 
Mike Miracle

Revenge

Book 1 of The Next Series

Mike Miracle

Copyright ©2019 by Mike Miracle All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1

The thin cotton gloves Malcolm wore gave him little protection from the cold. He just needed them to keep the feeling in his fingers long enough to pull the trigger on his borrowed rifle when the time came. He raised up from a crouched position to peer out from behind his hiding spot. His knees protested at the length of time he'd been crouching; pops and cracks seemed loud in this quiet rural setting. He paused to take a couple of deep breaths of cold crisp air, he was a little dizzy from the blood pressure drop that occurred when he stood too quickly.

After his head cleared, he looked past his hiding spot and up the driveway—still no headlights from Jerry's car. What am I doing here? he asked himself. "Why did I think that this would be an answer to anything? I should just put this rifle back in the case and leave," he mumbled out loud to the rock in front of him. Cold, that didn't come close to describing how he felt. One of the coldest nights on record this early in December, from what he heard on the news earlier. That was before it got dark. That was before he had made the decision to drive to Jerry Dance's house.

He wasn't sure if anyone had seen him. He had been careful up until this point, not sure if he'd have time to be careful after he did what he had come here to do. He couldn't shake off the certainty that he was freezing to death. It was the time of the year that puts a chill deep in your bones after the sun goes down. As Malcolm Fisk sat in that frigid hiding place while hunting, the weight of the situation and circumstances grew heavy.

He wasn't hunting a deer or any other beast that men usually lay in wait for in the cold of winter. He was waiting, watching, for what he considered to be the most reprehensible being on the planet. This bastard, this evil son of a bitch, that used to be his friend and business partner.

Malcolm glanced around while pulling his scarf closer to his neck and tightening his coat to shield him from the blistering wind. There was a koi pond at the end of the long, poorly lit driveway. The large piece of Italian stone he was crouched behind gave him cover from any approaching vehicle that came down the driveway. According to his former business partner, this particular stone had, "fallen off the back of a truck."

Malcolm was no saint. He had "acquired" items in a similar manner. But right now, Malcolm didn't give a damn about anything except getting rid of his ex-partner and friend.

When the headlights swept around the corner, Malcolm knew it was time to take his revenge. Thoughts from his semi-religious upbringing echoed in his mind that revenge was never a good idea. But he knew deep down in places people don't talk about that he needed to do this. If not for himself, for the woman he once loved, for the life that they could have had.

*****

Preparing for this night wasn't easy. He had used the last remaining favor from his old high school friend, Bill Marrow, to borrow a gun. The two met had met at Bill's house for a few drinks in the basement bar. Malcolm had told Bill that he had a raccoon problem, and he could get the gun back to him the following weekend.

"I just need to take care of this problem, once and for all," Malcolm said, trying to sound like a desperate homeowner.

Bill was concerned about the condition Malcolm was in, but Bill was also in his element now. He was an expert on three things: guns, video games, and growing hydroponic weed in his basement. But he also knew the dreadful year that Malcolm had experienced, and knowing his volatile state of mind, didn't feel comfortable loaning him a hand gun. Finally, with a sigh, he pulled a bag out of his antique gun safe and carefully unzipped both sides.

"There are some bullets in the side pocket with an extra magazine," Bill said, still concerned if he was doing the right thing.

"This is a semi-automatic .22 and honestly, if you miss with the first shot, that coon will be gone. Unless of course he's rabid, then he may charge you. In that case, empty the mag, throw the gun at him, and run like hell," Bill laughed heartily at that bit of advice.

Bill was a fat man with a raspy nasty smoker's laugh, like glass shards bouncing off a chalkboard. Once he got through laughing and coughing from his hunting advice, he continued with the serious gun talk. "This Ruger is fairly new, maybe two or three years old." He checked to make sure his friend was listening closely.

Malcolm could tell Bill was rolling now, boasting about his prize possessions.

"Nine-round mag, you can pull back this lever to jack a round into the chamber, then replace the one in the mag. Back in the military, we called that cocked and locked."

Malcolm had no idea what the hell he was talking about but tried to pay attention to the loading and jacking part. He didn't know a damn thing about guns. He just needed one that was easy to use, reliable, and would get the job done quickly. He also knew his fat buddy was in the military just long enough to make it through basic training and fail two drug tests. Bill was an asshole and probably sold drugs out of his basement. But Malcolm was out of options and desperate to get his revenge. He continued to look intrigued by Bill's story, hoping it would end soon.

"I put that Nikon scope on myself last year. It should still be sighted in at around one hundred yards," Bill said, as he zipped up the canvas case.

"This is great Bill," Malcolm said, as he picked up the rifle case by the shoulder strap, trying to leave. "I really appreciate it. I owe you for this, I'll have it back to you in a week. Or after I'm able to get rid of my unwanted guest."
Chapter 2

When Malcolm saw the flair of the headlights, he felt a surge that tingled all the way down to his toes.

He shivered and watched the long, black Audi roll to a stop in its normal spot, fifteen feet from where he was perched behind that god-forsaken rock. He knew the Audi had pulled in nose first, which was perfect because he'd have an excellent shot at the driver when he got out. The adrenaline was kicking in, and he had to make some quick decisions if he wanted to pull this off.

Should he just unload the magazine into the car and hope that the .22 would find its mark behind the blackness of the tinted glass?

"No, you must have patience," Malcolm muttered to himself.

He'd come too far and suffered too long at the hands of this asshole. He couldn't let his desire to exact revenge cloud his judgment.

Judgment. The word caused a wicked smile to crease his frozen lips.

"If I had better judgment, if I were a better judge of character, I wouldn't be where I am," he said to the boulder in front of him.

Malcolm rose up from his crouch peeked over the top of the rock at the target before him. He heard the door lock disengage.

The interior lights of the Audi lit up the surrounding area, giving Malcolm a perfect view of his target.

Before the blackness of the night had closed in on him, Malcolm had picked out a spot on the rock to use as a rest for the gun's barrel. He knew trying to lift, aim, and shoot would be too much, given the elements and his mental state. He lifted the .22 to the top of the rock to ensure he would have the perfect vantage point. Then all he had to do was point and squeeze the trigger. With blood pulsing in his veins, he rested the gun barrel on the rock. When his target stepped out of the car, blocking out the light, Malcolm knew he was ready.

The fateful time had come.

His plan was as easy as he could make it. He didn't want to talk to the man. He didn't want to hear him beg for his life. He didn't want an explanation. He just wanted Jerry Dance to die.

As Jerry stood in the illumination of the Audi's lights, he was oblivious to what was about to happen. Fifteen feet away, Malcolm used all the adrenaline pulsing through his body to pull the trigger on his borrowed Ruger .22.

He didn't just pull it once, though. He pulled the trigger five or six times before realizing that something was wrong. He had forgotten something fundamental in the operation of the rifle.

Before Jerry reached to close the car door, he heard an unusual sound, like metal sliding across a stone. He looked around, trying to find the source. What was that strange clicking noise? The car? He hoped not. Taking that beast to the dealership would waste an entire day.

As the clicks continued, Jerry deduced that the noise wasn't coming from the car. Then he froze, realizing that he'd heard the sound before. He knew what was about to happen.

"Holly shit," Jerry said to the blistering wind and any other nighttime creature. Being an avid shooter at the local range, he knew the sound of a trigger being pulled after the magazine was empty. If only he could pinpoint the location...

Jerry did the only thing he could think of; he ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as he turned away from the clicking noise.

After the fifth click, Jerry realized that there never had been an actual shot fired and he wasn't hit. Had he misjudged the sound? Was this some bird or other creature that had scared the living shit out of him?

*****

Malcolm sat in the dark, worried his chance was slipping after the fifth click and no fire. Worry quickly turned into a panic. Unsure of what to do, he continued to pull the trigger in hope that the gun would magically start to fire actual bullets.

In those milliseconds after the first empty "click," Malcolm tried to replay what Bill had told him about the gun. Frustrated at himself, all he could remember was that cocky asshole laughing and nearly choking to death.

Sometime after the third click and before the sixth click, Malcolm's brain kicked into overdrive, and he remembered what he needed to do. He heard good ole Bill, telling him to remember to "jack a shell into the chamber."

Malcolm fumbled to complete the task at hand, reached around the rifle with his left hand and pulled back the slide. He heard the magazine push a shell up into the chamber. He was now in business.

Releasing the slide was one of the most satisfying feelings Malcolm had felt in a long time. He knew a bullet would soon be in the firing chamber. He also knew a bullet would fly straight at Jerry Dance's head.

*****

Jerry, standing by his beloved car, had relaxed for a moment after the click sounds had abruptly stopped. He drew in a deep breath of winter air. Then, as quickly as the clicks stopped, he heard the ratcheting of the slide going back, then the release.

"Oh shit," might have been the last words out of Jerry Dance's mouth. The balding, middle-aged man panicked when he heard the sound of the slide going back and forth. Time seemed to stop as Jerry's hearing failed him. The last light he remembered was from the dome lights of his prized car, the same black Audi that had a cracked front bumper and a dent in the hood.
Chapter 3

It wasn't a deer that Jerry Dance hit on his way home a week ago. It was Malcolm's wife, who met her end that chilly night behind her office. And she wasn't the only one.

Of course, he claimed it was an accident. But were there telltale tire skid marks at the point of impact? Absolutely not. There was, however, rubber on the ground at the entrance of the alley behind the dental office where she worked. It looked like a football player was trying to impress some cheerleaders with all the burned tread.

The "accident" took place around 6 p.m., so the alley was shrouded in darkness. She had locked up that night and was heading out the back door, when she found herself up close and personal with the Audi's headlights. Shocked by the beams heading her way, she froze, and that's how she spent the last three seconds of her complicated life.

Like everyone else, Malcolm's wife had her share of demons. However, unlike most, she didn't use drugs or alcohol to quiet them. She used men instead. She used them until she got bored, and then, as quickly as she reeled them in, she moved on.

Jerry, however, was a different story. He was the one who tried to get away. But then there was the issue of his seed he planted within her; the seed that left his life with her that night. Getting away was no longer an option.

She and Malcolm had tried just about everything to conceive, but it never happened. They tried multiple rounds of fertility drugs and exercises. Poor Malcolm even filled cup after cup with his seed, to the sounds of '70s mood music no less, just to find a solution and keep his lady happy. Malcolm would have done anything to give her what she wanted.

All that didn't matter now.

The day Malcolm's wife told him she was pregnant was exactly one week after he'd received the life-changing letter from his doctor, the contents of which he hadn't found a way to share with his wife. That one piece of paper, proclaiming his little swimmers were infertile, changed everything. How's that for complicated?

So, Malcolm thought. What was he to do?

*****

The first bullet Malcolm fired whistled through the air and shattered the rear passenger door's glass. The second one was affected by the slight recoil, which pitched the barrel of the gun upward. That bullet ended up in an oak tree.

While Jerry pissed his pants and tried to get his frozen brain to make a decision, Malcolm prepared the third bullet. Jerry finally forced his legs to push his body away from the car and around to the driver's door, just as Malcolm pulled the trigger.

Malcolm anxiously waited to see the results of his work, while Jerry's lethargic brain told him that the darkness of the koi pond would offer salvation.
However, the impact of bullet number three forever changed Jerry's world, and he went white with pain. His mind slowed to a screeching halt, while the man he betrayed watched from his hiding spot.

Malcolm shivered as he watched the bullet find its way past the finely tailored pants, the tacky argyle socks, through the tibia and into the heel, where it finally lost momentum and stopped. Malcolm's world also slowed down, and he was minutely aware of the situation unfolding. While he felt his life had suddenly become less complicated, he couldn't stop the churning in his mind. But he needed to focus his energy on the series of actions he was about to put into motion. His right index finger flexed to pull the trigger, causing the firing pin to strike the primer. A distinct explosion happened, followed by a flash of light and what sounded like a crack of a bull whip. Most importantly, a projectile was forced out of the end of the barrel.

Malcolm realized he was drifting into a destructive mental place, so he forced himself back into the moment and tried to concentrate on what was happening. It was the time of night shortly before darkness pulls its heavy blanket over the sky. He sat up straight, stretched and assessed the damage he had done. Only by the dimming light of the luxury car could he see his target.

Malcolm could not locate Jerry, but he heard the piercing screams of agony and knew bullet number three had found its mark. He then realized he had been holding his breath since he figured out what "jacking one into the chamber" meant. Malcolm forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. He didn't have a visual, but by some primal targeting instinct, helped by the brief muzzle flash, he knew that Jerry was headed toward the front of his car. Was he seeking shelter from death? Malcolm could not have that.

After a short breath, Malcolm refocused and quickly aimed the .22 at the front of the car. The fourth bullet felt the strike of the firing pin, the primer ignited, then the propellant, and finally the bullet.

A Winchester .22 Long Rifle 36 Grain Plated Lead Hollow Point was made to do maximum damage. At 1,280 feet per second, by the time Jerry Dance noticed the fourth muzzle flash, the bullet had already penetrated the knock-off Gucci jacket, moved past the starched white dress shirt, and through the cotton undershirt that offered no protection. The bullet found a home in the same shoulder Jerry injured in a skiing accident during a secret ski trip he took with Malcolm's wife.

How fitting.

Pain, shock, fear—three words that summed up Jerry's world. Pain, shock, fear. The same three words summed up his emotions. He knew in the back of his mind, when darkness took over and he thought about ways he could die, that being attacked by an unknown gunman was a possibility. However, he always came to the conclusion that he needed to die while heroically fighting off a pride of lions, which he thought would boost his legend. He also included on that list being hit by the proverbial bus or being struck by lightning while golfing.

This was all happening too fast. Jerry couldn't think about what to do. He didn't know who the gunman was or how he was able to surprise him. And in his own damn driveway. This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen in your own driveway.

Malcolm was feeling it now. The adrenaline rush. That moment when he knew know victory was his. However, in this case, it wasn't a victory... it was sweet revenge. After the fourth bullet successfully met its mark, the fifth bullet pushed up from the magazine and into the cylinder, bracing for the impact of the firing pin.

The rifle had fired four bullets. That meant four internal mini explosions had propelled hot gas and jacketed slugs out of the barrel. The four bullets, including the two that hit their target, came from the same gun that Malcolm's fat friend Bill had modified with a Nikon scope.
Chapter 4

Bill Marrow was your typical fat, lazy washout who lived in his grandparents' basement. True to the stereotype, he not only grew pot for his own smoking pleasure, he dealt a little to local burnouts as well. He also bought and sold firearms to keep extra cash in his wallet.

Bill was surprisingly halfway competent when it came to firearms. He could provide detailed knowledge of their workings, and also could hit the target with ease. When it came to his drug dealing endeavors, he was known to be pretty shrewd. When he mixed his two skills, that is when problems usually arose.

Bill spent most of his leisure time tinkering on any number of things at his basement workbench. His projects included firearms, vacuum cleaners, and sometimes an alarm clock. However, no matter how careful he was to put things back together the exactly the way they were before, he always had extra parts. Strewn around his workbench were a couple of oddly shaped plastic parts and, of course, a bounty of screws in all sizes. He also had a bin of extra screws, just in case he needed one to complete another project.

The night Bill decided he was going to finally mount the Nikon scope on the .22 rifle, he had already smoked two joints, had polished off a large supreme deep-dish pizza, and was halfway through a bag of nacho cheese corn chips.

The box containing the scope had been in the corner of the basement for a couple months. Bill spread out all the items included, and noticed the hardware package, which included the instructions and four screws to mount a plate to the rifle barrel, were missing. The part-time firearm aficionado had mounted plenty of scopes, so he was confident he didn't need the instructions, and he had plenty of random screws in a coffee can on the workbench.

The screws he selected were about the right length and width to get the job done. Although one was a little longer than the rest, he decided it wouldn't be a big deal. The screws, Bill rationalized, could have been leftovers from another scope mounting kit. However, most likely they were from a blender or Bill's old cellphone. Neither of those items were designed to withstand a lot of heat or explosions.

Bill cranked up the music playing on his stereo and got down to business. After he was done mounting the scope, he strapped a laser pointer to the top of the scope with a rubber band.

About four hours into the project, and after he smoked another joint and packed in four cream-filled cupcakes and a half gallon of milk, Bill turned on the laser and pointed it toward a target he had drawn on the wall about fifteen feet away. He found that by focusing a scope on that arbitrary spot on the wall, he could make the scope fairly accurate, at least up to fifty yards. He still wanted to be sure. However, finally crashing from all the food and pot, he decided he was ready to sleep a few hours. The scope would have to wait until he found time to go out to the firing range to make further adjustments.

Bill's newly modified Ruger never made it to the range. The scope was never sighted in correctly. He never gave a second thought to testing out that rifle after the night he'd mounted the Nikon scope onto it. The random screws he used to mount the scope were a hazy memory from a pot and food filled Friday night. Before going to bed he had responsibly zipped it up the rifle in a bag and placed it into his Grandfather's gun safe.
Chapter 5

When you're used to your surroundings you become accustomed to the sights, smells and sounds of your environment. A dog will bark outside, and you immediately know if it is the neighbor's German Shepherd, that annoyingly friendly yellow lab down the street, or your loyal pit bull in the backyard. When that telltale humming sound ceases, you know the dryer turned off and it's time to fold the clothes. You feel comforted by that custom familiar smell of your house after a long day at work.

Once Malcolm started firing his friend's .22 rifle, he found himself in a very quiet bubble. He was in a vacuum, devoid of the cracking thunder sound from the gun shot and screams of terror from Jerry. After the first bullet had left the chamber, all his surroundings went surreal. He could only hear the sounds of his mission in action. He heard the spent shell eject from the chamber. He heard the whistle as the shell was propelled, and the mechanism moving to bring the next shell into the chamber to await the firing pin. He heard the sound of the bullet breaching the magazine, and the subtle click the next bullet made when it reached the top of the magazine.

Malcolm was reveling in his glory. He couldn't hold back a smile as he heard the smooth, mechanical symphony for the second, third, and fourth bullet.

Click, click, whistle.

Click, click, whistle.

Click, click, whistle.

After the fourth whistle he didn't hear a click. He immediately knew there was a problem with the fifth bullet, even though the sixth bullet took its place at the top of the magazine with that familiar click, but it wouldn't be soaring through the dark night to find its mark.

The fifth bullet. What went wrong with the fifth bullet? Malcolm started going over the sounds in his head.

The fifth bullet. It was louder than the others. Malcolm could have sworn he saw flashes of light coming from the end of the barrel and from somewhere else after the fourth bullet.

Malcolm tried to focus on sounds of the fifth bullet amid the chaos of what was happening, and the emotions pouring over him as he ended his old business partner's life. Inside his vacuum warning bells started to ring. His brain, the same brain that had figured out how to jack a bullet into the chamber and pull the trigger four times, was trying to send his right index finger a message. But what was the damn message? Malcolm focused harder.

STOP!

SOMETHING IS WRONG!

STOP!

DO NOT PULL THE TRIGGER AGAIN!

STOP!

Malcolm focused even harder yet. Using all his reserve energy ... then it started to become clear. He knew the fifth bullet did not fire properly and now something was wrong with the gun.

However, his bloodlust desire to shoot Jerry again and again overrode all other needs. He knew the flashes of light coming from the end of the barrel were normal. He also knew the flash of light that appeared underneath the mounted Nikon scope his old friend Bill Marrow designed were not.

The fourth screw. Malcolm went through the things he knew about the rifle. His pothead, drug dealing friend Bill knew the importance of not breaching the inner chamber of the gun barrel when drilling the pilot holes. So what did he do wrong?

*****

While Bill knew that the fourth screw was longer than the other three when he added the scope, he did not divulge that information to Malcolm when he borrowed it. He didn't think it would be an issue because it felt no different than the other three when he tightened them a little past snug.

Bill rationalized that there was little chance of the softer screw doing any damage to the harder steel of the gun barrel. Unless, of course, the tip of the longer screw was tightened to the point of breaching the inner chamber of the gun barrel. Which is where Bill went wrong in his design, and where Malcolm paid the price.

*****

What Malcolm didn't know was the first bullet had cracked the screw, the second had dislodged it, and the third had popped it out of the rifle in the opposite direction from which it was installed. When that happened, it left a hole where the screw should have been, and it also put a half-inch hairline crack in the barrel.

The fourth bullet made that crack an inch longer and a little wider. So much wider, that when the fifth bullet was struck by the firing pin, the majority of the bullet's destructive force went through that crack.

The force caused an explosion. An explosion Malcolm—or Bill—did not see happening. And one that changed Malcolm's life.

That unplanned, unexpected explosion hit Malcolm in the face like a cinder block being dropped from a five-story building, or a kick to the head from a Clydesdale. Or, ironically, like a speeding Audi down a darkened alley.

Malcolm's entire world went quiet—so quiet it was deafening.
Chapter 6

Malcolm woke up. At least he thought he woke up. He looked around and all he could see was a large white room around him. He squinted, but could not see an end to the room. It was all white, so very white. The walls, ceiling, floors—everything was a stark white. Where the hell was he? What the hell was going on? Was he really conscious? He'd been freezing for hours, drunk for days. But now he didn't feel like either of those things.

Sobriety was a new thing for Malcolm. Since Miranda died there hadn't been too many sober moments. He had been pouring an almond liquor in his coffee in the mornings. The coffee helped wake him up and the liquor helped with the hangover from the night before. He usually had a couple of beers at lunch, maybe a mixed drink depending on what he was having. Lately he bypassed the food and went straight to a drink. In the evenings he'd sit in his basement office that doubled as a wine cellar.

He carried a cork screw and a few photo albums around to different spots. Sometimes he'd drag a chair along, other times he'd just sit on the floor and drink straight from a bottle. He'd broken all the wine glasses he and Miranda had bought. There was no fireplace to throw empty glasses into. He chose an unfinished section of the wine cellar to hurl things into. Once the glasses were all gone he found it much more satisfying to throw empty wine bottles against the old brick wall.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts of those bad memories. None of this made sense. One minute Malcolm was pumping lead into Jerry and the next minute he was...

"Oh shit. I'm dead." He looked around again at the great white expanse that had no end.

More confusion set in; this didn't look like death to Malcolm. Was this heaven? Purgatory? A hospital?

No, wait. That was it. He was in the looney bin. He finally ended up in the padded cell for the criminally insane.

Malcolm started to come to terms with his situation, then he heard footsteps. Click-clop, click-clop, click-clop. He was instantly flooded with memories. One of his fondest childhood memories was walking through the train station with his grandpa, who was one of those early-to-everything kind of guys. If the train left at 7 a.m., they were at the almost deserted train station by 6 a.m. He remembered the way his grandpa's shiny black shoes sounded on the polished floors of the train station.

Click-clop, click-clop, click-clop.

Malcolm always tried to walk in step with his grandpa so he could pretend that it was his shoes making the sound. But grandpa's long legs made that impossible for a five-year-old boy. So when Malcolm heard that sound he thought that he'd died and gone to heaven, and his grandpa Elton was there to greet him.

He saw the silhouette of someone coming closer, and heard the sounds of the shoes getting louder. He was then flooded with another memory.

Malcolm remembered the time he'd got separated from his grandpa. He was so scared. He only left his grandpa's side for a few moments to get a drink from a water fountain. But he had got distracted by a penny lodged in the tile beside the water fountain. By the time he was able to retrieve it, he couldn't see his grandpa. Malcolm started to panic. After all, he only wanted a drink, and that penny had made him lose his grandpa. He started to cry, then all of the sudden he could hear the familiar sound of his grandpa's shiny black shoes on the polished floors.

Suddenly, Malcolm was back in the white room. The silhouette slowly became clearer and the sound of the shoes became louder. The figure was dressed in what looked like a white suit, but not a typical suit and tie. It was a cross between a warm-up outfit and a one-piece outfit from a '70s science fiction movie. The shoes were also white, not black like grandpa's. When the figure finally got close enough, Malcolm was sorely disappointed to discover that it was not his grandpa Elton. It was a man in his early- to mid-50s, with white hair and an accent that was difficult to place.

"Hello Malcolm, my name is Nigel," the man said in a friendly, yet business-like manner.

He gestured and pointed behind Malcolm. "Please, if you'll have a seat we'll get started."

Now Malcolm was really confused. He was in a completely empty, white room, and suddenly this '70s spaceman comes out of nowhere and asks him to have a seat.

As Malcolm turned his head he asked, "Have a seat where..." Right then, he saw a translucent white desk and two strange looking chairs that he could have sworn were not there a second earlier.

The sudden appearance of office furniture didn't do anything to convince Malcolm otherwise that this was anything but a weird dream. Malcolm was confused but he had questions, lots of questions about his current situation. He wasn't sure if the seventies space suit wearing gentleman had any answers, but it was all he had to work with at the moment. He was rattled and confused and taken out of his comfort zone. To be honest, that was a good thing, because Malcolm's comfort zone these days was a dangerous place to be. He had been functioning on very little sleep, lots of anger, and lots of booze.

"Sir," Malcolm began.

"Oh please," said Nigel. "Don't call me mister or sir. My name is Nigel."

"Well, okay... Nigel, I don't really know what's going on. I'm not sure what's happening to me right now. I don't know where I am, I don't know how I got there. One minute I'm somewhere else and I'm freezing to death, now I'm here with you. Whoever the hell you are. I'm sure you're a great person, I apologize for how I'm acting I'm just a little freaked out." Malcom pause for a moment to catch his breath, he looked around again at the endless white room that surrounded him. Then he studied the flickering translucent furniture, and then looked at Nigel for an uncomfortable amount of time. "What institution is this? I only ask because I'm unemployed and flat broke." Malcolm said this with an apologetic tone.

Nigel eyed him with a puzzled look, then with a nod, encouraged Malcolm to continue.

"I mean, if this isn't a state run place, I'll have to leave soon." Nigel continued to look at him sideways.

"It's weird. This place looks nice, and I've heard some good things about the state run places. But I've also heard that they can be pretty scary." Malcolm hung his head.

Nigel spoke clearly and kindly so not to upset his guest. "Malcolm, you're not in any institution or hospital."

"Jail?" Malcolm asked with a hint of panic.

"No."

Malcolm felt faint. He wasn't in an institution, he wasn't in a hospital, and he wasn't in jail. He felt nauseous, but he didn't feel nauseous enough to puke. The throbbing headache he had for days was gone too. Well, it was not just a headache; it was a hangover. He had been in a constant state of shitfaced for days. It had come to a point, just before he went to Jerry's house, that he thought he could use one more drink, but after the first sip, he realized he really didn't need it.

Malcolm became uneasy again. He still didn't know where the hell he was. He was no longer shitfaced, and instead of a killer hangover headache, his head felt like he had just got a good night's rest. He sat with his head in his hands for several minutes, trying to piece it all together. Rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples, He tried to make sense of where he was. What had happened between shooting Jerry with a borrowed gun and now?
Chapter 7

After some time of Malcolm finally spoke. Unsure he wanted to actually know the answer, he looked to the spaceman in hopes he could provide him with information.

"Nigel, where am I?"

The spaceman paused in recollection. You see, Nigel had heard this question many times before. It happened a lot in his line of work. People of all kinds—short, fat, old, young—wanted to know where they were and what happened to them. Each person reacted to standing alone in the big white room differently. Some were crazy and enraged; some were speechless; and some couldn't quit talking.

It became obvious that the ones who would not stop talking were devoutly religious. It didn't matter what their belief was or how many gods they prayed to. They couldn't stop talking about how they were so positive that this was a check-in station for the great beyond. They would go on about how nice it was. They were concerned where the angels were and the virgins who were promised. The stories and demands went on and on. They all had one thing in common: They all thought they were ready to move on to the next level of the holy land.

Most of the people Nigel came across in the stark room acted like they were different from others, but in reality, they were all the same. They were sheep. In a hurry. They had things to do, places to go, and people to see. All the stories they read and all the things they had been told about what would happen after death, none of them had ever guessed the real truth.

They had a choice.

*****

"Malcolm," Nigel finally said. "This place is called The Next."

As Nigel said these words, similar to many times before, with many different people, he always expected the same reaction. This time would be no exception.

Malcolm gave him the same deer in the headlights look. No recognition of the words he had just spoken and no understanding of what they could possibly mean.

As protocol dictated in The Next, Nigel was required to start with those words. Then, if necessary, which it always was, he would continue on with his speech, trying to explain the situation.
Chapter 8

Elsewhere, there was another Next representative, and another new arrival, and the conversation wasn't quite as civil as the one between Nigel and Malcolm. The conversation was loud, abusive, filled with profanity, and for the moment, it was one sided.

"I don't give a flying fuck what you're saying you stupid damn bitch!" screamed Jerry Dance. He continued in a slightly lower volume, but somehow with more intent menace. "I don't know exactly what happened this evening, or why the hell I'm sitting here with you and not one of my lawyers. I know the damn rules, I asked for a lawyer, which means that the conversation between you and I is now over."

This encounter had started off poorly. Sharon, the Next representative assigned to Jerry, started her shift like all the other representatives. After she had been given her assignment, Sharon entered the same area she had many times before. Because most people react to The Next in ways that were manageable, she was not prepared for Jerry's outburst.

Understandably, people reacted to this uncertain situation in their own ways. However, most were not belligerent and hostile. Most were stoic and interested in what she had to say before she even entered the area. Some laughed. Some cried uncontrollably until they understood exactly where they were and what may or may not happen next. Bottom line, Sharon usually was able to handle the reactions.

Next representatives didn't get to pick and choose the case they would be managing. They were assigned based on who was available at the time. Therefore, Sharon had seen anger only a few times in the first meeting. It would be boring, she thought, if she were only to see weeping old women or frozen statues that couldn't make a decision about which button to press.

If they were uncontrollable and a staff member decided they could no longer work with them, there was an option called Chance. A lot of these humans understood Chance, because they had been to casinos or had bet on a sporting event. Some would say that they let fate decide, or that luck is involved.

But Chance isn't fate or luck, and it doesn't matter if you blow on the dice or if you have a rabbit's foot in your pocket. Chance is completely random and shielded from any outside influences. In this place, it was for those who couldn't come to a decision. Chance was for those situations that needed to come to an end.

Jerry Dance was very close to having his decision made for him. If he continued to disregard and dismiss Sharon, he would miss his opportunity at a choice.

Jerry Dance continued to yell about his rights. His congressman, which according to him was a slimy asshole. And his constitutional right to a fair trial for whatever the fuck he had done this time. Sharon had heard a couple of these things before, none of them made sense to her though.
Chapter 9

Malcolm was more confused than before Nigel had entered the area. A choice, what did that mean?

"Nigel," Malcolm said sheepishly, "I don't understand what you're saying. I don't know how I got here or what this weird place is."

"Malcolm," replied Nigel rather sternly, "If you would give me five minutes, I could explain what it is that I do. Have you heard stories from people who have had near-death experiences?"

In silence, Malcolm nodded his head slowly in recognition.

"Stories of paramedics bringing people back from the dead with the defibrillator paddles; someone who was presumed dead suddenly coming back to life?" Nigel prompted enthusiastically. "Sometimes they're in a coma for days, months or years. If they remember anything, they always say that they remember a bright white light or a long dark tunnel that got brighter the farther they walked or something of that nature."

As Nigel said this, he spread his arms apart like he was showing the world a brand-new car on a game show. Nigel couldn't tell, but it seemed Malcolm was starting to understand what he was trying to explain.

"The people who are revived within minutes by the paramedics are the ones who have no trouble making the choice," Nigel explained. "And the ones who just can't decide are the ones who appear to be in a coma. There really isn't a concept of time where you are right now Malcolm. But if you can't decide, then you can opt for something else to make the decision for you. We call that Chance."

*****

Jerry was livid. Beyond livid. He couldn't remember ever being so consumed by rage. He had been arrested before and he knew his rights. So why the hell weren't they listening to his requests? He had asked for his lawyer and this stupid bitch was ignoring him.

In his current state of mind, he couldn't recall her name. He'd need it eventually, because he was going to sue her and this whole dammed department. Whatever department this was, wherever the hell it was.

Jerry had made several attempts at moving out of his chair, but he was unable to stand, which pissed him off even more. He was confused because felt fine. He was able to wiggle all of his fingers and toes, despite whatever violence had befallen him earlier.

At one point during this ridiculous conversation with the bitch in the white room, his sole mission was to reach across the table, if this was actually a table, and strangle the life out of whatever her stupid freaking name was. But his arms wouldn't obey him, and his legs refused to leap out of the chair. He couldn't figure out how in the hell they were keeping him in this spot.

Eventually, Jerry ran out of rage. He had gone through his entire catalog of expletives and horrible things to say about Sharon's family and close acquaintances. It finally happened, what Sharon had waited on... Jerry's rage finally took a break. Now, she could continue her work.

Sharon opened a folder in front of her and began to read. She read for a few minutes, taking in the story of Jerry Dance and enjoying the silence. After some time, she looked up and spoke.

"Jerry Dance," she said, in the tone of either an irritated librarian or an uninterested stripper. "As I said before my name is Sharon."

Strangely enough, Jerry's second wife was a librarian turned stripper, who then went back to the library after a few hard years stripping. It helped Jerry if he marginalized someone else, because he couldn't let this jailhouse bitch get into his head.

"The events that led up to you appearing before me tonight are inconsequential. What matters at this point is that you understand—"

"Why the hell am I here?" Jerry screamed. Then louder still, "Where is my freaking lawyer? And why the hell can't I move my arms and how are you keeping me in this damn chair?"

As he bellowed at the top of his lungs, his face turned a brighter shade of red with each question.

When he finally calmed down, Sharon continued.

"Jerry, where you are there are no lawyers, and you may not ever need one ever again."

Her response confused Jerry. No lawyers? He took a minute to think this through. Oh shit, this bitch is a fed. I'm in some pit somewhere in Kansas, and I'm never going to see the sun again. What the hell did I do? Jerry tried to pull himself together. Well, I've got two reputable accountants making sure the shit I do offshore is untraceable.

"You aren't really being restrained by anything in the physical sense, Jerry," Sharon said calmly, trying to make him understand. "What you are experiencing is the lack of ability to move freely. Your body is only a memory, and currently you are too overcome by emotions not related to basic motor skills. It's quite common for someone not to be able to accept what has happened to them. But let me assure you that everyone goes through some sort of adjustment period before they are able to make a decision."

Jerry continued to think of her as the dirty librarian. He liked that image better. But he still couldn't figure out why he wasn't able to make a fist, or at least beat the table until he felt better.

"So you're saying that if I calm down, I'll be able to move around?"

Sharon nodded her head slowly.

"If I calm down enough, will I be able to walk out of here? You haven't told me a damn thing. You haven't read me my rights, and I don't know what I'm even being charged with."

Sharon now looked at him with an uncertain look. Jerry picked up on the change immediately. He was very good at reading people, especially women.

Jerry was the guy in college who never went home alone. Between divorces, and even during what seemed to be happy marriages, Jerry Dance never had a problem with some side action whenever he wanted it. He wasn't necessarily a ladies' man, but he knew how to work over the lassies.

The only woman he wasn't able to figure out was Malcolm's dearly departed former wife. Jerry had no idea she wasn't on some form of birth control. Hell, every bar skank he'd picked up in the past twenty years was on something. Wasn't it up to them anyway? It certainly wasn't his responsibility; wrapping up wasn't going to happen. Jerry never expected the fling with Malcolm's former wife to turn out like it did—into a huge problem.

Jerry, however, was a problem solver. He prided himself on his problem solving abilities. Making it disappear was a logical solution, but she wasn't going to listen to reason. Why wouldn't that stupid bitch agree to get rid of it? Why would she possibly want to keep it?

He'd had to take it into his own hands and solve that problem his way.
Chapter 10

Malcolm was finally starting to understand what was going on... he was dead.

His mind was clear, sharp even. He was wide awake and felt better than he had in a long time, but he still couldn't remember or figure out what had happened that led him here.

He was in this odd looking, yet strangely comfortable place. The amount of drinking he had done in recent months, and the lack of sleep, had left a gap in his memory.

"Nigel, am I dead?" Malcolm asked.

"Yes," Nigel said, a small smile creasing his lips. It was a creepy situation to smile in, but Nigel didn't know that. Malcolm knew it was weird, he also knew dressing up in a Logan's Run costume was weird too.

"Can you tell me what happened to me? How did I get here to this place? Can you tell me how I died?" Malcolm was not scared of the answers Nigel would give him. He was merely seeking answers at this point.

"Malcolm, I don't know the answer to those questions. We are not privy to your past or your future." Nigel leaned forward, then added, "We are only here to assist you at this point in time. We can explain what options you have, but that is as far as we can help you."

"Humph, that doesn't make sense to me. What is this place and why am I here?" Malcolm was beginning to feel a little uneasy. Was he going to be in this strange white room forever?

"I have answered one of those questions, but maybe not both. This place is called The Next," Nigel said, knowing his answers would not be good enough. "And you are here because in your prior existence, you died."

"Ok Nigel," Malcolm said calmly, even though he was more confused than before. "We don't know how I got here, and apparently you seem to think it's irrelevant. I personally would like to know, but I'm willing to put that aside for the time being."

Malcolm looked around the vast white room and contemplated his situation. How was he to figure out what had happened, and where he goes from here?

"What happens now?" Malcolm asked.

"Now, you must make a choice," Nigel said in that calm voice like he had so many times before.

Malcolm's brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed. "What choice do I make?"

"Since I have already told you about Chance, we can now explore your other two options." Nigel replied, happy they were making progress. "You must choose between returning to your prior life or moving on."

Nigel said this part with some satisfaction. He always felt that there should be some music at this point. Something to build up to a crescendo, then the big news. But he'd have to settle for drum rolling his hands on the metaphorical desk until he came up with something better.
Chapter 11

Jerry couldn't calm down. His mind was racing, thinking about Malcolm's ex. The whole situation had pissed him off all over again and he couldn't figure out why he couldn't move.

Was this Librarian some sort of voodoo witch or something? Did she have a tiny Jerry Dance doll under the table with pins sticking out of the crotch?

As Jerry sat there stewing over his thoughts, he noticed the table in front of him kept fading in and out of focus. His rage subsided as he lost focus on the past and started to try and understand the present situation.

Jerry felt fine. It felt like less of a drug fog than in recent years. However, he didn't think he had his glasses on. Since he was blind as a bat without them, why was he able to see the dirty librarian so clearly, and the strange fading table that was the same distance away? He thought his change in vision must be related to the light, that weird white light that seemed to flood the room.

Thinking about the light must have calmed Jerry down enough to take his mind completely off how pissed off he was. He realized he didn't feel it as much as see that he brought his right hand up to his face to adjust his glasses. The glasses that he wasn't wearing.

The glasses he didn't need anymore. Jerry took in a deep breath, he tried to remember the calming exercises his doctor recommended. Breathe in slowly, exhale slowly and repeat. After a moment he felt calm and relaxed. He gazed around at his surroundings. There really wasn't anything to look at. A vast white expanse in all directions. How can everything be gone? Replaced by nothing. No color, no sound, no smells.

He tried to remain calm. Continue to breathe in and out slowly and stay relaxed. Shed those thoughts of things that could make him upset again. He closed his eyes and cleared his thoughts of lawyers and librarians. He replaced those things with more pleasant thoughts of his dogs and that dammed car he loved so much.
Chapter 12

Malcolm could not remember a stranger day than the one he was having. Attempted murder. Mayhem. And now this? He shook his head in dismay. I must choose between life and something else. What the hell does that mean?

A question arose in his mind, but Malcolm wasn't sure how to ask, or if he wanted to know the answer.

"Nigel, can you tell me how many people choose each option?" Malcolm shifted in his chair.

Nigel thought for a moment as he ran through a rough count in his head. It was the same figure as it has always been, and it would probably remain the same.

"Half," Nigel responded. "The first time, it's usually half that choose to go back and half choose to move on. Then numbers change quite a bit after the first time, though."

Nigel thought a bit before continuing with his answer. "I'd say the second time, it's closer to ninety-five percent choose to move on. We have no way of knowing their rational, unless they tell us specifically." Nigel seemed unaware of the incredulous look on Malcolm's face. "They mostly say that they've gone back once and are ready to move on. The first time was a surprise, and they didn't have time to say goodbye or make any arrangements. Some have told me they had something called a bucket list to finish, whatever that is."

Malcolm didn't know what to think of Nigel's words. Half? Half of all the people who die choose to move on to some great unknown, and the other half want to return?

Malcolm had a big decision to make. Bigger than putting a few bullets into Jerry's sorry ass, which was surprisingly easy to make.

Oh yeah, that situation with Jerry. If he chose to go back, then he would most certainly have to deal with Jerry and do some jail time. Or maybe he could get a lawyer who would get him out of...

Just then, another question hit him. What about his wife? Did she get the same choice? Was her life, the life that they had built together, not worth going back to? She was freaking pregnant, goddammit!

Malcolm thought things were turning around, so why wouldn't she choose to go back? The love of his life, his pregnant wife, had the choice to go back to their small but comfortable brownstone and raise a family. She chose instead, to see what was behind door number two as it were. The great unknown was more appealing than what their marriage and new family had to offer.

"Nigel, does everyone get to choose?" Malcolm asked, after stewing about his wife's decision.

"Yes," Nigel answered.

"Everyone?"

"Yes, everyone."

Malcolm prodded even further. "Regardless of what had happened to them?"

"Yes."

Malcolm was pretty sure he knew the answer to his next question, but some part of him had to ask. He may not ever understand what her reasons or motivation were, but he wanted to hear her decision.

"If I ask you about a specific person, can you tell me what they chose?" Malcolm's voice cracked slightly, unsure if he could handle the answer.

"Malcolm, that's usually not a conversation we get into. Not that it's beyond reason or our abilities, it's just rarely asked." Nigel sat back in his chair, his palms open toward Malcolm. "The decision of what to do next is solely yours. I should, however, caution you on letting the plight of another person influence your decision."

"It's not that," Malcolm replied, trying to sound like it wasn't a deciding factor. "I'm still not sure what to do. I just wanted to know what someone else chose to do."

Nigel leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. "I understand your curiosity. But on more than one occasion, I have been asked the question of whether Elvis is really dead." A smirk creased Nigel's face. "And based on that answer, people have made quick decisions. I can only imagine what they were thinking. Elvis is dead, I can't go on? Or, how did Hitler really die? Honestly, we don't always know how people end up here. Or who they might have been. Or their level of fame or lack thereof."

Malcolm thought for a minute, then swallowed hard because he knew he might regret asking.
Chapter 13

Sharon patiently watched Jerry, with intrigue. For what seemed like an eternity, Jerry stared at his hands and occasionally felt his face. Sharon couldn't help but smile in amusement. This was a first.

Jerry didn't care that Sharon watched him. He couldn't get enough of looking at his hands. He was fascinated that he could move his right arm, flex his fingers and feel around in an attempt to locate his glasses.

Jerry needed answers. He needed to know why he was here. He knew the only way to get those answers was to remain calm, though he was not sure he could under these confusing circumstances. With a deep sigh, he pulled himself together and focused on his breathing.

"Sharon?" Jerry finally said after a few deep breaths. "Why am I here? Wherever here is. Why have I been brought in? And where the hell is my lawyer?"

Dammit, I can't stay calm.

That last part came out as a scream that Sharon didn't understand. He seemed to be passionate and a little upset. Calm just didn't work for Jerry. His arm quickly fell to his side. A look of disgust fell across his face, but the dirty librarian clearly enjoyed his torment, given the smirk on her face.

Sharon sat in her chair, arms crossed, watching Jerry squirm. She wasn't supposed to have any emotional responses to the people she worked with, but she couldn't help it with Jerry. He had such a big personality.

Sharon had tried to take her time in dealing with Jerry. He was in obvious shock from his sudden surroundings. She was taught that when someone shows up in distress or acting hysterical, she is supposed to give them as much time as necessary to pull themselves together. According to her employer, this task was possible for anyone in the right mindset.

Jerry Dance, who was still looking at his hands, had been the exception. He was also pushing her patience. She was about to forego the niceties. Sharon made her decision, or at least she was pretty sure. She was about to tell him what his choices were, let him ponder his choices. Hopefully he would do that silently, then she'd be done with him.

*****

Sharon's day was shaping up to be a doozy. She seemed to get the real problem cases, the one's that made her job so frustrating. One of her recent cases was so belligerent that she broke all protocols and pushed the Chance button. She blew out a deep breath. "That rather pompous jackass deserved whatever he had coming," she mumbled. As she sat trying to make her decision, her mind kept wandering to the similarities between Jerry Dance and that pompous jackass.

"You do not understand. I am the prime minister of somewhere she'd never heard of," Sharon recalled him saying. "And I demand you immediately let me phone our consulate or I will be forced to..." She couldn't remember exactly what he had said. Only that it was threatening and loud. The threats went on and on and on. Sharon felt sorry for his loved ones and coworkers. Dealing with his tirades regularly would be emotionally draining. Then he became so agitated, he couldn't move. That was the best part of their meeting. She didn't bother explaining why, but she did find it amusing.

Sharon knew she could either continue listening to the belligerent temper tantrum, or she could choose his fate. She decided to have some fun. She changed the button sequence so only the Chance button displayed. During a lull in the tirade she spoke. "I'm going to ask you to take a deep breath and count down from ten to one," she remembered calmly saying.

The irate man began to scream again, so Sharon took matters into her own hands. Against protocol, Sharon let her emotions take over. She silenced him by taking away his ability to speak. She pondered making him feel like he was drowning, but she decided to show amazing restraint.

"Ok," Sharon said after he was silenced. "I'll do it for you in ten, nine..." she could feel the power of her decision. The man was no longer irate, but surprised and afraid. His eyes were wide with fear.

When Sharon got to seven, she pressed the Chance button. Problem solved, at least for that day. According to protocol, it was customary for someone who chose to go back to get the same representative. Since she pushed the Chance button, he may ruin her day again.

Oh well, Sharon thought, that would be a problem for another day.
Chapter 14

Malcolm wasn't sure he wanted to hear what his wife had chosen. He may never know why she made the choice. And he wasn't sure he could avoid the temptation to blame himself for the choice she made. He was pretty certain that Nigel couldn't tell him why, which was the answer he really needed. But after letting out a deep sigh, he asked, "What did my wife choose?"

Nigel had heard this question many times. Those who weren't hysterical usually had a lot of questions about loved ones. It seemed they all wanted to know what Aunt Debbie did or Uncle Flip chose.

Then there were the weird questions; those who would go back only if Nigel or anther representative could tell them the lottery numbers for the next week. Some questions were straight forward, some seemed way out of left field. "Will I ever find love?" "Will I get promoted at work?" "Where's Jimmy Hoffa burried?"

Malcolm watched Nigel closely as he prepared his answer. Then he opened a folder that Malcolm had not noticed until now. Nigel flipped through a few pages, made some notes, then nodded.

"Malcolm, first off let me say that I don't know the outcome of what happened to your wife. I only know what she chose." Nigel eyed Malcolm, trying to read how he might take the news. "Before I tell you what she chose, first let me tell you that your wife was deeply troubled with what to do. She vacillated between being hysterical and quite calm."

Nigel paused for dramatic effect, which wasn't necessary. Malcolm was already on the edge of his seat, or whatever he was currently sitting on. Many nights, he had sat in the dark trying to find some meaning into what had happened. He may never find that elusive meaning, but the possibility of clarity gave him hope, a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time.
Chapter 15

Miranda Fisk wasn't sure how she was going to tell her husband, Malcolm, that she was pregnant. They had been trying for years to have a child, but it just didn't seem to be in the cards. No matter how many times they tried, either naturally or through the fertility clinic, each time they saw the minus sign on that stick, it pushed them closer to the breaking point.

Until now.

She finally saw the ever elusive plus sign. She was so excited that she could hardly contain herself, but she didn't have the nerve to tell anyone right away. She first had to wrap her head around the situation. Eventually she called her mother.

After the screams of joy and blubbering, her mother asked her the one question she hadn't wanted to think about. "Have you told Malcolm yet?"

"No mom, I was so excited that you were the first person that I thought of calling." Miranda tried to sound excited, but she wasn't sure of how she was actually going to deal with this situation.

She knew the child wasn't Malcolm's. But Jerry Dance had several healthy children with at least two ex-wives. She and Malcolm had been trying for so long without any positive results. But after a month or so of unprotected sex with Jerry Dance and she finally saw that plus sign on the pregnancy test stick. Excitement and anguish. It was an emotional tennis match with Miranda going back and forth between those two states.

The reality and weight of the situation started to take hold of Miranda. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was torn between being elated about finally becoming a mother and cheating on her husband with his business partner.

Lying had become second nature to Miranda. She had called her mother after her phone call to Jerry. He didn't take the news well, not that she expected him to be excited to have a child with his business partner's wife.

"I thought you were on the pill or something," Jerry had shouted into the phone. After a couple minutes of arguing and crying, his solution was exactly what Miranda thought. "Just get a fucking abortion and leave me the hell out of it." Then he disconnected the call. She could imagine him wanting to slam the phone receiver back into the cradle. But it was Jerry's cell phone she called. Aggressively pressing the end call button would have to suffice. She looked at her phone to do the same, but the call had already been disconnected. So, she put the phone back in her purse and began to day dream about a perfect world that she could bring her baby into.

Miranda had known about the pregnancy for over a month but had taken that month to get the nerve up to tell Jerry. What a mistake, or mistakes, as it were. It was a mistake to have been seduced by Jerry, and another to tell him that she was pregnant.

Miranda needed an immediate distraction. She thought talking to her mother would help calm her down... but that was another mistake. A few months of mistakes were piling up now.

The one thing that some may label as a mistake, she called it a blessing. The pregnancy wasn't planned. Well, at least the pregnancy with Jerry Dance wasn't. She and Malcolm had been trying for a long time to get pregnant. They wanted three kids and a minivan. Well, at least she wanted the minivan. This unplanned pregnancy wasn't the best way to start their family, deep down she was still excited about it.
Chapter 16

"Malcolm, there are situations where an individual is not able to make a choice, but a choice must be made. Since we cannot dictate to go back or to move on, Chance is chosen for them," Nigel said calmly. He observed Malcolm's irritation and his growing instability. "Before you know what your wife chose, I believe it's important for you to understand why she made her choice."

Malcolm was getting restless and impatient with Nigel's reluctance to tell him what Miranda had chosen. He also had a strong desire to squeeze Malcolm's head in his hands, but his immobile arms resting by his side would not allow this pleasure.

"As you know, your wife was pregnant," Nigel said in a matter-of-fact tone. The suspense was immense. Malcolm could no longer feel his left hand. "As I said, everyone needs to be able to make a choice or Chance will be chosen."

Nigel was beginning to feel bad for Malcolm; this is not the way these conversations usually go. He was usually happy to recite the rules and give the individual a few moments to make a choice. He rarely had to get this deep into the rules. When he did, his clients always seemed to experience a lot of pain. He had no idea why some subjects were more painful than others. He'd have to ask some of his colleagues if they had the same experience, and what it meant.

Nigel realized he was bordering on being unprofessional with the concern he was showing, so he decided to just blurt it out and hope for the best.

"Infant and unborn children are not able to make their own choice. They lack the cognitive ability to make a choice of such importance. The only way a mother can guarantee the plight of their child is for her to make the choice of moving on. That is the only way to guarantee that they stay together. If they are unable to make that decision, Chance will be chosen for the child." Nigel hoped this made sense to Malcolm.

Malcolm's right arm wouldn't respond. He kept telling himself to stand, to walk out of wherever the hell this was. But all he did was stare at his useless body.
Chapter 17

The last thing Miranda could remember was that Jerry wanted to meet with her in the parking lot behind her office. Now, she was sitting—at least she thought she was sitting—at a desk with her hands cupping her stomach.

She was amazed how everything was stark white and clean. She also found it somewhat eerie that there seemed to be no noise in this gigantic expanse. The man who came into view introduced himself as Nigel before he sat down.

Nigel sat staring at Miranda, surprised by the few moments of awkward silence. It didn't appear that his new client was going to have any of the usual questions. As he waited, he watched his new client slowly massage her torso. Finally, it seemed the right time to begin. "Miranda, you are in a place called The Next," he said, studying his client closely.

This bit of information was practically meaningless to Miranda. Her last thought before suddenly appearing in a chair at this desk was, Oh shit, I think that car is going to hit me. She thought she had seen Jerry hanging around outside the office before the incident. She looked for him after she came out of the rear exit of the building, but she didn't search long.

Miranda didn't see the big, black sedan until it was too late. The car must have been flying down the back street as they sometimes did, Miranda thought. It may have been Jerry's car, at least that's what she had been telling herself, because she remembered feeling unbelievable emotional pain before her entire world went dark.

As she sat there reviewing the last moments of her life, she started to get a little nervous about where she was. Where the hell am I? The hospital? Am I being released from the hospital? She needed to call her doctor, so she could get the once over to make sure the baby was okay.
Chapter 18

"Nigel," Malcolm said, with a sense of urgency. "Why can't I move my arm? And why can't I get up? I'm ready to leave. I just want to get out of here. I feel trapped and I can't freaking breathe."

Nigel tried to comfort Malcolm by explaining what was happening. He also told him he needed to calm down and focus on something soothing, such as a pleasant memory that would help him regain control.

Once Malcolm appeared to calm down, he regained control of his arms, only to hold his head in his hands.

Nigel watched his client for a few moments, trying to understand what he was doing. He thought this was a form of dealing with grief, but he wasn't certain. He wasn't sure if he had answered all of Malcolm's questions thoroughly, but it didn't appear he had anymore.

Nigel finally spoke to break the silence. "Malcolm, if you have no further questions and you think you're ready... If you feel you are ready to make your choice, we can begin." Malcolm nodded his head slowly.

Nigel interpreted this as acknowledgment that he was ready to choose. He then made a sweeping gesture across the desk with his right hand. Three large buttons appeared.

At least Malcolm thought they were buttons. They reminded him of that big red button at the gas station labeled Emergency Shut Off. Malcolm never wanted to be in a situation where he had to push that button. He thought it seemed safer to keep running, instead of staying in the blast zone.

Malcolm stared at three large translucent colored buttons. He wondered why they were translucent. He also wondered how would be able to push the button of his choice if he could see through it? He looked around and, upon further inspection, the desk and chair were similar in their appearance.

There was a red button on the left, and a blue button on the right. The button in the middle seemed to change from red to blue in rapid sequence. It switched so fast, Malcolm thought it almost appeared to be purple.

"Malcolm, pay close attention to these instructions. Repeat them back to me if you think it will help," said Nigel, after giving Malcolm some time to contemplate his decision.

"The red button is to return to your former life," Nigel said slowly and clearly.

"Red is Return," Malcolm responded.

"The blue button is to move on," Nigel said.

"Blue is to Move On."

"And finally, the button in the middle that changes color rapidly and appears to be purple, will be Chance." Nigel hoped his client would make his decision quickly.

"The purple button is Chance," Malcolm said, as he thought about his decision. Was it really the right decision to make?
Chapter 19

Jerry was thoroughly pissed off again, and for whatever reason he was unable to move again. What were these assholes doing to him? This kind of treatment was not acceptable.

Thankfully, the dirty librarian had decided to be productive with this bit of downtime by performing a few magic tricks. Jerry was never one to believe in voodoo. But he saw no other explanation for the three buttons that had appeared on the table—was it really a table?—after she waved her hand across it.

He'd been to Vegas magic shows to see the corny-ass card tricks and tiger shows. He could always figure out the trick, see the wires, or assume that they literally had cards up their sleeves. But what the librarian had just done looked like some real, honest-to-goodness magic. He also couldn't help but hope a tiger would come up behind her and snap her neck from her shoulders. After all, she had put him through hell since he met her.

The librarian hadn't spoken in a couple minutes. Jerry thought this to be strange, as chatty as she had been. Currently, she was just staring at him in a creepy way, like she knew something that he didn't.

Jerry had stopped with the barrage of abusive language and threats because he was memorized by these weird buttons that had appeared.

The librarian seemed to be running some situations and consequences over and over in her mind. Jerry didn't like where this was going. He also thought it may be a bit too late to pour on the charm, or to even apologize. He waited, watching her with his steel eyes, waiting for his fate.
Chapter 20

Nigel continued to explain to Miranda where she was, and what her options were. An upbringing in a Catholic household, and years of study in those same schools had given Miranda an idea of what would happen after she died. With that many years of the same idealism driven home, it was hard for her to comprehend, or even believe, that this situation was more than a dream. She continued to cup her midsection with both hands as if she were trying to comfort something. Nigel had no idea what this gesture meant. He saw pain and confusion on Miranda's face but that didn't change the situation she found herself in. She needed to choose. However, she was so preoccupied with what Nigel was saying, and that magic trick to make the three buttons appear, she neglected to ask him what would happen to her baby.
Chapter 21

Malcolm wasn't sure what to do. He knew that he had a choice to make, but he couldn't decide if he wanted to go back to the way things were. From his last memories, he was almost certain that he would end up serving some time in prison. He wasn't sure if he had killed Jerry, and if he was going to serve time he certainly hoped that Jerry wouldn't be around to watch him go on trial.

But then a question came to Malcolm. A question that he had asked, but Nigel never answered. "Nigel, what choice did my wife make?"

Nigel again referenced something on his translucent desk. He took a few moments to read through something that looked like a file folder. "I don't have the reason of why she chose what she did, I only have her choice."

Malcolm was captivated by every word, every letter, every sound that came out of Nigel's mouth. It was like he was in the train station and the giant diesel engine was revving up to leave the station. The deafening noise of the train powering up as it was about to leave the station was white noise inside of Malcolm's head. He could no longer hear what Nigel was saying; he tried to concentrate and read Nigel's lips.

Suddenly everything changed. Like the clouds parting on a gloomy day, allowing the sun to fill the sky. The noise subsided and Malcolm was once again able to hear Nigel.

"Malcolm, your wife chose to move on. She chose to move on."

Nigel watched Malcolm instantly change. In hindsight he could see that sharing this information was undoubtedly a mistake.

Malcolm felt it too, he felt something inside him snap. All of the rational thoughts that he had during his conversation with Nigel left him. He once again felt like he did when he made the decision to borrow a gun and kill Jerry Dance.

Nigel saw the rage in his eyes, and that usually meant the client would be immobilized for a short time. But this time it wasn't the case. Before Nigel could make a decision on what his next steps should be, Malcolm leapt from his chair with both hands clinched in fists over his head.

Nigel saw what was about to happen, and he knew that he should remove the buttons. But before he could, Malcolm came down with both fists. One on the red button, and one on the blue button.
Chapter 22

Sharon had reached her limit with Jerry Dance, and the fear she now saw in his face told her he knew that as well. Sharon provided no further commentary for Jerry of what was about to happen.

At the same time Malcolm had come down on both the Return and the Move On buttons, Sharon pressed the Chance button to finally rid herself of Jerry Dance.

*****

It was a cold December evening, and finally quiet. All of the gunfire and lethal violence had ended. Jerry Dance's wife Sylvia had heard the gun shots and the screams and didn't know if it was safe to see what had happened. Once she had heard the first shot she ran outside, but upon hearing more gunfire she ran back inside the house. After she made sure the front and back doors were locked, she searched for her cell phone. It was Jerry's decision to not get a land line, the only real issue with the cell was the spotty service she got in the house. That cheap bastard she married would sacrifice the convenience of having a land line to save thirty bucks a month. This normally wouldn't be an issue, but she needed to call 911 and couldn't get a damn signal.

Once Sylvia thought it was safe, she unlocked the back door that led out onto the pool deck. It was enclosed by a high privacy fence. But after summoning her courage to stick her head out of the door, she no longer heard any gunfire. She had already keyed in the number while she was walking around the house searching for a signal. She opened the door wide enough to step outside and pressed send.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"I heard gunfire and shouting outside my residence. Can you please send someone as quickly as possible?"

"Ma'am, are you in a safe place, do you have somewhere to go until officers arrive?"

"We have a safe room in the in the master bedroom closet. I can lock myself in there."

"Ma'am please go there as quickly as you can. And keep this line open in case we have problems finding your house."

"I can't keep the line open, I'll lose signal as soon as I step back in the house."

"Ma'am I have your address and have already dispatched all available officers to your location. They will be there within three minutes. Please end the call and lock yourself in your safe room."

Sylvia did as she was instructed to do. She stared at her phone screen as she walked deeper into the house towards the safe room. This is such bullshit, she thought to herself. She had made the decision to call and have a land line connected tomorrow morning. That cheap bastard was jeopardizing their safety by not having one.

She opened the bedroom closet and parted the clothes that were hanging against what appeared to be the back wall of the closet. Hidden behind the clothes was a heavy metal door that led to the safe room. It was equipped with state of the art surveillance equipment, a separate air filtration system and enough supplies so two people could survive comfortably for a week.

At least that's what the brochure said. The filtration system was a fan that blew in stale automotive air from the garage. The surveillance system was still in the box. There was one built into the door. The video was grainy, and the outside microphone was broken.

On the plus side there was an unopened box of pop tarts. That was the only food related supplies that she could find. The brown sugar and cinnamon pastries wouldn't last for a week. But they did sound good right now. She sat down in a lawn chair and opened a pop tart while waiting for the police to arrive.
Chapter 23

The world had changed again. No longer the quiet comfort of the desk across from Nigel, Malcolm wasn't sure why he didn't just stay there for a while. Where the hell am I? This has got to be some bizarre dream brought on by stress and alcohol. When was the last time I had a good night's rest?

That place, that weird place where it was so expansive yet so comforting and quiet. It was also warm, well it seemed to be warm. Malcolm couldn't remember it being cold, cold like he was now.

The last memory of that place was filled with rage after learning what had happened to his wife and her unborn child. But what happened? Malcolm didn't want to be here. It was his intention to push the button to move on. But... oh, now he remembered. Lashing out at the red and blue buttons at the same time, he must have hit the red first. Dammit, he didn't want to return. For many reasons, Malcolm was ready to move on. His life had turned to crap, and now it was going to get worse.

Malcolm was very cold; he tasted blood and he just heard a woman scream. He couldn't find the energy to focus on any one thing. He felt himself fade in and out of sleep or consciousness. It was difficult to concentrate on what was happening, where he was or what he was doing. He felt himself start to panic when he heard the police sirens.
Chapter 24

The first officers that responded to the call were Smith and Jenkins. Landry Smith had spent three years writing traffic tickets before recently moving up to patrol on the night shift. Jenkins' first name was Carol. But he was tired of the constant ridicule, so he just called himself Jenkins. He was looking at a retirement date in the spring. But with bourbon in his coffee, Smith got to drive.

Smith killed the siren and drove slowly down the long poorly lit driveway. Since the dispatcher had reported this as a possible domestic disturbance with shots fired, Jenkins had unbuckled his seatbelt and drawn his service pistol. He didn't need this tonight, but Smith had answered the call while Jenkins was inside a coffee shop procuring his third free cup of the night. Jenkins hadn't drawn his weapon in seven years. He hadn't drawn it in the line of duty in seven years. There was that time last year when he wanted to see if he could make his ex-wife's new boyfriend piss himself. And he did.

Jenkins rolled down the window and unbuckled his seatbelt. Unbuckling the seatbelt had done two things. It gave Jenkins a range of motion to observe the scene, and it annoyed the hell out of Smith. Jenkins had a habit of unbuckling before they stopped, he knew the seatbelt alarm annoyed Smith. Rolling down the window was just a bonus to annoy Smith who was always complaining about being cold. "Put your seatbelt on, you're going to give away our position." Slowly, they rolled down the driveway, Smith refused to put his window down. Jenkins argued his was down so they could be alerted to any continuing conflict.
"You must be joking Smith. You turned the strobes on when we were at the coffee shop, I think the flashing blue lights will give us away long before the fucking seatbelt alarm," growled Jenkins.

While they were bickering about the seatbelt, the scene slowly came into view. Jenkins barked out an order to light up a parked car with the spotlight.

*****

Jerry Dance was having a really bad night so far. He vaguely remembered someone shooting at him when he got out of his car. But with the obvious hallucinations of that weird white room and that bitchy librarian, he could hardly say that his head didn't make up the attack scenario.

I remember leaving the office to drive home. I remember coming down the driveway. Did I fall asleep coming down the driveway? He couldn't remember hitting anything, stopping or getting out of the car. What was that prescription shit that was supposed to help him sleep?

Jerry had fallen asleep at his desk earlier and nearly pissed his pants. Apparently pissing your pants, along with murder, rage, hallucinations and hatred of librarians are all side effects. He had to cut back on the cocktail of uppers and downers. Or quit drinking scotch.

"Why the hell am I on the ground?" said Jerry in a muffled voice that didn't sound quite right. He saw a flash of lights and thought that he was blacking out again, worried that he might piss himself in his driveway, only to be found by his current wife. He was really cold, shaking and shivering. Had he hit his head when he got out of the car? That might explain why he tasted blood and why his head hurt so bad.

He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness again. He needed help. He took a deep breath and made an attempt to yell for help from his wife. "Help, Sylvia, help..."

Jerry thought he was screaming this at the top of his lungs, but it was barely audible. Except that Malcolm heard it. Right as he noticed the bright white light. He also felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

*****

Jenkins saw the two bodies after Smith lit up the parked car with lights. He grabbed the radio. "We need an ambulance and back-up fast! There's two down and a possible active shooter."

"Smith," said Jenkins, "secure the rifle and check for other weapons. I'll check the body in the pond for a pulse."

Smith grumbled as he shuffled over to the body and checked for a pulse. "I've got a live one, Jenkins. The rifle looks like it exploded."

"This one is alive too. But he might be bleeding out. Help me get him out of the water."

"Can you get him out? I'm going to go clear the house."

"You are not going to clear the house by yourself. We have two down and there may be more. And the shooter might still be out here. Now help me get this guy out of the water."

Smith blew out a deep breath. He knew Jenkins was right. You never cleared a house by yourself, especially with the smell of cordite still fresh in the air.

*****

In less than ten minutes, Jerry Dance's drive was swarming with police cruisers, and two ambulances had arrived. The house was cleared except for the safe room that was accessible only by the master bedroom.

The intercom system was broken, and Sylvia Dance had no intentions of opening the door based on some blurry images provided by her husband's cheap security setup. But when she saw her brother, Samuel, arrive, she was convinced it was safe. She had called him while running back into the house. The connection was terrible and he only heard bits and pieces before the line went dead. "Gunshots... police are... safe..."

Malcolm was wheeled toward one ambulance and Jerry was loaded into the other; both were conscious.

Sylvia was questioned for nearly an hour before the detectives let her go to the hospital. Samuel drove her, and gave her the same speech she had got many times before she and Jerry had tied the knot. But she had taken at least one valium and she didn't care what he had to say. She sat slumped in the passenger side of her brother's toy car. She didn't know what it was, maybe some electric piece of crap, but it didn't matter to her.

"I told you that piece of shit would do something like this."

"Will you shut up or at least quit shouting."

"Sorry Sylvia, but I'm pretty worked up."

"I really don't care. This fucking toy car is so small I'm nearly behind the wheel."

Samuel shot her a harsh glance. "Well forgive me for trying to help save the environment."

Their typical brother vs. sister battle went on until they finally reached the hospital. After he parked, Samuel had to help Sylvia's drug-filled, rubbery body out of the car. He pondered getting her a wheelchair, but then thought he'd better not. The temptation to push her down the first flight of steps he saw would be an issue.

The small emergency room had its fair share of twisted ankles and domestic violence patients, but the gunshot victims and police presence was new. Both victims required surgery. The emergency room staff worked hard to stabilize both men, while trauma surgeons and nurses were paged.

This would be a long night for everyone.

During their rides to the hospital, both patients drifted in and out of consciousness. One was fairly complacent with his situation and almost seemed relaxed. The second man, however, was screaming for his lawyer, cursing the paramedics, the ambulance driver and, for some reason, someone he called "that fucking librarian."
Chapter 25

Nigel had no idea what Malcolm had done. No one had ever gone into such a rage and slammed all the buttons before. Emotional outbursts usually rendered a client unable to move. Was it anger or something else that allowed Malcolm to move?

As perplexed as Nigel was about the plight of Malcolm Fisk, another issue had arisen. It seems that Sharon had taken it upon herself to make the choice for a client again. After she had made the choice for that screaming belligerent fellow that kept repeating what his job title was, they had both met with the Council for a long while.

Sharon, Nigel, and a representative named Curtis were all in the Council's chamber. When the prime minister made his appearance in The Next again, the Council decided to send him to Curtis instead of Sharon. While the prime minister was still quite confrontational, Curtis was able to communicate to him well enough to where the prime minister made the choice himself.

The Council had decided that what Sharon had done was acceptable; situations and individuals sometimes require different approaches. However, she would have to consult with another peer if that situation arose again.

The first time the prime minister had visited The Next was right after an assassination attempt. Since then, he had survived three other failed assassination attempts.

In his meeting with the prime minister, Curtis had waved his hand across the desk to display the red, the blue, and the multicolored button, explaining them all again. The prime minister seemed to appreciate Curtis' help, but he also seemed impatient to move on. Not wanting to spend any more time on small talk, the prime minister pressed the blue button.

Clients were assigned to representatives like Nigel or Sharon, based on who was available. It was also an unwritten rule that a client who returned would be sent to the same representative for as many times as necessary. There seemed to be a certain level of comfort when clients recognized the representative. The returning client sometimes felt they had a special bond or pseudo friendship with the familiar representative. These emotional attachments weren't reciprocated by the representative, and they were sometimes quite unsettling.

Returning clients would often adjust rather quickly to their surroundings. Upon seeing the familiar face of their representative, they would often strike up a conversation about the last time that they had been to The Next. These conversations would often last for hours, with the representative enduring stories about unfortunate accidents or assassination attempts. There were compliments to the representatives on how great they looked, which didn't made sense; their looks never changed. There were also recipes for things called pies, comments about them needing to put on weight, and offers to set them up with relatives.

The Council had been approached many times to change the practice of first come first serve. The clients weren't always civil and were sometimes difficult to control. Sharon's name was mentioned a few times; mostly when talking about difficult situations, and her inability to deal with them. On more than one occasion she had made the choice for a client, which was an acceptable reaction after you had counseled with another representative. Sharon needed to work on her client management skills, or at least follow protocol when dealing with difficult clients.
Chapter 26

Malcolm had regained consciousness a few times, but it was hard to comprehend what was happening. He vaguely remembered the ambulance ride, and the questions from the paramedic about allergies or his name were impossible to answer. He didn't think that he was allergic to anything. Explosions, maybe exploding borrowed guns.

Malcolm was most concerned with not dying, something weird and new. A couple of hours ago his only goal in life was to shoot Jerry, and then maybe drive a wooden stake through his heart. Jerry may not have been a vampire, but he was an evil bastard who deserved something more than powder burns and lead poisoning.

Malcolm couldn't wrap his head around his sudden fear of mortality. Was it his near-death experience? Was it his dream or whatever it was about the afterlife? White light and everything. How hard did he get hit on the head? He had seen cops, paramedics, and he even caught a glimpse of Sylvia looking deeply concerned. He wished he hadn't seen that; he had always liked Sylvia. He always thought Jerry was an asshole, but an even bigger asshole for cheating on his wife.

Malcolm started to hear things, his fingers started to tingle, and he could smell the distinctive smell of a hospital. He wasn't sure why he wasn't in jail; his injuries must be more serious than he had first thought. Was there an explosion? Did Jerry shoot back at him?

He tried to open his eyes, but the lights were to bright. Then he heard some strange rustling sound and the glare behind his closed eyes went away. Someone must have closed the window blinds. He heard someone call for a nurse and then some beeping equipment before falling back into a restless sleep.

*****

The next time he awoke, he barely made out the light from the hospital equipment around him while the beeping sounds penetrated his consciousness. Malcolm tried to fully open his eyes and move his mouth, but both took too much effort.

"Don't move, I'll get the doctor."

Malcolm couldn't place the voice. Was that the armed police guard?

The next thing he heard was the door opening and the voices of least two people talking about his condition. He felt someone grab his wrist, and then his eyes were pried open and exposed to what felt a blinding light. The doctor, he presumed, had asked a few times how he was feeling. More death rattles came out of Malcolm's mouth, then he felt a straw being jammed into his mouth. He sucked on it greedily, like he'd been lost in the desert. In reality he had only managed a few sips, drinking was as difficult as keeping his eyes open at this point.

Jerry Dance wasn't faring as well as Malcolm. The injuries he sustained were more severe and more difficult to repair. Jerry didn't drift in and out of consciousness a much as Malcolm. It felt like days had passed since he got out of his car that fateful evening. Gun shots, then bullets hitting him from somewhere. He didn't know who had done it, but had a pretty good idea that it was either Malcolm or Sylvia. But he wasn't sure if she even knew how to operate an oven. He kept his firearms unloaded and in a safe, so he doubted she would have been able to ambush him, if she couldn't get the safe open. Must have been Malcolm. Seems like something that prick would do. How did he get the jump on him like that?

Jerry had purposefully designed the gate and long driveway with security in mind, including security lights and dogs. Where the hell did the dogs go? They ran out of the shadows nearly every night to meet him. If somebody did something to my babies I'll... voices, Jerry could have sworn he just heard a voice. Then he recognized Sylvia. She must be talking to the doctor.

"He's been out of surgery for a few hours now," Jerry heard a male voice say. "We thought we might need to put him in a medically induced coma."

Jerry heard them move into the room.

"Can he hear us?" Sylvia asked.

"Not likely." The doctor's tone was calm and confident. "He's pretty drugged up and he's still in a coma. Some people that have come out of comas have claimed to have heard conversations between family members. There's really no proof of that." Jerry heard Sylvia's deep breathing.

"How long will he be in this condition?"

"There's no way to put a time on something like this. He's not stable yet, and if or when he is, there's no telling when he might come out of the coma. He might never come out of it."

"Is there a time limit? I mean, medically, is there a time when you decide that the patient will never recover?"

Jerry heard the doctor clear his throat. "You're trying to ask if there will ever be a time when we might pull the plug?"

"I guess I am. I mean, he just can't stay like that forever and never have a chance to get better. It almost seems like it would be better to pull the metaphorical plug."

"Well, that's probably more of a decision that a family member would make. From a medical perspective, we could keep him alive for years as long as his vital organs continue to function."

Jerry heard Sylvia gasp. "Years in a coma? That seems unnecessarily cruel."

"Well, our job is to keep them alive. If the family chooses to take someone off life support, that is what we'll do. Does he have any immediate family?"

"I'm not..."

That was all that Jerry heard before he slipped back under. But he knew the doctor was full of shit; he had heard quite a few bits and pieces of conversations. While things were hard to comprehend when he did hear them, he did hear his wife loud and clear inquiring about pulling the plug on her beloved husband. He probably had a few days before she took that step. And she'd probably make sure to seize all the marital assets before she did.

What kind of dumb shit doctors did they have here? Didn't he know he was standing beside the wife of the guy in a coma? Was this some kind of bad soap opera? Was this a nightmare-come-true? Am I going to wake up at my desk in the middle of the night with paper clips stuck to the side of my face? I have to check my will when this is over. This may just be a dream, but I don't want to leave the cold-hearted bitch dream-Sylvia anything.
Chapter 27

Malcolm was finally awake and somewhat lucid. He was still in... it wasn't pain. It was more discomfort and, for lack of a better word, he felt discombobulated. His vison was blurry, it sounded like everything was being pushed through a tunnel. He didn't know what kind of pain medicine he was on, but the only sensations he felt were nausea and itchiness, like his skin was crawling with spiders.

Malcolm noticed a blurry figure walking around his general area. He tried to speak, but it must have come out as another death rattle because she jumped in fear. Is she afraid that was the sound of me dying? The next thing he knew he had a straw in his mouth again.

After a few more attempts at awakening, Malcolm was finally able to get over the sensation that he was drowning and he swallowed a mouth full of room temperature water. It was foul tasting, but refreshing at the same time. Why anyone insisted on using Styrofoam was beyond belief. Everything tasted like the freaking cup, especially water. What was even worse was the wax on the inside of the fast food cups. The Styrofoam cup triggered what seemed like a memory. Every time Miranda would stop, she insisted on getting soda that would instantly break down the wax... wait, something about Miranda...

Malcolm the heard a voice and struggled to open his concrete eyelids. But the voice he heard was not who he thought it was, who he hoped it was. Which was disappointing and confusing.

The disappointment on his face must have shown on his features.

"Oh, and I'm thrilled to be here as well. Who were you expecting to see?" said Sylvia Dance.

Malcolm was still confused as to what was going on but was generally happy to see her. He couldn't figure out why she was holding the cup toward his lips, but he was grateful and didn't want to piss her off any more than she already seemed to be.

"Sorry." Malcolm said in a raspy death rattle.

Sylvia seemed to show genuine compassion after she heard his raspy words. Malcolm gathered his thoughts and what strength he had to hopefully explain his reaction.

"The voice... I thought the voice I heard was Miranda."

It all came out kind of garbled and faint, but once Sylvia was able to comprehend he was saying, she at first was visibly jolted. Then she held her head in her hands for a moment and quietly wept after she had heard the name of her recently departed sister.

*****

Jerry Dance was still struggling to make sense of what was going on. He kept going back into what seemed like dreams. He saw that bitch Sylvia and her less hot sister Miranda, but they weren't old. Was he dreaming of his days in high school? That would be nice if he could just stay there. Where he was the big man on campus, played on the football team, got tail whenever he wanted it.

But then the school dreams would transition. Business dealings and meetings, where he could see himself and Malcolm when they were still friends. What the heck happened to them? They were best friends, had married sisters, they were business partners...oh yeah, Jerry kept on sleeping with Miranda. That's what happened. Jerry had other thoughts and visions, of doing drugs and pills mostly, and plenty of bourbon. Then he was back in high school again, buying weed off of Bill Marrow. Wow, he was actually skinny in high school, Jerry had a hard time remembering that about Bill.

Jerry suddenly was jolted out of dreamland, and was immersed in the beeps and what sounded like someone breathing through a Halloween mask. He heard people talking, things being moved around, maybe curtains sliding on those shower curtain rods in between the beds. Pain. He felt a lot of pain and discomfort right before he fell back into dreamland.

This time though he wasn't in high school; it wasn't a business meeting; his spirit was crashing. He was back in that very large white room, sitting on a chair in front of a desk that appeared to be translucent.

"Oh shit, back to the sexy librarian."

*****

As Jerry sat on the chair that didn't seem like a chair in front of the translucent desk, he contemplated the librarian. From what he could remember about their last encounter she controlled him with some sort of mind voodoo bullshit. Jerry had been to a couple of psychologists in his lifetime, he remembered talking about dreams and nightmares.

What had that crazy old German told him about controlling his dreams? "Now Jerry, you must remember that the monsters aren't real. They are only part of the dreams."

Jerry couldn't remember his name. Sigmund fucking Freud or Sigmund the German fucking fraud is what he called him as a kid. The old German shrink was big on not letting the shit in your dreams scare you. He tried to stress that to Jerry. "You are in your own mind, you and only you control what happens."

Jerry was never able to control the shit that came out of his closet at night, the squeaking and creaking from that drafty old house. He would often wake up screaming and sweating after running from something. Sometimes it was a monster; those freaking vampire movies always triggered a nightmare for him. Every now and then it was an actual person that he knew, or maybe something close to someone that he knew; an ex-girlfriend with seven boobs who had come to get revenge on Jerry.

Jerry remembered that he was often a bomb technician. He couldn't tell if he had all of his fingers, and he could never remember which wire to cut. He could remember someone shouting, "Hurry Jerry, there's only five seconds left!" Then the counter in his head would go five, four, three, two, one... and Jerry would wake up sweating and breathing like he'd just run home from school.

The sleep issues are what started his now lengthy dependence on prescription drugs. Something to help him sleep. Something to help him wake up. Something to help him stay awake in the afternoon classes. Now there was pain, nausea, sinuses, high blood pressure, and vitamin this and vitamin that. Jerry didn't consider himself that old, but he needed his wife's help to put all of his daily pills into containers with the days of the week on them. Getting old was a bitch, but it beat the alternative.

Jerry was snapped out of his trip down memory drug lane by the sound of someone approaching. Not footsteps as much as the sense of something else beginning to occupy the space he was in. A figure eventually appeared out of the... whiteness. The last time he had cursed the librarian like a dog. But he knew he had to hold back a few expletives. But if he couldn't move anything but his mouth, the bitch would hear the full repartee.

As Jerry watched the figure come closer and into focus, he realized this was not the librarian. It was a silver haired gentleman, a little older than Jerry. The silver fox was preoccupied with looking at something that looked like a clipboard or tablet. He still had his head down when he began to speak. "Hello, my name is Nigel..." Nigel then looked up from the tablet and stopped talking as if there was some sort of recognition; like there was an inside joke between them.

Just as the silver fox began to speak again, Jerry sensed another figure entering the space. The fox sensed it too; his mouth closed, only to open again with an expression of not understanding what was going on. The next figure that appeared out of the great white abyss was Jerry's old friend, the sexy librarian. Hot damn. Let's see what dream combat bullshit from Dr. fucking Freud I can unleash on the librarian and her friend.
Chapter 28

Malcolm was a little more lucid, but his head felt like it was full of wiring that wasn't quite working correctly. Must be the drugs; whatever they had him on made him feel disconnected and itchy. He wasn't sure exactly what had happened or why he was in this hospital bed unguarded. He had just committed a crime.

Malcolm was so drugged up he couldn't lift his head off the pillow. But he could look left and right. He could peer down enough to see the end of his bed. He had no control over moving his hands or feet. He could see there were wires and tubes going in the general direction of his hands. Must be fluids or the pain meds? With nothing to do but think, Malcolm wished he was able to cut off whatever meds they had him on. He was no stranger to pain, and pain would be a welcome change from the itchiness and not being able to move. Maybe he could get the nurse's attention the next time they came to check on him. Ask her to cut back on the pain meds so the fog would lift, and he could try to process what the hell was going on. But then he would be able to ponder what may happen next.

And what the hell was up with the frequent visits from Sylvia? He supposed that he was her brother-in-law, and there were those times in college that they fooled around. "I just shot her husband multiple times, why was she even allowed into the room?" Another good question from inside the mind of Malcolm.

Malcolm then drifted back to the scene in the driveway. Once he figured out how to jack a round into the chamber, it was like playing duck hunter with a real gun and a real-life asshole. Had he completed his mission? Had he hit Jerry enough times or in the right spot to kill the bastard before his own lights went out? Another thought occurred to him. Bill is going to be pissed. I'm sure his gun is in police evidence as part of whatever investigation was going on. He really wanted to return Bill's gun; of all the promises he'd made recently, this one seemed like it was doable.

Malcolm was brought back to reality by voices in the hallway. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but it sounded like Sylvia. As Malcolm listened more intently to the male voice, it sounded like Sylvia's brother, Samuel. Well yes, he was Sylvia's brother, but also Miranda's brother and his own brother-in-law. Coherent thoughts were an issue at this point for Malcolm. He supposed that Samuel was there in support of his sister, but probably not his brothers-in-law, one of whom just shot and maybe killed the other.

Malcolm thought Samuel was a pretentious little prick. He had done all right for himself and seemed to be happy. But Malcolm wasn't sure what to make of the expensive electric or hybrid car Samuel drove.

Malcolm did remember the last time they were all together, after Miranda's funeral. Samuel was drunk and violent, but it was one of the few times that he and Malcolm had been civil with each other, and he was able to calm Samuel down before he hurt himself or anyone else.
Chapter 29

After Miranda Fisk's funeral and back at the Dance residence, Samuel started his rant. "My fucking sister is dead and none of you bastards care." He slurred his words. "Malcolm, you are a useless piece of shit. She loved you but you were never able to get your head out of your ass to see what was going on around you."

Then he seemed to contradict his last statement about Miranda's unconditional love for Malcolm, by accusing Jerry of having an affair. Samuel then swayed toward Jerry, trying to get his bearings straight so he could aim his shaking finger gun. "And you, I know all about you and Miranda. I saw you two together a few times. When I asked Miranda she told me it was none of my fucking business."

Samuel backed into a chair and fell into an unoccupied recliner. "Well, I thought it... it was my fucking business!" He reached for his glass on a side table, still half full of whatever it was he was drinking. After a moment or two of silence, while he took a few drinks, Samuel announced, "I hired a private investigator."

The deep breath that Jerry took after hearing this news was quite audible in the uncomfortable silence. Using one hand to stabilize himself, Samuel barely kept control of the drink in the other hand as he pointed and jabbed toward Jerry. "He followed you around for a few days. Did you know that Jerry? I'm thinking that he used a two-man team to keep an eye on your sorry ass. Did you know you were being followed, tough guy?"

Samuel's voice rose as he continued to speak. "He told me that there were pictures. The private investigator told me that. He had some pictures to show me."

Everything in the house grew silent. The only sounds were from Samuel's rattling ice cubes or when he was chastising Jerry. No clocks ticked, no phones rang, no dogs barked. Just absolute silence. There's always a quiet, tense moment just before a storm erupts. This was it. Malcolm, Jerry, and Sylvia could only hope that Samuel had said his drunken piece and would stop.

Jerry knew that Samuel didn't like him, and the feelings for the most part were mutual. He tried to keep the peace with his wife's brother. But now this... what the hell was he supposed to do about this? The bastard had hired a PI? What the hell for? This shit wasn't good for anybody.

Jerry thought that Samuel felt better, getting this off his chest. Blowing off some steam was one thing, but the shit he was doing was going to make a bad situation worse. Jerry had decided if Samuel kept talking, he would need to shut him down before he revealed shit that Malcolm and Sylvia didn't need to know.

*****

Three weeks before Miranda's accident, Samuel had entered the run-down office of William H. Marrow Sr., PI. Bill junior may have been a worthless wart on the ass of society, but his father had been a private investigator for over twenty-five years. It said so on the front door.

Samuel had told Marrow Sr. that he suspected his brother-in-law Jerry was having an affair. He wanted to know how long it would take to confirm or deny, and how much this could cost. Marrow Sr., having been in the business for a few years, knew better than to quote somebody a price or time. He got what details he needed from Samuel, and of course a small retainer up front.

Marrow Sr. was a little taken aback when Samuel gave him the details as to whom he thought was having an affair with Jerry Dance. Samuel knew that his brother-in-law was apt to pick up strange women in bars, and Marrow Sr. knew that as well. He knew Jerry and had seen him operate in a couple of shitholes while he was working other cases. This was shaping up to be your typical take a few snaps of the husband and a woman other than his wife. This would be a piece of cake.

But that wasn't the reason Samuel wanted to hire him. Samuel also had suspicions that his brother-in-law was having an affair with his sister-in-law, Miranda. She was also Samuel's big sister, and Jerry was married to Samuel's other sister. What a confusing mess, thought Marrow Sr.

William H. Marrow Sr., PI had followed Jerry Dance around for a week and a half. His retainer money ran out on the third day, but Marrow Sr. kept up the chase because Jerry Dance was an interesting fellow to follow around. He wasn't working for free; he kept track of his time and let Samuel know that he was onto something and that he may be in for a larger than expected bill.

Two and a half weeks after visiting Marrow Sr.'s office, Samuel returned home to hear an enthusiastic message on his answering machine.

"Samuel, this is William Marrow. I tried to reach you at your office but they said you had already left for the day. I have some news for you from my observations of Jerry. Definitive evidence of an affair. I have some pictures, dates and times. I need you to positively identify one of Jerry's female companions. Please give me a call and we'll schedule a time to meet."
Chapter 30

After a short silent reprieve, Samuel seemed to regain his rage and decided to take a few more swipes at his brother-in-law. "The PI left a message on my answering machine, Jerry. He told me that he had pictures, Jerry. Pictures of you and an unidentified female... or two perhaps."

There was another audible intake of breath from Jerry as he tried to maintain his composure. He inched closer to Samuel. Maybe I should punch him in his drunken head, or maybe grab him and attempt to choke the life out of him. Or even retrieve some of the expensive scotch that Samuel was drinking and at least prevent him from drinking anymore of it.

Samuel took the volume and aggression up a couple of notches. "What am I going to find on those pictures, Jerry? Or better yet who am I going to find on those dammed pictures?"

Sylvia watched Jerry moving closer to Samuel, and had known Jerry long enough to see what he was up to. She stepped not quite in between her husband and brother, hoping that she was enough of a deterrent to keep them from lunging at each other. Her brother was a big boy and more than capable of taking care of himself. But she had always tried to protect her younger siblings. She had just lost her sister and had a profound sense of grief that she didn't do enough to protect her. So she reached out and touched her little brother's shoulder in a calming gesture, only to have her hand slapped and batted away.

"I don't need your freaking sympathy sis," grumbled Samuel.

This action gave Jerry an opportunity to inch a little closer to Samuel under the guise that he was concerned for his wife.

Samuel regained his rage and pressed on with Jerry. "The pictures ... what the hell will I see on those pictures, Jerry?" Samuel's face was red and drenched with sweat, like he'd just run two miles.

Malcolm was closer to Samuel than Jerry. He had also begun to creep closer to Samuel, even more so after Samuel had slapped his sister. Malcolm didn't have a problem with Samuel expressing his feelings toward him, but it certainly wasn't okay for him to get physical with Sylvia. And what shade of red was he turning? Malcolm thought that it looked like he may stroke out at any minute.

This was all just possibly drunken ranting, but Malcolm wasn't sure what to think about what Samuel was saying to Jerry. Did he really hire Bill's dad to follow Jerry? Pictures? What the hell would he have pictures of? Jerry and some hookers? Jerry doing what? What was in those pictures that would elicit such a cryptic phone message from Bill Sr.?

While Malcolm was lost in thought, he didn't notice Samuel jump to his feet. Suddenly, he was screaming and lunging toward Jerry, with Sylvia in between them. He then realized just how tiny Sylvia was. But she didn't seem afraid. Malcolm could see that Jerry was super pissed and looking every bit the predator that he was. He was moving closer to Samuel, to do what?

Just then three things happened.

Malcolm decided that he needed to put an end to Samuel's drunken rant. Sylvia's attempts to calm him down had failed, and the physical altercation between Samuel and Jerry was imminent. Samuel was leaning toward Jerry and he was still holding his drink in his right hand. His right arm was reaching over top of his sister in a drunken attempt to take swings at Jerry with the drink still in his hand. Malcolm approached Samuel from behind, reached and grabbed Samuel's right wrist with his own right hand. He then secured Samuel's left shoulder with his left hand. As Malcolm pulled Samuel away from the scrum, the second thing happened.

Jerry saw what Malcolm was doing and decided to seize the opportunity. He needed to shut Samuel up and he wanted to punch his lights out. Jerry clinched his right hand into a fist, drew his right hand up level to his head and shoulder. He stepped forward with his right fist as his retracted right arm began its decent toward Samuel's exposed jaw.

In the last millisecond before impact, Samuel saw what was coming. Malcolm had also seen what Jerry was doing, but by that time it was too late to do anything about it. The only one that hadn't seen what was happening was Sylvia.

In what seemed like slow motion, Jerry's right hand eventually connected with the left side of Samuel's face. Malcolm was pulling back on Samuel when Jerry's fist came crashing down. The impact pushed Samuel back into Malcolm, and they both fell backward.

That's when the third thing happened.

The glass was a heavy stout lead crystal that was part of a set Jerry's father had given them as a wedding gift. After the second wife, Jerry's father gave up on treating his son's latest venture into matrimony with any seriousness. The car with the first marriage was nice; his ex-wife still drove it. An envelope with cash and plane tickets to a Bahamas destination accompanied the second marriage. Either Jerry's father didn't share the same optimism about his third marriage, or he was tired of buying expensive gifts, only to watch the marriage fall apart.

As Samuel was pulled backward by Malcolm and pushed back by Jerry's blow, his right arm was forced backward and underneath of Samuel's body. The glass he was holding flew out of his right hand, and Samuel fell in a heap on top of Malcolm.

Sylvia had lowered her head in an attempt to get in between her brother and husband. For her act of selfless bravery, she was rewarded with the bottom corner of that heavy lead crystal glass hitting her in the head above her right ear.

After the impact, Sylvia seemed stunned at first. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she crashed to the floor.

*****

So, there he was, the only one in the room still on his feet. Jerry Dance, the last man standing. Seeing the other three on the ground in various stages of rage, consciousness, and confusion, Jerry took this as an opportunity to hurl one last insult and make his exit. With a look of disdain on his face he shouted, "Fuck the three of you. I'm leaving, and I suggest nobody be here when I get back." Malcolm rolled Samuel off of him and onto the floor. It looked like he had either passed out or had been knocked out. Hard to say, but nothing he could do for him now except to roll him over on his side. He didn't want Samuel to go the way of so many rock stars who chocked on their own vomit.

As he sat up, he noticed Sylvia lying motionless on the floor. He scrambled over to her, saw that she wasn't moving and noticed the trickle of blood running down her neck. Why was she unconscious? And why was she bleeding? Malcolm eventually found the cut above her ear and didn't think it would close on its own. He needed to get Sylvia to the hospital.

Malcolm pushed to his feet and headed for the kitchen, where he grabbed a towel and headed back to Sylvia. He then applied pressure with it to her injured head. A couple of minutes later, he gingerly picked her up and shuffled out to his car, where he carefully loaded the injured woman into his front seat. Five minutes into the journey Sylvia regained consciousness, confused about where she was, what had happened, and why her head was throbbing. Malcolm had given up on keeping pressure on the cut, so Sylvia was left with another question concerning the bloody towel in her lap.

As she looked left to see who was driving, her head filled with searing pain, a reminder to not move. After her eyes focused, she saw that it was Malcolm driving. She took a deep breath and said, "What are you doing? Where are we going? What the hell happened? Is that my blood?"

Malcolm, startled by the sudden awakening of Sylvia, swerved a bit when he first heard her voice. "Oh hey, there you are. Just out for a Sunday drive."

Malcolm could be a bit of a smart ass, and Sylvia sighed, and even laughed a bit at that. Then she groaned in pain. "Ok, I'm not really sure what happened."

"You were on the floor with a pretty good-sized cut on your head, unconscious and bleeding. I made the executive decision to scoop you up and take you to the hospital."

Sylvia let that sit for a moment. The last thing she could remember was stepping in between Jerry and Samuel.

"Why are you taking me to the hospital? Where is my husband?" She probably knew the answers to those questions, but thought they needed to be asked. She also wondered where her brother ended up.

Before Malcolm could say a word, she chimed in with another barrage of questions about the health and well-being of her brother.

"Samuel seemed to be fine. He was sleeping when I loaded you in the car. He was pretty drunk, so some sleep is the best thing for him."

"Is Jerry still in the house?" asked Sylvia.

Malcolm told her that Jerry told everyone to fuck off, then left.

"That sounds about how he'd handle the situation," mumbled Sylvia.

Sylvia was struck by pain in her head every time she talked or moved. But she hadn't been alone with Malcolm since Miranda had passed. She wasn't sure if it was Jerry's intention to keep the two from talking, but he was always around when Malcolm made an appearance. She had a bad feeling that Jerry was having an affair with Miranda, and he might have had something to do with her death.

Sylvia gathered her thoughts and prepared for the shocks of pain. "Malcolm, what do you think was going on between Jerry and Miranda?"

Malcolm had been wondering the same things himself, especially after the drunken rant from Samuel. But he was still surprised that Sylvia had the same suspicions. "I don't know. Samuel seemed to think that they were having an affair."

Sylvia wasn't sure what else to say. She only knew they weren't likely to get any answers out of Jerry. Malcolm was driving with his right hand on the gear shifter on the center console. Sylvia reached out and put her hand over his. "Thank you for looking out for me."
Chapter 31

Nigel and Sharon were a bit confused as to why they were both called to meet with the same client. But before they could have that conversation, the recently departed Jerry Dance unloaded with a verbal tirade of obscenities that would make a used car salesman uncomfortable. They stared at him with shock and bewilderment. It wasn't so much the language but what he was able to do while screaming and yelling profanities. He was able to move. He walked toward Sharon, jabbing a finger in her direction while his other arm seemed to be stuck in an open-handed gesture of surrender.

Sharon was frozen in place, not believing what she was seeing. Clients that exhibited emotions like this were always immobilized. How was this happening?

As Jerry closed to within a foot of Sharon, Nigel shouted above the cursing. "Containment shell, level three."

Suddenly the room returned to the quiet empty space it had been before Jerry had arrived. Jerry was still screaming and gesturing, but he was now within a two-foot clear circular containment shell. Jerry's forward progress was stopped, so he turned, around only to find that he wasn't able to advance in any direction. Once he realized that he was trapped, Jerry started doing a pretty good mime act from inside the containment shell. He slapped at it a few times with his open hand, kicked at it and even threw a few wild short punches.

Once all physical means to break through this new barrier had failed, Jerry thought he'd try to insult the invisible wall into oblivion. He screamed, cursed and jumped up and down. It was then that Jerry realized no one could hear him. But he could hear them. So he relented in an attempt to hear what these two assholes were saying. "Nigel, what is going on?"

"I'm not entirely sure. How was he able to move? And why are you here?"

"He shouldn't be able to move. I've never seen an angry one that could move," replied Sharon.

"I've never had to call for a containment shell outside of a simulation."

Nigel was part of a development team that was tasked with reinforcing the containment shells. Containment shells were used when an out-of-control client retained ability of motion, regardless of their emotional state. They could be layered on top of each other to provide a stronger surface that would contain the subject. This particular uncontrollable client had broken through the first two shells. The representatives were able to deploy three shells at once, allowing them to finally contain the unruly client.

During the testing phase of the new containment shell system, Nigel had been trapped in a level three containment shell. Level three may have been overkill for Jerry, but why take chances?

"I'm not sure why we both got called for the same new consult," said Sharon. "Since you contained him, you can have him."

"Yes, I suppose I did capture him. But he's not a new consult. He's a returning client for me."

Sharon said farewell to Nigel then walked away. Jerry wasn't sure what was going on or what was about to happen. The silver fox had said he had seen him before, but Jerry had never seen this guy that the librarian had called Nigel.

Jerry watched from inside his containment shell as Nigel paged through something that looked like a notebook or folder. It was hard to tell since everything was white and translucent. Eventually Nigel looked up from what he was reading. "Malcolm, I'm not sure why you're able to circumvent the motion protocols we have in place. You had exhibited some resistance the first time I saw you. If you are able to control your anger and refrain from screaming, I'll remove the containment shell."

Jerry's eyes narrowed and a deep scowl came over his face; he was even more confused. Did that gray headed bastard just call him Malcolm? Feeling that he was suddenly out of options, Jerry nodded his head in agreement.

In a calm yet stern voice Nigel said, "Remove containment shell level three." Jerry didn't know if anything had happened. The sound of the room was still the same, he was standing in an expansive space with no sound at all. He reached out with his right hand for conformation that the shell had been removed. With his hands relaxed at his sides, he turned to face Nigel. "Who in the hell are you? And where did the librarian go?"

Nigel wasn't concerned. "It is common for returning clients to forget aspects of their prior visit. However, your anger is grossly misplaced. Your physically threatening gestures aren't necessary and they won't be tolerated. The Next is only a stopping point in your journey. We are here to assist you in the process of making your decision. You will respect this process, or else."

Jerry had a questioning, almost challenging look on his face. "What if I don't respect your process?"

"Then Chance will be chosen for you," said Nigel sternly.

Jerry crossed his arms over his chest. "Would that be the purple button? I think that's what the librarian did to me the last time I was here. She put some freaking freeze voodoo shit on me and the only thing that wasn't frozen was my mouth. Apparently, she got tired of hearing that. She mashed the purple button and poof, the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital."

Nigel felt that the tension had subsided, and it was now time to discuss Malcolm's choice. Nigel made a slight sweeping gesture with his right hand brought the translucent desk and chairs into focus. "Please, Malcolm be seated—"

"That's the second time you've called me Malcolm. Why do you keep calling me Malcolm?"
Chapter 32

Malcolm was still in a fog of pain medication when he opened his eyes. He smelled food and hospital. It was disappointing to wake up in the hospital, but the smell of the food was very interesting to his empty stomach. He looked to his right and saw that there was indeed one of those rolling food trays with something that smelled delicious.

He felt around on both sides of the bed, knowing that there had to be one of those remote controls somewhere. He finally found it on the left-hand side of the bed. After pushing all the buttons, he finally found the one that controlled the incline of the bed. He had also turned on the television and called for the nurse three times. The nurse's garbled voice came over the remote to ask what he needed. "Sorry, I accidentally pushed the wrong button."

As the bed moved to the desired incline position, Malcolm could see his quarry getting closer. As he pulled the tray closer he caught a glimpse of his battered and bandaged face in the reflection of the polished steel plate cover. He was in bad shape for sure. This is the first time he'd been conscious enough to assess his physical condition. His hands, why were they so swollen? Was it the fluids they were pumping into him?

There was something else strange about Malcolm's hands. He was in car accident when he was in high school. The car had rolled and of course Malcolm and his friends were too cool to wear seat belts. Malcolm was thrown out of the car after the second time it rolled. His injuries were many, broken ribs, a concussion and he somehow crushed the ring finger on his left hand. They had to remove the tip above the first knuckle.

Malcolm stared at his left hand in disbelief. He shook his head as in an attempt at shaking the cobwebs loose. The tip of his ring finger was still there. He blinked a few times and to his surprise he was able to wiggle it.

He looked at the reflection of his face again in the plate cover. Beneath the swelling, bruising and bandages, something was wrong. It was his eyes. It was like he was staring at someone else's eyes. Malcolm knew from countless years of looking into a mirror that his eyes were green. It said so on his driver's license. Eyes: Green. So why were brown eyes staring back at him from the plate cover?

Malcolm felt light headed. He was drugged up and hallucinating, or maybe dreaming? He had the tip of his ring finger and his eyes were brown. He sat the plate cover back on the rolling tray and chanced a look at the end of the bed. He was curious to see if he had one leg or two. Hell, these drugs were good enough that he might have grown a third. He started on the left side of the bed and saw the impression of a foot through the hospital blanket. He started panning toward the right, ever on the lookout for more weirdness until he landed on the impression of the right foot.

Well, nothing to worry about. No extra feet. But something else at the end of the bed caught his attention. The chart. The chart that hangs at the end of every hospital bed. That's the first thing the doctors and nurses do when they come into the room. They look at that chart. On a white strip of tape on the back of the chart, there was a name. Malcolm read the name five times and it didn't make his head spin any less each time that he read it. J. Dance was the name on the white strip of tape.
Chapter 33

Jerry had asked Nigel his question in a calm clear voice. But as he thought about it, this was not the calm clear voice that usually came out of his mouth. However, before he could ponder what was happening, his thoughts were interrupted by the silver fox.

"I call you Malcolm because that is your name. Your name is on the top of my chart: Malcolm Fisk."

Nigel turned the translucent tablet toward his client. Jerry strained to look at the name on the device. And sure as shit the name said Malcolm Fisk. Jerry then glanced down at his left hand for the stubby ring finger he knew Malcolm to have. "Holy shit," Jerry mumbled. There it was, the stubby ring finger.

This was also a really good reason to stop taking his wife's prescription anxiety drugs with whiskey. Maybe it was time for another stint in a rehab facility. He'd had some weird dreams over the years. Sigmund fucking Freud would probably have a field day analyzing this one. I was my former best friend in some sort of space movie. Freaking space men and women harassing me and the buttons probably represented life choices or some shit.

Jerry's deep thoughts about dream meanings were interrupted by Nigel going on about something. "Malcolm, since you've been through this before, and if you have no further questions, we'll proceed with your choice."

So the old guy wants me to make a choice? How would Freud analyze these choices? Just as the librarian had done, the silver fox waved his hand across the surface of the desk and three buttons appeared. Jerry couldn't remember what each of the buttons did. "My good fellow, could you refresh my memory as to the purpose of each of these buttons?" Jerry said it like he was requesting a waiter to refill a water glass.

"Certainly. The red button is to return to your former life. The blue button is to move on. And the button that flashes back and forth between blue and red is Chance. Is that all clear?"

Let's see. Fake Freud would say that the blue meant that I was running away from something. The red would be that I'm too confrontational. And the flashing red and blue one would mean that I have an issue with commitment. In a way, Jerry could see all three of those being viable representations of his life and how he's led it so far.

At this point Jerry had become uncharacteristically quiet. He knew this was only a dream but he was taking these three choices seriously. He stared at the red button. "Return to my former life." Jerry mumbled. He then looked at the flashing red and blue button. "Chance?" he mumbled. He thought he understood what that one meant. That's the one the librarian had punched for him the last time. Finally, he looked at the blue button. "Move on? What the hell does that mean?" Jerry seemed to almost be asking this question to the button.

Fake Freud would have said something about the power of repetitive dreams and how they will only get weirder. Jerry thought that he had already had this spaceman dream twice. He was himself the first time and now he was Malcolm, of all people. He had nearly made his mind up to push the blue button to get out of this spaceman trilogy before it happened.

"What happens if I push the blue button? What I really want to know is where do I go?"

Nigel had answered a countless number of questions concerning what each button did. But most of the questions were directed toward the blue button. The answer was usually a source of further confusion for some and anger for others. But there was only one answer. "I don't know where you go," said Nigel. After an uncomfortable pause, he continued. "We are only here to explain your options. We don't know where you came from or what circumstances led you to showing up here. We don't know where you will go if you choose to move on or what happens to you if you choose to go back."

Jerry had a good idea what would happen if he chose the red button to go back. The next night he would be in the same screwed up space dream. But he wouldn't be himself or Malcolm, he'd be a toaster oven that fell in a bath tub. Maybe his representative would be the ever elusive Sasquatch? Jerry hoped that the next series of dreams would take place in a strip club or medieval castle.

He looked at the buttons one more time, but his mind had already been made up. He glanced up at Nigel and decided to give him a parting gift. "I'm not Malcolm."

Jerry enjoyed the changes in the face of the old man, from stern gate keeper to confused old bastard. Nigel opened his mouth with a ready retort, but decided not to.

Jerry continued. "My name is Jerry Dance. Ask the librarian bitch about me; I'm sure she remembers. She punched the Chance button for me the last time I was here."

Nigel's eyebrows flew up and his mouth hung open in a state of readiness to refute what was being said. Jerry could see that the façade was beginning to fade and doubt was creeping into the old man's face. He had a slight smile and let out a sinister chuckle as he saw Nigel's reaction.

The fact that Sharon had punched Chance for someone wasn't a surprise to Nigel. Having been one of Malcolm's former representatives, he was aware of his resistance to normal restraint. But Nigel had never been close to hitting the Chance button while Malcolm was his client. Nigel had never hit the Chance button for any client. Why had Sharon done it?

"I don't know why I'm here as Malcolm Fisk, and I don't really give a shit at this point. I'm going to leave you with this bit of wisdom that a good man once told me he used when a business deal had gone bad. He'd send them a fax. You know what that fax said, old man?" Jerry chuckled at his inside joke. "Fuck off, strong letter to follow." He then pushed the blue button. And just like that Jerry Dance moved on.

Nigel was still sitting down with his mouth open and a puzzled look on his face. Was anything Malcolm said true? It was impossible of course. Nigel didn't know what a fax was, the meaning of the message, or what it was supposed to accomplish. But he also thought it would be a good idea to confer with Sharon on the events.
Chapter 34

Kate Foster was perplexed with her current situation. She sat in a room that was infinite white space, on a chair that didn't seem to be there at all. She really didn't understand where she was or how she got here. The last thing she remembered was stepping into the shower. She was trying to beat the approaching storm by taking a really quick shower after a hot afternoon of working in the garden. After the shower she'd join her husband on the back porch of their suburban ranch to enjoy nature's light show across the expansive prairie.

Her grandmother had always warned her about being around water when there was a storm approaching. Sometimes her advice didn't make much sense, she was written off by most of the family as a crazy old bat. Kate wasn't sure about her sanity, but grams was in her nineties when she finally passed away. The old gal had survived a long time, and advice from someone who had seen plenty of storms over her lifetime could not be discounted. She found herself lost in thoughts of her grandmother when a voice jolted her back into... reality.

The gentleman that referred to himself as her representative, she thought his name was Nigel. He kept trying to explain what her options were. Kate couldn't get the cobwebs out of her head to focus on anything. Nigel, if that was his name, continued to talk as if she were able to comprehend what he was saying. As if she were able to rationalize what was happening. One minute she's getting into the shower, and now this.

Nigel said that she could continue moving forward, or she could go backward. Forward and backward to what? None of this made sense to Kate. Hearing her options again didn't make a difference to the confusion. She tried to think back to what had happened to her. Had she slipped a banged her head on the shower?

Kate kept delving deeper into her confusion, forcing herself to remember what had happened. No matter what she tried to think of, she always ended up back at the shower door. Testing the water temperature, and then the memory ends. She tried harder, went back further. More detail this time. Breakfast that morning, then a few hours working outside, then the water... and the memory was gone. Again. Breakfast was cereal, she thought about working in the garden, the water temperature... dammit. Breakfast was cereal and two cups of coffee, weed eater around the rose garden then into the vegetable garden to pull weeds. The shower, the water was... She couldn't concentrate. Did she even make it to the water? There was too much information, but she couldn't concentrate on the relevant information that would allow her to remember what happened. Breakfast was, no, breakfast had nothing to do with this. She knew she was here because of something involving her work outside and the shower.

Nigel watched his client with a patient and experienced eye. He knew that she was trying to work something out. He had seen many clients do the same thing. But sometimes it seemed like rational thoughts were difficult. It seemed that anger and confusion were the only things that he saw out of clients. Those were the predominant emotions that he saw, with begging for forgiveness and confessing of past transgressions rounding out the most common things.

Nigel waited, and watched. He knew when Kate was ready she would make her decision. They always did.

The End

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Mike

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BOOKS BY MIKE MIRACLE

THE NEXT SERIES

Revenge

Fractured

The Yellowjacket

The story continues in...

FRACTURED

Book 2 of The Next Series

Excerpt from Fractured

Chapter 1

Former State Policeman Jack Parker expected his third year watching the Fourth of July fireworks show at the Greater Richland Area RV Park to be just as quiet as the first two. His old service pistol had just been confiscated and put into a mounting pile of collected evidence in the back of a forensic team's SUV. Multiple gunshot victims and the smell of cordite still lingering in the air was going to end Jack's streak of nice relaxing Fourth of Julys at the Greater Richland Area RV Park at two.

Jack was joined on the curb by his German Shepherd, Smokey, also retired from the state police. They were sitting just inside the taped off area around an RV where Jack and Smokey had discovered at least one dead body. Jack had plenty of exciting Fourth of July stories to tell from his twenty-two years on the force, and he thought that he had left those times behind him. If only that dammed dog had just gone out to pee like he was told, instead of getting distracted by something shiny and wandering off. But he couldn't really be mad at the dog for doing things that dogs do. So, he sat there with Smokey, rubbed his neck and shoulders, and told him that he was a really good boy.

Jack had read somewhere that petting a dog was a good stress reliever. Released endorphins and lowered the blood pressure. As he patted Smokey lightly on the head, he wondered where he could get a couple more dogs; it wasn't working with just the one dog.

