes, down into his death.
"They can't trust each other,
yet the only chance they have of surviving
is by trusting each other.
But if they all get home together,
then the victim will go to jail for attempted murder.
But if the victim gets home alone,
then he will go to jail for murder.
No matter how you twist it,
it will all come down to who can play the best bloodied hand,
for it's clear that in the end, the best they can aim for
is that only a few of them,
maybe only one,
will be left."
LEFT Part 7, A thriller in parts.
With Ai writing novels now, and thanks to my political stance, the chance of getting picked up by a publisher is nil, so I’m just posting work here, and we’ll leave it in the hands of the universe.
Why not start at the start
Left Part 7
Steve is up and grabbing Jarrod. He runs to the shaft.
"What about Sonya?" yells Jarrod.
"She’s fine," says Steve. "They aren’t attacking her."
"Sonya!" yells Jarrod. "Run."
Above Sonya, the first murder has regrouped and is returning. To her other side, the larger murder is close enough for them all to see that it is another murder of ravens.
"Grab the water," says Steve as they near the pit.
The sun is hot enough to crack stones.
The new murder starts cawing.
"Fuck you," yells Steve as he slides into the shaft.
"Here," says Jarrod as he hands down the bucket of water.
Steve takes it, but in doing so, he loses his grip on the rifle, and it falls through the truck, then bounces off the rear seat, then vanishes into the pit.
"Forget it," says Jarrod as he looks across and sees Sonya standing where they left her, watching them.
The birds are almost here.
He leaps into the shaft and slides through the broken windscreen as the ravens race overhead.
"In here," says Steve from the back seat.
Jarrod joins him.
"Here," Steve says and allows Jarrod to outstretch his leg until it’s resting next to him.
Despite the bizarre angle, Steve is holding the bucket of water in his lap.
As Jarrod peers over the front passenger seat and watches the ravens rip past in air-thumping flashes of black, Steve drinks.
"Here," says Steve.
As Steve keeps watch, Jarrod takes the bucket and drinks. "So delicious," he thinks. The water feels like a gift. His body feels like a collection of lungs, and every one of them is now breathing.
"Careful," says Steve. "That’s all there is."
Jarrod drinks.
"Look at us," says Steve. "Scratched to ribbons."
Jarrod runs a hand over his head, then he looks at his hand. There is blood.
"Is it bad?" asks Steve.
"Not really, just scratches," says Jarrod. "You?"
"The same," says Steve. "You saved me. Thanks."
"You saved me too."
For a moment, they are both laughing.
"Why aren’t they coming in here?" says Jarrod.
"Who knows," says Steve. "But the million-dollar question is why aren’t they attacking her?"
"Maybe they are now. How would we know?"
They both listen. All they can hear is the cawing, but fewer birds are doing it now.
"I’m going to see if she’s ok," says Jarrod, and groaning, he tries to get up.
"Jarrod."
"Yes."
"They’re not going to let us build the frame."
"I know."
"Don’t say it like that," says Steve.
"Like what?"
"Like it’s over, like we’re defeated."
"Like we’re defeated? What are you talking about? We are defeated. Even if we had enough water to get us through the rest of the day, how are we going to compete against them?"
The ravens caw and thump the air as they fly past.
"I told you how," says Steve.
"Steve, we are finished."
"No, you are finished. You’ve been finished for years. Sonya may have breathed some life into you, but it wasn’t good air. It’s not you."
"It’s not me?" says Jarrod. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Listen, you killed her, ok, and when you did, you didn’t just destroy my life, you killed me. I thought, maybe that killing you would fix something, make something that was wrong, right, but on that first night, when I thought you were dead, I realized it hadn’t, because it couldn’t, because nothing can. What is broken, is broken forever. You were right, this is only the shell. After that night, that’s all that remained, and there is nothing you can do, not today, not any day, that will fix that. So since I am probably going to die today, can you please stop fucking with my head?"
"You’re wrong, I can fix it, if you’ll listen."
Jarrod pauses.
"You think you are the only person who’s ever been betrayed? Who’s lost someone? That’s life. And the only cure life offers you is a choice. You can die like this, which means you’ll just be another man, full of promise who got broken and let that destruction and self-pity bury him, or you can fight. You can fight with everything you have left to save me, your brother, your brother who you have every reason to hate, and I promise you that if you do, then no matter what happens to us, you will win. Do you hear me? And I mean can you really hear me? You will win back who you actually are. You will win back you. And that, that will be a victory that not even death will be able to take back."
The ravens are skimming the surface of the hole.
"Save me, brother," says Steve. "Save us both."
The two murders are dancing around each other in a choreographed flow. The new flock is so numerous that when the main body flies over, they offer a brief, mottled shade from the sun that is killing her. They are cawing. It is like they are calling to others.
"Stop cawing," she thinks and focuses on that thought. Repeating and repeating it.
They don’t stop.
"I said stop cawing," she says aloud. "It’s an order."
They don’t stop.
None of them have touched her. None of them have come close.
They are flying over the pit. Diving over it like magpies aiming for cyclists.
She leaves the log that they were about to pull over to walk back to the shaft. She walks slowly. They are flying behind her; she can feel the breeze of their wings. They are flying in front of her too. Then they all stop cawing. Why? She looks around, and as she does, one crashes headlong into her back. It smashes her to the ground.
She lands on her face, then rolls over to find the bird on the ground. It is dazed. She kicks at it, thumping it in the face. Then, despite the new pain in her back, she crawls away as a new group descends and rip this raven to shreds.
Nothing makes sense.
She stops. She looks up at the smaller murder and raises her hand. "Stop," she thinks. "Stop."
They don’t. They don’t appear to show her any acknowledgment. They begin cawing again. But their voices aren’t the same. It is like they are talking in some basic language. Arguing.
Sonya, rubbing her back, heads to the shaft. At every step, she expects another raven to hit her. None do.
At the shaft, the birds move away, streaming to both sides. She sits on the edge and then eases herself down.
By the time she’s reached the windscreen, Jarrod is coming up to meet her.
"Look," says Steve.
Behind them, the birds are no longer flying over the top. When Jarrod rises up and peers over the edge, he finds the birds are landing back in the trees.
Steve joins him.
"Fuck me," Steve says. "The ravens are further out now. Every burnt tree they can see is becoming a perch for the birds."
"Can we still build the frame?" asks Sonya as she sits in the driver’s seat and rubs her back with her good hand.
"No," says Jarrod. "They’re not going to let us."
"Then what are we going to do?" asks Sonya.
"Look," says Steve, as he and Jarrod watch one of the birds—one of the ones that they must have injured—cawing at the others as it bounces along, trying to get back into the air. A moment later, a pack of ravens descends upon it and caws and claws and tears.
"What time is it?" asks Steve.
Jarrod looks at his watch. "10:30."
"When the sun’s on top, it’ll be like an oven in here," says Sonya.
They are all sheltering in the truck.
Jarrod raises up to the edge of the shaft and peers over. The ravens haven’t moved.
"How did you get better?" Steven asks Sonya.
"I don’t know."
"Yes, you do," says Steven. "You were dead, or close to it. I know. I touched your skin while you were near the fire last night. You were cold. Ice cold."
"Well, I’m not now. So what are we going to do?"
"Why aren’t the birds attacking you?" asks Jarrod.
"They did, or one did," says Sonya. "It smashed into my back."
"Just one," says Jarrod. "Why just one?"
"I don’t know," says Sonya, "and it doesn’t matter."
"Yes, it does," says Steve. "Because those aren’t just birds. I don’t know what they are, but they aren’t that."
"Well, they look like birds to me," says Jarrod.
"Can we just get back to talking about how we are going to get the truck out?" says Sonya.
"Wait," says Jarrod, "there’s something happening. The birds that are further away are leaving."
"What?" says Steve as he clambers up through the windscreen and peers out of the hole with Jarrod. Their heads like gophers, after the world has been burnt.
The outer circle of ravens is starting to disperse.
"Where are they going?" asks Steve.
"Maybe they’ve had enough," says Jarrod.
"Or going for water," says Steve. "Maybe we should follow them."
"Listen," says Sonya.
They do. The birds are spreading over the land. Black against the burnt black ground. From the air, they would be impossible to see, but above this realization, Jarrod can hear the sound of a distant engine.
"Oh my god," says Jarrod as the other birds take to the air.
Steve can hear it too, and Sonya is crawling up to help in the search.
"There," says Jarrod.
The light aeroplane is so far in the distance, it’s no larger than a football. It is crossing in a straight line and will soon be gone.
Steve is already out and running after it. He is waving his hands like a madman.
The leaving birds rise up.
"Shit," says Jarrod, then he clambers out and heads off after Steve.
"Over here!" yells Steve. "Over here!"
Jarrod is now waving too as the light plane heads to the horizon.
The birds are rising before Steve. Steve stops as they are coming in from two sides, then, mid-flight, they start crisscrossing through each other. They are like a black curtain between the horizon and Steve.
Jarrod reaches his brother and stops. Through the curtain of ravens, they catch glimpses of the plane flying to the edge of the horizon and then on and out of their sight.
Once it has gone, the birds break from their barrier and, slowing their flight, they head back to the trees and land in silence.
"They aren’t going to let us go," says Steve.
"I know," says Jarrod.
"They’re evil," says Steve. "That’s what they are, the personification of evil. And I don’t know how, but she’s connected to them. How else would she recover like she has? She should be dead. She’s evil, Jarrod. She is evil. They might even be here for her."
"To do what, watch her die? And in case you’ve forgotten," says Jarrod, "you are evil too. We all are."
This said, Jarrod turns and heads back to the mineshaft when Steve grabs him.
"You’re right. I am. Which is why I need you to save me, please. Do not let me die. Not out here. Not like this."
"We all die sometime."
"Yeah, but some of us can come back to life."
"You look like shit," Jarrod smiles.
"So do you."
Some of the birds are fanning back up and around. They are taking their time returning to the trees.
"We should get back," says Jarrod.
"And do what, cook? There’s hardly any water. If we’re going to do something, we have to do it now."
"Do what?" says Jarrod.
"I don’t know," says Steve. "I keep trying to think, but nothing comes."
As they head back, the birds do not attack. Instead, they all land back in the trees they left.
"Jarrod."
Jarrod turns to find Steve waiting.
"Forgive me."
Then, as Jarrod scoffs, in front of the watching ravens, Steve drops to his knees.
"Please, forgive me."
"Stop it."
"I need you to know that I’m serious," Steve says and grabs Jarrod’s good hand.
Jarrod tries to pull the hand away. Steve holds on.
"I want to see my children. Please help me."
As Jarrod looks down at Steve, Steve notices something else. "Look."
Sonya has pulled herself out of the hole and is sitting on the far edge of the shaft, watching them. As the men watch, a raven lands on the dirt next to her. Sonya looks down at it as it looks up at her, then she looks back at them and shrugs.
"I told you," whispers Steve. "She’s becoming like them. Evil. Fuck, what if we’re dead. What if this is hell?"
Jarrod looks back down at his penitent brother.
"It’s up to you," says Steve. "You’re our only hope."
"Why me?" asks Jarrod.
"Because in all of this, you’re the closest thing we have to an angel."
Jarrod scoffs again, but then mid-scoff, he hears people cheering. The crowd is going wild, the ball is in the air. It is his. He knows it. He can feel it like his life is a script and just for once, he’s been allowed to see a page ahead. Before he nailed that last goal, everyone had given up. They are only now starting to see what he can see. Margaret is in the crowd. She is up on her feet. Everyone is rising. In the air, behind the ball is a flock of corellas, crackling-noisy and white. The clock is in its last few seconds. He is not concerned. He has seen the script. He knows what will happen next, even before he starts running up the back of their fullback. His hands are out. The ball is coming, but then the ball becomes a rifle. He’s wrapping his hands around the end of a barrel, and behind the barrel is Steve.
"Fuck," says Jarrod. "I’ve got it. I’ve got it!"
As the ravens watch, Jarrod uses a stick to draw a side-on view of the shaft in the burnt ground next to the hole.
"This is the pit," he says, "and this is us." He picks up a rock and places it in the corresponding place. "What if we’ve been looking at it all wrong? What if instead of digging or pulling the truck out, which is never going to happen, we blow it out." He waits for a response, but the other two are just watching.
Jarrod draws a line below the rock.
"We install a blast plate here, constructed from a few sheets of corrugated iron. I saw some over there. On this plate, we’ll place all the petrol we have and the gas bottles, then we’ll completely seal up the back of the truck and make it explode and hopefully that explosion will be strong enough to blow the truck right out of the hole."
"Like a bullet," says Steve.
"Yeah," says Jarrod, "an artillery shell."
"Amazing. My brother, the only man who finds inspiration while looking down the muzzle of the gun that’s about to kill him."
Jarrod glares at Steve.
"Relax," says Steve. "It’s a compliment."
"But even if the explosion did push the truck out," says Sonya, "wouldn’t it just fall back in?"
"I’ve thought of that too," says Jarrod. "We’ll have the winch going, plus we’ll attach ropes to the bumper bar so that when the truck raises up, Steve and I will try to pull it forward. All we have to do is get its centre of gravity over the edge of the shaft. That’s the clincher. If we can do that, we stand a chance."
The other two are silent.
"Ok," says Jarrod. "First off, we strip the truck of all the weight we can. Then once the plate is in place, we’ll tie the rear doors closed. Oh, and there’s one more thing," Jarrod says, then he looks at Sonya. "You’ll have to drive."
"Me?" says Sonya. "What are you talking about? I’ll be incinerated."
"I know," says Jarrod. "But I’ve planned for that."
"Plan? What plan?" says Sonya. "You want to make a bomb and put me in it."
"You’ll be protected," says Jarrod.
"With what? A 1000-plus sunscreen?"
"No, foil," says Jarrod. "Head to toe, face, everything. Layers of it."
Steve laughs. "Just like roasting a turkey."
Sonya glares at Steve.
"It will still be hot," says Jarrod, "but the foil should prevent the blast from burning you. Plus, we cover you in other things too, sleeping bags, whatever we can find."
"Should?" says Sonya. "Should?"
"Do you have a better plan?" Steve asks her.
Grabbing one of the logs they’d dragged over earlier, and always aware of the birds who are intensely watching, Steve and Jarrod place the log over the centre of the hole. Their goal is to make a simple pulley.
This done, they use other ropes to make safety lines that are fastened to the bull bar, then they climb down to the rear of the truck. Once there, they tie the end of the main rope to the left spare tyre that is attached to the exterior of the left open rear door, then they use another length of rope to do the same with the spare tyre attached to the exterior of the right-hand rear door. The other end of the main rope is attached to the bull bar. Once both spare tyres are securely tied, they unfasten the spare tyre’s clamps and watch as they both fall free and dangle together above the hole. These tyres will be their counterweight.
As Jarrod remains here, dangling on his safety rope, Steve clambers up to the bull bar and unties the rope. The tyres fall into the pit.
"What do you think?" Jarrod asks.
"I think it’ll work," says Steve.
"Then tie me up," says Jarrod, "and I’ll go down."
"No," says Steve. "Not with your hand. I’ll do it."
"Are you sure?" asks Jarrod.
"Let’s do it," says Steve.
With Steve attached to the other end of the rope, he starts to drop into the hole. The weight of the two tyres is slowing his descent, but Steve is helping control the rope by going hand over hand as he descends. Above him, Jarrod and Sonya are using their good hands on the rope as best they can, to help slow Steve’s descent.
"It’s working," says Steve.
Once Steve is down and the tyres are up, Jarrod ties up the rope. Then he drops the lighter rope that Steve first descended on in order to use it to pull up the gear they will need.
At the bottom of the shaft, Steve locates their small toolbox. After locating all the tools he can find—screwdrivers, sockets, a socket wrench, a claw hammer, and a small tomahawk axe—he makes sure it’s sealed by tying the rope around it, then calling for it to be pulled up.
"Keep an eye on it," yells Steve. "If it looks like it’s about to fall, yell out so I can get out of the way."
Next, he finds two rolls of foil paper they’d brought to roast potatoes. Following this, he collects their sleeping bags.
The rifle is here. Steve picks it up, checks it. Remarkably, it looks ok. He rests it against the edge of the hole next to the skeleton.
"Hold on to this for me."
The skeleton is always watching. Laughing.
"Laugh all you want, mate, but I’m getting out of here."
Steve returns to turning over everything that is scattered down here. He is looking for water.
"Well, hello," he says as under a camp chair he finds two full 500 ml bottles of water.
He looks up to see if they are watching, then moves to the side where it is darker. Here, he drinks the entire contents of one.
"They want me," says Sonya as Jarrod starts work, cutting the first log to fit as the foundation for the blast plate. He is already thirsty.
"What do you mean?" he asks. "Want you how?"
"I don’t know," she says.
"To kill you?" he asks, as he keeps chopping.
"No, if they wanted to do that, they could do it now. They could have done it before."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I told you," says Sonya. "I don’t know. I just know that they do."
A raven lands on the ground near Sonya. Axe raised and covered in sweat, Jarrod glares at it.
"Don’t," says Sonya.
"Why not? You said they want you."
"I don’t know why not. But just don’t."
"Can you keep your foot on the log?" he asks.
She does, and with eyes on the raven, he keeps on cutting.
The sleeping bags and foil come up on the thinner rope.
"We can’t use this rope for the jerry cans," Jarrod calls down to Steve. "It’s not strong enough. It’ll be too dangerous."
"Ok," says Steve, and he unties his brace and ties the end of the rope to one of the jerry cans.
The counterweight untied sees the first jerry can race up.
Jarrod pulls the Jerry can up through the truck and then leaves it standing outside the hole. Down in the hole, Steve is grunting with the job of pulling the tyres back down.
"Jarrod," he calls. "I’m going to send up two jerry cans this time. I can’t keep doing this for long."
"Ok," says Jarrod.
The next two take a little more effort, but all three of them are working faster. As these two jerry cans are transported to the surface, Steve, grunting, is pulling down the tyres again.
Outside the hole, the two jerry cans cook in the sun.
The birds watch.
The gas bottles come up on the thinner rope and end up outside the hole, waiting next to the final two jerry cans. These came up as easily as the jerry cans, leaving them all feeling excited.
It’s time to pull Steve up.
"You ready?" asks Jarrod.
"Go," says Steve.
The tyres drop, but Steve does not automatically rise.
"Let’s go," says Steve, and as he starts pulling down on the rope, so does Jarrod, who is dangling in the rear of the truck on his safety rope.
"Hold on," calls Jarrod.
As Steve starts to rise, he is looking down at the skeleton and rising quickly. By the time he realizes Sonya is almost passing him, she has passed. She was sitting on one of the tyres and holding the rope tightly while heading down.
"Wait," Steve says, and he tries to grab her, but he is too late. Then he goes to grab the rope, but it is descending too fast.
Steve reaches the truck, and Jarrod is relieved to see him. "What are you doing?"
"Relax," says Jarrod. "It was her idea. I didn’t have the strength to pull you up. But together with the tyres, we should be able to pull her up."
"Sonya, are you okay down there?" Jarrod asks. "Sonya?" ... "Sonya?"
Sonya is looking down at the skeleton. The skeleton is laughing. The birds were in here. She can find no physical evidence, but she can feel it with senses that she can’t understand because these feelings don’t make sense. The birds didn’t come in here; they left.
She has the gold in her hand. She found it in the skeleton’s shirt pocket. It is sealed in an old small hessian bag. As she holds the nuggets in the cup of her hand, she can sense that Steve has touched them too, and she can hear this man, who is now just bones, pleading. There is blood. Sonya can see it inside her head as clear as if it were on her own hands. It’s blood from another time, and there is a knife. It is the same knife that Steven owns now. She sees men wrestling in the dimness. There are hands fighting for control of the hand that holds the knife. Other hands are reaching for the other’s face and throat. The men are grunting. They both know that this is it. The end of one of them is now. The man before her, this man who is now bones, is pleading for a sense of calm. For all this to stop. The light of their day is dropping down to light the face of this struggling man. There is already blood on his face, and anger and fear, and still the two spin in the semi-dark, smashing and rolling against the walls. The man she is watching is fighting to live. That is all that he wants. He just wants to live; to climb up and out of this shaft, that he helped dig, and reach the day. Then the knife breaks through all his defenses and enters his chest. Then, it is ripped back as he gasps. Inside him, nerves, blood vessels, and arteries are torn, muscles too, and some ribs are broken. There is a huge tear in his lung, and now, thanks to all this, the day is already fading. He tries not to, but he falls. He can’t help it. Then the attacker, his own brother, easily manages to break the hand holding the knife from this falling man’s grip. Then freed, he drives the knife back down into that man who was born of the same womb, of the same woman. There had been no hate in her womb, but that’s all that’s left now. So much hate. So much fury. It’s as if it’s a hunger that this knife is trying to quell. Down the knife comes for a third time, as the fallen and now fading man looks past it at what he can see of the sky. A blue square. But instead of a third stab, the attacker is suddenly flying backwards. This stabbed man, his brother, had, before dying, managed to get a foot up and kick his brother backwards. Now he is falling into this deeper darkness. Down into a greater cold. Into the hole they dug together in search of what they’d found. This gold. This wealth that called to them. It was winter, and they were camped nearby. There was water in the creek, and they were heading to somewhere else when it hooked them. One found a nugget as he was going to the toilet. It was big and pure, and as they feverishly dug, they found another, and then a little deeper, one more. It was as if a great seam of an exploded star had left breadcrumbs for them to find and follow. Together, they kept going. Drinking from the creek, shooting and eating emus and kangaroos, and always working to locate the mother of all these nuggets of gold that were drawing them down. As one, they fought and beat overwhelming odds to be the first to reach what they both only felt was there. And now this second man was falling. Through his eyes, that were just waking, Sonya can see the sky out of the shaft’s entrance. And then she feels him land on the rocks. Their legs are broken, their lower back as well. They lay there, always awake, as this cold emerged for that which they had found. She could feel its ancient, algid fingers wrapping around this fallen man who, despite all the pain, was calling. But no one came. For days upon painful days, he waited here for death in the grave they had dug themselves as this impossibly pure seam of gold, running up the entire wall, the one that they and their brother, the stabbed man, had uncovered, this gold born from an exploding star, was unable, despite its history of illumination, to offer him even a candle’s worth of light. Yet, it was from this gold that this half a force came. This incompleteness that was searching for life.
As Sonya looks down at the darkness claiming this other shaft, she realizes it wasn’t a grave; it was a womb, and the cry of its birth was this broken man calling to his brother that he had killed.
And then she saw a shape, a shadow. There was another. She looks up, but the truck is gone, and in the empty square is a timid silhouette looking down. A woman. A woman who, after days of waiting for a miracle, ran from the hole as she became the first to see the shaft they’d dug give birth to a seemingly endless murder of ravens.
"Sonya, are you ready?"
She doesn’t answer.
"Sonya."
The gold is in her hand. Like sweets from a paedophile, as next to her the relaxed skeleton laughs.
"Sonya?"
She doesn’t reply.
The rifle is here. Should she take it?
"Sonya," cries Jarrod. "Answer me. Are you ok?"
"Yep, I’m ok."
"Ok then, are you ready to come up?" asks Jarrod.
Sonya pockets the gold, then climbs on to the tyre where, after she wrapslips the rope between her wounded arm and her torso, she reaches up and holds the line of rope tight with her good hand. "Ready."
The two men work the rope together to pull her up. It’s hard work, but eventually, she reaches the back of the truck.
Jarrod is quickly there to help her in and then up through the truck to the burnt, bleak outside world. "Did you find any water?" he asks.
She shakes her head.
Steve is here. He is waiting for her to look at him, and she does, then Jarrod joins them.
"Ok, that part is done," says Jarrod.
Around them are all the ingredients they need for Jarrod’s plan.
"All we need now are those sheets of iron," Jarrod says.
"Great," says Sonya while looking at Steve. "Should we get started?"
Steve says nothing, but then Jarrod asks them both, "Are you sure you didn’t find any water?"
"Wait," says Steve, and opening the backpack he used to cart things up, "I almost forgot," and he tosses Jarrod the 500 ml bottle of water. "Happy Birthday."
Jarrod checks it. "It’s sealed," he says, sounding genuinely surprised.
Steve nods.
"Thanks," Jarrod says and drinks, then he hands it to Sonya.
"Leave some for me," says Steve as she drinks.
Sonya stops, looks at what’s left, then hands it to Steve.
"Did you find anything else?" Sonya asks Steve.
"Did you?" asks Steve.
"No," says Sonya. "Nothing."
Part 8 , soon