 
REMNANTS

Published by Clayton Snyder at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Clayton Snyder

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CONTENTS

All These Things That Once Were

Birth

Blood

Cold

Exorcism

Hell, Inc.

Jars

Lazarus

Move Aside

Old Dominion

Old Wounds

Panphobia

You Can Get it for Free

Study in Red

The Expedition

All These Things That Once Were

I wake at five a.m. to a cool room and an empty bed. I reach out for Keri, and find her spot cold. She's been up for a while.

_Shit,_ I think. After so many years, it's hard to get back to sleep without her. I lie under the covers for another minute, soaking in the warmth, and then throw them off. The cold air hits me all at once, and I wince. I run a hand through my hair, rub my eyes, and stand. The carpet is cool underfoot as I walk to the door. The knob turns easily, and the door swings open on quiet hinges. The hall is dark, and I pause for a moment in the doorway. I don't smell coffee brewing, or hear the television.

That's weird.

I start down the hallway, and stop in the bathroom. I leave the light off – the small window by the medicine cabinet lets in enough light, and I don't feel like shocking my eyes awake just yet. I finish, and leave the room, the sound of the toilet tank filling the space behind me with an almost metallic hiss. I step into the hall, and my feet sink into the deep pile carpet. It already feels warmer than when I first set foot on it, and it seems softer. I frown to myself, and write the sensation off.

_Maybe Keri cleaned it the other day._

The hall opens up into our living room. I can see the silhouettes of the couch, TV, and recliner in the pre-dawn light. I stop in the middle of the room, and try to check the clock, but I don't see it on the wall.

Weirder and weirder, though she may have taken it down to clean, as well.

I settle for checking the display on the cable tuner. It reads 5:30, and I make a mental note to reset the clocks. I turn back to the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. The shutters are closed at the bar, and light spills out from under the door between rooms. I breathe a sigh of relief. I was starting to get a bit worried. I step to the door, and push it open. It swings easily, and I step through.

Sunlight hits me full in the face, and I throw an arm up to shield my eyes. Underfoot, sand stings the soles of my feet, and I can feel heat rising from the ground. In the distance, a long butte rises above the desert floor. Its shadow stretches across the sand, but even as I watch, it grows shorter. I turn in a panic, looking for the door, but it's gone.

What the fuck...

The soles of my feet are starting to ache from standing in the hot sand. I stand there anyways, trying to process what just happened. I woke up, peed, and walked down the hallway, into the living room, and into the kitchen...except it wasn't a kitchen.

Are you sure you woke up? Could still be dreaming.

I crouch, and grab a handful of sand, and let it slip through my fingers. The grains are warm in my hand, and I can smell that dry, dusty smell that goes with summer days too long without rain. I stand, and I can feel the first beads of sweat forming on my forehead, and under my arms. I look up at the sun again, and figure it must be mid-morning already. Which means it's not even the hottest part of the day yet.

I look behind me again. There's still nothing there other than what looks like miles of endless dunes. With a sigh, I head toward the butte in the distance, because dream or not, it's my best chance of finding some shelter, and if I'm lucky, maybe a little moisture in the shade. On top of that, it wouldn't hurt to see if I could climb it, to get a better view of the surrounding area. I'd hate to die in the desert because I didn't realize a town, or the sea, or even a forest were just over the next rise of dunes. I pinch myself, hard, and it hurts, but I don't wake up. With a sigh, I start off towards the rise in the distance.

2

A couple of hours later and the soles of my feet feel like they're on fire. The sun is high in the sky now, and my skin already feels like its baking. I can feel dust in my throat, scratching the back of my trachea, and I manage to work up some spit and swallow, hoping for a little relief. It helps some, and I lick my lips, trying to get a bit of moisture in them as well.

I stop for a moment, to give the stitch in my side a rest, and look around. My footprints extend as far as I can see behind me, barely obscured. They seem to go on forever, back and back, until they're obscured by the rise of a dune. In front of me, the butte is closer now, and I'm just beginning to see details \- cracked red rock with streaks of orange and gray running through it like veins. The shadow it throws is shorter now, but no less inviting at this point. I give it another minute, and start off again. If I can keep this pace, I figure I should reach it by early afternoon.

Something strikes me as I'm walking; the sand shifting and sliding under my feet, making it feel as though someone's rubbing fine-grain sandpaper on my already aching soles.

Are all deserts like this?

I rack my brain, trying to remember elementary school lessons, biology, geography, anything really. I'm having a hard time recalling whether or not there should be cactus, or snakes, rodents, spiders, or scorpions, and coming up with blanks. I hope I wake up soon.

*

Another hour and the sun is merciless. A snatch of song is echoing in my head, and I shake it to clear it, but it persists.

'Dem bones

'Dem bones

'Dem dry bones

Repeat, ad nauseum.

I hate you, brain.

*

Another hour, or at least I think so. The rock is closer now, but its shadow is so short, I'm starting to worry that if I make it there, it will be only to cook like an egg on a sidewalk.

Sizzle, sizzle, motherfucker.

The thought makes me giggle, and my lip splits when I do. I can feel a trickle of blood slipping down my chin, and I wipe it away.

Get a grip.

The thought strikes me that I don't even know if Keri is safe. My gut twists a bit, and I hope to God this didn't happen to her.

No, no - there were no other footprints. Just yours.

I spare a glance behind me, where a single line of impressions vanish into the distance. In front of me are only rippled dunes, and that rock, looming like a monolith from an earlier age.

*

I can't tell how much time has passed, but the rock is so close, I can make out more ridges and colors and individual spars that jut from it like natural handholds than before. I speed up my pace, and immediately regret it. My body rebels and my legs flail for a minute before I go down into the sand. It billows up around me when I hit, dust getting in my eyes and nose and throat. I cough, trying to get it out, and sit up. I rub the sand from my eyes and realize I am at the base of the rock.

I stand, and look behind me. There is a furrow in the sand, and another realization hits me - that I dragged myself the last few feet to my destination. I walk over to the rock, and lean against it. Despite baking in the sun all day, it is surprisingly cool. I sink down, and close my eyes. Just a short nap.

*

It's dark when I wake, and I can feel a chill biting through the air. I feel weak, but not hopeless. I look at the furrow in the moonlight, and a shiver runs through me. Not quite hopeless yet.

I stand, and my knees protest and try to give out. I fight them, and am rewarded with a brief shooting pain in my feet once I get my full weight on them. Once up, I start to walk around the butte, letting one hand trail against the rock wall in case I need the support. It takes a while to reach what I think of as the edge, or the corner, of the rock, the silence of the desert broken only by my stomach, which has begun to complain.

I rest for a moment, leaning into the cool stone, and hope I find something other than sand soon. My vision threatens to blur, and I shake my head to clear it.

Doesn't matter, keep going.

The thought comes clear as a bell, and sounds like my dad. I take its advice, and start moving again. After maybe fifteen minutes, I come to the other side of the rock, and my heart sinks. The only thing there is more sand, stretching away mile by mile into the distance. I slump against the rock, and nearly fall into the opening in its side.

It's a crack in the stone, maybe three, four feet across, and about five feet high.

You must be this tall to ride the rock. Also, this looks like a good spot for a giant spider to hide.

I hate you, brain.

I stick my hand in and wave it around for a minute, then pull it back. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it is neither covered in webs nor spiders. It only takes a second for me to make up my mind after that, and I duck into the opening, taking care not to smash my head into the rock above. I take two steps, and there's a sensation of wind, of something _sliding_ , and when it stops, I'm standing on a city street.

3

It's dark here, and a light breeze is blowing, carrying with it a cool mist. The street I'm standing on is paved with what looks like black cobblestone that glistens in the light from the gas lamps that line it. Despite the fact that I still have no idea where I am, I feel a momentary rush of relief at being in a city, where there will be food, water, and phones. I can already feel my muscles relax, the cool air and moisture relieving some of the aches from being in the heat for so long.

I begin to walk down the street, keeping to the sidewalk. I start to lay out a plan in my mind - find a public place, find a phone, call a cab, and get home. I don't bother to work out details just yet, since plans can change at the drop of a hat. I walk down the street for a minute or two, not really paying attention to my surroundings, when I'm forced to stop. I'm in front of a building taller than all the others.

It must be at least 100 stories, and when I tilt my head up to see the top, the clouds rolling above it give me a touch of vertigo. I tilt my head down and look at the front of the building. Double doors, each six feet wide by ten feet tall dominate the front of the building and break up the stonework. I consider those doors for a moment. I'm not sure why they're so big, or why the building is so tall in an area where all the other structures seem to be only about ten stories at the most. The best I can come up with is that this may be some sort of public works building, and if so, there may be a billing clerk or a janitor still working who will let me use the phone.

I start for the doors, and reach for a handle, when I hear it. The sound travels in sharp clicks across the hard stone of the city's streets, moving like a wave. As it gets louder, I can hear the beginnings of echoes bouncing off the surrounding buildings. Accompanying it is a sound like fabric rustling. It reaches me, and I feel a shiver work its way up my spine, forcing the hair on my arms and the back of my neck to rise as though I had just walked into an electric field.

The sound makes my stomach twist into a knot, and fight or flight kicks in. I step away from the doors, and sprint for the nearest alley. I slip into a dark sliver between buildings, my breathing coming a bit harder after my run. Out in the street, those echoing clicks are coming closer. It takes a minute for my eyes to balance the light gray outside with the deep black of the alley. When they finally adjust, I press myself against the wall, and inch to the corner. What I see nearly pushes my mind to the edge.

Men from the waist-up, they're wearing nearly identical clothing - three piece suits I suspect wouldn't be out of place in Victorian England, and top hats. From the waist down though, they are all brass and steel that gleams in the light from the gas lamps. An oval platform extends from their waists horizontally, providing the base for eight legs crafted from that same brass and steel, cogs and gears intermeshing with each step. The legs themselves are about the same size as a man's leg, but articulated like a spider's, beginning with a thick thigh that joins to a round knee, and then tapering to a point where their feet should be. This is the source of the sounds that even now echo louder than before.

As they pass, I can hear them speaking, a language that seems to consist of clicks and glottal stops. They approach the double doors I had been standing at only moments earlier, and I can see the devices strapped to their backs, made from more brass and steel, each with a green light glowing steadily. Brass cables run from the backpack to a small box on the back of the oval platform. Smaller gears and cogs spin on this backpack, and occasionally, it emits a small puff of steam.

Where the hell am I? Is this a dream? Why am I not awake yet? God damn it, wake up! WAKE UP!

I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, forcing my thoughts into some semblance of quiet, and my racing heart to slow. I count to five, and try to ignore the smells of damp concrete and ozone that follow rain, try to block everything out. I open my eyes again, and my heart sinks a little more. I am still in an alley across from those spider-things, and what feels like miles from hope.

They had stopped talking, and one was reaching up with a steel and brass leg, the point pressing into a section of wall I couldn't see. After a moment, he withdrew it, and pulled a watch attached to a chain from his pocket. He said something to his partner, snapped it shut, and put the watch away.

Inside the building, machinery comes to life, and I can hear a faint 'click', and then a whirring noise that grows louder by the second. I creep from my hiding place, crouching low, and moving until I was still pressed against the building, in some shadow, but behind the two.

The whirring sound seems to have reached its peak, and I can see the doors sliding open, first pushing out, and then sliding away from the entrance. I can see through the narrow opening, where green lights line the edges of the floor, and black stone walls absorb the light. One of the spider men steps forward, already beginning to pass through the ever-widening gap in the doors, and I make up my mind.

I move from cover, coming fast and low behind the two, making a beeline for the opening. Something tells me I need to make it over the threshold, _have_ to make it over the threshold. One of the men hears me – I don't know how over the sound of the doors – and begins to turn. I adjust my course, zigging behind him, and grab a thick cable on his backpack. I don't slow, and use the cable like a sling, pivoting on one heel and pulling at the same time. It comes away in my hand, thick red-black fluid splashing on my hand and arm as it does.

The spider-thing screams – a high-pitched sound, like metal on metal – and its partner turns towards me. Too late though, as I kick myself away and slide under its legs like a man desperate for home base. My shirt rides up, and I can feel the cobblestone corners grinding into my skin as I slide across them. I close my eyes; squeeze them tight – if I miss, if I'm short, I don't want to see the end coming. Something cold and hard grazes my ribs, and I slip past the doors and into that sensation of the world moving around me.

4

The first sensation I feel is that of cool grass on my skin. The second is a breeze that smells of lilac and green grass. I open my eyes, and push myself to my knees. I sit there, watching green blades wave in the wind, and breathe a sigh of relief. My ribs are throbbing, and I lift my shirt to check. There is a shallow furrow along the skin, and I can feel some bruising, but it feels like I got off easy.

I stand, and take note of a tree and scattered bushes in the distance. Beyond the tree, a field of wildflowers bow their heads as the wind passes by. It's pretty, but no doorway means no exit. I sink back to my knees, and try to think.

Maybe if I dig a hole. That's a threshold, right?

I look around again, and recognize the flora.

The tree has to be a maple, the bushes are those lilacs I smelled the first time, and I'm pretty sure those flowers in the field are daisies. Maybe I'm home already?

I dig my hands into the grass, past loose roots and into fertile soil that surrounds my fingers. I can feel the dirt work its way under my fingernails, and can smell the rich loam. A memory, of a farm where Keri and I had spent a summer, picking blueberries, comes to me, and I can feel a smile working its way across my face.

God, I hope she's okay.

I pull my hands out and stand, wiping the dirt from my fingers on my t-shirt. It's not like it's getting any dirtier, at this point. I turn in a circle, scanning the horizon for anything – a farmhouse, a road, even a telephone pole in the distance, but all I see are fields of grass and wildflowers dotted by the occasional tree.

I stop, and start to head for the tree at the edge of the flower field, when the earth trembles. It's mild, like a hiccough.

_California?_ I think.

I'm halfway to the tree when it comes again, stronger this time, a tremble and a shake. I stop, and look behind me. The field is still, grass and flowers and wind silent. I turn back, and the ground shakes once more, this time strong enough to make me stumble. I catch myself before I end up planted face-down in the dirt, and shoot a glance over my shoulder.

What I see there makes me stumble back, despite myself. The ground is furrowing itself, a long line of earth pushing up and out. It's roughly five feet wide, and making a beeline for me.

God, I hope that's Bugs Bunny.

Something tells me it's not, and I turn and run, a knot forming in my stomach, and in my ribs almost immediately. I'm almost to the tree when I hear the sound of sod ripping free from the earth, and spare a glance back.

_Some_ t _hing_ is bursting free from the ground, and I catch a glimpse of purple scales, so dark as to be almost black, banded with grey, and a mouth of concentric rings of teeth that seem to spin in the thing's head. It stands straight up from the hole it emerged from and waves in the air for a moment before diving back into the earth, auguring through it like a dolphin through a wave.

I pick up speed, and pass the tree, my thighs burning from the run. Wildflowers brush my legs, and I kick the occasional head off of one, sending petals flying on the breeze that has picked back up. I can smell their perfume, and I think of Keri, even as the monstrosity behind me gains.

There is the sound of wood splintering behind me, and I know that the worm is gaining. I know without a doubt that it has already split the tree I just passed, and I know that before long, I'll be ground to so much meat in its jaws.

The thought spurs me on, and I push as hard as I can, though I can feel every muscle in my body threatening to cramp, and my breath is coming ragged. Tears make their way down my face, and for the first time, I realize I am sobbing. I zig and zag across the field, and I think of Keri, and how I just want to see her one more time.

I don't want to die, oh God, not here, not like this, oh God, WAKE UP

I don't wake up. Instead, I come to the end of the field, to an edge that's perfect and smooth and round, and that drops off into nothing. It doesn't fall into darkness, or a ravine, or anything else, it's simply nothing beyond that point. I stop, and turn to look behind me, and the earth begins to rise under my feet. I know what's next, and I will not be a part of it.

I launch myself up and back, and fall into the nothing.

5

The world moves around me, _slides_ around me, and I am falling, and then, I am not.

I land on cold tile, and it makes a sound in my head like a ripe melon. I wince, and push myself to my feet, and rub the back of my head. It's still early morning here, soft light slipping in through a window over a kitchen sink. I stand and stretch, my back making tiny popping noises, then look around.

A woman is in the kitchen – an actual human, and my heart skips a beat. She is standing with her back to me, one pale shoulder peeking out from her nightgown, dark hair spilling over the other. My heart skips again, and then again, when I spot the birthmark on her shoulder, shaped a bit like a strawberry.

Keri.

I look for another minute, just taking her in. She doesn't turn, but then, maybe she didn't hear me fall. I step to her, and reach out. I brush a stray strand of hair from that bare shoulder, and lay my hand there. For a minute, she is all warm skin and life, and then, she is sand.

Her body collapses in on itself, dissolving into sand that swirls and eddies as it falls. It fills the air and the sunlight with motes of dust, and trickles through my fingers. I grab a handful, even as the bottom drops out of my heart.

So close...

I turn away from the sand, and notice the door to the kitchen is still swinging from my fall. I watch it as it arcs back and forth, back and forth, each swing shortening the opening, and sending a shadow jumping on the wall.

Swing.

I ignore the feeling of my heart trying to break, and watch that door.

Swing.

Almost closed. I reach down, and grab a full handful of sand, and put it in my pocket. I grab a knife from the block on the kitchen counter, just in case.

Swing.

The arc is as small as it can get now. No more time. I take a breath, and wait for it to swing my way one more time. I catch it as it opens, and step through.

The world _slides_ around me, and I think of Keri.

Birth

Alma was angry. Angry at herself, angry at Kevin, even a little angry at God. Not that she thought He'd notice, let alone care. Most of the time, she wouldn't have taken a thought like that personally, or would have tried to stifle it as blasphemy, a fear her deeply religious childhood had instilled in her. Most of the time she tried to understand. If there was a God, she thought, and he was responsible for the whole of Creation, then surely the problems of two people in the cosmos didn't, to paraphrase Bogey, 'amount to a hill of beans'.

Today though, she didn't care. The anger sat just below her breasts at her sternum, and burned white-hot. She could feel it radiating out of her like a corrupted heat, and a sudden spike of rage made her wish that it was sending a perfectly clear message of 'Fuck Off' - capital 'F', capital 'O' – to the universe.

She sat at the kitchen table and stared out at the little patch of yard behind their house lit by the midday sun, and willed it to go dark. When that didn't work, she stood and closed the drapes to the sliding doors, and then sat back down. It felt good to sit in the cool dark, and she lowered her head to the kitchen table and closed her eyes.

She found his ring on the kitchen table with a note. It had already been a long day – clients pushing for more than they were quoted, her boss pushing for more commitment, and her friends pushing for more time with her – so when she opened the door to an empty house, ice dug at the pit of her stomach. It wasn't just that the house was empty – Kevin had been late before – it was that it smelled wrong. Not lived in. No aftershave and sweat smells that said he had come home on lunch to change after the gym. No hint of reheated lunch in the air.

It got worse the farther she went into the house. There was no change on the table in the little hall that served as a foyer, though he always emptied his pockets if he had grabbed a coffee in the morning. There were no dishes in the sink from lunch, coated with a mix of refried beans and sour cream from those damn frozen burritos he loved so much. She had opened the fridge door to see if anything had been moved, and that ice in her stomach just grew harder when it was evident nothing had.

Fighting it down, she had sat at the table, and pulled her phone out to call him, when the note he had weighed down with his ring caught a breeze from the open kitchen window, a corner of the paper fluttering. She reached out, and slid the paper from under the gold band. Read the unsteady script written on it, once, then twice, and then balled it up and threw it against the wall as hard as she could. It bounced off with an unsatisfying 'click'. She stared at it, laying on the floor, and screamed. Once, and loud, but that ice in her stomach melted a little bit, and she was able to sit and think.

She opened her eyes and lifted her head from the table. The lump of ice was back, this time feeling as though it were crawling through her bowels. She clenched down hard and gritted her teeth, and the feeling passed.

_Self-pity is wasted thought_.

She eyed the knives on the kitchen counter, brushed steel handles shining with a dim reflected light. Her gaze slipped past them to the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. Drano, lye, bleach, a dozen other toxic chemicals lurked under there. Revenge tickled the corners of her mind, and was gone. She refused to deal with the aftermath. It made no sense to take a life if you were just throwing your own away in the process.

The hate came on her again like a wave, and she could feel her jaw tighten. How dare he? How _fucking_ dare he? All the things she had given to him, all the things she had given up, not least of which was ten years of her life. Ten years of swallowing the little things, and sometimes the big things, ten years of lying on her back and letting him fumble around and inside of her, ten years that turned out to be a lie.

The edges of her vision grew fuzzy, and she saw sparks jump in front of her eyes. She could feel the heat in her face, and pressure behind her eyes. She would not give in. There was no reason to cry, no reason to feel anything other than the hate that burned in her stomach. Even that was wasted, she thought – anger with no direction – so she took a breath, a deep, cleansing breath, and swallowed it down.

It took a moment, but the heat gradually subsided, the pressure behind her eyes, and the aching in her jaw. The feeling in her bowels – odd, but it felt more personal than that – returned, like a ball of ice forming inside her. She ignored it, and discovered she was hungry.

She wasn't a stress eater, so this struck her as somewhat odd, until she realized she had only had a salad for lunch and nothing for breakfast. She stood, and moved to the fridge, pausing for a moment to decide what she wanted before she opened it. When she couldn't decide, she opened it anyways, and grabbed the first thing her hand landed on.

Great.

It was a package of hot dogs. She pulled a plate out of the cupboard, and opened the package. The smell of cold meat hit her full on, and her stomach rumbled. She shrugged, and pulled a hot dog out and bit into it, sweet and meat swirling in her mouth. Her stomach growled again, and she took another bite, then another. The hot dog was gone, and she was on a second one. Then a third and a fourth.

She finished the package, standing in her kitchen over the sink, and her stomach still groaned and growled. She dropped the hot dog package, and moved to the fridge again. She almost flung the door open in her haste. Again, she grabbed the first thing in sight – a package of raw burger.

Shit, I should cook this.

The thought came and went, and then she was ripping into the package with bare hands, and eating the meat inside in scoops she tore out with her fingers. In the back of her mind, she was amazed she hadn't gagged yet, and then it was wiped away. She was past flavor, past texture, simply eating to fill what felt like a gaping hole in her stomach.

It was over in a matter of minutes, the empty burger package joining the hot dog plastic in the sink. Alma stood there, her breath coming hard and shallow, and she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. It came away red, and she almost retched. A short struggle and she was in control again.

That ice was back in her stomach, stronger than ever, a cold that seemed to radiate out and send tendrils into her hips and groin. She ignored it, and waited for it to pass. Instead, it throbbed and ached, and she decided the best thing to do was maybe sleep it off.

She stopped for a moment, and washed her hands, then scrubbed her face and lips with a dishcloth. When she was finished, and it came away pink, she made her way to the bedroom. She slipped out of her socks and pants, and then under the covers. Fatigue washed over her in waves, and she was only able to hold her eyes open long enough to place her head on the pillow, and then, nothing.

A dream of fire and ice, emotion rolled over her, scalded and froze her at the same time, until she was sure she should crack like pottery. Images slid by, and she was pulled into them. A walk over the bridge in the park, making love by the moonlight, fights where words were smashed into hearts as often as doors were slammed into their frames.

The dreams shifted, tone and place, and she found herself in darkness. She felt something grab her ankles, thick vines from a dark garden, and she was spread wide. Pain stabbed through her insides, and she felt blood trickle down the inside of her thighs. Then she was screaming as something inside began to force its way out, tearing flesh and cracking bone to find the light outside, and it was cold. She began to shiver, the pain in her hips dulled by ice, and her teeth began to chatter, loud and hard.

Clickclickclickclick

The clicking sound woke her. She opened her eyes to darkness. It took her a moment to realize the clicking sound in the room was from her teeth chattering, and not the refrigerator cycling in the kitchen. She forced her jaws to stop with an effort, and pulled the sheets closer. It was no good though. She had to pee, and when you had to go, fighting that feeling was like trying to swim upstream.

She got out of bed and padded to the bathroom, wiping sleep-bleared eyes. She flicked on the light, and looked down to lift the toilet lid. She stopped, and frowned, her brain trying to make sense of what she saw.

Her belly poked out, showing from under her shirt, the skin taut. She reached down and pulled her shirt up, and ran a hand over the skin. It was cold to the touch, and tight. She was still frowning in concentration, panic seeping in at the edges, when whatever was in her womb moved. She snatched her hand back, and felt her bladder let go.

The urine ran down her leg, a warm stream that left a puddle on the floor, but her mind was too busy trying to crawl in on itself to notice. She placed her hand on her belly again, and the thing inside moved a second time, its motion like that of an eel in a jar, swirling itself in circles.

_Okay, okay, I can figure this out. We had sex, what, a month ago?_ She was having a hard time with math just that moment. _And my period was – shit, that doesn't work. Oh God, I'm a mess._

She took off her panties as she thought, and used them to mop up the urine as best she could, then tossed them in the wastebasket. The shirt was next, and then she turned the shower as hot as she could stand it, and got in. The water felt good on her back, and for a while, she just stood under it and let it warm her. After a bit, her thoughts began to order themselves.

_Maybe it's a parasite._ She looked down at the bump in her stomach. _Or a whole shitload of parasites._

_I ate raw burger._ The thought made her stomach twist, but not as much as she expected. It passed, and she ran a hand over her belly again, almost absently this time. She was surprised to find she did not mind as much this time when the thing inside moved in response, though her skin was no warmer, despite the hot shower.

The doctor – I'll go to the ER tonight, and figure out what this is.

Almost as soon as she had the thought, the cold in her stomach, which up till that moment had been a simple chill, intensified. It grew from the chill of an autumn day into what felt like a blizzard, rushing through her insides and spreading to hips and thighs and deeper, into bone. She managed to step out of the shower, and wrap herself in a towel, but got no further.

The cold deepened, seeming to wrap itself in the marrow of her bones, and her legs gave out. She managed to catch herself with her hands as she went down, and at the least was relieved that she would not be nursing a concussion or a busted nose from the fall. Laying on the floor, she gave a whimper, and was immediately angry with herself.

I am not weak.

She drug herself inch by inch across tile she could no longer feel from the waist down, until she was laying on the warm carpet of her bedroom floor. She turned onto her back, and tented her legs, the position relieving some of the pressure she thought she felt on her hips. She lay there for a time, willing the cold to abate, and thought daggers at Kevin.

Fuck you for not being here, and fuck you for being selfish, and fuck you for this.

Her hands clutched and pulled at the shag under her, as the cold began to throb, a new sensation she was not happy about. She lifted her head to look down, and screamed, when she saw the skin of her stomach being stretched, expanding at a rate she could not accept. She threw her head back and clinched her eyes shut, and cursed the world again.

_Fuck you,_ she thought again. _Fuck this, fuck life, fuck fuck fuck._

She was spent, her breath coming in short ragged gasps. Then the pain came.

She thought she was too numb, but it still ripped through her, like ice turned jagged, and she screamed at the first wave. It rippled from her womb in a down and back motion, sending cramps through her bowels and back and thighs. The second came as soon, and she screamed again, unable to clamp down on her reaction.

Alma could no longer see, the pain sending up waves of black and yellow stars that obscured her vision, and cut out all thought. She felt for her stomach, hands frantic in their motion, and found it was distended even more. The skin felt so tight, she felt sure it would split any moment, and then, another wave of pain, so sharp and intense it was almost indistinguishable from pleasure. She screamed one last time, and heard a crack, then another, and another. Breath was stolen from her, and she was sure those sounds were her ribs giving way. Then she was still, dead eyes staring at the black that never left her.

*

She walked through the house, her fingers tracing items as she came across them. Here a picture, there a vase of flowers, and there a small ceramic heart that held a locket. None of these things held any value for her. She thought her mother too sentimental.

The few lights that still burned in the house seemed to dim as she passed them, her skin, black and dull, as though she had been dipped in matte paint, drinking their glow and returning nothing. As she walked, small patches of frost formed on the walls and the floor, and then dissipated, leaving only dew drops behind.

She paused in her tour, hearing a key in the lock below. Her fingers tightened around the shard of bone she held, a piece of her mother. She thought it fitting, a rib from the woman who birthed her. His voice echoed through the house.

"Alma?" He waited, and then it came again. "Alma? You home?"

She walked to the bedroom and waited. For a while, she thought he wouldn't come, and then he was there, a shadow in the doorway. She smiled when she saw him, and he thought her Alma. She moved to him, and he opened his mouth as if to say something.

She slammed the rib into his larynx, the jagged bone ripping through flesh and cartilage. He tried to scream, and she ripped the bone free, taking his windpipe with it. Of all things, he would not profane this place with an imitation of her mother. She stood over him as he gaped and struggled to fill the hole in his throat. She looked at him, a gaze devoid of passion and mercy alike, and then she made it last all night.

Blood

It started, as it sometimes does, with the children. Charlie would take them in the night, when they slept, when the world was dark. In some ways, he knew he was weak. He would tell himself it shouldn't be children; that they needed more time. Other times, he knew he was doing them a favor. They were so fragile and innocent and sweet. He was giving them a gift. He was _helping_ them.

He would take one, and then wait. He would dote and cherish, and when he was ready, he would take another. Then another, and another, always with a space between. He needed time to teach them. Time enough for the furor to die down, time enough for the Amber Alerts and the posters to stop coming. He could control himself. He could wait. Besides, each he took was another member he added to his growing family. At night, they would wait for him to return, to see what he brought them, their eager faces and teeth gleaming in the dim light.

In the end, they were grateful to him, and he loved them all.

*

There were no funerals, no bodies. Instead, the town held memorials and vigils; wreaths on crosses and groups of men and women holding candles against the rain. They wept and consoled one another, and held glimmers of hope against odds that their children would return. In the dark though, in rooms shut from the outside world, they knew the truth, and muttered and cursed Heaven.

Twenty. Twenty children gone, vanished from the face of the earth like breath on the wind. It stopped there, as though the disappearances were a virus passed from family to family. For a time, there was national attention, and agents from various law enforcement agencies, but nothing came of it. After the Amber Alerts and flashing lights, the families were left alone again in the quiet dark.

Some time later, as weeks turned to months and months to almost a year and the sharp pain of loss faded to a dull ache, they began to notice changes in the town. The streets were quieter. The mouse problem, that had so long plagued a small country town, dried up, as though they had moved on to greener pastures. Dogs and cats ran away, and did not return. There were whispers of a cult that had moved in, and was sacrificing the animals, though there was no proof. Besides, it was the sort of place where everyone knew everyone else, and they were sure if their neighbors were in a cult, it would come out.

Then one night, where the snow lay on the ground in cool white drifts that glowed silver under the moonlight, and Christmas trees shone in darkened windows, they came back. They walked on bare feet in the cold, which they did not seem to feel, and their skin shone pale in the moonlight. Too-big eyes caught the light but did not reflect it back, and full red lips smiled sweetly as doors were opened in shock and restrained joy.

They were invited in, and Charlie watched from the shadows as the children - _his_ children, now - began to make families of their own.

*

Jesse crossed another day off on the calendar. December 22. It had been nine months since Christina had disappeared with the other children, and in his heart of hearts, he still held out hope she was alive. He wasn't under the illusion that her life might be good, or that she was happy, but he held to the glimmer that told him she might be holding on like a woman freezing holds onto the embers of a fire.

A knock at the door distracted him, and he laid the pen down, and walked to the foyer. He twitched the curtain that covered the skinny glass window aside, and peeked out. A small shape, shadowed under the eaves of the porch, stood patiently. He frowned to himself, and unlocked the door, then cracked it.

"Hello?" He said.

"Hello, Daddy." The voice pierced his heart, dug into old wounds and reopened them. Hope flickered in his chest. He flipped on the light that hung over the door. There, barefoot and pale, and still as beautiful as her mother, was Christina. "May I come in? It's cold outside, Daddy."

She looked up at him with eyes that were large and dark, and he felt something break inside. He opened the door all the way.

"My baby." A catch in his throat caused the last word to come out in a rasp, but he recovered, and said "Come in."

She stepped over the threshold, and threw herself into his arms. For a moment, they held each other, and he felt warm tears slide down his cheeks and cool there as the winter wind blew a gust into the house. After a moment, he disentangled himself, and closed the door. He turned around, and Christina was watching him with those deep eyes. She smiled, and he noticed how white and sharp her teeth were. It made him pause, but only for a moment, until she raised her arms like she had so many times before.

"Hug me again, Daddy."

He knelt and took her in his arms. She laid her tiny head on his shoulder, and for the first time, he noticed how cold and frail she felt. He stroked her hair, and she turned her head to nuzzle into his neck.

"You're so cold." He said. He thought he could get her a blanket to warm up in.

He felt a pain in his neck, and he twitched away from his daughter. Something warm and wet trickled into his collar, and he heard Christina laugh.

"Hold still, Daddy, and I can get warm."

He looked at her, and saw the smudge of red on her lips and around her mouth. He pulled away, and felt at his neck. His fingers came back red, and when he looked at his daughter, she was advancing. Her eyes, including the whites, had gone flat black, like a sky with no stars, and her canines were elongated, the points wicked and red.

Terror and denial tore through him like a midnight train, and he backed into his front door. She continued to advance, and he knew he had to do something, or his life was forfeit. Something was wrong with his daughter; something he knew deep in his core was unnatural. The word _vampire_ flitted through his mind like a moth passing a flame.

His eyes fell on the closet door. He threw it open as Christina charged, and it hit her with enough force to knock her back. The door vibrated in the frame, and for a moment, he felt a tremendous amount of guilt for hurting her. He peeked around the door, and saw she was on her hands and knees, a furious scowl on her face.

His mind was trying not to work, and he fought against the terror as she snarled a curse. He looked back at the open closet, and had an idea. With a shout, and terror pumping in his veins, he grabbed her small form. She twisted against him, snapping with her teeth, but he was able to stay clear. He hauled her in front of the closet and with a heave, tossed her in among the coats and boots, and slammed the door.

Jesse thought he must've stunned her, because for a moment, there was no sound or movement from inside. He looked for some way to lock the door, and came across the small table in the entry he usually kept his keys on. He snagged it, while still leaning his shoulder into the door, and dragged it over, until he could wedge it under the doorknob. That done, he sunk to the floor, his back against the front door, and stared at the closet, the numbness of shock creeping into his limbs. He absently felt his neck again, and found the bleeding had stopped.

*

Time passed. He wasn't sure how long, staring at the door, waiting for something. Some sound, some indication she was in there, some indication she would try to get out. A part of him wasn't sure it was happening. He thought it was possible he had fallen asleep in his chair, or maybe left the gas on to one of the burners on the stove. Maybe he was comatose in a mental ward, still recovering from the loss of both his wife and daughter. He felt his neck again, and the low aching throb there told him all of those things were untrue.

When her voice came through the door, it was small, and it tore at his heart.

"Daddy? Daddy, it's dark in here. Let me out."

He caught himself reaching for the table in order to pull it away from the door. He shook his head and sat back again, and tried to think.

What do I know about vampires?

That's easy, they don't exist.

Then what were that bite, and those teeth, and those eyes?

Maybe she's sick.

They hate garlic. And crosses. And sunlight. And running water.

What about stakes?

Through the heart.

Can you do that? Through her tiny heart? What if you're wrong? Kill a little girl because you're delusional? Can you?

"Daddy? Let me out. You can tuck me into bed, and read me a story, and we can be a family."

He fought the urge to free her again, and stayed where he was. He wondered if he had any crosses in the house, or even a Bible.

"Are you mad at me, Daddy? I'm sorry." There was a sound from inside the closet, like sniffling. Jesse thought she might be crying, and another piece of his heart tore.

He stood, and checked to make sure the door was shut tight. Then he went to the kitchen, and broke off a leg from the tiny stool she used to wash her hands at the sink. It came away from the pink wood with a snap, and he grabbed a carving knife, and then went back to the foyer. The table was still in place, the door closed. It was quiet again. He sat down, his back to the front door, and began to carve.

*

He only had to wait until sunrise. Then he'd find out. The stake was just in case. He had laid the carving knife to the side, and was inspecting the sharp little spike he had carved from the stool's leg. He had peeled away the pink paint and the layers of wood until it came to a point of bare pine. He wondered if he'd need a hammer to drive it in, if it came to that, or if he'd be able to push hard enough. The though turned his stomach, and he was almost glad when a new sound came from the closet.

Christina was scratching on the door. It was a long unnerving sound, like the wood inside was being peeled away by something sharp. It would go on for a minute or two, and then stop, and then, after another minute, begin again. Jesse gripped his stake tighter, and waited.

After about an hour, the scratching stopped, and the door vibrated with a thump. There was a muffled curse from inside, and then his daughter spoke.

"Daddy. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out."

Her voice had changed, had gone from sweet and innocent to something dead and insistent. It chilled his spine like ice water, and made his heart flutter. He thought of predator and prey. Still, he refused to answer, or to run blindly into the night. With the change in her voice, something in his mind came to a realization, and he saw what was there. She was a monster, something that should have stayed in the dark. For a moment, he wondered how many other families would go through the same thing, or whether it was too late for them.

"Let me out, or I'll come out, Daddy. You don't want me to come out on my own; you want us to be together. Just think, Daddy. I'll always be your little girl like this. We can be a family forever."

He felt tears making their way down his face, and he angrily brushed them aside. He hated what life had done to him, the pain it had handed to him. He hated what Christina had become, and what had made her that way. He hated the dark, inside and out, and prayed for a new day.

The scratching started again.

*

Jesse woke to the sight of a tiny fist breaking through the wood panel of the closet door. He had fallen asleep at some point, and had dreamt of a bright day by a cool blue lake. His family had been there, whole and happy. Now, his daughter was coming for him. He clutched the stake, and stood.

"Daddy!" Christina said through the door. "Let. Me. Out." She peered out the hole she had made, and her eyes were still a deep merciless black. He hid the hand holding the stake at his side, and held up his free hand, palm-out.

"Wait! Wait. I'll let you out."

She smiled through the hole in the door. "Oh Daddy. You'll be so happy."

He went to the door, and moved the table. After a moment, he turned the knob, and pulled it open. She was waiting inside, in the dark, but he could see her smile, gleaming white. Her teeth were so sharp, tiny knives in the black. His hand tightened on the stake, and he could feel splinters bite into his palm. He was weeping again.

"Daddy." She said.

"My baby." He stepped into the closet.

*

Charlie watched the house where the front porch light shone. It was almost dawn, and his daughter hadn't come out yet. He waited a bit longer, and turned away. The others would be joining him soon, sons and daughters and more mommies and daddies. They would be a family, and later, when the sun fell below the horizon, they would have a reunion.

Cold

The trenches were laid out across the earth like a zigzag of scars, men huddled deep in them against the glowering sky and the cold rain that fell from it. Between them, fields of barbed wire grew from the ground like a steel harvest. Here and there, bodies bloomed on the ground and in the steel, sightless eyes staring upwards. They wore the uniforms of friend and foe alike, victims of failed charges and successful sorties. The sun had been down only a few hours, but already the temperature had dropped several degrees. A chill wind had sprung up in the interim, driving the rain into the trenches and the cold into the bones.

Down below, men dug into packs and pulled out ponchos to keep the worst of the wet off, or had erected makeshift shelters with bits of canvas while mud squelched beneath their boots. Others forwent comfort entirely, eyes or mirrors occasionally peeking above the rim of the trench, always on the lookout for any sign of movement from the Germans.

John Valentine was one of the men below. He leaned his back against an earthen wall, the bulwark cool and hard through his uniform. He lit a cigarette, grateful for both the habit and the cold. Between the two, it was almost easy to believe the smells of decay and cordite were fading, and that death could be forgotten as easily as a scent carried away by the wind.

He stood in silence, watching the smoke from the end of the cigarette rise in lazy spirals, and then get torn apart in a cold gust. To either side of him, he could hear the low murmur of conversation about home, of comforts left behind, and occasionally, of the current situation. Somewhere to his left, someone had started up a card game under their makeshift shelter, and he could hear the soft snap of cardboard striking wood, and a quiet chuckle. He even imagined that if he was very still, he could hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees of the Ardennes – a long way off, but still visible on a clear day.

The fighting had gone on for six days. Six days of fire and blood, of the Germans shelling their positions, the explosions coming so loud and frequent it felt as though the earth itself would shake and split and swallow them whole.

John was almost grateful for these moments, as well. Fear and noise and the shouts of his fellow soldiers served to drown out the noise in his head, a constant assault of memory and vision that threatened to drown him and pull him under in its persistence.

In the cold dark though, the sounds of wind and rain his only companions, memory flooded back.

*

Summer, and the sun slipped across a clear azure sky, while a warm breeze stirred golden fields below. She sat across from John on a blanket they had spread under an old oak at the edge of the field. In the distance, sunlight shimmered on the roof of the old farmhouse, sending up mirage waves of heat, and off the windows, turning each into a silver mirror of light. Gnats gathered in small clouds in the middle distance, boiling in the air like steam from a kettle. John could smell wheat chaff and lilac from the bushes by the house, and closer, the scents of her hair and skin, fresh and sweet like sun-dried linen.

Under the emerald leaves of the oak, they leaned in and kissed, his hand sliding under her hair to the back of her neck, skin as smooth as flax. He tasted the apple they had shared for dessert, heated by her breath, and when they parted, she whispered his name.

*

"John!"

The voice snapped him out of memory, and he looked around, flicking away the cigarette that had burned to a nub. He heard the sound of dirt sliding on dirt, and a soft scrabble. A second later, a hand gripped him by the shoulder, and he turned to look at the speaker.

It was Merryweather, a slight ginger-haired private with a ruddy complexion and a smattering of freckles across his face. He smiled, white uneven teeth shining in the moonlight.

"Hey man. Sorry, thought you'd checked out."

"No, no. Just woolgathering." John said.

Merryweather nodded. "Right. Well, Sarge says it's your turn up top. Good luck, man."

He patted John on the shoulder one more time, re-slung his rifle, and turned to go. John watched him walk down the trench until his back disappeared around a curve in the trench wall. He sighed, picked up his own rifle, and made his way up the embankment to take his place as lookout.

Up top, iron plates with slits in them had been placed in intervals along the trench line, ideally to keep snipers from picking off lookouts, but the idea hadn't been one hundred percent, as some German shooters had taken to using armor-piercing rounds. As a result, John had been showered with bits of skull and brain after an over-eager private had stayed too long peering out. He could still remember the sound the bullet had made as it passed through the plate –metal on metal, making the iron plate ring like a bell - and the sound the private's body made as it slid down the trench wall. Because of that, John only looked out when he had to – every three to five minutes, and only long enough to be sure no one was creeping across no-man's land.

Once at the top, John settled into the hollow behind the iron plate, making sure to unsling his rifle and have it at the ready. From where he stood, it seemed the smells of decay and fire had redoubled their efforts to overpower the senses, and he had to fight to keep his gag reflex down. The rain was stronger here too, driven by a wind not hindered by the earthen walls. He shivered, and then did his best to suppress that too. It would be hard to draw a bead if he was shaking like a puppy.

John took a deep breath and took his first look through the slit in the plate in front of him. Scorched earth, craters, barbed wire, and bodies greeted him. He scanned left to right, and tried not to look the corpses in the face. When he was satisfied the field was empty, he ducked back down and tried not to think of the rotting bodies the mud and the earth were already trying to reclaim.

John looked around at the other men behind their plates, men that were for the most part, little more than teenagers thrust into adulthood by the war. Most had come into an awareness of this, men's minds forced into young bodies by death and cruelty; others still innocent, and wearing it on their sleeves. He worried about the latter most of all, knowing that the ones who believed this was just a bad spot in a good life would one day wake up from dreams of fire and the clutching hands of dead men and realize a part of their souls had been burned away.

*

A cold December, and John had spent the majority of his time either looking for work or doing odd jobs and maintenance around the old farmhouse Emily's father had left her. They had been married in the fall, and her father had passed away shortly after, cancer claiming first his lungs, then the rest of his once hale body.

He had lain in the hospital bed, his withered frame barely stirring the sheets as he breathed, tubes snaking into his body like tendrils of vine. He had held Emily's hand and smiled, his eyes watery. Then he drew one breath and released it, a long slow rattle that wheezed from his ravaged lungs like a rusty teakettle, and when it was over, he was gone.

Emily cried on and off for three days, the sound of her sobs punctuating the sighs of the winter wind outside. John drifted through the house those days like a ghost, unsure of himself, or the comfort he could give. He would go to her at times and hold her, until his chest was wet with her tears and his arms trembled with the force of her sobs. Other times he would sit and listen to her grief, and stare into space, and sometimes he could feel a hole in his chest as though something had been lost to him too.

In those times, those dark quiet times, surrounded by grief and wind and winter, he would cry too.

*

His cheeks were wet. John reached up and wiped them, and felt cold on his palm. He looked up at the sky and saw a white star field falling slowly down. He watched it drift and blow and swirl in eddies, dancing in the wind.

Three soft pops, and then a sizzling sound, almost like bacon in a pan, and the night sky was lit in red and orange, turning the battlefield into neon nightmare. John looked to his left and saw a private staring out of the slit in the iron plate in front of him, his eyes wide and white. John didn't blame him. He knew what came next. He rolled over and looked out of his own opening; to be sure the flares weren't simply a feint by the Germans.

He scanned the battlefield – bodies, wire, and snow a blur as he ran his vision over them. He did it twice. Right to left, left to right, and halfway back he heard it – a deep thump and then a whistle that reminded him of a train barreling down its tracks. John knew what was next again – a bright flash and torn earth, and a shudder in the ground as though it too was dying.

Before that though, before the sound and the fury, he saw her. Emily, barefoot and naked and pale, walking to him in the snow. Then the tears came, moments before the whistling stopped and a white-hot flash seared her and the world from his vision.

*

He found her in their bedroom. While he had slept in her father's old overstuffed chair in front of the fire downstairs, Emily had found her father's hunting rifle, pressed the barrel against the roof of her mouth, and pulled the trigger with her toe.

John had torn up the stairs at the sound, the pit of his stomach clenched so hard he wanted to vomit, sleep still clinging to his eyes. When he got to the top of the stairs, and saw what Emily had done, he did. He looked again, and sank to the floor, his wife painted on the wall and ceiling, and his own hopes and dreams drying on the floor beside him. He sat there, and didn't cry, and when the smells of blood and cordite and vomit became too much, he got up and called the coroner.

After all was said and done, they buried her in the spring, in a plot next to her father, but by then John was gone too. The war had come calling, and he had embraced it.

*

John blinked. He blinked again, and his vision cleared in fits and starts, white fading to orange fading to dim spots at the edge of his vision. He stared out of the slit. No more explosions bloomed in his view, though a haze of smoke and dirt and snow hung in the air. The wind and snowfall had died as well, and the glow from the flames was long-dimmed. Then the haze shifted, as though the wind was pushing aside a curtain, and she was there again, Emily, closer this time.

John stared, his eyes roaming her from hairline to ankles and back, stopping at the dark crease between her legs, and her full pink-tipped breasts. She was more than that to him, but it had been so long, and seeing her again had pushed those tied feelings of love and lust to the surface, rose and razor bound together. He felt himself move below the waist, that part of him defying rational thought and seeking refuge in animal instinct. He snapped a look right again and stifled his thoughts. The private beside him hadn't noticed, and didn't seem to care, instead huddled in his hollow behind the steel plate against any debris and shrapnel that might stray his way.

John turned back, and peered out again. Emily was still there, watching him, pale skin untouched by the miasma surrounding her. Their eyes met, and then she was moving, in stutters and flashes, first whole and perfect, then dead and rotting, as though reality were trying to remind her that she shouldn't be – couldn't be. Her eyes were pitch black, the color of tar in sunlight, and when they turned on John, he could feel his bowels clench. The pit was back in his stomach, and though he wanted to, he didn't vomit, and then she was there, in front of that iron plate, and he could hear her breath, rasping and cold, behind it. Emily squatted. Perfect, rotting breasts swayed in front of her chest, her mouth a gaping not gaping wound in her skull, her eyes black pits of fever. When she pressed her lips against the opening in the plate, the pit in John's stomach let go, and he pissed himself. He watched frost rime the opening of the port, watched her full lips open in anticipation.

_So long...it's been so long,_ he thought, and he felt something let go inside of him, like a gear stripped free of its machine. He raised himself up and met her lips with his own, and tasted apple and cold earth. For a moment, he thought he heard a sound like metal on metal, or a bell, then it was gone, and there was only Emily.

Exorcism

Context is everything. It's the reason I was standing in a bodega, yelling at an old woman in a dead language and brandishing a jar of pickles. I suppose it would help to know the old lady was possessed by a Sumerian gluttony demon, and the language was Enochian. The pickles were because I was hungry for pickles, and I forgot to put them down, so I just rolled with it. Like I said - context.

Somewhere in the background, someone was talking on the phone, and in the city, a siren was wailing. I was more concerned with the old lady standing across from me, a French loaf in one hand, a bag of Fleet enemas in the other. What can you say - old age leads to incontinence. She blinked, and for a moment, I saw her irises turn red, like blood in water. I could see her tense to run, and I pulled back my arm to throw the pickles to stun her.

In the back of my head, I heard the bell over the door tinkle - an angel was getting his wings - and someone shouting in Spanish. I started to throw the pickles as the old lady twitched to the right, but never made the throw. A hand, cool, with a grip like steel, grabbed my wrist, stopped the throw.

"That's enough now, Angus."

I spun to face the man who had stopped me, and caught the old lady walking to the register. She was wearing a smirk. I looked in to the face of a six-foot-four two-hundred and fifty pound cop. Shit. Murphy. He's the only one that'd use my first name. He smiled.

"How've you been? Aside from harassing old ladies?"

He seemed unconcerned that a Sumerian demon was escaping. Probably didn't even know. That's what happens when you're vanilla. Suit, tie, nine to five, and having a good cry in your car alone over a McDonald's cheeseburger. I slid the pickles back onto the shelf as innocently as possible.

"Oh, you know. Fine. Just...exorcising a lot these days."

Murphy looked around the bodega. The old lady was escaping through the front door. One of her support hose had fallen. The bell over the door tinkled again as she exited, and I cursed under my breath. The lady behind the counter, a middle-aged Spanish lady with long dark hair, was glaring at me, but at least was no longer calling me a _puta_ over and over. Murphy looked back to me.

"You gonna leave nice?"

I nodded, and tried to look contrite.

"You gonna chase that old lady?" He asked.

I shook my head, and tried to look like I wasn't lying. He eyeballed me for a moment, and seemed to decide I wasn't worth the paperwork. He sighed.

"Okay. Out, then."

I went, leaving Murphy behind, the bell over the door announcing my departure. The air outside was crisp, and smelled faintly of exhaust. The light was fading, and I spent a good minute looking both ways down the darkening street, trying to find my demon. After a minute, I looked behind me, through the glass door of the bodega. Murphy had just finished talking to the lady behind the counter, and was heading toward me. I decided to make like a pedestrian.

I was at the crosswalk when the door tinkled one last time behind me. The thought of that demonic old bag niggled at me. I didn't look back.

*

I made a sandwich. Exorcism is hard work. Battle of wills, light versus dark, extreme personal danger - all that. I was starving. Bread, ham, pastrami, pepperoni - wait a damn minute. No pickles? I groaned inwardly. That was _why_ I went to the bodega in the first place. Well, nothing to be done for it.

I put the sandwich in the fridge, grabbed my keys, and left. I was getting pickles. Luckily, I knew of a 24 hour store. More importantly, I knew they were a bit farther than the bodega, which was closed, and I _knew_ they had pickles.

The door to my apartment closed behind me, latching with a soft click. I cursed the old lady under my breath all the way down the stairs, and daydreamed about a delicious sandwich, _with pickles._

*

The grocery store was a great corporate behemoth, whitewashed brick walls and vast glass windows that reflected the parking lot and the tall lights with their bugs buzzing around them. The parking lot was nearly empty this time of night, most people done with their after-work shopping and dining, and now sipping coffee and beer in front of the TV where Sheldon Cooper or Gregory House entertained them.

The glass doors whooshed open on well-oiled tracks, and I could smell glass cleaner and an earthy aroma from the bin of watermelons in the entry. I walked past rows of carts and a hand sanitizer pump - _pump pump -_ I scrubbed my hands \- and walked into the store proper. Cool air and mingled food scents - cooling breads from the deli, and the tang of meat - hit me in the face and passed on.

I made a beeline for the pickled goods, and after a minute of walking, found them. I stood for a moment, dumbfounded by the sheer variety. Pickled okra, garlic, tiny ears of corn, Brussels sprouts - I suppressed a gag - and _where the hell where the pickles_? After a moment of panic, I looked to my left, and found them, glorious, tangy pickles. I grabbed a jar and wandered back to the meats, thinking I might add some salami to my near-perfect sandwich.

I was still in the aisle when I heard someone chewing. Not like you hear someone chewing when something's crunchy, but that lip-smacking, wet and gooey, somebody's-eating-something-raw-and-I'm-gonna-puke chewing. I stepped into the open, past the end cap of the aisle, where Stove-Top stuffing was hawking their new flavor. Mint sage, I think. I dunno - it's gross.

The old lady was there, bent over the meat counter. She had a package of hamburger open, and was eating it by the handful. Thin runners of blood trickled down her chin and pattered on the floor. My stomach threatened to heave up the sandwich I hadn't eaten yet.

"Hey." I said. That's me, master of witty repartee.

She looked up, and I saw her eyes flash red. A low growl rose in her throat, and for a moment, I thought she was going to speak. Instead, I chucked the pickles at her head.

They hit with a thud, and the pickles fell to the floor. The jar shattered, and the smell of vinegar and dill filled the air. I felt a pang of regret. I had really wanted those pickles. A moment later, the old woman's eyes rolled up in her head, and she collapsed into the briny mess, still clutching a wad of meat. I looked around frantically and listened.

There were no shouts of alarm, no one running down the aisle or shouting. Aside from the sound of the meat cooler humming away, the store was quiet. I thanked whoever was watching over me, and weighed my options. One - run like hell, and hope nobody found the old lady before I was out. Two - my eyes fell on the service entrance to the stockroom, tucked between meat cases. Two - drag her in the back, block the door, and perform an exorcism. I looked around again, and grabbed the lady by her wrists, and dragged her through the doors.

The room was big and cold. I could see my breath in the air. I looked around. Against the far wall pallets of meat were stacked, with a pallet jack nearby. In the center of the wall was a deep freeze door, a dial next to it showing the temperature of the room beyond. A stainless steel counter with a sink stood against another wall, with a hook over it, and knives on a magnetic strip. The room had the distinct smell of coppery blood, old and new, floating through the air.

I pulled the old lady into the center of the room, and dropped her, then grabbed the pallet jack and shoved its prongs into a pallet. After a minute of trial and error, I got the pallet and the jack moving, and managed to drop the small mountain of meat in front of the door. That done, I turned back to the old lady.

I needed a circle, if I was going to get anything done. I looked around, and my brain lit up. There was salt on a small shelf over the cutting table. Probably for pre-seasoned steaks. I walked over, and sure enough, salt, Lawry's, and a few other spices took up the shelf. I grabbed the salt, and opened the spout, then walked over to the old lady. Idly, I wondered what her name was. She was probably an Edna. They're almost always Edna, or Bernice.

I poured the salt out in a line as I walked a circle around the lady, careful not to break or cross the line. When I was done, I set the salt to the side, and crouched next to Edna. I took a good look at her. She was lined - more wrinkled than a paper bag, and thin blue veins traced paths in her temples and across the backs of her hands. Her skin was like parchment, and nearly as white as snow, like her hair, which spiraled in wispy curls from the top of her head.

She stirred, and I spoke to her in Enochian.

"Who are you?" I asked.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw me. Her pale blue, rheumy eyes filled with tears, and she raised a hand to the swelling bruise on her forehead.

"What? Why'd you hit me? What am I doing here?" She asked.

I smirked at her. It was the demon, I knew. I'm no sucker.

"You're free to go. You just need to leave the circle."

She raised her head and looked around, but made no move to leave. A sneer snuck onto her lip, and her eyes flashed red.

"Look, cocksucker. Let an old lady go. Or, I can strip your skin, and eat you like beef jerky. I can fill your mother's mouth with sh-"

I punched her in the head. I have issues with impulse control. What can I say?

She slumped back onto the concrete floor, and I stood, shaking the ache out of my hand. I was pacing, trying to find a new tack, when someone passed by the meat department doors. I waited a minute, and he passed again. Shit. It was Murphy.

I ducked behind the meat pallet and waited. I saw his shadow pass again, and I prayed to whoever was listening that he was just having a hard time deciding on a flank steak. I waited another five minutes, the only sounds in the room my heartbeat and Edna's breathing. When I was sure he was gone, I moved the meat pallet away from the door, and broke the salt circle. I hated to do it, but getting shot by an off-duty cop in Hamburgerville wasn't my idea of fun.

I crept out of the double doors and left, my head down. Someone had cleaned up the pickle puddle. I hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to get out clean, and wanting another jar of pickles. The pickles won out. I grabbed a jar, and headed for the checkouts, still looking at the floor.

That's how I ran into Murphy's wall-sized back.

I bounced off, nearly dropped the pickles, and cursed. Murphy turned, and just raised an eyebrow.

"Pickles okay?" He asked.

They were. I nodded and swallowed the horse-sized lump in my throat. I gestured at his basket.

"Dinner?"

He nodded. We stood in silence for a moment, then his turn at the register came up, and we were done talking. I breathed out a little. I started toward the line, to put my pickles down, when a sound - running feet - distracted me. I turned, and saw Edna, her hair completely wild, her eyes wide, dried meat blood on her chin, and spittle drooling from her open mouth. She was also making a noise, which doesn't seem all that important, but it was really _really_ annoying.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Murphy spun around just as Edna raised a ten-inch boning knife.

"Holy crap!" He yelled.

"Ack!" I agreed.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Edna added.

Then, time slowed down, and three things happened at once. Murphy drew his gun. Edna got close enough to take a swipe with that small sword of hers, and I chucked my pickles at her. Again.

Time snapped back to normal. The pickles sailed wide, and shattered on the floor, I felt what seemed to be a fireplace poker rip its way into my arm, and there was a noise in my ear, like someone popping the world's biggest paper bag, if it were filled with gunpowder. The world went white for a minute, and then made a sound not unlike Edna's wail. I staggered back from the knife, and red blossomed on Edna's blouse, right above the embroidered chicken on her chest. She staggered as well, her eyes open in surprise, and then dropped the knife. She swayed for a moment, then fell to the floor. She didn't get back up.

I turned to Murphy, my arm burning, warmth running down the inside of my elbow. He looked at me, then at the old lady on the floor.

"?"

Well, he didn't really say 'question mark', but you know. What else are you going to say after that?

I shrugged.

*

It took the cops a couple of hours so sort us out, and another couple of my hours at the hospital, where they turned my arm into a cross-stitch project. There was no inquiry. The official report said the suspect was delusional, and combative, and Officer Murphy acted in the best interests of everyone involved.

You might ask whether I wrestle with some sort of moral dilemma after getting an old lady - God rest her wrinkled soul - killed. I'd like to tell you there was nothing to feel bad for, that the demon had delved so deep and taken over so completely, the original woman was gone. I'd like to tell you that good and evil are simple things that walk the world in suits of black and white. I'd like to tell you I don't have dark moments. I'd like to tell you that lies are easy to come by for me, and I don't turn to them sometimes. But I won't.

What I will tell you is that I finally got my pickles. Worth it.

Hell, Inc.

Simon Sinek said "Customers will never love a company until the employees love it first." Richard Branson said "A business has to be involving, it has to be fun, and it has to exercise your creative instincts." And Mark Cuban said "Know your business and industry better than anyone else in the world. Love what you do or don't do it."

Cooper Green thought those were fine sentiments, and probably ones the shitheads up the ladder believed. Personally, he thought that if the drones felt like hanging themselves in their dim basement cubes, you probably needed a better corporate philosophy. Then again, it was Hell. Maybe that was the point. Not that he was complaining, personally. Upper management was as cushy as it got.

There were perks - women, power, and a certain amount of immunity from the day to day punishment of Hell. All it took was a bit of work and a sensible head, and a guy could live very comfortably down here. The women were intoxicating - the power even more so.

Thanks to Reagan and the big business boom of the Eighties, Hell had restructured. Cooper looked out his office window, at the view around him. Skyscrapers filled the skyline, their bases coated in Hell's characteristic rime of frost and ice. Their tops soared into the red-black clouds of the Nether, and disappeared into the haze. Rivers wound their way through the landscape, neither cold enough to fully freeze, nor warm enough to melt completely. Cooper could see ice floes and smaller, darker dots in the waters - souls that had been 'downsized', or never brought into the ladder into the first place, still paying penance.

The box on his desk - a small intercom - buzzed, and he swiveled away from the window. He pressed the blinking button on the base.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Green? The eleven o'clock meeting is starting."

"Thanks, Sharon."

He clicked the button off and sighed. When he was alive, he had thought meetings were hell. What he understood now was that they were just an invention of the place. It seemed to him that if there was a way for middle management to waste time, it was through meetings. The worst part was that he had eternity to deal with them.

He straightened his tie, and stood, then left his office and its bland beige walls and single Ficus in an equally bland grey pot behind. He walked past Sharon, his secretary, a skinny blond with shark's eyes, who happened to be wearing a light grey pantsuit. She had her head down over her computer, and was typing away. A cross-stitched plaque in a frame on her desk read 'The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves' in cursive script, with a spray of small flowers in each corner.

He strode past, and into an unremarkable hall, then into another, and another, until he came to a large room, its walls and door set with glass. He pulled the door open, and went inside. He was greeted with the sound of light chatter, the attendees already gathered, most just waiting on him. He nodded to a couple, pale men and women in suits, and the occasional demon, horns sprouting from their heads, silver Rolex glittering on their wrists.

He took the seat at the head of the table, and the room quieted. He nodded to the man next to him, Harold Carter, and the meeting began. Carter cleared his throat.

"Well, uh, Mr. Green. Profits are up. Our investments in modern surveillance equipment and fracking technologies are paying off. We expect a bit of a backlash with the inevitable whistle-blower or two, but nothing we can't handle. Furthermore, contracts and acquisitions seem to be increasing at a rate of four percent a year, and research into sustainable..."

Cooper started to tune out. He wasn't really interested, but he was expected to listen to the drivel day in and day out, because if Hell was anything, it was the expectation, and the meeting of expectation, of punishment. He allowed himself the daydream of the days when the Inquisition had control of the oubliettes and racks of the old system, and imagined Harold stretched out and screaming while a hooded priest scorched his flesh with brands.

"Mr. Green?"

The voice that snapped him out of his daydream sounded insistent. Everyone was looking at him, and he wondered for how long he had drifted away. He looked up, to find Sharon standing in half in the door, her headset around her neck. He cleared his throat.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt, but it couldn't wait. The Senior Partners are asking for you."

A small shiver passed up Cooper's spine. The Senior Partners were the old guard, the fathers of Hell. They were the driving force behind the restructuring, and the brains behind the investments and interests on Earth. They were also known for being the hardest, most disturbing things in creation. If they wanted to see you, it was serious.

He straightened his tie, and stood, then gestured at the room in general. "Carry on." He said, and left. Behind him, voices picked up again.

Sharon led him down a short hallway that led to elevator doors flanked by more Ficus'. He pressed the 'Up' button, and waited.

"Anything else, sir?" Sharon was still at his elbow. He had almost forgotten her. He shook his head.

"No, thank you."

"Very well. Good luck." She glided off, down the hall and back to her desk, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He wondered what the Partners wanted with him. He hoped for a minute they hadn't heard him thinking earlier. He knew some of them could do just that, and for a moment he imagined himself on the rack in Harold's place. Just the phantom pain of hot brands made him squirm in his Hugo Boss, and he forced his thoughts away from that line of thinking. Instead, he wondered if it was a promotion, though he'd been in his current position for less than a thousand years.

The elevator doors dinged, and slid open on silent tracks. He went inside, and pressed the button marked 'P'. The doors closed again, and there was a momentary lurch as the elevator started, and then accelerated. Music, piped in through hidden speakers played something by Alanis Morisette, arranged on bagpipes.

After a time, the elevator slowed, and slid to a stop. The doors opened, and Cooper stepped off into a hall of cream marble veined with gold. He walked to the arch at the end of the hall, and stepped through, into a reception area. Sharon was sitting there, behind a desk made of the same marble. Well, not his Sharon, but one of the many. She looked up, and smiled, the expression never reaching her dead eyes.

"Mr. Green? The partners are expecting you." She gestured to the doors to her left, a pair of solid gold baroque things that must've weighed a ton each.

"Thank you." He straightened his tie again, and stepped to the doors. He picked the right one and pulled, and it opened on silent hinges. Beyond, the room was pitch-black. He took a deep breath, and entered. The door closed behind him.

*

He'd been wrong. The room wasn't black, exactly. There were shifting colors of the dark, if you could call them that, like shades of black to near-gray that had been loaded into a giant projector, and someone kept switching the slides. He stood in the dark, and waited. A part of him hoped he wouldn't need to actually see the partners. Better men than he had lost their minds for less.

Something moved in the darkness, or at least gave the illusion of movement, and he felt a pressure in the room, as though someone, or several someones, had entered.

"MR. GREEN."

The voice was deep and mellow, and not exactly loud, but definitely demanding of attention. It spoke in his head, no words disturbing the air around him, no great wind from their passage stirring the room, and still he felt as though a wind blew into him.

"GLAD YOU COULD COME."

"Yes, sirs." He said. He hadn't been sure about speaking out loud, but he also hadn't had time enough to consider alternatives. "How can I help?"

"WE'VE WATCHED YOU." A second voice, this one almost feminine. "YOU DO GOOD WORK, DESPITE...INCONSISTENCIES."

He frowned at that, and a flutter of fear scurried through him. The deep voice continued. "WE'D LIKE TO OFFER YOU AN OPPORTUNITY."

Cooper found himself deeply relieved. He breathed it out, and hoped he wasn't being too obvious.

"YOU NEED NOT WORRY ABOUT FLAYING TODAY, MR. GREEN. YOU MAY RELAX."

Well, that answered his question.

A third voice, thick and rich and possibly British, picked up. "EARTH, MR. GREEN. WE HAVE AN ASSIGNMENT. WHAT SAY YOU?"

Cooper thought about it. A dispatch to Earth meant a few things. Real food. Live women. As much as he liked them in Hell, sometimes you found a fun one up top. A real opportunity for advancement. Power, when he returned. Another part of him, the cautious and paranoid part, born in fire and blood and a few hundred years of agony, whispered that it was also a good opportunity for failure.

"WELL, MR. GREEN?"

He realized he had been thinking it over long enough to appear odd. He also realized it was something he wanted after all. Maybe even a chance to make partner. He pushed away the nagging voice that told him it was a bad idea, and spoke up.

"I'll do it."

The feminine voice spoke again. "GOOD, GOOD. WE ARE WELL PLEASED. WE WILL SEND DETAILS TO YOUR SECRETARY."

"PLEASE SEE YOURSELF OUT." The British voice.

The shades of gray faded to pure black, and the feeling that there were others in the room drifted away, and Cooper stood alone in the dark. After a moment, he turned on his heel and left, the door booming shut behind him once again.

*

The Senior Partners worked fast. Sharon was standing beside her desk when he returned, holding a manila envelope. He took it from her, and thanked her, then closed his office door behind him. He sat at his desk, and laid the envelope down, then leaned back in his chair. He stared at the envelope for a minute; still wholly unconvinced he wasn't making a huge mistake. With a sigh, he grabbed his letter opener, and slit the top of the package open.

Inside was an address, printed on a small white card, and a photo. It was of a small man, balding, with a paunch. He wore a pair of khaki shorts and an Old Navy t-shirt with sneakers. He was grilling something, and talking to someone off-camera. Overall, he looked like a typical middle-class happy guy. Cooper disliked him immediately. He wondered what the big deal was.

Another sheet of paper fell out of the envelope, and Cooper picked it up, and read it.

YANCY TOPPER

43

MR. TOPPER IS PAST DUE ON HIS CONTRACT. YOUR ASSIGNMENT IS TO COLLECT. BE ADVISED, MR. TOPPER HAS SLIPPED THREE OTHER COLLECTIONS AGENTS. WE CONSIDER MR. TOPPER TO BE AN INVESTMENT ON OUR PART, SO YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES. CONVINCE HIM TO PAY, OR TERMINATE HIS CONTRACT WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.

Yancy? The name made Cooper feel a pang of sympathy for the poor man despite his distaste. Still, he had reneged on his contract. Nothing to be done for it now. If a man named Yancy hadn't wanted to be picked on, he should've just paid.

He leaned forward and pressed the button on the intercom. "Sharon?"

"Yes, Mr. Green?"

"Hold my meetings and calls. Also, arrange for travel to Earth."

"Yes, Mr. Green,"

He snapped the intercom off, and leaned back in his chair. He had a little bit until Sharon had everything arranged. He glanced up at the framed poster on his wall, an image of a man pushing a stone up a hill. Underneath, in a bold font, it read simply, 'Persistence'.

*

The path to Earth was in a small room on the twenty-fifth floor. The room was all gray metal, with a man-sized ring cut into the wall. The surface of the ring was an oily black that shone wetly. Cooper straightened his tie, and took a breath, and tried to keep himself from tapping his foot in impatience.

The tech to the right of the portal smiled at him, the horns on his face shifting as he showed his teeth. "Sorry, Mr. Green. This happens sometimes."

He bent over the console in front of him and banged on it, once, then twice. There was an electronic squeak from the console, and then the room began to fill with a low-pitched hum. The portal in front of Cooper began to move clockwise, in a sluggish swirl of black liquid. Cooper looked over at the tech, swathed in his grey jumpsuit and still bent over the console, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Is that it?" He asked.

The tech looked up. "Hm? Oh, yes. Feel free to hop on through whenever you're ready, Mr. Green." He went back to adjusting dials and buttons.

Cooper took another breath, unsure he was ready for what was next. His chest felt tight, but he managed to ignore it. He stepped forward, and gripped his briefcase tighter. Closer to the portal, he could see individual ripples in the black. He stared at them, swirling around and around, then made up his mind, and stepped forward again.

There was a brief pulling sensation, like he was being drawn out like taffy, and a rushing sound that filled his ears, like wind in a tunnel. He felt pain, significant and distant at the same time, and then a _popping_ filled his senses. Everything abruptly stopped, and he closed his eyes as the black around him turned to white. A moment later, his body lurched, as though he had been thrown off balance, and he opened his eyes as he stumbled a step forward. He managed to catch himself before he ended up face down on the ground.

When he was righted, he saw he was standing in an alley behind a Wal-Mart, pallets stacked to one side, dumpsters to the other. He blew out the breath he'd been holding, set the briefcase down, and straightened his hair and his tie. Then, he picked up the briefcase, left the alley behind, and made for the street, where he could hail a cab.

*

On the cab ride over to Yancy's home, Cooper tried to think of how he would handle the situation. He could go with threats - force a vision of unending torture and misery on the man, until his will broke, and he surrendered. He could offer to buy the contract out. Nothing like a pile of money to wrap up a transaction, though it would be seen as a loss, and he wasn't sure that was what the Senior Partners were looking for. The words 'extreme prejudice' came back to him, and he discounted that option. His third option was to reason with the man, explain to him how contracts made in good conscience should be followed through. He could explain how, by not paying, the man was only cheating himself. How, if he would finish this contract out, there was always the possibility for another, with greater rewards.

Cooper smiled to himself. He liked the latter option. It would mean new business for the company, new assets, and a solid win in the books. He could almost taste the promotion.

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a modest two-story Dutch Colonial, the lawn neatly mowed and edged, the sidewalk swept clean. He got out of the cab (there was no need to pay the cabbie - the man would wait until Cooper decided he wasn't needed), and walked up the front path to the wood and glass front door. He took a moment to straighten his tie, raised his fist to knock, and - the door opened.

He found himself face to face with a good-looking younger man, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase similar to his own. He had what looked like a three-hundred dollar haircut, and was tanned. The man smiled at Cooper.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Yancy Topper."

The man's smile turned sympathetic. "Ooh. I'm sorry. I'm afraid Mr. Topper has already paid his debts. He'll be unavailable for...uh, eternity. Also, you know the rules. No double-dipping."

Realization crept up on Cooper. One of two things had happened. Either the partners had sent a back-up, and the kid had done his job for him, , or one of the other principals had come in - Beelzebub, or Abaddon, or Sammael, maybe - which meant Yancy hadn't been all that concerned with double-dipping himself. He frowned back at the kid.

"Well. You retired his contract, I assume?"

"Yes. Oh, I'm sorry." He stuck out a hand. "I'm Kendall Franks."

Cooper took it and shook it. "Who sent you?"

"Abbadon and Associates." Ah, so that answered his question.

Cooper ran a hand through his hair. He blew out a breath. "Well. What now?"

Kendall shrugged. "I'm going back. Promotion and all, you know."

Cooper nodded. "Yeah. Say, how about some lunch? I haven't had a good meal in about a hundred years."

Kendall seemed to consider for a moment, then he smiled again. "Sure, come on in." He opened the door, and Cooper followed him in, down a short hall, past the living room, where Yancy was sitting on his couch, clutching his chest, the handle of a knife sticking out. That explained 'extreme prejudice'. They moved on into the kitchen.

Cooper set his briefcase down, and Kendall did the same.

So," He said, and rubbed his hands together. "What shall we have?"

*

They made steak. Big, nicely marbled, medium rare New York strips, with a salt and pepper crust, and a baked potato and a glass of Yancy's bourbon. While they ate, they talked.

"So, how long have you been doing this?" Kendall asked.

Cooper shrugged. "Collections and contracts? About five hundred years. More so in the past thirty, though. You?"

Kendall whistled. "Five."

Cooper grunted around a mouthful of steak. "Newbie, eh? First time up top?"

"Yeah."

Kendall moaned in pleasure, and took another mouthful of food, chewing slowly. After he swallowed, he chased it with a sip of bourbon. "God, I miss this. All I need is a good lay, and who needs Heaven?"

A thought crept into Cooper's brain, and it shone brightly for a moment. He suppressed a grin.

"I know. Women, booze, and good food. Throw some cash in there, and a guy could live until he dies all over again."

"Who said anything about dying?" Kendall said. "We could live like kings up here, with the right set-up." He took another bite. "GOD, this is good. I could just cum."

"What if, eh?" Cooper said.

Kendall stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth. He pointed it at Cooper. "You sound like you have an idea."

Cooper shrugged. "I have an unfulfilled contract. Want it?"

"For what? Hell's already got my soul. What do I get out of it? Why don't you sign it?"

Cooper shrugged. "Set in my ways, I guess. Look, I can make it out for an indefinite number of years up top, with the option for renewal, and when you're bored, a position with Lightbringer and Partners."

"Kendall dropped his fork, and wiped his hands. "What do you get out of it?"

"One less competitor in the field." He waved a hand around him. "And a full contract. Nothing in there about whom or what could accept it, just that it had to be accepted."

Kendall picked up his drink and swirled it, watching the liquid slosh against the sides. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he said "Give me the contract."

Cooper had it out, before the last syllable left the kid's mouth. He passed it over to Kendall, who signed without a second glance. When the ink was dry, Cooper placed it back in his briefcase, and stood. He shook Kendall's hand.

"Good luck, kid. We'll send someone up to take care of that mess in the living room. Enjoy your new life."

Kendall was smiling ear to ear. He shook Cooper's hand back. "Thanks, man. Thanks. This is brilliant."

Cooper disentangled himself, and left the way he'd come. The cab was still waiting. He got in, and as the cab pulled away from the curb, he pulled a phone from inside his suit, flipped it open, and dialed 911. There was a ring, and someone answered.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"There's been a murder." He gave the operator the address, and hung up. After a couple of minutes, he could hear sirens in the distance. He smiled to himself, and sat back in his seat.

_Cooper Green, Partner_ sounded better and better.

Jars

The old man in the weathered coat and the wide-brimmed hat crouched with his head low, wrinkled hands and face the same brown as the leather he wore. Lines rode his face and palms like riverbeds left in the sun. His eyes were a blue faded by sun and time.

He gripped a trowel in his left hand, its handle a deep red plastic worn soft over time, the blade tarnished silver and dull grey. In his right hand, he held a Mason jar one quarter-full of arid soil. He dug into the earth again, and sifted the larger stones out with a shake. Moving with careful precision, he brought the jar beneath the tip of the trowel and tipped the trowel down, sliding the loose earth into the jar. It made a _shh_ sound as it slid, and smaller rocks in the dirt chimed in quiet tones against the glass. He repeated this until the jar was three-quarters full, then dropped the trowel and reached for the lid that was lying in the sun, sending brass reflections into his eyes.

He screwed the lid on, listening to the metal rasp on the glass threads in the early afternoon quiet. When he was done, he set the jar back on the ground and sat back on his haunches. He tilted his hat up and ran a forearm across his forehead, beads of sweat glistening amid the short grey hairs there when he pulled his arm away. He settled his hat back on his head, blocking out most of the sun, and looked around at the land that stretched out before him.

Dry, flat, and tan, the earth stretched toward a blue horizon that was littered with tatters of white cloud. Stunted trees reached toward the sky, as though they wanted to catch a piece of those clouds and wrap their branches in gossamer. Further in the distance, the land rose to hills that eventually gave way to buttes and low flat mountains.

The wind rose and kicked up a small dust devil in the distance that danced and spiraled through the trees, until spent, it gave one last spin and dissipated into a shapeless brown cloud that settled to the earth.

With a heavy sigh, the old man shifted and stood, picking up the jar and trowel as he went. Once standing, he arched his back and grimaced at the popping sound his spine made. He turned toward the shack behind him, a small but well-kept building of wood and glass he had built some time ago. Solar panels gleamed on the roof, and to the left of it, fed by a small artesian well, was a garden where he grew most of his meals.

When he was inside, he hung the trowel on a pegboard by the door among other tools he had collected over the years. On the wall across from that were several tidy shelves, each with a jar of earth on them. He walked over and placed the newest jar on the shelves, then turned to his right, where an old white fridge that was plugged into the solar power system was humming away. He opened the door and pulled out another mason jar, this one full of clear cool water. He unscrewed the cap and took three long swallows before recapping the jar and placing it back in the fridge.

Once his thirst was slaked, and he was content everything was in its place, he pulled off his hat and coat and hung them on pegs by the door, opposite of his tools. Then, he walked over to the bed he had pushed against one wall. He considered the homemade bookshelf at the foot of the bed that was filled with tattered copies of everything from scientific journals to fairy tales. Deciding against a read, he kicked off his shoes and lay in the bed, his eyes drifting shut almost immediately.

Outside, the wind still occasionally picked up and blew grains of sand in rasping breaths against the eaves of the shed, but inside, there were only the sounds of his breathing and the old fridge humming away. Eventually even that too faded away, and he dreamed.

*

In the end, they failed, and the skies fell. Before the world was ash, before blood and fire, before the center fell out, there was life. Life held onto and clutched and wept over and laughed with. Life wiped out in a crowning moment of hubris. In the end, they were left with earth and ash and sorrow. In the end, it was all they could ask for, and expect.

Alan had loved as well as the others, he thought - maybe better. Her name was Amanda, and though she went by Mandy, to him, she always seemed an Amanda. Strawberry hair and blue eyes, she carried a serious mind, maybe to spite the spray of freckles that crossed her nose. Alan would sometimes joke that she was terminally serious, and she would get a little wrinkle between her eyebrows, and smirk at him.

"Funny guy." She'd say, and then go back to her serious business.

He would watch her for a while, bent over bills or her laptop, or a sheet of negatives, squinting a bit in the glare from a lamp, and his heart would hurt from loving her.

It was the least of the pain he would feel.

*

He woke for a time that night, and stared up at the ceiling of the shack, bare wood that had been well-fitted together offering no answer. He raised a hand to a cheek, and rubbed a tear away, then closed his eyes.

*

The man who called himself Jason Petra was on TV again. Mandy sat on the couch next to Alan, curled into his side. Petra was a presence, standing on a podium talking about duty and conscience, about reform. He didn't talk like a career politician, but it didn't matter. When he spoke, the whole world seemed to stand still, and you could feel the force of his personality in the air.

Mandy wrapped an arm around Alan, and he could feel her dig her head in deeper into his ribs, trying to get comfortable. Politics seemed to bore her. She mumbled something sleepily, and Alan leaned in to hear it.

"He's a good man." She stroked his arm. "Like you. Hope he gets elected."

Then she was asleep, and Alan wrapped an arm around her and sat that way for a while, just feeling her slow breathing, feeling her warmth. He watched Jason Petra speak, watched the crowd cheer when he was finished, and then turned off the TV, and leaned back in the dark. He thought of all the things in the world that were broken and dark, and hoped for a light ahead.

*

The world was falling apart. Alan knew it, though he struggled with the knowledge. At times, he chalked it up to the change of perspective that came with age. Every generation thought the next was going to ruin the world, thought maybe they were just a little dumber than the one before. It wasn't true. Alan knew kids did stupid things, but it wasn't an age-based demographic. He'd seen enough adults do stupid things, as well. The knowledge gap was closing, thanks to the Internet, and he was thankful for that.

No, it was something else, something primal. Crime was down, but riots had increased. Men gathered in groups for safety, and discovered strength in mutual hatred and numbers. Major conflicts were slipping into the past, and the wars of the present were fought in guerilla actions with faceless acts of terror. It was like the world was running skirmishes in preparation for the grand finale. The wage gap was increasing, and while bigotry was fading, those that still had archaic beliefs grouped themselves into knots so tight as to be called Gordian.

There was an encroaching darkness, a black that was seeping into the edges of the world like a thunderstorm at the edge of a field. Alan knew it couldn't be long before it broke, and when it did, what winds blew would tear the roof off the world.

*

Mandy had her faith. She prayed to the man on the cross, went to church on Sundays. At night, before bed, she would lay her book on her chest and bow her head for a minute, closing her eyes. Alan would watch her, a conflict of emotions warring in him. He wasn't sure how he felt about the man upstairs, if he felt anything at all, and at times, her faith made him just a bit envious.

When she was done, she would look up and catch him watching, and smile at him. She'd a lay a hand on his, and whisper 'I love you'. He'd settle on the inside then, as though her words and touch were a balm, and he'd smile back. When the lights were off though, and she had slipped off into deep breathing and deeper sleep, Alan would lay awake, and stare at the ceiling, and wonder if what he believed was enough.

When Jason Petra was elected, Mandy began to pay attention to him. His platform shifted, and he began to speak more openly of reform and religion, good and evil, and the need for penance. He wasn't a preacher, but it didn't matter. People still listened, including Mandy, usually beside Alan on the couch. She would sit there and listen as though he were giving a sermon, the small gold cross she wore around her neck absently placed between her lips.

When the first miracle came, on live TV no less, it stunned both of them. Petra had been speaking in Chattanooga, when a commotion in the back of the crowd interrupted him. The camera swung around in time to catch a man running into the distance, while someone nearby cried in pain, and clutched his chest. The camera focused on the injured man, and Alan could plainly see the knife sticking out, and the blood that darkened his shirt.

Another commotion, and Petra was in the crowd, approaching the injured man. He waved away the Secret Service crowding him, and knelt next to the victim, who reached out a hand. Petra took it, and whispered something in the man's ear. The man nodded, and without hesitation, Petra yanked the knife out. He tossed it to the side, and laid his hand on the wounded man's chest, heedless of the blood.

A heartbeat, maybe two, and it was over. The victim stopped crying out, and Petra stood, helping the man to his feet. The cameras watched as the man lifted his shirt, and what had once been a horrible knife wound was whole again. Stunned silence followed the revelation, then the sound of stamping, and clapping, and cheers. It took the Secret Service nearly five minutes to clear a path to Petra's car.

When it was over, Alan and Mandy sat in stunned silence. Alan switched off the TV, and they sat that way for a time, trying to process what they had seen. Outside, night fell, and the only thing that changed was they reached for each other in the dark. In time, the Internet and the media would find if the man was a charlatan of the worst order, or a true paragon. In time, rumor and suspicion and faith and hope would comingle, but in the quiet hours before the noise rolled in, they had each other.

*

There were other miracles, other acts. In Tallahassee, Petra caused a blind man to see. In a controlled environment, in front of doctors and scientists, he turned water to wine. A soup kitchen he visited that had been struggling for months to feed all of the homeless that came to them suddenly had pots that would not empty no matter how many bowls were dished out.

Pilgrims from other lands came to see Petra, and when they couldn't, he would often travel to see them. He remained well-liked, and well-loved, even within the senate, and media speculation was that the President should start praying for an approval rating so high. Other pundits suggested, only half-joking, that he should pray to Petra.

Despite the bright points, Alan could see the fault lines in the world start to deepen. There were pockets of hatred for Jason Petra, and they were starting to organize. Even as his star rose, the darkness was reaching up to snuff it, and Alan couldn't get the Yeats poem out of his head.

Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

*

On a warm green day in July, the storm broke. It was a Saturday, fresh cut lawns laying under blue skies dotted by a warm sun and white clouds that lazed in a warm breeze. Mandy had gone out to pick up a few things for dinner. She loved grilled steaks and asparagus, sometimes with a glass of wine. Alan would grill, and they would eat on the porch, out in the fresh air, lazy conversation and the trill of birdsong drifting around and between them.

Alan was washing a few dishes with the little TV on the counter going in the background. He liked it on when he was by himself, mostly just for background noise. He finished drying his hands, and had reached to turn it off, when the show that had been on - a rerun of Friends - cut to a helicopter view of a nice home in what looked like an upper-class neighborhood. He could make out figures on the lawn, like ants running back and forth. Here and there, among the movement, he could see other figures, stretched out and unmoving on the ground.

The camera zoomed, the picture unfocused for a moment, and the people came into view. It was a large group, most of them armed. Two of them were carrying a large wooden cross between them, stepping over the bodies that littered the ground. They stopped a few feet short of the front door. Alan watched while a few others broke from the group, and began to fling themselves into the front door. It gave in just a few moments, and they swarmed into the home.

He reached for the knob, to turn the volume up, and hesitated. The crawl at the bottom of the screen was marking the camera view as that of Jason Petra's house. A riot had broken out from a protest over what this particular group viewed as charlatanism. Alan thought it more likely that they had set out with the intent to lynch Petra from the start, especially considering the cross.

His hand fell back to his side, the volume untouched, as the camera showed a man being drug from the house by his heels. He looked limp, maybe unconscious. They drug the man over to the cross, and spread him out on it. The bottom fell out of Alan's stomach, and he felt sick. Someone on the lawn produced a hammer, and though he couldn't see the nails, he knew they were there.

"No!" The word came out of him unbidden, and he stood startled for a minute, surprised he had spoken. The man with the hammer raised it, and it hung there for what seemed an eternity. Alan could see the afternoon sunlight glint from its steel head. When it fell, the world went silent. The feed from the helicopter went out in a burst of static, but before it did, there was a sound, quiet from the TV, but audible nonetheless, of several voices screaming in unison.

*

When the hammer fell, the ones outside, the ones away from home could be counted among the fortunate. Flesh and bone turned to dust in an instant, snuffed like a candle's flame. The blow hit the world, and the earth resounded like a gong. The earth trembled, and in the sky, a red had begun to seep into the blue. Alan thought of Mandy, then thought of the basement, and ran. A part of him knew it had been fast for her, and envied her that little bit. Self-preservation took over though, and he ran inside and down, and closed and locked the door behind him.

When the second blow came, it was in the form of a wind built of flame that swept the earth like a cleansing wave. Homes ignited, grass and trees and water were boiled away. In the basement, Alan covered his mouth and nose, and tried not to breathe too deeply. Still, he could feel the heat blistering his skin, scalding the insides of his nose and mouth. He struggled with the heat for hours, waiting for the next hammer-blow, feeling the moisture leech from his body, his vision blackening at the edges. He began to feel light-headed, and wondered when Mandy would be home. He tried to stand, to walk upstairs and unlock the door for her. It proved too much, and he collapsed, the black at the edge of his vision swallowing him whole.

*

The darkness fled, and Alan awoke. Morning light filtered into the little shed, another night slipping into the past. He slipped out of bed and into his shoes. A drink of water from a jar in the fridge helped him wake up a bit, and he walked out of the door and around back to relieve himself. Back inside to put on the coat and hat, to grab an empty jar, and the little trowel. Outside again, and he found a spot next to where he had dug the day before.

Alan laid the jar and the trowel to one side, and bowed his head, offering up thanks for the day, and requesting strength for the rest of it. He had never been much of a religious man. The old adage about atheists and foxholes came to mind, and he almost chuckled. If anything, he lived in the world's largest foxhole. He finished his prayer, and picked up the trowel. A memory came to him, of Mandy in the sunlight, strawberry hair, and freckles, sunlight glinting from the cross she wore. He began to dig.

He would find her again, here in the earth, where she had fallen and been scattered by the wind. He had faith. Jesus had said, "whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life". Mandy believed, but she was gone, so Alan believed for her. He had to. It was all that was left. He finished filling the jar, and carried it inside, to get another. He would find her.

Lazarus

They took the dead man wrapped in sheets to the desert.

They huddled in the front seat of the car, the radio blaring something by Creedence, while they did their best not to talk about the man in the trunk. The windows were down, and dust plumed up behind the Monte Carlo, fogging the daylight. It didn't bother them that they were going to bury a body in the middle of the day. It was the Mojave - no one just wandered by, and if they did, what was one more body for the thirsty sand?

Dean watched the landscape roll by, tan dunes under blue sky, telephone poles dotting the roadside and receding as they passed. It had been the same thing for two hours, and he wondered how long before they got to where they were going. He turned to Carl, and thought about asking, but the man was focused on the road, his eyes unreadable under the dark glasses he wore. Instead, he scratched the day-old growth on his face, and reached for the radio, with the pretense of fiddling with the knobs.

"You got a problem with Creedence?" The question came out of Carl in a half-growl, and Dean's hand paused halfway to the radio. He let it drop, and shook his head.

"Nah. I was just hoping to adjust the balance a bit. I swear, every time we hit a bump, the shit in the trunk bangs around."

Karl reached down, and turned a knob, and the sound shifted to the back of the car. "Better?" He asked.

"Yeah, thanks." Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn't feel like upsetting a two-hundred-something pound sociopath today. He turned back to the window, and returned to watching the desert roll by. He tried not to think of Tulsa, tried to squelch the thought that if management knew, he'd join the man in the back before his time.

*

After another half-hour, the car slowed, and Carl eased it off the road, and onto the hardpan that preceded the dunes. They drove another couple of miles, until the ground began to slope downward at the edge of the desert proper, and the sand underneath began to soften. When it seemed like Carl was never going to stop, maybe just drive into the desert until they ended up as mummies entombed in a steel coffin, the car ground to halt, and he shut off the engine.

The radio snapped off, squelching Aerosmith, and they were left with only the sounds of the wind, and the ticking engine as it tried to cool in the morning heat. They got out, the sound of car doors slamming echoing across the sand, and walked to the trunk. They stood over it for a moment, while Carl absently fingered the key ring.

"Hold your breath, man." He said. "Boy's gonna be ripe in there."

Dean hadn't thought of that. His stomach wanted to turn at the idea. Carl found the right key, and slipped it into the lock, then turned it. It opened with a _click_ , and the trunk popped up, a sliver of dark appearing between the fender and the lid. He slipped his fingers in the gap, and lifted.

A smell, like week-old hot garbage, hit them in the face, and they both staggered back. Dean turned his head to the side, his stomach heaving. He didn't relish the idea of puking on his shoes and having that little reminder around all day. To his left, he could hear Carl cursing between bouts of gagging. He bent over, and tried to duck his head as close to his knees as possible.

Gradually, the smell dissipated, and he gulped down deep lungfulls of air. When he felt he could breathe again, he stood, and walked to the trunk. Carl joined him. The first thing he noticed was that the smell was still there, though it didn't seem to have its earlier vice-like grip on his stomach. The second was that he was glad they had made the decision to put the shovels in last. They lay on top of a bundle of white sheets, already beginning to turn brown and red in spreading stains. They each grabbed a shovel and stepped away from the trunk.

Dean made to close the trunk, and Carl just shook his head. "Bad idea. You'll just get him baking again. Leave it open so it airs out."

He turned away, and Dean followed. They walked a few yards from the car, where the sand grew even softer, and began to rise in the soft swell of the first dunes. Carl stopped, and stabbed his shovel into the sand.

"This'll work." He looked up at the sun, which was still a couple hours away from its zenith. "Let's get this done before we end up beef jerky."

They began to dig, a slow process made worse by the constantly shifting sand and the ever-increasing heat in the air. Dean could feel sweat rolling down every inch of his body, and his hands felt burned from the hot wood of the shovel. He shot a glance over at Carl. The man was digging, with no indication that anything was bothering him. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a knot, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. From where he stood, Dean wasn't even sure the man was sweating.

They dug for an hour, and after the third time of the sides cascading down in a miniature landslide, Carl spat into the hole, and threw his shovel down.

"Break time." He said. "Grab some water."

Dean nodded, and dropped his shovel. He wandered back to the car, opening the back door, and digging into the cooler in the back seat. They had packed half a case of water, and he grabbed two bottles, and then closed the lid. When he was done, he shut the car, and started back, then paused.

The smell had nearly disappeared from the air, and he frowned. That didn't seem right, fresh air or not. He wandered back to the open trunk, and peeked inside. The long bundle with its dark stains was still there, but it seemed smaller, somehow. He thought about getting the shovel, and poking it for good measure. Just to be sure. Carl's voice, impatient and annoyed, cut those thoughts off.

"Hey, numbnuts! You bringing that water today?"

"Yeah, sorry. Sorry." Dean hurried over to the hole they had been digging. It was roughly six feet long by three wide, and three deep at this point. Carl was sitting on the edge. He looked like he was contemplating hiding from the sun by crawling inside, a thought that made Dean's skin crawl. He didn't really want to spend any time in any grave but his own, and not before his time.

He eased down onto the ledge, and tossed Carl one of the water bottles. Carl caught it neatly, and spun the top off, tipping it up to take three big swallows before taking a breath. Dean sipped at his, not wanting his stomach to cramp up in the heat, and looked around. He saw sand on sand on sand, rolling in gentle waves away from him, as far as he could see, until the dunes became a taupe line that met with the blue above. He looked away, and turned back to Carl.

"What'd this guy do anyway?" He asked, gesturing with his water bottle toward the car.

Carl shrugged. "Dunno. I think he was a magician, or somethin'. One of those guys that works Vegas when they can't get Copperfield."

Dean shook his head. "No, I mean, what'd he _do_?"

Carl spit into the grave again. "Oh, that. Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar."

"Cookie jar?"

"The boss' wife." He laughed then, a mean, low sound. He drained his water bottle, and tossed it into the grave, then stood. "C'mon. Let's get this shit done, and get gone. I got a beer with my name on it back home."

Dean capped his water and tossed it to the side. He stood, knuckled the small of his back, and picked up his shovel. He glanced once more at the horizon, where heat had begun to rise from the desert in wavy mirage lines, and then began to dig.

*

They finished the grave after another hour. Carl deemed it good enough after the fifth backslide, and besides, he had said, who was going to find him four and a half feet down after the wind started to blow? They walked back to the car, shovels in hand, and tossed them off to the side, then stood over the trunk, looking in. Neither man seemed in a rush to grab the bundle.

Carl lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke out in a long plume. Dean watched it float away, torn to shreds on the wind. After a minute, Carl seemed to shrug.

"Fuck it. Let's grab this bastard, and get on."

They approached the trunk, and ducked in. In the dark under the lid, it was cool, and smelled faintly of must. The smell of the dead man was just a memory in the air. They lifted the bundle, and it came easily. Dean thought it felt lighter than he had imagined a dead man should. The cloth felt damp, and the thing inside moved like a bag of Jell-O. Dean tightened his grip, and choked down his rising gorge. They came back up in the desert heat, and carrying the dead man between them, walked to the grave.

When they reached the hole in the ground, they dumped the body in unceremoniously, letting the bundle hit the ground with a muffled thump and squelch. Carl spat his cigarette to the side.

"Go get the shovels." He gestured back towards the car.

Dean hurried off to run the errand, returning with them a moment later, one in each hand. When he reached the grave, Carl was standing over it, looking down, his back to Dean. A thought flashed through his head, an image of a shovel splitting the side of the other man's skull. He pushed it away. Offing your partner was no way to make friends with management.

Carl turned, and Dean's stomach sank. He was holding a pistol in one hand, its black barrel pointed at Dean's stomach. The image of the shovel smashing the other man's head went through his mind again, but he knew it was too late. He dropped the shovels and backed up a step.

"What's the deal, man?" He asked.

"Cookies and jars, brother. I think you know."

Somehow, the things he had done in Tulsa had come full circle. Management was writing his pink slip. Carl waved the gun towards the grave as he circled away from Dean.

"Get in."

Dean moved toward the grave, his stomach doing somersaults while knotting. It was an unpleasant sensation. He stepped over the lip, and down, trying not to step on the bundle at the bottom. When he was in, he stood only head and shoulders over the edge. He could see Carl, standing a foot or two away, looking down, the pistol trained on him. He fought to keep control of his bladder.

"Lay down." Carl said. He pulled the hammer on the pistol back, and it clicked like an audible period to the threat.

"Fuck." Dean whispered. He crouched, and pushed the bundle to the side. It was lighter than he remembered, drier. He lay next to it. His face was wet, and when he reached a hand up to brush it away, he realized he was weeping.

Carl appeared over the edge, a shovel in hand. The pistol was tucked under his waistband.

"You're doing a good thing here, man. No begging, no whining, just gonna accept it. Shame you gotta go."

He hefted the shovel, and pushed a pile of sand into the pit. Dean could feel its weight when it landed on his legs, warm and soft, but unforgiving. Another pile came down, and his shoes were already almost buried. He waited, but another shovelful didn't come. He lay trembling, when Carl peeked back over the edge.

"Look, not a lot of men would handle this like you are. That's why I'm gonna give you a choice. Truth is, boss says 'Bury him, Carl. Bury him and let him bake out there.', but that seems like a rough way for a guy to go. You ask me, and I'll put a bullet in you, make it easy."

Dean didn't reply. He wasn't brave, he was frozen. He didn't want to die out here with the buzzards and the heat and the sand, not under it, and not with a bullet in his head. Carl waited for his answer, and when it didn't come, the man shrugged, and began to push sand down again. When the first pile came for his face, he held his breath, and let it filter around him.

Shovelful by shovelful, he was buried. Before long, he could feel the oppressive weight and heat from the sand, pressing him down. Inch by inch of it seemed to loosen him up somehow, as though his brain had decided today was not the day to die. He began to blow out small breaths as his face was covered, carefully digging a hollow of air where he could still breathe. After every shovelful, he would shift his arms and legs slightly, just enough to move the sand around him so he wasn't packed in.

Occasionally, he would pause, his muscles aching from the slow process, his lungs fighting for more air than the scant mouthfuls he was able to draw in. When he did, he imagined he could hear the sand below him moving, as though the man in the sheet was fighting his fate as well, and it sped his heart and sent a shiver up his spine.

He figured he had to be under a foot, maybe a foot-and-a-half of sand, when it stopped coming for a second time. He lay still in his hollow, and waited. Maybe Carl had stopped for water. Hopefully, he'd had a heart attack. He waited another five minutes, or as close as he could figure, and when it still didn't come, he began to push himself upward, through the sand, trying to get as close to the surface as possible.

He closed his eyes, and turned his head, the sounds of millions of grains of sand shifting against his skin, his ear canals, grating and grinding like the dry rasp of dry skin. He pushed his head to the surface, until his ear broke the sand. He could still feel the grains in it, but the world was alive with a sudden clarity, and he listened.

Overhead, the wind blew past the lip of the grave with a low, hollow sound. He strained to hear more - and engine idling, heavy breathing from exertion, footsteps on the hardpan that lay nearby. He waited like that another five minutes, and when no sound came, he began to pull himself fully from the sand, inch by inch.

He sat up, the sand pooling at his midsection, and then pulled his legs free. He brushed himself off as best as he was able, some of the sand clinging to his face and neck where sweat and tears had made a mud of it. When he was done, he eased himself onto his haunches, and began to rise towards the lip of the grave. As he did so, his muscles tensed and threatened to cramp, both from the effort of the slow rise, and the struggle to listen for the sounds of a voice or gunfire.

He was all too aware as he rose that the top of his head would be exposed before the rest of him as he peeked, but he realized, when you're in a grave, being buried alive, you tend not to worry about which part of you might be shot off first. His eyes crested the lip, and he peered around.

Aside from the open car, still sitting on the hardpan, he appeared to be alone. He scanned the area for a shadow, for movement, or color, but nothing appeared. Satisfied Carl was either preoccupied, or just up and vanished, he grabbed the edge of the grave, and pulled himself out. When he was done, he lay on the hot sand, and breathed heavily for a minute, and tried not to weep with relief.

He rolled on his side, and felt pressure in his ribs. When he rolled back and sat up, he found he had rolled onto a shovel, left lying alone. He stood, and wandered over to the car. The back door was open, the cooler cracked. He opened it, and grabbed a water bottle out, spinning the cap onto the ground. He splashed the water over his head and his face, and tried to scrub the mud and sand out. When he was done, he dropped the bottle and grabbed another, taking deep swallows of the still-cool liquid.

When he was done, he closed the door, and got in the driver's seat. The keys were still in the ignition. He tried them once, and the engine turned over, purring to life with a low rumble. He sat in the seat with the door open, and flipped on the air. After the day he'd had, he was past caring about wasting it.

He wondered where Carl had got off to, and realized he didn't much care, and didn't feel like waiting around to find out. He closed the door, and put the car in gear. For a moment, he considered gathering up the shovels and the trash, and finishing the grave. When presented with the possibility of Carl returning, and the fact that the wind would move the sand and bury the evidence in only a few hours, he dropped the idea.

The car pulled smoothly off the hardpan and onto the blacktop. The afternoon sun was in full bloom, and baked heat in waves from every inch of the desert and road. Inside, the air conditioning had already begun to slip a chill into the car, and content for the moment, Dean flipped on the radio.

Blue Oyster Cult began belting out _Don't Fear the Reaper_ , and he turned it. A little too on the nose. He changed the station, and found Otis Redding. He left it there, and settled back in the seat. Ahead, the road curved, and he took it a bit faster than he had intended to. Something in the trunk slid, and thumped against the interior.

His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced in the rearview. Nothing hovered into view. He returned to the road when a thought hit him. _Nothing in the rearview._ He braked hard, and heard the thing in the trunk slam against the seat backs. He pulled the car to the side of the road, still miles of desert on each side. He knew the excuses for missing the closed trunk, but he still berated himself.

He fished under the seat for a minute, hoping to find a spare weapon - a gun, a knife - he'd settle for a wiffle bat. He came up empty, and sat up. He considered running the car to town and leaving it in an alley, but he knew the thought of the thing in the trunk would dig itself under his skin until he found out what it was.

He took a breath, and steeled himself, then stepped out. Gravel on the shoulder crunched under his shoes as he walked to the trunk. When he reached it, he stood over the lid, and fingered the keys, listening to them chime, hearing the wind blow sand in grating drifts across the road. This wasn't something he wanted to do, but something compulsion required he do.

"Fuck it." He muttered, and unlocked the trunk.

The lid sprung with a _click_ , and he stepped back, the smell of hot meat rolling from the dark insides. It wasn't as bad as the putrid smell he had encountered earlier, but it was enough to make him wait a discrete distance until the odor dissipated.

The air cleared, he stepped forward, and lifted the lid the rest of the way. The interior, previously shaded by the lid, was thrown into full relief by the afternoon sun. Inside, a shape huddled, big, with scraggly hair. Dean reached out, and rolled it onto its back.

The body turned, and he found himself staring into the remains of Carl's face. Dean found himself wondering where the man's sunglasses were. He looked at the red, fleshless ruin, and decided he didn't care. He shut the trunk, his stomach turning. He got back in the car, and started it up. He knew he should ditch the body, probably ditch the car. He also knew getting picked up by state patrol while wandering around would require a lot of explaining.

He closed the door. From the back seat, a voice spoke up.

"Hey."

Dean flicked a glance at the rearview. After the day he'd had, he was officially out of the capacity to be shocked. A man sat in the relative shadows in the back. He was wearing a cheap dusty tux, and his skin looked pale, stretched. Carl's sunglasses were perched on his nose.

"Hey." Dean said.

"Feel like a road trip, kid?" The man's voice was dry, scratchy.

Dean shrugged. After what he'd seen in the trunk, after what had happened in the sand, he knew he should be afraid, but he was past being frightened of the things that came from the desert that day.

"Sure. Where we goin'?"

From the back seat, the man lit a cigarette, and blew a plume of smoke out. He pointed past Dean's shoulder.

"Vegas, baby."

Dean drove.

Move Aside

Mortimer Heinlein was not happy. He was unhappy in the way a man can only be when something he dreads is coming, and he has no control over the course that thing will take. The feeling reminded him a bit of dreams he'd had, ones where he would jump from a plane (not likely), or cliff dive (no way), only to find the parachute was filled with rocks, or the ocean had dropped a good foot, exposing sharp spires of rock.

The end result was what he'd been reduced to \- hiding out in a cut-rate motel on the third floor. The lock and the bolt on the door were thrown tight, and at least once an hour while he was awake, he would pace over to the peephole in the door and peer out. Each time, he was greeted with a fish-eye view of threadbare red and black carpet, its diamond pattern crawling away to the sides, and beige walls that had once been only off-white.

He sat on the bed in an undershirt and khakis, the bedside lamp throwing a circle of harsh white light into the dark. The curtains were pulled, though it wasn't night, and he had no plans on sleeping. He wasn't even sure he could do that anymore. He took a drag on his cigarette and tapped the ashes out into the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table. He wasn't worried about them killing him. He figured he was past that danger, had dodged it like a car dodges a dog in the road, only to end up wrapped around a lamppost.

_You get only so many chances in life,_ he thought. _Spend those up, you end up racking debt, and someone's bound to come and break your metaphorical kneecaps._

He'd spent his last chance three months ago, when he'd stopped to tie his shoelace, and a car hopped the curb and ground through the spot he would've walked though the next minute. He'd considered himself lucky, that time. Three weeks after that, he'd narrowly avoided catching himself in a big saw at the plant, and he knew his credit had been spent.

Jerry Orslaw, a big man with a quick smile and a loud laugh, had pushed him out of the way of the forklift at the last second, and had been bumped into the saw in Mort's place. In a matter of seconds, he had gone from 250 pounds of jovial to cold cuts. That's when Mort knew his bill was due, and until he paid it, he'd be living on borrowed credit.

That was the reason for the hotel room, for the endless sleepless nights, and for the chain of cigarettes. It was the reason for the path he was wearing in the carpet from the bed to the door, worrying the peephole like a dog with a bone. It was the reason he had stayed away from other people except to order room service or let the maids in to clean up every couple of days. It was the reason for the .38 in the drawer of the bedside table.

When Death came, Mort would be ready.

*

The man in the white suit was late. He looked at the Tag Heuer on his wrist, and tapped the side, as though that could force time or the hands to move to the position he wanted out of them. It wasn't like him, this lapse in punctuality. Normally, he was Johnny-on-the-spot, having already known where and when his client would be. With this last one though, the man wasn't where he should be, and that bothered him in a way that he couldn't pin down.

It wasn't that he didn't have the time. He had that in abundance. What it was, he thought, was the disruption to the natural order of things. The trains should run on time, the sun should rise and set, and men should die when they were supposed to.

He leaned against the railing of the mezzanine and looked down at the crowd milling in the mall below him. He scanned them, ignoring the closer press of men and women and children around him. Bald, tall, short, thin, fat - they were all of a piece to him, all potential or eventual clients.

He caught sight of a skinny man in baggy trousers and a white shirt, and followed his passage through the crowd, willing him to look up. When he passed by, the man in the suit noticed the thinning ring of hair at the back of the man's head, and let out a sigh. As the balding man passed the fountain in the center of the mall thoroughfare, a light under the water snapped and popped. A woman standing in the water, giggling and smiling while her friends looked on, was suddenly seized by the errant bolt of electricity in the water and frozen in place while the current ravaged her nervous system.

There was a brief scream from the group of friends, and someone produced a cell phone. The man in the suit saw the idiot was filming it, and sighed again. Had this gone the right way, the man who should have died would've been trailing his fingers through the water in boredom when the fountain threw a wire. Instead, now he had to deal with this.

He made his way down the length of the mezzanine, and down the stairs, pushing his way through the crowd that had formed around the fountain. People gave way, shifting and sliding to make room, though unconsciously, as though there was a cold wind blowing through the room. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled closer, and he saw that despite the sociopathic behavior of the initial group of bystanders, someone had called an ambulance.

_Too late_ , he thought. The front row of the crowd parted for him, and he stepped into the fountain. The water still crackled with residual electricity, but it had as much effect on him as a warm breeze. He reached the girl's body, half-floating in the shallow water, and knelt. He ignored the wet that crept into his trousers, and touched her lips.

There was an exhale, and something, cool white and light as a feather, flowed into his hand. He stood, holding it close, and slipped it into a pocket on the inside of his suit. When it was done, he left the way he had come, returning to the mezzanine to wait for a call, or a whisper.

Up top, he leaned against the railing again, and watched the paramedics as they tried to revive the girl in the fountain. He thought about the natural order of things and the slippage of time. Once in a while, he would check his watch.

*

Mort finished off the Chinese and lay back on the pillows he had stacked against the headboard. He was pleasantly full, though his stomach had already begun to rumble. He looked toward the bathroom even as his stomach gurgled, then at the door. It had been about an hour since the delivery man had shown up, and he had that feeling in his gut again, complicating matters down there. It was like a knot that refused to ease until he danced for it.

He pushed himself off the bed and paced across the floor, leaning into the cool wood of the door. He pressed his eye to the peephole, and looked out. Carpet, walls, and a potted plant next to a fire extinguisher stood in silence. No figure in black wielding a scythe, no grinning visage staring back at him. Satisfied, he stepped back from the door, and his stomach rumbled again.

He paced the other way, to the bathroom. On the way, he picked up the old US magazine he'd bought in a gas station before stopping at the hotel. Five minutes later, he was cleaning up, and a minute after that, flushing. Mort sometimes thought not having to perform this one function might be worth giving up life.

He watched the water swirl in the bowl, the toilet gurgling as though he had transferred the sound from his stomach. Instead of going down, however, the water began to rise. With slow inevitability, it rose, and with a final sickening lurch, spilled over the edge of the bowl. Refuse came with it, and Mort leapt back with a yelp.

He backed out of the room, and looked around. The water was still spilling from the toilet, brown and yellow coating the tile floor, and threatening to spill into the room proper. With a speed borne of desperation, he yanked the comforter off the bed and stepped into his shoes.

He waded into the sewage in the bathroom, and began to stuff the comforter into the bowl, fighting the swelling water. He pushed foot after foot of material in, stuffing sodden wad after wad into the bowl until the toilet, maybe in a final act of defiance, gurgled one last time, and quit.

Mort left the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He sat on the bed and put his face in his hands, and tried to think. Maybe he wouldn't have to leave the room. Maybe he could drag the potted plant in, and use it as a substitute. Maybe he could turn lead to gold. He cursed under his breath, stood, and began to gather his things.

His stomach gurgled.

*

The man in the white suit looked up from his cup of tea. Something whispered across his mind, like a breeze stirring the grass. He glanced at his watch, and saw the hands had moved closer to the noon mark, a good sign he was catching up. He drained his teacup, and wiped his mouth, then stood.

He didn't leave a tip. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the hard work the waiter had done, or that he was dining and dashing, it was simply that they wouldn't remember him in five minutes, if they even knew him after handing him the tea. Besides, he didn't carry cash.

The whisper came again, and he saw a man in khakis and a jacket walking toward a gas station in the distance. The man's gait was awkward and hurried, though his head was down and his hands shoved in his pockets. There was a gust of wind, and the vision began to fade, and in a moment, it was gone.

The wind gusted again, ruffling his hair, and a creak from behind the man in the white suit made him turn around. The cafe he had just left had a nice patio, over which a large striped awning hung, protecting the diners from the sun and occasional rain shower. The patio was empty, aside from the waiter, who was looking at the table the man in the suit had vacated, and frowning.

Another gust swept down the street, and the awning shuddered violently. The waiter had begun to clear the table. Overhead there was a _ping_ , and something ricocheted into the street. Another gust of wind, strong enough to sway the trees on the boulevard, and the awning broke free, swinging down in a violent arc just as the waiter straightened.

It hit him full in the face, and there was a medley of sounds, china shattering as it fell to the ground, a sound like a melon being hit with a hammer, and a short muffled cry of pain. The waiter fell to the ground, crumpling like linen. The man in the suit watched the whole thing with an impassive eye, and when it was over, walked to the dead man.

He kneeled next to the body, its face a red ruin. He searched for the lips, and pressed his fingers against them, and in a moment, there was an exhale. The man in the white suit collected the soul, slipping it into his inside pocket with the other, and stood. He walked away, even as the shouting began behind him and others discovered the body.

He started up the street, glancing at his watch as he went. The whisper crossed his mind again, and he saw the man in the khakis approaching the gas station. He still felt ill at ease, though not as much as before. Time and the natural order would be set right before long.

*

Mort was miserable. Man was not meant to devour almost a pound of General Tso's Chicken, and then be deprived of a toilet. He kept his head down as he walked, his stomach grumbling and complaining the whole way. He tried to keep his steps short and smooth and a prayer on his lips as he half-slouched, half-hurried his way to the gas station on the corner.

Someone dressed in white caught the edge of his vision, and he half-turned his head, wondering who would be dressed like James Bond, or a waiter, in the middle of the day downtown. His stomach threatened to clamp down with the movement though, and he returned his sight to the concrete directly before him, and the station ahead.

His hands were thrust in his pockets. He found it helped him maintain control, and besides, his cash was on one side, the revolver on the other. The cool metal seemed to push back against his palm, and he ran a thumb over the cylinder in up and down motions, an action that soothed him.

He hated being out in the open like this. Earlier, just out of the hotel, he had heard the sirens a few blocks away, and wondered if someone else had paid his bill again. All the more reason to move quickly, to move on. He could do his business, and then find another hotel, maybe in another city.

He came to a crosswalk, the gas station on the other side. Behind him, the sound of footsteps echoed on the pavement, the beginnings of mid-afternoon foot traffic. He looked both ways, and stepped off the curb. He crossed, expecting the sound of an engine, or the squeal of tires, and the feeling of impact. None of those things came, however, and he made it to the other curb without incident.

Mort risked a glance over his shoulder, and caught another glimpse of white, though it was gone almost as soon as it entered his field of vision. He thought it had to be a bird, or several birds, probably pigeons, flitting in and out of the area. He turned back to the station, and the sound of footsteps behind him mirrored his. He ignored them.

At the station, a big Chevy truck was filling up, the owner standing to the side with a baseball cap perched on his head, and his phone in his hand, texting. Mort rolled his eyes and kept walking inside, suppressing the urge to tell the man to run, or at least put the damn phone away before he went up like a Roman Candle.

The door dinged as he stepped inside, the cool air soothing his nerves and stomach a bit. He grabbed a candy bar (some places didn't let you use the bathroom unless you bought something), and walked to the front counter. The kid there rung him up, and when Mort asked, passed him the key to the bathroom, a regular-sized house key on an oversized block of wood. He was informed the bathroom was outside, around the back of the building, and was already leaving the front door almost before the kid had finished speaking.

Outside, the Chevy had finished, and the owner had pocketed his phone, and was walking toward the entrance. Mort felt a small piece of relief that the man hadn't been engulfed in flame on his behalf. That relief was quickly forgotten as his stomach let out a growl he was sure the man had heard from the door, and tried to lurch sideways. Forgetting his dignity, Mort shuffled toward the back of the building as fast as he dared.

The bathroom was small, dim, and cool, and smelled like urinal cakes and mold. Mort didn't care. He dropped his trousers and sat, relief spiking through him as he let go. He felt so much better he whistled as he went, and squinted into the dark of the room, trying to make up patterns in the wall to distract himself from the task at hand.

Without warning, the overhead light flickered on, harsh white light throwing the dingy walls and yellowed porcelain into stark relief. Standing in one corner was a man in a white suit, an expensive wristwatch showing under one of his cuffs. He was plain-looking, non-threatening even, though Mort felt his bowel fully loosen at the sight of him. He dug into his jacket pocket on instinct, and pulled the revolver free.

The man in white said nothing.

Mort knew who this was, knew the time had come. Shit or get off the pot, they said, and he found it apt considering his situation. He pulled the trigger. There was a sharp short bark from the gun that echoed like the world's biggest snare drum in the bathroom. It was followed by a _spaanng_ , and the sound of impact, like a screwdriver slammed into a piece of fruit.

*

The man in the white suit stared at the body with the seeping hole in its head with an odd mixture of detachment and pity. He glanced over at the frame of the mirror, where the bullet had ricocheted, and _tsked_ softly to himself. After a moment, he walked over to the body, and placed his fingers on the man's lips.

Something light and shining left the man's lips, and entered the man in the white suit's hand. He held it for a moment, and then slipped it into his inside pocket. He left the bathroom, and glanced at his watch. Ten past noon. He had five minutes until his next appointment, so he stood under a tree in the parking lot, and breathed in the city.

Around him, the mid-afternoon traffic had picked up, and he watched the men and women and children get on with their lives. Eventually he would be there for them. He glanced at his watch again.

Until then, he had all the time in the world.

Old Dominion

Will Herne noticed the truck sitting on the side of the Route 2 from about a mile away. It was a big thing, at least eighteen wheels, and its flashers were ticking away in the morning light. Orange and red flashed in regular intervals of distress. It was reflected in the low mist that still clung to the grass of the shoulder, the beans of the field, and wound its way between the trunks of the trees of the small copse in the near distance.

A decal on the back of the truck declared it 'Old Dominion Freight: Old World to New'. As he drew nearer, he could see a thin plume of smoke rising from the front of the truck, and the occasional flash of a dark blue shirt as the driver did what he could with whatever disaster he had on his hands. As he approached, the driver stepped out to the side of the vehicle, and waved a red handkerchief.

Will sighed, and looked down at himself. He was dressed in a tuxedo, his shoes still shining. If he was late, his sister would kill him. He ignored the man, and kept driving, but that didn't stop the driver from trying to flag him down a second time, and as he drew nearer, he could see the look of worry on the man's face. There were no other drivers on the road. Will sighed again, and slowed the car, then pulled in behind the truck.

He took a moment to grab his cellphone from the seat beside him, and then he cut the engine. It ticked down in the morning quiet, cooling as the mist curled around the car. The truck driver was approaching, a smile on his face. Will heaved one more sigh, thinking of how pissed Angela was going to be, and got out of the car. He slipped his phone in his pocket, and went out to meet the driver.

The driver was a stocky man in his mid fifties, a short beard clinging to his face, and a trucker cap perched on top of a white head of hair. His eyes were a deep green, and reflected his smile. White embroidery on his dark blue shirt read 'Hank'. He held out a hand as Will approached. Will took it, and found the man's handshake pleasant. Firm without being crushing, and his hand dry despite being in an engine only minutes before. Hank let his hand go.

"Thanks for stopping, uh-"

"Will."

"Thanks for stopping, Will. Know anything about engines?"

"A little." Will said. He eyed the truck. "Maybe not much about this kind, though. But hey, I have a phone-" He dug it out and showed it to Hank. "Figured maybe I could call you some help, or just lend a hand if you needed someone to hold a wrench."

Hank waved a hand at the phone. "Yeah, that won't work here." He waved again, this time at the countryside in general. "Too far out. If you can tell the difference between a Philips head and a flat head though, I can use ya."

"Sure, hold on." Will shrugged out of the suit jacket, and tossed it on the hood of his car, then rolled up his sleeves.

When he was done, he followed Hank to the front of the truck, where the big hood was pulled forward, exposing the diesel's massive engine. Pipes and tubes and cams and sparkplugs and God knew what else were exposed, and a good-sized toolbox lay on the grass nearby, its lid open. Tools of all shapes and sizes lay inside, in neat compartments.

Hank was already digging in the engine, every now and then a soft curse coming from under the hood. He glanced back when he heard Will's shoes on the gravel of the shoulder.

"Looks like one of the hoses popped off. Hand me a clamp and a flat head."

Will turned to the toolbox. It had several drawers, and he pulled these out one by one until he found the clamps, silver circles with screws in housings. When the screw was turned, the clamp tightened down. He found the screwdriver in its own compartment in the toolbox, and grabbed it, then passed both to Hank.

"Thanks, lad."

There was a bit more bouncing and cursing and clinking for a number of minutes, and an "A-ha!", after which Hank emerged with a grin on his face.

"Got it." He said.

He placed the screwdriver back in the box, and closed it up tight, then hefted it as though it weighed nothing. Will noticed cords of thick muscle standing out on the man's forearms and rethought his assessment of Hank as just a stocky old man.

Hank opened the passenger side of the truck and pushed the seat forward, then placed the toolbox behind it. When he was done, he went around to the driver's side, and reached in. He turned the key, and after a moment of coughing, the engine roared to life. He nodded and seemed satisfied, and after another moment of letting it run, cut the engine. He walked around front and closed the hood. It snapped shut with a bang that echoed in the morning quiet.

Hank held out his hand again, and Will shook it.

"Thanks for the help, son."

Will shrugged. "No problem. So, what're you hauling?"

Hank waved. "This and that and the other. Which reminds me. Better check the door. Wouldn't do to have it flopping open because I was lazy."

He walked around to the back of the truck, and Will followed. The door was open a crack, something Will hadn't noticed when he'd stopped. He was just about to say something to Hank when he noticed the older man watching him. Hank turned his head quickly, and went back to inspecting the door, as though nothing had happened. A curse escaped Hank's lips, and something about it told Will it felt rehearsed. The whole situation was starting to make him nervous. Then again, maybe he was just projecting, and late for a wedding. His sister was going to be _pissed_.

"Stone and steel!"

"Everything okay?" Will asked.

Hank shook his head. He reached out, and rolled up the door. It crashed to the top of the trailer with another bang that shook the morning air. Will looked inside. The walls of the trailer were scratched, as though someone had taken a very sharp garden rake and dug into them, and sooty black patches marred the metal. Aside from that, the trailer was empty.

"What were you keeping in here?" Will asked.

Hank sighed, a dejected and desperate sound. "Dragon." He said.

Will laughed, but it died when he noticed Hank wasn't laughing with him. His nerves began to jangle a bit.

"Look. I've got a wedding to get to. I don't think there's any reason for me to tell anyone about this. I'll just say I got tied up at a gas station."

Hank gripped him by the shoulders, and turned him toward the fields. Something the size of a small jet flew by on massive wings carrying what could only be a small cow. It screamed once, a bellow that echoed in the air, and sent a chill of fear up Will's spine. Then, without warning, it dove into the copse of trees, and left the air and the morning empty.

"Dragon." Hank said in his ear.

He turned Will back around. The young man's mouth was hanging open.

"How. How did it fit in there?" He asked. His brain felt like someone had just dipped it in hot oatmeal.

Well, it was only about as big as a dog earlier. But they grow fast the more they eat." He gestured off at the trees. "That one's been busy."

He walked to the front of the truck again. Will followed him, still a bit in shock. There was a sleeper behind the main cab, and Hank opened it. The back wall had two sets of hooks on it. He grabbed something from the hooks and reemerged. When he came back into the sunlight, he was holding a six foot staff of wood in one hand, its length carved with symbols. In the other, he held a sword, its blade gleaming in the morning light. He held out the sword to Will. Will took it, his brain struggling to make sense of things.

"There you go. Good boy." He hefted his staff. "Let's go."

He started to walk across the bean field toward the trees. Will followed as far as the edge of the field, then stopped in his tracks. The sword felt right in his hand, as though it had been crafted for him. It was lighter than he'd expected, and seemed to hum slightly. He looked at Hank.

"Wait." He called, and the older man turned around. "Wait. This is crazy. I must've been seeing things. Look, I've got a wedding to get to."

Hank raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Where is this wedding?"

Will gestured with the sword. "About five miles that...way..." He trailed off as he realized he was pointing directly at the trees.

Hank nodded. "Humor me." He said.

Will looked down at his still-shining dress shoes. "My shoes..." He said weakly, but the older man was already moving on. Will hurried to catch up. He heard mud squelching, and didn't look down. When he had caught up to the old man, he slowed his pace. Hank was walking easily between rows of beans, looking ahead.

"So, what's the plan?" Will asked.

"To paraphrase a book I read once, take that-" Hank gestured toward Will's sword, "and stick it in the enemy, pointy-end first. Also, try not to get eaten."

Will frowned. "Don't dragons breathe fire?"

Hank shook his head. "Not this young. Still, they're very grumpy."

Will felt a little reassured. He also felt foolish. He had to have been seeing things. He looked at his watch. It was getting close to the wedding. _Great,_ he thought. _First dragons, then my sister. I wonder if Hank's got a shield somewhere._

They walked on in silence for a while. Hank would occasionally stop and scan the sky, but the dragon didn't make a second appearance.

"Good." He said. "The big beast might be sleeping."

Will hoped so. That would make life so much easier. Not easier than say, if the old man had just slipped him some acid, and the whole thing was a delusion, but easier than being chewed to death.

They reached the edge of the copse of trees, and the old man halted. He peered inside, and shook his head.

"He must've found a clearing in the middle. We'll have to be careful from here on in."

They stepped into the trees, dark trunks and branches overhead blotting out the bright sunshine. The mist still clung to the ground inside, and the leaves overhead lent the light a dim green hue. Brush and dead leaves marked their passage with a soft crinkle, and Will cringed every time they had to move forward. Still, they crept on as quiet as possible.

As they moved, Will noticed the forest was unnaturally quiet. Every sound that should have followed them - the chatter of squirrels, the movement of chipmunks and groundhogs, and the twitter of birds was gone, leaving them in an unnatural stillness. His spine threatened to crawl out of his back as he gave a shiver.

Ahead, Will could see the trees thin, and glimpsed a metallic red glint in the sunlight that shone there. Hank put a hand on his shoulder, and they stopped. Hank crept forward, disappearing for a moment between the trunks. Will waited for what felt like an eternity. He checked his watch, and at ten minutes, was sure Hank had gotten himself eaten. He began to creep forward when the older man reappeared from the forest ahead of him. He waved at Will, and met him halfway. They crouched between two giant elms.

"What did you see?" Will whispered.

"Dragon. Sleeping." He made a frustrated sound. "On his stomach though, so we're going to have to wake him."

Panic flared into Will. "What?" He forgot to whisper, and Hank clapped a hand over his mouth.

Will took several deep breaths through his nose, and noticed the man's hands smelled of engine grease. The thought seemed to calm him, and when he was ready, he nodded at Hank.

"What?" He whispered.

"Dragons are really only vulnerable from their underside. The top's all armored scale."

Will cursed.

"Yeah." Hank agreed. "Look, I'm going to go wake him from the other side. When I do, I want you to dart in and stab him to death."

"Dart?" Will said.

Hank shrugged. "Ambush, run, flail. Doesn't really matter, as long as you get the stabbing part right."

"Okay. Okay." Will nodded.

They stood, and Hank started to circle the clearing. Will watched him go, then approached it from his side. He walked until the trees were thin enough he could see in, and then stopped, and hid himself behind the biggest tree he could find. He peered around it, and his heart nearly stopped.

Lying on a bed of grass was the biggest lizard he had ever seen. It was surrounded by a fair amount of carcasses and skeletons in various states of being eaten, and the stench brought tears to his eyes for a moment.

The dragon was about twenty feet long, and a deep red on top, its body covered in interlocking scales. Wings almost as big as it was were folded along its back, and its spine was topped with a ridge of scales that looked sharp enough to cut.

Its head was cradled on its forelegs, which were four-fingered and tipped with long black claws, each claw nearly as long as the sword Will held in one now very sweaty hand. Its head was massive and spade-shaped, like a snake's, with more scales in ridges where its ears should be. Huge nostrils flared as it slept, and Will could track the movement of its eyes behind its lids. It was snoring.

He slipped back behind the tree, and tried not to wet himself. Part of him had _known_ the old man was crazy, or had drugged him. Then again, until five minutes ago, part of him had _known_ dragons didn't exist. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the sword. For the second time, it seemed eager to be used, and he was sure he could feel the hilt humming in his hand. He leaned against the tree, and waited for Hank to create his diversion.

He didn't have to wait much longer. From the other side of the clearing, a voice boomed out, rich with authority and power.

"Hey, ugly! WAKE UP!"

There was a sound like a bus walking, the ground creaking as the dragon raised its head to look for the source of the noise. It blinked, still sleepy. Will took a deep breath, and charged from behind the tree, praying he didn't trip over an exposed root or loose tree branch. He was halfway to the dragon before he realized he was bellowing a wordless challenge. The sword hummed in his hands.

The dragon turned its head to look at this new challenge, but it was too late. A fireball shot from the other side of the clearing, engulfing its head. It screamed in rage, and began to thrash, its tail slamming into trees behind it, sending a terrific din crashing through the forest.

Will reached the dragon, and ducked under one swiping claw, then stabbed blindly. The blade of the sword bit deep into its throat, and the dragon let out another scream, this time of pain. A clawed arm caught Will in the chest, and threw him across the clearing, the impact knocking the breath from him. In his daze, he saw great wings unfold, and in a gale of wind, the dragon took to the sky, still screaming its rage.

In a moment, it had disappeared, and Hank was at his side as he tried to sit up. The older man helped him, and Will blinked. He smelled something foul, and realized he was covered in green goo. _Oh God, my deposit,_ he thought. Hank was clapping him on the back.

"Hurry boy, we've got to chase it!" He helped Will to his feet, and they began to make their way out of the forest, Will stumbling every now and then.

When they emerged from the trees, Hank paused. He began to laugh. Will frowned at the older man, and confronted him.

"What exactly is so funny about this?"

Hank stopped to take a breath. He pointed. Will followed his finger. He realized they had come out the way they'd gone in, and were now facing the road. Behind the Old Dominion truck was a great unmoving mass of red scales and limp wings. Will's Honda was nowhere to be seen. It took him a moment to realize where the dragon had fallen.

"Oh God." Hank breathed. "I hope you've got insurance."

Will blew out a breath, and kicked at the ground. "Come on." He muttered at Hank.

*

The car was totaled. Several tons of dead lizard covered it like a blanket. Will just stared. Hank circled the thing, and with a grunt, pulled out the sword still sticking from its neck, and wiped it clean on the grass. He returned it and the staff to the sleeper of his cab, then came back to stand by Will.

"Lucky shot." He said.

"Depends on where you're standing." Will said.

"I mean, you hit a vein."

"Oh, that. Yeah, lucky. What's going to happen to this thing?" He gestured at the carcass draped across his car.

"It'll melt into goo in about an hour."

"Ah."

"Nice work back there, boy." Hank reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a card. It was embossed with the Old Dominion logo, his name, and a phone number. Will took it absently.

"Say, I need I ride. My sister's getting married."

They got into the truck together, and Hank started it up. He shot a sideways glance at Will.

"Is your sister going to be pissed?"

"Oh yeah." Will looked down at the card Hank had handed him. "Say, you ever deal with trolls?"

"All the time."

"What if we, you know, went looking for trolls? You know, just to make sure the wedding's safe."

Hank was quiet for a moment. "She's that scary, huh?"

Will nodded. "Yep, we should definitely look for trolls."

Hank smiled, and pulled the truck onto the road.

Old Wounds

_There are no such things as ghosts._

The thought rolled around in his head, and came to a rest in the forefront of his brain. He wondered for a minute why he would even have to remind himself of a fact he knew was as solid as the ground beneath his feet. Then it came again, a sound from the broom closet at the end of the hall, like one of the mops being bumped in its bucket.

Probably rats. Persistent little bastards.

It didn't seem to matter how much bait he put out for them, there was always one more, or maybe, two more. It took two to tango, after all.

He finished mopping the last section of hallway, and placed the mop back into the bucket with a wet plop. He started to roll the bucket down the hall, his knee only protesting a little as he walked past rows of lockers and classroom doors. On his way to the broom closet, he would stop once in a while to wipe a smudge of marker from a locker door or fingerprints from a classroom window.

He had been a janitor at the school for twenty six years, and though the kids didn't always respect him, and sometimes the teachers less, he felt no shame in what he did. His father had always believed that if you took pride in what you did, no matter what it was, it was easier to love what you did in the long run. He supposed some of that had rubbed off on him as well.

A memory flared up in the back of his head, like they sometimes did when he was alone, and he squashed it. He reached the broom closet, and opened the door, flicking the switch on the inside. The light sputtered, then sparked to life, and he was looking in on the past.

Lush jungle, green on green with touches of brown was laid before him. He could see the trail ahead, that same thin strip of packed earth in the underbrush that they had walked several times before, trailing away into the preternatural darkness. Overhead, birds and primates called from the canopy. He stared off into it, the M-16 already growing heavy in his hands.

" _You gonna start moving, Brooklyn, or we gonna have to push you?"_

He looked over his shoulder, and shot the speaker an annoyed look, then turned back.

" _Hold yer horses, Bingo. Don't want to walk into a fuckin' punji stick, do ya?"_

He looked for a minute more, took a deep breath, and then a step forward, and -

He was in the broom closet, cradling the mop. He set it back in the bucket with a sigh, and looked around. Mops and brooms, tile floor, fluorescents overhead, and a utility sink and drain against the wall. For a moment, he thought he could still smell jungle – a moist, earthy smell – then it passed, and all he could detect were the smells of disinfectant and pine.

He rolled the bucket to the drain, wrung the mop out and set it in its corner, and tipped the bucket. He watched the muddy water swirl down the holes, and when it was done, he put the bucket in its place as well. He turned, and walked out, flicking the light switch off behind him. Something in the dark bumped a bucket, and it clattered in its place. He didn't turn around, and instead shut the door and locked it with his key.

There are no such things as ghosts.

*

The return walk down the hall and to the parking lot was always the longest. After a day full of bending and lifting and twisting and walking, his bad knee was throbbing at best, screaming on the worst days. Tonight it was halfway between, a persistent dull ache that refused to go away. He was looking forward to going home and taking a couple of Advil with a whiskey chaser.

As he walked down the hall, turning each row of lights off behind him, there was a bang, of metal on metal, like someone slamming a locker door closed. It echoed in the hall, and set the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck on end. He turned back, and squinted into the dark, and

Harley was lying in the path, bleeding. Brooklyn's ears rung from the explosion, a dull bang like metal on metal, and he had his rifle up, looking for the source. Bingo ran to the body and knelt, shaking it. He looked up and was yelling something at Brooklyn, who moved closer, the ringing in his ears giving way to the shouting.

"... _fucked! He's completely fucked! Leg's blown clean off, man!"_

Brooklyn reached down and grabbed him, and shouted back.

" _Get your ass in the brush – someone's gonna hear that, and come runnin'."_

He turned back to the remaining members of the squad – Austin and Red, who were still standing in the path – guns ready, but half-gaping as well. They looked at him.

" _Move it, shitheads!" He shouted._

They started, and double-timed it into the bush ahead of him. He made his way over to Harley, who was no longer breathing, grabbed the spare ammo off the body, and after one last look around, followed the others into the brush.

Once in, he signaled to the others to keep low and fan out. They were going to wait out whatever might be on its way, and if he had his way, shoot the ever lovin' shit out of them. They waited in silence, once in a while one of them shifting to get the pins and needles out of a foot or leg. Brooklyn stared out of the brush and across the path, but all he saw was more

Black. That's all he saw at the end of the hall. After a minute, he shrugged and turned, and continued his slow walk down the hall. At the end, he flipped the last set of switches, and stood there for a moment, listening. Not a sound aside from a low hum from the boiler room below. He shrugged to himself, zipped his coat, and opened the glass door to the entryway. Another door and two locks later, and he was done, standing in a cool October night. He looked back one more time, and the thought came to him again.

There are no such things as ghosts.

*

He stood at the side door of the school, beside a small patch of grass from which a tall elm grew, its last few leaves clinging in hues of red and orange desperation. The parking lot stretched out before him, tall lights on poles shedding yellow light in fuzzy halos around them. A cool breeze had sprung up, and he zipped his coat up a bit tighter before fishing out his cigarettes and lighting one. He eyed the sign warning him about smoke-free facilities, and ignored it. It wasn't like he just flicked his butts wherever he felt, and it wasn't like there was anyone around to catch him out anyway.

He took a couple of puffs, letting the smoke make him light-headed, then lifted his shoe and stubbed it out on his heel. Once it was out, he slipped the rest of the cigarette back in his pocket, and started across the lot, grimacing a bit as he did so. His knee was threatening to become a raging pain, and he was looking more and more forward to that whiskey.

The walk across the lot was quiet, aside from the soft sigh of the breeze and his footsteps occasionally crunching on loose asphalt. The breeze was starting to chill the tip of his nose, so he kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, and walked at a steady pace. He had had the same parking spot for a long time now, and he was more than capable of walking the distance without looking up once.

Behind him, a sound like leaves skittering on pavement, or something being dragged, echoed in the night, and made him stop his step. He threw a glance over his shoulder, but saw nothing. The sound came again, muffled this time, and he turned his eyes toward it, finding the elm and the shadow it threw over the school walk. He stared into it, and saw

Nothing. They had been sitting in the bush for twenty minutes, and hadn't heard or seen a damn thing. Nothing moved in the spaces around them, nothing made a sound. Brooklyn gave it a thought for a minute, and then sat back on his haunches. Bingo looked over at him, and Brooklyn shook his head. Another five minutes couldn't hurt.

When it passed, he gave the signal, and they all began to creep out towards the path again. Brooklyn and Bingo looked at each other, and Brooklyn shrugged, and then stood. He held his breath, waiting for the shot, for a shout from the enemy. Nothing came, and he waited. A minute ticked by, and he could feel each second like a grain of sand in an hourglass dripping through. Finally, he let out the breath he was holding, and signaled the all-clear.

The squad crept out of the brush one by one, each waiting as well, waiting to see if the enemy would wait for them all to be visible before attacking, or if the enemy were there at all. When no attack came, they all stood and walked over to Harley's body. Bingo looked over at Brooklyn.

" _Fucked up, man. Next time you want to tempt fate, take point, don't just fuckin' stand up outta nowhere and wait for Charlie to shoot yer ass."_

Brooklyn just nodded, and looked back down at Harley. The flies had started to settle on his skin. He reached down and shooed them away, then closed the young man's eyes. When that was done, he stood back up, and re-shouldered his weapon. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a map, unfolding it in front of the others.

" _We're here." He pointed to a spot on the map. "There's a village about 2 klicks from here. We'll head up there, check it out, and pick up Harley on the way back. Austin, Red, bag him and slide him into the bush over there. Let's keep the bugs and fuck-knows-what-else offa him."_

They moved to do as he said while he and Bingo kept a lookout. When it was done, they started down the path again, Brooklyn taking point. Overhead, the sun was reaching noon, and he could feel sweat sliding down every part of him, though the path ahead was nearly as dark as night.

A fly buzzed by, and he swatted at his neck-

The stinging sensation brought him out of the memory. Goddamn, but they were thick tonight. He turned away from the tree and its shadow and finished the walk to his car. Inside, with the door closed, he started it, and turned the heater up while he let the engine warm. He fiddled with the radio before he found a station he liked, and then settled back in his seat.

' _Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better...'_

They heard the Beatles before they saw the clearing at the end of the path. Brooklyn signaled a halt, and they stopped short, crouching low and bringing weapons up. One by one, they moved to fan out, until they were covering all angles. When they were in position, Brooklyn motioned them forward.

They moved quick and silent, hand signals flashing between them, steering them in different formations and directions. Before long, they were at the edge of the village, and Brooklyn could see where the music was coming from. Someone had set up a battery-powered radio on a log, and had tuned it into AFVN.

Bingo was nudging him in the ribs, short sharp jabs with his elbow, and he turned to look. One of the village women was walking across the open area between huts, her rear switching back in forth in a kind of rhythmic sway under her long dress. He grinned at Bingo, and turned back to his inspection of the area.

_He was just considering popping up for a second to peek in the window of the hut they were hiding behind when he heard Red yell 'Shit!', and all Hell broke loose. From that side of the village, someone started shouting in Vietnamese – "_ Anh là ai? Anh là ai?" _– and Austin replied with "Shut the fuck up!"_

_To his right, Bingo was rounding the side of the hut, rising up, rifle at the ready. He came face to face with a short man who froze, then began screaming the same phrase as the other - "_ Anh là ai?" _Brooklyn followed, flowing around the hut, thinking to defuse the situation, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the woman who he and Bingo had been eyeballing earlier._

She was coming out of one of the bigger huts on the other side of the village, and halted when she heard the yelling and saw the soldiers. Her eyes went wide, and she lifted her hands. Brooklyn saw something in one, small, round, and green. He reacted, the rifle coming up and sighting in almost of its own accord, and he shouted over his shoulder.

" _Grenade!"_

_The Beatles were still singing into the silence, "_ _na na na na na ,na na na, hey Jude..._ "

The woman was backing up, eyes still wide, and he was trying to figure out what to do when the man Bingo was holding broke free and began to run to her, shouting in Vietnamese, and waving his arms.

" _Stop that fucker, somebody stop that fucker!"_

Bingo was shouting, and Brooklyn could see the whites of his eyes, just beginning to bulge in fear. He tracked a single drop of sweat as it rolled down the man's face, and then a rifle coughed, and he turned back to the running man.

The shot caught the old man in the back, just right of his spine, and though he couldn't see the exit wound, he saw the mist that exploded out toward the girl, just before a red spot bloomed on her chest. She started to sag and then everything went full-speed again. The top of her head exploded in a red mist, and Brooklyn could hear the 'pop-pop-pop' of rifles on semi-auto. Around him, villagers were running and screaming.

He turned, just in time to see another woman run at him, a keening sound like a high wind in November coming from her mouth. Fear instinct took over, and he pulled the trigger on the M-16. His shot was low, and her knee was vaporized in an instant, the leg disconnecting, and her momentum sending her ass over teakettle. Blood fountained in an arc from her tumble, and some hit him in the fatigues. He looked down, at the red, at the woman still screaming in the dirt, and pulled the trigger again, and again, then again, until the only sound in his ears was the click of an empty chamber, and his own ragged breathing.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned. His eyes felt too wide, too full of the world, and he saw

Something dragging itself across the concrete. The radio had moved on from the Beatles, and was playing ads, something about storm windows and doors, and he turned it down. He was staring the rear-view, and saw it plain as day – something was dragging itself across the asphalt under the warm yellow light of the sodium arcs.

He watched as it moved in slow deliberate motions, stretching out, then pulling itself forward, stretching out and pulling itself forward, and behind it, it left a slick red trail. For a minute, he tried to figure it out. Was it a cat? Nah, too big. Dog then? Hit by a car, and left to bleed out? It passed under a light, and he saw white cloth and white skin.

Oh fuck.

It stretched out again, and moved just a bit closer, and he heard it. It was a sound like a keening wind in November, and it was coming from the thing grinding its way across the parking lot foot by foot. His stomach clenched, and his bowels tried to loosen. Instead, he clamped down, put the car in drive, and pulled away. Slow at first, and faster, until he was doing fifty through the lot, and when he reached the spot where it met the road, he didn't slow or look, and instead just hauled ass onto the blacktop.

A mile from the school, his heart was hammering in his chest, and sweat had begun to drip from his hair into his eyes. He pressed shaking hands into the steering wheel, and blinked back stinging tears.

There are no such things as ghosts.

*

A few miles down the road, with the radio turned back up, and the sound of the tires whispering on blacktop in the background, he started to believe it again.

There are no such things as ghosts.

He was breathing easier, and the sweating had stopped, leaving him with a bit of a chill despite the car's heater blowing away. He was getting close to home, and he began to slow a bit, making the left turn that would take him onto his street. A wrench on the floor, loose from some odd job he had done a while back, slid and clinked, and he jumped a little. He turned the radio up, and hummed along, forcing everything else out his mind.

Another minute, and he was in front of his drive, turning in, and watching the lawn roll by as the headlights lit it like rolling spotlights. In the backseat, the wrench clinked again, and he reached back to grab it and bring it forward, so he could put it away.

His hand met something cold and wet and smooth, and he looked back. Dark Asian eyes met his own, and he screamed and snatched his hand back from where it had been resting on the bare flesh of the woman's leg. Beneath those eyes, a delicate nose ended just above a red ruin of a hole that was once a mouth, the top row of teeth suspended in bone and gore. The bottom half of her jaw was missing and a long tongue lolled from the wound. Red-tinged drool stained the front of her white blouse, and as his hand scrambled to slam the vehicle in park and grab the door latch, those dead eyes rolled towards him and a sound came burbling from her throat.

He didn't wait to hear what she was saying. His hand finally found the door latch, and he popped it, and slammed the door open and spilled himself onto the rough dirt of the drive. His knee screamed in protest and

He looked down, and saw the wound, a neat hole in his leg where the kneecap had been. Across the village, Austin had emptied his rifle, and had drawn his sidearm, and was still firing. Rage filled Brooklyn – that was his knee, a perfectly good fucking knee – and he flipped his rifle at the other man.

Pop-pop.

A look of surprise crossed the other man's face, and then he crumpled.

Bingo was shouting, and Red was screaming, and then Brooklyn was down, but still moving, crawling across the dirt toward

The house. It was a dirty white in the dark, looming over lawn and drive like judge and jury, and right now, it looked like Fort Knox to him. He knew if he could just get inside, it would all be okay, all this would go away, and he could drink and forget, and maybe call in sick tomorrow, and it might even be a good idea to call Dr. Mitchell and get some of those little blue pills that made you happy.

From behind him, he could hear the sound of dragging, of something moving slow but deliberate, and he lurched to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knee. It almost brought tears to his eyes, but at this point he didn't give a good goddamn. He shoved a hand into his pocket, and his heart almost stopped. His keys were in the ignition still. He looked back, and saw the half-human slobbering mess shambling towards him, and made up his mind. He wasn't going back that way.

He started towards the house, limping and listing a bit to the right, but the knowledge that he was moving faster than the thing behind him gave him a little boost of speed. In no time, he was on the porch, holding onto one of the posts that supported the little roof above it. He tried to stand on tiptoe to reach the small box he hid under the eave, and pain shot through his knee again. He fought it down, and stretched again, his fingertips first brushing, and then gaining purchase on the box. He brought it down with a small cry of triumph, and snatched the key out.

He risked a glance behind him, and saw the crawling thing had only made it half the distance he had. Still shaking, he turned toward the door, and managed to get the key in on the third try. Behind him, that gurgling sound had started again, and he risked one more glance back, to where the thing had been.

The lawn was empty. He stopped trying to open the door, and turned to look. No body, no marks on the grass, and no marks in the drive. He stood for a minute, listening to the sounds of his own breathing, and his heart thudding against his ribs. Nothing moved in the light thrown by his headlights.

There are no such things as ghosts.

The thought came again, defiant. He shot back at it. _Yeah, well, fuck you._

One more look around, and he took a deep breath, and turned back to the door. He grabbed the knob, and turned it, pushing the door open. It opened easy, on quiet hinges, and he stepped over the threshold, and flipped the light. Something small and round and green rolled from down the hall and bounced against his shoe.

He bent down and picked it up, a frown forming on his face. It was soft, and had a distinct smell. He squeezed it, and

He had made it to the woman in the dirt, the one with the grenade. He crawled beside her, and looked for it. It had rolled a little ways and was lying in the dirt, undisturbed by the chaos around it. He reached over, and picked it up, a strong smell wafting from the soft green skin. His stomach dropped.

"Oh fuck." The words were quiet.

Overhead, the light flickered once, and went out with a dull 'tink'. Something moved in the dark. Something wet, and cold.

_There are no such things as ghosts._ He thought, and knew it for a lie.

Panphobia

Airplanes. Flying. Heights. Spiders. Insects. The dark. Germs. Thunderstorms. Highways. The list went on. Harry tried to think back on when he hadn't been afraid of all these things, and why, but all he got was nostalgia without reason.

He hardly watched the news anymore, or read it, for that matter. Floods, fires, war, and rumors of war. Murder, envy, and greed. It was as if every time he picked up the paper or flipped on the tube, he gathered a new phobia to himself, and he already felt full to bursting. He knew the ridiculousness of it, knew the news catered to sensationalism. He knew there was enough good in the world to balance out the bad, yet another part of him sat in its corner and scowled out, and refused to believe it so.

That part of his mind had always refused to behave. When he was younger, it held less sway over his life, though no less pessimistic; no less sour. It came out in bouts of dour humor and cynicism, and occasional anger at the ridiculousness of the world. The older he got though, the more that part of him took hold, entrenched itself in his way of thinking. It reminded him that there was always a catch, always a downside.

When he finally grew to the point he could fight the pessimism, he found that the cynicism had turned into a dour fatalism that insisted the world was a dangerous place, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. As a matter of course, the rest of his brain reasoned that must mean the world was to be feared.

For the most part, he was able to suppress his fears. He found a job that let him work from home. He had his groceries delivered. He meticulously cleaned his home every three or four days, and himself every night. (Not without making sure the adhesive ducks on the bottom of the tub were firmly in place, though. Wouldn't be right, being cautious, only to be done in by a tub faucet.)

He had considered therapy, maybe medication, but that would mean leaving the house. It would mean _exposure_ , both physical and mental. He didn't know that he was ready for that. Until he found an MD willing to diagnose via internet, he was content to stay put.

*

The day Harry found the spider in his shower drain was the day that changed his mind.

It had been an ordinary day, as far as days went for him. He had done some work for a client, a simple piece of freelance code for a website, and managed to wrap that up before noon. The rest of the day he spent cleaning the house, since it had been three days - making sure the surfaces were wiped down, the floors swept and vacuumed, and the tub scrubbed of soap residue. After that, he sprayed everything with sanitizer, and waited in his office while the fumes dissipated.

As he waited, he read a bit of news, though he couldn't get much past the first story, an article about death squads in the Congo. He wondered for a moment if such things were exclusive to third-world countries, and decided not to leave it to chance. You never knew who was watching, and what they might deem punishable. Maybe just visiting a global news site rather than local had already dropped him on a watch list. He took a moment to dump his browser history, and then turned the computer off. He should probably have alarms installed, just in case.

He walked to the bathroom, and dropped his clothes in the basket by the door. He turned the faucets on, tinkering with the hot and cold until it was just right, and tested the ducks on the bottom by trying to slide his hand across the floor of the tub. It stuck, and he was satisfied. He got in, and wet his hair, humming to himself. There was a song stuck in his head, 'Fall Down'. He thought it was by Toad the Wet Sprocket. A part of his brain checked off the coincidence, and carried on.

He turned to grab the soap from the ledge by the showerhead, and stopped, mid-reach. He had looked down, to make sure the drain wasn't clogging with hair (though his wasn't long, and he wasn't balding). A clogged drain meant soap and water build-up, and almost guaranteed slippage, no matter how many adhesive ducks you had in the bottom of your shower. His gaze was frozen on the drain, still clear, water still swirling down. Despite that, he could see two long legs poking from the holes.

His heart skipped a beat, and he took a step back, trying to make space between himself and those legs. As he did, they began to move, as though they sensed his fear, trying to gain purchase on the wet surface of the tub. Harry stood frozen for a moment, then with a curse, shoved the shower curtain to the side, and stepped out while watching the legs squirm.

Without turning the water off, he edged to the side, eyes still on the drain, and flipped open the cabinet under the sink. He groped around for a moment, feeling his fingers brush a can of Scrubbing Bubbles, a block of soaps still in their cardboard boxes and cellophane, and a container of disinfectant wipes.

The legs seemed to notice he was up to something (maybe it was his imagination, though he didn't care to make a distinction at this point), and seemed to be scrabbling harder for purchase. He saw another set of legs worm their way through the drain, and he choked his fear down.

His fingers finally found the handle of the bleach bottle he kept under the sink, and he pulled it out with a triumphant grunt. He spun the cap off, and without any ceremony or hesitation, poured it into the drain. The legs fought for a moment against the added flow from the bottle, then lost the battle, and slipped away.

Harry let the water run for another minute, until the smell of bleach started to dilute with the steam in the air, and he was sure the spider wasn't going to try again. He hoped the damn thing burned all the way down the drain. He dried off, deciding that was enough shower for one day.

He lifted the lid of the toilet - he really needed to pee after all of the excitement - and let fly. He watched the stream hit the water, and looked down. Legs the length of his pinky sprouted under the water, coming from the siphon hole. They disappeared into darkness, though as he watched, they squirmed, as though trying to pull the rest of the thing attached to them to the surface.

His flow cut off like someone had kinked a hose, and he slammed the toilet lid shut. After a second, he picked up the laundry basket and placed it on top. He flushed once, and then twice, holding the lever down for longer than was strictly necessary, then left the bathroom.

He could hold it until he got to the therapist's office tomorrow. He looked at the toilet, and considered checking it. Nope. He could hold it. He had to.

*

The therapist's office was cool, white, and nearly sterile. Harry liked it. Two rows of two chairs sat across from each other in the waiting room, and an indoor waterfall babbled against one wall. It was all very soothing. The door to the therapist's office was frosted glass, with stainless handles. Stenciled on it in small neat letters was the name 'Havel Patel, PhD'.

Harry was reading a paper someone had left on one of the small tables between the chairs. It was, admittedly, a rare occurrence for him, but he figured he was already taking the right steps, surely another couldn't hurt.

The news itself was surprisingly benign. A new study had come out; revealing murder rates had dropped to all-time lows. To Harry, that just meant his odds were better than ever to be killed by some psychopath or idiot with a gun. As far as he was concerned, smaller odds for everyone else meant a higher rate for those within the target demographic. He had left the house today, after all. Surely that meant he had dropped himself into the likely target lottery. He reminded himself again to check into an alarm system.

He moved on to another story. Disease rates were down - better antibiotics, better treatment, and a greater knowledge of how disease worked were all collaborating to decrease why people got sick, for how long, and how severe a sickness could last. Harry figured most of those people didn't go out of their way to catch a bug. Not like him, sitting in an unfamiliar office, holding a used newspaper, with a fountain sending unfiltered mist into the air. He tossed the paper on the side table and brushed his hands on his legs. He hoped Dr. Patel was coming soon.

As if on cue, the door to Dr. Patel's room opened, and the man stepped out. He was on the short side, a bit stocky, his head shaved to baldness, and a pair of glasses in rectangular frames perched on his nose. He smiled at Harry.

"Mr. Dora?"

Harry nodded and stood. Dr. Patel waited for Harry to enter his office, then closed the door behind them. He hadn't tried to shake Harry's hand. That was good. There were two overstuffed chairs in the room, bracketed by walls of books, and a small window that looked out at the therapy center's grounds - rolling lawn and trees that led to a small creek. Harry took one of the chairs and waited for Dr. Patel to sit.

Patel sat, digging his backside into the chair for a moment before pulling up a notepad that had been nestled between the cushions. He smiled over at Harry again.

"Why don't you tell me a little about yourself, Harry?" He said.

Harry hesitated for a moment. Could he tell a stranger all of the things he thought? What about the things he felt, the things that frightened him, even in the warm light of day; especially in the cold dark of night?

_Baby steps_ he thought. _One at a time._

He took a breath, and began to talk.

*

He told Dr. Patel about his childhood, and his adolescence, his drift from fearless to phobic as he moved to adulthood. He found himself talking about his belief in the degradation of safety in society. He talked about how he knew his fears to be irrational, knowing what was versus what he felt, and not being able to reconcile the two.

Dr. Patel listened, taking notes through the entire session, and when Harry was done, he set the notepad down. The room seemed more still than it had when he started, as though filling the air with his fears had hushed even the air. The doctor glanced at the clock on the wall, and then leaned forward.

"This is a good start, Harry. I want you to think about the things you've told me, and come back in two days. Specifically, I want you to think about that cognitive dissonance you hold - the idea that your fears are irrational, and yet you cannot banish them with rationale."

Harry let out a breath, and nodded. He was a little disappointed. He had built up a good head of steam, and it felt like he needed to get some things out.

_Doctor knows best,_ he thought.

He stood to go, and Dr. Patel stood with him, leading him to the door, and opening it for him. The doctor must have seen the look on his face, because he laid a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Harry, we'll get it all out."

Harry nodded, and stepped out of the office. The door closed behind him. He waited to hear the click of the latch in the doorframe, and walked out.

*

Night found Harry lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. His nightlight cast a dim yellow glow into the corner of his room, bright enough to comfort, soft enough to not stab his eyelids with light. He wondered for a moment where the spider in his toilet had gone. He'd taken the time earlier to move the laundry basket, and lift the lid, and found the bowl was blissfully empty. He had bleached it anyway, and then flushed it for half an hour, just to be sure, and he felt he could use the toilet tomorrow with a reasonable amount of confidence.

He thought about what Dr. Patel had told him \- that he held a cognitive dissonance, a fracture in his mind. He knew the statistics and the facts. Spiders were rarely venomous enough to kill (more people were killed by champagne corks than spider bite every year), flying was safer than driving (redundancies on redundancies), and you had a higher chance of dating a celebrity than you did of catching the bird flu. Still, they remained.

It was almost as if his fears were the symptoms of a virus he had contracted, a malignant strain that invaded his mind and rooted itself there with iron barbs. He could talk all he wanted about the rational, the real, but when it came down to it, when the fear took hold, his body betrayed him. Sweating, heart pounding, short breath, and an anxiety that drilled into his gut like an electric wire all drove him to avoid the things that caused those symptoms, forced him into a corner where avoidance was preferable to confrontation.

He was snapped away from his thoughts when something in the house creaked. He knew it was probably just the place settling, but his mind immediately went to the things that lurked at the dark corners of his imagination - great misshapen furred beasts, and thieves with knives and little to lose. He cast a glance at his bedroom door, and saw it was still locked. He considered flipping on his light, and reading a bit more, but pushed it away. With effort, he closed his eyes, and tried to calm his breathing.

He still listened with half an ear to the hall outside of his room, but the noise never repeated. Sleep started to claim him, and for a moment, he thought of all the things outside, all the things in the world that could shake a man to his core. He let it slip by, and fell into darkness.

*

Two days slipped by quicker than Harry expected. He spent them much as he usually did - cleaning, writing code, and wrapping himself in the comfort of his home, away from the fright of the outside world. There were exceptions.

In the morning, he opened the paper, and saw two stories that interested him. The first, a short piece in the nature and science section, was about the decline of poisonous spiders and subsequent fatal or near fatal. It went on to say that due to climate change and aggressive pesticides, several species were either dwindling or migrating to climates that weren't hospitable.

The second article was in the same section - a piece about new avionics. It was said to be so reliable, the planes nearly flew themselves. Even the pilots were happy about it \- far less micromanagement involved in the general workings of the cockpit. Further down in the article, one of the engineers was quoted saying what the article had already stated. "The planes practically fly themselves."

When he was finished reading, Harry put the paper down and frowned for a moment. He was jealous of these people. Every day, less things to be afraid of, and he still couldn't force himself to see past it. He tossed the paper down with a grunt, and went to clean the bathroom. The spider still hadn't appeared, but he'd been bleaching the bowl and the shower every day, just in case.

A plane passed overhead while he was cleaning, and he imagined, just for a moment, the landing gear tearing free, or an engine working itself from its moorings, and smashing through the roof of his house, leaving him a broken mangle of flesh. It passed after a moment, and he shook the vision off, and finished scrubbing.

Later that day, he was finishing up some chores, and had the television on for background noise. He happened to look up just when the newscaster started to speak.

"A new study shows that violent crime - specifically murder - has dropped in the past few months. It is now at an all time low, nationwide."

The television cut to commercial, and Harry stared at it for a moment, not really seeing it. Murder was down? What was happening to the world? The things that haunted him, that frightened him to the core, were slipping away. It was as though the things that were real dangers, no matter how irrational the fear, were leeching from the world, and into him.

As soon as he had the thought, he shook his head, as if to clear it. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough, as far as Harry was concerned. He was starting to worry for his sanity. Fear welled up in him, and he tried to quench it by pinching himself.

No, this is real, I am real, and I am NOT crazy!

He pinched until he bruised, and then pinched a little more. When he was finally able to calm himself, he wandered to the bedroom and lay down. Tomorrow he would see Dr. Patel. Tomorrow it would be better.

I'm not crazy.

*

Dr. Patel's office was the same. Sterile, white, and soothing. Even with only two visits, Harry was starting to feel comfortable. He listened to the waterfall tinkling in its frame, and took a deep breath of cool air. He ran his finger idly up and down the white fabric of his chair, making idle patterns in the fabric. Generally, he tried to think of nothing.

The door to Dr. Patel's office opened, frosted glass giving way to an inviting interior, lit by sunlight and lined with bookshelves. Dr. Patel stood in the doorway and smiled.

"Mr. Dora. Glad to have you back." He gestured toward the room. "Come in, come in."

Harry got up and entered the office, sitting in the same overstuffed chair he had last time. Dr. Patel closed the door behind him, and sat across from him, picking up his notepad as he did. Once settled in, the doctor crossed his legs and rested the pad on his knee.

They exchanged pleasantries for a moment - words about the weather for the most part, and when that died down, Dr. Patel began the conversation.

"The last time you were here, we talked about your fears, the irrational versus the rational. How have you been doing with that?"

Harry sighed. "Honestly? Terrible. It seems like the harder I try to convince myself that there's nothing to be afraid of, the more afraid I become."

He took a minute, and told the doctor of his new fears. Dr. Patel listened, nodding and making notes on his pad. When Harry finished, the doctor sat back and regarded him. He looked concerned.

"Harry, I want to try something. It's a bit different, but if it works, we may be able to halt this...degradation...you've been dealing with."

Harry could feel a pit of anxiety starting to worm its way into his stomach. It must have shown on his face, because Dr. Patel's tone changed; became soothing.

"I won't lie. What I have planned, you're probably not going to like, Harry. But it _is_ effective."

Harry swallowed, hard. It felt like there was a lump in his throat. He could already feel his heart rate trying to climb. Dr. Patel set his notepad aside, and leaned in.

"It's your best hope, Harry. Ask yourself - do you want to live like this anymore? Do you want to get worse?"

The answer was no. It was easy enough _to_ answer. At the same time, that trickle of anxiety was working itself into a river, and he was starting to regret coming. What if the doctor wasn't a doctor? What if he was trapped with a madman? He started to push himself off the chair, and Dr. Patel held up a hand.

"Wait. I know you're feeling it again. Sit down for a moment, and give me a chance, Harry."

Harry did so, reluctantly, and Dr. Patel studied him for a moment more.

"There, behind you." He said, gesturing at the wall behind Harry. "Would a madman have those on his wall?"

Harry turned to look. Arranged in a loose square were several diplomas and certificates. Harry leaned closer to get a better look at the largest one, decorated by flowing text and a gold seal. As he did so, something pricked his finger, and he jerked it away from the chair, instinctively sucking on it. For a moment, his vision blurred, and he gave up trying to read the diplomas. He turned back to the doctor.

Dr. Patel was just leaning back in his chair, tucking a syringe into a small black case Harry hadn't noticed when he entered. Panic tried to well up in him, but it was felt distant, disconnected from him somehow. He knew the doctor had stuck him, but he was having trouble caring.

"How do you feel, Harry?" The doctor asked. The lenses in his glasses reflected the overhead lights, making them look like white panels in wire frames. Harry couldn't see the doctor's eyes.

A part of Harry screamed for him to run, to get the hell out of the office, and run until he was safe at home. That part too, felt disconnected, and distant.

"Fine." Harry lied.

"Good, good. You're going to feel a little fuzzy for a bit, but when it wears off, everything will be fine. You'll see.

Now, I want you to listen, and think about what I'm going to tell you."

Harry nodded, and felt a stupid grin creep across his face. He fought it back, but not before he saw himself in Patel's lenses, looking like an idiot. Didn't matter, he didn't care.

Dr. Patel leaned forward again, and the illusion of shuttered windows in his glasses disappeared. His eyes were intense, and held Harry's own.

"The universe does not care. This is the thing you must remember. There is no vast conspiracy, the world is not out to get you, you are not statistically more significant than anyone else; you are not beholden to predestination.

If a thing happens outside our realm of choice, it does not boil down to fate, or destiny, it does not mean a damn thing other than that thing happened. Move on, recover, and grow stronger.

Most importantly, remember this: you are not special. You are not singled out by the machinations of world, and never will be, aside from the decisions you make directly impacting your own life."

Dr. Patel finished speaking, and Harry felt the words sink in. Combined with the disconnection he felt from his fear, and the intense gaze of the doctor, the way his gaze seemed to hammer home every word, Harry felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Harry felt his eyes grow heavy, and they began to droop. He felt Dr. Patel pat his knee.

"You can rest here, Harry. Go home when you wake."

Harry let his eyes close fully, and took a deep breath, then another. In a moment, he was asleep.

*

He woke in darkness, the only light in the office a desk lamp the doctor had left on. Harry stood, and stretched, then ran a fingernail over his tongue. It felt like a cat had slept in his mouth. He looked around, but saw no sign of the doctor.

"Dr. Patel?" He called.

He stopped. The desk lamp was on, and outside, he could see the neatly manicured lawn of the clinic, lit by carefully placed lights in flowerbeds and shrubs. He wasn't afraid.

He wasn't afraid.

He felt a mix of emotions at that - elation, anger at Patel for tricking him, and an odd serenity. Nothing mattered that he didn't do to himself. It was an odd kind of comforting thought, but there it was. He made to step out of the office, and stumbled when his shoe bumped something. He frowned and looked down.

A dark shape lay on the floor, but he couldn't quite make it out in the dark. Harry reached over and flipped the switch on the wall, flooding the office with warm light. He looked down again, and stepped back.

Dr. Patel lay curled in the fetal position, his face swollen and blue. His eyes protruded almost comically, and his tongue jutted just slightly from his mouth. Harry nudged him with the toe of his shoe, and the body rolled slightly, exposing a lump the size of a Clementine just above Dr. Patel's collar. He bent down for a closer look, then straightened as a spider, black and swollen with venom, crawled from under the collar.

After a moment, Harry shrugged, and walked carefully over the body. He opened the door, and left the office. He passed through the waiting room, noticing someone had left the door on the other end open, the waterfall still gurgling away, and through the nurses' station. He didn't notice the pretty receptionist who was sprawled in her swivel chair, congealed blood crusting in her pores and orifices.

He walked out of the office, and to his car. In the distance, he saw a jogger stopped mid-stride by a large man. She stood there, her body language indicating she was torn between fight or flight. The big man grabbed her by the throat, and as Harry watched, drew a long blade from his jacket and opened her throat. He turned away. None of his business, not his problem.

He got in the car, and pulled out of the lot, out of the neighborhood, and started to drive. It was a quiet night, aside from the cars that littered the side of the highway, and the fires in the distance.

He looked up at the sky, and something passed overhead. For a moment, a jet blacked out the stars, and as Harry watched, a blossom of fire bloomed on its wing, and half the fuselage ripped away. The two halves went spinning in opposite directions, and another moment later, he saw dark shapes silhouetted against the stars as well, each the size of a man.

Harry shrugged to himself again, and continued driving. Not his problem. The universe didn't care.

Someone else could shoulder his fears.

You Can Get it for Free

Eleven on a Saturday night, and Angelina was curled in her overstuffed recliner. She glared at the clock in disgust, and then blew out a breath. She should be annoyed with herself, not the damn clock. Her own fault for not getting off her ass and going out, yet again. She pushed her bangs back from her eyes, and turned her attention back to the TV.

Channels flipped by one by one - fishing, game show, somebody yelling about immigrants, Lifetime movie, ad nauseum. She couldn't find any one thing she wanted to watch. TV was boring her, she thought she smelled her own sweat, and her damn bangs - she blew them out of her face - were too long. In all, she was miserable, for no one real reason, and the longer she took to occupy herself, the more the misery fed itself.

She finally dropped the remote in disgust, and got up. Maybe a shower wasn't a terrible idea. She stripped down on the way to the bathroom, tossed her clothes in the hamper by the door, and turned the water on. She got in, and could still hear the drone of the TV over the water. She wondered what she had turned it to, and realized she didn't really care. A shower was a start; she'd decide what to do after.

Fifteen minutes later, Angelina was clean and dry, her bangs held back by an elastic headband. The shower hadn't motivated her as much as she hoped, and she was planning to settle for some Cheetos, and maybe a movie, even if it was a Lifetime train wreck.

She was halfway to the kitchen when a voice from the TV caught her attention.

"How many times has this happened to you?" It was followed closely by a sound that reminded Angelina of a sad trombone. _WaaWaa._

She could just see the scene in her head. Someone trying to flip an egg, or a pancake, or pour a glass of milk, only to twitch violently, as though they had been goosed. Then, food everywhere, and the actor turns to the camera with both hands in the air, and an expression that says 'Help me, I can barely tie my own shoes, let alone move an item from one container to another.'

She shook her head, and kept walking. The voice piped up again.

"Johnny Wick here! Do you find yourself without energy, without motivation, stuck at home on a Friday night?"

Angelina stopped, and turned. A man in a blue polo and khakis was addressing the screen, gesturing as he did so.

"Well, I'm here to tell you about Wax Ecstatic! Gone are the days of painful hair removal."

The camera switched to a shot of a woman tearing a strip of wax off her leg, then clutching it, and grimacing in pain.

"Wax Ecstatic is the painless, homeopathic solution!"

The same woman appeared, tearing off a similar strip, sans grimace. She smiled, and ran a hand along her supposedly smooth shin.

"Wax Ecstatic contains a mild anesthetic, and is made from the leaves of the Calliope Tree, known for centuries in Asia to remove unwanted toxins from the body!"

Johnny laid a strip along one of his obviously hairy arms, and then pulled it off. He showed the hairy remains to the camera, the wax underneath dotted with black specks.

"See those specks? Those are the poisons leaving your body! You'll feel full of energy and life, and if you don't, we'll refund the full amount!"

He laid the strip down on a table, and walked to the side, the camera following him.

"If you order now, we'll give you not one, but two boxes of strips, and this handy lint roller!"

The camera held for a minute on Johnny's face, his neon-white smile seeming to eat up half the screen, and then it flipped to the familiar blue info screen. Product picture, phone number, website (waxecstatic.com), and price - $19.95, of course.

Angelina snorted in what passed for derision, and turned the TV off. Maybe she'd just grab a snack and go to bed, after all.

*

Another Friday, another night spent curled in the recliner, flipping channels. Angelina was disgusted with herself again. She could smell her sweat, taste the last four meals she'd eaten, and she was pretty sure she could braid the hairs on her leg if she tried.

The problem was, disgust didn't mean a damn thing in the long run without action. Action was hard to come by when you were disgusted with yourself, and the urge to sit still and not draw notice grew stronger the worse you felt.

She wasn't sure she'd call it depression. More like 'enhanced misery'. She knew the cause. Her professional life was at a standstill, her personal life was a bit lackluster, and she was getting older without much to show for it. She knew she should fight back, try to grow, to push harder, but once the realizations began to click into place, she found herself tired, and wondering what the point was.

Sometimes she fantasized about quitting her job and taking a year to find herself, and then she remembered what her bank account looked like. Not everyone could just reenact 'Eat, Pray, Love' at the drop of a hat. She sneered at the image of Julia Roberts that popped into her head, with her perfect teeth and perfect figure and her movies that promised false hope.

She dug into the bag of Cheetos again and popped a couple into her mouth. The TV channels flipped by, a blur of nonsense. She needed a shower. She stopped flipping, and dropped the remote, then dusted her fingers off on her sweats. Quick shower, and maybe a trip to the store. She made to get up, when Johnny Wick spoke from her TV.

"Stop!"

She stopped, half-risen from the chair, and plopped back down.

"Heh. Ok." She said.

Johnny was walking toward the camera, the studio behind him dark. Angelina frowned at the TV. It seemed a weird pitch for an infomercial product - those were usually bright and energetic, if more than a little corny.

"Stop paying forty-five, fifty-five, even sixty-five dollars a visit for a leg wax! We've told you before about Wax Ecstatic, and now we're extending a special offer."

The camera zoomed in, a close-up of Johnny Wick's face. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was a bit disheveled. Angelina noticed stubble on his neck and cheeks, and a bit of dried white spittle in the corner of his mouth. She wondered what he was on, and watched his eyes flick left and right, as though he were being watched.

"Do it. P-please. You can get it for free." The words seemed to echo in the studio, punctuated more by the fact that there was no background music to the commercial. His eyes slid to the side again, and he turned his head. A strangled sound escaped his throat, and he darted off-screen.

In the black of the studio, something pale, white like a fish belly, shuffled on frame. The camera tried to autofocus on it, and Virginia caught a glimpse of large black eyes. The screen cut to a test pattern and hung there for a moment before changing to the familiar blue product screen. Product pictures, a number, the price ($19.99) in big numbers, and the website (waxecstatic.com). Below that, was a new line of text.

"Visit our website, and enter the promo code "ECSTATIC" for your free trial now!"

Virginia flipped the TV off, and stared at the screen for a bit. She could see her own reflection in the black. She could see the kitchen behind her, the light on against the dark, a corner of the table, and part of the counter. She wondered what she would do if a pale figure shuffled into the reflection, and decided not to find out. She turned the TV back on, and muted it, and walked to the little table under the window that held her laptop.

She flipped it open and waited for it to wake up, and wondered about the commercial. _If_ it was real, and that was one hell of an _if_ , then it was really disturbing, and she should be notifying someone. Maybe the FBI, or at least the FCC. She thought it more likely it was a brilliant bit of viral marketing. She opened her browser, and tapped in the website.

The site came up, tacky as she'd expect. Pink and blue, with flowery script, and a picture of the model from the commercial smiling as she pulled a wax strip from her leg. Below that, was a box describing the product - "Made from the Calliope Tree!" - and a text box where she could enter a promo code.

She typed in the word ECSTATIC, and hit enter. The page refreshed, and took her to an address form that she filled in. She hit enter again, and waited for the confirmation page to show up. When it did, it was of the model in a pair of short-shorts, with a text bubble above her head that read simply "Thanks!" Angelina closed the laptop, and sat back in the chair.

She hadn't really thought about what she was doing, but she figured that anything with a commercial that interesting was worth owning a piece of. She wondered about Johnny Wick for a minute, and if she'd see him again, maybe hawking a magic kitchen tool, or a garden hose that only dispensed cold water. She decided it didn't really matter, as long as she got to wax her legs for free a couple of times, and maybe keep a souvenir.

She got up, and turned off the lights. It was dark, and in the back of her mind, that pale white thing shuffled inevitably behind her. She shook her head to clear it, and when she got to her bedroom, closed and locked the door behind her.

*

Saturday morning came early, even earlier still, thanks to the pounding on her front door. Angelina stumbled out of bed, and made her way to the door, fumbling with the lock on her bedroom before it gave way. She stood in front of the front door, pushing hair out her face. The pounding came again, and she unlocked the door, and opened it.

A man in a brown delivery uniform stood there with a package under one arm, and a clipboard in his other hand.

"Angelina Rossi?"

"Yes?" She squinted in the morning sun.

He passed her the package, and then clipboard. "Sign here, please."

He pointed at an 'x' on the sheet in front of her. She set the package down, and signed, and handed the clipboard back to the delivery man. He turned and walked back to his truck, and with a sputter of diesel smoke, drove off down the block, and around the corner. Angelina watched him go, then picked up the package, and walked inside, closing the door behind her.

She dropped the package on the kitchen table, and poured herself a cup of coffee. She thanked God she had remembered to set the pot to brew the night before, and then sat down at the table. The package was brown, and nondescript. A label on the side facing her read:

FROM:

SCUTTLEFISH INDUSTRIES

5435 ICHTHY RD.

DUNWICH, ND 55502

TO:

ANGELINA ROSSI

453 E SYCAMORE

DUNWICH, ND 55502

Well, that explained why it had arrived so fast, though she was sure she had never heard of Scuttlefish Industries, or Ichthy Rd. She shrugged to herself. It wasn't that weird, she supposed. The oil boom in the western half of the state was bringing all kinds of industry, why not snake oil, too?

She got a cup of coffee in her, and felt a little more awake and alive. She got up, and refilled the cup, and grabbed the kitchen shears from the block on her counter. She set the coffee on the table, and used the shears to open the box.

The first thing she noticed when she opened the flaps was a strong savory scent, familiar, but elusive. Inside were two trays, each filled with several long strips of white paper, each of which was backed by a thick layer of wax. A simple sheet of instructions lay on top of them.

  1. Heat strip in microwave for 30 seconds, or until wax is soft to the touch.

  2. Apply strip to leg, let sit for 30 seconds.

  3. Remove strip quickly.

  4. Repeat until area is clean.

Below that was a warning, written in fine print:

Do not consume. If you do ingest, induce vomiting, and call a poison center immediately. This is not a substitute or a treatment for any real or perceived medical conditions. Keep away from children and animals.

Angelina shrugged to herself, and tossed the note to the side, and lifted one of the strips out of the box. She sniffed it experimentally, and made a face. It smelled a bit like raw meat. She thought those Calliope trees must smell like a meat department gone bad in the summer if the wax from them smelled like this.

She blew her bangs out of her eyes, and thought for a moment. She really didn't have any plans for the day; why not give the strips a shot, maybe get out of the house for a night? She did have a skirt she had bought online a month ago she still hadn't even tried on.

She shimmied out of her pajama bottoms, and walked the box of strips to the counter. She took one out, and tossed it in the microwave, then set the timer for thirty seconds. She waited while the microwave hummed to life, and watched the wax strip turn circles on the glass plate inside. When it was done, she popped the door open, and stepped back.

The smell that came out of the microwave was pungent, and seemed to punch her in the nose. Her stomach rumbled when it realized there might be bacon nearby, and she grimaced.

_Not gonna eat one of those,_ she thought.

She pulled a chair over to the microwave and sat down, then pulled the strip out. It was warm to the touch, but not overly hot. She hoped it would work, that at least she was doing it right. She started the strip at her ankle, and patted it in place, then waited another thirty seconds.

While she waited, she caught herself humming the old Oscar Mayer jingle, and made herself stop. Breakfast could wait. She looked down at her leg, where it was tingling. The skin there felt kind of numb, and she was already impressed that something sold on TV worked as advertised. She ripped the strip off, and the hair came easily, just a light tugging letting her know she had pulled the hairs there.

Excitement for a task that didn't cause her misery or pain had her microwaving strip after strip, and in no time, she had both legs and her bikini zone freshly cleaned. She held the last strip in her hand, and looked at the little black dots caught in the wax between the hairs. Supposedly the toxins the strip was advertised to remove. Probably a gimmick. She shrugged, and tossed the last strip in the garbage.

She closed the box, and tucked it away under the sink, then replaced the chair at the table. The kitchen smelled of bacon, and she was ravenous.

*

Breakfast was a plate of bacon, two pancakes, and a couple of sausage links she found in the back of the freezer. She finished the whole thing, set her plate aside, and promptly fell into a nap. While she slept, she dreamt.

Angelina was in a banquet room, decorated in dark hardwood, with a fireplace at each end. Animal skulls hung on the walls behind each guest's chair, and fires had been set in the hearths. The table itself was laden with a feast. She saw meats of every variety, heaped on silver platters, bowls of fruits, and breads in baskets next to serving plates of butters and jams. A glass of red wine sat next to each guest's plate, along with a setting of silver, and a fine white napkin.

She looked around the table, and saw the other guests were naked, save for masks in animal shapes that matched the skulls behind them. She noticed their flesh was pale white, the color of fish belly, and their mouths were left exposed for eating. She reached up, and felt no mask, then looked down, and saw that she too was naked. She was as pale as the others, but felt no shame.

Angelina sat, and began to eat. She liked the meat the most, and every time she bit in, juices would burst into her mouth and flow down her chin. She paused to take sips of the wine, the flavor dark and sweet. When she did, she could hear someone outside the room, yelling, yelling that for only $19.99, she could be happy. For only 19.99 she could

"See those specks? Those are the poisons leaving your body! You'll feel full of energy and life, and if you don't, we'll refund the full amount!"

She woke, bleary-eyed for a moment. The TV was on, and the Wax Ecstatic ad was showing again. She didn't recognize the spokesman. He looked like a crackhead. She reached for the remote, and turned the TV off, then stretched. She felt good.

The clock showed quarter after eight when she got out of the shower. She took a few minutes to do her hair and makeup, then slipped on the skirt she had bought (it fit great), and a blouse. She grabbed a pair of low heels from the closet, and her keys from the table beside her door.

She was feeling so good, she thought she might try the bar tonight. A girl couldn't live on work, Cheetos, and the pulse setting of her shower _all_ the time, after all. Before she went, she grabbed a couple of pieces of bacon from the plate in the fridge. She was still a bit hungry, and figured those would tide her over.

*

The bar was crowded, but she didn't care. Whatever they put in those wax strips had her feeling good. She almost thought to worry about it, and then figured as long as she heeded the warning note, she'd be fine. She sidled up to the bar, and ordered a Manhattan. The bartender gave it to her with a smile, and she tipped him a five, then leaned against the bar, watching the crowd.

Most were twenty-somethings in tight clothes and tanned, fit bodies. They smelled like Axe and Drakkar, and talked too loud. She wrinkled her nose, and a voice spoke up beside her.

"That's cute."

She turned to look at the man, a well-dressed thirty-something in a good suit, and sipping a martini. He smiled at her.

"Sorry, what?" She said.

"The nose wrinkle. It's cute. Most people couldn't pull off Samantha from Bewitched."

She found herself smiling, and held out her hand. "Angelina."

He took it, his grip firm, but not hard. He shook it, and she noticed his nails were well-cared for, and she could feel calluses on his palm. A watch glittered on his wrist.

"Mark."

Her stomach rumbled, and she hoped he couldn't hear it. The hunger was starting to gnaw at her, and she was a bit annoyed. Why now?

He looked at her stomach, and she saw his glance flick down for a moment to her legs. Then back to her face. His eyes were a pretty green.

"Hungry?"

She thought about it. She could play it off, pretend it hadn't happened. She could walk away. She didn't know this man, didn't know if he was diseased, sick in the head, or a serial killer. Her stomach rumbled again, and she blushed. He must have mistaken it for something else though, because he smiled, and it lit up his eyes. She liked his dimples.

"I make a mean New York strip." He said.

The hunger gnawed at her, it was enough to make her uncomfortable, and she knew she had two choices. Abandon the night, and her chances of getting laid for want of meat, or follow Mark home, and hope for the best of both worlds. She had never been much of a risk-taker, but aside from the hunger, she felt good. Confident. Like that, she wasn't worried, and she smiled back at him.

"Lead on, then. I could eat a whole Angus."

He led them to the parking lot, and pointed out his car, then waited for her to get in hers before starting off. They drove off into the night, Angelina's stomach complaining the entire drive.

*

He hadn't lied. He did make a mean steak. Angelina lounged on his couch, watching him clean up in the kitchen. He had hung the suit jacket up, and rolled his sleeves up, and she watched his back as he moved, and the muscles in his forearms.

She was impressed. Unlike most men, he hadn't used the time he was cooking to make advances, or crack corny jokes about 'meat' and 'size of the meat', etc. She was starting to think they were both going to get lucky tonight. Her stomach growled again, and she tried to ignore it. She still felt hungry. She decided to distract herself.

She got off the couch, and kicked off her shoes, then walked over to Mark, who still had his back to her. She pushed herself up on the counter, and waited. He turned, and she smiled, waiting. He took the hint, and moved to her, his lips meeting hers.

They kissed, and she could feel the hunger, and a heat growing between her legs. She fumbled with his pants, and then had him out. He was hard and hot, and she could feel his breath in her ear. She opened her legs, and guided him in, and then he was thrusting, pushing her towards climax.

She moaned, a low hungry sound, and a second hunger grew in her belly, gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She bit Mark's shoulder, and he pushed harder into her, his breath coming hard and fast. She was getting close, the heat in her like a fever, and the hunger in her stomach like coals stoked to fire.

She bit down, hard, and heard Mark cry out in pain, but only distantly. Warm fluid gushed into her mouth, rich and satisfying. She clenched her teeth, and jerked her head to the side in a tearing motion. A chunk of meat came off in her mouth, and she swallowed it whole, feeling the hot meat slide down her throat.

Mark pulled away with a scream, clutching his shoulder, his still hard member jutting out like a flagpole, and his pants around his ankles. Angelina growled, and leapt at him, knocking him to the floor. She mounted him while he struggled, weak from the pain, grinding herself into him.

He tried to crawl away, but her head darted forward again, and she ripped another piece of flesh from him, this time from his neck. Dark arterial blood spurted across the kitchen, and he screamed in horror.

_So good, so good,_ she thought.

His struggles were growing weak, and she ground herself even harder into him, feeling her climax coming. She ripped piece after piece out of him, and savored the flesh in her mouth, even as her climax hit. She went rigid, her muscles spasming for a moment, before slumping onto his chest. She was aware it was quiet - no heartbeat, no breath sounds - and she was thankful for it. She was finally full.

*

She had cleaned herself up in Mark's shower, and left by the back stairwell. She knew she should be horrified by what had happened, what she had done, but she just felt so _satisfied_. She felt _alive_ , more than she had in the past few months, maybe more than she had in years since taking that data processing job.

She drove home with the radio on low and the window open. She enjoyed the cool night air on her face, and the way the moon reflected from her windshield. She turned the radio up, and heard:

"Limited time offer! Order one box of Wax Ecstatic, and _ANGELINA COME HOME_ get the second free!"

The voice in the middle of the broadcast took her by surprise, though only for a moment. After the thing she had done, hearing voices shouldn't shock her. Besides, she _was_ going home. She turned the radio off, and drove the rest of the way in silence.

*

She locked the front door, and kicked her shoes off, then shimmied out of the skirt and blouse. She'd have to burn those. She stopped to admire herself in the mirror, and noticed her skin was paler than she remembered, her teeth a little sharper, and her eyes just a bit larger. She thought she looked like a waif, one of those runway models from the eighties.

In the living room, the TV was still on. She passed it, and the voice came from its speakers.

_ANGELINA COME HOME,_ it said. The shot was of the studio, and the skinny spokesman was laid out on a table, naked and shivering and bound. As she watched, one of those pale creatures with the large black eyes and razor teeth shuffled into view. Its mouth moved wordlessly, but still she heard the words.

She watched as its head darted forward and ripped a chunk out of the naked, screaming man.

She gathered her keys, and left her clothes on the floor. She walked out the front door, and to her car.

She was going home.

Study in Red

Red. The color creeps in, at the edges of my dreams, through the windows of the studio. Outside, I see it growing in neat rows in the park, in blossoms on the trees, and in the sunset. Night falls, and it drips from neon signs and taillights, pools in puddles left from the rain.

I'm not usually this fixated. Yes, I notice colors. You don't get to do what I do if you don't. I notice pattern and light, texture and color, and my brain turns them all into compositions of lines and curves and shape, and my hand interprets those things, and splashes it on canvas.

For some reason though, I am stuck - obsessed at this point, really - with red. I think it's her lips. I can't seem to find the right shade, and I've tried more than a few. Crimson, carmine, red, auburn, burgundy, vermilion - they all seem wrong. Fifty-two colors, and I can't find a fucking match. Some artist.

I should've listened to my mother. She always said I should've been a surgeon.

The charcoal scratches on canvas, and her eyebrow is finished. It's a delicate thing, soft and feathery. I smudge it a bit, and get shadow where there was none. I'm avoiding her lips. Avoiding her stare, and that pout under her nose. I set the charcoal down, and walk away.

I pass the coat rack, where my jacket hangs like a limp rag. After a moment of indecision, I tug it on, and grab my keys. The door slams behind me, and I stomp down a dark wood hallway to stairs that creak with every step. Afternoon light slants through the window set in the front door, and I watch dust play in it before I step through.

Outside, the world goes on. A couple passes by on the other side of the street, arms around each other. Cars occasionally pass, their tires whispering on the asphalt. Sometimes I hear words in them. I glance over my shoulder, at the front door, and feel a pang of guilt. I usually do when I'm not working. She's there, waiting. She can afford to be patient, though.

I walk to the park, the cool spring breeze ruffling my jacket, sending stray strands of hair wisping off in the wind. The buildings to either side of me take on an almost merry look, inviting. This close to the park is tourist ground, and I notice the occasional person passing me on the sidewalk has become people, first a few, then a stream, like a creek emptying into a river.

I turn off, and cross the street to the park. This early in the day, it's still relatively unmolested, green trees and grass and daffodils and lilies all nodding their heads in time to the breeze that shuffles by. I walk by a bed of tulips, and suppress the urge to lash out, to kick their stupid fucking red heads off.

I decide to keep walking.

Out of the park, buildings rise up beside me again, then fall away to my left as the river begins to edge closer to the road. The breeze is stronger here, colder, and whipping up whitecaps that break on the rocks of the bank. Spray tickles the back of my neck, and I turn my collar up.

When I look up, I'm at a dead end. Someone Built a warehouse here years ago, and it's fallen into disrepair. Apparently, the city hadn't thought it worth the cost to just tear the damn thing down already. I decide to take the roundabout, and walk home. On the other side of the street, something moves in the shadows of an alley, and I stop.

Probably a rat. Just a rat.

Feeling brave, I stick my head into the narrow space between two brick buildings that smell like grease and motor oil. Nothing moves, and I take a step, which is just enough movement to spook the rat that had been snacking. It charges past me with a squeak, and I aim a kick and a curse at it as it flies by me. Three more steps take me into the dark, and I stop when my shoe bumps against something soft and yielding.

I wait a beat, for my eyes to adjust. It's mid-afternoon outside, but in the alley, a maze of ductwork, pipes, and eaves overhead between the buildings drop the light to near night. I prod the thing with the toe of my shoe, and hear the rustle of plastic. Just trash. I turn to go and see a smear on the wall beside me. It looks like someone spattered paint here, dribbled it down the wall, and into irregular puddles on the concrete.

I blink, and find my fingers sifting through the sticky mess on the wall. I'm not sure why. Maybe artistic curiosity, maybe because unlike the rest of the alley, it doesn't smell like refuse and shit. I drop my hand and remember what I was doing, and turn the rest of the way around, back to the light. It doesn't take long to put the alley behind me.

I reach the river, and the sun is slanting in long golden rays that pierce the water and shatter into splinters of color that ripple with the waves. I stop for a moment and watch, and realize I was in that alley longer than I had thought. I shrug to myself. Not the first time I've lost track.

I watch the water for a while - green and gold and blue - and just breathe the cooling air that the breeze brings across it. On the other side, people are coming home, lights going on in houses and apartments, cars drifting into drives. I watch for a while, relatively alone. Traffic has slowed, and only the occasional passerby even glances my way. When the last of the light fades into the water, I turn and walk on.

I pass through the park, flowers now folded into bulbs. Trees throw the paths and grass into dark puddles of shadow. The colors of the tourist traps in town are muted, and the sidewalks practically dead here as well. I push on.

In the front door, up the stairs, down the hall, and into my apartment. I turn on the lights, and dim them to a decent level. Hang my jacket on the hook.

She's still there, staring out of the canvas. I pull up a chair and sit in front of her, meeting her gaze. Nothing comes. There is a bottle of red (hah!) wine on the counter. I get up and grab it, and take my seat again once I've wrestled the cork from the mouth.

Time and wine pass, and I find myself in the same spot, the only difference being that I'm bleary and melancholy. My eyes burn, and I set the wine down and close them.

I remember her, Madeline, a redhead from college. She had pale skin and pink lips and nipples. She loved the rain, and cheap beer, and talking about Monet and Seurat. She loved to argue nearly as much, as well, though that was always followed by a sweetness you couldn't match with candy.

In my dream, she is pale and bloodless. Her eyes are clear, but they seem to see nothing. I reach out, and touch her, and her skin smears like paint on a canvas. I try to scoop it back into place, but every stroke just scatters more, until I'm standing in a field of orchids painted from her flesh. I watch, and the flowers turn red, then the sky, a deep red, and beneath it all, weeping, a low keening like a bird caught in a thorn bush.

I wake in cool morning light, an empty bottle on the floor, and my face wet. My head beats in time to my heart, and I raise a hand to my skull to try to keep it in one piece. Something sticky comes away on my forehead, and I curse softly, remembering that I hadn't cleaned up after my walk the night before.

I trudge to the bathroom, and flip on the taps, waiting for the water to warm. I look in the mirror, and see blue eyes carrying dark bags, and a streak of red above that, smeared on my forehead. I forget looking at myself, and instead, take in the color. Almost maroon, nearly crimson, it's both and neither, and I'll be damned if it's not the color I need.

I raise my still-unwashed hand to my face and stare at the smudges of red on it. It's dry and crusted and all wrong now, the exception being where my fingers had crossed my face. I stick my tongue out, and touch the tip to the sticky red. It tastes sharp and coppery.

Blood, then. My stomach almost drops out, wondering where I'll get what I need and how to mix it and how much to use. In the back of my mind, a very tiny voice wonders about AIDS and Hepatitis and God knows what. I ignore it.

Reluctantly, I wash the blood from my hand and face, and jump in the shower, hoping the steam and fresh water will ease my headache. It doesn't. I walk to the studio, and stare at her. She smiles back. My brain is pounding, and I walk by, to my bed, where I shut the curtains, and fall into a deep sleep.

*

Knives in the dark. They glitter like stars, and where they touch, they part the sky. Beneath, it's red. It's all red.

*

I wake in the night, cool sheets and cool dark surrounding me. I sit up in bed, and look around. Dresser, chair, sheet that divides the bedroom from the studio - all sit in mute observance. I stare at the sheet, swaying in a breeze either kicked up by the building's AC, or a window I've left cracked. Beyond it, she still sits, waiting.

I get out of bed and pad to the kitchenette opposite my makeshift bedroom. I fish a glass from the cupboard and get a drink, not looking at her face on the canvas. I know what she wants. I find my hand toying with the knob on the silverware drawer.

Only a little. I only need a little.

I pull the drawer open, and pull out a paring knife with a ceramic blade. I test the edge against the ball of my thumb, feel it rasp against my fingerprint. Good and sharp. I set the glass down and carry the knife over to the chair in front of the canvas. It only takes me a minute to select a brush, a couple of tubes of red, and some thinner. I need the smallest amount of paint to thicken the blood, but not dilute the paint - the thinner is to keep it fresh.

I set the palette in my lap, and with a quick jab, pierce my thumb. A sharp pain lances into my hand - no more than you'd feel from a splinter, though, and blood wells up almost instantly. I hold my hand over the palette and squeeze my thumb, watching fat beads drip into one of the empty depressions there. When it is half-full, I stop, and suck on the wound to stop the bleeding. I can taste copper.

Next comes a dot of paint, to thicken the stuff so I can paint with it. I watch it slide into the warm redness, and stir it with the end of my brush. It takes a minute to spread evenly, like wasabi in soy sauce. When it does, I add a touch of thinner, and mix that in as well.

I dip my brush in, and press it to her lips, soft as a kiss for the first coat. It goes on smooth and even, and I can see contours taking shape, making them plump and lush. I watch the paint soak in, and my heart drops. It's wrong.

I let the brush fall away, back to its resting place on the palette, and think. Too much paint? Not enough thinner? Not enough blood? Not enough blood. I can do this. If I'm careful, I can do this.

*

An hour later, I have the things I need. An old cord from a broken lamp for a tourniquet. A mason jar. Some alcohol, to sterilize the blade, bandages cut from sheet, and masking tape. Best I could do on short notice.

I sit, and tie the cord below my bicep. The mason jar sits on the ground, under my outstretched hand. My hand is still shaking. I take a breath, and make a fist. The cut is easy, almost too easy. Hurts a bit, but it's a sharp knife. I relax my fist, pull the cord free, and the blood flows down my arm, over my fingertips, and into the jar. Drops on the floor, but that's okay.

Half-full. I make a fist again, and cover the wound with the sheet scraps. Two twists with the tape, and I keep my arm bent. Could take a bit to stop bleeding.

I dip the brush in the jar, and set to work. The blood is thin, runs down her chin. She's smiling. It soaks into the canvas, refuses to darken. I keep painting.

Not enough. Before long, the brush clicks against the bottom of the jar, and I realize I need more. She looks better. Her lips, I could kiss them.

I pull the sheets off, open the cut with the tip of the knife. Hurt like hell, that time. I fill the jar. More red covers her lips, soaks in. It's not enough. I fill the jar again. I think she's smiling at me. Outside, a car passes, I think, and I can hear its tires whispering words to the night air.

Kiss her kiss her feed her kiss her.

I do. My arm aches. Seems like I forgot something, something red...forgot to close the vein...forgot to feed her...I look down, and see her lips have slipped the canvas, are surrounding my chair. Blackness opens at the center of them, and I smell her breath, like copper.

Not enough. I open the vein in my arm, and the pain fades. The red opens wider.

She smiles.

The Expedition

_Editor's note – the following is an excerpt from the diary of Jonah Johnson, an account that has been passed down from generation to generation. The expedition left the north most region of Canada in April of 1923. It was never heard from again. Jonah was survived by a wife and son and two grandchildren, Jesse and Caroline._

July 1923, Day 5

We left base camp in Canada five days ago, setting off from a remote island in the north and across the ice bridge that forms year round between it and the Arctic. Our guides, two Inuit men named Aguta and Itigiaq, met us there, with two teams of sled dogs and accompanying sleds. We took what supplies we could – a compass, a map composited from past expeditions and surveys, dry rations, fuel for fire lighting, tents, and a few gallons of water. Despite the abundance of snow and ice, most of it is salt-based, and attempting to drink it would be a futile effort at best.

The party seems to be in good spirits, Milhausen and Carter joking, and Brimly looking on with a wry smile. We've already covered good ground, and with luck, will be at our destination in fifteen days or less, weather permitting.

July 1923, Day 7

We had considered the possibility that our rations would run out before we could return to base camp, that it was entirely possible to be stuck in the snow and weather past our scheduled time. On the sixth day out, one of the sled dogs died, and though the idea was tossed about, no one here spoke on it or acted on that atrocity. I can already see the worry that gnaws at Milhausen beginning to fester, and hope he holds himself together long enough to make this trip. We all agreed to half-rations for as long as we could stomach it, which should be a good while. I don't think anyone wants to admit they had entertained the idea of eating a pet.

Aguta buried the dog in a mound of snow and marked the grave with a few jagged pieces of ice he managed to break free. He seems like a good man, though quiet. Itigiaq just looked on, and made a sign in the air at the grave. I asked Aguta about it, and he explained it as 'old superstition'. Still, that night in my tent, I crossed myself and said a little prayer for safe passage.

June 1923, Day 10

Carter found something while striking camp. One of the tent-pegs had cracked the ice in a deep rift, perhaps digging into an existing fissure and acting as a wedge. Below, we could glimpse a rock formation that looked to be a vein of pure silver. Milhausen claimed it was simply reflection caused by light striking a surface that had been eroded to a mirror over the space of ages. With cold creeping in, and an estimated ten more days to our destination, no one was in the mood to argue. But I know what I saw.

That night, I dreamt of things long sleeping under the ice, and other less pleasant things. When we awoke in the morning, another sled dog had died. Most of us assumed he had left the pack in the middle of the night and froze to death without their protection. Aguta and Itigiaq had a heated argument while they buried this one, with Itigiaq finally storming off. When I asked him about it, Aguta did not seem to think he would be with us much longer.

June 1923, Day 11

Solid travel, uneventful. Maybe just acclimation, but it feels like it's getting warmer. More tomorrow, the hardest leg of our journey just ahead, what Brimly has dubbed our Everest – a four mile diameter sheet of ice riddled with pressure ridges and ice floes.

The dogs are fighting.

June 1923, Day 12

Snowstorm. It came on us from the north (Ha!), and blinded us almost instantly. A halt was called, and we managed to find each other through calls and our flashlights. We figured the winds to be about 35 miles an hour, and had to drive our tent spikes twice as deep, though there is still the fear the ice will shift and loose a peg, and the wind will snatch a tent away.

The temperature has dropped again as well, and I can only heat the ink in my pen so many times before it becomes useless. I will stop for the night, and pray the storm does as well.

June 1923, Day 13

Itigiaq is gone. The storm abated in the night, and we woke to find he had taken a sled and three day's supplies with him. Milhausen is beside himself, and keeps asking when we'll have to eat the other dogs. I suggested that we consider turning back now, but Brimly would have none of it. He's convinced we're only a few days from our destination, and will be branded cowards should we fail now. Carter nodded assent, though I saw a worry in his eyes as well.

My other concern, I kept to myself. That is, the farther we go, the more frequent the nightmares become. No one else has spoken of them, but I see the dark circles under Brimly's eyes, and the haunted look in Carter's. If I weren't a rational man, I would think we were being hunted.

I had the chance to speak with Aguta before we retired to our tents. He is upset as well over Itigiaq's betrayal, but is sure the man will be brought to justice should he return to their village. I am not so sure. Three days' supplies, and a twelve day trek back – the math does not work out well for him.

June 1923, Day 14

None of us slept well, between fears of dreams that had grown darker and listening to the sounds of the camp between gusts of wind. Those dreams – I see things in the daylight now – half-shadows and shapes that lurk at the corner of the eye, and then dart from vision when you turn to view them. I feel I should speak to Carter about this, since he is the medical expert in our group, yet I cannot bring myself to admit to another man, let alone myself, that I may be losing my mind.

When I left the tent, Brimly greeted me with a cup of coffee and a grimace. We drank in silence for a minute, the ice just beginning to glisten from the rising sun. He broke it first.

"Milhausen's gone. Poor bastard slit his wrists last night, bled out in his tent." He said.

I opened my mouth to ask about the others – Carter and Aguta, and Brimly cut me off. "They're gone as well. Together, or not, I can't be sure, but they've disappeared. They took almost the last of our rations, the sled, and the radio."

I took it all in, weighing our options. Pursuing those two would most certainly constitute a complete collapse of the expedition, with precious time and resources wasted. Brimly had apparently arrived at the same conclusion, and so we agreed on the most sensible course of action. We would search the immediate area for signs of either Carter or Aguta, and succeed or fail, strike camp the next day to proceed to our final destination. Depending on our supplies, should we be able to hold out there, our contingency plan called for colleagues back home to mount a rescue should we pass our trip goal.

We began our search, splitting the mile surrounding the camp into hemispheres, Brimly taking the west, and I the east. I didn't walk long before I found my first clue, red slush in a wide pool not even a quarter mile from the tents.

The cold restricted the senses, pressing in at times from all sides as though the air had walls and was slowly imploding. I got to my knees and lowered the mask I had worn for the walk, and smelled almost immediately the coppery tang of fresh blood. I looked around, trying to locate Brimly, loathe to waste one of the few flares we had left to signal him.

Luck seemed to be with me however, as I spotted him nearly right away. He was near the center of camp, standing with his back to me. I figured he had returned to warm himself at a small fire we had made. I waved and shouted his name.

He turned, as though hurt or stiff, and I waved again. Another moment passed, and he didn't respond. The oddest thought occurred to me then.

What if that isn't Brimly?

A shadow flickered at the edge of my vision, and I turned my head. Nothing there, but that thought bothered me. This was the Arctic, after all, and we were the only two at camp. The amount of blood I had found suggested another would be dead or dying, and as for the fourth, I doubted they would have made the trouble to come back. I hailed Brimly again, and hesitated for a second, despite logic settling in.

I waved one more time, and saw him respond at last, his body turning in what again struck me as an odd, mechanical way, his legs punching into the snow like pistons. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the only thing there – the flarefun I had tucked away – it wasn't much in the way of a weapon, but it might do in a pinch.

At sixty yards, the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

Brimly was stripped to the waist, his chest a red ruin where someone or something had torn a ragged hole where his heart used to be. In its place was a glass cylinder that seemed to be affixed by cables shunted directly into raw veins. In the center of the cylinder, suspended in a mix of plasma and a glowing green ichor, a single disembodied eye glared out.

Even as I recognized it, it rolled in its fluid and fixed that stare on me, and I felt an unnatural chill roll its way up my spine and into the base of my skull. For a moment, those shadows at the edge of my vision began to darken, and I could hear what sounded like words forming in the back of my mind.

I was torn away from the voices in my head, their words twisting like smoke in the wind, by the sound of Brimly, gurgling and then screaming from deep in his throat. I stepped back, and for the first time noticed the ice axe he was dragging behind him. He raised it, and I fell back again.

The axe whistled by me, the serrated head so sharp I could almost taste the steel in the air. Unthinking, I reached into my pocket, and pulled the flare gun out. Not aiming, not thinking, I raised it, and fired.

By then, the thing that had been Brimly regained his coordination, and I was knocked sideways even as an agonizing pain tore into my ribs. I screamed and heard one in response even over what I was sure was the snap and crackle of breaking bone.

I pulled myself right even as the axe fell away from me, and heard the pop and fizzle of fire in snow. I was able to clear my head long enough to see what had happened. The flare had shattered the cylinder, spilling its contents onto the tundra, the eye a blackened ruin in a pool of glass and green ice. Brimly's body was not far from it, the torn tubing leaking green and red vital fluids into the snow.

Warmth slid down my leg, and I saw the blood seeping through the rent in my coat. It took some time for me to stagger back to the tents, and once, I thought myself lost when my vision went black, and I found myself staring out at miles and miles of snow and ice. Eventually, I made it, and crawled into my tent. I was able to bind my wound with strips of cloth torn from my bedding, and when I could no longer hold my head up, I slept.

June 1923, Day 15

When I woke again, it was dawn. I gathered what things I could, and determined that I would make our destination and wait for rescue, if it came. On the way out, my pack loaded with what I could carry, I stopped at Brimly's corpse and picked up the axe that had wounded me. My ribs ached and throbbed, but I was able to keep them at a dull roar with some of the morphine from Carter's medkit.

I made my way from the camp, heading due north, according to the compass. The wind was up, and it didn't take long for a numbness to creep into my skin despite my layers of clothing. Head down, I crept forward, and it wasn't until I realized a shadow had fallen over me that I looked up.

I was at the base of an ice ridge, pushed up from the sheet cracking and shifting, much like the earth's crust after an earthquake. It loomed over me like the hand of a long dead and frozen god, and for a moment, I could only stare, fighting the image in my mind of it crashing down on me, crushing me from existence.

I stepped forward, under the eaves of the ledge, and felt the wind drop off. Mixed feeling flowed through me. I was glad for the respite – frostbite can be a horrible thing – and worried as well. The chill was helping to numb my wound, and I wondered how long out of it before it began to ache again.

I checked the compass and my surroundings, and made note of the length of the ridge. In order to progress, I would have to go around, since I neither trusted the nature of the ice, nor my own strength to try to climb over. I began to edge along its base, making my way to the far end where the summer sun split the shadow and turned the snow and ice into brilliant diamond reflections.

I almost fell into an opening in the wall of the ridge. One second there was an unbroken wall of ice, and the next, an opening the size of a man, stretching down and back into the Arctic surface. I looked into the dark, and could feel it trying to press back on me, the black like a pressure on my eyes. After a moment, I was able to fetch my flashlight out and shine it in.

Pale light struck the walls of a smooth tunnel carved from the ice, lighting it up in a soft blue glow, and illuminating a worn path into its depths. Outside, the wind shifted directions and picked up, and I could feel that chill coming back to me. Snow began to drift, and then swirl in heavy gusts, and my mind was made up. Whatever was in that tunnel, at least it wasn't certain frostbite. I took the first step in, and my flashlight flickered. Shadows moved at the edge of the darkness, black cut from black, and then were gone as soon as the light relit.

I moved on, the ice beneath my boots creaking. Walls that looked as though they were bored into the ice by a hot drill slid by, absorbing, then reflecting the light. I could hear the wind outside, increasing to a howl, and took comfort in the idea that though I might not know my destination, I would not die in the snow.

After a long descent, the tunnel began to level out and widen, and the ice began to recede. Walls of rock replaced ice, and hard-packed earth the floor. I hadn't been imagining the warmth. Water dripped from the ceiling, and formed small pools on the floor. After a time, I felt warmth begin to tingle in my fingers and toes, and I pulled off my mitts, trying to drink in as much of the heat as my flesh would allow.

After three hundred yards, I was amazed to find the cavern walls converging on a single egress point – as if the cavern had been shaped by purposeful hands. Something in the pit of my stomach stayed my step, and I found myself unwilling to walk further than I had come. I retraced my steps, to the furthest point from that black opening in the cavern wall, and set up a meager camp.

For a while, the smallest sound – water dripping on stone and earth, the distant howl of Arctic wind, even my own breath in my ears – kept me awake. Once, maybe twice, I would swear shadows moved at the edge of vision, and then I shut the flashlight off. I was growing too weary to be afraid. Too tired to fear death, or insanity.

June 1923, Day 17

I made it a hundred feet into the tunnel at the end of the cavern today. Something's in there. I can feel a warm breeze, and smell...something. Smells like hot metal, sometimes like hot flesh. I will make another trip tomorrow.

Shadows, and movement in the dark. I can hear you, I can hear you I can hear

June 1923

I feel better. Hunger, maybe sleep deprivation was getting to me. I will have to leave this cave soon. I fear I have been here too long, and missed the rescue crew. I've eaten a few extra rations – it won't matter if they're here soon, or if they're not. I think I will walk through the tunnel today.

June

A man came today – I found the other end of the tunnel – he tried to stop me. He tried to stop me, and I bit him, and hit him, until he fell down. The shadows are back. They talk to me now, and they wear the faces of my friends – Brimly, Milhausen, Carter. Maybe they were always my friends? I don't sleep now, too much...

June 1923, Day ?

...took the man to the room at the end of the tunnel...he came back, but I had to kill him again...I will sit in the chair...no choice...out of food...out of time...

Editor's note - The diary ends here. No indication has been given as to how the diary was recovered, or by whom, and further attempts to contact Jesse Johnson, the author's grandson, have gone unanswered. Research of periodicals of that time indicates a rescue mission was sent to the Arctic, as scheduled, but was suspected lost as well.
Epilogue

June 2012

Caroline said she wouldn't take the house – had enough responsibilities, she said. Cleaning the basement was a bitch and a half, but I managed to get it done in a couple of days. If I didn't know better, I'd swear my grandparents were hoarders.

Found a cool old chair down there that I think I'll have restored. Looks kind of like an old dentist chair, with all kinds of tubes and instruments hanging off of it. Just brought it upstairs for now. If nothing else, I might be able to sell it.

I'm going to have to hire a contractor to wall off the addition to the basement – it looks like an old root cellar – just a wooden door there locked tight, but so old I wasn't able to open it. I think there are rats in there.

I keep hearing something moving, and more than once in that light, a shadow crossed the edge of my vision. On second thought, screw it, I'll just pry the door open tomorrow and see if it's worth the trouble.

Clayton Snyder lives in North Dakota with his wife and two dogs. Inkslinger, web developer, and dabbler, he lurks on Twitter @claytonsnyder2. He only sometimes refers to himself in the third person, usually when he writes these things, and Tuesdays.
