

Monster Attack

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Forgotten Places Publishing ©2014 Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-1-944621-03-2

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# Take Out

## Arnaldo Lopez Jr.

I'm Harvey Hickman and I've got the most dangerous job in America...I'm the pizza delivery guy.

Oh, I know, I know. Some people argue that the Chinese food delivery guys have it just as bad, but c'mon, the guys that deliver your Chinese food travel in gangs that ride around in hopped-up Japanese crotch rockets and they carry fully automatic weapons (even though they're still illegal). Maybe mailmen, uh, mail people did have it tough for a while, but the post office was going bankrupt anyway and once everyone went strictly email, well that was the end of that––so no, it's me alright. And that's why the chicks love me and all the guys hate me, 'cause they all wanna be me (I mean the guys, not the girls).

It all started when the Rift happened. BTR (Before The Rift), I was just a skinny loser with perennial acne, a crappy car, and an even crappier job––pizza delivery guy. I mean, I couldn't get laid if I were an egg! Even tips from my customers were rare. I'd be standing in someone's doorway wearing that stupid "Pizza Pete's" paper hat on my head, my hand held out for some sort of gratuity, and more often than not I'd get the door slammed in my face. What really burned me was hearing them all laughing at me from the other side of those doors. Now, not only do I get big tips, but there are plenty of times when a beautiful woman will show up at the door and pull me inside for a little "afternoon delight." Ah yeah, life sure is sweet now...but hey, don't get me wrong––it's still dangerous as hell. Literally.

I don't exactly know what happened, maybe nobody does, but the word on the street is that about a year ago some scientists working on a sort of secret collider project on a little island in the East River accidentally tore open a hole in the so-called fabric of time and space. Well, whatever it is they did, it turned into a real mess...or as an army colonel once spit into the T.V. cameras during an interview, "A real clusterfuck!"

You see, that tear in space or whatever––what we now call the Rift––allowed all kinds of creatures from some other dimension (or whatever!) to enter our world and cause all kinds of trouble. At first it was just Manhattan, but soon after it became the tri-state area, and then the whole country! All kinds of weird animals and monsters were soon roaming through every neighbourhood, attacking and eating people, pets––anything they could catch. There were hundreds, heck, thousands of them––all different kinds, but they all had two things in common: they were all mean and they were all hungry.

The cops put up a good fight at first, but it was just too big a job. It took the military to get things under control, but as the weeks and months wore on it became clear that these creatures (Rift Dwellers we call 'em) weren't going anywhere––they were the new reality. But folks still had to make a living, and the president even got on T.V. and told everyone to continue with their lives and go back to work. A lot of people did just that, and a lot of 'em got killed. So then it became legal for everyone to carry a gun, and so the majority of folks formed armed carpools and were able to get back to work, but by then the damage to what they call the National Psyche had been done. Plenty of people were still really afraid to go out, with hundreds of thousands of folks stuck in their homes or offices––too afraid to get out and work, shop, or get something to eat without being eaten themselves. People were starving, and law enforcement and the military were stretched too thin to be everywhere at once.

That's when guys like me became the new Rock & Roll gods!

Another Friday and I'm sitting in the back room at Pizza Pete's' with my feet up and my 3-D glasses on––watching a movie between gigs. And there will be another gig soon, my eighth of the day so far since Fridays are our busiest days.

"Yo Harv," came Joey's voice from out front. "Have another delivery for you––lock and load, babe!" That's Joey Riccio, he owns Pizza Pete's. I never actually met Pizza Pete, in fact I don't know if there ever was a Pizza Pete.

I walk out into the dining area, past the heat of the ovens, and nod hello to the regulars. The regulars are actually three guys and two women that were here when the Rift happened and have been too scared to leave since. They look a little bedraggled now; their eyes have dark circles under 'em and their hair is a little dull and shaggy. Marla, that's one of the women, was pretty once and she used to smile a lot. Now she still smiles a lot, but in that weird kinda way that tells you she's close to losing it. I've offered to escort them home plenty of times (especially Marla), but they've always been too scared to leave.

"You got two cheese pies, same address, right across from the park. You also got a pepperoni pie, buffalo wings, and a couple of two-litre sodas mid-town," Joey said, taping invoices with the addresses on them onto the boxes.

I take the boxes and wings, and slip them into the wide vinyl sleeve that'll help keep them nice and hot. Next I grab the sodas and drop them into my backpack. Lastly, I check my weapons. My main arsenal consists of a Mossberg semi-automatic sawed-off shotgun, a .38 Colt Diamondback Revolver with the heat-dispersal vents along the top of the barrel, a two-shot .22 Magnum Derringer, and a really, really big Bowie knife.

I prime the shotgun, sling the pack onto my back, grab the vinyl case with the pizzas and wings in it, and back out of the door.

At first the bright blue sky of outside dazzles me, but my eyes adjust quickly enough and I make it to my car without incident. I put the pizzas and sodas on the passenger seat, and turn in time to see a Bagger and two Hump-Lizards heading my way. A Bagger looks exactly like a plastic supermarket shopping bag, and it floats in the air or scoots along the ground just like those bags do when a breeze gets a hold of 'em. But then you notice that there ain't no breeze and by then it may be too late––the Bagger whips itself over your head and suffocates you. Then it slowly starts to digest you, but eventually other R.D.'s (Rift Dwellers) find your fresh corpse and help themselves to the feast. Hump-Lizards are Mastiff-sized lizards with humped backs that ooze acid, 3-inch claws, and 6-inch fangs.

I considered blasting them but changed my mind, jumped in my car, and took off instead. I mean, c'mon, I had to get those pizzas delivered in 30 minutes or less!

Speaking of my car, I got rid of the Yaris and now I drive a black, armoured, super-charged, 2013 Chevy Camaro with bullet-proof windows and tires. This baby's basically a tank that can do 240 M.P.H. on a straightaway, and shatter windows for a block when I crank the system up and blast music from the six titanium-reinforced exterior speakers. Holla!

I delivered the first pizzas to an address on East 71st Street and Fifth Avenue with virtually no problem––I just wound up running over a couple of love-sick vampires, dodging some real persistent Baggers, and blasting a Raticorn (kind of a giant rat with tusks and a horn) that came running out of Central Park and right at me.

The second delivery was a little more eventful. It was in the "Lipstick" building on 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue. A few office workers got stuck there when the Rift happened and just never went home. There're a lot of places like that all over––people saw their friends, family, even heavily-armed military guys get torn apart right in front of their eyes and it freaked them out. They don't want to end up some R.D.'s meal and figure it's a whole lot safer to stay put...and they're right.

While I'm getting the pizza out of the car I hear a roar off to my right and it's getting closer––I already know what's coming and I brace myself. They come zooming around the corner in tight formation, the sun gleaming and glinting off their helmets and Suzuki Hayabusa motorcycles. A Chinese food delivery gang and, wouldn't you know it, they're making a delivery at the same address I am. They stop right behind my car and drop onto their kickstands in unison; like they've been rehearsing it for years. I finger the safety off my shotgun.

The leader of the gang saunters over to where I'm standing, checks the skies and removes her helmet––shaking free her long, glossy black hair. Oh shit, it's Lisa Lim; so that means that this gang is the Sunny Garden crew...a very tough bunch.

"How ya doing Harvey," She says, putting one hand on her hip and resting the other on the snub-nosed Heckler & Koch fully automatic rifle slung over her shoulder on a Hello Kitty strap. "What are you doing in Sunny Garden territory?"

I sigh and repeat what I've told her a bunch of other times, "It's only Sunny Garden territory as far as Chinese food is concerned––I deliver pizzas."

She laughs and I can hear the rest of her all-female gang laugh under their helmets. I think I already mentioned how I don't like being laughed at.

"If I say it's Sunny Garden territory Harv," Lisa says. "Then I'm talking about any and all food; and that includes your lousy pizza!"

More laughter. Then her voice and attitude get much more serious. "But tell you what, we're going to do you a favour and deliver your stale pizza for you...isn't that nice of us Harv?"

While she's talking I'm trying to figure a way out of this mess. I check my watch––I only have 7 minutes to go before the customer gets a free pizza and it comes out of my pay. I'm sweating. I figure I can take Lisa and maybe two of her crew with the shotgun, but then they'd just chop me to bits with those automatic weapons of theirs. Then, as if she was reading my mind:

"Don't try anything stupid Harv," Lisa says as she swings her rifle in my direction. I notice that the rest of her gang does the same. In unison again. Like synchronized swimming. Cute.

"Just give us the pizza, whatever you have in the backpack, your weapons, and your wallet. If you're real nice and quick about it, we might let you keep your car." There's more laughing, so I don't feel too bad about what happens next. Very slowly and deliberately I pull my knife out. I check my watch––4 minutes to go.

Lisa sees me slide the 12-inch blade from its leather sheath and her eyes go wide in surprise. I hear the loud click as she snaps the safety off her rifle.

"That was a very stupid thing to do Harvey," Lisa says menacingly as she levels her rifle at me.

I take a deep breath and use it to yell one word as loud as I can, "Incoming!!!" I point above and behind them, and luckily a few of them do turn to look. It's their yelps of fear and surprise that makes them all turn and look. That's when they see the Baggers, hundreds of them, coming right at us.

Lisa's gang forgets all about me as they point their weapons at the fast-approaching R.D.'s and begin firing. The noise is incredible! I haven't heard a racket like that since the early days of the Rift. Lisa's firing her weapon too, and to their credit, the Sunny Garden crew shred dozens of the Baggers––but there are plenty of the little bastards to go around. Lisa's gang really is doing a good job of fending off the attacking Baggers; but then they're all wearing helmets. In fact, the only ones not wearing helmets are...

Lisa stops firing her rifle at the Baggers long enough to once again turn it towards me, "Saved some for you Harv," she yells over the clatter of her gang's guns.

I figure I'm done for and mouth some quick prayers––thankful that at least I'd finally gotten laid (quite a few times actually!) before I died.

Suddenly a Bagger swoops down and covers Lisa's head, immediately wrapping its translucent appendages around her neck and pressing itself tightly against her face to deprive her of oxygen.

Lisa drops her gun and opens her mouth to scream, or maybe take a gulp of air; I don't know which, and it doesn't matter because she doesn't succeed at either. She starts pulling and clawing at the Bagger, but it's fastened itself onto her pretty tightly; and its skin is tougher than it looks. I check my watch: 2 minutes.

I grab my pizza bag again and start for the building when I spot a shopping bag bulging with Chinese food hanging from Lisa's motorcycle, and I make a decision. I take my knife, slice through the elastic cord holding the food, and grab the bag before it hits the ground. I spin on the ball of my foot, knife flashing, and I cut open the Bagger on Lisa's face, saving her life but opening up a gash on her pretty face that's gunna leave a nasty scar. I duck under and slice apart a Bagger that was coming for me and sprint for the building; with at least twenty of those Bagger bastards right behind me.

I make it inside, leave the Baggers outside, and grab the elevator to the third floor. As soon as the doors open I run to suite 3404, my sneakers squeaking as I skid to a stop in front of the doors and press the buzzer. The door opens and a gorgeous brunette with soft gray eyes and a beautiful smile is standing there. She's wearing a blazer that matches the colour of her eyes; part of what was once a chic business suit. I check my watch: 19 seconds to spare.

"Well, another minute and I would have gotten a free pizza," she says with that great smile.

"Nineteen seconds," I say with a smile of my own. We exchange food for cash, and I remark, "That's a lot of food for just one person..."

"Yes it is," she says with another smile as she opens the door wider and steps aside.

I start to step inside when I notice that there are already two other guys in the room. The older guy, in shirt sleeves and tie, salutes me with a glass he's holding; the clear liquid inside sloshing around.

As soon as realize my mistake I quickly step back out of the room. What I thought was an invitation was just her showing me she already had company. Now, I just stand there feeling idiotic and I can sense the colour rising in my face. The woman in the gray blazer notices of course and says, "Those are my neighbours from suites 3406 and 3409...they're lawyers." She whispers the last two words as if she's imparting some secret knowledge to me in confidence.

"We were just going to eat and watch the news, see if anything's changed. You're, uh, welcome to join us," she hurriedly adds at the end.

I hear the faint rat-a-tat of gunfire from outside; Lisa's gang still doing battle with the Baggers. Then I remember the Chinese food I'm carrying.

"I, uh, gotta deliver this," I stammer as I hold up the torn shopping bag with the Chinese food inside. Something must have spilled because it's leaking some sort of brown sauce.

"Oh!" She says in surprise. "You deliver Chinese food too?"

I can only nod dumbly and turn away, heading back to the elevators. During my elevator ride up to the 11th floor, I mentally kick myself over and over for losing it during my delivery to suite 3404.

"That was the old Harvey Hickman," I admonish myself. "The new Harvey Hickman is a red-hot lover, monster killer, and ass-kickin' Chinese food delivery gang fighter!"

By the time I reach the 11th floor, I feel a lot better about things and I ring the buzzer next to a highly polished wooden door. A brass plaque on the door reads, "Rift Systems: Division 1." Rift Systems? The Rift? Could this be a coincidence? I look around and see that there are no other offices or suites, which means that this Rift Systems: Division 1 (whatever that is) takes up this entire floor. The hair goes up on the back of my neck; there's something weird about this.

I'm about to press the buzzer again when the door opens and some military-type ushers me inside. The soldier closes and locks the door behind me.

"Put that on that table over there," he says. "And try not to get whatever's leaking outta there on anything."

I nod and look around; more than just a little surprised at what I see... The entire 11th floor looks like it's been converted into a gigantic lab, with steel tables, computers, screens, gadgets, cubicles and scientists all over the place. There are soldiers too, although not many, and I wonder what the hell is going on.

"How much will that be son?"

The voice, tinged with a slight southern accent intrudes on my thoughts so suddenly that I jump. Another soldier, this one an officer I guess by all the ribbons and medals on his jacket, walks over to me and asks again, "So, what do we owe you?"

I remember the amount written on the invoice stapled to the bag and I tell him. He counts out several bills and I see him add a $10.00 tip for good measure.

"Thanks, uh, thank you sir," I say as I stuff the cash into my pocket.

The officer glances at my weaponry and nods approvingly. "Glad to see you're loaded for bear, son," he says. "Times call for it! But hopefully that'll all be in the past soon and things can get back to normal."

"Normal?" I ask as I look around the room. This guy is starting to scare me. "What do you mean normal?"

The officer puts a big, meaty hand on my shoulder and points at a guy in a lab coat. "See that man there? He is the world's foremost expert on the Rift and he's figured out a way to close it," he says.

"C-close the Rift?" I ask. My head swims; I can feel the old Harvey Hickman bubbling to the surface.

"Here let me introduce you to the man that's going to save the world," the officer says as he steers me toward the guy in the lab coat. "This is something you'll be able to tell your kids and grandkids about someday!"

We walk over to where the man in the lab coat is standing, talking to two foreign guys in tweed jackets.

"Professor," the officer says; interrupting their conversation. "I know you're busy but I just wanted to introduce you to a fan...or at least he will be once you get rid of this goddamn Rift!"

The professor stops his conversation long enough to turn towards us. He's a regular looking guy, about my height, a fringe of greying black hair surrounding about ¾ of the dome of his bald head, and he's wearing glasses. "A fan huh?" The professor says this while he looks me up and down like I'm some kind of specimen. "Come back in another three months, the Rift will definitely be gone by then and you can be a fan all you like, until then I'm too busy to talk to some delivery boy."

The professor turns his back on me and dismisses us with a wave of his hand. He continues his conversation with the two guys in tweed and basically forgets I ever existed. Just like the bad ol' days B.T.R. (Before The Rift), when everyone pretty much dismissed the old Harvey Hickman as being someone unimportant; someone of little or no consequence...while I'm having this, uh, revelation, the officer has me by the arm and he's leading me back to the door.

"Sorry about that son," the officer says. "The professor's a busy guy, but hey at least you got yourself a nice tip out of it!"

Suddenly, I make up my mind––I know what I have to do...

I spin on the ball of my foot, much like I did with Lisa and the Baggers earlier, and I march back towards where the professor was still conferring with the two guys in tweed.

"Hey kid, what are you doing? The professor's too busy to talk to you right now," the officer calls out loudly from behind me. "You have to leave now, let's go!"

The other soldiers look on curiously; they're all carrying sidearms but no one reaches for their weapon.

The professor, maybe wondering what all the yelling is about turns around and faces me. I whip out the Colt and shoot him exactly two inches above the bridge of his nose. The guys in tweed look on in shock until I shoot them too. Then all hell breaks loose.

By the time I leave that suite on the 11th floor, everyone in it is dead. I feel bad about the soldiers, they were only doing their job, but I had to stop the Rift from being closed...had to.

My backpack is heavy with all of the hard drives and other electronic filing equipment I plan to toss into the Hudson. Whatever hardware or software I couldn't carry out of there I made sure to thoroughly destroy. I found a couple of manuals with lists of passwords for a series of online backup files that I plan on deleting as soon as I can get to a public computer in an internet café or somewhere...

I feel a stitch in my side and I put my hand there––it comes back wet with my blood. One of the soldiers back in the suite must have hit me. It's not serious, I'll live.

I take the elevator to the lobby and peer outside through the glass doors, expecting to see Lisa and her crew still out there waiting for me. To my relief, they're gone––although it looks like they took the time to tag my car with that lousy silver spray paint that's impossible to get off.

I limp to my car as quickly as I can, toss my backpack, the pizza bag, and my shotgun in, and climb behind the wheel while the sun starts to go down on another day. In the distance a sticky-cat yowls its welcome to the coming night, while from somewhere closer I hear the coughing sound made by a Fool You-Kill You. Soon all of the night creatures will be up and adding their own weird and unearthly sounds to the chorus.

I reload my weapons, start the car and put it in gear. I pull a u-turn and point my car's nose uptown, towards the George Washington Bridge. I know a doctor in Jersey that's terrified of leaving his home and he owes me a couple of favours, I'm sure he'll patch me right up. Then it'll be back to delivering pizza...and killing monsters.

Squirrel

Dana Wright

"Look at him eat." Jenna stared out the window at the fat squirrel making its large rear end a permanent place in the bird feeder. "I think he's as wide as the wooden platform." She laid down her dinner plate on the table, still observing the greedy beast. The dining room was golden in the afternoon light. The warm aroma of baked beans and buttered corn wafted out from the spacious kitchen.

"I know." Rachel sighed. She pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven and rested the pan on two empty burners. Picking up the rest of the plates and depositing them on the dining room table, Rachel went back into the kitchen for the glasses. "That thing has been here since yesterday and it won't quit."

She peered outside at her husband who stood flipping burgers on the gas grill, talking animatedly to Jim, their new next door neighbour and Jenna's husband. "How long did you say you lived in the neighbourhood?" She returned to the kitchen for the glasses, handing two to Jenna as she held out her hands. "Thanks." Stink, her little black Chihuahua mix weaved between her feet, intent on not missing a morsel.

"Careful hon." Rachel laughed as she almost tripped on him. Stink whined and wagged his tail, eyes following every movement.

"Oh. Three years." Jenna smiled. "The neighbourhood is quiet."

Rachel brought a serving dish of pickles and jars of mustard and mayonnaise. She swung back through for ketchup and a stack of napkins. "Seems like it." She admired the view from the dining room window. Right off the kitchen, the dining room was homey but still had access to the living room if they wanted to watch television, or even the porch out back. A fresh coat of paint, new carpet and a sofa they could actually show off to company. She felt like the house was finally coming together. The new roses she planted were taking off and the morning glories were beginning to bloom. The house was beginning to feel like a home. She connected with Jenna at the mail box unit at the end of the street and after a few morning walks they decided it was time for their men to meet.

"What are you guys using on the lawn? Talk about amazing!" Jenna stood at the window scoping the men as they removed the burgers from the grill and shut the metal lid.

"I'm not sure what Mike puts on the grass to be honest. I play with the garden. He's the lawn boy." Rachel grabbed a pack of hamburger buns and laid them on the table. She sidled up to the window and frowned. "The squirrel is scoping them." Stink followed, ever faithful.

The furry brown face focused, eying the two men intently. It leapt off onto the wooden fence, scurrying into the pine forest next to the property line. The critter observed them walk away, as he climbed into a tree, tail twitching.

"What is? The squirrel?" Jenna peered into the yard. "I don't see it now. Anyway, I hear you. Jim has a service. I'm so busy working there is no way I'll be able to help."

"Me too. I've got three deadlines and if I don't turn in my latest mommy porn novel, my agent is going to string me up sans my own fuzzy handcuffs."

Jenna laughed. "Oh my God. Really?" She grinned at her new friend. "So, what's your pen name?"

"Are you kidding me? If I told you, then I'd have to kill you." Rachel waggled her eyebrows, bending down to pat Stink on his head.

"You are so funny! Well, slip a copy under my doormat, Okay? I promise not to tell. I'll read it when Mr. Wonderful is at work. Jim's schedule has been so bad lately. If we didn't keep the service he'd be to mowing the lawn at midnight then get up at four thirty to be back at the office."

"Who's back at the office?" Mike inquired as he and Jim came through the back door.

Stink forgot Rachel and hurried to see what meaty smells had just arrived in the kitchen. Rachel smiled to herself as she watched him. Greedy little traitor that he was.

"You are."

"I think Rachel is considering sending the squirrel instead. You and Jim could talk yard upkeep." Jenna laughed.

"Damned rodent wouldn't last a second." Mike carried the steaming burgers. Jim shut the door behind him. "Jerry in advertising would make him dictate meetings. Horrible fate. Much worse than anything hiding in the woods out back. Or my yard work."

"Your yard looks great!" Jenna laughed.

Jim nodded. "Yep. What do you put on your grass?"

Mike whistled. "Beer." He set the burgers down on the table and went into the kitchen to put the spatula in the sink. At Jim's horrified gasp, he chuckled. "Don't worry. Not anything good."

Jim held his hand to his heart and wiped his forehead. "Good. For a minute there I was going to have to reconsider our new friendship."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I've tried chemicals but beer is the only thing keeping the lawn green. Dish soap when the bugs are acting up." He washed his hands under the tap and dried them. "You girls all set?"

"Hey, did you guys see the squirrel?" Rachel pulled the baked beans out of the Crockpot. "Jenna, can you set the hotplate down right there for me?" Rachel pointed to an empty spot on the table with her elbow. "No. Away from the edge. If I break this thing I'm up a creek."

"Here you go."

"Thanks." Rachel plunked the heavy crock of steaming beans on the hot pad and went back for a spoon.

"Did we forget anything?" Mike asked as he pulled out a couple of beers and handed one to Jim. "You girls want any?"

"I'm having tea. The glasses are out if anyone wants some. Jenna?" Rachel held up the pitcher.

"Tea's fine." She replied distractedly. "The squirrel is back."

The squirrel scampered along the top of the fence line, heading back to the feeder. He leapt into the air and landed, spraying seeds all over the grill and the utensils. He scrutinized the group through the window. The little beast stared, nibbling on the seed. Stink walked up to the low window, growling deep in the back of his throat. His hair stood up behind his neck and he let out a bark.

"God that's just weird." Jenna shivered. "I hate those things."

"I hear you." Rachel waited until everyone sat down. "Stink doesn't like him at all. I'm going to have a heart attack one of these days with all the barking."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I think he could take him."

"Who? Stink or the squirrel?"

Jim chuckled. "I don't know. That dog is pretty fat. The squirrel might just win."

"Hey. That's my boy you're messing with." Rachel came up behind Stink and scooped him up into her arms. "Come on buddy. No more nasty squirrels. I'll share my cheeseburger with you, okay?"

Stink whined, his little pink tongue sticking out hopefully from his mouth.

"See? He knows who his mommy is." Jenna laughed.

"Does anyone need anything?" Rachel sat Stink on the floor next to her chair.

A chorus of "no's" filled the dining room.

"Good." Lowering herself into a chair, Rachel made herself a cheeseburger. One eye on the window, she regarded the squirrel observing her, making up her mind to ignore the little guy. Mr. furry was just a rat with a tail. He was outside. What harm could he possibly do? She reached down and patted Stink, sneaking him a piece of hamburger meat. She listened to the friendly banter of her husband and new friends, feeling foolish for even wasting a moment.

* * *

Rachel tucked her laptop under her arm and navigated her way outside. Stink followed close behind, content to sit in the sun and warm himself as she worked. The weather was nice and she wanted to pound out a few thousand words before the Texas heat set in. It was also her birthday. That meant her time tonight would be spent out instead of working. She had to get some serious word count in or she was going to be off schedule. That was not going to happen.

The khaki cargo shorts and white tee she slipped into were just right for the springtime weather. The new sandals a lucky find last year, she hadn't had much of an opportunity to wear them lately. It had been too cold. She had worked outside the past few mornings and found her productivity soared first thing. It was nice. No more sweats at least for now. She could enjoy herself for a little while and keep an eye on Stink at the same time. Coffee. Blueberry muffin. Bottled water. Patio table. Quiet. In that order. Mike was off to work and she could finally get into her groove. Her laptop open, she began to write, her prose opening up to the secret world of women who liked bondage and the men who tied them up.

Romance writing in the new market was turning out to be fun. Her fans loved the characters she so lovingly brought to life. She loved the play acting. Rachel snickered under her breath. She dabbed and put the final touches on a scene with a flogger. If only the fans knew the closest thing she'd ever gotten to leather was the shoes in her closet. God bless the internet. Talk about a writer's best friend. She could go anywhere she wanted; research anything she needed right in the middle of Boring, USA. Rachel yawned and took a sip from her coffee cup. She didn't miss the old days of skulking around libraries hoping no one you knew saw you researching anything you didn't want the whole neighbourhood knowing about.

"Ugh. Cold."

Rachel set the mug down and stretched. She took a bite of her blueberry muffin and stretched her legs. Stink raised his head, deciding it wasn't worth it. Bacon-hell yes. He'd be there in a shot. She still had another few thousand words to write but she was getting restless. Mike would be home early tonight. It was her forty second birthday. Nothing was really planned, but she wanted to at least spend time watching a movie or something other than the usual slump they had fallen into lately.

He was always at the office and she was always on the computer trying to finish one deadline or another. That was how she measured her time. Holidays...nope. Deadlines. It was all about structuring time to the best advantage. If you didn't get it done, you didn't get paid. No money, no mortgage. It was easy like that. She had quit her job to do this and do this she would. One paragraph at a time, even when she wanted to just throw in the towel and call it quits.

A flicker of brown caught her eye. The squirrel was back. He scampered along the fence line, sidling along near the table and jumped off, hitting the dirt. Stink jumped to attention, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He growled, charging. Rachel held up her hand, motioning for him to stop.

"Well hello there little guy." Rachel chuckled. "Stink. Cut it out."

The squirrel's tail twitched and it approached her, its long body careful in its movements. It sat down; the furry face considered Stink and peered up at Rachel.

"Do you want some muffin? Is that it?" Rachel wasn't sure if they actually ate baked goods, but he was just so cute. Fat...but adorable. "Here. Jeez, Stink. Isn't he cute?" She broke off a piece and chunked it in his direction. Stink snorted and stared at her waiting for his piece.

Rachel chuckled. "Here you greedy boy. No one else can have any, huh?" She tossed the squirrel another small chunk and threw one down to Stink.

The squirrel cried out, scampering backwards toward the fence line. Tail twitching in outrage, he bent his ears back and hissed at her.

"Well...okay then. Not a blueberry fan." Rachel got up from the table. "That's all I've got on me."She shook her head at the squirrel's obvious disgust. Stink snorted and growled.

"Stink. Quit."

She saved her work and closed the laptop. It was time to go inside. Rain clouds were gathering and the once cool weather was beginning to heat up. Stink sidled up next to her, pressing his body to her legs. He was still growling, the hair on the back of his neck at attention.

The squirrel manoeuvred to the top of the fence. He barked his displeasure as Rachel made her way to the door to the kitchen.

A chattering sound hit her ears. She turned her head in time to see a brown blur leap from the top of the fence moving in her direction. Rachel dropped the coffee cup, the pieces shattering on the concrete patio. Stink let out a startled yip and darted out of the way.

"What the hell?" She clutched her laptop to her chest. The plate didn't fare any better than the cup. Rachel juggled with the doorknob. The plate slipped from her fingers and broke apart as it hit the hard surface. The squirrel stood next to her sandaled foot, its little beady eyes peering up into hers. Stink backed up, his little doggie eyes bugging out of his head. He was barking furiously. Rachel edged him back with her foot trying to keep him from stepping on the broken dishes.

"What's the matter little guy? Did you want me to bring out some more food?" Rachel tore her gaze from the squirrel and glanced at the feeder. It was getting low but they weren't going to the store for another couple days. "You really startled me. I almost dropped these on your head. You're going to give Stink here a heart attack. Go on." She waved him off with her hand. "You get on back to nature."

The squirrel didn't move. Oh come on.

Rachel started to open the door. Stink made it inside, his pudgy little body just fitting through the opening. The rodent made a move to follow him inside. Rachel slammed it shut, blocking his way. "Sorry little man. Inside is for people only, okay? I'll get some out for you in a couple days. It's deadline time." She shooed him with her foot. "Go on. You eat what's out there."

The squirrel chattered at her. He made a move like he was heading back to the yard but he paused, doubling back. Before Rachel knew what hit her, he lunged, latching onto her bare ankle. The squirrel bit down hard, teeth tearing through her skin into the flesh below. Rachel screamed and kicked at the rodent's furry brown body. He let go, barking and hissing as he fled back up the fence and disappeared into the trees.

"Jesus. When I said eat what was out here I didn't mean me!" Rachel gawked at the damage to her foot. A messy gash, the tear in her flesh hurt like a bitch. "It's bleeding."Duh. Her fingers fumbled with the doorknob. Adrenaline warred with disbelief. The little bastard really took piece of her. She gripped the knob, giving it a twist. The laptop secure against her chest, she opened the door and slammed it shut it behind her. Stink was barking but stopped. He came up to her leg, sniffing it and whined. Rachel peered out into the yard through the glass door. She saw the furry demon still in the tree watching.

"Oh wow." Her hands were still shaking with all the adrenaline. Her pulse pounded in her veins.

Rachel laid the portable computer on the table and hobbled into the bathroom to assess the damage. Stink trotted along behind her. She was still reeling from the shock. It was a squirrel. A squirrel. Not some crazed Rottweiler or a rabid raccoon. A cute, put it on a greeting card and smile looking little ball of fur. Why the hell would it bite her like that? She propped it up on the commode and sucked in her breath. One look down at her bloodied flesh had her skin crawling.

"Oh my God." She gaped at the blood slicking the sides and bottom of her foot. The new sandals would have to be hosed off if she was ever going to wear them again. "That little son of a bitch."

She hobbled over the bath tub and stepped into it, taking off the bloodied shoe. "I can't believe this." Rachel switched on the tap and let it run. At the sound of the water, Stink headed for the hills, ever fearful of the dreaded bath. Rachel slipped her foot underneath the lukewarm stream and winced. Muffling a curse she turned her foot until the stream ran clear. She turned off the faucet and reached for a towel, carefully patting her foot dry. Rachel took off the other shoe and tossed it into a corner. It wasn't going to do her much good now. She slapped on a large band aid and left the bathroom, her annoyance growing. Damned squirrels.

She plodded her way back into the living room and edged up to the glass. The squirrel was still in the tree scoping the patio. It was then she remembered the broken shards of the coffee cup and plate right outside the door. Stink was standing in front of the low window, standing perfectly still watching.

Rachel warred with herself. Leave the mess until Mike got home or take care of it? If Stink went outside, he would step right in the middle the broken shards. Nope. She had to take care of it now. She slipped on her outdoor shoes and gritted her teeth. It hurt. The outdoor broom and dust pan were in the utility closet out back. A twinge of fear trickled down her back. What if the little monster came back?

"Come on! It's just a squirrel." She slowly opened the door. Stink started to dark outside. "Oh no you don't. Not till I clean this up."

The yard was empty. Nothing moved. She took a careful step outside and manoeuvred over the broken dishes. She shut the door quickly and made her way across the patio and around the side of the house. The grass tickled across her bare toes and she tried to forget the throbbing pain. A horrible thought crossed her mind. Did squirrels carry rabies? Distracted by the idea, she felt in her pockets for the keys.

"Oh no." Rachel closed her eyes. They were on the counter in the kitchen. That meant she had to walk back inside. Past the fence. She swore under her breath and lumbered back toward the back door. Her foot was sore, but at least the flip flops didn't rub against the wound.

She was almost to the door when she caught it. High pitched chatter in the trees behind her. She turned to see a small brown body racing toward her from the back of the yard.

"Crap!" She kicked off the flip flops and ran. Half stumbling on one of the shoes, she hobbled the rest of the way to the door, shutting it just in time. The squirrel slammed into the glass, climbing over the broken dishes. Stink went crazy, clawing and barking at the door.

"Stop!" She picked him up, his little body struggling to get at the squirrel. "Stink! Quit!"

Rachel closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. She ran her fingers down Stink's back and moved into the living room. There had to be something they could do. They could not be a prisoner in their own home. Stink had to go outside. She did her best work out there. This was beyond crazy.

The garage door started to hum. Mike was home. Thank God. She tried to calm herself. Good grief. He was going to think she'd gone mental if she didn't get it together right now. The car turned off and she heard the door slam. Rachel sat down on the couch, her head falling back against the cushions, Stink cradled in her lap. He had stopped struggling and settled into her arms, snorting his disgust with the situation. It would be alright in a minute. Mike would know who to call. The key turned in the lock at the side door. She hadn't had time to text him. Maybe the squirrel would stay in the back yard and leave him alone. She closed her eyes and waited, hoping their ordeal was over.

A shout from just outside the door to the garage had her head snapping up. "Oh no." A jolt of fear turned sharply to anger. Rachel put Stink down. She scooted off the couch and ran to the door. This was getting old fast. She unlocked it and stepped out into the garage, pushing Stink aside with her foot.

"You stay."

The door was open and both cars were inside. What she didn't see was Mike or the squirrel. She carefully reached behind her and shut the door. She made her way between the cars, screaming as something came at her out of the shadows.

"Whoa! Honey. It's okay! It's just me." Mike's usually impeccable shirt and tie was rumpled, his hair was mussed and a there was a cut across his cheek. In his arms were a fuchsia orchid and a purple envelope. He gave her a distracted smile and held out his hands. "Happy birthday."

Rachel let out a small laugh. "Thanks." She took the flower and card, giving Mike a peck on the cheek. "You have the best timing. Did you see where it went?"

"What?"

"The squirrel." Her voice was deadpan. "Look. I'm wounded." She angled up her foot to show him the band aid.

"You didn't call me?" He shot her a penetrating look.

"I'm sorry. It just happened so fast. I was outside working and the little monster just freaked out. Took a chunk out and chased me when I tried to go and get the keys for the utility closet out back."

"Wow." Mike stared at her, incredulous.

"I know. That's what I get for trying to share my muffin with him. Little ingrate." She sniffed. "Stink is still not speaking to me."

Mike laughed and shook his head. "I was getting out of the car and something ran into the garage. It was so weird. It was a little brown fur ball and it was hauling butt too." He ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. "You know that cat that runs wild? The brown one the next door neighbour leaves kibble out for? At first I thought that's what it was, so I called out to it."

"Was it?" Rachel asked, half in anticipation half in dread. If she could pin it down with his help they could catch it or maybe run it off.

"Not exactly."

"Oh no." Rachel closed her eyes, pressing her lips together.

"I'm not sure but I think it may still be in here." Mike bent over, pointing to the hole in the dry wall near the corner of the garage. "They were supposed to fix that before we moved in. I forgot about it until I was in here looking for a screwdriver last week." He made a pained face, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh God. It could be in the house?" Revulsion and horror bubbled inside her stomach. "We have to call someone. An exterminator."

"We will. It's too late today. Why don't you rest for a while and we'll get up and go have dinner?" Mike rested his hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"That sounds good." Rachel nodded. "Well, come on in. I don't hear anything now." Rachel gave him a smile and turned to go back in the house. She admired the orchid in her hands and smiled. Maybe this was over. The rest of the day could still be salvaged.

"Do you think it went back outside?" Mike followed behind her and pushed the door shut.

"I hope so." Rachel bit her lip as she walked past the dining room window. Her eyes scanned the trees. Nothing. She poured out Mike's customary glass of iced tea and snagged him a rice pudding from the fridge. Everyday rituals were a comfort.

Mike came out from the bedroom, Stink following at his heels. Already changed into a pair of sweats, he plopped down on the couch, remote in hand.

Rachel sat the tea on a coaster on the end table next to where he was sitting and handed him the pudding. "Here you go."

"Thanks. We'll go in a couple hours. Does that sound fine with you?"

Rachel nodded wearily. "Yes. Let me go lay down. I've got a headache that just won't quit."

"Okay hon." He had the television turned on and was already tuning her out.

"Come on Stink." Rachel patted her leg and walked back toward the bedroom. She brushed her sore foot against the door jam and winced. They went into the cool darkness of the bedroom and shut the door.

"Nap time, buddy?" She smiled down at him, his tail wagging. "Yep. I thought so." She scooped him up in her arms and set him on the bed. He waddled into the middle of the bed into his usual spot and snuggled in. "Alright. I'm here." She stepped on the short stool she kept on her side of the bed and hopped up, settling in right beside him. He got up, turning around until he was spooned against her tummy and knees.

"You're the best Stink." Rachel smiled as she drifted off. Some experiences were just worth everything and this was one of those.

* * *

Rachel woke to darkness. Stink was growling, standing up the bed. It was then she caught it. The gnawing sounds coming from within the walls. She touched the lamp on the nightstand, setting the room into a soft glow. Disoriented, she blinked.

"Oh no." She sat up slowly. The clock read seven o'clock. They must have both needed the sleep. Rachel grabbed Stink and carried him toward the door. She opened it quietly, but the sound didn't stop. Grinding and gnawing, it seemed to echo through the small room. She made her way into the living room. The television was blaring some kind of monster hunter show and Mike was still snoring. She clicked on the light and shook his shoulder.

"Mike." She whispered fervently. "Wake up!"

"What?" He sputtered, rubbing at his eyes. "Wait. What time is it?" He looked at his watch and groaned. "God, I'm sorry babe. I didn't mean to sleep so long."

"It's okay. Listen." Rachel clicked the volume off on the television.

"Hey." He reached for the remote, trying to pull it out of her hands.

"Stop." She handed it to him and gestured him to be quiet. "Listen." Anxiety cooled her thoughts to a dull roar. They had to do something.

The scraping sound reverberated through the living room. Stink ran to a place in the wall between the bedroom and the living room, barking incessantly.

"Honey. Go get a shovel." Rachel took a step away from the wall.

"Yeah. I'll be right back." Mike sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the couch. He got up and hurried into the garage. He returned moments later with a shovel, a blade and a small saw.

"What's that for?"

"If we don't get him out, he could eat electrical wire and cause a fire. Not exactly safe." Mike walked over to where Stink was digging at the wall and barking.

"Here, keep him away." Mike knelt down and cut into the drywall.

"How big are you going to make it?" Rachel swallowed, tension flowing through her in waves. She tried to hold Stink, but he was wiggling and furious.

"Not very. Just big enough for him to escape. Then you smash him with the shovel." Mike grimaced and returned to his task. He sawed a small square and popped it out.

"Get ready." Mike got to his feet and stepped away.

Rachel took the shovel and stepped up. Stink's barking went up a few octaves. She had to let him go. He wriggled until she had to set him down. He ran in front of the hole barking and snarling.

"Get him, honey. I don't want to hit him by accident." Rachel spat out, aiming the shovel. Fear and anger knotted inside of her.

Mike reached down just in time to pull Stink out of harm's way. The squirrel emerged from the hole spitting and hissing, its little rodent body airborne.

Rachel shrieked, swinging the shovel. She missed. The squirrel landed squarely on her chest. "Arghhh! Get him off!" She fell backwards against the couch. She swung the shovel wildly, cursing a string of expletives. The squirrel sunk his teeth into her shoulder and she screamed again. His long teeth punctured the skin. He came up for air, meeting her eyes for a moment and moved down for another go.

"Motherfucker!" She howled, ramming herself and the squirrel into the arm of the couch. "Get him off!" She sobbed grabbing for its tail unsuccessfully.

"Rachel!" Mike lunged at the beast, knocking it from her. It leapt from her to his face, biting and scratching as he went. It scrabbled up his arm leaving scratches and gouges in its wake. It was going for his face. "No!" Mike cried out as the rodent's teeth bit into his cheek.

"Stop!" Rachel stood on shaking legs and staggered to where she dropped the shovel. She hadn't realized she wasn't holding it. She fumbled for the handle, wrapping her bloody fingers around it. She aimed and swung.

The shovel connected. With a screeching cry, the rodent went flying six feet across the room landing dazed on the floor. Her eyes lingered on Mike's for mere seconds. She had to stop him from getting up. Stink was barking, his voice growing hoarse with effort.

"Stink!" Rachel cried out. "Get away from it!" She scooped him up and hurriedly shut him in the bedroom. The squirrel laid there on the carpet dazed. A small foot began to move and the eyes trained themselves on her.

"Shit." Rachel lurched forward, her body aching in places she didn't even know she had. "Die you son of a bitch." She swung. The critter got up and began to move, but not fast enough. Rachel pulled her arm back for another round, but Mike stopped her. His arm wrapped around her, and he took the shovel.

"Let me." He raised his arms high and brought the shovel down hard enough to hear bones crunch. The rodent cried out, a high pitched wail of pain. Over and over he brought the shovel down until it ceased to move.

"Oh God. Stop." Rachel choked out, tears running down her face. "It has to be dead."

Mike's lips pressed into angry, bloody lines. "It's still moving." The bloody pulp on the carpet lay still.

"No." She wiped at her eyes. "Here. I'll get a box or something."

"Fine. I'll get rid of this stuff." He took the shovel and drywall tools back out into the garage.

Rachel turned to get a brown paper sack or something to bury it. Angry tears leaked from her eyes. Stupid. She'd never harmed another living creature in her life and now they had a dead pulpy squirrel in their living room. She rummaged in the under cabinet junk area until she came up with a bag. Turning on her heel, she slowly makes her way back to the corpse. It was gone.

"Shit."

A keening cry came from the hallway. The squirrel crawled, its bloody body leaving a streak of gore with every step.

"Mike!" Rachel's voice was shrill with hysteria. "Mike!"

"What?" He slammed the door and came to her side. "Fuck!" Mike took a step back.

Rachel's mind was all over the place. They clubbed him to death with a shovel and yet here he stood. Broken, bloody and not stopping.

Mike swore and ducked into his office. "Hold on!"

She overheard the rattle of a desk drawer. Distracted, she only caught part of the movement as the squirrel bounded in her direction, moving impossibly fast.

A loud explosion filled the hallway. Rachel screamed as the squirrel connected with her face at the same time the bullet from Mike's gun went through the little furry body and into hers. She fell to the floor numb, darkness creeping into her vision in red waves with the distant sound of hissing in her ears.

Leave the Light On

Andy Lockwood

Stevie shuffled quickly, his body betraying him more as his need for release increased. The longer his strides, the harder it was to keep from peeing himself. So he finally settled on a leg-locked power walk that made him feel like the fastest granny at the mall. The imagery did not lift his spirits, as it was overpowered by the fear of having to get through the last two periods of class in urine-soaked khakis.

He could feel his muscles quaking, spasms that signalled the last effort they had left to give. If only Ms. Richmond had let him go sooner. In her mind, she had given him ample time to reach the bathroom. The trouble was that Stevie didn't go to the bathroom nearest Ms. Richmond's classroom. Stevie was in 4th grade and graduated to the Southern Corridor, where fourth through sixth grades shared the halls and bathrooms. And though he had graduated another grade higher, Morris Beckett had not.

"Of course he's a bully, what else would you expect from a guy named Morris?" Alex was fond of repeating this at the lunch table. Stevie usually began the conversation one of a number of statements, each revolving around "But why me? I didn't do anything to him, so what's his deal?" They ever reached a conclusion as to Morris' issues.

Stevie decided his best course of action this year was avoidance. Avoidance, he learned, came with a price as he raced along from the Southern Corridor through the Commons and rounding the corner into the Northern Corridor. His muscles screamed, soon, they would simply give out and Stevie would have a new problem to contend with.

He grabbed the door marked BOYS and threw it open. Though his muscles screamed, and he feared yearlong embarrassment at the hands of his classmates, he waited. The lights in the bathroom were automatic and needed to register movement and light before powering on. He knew the bathroom well enough to find his way in the dark, yet he waited. Standing on trembling legs, waiting for the sound of electricity, Stevie stared into the darkness. Right before the click of the lights flicking themselves on, he heard something else.

There was a chittering sound, as if whatever it was knew the lights were about to come on, and didn't want to be there when they did. Stevie used to think it was just a part of the mechanism that turned the lights on, but none of the other bathrooms made that sound. Every time, his brain reminded him that there were other bathrooms, and every time, he reminded his brain that there was no oddity he could think of that made him prefer a run-in with Morris.

The door hadn't even begun to close as Stevie ran across the room, grunting as he fought with his underwear and releasing an audible sigh of relief as the stream hit the bowl. His head lolled back, tension easing from his body as his bladder emptied. He studied the ceiling, an old metal installation. He could see places where rust had eaten larger holes in the tiles and looked like it needed to be replaced, but the school had decided that more paint was enough of a fix.

He moved to the sink to wash his hands. He towelled off and gave himself a look in the mirror, backing up to take himself in fully. If he had peed himself at all, now was the last chance to spot it before someone else did. He stood, shuffling around as he checked himself, then took a couple paces back toward the mirror and froze. In the reflection, a ceiling tile had moved, revealing the darkness beyond. He squinted, and could have sworn he saw large black eyes glinting at him. He turned to get a better look and the tile closed. He didn't need any further motivation to head back to class.

The rest of the day progressed uneventfully, until the final bell rang and Stevie and Alex made the terrible mistake of being kids that wanted to go home. Morris was waiting on the sidewalk, leaning against a tree. Stevie clenched his jaw and decided he was just going to go past. Morris was the kind of person who didn't like to be ignored. He grabbed the loop of Stevie's backpack and pulled, throwing Stevie off balance and stumbling into the school fence.

"Aw, did you fall down?" He grabbed the backpack again, yanking Stevie to his feet like a ragdoll. "Lunch money."

Stevie looked at Alex, then back to the bully. "What?"

Morris' heavy brow furrowed. He stabbed the younger boy in the chest with a thick finger to enunciate each word. "Lunch. Money. Now."

Stevie hazarded a glance at his friend again, who looked equally confused. "I spent it. At lunch."

The bully hesitated a moment, then stabbed again. "Tomorrow's lunch money. You think I'm stupid or something?"

Stevie shook his head. He certainly wasn't going to tell the truth if it was going to get him punched. Morris held out a hand, but Stevie could only shrug again.

"Mom only gives me lunch money one day at a time."

The bully clenched his fingers around nothing, then punched the boy square in the chest. Stevie stumbled, his breath leaving him.

"Tomorrow then, loser."

On the way home, to ease the discomfort of walking in silence, Stevie confided in Alex about the incident in the bathroom. Alex understood why he would still be using the "little kid" bathroom, but seemed lost on the possibility of someone living in the ceiling.

"You think it's some homeless guy?"

Stevie shook his head, kicking a stone unfortunate enough to be caught in his path. "I don't know who is up there...or what."

"What do you mean 'what'?"

"What if it's not a him, but an it?"

Alex stopped in his tracks, wide eyed. "Hang on. You think the thing in the ceiling might actually be a thing?"

Stevie shrugged. "I told you. I don't know what it is. But it's there. I saw it."

Alex nodded. "I believe you."

Stevie smiled and they began to walk again.

"So what do we do?"

"We have to trick it out of hiding."

Stevie drifted through the rest of the evening. His mind was on trying to figure out how to lure whatever it was out of hiding. Normally, he would have been able to pass the night unnoticed, but his mom had made chicken and dumplings for dinner. It was his favourite meal, the kind of favourite that he would rearrange other plans so he didn't miss out. His lack of enthusiasm was the first thing to be picked up on. Second was the hesitation when his parents inquired about it.

When dinner was served and the smell filled his nostrils, it turned out that the day's problems were still no match for mom's home cooking. There was something almost magical about chicken, flour and broth somehow culminating into a creamy masterpiece that was––to a child––much like eating tiny, flavourful clouds. Stevie had declined pizza parties on more than one occasion to instead enjoy a quiet dinner at home with his parents because his favourite was on the menu.

After his first bowl and on the way to seconds, his father inquired again. This time, a bowlful of heaven grounding him to present affairs, he shrugged.

"Just having some trouble at school."

His father smiled. "Girl trouble, I hope."

The smile faded when Stevie shook his head.

"Is it anything your mother or I can help with?"

Again, the boy's head shook. His father paused, and then reached out, caressing the boy's shoulder. Their eyes met and his father smiled warmly.

"If there is anything I can do––even if you just need to talk––you just say so, ok?"

Stevie smiled back, and nodded, making his father feel like he'd done his job. But there was nothing in the world that his father could do to fix this. He didn't even know how to approach it. Nothing in Stevie's eight long years on Earth had prepared him to deal with such conversations with his father. He didn't think 'there's something living and hiding in the bathroom I use to hide from the school bully and I want to find out what' would go over very well, so he decided a smile and a nod was just as well.

After America's Funniest Videos, he brushed his teeth, kissed his parents goodnight and went to bed. He laid there, listening to the sounds of the house wind down around him. His parents were still watching television, but they turned the volume down and he could hear the basic elements of their voices through the wall as they talked about something. His mother's laughter twinkled through the drywall to his ears and ushered him on to sleep.

At school the next day, he and Alex resumed their daily practice of avoiding Morris. It was mostly Stevie's practice, but if Alex was with him, he followed suit. During lunch, he told Alex his plan: to stay after school to see if he could lure "it" out of the ceiling. But he needed someone to guard the bathroom door. Alex only agreed when Stevie said he didn't have to actually go into the bathroom.

After the last bell, they met in the hall and waited. It didn't take long for the halls to clear.

Like usual, he opened the door and waited for the lights to come on. And like usual, he heard the chittering but when the lights came on, it was just a bathroom. He gave Alex a look and then went inside, listening to the door close slowly behind him.

It's just a bathroom. Nothing sinister about it.

But it's not in the bathroom... it's in the ceiling.

Stevie stepped in, using the urinal and then washing his hands. He could feel the eyes on him, but questioned whether it was fact or just paranoia. Either way, he took a deep breath and readied himself for the next step. He stepped into the furthest stall and closed the door. He sat down on the toilet seat and waited. He pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and hummed.

The moments stretch out into forever as he waited. Fear lingered at the corner of his wits, ready to lunge on him as the darkness descended. He pushed the thoughts away and continued to hum.

He raced through songs, any song he could think of, finding it strange that he had never noticed that Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and the Alphabet Song had the same music until he hummed them one after the other.

The whimsy he felt from that realization disappeared with the light in the room. His humming skills left him, his voice now just a series of notes caught in his throat and released haphazardly, until they ceased altogether.

His head snapped up and left as he heard something––metal brushing against something soft. He heard movement, and the chittering. Louder and more insistent now.

"I––" The sounds of the room ceased, surprised by his interruption. His heart beat icicles through his veins as he swallowed and tried again. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to meet you."

He listened in the dark, a series of soft taps here and there.

Sounds of hesitation, Stevie thought. Then, the slow insistence of paces moving toward him. The stall door creaked open, and again he heard the metal brush against something that sounded very soft against it. Fabric? Fur? He couldn't say for sure.

His pulse throbbed in his veins, hard and loud. He could almost see the blood vessels in his eyes, after images being forced forward by the building pressure.

The chittering started directly in front of him and––for a solid moment––his heart stopped. In the darkness, he could feel his hand shaking terribly as he lifted it up and reached forward toward the sound.

"I––" he gulped, afraid, but overruled by curiosity. "I just want to meet you. My name is Stevie."

He wondered how long he could hold his hand out in the darkness, shaking muscles reminding him of the day before when his bladder almost failed him. He was glad that he decided to use the facilities before he did this. His muscles already ached, and he was ready to put his hand down when he felt a pressure on his knee.

It was insistent, purposeful. It was examining him.

Slowly, he lowered his hand. He touched it and it stopped moving. It was round, and he thought it might be an arm, but it was furry and what prodded him was certainly not a hand. The fur was short, reminding him of the fuzz on a cat's nose. He gave it a slight squeeze and brushed his fingers along it. Some places the fur was longer than others, almost bristly. When he touched this fur, there was a loud chittering and another limb pushed his hand away. There were other noises as it prodded him with three limbs now, but he did not feel threatened.

He remembered the flashlight in his hand and pressed the lens down on his thigh.

"I'm going to turn a light on. I will try to keep it dark, but I would like to see you." He began to depress the rubber button on the flashlight and there was a chitter in the darkness as it skittered back away from him.

It was barely enough light to see anything, but it didn't set off the automatic lights in the bathroom. In the solid darkness, the ring emanating from his pantleg was a beacon, brilliant and bright, and he could see nothing else for a moment.

When his vision did adjust, he saw eyes watching him from the other side of the stall. Large, black pools reflecting the light. And then he realized: four eyes watched him. Realizing that the light was not dangerous, and neither was Stevie, it came in for a closer inspection, allowing itself to be seen. Stevie held back a gasp as it came into the faint light.

It was a spider. One the size of a dog, its hairs golden in the soft light filtered around the ring of his flashlight, but it was definitely a spider. He held his hand out again, still shaking, but not with fear. He saw one leg rise up, reaching––

It backed away, chittering loud as the bathroom door flew open. It was backing up the wall as the lights came on and instinctively scurried back down away from the light, pushing past Stevie to hide in the corner behind the toilet.

"You in here, loser? I want my money!" Morris bellowed.

Great. He turned to his friend, putting a finger to his lips, shushing. He stood up, opening the stall door.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Are you stupid? Sitting here in the dark?"

"Maybe I'm just not afraid of the dark, Morris." He watched the bully's eyes widen.

"You calling me chicken?" His fists clenched and he stepped forward.

"Maybe. Shut off the lights and find out."

Morris pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket and hung it over the sensor. They waited, glaring at each other. Stevie could hear the spider shuffling in the stall. He could almost feel its anxiety.

Morris whispered, "When the lights go out, your lights go out."

"Why are you whispering?" Stevie smiled, watching his bully process the question.

"Shut up."

The lights clicked off and Stevie moved as quietly as possible, intent on staying out of Morris' grasp.

"Come here, loser. I'm gon––" The sound interrupted Morris completely––his speech, his movement, his thoughts. Morris was dead in the water.

"W––what was that?"

It chittered again, moving audibly in the dark. Stevie could feel it examining the situation. Part of him wished he could see what was going on, but he knew it would probably give him nightmares.

"What is that, Stevie?" Morris was starting to lose his cool.

"I made a new friend. It doesn't seem to like you."

Morris turned in the dark and ran in the direction he thought the door was. He miscalculated and ran into a wall, meeting the tile floor with a thud. Slowly, quietly, Stevie stepped away, pressing himself to the wall. Then the spider started moving, repeating its noise, shuffling for a moment and then moving to another spot. It seemed to move around Morris, and he seemed very aware of this, as he spun in place, panicking. All the while Stevie thought he heard something else: like the sound his mother made pulling thread through the eye of a needle. Only much more thread than she would ever need.

Morris let out a yell and took two running steps. That was as far as he got. The trap sounded like a parachute opening in reverse. Then Morris fell with a sickening thud and said nothing else.

He heard the spider pad toward him and he knelt. He reached out and found the back of its head, its––what had Ms. Richmond taught them––thorax? He brushed his palm along it and it shook a little, making a small chitter that––to Stevie––sounded like a purr. It turned around and padded into the dark.

Stevie tried not to think about the dragging sound that followed it up the wall.

"I'll stop by tomorrow."

He opened the door and Alex stared at him. There were no lights on. Stevie reached out and pulled the hat off the sensor. Alex peered into the bathroom and saw nothing amiss. He looked at Stevie, who gave him a push toward the doors.

"I'll tell you on the way home, but you're never going to believe me."

Nature's Turn

Sharon L. Higa

No one expected it. We never anticipated anything like it. The Human Race was taken completely by surprise when Nature finally rebelled.

I remember it started on a Wednesday as I headed to my job at the small petting zoo my aunt and uncle owned just outside of our hometown. I had just stopped for a coffee at Mike's Gas n' Go when I noticed an inordinate number of mice headed around the back of the store.

Pushing the door open to the tinkle of the little entrance bell I began, "Mike, you need to get yourself a few more cats 'cause man your mouse problem has..." I stopped dead in my tracks. Mike wasn't at his usual place behind the counter. The sounds of scuffling and smashing from the back store room suddenly reached my ears. I took a tentative step forward, calling out, "Mike? Mike, you back there?"

The swinging doors burst open and Mike came running out, brandishing a broom and white as a sheet. He caught sight of me in the doorway, and changing direction he charged towards me and screamed one word:

"RUN!!"

I didn't need to be told twice. Grabbing his arm as he barrelled past me out the door, I swung him toward my parked car, yelling, "Get in! Passenger doors open!"

Mike yanked open the door and tossed the broom in the back. I dove into the driver seat, shoved the key into the ignition and gunned the engine, throwing her into reverse without even closing the door. He pounded the dash board, hysteria bubbling to the surface, but all he could spit out at the time was a series of grunts and single words.

Before either one of us could say anything else, the gas station exploded, propelling flaming bits of shrapnel everywhere. It took all of my driving skill to prevent us from either flipping by hitting debris that had already landed on the road or what was haphazardly still falling from the sky. Mike clenched his teeth and grappled with the seat belt. I floored it, the burst of speed putting a safe distance between us and Mike's former business.

We drove on for a few minutes in silence, Mike still trying to figure out what happened at the garage and me trying to wrap my head around our subsequent madcap flight. An abnormal vibration coming through the speeding vehicle, different from the regular rhythm of tires on the road, caught our attention. Mike looked out the side window then grabbed my bicep in a vice-like grip.

I glanced out of his side of the car and damn near drove us into the ditch. Horses, antelope, cattle, sheep, deer––hell, any herbivore with four legs––was running en masse through the fields located alongside the road. Mike watched this mass stampede, eyeballs about popping out of their sockets, and urged me to go faster.

Instead, I eased up on the gas pedal and looked out my window, wanting to be sure of what I was seeing. My eyes were just fine, but I felt my hair standing on end and my skin start to crawl with the sight in front of me. The ditch on my side of the road was filled with a solid, squirming black mass.

Insects of every and any species filled it to the top while more poured out of the cornfields, joining the mass exodus to...I glanced up and saw the ditch full of black for as far as I could see ahead of us, moving straight towards town. Mike still had a hold of my arm, while his words tumbled over each other like an abounding waterfall:

"MyGodRandyit'simpossibleIdon'tgetitwhatthehellisgoingonareyouseeingthis?"

I shook my head at the babbling man seated next to me. "Your guess is as fucking good as mine, man. Let's get to town and see if we can find out what in the name of all that is holy is happening."

Recorded accounts from Radio Station EBRQ, Wednesday, 2/10/2016, 6 a.m., CET(Central Europe Time);

Anything that slithered, flew, crawled, hopped or moved on four legs was on the attack. Ants, cockroaches, centipedes and the billions of other insects worldwide headed to Man's domiciles, businesses, locations. Wooden buildings were weakened by termites, falling down, collapsing outward or crushing those inside.

They marched––wild combination of insects coalesced into one continuous, unending army, eating anything human within their wake. Cockroaches fought to crawl down the throats of those who were unfortunate enough to fall and become incapacitated––the screams turned into moans, choked gurgles then nothing but the crackling of flesh and bone being torn into miniscule morsels then ingested.

Locusts, bees, wasps, dragonflies, beetles––any insect with wings bombarded homes, entering through chimneys, air vents, through the cracks under doors and open windows.

I had the speedometer pegged at ninety-five, afraid to go any faster in case anything popped up in the road. I needed to have enough control to keep us from losing it if I needed to steer around or go over whatever else got put in our path.

Mike's babbling eased up then slowed down to intelligible language once he realized we'd outrun the nightmare behind us. The road ahead and the fields around us were clear and quiet; ominously so. I rolled down my window and listened. Other than the whistling of the wind sweeping past my head, there wasn't another sound to be heard. Neither a birds' screech nor somebody's dog barking at who-knows-what.

"What are you doin'?" Mike's voice still quavered with barely repressed hysteria.

I didn't want to set the man off again, so I casually said, "Just checking to see if we're in the clear, is all."

I felt him visibly deflate all the way through my arm, where he still held onto with a death grip. "Mike, ease up, man, you're gonna dislocate my freakin' shoulder," I tried a small attempt at humour. It worked.

Mike let go and started flexing his fingers, an apologetic smile crossing his face. "Sorry, Randy. I got a little strung out there for a minute, didn't I?"

I grinned back at him, "No harm, no foul, my man. I was feeling the same way back there."

We drove the rest of the way in silence, knowing we were coming up to the outskirts of town. We began to see houses closer together, fences establishing property lines, laundry hung out to dry for the day. We also saw something else.

Cars were rear ended into trees; homes had windows smashed, some splattered with blood. A leg, swollen and black, poked from underneath a hedge; a cloth wrapped arm, fingers blue and clenched, was visible through an open doorway. Everything was once again surreally silent.

SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLATSPLATSPLATSPLAT!

Bug guts instantly covered the windshield.

The insects were back, and this time we were in the middle of the swarm. I hit the gas and sped up again, Mike clinging to the dashboard.

"Keep your eyes peeled for any way out of this mass!" I hollered above the relentless thumps and thuds of bugs kamikaziing the car.

Mike peered forward as I flicked the wipers to the highest level, my finger unrelenting on the washer fluid button, giving us somewhat of a clear space to see out of the windshield.

Recorded accounts from Radio Station ADUZ, Thursday, 2/18/2016, 2:21 a.m., ACST(Australia Central Standard Time:

People tried to wrap themselves up in blankets, sheets, couch covers- anything to escape the deadly stings and bodily onslaughts of the flying masses- but to no avail. The swarms would lift only when all movement ceased, revealing bloody, material-covered mounds scattered across lawns, collapsed in doorways r hanging out of broken windows in neighbourhoods, suburbs and cities.

I floored it, flying past our town sign:

"Welcome to Rayburn! Friendliest Town In The County!"

The blood-splattered, sheet-tangled figure lying prone next to the sign belied that statement.

I glanced at the dashboard instruments and let out a, "Damn!"

Mike glanced at me and saw what I was looking at. The 'TEMP' gauge was climbing, slowly but surely, toward the red.

"Aw hell, Randy! What're we gonna do?"

Grabbing the steering wheel at the ten and two o'clock positions, I put my foot to the floor once more and muttered through gritted teeth, "We're headed to the god damn town square. There're more buildings there we can make a break for safely once this car goes balls up on us."

We headed towards the centre of town, wondering what other funhouse horrors awaited us.

We found out soon enough.

The whole place was mass chaos. Mike and I found out where the dogs and cats from all the outlying farms had gone- right into town. Now they tore into the human occupants with savage fervour.

We blew past people running, screaming, animals clinging to all parts of their bodies, pulling them down by sheer weight and numbers.

Two coyotes and three foxes were tearing apart a kid by the side of the road. As we shot by, I saw it was Stanley, our twelve year old paper boy. Three men were holding off a pack of dogs, but their rakes and shovels didn't do them any good when a bear came out from between two houses and waded in on the fight.

I turned my focus back to the car, concentrating on getting around the fights and attacks happening all around us. I grimly pushed on, the car now spewing steam from under the hood. Some people noticed the car, stopping long enough to scream for help, while others were oblivious, still bent on either escaping the marauding beasts or fighting them.

I knew the town like the back of my hand so I steered for the park at the centre. Mike rolled his window down and tried to help me navigate, but he gave it up when he started getting dive bombed by birds.

He rolled the window up and yelled, "To the right, Randy! Bank's to the right!"

He'd seen something I hadn't: people standing at the bank windows, encouraging those still battling outside to head toward them.

I yanked the car sideways and brought it skidding to a halt about ten feet from the bank entrance, popping the front and back passenger tires up and over the curb. Mike was out like a shot, headed towards the bank doors, me right behind him.

Suddenly, I glanced to the left and saw Mr. and Mrs. Seeley rushing as fast as they could towards the bank as well. She was pushing a little red wagon with bags inside while he pulled with all his might. Right behind them, barrelling around the corner of the grocery store came two grey wolves. I whistled––shrill and harsh––catching Mike's attention while pointing to the struggling older couple. I bunched my keys up like a set of brass knuckles and headed toward the red wagon.

He and I made it to the couple within a matter of seconds, me shoving Mrs. Seeley aside and into Mike who snatched her up and raced toward the bank. The people there had already pushed the doors open, screaming at us to, "Hurry! Hurry!" One of them, I noticed, wielded a fire extinguisher.

Mr. Seeley nodded his head and with a strength and speed I didn't think he had in him, double timed it towards the screaming group, gasping out, "Much obliged son," as he picked up the pace. I was too busy pushing to answer but looked behind us from beneath my extended arm. The wolves were closing in fast.

When we were within five feet of the entrance, I shoved with all my might then turned to face the oncoming pair. One wolf was already in the air, his trajectory aiming him right for my back. I crouched and waited for its downward fall, then lunged in, bringing the keys up and into its throat. The blood spurted everywhere, all down the front of my face and shirt, temporarily blinding me. I didn't have time to see where the second wolf was, but it turned out I didn't have to worry about that at all.

I was suddenly engulfed in CO2, a white wall of hissing smoke going off next to me. Sandy, the head teller from the bank, had run out when she'd seen what I was going to do. She was the one who blasted the second wolf, sending it yelping back down the street. The first wolf I'd gouged was spasming on the asphalt in front of me. I didn't wait to see it die. I grabbed Sandy's hand as we dashed back to the bank and safety.

Recorded accounts from Radio Station WBZG, Monday, 2/29/2016, 11a.m., PCT(United States Pacific Coast Time):

In fields, valleys, mountain ranges, grasslands and prairies, animals rampaged––prey and predator alike, wild and domestic––stomping, goring, biting, clawing, laying waste to every human in their path. They started in remote areas, working their way to villages, townships, suburbs and then to the cities both big and small.

We had just reached the doors when I heard a high, choppy whine overhead. We all turned and looked up to see what was happening. Pretty soon the plane came into view; a Piper PA-25 'Pawnee' (used for crop-dusting), black smoke billowing from one engine, one wing tip completely shredded. The machine was doing slow rolls, the pilots' attempts at righting it a valiant but useless effort. We all watched as it plummeted towards the ground upside down, and not a one of us could hold back a gasp or scream as we saw a massive black shadow detach itself from the fuselage and fly off.

"Oh Dear God! Did you see that flock of birds? Did they bring that plane down?" the tear-filled voice belonged to our old fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Danby. She'd been one of the people manning the doors, waiting for us to get inside.

I looked at the phone lines and buildings surrounding us. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Danbey," I said quiet and low. "Now please, let' all get inside" ––I kept talking calmly, never taking my eyes off what was above us –– "where we can discuss this in a safer environment."

Recorded accounts from Radio Station GRNK, Tuesday, 3/8/2016, 7 p.m., GMT (Greenwich Mean Time):

In the air, helicopters, jets, and airplanes large and small were attacked, slammed down to the earth by massive flocks of birds, causing colossal and brutal damage with every collision. Jumbo Airliners were seen spiralling and spinning into the ground or veering in mid-air to decimate high rise buildings. The moans and wails of the dying and wounded mingled with the screams of those engulfed in flames, trapped either in the wreckage of the planes or within the obliterated structures.

Those that managed to escape were instantly assaulted by the big raptors waiting on the phone lines, balconies, edges of buildings and trees.

Hawks, eagles, buzzards and falcons would swoop down like dive bombers, aiming specifically for heads or eyes of fleeing people. The attack was relentless, stopping only when their intended target was pecked and clawed to pieces.

Once inside, we all moved aside as Mr. Peters, the bank manager, made sure the doors were not only locked but wrapped with a heavy chain and padlocked.

Shaking it to make sure it was secure he turned, handing the keys to the church janitor, Mr. Toombs. Mr. Toombs placed the keys on a chain attached to his belt, turned and continued to watch the outside along with Teddy, his fourteen year old daughter.

Once the two lookouts were set up, Mr. Peters escorted the rest of us further along, helping Mike push the red wagon since Mr. Seeley had relinquished that duty to my friend.

As Mike and I walked along with the others, I noticed that the interior was lit up with battery operated lamps, flashlights and candles scattered throughout the main section of the bank. Four lounge chairs and two couches had been dragged in from the employee lounge while the last of the office chairs, it seemed, were being wheeled in by Jerry and Sylvia, the other two bank employees.

It was then that I looked––really looked––at what was in the red wagon. I mentally counted how many people were in the room. Counting the janitor and his daughter there were ten of us survivors of this ongoing apocalypse.

Mr. Peters nodded to the two employees and tilted his head in the direction of the wagon.

Jerry and Sylvia began to unload and set up the provisions in the employee lounge. I noted gallon jugs of water, canned goods of all varieties (four manual can openers included), blankets, toilet paper, paper towels, and a boatload of batteries and lighters.

Recorded accounts from Radio Station QZRL, Saturday, 3/12/2016, 3:45 p.m., EAT(Eastern Africa Time):

Grocery stores, grain silos, gardens, commercial farms and every available food source that man had created for himself was invaded, eaten, urinated or defecated upon, scattered to the winds; rendering it inedible for humans.

The items I did not see, and which bothered me greatly, were the lack of weapons of any kind. Then again, I sighed to myself, why would a banker even consider anything like that?

Mr. Peters waited until the wagon had been unloaded and Sandy had taken note of everything that the Seeleys had brought in before he motioned for us all to be seated.

He tried on a smile that didn't quite fit, attempting to instil in us a sense of ease. It worked just enough for us to calm down and listen to what he had to say but not enough to give anyone of us a real feeling of security.

"I would like to point out a few things to everyone here. Some of you have already heard this, but I want to go over it all for those of you who have just arrived." He cleared his throat and, still standing, went on.

"This bank is the oldest and the soundest building in this town. We have at least two feet of concrete and steel between the brick walls, the windows are all bullet proof glass, and the back door is solid metal and eight inches thick. We have our own water source in the way of twenty- eight five- gallon bottles of water for the cooler as well as what the Seeleys––thank you for your bravery, by the way––have retrieved. We have no electricity, as you can see, but we do have sterno cans for our little burner in the break room and lots of canned goods that should last us, by our calculations, three weeks before we will need to address the food issue again."

I listened to him go on for a few more minutes before I raised my hand. Mr. Peters looked in my direction and gestured. "Mr. Randall? Question?"

I stood up. "Please, Mr. Peters, it's just Randy. Anyway, do you all have any clue as to what's going on? Is it everywhere else on the planet or are we the only ones going through this?"

Sandy walked across the lobby then leaned over and reached behind one of the teller windows. Turning around, she held up a radio. A battery powered one, at that.

Mr. Peters continued.

"We've been listening to the reports when we can find a channel that works. Folks, I won't lie to you. It does not look good."

Recorded accounts from Radio Station BAMR, Monday, 3/14/2016, 10:52 a.m., IOT(Indian Chagos Time):

Worldwide, all mechanical equipment was rendered useless by the overwhelming hordes of rodents. Mice, rats, weasels, voles and hamsters––domestic and wild––overwhelmed all facilities. Wires were eaten through, cords and cables severed. Fuel lines ruptured causing fiery explosions, blowing structures as well as humans hundreds of feet into the air, turning torn flesh, ruptured internal organs, mangled body parts into a nightmarish kind of rain as it all plummeted back to earth.

Sandy set the radio down and turned it on. She fiddled with the knob and antennae until she was able to get a clear station. The announcement going on was a recorded one which repeated and looped over and over. According to the message, the human race was in a shit storm of trouble.

Recorded accounts from Radio Station ZZRK, Friday, 3/18/2016, 9:55a.m., ADT(Atlantic Daylight Time):

Throughout the world's largest bodies of water, ships of all kinds were battered, slammed and smashed by the leviathans of the deep. Blue whales, sperm whales and hump backs picked floating targets and scuttled them. When the men made it into the waters, whether in life boats or wearing life vests, killer whales and sharks appeared en mass, dispensing them with vicious and bloody brutality.

The inhabitants of lakes, rivers and streams all rose up to terrorize, capsize and ultimately kill any human found attempting to escape via waterways.

On the beaches, masses of jellyfish and stingrays washed up with the rhythms of the tides, stinging and engulfing all bathers foolish enough to be in the waves and shallows. People swelled, gasping and screaming, twisting and writhing. Some died right on the spot, the poisons taking quick and deadly toll on the swimsuit-clad bodies.

We all listened to the recording three times, just to be sure it was real and not some 'War of the Worlds' joke. It was not. The reality sunk in that we may all be stuck with this situation not for days or weeks, but possibly months or years.

Thoughts raced through my mind regarding our food stores, water, and possible weapons which we had not even begun to collect. Better yet, would we be allowed to leave this place now that we were locked in? How long is it going to be before 'Cabin Fever' sets in?

The sinking pit in my stomach warred with the extreme desire to survive. Survival won.

I turned back to Mr. Peters. "Have any of you thought about weapons? We will need to arm ourselves to give us the best advantage of survival."

"Go look in the storage closet, Randy. Maybe you can keep stock of what we have and what more we will need."

I motioned to Mike to follow me to the back. He and I opened the closet and stood there in dismay. A few wooden handled hoes, a cleaning mop and bucket with two shelves of cleaning products, six kitchen knives and one gun––a .357 with a box of shells was our protection. Jesus wept.

"Terr-fucking-riffic," I growled, running my hands through my hair.

Mike stuck his hands in his pockets and let out a soft whistle. "Randy, old friend, we're gonna have to make a gun run."

I had to agree with Mike. "Okay, how far is the pawn shop from here?"

Mike turned and looked at me. "The pawn shop?"

"Yeah." I said, rubbing my cheek with my left hand. "That's probably the closest place that we can reach safely. Let's figure out a plan and present it to the group."

Mike and I put our heads together and came up with an idea.

We walked back to the others waiting in the lobby. We outlined our plan to the group, my last question being, "Are there any backpacks or canvas bags in here?"

Sylvia walked to the far section of the teller area and came back with two backpacks and a zippered canvas cash bag with a shoulder strap.

"Good enough." I grabbed one backpack and slung it on, the canvas bag going over my right shoulder. Mike grabbed the other backpack and we headed towards the entrance.

Mr. Toombs waited for my nod before he unlocked the padlock and slid the chain out just far enough to allow the two of us to squeeze through the space between the glass doors. Mike pulled out a can of furniture polish and a lighter. I lined up right behind him and we headed down the sidewalk.

I looked back at the windows of the bank, noting that there were minute cracks here and there. Birds littered the ground; big and small. Obviously, they had been systematically attacking the front, looking for a weak point. So far, they hadn't found one. Lucky us.

Mike kept the can at the ready, waiting for any kind of assault. We didn't have long to wait.

The birds came first, dive bombing with wings folded, beaks ready to punch and rip. Mike waited 'til the last second before he lit up the area five feet in front of us. Birds fell, squawking and screaming, burning and crashing into the pavement. I whipped out my can and covered our backs, all the while the two of us moving inexorably forward, toward the pawn shop on the corner. I blasted a small group of canidae––coyotes and foxes which tried to ambush us from behind. The blaze snagged one, causing it to leap into the animals around it, sending them scattering in a mad panic.

Mike and I made it to the pawn shop door, and the Gods must have been with us, because it was unlocked. We scooted in and filled the bags up with any and every kind of weapon we could grab. Satisfied with what we got, we knew it was time to head back to the bank.

We loaded two hand guns and headed back out the door, Mike once again in the lead. We stepped out, expecting to be swarmed, but there was nothing there. Birds, bugs, coyotes - nada, zip, zilch. This made me all the more nervous. I nudged Mike to move a little faster, cutting across the street because it seemed to be the shorter route.

Big mistake.

We were halfway across when the herd came thundering around the corner; a massive stampede that bore down on us like all the demons of Hell. Mike and I broke our formation and bolted for the doors, 'Hell bent for election,' as the saying goes.

I grabbed the front end of the canvas bag, Mike hiking up the back. Mr. Toombs had the bank door open and was screaming something at us, but we couldn't hear a thing due to the ringing of hooves and snorting bellows of the animals bearing down on us.

I slid into the doorway, the canvas bag still outside and Mike clinging to it for dear life.

He didn't make it.

The front wave of maddened herbivores hit him and spun him sideways and out, directly into their path. A steer dipped its head down and when it came up, Mike was impaled on its horns, screaming and spraying blood all across the enraged animal's back.

There was nothing anyone of us could do but watch as Mike was borne down the street and out of sight, screaming all the way.

I'd lost the canvas bag as well.

Last known recorded accounts from Radio Station MRFM, Saturday, 3/19/2016, 11:59 p.m., MSD(Moscow Standard Time):

Zoos, animal shelters, slaughterhouses––the inhabitants had either broken free or had been aided by other animals to escape, continuing on with murderous rampages aimed at any man, woman or child who crossed their paths. It was a nightmare no one expected and no human could halt.

The assault on our little sanctuary has lasted three weeks. Our supplies are running low and I know we're going to have to make a food run soon, but a lot of my fellow survivors spirits are broken. Suicide has been hinted at in conversations, but no one's taken that drastic step––yet.

I've been keeping this journal just in case anyone human survives. We've lost all contact with the outside world; all our little radio gets and has gotten for the last two weeks is nothing but static. Out of 6 billion people, how many of us are left is anyone's guess.

Unfortunately, this is more than likely my last entry. We thought we were safe here, that our little fortress was impenetrable, but it seems we'd all forgotten about the sanctuary that was about a hundred miles south of our town.

I can only hope there will be future generations of people who will read this and take heed. Was it Mankind's arrogant disregard for the other species who share this world with us that has led to our destruction? Who truly knows, but what I do feel all the way to my bones is that this could be the latest, maybe the last, attempt made by the planet's 'Lesser Creatures' (as we so foolishly deemed them) to be our final warning.

Maybe we'll listen.

Maybe, if it is not too late this time, we'll learn.

Last night, the elephants arrived.

The Skunk Ape

Kyle Flak

tall spooky trees

no sun peeking through

it is here

that he might

wish to grab you

# The Tentacled People

## Kevin S. Hall

The first signs of the infection came on the last day of January. Danny Short should have noticed them, but he was too busy making out with Diana Corby. She had been on his radar for many months. Danny had given her plenty of signals and she finally noticed tonight. It was tonight however, that the water supply was contaminated.

The Power Plant up on Carson's Hill had caught fire, and there had been lots of Top Secret experiments going on there over the year that people were concerned about. The explosion shook the town of Lofts Grove that everyone thought they were experiencing an Earthquake. The dark green sludge that splattered into the reservoir nearby seeped into the pipes and into the water supply.

No one at the time knew what was going on. It was just an explosion to them, caused by a faulty gas pipe. At least, that was the unofficial story. What really happened was Max Treyton had deliberately sabotaged the Plant. When he found out what they were planning to do...

Danny was down at the other end of the reservoir when the explosion happened. It had been a peaceful night up until then. He had picked out the spot because it was beautiful down there, even with the Power Plant on the hill in the distance. The blue water sparkled in the moonlight, and the dark green grass surrounding the reservoir swayed in the cool breeze.

They were lying down on a blanket on the grass. Danny had brown, wavy hair and handsome features, and he wore a black leather jacket, blue Levi jeans and a dark blue shirt. It was cool enough and he had made sure he wore his favourite aftershave. Diana was slim, sexy, with a dark denim jacket on, a tight red top and jeans. She was a brunette but wanted to be blonde––blonde highlights were through her hair too. They were both 23.

As they started to make out, Danny thought he was extremely lucky. One of the most beautiful women at college, and here he was with her. He reached into her top and she moaned. This was it. It was going to happen...

The first of the Power Plants towers exploded. It shattered into a million pieces, a large orange explosion going with it. It crumbled to the ground and then the rest of the building sparked up, a small chain of explosions that rocketed through its core. The second tower fell, shattering outwards. It didn't take long to fall at all.

Danny and Diana looked up suddenly, afraid, shocked and scared all at once, although Danny tried to remain tough. The dark green sludge came out like a waterfall, gushing down the hill and into the water. Some of it arched over and landed on Danny's neck. He cried out as it burned into his skin. Diana screamed as she noticed large, green boils begin to form all over his face. She ran, ran as fast as she could away.

"Diana!" Danny called out. "Please... DON'T... GOOOO!" His voice got deeper, growling almost. His body began to distort and change, bones snapping and he ripped off his jacket and shirt, feeling hot pain throughout his body. His face was turning a dark, slimy green. His nose was growing too into a long, snotty snout. His eyes turned complete black, and his ears grew. The boils on his back broke and large tentacles came spurting out, ten in total, withering and squirming. His body was now all a dark green, and his hands grew sharp claws. He roared and scampered off towards the town of Lofts Grove.

* * *

In town, the residents stirred. It was just after twelve, and many were in bed. But the rumblings outside had woken them. Lieutenant Bobby Moore stopped on the corner of High View, his hand by his batons side, ready for trouble. The explosions lit up the air like fireworks, and he turned to the hill where the Power Plant once stood. He watched in shock as the building crumbled. He didn't notice the dark green sludge as he ran down the street towards the police station.

Residents were screaming, running around and panicking. He had to get this under control. Bobby ran into the building and gathered all the police officers he could who were still on duty. There weren't many. Lofts Grove was usually a quiet town, where nothing bad every really happened. Today was about to change things forever.

The sky had gotten darker, and almost green in colour. Later, Bobby said he should have seen it coming, but with all the commotion going on it was an easy oversight. He walked into Detective Sam Burrett's office. His boss was on the phone and trying to retain some sense of order.

"Bobby... Hold on one sec." Sam didn't look happy. "I don't care if they are busy; I need all the man power I can get! Our Power Plant just exploded and there are crazy reports coming in. Now I need all available units here, pronto!" Sam puts down the phone. "Jesus, Bobby, what the hell is going on out there? It's like World War Three!"

Bobby sat down and sighed. "Some people are calling it The End Of Days. I really hope it isn't. I have seen some strange things in my time, but I swear one person's eyes was a dark green. I've never seen people so scared."

Sam nodded. "I know what you mean. The whole town suddenly feels...different. Something is coming. And I don't think that 'something' is going to be all that pleasant..."

* * *

Danny crashed onto High Street that same night. He roared on the highest point, his sticky green tentacles withering, and started to lumber down the road, townspeople moving out of the way, running into houses or shops, just to get away from this new monstrosity. He sniffed the air with his long green snout, scenting out fresh meat. Danny was the first but he wouldn't be the last.

Bobby emerged from the police station, wondering what this new noise was all about. It had certainly sent shivers down his spine. That roar was not human. Nor animal. It was...alien. He got out his gun as he saw the thing crashing down the road towards him. It was knocking cars out of the way like they were bowling balls, and each footstep sent shockwaves down the street.

Bobby steadied himself as he got nearer, gun drawn out, though he had no idea this would be any good against the thing coming towards him. It came too fast, almost terrifyingly fast, tentacles waving and trashing anything in their path. Bobby soon noticed his hand was shaking. He tried to steady the gun, but this was something new.

Sam suddenly nudged past Bobby, shotgun at the ready. He walked straight up to Danny, firing into his chest twice and then once in the head. Danny fell down, hitting the ground, blood spurting out everywhere. His withering and roaring ceased. Green substance oozed out of him too.

Bobby shook his head, rubbing his stubble. Sam turned to him, a little angry. "Jesus, Bobby. I thought you were good at this?"

Bobby just looked at him, dumbfounded by the question. "Boss...I'm sorry. I panicked; froze. I just...I just haven't seen anything like that before."

Sam sighed and lowered the shotgun. He supposed he shouldn't be too hard on him. He knew little about Code: Green Tentacle if anything. "I understand. This is new to me too," Sam lied. "But we need to keep our heads. If there's any more out there we need to be ready for them."

Bobby nodded. "I won't let it happen again. What do you want me to do?"

Sam sighed, thinking. He didn't want to create mass panic and hysteria if he could help it. "Seal down the whole town. No one is allowed to leave unless it is absolutely necessary. Carry out tests too, call Dr. Norris Bedlam. Have him test everyone for positive signs of infection. I want all available men stationed at various points throughout the town too. If shits going to go down, I want to be ready for it."

"Gotcha, sir. I'll try to keep all the reporters away. For now at least. I better call Carly. Make sure she is OK."

Sam smiled. "She's a lucky woman. OK, see you in a bit."

Bobby went to his dark blue car and climbed in. He was sweating. It had been an unnerving experience and one he hoped he didn't have to repeat any time soon. Danny's eyes...sharp, staring, unblinking and full of rage. He hoped his family were alright. His son, Gary. Only eighteen, ready to go to college. He had to get home now.

Bobby started the engine and began up the road to Harper's Lane. He drove by Danny's lifeless body, forensics already there in hazard suits, studying the body before taking it away to examine it. It seemed contained for now, but for how long? He shuddered, not wanting to think about it.

As he turned onto his street, people had started to gather outside. From on top of the hill here, it overlooked the Power Plant in the distant, with the reservoir nearby. It used to be such a scenic sight, but not anymore. The stench coming over was almost unbearable. Even in the car, with the windows shut, he could smell it.

Bobby stopped the car near his house and got out, holding his nose. He walked over to where his wife and son were standing, so glad they were both safe. The air out here was stale and it smelt like rotten cabbage. No, worse than that. Rotten flesh. Carly was there, standing on top of the hill and looking out. Felix, his son, was beside her.

"I see you've gathered quite a crowd," Bobby smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Carly turned around and smiled, hugging him close. "Bobby! Don't scare us like that again. I thought you were down there...caught in the explosion!"

"No, I'm fine. I'm glad you're OK. I thought..." He stopped. Maybe he shouldn't start a panic about the disease spreading just yet. "I just thought something had happened."

Carly smiled and shook her head. "No. We're always safe so long as you're around. Felix was asking for you."

"Dad...What was that green stuff that exploded in the sky?"

Bobby stopped, feeling a lump in his throat. So they had seen that. He wished that they hadn't. "We don't know yet, son," he lied. "It could be nothing. But if you see any do not approach it. Run away from it and tell me or your mum, OK?"

Felix nodded. "It's so cool!"

Bobby smiled. It was dangerous, scary, new, yet his son thought it was cool. If only he felt like that too. He ruffled his son's hair. "I guess it is. Come on, let's go and have dinner."

The three of them left, not realising that they were being watched by a mysterious Green Clothed Man with green sunglasses...

* * *

It was 2am that night when Bobby awoke to the sound of rapping. At first he thought he was still dreaming and just awakening from it. Then it became clearer and a little louder. He was getting angry––the noise could wake up his wife and son. He hoped this wasn't going to be an intruder. That was the last thing he needed right now.

Bobby got out of bed and slipped on his dressing gown. He peered over once more at his sleeping wife. Hard to believe she could sleep through all that racket. He moved out onto the landing. The rapping was getting louder, more annoying. He peered in on Felix who was still fast asleep. How come no one but him heard this noise?

He ran down the stairs and to the front door. He unlocked it and swung it open, his face fuming. There was no one there. Only the quiet street before him, which dipped down a hill and out of sight. Bobby shivered and shut the door again, rubbing his head. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing?

As Bobby turned to go, he was right in the face of a Green Clothed Man. His dark green suit and light green shirt; his dark green tie and dark green shoes; his dark green sunglasses and gloves. He was striking and looked so old, but also so young all at once, with a crooked nose and unshaven face. Even his greying, wispy hair had green streaks in it.

"C––can I help you?" Bobby asked, wanting to sound braver than he actually was. He was failing.

The GCM just stood and looked at him solemnly, not saying a word. Bobby was about to ask again, when the GCM put a bony long finger to his lips to silence him. Then he pointed up.

Bobby looked up to the ceiling, his eyes once angry, now wide with shock and fear. On his ceiling, crawling about up there like a green, slimy spider, was a Tentacled Person. It was looking down at them but not moving, probably waiting to strike. Its ten tentacles withered about and it was growling low.

The GCM casually took out a green umbrella from the inside of his jacket pocket, and held it up into the air. The tip of it shone green and a green light shot out, shooting through the creature which screeched and exploded. The GCM immediately opened the umbrella, shielding himself and Bobby from the green sludge.

After a moment, the GCM took out a small grey metallic ball from his trouser pocket, and rolled it on the floor. It spun around, a blue energy beam scanning the area. It looked as if it was cleaning up the green sludge. When it finished, the GCM clicked his fingers and it rolled towards him, gracefully lifting into his hand. The umbrella folded away and he smiled.

This all happened in the space of a few minutes, but for Bobby it felt like hours. He was just standing there with his jaw hanging open. "Who? How? Where?"

The GCM chuckled. "The who is irrelevant. The how...we are working on it. Code: Green Tentacle is strictly confidential. Where they came from? Earth. They have been here longer than us. The green sludge is some form of bacteria. It fixes itself onto humans, turning them into the Tentalicans. We believe there is a Queen living in this town. Somewhere. We need your help to stop her. Before she hatches a new breed of Tentacle People."

Bobby nodded, suddenly at a loss for words. His mouth had gone completely dry but he knew he had to do this to keep the town safe. He needed a drink. The GCM followed him into the kitchen and watched calmly, not saying a word until Bobby had taken a full swig of the whisky.

"It's just..."

"Too much. I know, Bobby, but I trust in you to make this right again. My people were reluctant to let me come here. They didn't think a lesser human would be capable of stopping the Tentalicans. But I said I can prove them wrong. I can rely on you can't I?"

Bobby nodded. "I need help. I can't do this on my own."

The GCM smiled. "Of course. Your son will be at your side. As will a certain professor Galen. You've heard of him?"

"I have," Bobby said. "But why my son? I don't want to put him in harm's way..."

The GCM sighed. "He is to carry on my legacy. He is to become a GCM like me. But to do that, he must make the ultimate test."

"And what is that?" Bobby asked, not wanting to know.

"All will become clear in time. Right now, you need to gather your men and contain this situation. There will be more Tentalicans out there now. These need to be stopped before they spread. I trust the town is quarantined?"

"It is," Bobby said. We have two armoured tanks in town and they are at both sides. My men are trained and experienced to deal with anything."

The GCM nodded. "Good. That's a start. OK, we need to leave here. Get your wife to a Safe House then we will try to put a stop to this thing once and for all."

The two of them headed upstairs, little did Bobby know that the real horror was yet to come.

* * *

In all the commotion, no one had seen the Queen hiding in the old abandoned church on the outskirts of town. It was laying fresh eggs. Fresh parasites that will soon fill the water supply, then the rivers, then the oceans, turning the water into a dark green sludge.

It sat on a large pile of human bones––a slimy, pulsating mass, with twenty tentacles withering, all with blinking human-like eyes on them. The next was slithering with veins and it's head had no eyes. It had a large mouth with rows and rows of sharp, snapping teeth. It sneered and spat, trying to move. Soon it would break free but for now it needed to rest. Its young would see to the humans and destroy them. An almost human laugh escaped from its mouth, but it hadn't been human for a long time. In the dark, it waited.

Bobby made sure his wife was safe after a few minutes of arguing, realising he was right. She went to live at her sisters in the town 25 minutes away. Now that he knew no trouble would befall her, he could concentrate on the task at hand. Felix had been surprisingly excited to be involved with this. Of course, by now the town knew of what was happening. Chaos had luckily been reduced to a minimum, and people were actually prepared to help out.

Bobby sat in his police car, silent and lost in thought. Felix was beside him––a smart boy but still vulnerable. His eagerness made Bobby smile. He had been like that at Felix's age, and it was nice to see him full of enthusiasm and ready for anything. But as they patrolled the streets, they noticed how eerily quiet and deserted the place was.

Lofts Grove wasn't the busiest of small towns, but on a Friday night the place was usually rocking. Not tonight, but Bobby guessed that was understandable. And they had put a 9pm curfew in place. The dark sludge only seemed to come out at night. They were on the lookout for any signs of it. For the past two nights however, there had been no sign, and that worried Bobby. The Queen must be up to something, and he still had no idea where she could be.

Along Shard Avenue, Felix noticed something out of the corner of his eye. "Dad! Stop the car."

"What is it, son?"

Felix pointed to one of the alleyways, where there was a pool of dark green sludge splattered on the side of Rock N Rollar's record shop. It was now seeping down the alley towards the road.

Bobby slowed the car down and killed the engine, getting out of the vehicle, carrying the black umbrella the GCM had given him. He pointed it towards the sludge and it exploded, a shriek coming from within. Bobby then rolled out the metallic ball and it cleared the sludge up. This was becoming too easy. He knew the Queen wouldn't be so easy to disperse of, but he needed a challenge.

There were groans and moans coming from the alley. He had spoken too soon. Bobby peered into the gloom and saw half a dozen people lumbering towards him. Well, they used to be people. Their tentacles were swaying dangerously and their new rows of teeth snapped and hissed at him. They screeched when they saw Bobby, the sound making the hairs on his back stand up on end.

Bobby slammed the car door shut and started up the engine. It wouldn't go. The tyres screeched and the car seemed to be stuck! Bobby turned to his son who didn't even look afraid. He handed him the umbrella and metallic ball.

"Son...take this and go. You must stop the Queen from escaping and put a stop to this!"

"Dad, why can't you come with me? What are you not telling me?"

Bobby was reluctant at first but slowly turned around. Felix's eyes widened. On the back of his father's neck was a green blob of sludge. It was seeping into the neck, not letting go.

"You must go now! Before you get infected too! I love you, son. Tell your mother I love her too and I died fighting. Go. Go now!"

Felix held back the tears. His father was right. He had to be brave now. He took the devices and left the car, running away and not looking back. As he rounded the corner he heard six gunshots...Then a seventh. Bobby had taken his own life. Felix began to cry as he ran towards the outskirts of town and the old church...

The thunder rumbled outside. A storm was coming. Sam could feel it. He drove down the High Street, noticing fires burning here and there as people were desperately trying to kill off the sludge. Cars lay abandoned and bodies were piling up, burning. The smell was awful. He had to get this town back under control before it was too late.

As he got to the outskirts he noticed a small boy disappear into the abandoned church. It hadn't been used in months, due to rot and decay. Could the Queen be in there? He trusted Bobby would be on this, but he wanted to know where that boy was going and what he knew.

Felix was drawn to the whispers coming from within. He didn't know why but terror was gripping him like never before. He wanted to run but something was pulling him closer to the sounds.

The large doors to the church creaked open and Felix stepped inside. The wind howled hollow and low, whistling through the cracks of the old building. Felix took out a torch from his jacket pocket and flicked it on, scanning the area. The seats had seen better days. Cobwebs hung eerily in the corners. A smell rose up, like rotting cabbage...no, it was worse than that. It smelled like death. Felix tried not to gag as he made his way down the rows of seats towards the front.

The alter was there, dusty and cracked. A statue of Jesus was on the wall behind this, looking down. There was a door to the right, which was creaking slightly. Felix made his way towards it now, sweat forming on his forehead. It was stupid of him to come in here without help, but he couldn't help it.

He pulled open the door and noticed stone steps going down towards darkness. Felix shivered, gripping the umbrella in one hand, ready for anything. The steps felt uneven as he went down them. There was a drip, drip of water coming from somewhere. The walls felt sticky to the touch.

Felix felt like the steps went on forever, until he finally rounded the last corner and stepped off them. The sight that greeted him was so hideous, deformed and gruesome he nearly looked away. The thing snarled when it saw fresh meat, snapping, trying to get to him.

Felix pointed the umbrella towards it, a green light shining out. The creature roared in surprise and pain, as the light burned into its green slimy body. Felix thought he was winning. The creature suddenly broke free, dark brown wings sprouting up from its back. It hovered in the air, before rising upwards.

Sam entered the church and stopped dead in his tracks. All the rows were filled up with Tentalicans. They hadn't seen him yet as they were facing away from him, looking at the altar. They had heard him though and they all turned towards him, their long green snouts sniffing the air.

Sam could make out friends and people he once knew, but no sign of Bobby which was a relief. He pointed his measly gun at them, his hands shaking. They could smell the fear on him. Why wasn't he brave? He should be. There looked to be no way out.

The creatures began to move out of their seats towards him, a mass of green tentacles slithering like a dark green sewer. Sam backed away, whimpering. Then, the next few moments happened so quickly.

Felix appeared at the top of the steps and cried out. The Tentalicans stopped and turned towards him. Felix took out the metallic ball and rolled it into the centre of the aisles. It shone a blue light out of the top, spreading across the rows. The Tentalicans screeched and splattered everywhere. Luckily, Sam was far enough away so he didn't get any on him. The sludge seeped into the metallic ball, making it shudder.

Sam was breathing heavily, trying to regain composure. He looked when he saw Felix walking towards him, smiling.

Sam smiled back. "Jesus, Felix. That was...some display. Where's your father? Is he around?"

Felix's smile faded and he lowered his head. "My father is dead. He died saving me and stopping some of the Tentalicans. But it's not over yet. The Queen is down there, trying to escape. I've kept her at bay just now, but it's only a matter of time."

Suddenly the whole church began to shake. Sam grabbed Felix's arm and they made for the door. "Come on. We can stop this."

Both of them rushed outside. Sam grabbed his walkie talkie from the side of his trousers. "This is GCM 1 to all other GCM'S. Code: Green Tentacle is go. I repeat––Code: Green Tentacle is a go!" He turned to Felix, smiling. "It's best if we stand quite far back. This is going to be something special."

The church was shaking violently. It suddenly rose from the ground, gracefully and hovered for a moment before moving to one side, a few yards from where it had been sitting. The Queen rose out of the ground, shrieking and flapping its brown wings.

"Now!" Sam barked into the walkie talkie. A brilliant green force field sprung up around the creature, holding it captive. The ground beneath it began to shake and a silver, metallic sphere rose out of the ground. It spun, faster and faster until it encompassed the creature, trapping it inside. The sphere shot out of the force field and up into the sky.

A large tank came into view, with the GCM from earlier inside. He aimed its turret towards the sphere, where it fired upon it, exploding it into tiny pieces.

Sam smiled, turning to Felix whose jaw had been open the whole time. "It's alien tech. We GCM's are infused with Grey DNA. They came to our planet during the Roswell crash. They knew this was going to happen so gave us technology to prepare us. But we couldn't do it alone. Your dad was given DNA to continue the work, and he past some of it onto you."

"I...I am to become a GCM?" Felix asked.

Sam nodded. "With time and training. There are many more threats out there and we want you to be ready for them. We will be watching over you."

"The Tentalicans...Are they all gone?"

Sam grinned. "You saw them all in there. They were drawn to her. Other creatures won't be so easy to overcome. But by then you will be a fully-fledged member of the GCM Initiative––if you want to be that is."

Felix nodded. "Yes I do! This is going to be awesome!"

Sam smiled. "The lady you will meet soon is a Dr. Sands. She will train you and so will a dozen of my best men. This will be long and hard, but rewarding. The path to success is just around a long corner. Learn well, Felix. Now go. We can clear up here. Your mother will be waiting for you. We will contact you shortly."

Felix walked away. As he went further down the hill, he turned to the scene. More GCM's turned up. They looked uncannily like Sam. Were they all clones? This was just like something out of a movie, but Felix knew this was very real. It was a lot to take in but he knew he could do this and make his mother proud.

His mother.

He had missed her so much and needed to go and see her right now.

As he got into a taxi and sped off towards the town where she was, he didn't notice more storm clouds had gathered overhead. Whispers in the darkness, watching him go. Their voices would be heard soon enough. For now though, they waited.

The taxi arrived at his auntie's house. The wind had picked up but Felix didn't seem to notice that something was wrong. He was just happy to be seeing his mother again.

Felix greeted his mother at the door. She smiled at him as they hugged and she took him by the hand, ready to start a new life. He had so much to tell her but would she believe him? Right now he had to mourn the death of his father. The healing could begin and they could move on, for the moment at least.

What Felix didn't realise though, was his mother had killed her sister and fiancé. A green sludge-like blob was on the back of her neck. She smiled as a new race was about to begin...

This was only the first stage in the GCM Chronicles. The rest was yet to come

# Knives Crossed

## Josh Walker

"The Inca's empire extended just to Chiloé Island." Our guide began the tour of Ancud's dimly lit, two wing museum. With a thick Spanish accent he asked. "Does anyone know why they never came here?"

"Because nobody wanted to put up with this weather." Brian answered, pointing out the window at the heavy rainfall. "I hope it stops soon."

"No, it wasn't because of rain. Does anyone else care to venture a guess?"

"They never came here because they knew Chiloé is cursed." Peter interjected, pushing his glasses up with a finger before they slipped off his nose. "They called it the land of seagulls. The water around the island is black, cold, and unhospitable. An angry wind howls a warning every night. This is the Devil's land. People were never meant to live here. Dark creatures still inhabit the forests... At least that is what I read on the bus ride here.

"Right, very impressive but let me add that the true magic of this place – the inexplicable sounds at night, strange shadows in the forest, lights flashing across the sky...you can't appreciate it until you've lived through it." He smiled. "I grew up here in Ancud. Don't let the green trees and copihue flowers fool you. There are real monsters in the woods. This is like no place you've ever been, so I do advise you pay attention during our tour. You did say you plan to camp tonight, yes?"

"We do." I confirmed.

"And we should be heading out soon, pops." Brian interrupted. "So let's get this tour going."

"Please call me Fabian." The guide said. "Come this way."

The five of us followed and he lead us from one gray, stone statue to the next, explaining their unique place in Chilota mythology. Their signs read: Fiura, Chilean Basalisk, Cai-CaiVilu, Ten-Ten Vilu, Pincoya, and Millalobo. We came to the final statue. It was a small goblin with cloven feet and a wrinkled face, wearing a triangular hat, holding a walking stick in one hand and a hatchet in the other.

Fabian sighed and yawned before speaking. Was it possible for a tour to be given by someone with less enthusiasm? "Our final exhibit is the Trauco. No one is really sure where the Trauco comes from. Some say he is a fallen angel cursed by God. Others think he is the son of the demon snake Cai-CaiVilu who inherited his father's hate for humanity.

"A powerful warlock, he channels spiritual energy through a walking stick, using it to magnify a variety of spells. His most powerful of which instantly attracts any woman to him in spite of his hideous appearance. He prefers to use this ability on younger woman, like the two in your group today."

"Gross." Gabbie cringed.

"Indeed, we have many young, single mothers on the island. Most claim to have never been with a man, blaming the Trauco for their pregnancy and saying they have no recollection of their deflowering."

"Dude, I don't think deflowering is a word." Brian said.

"Perhaps you would like me to use a less delicate description of how he treats them?" Fabian raised an eyebrow.

"Deflowering is fine." Peter interjected.

"Good, then let's move on. What the Trauco does to men is far worse. With just a glance he can kill them, slowly draining their energy until their heart stops or, if he is in a sportier mood he might kill them with his hand axe. With it he is strong enough to cut down any tree on the island with just one swing."

"You say that like you believe he's real." I observe.

"I do. Stay on Chiloé long enough and you will too." He grinned. "Anyway, I'll be taking my leave. Feel free to look about the museum. We close in thirty minutes." He turned and walked back toward the reception area located between the two wings.

"That is kind of creepy." Emily, my girlfriend, declared, her blue eyes looking up at me. "Remind me again. Why didn't we spend our spring break in Cabo like normal college students?"

"Because Peter convinced us it would be more fun to go camping on a haunted island." I answered, casting a smile in his direction. "He didn't mention it would be like winter in Seattle, all rainy and stuff. I don't think he said anything about evil, magic goblins with pig feet either."

At least all the humidity makes for pretty scenery." Peter answered.

"Plus my parents wouldn't let me go to Cabo. They said it was too dangerous." Gabbie chimed in. Then she blew her long, black bangs out of her eyes.

"And a Spring break without Gabbie wouldn't be any fun at all." Brian added, grabbed her from behind, pulled her closer, and brushed her hair aside to kiss her on the back of the neck.

"Glad you noticed." She tilted her head back, met his lips with hers, and let him wrap his arms around her waist. They held the kiss, showing no sign of letting up.

"Guys, we should get going if we are going to set up camp before nightfall." I suggested, leaned on a table, and looked outside. "At least the rain has stopped."

"The ground will still be muddy and wet, though. We should probably stay in a hotel tonight. I just checked my IPhone. There is a hotel along the plaza. That's two or three blocks from here." Peter explained.

"Peter is right. We should probably stay in a hotel tonight. It's not so easy to set up a tent, let alone three. I don't think there would be enough time to make camp." Emily said.

"You are just agreeing with him because he's your brother." I told her. "But I won't argue. Both of you have camped before. None of the rest of us ever have."

"A hotel is fine with me so long as Gabbie and I get our own room and a little privacy." Brian agreed.

"First, I need something to eat. Then some privacy sounds nice." She winked at him.

"There are plenty of corner stores in towns like this. I'm sure we'll happen across one." Peter said.

"Let's get going then. I'm kind of hungry myself." I urged.

We walked past the statues and back to the museum exit. A wall of humidity hit as we stepped outside. Inhaling the thick air was like breathing humidifier steam.

I took a quick glance back at the museum. Dark stone formed the outer wall, extending up into circular towers on each corner like a medieval castle. Thirty feet behind the building, a steep incline dropped into dark Pacific waters. In the opposite direction was Ancud's downtown. Stratus clouds blanketed the entire sky. A cool sea breeze made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The late afternoon sun glared behind the cloud cover, casting long shadows from the buildings, houses, bushes, and trees.

Gabbie suddenly swore aloud and added some clarification as to why. "I just stepped in a pile of cow poo!"

"It's not cow. I'm not sure what it is." Peter explained.

"Does it matter" She glared.

"Umm...I suppose not. Although, I am curious about what it might be. Emily and I grew up on a ranch and those types of tracks by the feces are not from an animal I'm familiar with. I've seen similar tracks all over town."

"Whatever." She growled, trying to wipe her shoe off in the dark green lawn in front of the museum. "Can we just find this hotel fast, so I can get my shoe cleaned off?"

"Sure, this way." Peter explained, clueless of how annoyed Gabbie was. We trailed him as he led us across a busy asphalt street and up a small hill into downtown. For as crummy as the weather was there were an awful lot of people out and about, shuffling in and out of two and three story stores. We slid past them, bumping shoulders with everyone, like a freshman going from one class to another during his first day of high school.

"There, we can get some food to eat there!" Peter pointed with both hands as he snapped his fingers. I think he was trying to be cool. Was he really going to be my future brother-in-law? I wondered how he would react when we finally got around to telling him that I was going to marry his sister. I mean, we teased him about it all the time and he didn't seem to like the idea all that much.

"El Tib...bear...on." Brian struggled to read the restaurant's sign.

"El Tiburón." Peter corrected. "It means The Shark." He turned to me. "Why don't you come with me and we'll get some food to go." He looked back to the others. "Emily speaks Spanish. She can get us checked into the hotel and we'll meet up there."

"Sounds good to me." Gabbie replied.

"Me too." I said. Something told me Peter had a reason for picking me to help him. I gave Emily a quick goodbye kiss, said my see you in a bits to the others, and followed Peter into the local. He didn't bother with saying goodbye. Apparently geniuses see things like that as unnecessary formalities.

A bell rang as we passed through the front door. "Yavoy." A voice yelled from a back room. The place was mostly empty, no people, just a small counter with a dark, iron wood stove along one wall and some booths with yellow seats along the other. The walls were painted blue with white wisp-like waves. Some fans spun overhead. Why would anyone keep fans going with the already humid cool air? It was freezing. A chalkboard behind the counter had different foods listed along with their prices written in rainbow colors. Most of the options were seafood.

A large bald man emerged from the back room, finding his place behind the counter and smiling. "¿Qué van a tener?" What are you going to have?

Peter answered. "Lo estoy pensando. Oiga, le tengo una pregunta. ¿De qué son esos huelles que vimos afuera?" I'm still thinking about it. Hey, I have a question for you. What made those tracks we saw outside?

"Umm..." The man's grin was replaced with confusion, probably at Peter's randomness. "Eran del Trauco. Últimamente él ha estado por aquí. ¿Van a pedir algo para comer?" It was from the Trauco. Lately, he's been around these parts. Are you going to order something to eat?

I sighed. Peter was so gullible. His eyes were wide open. Awestruck, he didn't seem like he was even capable of answering, so I finally did and ordered our food."Si pos. Claro que vamos a pedir algo. ¿Podemos tener unos doce empanadas de pino y cinco platos de bistec a lo pobre para llevar?"

The man nodded and went to preparing the order. "You speak Spanish?" Peter seemed even more surprised that I spoke another language than he had with hearing that the Trauco had been hanging around town.

"Yeah, I do." I winked.

"But how? Aren't you on a football scholarship?"

His implication wasn't beyond me but knowing he didn't mean it to be offensive, I tried to ignore it. "Yeah, I am but before I was catching footballs to pay for my education I was a missionary here, in Chile. You never wondered why it was so easy to convince me to come on this trip?"

"I never thought about it. Since you were a missionary that means you're religious, right? So you won't try to sleep with my sister then?"

"You wanted to get me alone just to ask that question, huh?"

"Yup." He shook his head up and down.

"Fair enough." I paused to think. "You and I both know that even if I wanted to she wouldn't let me. Her holding tight to her convictions is one of the things I admire about her. I'd never disrespect her by trying anything. That's why we have three tents remember? One for Gabbie and Brian, one for you and your sister, and one for me."

"Good." He patted my shoulder. Suddenly, his eyes lifted to the window behind me. "What's that?"

I turned but didn't see anything. "What's what?"

"I'm not sure." He squinted. "It must have been a shadow, maybe a stray dog coming to beg for some food.

We waited in silence, staring out the window at the plaza as the man finished heating pre-made meat empanadas, cooking thin slices of meat, and preparing fresh French fries.

By the time dinner was done, some thirty minutes later, the sun was down, the rain was back, and the wind had picked up. We took the plastic bags with our food, thanked the man, and walked out the door, making the bell ring as we exited.

Heavy rain fell diagonally so remaining under roof overhangs did little to keep us dry. It didn't take more than a minute to get to our hotel, along town square two blocks away, but that was more than enough time for us to be soaked. Before going inside I took a moment to examine the plaza. Small bronze statues were placed around a red gazebo.

A strange sound in the sky drew my attention, similar to a witches cackle on an old Halloween cartoon. My eyes searched for its source. A light flashed like a shooting star, disappearing up into the clouds and the laughter stopped. Peter and I just had to look at each other to confirm we had both seen and heard the same thing, and we rushed into the hotel, fleeing from...well, whatever we had just witnessed.

About time you guys got here." Brian complained. "The others are upstairs in one of our rooms. They made me come wait so that I can show you where they are. Now you are here, so let's go. After we eat we wanted to try out the swimming pool."

"It isn't good to eat then swim. You'll get a cramp." Peter wrinkled his forehead.

"Whatever." Brian said, standing up and leading us up a flight of stairs to our rooms on the second floor. Rooms 201, 202, and 203 were bunched together, two on one side of the hall and one on the other. "Yours is that one." Brian told me, pointing at the room opposite the others. "Peter you and Emily will be staying in this one." He knocked on the indicated door.

Emily opened the door and observed. "You're soaked." She was already in a bright yellow and fluorescent pink, one piece swimsuit. It complemented her athletic slim figure. Her blonde hair was let down, hanging over her shoulder and halfway down her back. I made a concentrated effort not to stare. She stepped back. "Well are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"

"Umm...coming in?" Peter answered.

"It was a rhetorical question, genius. You didn't have to answer it." Gabbie's voice quipped from an unseen corner of the room. Towels flew at us from the same corner. "Dry off."

We slid past Emily and as we picked up the towels to dry off Gabbie came into view. Her black, string bikini left little for the imagination. As weird as it may sound I've never been attracted to girls who don't value modesty, so, even though Gabbie was pretty enough to be a swimsuit model, I wasn't impressed. Careful not to let my judgment show, I finished drying off, put my heavy backpack and sleeping bag combo on the floor, set the food on the table, and distributed the empanadas, pulling them out of the bag one at a time. I explained. "If you don't like these, we have French fries, too."

"Potatoes don't actually come from France. French fries get their name from the style used to cut the potatoes. It originated in France." Peter proudly declared.

Emily humored her brother, pretending to be interested as he spouted out potato trivia. When we finally finished eating I learned more about the vegetable than I ever wanted to know.

Unable to bare more I interrupted the conversation, excusing myself from the room. "If we are going swimming, then we should go do it now. I'm going to go change. I'll meet you guys at the pool."

Lifting my backpack off the ground, I made my way to my room, and got dressed. It surprised me that a three story, twenty room hotel could support a pool. That is until I realized the hotel's pool was actually an indoor public pool next door, connected inside by a short hall with a clear, glass door on each side. When I got there no one else was there, not even a lifeguard nor towel boy. The pool was small and shallow, only five feet at its deepest point and barely long enough and wide enough to swim a few strokes from one edge to the next. Three of the four fluorescent lights along the ceiling had burned out. The remaining light flickered, desperately fighting to keep the dimly lit room from going completely dark.

"So much for Marco Polo." Peter said as he and the others joined me. I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, or if he was legitimately sad.

"I like it." I tried to be the optimist.

"Me too, it reminds me of the kiddy pool we used to have, just needs the pink octopuses." Emily agreed.

"Octopi." Peter corrected.

"Does he ever stop?" Gabbie complained.

A violent gust of wind howled outside, beating against the window. In Wyoming we are used to the wind, so that didn't bother us. What was bizarre was the howling continued even after the wind died down.

We tried to ignore the sound... and the light in the sky... and the unexplained laughter... and the shadow in the window... and the Trauco footprints. Come to think of it we really should have caught on and left the island then and there, but even if we had it might not have been soon enough.

I was the first into the pool, sitting on the edge with my feet and lower legs in the water. Once I confirmed it was a comfortable temperature I let myself sink the rest of the way in.

"Catch!" Emily yelled. I turned around just as she jumped at me. I barely got my hands up in time, caught her, and gently lowered her until her feet met the bottom of the pool. Gabbie and Brian jumped in behind us, each creating a splash. Peter, still with a t-shirt on, chose to sit in a plastic chair at pool's edge. I don't get why he bothered to change into his trunks if he wasn't going to swim.

"Watch this." Brian whispered, making his way toward Peter.

"Don't." I warned him, guessing at his intentions.

"You're no fun. A little water wouldn't have hurt him." He argued.

"Sorry, man." I grinned. "Can't let you mess with my future cuñado." I used the Spanish word meaning brother-in-law. Just because Brian couldn't mess with Peter didn't mean I wasn't allowed to.

"Hey!" Peter protested. "I'm not your cuñado."

"You will be soon enough." I grinned.

"Oh, really?" Emily jumped in. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No." Peter and I answered in unison. Although I was joking when I said it I'm not so sure Peter was. What did he have against me?

Emily was about to say something when the lone, remaining fluorescent light flickered out.

"Heeheehee." A raspy high pitched snicker pierced the darkness. "Linda, que son lindasellas." The voice was close. If it wasn't in the pool with us it was right next to us. It didn't make sense. How could there be someone else in what was a seemingly empty room? None of the doors opened. If they had we would have heard them. Then it hit me. The hotel must be messing with us, using the P.A. system.

"It is a practical joke." I declared.

"What did they say?" Emily questioned.

"That the girls are pretty." Peter explained.

The light came back on. Everything was the same as before: an empty room, the five of us, and nobody else. I pointed at the ceiling. "Look at the speakers. The hotel must play this prank on all the tourists."

"Yeah." Emily timidly and hopefully agreed.

We swam another hour or so. Then we went back to our respective rooms to get some sleep. The long morning of traveling, an afternoon spent carrying a heavy backpack around Ancud, and an evening of swimming had worn me out just about as much as one of Coach's two a days. Once my head hit the pillow I was out.

A shrill scream woke me, shooting adrenalin through my body. It came from across the hall. I ran to Emily and Peter's room first. Peter was still asleep. Throwing back the covers of Emily's bed confirmed my suspicion. She wasn't there.

"He took them." Brian mumbled, stumbling into our room, holding a white towel tight against the back of his head, crimson beginning to soak into it.

"Who?" I asked.

"That goblin thing."

"The Trauco?"

"Yeah, I was almost asleep when I heard a tapping on the window. When I opened my eyes I saw it holding Emily over its shoulder. Gabbie was walking toward it, like she was sleep walking or something. I tried to stop her, but she broke a lamp over the back of my head."

Upon hearing Brian's story I hurried over to his and Gabbie's room. Curtains over the open window were wet from the rain and fluttering from a breeze passing through the opening. Looking outside, all I saw was an empty plaza.

***

The police didn't help us any, laughing as they told us this sort of thing happens all the time and that the girls would turn up, safe and sound, within the week. They even had the nerve to threaten to arrest us once they saw we weren't leaving on our own, saying we were imposing on their official duties. Apparently their official duties included watching girls in short shorts and tank tops dancing on late night television.

"Why don't we ask our museum guide, Fabian, for help?" Peter suggested.

"Why would he be able to help us?" Brian panted. He didn't look like he was feeling well. His skin was turning pale. It didn't make sense. The cut on his head wasn't that deep and had stopped bleeding. His eyes were dilating and he knew stuff: his birthday, the president, what day it was, what country we were in, so it wasn't a concussion.

"Fabian seemed like he believed what he was telling us. If he doesn't know how to find the girls maybe he'll know someone who does." Peter reasoned.

"Sounds good to me, not like we have many other options." I said. "Problem is the museum doesn't open for another six hours."

"Maybe there will be a night guard on duty. He might tell us where Fabian lives." He answered.

Brian agreed. "Fine, but give me a second to catch my breath."

***

Sunlight crept over the horizon, igniting the sky a brilliant shade of orange that reflected over the bay's surface as we knocked on the museum's door.

"I thought you might be back." Fabian said from behind us, causing us to jump. When we turned he was using a gray cloak with the hood pulled over his head. I notice the Trauco's footprints on the way home last night. It makes sense he would go after the girls that were with you. They were both very pretty. He took them didn't he? Now you want my help?"

"We do Peter responded. "Can you help us find them?"

"I can, but to be honest, you should be more worried about saving your friend here." He pointed at Brian. "The Trauco's spell will kill him by tomorrow morning if you don't stop it."

"What?!" Brian winced and started to fall.

I caught him.

Fabian continued. "You tried to get between him and the girls didn't you" He sighed, unlocked the door, and held it open. "Come inside. Let me explain what you need to do to find the girls. If you can steal the Trauco's walking stick, while you're at it, and bring it back to me you might be able to save your friend, too."

We stepped inside, Brian using me as a crutch, his energy exponentially draining. Fabian shut and locked the door behind us and led us to a doorway against the back wall of the west wing. I am sure the door wasn't there the last time we were here. It led to a small stone room. A bed was against the far wall. Flames from a fire pit provided the only lighting. A bookshelf housed unlabeled jars whose contents varied in color. Only one level was dedicated to keeping books. None of their titles were written using letters from the Latin alphabet. I could only guess what was inside the drawer in the base of the shelf.

"Put your friend in the bed." Fabian ordered. We did. He removed olive green leaves from one of the jars, placed them in a pan, lit them, and slid it under the bed. "This will help keep him alive while you go find the girls and get the Trauco's walking stick."

"How do we find him?" I asked.

"You follow this." He pulled a map out from between two of the books, unfolded it, and set it on the floor as he sat next to it. It was a map of Ancud and the surrounding areas. Flames in the pit began to jump and change color as he started to chant. I wasn't familiar with the language he used. A small dot of light appeared on the map, a few miles outside of Ancud. "That is where you will find the Trauco and the girls. If he moves so will the dot..."

"Of course if you go how you are now he will just kill you, using the same spell he used on your friend." He opened the drawer, reached his hand in, and removed four identical, silver medallions. By design they were empty circular boarders. Two miniature knives had been positioned to cross in the middle of the empty center. Each had a matching silver chain. "One for each of you." He pointed at Peter and me. "And one for each of the girls once you find them. These will protect you against the Trauco's magic, but just because he cannot hurt you with his enchantments doesn't mean he can't harm you in other ways, like with his axe for example."

"What about Brian? Won't one of these help him?" I asked

"The Trauco's magic begins in the mind of his victim. With women it stays there, controlling their thoughts and desires. With men it expands, poisoning the body, infecting every cell with the monster's hate. These charms will protect your minds and those of the girls, removing the creature's control over them. Remember, once they're safe, you need to bring me the Trauco's walking stick or your friend, in the bed over there, he will die."

I turned to Peter. "Let's get going. There's no taxi that will take us to the girls. We'll have to hike."

***

A few hours later we were near our objective. Our progress was slower than I would have liked, but we had to take it easy for Peter's sake. If and when we made it back to the United States he was going to be starting a workout regimen with me as his personal trainer, whether he wanted to or not.

Peter optimistically deduced. "The dot hasn't moved any. That's good. It indicates that since the Trauco hasn't moved in all this time he probably won't move it all before we get to him."

"Right." I didn't want to trample his good spirits by explaining the Trauco remaining in one place meant it could be violating his sister as we spoke. A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of it.

We pushed through the pathless vegetation, straining through the foliage until a stream of smoke appeared. Locating its source only took a few minutes. It was a makeshift hut: leaves for the roof, walls made from sticks and a native plant similar to bamboo, and a glassless window.

Sneaking to the window, I peaked inside. The statue of the monster in the museum did not nearly begin to represent the true hideousness of the Trauco. At first his face was hidden by the brim of his whicker hat. He was standing up, maybe four feet tall.

When he looked u my immediate reaction was to look away. Wrinkly green skin on his face was covered in warts and boils. A few popped boils still had remnants of skin lazily hanging. He didn't even bother to wipe the puss away. Dark beady yellow eyes match his rotting, yellow crooked teeth. Streams of fluorescent, emeralds saliva dripped from the roof of his mouth as he opened it. His ears were nothing more than holes with a flap of skin, like a lobe. His long, plumb nose made me wonder how he saw things when they were up close.

His sleeveless arms and hands reminded me of the incredible hulk, green and muscular. His body was clothed in interwoven straw which covered him to his knees. It looked like he had the V-cut body builders strive for. His legs were the opposite his upper body, skinny stumps wrapped in bandages with small cloven feet. It was like seeing a pirate with two peg legs. How did the creature even balance like that? His axe hung from a piece of straw he used as a belt.

"You come to Trauco now. Trauco happy you here now." He spoke. It was the same voice as the night before by the pool. Following His line of sight, I found the girls. He was talking to Gabbie who stood and started walking to him. "Yes, you come here. Dark, pretty, long hair come to me. You first. You happy to be first?"

"Yes, baby, I am. You make me happy." Her voice matched her facial expression and movements, lifeless.

"The other girl wait. The pretty, blonde girl. You wait to be next."

"As you wish, baby." Emily answered.

"Peter." I whispered. "I'll distract him and get him out of there. When it's clear take the medallions to the girls. I don't see his walking stick. Try to find it while you're in there." I took a deep breath, stood, looked straight at the Trauco, and yelled. "Oye, feo!"

His head turned, and he sneered, circular eyes turning into slits, flashing white. Then his features softened, turning into confusing. "Magic no work?"

"Sorry, you'll have to do better than that." I taunted. "Come and get me, ugly."

"I do better!" He yelled, inserting renewed anger into his voice. "Spell no work. My axe work." He removed it from his hip and hurled it.

I thought my quarterback could throw hard, but he had nothing on the Trauco. Ducking just in time to avoid the sharpened edge, I made I miss. I stood and watched as it flew past. It chopped through one branch after another as if they weren't even in its way. Then it did something unexpected, curving back like a boomerang. I dropped down, again. It flew back over my head.

"Gotcha!" The Trauco yelled, now in the window, his axe in hand. He swung at me. I rolled away. The weapon cracked through the outer wall where my head had been, exploding it into pieces of debris. Hopping to my feet, I ran. In twelve years I'd run every football route tens of thousands of times. Every ounce of that experience helped me avoid trees as I changed direction, keeping at full speed. Not that it mattered. The Trauco wasn't even behind me. It took me at least a hundred yards to realize it. I sprinted back as fast as I could.

"Please don't!" I heard Peter squeal. When I peered inside he was being held by the girls, one on each arm.

"You think you take girls from Trauco?" The Trauco crept toward him, axe in hand. "They Trauco's girls. It not personal you die. Trauco have to kill. Trauco like girls. Trauco no let you take them."

"Emily, I'm your brother." Peter struggled.

I slipped quietly into the window, walking on the balls of my feet. The soft earth made it easier to keep silent as I walked. My eyes searched, and there it was, leaning against one of the corners that wasn't visible from the window. A walking stick. During our first trip to the museum Fabian said it was the source of the Trauco's power. I grabbed it and said. "Look what I found."

The Trauco turned, glared, and pouted. "You run away. You not need to be here, now. Give stick back!" He raised his arm to throw his axe.

"Nah uh, you don't want to risk breaking your magic stick." I lectured.

He lowered his weapon. "What you want?"

"First, you step over there." I nodded my head in the direction of the far corner on the other side of Peter and the girls. When he was there I told him. "Now, the girls need to let go of my friend."

"Garr...girls let go of boy...AND GO GET STICK FAST!" He yelled.

The second Pater's arms were free he reached into his pocket with one hand, grabbing Gabbie's arm with the other. He pulled out one of the medallions with crossed knives and flung it over her head, halting her advance. He pulled out the other and tossed it to me.

I caught it just as Emily got to me and slipped it over her head. She froze for a second. The fog in her eyes cleared, and her head shook back and forth a few times before her eyes found mine. "You? What's going on? How'd we get here?"

"Not a lot of time to explain. We need to go"

"You give girls back. They not yours. They belong to Trauco. You let Trauco finish!" The Trauco charged.

"Stop right there!" I warned, raising the magic stick in both hands like I was about to snap it over my knee. "I'll break it!" I bluffed, knowing full well that Fabian needed the stick in one piece to save Brain.

The Trauco seemed to believe me. He stepped back. "You go! Trauco find you, later."

The girls left and then Peter. I was the last out, keeping my eyes on the enraged goblin as he paced, growled and spat. Before stepping outside, I gave him a final warning. "If you follow us I'll break it."

He responded with a growl.

Keeping my guard up during the trek back to town made for an exhausting venture, but the Trauco didn't try to follow, so I was just grateful for that. By midafternoon we were back in Fabian's small, stone room where Brian moaned in the little bed, rolling back and forth from time to time.

Fabian had been attending to Brain. He looked up as he heard us approaching. "Ah, good, you have it. The girls seem to be safe, too."

"Here you go." I handed him the stick.

He held it over a flame and chanted as it dematerialized into rainbow colored sparks that fizzled out. "Your friend should be fine, now."

"Crazy dream." Brian said, already sitting up. Pink had returned to his cheeks.

Fabian explained. "It will be sometime before the Trauco recovers, but he will. Eventually he'll fashion a new source for funneling his magic and like a broken bone he'll be back even stronger. You are planning to leave the island soon, yes?"

"Tomorrow morning." I responded

"Good. If there is one thing the Trauco can do it is hold a grudge. Once you leave Chiloe Island you'll be beyond his reach." Fabian explained.

"I'm hungry." Brian interrupted. Can we go get something to eat?

We laughed, except for Gabbie who still seemed kind of out of it, thanked Fabian, and left to find some food.

***

The next morning we were on our way to the bus depot when we saw a man in a black trench coat running, a strange black dog behind him. It looked like a coyote with orange eyes. Suddenly the dog vanished from sight. None of us seemed shaken up by the disappearing animal, not after what we'd been through. Still, Gabbie didn't talk the whole rest of the trip back to the United States.

***

Three months later...

Once back home things returned to normalcy. I finished my last year of school, obtaining my degree in creative writing. The NFL draft came and went. My name was never called, but I did sign with a team as an undrafted free agent. Here's to hoping I can make the final roster.

Emily and I got married. On our wedding night she was solemn, reserved, not really the prototypical smiling newlywed. I asked her. "What's the matter?"

"Things are about to change, you know. With us starting a new life together. I have something I need to tell you, so we don't start off that new life with a secret. Just so you know, I found this out today." She explained.

"What did you find out?" I questioned.

"Remember how we promised to save ourselves for each other? Well, I did and I know you did, but there is a problem. Please, believe me. I have never been with anyone before." I sat in silence, knowing what she was going to say next, giving her the time to say what she needed to. She finally did. "I'm pregnant."

# Death's Stasis

## Kody Dibble

Innards Juices,

I saw a Zombie dying of a Disease,

Only the Riders know about,

And the Children Laugh about,

The gates of Zion broke up,

And a Loch-Ness Ate my ribs,

While Bigfoot, dined of my eyes,

The Shadow beings, lifted me,

Towards the Trees of Tomorrow,

And I sat in the stars,

Watching all the Families Borrow,

And all the Candle lights stopped,

And all the people danced,

In the Twilight of my mind,

I am a graffiti King,

I'm a lizard screaming stop pushing the blue button,

Or they might find out,

And all the X-Files from down South

Would surely come out,

Oh, Dracula, Dracula,

Why did you drink the tainted blood?

# Affliction

## Matt Mesnard

Told you so!

That didn't help me feel any better about the present situation, but I had to get that out of my system. On the bright side, I'm still alive. Funny, but the best way to take my mind off circumstances may be concentrating on writing. Literary venting as these pictures keep skipping through my head like a scratched-up CD. So I'll put it all down...or as much this pen lets me. It rushes at me. Every event pushing through my brain to get onto the page like all the scenes from a movie in my eye at once. Trying to pick a grain of sand from a rushing wave. Tired of staring at blank pages of nothingness, here go my thoughts. Look out, pen.

Living by survivalism wasn't the plan when choosing to be a registered nurse. It was rather thanks to a lark while having an epiphany during daytime television ads. I was seen as a case of too little, too late. A selfish gal only acting to benefit myself. I came so far since then, but fear falling back those old habits amidst this surrealism. All of my progress for nothing? I'm trying to be that team player rather than all about me. I learned to care for the right reasons. It's why I am still here and unaffected.

Back to however many days ago. It was just over a week by mental tally. I was complaining again: playing the "catch hell blues" defending myself while chewed out by the head nurse. I did the right thing and she knew it, but I ignored protocol. So here I was feeling like I was twelve and got caught sneaking out to meet a boy.

I haven't been in the profession long, but I know my stuff. This job is literally life and death, and I like my patients alive. I paid lip service to the woman to get the drama over with. Go to any hospital and take a look around. There are basically two types of nurses. Active friendly types who men like to envision in those past-midnight movies; and the other are snarly, sedentary owners of an ever-expanding rump. She and I are each of one of those types. I am the one on her feet nonstop, so take a guess about my boss.

Things have been boiling between us for weeks. Odd things I couldn't but my finger on presenting as running symptoms across many of our patients. Something seemed amiss, but she didn't care look at the cases I pulled for comparison. With location and clientele, I worried something environmental could be the cause.

This workplace wasn't a hospital you see on TV dramas. This is an urgent care clinic; a mix of school nurse's office combined with a 7-11. Open all the time and not the place you see society's upper crust gathering. As of late, people trickled in with odd looking abrasions or peculiar coughs. Spending enough time here, I could see when things were outside the norm: just like noticing allergy season when it hits due to a different type of crowd. I randomly asked physicians their take, but they didn't see need to address a lowly nurse's concerns.

I got in trouble for it by the director of nursing. I was being a pest according to her. She was the equivalent of that uncaring school nurse who handed out a frozen paper towel icepack wrapped in a sandwich bag rather than check whether a leg was sprained or broken. Not concerned with skill of nursing as much as protocol; her worry was looking bad to someone higher up. Blame always went down the food chain, meaning things usually became my fault. I would be written up (the usual threat) 'wasting time' of anyone else with this topic. Intuition said something wasn't right, but I was chastised. Hopefully I was overworked and only paranoid. It gnawed at my mind, but kept to myself for lack of major proof. It all still reminded me of that guy in the shark movie who looked at the fools and chuckled out, "You're all going to die."

The clinic sits at the outskirts of an industrial district; mills, plants, factories––whatever looks dangerous or harmful to the environment. Most often we saw chemical burns from an airbag manufacturing plant, but all sorts of disfigurements and maladies came through the doors do to our locale. Any injury sustained in a shop class and beyond, I saw it...and even some I wished I hadn't. To date, I experienced two severed fingers cases; stabilizing the situation until an ambulance to get them somewhere more equipped. There's a side pot at work given out at the end of the year to the person on staff who saw the most detached body parts that year. One twisted holiday party, but I wouldn't turn down the prize.

Back to my reaming from the head nurse. I heard a commotion but this "stubborn" woman had her blinders on while continuing her diatribe. I guess this is what they call ground zero? My face stared forward, but ears listened to the area behind her. And then a nurse shrieked. Two of them were reacting to a walk-in who suddenly became disgruntled; nothing out of the ordinary here. The man got loose, she got bit. That's why nurses need to perform holds the way taught! Intuition jerked my head around just before the incident. When that little voice tells me something, I listen to it.

Chomp! Right into her wrist. A nasty laceration, even far away as I was. A weirdo tearing out a hand chunk thankfully ended my verbal beatdown. I shouted she better do something while dashing the opposite direction. There were enough cooks in that broth. I went down the corridor to help by shouting to call emergency responders.

Making a call of my own from the phone in the break room, I got a busy signal. Redialling gave an 'all circuits busy' message with those annoying beeps. Something bigger must be happening beyond here.

The rest of the staff were moving towards the front to rubberneck at whatever freak show was going on when a loud, weird scream let out; something like a toddler's temper tantrum but an octave lower. Women shrieked a reply while I clocked out and skedaddled out the back.

Daylight blinded me since my shift started before dawn. Things felt off but I couldn't place it. Some of the people seemed confused or different. Not caring to investigate, I hurried off to my car. This ride is a company vehicle for my other nursing job. It's pretty obvious since it has a garish logo of the company with medical images; but it cuts down on expenses and taxes are less than overtime in the clinic. Though practically new, this vehicle has been temperamental for the last couple weeks––and now didn't want to stay running. Doors locked and the windows up, I took my time...until I saw something in the side mirror. It was a man with a strange gait rushing towards the car, holding a cane over his head. It looked like a walk but moved with a sprinter's speed. At any rate, he showed no signs of stopping.

With a cloud of smoke and enough grinding to make any gearhead cringe, the engine wheezed its four-cylindered self awake. Reversing with malicious intents, I knocked the man clear by catching him with a rear corner while pulling out. I may embrace a Hippocratic Oath in my heart, but this was self defence. After jerking into drive and flooring it, I heard a whirring from the air conditioner. I hurriedly pushed the vents closed with my right hand while flicking the off switch on the unit. This nastiness might be airborne, and I wasn't going down so easily!

Jerking the steering wheel a hard right, I just missed someone lying motionless on the ground. She must have tried escaping also, but I couldn't stick around to check her vitals. Making out to the street in one is when I realized I left my cell behind with my purse.

Trying to think rationally, I decided it's best to do what others weren't. Most people flee without knowing what move to make next. I decided to dig in and try to figure out what was actually happening.

Not far off was a motel. It was part of an effort to restore and beautify the downtown area. Old charm but modern conveniences. Hopefully the restoration included a top air filtration system. The door of the office was wide open. Seeing a rack of keys behind the counter I decided I'd pay after my stay.

Choosing a number with a two, I told myself it would provide relative safety: not ground level of danger but a sporting chance if I had to jump as an escape plan. I parked behind the building and noticed the stillness of my surroundings while sneaking up the staircase with as little noise as possible. When unlocking the door, I felt slight relief seeing no window. A run-of-the-mill room...but it had a phone, television, bathroom, and bed. Good enough.

Opening the nightstand's drawers, I took the contents out and set them on the bed. Phone book, stationary set (pad of paper with pen), and standard-sized hardcover bible. I took the latter for insurance. Not as spiritual solace, but it was the only blunt object I could wield with any heft that I could easily hold. Trying to use the phone, I heard a strange pitch of dial tone and garbled voices behind it. Nothing happened when I dialled. My hyperactive senses made me drop the receiver. It may have been nothing, but I suddenly felt defensive.

The hardwood floors worked to my advantage as I shoved the long dresser across the remarkably sturdy-looking door. The plug for the television was barely long enough to move with the dresser without falling over. No picture when I turned it on though; just a blue screen. Changing the channels made the screen blink back to the same blue colour. An option let me switch to an FM tuner mode but the numbers kept scrolling in a loop. I wondered if a station would have worked if I had Sirius satellite radio instead.

I rushed back to the handset I carelessly left on the floor. No tone at all now, but still some sort of interference in the background. I kept pressing the flash button until the tone finally returned. Dialling fast as I could still didn't help. A squelching sound stung my ear. I listened again and heard a voice on the phone. It wasn't a human, but an advertisement: Mexican radio bleeding into the phone from who knows where, and I have no Spanish skills. Dropping the handset again, I felt something which now I heard. Floorboards creaking and cracking from the weight of footsteps, then thuds on my door. The thin walls rattled while I listened quietly and grabbed all the items on my bed.

"Motel." The voice was louder than I expected. "Open door," it boomed.

"What's the password?" Juvenile, but all I could think of.

"Open d––"

Something changed. The voice dropped off and rumbled. I was nervous but couldn't resist reply.

"What," as I scooted off the bed to buy time.

I heard an otherworldly sound as the door thumped in a slow but dreadful rhythm; continuing to strain the walls.

Slam! A chunk of door splintered and an open palm tore through like one of The Supremes possessed. I leapt backwards into the bathroom and slammed the door––hoping not to see whatever that hand was attached to. After locking the door, I dropped down to peek underneath it. My view obscured, but saw movement. I pulled some pages from the phone book to shove it under the bathroom door, forming a wedge.

Sliding out a drawer in the sink's counter, I formed and extra barrier to keep the door closed if the lock failed. I kept the lights off since a small window kept the bathroom illuminated with its diffused, bumpy-textured glass. The only place I could hide was the chintzy shower; just a tub with a thin curtain surrounding it.

The aluminium curtain rod easily popped from the base, and the rings made a metallic scraping sound while sliding off. Using the hollow rod, I took a swing...but the glass was mightier than the rod. Nothing happened; aside from a loud, reverberating echo attracting attention.

Feeling the clomping of footsteps coming closer, I held the plastic curtain with my left hand and jolted the other against the window. A sore hand, but still nothing.

Whump! An open hand slammed against a wall. I wasn't going to goad this time, since I knew the front door was much weaker than this one. Stretching towards the sink, I grabbed for the bible. Gripping it, I thrust the bible towards the shower curtain and heard the window splitting. Another try and a huge chunk of glass flew free.

Crack! That wasn't the window, but the bathroom door; moments from completely shattering. Using the curtain like a giant glove, I pulled glass chunks out with my protected hand.

Abandoning caution, I used the windowsill to pull myself up; bible still in hand. The top half of the door exploded into toothpicks with a hundred crunching sounds. Using my adrenaline and momentum, I held the bible outwards- heaving myself through the plastic-covered window. The shower curtain was thick enough to keep from shredding me; and swore a hand brushed across my leg while airborne––making me wonder why today of all days I decided to wear a skirt.

Thought dissipated when my shrouded body hit the blacktopped, outcropping on the other side. I flailed out of my plastic cocoon and looked over the nearby ledge. The drop seemed steep, but I was without option. I wadded up the curtain and dropped it below. I shimmied myself over the outcropping, gripping tightly, extending my legs as far down as possible. Then I closed my eyes and let go. I landed on my feet, sort of. The plastic worked for and against me; flipping off my feet and onto my back. Endorphins kept me from thinking of any injury I sustained. I sprung up feeling glad I parked in back.

I had tunnel vision while getting back to the vehicle, but the stationary bit me in the end; quite literally. The pen and paper, tucked in the back of my skirt's waistband, slid. Sitting down, the pen stung me in the backside.

More engine issues and less drama when I got back onto the road this time. If I'm a gonner, it might as well be while rolling. My tank was practically topped off, and I was used to long stretches without food or drink.

Instinctively I went for my glove box hoping to find my gun––then I remembered this was my company car. It was loaded with cameras for insurance purposes, and I already got caught packing heat before. Instead of being fired for violating policy, I was given a minor write up for 'misuse of company property' thankfully.

I have a conceal permit but never figured out how to pack heat comfortably through a double shift with constant action. Eighteen-hour bras falter after six for me, but that's probably way too much info. Even if I kept one in my purse, it would still be sitting in my locker away from me right now. I did find a pair of sunglasses which I hadn't managed to break yet inside the glove compartment. That's serendipity I think.

All I could do was get onto a highway and keep driving. Less traffic than I thought, but I also wasn't a part of the first wave panic. There were cars, but none still moving; either off the road or seemed broken down and no occupants I could see.

While I made the monotonous drive, my mind wandered and tried to hypothesize. Was this thing airborne or passed by carriers? Were we the point of origin? Could one of my many vaccinations be blocking this thing? Could I be carrying it? No matter what I tried to occupy my mind with, it kept going back to one person. The one I couldn't reach on the phone.

As if my fingers were chanting a mantra, I kept pushing buttons on the radio to find a station, but mostly hiss. Occasionally a rumble or crackly like something trying to break through, but it didn't. After a quarter tank of gas, something awakened the little care worker inside me.

My brakes screeched when a car suddenly came into view. Strewn blood followed path the vehicle flipped. Funny enough, it was the first sign of humanity since this ordeal started. As my car slid to a stop, I thought I could see someone inside.

I put my car in neutral with the engine still running, and reached across for the compartment. Fishing around, I found the set of gloves and disposable face covering I kept in case of encountering an emergency situation. Here goes nothing.

Opening the car door, I got out feeling a tad bit safer even with the minimal protective gear. I still wished some steel was at my side. Just a few steps towards the passenger side, and I could see how bad it was. Two suspended upside-down in safety belts. Behind a cluster of bloodied blonde hair was a female with a bone protruding from her neck. Crimson droplets still rolling off once-yellow strands.

Rushing to the other side, the driver was alive; not faring much better. Mixed injuries and obvious shock. Since I was wearing short sleeves and he could have been affected, I tried to assess him without getting too close. I hurried to the backseat of my car and retrieved one of our comfort packs. My other job is through a hospice group: medical care focused on peace and happiness towards end-of-life. Comfort packs are slang for kits with various medication.

With no emergency responders, and the extent of injury, it wasn't long until he followed wherever his passenger already went. Barely conscious; he formed words not reaching my ears. I told him an ambulance was on its way and I had something to help him relax. I doubt he knew I was there when I took his arm. One quick press and the morphine sulphate was in his system.

My shoes felt heavy. Yes, I lied––and I've done it before with respect for the patient. But it doesn't get easier for me. My eyes scanned the area while wishing there was more I could have done. Silence amongst the blood and safety glass...and a wallet splayed in a flattened patch of grass.

I walked past the wallet to see a cell phone. In truth, the first word in mind was probably "Score" when I saw the screen glint from the sunlight. Just past it was a book.

Scooping the items up, I went back to my car, and locked myself in. I figured out how to turn it on- then dialled the same number repetitively. Still nothing. It registered a signal but no tone. The book was a journal with a cracked spine. I didn't care to read anything inside. Too raw for me.

The name in the journal's front cover matched the driver's license I slid from the wallet. I promised myself to return it to whoever was closest to him if I made it out of this situation. I gave up on the radio, and decided to use music to break up the monotony. All I seemed to have was an mp3 disc of fifty or so Lisa Loeb songs. Not the best soundtrack for facing a pandemic, but it had strange bouts of appropriateness. I normally used it to help take my mind off my hospice duties: patients faring worse who I actually liked; or awkward times I found out the hard way my services weren't needed any longer for a particular person. Upbeat as her guitar sounds, little Miss Loeb can be rather morose.

Miles and miles of road. Still half a tank, but the car starts arguing. Whining and hissing up a heap, maybe from the air intake. The car would sputter then surge, even with steady speed. Last straw came when the vehicle rattled and dropped to a crawl. My foot pressed more, but only the RPM needle increased. Until––.

Vroom! A burst of acceleration. Caught off guard, I overcorrected the wheel while stomping the brakes. With a swerve and hard bump, the CD skipped and stuttered as the car whacked into a tree and crumpled the front.

My eyes opened and I saw white. It was the deflated fabric of the airbag. The impact must have knocked me unconscious. Face caked in powder, I checked the interior. The windows were still up and not shattered. A plus if this was an airborne virus.

The only sound was a ticking of contracting metal. I jiggled the ignition and the dashboard came awake. The radio's clock lit up twelve. My watch had a crack; holding the second hand in place. Clacking it on the steering column got my Seiko working again, but no idea of the actual time. Observing the stillness told me it would be a good time to rest. I closed my eyes and set my mind on high alert.

Something flicked my eyes awake. I had that Where am I? moment then it all rushed back. I saw motion in the distance through the passenger window. It was a person holding a shotgun.

I slipped down in my seat, but already seen. With no clue what he yelled out, I held my hands up and let him see I was female. This was one of the times I don't mind having the 'damsel in distress' card to play. Hollering again; the tone seemed less angry, but more anxious or urgent.

"I can't hear you! Can I roll down the window?" I could hear my voice bounce around the interior like a ping-pong ball.

With a cock of his head and a nod with his weapon, "Yeah. Go on."

One hand still up, I circled the knob slowly on the passenger side; trying to watch the man from the corner of my eye. Definitely the outdoorsy type. Suede sort of jacket; shorter than the traditional duster. Well-worn sturdy boots similar in colour and texture, and an Akubra hat- something of a cross between a Stetson and fedora.

"That your car?"

I didn't even get the window all the way down. Letting go of the handle, I summoned all my wit with hands in plain sight again. "Yeah. Why?"

With full lung power, "You a doctor or something?"

He must have been referring to that giant decal on the vehicle. "I'm a..." What the heck. "Yeah. Sort of."

"Ok," with a diagonal drop to his weapon. "Get on out of there."

Just as the suspects on Cops, I reached out to open the door from the outside. Stepping out backwards...

"Wait a minute there," as I obediently came to a standstill––facing away and hands up, with my head looking past my shoulder.

"You aren't crazy now, are you?"

"No. Are you?" I flinched back.

"Not that I know of. But I'm willing to take chances. Come on."

Turning to face him, I saw the weapon pointed at my stomach.

"Wait a minute." Readjusting his grip, "Don't you carry a doctor bag?"

Scurrying to the backseat, I retrieved a satchel with buckles and zippers. Dark brown, almost black, with a mixed look and texture between patterned pleather and canvas. I secretly call it my uh-oh bag: everything I glommed through my career (mostly legally) in case of emergency; with hopes of never needing to use it.

I held it up briefly for approval, then slung it behind me and followed him through the woods...just as so many cautionary tales and horror movies start.

Our nearly-silent trip was made by foot and withered pickup truck to a ramshackle version of a cabin...just as most cautionary and horror tales also include. His shotgun barrel sometimes working as an arrow to quietly show direction. After making sure we weren't followed, he relaxed his guard just enough to unlock the door.

Inside was darker than I expected. Maybe the wood interior absorbed the light just as it increased the acoustics to an almost surreal level of reverberation. Each step echoed distance between the planks and ground; even my breathing felt like it was bouncing off the walls. Maybe it was apprehension causing these feelings, or because this was my first time inside anything resembling an actual Lincoln kind of cabin.

My eyes followed the man. After locking the door, he threw his jacket off and rushed towards a fireplace. As he kneeled down, I could see we weren't alone. An old man huddled in a makeshift heavy burlap blanket. Names were never exchanged, but I assumed they were kin. Dropped guard and with a quieter tone, the man who found me stammered how a doctor was here to make him better.

Miracles were expected to be performed with my scant resources. I didn't want to feed a patootie's worth of lies to the worried guy, but I want to keep the man with the gun happy. A bleak prognosis conflicted with my self-preservation. I had no idea how long he was in this state, or anything pre-existing. Stooping over, I cracked my bag of medical mystery while making small talk; trying to gage the old man's awareness.

Thankfully, the patient looked like he'd live. The patient suffered a mix tape's worth of issues: anxiety attack, improper heat, and a touch of food poisoning due to improper preparation. I administered antibiotics and something to help with pain. He would be on the mend shortly, but I added some dramatic flair to help seal the deal regarding my worthiness.

After treatment was the waiting. I was rather certain of the outcome, but second guessing was my second nature. He might have been allergic to something or I missed a tiny detail. Feeling the air was heavy, I kept quiet: playing the day in my head over and over. The man stayed kneeling over the patient throughout, and I tried not to stare. My eyes closed at some point but can't remember when.

A hand gripped my arm and my eyelids flew open.

"Missy? Missy."

It was the one word I hated being called most, but no matter. My adrenaline spike subsiding as I refrained from snark. "Yes?"

"Something's happening." The patient showed turmoil by flailing on the floor. I gave personal space and observed, but the younger kin stayed close. He didn't know any better and I didn't care to hand out advice.

"Can you hear me? Wake up. You're gonna be fine."

The elderly man fluttered his eyes open; mouth poised as if to utter prophetic words.

"Tell me. Have it out."

Heeded those words, he did. The man yakked onto the hardwood floor. Thank goodness those floorboards were weather-treated. These things can happen when antibiotics meet an empty stomach. I assured this was a good sign and said he needed fluids. The man seemed relieved I cured the fellow. So was I.

After the floor got scrubbed and pops replenished some electrolytes, things started turning around. He was sitting up and speaking in a gravely whisper. The more talkative of the two; even with his stop-and-start pattern after every dozen words. Neither of them spoke by name, nor asked for mine.

Going off their shirt styles, I mentally coined my own names. Stripes for the one in the forties I first met. The older, maybe mid-sixties, garnered the name Plaid. They were close knit; pardon the pun.

The older's plaid design was brown lines with small traces of orange on a tan canvas. The younger had a black long sleeve, collared shirt with a few narrow lines of metallic longitude. Plaid acted as nothing happened; speaking soliloquies of the weather and random peeves. He didn't even ask where I came from, but rather if I was supposed to be one of their girlfriends.

"Not quite," I said with a hint of saccharine to the old coot.

"Aw, shuck. A man can dream. And so I did."

"Hey now, old timer..." as Stripes gripped me by the shoulders. My first thought was how fast these Keds could carry me away. "This little angel we got here saved your life. Show a little respect now."

The stared me down. "I'm sorry, missy. Much obliged for you coming here like a gift from the heavens. If I had a hat on, I'd be tippin' it to you about now."

"Apology accepted, so long as I'm called anything but missy." This marked the start of my time with these two sons of the soil.

The day slid by as I observed Plaid silently measured his progress. His outlook was much rosier by nightfall––when we all decided to get some honest shuteye. We all hunkered down in the main room. It looked liked a home on the outside, but this was hunting stopover with minimal privacy. Kitchen, bathroom, storage area, and the main room from what I could see. Helping dig, I found two sleeping bags neither remembered having. Stripes insisted Plaid and I use them.

Laying in the dark reminded me of youthful family trips. Telling scary stories while a kid out camping was one thing, but we were soaking in something too ooky to fathom. The old man's health scare was a distraction from our troubles, but this ordeal would return come sunrise. A scraping sound woke me. Being a light sleeper was suddenly a new skill. Wisps of smoke rolling from the kitchen.

Entering the kitchen, I saw Stripes tending to a griddle. He immediately knew when I was awake since the floorboards couldn't hide a single movement in this structure.

"Hope you like eggs. Figure most everyone does."

Gramps was having a cup of coffee at a small table, calling me over with his hand. I sat nearby him with a serene view of the woods. Something else was in his coffee, giving off a spicy aroma. Asking about it made Plaid chuckle while taking another sip. I knew it wasn't booze since we had that conversation yesterday. He wanted his own form of medicine and I insisted waiting a couple days in case of a bad reaction with the medication. I felt it would also buy me a couple extra days as caregiver before I needed to figure out my next move.

Stripes used a metal spatula to lift the eggs off his griddle. "You got anything in that wrecked car you'd like to get to?"

After finishing my tiny plate of mostly-scrambled eggs, we exited the front door. Not before Stripes had the last word.

"Stay out of the hooch."

"Hand to sky, I'm waitin' on doctor's orders."

It was a different path than I remembered. Some might call it the scenic route, but there was nothing I was in the mood to see. The truck had no trouble starting or running. Maybe only newer vehicles were affected. He reached over and popped-open the glove compartment; revealing a holstered handgun. "You can handle one of those things, right?"

"Only if I have to," not wanting to let on I'm comfortable packing heat like the oven door.

"Guess I'll trust you with it then. But I don't see no other way around it right now."

While sliding the holster's clip over the skirt's waist, Stripes couldn't help but let his eye wander. I let him gaze a moment before I let my eyes catch his.

He forced the compartment closed with a loud, metallic clack. "You're helping me. So I'm willing to help in return, being I owe you one anyways."

The truck slowly stopped, and we went by foot. I didn't remember being so far off the road when I hit that tree, but there the vehicle was. It looked untouched: aside from what nature already did to it. Coming closer, I thought there was movement across the road. Through the car's dusty windows I saw something pixilated.

Soldiers wearing boxy-looking camouflage. They were watching a tank push vehicles and debris off the road. There was no evidence of trouble (or bodies). But if the men in green showed up, I read enough Robin Cook novels to know something's amiss.

I grabbed all I need by kneeling down and using the passenger side. The tank made enough noise to cover any of my sounds. Blanket, pillow, sundries. I keep these things handy for times scheduling gets wonky.

The ride back was full of romping. I assume Stripes was covering tracks, which I couldn't blame him for. I was feeling paranoid enough myself. He fired up the truck's radio, and I kept turning the knob. The orange needle scrolled and sound crackled in and out with each shake of the chassis. There was a garbled military type of voice a few moments, but nothing else.

Rallying back at the cabin, it felt like the world shrunk down to three. Plaid had most of his strength return; smoking a pipe on the front stoop in a rocking chair. Despite a brown jug away from a walking cliché, he grew on me quickly. He still wanted 'a pull of the good stuff' but I made him wait it out another day, which Stripes agreed on.

Later was an air of rallying and defence. Stripes took charge and I went along with his requests, keeping the burden from Plaid. Fortunately there was a set of coveralls so I had no issues with getting grimy. I spent time with Plaid while Stripes walked the premises and gathered random supplies we all later sorted through. Afterwards, Stripes and I started boarding windows up with plywood sheets usually used for constructing hunting platforms.

It felt nothing was accomplished, even though I stayed continuously busy. Part of my amusement was the banter between the two men: mostly consisting of I don't know replies when Plaid asked various questions about whatever this event was. A highlight being when Stripes said military was patrolling the road. Plaid let out a silly whistle before putting a pipe back in his mouth before answering, "We might as well plan on hunkering down."

That evening Stripes cooked up a meal and gave a low key what's next lecture while we ate. Conserving our food and waiting things out. Come night, we all took turns winding a "crank" radio in hopes of finding information. Stripes commented the FCC might have knocked out communication.

Eggs didn't wake me the next day, but it seemed to repeat. Stripes and I made another trip to my car...this time for its battery. No military presence to be seen, but the same wreckage: albeit neatly pressed against the sides of the road. We grabbed a second battery from an older Toyota truck. "Just in case," according to Stripes.

Anxiety comprised the day. A lack of humanity outside the cabin cast a dour shadow over us all. I had the most optimism, but kept it to myself. Diligently working on the crank radio from the night before, a voice finally crackled in. I hurried to the men and upped the volume. It was a generic announcement; playing in a loop and addressing nothing. The men weren't as concerned since they were repairing a CB radio pulled from a rusted-out truck on the property.

It was interesting watching the duo interact. Much of the work Stripes did was undoing a mistake his older kin made. Around dusk, they were ready for a test. Mostly a series of exposed wires and soldering: powered by my car battery; a wire ran from the system to a large antenna Stripes and I fixed to the side of the cabin. It illuminated while making noises from old science fiction movies. Lots of clicking and clacking, but nothing more than ambient humming. Plaid stayed with it though; periodically making adjustments.

Stripes and I were finishing coffee from the porch when a shrill chirp came from outside. I quickly recognized it as the old man's whistle.

"Got something there?" as Stripes stood up.

"The diggity I did," with a grin noticeable from the dim glow of his nearby lantern. "From that farmer house. You remember them?"

While taking another sip of coffee, "Yep."

Plaid put his earpiece back in, and Stripes went to join him. I hesitated; nodding off at the table instead.

What was it with these abrupt wake-up calls? A sound I couldn't place shook me awake. I discovered myself in the main room with no clue how I got there.

It felt like a catnap when I bolted awake. Heading towards the kitchen, I saw it was near evening. I instinctively went for the coffee and the cabin rattled mid-pour. A fighter jet's booming wake...which must have been what I felt earlier. It made me realize I haven't heard a single plane since my great escape from the urgent care clinic; somehow making me a tad more gloomy.

After the jet passed, I noticed the absolute silence inside. Nobody was around. Hate to say it, but I felt vulnerable even for that baby bit of time. Worriedly, I crept to the back porch. Nobody to see, but I heard sounds. I walked to a gate, and found a dirt path. A dozen steps later was an orange glow; earlier hidden by an incline. Subtlety in the dark wasn't a skill of mine. I must have provided quite a show from what the giant fire illuminated. They both admitted to sleeping the day away also. Stripes tried laughing at me coming down the hill, but I saw something in his expression.

"Keep an eye on the fire," Stripes blurted out before walking away. I assume it was slang for keeping an eye on Plaid.

I apologized to Plaid for falling asleep the night before and asked about the radio call. He kept referring to the other end as 'the farmers', which either meant a last name or occupation. Plaid went on telling a story in his typical stop-and-go pattern. More bits of random information tied to one subject than a traditional story. No beginning or end, but this-and-that's about these farmer people. They lived a couple miles away and stayed in random contact while Plaid had a working CB radio at the cabin. I couldn't tell if they ever met face-to-face. Sort of a long-distance neighbour concept, which I guess was common in a valley of random cabins and a forest's worth of hunting.

By the time conversation started dropping off; I heard the clacking of glass. Stripes was holding three jelly jars between his thumb and two fingers, and a hoedown-worthy bottle tucked like a football under his opposite arm.

"Well, doc..." Plaid sounded as if he orchestrated a surprise party for me. "I went an extra day, but I forgot about the time. I can finally have a taste now, don't you think?"

The question must have been a formality since I heard a cork breaking free of that dark bottle. No shock what it was. Colourless fluid poured into the first jar. Still holding the glasses tightly together, Stripes extended his arm. Plaid took the partially-filled one, then I took an empty jar when offered.

"Don't waste any," spoke Plaid with as if having the meaning of life, while Stripes splashed a couple jigger's worth into my mason jar. I waited; as the old man; while Stripes gave himself a healthy pour, but I couldn't help from catching a potent whiff. I never tasted moonshine, but this must be it.

Aroma splattered out like being hit in the face with a water balloon. Wine enthusiasts would call that its bouquet. This smelled like hot Karo syrup and paint thinner, with another scent I could only compare to leaving a bag of frozen corn in the microwave too long.

Stripes kicked-off the affair with his own version of a toast. "Hopefully this will be all the medicine needed from now on."

It scored a laugh and "Amen to that" from Stripes. They both drank while staring through their clear jars at me. I gulped half of what they gave me; reminding myself to exhale hard out my nose while drinking. Flashing a girlish wince gave them fodder for a laugh and sustained their expectations. I partied enough in high school to bang 151 or even Everclear with a poker face in small enough doses. A former version of myself, thankfully. In this situation I still wanted to be underestimated.

"What you think of that kind of medicine, doctor?"

I looked at the old guy and played along. "I advise you to take it easy on this stuff. A little goes a long way, am I right?"

Like the corniest of westerns, they cackled while concurring generic catchphrases. "Easy does it." "A little dab'll do ya."

Hillbilly hilarity aside, this firelight saloon gave me a couple hours of fun and forgetting about the world...seeming it's all but entirely forgotten about me. Heeding my own advice, I went easy on the prohibition buster: sipping just over a highball's worth that night.

We assumed Plaid turned in early, but saw him at the CB setup when Stripes and I stumbled back up to the cabin. He didn't even look our direction; speaking after the gate squeaked open.

"Come see what you think of this."

Stripes hurried past me and grabbed the earpiece. Amber light from the device flickered while Stripes squinted with his face.

"What's that dialled in on?"

"It's the farmers. We were supposed to swap any news tonight, but that's all I hear."

"You sure he's not on here?"

"I don't know. Your hearing's better than mine."

Both men lost any good-natured qualities, and I felt entirely out of place. Stripes pulled out the suddenly-squealing earpiece, and threw it towards the radio. "Something don't sound right there at all," while powering down the unit altogether.

"If you think there's trouble, what do you reckon we do? We're neighbours."

Hands placed on hips, "I'd suggest staying here." Stripes moved his hands to adjust a belt buckle I thought uncomfortable to wear. "He knows where we live?"

"Don't suppose he does. He might," while Plaid rubbed a smudge from the side of his face.

"How about him to you?"

"I have a general idea. But more from chimney smoke than paying a proper visit."

Stripes broke eye contact. "If that farmer house caught the beast...maybe they're fixing to head our direction - if they can find it. Or us come to them. Either way, we may be planning for a move-on."

Hand wrapped around his mouth, Plaid stayed pensive. "It's a barrel I regret getting you into."

With a cock of his head, "You haven't gotten us into nothing. You and I both know that. I still have you here thanks to our little angel over there, no smerge on ya." It did make me feel warm inside and imagined an 'aww...' like in eighties sitcoms.

Righting his head, "I'll call it unanimous and hope our lady friend understands. He turned his head towards me and smiled. "If you hear me."

"As long as we need each other, I'm game." Not meaning I'd stick my neck out too far for them. They seemed slightly backwards and set in their ways, so I gambled out their chivalry: what's not 'woman's work' so I could comfortably stay along for the short term.

Each venture outside the cabin unearthed something new. This time it was a camouflaged garage. Stripes opened the wide-swinging door and gave me an after you flourish. Peeling back a plastic tarp, Stripes revealed a heavily-modified dark pickup. The older truck must have belonged to Plaid. The men packed the cab's passenger side with supplies once fully-loading its gun rack. "Be prepared," Plaid lazily uttered in a shifty way before sliding behind the steering wheel. I wouldn't be surprised if Stripes flipped the tailgate down and asked if I could handle myself back there. Obviously rhetorical, I didn't answer. Juvenile as it seemed, I let him get into the bed ahead of me; making sure he wasn't trying to look up my skirt. Taking me by the arm as I climbed in did catch me off-guard though.

"Look here," with a light tilt of his head again while dropping his voice. "We appreciate all you did up 'til now for us, and coming along like you have." He turned my hand over while pressing something into it: the holstered gun he previously lent me.

After slamming the tailgate closed, Stripes yanked on something inside the bed. This was most likely an illegally-fortified hunting vehicle. The bed's modification unfolded into surprisingly comfortable low chairs.

Strapping ourselves in; Plaid turned the engine over. A blast of music hit me, along with the floodlights attached both directions on the roll bar. Looking at my feet were a set of high grade speakers. A pickup with Dolby sound; and the hiss of a cassette deck.

"This thing should be loud enough to keep anyone away," his voice forced above the music; holding a long-range weapon in each hand. "If it's coming at us... Nature or otherwise, take a shot." Tucking the pistol between my legs, I took a hunting rifle into my hands. I would have tried a practice aim out my direction, but the terrain was too violent. It didn't keep Stripes from popping shots off. Then again, he was used to this setup.

We romped longer than I cared to remember; listening to music as I jumble-rumbled my way along like a plane in heavy turbulence. Most of the cassette had a country or folksy feel. Songs about moonshiners; crushes in elementary school; the last plug of chaw in Tonopah; childhood; one-nighters after sloe gin; falling out of windows and into love.

I didn't feel particularly chatty: even after all the time spent together, and assumed admiration from both men. I could have jabbered about the weapons in hand or music flooding the pickup bed, but kept internal. Thoughts on who I loved; what I assured myself would still be there for me on the other side of this ordeal. Promising myself to do it for––

Whack! An object forced one of the tires against the wheel well; giving the truck a hearty jostle. The brakes slammed and dirt plumed up from all around as I felt the truck swerve while skidding across the unpaved road. Both of us unbuckled and stood up in the bed of the truck. It wasn't nature, unless bears got anorexic and dressed like lumberjacks.

"Keep it up," Stripes said while gingerly adjusting my rifle by the barrel. I'll chalk that up to chivalry. The engine stopped and the taillights collected dust as the music halted with a click from the speakers.

Plaid rolled the window down. "What do you reckon of it?"

Flipping something out of a pouch while resting his rifle on one shoulder, "That's what I'm fixin' ta find out." Stripes clipped a small flashlight to the weapon like a bayonet, and pointed down towards a person on the ground. The light travelled to the man's face, which was grey. I also realized the lack of blood.

"You run over it or was it walking?"

"Standin' right up. I flipped high beams, and it kept standing there."

Stripes looked over his shoulder to reply. "If he didn't have enough sense, something must have gotten to him. You think he's one of them farmers?"

"Maybe not. Afraid it could. No telling."

Turning his head forward, Stripes turned his eyes my way. "What you say about it, doc?" His voice barely above a whisper.

"No movement, no breathing. He looks like he's been dead a lot longer than this collision."

Crack! A bullet jettisoned, and I swear it blew past me like a hot breeze. It caught the man through his neck- no flinching, no blood. "Looks like a sickness got to it!" Slapping the truck's side, "Round up!" I fell to my knees and crawled into my seat; losing balance as the engine roared and music blasted while making hasty tracks.

Up a hill was an enormous clue we were at the right place. A giant silo-looking structure breeched the sky in that 'overcompensating' kind of way. Here's where those farmer folks lived. Lived. Bad choice of wording?

We geared up and headed in. I chose the handgun over the long barrel from earlier. Just as I assumed, the men wanted to do the heavy lifting. I guarded while they went in the side entrance; nearest to the truck. Plaid went in behind Stripes, but called out to anyone in the vicinity.

Sounds came from inside, but I couldn't make out what it was. Nobody spoke, then a louder crash. What happened next I wished could be forgotten. Less a voice than a noise combination. 'The polyphonic scream' as I inappropriately dubbed it. I heard it from the motel room, and maybe and maybe also in the urgent care facility. Starting as spoken voice, then dipping out: changing into something otherworldly; like a moan coming from inside a brass kettle, or one of those old-time Victrola metallic cone speakers. It's an utterance I don't wish upon anyone's ears. It cut through every primal nerve when I heard it. Gives me ickies just thinking of it.

One of the weapons blew a cloud of smoke with after its yellowish-orange burst. The keychain remote started the vehicle and Plaid blurred past me, loudly sputtering something unintelligible. Stripes backed himself out and yelled to get behind him and dash for the cab.

Plaid swung the passenger door open for me, and I dove in. I felt a loud thud from Stripes as he landed in the truck's bed. Another rifle burst while the blaring truck made dirt-scraping tracks; shaking back and forth while making its haphazard getaway.

I held my gun in one hand while the other clinched tightly to a handle inside the cab; trying not to rattle myself to death while getting my seatbelt on. I could feel all four wheels swerving at the same time while rocks and debris kicked at the bottom of the truck.

We eventually returned to the cabin, and pulled into the structure I first saw the pickup. The men packed numerous cases and duffel bags into the back of the truck while I was told 'stay put' in the cab. Lastly, Stripes opened the passenger door and handed over my bag and another pack with belongings of mine. I was asked if ok, which I nodded along to.

Stripes pulled a nozzle out; filling both gas tanks on the truck. Using the sudden privacy, I tried to power the cell phone up - hoping a smidgen of battery was there. Nothing still.

Back together, the truck pulled out cautiously. I noticed Plaid used coloured tape to seal the openings of the cabin to detect any intrusions.

Plaid continued to tend the wheel. He spoke intermittently; voice almost blending with the music. I heard every word. How he 'never saw anything like it,' and not knowing 'what to make of that house,' as I stayed in silence. Unsure if he was speaking to me, or himself under the cover of songs.

The next few days resembled a strange camping trip. We stayed in one place until a given time, moved to another location with the truck. Nerves and stress made it tough to do anything except sleep or contemplate. We talk little, and most of what I heard was caught within earshot of the men. Once I couldn't sleep anymore, and saw all I cared to of nature, I turned to the knapsack of belongings gathered for me.

Flipping the journal upside-down I took from the dead man on the highway, I started writing down all of my encounter with this cheapie motel pen. May as well write until I'm out of ink: red or black, whichever comes first. Another version of me wouldn't have made it this far. Not enough fight, or not even flight for that matter. Just staying still and let happen what may. But now I fight...ever since I had a reason to.

No bones about it: I ran with the crowd of baddies and troublemakers mom warned about. Got into and out of a lot of trouble. Then one day I peed out a plus sign. Preggers McBaby. It didn't totally stop me, though seriously slowed my roll for a while. I vowed to make changes, but didn't put the same effort into it as being a baddie. Back to proverbial tricks: until baby's daddy stepped out and family stepped in.

They interceded: finally making good on their promises, nullifying the idle threats. I lost my girl and had no support; figuratively and financial. Way down in the hole, as Tom Waits sang it. In my cloudy and slightly less-pretty head, I figured things went very Tupac: me against the world. Starting as fuzzy thinking, I cleaned myself up...only to spite my detractors. Then thinking about my long-term, I did what I could to fast-track my mental attributes and aptitude.

Doing well in school until my times of the wrong crowd, I knew I could memorize my way through any class dealing with facts or figures. I took the shortcut of financial clout with nursing; luckily entering the field when nurses were still in high demand.

Everything I did to be a better person was ultimately for my daughter. It took losing her to realize it, but I turned around very quickly once I made up my mind. It may sound gooey as an aisle in the Hallmark store, but I thought of her every day since she was born, and twice as much after I lost her.

None of my family ever said they saw the change in me, but I hope they notice by the time I'm able to get her back legally. Best case, it's when she starts remembering things. She'll think her mommy was always there for her, and well taken care of (but not spoiled).

There have been no ugly times, or past acquaintances anywhere around me since I was set straight. But now there's an ugliness I was plunged into when the city took on this infection. I'll fight for my little girl. I'll get to her, and get her back.

Writing all of this down is my insurance now. Things are getting dire, and I may part ways from the men soon. Our supplies are running low and we're planning to make a run for safety. Maybe we'll luck out; all this time was little more than getting back to nature, and this was just a twenty-four hour bug. Or maybe some Outer Limits situation happened, and we're three lone survivors. I can't accept the latter. Selfish or not to say, I know my girl's alive.

Hope to hug you soon. Love Mommy.

# Jealous

## Mathias Jansson

After a cancelled business trip

I returned home early one evening

Finding the front door open

And my wife's bed empty

On the floor a slimy trail of snot

Leading out into the dark garden

In the light of a flashlight I followed

The thick stinking trail of fear

To the darkest corner of the yard

Hearing the drooling sound coming near

Then the light revealed a horrifying sight

My wife naked embracing a giant monster slug

The unfaithful slut filled me with jealousy

So I spiked them with my sting

A snapped them in half

With my scorpions claws

Then I ate her raw flesh

While my eyes filled with tears.

# Day of the Clowns

## Lila L. Pinord

"No, I don't want to go!"

"You say that every year, Davey, but you know it's no use fighting about it, don't you?" Irritation put an edge to his mother's words. "The company picnic is important to your father and his job. How many times must we go over this?"

"But, but..." Davey Mansfield did know it was no use arguing, but felt he had to try anyway.

"No more 'buts', Son. Now, go to your room and get cleaned up for dinner. Dad will be here any moment." With a relenting smile, Joan ruffled her nine-year-old son's sandy brown hair and added, "I've fixed one of your favourites—spaghetti and meatballs. Ice cream for dessert Now scoot!" She gave him a fake kick to his small backside.

Davey sulked his way to his room, at the top of the stairs. His was the only occupied room up there. The others were a small guestroom and an even smaller sewing-computer room. At times the boy felt all alone in the world, upstairs in his room, listening to night sounds that could be anything he imagined them to be. A spook walking up the darkened stairs, a goblin banging on water pipes, a vampire seeking some fresh blood. Or a clown—his biggest fear.

He hated clowns, feared them, and wished to stay as far away from them as possible. "Wish they would all go to Hell!" (Oops!) Davey covered his mouth as he knows he's never supposed to curse, even though he figures that's where they come from in the first place.

That's why he always fought so hard to stay home on the Fourth of July, the day of his father's company picnic at Tisdale Park, near the centre of town. He couldn't tell anyone of his fears, the horror he felt in their presence, the deep-throated dread that washed over him at the very sight of them. He felt if he did tell, they'd all think he was loony, or something.

One year, panic so overcame him that he yelped and ran so fast, that his parents could hardly keep up with him. When they did, they dragged him back to the clowns—where he stood and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly, he'd almost blacked out. So that's how little Davey Mansfield got through the ordeal of the clowns that year.

It seemed like it was the same thing, every year and each time, his dread became stronger and stronger, until it began filling his nightmares and daymares, as well.

When school started in early September, he could keep busy enough so the thought of the clowns was forced to the back of his mind. At least until the next May and June. Now it was the dreaded "time of the clowns", as he called it. Tomorrow...the Fourth of July––The Day of the Clowns!

Davey walked slowly to the window in his room, which over-looked the front part of the house and studied the homes across the way, deliberately avoiding the pale blue one. It was third house from the centre, owned by the Canby family, where his best friend, Scoot Canby, once lived; until the clowns got him!

The first picnic that Davey could remember was when he was three-years old. He and Scoot were all excited about going to the park to eat hot dogs and watch the fireworks. Their parents were good friends, so they'd end up hanging out together. Davey whined until they allowed him to bring their dog, Slingshot. The dog loved to run and play in the park, just like the kids. After the boys played on the slide and swings, it was time to eat lunch, which they greatly enjoyed. An adult manned the giant-sized barbecue, grilled hot dogs and hamburgers, while others spread cloths on the long picnic tables and laid out the paper plates and utensils.

Of course, then everyone had to sit still while the bigwigs gave speeches about the company and how far it had come in the last twenty five years...

That's usually about the time when the children stopped listening and started fidgeting in their seats. Next, they'd attempt in vain to climb down from the wooden benches, while parents held onto them tightly by their collars. They certainly did their darndest to keep them still, which was always a losing battle.

Many ended up holding the kids on their laps, while some gave up and let them run wild.

Davey and Scoot were the lucky ones that ran wild, usually playing on the teeter-totter, until the "Big Cheeses" (that's what they heard parents say, referring to the bosses) got through speaking. Then they would head back to the tables and chow down on hot dogs, with mustard and ketchup running down their little chins, until their bellies were about to burst. "No fair!" they would complain, if they didn't have room left in their tummies for watermelon or cake.

The first time three-year old Davey saw the clowns, he was overjoyed. They appeared in the front of the annual Fourth of July Parade, riding on miniature cars and kiddies tricycles, and it was funnier than a "barrel full of monkeys," as his dad would say. The clowns were dressed in different coloured outfits. Kids clapped uncontrollably as they jumped up and down, laughing as hard as they could.

There was only one really scary moment, that first year of the clowns for young Davey. One of the clowns, who dressed in white with red trimmings, pedalled his undersized bike very near the front row of children. He was so close that Davey could have reached out and touched his grinning face. As the front tire nearly ran over his little foot, he quickly pulled both feet back out of the way. His young mind figured it was part of the act anyway, so he grinned widely at this comical performer.

Suddenly, he felt as if an icy finger was travelling up his spine, as he gazed into the clown's eyes. Those eyes––they were not smiling. They appeared black and flat, without depth. Beneath the painted-on grin, his mouth wasn't smiling either.

Davey stepped back and buried his face in his mother's skirt, refusing to look at the clowns anymore that day. His mother hugged his head close with her gentle, angel's hands, as she continued her conversation with a friend who was standing next to them.

Davey waited until he was sure the clowns were out of sight, and then peeked out just in time to see a rusty, old, fire engine passing by. Then came a marching band, followed by a drill team. With his mouth agape, he began to enjoy himself again, watching the baton twirlers tossing their sparkly batons high in the air and then catching them. There were dogs pulling small carts with kittens in them, which completely erased any thoughts of the scary clowns from his young, impressionable mind.

Later at dusk, the crowed oohed and aahed at the fireworks display. When it was all over, Davey went home and right to bed, a very tired, but happy little boy.

The next morning, as a sleepy-eyed Davey dragged himself down to the kitchen, he became aware that there was some kind of sadness in the air.

June quickly said to her husband, Guy, "Shhhh, we'll talk about it later. Poor Marion. I'll go see her this afternoon..."

His father nodded, eyeing his son as he entered the kitchen.

* * *

At four-years of age and after attending pre-school, Davey considered himself quite grown-up. He already knew his ABC's and could count to twelve, even though he had only ten fingers.

"It's almost the Fourth of July, my little man." His mother always called him that. Why...he didn't know, besides, who ever saw a man who was actually little?

He smiled up at her with a question in his eyes, all the while making a mess with his cereal.

"Fourth of July, Davey! Picnic at the park, fireworks, clowns, parade...."

For whatever reason, a slight shiver rippled through his body. Picnic, clowns...Davey shook it off and grinned broadly again at his mother.

"Just two more days, Davey, then we go to the park and have all kinds of fun!" The last word was emphasized like it was some kind of extra-special fun, but Davey wasn't so sure about that.

He poked his stubby fingers up and counted, "One, two."

"Right you are, Little Man!" June embraced her son and he felt the love flow from her heart into his.

Before long, it was the usual bustle as the barbecue smoke filled the air, people laughed, others played ball, and children dashed everywhere. One of Davey's classmates glued himself to his side, being a shy boy and a bit younger than him.

"C'mon, Wilson! Go play somewhere else," he urged the new boy, "Maybe over there, with those girls!" He was partly teasing the boy and partly meaning what he said. Wilson hung his head as a small tear escaped from beneath his long lashes. Then Davey felt sorry and relented. They both headed for the swings.

After the mustard and ketchup face-smearing contest, it was time to wander over to edge of the street and await the first entry in the parade to pass by. Again, it was the clown act.

Not remembering his reaction to them from the year before, Davey's eyes glinted with joy watching the antics of the colourful clowns as they rode their small cycles and cars.

"One, two, three, four, five," he counted on his raised fingers. "There are five of them, Mommy, Daddy!"

Then Davey let out a sudden gasp of fright, as one of the tricycling clowns came too close to him. Davey stumbled backward to hide behind his mother's legs not realizing he'd done the exact same thing the year before.

His mother smiled down upon his head and said, "What are you hiding for, Davey? You're not scared of him, are you?"

"No, Momma, not scared!" He lifted his eyes and stared boldly at the clown face in front of him. At that moment, the entertainer swung around and continued down the curb, seeking another little one to terrorize, all in the name of fun, of course.

As Davey watched, craning his neck sideways, he spotted Wilson down the line, standing next to his own parents. Wilson was laughing and laughing, like he would never stop. Then, he extended his small hand out to touch the clown's face.

Don't! Don't do that, Wilson! Don't touch him! Davey had no idea why he thought that way and how much he wanted to yell those words out loud, but at the same time, he knew how stupid they would sound to everyone around him, so he held back.

Davey gasped again, watching the scene unfold, as if it were in slow motion. Wilson just barely swept his chubby hand over the painted cheek of the grinning clown, when he jerked it back like he'd come into contact with a hot, burning coal. He hid his fist under one arm and giggled uncertainly. The rider on the small bike continued on his wobbly way.

Then the moment passed. When everything returned to normal, Davey let out his breath, again. Whew!, he thought. That was strange. Davey went to play and forgot about the little performance with the clown.

"What? WHAT?" June was on the phone in the kitchen the following day, her eyes wide as she listened to the person on the other end. Her husband shot her an inquisitive look, to which she waved him off and laid one finger across her lips to silence any questions he might utter.

"No. I can't believe it! That poor, little boy. Why, he's in the same class as..." June stopped speaking when she realized her son had wandered into the room.

She sat heavily on a nearby stool and said softly, "Do you mind if I call you back in a bit? I have to fix something for the boys to eat..." She waited a moment. "Okay. Later then."

"I want Cheerios!" Davey said.

"What's the magic word?" asked his Dad with a half-frown on his face.

"Abracadabra!" his son shot back, then playfully ran around the table before his father could swat his behind.

With a twinkle in his eye, Davey sat down and said, "Okay, puleeeze may I have Cheerios for breakfast?"

"That's better, son."

Half way through the bowl of cereal, Davey noticed that his parents weren't eating anything. They only sipped on their cups of black coffee. Davey's eyes moved back and forth from face to face, wondering what was wrong, why is something different this morning? It was like they were waiting for something. He continued to watch them warily, until he finished the last spoonful.

"Can I go out and play with Slingshot, now?" he asked. "Maybe he needs to take a walk."

"Okay, Davey, but you know the rule––only to the end of the block and back again." Both parents watched him walk slowly out the kitchen door. It made him feel weird. He snatched the leash off the hook on the porch and stepped into the yard.

Once out of their sight, he called, "Here, Slingshot, here boy!", then slid down the outside wall until he was just within hearing range of the kitchen.

"What'll we do? How shall we tell Davey about this...?" June began.

"About what? You haven't even clued me in on whatever it is, yet!" said Guy.

"Oh, I'm sorry! That was my friend down the street, Amy Witherton. She said that the little Royle boy, Wilson––you know the one from Davey's pre-school class?––went missing overnight. They can't find him anywhere! I didn't want to say anything in front of Davey quite yet. I'm hoping he'll be found and we won't have to!"

Guy watched as the worry lines scrunched up his wife's pretty forehead.

"I think I'll go and volunteer for the search. Okay with you, Hon?" Guy stated.

"Yes. That's a very good idea. They're congregating at the Royle's place on the next block...1410 Paar Avenue."

Guy grabbed his lightweight jacket and left through the front door. He gazed back at June and whispered, "I just hope I don't run into our son along the way."

* * *

Still sitting outside the back door, Davey wondered what they meant by "missing". Then it hit him, like a lightning bolt out of the clear blue sky, so then he got up and ran inside.

"Mommy!"

June, startled at the sound of her son's urgent voice, dropped the dish she'd been washing while staring out the window over the kitchen sink.

"My gosh, Davey! You gave your mother quite a scare there." She knelt down to his level and looked directly into his worried blue eyes. "What's wrong, Little Man?"

"It got him! It got Wilson!" His words ended in a sob.

As she hugged him close, June asked, "What? What got Wilson?"

"The clown, the clown in the parade, the clown in the parade...you remember, you remember... he touched his face, even when I begged him not to, begged him not to..." More sobs racked his slight body, so June held him even tighter.

"Shhhhh, there, Son. There Son, Shhhhhh," she murmured, over and over until his sobs subsided and only occasional whimpers emitted from his mouth, then ended in him developing the hiccups.

When Davey stood back from her, he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. His moist eyes pleaded with his mother to understand.

"It's the clown, Mommy. That scary clown, with the pretend smile on his face. I think he stole Wilson...." His eyes looked deeper and deeper into June's, which she found unsettling.

"Davey, Davey...clowns do not steal people! They make them laugh."

"This one does! He steals kids! His face doesn't laugh––or his eyes either!"

"Well, your father went to help search for Wilson and I'm sure they will find him. You just wait and see. Okay, Honey?" She clutched her son's trembling form and held him close, again. Then she whispered in his ear, "It's just your imagination."

Davey realized that no one would believe his explanation of how his friend Wilson became missing. He even thought about going over and telling the boy's parents, but just as quickly, changed his mind. They wouldn't believe him, anyway. He hugged himself when he went to bed that night and said a prayer for Wilson. Wherever he might be.

* * *

Wilson Royle was never found.

The following year, being a year older did not lessen Davey's fear of the clowns. If anything, it was worse. It was a dread that washed through him and settled deep inside his flesh and bones.

Once again, his begging did no good. He wondered if he absolutely refused to go, would his parents hog-tie him and take him to the park anyway? Reluctantly, he went along quietly, not wanting to find out the answer.

This year he and his new friend, Timmy, were the ones who ran wild together during the Big Wig's speeches. They ate lots of watermelon, whose juice ran in rivulets down their giggling faces. They teeter-tottered, climbed the monkey bars, and went down the slide together. All in all, it was a glorious day filled with fun. Until...

"Mommy, Daddy, don't make me watch the clowns this time, okay?" Davey's hopeful eyes peered up at them over the edge of the picnic table.

"Now, son, don't be silly," his dad said, "Clowns won't hurt you." He said as he ruffled Davey's sandy hair and smiled comfortingly.

"C'mon, let's go!" His mother took his small hand in hers and exerted a little pressure, as she pulled him along toward the edge of the sidewalk. Timmy ran to find his own family.

This time, Davey jerked his hand from his mother's grip and took off running the moment he saw the clowns approaching in the distance. Both his parents ran after him. June reached him first. She grabbed him up around his slim little waist and started walking back with him tucked under her arm like a sack of potatoes.

"Little Man, you stand still right here!" she ordered as she sat him down beside her. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly, the world went black and he nearly fainted. But he'd make it through that year...somehow.

Long after the brightly coloured figures on their silly cars and trykes had passed, Davey finally dared to open his eyes and glare down the street at them.

"One, two, three, four..." He counted below his breath.

He pulled on his mother's shirt and said aloud, "Mommy, there are only four of them now..."

"What, Son?"

"Only four clowns now!"

"Uh-huh," she said and went back to her conversation with her neighbour.

The morning after the day of the clowns, Davey kept glancing at the white phone where it hung on the kitchen wall. It's going to ring any minute now, he thought, while shovelling spoonfuls of Honeynut Cheerios into his mouth, milk dripping down his chin. Any minute now it will ring with news of another kid missing and we will know for sure that the clowns stole another one. Any minute now...

"Davey, why do you keep glancing over at the phone? Is everything okay with you this morning? Are you are expecting one of your friends to call you...?" His father stared at him from across the small table.

"Um, no," he answered, as he took a large bite of his toast, followed by a gulp of cocoa.

Three days passed and the phone never rang with bad news about anybody, so Davey began to feel more at ease––okay, they're right and I am wrong. Clowns don't steal kids after all. He sighed with relief and went about the business of enjoying the summer.

On the fourth day, Davey came into the kitchen and immediately knew something bad had happened. The Daily News was spread out on the kitchen table with both parents hunched over it, reading together.

"Oh my God! Oh, those poor people! She lived clear cross town." They went on and on, not noticing their son standing in the doorway with a scared look on his now pale, white face.

"Her father works on the loading dock, but I never got to know him." Just then, Guy stood up straight and met his son's eyes from across the room.

In a hoarse voice, barely audible, Davey asked, "Were they at the picnic?"

June swung around, surprised to hear such fear in her son's voice.

"Davey! I didn't know you came downstairs. Sit and I'll make you breakfast." June tried unsuccessfully to smile and act normal, like it was any other day.

"I don't want breakfast. I want to know if the girl was at the picnic!"

"That's no way to speak to your mother, Davey!" His father shot him a stern look. "Now, sit!"

Davey did as he was told. Then he muttered, "Clown got her, too."

"I do wish you would stop going on and on about those clowns, Davey," June said as she prepared his breakfast. "Besides, we don't know if the family attended the annual picnic or not."

"Bet they did! Bet the clown got her!"

"Hush now, Honey. Enough about the darn clowns!" June placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

"It's your imagination running away with you, son. Like when you complained about being upstairs alone and you dreamed about ghosts and goblins coming up the stairs to 'get' you. You know it's not possible...right, Davey?"

"Right, Dad." Davey figured it'd be best to agree with them. They will never, in a million years, believe him on this subject.

"Just one thing, though––I bet next year there will only be three clowns in the parade!" He began stuffing his mouth full of the scrambled eggs.

Out of his sightline, June and Guy rolled their eyes to the heavens, their exasperation plainly evident upon their faces.

The whole family attended the little girl's funeral the next day along with the rest of the company and their families. Davey could not stop shivering, as he walked by the casket.

It got her, it got her, it got her....only this time it killed her... he thought and wouldn't look at the dead girl's body as the family passed by. June held tightly onto her small son's shoulders. Sadness and tears filled every corner of the room.

When fall finally arrived, school began as usual. However, Davey became increasingly quiet and withdrawn. Now in the second grade, his teachers became worried about him, but decided it was just a phase he was going through. His schoolwork didn't suffer, so they left him alone.

Christmas came and went. Spring drifted by just like the robins in the front yard, as they fluttered from tree to bush. Crows squawked at Davey, who sat morosely on the bench on the front porch of his home. Slingshot brought sticks, but Davey wouldn't play fetch with him, the way he always did.

March, April, May, June...

I won't go this time! I just won't! He promised himself, while he sat, arms crossed firmly across his chest. His stubborn chin stuck out like an exclamation point.

Yet once again, Davey was dragged to the car, to the park, but that's as far as he would go, even if he had to dig his heels into the ground.

While his dad played softball with the other men, Davey pleaded with his mother.

"Please, Mommy, don't make me watch the clowns this year. Please!"

"Now, my Little Man, it won't kill you to watch the parade for a little while, at least. Then you and Slingshot can go play. Okay?"

He knew he couldn't ask for any more than that and so shrugged his tiny shoulders.

As always, he got through the speeches and the picnic without trembling too much.

He held tightly to Slingshot's leash as his mom and dad walked him by the hand over to the sidewalk curbing .

Okay, he told himself, Be brave. Be brave. They're only men dressed up in stupid ol' clown suits. They can't hurt you. There are people all around. He wouldn't dare...

Then they came wobbling on their little trykes, waving at the people, painted on red smiles, spread across white faces. Green hair, yellow hair, red hair. Three clowns.

Beneath his breath, Davey whispered, "Three. I wonder if it's my turn yet."

"What did you say, Son?" June tilted her head down toward his quaking form.

"I said, there are only three clowns this year. You remember when I told you there would only be three?" He clutched his dog's leash as if his life depended on it.

June looked toward her husband and said, "He's right, Hon. There are only three clowns now. Last year there were four, the year before that––five, before that––six..."

"Coincidence. That's all it is," Guy said.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right...." June answered. Davey's eyes pleaded with her to believe him, believe there exists a connection between the clowns and the missing children, one missing, one of them dead!

The colourful clown trio grew closer. Then, Slingshot began to shiver, too, and it was all Davey could do to hold onto him. When a green-haired clown wobbled toward them, Davey took a step back, like he always did. Suddenly, his dog let out a loud yelp, jerked the leash from his master's small hand and scurried off as fast as his legs would allow. He disappeared into the brush in back of the ball field.

Davey started to follow, but his mom grabbed hold of his collar and said, "Stay here, Little Man, Slingshot will be okay. The clown just spooked him, that's all."

But Davey detected the worried sound in her voice and the frown that wrinkled up her forehead.

"See, Momma, Slingshot is scared of them, too!" His bottom lip protruded outward. So stubborn––Just like his father...June thought.

Frozen to his spot and unable to move now, Davey had to stand and watch the antics of these dreaded performers. I wonder who it will touch this time...?

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Watch and see who that clown touches this year and you'll see who disappears next. Please?"

June said, "I'll do that, Davey. Just for you, I'll do that..."

He slipped his small hand in hers and squeezed with all his might. Now he felt that he had someone on his side.

They watched carefully as the performers criss-crossed the road, back and forth, making the small children laugh and clap their pudgy, little hands. Then, the clowns did something they'd never done before. They began handing out colourfully wrapped lollipops to the crowd. Especially, to the youngest children.

Davey watched, growing more frantic with each passing moment. Oh, no! They are touching lots of kids! Now we'll have no way of knowing who's next!

The yellow-haired clown paused for a few seconds longer before a tiny, curly-mopped boy. Then the clown tousled the boy's hair before handing him the candy and then pedalled crazily on his way.

Davey felt a shudder pass down his spine.

"He's the one, Mommy, he's the one! Do you know who that boy is? The one the clown touched...on his head..?" His voice was full of excitement and fear, all at the same time.

"No, I don't, Son. And I really don't think..."

Davey pulled his hand out from hers and ran to find Slingshot. She didn't believe me! Not for a minute! He was about in tears when he found Slingshot huddled beneath a tall maple tree.

As he hugged his dog fiercely, more tears began to fall down his cheeks, and he and Slingshot shivered together.

A few minutes later, Guy found them and said sternly, "C'mon, Davey." He knew he was in trouble because his dad only called him Davey, in that tone of voice, when he was angry.

"Get a move on and no more funny business! Grow up, Son! Why should we have to pound it into your thick skull that clowns are here to entertain us, not to scare us? Take your dog and we'll head for home."

Davey knew when to keep his thoughts to himself––knew when his Dad had his mind made up and there would be no further argument.

Two days later, the headlines read "ANOTHER MISSING CHILD". It went on to name the boy under a photo, the boy whose hair the clown had tousled at the parade. Davey didn't say a word, though his mother glanced at him with a question in her eyes. Thinking no one will ever believe him, he lowered his head and passed by his parents to go outside and play with his only friend in this world, Slingshot.

Why can't anyone believe me? It's so plain to see. So why don't they want to see the truth, the plain-as-the-nose-on-your-face, God-awful TRUTH!

The year passed by slowly. School and friends filled up the time. Winter was fun. It snowed that year which meant lots of sledding, building forts, and throwing snowballs. It was over too soon. March turned to April, April to May. June passed. Then...July Fourth....The Day of the Clowns!

Davey didn't even beg to stay home this time. What was the use?

Two clowns. Who would it be this time? Is it his turn yet- to go off to Clown Land, or wherever they take the little boys and girls? And where is it? What sort of torture goes on there? He shivered as he stood next to his mother alongside the parade route.

Once more, the brightly coloured clowns––one yellow, one dressed in green- passed out candy. Some they tossed into the crowd, some they handed out personally. Once again, Davey took a step back when they neared him and his parents. The green-haired clown glared at him with dead slate-black eyes, then passed on to another family. It touched a boy from his class. Timothy, somebody or other.

Letting himself breathe again, Davey was glad he got through another year. But not glad that it meant another boy would be taken.

"It will be Timothy from my class this time, Mom." He didn't want to be right––but he was.

"H––hmmmm," June barely heard him as she busily cooked breakfast. She had been listening closely to the local news and trying to hear Guy explain something to her, at the same time.

"Next year there will be only one clown. Only one."

His dad heard his mumbled words this time.

"When will you grow up? Davey, I've told you and told you. Now, no more clown talk! Have you got that straight?"

"Yes, Dad. I've got it." As he ran from the room, he made a parting shot, "Watch next year. There will be only one clown! And maybe this time it will take me!" He disappeared outside so fast that his dad didn't have time to retort.

The summer passed. Fall fell. Same old, same old, with one bright exception––Mom and Dad announced they were going to have a new baby! It was going to be great! Davey decided he would love being an older brother.

"What do you want, Little Man, a sister or a brother?"

He shrugged and said, "It don't matter. I will love either one."

"That's my boy!" Guy interrupted him, "So grown up now!"

Davey stuck out his chest and felt good at the praise.

He watched as his mother's belly grew and grew. It looked like a large basketball filling her up! He smiled at the thought.

"When? When? When will the baby come out?"

"My goodness! So eager, aren't we? Actually, Doc Maynard said it will be sooner than we expected. Probably by early June."

"Wow!" Davey could hardly wait.

June first was the day his little sister Abby arrived. When she was brought home, Davey couldn't stop staring at her. Wow! A real live, little person came out of his momma's belly. It was a miracle! Suddenly, Davey felt very protective of his baby sister and thought, maybe I am growing up!

* * *

Now, though, as Davey stood watching the street from his upstairs window, he thought I am not going to the picnic this year. 'Cause if I do, the last clown will get me! It will get me for sure!

Davey marched downstairs and into the kitchen where his parents were getting Abby ready for her first picnic, then announced, "I'm not going this time. I'm nine now and I have to make some decisions for myself!"

June and Guy swung their heads in his direction.

His dad said, "All right, Son. This year, you're off the hook!"

A smile of disbelief spread across Davey's face.

Guy went on to say, "We'll be busy showing off our new bundle of joy anyway, won't we, June?"

"Now Guy, stop trying to make Davey jealous..."

"I'm not jealous one bit!" he said. Just glad to stay home, miss this picnic...

His parents and baby sister went out the door and then he heard the car drive away.

Whew! Saved! Davey got busy. He mowed the front lawn, clipped some hedges and low bushes, thought about straightening up the garage, but that was too much work, so he settled in the living room to watch some television, complete with some popcorn and pop. Good!...Wrestling is on.

Davey's parents came back around six o'clock, all happy and sun-tanned. Luckily, they brought home some hotdogs and potato salad for a light dinner. Davey was starving and so he dove into the food with enthusiasm.

After Abby was put to bed and Davey had brushed his teeth, his mom came in to say good night.

Davey looked at her reflection through the mirror and asked, "Was there only one clown?"

June nodded, "Yes. One clown," she barely whispered.

"Did it touch anyone, a kid?"

"I didn't watch! I couldn't watch!" She turned swiftly and headed downstairs.

Before hopping into bed, Davey did his usual thing; he spread the sheer curtains apart and looked down. There––across the street––a clown!

In the dim light from the streetlamp, he couldn't quite make out which colour he was, but guessed he was in green. The clown moved further into the light. Yes, it was the green frilled clown with the same coloured curly wig!

Fear clutched at his heart, as an invisible hand squeezed it and constricted his throat. He couldn't make a sound, couldn't breathe. Couldn't tear his eyes away from the figure, half-hidden in shadows.

As he was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, the clown gave a little wave with a white-gloved hand, then disappeared.

Davey slid down to the floor, grabbing hold of the windowsill to prevent hurting himself, and fought for his breath. Large gasps emitted from his mouth, as tears flowed freely. Sweat bathed his pyjamas, and soon he was soaking wet.

Davey crawled across the floor, pulled himself up to slip between cool, soothing sheets of his single bed. There he huddled, clutching rough blankets around him and shivered, until the greyness of morning filtered in through the filmy curtains of the window.

"Davey, is something wrong?" his mother asked when Davey came downstairs. "You look like you haven't slept at all!" She felt his forehead for some indication.

"You don't have a fever..."

Just then Guy entered the kitchen.

Switching his eyes between the two faces, concern furrowed his brow.

"Is something wrong? Davey, you don't look so hot. Are you sick?"

Davey pounced on this explanation. "Yeah, I don't feel good."

"Well, you just stay home and take care of yourself, okay Son?"

"Yes, I will, Dad."

After his dad left for the day, Davey gathered up enough nerve to finally say something to his mother. He took in a deep breath and said, "Mom, I saw a clown last night...across the street. I looked out my window, like I always do and he was out there; across the street! He's waiting for me! Waiting for me 'cause I didn't go to the parade this time!" A deep sob escaped his throat.

"Oh, Son!" June hugged him tightly for a few minutes, then drew back to look him directly in the face.

"Honey, you simply had a bad dream last night. You were thinking of how you got out of seeing the clown this year and so now your subconscious built on it, making for a very scary, unreal dream. Do you understand?"

"But Mommy, he was real! As real as you are––standing right here in front of me!" His eyes filled with more tears.

June hugged him again and said, "I know how nightmares can seem so real to us, but I assure you, there was no clown outside your window last night. Okay?"

Davey gulped, swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded. He wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. She had convinced him.

No clown outside! Just a terrible nightmare.

That night, Davey's parents appeared concerned about his little sister.

He heard his mother say, "She has a slight fever, but it's not high enough to worry about...yet."

Guy said, "If she's not better by morning, we'll check with Doc, okay?"

"Sounds like a plan," June answered.

Then they all retired for the night.

No, no! I will not look out my window tonight. I will not! 'Cause there is no clown out there. No clown! Davey said over and over again, to himself.

After several minutes of shivering between cold sheets, he was somehow soaked in sweat, anyway. Although he sat there with eyes squeezed shut, Davey ultimately gave in to the overwhelming urge to look! Just a quick peek, to reassure himself. There's no clown outside Mommy said so!

Slowly, reluctantly, he drew the flimsy curtains aside and gazed across the street. It's there! He could no longer convince himself that it is a man dressed in a clown suit. It stood directly beneath the streetlight this time, so Davey could get a real good look at it. White baggy suit with green ruffles, green curly mop on its head. It was staring upward at him, grinning––evil written all over his face. Davey shivered as fear trickled down his spine.

Just as before––he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe! He figured he was going to die––right there at the window, staring down at the street where the apparition of the clown stood.

A bad dream, his mother said. Nothing but a bad dream, the kind where your legs won't move...or anything else for that matter. GONNA DIE RIGHT HERE!

Trying to swallow the huge lump stuck in his throat, Davey watched as the clown moved its arm as if it was beckoning to him, its arm making large arcs, urging him to come to it! Over and over, beckoning, beckoning...Davey watched until finally, it stopped, glared up at the frightened small boy in the window, and swirled around into a sudden gathering mist and disappeared.

Another sleepless night for Davey.

"You still don't look very well, Davey," his dad remarked, when Davey finally dragged himself downstairs the next morning.

"I'll make you some tea and toast, Son. You stay home and get some rest. We're taking Abby to the doctor's right now. She has a fever and is not well, at all. She threw up this morning," his mother added.

Davey nodded in agreement. He didn't want to worry them any more than they already were. Maybe he would mention the nightmare of the clown again to his mom, later in the day. Then again...maybe not.

It was still so real to him, that he couldn't shake the apparition from his fuzzy mind. After they left, Davey curled up with a blanket on the living room couch, in front of the television and dozed off immediately.

He slept fitfully, thrashing and yelling aloud in his sleep, until the loud jangle of the phone woke him up. He mumbled, "Wha––?"

The phone. Okay. He crawled to the end of the couch and lifted the receiver.

"Hello," he croaked. Cleared his throat and said a little louder, "Hello?"

It was his mom. "Son, we will be home later. They are admitting Abby. They think she may have the flu or something and want to keep her overnight to keep an eye on her."

"Okay, Mom" Davey yawned loudly.

"I'm sorry if I woke you, Honey,"

"'S'okay," he replied.

"If you're hungry, just snoop in the fridge, or open up a can of soup from the pantry," June sounded anxious.

"Okay, Mom. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine," he said with false bravado. "Just take care of Abby. Kiss her for me."

"Okay, Son. Love you."

"I love you too, Mom," he whispered, then hung up the phone.

Why did he feel so scared? He'd been home alone lots of times.

Davey scrambled into the kitchen and looked for something to eat. He satisfied himself by preparing some chicken noodle soup and a Spam sandwich, with a glass of milk that rounded off his dinner.

He thought, More television, something stupid that would be funny––take his mind off...He munched away. This was the only time he could get away with eating in the living room, as there was no one there to yell at him for it.

It was now after dark––past eight o'clock and they weren't home yet! Come home! Come home! I can't take it here all by myself! Not when there is a green clown waiting for me outside! Please, please!

He just about leapt out of his skin when the phone rang again. He raced for it, nearly dropping it as he frantically held it to his ear.

"I thought I'd better call so you won't worry about us, Davey," his mom said. "Are you okay, did you eat something?"

"Yes, Mom. When will you be home?" He practically yelled the words, got hold of himself and said more calmly, "Are you coming home soon? I don't like it here by myself."

"Yes, Davey, we will be home soon, but they'll be keeping Abby. Her fever has not gone down, as yet. I thought perhaps we might stay overnight with her, if it's okay with you..? Mrs. James, from next door, could look in on you from time to time."

"NO! I mean, no, please come home." He felt like such a baby, begging her like this, but he really couldn't take another minute living with such deep, wrenching fear.

"I understand, Davey. Bad dreams again? We're on our way."

He let out such a huge breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, until she agreed to return home to him. Mom understands––sort of.

After his parents arrived back home and had gone to bed, Davey did his best to resist the urge to gaze out the window; where he knew the clown waited for him. Not a dream, Mom, not a nightmare! He pinched himself on his arm. Ouch! I am wide-awake, not in bed, not dreaming.

He pulled the curtains aside.

Davey started to cry out, but managed to cover his mouth with his hands, hands that trembled so violently, it's a wonder they obeyed his command. The green clown stood closer this time, still beckoning him, over and over, its wicked red grin spreading threateningly over its ghoulish white face. It took a few more steps, with its large floppy shoes slapping on the pavement of the street. Closer...closer.

Get away! Go away! No matter what you do, I'm not coming out! I won't go with you!

In the centre of the street, the clown stopped. It wiggled a finger at him like a warning, or something sinister he planned for him. It turned, and like before, left in a whirl of fog––no longer there. The empty street gaped blankly at him, seeming to wait––and wait.

Davey felt like his life was about to shatter around him, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it! He didn't mean to curse, but this was a special occasion. He turned and quickly crawled deep into the covers of his bed, where he shivered uncontrollably. He was so drained of energy that he finally fell asleep toward morning, just when his mother poked her head into his room.

"Hey, Sleepyhead, we're off to the hospital. You sleep some more and I'll call you soon with some news. Don't worry. We won't be gone all day, this time."

Davey tried valiantly to rise, but felt too weak. He wanted to say that he'd get up, get dressed, and go with them, but couldn't. His sleepless nights were catching up to him, draining all his strength.

He slumped back down. "Okay, Mom. See you later..."

He heard her voice as it trailed off, "I don't know what's wrong with these doctors, Guy! They say there is no earthly reason for Abby's illness. She just gets worse and worse. What will we do if we lose her?"

He fell asleep at once; didn't even hear the door close.

It was mid-afternoon when the ringing of the phone clanged through a dream in which he roamed the hallways of the hospital, trying to find the room where his little sister lay ill. In his dream, Abby was on her deathbed. His heart was trying to beat its way out of his rib cage and his legs were so rubbery, he could barely stand. He clung to the walls as he teetered this way and that.

Brrrriiinnnngggg, went the phone again.

"Okay, okay!" Davey shook the sleep from his mind and rose to answer the phone.

He grumped all the way down the stairs to the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello? That you, Mom? When are you coming home? How's Abby?"

A small nervous voice said, "I'm not your Mom."

"Who are you then?"

"Timothy."

"Timothy, who? I don't know any Timothy." Davey was still trying to shake off cobwebs of sleep and was not truly awake yet.

"Timothy. You know, from your class...?"

Suddenly Davey was wide-awake. "But you're missing! Or dead. Or something! Where are you?"

"That doesn't matter."

Davey detected fear, or dread, in the boy's voice.

Timothy went on, "He wants you to come out to him...NOW!" A sob broke through Timothy's weak voice. He sounded so far away.

"I won't! Tell him that!"

Silence echoed through the phone lines creating an eerie quiet.

Timothy came back on line. "He says that if you don't come out now and come to him, he will be forced to go to the hospital and take your little sister, instead."

"What? What? No! He can't do that! Not my baby sister!" Davey yelled.

"Then come out." As Timothy's voice was growing faint, his words seemed to echo inside Davey's head...Come out...come out...

Davey, now filled with complete terror, stood immobile, like a stone statue, unable to move. Weak-kneed, he slid to the floor.

"Hurry up! You don't have much time! He says he is going to the hospital for little Abby––right now!" Another sob escaped the boy's mouth.

Davey heard his father's voice speaking somewhere in his head, "Grow up, Son, act like a man!" Then, he imagined his mother's voice, "My Little Man."

"...no earthly reason for her illness..." also played over and over in his mind.

"Okay, Dad," Davey whispered. For you and for Mom, for Abby...

Davey Mansfield rose up from the floor where he'd been sitting, unaware of how he got there, and walked robotically to the back door, knowing that the clown would be out there waiting for him. He turned the knob; opened the door, slowly and reluctantly, then stumbled across the porch, out into the yard.

Slingshot pulled furiously at the bottom of his pyjama pants, trying to stop him, but soon ceased, perhaps realizing it was no use. The dog retreated underneath the back porch, whimpered then began a mournful howl.

Then, from out of the shadows just beneath the shade of the maple tree in the corner of the yard, Davey saw him. He was transfixed within the power of the dead slate eyes. Davey turned, then walked toward it. The clown held out one of his white gloved hands that revealed only three bulging fingers.

Obediently, Davey took that hand in his and the two of them disappeared into the thick, icy fog.

# The Last House on the Block

## John M. Wills

The last house on the dead end street was a neighbourhood favourite during Halloween. Set back several hundred feet from the street, the old place had a long winding driveway, and a sweeping front lawn. Perfect for a haunted house.

Flying ghosts, huge spiders, coffins, zombies, and eerie music and lighting, set the stage for frightened trick or treater's, some of whom were too scared to enter.

Joey and his friend Tommy almost peed their pants last Halloween. As they approached the front steps, a zombie suddenly sprang up from a half-buried coffin. Both boys screamed and ran away, totally missing the huge bowl of candy at the front door.

Fall leaves swirled gently around them as they stopped at the corner of the dead end street. "You sure about this, Joey? I, uh, I got a bad feeling about it, like maybe we should just take the candy we have and be satisfied."

"You big chicken. What are you, in kindergarten?"

"No! I'm not scared. Heck, I'm a fifth-grader."

Joey threw his shoulders back. "Then you'd better stop acting like a baby, Tommy. It's Halloween, it's not real. People try to scare little kids. We're big."

Tommy looked down the block. It was only eight o'clock but the sidewalks were deserted. "Hey, the street light's not workin' down there. I don't see any other trick or treater's."

Joey thought about the big bowl of candy they'd missed out on last year. "Yeah, well, that just means we get as much candy as we want. Come on, Tommy, let's go."

They walked slowly through the open driveway gate. Scary sounds and muffled moans became louder the closer they got to the house. Tombstones, coffins, and skeletons lined the driveway. A light rain began to fall.

"Hey, Joey. We'd better go home. My mom will be mad if this costume gets ruined."

"Uh uh. We're gonna grab some candy first. Let's go." The boys crept forward and slowly climbed the five steps to the dark expansive porch. "Man, Tommy, they got a ton o' candy this year. Let's grab some."

"Hey, Joey, look, the door's kinda open."

"So?"

"Well, maybe they don't want us just takin' the candy. Maybe they want to hand it out."

Joey paused. "Yeah, maybe. Trick or Treat!" No response. Joey peeked inside. A body was lying on the hallway floor! He quickly pulled back and looked at Tommy. "Thh...there's a dead guy on the floor."

"What?"

"A real dead guy...with a knife in his back!"

Tommy turned to run, but stopped. "No way. They're just tryin' to scare little kids, remember?"

Joey's heart raced. "I...I don't know. It sure looks real. You look."

As Tommy inched toward the door, it flew open and careened off the wall. A man covered in blood, his eyes bulging, sprang through the doorway screaming. After leaping off the porch, he ran into the darkness. The boys froze.

"Let's get outta here!"

As they prepared to flee, an old woman with no teeth appeared at the door. She picked up the bowl and asked, "Candy, boys?"

That was the last year Tommy and Joey went trick or treating.

#

# Consequence

## Micheal Shaw

Her heart beat against her chest: furious, fast, with no sign of letting up. Her breathes came in short pants. It was difficult. Her pregnant belly prevented her from going too fast. It didn't seem to matter, though. Whatever it was seemed to be taking its time, enjoying the thrill of the hunt.

She dashed across the hallway of her home and headed into her bedroom, firmly locking the door behind her. She ran to the phone by the small digital radio, in hopes of calling for help. The door shattered and splintered across the room as something powerful crashed through it. There was no time to complete the call. Spinning around, she couldn't even scream before she fell unconscious. As she fainted in terror, a soft crooning filled her ears.

She awoke slowly on her bed, her sight fading in and out. The sheets ruffled under her movements. Her mind foggy and disorientated, a strange, cloying, out of place stench filled her nostrils. She tried to move but found she was bound, her arms tied to the bedposts by cloth. She began to struggle. As her mind cleared, she became aware of a pain in her stomach. She froze, panic searing through her.

My baby, she thought.

She snapped her eyes to her protruding belly. Everything in her flushed cold. Attached to her belly button was a decaying grey, almost glowing proboscis. It gurgled and was over a meter in length, an inch in diameter, and shaped like a tube or nozzle. It came from the bottom of the bed, arcing over the foot-board with drool dripping from it in strands.

Even more horrifying for the young mother-to-be was the feeling of pain, a dull ache that flashed in intensity. Before her wide-eyes, she saw that the pain increased in rhythm to the growing flow of bulges that moved along the elongated tongue, heading towards what seemed to be the creature's mouth and head. From it, she heard a pitched kik-kik-kik. Though, she couldn't see the thing clearly. It was hidden in shadow.

Her heart began to palpitate, pounding in her ears. Its irregular spasms felt as though it would burst through her chest. Her body shaking, terror welled within it, like a stone. Her senses felt dull, disconcerting and she thought she could her screaming. She realized, it was her screaming.

"Please...my baby...my baby, let me go, please." She begged for her baby, hoping for the creature to leave her alone.

"Stop...stop...stop!" she pleaded. The creature paid no mind to the screaming mother, the tongue swaying slighting as it gorged itself on the unborn child. Before the woman's disbelieving gaze, her stomach began to shrink and she felt liquid flow from between her legs, drenching the sheet beneath and causing an unwelcome warmth. The heat spread beneath her. She felt helpless and weak, paralyzed in shock and hating herself for being unable to do anything but beg and scream.

All too suddenly, she realized that it was blood that had come from her. Shock and horror swept through her. Despairing recognition of what was happening settled in her mind. The sickening understanding that her baby was being devoured and she was powerless to stop it.

Never before had she loathed someone more than herself at that moment, for her failure to protect the unborn life. She had nurtured it for months and it was taken from her in moments. Her eyes began to darken as her heart slowed. She felt fatigued, her energy sapped. As her vision began to fade and her brain slowed, reality began to disconnect.

She vaguely saw the tongue––which had taken her baby from her––detach itself from her stomach. A blurred figure rose up and over her. Something impacted her chest, creating a sharp pain followed by the sound of cracking. Then everything went black.

* * *

My sister phoned me today, which was a shock. Her name was Victoria. We weren't really that close. I blamed our grandmother for that, for driving a pair of twins away from one another. You see my family comes from a long line of magic users. After our parents were murdered, it was our grandmother who was granted custody.

At first everything was fine, she treated us kindly and equally. As we reached puberty, my sister began showing signs of her magical inheritance and I did not. It wasn't long after that when my grandmother became dismissive of me, like I was some big disappointment. It eventually lead to me and my sister becoming estranged, and to be honest, I didn't exactly try to prevent that. I just wanted to get out of our grandmother's house and out from under her thumb, away from the supernatural world that claimed our parents.

My sister had told me that she was pregnant, the father had died and she was worried about her safety...and her child's. It happened when she attended college––her getting pregnant. Our grandmother kicked her out. Victoria was living alone and was powerless. Her capacity with magic was nullified, her body's energy focused on nourishing the baby.

Victoria had been following the news, more specifically, the killing of a pregnant woman. Her baby was removed from her womb without any physical sign of how, except for a hole, the size of a penny where her belly button would be.

Her heart had been ripped out. Her chest caved there from some kind of high impact object. This had sent warning flags to my sister for some reason, making her believe that a supernatural creature, known as an aswang, was the culprit. She was worried that she might be on the aswang's menu, seeing as she had no power to fend one off.

I haven't really kept up on my magic studies, so my knowledge of the various creatures that exist is vague at best. I was still trying to stay away from that world...but she begged me to help, to hunt down the aswang and kill it. I told her I wanted no involvement but she was my sister, so I finally gave up and agreed.

* * *

What most people don't realize is that the supernatural exists; those creatures you hear about in mythology, fairy tales, and see in movies––they live amongst us. In every country, and almost every town, there is a council comprised of these beings and they enforce the treaty. The treaty is pretty much a cease-fire. It was formed to prevent all-out war from erupting between the different factions.

To be honest, the treaty is pretty much a pile of shit. I didn't know much about it, not before, just that the councils were supposed to police their own and deal with those that breach the treaty.

After my sister's phone call, the first thing I did was research. I had a series of research journals scattered around my office. No one would ever confuse me as an expert but if anyone ever asked, I could tell them about the various mythological creatures of the modern world. I sat at my desk and booted up my computer. A lot of Mages scoff at technology, preferring books and parchment. I have found that most things in books can be found on-line––in folklore that has been passed down through generations.

Right away, my search brought up information on aswangs. Though, what is correct is debatable. Most weaknesses are general: salt, fire, holy objects, and prayers. Those are generally the four major weaknesses in most creatures, be they ghost or zombies.

I memorized how to recognize an aswang, finding the information interesting. The creature could be recognized by two major characteristics. The first was bloodshot eyes––something I dismissed, as most pot heads had this. The other identifier you saw an inverted reflection when looking into their eyes.

At night a few more signs show up, like their feet facing backwards. There are five major types and the one I seem to be hunting is the kikik, which looks for a sleeping pregnant woman. When it has found one, it extends a very long proboscis into the womb and kills the foetus by draining its blood.

Beginning the second face of my search, I looked for any more deaths similar to the murdered woman's and immediately found over twelve more articles from the surrounding towns. Glancing at the pictures, I came to a rather chilling conclusion. They all resembled my sister. That is to say they each had chestnut hair, blue eyes, and were in their third trimester. It seemed that the aswang had a type. One that my sister fit. Saving my searches in a folder and closing down my computer, I set about a few preparations. First, a warning system consisting of coconut oil in a boil, over which I whispered a quick prayer. It would warm up if an aswang approached my house, heating to a boil.

Grabbing a knife from the small weapons chest against my wall, I attached it to my belt. I also picked up a small pouch of salt that went into my pocket. Feeling that I had prepared enough, I made my way out of the house and headed towards the most recent crime scene.

I had no idea of how the events that followed would impact my life.

* * *

I could not explore the crime scene. Police still frequented the area, part of an ongoing investigation. Instead I shifted my aura slightly, channelling a fragment to my eyes and activating a form of mage sight. My vision altered, allowing me to see deviations in the natural, energy flow of the earth. It was easy to spot the dark, pulsating trail that hovered around the victim's house. A miasmic terror, brought on by death hung in the air. A faint energy trail could be seen, meandering away from the house, matching that of the house.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I followed the trail through the city centre. I walked down alleys, within parks, and circled around multiple times. It leads me past Deansgate, through the Printworks, and finally to Piccadilly Gardens where it stopped...or should I say expanded into a cloud: a pulsating mixture of black, blood red, and dark green energy. Anxiety continued to build. My stamina drained, forcing me to release my mage sight. I sighed in relief. The pressure of the experience remained, merely tingeing the edge of my senses.

As my eyes shifted back into their normal visual range, I surveyed the area again, picking up the tiniest of details. A homeless woman in the corner, with blood shot eyes, sent a tingle up my spine.

There was a large, black dog laying on the sidewalk across the street. Its tongue hung from its mouth and its eyes were closed, twitching at the faintest sounds. I dismissed the dog and kept my eyes on the woman.

My hand drifted into my pocket to grab a handful of salt. I paced towards the woman, making it seem like I would pass her. The area was quiet. Strange, considering there were usually teenagers out and about, enjoying the night in rowdy groups. I suppose even normal people could sense the powerful presence, something that activated their flight response and prevented them from approaching the area.

As I passed the woman, I flung my hand out, throwing salt over her face as my other hand withdrew the knife. She was startled for a moment, then started spewing slurs at me.

I cursed myself, my eyes drifting about as I ignored her words. She went from shouting to quiet in a flash. I glanced at her, seeing that she was deathly pale. Her eyes stared blankly at something behind me.

That's when the dog slammed into me, flinging me forward. The knife went flying as I crashed into the ground. My head struck the pavement, making me see stars. Staggered, I stumbled back to my feet, struggling to keep my balance. I cast my eyes towards the animal.

It was black, hunched, hair spiking in aggression. Its paws were backwards. Its eyes were bloodshot. Staring into them, I could see my reflection. It was upside down...inverted.

"Well Fuck."

* * *

The aswang glowered at me with baleful eyes. Its yellow teeth were bared in a vicious snarl. A rumbling, low growl issued from its throat. I noticed its hind legs. They tensed, but it was barely noticeable.

I leapt to the side, barely dodging its lunge. For a moment I froze, realizing I was out of my league. Its movements were blurred, hard to track, and it was only luck that I had dodged out of the way in time. I scanned for my knife, cursing the fact that I came with so little. I didn't think that I would actually encounter the beast.

It crouched before me, tracking my movements with a chilling intensity. Its intelligent eyes mocked me. My mind whirled as adrenalin flooded through me. Time seemed to slow down and I seemed to speed up. Sounds became distorted to my ears. My vision abruptly refocused in astonishing clarity.

It dove at me. I rolled to my right. It bound at me from where it had landed and I dodged again. It swiped furiously at me. Its paws were edged with five inch long claws. Stumbling backward, I fell on to my butt. It prowled forward, muscles shifting fluidly as it moved. I scrambled backward. My heart beat furiously in my chest. I could feel the rhythm of my pulse in the blood rushing through my ears.

There was a glint in my peripheral vision that caught my attention––the knife. The silver blade reflected the light from the lamppost. Looking back at the Aswang, I knew I had to slow it. But how? There were no rocks that I could strike it with. I dug my hand into my pocket, in hopes of find some salt left.

Grasping, I pulled the pouch from my pocket and flung it. At the same time, the Aswang flew at me. I scurried out of the way. A loud, piercing yowl erupted from it. I could see its skin bubbling beneath its fur.

Seeing my chance, I jumped to my feet and ran towards the knife. My feet pounded on the pavement, sending shock-waves through my body. I could hear the Aswang settle, a low growl that carried all of its hate, pain, and rage towards the one that had harm it––me. I dove for the weapon, my hand grasping the hilt. I turned and grunted.

My breath was forced out of me as the Aswang impacted. It claws dug into my chest. Though, I did not feel any pain. It forced me onto my back, my left arm across my chest, pushing against the canine-like beast above me. My head swayed side to side as I frantically dodged its snapping jaw. Its saliva splattered against my face. As a last resort I shove my arm into its mouth. It bit down immediately, shaking its head. In response I lashed out with the knife, driving the blade into its soft underbelly. Once...twice...after the third thrust it released me and fled, bounding over benches and vanishing into the shadows. A trail of blood dotted the ground, following behind it.

I laid silently, in stunned disbelief. My hand gripped my knife tightly. My heart pounded against my chest as I panted. My eyes darted to and fro, desperately searching for any sign that it was still there.

The lights from the various lamppost seemed overly bright to my eyes. My ears rang sharply. I calmed slowly, regulating my breathing as much as I could and my heart beat began to slow. As it did, pain alighted across my nerves. My chest and arm were on fire. My back stung sharply from where I had been dragged across the pavement. I looked down and felt my eyes widen. Blood poured from my chest. Woozily I examined my left arm. My jacket was in tatters, no longer covering my arm that oozed blood like a river, dark and purple.

Climbing to my feet, I quickly weaved strands of water and air magic together, infusing them to my wounds so that the pain would dull and the blood loss would slow. The sudden drain on my energy caused me sway slightly in dizziness. I looked around at the devastation. Gorges created from claws littered the area. Glancing down, I observed the area I had laid in covered in blood.

Knowing that what I was about to do would drain me even further, I wove a cleansing spell to remove the blood: strands of earth, water, and air flowing together. When I released the spell, I collapsed onto all four. Pain lanced through me, despite the spell to dull it and I gained a migraine.

My muscles burned as I stood, aching as I make my way out of the city centre. I kept my awareness on the knife's edge, though I would be unable to do anything should the aswang attack me now. My vision tunnelled, the pain in my body increasing as my spell slowly began to un-weave itself.

It didn't take me long to reach my house, my body heavy and my mind muddled. I fumbled with my key, missing the keyhole three times before I was able to unlock my door. As I slid into the living room, I pressed a small rune cluster. It would activate the, rather low-level, wards around my house. The ward-structure wasn't much, enough to delay any being that would do harm. It would give me some warning, though higher level beings would shatter them without noticing they were there.

Making my way into the kitchen, I pulled open the cupboard in order to grab some pre-brewed healing potions. They would stave off the pain and help accelerate my healing slightly, allowing me to sleep until I was capable of healing myself better.

Grabbing some bandages, I soaked them in the potions. This would stop the bleeding on my chest and arm much faster than the bandages by themselves. I walked to the couch, plopping down on it. I slowly and methodically wrapped my chest, which was difficult using only one hand. Then I bandaged my damaged arm. Making sure that the wrapping was secure, I settled down. It wasn't long before exhaustion overwhelmed me and I drifted off into sleep.

I had no idea about the consequences of what just happened.

* * *

I woke suddenly, my body jerking in response to my nightmare and causing spasms of pain to ripple through me. The sunlight speared through the drawn curtains. Gripping the back of my couch, I pulled myself into a sitting position. My irritated back stung sharply. Glancing down at my chest, I saw that the bandages were soaked and that the magic inherent in the potions had prevented me from bleeding out.

I quickly removed the bandages and wrapped my chest in new ones. I slowly moved into the office, my body aching from the fight. Though, calling it a fight was overstating it. I was completely outclassed and barely able to defend myself. The aswang hadn't even been taking me seriously. I could tell. I was completely unprepared and because of that my chest and arm were profoundly messed up, something I felt I deserved.

When my sister had first come to me for help, I barely put any effort into assisting her. I shook my head in disgust. Grabbing a few of my research books, I planned to be better prepared next time. Booting up my computer, I reloaded my previous searches and expanded the criteria. I hoped to get any new leads on how to kill it.

Whilst the search was running, I picked up my phone and called my sister. The phone rang but no one answered. I hung up and tried again––the same result. I finally just left her a voice mail, telling her to call me back.

I looked down at the books and began to look for a ritual that would heal my wounds. I barely had any books on supernatural creatures, something that I planned to remedy in the future. The few books I did have were about rituals, though they were mainly minor ones. I had a single book on complex rituals, some of them would heal me to full fitness, at the cost of scarring. Other spells worked in phases and were spaced out to have maximum effect. This meant there would usually be no scaring, even when someone was severely burnt.

I was sure to mark the rituals and their page numbers in my journal. My journal also served as my Grimoire. Any research I did and any magical undertakings that I had accomplished were written down within, including any notes and adjustments I had made.

I jotted down my experience with the aswang, describing the aura that had surrounded its victim's house and how I tracked it down. I also made sure to add all the information I had on any of the weaknesses that I found in my earlier search. Once I had done that, I moved into the living room and saw that over six hours had passed since I started the day. Checking my bandages, I decided to change them again before continuing and dropped my journal on the couch.

* * *

I was startled from my research by an imperious knocking at the door. Glancing at my clock, I saw that it was six pm and was confused, I wasn't expecting any company. Standing up, I stretched, popping and loosening the bones and muscles in my back. Whoever was at the door knocked again, more insistently.

Opening the door, I was horrified to see my grandmother. She was a stately woman with silvery gray hair tied in a bun. Perched on her nose was a pair of glasses. They covered her cold, gray eyes. She was dressed in smart attire: a white blouse with a pale blue coat, a pair of black slacks, and a pair of high heels. She had a small purse hanging from her shoulder, both arms crossed over her chest. I froze, standing dumbly as I stared at her.

"Well boy, Are you going to invite me in or leave me standing in your doorway?" She snapped irritably.

"In the doorway" I replied bluntly.

Huffing, she pushed her way past me, glancing around the room with a dismissive sniff. Anger start to bubble within me. She was always like this, treating me as though I was something at the bottom of her shoe. I figured it was because I am a man.

"Why are you here?" I asked angrily, "You normally never invade my home with your presence. You just send one of your little sycophants with a message"

"Which you never heed" She responded, "and they are my apprentices, you know they don't like it when you call them that"

"I know." I smirked in reply. I always made it my goal to get under the skin of my grandmother's apprentices. They always thought they were so much better than me, just because my grandmother had accepted them as disciples. It drove them nuts, that I showed neither them nor my grandmother any respect, "So...why are you here?"

"Victoria's dead." She answered bluntly, ignoring the shock on my face at the news, "The police believe that she was murdered. By a human of course, though, we both know that's a lie. From my scrying, I was able to determine that she was killed by an aswang." Scrying being the ability to use a crystal ball to divine past, present or future events. Something I disliked, immensely

"Though she was able to save her child, encasing him within a bubble of protection magic, she was unable to defend herself. Her heart was ripped out, most likely eaten now. The child is hidden. I cannot find it, I believe only you can." She continued, ignoring how enraged I was becoming at her casually dismissing the death of my sister.

"And whose fault is that!" I snarled, "who disowned her because she was pregnant and left her helpless. You filled her head with how she was a powerful witch, you bitch, and then you abandoned her when she inconvenienced you." I spat vitriol at her for the next few minutes.

She cut me off,

"Like you are blameless. When was the last time you saw her? Where were you these past five years?" She asked, her voice tight and tense.

"You kept pulling her away, teaching her your witchcraft. We barely had anything in common anymore. She was going where I couldn't follow" I threw back. My chest was burning and my arm was on fire. I felt light headed and dizzy, my chest heaving in anger. I stumbled over to my couch and fell into it limply, dropping my head into my hands, staving off the tears I could feel coming. I would not cry in front of my grandmother. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing a weakness.

"You are injured. Why?" She spoke, her voice holding the expectation of an answer.

"Last night I fought an aswang. It got away after I injured it" I replied vaguely. I wasn't going to tell her how utterly outclassed I was and how I barely lived, "It must have killed Victoria in order to heal."

Nodding her head in response, with a knowing glint in her eyes. I knew her thoughts ran parallel with mine. Aswangs used the blood of an unborn child to heal.

My sister was able to remove her baby, which was eight months along, and into an incubation and protection spell, probably draining her of what little magic she was able to conjure. Then she used her life force to power another enchantment, to hide it behind a veil. One that my grandmother believed was keyed to me.

The child would be hidden until it was ready to be born, then the veil would draw me to it and release the baby into my custody. I struggled with myself for a moment on whether I should ask her how to best kill an aswang. I would be in her debt if she did, and after, she would be able to call upon my services. Something I was desperate to avoid.

I finally relented,

"How should I kill the aswang? I know a few weaknesses but they seem useless." I asked, a scowl on my face.

"A holy blade of some sort. Magic, maybe an enchanted knife would be best." She replied, preparing to leave. "You're sister bequeathed her personal library to you, I'll have it sent over in the morning"

"Thanks" I muttered sullenly, watching as she swept out of the house, abrupt and with no goodbye. She always made me feel like this, like a petulant, misbehaving boy, like I should be apologetic for forcing my presence on her. Whenever I spoke to her, I was always drained of energy.

Sinking into the couch, my thoughts immediately drifted to the aswang. I knew it was partially my fault that she was dead, that I was guilty of inaction. If I had been more prepared...if I had taken the situation more seriously...I felt my eyes sting and wiped them, my hand shining with tears. I sat for a while, self-recriminations and guilt flowing through my mind. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, bringing me out of it.

It wasn't just my fault. I wasn't the one that killed her. The creature did that and it was still out there. I knew it would be hunting for another pregnant woman. One close by, as it was injured and unable to travel far. I was going to find it. When I did I would kill it.

I hadn't realized I was gripping the knife I had injured it with, not until it became warm and I felt a sudden drain in my magic. Looking down, I saw the blade glow briefly. The aswang's blood absorbed into the blade. I felt an odd resonance with the weapon, slowly changing until it matched that of the aswang.

Staring at the blade in a new light, I couldn't help but let a gleeful smirk spread across my face, though, puzzlement was there as well. That had been too easy, enchantment took years of study and it wasn't something that I had. It was like something had awakened in me, something that enabled what had just happened. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to contemplate the oddity.

I had too much to do. First I needed to find out who the next victim was. Then I need to fully heal my body as quickly as possible. The healing was simpler than I expected. As soon as I sat down, I noticed the book of rituals that I had been looking through earlier.

Picking it up, I flicked through it until I found the ideal spell. I would be healed within two hours, with a permanent scar. I found it an acceptable payment, something to remind me of my failure, a symbol of my guilt.

With the ritual out of the way, I began to research, finding out who the next victim might be. I didn't have much luck. The Internet was useless for this. I had pretty much given up hope and planned to track the aswang by its presence again, hoping to reach it in time.

Suddenly, I was smacked in the back of my head, pushing my forehead down and bouncing it off the table. Glaring pain for a moment, I stilled when knowledge flowed into my mind. The thing that hit me was an air bubble of sorts, a spell used to deliver messages between people, used mostly by witches. My grandmother had sent it to me. She had divined the next victim and her location. The knowledge was free but she requested one thing, to kill it and deliver its heart to her as payment.

I had no problem with that. I walked into the living room and rapidly cleared it until I had a large empty space.

Grabbing a piece of chalk and the ritual book, I began to draw the ritual array. First was the circle, in which three superimposed pentagrams would lay, each pentagram was skewed enough that each point held three points, which would allow greater precision and energy to flow through the ritual. Around the edge I drew runes for healing, purification, blood, life, and binding. Each one was in a different language -- the five major runic tongues. Each rune positioned over a point, so that each rune held one rune for each language simultaneously. Traced down the path of each pentagram was a line rune script, each pentagram holding one in a different language. Within the spaces, left between the points, smaller circles were drawn and each held a symbol for the five elements: Earth to the bottom left, Water to the bottom right, Air to the top right, and Fire to the top left. At the tip was the symbol for Spirit, which was sometimes called Soul.

I stepped into the centre, my nerves on edge, and my heart rate increasing. I had tripled checked the array and it was perfect, my best work yet. Kneeling in the centre, my butt rested lightly on my heels and my arms were placed flat on the floor.

I steadied myself, taking deep breaths in order to calm my heart. When I was ready, I channelled all of my magical reserves into the array. With a brilliant flash, it lit with eldritch energy. The room was heavy with magic, the ritual array amplifying the energy I had given it by an order of magnitude. Forks of magic sparked along the chalk lines that formed the array, turning it into light and magic. I sat in awe at the sight. Perhaps this was why my sister loved magic, the sheer beauty in it. I flinched when the magical energy flared, then rushed at me and sank into my skin.

I swallowed a scream, my nerves alighting in agonizing pain as the magic of the ritual worked its way through my body. I had never felt anything like it. This was the other downside to the ritual, another price that I had to pay. For the rapid healing, I would have to feel the pain I would naturally feel, for those five years it would naturally heal in, for a few intense, agony-filled moments.

Within moments I passed out.

* * *

I awoke suddenly, confused and disorientated. Sitting up, I found myself in the ritual array. Though, it was no longer a chalk outline. It had burnt itself into my floor, smooth grooves detailing the array in full. Looking down allowed me to see the scar I had been left with––five parallel slashes, trailing down the right side of my chest from my pectoral to beneath my ribs. On my arm was two lines of scar tissue, where the aswang's teeth had sunk into the skin.

The scars were not as savage as I thought they would be. They were smooth and slightly darker in shade but looked years old.

Glancing at my clock, I saw it was eight o'clock and that I needed to hurry. I moved to my bedroom and began to pull out clothes from my wardrobe. I quickly pulled on a gray tee shirt, over which I wore an opened, black short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of dark blue jeans. Pulled on a pair of outdoor boots. I grabbed a dark blue jacket from the doorway, placing the knife's sheath under it and started to jog towards the train station.

Absentmindedly, I realized that I definitely needed to get a form of transportation, either a car or bike. It would make it easier for me get around. As things were, it took half an hour to reach the city centre. When I did, I crept my way to where the aswang would attack. Luckily, I reached the house before the aswang and waited.

The time came an hour later, I could feel its presence like a putrid stench. Gripping my knife, I prepared myself for what was to come. I could hear it first, its paws pounding across the pavement.

Turning my head, I followed it with my eyes, watching as it passed me. It stopped before the house, merely a few dozen feet away from me, and I tensed. It tilted its large, canine head before its body blurred. The distinct sounds of bone breaking filled the air as the aswang's body shifted. It began to rise slowly into a bipedal form, fur melted from, falling in clumps to the ground. Its body and its snout shrank into its face. When the transformation was complete, I stilled. Its new form was that of an older woman.

Cold, cruel bloodshot eyes stared over a large, crooked nose. She was tall, with a slim body, and long, tangled black hair. Her skin was distinctly gray, mottled in places. Despite the ragged clothing that covered her, I could see the wound I had inflicted upon her.

I smirked when she flinched, one hand coming up to press against the stab wound, and her face scrunched in pain. I crouched slowly and carefully as to not give away my presence. As I was about to pounce, I froze.

Her clothing ruffled as though something was moving at the base of her spine. I watched in growing horror and disgust. What appeared to be a proboscis rose from her back. It was easily over four meters in length. Drool dripped from it in copious amounts as it rose over her head and swayed side to side. I saw her crouch in preparation for a mighty leap.

I acted,

sprinting towards her as fast as I could. Despite the aswang's supernatural physical capabilities she could still be surprised. Before she even managed to turn, I slammed into her and swung my knife into her stomach once more. My momentum carried over, sending us both flying to the ground as a repeatedly stabbed at her torso. It didn't take long for her to come to her senses. She began to thrash against me.

I felt something wrap around my chest before I was flung through the air, away from her. Rolling as I landed, I sprung to my feet and turned to face the creature.

Blood flowed freely from her wounds. I smiled savagely at her as she snarled at me in response. Her proboscis shot at me, like a scorpion's stinger, causing me to jump to the side, evading.

I swung my blade at it in retaliation, scoring a slash across it and causing it to screech in response. Not giving it any time, I charge forward, pressing the attack. Twisting to the side, I slipped passed the proboscis and slashed at her chest once more.

Unluckily, she was able to evade and countered, striking me in the chest, flinging me backwards again. I hit the ground hard, sliding across it a few feet before I was able to stop.

Standing, I surveyed it for a moment. Gashes ran across her stomach, causing her reactions to slow. I needed to get close enough to stab it. Though, I was confused as to why it was not yet dead.

My knife was enchanted, or at least it should have been and the aswang's blood had been used as a catalyst, making the blade more effective against the aswang. It wasn't though. My distraction was costly. She ploughed into me like a car, slamming us both into the ground.

My knife was knocked from my hand, though, it didn't go far. I grasped for it blindly, chocking as the aswang's hand wrapped around my throat. She was weakened, her wound sapping her strength as time passed and so she was unable to instantly crush my neck.

Staring up at her, her face was only a foot away from mine. I could smell the stench of rotting meat on her breath and felt bile rise in my throat. My eyes widen as her proboscis rose over her head, preparing to impale me.

I was jarred from my shock when my hand grasped hold of my knife. As my magic adrenalin flooded me, I vaguely noticed some of my magical energy imbue the blade.

Swiftly swinging, in one fluid movement, I drove the blade between her ribs and was startled by the scream she released. My ears protested to the searing pain they were subjected to and I became dizzy, the world spinning around me.

Looking up in shock, I could see my knife glowing brightly, what looked like lightning trailed over the aswang's body. The effect originated from my knife. Light poured from the wound, eyes, and mouth. She spasms for a few brief moments, then fell limp. I grunted when she collapsed on top of me. Exhausted, I heaved her off.

Sitting up, I gave myself a cursory check by rubbing my throat. I was breathing deeply now that airway was no longer constricted. I was shocked to find that I wasn't too seriously hurt, at least compared to my last battle with it. My back was sore, most likely grazed from my fall. My chest hurt and I probably bruised a few ribs. Pulling on my shirt, I saw that my chest was a mass of bruising. I felt something running down my face. It passed my eye, and I wiped it with the back of my hand––blood. I must have been bleeding from a cut.

I stood and crouched over the body of the aswang. Grabbing my knife––it was still in her ribs––I yanked it out viciously.

Remembering grandmother's wish, I felt vindictive enough to grant it. I went to work, driving the blade into its chest and cutting along the ribs before pulling them open. Blood spurted everywhere, but I continued my work. When the heart was clearly visible, I reached in and pulled it out. The arteries stretched, as they were pulled taut, and so I quickly cut through them. Once I had the heart, I muttered a quick spell to destroy the body. I followed this by another to clean the blood. Standing back, I watched as the body slowly disintegrated and the blood vanished.

Checking my surroundings, I made sure that there was no one about and then slowly limped my way home. My body ached from the fight. I was happy, though. My sister was avenged.

# Thirsty

## Debbie Johnson

I stumble and fall down into black

Only broken by the glow of

Bright red blood oozing upwards

From the tortured souls held

Hostage by demons

Feasting on flesh

Of captured

Mortals

There.

#

# It's Not So Great

## Victoria Pagac

It's not so great you see it's not all the fun you see on TV.

Sure you're young forever but you never change,

This big 80's hair I'm stuck with it

At least I can buy new clothes.

But I have no idea how I look in

those no reflection so I have

To dress a doll I'm over 40 so it's not fun at all

The look of terror in her eyes as

I kill a girl who's just my size.

I have no friends it's just one long night that never ends.

I sleep all day stay up all night watching the latest trends.

I can't stick out or I have to run.

It's hard work trying to talk young

Having to hide bodies not fun.

So you want to be a vampire it's not so great

I'd kill to eat this pizza and not my date.

Apocalysium

Alex Winck

World has turned into heaven now that almost everyone´s a zombie. Dunno how the plague happened, what virus or bacteria or whatever causes it, don´t give a shit. Before that apocalypse, I was a nobody, I was nothing. Everyone told me I was a complete failure. All the inhabitants of this disgusting, small-minded, hypocritical little town who despised me, rejected me, laughed at me to my face, now wander around half-decomposed, limping, sounding like a wooden planks door with rusty hinges, sinking their rotten teeth into anything that still has a pulse.

The first one I meet early in the morning is Benjamin. He was my teacher in the stuffy, trustfund-infested college daddy paid for me, which I dropped within a week.

But I never forgot him staring at me arrogantly as I sat in his class, not even pretending I was paying any attention. There he was, a mediocre, frustrated intellectual who resented having to babysit children of privilege for a living. And yet he sounded like he was a warrior in a holy crusade.

"Elyezer, one of my sacred rules as a teacher has been never giving up on a student. Every year I see underachieving, sloppy students grow, develop, break out of their cocoons and become brilliant scholars. But I´ll be more than prepared to make an exception in your case."

I didn´t even raise my head to listen to the rest of his ramblings. But every word is recorded in my brain.

"I´m sure you picked physics merely to spite your father, to rub it in his face that he was burning money on this. It´s not just laziness. It´s not just stupidity. You truly despise studying. Think it´s a waste of time."

The asshole was entirely sure I´d waste myself in booze and drugs, steal and kill and eventually end up ditched somewhere in the woods. I held on to those words so now I can spit them in his face. Now, this misunderstood genius hardly has enough brains to carry around his heavy body, moan and bite, looking like a rotten potato sack, flies flying towards and out of it. A single shot from my 12-gauge double barrel serrated edge shotgun spreads all over the place the brains he used to brag so much about. He used to say he had an IQ of 150. Now it has to be measured in yards. I go and stomp on all the gooey, bony pieces on the sidewalk. Recess time.

The nest one is Nyla, the on call high school slut who slept around with the whole establishment, but still shunned me.

One day, she strutted down the hallway, smiling at every pencil dick loser, every awkward goth, every "I think I may or may not be gay, should I take a shot at it?" pussy boy. Soon as I turned my eyes on her, she turned hers away. I couldn´t take this shit anymore. I grabbed her arm hard. Now I even regret I didn´t twist it or break it. It doesn´t make any difference anymore.

"Don´t you fucking dare! Trying to pull a Virgin Mary on me! Little whore. Everyone knows you fuck even the nerds in this dump."

" Thousand times I´d fuck a nerd before you! Nerds know technology, computers, have a future, make money. They rule the world now. You suck, You suck even for a low-level thug! You deal and you take the stuff. You may be taking more than you deal, actually. Fucking amateur."

I suppressed the urge to beat the shit out of her right there. Dropped her arm and let her go. Printed in my mind the look of contempt she shot at me.

"You´re just a total fuck up. You don´t give a shit about nothing."

Weirdest part is, even as a zombie, Nyla was still hot. Maybe even hotter, in a way. I decide to take my time with her. First, I knock her down with a taser. Yes, it works on zombies. You can see their veins light up, it´s kinda cool, actually. I handcuff her to a bench at the main square, then I remove her teeth and nails one by one with a plier. So I take her to my basement. I do everything I always wanted with her. Dunno if she can actually feel any pain, they just moan all the time anyway. Don´t give a shit, it´s still great. At least she has something resembling a pulse, some body heat. I make new holes on her. I want to penetrate her entire body. I stick every pointy or sharp object at hand in her: pens, nails, scissors, all the kitchen´s knives, forks, tongs, screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, broken mirror glass, staples, paper clips...

See ya, Nyla. Don´t call me, I´ll call ya.

Lastly for today, the worst of all. My father.

"Open that gate!! Open that fucking gate!! Motherfucker!! Just open that fucking shit, dammit!!"

"Why, Elyezer? Why would I open this shit? What´s it for?! Hiding drugs again?! Bringing in your crack whore girlfriends?!"

I laid my head against the gate. Only listened to his voice on the speaker.

"No. It's none of that. You want money, don´t you? That´s all you ever want. Even when you were a kid, that´s all you ever wanted from me. You´re a parasite of life, Elyezer. No, worse than that. Parasites have a role in the ecosystem. You, you´re just a useless parasite."

In my basement, I dismember his body. Saw his arms and legs, remove teeth, even the tongue. Now he´s ready. I bring in a zombie that I brought in on a leash. I let it bite his neck. He howls with pain. yes, he was among the few survivors from the plague. He thought his money, his little fortress of solitude would protect him. But even in his contempt and embarrassment for me, he couldn´t keep the door shut and leave me to die with the creatures. My weapons were concealed under my coat. His security guards never saw it coming. He´ll become one of them in a matter of hours. I ditch him in the woods, so the zombies won´t find him too early. As I leave him, he becomes a parasite. The world´s most useless parasite.

I just keep going, facing all these people I hate to the very bone of the soul I do not have. Cops who arrested me, friends who made fun of me, the therapist who was going to "help me", the priest that was going to "save my soul"... All my enemies, who´s everyone, now are the sitting ducks of my shooting gallery, my toys to play with.

There I go, hunting down the monsters. Humankind´s last hope.

# Lupine Lament

## Anthony V. Pugliese

Human side

vied with the lupine

for the baptizing light––

the new dawn's sun.

Shone upon my face,

I laid awake,

lament for what I had done.

A mother, her newborn son,

they knew nothing about the beast

I can become or

the world I came from.

Love fought but never won.

Lost nights, bloodstained tongue.

No place to go, no weapon,

nowhere to run.

Seems I must submit

to my moonlight fun.

# Dana

## Shakeen Winn

Kaleel Ferguson steps off the one train into the quiet, dirty, 59th street train. He impatiently walks from one end of the train station to the other trying to find something or someone.

Kaleel: C'mon Girl, where the hell are you?

Kaleel steps to the edge of the platform and checks the tunnel in the hope that another train might come, but he sees and hears nothing.

Kaleel: (looks at the audience) You know something, ya? I gotta funny feeling she's not gonna show.

Kaleel searches for the train again and just like before he can't see or hear anything.

Kaleel: (Looks at the audience again) Damn, this fucking blows! If Dana doesn't show up, this will be the second time she's stood me up. I don't know what happened. She said she was gonna be here. Hell, she was supposed to meet here. Now, I'm stuck with two movie tickets and no girl to see it with. Fuck!

Kaleel steps from the edge of the platform and paces the station again before returning to the audience.

Kaleel: I know what you're all thinking about. What's with all the hub bub about one girl anyway? Well, I can tell you right now, Dana's no ordinary girl, alright. She's more than that. She's uber chick, one of the finest shorty's I ever saw in my life. I met her while working at Sloan's Supermarket over on 110th street by the west side and I gotta tell you, I felt like a drug addict who took a hit of crack and was immediately hooked. Yeah man. It's that bad which is weird because I'm usually so cool and calm around women, but this girl. I mean wow. Everything about her screamed fine; the way she walked, the way she talked. Damn man, I'm strung out. I need to get a grip. Hold on a second ya. I think a trains coming.

Kaleel turns to his left and looks down the end of the tunnel. His face suddenly lights up with euphoric anticipation for he sees light and hears the powerful clatter of metallic wheels pounding on steel rails.

Kaleel: (Returning his attention to the audience while stepping away from the platform) Yeah, there's one coming. It might be her!

The train enters the station, stops and people exit the doors. Kaleel desperately looks for her amongst the horde of pedestrians, but it's to no avail. He can't find Dana anywhere. Kaleel is alone in the station once again.

Kaleel: (Checks his watch before returning to the audience) 11:30 p.m. Damn. The movie starts at midnight. I can tell what you guys are thinking and your right. Nobody is worth all this trouble. I mean, Dana is fine and everything, but this is ridiculous. If she didn't want to hang out with me, she could've just said so. It wouldn't hurt my feelings none. I have been to the movies by myself before. Who am I kidding? This is bullshit! I'm out.

Kaleel is about to leave the station when he hears his name being called.

Dana: (approaches Kaleel but her face is serious) Kaleel!

Kaleel: (See's Dana and turns to the audience) Score! Kaleel rules the night.

Kaleel: What's up gal?

Dana: Sorry I'm late. I was a little held up.

Kaleel: (Kisses Dana on the cheek) It's cool. Shiiiit! I need to stop lying. I'm just glad you showed up. (Kaleel checks his watch) It's 11:45 p.m. Shit. The movie starts at midnight.

Dana: Where's the theatre?

Kaleel: Over on west sixty eight street.

Dana: You think we can make it on time.

Kaleel: You ain't gotta say nothing but a word. Just give me your hand and listen to the sound of our feet go pitter, pat.

Kaleel takes Dana by the hand and winks at the audience. But just as they begin to head for the theatre Dana clutches her right foot.

Dana: Owww! Owww! Owww!

Kaleel: What's wrong?

Dana: My foot. It's killing me.

Kaleel: You wanna sit down?

Dana: Yes, please.

Kaleel takes Dana over to the bench and carefully sits her down.

Kaleel: Anything I can do?

Dana: No. You've done great already, thank you.

Kaleel: (Turns to the audience) Well, that's fucking weird. I notice just as were about to go to the movies, Dana gets a sudden case of shot foot. Maybe she doesn't want to go with me. It doesn't matter though, cause I still got an ace up my sleeve. Watch this.

Kaleel gently takes Dana's foot and places it on his lap.

Dana: What are you doing?

Kaleel: Just relax. I gotcha (Kaleel begins to massage Dana's injured foot) There, how does that feel?

Dana: (Smiling) Good. Thank you.

Kaleel: (Turns to the audience, smiles and winks) Score!

Dana: Kaleel. Can I ask you something?

Kaleel: (Massaging Dana's feet) Shoot.

Dana: Why did you ask me out again after I stood you up the first time?

Kaleel: (Turns to the audience) Oh shit! Here we go.

Dana: Most guys would have given up after that kind of rejection.

Kaleel: I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment.

Dana: No. I'm serious why did you try again, knowing my reputation?

Kaleel: What reputation is that?

Dana: Oh come on. You know it's going around the store that I'm an icy bitch.

Kaleel: (Turns to the audience) Yeah, that's true. Dana is known for being cold especially, with dudes. I heard she turned down almost every guy at the store that ever asked her out except this one cat named James. She did go out with him, but I heard, she dissed him so bad that, he never came back to work. (Kaleel returns his attention to Dana) I never saw you as cold at all. I think you can be little distant at times, but that's okay with me. It just means that you have high expectations and you're not willing to give it up to every tom, dick and harry that comes your way.

Dana: I always knew you were a nice guy.

Kaleel: (Smiling) How's your foot doing?

Dana: Better.

Kaleel: Dana. Let me ask you something. If you knew I was a nice guy, then, how come you stood me up that first time?

Dana: (Pause) It's a bit complicated.

Kaleel: What's so complicated about it? All you had to do was let me know you weren't interested. Instead, you had me waiting at this pissy station for two hours. (Turns to the audience) Two hours! Can you believe that shit?

Dana: No Kaleel. I was interested but my father...

Kaleel: What...your father, what?

Dana: (Sighs) My father was and is the complication.

Kaleel: What the hell are you talking about?

The lights in the station go dim.

Kaleel: (Gently removes Dana's foot from his lap and rises from the bench) Wow, all the money in the world and New York transit can't afford better lights. Ain't that a kick in the ass?

Dana: (Rises from the bench and takes Kaleel's arm into hers) Kaleel. I'm sorry.

Kaleel: Hey, Your foot's better!

Dana: I...I'm so sorry.

Kaleel: Okay, Dana you're talking a whole bunch of weird shit now. What do you mean you're sorry?

Dana steps away from Kaleel and begins to sing in a most unearthly voice.

Dana: Prepare for the sharp hands of the blood hat man! Prepare for the sharp hands of the blood hat man! Prepare for the sharp hands of the blood hat man!

Kaleel: Oh, so now you're a singer on American idol. You know your hilarious right?

Dana: (Repeats the verse) Prepare for the sharp Hands of the blood hat man! Prepare for the sharp hands of the blood hat man!

Suddenly, a sharp wave electric energy surges through Kaleel body and he stiffens up.

Kaleel: Oh shit. What the hell is this?

Dana: (Touches Kaleel's face) Again, I can't tell you how sorry I am.

Kaleel: What. You did this? Bitch!

Dana: It didn't want to do this, but my father needs your blood to stay alive.

Kaleel: What. Your father can't go vegan? Help! Help me!

Dana: No. He's a Red Cap. He needs blood, human blood.

Kaleel: Well, tell him to find someone else cause mines is laced with sickle cell anemia!

Dana: (Laughing) A sense of humour to the end. That's one of the qualities I always like about you.

Kaleel: Oh shut up! How much could you like me, you're feeding me to your father you crazy witch!

Dana: Hey, I did struggle with it, but your blood is the only thing sufficient enough to keep my father alive for another hundred years. I'm sorry but he comes first before anyone.

Kaleel: Oh please, there are a whole lot of AB types in the world.

Dana: But only one like you. I could smell you miles away.

Kaleel: Great. So, on top of all this, I also, smell like someone's gut juice. Where is he anyway?

Dana: (Pointing to the right) There he is. Hey daddy.

A short man-like being appears but his face covered by a red cap and scarf and his body is draped in a long overcoat.

Kaleel: (Turns to the audience) Holy shit! I'm about to be eaten by Paddington bear. A word to the wise, if a girl stands you up once, please take a hint because she just might be a siren who can sing the body electric.

# A Rejoinder

## Preston Peet

"Holy Jesus, Mother of God, what in the bloody Hell are you doing, you animal?" he cried out.

I could hear that grating, condescending tone in his voice, echoing between the fragile, eggshell borders of my skull. The sight of his slightly sneering, upcurled lip and outraged stare would be haunting me all night. Making it all the worse would be my utter lack of reply if I simply took it in and slunk away like a miserable, sodden cur. I would dwell on the moment for hours, if not longer, becoming ever more morose and depressed until I would only blame myself instead of the deserving, justifiable target of my wrath.

The number of times it'd happened, when I'd had some nastiness or other tossed loudly, carelessly my direction, only to have the best zinger of a retort spring to mind after time had passed and it was far too late, was beyond count.

Once an insult was thrown like a gauntlet in my face the counter thrust must be made right then and there. I feared I would be unable to wound satisfactorily unless the blade was thrust immediately.

Time had come to a screeching, crashing halt. Everyone around us was frozen still, seemingly watching, waiting, wondering how I would respond, whether they should laugh and jeer or gasp in empathetic indignation. Droplets of condensation hung from the feet of the chilled glasses in his fellow party goers' hands, ready to fall but for gravity itself seemingly waiting along with everyone else for my snappy come back.

Satisfaction must be mine, but what could I say, what could I do? My mind was a complete and utter blank. The heat in my face was building as I stood, swaying ever so slightly, staggered and shamed. Then it struck me. Why should I allow this mere Man get to me? He did not matter. None of them did. I had come alone and would leave the same way, head held high, proud and aloof as I'd been when climbing in one of the rear windows mere minutes before.

Dropping my latest victim's throatless, lifeless corpse back onto the overstuffed duvet, I took a single step forward. Wiping the sanguine fluid from my lips with my hand, I let my red, glistening fangs protrude just a bit as I stared my accuser straight back in the eye. I held his gaze as I stepped past, confident and sated as my plasmatic meal coursed through my ancient veins. Reaching out while ignoring the rest of those watching, waiting in the room, I took hold of the front door knob, smiling ever wider as I paused.

"There, there now, no need for such language," I said, "I'll be back for you another time." I laughed as I stepped past the now cowering, quivering mortal. Straightening my collar, I felt good, at ease, and took off into the night, happily full of life once more.

# By Pain Possessed

## Randy Attwood

Ponce scratched the itch on his front leg as his projection whirled through the A-12 sector of the galaxy. That leg always itched just in that spot when he was about to be lucky. There! His body jolted as a titillation of pain rewarded his cast toward one of the sun's planets and the thrill quiver of a capture made slime ooze between his scales.

Ponce rose from the casting chair and shook his head to clear it of the images of boiling suns against the blackness of space and the blacker emptiness of the vast psychic spaces where no life emanations bloomed for plucking. His three legs carried him quickly into the control room where Corporal Krill excitedly rotated his body weight between his three legs as he looked at the monitor. Ponce could smell Krill's thrill slime.

"What is it?" Ponce asked.

"Lucky, lucky, Ponce. You've done it. Look at what you've caught!"

The monitor showed three small, brown, fuzzy creatures in the capture room. Their heads were like fuzz balls. Little ears stuck out. They had long slender arms and legs and a longer tail that flickered behind them. The creatures huddled together, soft and fragile. Ponce ached to clasp one in his talons and feel the joy of its pain. A year of prospecting in this barren sector with nothing to show for it. And only one Miglopod a month per crew member, a meagre ration from the High Principal's own supply.

"Just imagine," Krill was saying. "Could be a planet full of the things."

"What's that rug behind them?" Ponce asked.

"Rug?" Krill looked closer at the monitor. "I don't know." He reached his claw over to click the monitor switch to show the full view of the capture room.

"Eject!" Ponce screamed.

Krill stabbed at the button on the panel then remembered it was useless.

"Malfunctioning. I told you the Captain had forbidden use of the casting chair until it was repaired. But you said your lucky leg was itching."

They looked again at the monitor, the smell of their thrill slime now covered with the smell of their fear. The monster was sleeping. Its body occupied the full length of the capture room. Its toes almost touched one wall and its head the opposite. Its shoulders were brushing the ceiling. The three smaller creatures huddled together backward into its stomach.

"If that thing wakes up before the automatic return cycle trips..." Krill let the sentence hang.

"How long is the cycle set for?" Ponce asked, and wiped a few drops of nervous slime from the ridge of bone above his eyes.

"An hour."

"Why so long?"

"So there's time to get the High Principal down here if he wants to conduct the pain test himself. Any danger before that, the control officer just hits the eject button," Krill said and stabbed again at the useless switch.

The three small creatures started playing among themselves, rolling over each other, biting and grabbing one another's tails.

Krill switched on the speaker and they heard the deep, long breaths of the monster as it slept. The chattering of its young grew louder as their play became rougher.

"My luck will hold. If we can get them all out of here before Mommy wakes up and goes berserk, we can go back to the capture point, focus the beam narrower, and just bring back the little ones."

"Ponce! I told you the malfunction is making the computer erase the coordinates after it cycles them back. You were supposed to take the sun sightings while you were in the casting chair."

"I forgot."

Ponce and Krill's scales were slick with the yellow slime of worry as the hour ended and the mother continued to sleep. Then they watched in horror as the tail of one of the young creatures flicked into the huge nostril of its mother.

The speaker belched a snort. Ponce and Krill watched two gigantic eyes flick open. The giant's head moved and bumped the ceiling, rocking the adjoining control room. A roar boomed through the speaker and through the walls. Arms and legs pushed up at the ceiling The whole ship shuddered as the ceiling and floor buckled against the crushing force. Alarm bells rang. The mother exerted more force and ceiling seams ripped open, metal screamed. Small lizard creatures fell from gaps in the ceiling.

"Great Gloth! The Miglopod breeding room is just overhead!' screamed Krill.

The door of the casting room burst open. Captain Garr stomped in.

"What are you two..." Captain Garr opened his jaw to ask as the hour ended and the creatures were hurled into space, back along the line from which they had been plucked.

Pools of yellow slime collected at the feet of Ponce and Krill.

* * *

Francis Hanover winced as he watched his boss fiddle with the long shard of glass, pushing the point against his palm as he spoke:

"Your work record continues to decline, Francis. Why is that?"

"I've asked to be sent back to claims, Mr. O'Brien. Investigations just aren't my, uh, forte. Working with paper is," Francis answered. Great God! The man was actually piercing his own skin the glass shard. Was he mad? A small drop of blood appeared in the man's palm and Francis felt faint.

"No openings in clerical, Francis. Need you in investigations. Why would you want to sit in the office all day? Investigations gets you outside. See the real thing. Ferret out those fakers who say they've been hurt and are just trying to rob the insurance company," his boss said, and stopped to suck the drop of blood away.

Francis looked around the office to remove his eyes from the vampirish scene. But on the walls were photos of spectacular wrecks that had cost the insurance company thousands of dollars. Francis's boss was a crack investigator. He enjoyed spying on people to see if the injuries from wrecks were really as bad as they pretended. Was the wheelchair just for public consumption, the cane an unnecessary crutch, the limp false? Francis hadn't minded those investigations so much, but a few months ago the company received a consultancy contract with the National Insurance Institute to study crash trauma. So they listened to the police scanners, went racing to wrecks, took pictures, observed bodies—dead bodies, and studied the twisted cages of metal and shattered glass. It all made Francis sick.

"I'm sorry, sir, I just don't enjoy pain."

"Enjoy pain? No one's asking you to enjoy pain. Take the professional's detached view. I remember how I acquired this shard of glass. A freak case. Windshields don't shatter in this way, but this one did. Long daggers of glass and this one entered the throat of the driver. At the morgue, I was allowed to pull it out of his neck. Manufacturing fault. We sued them. You need to acquire a detached, scientific view toward this whole business. Here," Mr. O'Brien said, "give me your hand," and grabbed it.

Francis tried to pull away, but the strength of his boss's grip was like a vice. Good God, he was bringing the glass shard closer to the captive hand.

"Make yourself experience a little pain, Francis. Brings detachment."

"No, Mr. O'Brien, really, please." Francis started to shake. He could see the joy in his boss's eyes as he brought the sharp edge of the glass against Francis's thumb.

Francis started to panic. He wanted to scream but knew he'd be fired. The shard was almost touching his thumb. His boss's grip tightened. It hurt. Pain! Oh God! Pain shivered through Francis's body as the glass shard cut a small line on the thumb and blood oozed out.

"There now, that's not so bad, is it?" Mr. O'Brien said. It was the last comment Francis heard. He had fainted.

The next morning, as Francis brushed his teeth, he worried about the incident. When Francis had come to, he had found himself on the floor with Mr. O'Brien waving smelling salts under his nose. Francis had seen the look of glee on the man's face.

"You'll find this a good experience for you, Francis," Mr. O'Brien had said as he helped Francis to the door, his arm squeezed around Francis's thin shoulders. "I want you to come back to see me tomorrow. We'll talk again."

Francis stepped nude into the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and inspected his legs. There was a small, yellow-green spot on his right leg where he had bumped the corner of his desk. He touched it lightly and found he had to press fairly hard before feeling the beginning of the terrible tingle of hurt. He was almost swamped by the memory of smashing his thigh against the corner of his desk when he went rushing to join the photographer on another crash call. He took a few deep breaths, and the feeling passed.

Francis stood up, flushed the toilet, and held the bulb of a long thermometer under the shower stream. The temperature was acceptable. He stepped into the cascade. Grabbing a bar of soap, he started the lather up and then whistled air through his teeth into his shaking mouth as the stab of pain in his thumb hit him. Stupid! He'd taken the bandage off the glass-shard cut thinking a night of open air while sleeping would promote healing. But the fine, sharp cut was still open and how the soap stung the wound! Tears started in his eyes. He thrust the thumb under the shower stream to wash off the soap. He looked closely at the cut and could see its thin line. Why had God created such a fragile protective layer for the delicate nerves below? The memory of that burning blast of pain as the glass suddenly sliced through his skin into the tender nerve structure below made him feel faint. How helpless he had been in O'Brien's grip. And what would his boss do today? He looked down at his hand and realized he must be fainting because he could see his hand, his body, fading...

* * *

The High Principal reached his gray-green claw into the bowl of Miglopods, picked one up, locked onto its simple nervous system, and let a shudder of joy climb up his spine as he crushed his nails through the squirming body and felt that special tingle when his sharpened talons met in the center of the wriggling body as it died.

Through his fluttering eyelids, the High Principal saw Captain Garr enter the room and lick his jaw as he looked at the speared Miglopod on the High Principal's claw.

"Yes," the High Principal said as he dropped the corpse of the Miglopod back into the bowl where its life juices, oozing from the talon holes, would panic the others.

"My Liege, I report a capture."

"Something promising, I trust." The High Principal held the glass bowl closer to his ear hole and listened to the Miglopods squealing in panic. "I remember the last time you wasted my time with that dull worm thing from...wherever."

Garr's voice came quiet and controlled, but the High Principal could smell the excitement in the tiny red drops of his underling's slime.

"This one, my Liege, is sentient."

The High Principal set the bowl down and looked directly into the officer's red eyes.

"Sentient? From what sector?"

"Sector 6A, my Liege."

"Sector 6A. Amazing. That's really off the beaten track. Why were we casting there?"

The High Principal was instantly alert. Now he could also smell the worry slime and knew something was amiss.

"My Liege, I am to blame. Ponce was casting..."

"Ponce! I gave orders that Ponce was never again..."

"I know, my Liege, but he's been so lucky a Quibble lately. And it's been so long since, I thought..."

"Quibble! If we wanted to staff our expeditions with lucky Quibble players, we'd recruit from the Quibble tournaments on Gloth. The point, quick, you idiot, tell me, is the capture point secure?"

"Secure, my Liege. I admit it is amazing. Although Ponce is notoriously lucky, he's also notoriously sloppy."

"That is something you needn't remind me of. Ponce almost wrecks this ship and kills us all by disobeying your order not to use the casting chair when the eject button is malfunctioning. Then, because of his disregard for safety, the Miglopod breeding room is destroyed and we are reduced—I am reduced—to only this meagre bowlful. And. AND, he failed to secure an important capture point."

"Yes, my Liege, but if he had secured that capture point, then we would have returned home and not captured this sentient creature. Ponce's luck."

The High Principal allowed himself to dream of a glorious return.

"Sentient. The people of Gloth have not been provided with a sentient race for generations. Come forward. A reward for bringing good news: have a Miglopod."

The underling's slime changed to relief.

Captain Garr respectfully approached the High Principal by extending only the forward limb of his three legs and dragged the other two behind him. He had not participated in the joy pain for six months since Ponce's disaster. He reached a claw into the bowl and his body shuddered with anticipation. The eyestalks of the Miglopod swung wildly, its pathetic little jaw flapping open in an attempt to bite Captain Garr's horny claw as the officer locked onto the animal's nervous system and slowly squeezed. He could not keep the drool from dripping off his jaw as he felt the ecstasy of the creature's pain and then the death glory.

* * *

Francis Hanover found himself lying unhurt and nude on the floor of a white room made from a material he could not identify illuminated by a light source he could not find. No general alarm of pain rang through his body, so he checked slowed, limb by limb, to assure himself that all was well. Being nude disturbed him. He ran his hand over his skin to dry it and warm the goose bumps away. His mind reached a quick summation. He was either: A) dreaming; B) insane; or C) somewhere alien. He added C because he felt lighter than normal, as if the gravity had changed, although that was a state he had also felt in certain dreams, and, who knew, maybe crazy people felt lighter than normal.

He felt no pain, only the shiver of his cold skin. He vigorously rubbed his limbs to warm them.

Crazy was a definite option. His psychologist had warned him that his fear of pain could make him psychotic. Francis had argued that fear of pain, hatred of pain, avoidance of pain was normal. He had never understood how other people masked their pain. Pain hurt. That was the meaning of pain. Who wanted hurt? Now, that would be crazy.

The psychologist had partially agreed:

"Yes, your algophobia is understandable. Your sensitivity to pain is the greatest I've ever seen on the algesmeter. We don't know why people have different degrees of sensitivity to pain. But when pain hurts as much as yours does, so that our fear even thoughts of pain, then the preoccupation with your fear my occupy your mind totally. Make you psychotic."

Maybe it had. Maybe the worry about Mr. O'Brien had driven him over the line.

He was sure he wasn't dreaming because his worst nightmares were of being strapped in a chair and tortured with ice picks poking into his body. Those nightmares brought him screaming from his sleep, his body soaked in sweat. He wasn't sweating, so he wasn't dreaming. In fact, he had been wet from his shower. If he had gone insane and they had taken him to a hospital, surely they would have dried him off and given him clothing, if only a straightjacket. Dead was an option. At least it didn't hurt. He had always been afraid of dying, but not for the death itself. Dead would not hurt; dying would.

C) Alien planet? Sure, he scoffed.

* * *

The High Principal smelled the excitement of the crew members' slime in the control room. If this capture panned out, each would return home set in luxury and joy for life. The present generation of people on Gloth felt cheated by the Old Ones, who, instead of rationing the sentient population found in their time, had squandered those lives in an orgy of joy.

How intense that joy must have been! To have in your talons a creature who felt pain, understood pain, who could anticipate the fear of pain!

Was Ponce smirking? Did he feel vindicated?

The High Principal carried the bowl in which the remaining five Miglopods wriggled. It had been too long for the crew to go without experiencing the joy of pain. But the High Principal refused to return home without some sort of find. And since he'd forbidden Ponce the casting chair, there hadn't been a single nibble.

He looked at the chair. The High Principal himself took his turn there, locked his emotional system into the machine and went whirling into near regions of the universe. The experts told you to look for certain groupings of stars, certain emanations, special colours, but it was really done by feel and luck. You cast out and usually brought back nothing, rarely a creature.

There is was. Biped. Two tentacles. Two vision bulbs. The skin white, soft. How easily my talons would pierce it, the High Principal thought and had to control himself from quivering.

"Hook me up for the test."

* * *

Francis Hanover threw open his mouth to let out a scream that filled the cell. The flash of pain was a blinding, paralyzing fire devastating his nerves. He flopped to the floor when it hit and his muscles stiffened in contraction. Never in his worst fears, imaginations, nor nightmares had he thought pain could be this intense. And it continued, unabated. The clawing at each nerve ending drove his panicked conscious mind running, screaming, begging for unconsciousness...

* * *

The High Principal woke and found himself slumped in his chair. His body was red, covered with slime. Its joy smell flooded his smell holes. His mouth was dry. Drool oozed down his jaw. He had trouble focusing. Strength was drained from his limbs. His heart was palpitating. "So that is satiation," he thought. "No wonder the Old Ones could not control their desire for this joy. Who could deny themselves the ultimate experience?"

Why wasn't he being attended to? Then the High Principal smelled the other joy smells in the room and turned his head.

"Fools!"

The crew members were lying on the floor, their death smells mixed with the joy smell. Against standing orders they had linked with him for the test and died for their misconduct. The joy had killed them. The High Principal realized, he, too, had been close to death, but the diet of Miglopods had filled much of his need. He crew had been starved, their tolerances low.

"Fools!"

They were fools because they had left him to die, too. High Principals did not lower themselves to learn how the transport machinery worked. He looked around the control room with its lights and switches. Underlings existed to make them work, not he.

* * *

When Francis awoke, the memory of the pain almost made him faint again. But the pain was gone. Its absence was like a zephyr. He couldn't believe that every bone in his body wasn't broken. His muscles ached from their prolonged contraction, but that hurt felt almost good in comparison to the catastrophic pain that had invaded him, that had crunched every nerve ending. He stretched his limbs and the ache of the muscles was a strange relief. But if that other pain should come again, how could I live, he wondered. No, he realized, how could I die to make that pain stop?

The High Principal had regained strength in his limbs and reached his decision. He would join his underlings and partake fully of the sublime death joy.

* * *

Francis whimpered when a door to the cell opened and the short, three-legged beast shuffled in. A smell like cabbage and decaying skin made him want to retch. Francis saw that the beast's gray-green hide was covered with red drops. Its jaw looked as if it was chiselled out of granite and the two blocks of that jaw opened and closed, grinding against each other. A gurgle sound came out. Francis backed away as the beast shuffled nearer, eye coverings flickering over red orbs. The corner of the cell stopped Francis. Two arms reached for him. At the end of the arms were claws with long sharp nails the beast snapped together. He's going to stab me with those things, Francis realized. His body started shaking. He felt sick. He could imagine the talons piercing his skin, stabbing into his body, crushing his bones and organs. This had to be a nightmare. He had to wake up. The clicking of the talons was louder, the arms nearer. Francis looked down and saw his body fade...

* * *

"No!" The High Principal screamed and tore his talons into the cell wall, ripping through it in his rage. "No!" He had been so close. The creature's waves of fear had given the High Principal a joy he had never felt before. It had made him wobble; he had sensed the coming death ecstasy. He had been so near. He'd forgotten that the automatic return cycle hadn't been switched off because the crew members were all dead. The creature had been thrown back to wherever it had come from. The safety device worked as it was supposed to.

If only he knew how to put the capture point into the casting machine. It was all Ponce's fault. If only Ponce were alive so I could kill him, the High Principal thought. But Ponce was always lucky.

* * *

Francis fell to the shower floor where his sweat was washed off his body by the cold spray. The stinging cold needles of water felt good. They didn't really hurt. He got up, turned the shower off, stepped out, took a towel, and dried himself. As he rubbed over the bruise on his thigh, he realized he didn't mind the ache. He pressed hard on it, then harder. It hurt, but the pain did not matter so much. Nothing could compare to what he had just been through. What HAD he been through? A psychotic experience, he decided, but a healing psychotic experience. My mind must have healed itself. My algophobia imagined the worst possible pain. Now, everything will seem minor in comparison.

His right thigh started itching. He scratched it. The phone rang.

"Francis?"

He recognized the voice of Mr. O'Brien's secretary.

"Yes."

"Oh, it's horrible, just horrible. It's Mr. O'Brien," she said and stopped to sob. "Mr. O'Brien's been in a car accident."

"Accident? Is he hurt badly?" Francis asked.

"Horrible. The doctors say he'll live, but, horrible. The windshield shattered in the most horrible way. He'll be gone for who knows how long. The head office said you're the only one who knows both claims and investigations. You've got to come right in and take over."

"I see, well, I'm just on my way," Francis said and rubbed the itching on his thigh.

He would go and visit O'Brien in the hospital. The thought of seeing him helpless and in pain didn't frighten him. He looked forward to it. And, in O'Brien's absence, I can show them I'm a better manager, Francis thought. They might even give me O'Brien's job, even if the man did recover.

Why, a person who didn't fear pain, he thought, could be President, and a person who didn't mind inflicting pain on others could rule the world.

If you go Down to the Woods Tonight

## Matthew James Hamblin

Trees danced in the headlights, their shadows tangling and warping as the Oldsmobile rounded the bend, tyres screamed on the icy road. Jacob, a rat in dapper rags, hunched over the wheel, and the tatty map spread over it. Flicking the dome light on he traced the faded road to the freeway. What a stroke of luck, no cops and no traffic to slow him down. The .357 rattled in the glove box as he crested a bump in the road. Jacob thought about popping it open, practicing his "Dirty Harry" speech again with the showy Magnum. On cue the pills jumped on the spot. Jacob glanced at the passenger seat. If he got pulled over it was a choice between twenty five to life or death.

The road banked at an odd angle with Jacob clinging to the wheel, the tyres clinging to the ice filled potholes of the broken forest road. A buckled sign gave no hint that he was on the right track, only rust peeked out from the smothering grip of icy vines. A canopy of snowy branches allowed no light to penetrate. As far as Jacob was concerned nothing outside the glare of the Oldsmobile's headlights existed.

The dome light flickered and the pills rattled again. Jacob's eyes slipped from the road. The briefcase was unlocked; all he had to do was flick the latches and pop it open. As this thought entered his mind so did the pain radiating from his mutilated left hand. Blood still rose in spots through the yellowing bandage. The nub that had once been his pinky finger still ached. Again Jacob was overcome with the urge to scrub under the nail that wasn't there.

The pills would wear off long before the ache would. Reaching between his legs he unscrewed a phallic flask. Outside, the unbroken trees shivered, Jacob imagined they appreciated the innuendo. With some difficulty he popped the flask open with the incomplete hand. The odour of lukewarm gas station coffee was his reward.

A bump in the road. A lap drenched in coffee. More pain.

Cursing, Jacob hopped in the seat. Too late, he looked back to the road.

The buck was huge, silhouetted black in the headlights. It must have been five hundred pounds, antlers like pitchforks peaked three feet from its head. Time slowed to a crawl as Jacob met the beast's eyes. The proud buck would not yield. Jacob span the wheel. The Oldsmobile missed the buck by inches. A snow bank and a towering oak loomed ahead. Jacob tried to swerve back to the right lane. The tyres met only ice as Jacob's meagre lunch threatened to make another appearance. Fishtailing, the car left the road. Taking the snow bank for a ramp it took off through the night. Into a singularly huge and ugly tree.

Metal creaked and crumpled. Glass shattered. Branches rained down.

Jacob blacked out.

Jacob awoke to the splintering of wood and an almighty crash. He just wanted to sleep; he had been on the roads for days and didn't want to face the mess that was his left hand. Clasping it over his face, Jacob opened his eyes. Coffee dripped from the bandage. The expected stream of blood did not. Sighs of relief subsided when he saw the state of the car. Coffee was steadily soaking into the upholstery, running in rivulets from the dash and staining the pills scattered around the interior. No way anyone was paying asking price for coffee flavoured X.

Jacob couldn't help but wonder if a man with all his fingers would have taken less than ten minutes to work the pills out of every nook and cranny of the Oldsmobile. He reminded himself not to take it up with HR. After finally clipping the briefcase shut he spied a dozen or so pills under passenger seat. He stashed them in his pocket and went to pull the map off the steering wheel. Prising the java scented paper from the wheel Jacob discovered the source of that huge noise.

Jacob limped out of the wreck, his ankle wobbling under him. Blood welled up around a tear down the centre of the hood. He swore he had missed the buck. Either way the Oldsmobile was going nowhere, a huge tree limb pierced through the engine block and, Jacob noted, into the frozen ground.

Spreading the map across the hood he found the point he thought he left the road. "Buck country", the map said. Calling AAA or hitchhiking weren't options; Jacob had chosen this road for a reason. The road took a huge detour around the heart of the forest; on foot the quickest route was straight through it. He could flag down and jack a car on the freeway. Blood seeped into the map's edges as he scrunched it up. Retrieving the hand-cannon from the glove box he set out. He was headed due North past an old logging camp, perhaps he could find shelter or some booze. Next he would come to a creek, and then it was a straight shot to the road.

He was set for a rough trudge through the forest with only the trees for company, skeletal fingers reaching out to him. He shivered in the mid-winter night, not from the cold. The bare branches above him and the black brown trunks splitting the ground gave him pause. He couldn't put his finger on why. He tested how much pressure he could put on his ankle. Not much. Jacob made the best speed he could. Not much. The Oldsmobile was a mangled lump in the distance. A knot of emaciated trees stood between the Jacob and the wreck. He couldn't recall passing them a few minutes ago. There was not time to stop and wonder. He kept going.

Over the pounding in his ears trees creaked and groaned. What little light there was cast restless shadows on the tangled roots at his feet. There was no wind, the night was still. The trees were not. His ankle pounded to the same drumbeat in his ears. Stopping, he fished a handful of pills out of his pocket, for the pain. The gun was heavy in his hand. He didn't hear the footsteps behind him.

An ear splitting screech cut through the night.

The Oldsmobile's alarm, silent all through the crash, wailed. What remained of its head and tail lights threw ghoulish shadows through the forest. Jacob thought they were reaching out to him. His ankle would just have to take it. More pills. More haste. Jacob once again didn't hear the footsteps behind him.

Huge, gnarled trees flanked him as he spotted the unnatural squares of the logging camp through the haze. Blinking away tears he breathed in deeply. He would make a short sprint to the camp, find shelter and check on his ankle. Maybe he'd take some more pills. Jacob set off with a deep breath. It caught in his chest as a snare of roots caught his ankle. The sinewy roots wrapped tight around the swollen flesh. Blood vessels choked under their grip.

Now Jacob heard the footsteps. Now Jacob panicked.

Jacob twisted his ankle this way and that, every twist resulting in brief respite or sharp pain. The drugs didn't work. They never had. He reached his good hand into the snare, pulled as hard as he could. Nothing.

The footsteps grew louder. Closer.

Jacob pressed the suitcase down onto the roots, twisting and pulling in unison. Finally, the roots gave a little, flaying the skin as they did. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, he kept up the effort. The slickness of his blood helped him slip his ankle out. The bloody snare clasped shut. Carefully choosing his footing, Jacob limped towards the camp. He didn't dare look back.

The camp had been razed to the ground. Rotten wooden frames stood bare in the night. Neat piles of mossy logs lined one edge of the camp. The huts' sheet metal sides lay dented on the ground; glass twinkled in the blanket of snow. Jacob bent double over a scarred tree stump. His breath came in sharp bursts. Out of habit he threw more X down his throat. Saw blades, some six feet long, shredded and bent were embedded in the ground. If he squinted Jacob could pick out their glistening teeth in the half light. Jacob felt he was being watched. Desecrated scraps of clothing seemed alive in the wind. Every creak and crack that broke the still was someone coming to get him. The trees closed in around him. It was paranoia, from the pills, that's what he told himself.

CRACK!

A huge tree limb crashed to the ground, leaving a crater in the snow. Another limp fell, and another.

In a panic, Jacob hobbled behind the stacked logs. He was unable to look away as the monster tree, thirty feet high and wide as a bus finished shedding its limbs. The bark pulsed and shivered where each limb had broken. The shattered bark began to form shapes that twisted in the night. The closest one, low on the trunk and not twenty paces from Jacob, drew slowly away from its parent. A gnarled face presented itself, twin stumps forming horns, and twisted in his direction. One large knot of an eye flexed in a snarl, the hole radiating anger.

The form dropped to the forest floor. It rose on two bent branches, flexing them it drew to its full height. It stood taller than any man, otherworldly and gangly. Tendrils twisted out to form arms. Its siblings fell to the ground as it flicked out six clawed fingers.

The others drew themselves up as the first headed to the broken hut closest to Jacob. He fixed his gaze on it, slouching down to keep the logs between him and the tree-creature. His ears were offended by the bending and cracking of its limbs. The bark protested, splitting and buckling with the thing's every move. It stalked the edges of the hut. An unnatural snorting sound erupted from somewhere in the moss lined face. Moving around the pile, Jacob saw the others fan out into the camp. One of them sprouted a third arm out of its chest, a single spike of branch piercing it sideways. Another fell to all fours and snorted the ground like a grotesque hound. Jacob was fast running out of places to hide.

His ankle pulsed. The phantom fingernail itched. The horned tree-thing took another gulp of air. Its head span on its shoulders, turning to him. Jacob took flight.

With the things surrounding him Jacob's options were limited. He summoned all his bravery. He swallowed the last of the pills. Moving at full pelt on his wounded ankle, briefcase in his wounded hand, he headed straight for the horned thing. The tendril arms reached out for him. The black form towered over him. He waited until the last second to dodge out of the way. To Jacob's surprised and great relief, it worked. The tendrils closed on nothing. A wave of exhilaration swept him forward. The tendril arms bent through one hundred and eighty degrees, the head snapped round. It followed.

Bellows filled the air.

Jacob stole a glance over his shoulder. It was closing. The others too, but not with the same energy. The horned one wanted Jacob for itself. As the horror of this dawned on Jacob he felt the gun digging into his hand. The cold metal reassured him and he skidded gracelessly to a halt. The thing kept coming as Jacob turned. He steadied himself; the .357 would have a hell of a kick. Finding his footing he raised the cannon. It kept coming. He was a bad shot; the piece was showy, threatening. He'd never even taken it to the range. It was within spitting distance. The trigger pushed back against his finger. He raised his left hand and flicked the safety off.

"You feel lucky, punk?"

BLAM!

The shot rang through the night, Jacob's ears too. The .357 slug sailed through the existing hole in the creature's face. Jacob's face fell in horror. He let off another shot. And another. It was within arm's reach. Jacob emptied the clip into it. Chips of bark flew into the air, wood tore and split, bullets lodged into the ground. At the very last second he swung the briefcase at the place where its face should be. The metal case bent harmlessly.

The horned monster stood unharmed before him. With one fluid movement it lifted him by the throat. Bark split into a broken mouth, black fangs extending from the green maw. The stench of mildew and dead leaves clogged Jacob's nostrils. Bile rose in his throat. Jacob had to get free. He swung the case into the things head; its claw gripped his wrist, drawing blood. With no bullets left the only good the Magnum could do was as a club. Jacob jabbed at the horned face, to no avail. The face filled his vision as it drew him closer, cutting off the blood flow to his head. Wooden fangs dug into his neck.

With the last of his strength Jacob kicked out at the beast, catching one of its knees. It buckled under the force; Jacob's feet touched snowy ground. Seeing the other creatures closing in, he back peddled furiously, kicking up snow and dirt as he dragged the thing backwards. Coming to the edge of a slope he kicked off.

The pair tumbled down the slope. Ice rose up to meet them and shattered under their weight.

Ice water filled Jacob's lungs and clawed at his chest. The cold numbed him from flayed ankle to torn neck. Silence rushed into his ears. He sank along with the thing, senseless and breathless. Its claws ran along his chest. Trickles of blood spread out into the black water. He slipped from its grasp. He kicked out once more, not knowing up from down. Jacob made a guess.

After what felt like hours he broke through the surface. Like a worm he crawled on his belly. Violently, he vomited water from his nose and mouth. Jacob gasped down a thick lungful of air and waited for the rest of the creatures to take him. His hearing cleared and the sound of bending wood came to him. He had to look.

The five armed creature held the dog one by the hind legs. A third did the same to the five armed one. A fourth repeated the procedure, as did the fifth. The dog creature plunged into the deep dragging the others with it until the last remained bent in half on shore. Jacob realised what they were doing. A ladder! They'd made a ladder. They were rescuing horn-face.

Jacob stood, he wasn't taking any chances. Putting as much weight on his ankle as he could and ignoring the blood staining the snow he inhaled. The briefcase flopped open, pills cascading into the black water. Jacob turned and fled.

Pain shot up the exposed nerves of his ankle, the iron taste of blood cloyed in his throat. Jacob hobbled on. Tears obscured the forest before him. Every black shape was one of the creatures and every hanging branch was a claw ready to open his jugular. Pictures swam in his head, the tree-thing's devil mask, the black buck, the eviscerated Oldsmobile, the map swimming in blood. He couldn't make any sense of them. Through the tears the white snow shimmered, he squinted at the largest patch and drove himself forward.

Heat radiated out from the pit of his stomach and he felt a longing. Finally, the pills had kicked in. The ruptured flesh of his leg, his neck and his finger shrank back, numb, the tenderness replaced with an unnatural stiffness. Jacob grunted, it wasn't a pleasant feeling. It was better than pain.

A white pool spread out before him, blinking he found himself in a clearing. Viscous tears slowly trickled down his cheeks as he cast his eyes at the trees. Every one met him with creaking, every shadowy branch twisted. Stumbling into the centre of the clearing he watched the largest tree intently. It bent almost double under a blanket of unbroken snow.

There were no black shapes tearing themselves out, just an uneasy stillness. It was the same for every tree. Jacob strained his ears, he didn't hear any footsteps. Jacob relaxed but his mind didn't clear. The pharmaceutical fog filled his brain. In the stupor he toyed with the cold case still clasped in his paw. The hinges gave in and the battered lid landed with a thump Jacob barely perceived.

Half interested, he glanced down. The missing half case didn't concern him. Brown blood dried on his bandages, no fresh liquid welled up in its place. The bandage was distended, underneath something pulsated. The stiffness spread, Jacob shook his head, still no pain. Clearing his thoughts for a second Jacob tugged at the bandage. The coffee stained wrappings fell away; his wet hand should have been cold in the frosted air. The reality shocked him from his stupor.

The nub had grown. It was half the size his healthy finger had been. It was green. The new finger sprouted from brown skin into a budded shoot. Gazing in horror Jacob swore the shoot inched outwards a fraction before his eyes. Panic nudged at the edges of Jacob's mind.

He allowed his eyes to wander from the growth to the rest of his hand. Under the cuts and scrapes his skin was a grey brown, fissured and rigid. It was bark. Veins poked through cracks, cracks that flexed with the ebb and flow of plasma. Jacob unrolled his sleeve. He felt no sensation as he did so, no pain, and no cold. He ran the barrel of the gun along the bark to his elbow. Shards of it snagged cool metal, breaking through what ghostly white skin remained. Jacob bent double and dry heaved into the snow. He didn't dare look at his ankle.

Jacob fell to his knees and let the warm fog retake his mind. He closed his eyes.

The splintering of wood cleaved the darkness. Dry wood groaned, contorting. It grew deafening. Jacob fixed his mind on the sound. The drugs might be playing with his thoughts, making him see things, but the tree demons were real. He knew he had to move. They were coming.

Jacob thrust his good hand into the snow and forced himself to his knees, his ear rang. Next he took to his feet, the last of the bandages curled at his feet. He stepped forward, the bloody cuff of his pants leaving no trail in the snow. He took another step, and again. He just had to keep going. Jacob wobbled out of the clearing. His joints cracked and popped in protest. He counted the trees he passed in the half light, trying to focus his mind.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty. The forest was thinning.

Forty. Weak morning sun filtered through the leaves.

Fifty. He daren't look behind him.

Fifty five. He must be close.

Fifty nine. Through the scrub, twin red lights were shrinking. Tail lights.

Jacob tore through the scraggly bushes. A station wagon crept along the freeway just across the white field and over the concrete barrier. He'd never catch it but someone would come along, someone would help him. Maybe he'd flag down the Sheriff or a state trooper. A hollow laugh escaped him. The warmth in his chest shrank; his mind sank deeper into the fog.

With difficulty he set his mind on that last laugh and limped forward. The drugs must be wearing off; he'd look at his hand and see the familiar mutilation but nothing else. He daren't look. There were trees here, dotted haphazardly around the field, young and thin. They didn't loom over him; he could have shook the top most branches with little effort.

He was halfway across the field, breath laboured in his chest. He gasped for air, none came, only a familiar creak. He gasped again, more creaks this time. The screech of the nearest tree joined the echoes from his lungs. A stumpy head, bent at a right angle turned to him, green shoots slithered from the crook. It made no attempt to move towards him.

Breathless, Jacob forced himself to take a step forward. He felt the thing lock eyes with him as his vision swam. Something forced its way up his throat; reflexively he swung his jaw wide. Dead brown leaves fell from his mouth. The mildew stench filled his nostrils.

There was a hint of panic somewhere in Jacob's mind; his thoughts were sluggish, stiff. He dully willed himself to take a step forward. He felt the thing's satisfaction. He sensed it. The groaning filled his ears. Looking down he expected to see a snare of roots holding him fast. There was no snare. Snaking tendrils tore through his pant legs and into the dirt. A web of green fibres filled his mind. No breath misted in the frigid air.

Jacob's vision cleared one last time as bark splintered across his open eyes.

The world was dark. Silent.

The sun rises and sets, again and again. The snow melts. The forest is green. But not silent.

The stench fills his being. Blood, warm, human. Sweat stinks in the heat. The sunlight invigorates him, green leaves bathe in the rays. There are many humans. Outraged and fearful. There is a faint stir of recognition. They came for him. He unfurls his new body, the stench grows fearful still. He unsheathes sharp claws and slakes his thirst with blood.

Hunger

## Stefan Vucak

Blink's Bar was one of those paces you end up in after a movie or a do-it-yourself dinner. Inside, they played thin, reedy music, the kind of stuff that used to be popular in the eighties—favoured by the oldies and the sentimental at heart; like me perhaps. Half the time you couldn't hear anything anyway above the blanket of noise and anonymous chatter of guests. There was a little open square among the tables where you could dance if one wanted to, or just cling to someone warm and feminine. The drinks weren't watered and the bartender would talk to you if he wasn't busy. It was cheaper than a session with my shrink and delivered about the same kind of service.

Maybe it was the slow pace or the square atmosphere, but there were always a lot of young people hanging around. Some came to enjoy the novelty, liked the mood and the dated sounds, and many of them became regulars, proud to have discovered a real cool place.

That's how I met Dan.

We were both checking out the scenery after ordering. Mine was a bourbon and dry, no ice. When the drinks arrived, he appeared to scrutinize the amber fluid in his glass, gave me a sidelong glance and shrugged.

"If I wanted a decent drink, I wouldn't be here," he decided and raised the tumbler in a salute.

He wore a gray corduroy blazer and black trousers. Clear blue eyes regarded me with amused cynicism. His light brown hair, streaked with white strands, sat on his head in a thick mop. He had the kind of rugged exterior that made women fall at his feet and men take orders from; lucky bastard.

I tried to suppress my jealousy and returned the salute, wondering what he did in his day job.

"Check," I said with a grin and glanced briefly at the crowd. "Being in here is a diversion from what's waiting for us outside."

"You got that right," he muttered, leaned against the bar and scanned the room.

The bar was a very good place to get picked up—by either sex.

"All the good ones are already taken, my boy," I said.

"You must have been out of circulation, man!" His laugh was deep and lit his eyes. No pretence there and I began to warm to him. The eyes can tell you a lot about a person. "The name is Dan," he said and stuck out a meaty a hand.

"Frank," I said and nodded. His hand was cool and dry and we both manoeuvred for a knuckle crusher. It was childish, but what the hell. He had the height and reach, but I only smiled as his expression changed from a confident smirk into a surprised grimace of pain. I let him go before he was reduced to squirming. Considering what I was, his grip was pretty good.

"Damn!" he grunted massaging his hand. "It's been a while since I came off second best."

"I'll be around whenever you want a reminder." We had a hearty chuckle at that and clicked glasses again.

Looking around, he suddenly pointed with his head. "Frank! Take a look at that chassis, man."

I followed his glance and almost missed her.

She wasn't tall, but there was something about the way she stood, a power held in check that radiated from her and made me stare. Her black hair spilled across her shoulders and hung above a slim waist. Her oval face framed ebony eyes, a delicate nose and generous lips. I couldn't see any makeup. She wore a velvety brown-black knee-length dress that clung without being tight. She was attractive, but I had seen better. I could swear that for a second every male eye in the room was turned on her. Must have been my imagination, but I decided not. Something about her made me take a second look and I recognized her. She was a hunter and I wondered what prey she'd catch tonight. It wouldn't be me, that was certain, but I wasn't hunting just then.

"Not bad," I said offhandedly.

Dan shook his head and gave me a pitying grin. "You happen to leave your eyeballs at home or something? Step aside. This is man's work, sonny." Without taking his eyes off the woman, he placed the tumbler on the bar top and stood up.

Amused, I watched as he walked up to her and said something. She gave him a quizzical look, nodded and smiled. I took a sip and when I looked up, they were gone. Dan didn't know it, but he was in for an interesting night, lucky stiff.

I forgot about them, figuring it was none of my business. Dan was a grown man and knew what he was doing, and the woman wouldn't take too much. The ordinary people around us provided what she and I needed to survive, and we had to be careful not to abuse our gift. I did remember the scowl hanging on the bartender's face when he gave me a refill.

"You figure I should have warned him?" I demanded.

He merely grunted and walked off. To hell with him. I didn't need a conscience. Dan might get a bit of scar tissue of the heart, but what she'll give him in return would even things out.

* * *

It was a few weeks later that I bumped into Dan again—and didn't recognize him.

I was hanging against the bar for emotional support when this old guy quietly slipped in beside me. He had peppery hair worn kind of long and skin hanging off his jowls. He must have been powerful once. Now, he was just another old timer trying to recapture something he happened to leave behind in his youth.

"Pops," I said pleasantly and nodded.

His blue eyes sparkled as he grinned. "How you doing, Frank?"

The voice was kind of familiar and I frowned. Then my jaw fell as I took in the gray corduroy blazer and dark trousers.

"Dan?" I asked, not believing my eyes, alarm bells clanging in my head.

"I always knew you were a pretty sharp boy, Frank," he wheezed, nodding.

"What the hell happened to you? You look..." I trailed off, but deep down I knew, and the knowledge sent my skin crawling. Why did she do it? This wasn't the kind of advertising any of us needed. Once ordinary people started noticing, we would become the hunted.

"Yeah, I know. I look like hell and I feel like I'm pushing eighty." He raised a finger and ordered a drink. He didn't say anything, just stared into space as he waited for that drink. I let him have the moment.

The bartender shook his head as he slid the tumbler across the top.

"On the house," he growled and stomped away, but not before giving me an accusing glare. I pursed my lips. How was I to know she would do this to Dan? Secretly, I burned with guilt, remembering her. She had that wild look of hunger I should have recognized.

"Don't mind him," I told Dan. "He's just sore at the world."

"Can't blame him. Let's find a quiet place," Dan grunted and we carried our drinks to an empty table tucked into a dark corner. The music followed us, but I didn't mind. Looking at him, I still couldn't believe it. It had been a while since I'd hunted, but even when I did, I never took too much! You had to leave something behind, or the victim would never recover.

"Dan?"

"I know, I know," he said tiredly. "I'm dying."

"Dying? From what?" I demanded, but I knew. The signs were all there. She shouldn't have done it!

He smiled and his eyes lit up. "Would you believe, love?"

"Come on, Dan. I'm serious."

"So am I."

When he looked at me, there was no pretence, no regrets. "It was her."

He didn't have to explain. "How?" But I knew that too. He shook his head and shrugged.

"I don't know. There was something about her that made her different from any other woman I ever knew. And she made herself like that for me. She wanted me bad. I could tell, and she didn't hold back. Neither did I."

"What are you talking about?"

There was a wistful smile on his face and some of the years seemed to fall away. I could see a face before he became old. Then he looked at me, an old and weary man.

"When I picked her up, or maybe she did the picking. It doesn't matter. Anyway, we both knew where it would lead to. She had me captivated, or bewitched. I don't know."

"Yeah, you were taken in by her, all right. I saw."

He snorted and took a quick gulp. "It's not that. She was pretty, but nothing spectacular. What I mean is, when she looked at me, I knew that I was the only man in the world for her. And that's a powerful weapon, my boy. I was hers and I knew it, and something in the back of my mind told me to get the hell out of there in a hurry. But it was too late. My hormones were doing my thinking for me."

"So you were swept off your feet. A one-night stand."

"Sure, except it lasted three weeks. Then one morning, I looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. She was gone and her things with her. And in those three weeks, I lived a lifetime."

He looked at me, eyes glistening and a shiver ran down my spine. Obviously, she has gone rogue. That wasn't good, not good at all.

"And you know something? I didn't care. I didn't! Who knows, maybe she left that with me as some kind of compensation."

I twirled my tumbler, brooding. "You still haven't told me what happened, Dan."

"I don't know what happened! All I know, as I grew weaker, she grew stronger, more radiant, more compelling. When we made love, I could feel my strength draining from me. Frank, making love to that woman was like losing yourself."

"You did," I said dryly, knowing exactly what happened. "But, Dan, you know what you're saying? How do you know she made you old? You could have caught something..." I trailed off feebly. I was making lame conversation and knew it. It wasn't supposed to happen like this!

"You know she did. I can see it in your eyes, Frank," he said gently and I looked away, surprised at the pain I felt, seeing him reduced like this. "All women take something from you when you love. This one just took a bit more than most."

Yeah, his life.

* * *

A week later, he was dead.

And I was beginning to have doubts. Sure, he was suddenly old and then he was dead, but there were a lot of other plausible explanations for that. Weren't there? I wasn't fooling myself. I sighed in disgust. Something would have to be done and it looked like I was the one to do it. I hoped I was up to it.

It was a cool evening and the wind keened softly through the alleys. A thin fog was beginning to settle, shrouding the city lights in a soft blanket. I never meant to drop in for a drink that night, but I'd had a long day and the thought of making my own dinner didn't hold much appeal.

I was just finishing my drink when silence settled around me like a blanket as she slid on the bar stool next to me. She ordered something in a low contralto voice. Our eyes met and I could feel my face tense.

She wore that same brown-black dress and her eyes seemed to widen as I looked into them. They were completely opaque and I couldn't see any reflection in them. Her hair was tied in a knot above her head, extenuating her features. She touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of a small tongue and smiled slowly.

"Hi," she husked, revealing even teeth, not recognizing me for what I was. "You look like I remind you of someone."

"You do remind me of someone," I said after a moment, drinking in her face. Her power radiated from her and I fought not to sink under her spell, reminding myself what I had to do.

"It must have been a painful reminder. Perhaps I should leave?"

"No," I said firmly, wanting her to think I was merely another man. "It was a memory of a thing long ago."

She smiled, the charm exuding from her making me wary. We were the same, but that didn't mean she couldn't take me if I wasn't careful. For a moment, I wanted to ask her about Dan. Luckily, I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut. For what I was about to do, I had to keep my wits about me or I could end up like Dan. And that just wouldn't do.

With a smile that didn't touch her eyes, she placed a small hand on my arm.

"I'll make you forget her," she whispered. "There will only be us—forever."

I believed her. I slipped some notes on the bar and stood up. We made our way between the tables and walked out.

I had a fairly large apartment not far from downtown. It was a ten-minute drive. While the car hummed to itself, she didn't say anything. She just sat there, the silence broken by the whisper of tires and the traffic around us. I felt strangely content and at peace, warm in her presence. I didn't want to spoil it with hollow words or too much introspection. Besides, no one said I couldn't have a little fun while I sorted her out.

She touched my arm and I glanced at her outline, her face in shadow. On impulse, I pulled over, and for a while we listened to the throb of the engine.

"I don't even know your name," I said softly, trying to make out her features.

She seemed to hesitate, then turned her head. "Kaneel."

The air seemed to tremble as I savoured the sound. "Mine's—"

"Frank, I know."

I was pleased that she knew. I leaned toward her and brushed her soft lips with mine.

When I reached home, I pulled into the curb and helped her out. We walked up the steps and into a smoky foyer. The elevator sighed to a stop and the doors slid away. Our footsteps were soundless in the thick pile as we walked slowly down the corridor. I gave her a brief smile as I fitted the key into the lock of my apartment.

I hung my jacket and found her in the lounge, eying the rows of books lining dark shelves and little trinkets that cluttered the rest of the furniture. I kept the place neat. That always went down well with the ladies.

"You have a very nice place, Frank." She flashed me a smile and opened one of the two bedroom doors. She didn't turn on the lights.

I walked slowly toward her. She had her back to me, outlined in black against the backdrop of outside lights. Slowly, I placed my hands on her shoulders and felt her stiffen as my arms slid down her body. Then she turned and melted against me.

Her lips were soft and cool against mine. Fire ran down my back as our tongues touched. I looked into the black pools of her eyes, cold and unblinking.

The zipper hardly made a sound as I moved it down her back. I pulled at her shoulder straps and the dress caught at the swell of her breasts. She was breathing rapidly, her chest straining against me, fingers working on the buttons of my shirt.

My head was whirling and I couldn't do anything to stop it even if I wanted to, which I didn't.

Dan!

Then her cool flesh was against mine, hair spilling across her shoulders, arms around my neck.

"You're mine," she whispered against my ear as I picked her up, desire welling within me even as part of me thought black thoughts. She had it coming to her.

* * *

I figured I had about four days.

At least I had none of that crap that goes with old age: rheumatism, stiff joints and constant pain. I was just old and a little senile maybe. But that wasn't an affliction of only the old. I'd get over it. I had done this twice before and it always passed, but there is a risk. I knew of somebody who did this and didn't make it. I could easily have happened to me if had I given into temptation.

She stayed for five days; then left suddenly. One morning, I woke up and she was gone, leaving only the memories. I knew what Dan must have gone through, suspecting the truth, but still willing to pay the price. For what she had to give, any man would. I did, a bit of it anyway.

I took some time off work and waited. She came back on the eight day.

Her hair was white, streaked with gray and her face had gone all wrinkly and dry. The eyes were still compelling, but some fire had gone out of them.

I knew how she felt.

"You bastard!" she croaked as I opened the door.

"Come in, Kaneel," I said easily, enjoying how she looked.

"You knew what I was and you still did it! Why?"

The smile slipped off my face and I stared at her, my eyes cold. "You took too much."

"I gave them a lifetime of love!"

"You took too much! We need the life force ordinary people give us to survive, but you turned that need into a sport. You took everything they had, not giving them a chance to recover. You risked having us exposed, and that's something I couldn't let you do."

"And who are you to set yourself up as my judge? You are a hunter like me, preying on them just like I did."

"Yes, I preyed on them, but I never took more than they could give. You took Dan, knowing what you were doing was against our code, but you did it anyway. You used him and discarded him like a broken toy. For that's what he was to you, simply to make yourself more powerful. No, Kaneel, you brought this on yourself."

She broke then, dry sobs racking her body as she buried her face in her hands. The power was still in her and it touched me. For a moment, I felt sorry for her, but only for a moment. Those tears would have worked on anyone else, but I wasn't just anyone.

Finally, she lifted her head, her face wet. "I really cared for you, Frank. You weren't like the others. Maybe because I sensed something, I couldn't go through with it."

"Is that why you left me after only five days?"

She nodded, her eyes swimming, pleading.

I shook my head and smiled. "I wish I could believe you, Kaneel. But I felt your unease, your doubts. You were beginning to suspect what I was. You left to save yourself."

"I don't want to die!"

I knew she meant that, but it was too late. It had been too late the minute Dan died.

I felt better the next day. My hair was getting some of its colour back and my skin tone was firmer. It would take some time before I was my old, mean self again, but that was all right. I could wait. Waiting was easy when you had all the time in the world.

They found her body behind Blink's Bar three days later, a wistful smile on her face.

# My Encounter With A Mermaid

## Anthony Modungwo

Once upon a time, I had been on pretty good terms with women. But that was before a mermaid messed me up. She scared me, the way the ticking from a wrapped package might scare me. I don't want to have anything to do with any woman again.

This is not a common story being told around. My friends have accused me of suffering from an incurable fear of intimacy, but I don't give a damn. Many times in my life, I've regretted the things I've done or left undone.

It is a great relief to write this down. I haven't slept well since my encounter with the mermaid and there have been times I have really wondered if I have gone insane or if I will. Most of you reading this will not believe this, not unless something like this has happened to you. Believe what you want.

I'm going to write everything down. Maybe I'll be able to answer some of the questions my friends have been asking me. Maybe while I'm doing this I can answer some of my own.

I was a welder in an oil drilling company. I was on an offshore rig in Escravos. But they moved the welders around a lot, wherever the company had a contract. Jobs on offshore rigs were high-paying but dangerous. You had to be a crazy man or suicidal to work on an oil rig with a blow torch in hand. There could be explosions any time. I usually worked two weeks on and one week off. For the one week I was off duty, I tried to catch with the fun I couldn't have while on duty.

I kept numerous girl friends of all shapes and sizes. Some were older than me. Age as far as I was concerned was no barrier. "Wine gets better with age," I usually told my friends. I spent virtually all nights in club houses.

On the 8th of August, 2014 see, I remembered the date, I was in a nightclub in Warri as usual, but this time I was alone. There was a girl sitting at two stools away from me at the bar. Looking at her made me feel something. You may laugh, but you wouldn't have if you'd seen her. She would have knocked you back a few steps. I never had any trouble getting girls. Before this day, I was on-again-off-again with twelve girls, who were willing to date me.

She was almost unbearably beautiful. Just like I knew she had commanded attention before I came. She had coal-coloured hair, so black that it seemed nearly blue under the fluorescents. It fell over her shoulders of her cream coat. Her skin was cream-white, with just the faintest blooded touch lingering beneath her skin. She had dark, sooty lashes. Solemn eyes that slanted up the tiniest bit at the corners. A full and mobile mouth below a straight nose. She was exquisite.

"What do you want to drink?" the barman asked me.

"Scotch."

I took a sip and felt someone tugging at my sleeve. I turned my head and there she was. She had moved over to the empty stool next to me. Looking at that face close up was almost blinding. I spilled some of my scotch.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was low and melodious. "My fault."

I smiled stupidly. "It's all right." How can I make you understand that I would have given anything, yes, anything to be able to have her. The expression on the faces of people around when she moved closer to me was the best memory of my life. Looking at her was like looking at Mona Lisa come to life. And there was another feeling. It was as if a sudden, powerful light had been turned on in the confused darkness of my heart.

She smiled and I felt dizzy. She brushed her hair back and raised her beautiful face to me. As I watched her I was swept with a feeling of unreality––it was unreal that this beautiful girl had elected to come to me. I'm old enough to know there's no such thing as love at first sight, but I felt caught in a spider's web.

I wanted to feel her touch on me. I wanted to kiss her, not for her pleasure but my own; she was so damn arousing, so intensely feminine.

I bought her a bottle of coke. We didn't say anything else while we sipped our drinks, but it seemed as if we did. She rubbed her leg against mine under the table. It drove me crazy. You'd have felt it yourself if you'd ever been with someone you were really close to, or if you'd gotten involved as I was. You didn't have to talk. Communication seemed to have shifted over to some high-frequency emotional band. We were strangers but we were communicating without words. It was dangerous, this temptation to take her home, to relax completely in her presence. I was steeped in a feeling of intimacy with this girl I barely know. There were times in my life when I was especially vulnerable to female attention.

"My name is Jimmy," I said at last.

"Mine is Gloria."

"You are a very beautiful girl. I'll be grateful be your friend."

"Do you love me?"

"Obviously yes," I replied. What a stupid thing to say. "If you don't mind I'll appreciate so much if you can go home with me today."

When we finished our drinks, Gloria followed me to my one bedroom flat off Airport Road. She was wearing a cream coat over her white gown, which was fitting, and her expression was one mingled with desire and triumph.

Immediately I closed the door, her arms were held open and I went to her with mine out to embrace her. As we came together; I felt an unutterable longing. My hands pressed against the smooth plane of her back, her skin near warm to touch. She smiled with those deep black eyes. Her head tilted up to mine, her lips parted, and ready to be kissed.

This was when she changed. Her hair grew coarse, and matted, melting from black to an ugly brown that spilled down over the creamy whiteness of her cheeks. The eyes shrank and went beady. The whiteness disappeared and she was glaring at me with tiny eyes like two polished pieces of precious metals. The mouth became wide with crooked yellow teeth protruding.

I screamed.

"Don't shout. You derive pleasure in sleeping with every girl you come across. Come to me."

You can't imagine the sweeping feeling of intense paranoia I felt. I fainted. I woke up in the hospital. My neighbours found me unconscious and rushed me to a nearby hospital where I was resuscitated. I have since quit the habit of philandering.

# Have you ever been afraid?

## Cecilia Hernando Doldan

Have you ever been afraid?

Have you ever seen the unseen

Peaking from underneath the mattresses

In the death of night?

Has your mind ever fed

From increasing paranoia?

To think you will never escape it,

Yourself and the way that you are.

Have you asked forgone Gods

To aid you and give you safe passage

Through this Hell we call Life?

I can answer yes to all.

I know damnation when I see it,

Well enough to know,

I am positively damned.

Uncanny recollections,

And distant echoes from faraway places...

Knowledge begets fear

And infinite respect.

A word to the wise,

Seeking freedom comes with the high price

Of losing your mind.

# 7th Gateway to Hell

## Samie Sands

The music on the radio fades away to static, which unfortunately means I can now clearly hear all of the strange noises emanating from the engine of this banged up old rental car. I knew the guy who lent it to me was dodgy, but I couldn't afford anything better. This trip has already cost me my entire mediocre savings.

I let out a deep sigh as the spluttering becomes more of a grinding sound and it isn't long until the car has come to a complete halt. I bang my fists against the dashboard in frustration. This is slowly becoming just another disaster in the long line of my catastrophic life. I step outside the car and into the blistering heat. My God, America is hot! I think back to the wet and rainy airport in the UK where I was stood only twenty four hours ago. I can't believe I have managed to travel so far around the world within that time. If I'd known how easy it was, I might have escaped my crappy existence a lot earlier.

I wonder if my mother has gone crazy with worry yet. I did leave her a note explaining my absence so hopefully she won't phone the police. Although after what happed to my younger sister Olivia only months ago, no one would be able to blame her for an overreaction.

I try to imagine Olivia driving past this exact spot, with a group of her friends, happy and carefree on their gap year before starting university. I know for a fact that she came along this road; she emailed me with a photo as they drove. I pull the picture out of my pocket. I passed that exact tree and signpost a few miles back. I re-read the email that accompanies the image for the millionth time.

Hey Annie-bo-bannie,

I miss you super loads! We are having an awesome time though. Wish you could be here – sorry you couldn't get out of work. We are actually on our way to see something so cool, I'm sure you'd love it. We got talking to a group of guys in a bar last night, and they recommended we go to this tiny little village called Stull. Apparently it contains a 'stairway to hell' or something ridiculous like that. Anyway, it's supposed to be pretty haunted and full of all sorts of powerful spells––I'm sure it will be a real laugh anyway.

See you in a few weeks. You will have to help me pack for uni, I think I will still be too jetlagged eek!

Love ya forever.

Liv x

Those innocuous words are the last thing I ever heard from her. While she was away, her communication was vague and sporadic so I wasn't surprised that I didn't hear anything else before she came home. I was shocked however when I went to pick her up from the airport, and she didn't get off the plane. None of her group did. They'd had these flights booked for a long time before they even left for the trip. Everything had been so meticulously planned out. In fact, the detour to Stull was the only time I had known them to go off of their strict itinerary.

Afterwards me, my parents and the rest of the kids families spent weeks on the phone to the police services, the British Embassy and the American media. Anything to find a clue, a possibility. Five kids just don't disappear into thin air like that. It just does not happen. But no one could find even the slightest trace of their existence and I know the search was pretty extensive. Once stories like this get into the newspapers, the police are put under far more pressure.

I knew something was wrong, I knew we were missing something, so I decided to research Stull. This was the last place I knew they'd been so it made sense to check it out. All sorts of weird and wonderful stories came up, just as Olivia had described, but the thing I found most shocking is that there are only about twenty residents in the whole place. Surely someone would have seen them? Someone must know if they made it to Stull and if they'd also made it out. I couldn't let that fact go. I just can't move on with my life without knowing what happened to her. She will always just be an unanswered question hanging over my head like a black cloud. Of course I don't want to find out she has died, but anything is better than not knowing at all.

Our parents are almost divorced over the whole thing. Mum has gone stir crazy; she won't stop doing things, even for a second. Cleaning, phoning the authorities, making posters. She won't ever rest, I'm not even sure if she sleeps. My father has gone the opposite way. He has retreated into his shell. Although he is clearly hurting just as much as the rest of us, mum thinks he has gone stoic, that he no longer cares.

I'm not doing very well either, but then my life was falling apart at the seams anyway, this was just the final push. I lost my crappy job as a waitress because I stopped showing up, my boyfriend dumped me because I'd become 'no fun––I'm sure he'd been cheating on me for years, I was just stuck in too much of a rut to end things. What a coward. I also started drinking far too much. I needed to do this to try and stop that habit alone.

I stare down the long dusty road that is stretched out in front of me. My heart sinks when I realise that I have no other option but to start walking and hopefully hitch hike a lift. I really don't want to, you hear so many horror stories about that sort of thing, but I don't see any other options available to me. I can't imagine this being on a bus route and that bloody car isn't going to get me anywhere.

I grab the backpack of belongings that I packed yesterday in a hurry and start walking, my feet pounding against the hard floor. I desperately hope this whole trip turns out to be worth it. I hope I find the answers I'm looking for. I feel like my whole life is balancing on a knife edge and this is the catalyst which will decide which way I fall. I'm not ashamed to admit there is still a small piece of hope in my heart that assumes I will find Olivia alive and well, that I will be able to bring her home and fix everything. Logically I know that I'm most likely wrong, but I can't force myself to quell that feeling.

Eventually I hear the noise of an engine rumbling past. I nervously stick out my thumb and let a pleading expression fill my eyes. I haven't got any water of food with me, stupidly, so I don't know how much longer I can last out here in the elements. Unsurprisingly the car whizzes past, kicking dust up into my face. I mutter profanities under my breath. Why would someone just leave a young girl alone on the side of the road where she could get raped or murdered? Some people are so inconsiderate.

* * *

It feels like at least an hour has passed before I hear the sound of another car. By this time, sweat is pouring down my forehead, my hair is sticking to my head and I am almost dizzy with dehydration. I wearily stick out my arm, silent pleading with the driver to take pity on me and stop. I shut my eyes expecting to hear the noise whizz passed in the same manner as the previous vehicle, so I'm stunned when it splutters to a stop.

I'm frozen to the spot, unsure of the correct protocol in this situation. I wasn't expecting this at all. To my relief the door swings open, just missing my cheek as it does. I let out a deep relieved breath and pull myself inside the truck. I turn and smile gratefully at the driver, still panting too hard to form words. He has a large bushy grey beard which covers a lot of his face and a chequered trucker hat pulled over his eyes. I wonder for a moment how he can see the road like that. He is wearing a red checked shirt, with black braces pulled over his shoulders. I almost laugh at the stereotype of this man; I thought these men were a Hollywood horror construct. I'm not afraid; films have never had any sort of effect on me. Olivia was always the one hiding behind the cushions. I lean back against the cold leather seat and listen to the engine rumbling to a start. My eyes immediately feel heavy and I start to drift into sleep.

* * *

Suddenly a gruff voice breaks me out of my slumber. "I am only going as far as Stull little lady. You will have to make your own way from there."

When my heart finally stops racing from the shock of being woken up in such an abrupt manner, I nod. "That's where I'm going too so that is perfect, thank you."

His head slowly turns to face me, and he lifts his hat up so I finally get a better view of his face. I am amazed to see his dark black eyes; they mesmerize me for a second.

"What is someone like you wanting with Stull?" This time any pleasantries have left his tone. He seems strangely angry by my statement.

I start to stutter a reply. "My...err...my sister, and...and her friends were here a few months ago." Instincts tell me I should start lying at this point, I don't know why but I go with them anyway. "I am just following her trail, their travels seemed amazing. In a few weeks time we are all going to join together in Florida." I act as if I'm gushing, as if I'm terribly excited about the whole thing.

He eyes me suspiciously, seeing right through my lie. "I think you are wrong. No one ever visits Stull; it's a tiny village with nothing of interest to tourists. Your sister definitely didn't come here. Is there anywhere else I can take you instead?"

His change in attitude has me suspicious. Only moments ago he was pretty insistent that he wouldn't go further, now he was offering to take me just about anywhere. Obviously tourists do visit Stull, someone recommended it to Olivia, she wouldn't just make that up. "Erm...no I'll be fine. I'm quite tired so I will just find a B and B and carry on my journey in the morn––."

"There aren't any B and B's in Stull. I just told you, it isn't a place for tourists." He loudly interrupts me. I start to feel really terrified of this man. I can't understand his reaction at all. Why doesn't he want me to go to go anywhere near the place? It all just makes me more convinced that this is where something happened to Olivia. Unwelcome images of murder and torture fill my mind. I wonder if they are all trapped somewhere in someone's basement tied up, waiting for rescue. My heart starts thumping loudly at this possibility. On the one hand, I could really save them, but on the other, that will take a whole lot of bravery that I'm just not sure I possess.

"Please just drop me off in Stull. I will call my sister from there and rearrange our meet up." I state this with a very firm tone. My request is reasonable so the man can't really argue with me. I think I have made it clear that I'm not going to budge on my decision.

We sit in silence for the rest of the trip, the tension thick in the air. I stare out of the window watching the unfamiliar scenery go past. All the time, Olivia is on my mind. I see her passing every feature that I am; I picture imaginary conversations between her and her friends as they whizz past certain things. I am now more convinced than ever that Stull holds the answer. I just know I have done the right thing by coming here. When I got on that plane, I thought it would be a good starting place, since it's the last place I know for a fact that she went; now I am positive that they never left.

Soon I notice an old fashioned signpost, indicating that we are about to enter the town. A cold chill runs through me as we pass it. I glance around manically, taking it all in. My eyes lock onto a crumbling church and a graveyard that lies beneath it. Once I spot this, I can't stop staring at it. I know that's the place they must have intended to go. It's got a really creepy aura and I'm sure Olivia would have gotten a massive kick out of that. She wasn't a big believer in the supernatural, although she was very interested in it. Her friends were massive fans and she was always content to go along for the ride.

My vision travels up and down the very long trunk of a pine tree situated within the graveyard. It's the eeriest thing in the whole place, made worse by the fact that it is growing right through the middle of a gravestone, splitting it in two. I screw up my eyebrows in confusion, why has no one ever done anything about that?

Suddenly I snapped out of my trance by the electronic sound of all the doors locking. I spin around shocked, what is this guy doing? He doesn't move or acknowledge his actions, he just puts his foot down on the accelerator and the car slowly picks up speed. Within seconds the countryside is whizzing past me faster than ever before and I grab onto the side of the seat, nausea and bile swilling around in my stomach. I pant heavily, trying to form the words to ask this guy what the hell he's doing, but for some strange reason my tongue is twisted, my lips frozen. I'm utterly convinced I'm about to die and I can't even bring myself to scream.

Just as my brain has slowly melted and has given up on any hope of surviving, the car halts to a stop, the doors all unlock and I am shoved through the door. As I slump to the floor, unable to work my limbs, the guy's sinister face looms over me and he whispers while spitting. "Just keep on walking girl. Don't even think about turning round and heading back towards Stull. We don't want you there and you sure as hell don't wanna be there."

I lie on the hot, sandy ground, quietly weeping. I have no idea what just happened, or why, but I have never felt so close to death in my whole life. Despite that, the utterly terrifying man has me more determined to find out the truth about Stull than ever before. Why would anyone be so desperate to get rid of me? I guess that he thought by frightening me, I'd run off like a scared little girl. Little does he know, I don't exactly have a lot to live for anymore. I can't continue until I know what has happened to Olivia. I can't continue in this limbo, so something needs to happen, whatever it may be. However much I am putting my life in danger.

I heave my weak body off of the ground and turn back to walk the way I have just been warned against. I have more resolve in me now. I will solve this mystery; no one else will get in my way. My mouth is burning with dehydration and my stomach is agonizingly empty. I need to fuel myself soon or I'll die out here for sure. I pass the signpost, alerting me to the edge of Stull, and a strange thing happens to me as I am next to it. A loud whisper fills my head. It's made up of far too many voices for me to work out what it is saying, but I don't need to understand to feel the evil. I shake my head before carrying on; it's just exhaustion playing mind tricks on me. I can't let myself be distracted. As soon as I find a shop, I will be able to sort myself out.

* * *

Except, after I have trailed up and down a few times, there doesn't seem to be any shops. I start to panic, wondering what I'm going to do. I only have a few items of clothing in my backpack, I figured I'd find somewhere to stay with no trouble, or I'd at least have a car to sleep in. Now I have nothing.

My attention keeps flicking towards the church and graveyard. It's a bit like a magnet that I can't stop myself from being drawn towards. This time, however, I see a lone figure of what looks like a young lady, just stood there. Before I realize what I'm doing, my feet have taken control of my body and I'm walking towards her. I am stumbling along, almost as if I'm sleepwalking, staring at the woman, rapt. I don't feel like I have any power over myself.

It isn't long before I'm stood right in front of her. I snap out of my daze at the very moment she turns to look at me and panic courses through my veins. That man couldn't have made it more obvious that tourists weren't welcome here in Stull, so how is she going to react to me? Surprisingly, she smiles brightly in my direction.

"Can I help you?" She is softly spoken, and sounds particularly kind. When I don't immediately answer, she edges carefully towards me and reaches an arm out to touch my shoulder. As soon as our skin meets, a calming sensation runs through my whole body. I suddenly feel extremely comfortable around her, as if we have known each other for years. Before I can stop myself, my whole sorry saga has spilled out of my mouth and tears are leaking from my eyes. I have become so dizzy and dazed that I no longer know what I'm doing at all. Taking pity on me the woman rests my head upon her shoulder and takes me into her small cottage nearby.

* * *

One I have food and water in my system, I feel much better. My head has cleared and I feel more awake. I feel regret that I told this woman everything; from Olivia's disappearance to the crushing disappointment that has become my life. I wonder how much she judges me. Instead of dwelling on my problems, I try and grab an opportunity. I ask the woman about the church and its surroundings.

To my utmost relief, she laughs. "Oh I suppose you have been fooled by the rumours as well? The Internet has a lot to answer for." I laugh guiltily. "Yes we have become quite the beacon for fans of witchcraft and the occult. They seem to think that although the church has no roof, it never rains inside and that it contains all sorts of links to the devil. It's madness – just some silly story someone came up with a long time back. Unfortunately nothing exciting ever happens here, we all inherited our houses from generations back and cannot afford to leave. That's all."

Of course she's right; I hope she doesn't think I actually bought into any of that nonsense. I was just curious. "There is one other thing...." I wonder if I should take it this last step. The way she is looking at me, I can't help but trust her. "This guy picked me up a few miles back. He was really weird about me coming here; he pretty much tried to force me to leave..."

"Oh that'll be crazy old Bob." She interrupts quickly. "Take no notice of him, he has lived far too long and become a grouchy old man. I remember in the old days––he actually used to be good fun! No he just gets sick of all of the thrill seekers coming here trying to catch a glimpse of the devil. They graffiti and cause damage to the headstones. It really has become a nightmare; all our relatives are buried there so it's hard sometimes to not take it personally."

I try and push my uneasy feelings aside and take her at her word. He is just worried that I may have come to deface something. Even as I think these words, they seem hollow and fake.

I am over the moon to be offered a bed for the night, just as the fatigue is really beginning to kick in. As I walk to the room, I can barely keep my eyes open. I crash down onto the camp bed, not even bothering to clean my face or change my clothes. This day has been one of the longest in my entire existence. My brain shuts off before my head hits the pillow.

* * *

Suddenly I'm in the garden outside our old house, messing about with Olivia. We are sat on sun loungers, trying to get a tan and drinking cocktails. She is telling me a funny story about a terrible date she recently had and I am laughing loudly to her words. She looks at me and her facial features begin to change. They twist and turn, going green and black. Her words become evil whispers and growls. She stands up, looming over me; her fingers have become claws which pierce into my neck. Pain radiates down my entire left hand side and blood spurts out everywhere. Her sharp teeth come towards my face and spittle is flying out of her mouth. She opens wide, showing me all of her insides and clamps down onto my head.

* * *

I jump up, gasping for air. My heart is racing and my brain is whizzing faster than it's ever gone before. I gulp down some water which has been thoughtfully placed on the nightstand and the realization that the whole thing was a dream finally hits me. I look over to the clock, 2.30am. Typical, bloody jetlag, now I'm more awake than ever. I won't be able to switch off now, so I may as well get up. I quickly change my clothes and take a walk around the tiny house, looking carefully at all of the odd knickknacks. Outside one of the windows the full moon sits right on top of the church, illuminating it very brightly. It's so intriguing, and it's practically daylight over there.

On a whim, I decide to go and visit it right now, while it's still night time. I might as well use the time I am awake usefully and I'm less likely to be disturbed or spotted at the hour. I'll be back before my host wakes up so I won't even have to explain my absence. I quietly click the door behind me and spin around in the cool, crisp air. It's such a change in temperature from earlier today, but it's much more pleasant and refreshing now. Preferable to an English girl like me, who is very used to the cold.

I try and keep my steps light and quiet as I walk, the last thing I want to do is alert anyone else to my presence. I need to do this by myself, to find out as much as I can about Olivia's visit. If I could just find some sign that they were here and maybe even a clue that they also left, I can move on quickly. I am pretty sure that according to their plans and location, they would have headed to Oklahoma next. If it comes to it, I am more than happy to go there next. In fact, I'd much rather be there than here, even if that search will be like finding a needle in a haystack.

The air seems to get colder, the closer to the church I get. Chills run up and down my spine. My mind goes fuzzy and my senses heighten. I feel like something strange is here. The grass is icy and crispy beneath my feet; the gravestones are deteriorating, crumbling away before my very eyes. The mist clings in the air as if a magic force is keeping it still. I try and picture Olivia in this place, I try and imagine the boys that sent them here, what the hell were they all thinking? This place is nothing, just a normal graveyard in a tiny village. But at the same time, there is something very unusual about it. It's a pit of evil. I don't know what makes me feel that way, but I can't stop it.

I walk inside the small, insignificant crumbling church wondering what is supposed to be so important about this place. Buildings like this are so common near where I live and no one pays any attention to them, so I can't see how this would be different. But as my feet pass the threshold, something shoots through me. A peculiar, invigorating sensation. I spin around trying to see whatever could have caused it, but I'm faced with nothing. Maybe I just imagined it? Maybe I created that feeling through my own fear.

"Hello?" I timidly call out, unsure if I am going to seem crazy. Silence. Yes, I'm just imagining things. I need to get a grip on myself. I continue to step forward. The air seems thick around me. There's no wind, no breeze, no nothing. In fact, the atmosphere is completely non-existent. As I run my fingers along the brick work, shoots of electricity burning through my skin. I pull my hand back gasping and suck on my fingers trying to take away some of the sting. I push my way outside, gulping in air and desperate to escape. The change in atmosphere is so dramatic; I can't get my head around it. As I stand there, staring into the building, confused by my experience, a scream cuts right through me. I recognize it immediately.

"Olivia!" I cry out. She's here? I can't believe it. I've actually found her. "Olivia where are you?" My heart starts racing at the prospect of seeing her again, of rescuing her and getting the fuck away from here. "Olivia, come on, where are you?" I rush into the church eyes darting side to side. No one. "Olivia, come on now, come out?! Liv?"

"Annie? Annie help!" I spin around rushing towards the voice. "Annie!" I don't know what to do; it's coming from everywhere, all around me. The scream is high pitched and terrified. What is going on here?

I rush around to the back of the building, pushing my hands over my ears to block out the sound. It's distracting me, confusing me. Tears start to roll down my cheeks and I can't stop them. Something bad has happened to Olivia, I can tell. I have never ever heard her scream in that way and sound so frightened. What if crazy Bob has her trapped somewhere? What if he's been doing nasty, unspeakable things to her?

"Annie, what are you waiting for, please....?" Her voice fades away into nothing. I can't stop the scream that bursts out of my chest. I've lost her; I'll never find her now. My knees give way and I hit the ground with a thud. My mind starts blurring and my vision goes funny. I try and cry out but everything just spins into blackness.

* * *

I wake up, a sticky, warm liquid holding my hair to my face. I touch it and realize that it's red and clumpy. Blood. How is my head bleeding? I didn't fall that badly. I try and sit up, but the throbbing becomes too much. What has happened to me? Did someone do something to me as I was passed out? A figure comes slowly into focus. A shadowy, dark person. Fear immediately shoots through me and I try and scoot backwards, trying to escape. A voice starts circulating in my confused brain. I try and yell, but my throat is dry and nothing but a low groan comes out.

"Hey, hey..." The voice eventually penetrates my shock barrier. I recognize this voice. Where from? I try and sit up, my body feels weary and broken but I don't know why. Have I lost a whole chunk of time somewhere along the line? Is that possible? A hand reaches out to me and grabs me before I have a chance to recoil. Finally I get a clear view of who it is, the woman, the lovely lady who let me stay at her house. Grateful for a familiar face I grab her and pull her in for a hug. I'm not an overly affectionate person with anyone so this display shocks even me. I pull back, ready to thank her profusely, when I notice something almost alien about her. Her irises are completely red.

As I back away further I can see she is wearing very strange attire. Almost that of a stereotypical witch. I laugh nervously, is this some sort of trick? "I––" I try and stutter out words, but they get caught in my throat. I feel as though something has grabbed hold of my voice box, warning me not to speak.

"Tonight, he is coming tonight." This time her voice is very different. In fact it could almost be six people speaking all at once. I cock my head to the side confused. What is she doing? Is she trying to freak me out? I really don't need her to do that, I am doing it well enough to myself.

"Who––?" I decide to humour her for now. She stares at me but doesn't answer. "Who is coming?"

"The great lord. The great master." This puzzles me; I guess I didn't assume she was a religious woman. There was no Bible or cross in her house. Is she talking about the second coming of Jesus? She disputes this thought before I can even voice it. "I'm talking about Satan, the great lord of the underworld."

"Um...ok lady; I'm just going to––" I point randomly behind me and turn to start walking. I don't have time for all of this. The loving tone in her voice as she spoke about the devil made me feel sick. Wasn't she the one who was mocking this very idea only hours earlier? A finger tapping on my shoulder causes me to spin back, but to my surprise she is nowhere near me, she is much too far away to reach me. She is pointing up to the top of the pine tree, so without thinking I follow her finger. There I see a vision of her hanging limply from the tree, blood dripping to the ground. The black coagulated blood falls onto the split gravestone that sits below.

"No...no..." I glance wildly back and forth. Even though she is up on the tree, she is also still stood next to me cackling madly. "What...what are you? What is all of this?" She shakes her head at me, as if I am missing the point entirely. "Do you have Olivia?" I finally whisper. It hits me that whatever the hell is wrong with this place, this woman obviously knows all about it. Why didn't she just tell me before?

"She's gone." The woman states as if it completely obvious. Spotting my confused face, she continues. "No one who goes down the steps comes back up. Once you have entered the great lord's realm, you cannot simply return to Earth." My facial expression must show my disbelief. "He has her now." She says this with a comforting tone, as if I have just received some good news.

"Do you mean my sister's dead?" I feel hysteria rise up through my body. Whatever I expected to find when I came here, this was not it. Not at all. Of course a small part of me was mentally prepared for bad news, you have to be when someone has been missing for months on end––but this just makes no sense.

"Just because she's gone" Her tone becomes soft and loving. "Doesn't mean she's dead. I myself only get to see my child twice a year, Halloween and the Spring Equinox. You are very lucky to be here for one of these visits. He spends most of his life in the realm where his kind is accepted readily. Humans just don't...understand, if you know what I mean." She winks at me and I pull a disgusted face back. I have no idea what she means. I haven't had a clue since she opened her mouth in this graveyard.

A rush of regret overcomes me. This whole trip was a mistake. I should be at home, trying to fix my parents problems, trying to sort out my own life. Being here, in this nightmare isn't going to solve a single thing. Why did I ever think that it would? I'm not needed here; I'm needed miles away, in England. The woman's nails rip into my skin, firmly holding me in place. I can almost feel them growing, embedding themselves deeply within me. My heart is pounding in my mouth and my palms are thick with sweat. I wish I knew what to do, I wish my legs weren't frozen to the spot.

Suddenly a howl in the distance seems to distract the insane woman; she turns away from me, seemingly unaware that she is releasing me as she does. Blood trickles down my shoulder from the holes she has pierced and it's agony. Unfortunately, I still can't get my legs to move, so I decide to try a different tactic.

"Erm...what was that?" My mouth is so dry, the words come out parched and cracked.

"It's him...my son." She replies. I wait for her to continue, I sense that she is going to whether I speak or not. "He's here. He's finally here." She claps her hand together in excitement. "His father will soon follow,"

"Who...who is his father?"

"The dark lord of course." She says this as if I'm completely stupid. Maybe I am, maybe I should have guessed that a lot earlier. "That's why he isn't suitable for this land. Werewolves are hunted savagely by humans. Even though I know my little one could defeat them all with no problems, I wouldn't want to put him through the persecution." She turns to face me again, her eyes shining with joy. "So instead, for the last three hundred and fourteen years I have come to the site where he was conceived, and the spot where I was hung for crimes of witchcraft, and we all meet. It's a sacrifice any mother would be willing to make of course. My son's happiness is the most important thing."

Ok, this woman is definitely crazy. She seems to believe that she is some sort of witch-ghost with a werewolf son who was fathered by the devil. That's the weirdest story I have ever heard. I don't know why I allowed myself to get sucked into her nonsense. I'm normally more level headed that that. The desperation to find Olivia has sent me into a sort of madness. My legs free up, so I mumble something under my breath and start to walk away. She is too distracted to follow. Her fantasy werewolf son and his devil father have taken over her mind.

I shake my head as I continue to move. It must be living in such a small community. Nothing ever happens, so she has been forced to create her own amusement. I look up from my feet and notice that although I have been walking in a straight line for quite a while now, I have not yet left the cemetery. How is that possible? I start to focus on my steps, but that doesn't make any difference either. I'm somehow walking round and round the crumbling church, always stopping in the same place.

I keep going, unsure of what else to do. Suddenly something catches my eye. A large bush, which seems to be covering up some sort of secret. I have a strange feeling that it will answer all of my questions. I think about Olivia, also finding this. Her voice screams out again, but this time it doesn't distract me. It's only in my head after all. I brush the leaves to one side, watching them crumble beneath my fingertips, turning into brown ashes before my eyes. I can't believe what they reveal.

Steps.

The steps. The one's I read about, the one's the crazy witch lady said Olivia went down. The supposed 'Seventh Gateway to Hell'. I look down the deep dark hole that the steps travel down. I call out quietly. "Hello?"

"Hello? Hello?" A panicked voice calls out in reply. "Annie, is that you? Annie help us please! We're stuck down here and we can't get back out."

My heart drops through my stomach. Olivia. She's here, she is really here. Her and her friends just got stuck doing something stupid. How they've survived for so long I'll never know. Against my better judgment, I tenderly place my foot on the first step, but before I can apply any pressure, the entire thing crumbles beneath me.

The screams echo throughout the entire town. "Olivia? Liv are you ok? I'm sorry I don't know––"

Before I can finish my sentence, fingertips grab my ankle and pull lightly. I stand there frozen, confused and panicked. What the hell? Suddenly, I snap into action and grab the hand. I pull it with full force, and the body that materializes from the ground, looks very familiar. One of the girls from Olivia's group, Kyra I think her name is. I grab her and hug her without even thinking. I'm just so relieved to see someone normal, someone on my side, but instead she dissolves in my arms. Grey ash covers my whole body and sobs scream through me. What the hell is happening now?

More fingers follow, but these are brown, lumpy and covered in slime. A rotten stench fills the air and I back away slowly, unsure if I'll be able to escape. Before my disbelieving eyes a disgusting monster materialises. The brown lumpy beast grows much larger than a human and bile rises to tip of my tongue. I can't grasp that this is reality. This is really happening. Things like this aren't just from books and films. Yellow teeth bear down towards me. My brain is screaming at me to run, but still my legs feel sluggish. A loud screeching sound bursts from its mouth, forcing me to cover my ears as the noise gets progressively louder.

I look around and see a group of people have gathered. The locals, it must be. "Help!" I cry out to them as I am backed into a corner. "Help me." A figure moves towards me, a man. The one that tried to make me leave. He shakes his head sadly at me, and I grasp his meaning immediately. He knew all along what happened to my sister, he knew the same would happen to me if I stayed. He wanted to help, he tried to. He was actually the good guy. I wish he had just told me, but of course I wouldn't have believed him. Who would believe this? I nod knowingly at him. I want him to know that I understand. This isn't his fault, he tried to warn me, but I was too stubborn to listen to his hidden meaning.

More of the monsters follow, as if that screech was summoning them. I wonder if these are the devils minions, I wonder if he really is on his way up to Earth. I try to run, I try to find an escape but there isn't one. I don't want to be here to witness any more. One of the locals grabs me, pinning my arms behind my back. A sultry voice whispers in my ear. "You can't go now; the best bit is yet to come."

I thrash, I struggle, but all to no avail. I'm stuck. I'm going to die here as a sacrifice, just like Olivia. I tell myself to calm down, to accept my fate with pride. There is nothing left I can do to save myself so I can at least die with dignity, but my mother's sobbing face keeps running through my mind. This will tear my parents apart for sure. Their marriage will never survive the loss of another child. I whisper the word "Sorry" even though I know there is no way they'll hear it.

The devil rises. He looks nothing like I expected, he is far more terrifying. He is brown, lumpy and slimy, just like the others, but he is so much bigger, with a much more petrifying aura. He switches and changes shape on a whim, as if to prove to us all that he is not restricted by bones and bodily structure that us mere mortals are. Cheers rise up from the crowd as he performs to us. Blood splatters across the town with every movement he makes. It seems to be a big exciting event for everyone involved. The minions all gather at his feet, the witch and her werewolf son join the town's people. Everyone is gathered here for the spectacle.

The woman pushes me forwards and I fall roughly to the ground. My knees throb and my head is in agony. He lifts me high above the ground; a tentacle is wrapped around my torso. I try and force my emotions away, I want to remain calm, but it is impossible in such a bizarre, life threatening situation. I try and imagine this happening to Olivia. Did all the locals stand and watch her death as they are mine? Don't they feel guilty for what they're doing?

A tearing sensation, a ripping occurs down at my waist. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to stay silent, but a scream bursts through me. The agony, the pain. I'm on fire. I try and wriggle my toes, but they are no longer there. My whole body has been ripped in half and yet my brain is still switched on. I feel weak and woozy. I can hear the braying cheers below. I look down to try and focus on the people––how can they just allow this to happen? Don't they want to stop it?

Then I remember what I read online with sceptical eyes. They are forced sacrifice twice a year to stop the evil spreading into the rest of the world, to prevent the devil from going on a rampage and consuming the entire population. If this weren't happening to me right now, I would be forced to think of them as the good guys. That's why only a few of them can bear to stay––to carry on the legacy of their town. To keep the rest of the world safe.

Sharp teeth sink down into my neck and one last tear falls down my check. Soon I am rushing down, down the steps, down into hell where I will stay for eternity, reunited with Olivia at last.

The Shongololo

Vered Ehsani

I assure you that one of the last things I would ever wish to see upon waking is a Shongololo. In fact, it's very much near the top of my personal "Creatures I Never Want to Encounter" list. Which of course is why the universe conspired to ensure I met up with one.

Worse still, the metre long, creepy arthropod appeared right above my head while I was luxuriating in my tent with visions of the upcoming Christmas season meal floating through my head.

Mr Adams had assured us all that he had a trunk full of food for the occasion: "Locked, let me tell you, and I have the only key. We shan't be lacking for anything, not on my watch."

I had just reached the point when I was contemplating what that meal would look like in the colony of British East Africa when I peeled open my eyes. And there it was, floating above my head––not the meal, of course––all of its thousand spiky legs squirming along its tube-like form, its arm-long antennas poking at the net, searching for a weak spot.

I should point out that, from a tender age, I exhibited a rather robust and socially unacceptable imagination that startled my parents and their numerous visitors. Harmless delusions, some said, while others suggested I was unhinged. But I can assure you that my hinges are firmly fixed to the doorpost. It's the rest of the world that's flapping in the wind, even in this enlightened age under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

If truth be told (and that is the point of this narrative), I'd been gifted or cursed with the third eye, second sight or however you refer to it. And since the day my parents almost had me incarcerated in some institution or other save for Prof Runal's intervention, I have exerted much effort in pretending I don't see anything at all.

Which doesn't mean, of course, that I can't see paranormal reality, including the above mentioned and rather nefarious Shongololo.

I contemplated screaming. That, after all, is what any civilised lady of English birth would do when faced with such a circumstance, that of a paranormally enhanced insect hovering overhead.

Then again, I'm not so civilised, given my unenviable status as a widow and a burden on society. Or so Mrs Steward tells me. I also have a rather stout constitution that creates in me a certain reluctance to fainting and other womanly reactions typical of the times.

By the time I finished all this convoluted contemplation, the moment to scream had long since dissipated, somewhat like my appetite, as fast as a puddle of rainwater in the savannah at midday.

Sighing, I twitched the mosquito net draped over my mattress, but the Shongololo simply tightened its grip, its heavy, metre long body twisting the netting, stretching it. I hoped it held. The net, that is. The last thing I needed was for the beastie to fall on me. Its cylindrical body was as thick as my thigh. Granted, my thighs aren't that big, but for an insect to be that thick around is still rather impressive, in a highly disturbing sort of way.

I glared up at the shiny black arthropod. Its plated surface glittered darkly in the shaft of sunlight squeezing through the flap that operated as the tent door.

"And what do you want?" I demanded crossly.

Arm-long antennas flicked at me. Below the appendages were two large, round, glassy eyes that were a darker shade of black than its body. Its countless legs shifted and dug into the net.

"Appalling manners," I muttered, now beyond cross and bordering on a rather unlady-like irritation.

Just at that moment, who should decide to float through the tent but my deceased husband, Gideon Knight.

"Good morning, Bee," he said in his ghostly soft voice.

"This tent is becoming rather crowded," I informed him, hoping he'd pick up on my acerbic tone of voice. Alas, no. The charming ghost just smiled his beautiful smile, his light brown eyes golden in the dim light.

Ah, yes, the curse of being a widow who has a highly developed third eye: I'm still stuck with my husband, without any of the benefits.

I chose to ignore him and focused on my first unwanted guest, that guest being now in the process of chewing at the net.

"Good gracious," and with that, I abandoned all hope of a restful lie-in that morning. I heaved my body off my mattress, stumbled through my dead husband and wrapped myself in a Maasai blanket.

The Shongololo watched me hop around. The front part of its body, the part that passed for its head, shifted in my direction. The rest of its mass followed as it slithered down the net, its thousand legs clicking together in time with its rather sizeable pincers.

"Well, I suppose it serves me right," I muttered as I leaped onto my leather travelling trunk. "Insisting on attending this accursed hunt."

Gideon chuckled softly. "I did tell you..."

"Oh do shut up," I snapped. "I wasn't talking to you in any case. Nowadays, I prefer to converse with myself, for it is the only way I'm guaranteed a civilised response. And if you're going to leave me a widow, then please do me the service of leaving me completely, since you clearly aren't of much use in your current state."

"You're in a pleasant mood," he observed.

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere."

He chuckled, I grumbled and the Shongololo clicked its way across the tarp floor. Warmth from the rising sun oozed through the olive green tarp, but that didn't dispel the cold in my hands. Fortunately, I was armed with more than just a trunk full of clothes, a book on Victorian etiquette, and a dead husband. Mrs Steward might think me a burden, but I am, after all, a rather resourceful lady, even for a widow.

"Where'd I pack it?" I demanded as I rummaged through my saddlebag.

"Holy water won't work," Gideon informed me in his soft-as-silk voice. "Neither will garlic."

"The only thing more inconvenient than a know-it-all husband," I said, "is a dead know-it-all husband."

"And a bullet will just bounce off its shell plating," he continued. "Not even silver bullets will dent it."

As if getting murdered wasn't enough, he now had the temerity to instruct me in my business. Tiresome man.

My hand closed around a little satin sachet.

"Ah ha!" I yanked the small bag out. Without wasting another moment (beyond what I'd wasted arguing with Gideon), I sprinkled some of the contents around the truck, creating a powdery circle of...

"Cinnamon?" Gideon asked.

"It works very well against ants, so it will suffice," I said. "By the way, where were you earlier this morning?"

Gideon shrugged his shoulders and continued to watch the Shongololo. "Nowhere in particular. Why?"

"Dr Cricket's automaton went on a bit of a rampage," I said as I tossed a pinch in the direction of the Shongololo. As the ground spice floated onto its antennas, the creature hissed and twisted in on itself, until it looked like a shiny, round footstool made of plated armour. Just the sort of thing any lady of impeccable taste would want in her tearoom, I'm sure.

"Really?" Gideon mused absently, and I knew I'd get nothing further out of him.

Grabbing my rifle, I used the wooden butt to push the heavy coil of insect across the tarp floor. With a grunt, I shoved it out through the loosely tied tent flap, then sprinkled a line of my precious cinnamon across the doorway.

"Well, that will at least keep it out while I dress," I said with great satisfaction. "And there's still enough to have with dessert."

"Dessert? Here? You're optimistic," Gideon said.

"And you're still in my tent," I said caustically.

With a regal bow and a roughish smile, he faded away and out of the tent, or at least so I hoped.

I sunk back onto my trunk and held my nose over the spice sachet. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cinnamon scent along with visions of a large table back home, laden with roasted meats, pies and so many other delicacies that were probably non-existent here on the African grasslands. But at least I had a monster-free tent for now. And really, what more can any lady ask for?

#

The Ermine

Robert Tozer

The queen delicately draped the ermine wrap about her shoulders. Being graced with both elegance and beauty, she was greatly admired throughout the kingdom. But the ermine wrap had some nobles talking.

"While it's a beautiful wrap, it's ridiculous to wear it every day of the year—especially in summer. It makes her look vain."

The queen was aware of the discordant views of the court but ignored them.

The queen loved her kingdom, from its rolling hills to its placid lakes. She also loved everyone who resided within, and strove to aid her poorest subjects by offering exorbitant tax relief to farmers and opening the coffers to distribute immoderate sums to those living on the streets.

This enraged the nobility that shared in those taxes and had a stake in the coffers.

There were whisperings that the queen was a shade moonstruck.

"She hasn't always been like this. This lunacy began after she'd acquired that damned wrap! She was once an uncompromising monarch and we were flush from the queen's taxing policies. But, our royalties have dwindled into a trickle and that simply won't do. Something will have to be done before she impoverishes the entire kingdom."

Now, there was one among the court that had a truly evil heart. And he devised a truly evil plan, and set to work it into motion. He talked some likeminded ladies of the court to lure the queen away from her guards on the pretext of discussing "lady issues". The queen would usher them into her bedchamber, leaving only her guardian to be dealt with. Fiercely loyal to the queen, the Captain of the Guard would not accept bribes; he would have to be taken care of through guile and cunning. The swine would climb up to the queen's balcony from the floor below using a rope that one of the bribable servants would tie to the large marble statue on the queen's balcony, and then throw said rope over the side for him. He'd quietly creep up behind the Captain of the Guard and slit his throat with a freshly sharpened dagger. Then, it would be the queen's turn.

The nefarious plan was enacted, and the evil hearted fiend now stood over the slain body of the good captain. The knave smirked at his accomplishment. Primarily hidden amongst the shadows of the thick, billowing curtains, the scoundrel's long mustachioed countenance created the appearance of a grinning Cheshire cat.

The evil villain chuckled, for he thought the queen was so bewildered by the events that her tongue was frozen from fear. The rogue's pompous voice was arrogant and cavalier, "Do you know why we're here?"

The queen calmly looked toward the ladies and saw them shrink away.

"I presume you are here to kill me."

The rotter was astounded that the queen didn't seem frightened, and out of a peculiar respect, he bowed low to her. "You have guessed correctly, Your Majesty. We of the nobility have grown weary of the squandering of our riches, and alas, you must forfeit your life."

The miscreant pounced upon the queen and drove the dagger deep into her breast.

The queen collapsed, and through her dying breaths uttered, "Thank you, kind sir. I was hoping that someone would take action."

The reprobate was perplexed until one of the ladies went fast to steal the wrap. A horrid sucking sound was heard as the wrap finally worked loose from the queen's lifeless form.

Suddenly, it seemed to come alive. One end curled sharply around in the air as if a snake with its tail caught. The curtains flapped angrily as a gust of wind suddenly blew them wide. The assembled clearly caught sight of it now.

The wrap was alive!

Its beady eyes radiated an unholy blood-red glow. Its large, alien mouth sported twin sets of curved fang-like teeth that fringed a cavernous hole. An elongated, grayish-black, tube-like appendage, slick with ooze, slithered back into its maw, and sprayed speckles of blood across the lady holding it as it withdrew into its innards.

The scene was carnage after that. Suffice it to say, dear reader, there was copious amounts of the red stuff spilt, and high-pitched screams of horror and pain erupted from the gathered company.

It was subsequently reported that the rapscallion had waylaid the queen, surprising the lot and killing them all. Only the valiant captain had the wherewithal to stop the fiend before succumbing to his injuries.

It was a brisk, mid-autumn afternoon when the young heiress to the throne settled into the castle. She'd taken weeks of sea travel to assume the throne. Looking out upon her kingdom, she smiled and mused, 'This land is rich and the people strong. I'll be awash with wealth in no time.'

She wandered around the room skimming her fingers along the surfaces of the furniture in admiration, but froze when she came to a mysterious, ornately shaped, golden box. She opened it and discovered a beautiful, white, ermine wrap. She gushed over her find and ecstatically enveloped it around her dainty neck.

Suddenly, she felt a stabbing pain enter her shoulder. She tried to pull it off, but the wrap stuck fast. Visions and words began assaulting her mind.

The wrap instructed, and demanded things of her—exquisitely painful, wicked, and perverse things. It allowed her only short periods of time in which to recuperate while it rested, although, she was powerless to disobey even when it wasn't attached. The queen grew haggard from the torture and its constant feeding on her, and she secretly plotted a way to permanently remove it.

Then, one day, she had a brilliant idea. The wrap didn't care a whit of day-to-day kingdom life, and allowed her to act as she pleased in that regard. And while it controlled and bent her to its will, it did not do so to others. She would make someone else stop it, even if that meant they should kill her.

# 

# About the Contributors

Arnaldo Lopez Jr.

Mr. Arnaldo Lopez Jr. was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, but he has lived in Queens, NY for about 17 years now. He has been employed by NYC Transit for twenty-seven years and is planning to retire in July 2015. He was formerly employed as a dispatcher with the NYPD. Mr. Lopez is also a speaker and trainer, speaking on subjects as diverse as terrorism and customer service. He created the civilian counter-terrorism training program currently in use by New York City Transit and many other major public transportation agencies around the country.

As well as writing, Mr. Lopez is an artist and photographer, having sold several of his works over the years. As a writer he's sold articles to Railway Age magazine, The Daily News magazine, Homeland Defense Journal, and Reptile & Amphibian magazine; scripts to Little Archie and Personality Comics; and short stories to Neo-Opsis magazine, Lost Souls e-zine, Nth Online magazine, Blood Moon magazine, and various other Sci-Fi and/or horror newsletters and fanzines. He was also editor of Offworld, a small science fiction magazine that was once chosen as a "Best Bet" by Sci-Fi television.

Arnaldo Lopez feels that the writers that have influenced him the most are - in no particular order - Lawrence Sanders, Ernest Hemmingway, Robert E. Howard, Harry Turtledove, Isaac Asimov, Dean Koontz, James Patterson and Stephen King.

Dana Wright

Dana Wright has always had a fascination with things that go bump in the night. She is often found playing at local bookstores, trying not to maim herself with crochet hooks or knitting needles, watching monster movies with her husband and furry kids or blogging about books. More commonly, she is chained to her computers, writing like a woman possessed. She is currently working on several children's stories, young adult fiction, romantic suspense, short stories and is trying her hand at poetry. She is a contributing author to Ghost Sniffer's CYOA, Siren's Call E-zine in their "Women in Horror" issue in February 2013 and "Revenge" in October 2013, a contributing author to Potatoes!, Fossil Lake, Of Dragons and Magic: Tales of the Lost Worlds, Undead in Pictures, Potnia, Shadows and Light, a funny ghost story anthology by Crushing Hearts Black Butterfly Press, Wonderstruck, Shifters: A Charity Anthology, Dead Harvest, Monster Diaries

(upcoming), Holiday Horrors and the Roms, Bombs and Zoms Anthology from Evil Girlfriend Media. She is the author of Asylum due out in October 2014.

Dana has also reviewed music for Muzikreviews.com

specializing in New Age and alternative music and has been a contributing writer to Eternal Haunted Summer, Nightmare

Illustrated, Massacre Magazine, Metaphor Magazine, The Were Traveler October 2013 edition: The Little Magazine of Magnificent Monsters, the December 2013 issue The Day the Zombies Ruled the Earth. She currently reviews music at New Age Music Reviews and Write a Music Review.

Follow Dana's reviews: Twitter: @danawrite Author site: http://danawrightauthor.wix.com/danawright

Andy Lockwood

Andy Lockwood owes his continued fascination with the macabre to a lifetime immersed in the genre. His tutelage began with the stories of Ray Bradbury, Stephen King and other

masters; quickly becoming part of a regular routine as he bonded with his father over monster double-features every Saturday. He grew up with role models like Vincent Price, Alice Cooper, The Addams' and The Munsters. It's not that he intended to turn out this way; he just didn't know any better.

As the years added up, he discovered an avalanche of influences that pushed his own imagination forward, urging a necessity to put pen to paper himself. In high school, he got his first job as a librarian's assistant. While future career choices would shift and methods of creative expression would fluctuate, one thing remained certain: from this point forward, his love of the printed word was resolute.

While pursuing studies in filmmaking, he rekindled his love of writing. The limitations of scripted action brought him back to short story writing and the discovery of National Novel Writing Month. Eventually, his efforts would award him his first novel, Empty Hallways.

Andy has a decorated life of Bucket List accomplishments, none of which he ever intended to do for the glory. They have all fallen in line as part of the adventure his life decided to be. Eventually, he intends to capture the best of these stories in a lengthy memoir – or at least on his blog, Happier Thoughts (www.happierthoughts.com).

Empty Hallways is currently available in paperback and eBook formats, though the rumors of a rare and elusive hardcover still persist. He is currently assembling an anthology of his own short stories, and also in rewrites on his second novel, The House of 13, with the intent of public release in late 2014.

Andy lives in mid-Michigan with 3 cats, a runaway imagination and a misguided idea of what it means to be an adult.

Sharon L. Higa

Sharon L. Higa is a newly published author with one novella, 'The Dam' and two novels-'# 6' and 'Rose & Steel', all three published by JEA Press. She also has several short stories

published in anthologies, 'Midnight Remains' and 'Fish Tales 1' also with JEA Press. She has one short story in an anthology, 'Mental Ward: Echoes of the Past' with Sirens Call Publications – with many more stories bubbling on the mental burners. Born in Southern California, She now lives in East Tennessee with her nine cats, one dog and Mark, her patient and loving husband of twenty three years.

Kyle Flak

Kyle Flak's recent volumes of poetry include What Hank Said on the Bus (Publishing Genius, 2013) (Winner of The Chris Toll Prize), The Secret Admirer (Adastra Press, 2010), and Harmonica Days (New Sins Press, 2009). In 2013, he was a finalist for a Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship from The Poetry Foundation. His writing has recently appeared in Dragnet Anthology 1, Glassfire Anthology, Hart House Review, Makeout Creek, Mudfish, 1913: a Journal of Forms, Poetry East, Spinning Jenny, Toad Suck Review, Unleash the Undead, Whiskey Island, and various other places.

Kevin S. Hall

Kevin S. Hall is 34, and an up and coming horror author. He has written a horror anthology called Thirteen which you can buy online and is currently beavering away on Thirteen 2 and Thirteen 3. He is also working on a Pet

Sematary: The Series, Monster Makers game book and Ravens Edge. He lives in Haddington, East Lothian, Scotland, enjoys anything sci-fi, fantasy and horror, and loves Doctor Who.

Josh Walker

Josh Walker was born the third of seven children. He was raised in Cheyenne, WY. Growing up, he was a fan of Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. After graduating High School, he spent two years in Chile: learning the language and culture, meeting new people, and making lifelong friends. He returned to the United States, taking an interest in early childhood education. This is a career field he is still in, working as a Family Education Professional. He returned to Chile to visit old friends and found a new one – the best friend he ever had, Macarena. They have been married for seven years and have two children, a one year old boy and three year old girl. When he isn't writing or working at his day job, he is spending time with his wife and kids.

Kody Dibble

Kody Dibble is an aspiring Author, Playwriter, Christian

Evangelist, and IT Professional. He first started writing, when he was a young boy, and always have an active, and vivid

imagination. At 19 he decided to publish his first piece of work called Change Begins With A Choice, after reediting it a bunch of times it is now available online and many retail book stores at: http://tinyurl.com/ChangeChoice . He looks forward to

spending time with his Family and Friends, and cooking good food for everybody.

Check him out on: https://www.facebook.com/ChangeBeginsWithAChoice or on twitter @changeandchoice

Matt Mesnard

Encouraged by friends and adversaries alike, this writer broke away from a strict path of screenplays and independent film to venture into the less-structured and often uncivilized world of novels and short stories. Surviving as a writer of freelance: If you have a literary impasse, if nobody else will help; maybe you can hire Mesnard.

When not writing or working for hire, Matt can be found updating his blog [Mesnard.wordpress.com], playing his heavily-modified PSP, and encouraging other writers [Mesnard13@gmail.com] between projects.

Mathias Jansson

Mathias Jansson is a Swedish art critic and horror poet. He has been published in magazines as The Horror Zine, Dark Eclipse, Schlock and The Sirens Call. He has also contributed to over 50 different horror anthologies from publishers as Horrified Press, James Ward Kirk Fiction, Source Point Press, Thirteen Press etc.

Homepage: http://mathiasjansson72.blogspot.se/

Lila L. Pinord

Lila L. Pinord was born and raised in a small Native American fishing village called Queets, a part of the greater Quinault

Indian Nation along the coast of Washington State. Because of this, many of her own experiences and knowledge of reservation life- such as myths, legends and superstitions of her people- are included in her writings.

She attended Grays Harbor College in Aberdeen, Washington for a year, got married, then later went on to Peninsula College in Port Angeles, majoring in secretarial. From there, Lila

attended Western Washington University and gained a degree in accounting. However, writing has always been her first love, and she continues it in Port Angeles, WA where she lives now.

SKYE DANCER was chosen to be featured on the State of Washington Library website in December 2006 under Mysteries of the Northwest. Ms. Pinord is a contributor to 200 AUTHORS and How They Were Published, THE PUBLISHED AUTHOR'S GUIDE TO PROMOTION-Marketing tips by Published Authors, and SHAMELESS SHORTS. Her short story JOSH DRAKE VIP is included in Gallery of Voices.

Her newest book just out on the market is IN TIME, an Urban Fantasy about a young lad who time travels here on earth, trying to find his parents and a place to settle down while at the same time, his mother seeks HIM. It's not available at this time since it's now in the hands of a traditional publisher.

Other books are: MIN'S MONSTER and EVIL LIVES IN BLUE ROCK. All her books can be found online, and by asking for them in your favorite bookstore.

Website: http:// lilalpinord.bravehost.com Email: lilapinord @ yahoo.com

John M. Wills

John M. Wills is an award-winning author, freelance writer, and journalist. Writing in a variety of genres, including fiction, non-fiction, technical, short stories, and poetry, he credits this

multi-discipline approach for improving his novels. John also writes book reviews for the New York Journal of Books, and is a member of the National Book Critics Circle. A former

Chicago police officer and retired FBI agent, he has published more than 150 articles relating to police officer safety and

training. His monthly articles are on Officer.com. His latest

novels,  The Year Without Christmas and Healer, as well as his other books, are available online.

Contact John at: http://www.johnmwills.com/, or his blog, http://jwillsbooks.com/blog-2/

Micheal Shaw

I have been writing for several years now; this project being one of my first published works and something that I enjoyed writing. I have also written a short story as part of another anthology. I am currently working on two projects at the moment; one that I have worked on for the last two years and another that is new.

Debbie Johnson

Debbie Johnson lives in Nevada, Iowa US with a very spoiled beagle. She has written two books, 'The Disability Experience' and 'The Disability Experience ll', and has been published in several journals. She has found writing to be therapeutic in

dealing with her physical and mental disabilities.

Her website and blog are: www.thedisabilityexperience.vpweb.com

Victoria Pagac

Victoria (Tori) Pagac Tori was born on October 11th, 1977, lives in Waterford Michigan and has cerebral palsy and is quadriplegic. Tori has an Associates Degree in Liberal Arts and has worked for Affinity Press and wrote poetry for The Necropolis Chronicle (Web-Comic).

Tori created Raye Knight, in 1995, as a hero that could not only be enjoyed by men and women but could be read by preteens as well. The book is intended to harken back to the books she grew up reading.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Raye-Knight-Spellbound/483675208359263

Alex Winck

Literary and comic book writer, editor, journalist, translator (English-Portuguese). Born February 16,1974, in Blumenau, Brazil. Graduated in Social Communication and Journalism. First published work as a fiction writer was the educational comic book Sesinho, with a million copies distributed monthly for free at schools, for nearly 100 issues. Currently edits and writes for the horror, fantasy and sci-fi comic book and short story anthology "Contos do Absurdo" ("Tales From The

Absurd"), distributed online for free. Its latest issue had over 26 thousand readers at Issuu. Features brand new comic book

stories starring Brazilian horror icon Coffin Joe. It has an entire issue in English:

http://www.contosdoabsurdo.com.br/tales-from-the-absurd.html

First printed comic book horror story was published in the "Contos Sinistros" ("Sinister Tales") anthology.

Anthony Pugliese

Anthony is a resident of Harrisburg, PA. He is 54 years old and single with no children. Anthony worked for the Commonwealth of PA from 1987 to 2008 and is a currently a customer service representative for a small company in PA who contracts with medical providers, facilities and hospitals. His favorite books, the ones that inspired him to write horror and supernatural: Ratman's Notebooks, The Exorcist, The Omen, Carrie and Rosemary's Baby.

Also inspired by Herman Melville, Jack London, Mark Twain and Rudyard Kipling, he likes to include a classic fireplace story-teller feel to his contemporary tales centering around supernatural elements crisscrossing into the contemporary world. Everyday life and people suddenly finding themselves face to face with those shadows, those dark alleys in our subconscious and psyche we know are there but attempt to ignore. Myth, legend and folklore become reality. What was once believed to be fairy tale and fancy are indisputable. The characters must rise above their beliefs and educational backgrounds and persevere. They don't always win as expected.

Anthony has few credits, he has only been published in small press and in a few mainstream anthologies. He is working on a cross-genre novel - Dyavol's Fallen and a short story collection - All Things Truly Wicked. His hobbies include antiquing, weird history, paranormal phenomenon, art collection, amateur photography, and of course, writing.

Find him on Twitter @Apugliese3 and on Facebook home page or on writers page:

The Stoat's Lair:  www.facebook.com/mymitternaucht.

Shakeem R. Winn

I'm a 40 year old native of Bed Stuy, Brooklyn N.Y. I now,

reside in Canarsie with my wife of twenty years, Marilyn Winn. I majored in English Literature at Borough Manhattan

Community College and I work as a self- employed,

underground, graphic novelist. My hobbies include movies,

movies, and more movies.

Preston Peet

Sharing his space with two feline familiars, and nurturing finely honed love of blood, beasts and the macabre, Preston Peet is a widely published NYC based writer, editor, blogger, musician, DJ, psychonaut, activist, and all around adventurer. Preston is the editor of "Under the Influence- the Disinformation Guide to Drugs," and "The Disinformation Guide to Ancient Aliens, Lost Civilizations, Astonishing Archaeology and Hidden

History," as well as the author of, among many other things, "Something in the Way- a True Life Misadventure Tale of One Drug (Ab)User's Life On and Off Streets Around the World."

Preston can be reached at prestonpeet@yahoo.com, or www.facebook.com/prestonpeet.

Randy Attwood

Randy Attwood grew up at Larned, Kansas, State Hospital where his father was its dentist. He has been a journalist, director of PR at an academic medical center, and retired as

Media Officer at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City. His fiction touches many genres. He has nine novels and two collections of shorter works published.

Matthew James Hamblin

Matthew James Hamblin is a 24 year old writer/videographer and long-time horror buff. He is just getting his start in writing and still hasn't conquered apostrophes. He also reviews films and TV, particularly horror, on his YouTube channel Hamblin Approved. You can find him on Twitter using the same handle.

Matthew likes to hear people call his dog cute.

Stefan Vucak

Stefan Vucak is an award-winning author of eight sci-fi novels, including With Shadow and Thunder, a 2002 EPPIE finalist. His political thriller Cry of Eagles won the coveted 2011 Readers'

Favorite silver medal award, and his All the Evils was the 2013 prestigious Eric Hoffer contest finalist and Readers' Favorite silver medal winner. Strike for Honorwon the gold medal. Stefan leveraged a successful career in the Information Technology industry and applied that discipline to create realistic storylines for his books. When not writing, he is an editor and book

reviewer. He lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Website: http://stefanvucak.com

Twitter: @stefanvucak

Anthony Modungwo

Anthony Modungwo is a freelance and prolific writer. He holds a masters degree in business administration with specialization in Human Behavior. He is married since 1987 to Mrs. Eunice Modungwo. He is blessed with children. His ebook Roadmap to Successful Marriage is available online. IT IS A MUST READ.

He has written six novels: Victim of Greed, The Traffickers, Betrayal of Trust, Campaign of Death and Destruction, The Glamorous Actress,and Niger Delta Militants. All available online and other major online bookstores.

Visit my blogs at:

http://chuksm.blospot.com

and http://chuksm.hubpages.com for thought provoking

articles on marriage and relationships.

anthonymodungwo.blogspot.com for articles on my books

http://tonymodus.hubpages.com for short stories, poems and

articles.

Cecilia Hernando Doldan

Cecilia Hernando Doldan was born in Argentina in 1977 in the midst of a multicultural family with Irish, Italian, Spanish and Basque roots. She is influenced by Ancient Greek and Roman culture and the American Beat Generation.

Samie Sands

Samie Sands is the author of the AM13 Outbreak series—Lockdown, Forgotten, Extinct, and Not Dead Yet. She's also had a number of short stories published in very successful short story anthologies. To find out more about her and her work, check out her website at http://samiesands.com.

Facebook.com/SamieSandsLockdown

Twitter.com/SamieSands

Wattpad.com/SamieSands

Vered Ehsani

Vered Ehsani has been a writer since she could hold pen to paper, which is a lot longer than she cares to admit. Born in South Africa, she lives in Kenya with her family. When she isn't writing, running a radio show or daydreaming about African myths, she pretends to work as an environmental consultant. If you enjoyed this extract from Ghosts of Tsavo (release date: March 2015), you might consider picking up a free book all about African paranormalsby visiting Vered and her world at http://veredehsani.co.za

Robert Tozer

Living in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, Robert Tozer is the author of the upcoming zombie book series, The Dead.

You can find out more about him and his other projects through his website, www.thedead.us.

