

### PREY

**Seven Tales**  
_of_  
**Beastly Terror**

John Cassian * Tom Conyers

D.Z.C. * Danielle Tara Evans

L.K. Evans * Chance Maree

* Thaddeus White*

# PREY

### SEVEN TALES OF BEASTLY TERROR

Distributed by Smashwords

Longhorn © Chance Maree 2015

The Rogue Bear © Danielle Tara Evans 2015

A Siamese Cat © D.Z.C. 2015

Sleeping Dog © Tom Conyers 2015

Rat Bastard © John Cassian 2015

Chopin & Slacks © L.K. Evans 2015

Project Phoenix © Thaddeus White 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The authors assert their moral rights.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1507626801

ISBN-10: 1507626800

Editing, Cover Design, Typesetting & Illustrations by Tom Conyers

# Contents

Introduction

Longhorn Chance Maree

The Rogue Bear Danielle Tara Evans

A Siamese Cat D.Z.C.

Sleeping Dog Tom Conyers

Rat Bastard John Cassian

Chopin & Slacks L.K. Evans

Project Phoenix Thaddeus White

# Introduction

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

— _Richard III_

Shakespeare nails it, as he frequently does, in this quip from his remorseless villain. In truth, animals have far more to fear from us than we do from them. The scariest animal pales beside human monsters. And to call ourselves bestial is to slander beasts. But all those with a sympathetic bent towards the creatures we share—that's sadly not the right word— _inhabit_ this planet with, can imagine with some glee the prospect of their asserting themselves in a supernatural capacity.

As in life, not all the animals win out in the fictions contained within these pages, but none go quietly, either. The cat in D.Z.C.'s _A Siamese Ghost Story_ manages to enact a ghastly revenge, in a quietly cool Saki-esque tale. The grizzly in Danielle Tara Evans' _The Rogue Bear_ becomes a tool for shady humans in a story reminiscent of a Stephen King tale. John Cassian provides us with a whole island of rats which hold dominion of their territories, in a Poe-style monologue of madness.

Chance Maree's _Longhorn_ , as well as being a highly effective chiller, also carries a timely message about the dangers of messing with nature, told with a Ray Bradbury touch. Her story incorporates science fiction elements, as does Thaddeus White's _Phoenix_ , and my own _Sleeping Dog_. Both the steampunk _Phoenix_ and Lovecraftian _Sleeping Dog_ reference a different kind of animal, the cryptid, 'a creature... whose existence has been suggested but has not been discovered or documented by the scientific community'(Wikipedia).

The spirit of a legendary bird is reborn in _Phoenix_ while the totem animal of a neglected god awakens in _Sleeping Dog_. L. K. Evans also chooses the cat with which to spin her yarn, affirming the popular alignment of the feline species with the dark arts. Hers is the only one told from the animal's perspective, and does so in an irascible and humorous tone.

As can be expected from a collection of yarns penned by authors from around the world, their settings are also global: the outreaches of steamy Thailand, the forbidding forests of Pennsylvania, the myriad islands of the Andaman Sea, the windswept plains of Texas, the wide reaches of Australia, the cold spaces of London, and the dark backwoods of an unnamed location.

Naturally, with far-flung contributors, the tales variously employ American English, Australian English and I suppose one must say English English! The initial temptation to standardize the seven stories as American English was resisted, after deciding that their slight variations in punctuation and spelling were part of their local flavour. Where a term was unfamiliar to a non-native audience, but the sense of it could still be gleaned, it was left. Yet where it was particularly idiomatic, and therefore impossible to reasonably guess by the outsider, it was amended to a broader term. But the tales are, unambiguously, universally relevant and widely accessible.

Tom Conyers, Melbourne, Australia

#

LONGHORN

### Chance Maree

Jesse Wyant hotfooted down the creaky wooden stairs of his back porch and headed towards the barn. The rumble of a car engine and crunch of wheels on gravel stopped him, reluctantly, in his tracks. Peering around the corner of the house, his sharp blue eyes squinted into the morning sun. The sight brought a deeply wrinkled scowl to his face and the corners of his gray handlebar mustache drooped.

A tall man unfolded himself from out of the car, and waved. "Hello, Mr. Wyant."

Jesse whispered strong words of annoyance, but finished muttering them before he arrived at the car. "Good morning, sir," he said, with a smile.

As he shook the tall man's hand, Jesse tried to remember whether he'd met the fellow before. The guy must have been six and a half feet tall, but was so skinny that Jesse, who was at least a foot shorter, probably outweighed the stranger by 50 pounds, or more. One look at the man's pale and hairless jowls made Jesse wonder, _Who is this kid?_

"I'm Dr. Green. Dr. Berger introduced us, last year, right before he retired. I've taken over his veterinarian practice and have been working with Ray on your bull's semen samples. Results from the lab came back, and I wanted to talk to you about them—in person."

Jesse wiped his hands on his jeans. "Pleasure to see you again. I just got off the phone with Ray. He called me to come out to the barn. You see, Dafney is calving and I don't want to miss it."

"Mind if I join you?"

"Sure, Doc." Jesse motioned for Dr. Green to follow him. "Don't expect she'll need you, though. These longhorns calf easy."

They took the path at the rear of the house past rolling acres of alfalfa. About a dozen men in white Hazmat suits were stooped over, or walking between rows of tender seedlings.

Dr. Green stopped and shielded his eyes from the sun. "What's going on in your field?"

Not wanting to be rude, Jesse slowed his pace but was determined not to stop. He loved watching the birth of his longhorns, and Dafney was never one for long labors. "They're weed scouting. That salesman from the seed company is likely fixing to sell Cecilia more sprays." He continued a couple steps before he noticed Dr. Green wasn't following.

"Isn't it unusual to wear Hazmat suits just to walk in a field?"

Jesse turned to speak over his shoulder, but the arthritis in his neck gave him a stab of pain. "You'll have to ask Cecilia. I don't know anything about the farming business these days." He doubled his speed, which forced Dr. Green to stop bothering him with questions. Once the vet caught up, Jesse added, "Since they started growing alfalfa, I'm lucky she left me a few acres for my cattle."

They arrived at the barn. Jesse inhaled the sweet mix of feed, straw, and sweat. He led Dr. Green through the long, dark corridor, straight out the back doors to a calving pen where Ray, a seasoned Mexican cowhand, and his teenage son stood by the gate. The boy was nearly matured; excluding the few streaks of gray hairs and a black mustache, he was a replica of his father. After a quick exchange of greetings, the four men lined up along the fence to watch the birth.

In the pen, a one-ton, red-and-white mottled longhorn cow lay calmly on her side. Her horns curved up and outward with a span of about six feet. Protruding beneath her curled tail were the tips of the calf's feet, obscured by a white, mucus sack.

"Should be anytime now," Ray said to his son. The boy nodded and raised a video camera to his eye. To Jesse, the cowhand explained, "I moved Dafney inside the pen so Sam could record the birth."

After a sudden contraction, the calf's shrouded head emerged. Dafney rested for several moments before a series of abdominal pushes expelled the rest of the calf's body onto the straw bedding.

"I was just a bit younger than your boy when I saw my first longhorn born." Jesse's watery eyes remained locked on his prized cow. "I've seen hundreds since then; each and every one is as miraculous as the first."

The teenager screwed up his face and telescoped the camera lens. "That calf looks weird."

Jesse, Dr. Green, and Ray moved to get a closer look at the newborn calf. It lay, unmoving. Nothing unusual about that. Dafney rested several minutes before lifting her huge bulk to a standing position. She licked the white membrane from the calf's back, and worked her way towards its head. Jesse climbed up on the first rail of the fence to get a better look.

The calf did look peculiar. Its front hooves were large and misshapen. What Jesse thought were its back legs was actually a tail, large, segmented, and tapered to a point, like an alligator. The calf finally stirred, lifting its head, before dropping it again. Suddenly, its long tail curled upward in a high arch over its back. Dafney snorted. Her tail swished nervously as the calf writhed toward her. Wide-eyed, Dafney allowed her calf to approach, but gave a high- pitched cry of alarm when it seized her front leg between its two front appendages.

"What the hell?" Ray sprung over the fence and ran towards the distressed cow. Dafney, frightened by the grotesque calf that was trying to climb her leg, whipped her head in defense towards the oncoming man, using her great horn to skewer his forearm between the ulna and the radius bones. Ray screamed as Dafney swung her head, tossing him to the ground. Blood sprayed onto the straw. Stunned, he stared at the bone projecting from bloody gore above his scarlet fingers. With the uninjured hand, Ray clasped his forearm, above the wound, and staggered toward the gate.

Jesse grabbed Sam's shoulder and yelled, "Go get the rifle from the barn, son." The boy dropped his camera and ran. Dr. Green opened the gate and rushed to help Ray outside. As soon as Sam returned with the rifle, Dr. Green chucked car keys at the boy and commanded him to retrieve the first aid kit from his Volvo, parked outside the house.

With the boy scurrying away, and Ray's wound under the care of Dr. Green, Jesse took the rifle and walked around the pen, to the opposite side. He opened the gate to the outside pasture. Dafney bolted from the birthing pen. The writhing calf tried to follow its mother. Jesse verified for himself that its legs were useless; the animal's form was a monstrosity. He lifted his rifle and shot it between the eyes.

The old rancher turned and trudged back. He wiped the sweat from his brow and watched Dr. Green pour antiseptic on Ray's forearm. The vet applied a pressure bandage. Ray's usually stoic face was pale.

Dr. Green repacked his first-aid kit and snapped it closed. "Now, let's get you to the hospital."

"Don't you bother, Doc," Ray replied. "My son can take me."

"You okay to drive your pa?" Jesse studied Sam's face. The boy was clearly shaken.

Sam squared his shoulders. When he stood straight, he was nearly as tall as his father. "I been driving since I was twelve."

"Sorry that happened to you, Ray." Jesse took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Now, boss," Ray said, shaking his head, "you and me both know it was my own stupid damn fault."

Jesse nodded. "Don't think Dafney meant anything by it, anyways. You go and get that arm mended. Take the time you need. I'll keep wages coming to your family, so don't you worry about that."

Ray managed a weak smile. "I heal right fast. Sam will work the barn for you till I'm able."

After Ray and Sam drove away, Jesse and Dr. Green returned to the birthing pen. They stood like funeral mourners over the dead calf. The bullet that killed it was a .22 cal long-rifle mushroom shell, which had left the skull intact. Jesse frowned as he stared at the normal longhorn calf head. Dr. Green drew his attention to four pairs of small appendages protruding from the calf's sides. What Jesse had thought were the calf's front legs, looked more like grasping pedipalps.

"I've been around longhorns all my life," Jesse said. "Thought I'd seen everything by now."

Dr. Green squatted beside the calf's body. "There's a group of Texas vets who discuss cases online. A colleague of mine, in Amarillo, posted pictures of a Brangus. Looked something like this." He moved the long, thin tail. Instead of ending in a tuft of hair, the tail tapered to a point, curved and sharp as a stinger.

"Dafney's been bred to Clem before. All the calves were normal." Jesse pointed to a bull standing in a corral next to the barn. "I have buyers waiting for his next semen collection."

Dr. Green stood. He towered over Jesse, which seemed to bother the vet. Moving to the other side of the carcass, he dusted the dirt off his pants. "Mr. Wyant, we need to discuss Clem's test results."

Jesse's throat convulsed, but his mouth was too dry to swallow. "Those tests have always come out good. Dr. Berger never needed to talk to me about them, just said everything was fine."

"You should hold off on breeding Clem."

"Nothing's wrong with that bull. Quite a few cows carrying his calves right now."

"I understand. And, you're right: the results might be off. Let's test him again in a few weeks."

Jesse's eyes narrowed. "Clem's genes couldn't just suddenly go bad."

Dr. Green stooped a little. He paused a bit too long, causing Jesse to huff with impatience. "Just say it straight, Doc. Is something wrong with my bull?"

"Clem's results were... odd. Just hold off on breeding him." Dr. Green looked down at the dead calf. "I'm sure you don't want to see more of these."

Jesse's face flushed from weathered tan to dangerous red. "What do you mean the results were odd?"

"The problem isn't low sperm count, or poor mobility. When we tested DNA integrity, the results were... just bizarre." Seeing the old rancher's confusion, Dr. Green added, "But the samples might have been corrupted. That's why we need to test him again."

Jesse fixed his eyes on Clem. The bull was magnificent, with a bright brindle hide, and an elegant forward curve of horns that spanned seven feet. Clem had the muscular build and calm disposition that Jesse's family had always treasured in longhorns. "Those tests are wrong," Jesse muttered.

"That could very well be true. That's why I'll run them again, at no charge." Dr. Green looked relieved. He turned back to the calf. "Do you mind if I take the body?"

Jesse headed towards the barn. "Let me know what you find."

***

Dr. Green drove away with the calf's corpse bagged in the back of his Volvo station wagon, leaving Jesse with a deep ache in his chest. The old rancher trudged up the porch stairs. Maybe Cecilia saved him a cup of coffee. Years ago, when his first wife, Sophia, was alive, Jesse would be drawn to the kitchen by the smell of cinnamon bread or fresh baked biscuits. But those days were long gone; Jesse's new wife sat at the kitchen table. The air in the whole house was thick with cigarette smoke. As usual, Cecilia was staring into her phablet. As usual, she looked mad enough to spit railroad spikes.

"Can you believe this? Another county in Colorado passed a ban on GMO crops."

Jesse stooped eye-level to the coffee maker. The carafe was burned dry, so he set about making another pot. Cecilia kept talking. She licked the last bit of powdered sugar from her fingers, and then closed the empty box of Krispy Kreme donuts. No wonder she was getting fat. Jesse's first wife had been middle-aged, yet she never put on that much weight, even before cancer took her; Sophia had kept herself trim and fit. Of course, she was often out in the garden, or busy keeping the house clean, or tending her goats. He smiled, recollecting images of Sophia and their son, Jacob, who seemed to always be hanging onto her skirt.

All Cecilia did was tap on that Internet device all day.

"If a ban happens in Texas," she continued, "I know farmers who said they'll have to sell out."

"Ain't nothing like that ever gonna pass in Texas." Jesse rinsed out a coffee cup while he waited for the water to heat.

"Those people have some nerve. Not allowing farmers to make decisions on our own land; it's a violation of our civil rights."

Jesse was tired of hearing Cecilia gripe about how difficult life was for farmers, but he didn't know how to bring up the deformed calf. "I was talking to Dr. Green this morning." He immediately regretted interrupting her.

"Who?" Cecilia's glance at her husband only lasted a second before she turned her attention back to the screen.

"The new vet." Jesse's voice softened. He pitied his wife. She wasn't a bad sort—she'd simply gotten a bad break, having to leave college to help her father when her brother was killed. She managed her family's farm for ten years, just long enough for her younger brother to come of age, after which, Cecilia's father was happy to have Jesse take her off his hands.

"What did the vet want?"

Jesse stammered, groping for a way to dodge the question. "He said Dr. Berger finally retired and he was taking over the vet business." He poured himself and Cecilia cups of coffee and carried them to the table. "He asked me why the fellows walking in the alfalfa fields have to wear those spaceman suits."

"Company policy." Cecilia added too much cream and sugar to her coffee. "They dress like that all the time, whether they're handling seeds or sprays. Probably an OSHA requirement." She snorted in disapproval.

"What's in that stuff, anyway?"

"I don't know, Jesse." Cecilia's eyes were slits and her words were darts she threw at him. She kept looking at the door, an invitation for her husband to leave.

Jesse held up his full cup of coffee. "Let me finish this first." He took a sip. "Never had to protect myself from the land when I grew hay."

"We're growing alfalfa. It brings the best price right now. If we didn't use GMO seeds and sprays, alfalfa would never grow here."

"I'd feel better about that stuff if we knew what was in it. How do they know it's safe, anyway?"

Cecilia's eyes flashed a warning for Jesse to back off. "Do you want me to pull up their web site and read you a bunch of chemical names? And of course they test it. The government makes sure of that."

She returned to typing at the tiny keys. After a moment, she shoved the phablet at Jesse. "See! Since our soil is rocky and acidic, they spliced the seeds with some sort of insect DNA. Anyway, thank God for GMOs."

"Insect DNA? But we eat the animals that eat that alfalfa." Jesse couldn't help but think of the stinger on the calf he had to shoot. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to mention the mutation to Cecilia. "It's worrisome to see those people suited up in our fields. We and our livestock are supposed to eat plants too dangerous to touch? It just ain't natural."

Cecilia kept her eyes on the tiny screen. "Stop bitching. I've made my choice. We farmers don't need to answer to you, or anybody. Go buy organic hay if you're so worried."

Jesse used to plant his own hay. Buying organic bales these days would be expensive. The profit from Jesse's cattle business was already considerably less than what Cecilia generated from crops. In her drive to outperform her father's farm, she resented the land Jesse needed for pasture. She pushed every square inch of tillable earth to its limit and ignored traditional practices, such as field rotation. Whereas her father chose his own crops and stuck to the old ways, Cecilia followed the guidance of a seed salesman. Jesse was convinced she had a crush on the fellow. The thought pained him.

He poured the rest of his coffee into the sink, rinsed out his cup, and put it in the drainer. At least she hadn't asked about Dafney's calf. "I got work to do in the barn."

"I meant to tell you earlier, but I forgot." Cecilia rose from her chair and put her cup in the sink. "I had to order a new herbicide, or the entire crop could be ruined."

"Uh, uh." Jesse clenched his jaw.

"Thing is, I've run out of storage, and some of the chemicals aren't supposed be stored together."

Jesse waited. He sensed a shoe was about to drop.

"I said we could store the canisters in the cattle barn."

"No," Jesse said, shaking his head, in case his wife wasn't listening.

"It'll just be until they finish spraying."

"I said no."

Cecilia stood and put her hands on her wide hips. "I have nowhere else to put it. Anyway, it's a done deal, Jesse."

Cecilia was not a handsome woman, but Jesse hadn't minded because he wasn't much to look at himself. Seeing her now with contempt beaming through the narrow slits of her gray eyes, he knew for certain that his wife held no love for him. She was too young, and too bitter. Jesse felt like an old fool marrying the girl, but he had been so lonely after Sophia died, and with his son, Jacob, determined to go to an out-of-state college, the house seemed chilly and lonely. Now, however, it smelled like an ashtray and was cold as hell. Jesse let the screen door slam behind him.

Every man needs a place to go to nurse his rage without being made to feel ridiculous. Jesse's refuge was in the pasture, among his longhorns. He sighed at the sight of Dafney pacing by the barn, looking for her calf. They'd have to find a replacement quick, or let her go dry. The thought that the mutant calf was due to a defect in Clem's DNA didn't seem right. The bull was still young, and all previous semen tests had been healthy.

Jesse leaned against the corral where Clem stood, dozing. Ever since Clem was born, Jesse knew he'd be the pride of his herd. Longhorn enthusiasts were enthralled with Clem's brindle hide, bright gold and black, like a tiger. Jesse thought the bull's intense stare and unusual markings made Clem look mythical, like a god worshiped by an ancient civilization, maybe Roman, or Greek. The bull walked like a king. His bulk gave him the gravitas of a mountain.

The thought of waiting several weeks before another semen test was conducted was tortuous. Although he was normally a tolerant man, he saw no reason to be patient in this instance. Jesse had handled Clem from birth. Training, coupled with the bull's calm and intelligent nature, made him an easy breeder. Since Clem was so accustomed to the process, and they had left the ring in his nose, Jesse decided he was perfectly capable of collecting the sample himself.

Like many ranchers, Jesse collected bull semen through a breeding dummy mount. He chose to use an Artificial Vagina over the electro- ejaculation method—a procedure he considered to be an insult to the dignity of the bull. Jesse would have preferred the old fashioned approach, but with Clem's bulk, the cow would likely end up with spinal fractures. Besides, with an AV, Jesse could provide ranchers with more semen straws, and thereby fertilize more cows than Clem could personally service.

With his mind made up, Jesse marched into the back door of the barn. The mobile dummy cow had a zinc-coated steel frame with a cowhide stretched over the top, and padding in the hindquarter region. The bulky device stood in a small pen in the back of the barn that Jesse's first wife had used for goats. While Jesse rolled the dummy cow into the walkway, he tried not to think of Sophia, but he could still hear her calling her goats by name, and smell the sweet hay and grain that had filled their mangers. He blinked away tears and covered his mouth with a gnarled hand.

Across the walkway was the extra-large stall sometimes used for breeding. The stall opened to a corral through a wide door that was blocked by a wooden pole. A snort roused Jesse from his grief. He raised his eyes to see Clem outside the stall door, staring in at the dummy cow.

"That's right, Clem." Jesse opened the stall door. "I'm getting your girlfriend ready for ya." Clem paced out of view. He returned, came to an abrupt halt, and pawed at the wooden rail.

"Patience, old man," Jesse said. Looking at the bulky structure of the dummy cow, Jesse's thoughts turned to Cecilia. He sighed; some substitute mates were better than others.

Abandoning the dummy cow outside the open door of the stall, Jesse hurried to the storeroom to retrieve the artificial vagina. The AV was a new model that came with the mobile dummy cow he'd purchased from a catalogue. Ray usually did all the prep work, so Jesse glanced over the directions. They looked easy enough.

He inserted a tubular latex bladder into the AV case and secured it at both ends with two rubber bands. A latex liner went next, then a gel filter which had to be secured with a clamp. He remembered the collection bottle-cover slid over the filter and was supposed to keep the AV at a certain temperature. Jesse found the thermometer; Ray had checked the temperature by inserting the thermometer into the open end. But how had Ray heated it in the first place?

Jesse turned at the sound of voices outside the barn.

When he stepped from the storage room, the two ten-foot high barn doors were open and the interior of the barn filled with a blinding shaft of sunlight. Five figures entered. Their silhouettes appeared bulky, with helmeted heads, oversized hands, and large, clunky boots.

"We're being invaded by Martians," Jesse thought.

Through the middle of the invaders marched Cecilia in her blue jeans and extra-extra-large tee shirt. She caught sight of Jesse and motioned the invaders to follow her. As his wife approached, her eyes locked onto the artificial vagina that Jesse held in his hands. An amused and contemptuous expression spread over her pudgy face.

"I'm sorry to have interrupted you, dear." Cecilia kept her eyes on the AV. "The guys are here to deliver the spray. I told them to put the containers over there, by the door." Her voice was matter-of-fact, with a commanding edge.

Jesse pointed the AV at her for emphasis. "I said I didn't want that poison near my longhorns." Jesse hadn't exactly used those words, but he was saying them now. He thrust out his chin.

Cecilia glanced past Jesse, to the cow dummy. "They'll unload as quickly as they can, but won't come back to spray for another week or so."

Jesse didn't like the amusement in her eyes. He lowered the AV to his side and glanced at the people standing in a line behind his wife. Each of their faces were obscured by reflective shields, and their puffed, white Hazmat suits hid any clue of gender. For all he knew, the invaders were smirking at him, just like Cecilia.

"You will just have to find somewhere else to store it," he growled.

"No can do, Jess." Cecilia whirled on her heel and pointed to a corner by the door. "Stack the containers there, fellows." She waddled away, dismissing Jesse with her broad backside.

The invaders followed her, turning and moving awkwardly, like robots. Jesse clenched his fist. His face felt hot and his head buzzed from the rise in blood pressure. He would not stand for this, not in his own barn. Jesse returned the AV to the storeroom. As he tried to exit the barn, he was nearly clipped by a forklift carrying a very large, black canister.

Outside was a semi-trailer. The huge vehicle rumbled as it idled; how could he not have heard it? Jesse wondered if he was going deaf, or had just not been paying attention.

The truck's side panels were open, revealing a cargo full of square black boxes. On the front of each container was a diamond-shaped sign with a skull and crossbones above the word "Toxic."

Jesse hobbled towards one of the invaders. The person was short; perhaps a woman. He yelled, "I demand that you stop this!"

The invader walked away without replying, as though Jesse were a ghost. He startled a forklift driver, who accidently slammed the container against the barn wall. The driver, too, ignored Jesse. Finally, out of breath and mindful of the pressure in his chest and the ache in his legs, the old rancher sat on a bale of straw and watched, powerless, as billowy, faceless people stacked over two dozen black cubes of poison in his barn.

When they finished, two of the more burly invaders closed the barn doors. All five climbed into the semi-trailer and motored away.

Jesse considered calling it a day. He could just hop into his truck and drive to town. A shot of whiskey or two would do him good. But he wanted to finish with Clem first. He had to know if the bull's DNA caused the mutant calf. Once he dropped off the sample with Dr. Green, only then would he be able to relax at the bar.

Jesse returned to the kitchen. Cecilia was typing and smoking. She didn't bother to look up.

"I need your help getting a semen sample from Clem."

That got her attention. "You got to be kidding."

"It'll take maybe twenty minutes of your time." Jesse removed the phablet from her hands. "You owe me that much." He walked out the door, still carrying the thin pink electronic slab that seemed to have captured his wife's soul. Cecilia followed, grumbling.

"Don't you dare drop that."

Jesse slipped the device into the front pocket of his shirt. "You'll get it back when I have my sample."

They entered through the storage room. Jesse grabbed the AV. To deter any comment from Cecilia, he directed her to the back of the barn. "I'll move the dummy mount into the big stall. Once I climb inside the collector's seat, I'll yell that I'm ready. Then, you have to pull that post out of the way so Clem can come in. You can reach it outside the stall, through those railings."

"Sounds easy enough," Cecilia mumbled. She craned her neck, looking for Clem. Jesse knew the bull made her nervous.

Jesse rolled the mobile dummy cow through the stall door, but the angle wasn't right, so he pushed it back into the smaller stall. He had to maneuver the wheels for a more straightforward approach. Although mobile, and better than the old stationary unit, the wheels were difficult to roll over straw. As he wheezed from the effort, Clem appeared. The bull stood with his nose to the post, watching Jesse with his piercing stare. He walked away, tail swishing. Jesse considered putting a lead on the ring in Clem's nose to keep him nearby and focused, but there were other ways to control the beast.

"Cecilia," he said, "I need you to run back to the storage room and grab a canister of cow urine. The label says, _Cow in Heat_. Get the aerosol fogger, too."

Cecilia laughed, but to Jesse's surprise, she headed towards the front of the barn. "Here I go, getting my husband his cow piss. This will make a real conversation starter for my blog."

Now the canister wasn't that heavy, but Cecilia dragged it along the ground by the handle. "I can't carry this thing," she yelled. "I guess you forgot about my bad back."

_Her back is only bad when there's work to be done._ Stupidly, Jesse's opinion made its way into speech. "You wouldn't have a bad back if you got off your lazy ass once in a while." He regretted the words before he'd finished saying them.

Cecilia's anger was predictable. Less so was her reaction. She pried off the lid of the canister and dumped the contents onto the barn floor. "There. It'll be much easier to carry now!"

Clem appeared outside the stall. A single wooden rail barred his entrance into the barn. Jesse gasped. The inside door of the breeding stall was open. He yelled, "Run! Cecilia! Get out of there!"

To be fair to Cecilia, she had no idea how Clem would react to an overpowering whiff of estrus urine. She stood, hands on hips, wearing a triumphant smile.

The pole snapped as the two-ton bull charged into the breeding stall. He barreled straight through the open gate into the barn walkway, where he slipped making the turn that would set him on a path straight for Cecilia.

Jesse was a bystander, unable to move or scream. He watched the bull stampede towards Cecilia, who stood frozen, her eyes round and unblinking. Instinct must have overridden a disbelieving mind for, in the last moment, she rolled towards the side. Clem only clipped her with his horn, yet she spun like a doll in a tornado and slammed against the wall of a stall on the opposite side of the walkway to the storage room.

Cecilia could escape the barn through the storage room but Clem circled and headed back towards the empty canister and urine-soaked ground. Although obviously wounded, Cecilia scrambled to open a stall door, but fumbled at the bolt lock. Clem passed by once, snorting, with his tail held high. He turned in front of the storage room door, crushing the canister with his hooves. Cecilia looked wildly over both shoulders. The longhorn blocked the walkway to the back of the barn.

Cecilia hobbled surprisingly fast, given an injured leg and excessive corpulence. She reached the block of black cubes stacked against the front corner of the barn. Clem snorted and thundered after her, but Cecilia dove between the tower of containers and the barn wall. The bull rose on his hind legs, only for a moment, flailing his horns in a halfhearted fight with the containers.

When Clem resumed trotting in circles, Jesse left the goat stall and edged with soft steps down the walkway. Jesse kept his back against the plank walls, moving slowly so as not to agitate the bull. Once Jesse reached the front stall, he opened the door and slipped inside. He crouched, watching Clem pace and circle near the puddle of estrus urine. The bull must be frustrated and confused. In the usual order of things, Clem would be mounting the dummy cow by now.

"Cecilia," Jesse called. "Damn. I'm stuck."

They heard the rumble of thunder. Outside, storm clouds were gathering. The light in the barn dimmed. From where he was hiding, Jesse couldn't see Cecilia. She said something else, but her voice sounded muffled.

"Clem will settle down in a few minutes," he called. "I can get to the storage room and grab some feed, then I'll lure him back to the stall."

"The ground is wet back here, Jesse."

"Okay. Hang in there. I'm going to let Clem out the front doors." Jesse stepped out of the stall into the walkway. The bull whirled to face him.

The longhorn's eyes gleamed like liquid amber, eerie, as though fired from an ancient light. He pawed at the dirt, and then trotted to the front of the barn. When Clem reached the area near the containers, his hooves splashed through a puddle that had formed around their perimeter. With a shake of his head and a threatening growl, Clem charged towards Jesse, who darted back into the stall. The bull slammed to a stop at the stall door. The delicacy with which he used his horns to assail the door was an amazing sight. Those thick horns were over seven feet across, yet Jesse had seen Clem manipulate them to move empty feed pails, and scratch an itch.

Jesse held his breath until the longhorn trotted away. He called Cecilia. When she didn't answer, he slipped once again outside the stall. The bull paced and snorted, ignoring Jesse, who inched along the wall of the barn.

If Clem charged now, Jesse would not be able to escape. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes. The bull trotted by. Jesse saw Clem's eye was fixed on him. The longhorn flicked his tail. He stopped and touched his horn to his flank. Clem's legs and belly were dark, stained from splashing through the puddle of chemical spill.

Jesse called, "How are you doing back there?"

Cecilia moaned, "Skin burns. Hurts. I'm going to throw up."

Cecilia's foot protruded from behind the canisters. She was on her hands and knees. She started to cough, deep and rasping.

Inching forward, Jesse saw where Clem's horn had punctured one of the canisters. He didn't know whether Cecilia would be safe once he pulled her out, but he had to get her away from the poison. He reached her foot, grabbed onto her ankle, and tugged.

Clem must have knocked the canister towards the wall because Cecilia was wedged. The leg he tugged on looked swollen. The flesh was stretched over her calf so taut that he feared it would split if he tugged much harder.

"Help," Cecilia moaned.

Jesse braced his back against the barn wall and placed his foot on the canister. With another stacked on top of it, he knew the weight would be too much for him to move. Still, he tried. With all his strength, he tried to straighten his leg. His boots were wet. The canister would not budge.

"It's not working." Jesse panted. He felt weak, and old. "Listen, you have to push yourself backward as hard as you can. It may hurt, but I'll try pulling from here."

The effort was not unlike a difficult calving. Cecilia's skin chafed against the splintering wood of the barn, which had more give than the hard sides of the canister. Even when her skin split, Cecilia did not complain. Blood on his hands. Blood mixed with mud. Jesse pulled, and Cecilia pushed with increasing desperation.

Clem attempted several charges at Jesse, but the bull seemed reluctant to walk in the chemical soaked ground. He lowered his head and sniffed the puddle, before retreating with a snort back to the walkway.

Cecilia's effort grew weak, but once her hips cleared, Jesse was able to grip her shoulders and pull her free. She landed in the green stream. Although light in the barn had grown dim, Cecilia's pale and bloated flesh seemed to glow. Dark circles around her eyes made them appear hollow. Her hair was matted; clumps had fallen off onto her shoulders. Jesse sat her upright.

Suddenly, foam bubbled from Cecilia's lips. She thrust her head forward and vomited. Jesse propped her against the barn wall. She fell unconscious, so he rolled her on her side, safe—at least for the moment.

With Clem growing increasingly irritated, and his wife too heavy to carry, Jesse decided he had to open the main barn door. Once Clem escaped the barn, Jesse could run to the house and call an ambulance. He walked the perimeter of the chemical spill. Clem watched, growling in a way that Jesse had never heard before.

"Don't be angry, old boy." Jesse tried to make his voice calm. "We'll get you out of here, then everything can go back to the way it was."

Clem charged, threatening Jesse with his horns. Jesse leaped into the chemical puddle. The bull switched directions, and then rushed at Cecilia, who had regained consciousness enough to crawl, face down, towards the storage room.

Clem ran over her, his rear hooves struck her back, leaving her body flat in the dirt.

Jesse ran towards the barn door. Each panel was over ten feet high and fourteen feet across. He only needed to open one, so he disengaged the bolt and pulled, straining with all his might to start the door along the track.

Clem could have run outside. He could have escaped the dark barn with its growing chemical stench that must have certainly burned his nose and eyes. Instead, Jesse sensed the bull's approach. He heard the great puff of breath as the animal charged. Still, for a brief moment, he hoped Clem would choose to leave the barn. Even as Jesse whirled to see what his instincts already knew, Clem rammed his right horn through the front of Jesse's abdomen, straight through and out his back, just inches left of his spine.

Man and beast stood face to face. Jesse processed the shock of seeing himself impaled upon Clem's horn. The bull waited, perhaps a little stunned himself. Jesse looked Clem in the eye. He remembered standing this close to Clem when the bull was a leggy calf. Clem had been gentle and trusting; now, the bull's stare was accusatory. Jesse reached out and grabbed the ring in Clem's nose.

By holding the ring with a light downward pressure, Jesse hoped to prevent Clem from tossing his head. The longhorn relaxed into a state that was close to docile, but a wild gleam in his eyes betrayed his unpredictable mood.

Jesse glanced at Cecilia's body. She had not moved. Calling her name failed to stir any response in his wife, but Clem snorted, so Jesse fell silent. He blinked away tears and tried to focus on finding a way to survive.

The sky was dark and thick with rain clouds. No creatures stirred, only wind moving dried leaves and other debris. He and Cecilia were alone on the ranch. Jacob wasn't due to visit until the end of the month. Jesse's cell phone was in the house, but Cecilia's phablet was in his pocket. He reached for it, slow and steady, until Clem's eye rolled and he started to pull back. Jesse put both hands back on the bull's nose ring. "I am sorry, old boy." The old rancher's voice was a rattle and a whisper. He remembered the land he had inherited—acres of wild pastures filled with healthy cattle and hardy grasses. When had he stopped paying attention? Everything had slipped away, for one good reason after another, or so it seemed. He recalled when he had first started feeling a sense of doom in the mornings, right upon waking. The doctor prescribed a heart medicine, but the pills never soothed the sadness that welled from deep in his bones.

Clem shifted his feet, growing restless. That brilliant brindle hide glowed. _What a magnificent animal._ Jesse stroked the soft flesh of Clem's nose. The bull released a deep breath, like that of a human who'd grown weary of life. Using both hands, Jesse unscrewed the nose ring.

The longhorn remained standing with head slightly lowered, his large, liquid eyes intent on Jesse.

"So, I have to do all the work." Jesse grimaced. Taking hold of the horn, Jesse walked back a step. Blood began to seep from his stomach. Clem snorted and leaned away, allowing Jesse to make one final push along with three stuttering, backward steps. Blood gushed quickly then, and his body followed it to the ground. Lying on his back, Jesse smiled at the vibrant glow of sunset; the light was odd since the clouds had been thick just a moment ago.

***

Six days passed before Ray began to worry that he'd lost his job; Jesse had not answered any of his cell phone messages, nor had he sent a paycheck. Ray's teenage son, taking advantage of his father's injured arm and the drowsiness induced by pain medication, had ignored his father's orders to visit the ranch; Sam opted to go on a camping trip with his friends instead.

Despite the doctor's orders to the contrary, Ray concluded that he didn't need use of both arms to drive to the ranch and visit his boss. To be safe, he skipped taking pain medication that morning. Driving a stick shift with one hand caused Ray an undue amount of pain and stress. By the time he arrived at Jesse's ranch, the cowman's shirt was drenched in sweat.

Ray parked his old pickup truck in front of the ranch house and climbed out, hoping for a morning breeze to dry his shirt. The day was going to be another hot one. His injured arm was already beginning to ache.

The stench of death hit Ray's nose as soon as he closed the truck's door. It was a smell he knew well and with a clench in his stomach, he started for the barn. A blowfly landed on the tender skin of Ray's elbow, just above the cast on his forearm. Casually, he swiped at it with his other hand, but not before it delivered a sting worse than any bee or wasp. When another landed on his neck, Ray was quick to slap it. Too late to avoid the sting, but the smashed body was unlike any blowfly he'd ever seen.

Ray didn't have time to examine the swelling on his elbow or the dead fly in his hand—a swarm of stings followed, causing him to run to the front of the house and pound on the door with one fist. He cried for help and was just about to run back towards his truck when he heard a voice bellow from within.

"Door's open, for crissakes."

Brushing off the flies as well as he could with one arm, Ray managed to turn the knob, slip in, and slam the door behind him. Some flies entered as well, and those he slapped with his hand as he danced and contorted from the stings that burned and throbbed over his face, neck, chest, and arms. A couple of the flies managed to work their way under his shirt collar and land at the center of his spine—those he crushed by slamming his back again the wall.

Ray peeled the smashed body of one of his tormentors from a gooey spot on his neck. The insect had red eyes and green metallic back, like a blowfly, yet its tail was long, curled, segmented, and ended in a stinger. Ray's face hurt worse than anywhere else, but his entire upper body was beginning to swell and throb.

The cowman called out, "Jesse? Cecilia? I need help."

"In the kitchen."

With all shades and curtains drawn closed, the short hallway to the back of the house was dark. Ray staggered towards the kitchen, aiming for the thin strip of light that shone from beneath the door. He pushed it open and stumbled into the room.

The air was thick with musty, acrid smoke. A hulking form sat at the kitchen table puffing on a cigarette. She looked up from her pink phablet. "Hey there, Ray."

Ray gasped. For as long as he'd known her, Jesse's wife had been a large woman, but seated at the kitchen table was a creature bloated beyond recognition. Cecilia was nearly bald, but for a few clumps of thin, white hair. She wore a vast and tattered pink housecoat that barely stretched over her girth. With a gnarled finger that seemed to be nothing but thick, yellowed nail, Cecilia touched the inside of a cardboard box that sat beside her on the kitchen table. She brought the finger to her mouth and licked it with her tongue. "I'd offer you a donut, but I just finished my last box."

"Tha-a-t's okay," Ray stammered. His eyes darted to all corners of the room. "Where's Jesse?"

Cecilia picked up her coffee mug, and then hauled her great bulk up from the chair and waddled to drop it into the sink. She turned towards Ray and leaned her backside against the counter. After taking another puff from her cigarette, she pointed it at Ray. "You come from a family of cowboys, doncha?"

Ray nodded. He wanted to step away from her, but was afraid the move would appear rude. Cecilia grunted. "Something wrong with men who want to spend so much time with cows. Must be some sort of genetic defect."

Ray inched backward until he bumped against a wall. "But they're longhorns."

"Jesse's as stupid as his cows," Cecilia said with a snort. "And I'm nothing but a farmer's wife."

"Jesse's a good man," Ray objected. He felt he had to defend his boss. "I need to talk to him, if you don't mind."

"Well, Jesse ain't here," Cecilia hissed. A long, segmented tail with a barbed tip whipped forward from beneath her robe and struck the middle of Ray's chest.

The man fell back, onto the floor. He tried to defend himself with one arm as Cecilia jabbed him again and again. He gasped before his lung deflated and he could no longer speak. Still, his eyes begged, _Why?_

"You're just like Jesse. Both of you thought my fancy sprays and seeds were garbage, didn't ya? Who's laughing now? Look at me, little man! I'm growing stronger by the minute. Life is better with chemicals, doncha see? Best thing is, I don't have to take crap from anybody no more."

To keep Ray still, Cecilia set her foot on his neck. The slits of her eyes opened wide and exposed two black orbs that looked, unblinking, up and down his body.

"Ah. You hurt your arm. Did a longhorn do that to ya?"

Ray tried to pry Cecilia's dirty slipper from his throat but his effort was futile. His strength seeped away as he watched the monstrous woman through bloodshot eyes.

"Well, what do you know?" Cecilia's smile split the lower folds of her bloated, red-blotched face. "I always said them longhorns were dangerous."

#  
#

The Rogue Bear

### Danielle Tara Evans

My walk on the trail at dusk had been tranquil until I heard a woman scream. At first, I didn't think much of it. She was probably just the victim of an innocuous prank that her friends had pulled on her. But when her screaming persisted, I sensed real terror and knew she must be in trouble. I pulled out my pocket knife and headed in the direction of her shouts.

Nature had seemed so welcoming after the harsh winter had finally ended, but now the beautiful scenery surrounding me blended ominously into the background as I focused on finding the woman. I picked up my pace, kicking up dirt and stones behind me as I ran.

I did a double take when I finally saw her. She was at the bottom of a small hill that led into the woods, and she was being mauled by a bear. A brown bear. It might have been a grizzly, but I wasn't entirely sure. _Brown bears don't live in Pennsylvania._ There were plenty of black bears in the Poconos, but there shouldn't be any brown bears here. How in the hell did it get here? It couldn't have taken the bus or a plane all the way from out west or up in Alaska or Canada. Maybe it escaped from a zoo, or maybe it got loose from someone who kept wild animals illegally.

But what did that matter? Regardless of how it got there, it was there, and I had to deal with it. Trembling, I reached for my phone but wasn't surprised to see there was no reception. I still attempted to dial 911, but the call failed to go through. By the time anyone would arrive, the woman would be dead anyway. I had to intervene now.

I tried to remember what to do when encountering a brown bear. It was different than dealing with a black bear. I would have to stand tall and intimidate the creature—as if that seemed possible at all.

I walked down the small incline and cautiously approached the enormous animal as I attempted to make myself appear more menacing. It seemed futile considering how massively it loomed. Even though I wasn't short, I wasn't exactly a large guy either.

"Back off," I growled at it in a low, deep voice. I clutched onto my knife tightly, hoping my fear didn't resonate as I spoke.

The bear let go of the woman who fell to the ground, whimpering. Blood and drool dripped from the animal's jowls as it stared at me.

Holy shit. Was I really seeing this?

"Back off," I repeated, hoping desperately the bear would see me as a threat and leave.

_Should I run?_ No. I wouldn't be able to outrun it.

My eyes widened in trepidation as the behemoth rose onto its hind legs and roared. I tried to think of what to do next. _Get down on the ground and curl up into a fetal position? Stab it in its exposed belly?_ Before I had a chance to do either, the bear swiftly and fiercely swiped me in the stomach with its paw, the sharp claws ripping into my intestines. It fell onto its four legs as I fell to my knees, the agonizing pain slamming into me. Blood poured onto the ground, and the sight of it was almost enough to make me go into shock right then. I braced myself for a second attack, fearing the mountainous creature would bite into my neck. But something seemed to stop it from fully lunging itself at me. It was at that moment that I noticed the long chain running from a tree to a manacle on its right hind leg.

I scrambled back up the hill to get further out of its reach. _If only I had seen the chain sooner..._

I was shaking violently now as I held my stomach, afraid that my guts would spill out if I let go. Overcome with pain, I zipped up my jacket, hoping that would help hold everything in and staunch the flow of blood.

I peered down at the bear. It growled at me again and then turned its attention back to the woman. I looked away as it continued to devour her. She was now silent. At this point, I was sure she was dead.

I gingerly pulled my phone out of my pocket, hoping that some reception would magically arrive. No such luck. Would a text go through? It was possible, but it might not go through until the phone had reception. And it would be too late. I was about ready to try anyway when I noticed a man peering at me from behind a tree.

"Help, please," I called out, but my voice was too weak to sound any louder than a whisper.

The man made no move to assist me. He just stood there, staring.

What the fuck? What kind of a person would just stand there and watch someone die? Then several thoughts occurred to me. The bear had been brought here and chained to a tree, and that man was probably the one responsible. Maybe he wanted to get that woman killed?

The excruciating pain was beginning to overwhelm me. I was feeling lightheaded, and my vision was blurred. I collapsed to the ground as I continued to press the jacket against my stomach.

I was losing so much blood... I was cold, and my feet felt numb.

That man was still standing there, not moving.

His shadow stretched across the ground.

Was he really there, or was the dwindling sunlight playing tricks on my mind? Maybe I was hallucinating?

Everything was becoming fuzzier. The trees around me were nothing more than brown blobs. I tried to hold on. I didn't want to die. I needed to send a text to my mom.

But I lost consciousness.

***

When I woke up, I was staring at my body on the ground. Was I having an out-of-body experience? It didn't take me long to realize that it was morning. There was no way I would have made it through the night if I were still lying there without any medical assistance. My body was pale and motionless. I was dead.

No, this couldn't be real. _Am I a ghost now?_ I didn't seem to have any form whatsoever. I wasn't a transparent version of myself. I could see and hear the physical world around me but was no longer a part of it. I was merely my own consciousness and nothing else. How was this possible? I never even thought there was life after death. Not that I felt very alive right then... But what would happen now? Would I go to Heaven or Hell, or would I stay here on earth like this? Would I meet others who had died as well?

The reality of my predicament was further sinking in. _Oh my God. I'm dead. I can't believe this._

I saw the woman's body. It was a grotesque sight. Her throat and stomach were ripped open, and there was bloody flesh hanging off her legs.

So the woman was dead too, but I couldn't see her ghost or consciousness. I couldn't sense her at all. What if I was alone forever?

The bear was gone. That horrible man must have let the bear go or taken it somewhere.

I was panicking, wishing I knew what the hell was going to happen. Shouldn't there be some kind of tour guide? _Welcome to Death. Let me show you around, and explain to you how it all works._ At least now I was no longer in pain. I couldn't feel a thing.

In the distance, there was a woman jogging on the trail. I tried to call out to her, but I had no mouth and was unable to speak. How could I see without eyes? How could I hear without ears? Somehow I could. I was just an observer now, unable to communicate.

The woman had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was young and fit, dressed in a blue jogging outfit. This was clearly something she did all the time. But she would remember this morning forever.

She slowed down and eventually came to a halt when she noticed my body. She then looked over and saw what was left of the woman, and a scream erupted from her throat. Breathing heavily, she held her hand over her mouth and then took off, now running instead of jogging.

A short time later, police officers and medical personnel arrived.

"It looks like they were attacked by a bear or something," I heard one of the policemen say.

I watched as they put my body on a gurney. Suddenly, I forgot about my own terror at the realization that my life was over, and I thought about my parents. I was their only child. They would be devastated. I didn't know how my mother would be able to handle this.

The last time I had talked to her, she had been bugging me about getting a girlfriend.

"Andy, you're almost thirty years old. I really hope you get married and give me grandchildren soon."

I didn't even have a girlfriend anymore, and she was talking about grandchildren. It wasn't that I didn't want to be with anyone—I just had some trouble moving on after my last relationship. But now, all possibilities were gone. _All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time._ I chose to take a walk on the trail after I got done work, simply because it sounded better than sitting in my apartment by myself. I attempted to rescue a woman and ended up getting killed myself. I wasn't even able to save her anyway. The smart thing would have been to get away and find help. I never should have approached the bear, but I couldn't stand the thought of letting it continue to attack her.

I then thought about that man again—the one who watched the woman and me die. Who was he? Where did he go? As soon as I thought it, I saw the man. Only I was no longer in the woods. I was now seeing the man in his home. No travel was needed to get there. I just thought about where he was, and now I could see. Death did have its perks after all.

The man appeared to be getting dressed for work. I was stunned to see him putting on a police uniform. _A police officer was behind this?_

A woman in his bed was starting to wake up. I guessed that she was his wife. She rolled out of bed and sluggishly made her way to the bathroom.

"Hey, babe," he said to her casually as if nothing of importance had happened recently.

"G'morning," she said, her voice clogged with sleepiness.

Why wasn't he at the scene this morning? Maybe it wasn't his jurisdiction, or maybe they had enough staff, and it wasn't his shift yet anyway.

A short time later, the woman came out of the bathroom. Her brown hair was now brushed, and she looked more awake. He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Love you. See you later," he said to her.

"Love you. Bye."

I then watched as the man left the house and drove to work. I may as well have been watching a movie. I didn't have to move—I could simply observe.

The man arrived at the police station, which was buzzing with news of the fatal bear attacks. It was strange to watch as people talked about the victims, and one of the victims was me.

I studied the man's demeanor as the officers talked about what happened. He didn't flinch. He gave off no indicators that he was there to witness it all.

I then thought of my parents, and now I was seeing them in their home. My mom was up making coffee, and I could hear the sound of the shower running. _They didn't know yet._ My mother seemed perfectly fine. She was even humming a little as she went about her daily morning routine.

The doorbell rang. If I still had a heart, it would have sunk. Today must have felt like an ordinary day to my mother. And now everything would change in an instant.

She seemed puzzled at the sound of the doorbell. She attempted to fix up her hair, and then she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. My childhood home looked the same as it always had—it was homey, quaint, and well-kept.

She opened up the door to see two police officers standing there. Thankfully, my new enemy was not one of them.

I could see the change in her face at the sight of them. My mother had aged fairly well. She dyed her hair dark brown to cover the gray, and she never forgot to wear make-up. Now I could see the wrinkles in her face as worry descended upon her.

"Hello—is something wrong?"

"Are you Mrs. Deborah Katz?"

"Yes."

"Is your son Andrew Katz?"

"Yes."

Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm right here. I wish I could talk to you and tell you I'm okay. Instead, I'm watching everything that's happening—things I shouldn't be able to see.

"We're afraid to have to tell you this, ma'am, but your son, Andrew Katz, was found dead early this morning. We believe he was attacked by a wild animal—most likely a bear. We're so sorry, but as part of formalities, we'll need you to come down to the coroner's office—to identify his body."

She shook her head, her eyes melting in disbelief. "No, no. It can't be. Please tell me you've misidentified him. My son can't be dead. I just talked to him two days ago. He was fine. He was fine."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I assure you it's your son."

"Then why do you need me to identify him?"

"It's just formalities. He had his wallet on him with his ID, but we need someone to officially identify his body—preferably a relative."

Now her eyes were drowning in sorrow. "What happened?"

The other officer then spoke up. "We found him on a hiking trail. We also found a woman's body there as well. We think he may have tried to come to her aid—it looked like she was attacked first. Do you know a woman by the name of Amber Monroe?"

"No."

"Do you think your son might have known her?"

"If he did, he never mentioned her."

She leaned into the door, appearing faint, as if she were about ready to collapse.

My father then walked down the stairs, his hair still wet from the shower.

"What's going on?"

"They're saying our son is dead, Jack."

"What?" His face contorted to reveal an expression I had never seen on him before. My father was never one to show much emotion, but now his anguish was palpable.

"They want us to go to the coroner's office to—to identify his body." Then she finally broke down. She fell to the floor sobbing. My father went to her and held her in his arms.

"Can you give us a minute, please?" he asked the officers. They nodded and waited for them outside.

"What are you saying, Deb? What happened?" he asked her.

She couldn't answer him. She couldn't stop bawling and shaking.

It was too hard to watch. I shouldn't be watching this. I stopped and looked at the officers waiting outside.

My father finally got my mother out of the house, and they were now heading to the coroner's office. When they arrived, I saw them walk to the room to identify my body. I felt like I was only half-watching, having trouble digesting the fact that I was no longer inside my own body. That rigor mortis had already set in, and it would be decaying. It was no longer me.

"Are you sure about this? I can identify him. You don't have to," my father said to my mother.

"I need to see him. I have to see him."

As soon as they lifted up the sheet to reveal my face, my mother screamed. The sound was too much to bear. My father tried to comfort her, but he was breaking down as well.

I then thought of the man again, and the scene switched to the officer driving a police car. His partner, who seemed considerably older, was drinking coffee.

"It's so fucked up, ain't it? I can't remember the last time there was a bear attack around here—let alone a fatal one. And now we got two dead bodies," his partner said.

"Yeah, seriously. Now, they want us to go looking for the damn bear. How in the hell are we gonna figure out which bear did it?"

"I guess we'll have to interrogate the suspects. Take paw prints and DNA samples," he joked.

It was a fucking brown bear. It would be easy to tell which bear did it, and that asshole knows it.

"You're an idiot."

"Oh, no, Kevin, you're the idiot around here. Trust me," the older man said, laughing. So his name was Kevin.

The police car pulled up to the trailhead where there were already several other cars parked. I looked around at the familiar mountainous scenery full of trees and wildlife. I loved all the sounds of birds squawking and animals scurrying through the woods. I wished I could smell the fresh air and feel the wind blowing around me.

The feeling of envy cascaded over me.

Everyone here was still alive.

They got out of the car and joined the other officers. The police captain gave them instructions on what he expected of them. A park ranger stood next to him, and he spouted out facts they all needed to know when dealing with bears.

I almost felt sorry for the bear. They were going to kill it. Sure, I wasn't exactly happy about the fact that the animal ended my life, but it was a bear. A bear that had been taken from wherever it belonged, and it probably felt threatened.

And what if they killed the wrong bear? A bunch of hicks trying to prove how tough they were—they would probably shoot the first bear they saw. Some of them were certainly hunters, and they would see it as a trophy kill, something enjoyable.

I then watched as they trudged through the woods in different directions in search of the murderous animal. They searched for hours and came across nothing. They made too much noise as they trampled over dead leaves and twigs.

If I were able to talk, I could have told them where the bear was. Once I thought about finding the large beast, I could see it out in the forest. At times, they were close, but they never seemed to get close enough.

I saw a news crew at the trailhead. A pretty, blonde reporter was speaking in front of a camera. "Police officers are currently on the hunt for a bear that attacked and killed two people last night—twenty-six year old Amber Monroe and twenty-nine year old Andrew Katz. Experts are saying the animal is larger than the average bear normally found here in the Poconos."

I wanted to see how my parents were doing, but I was afraid to. Instead, I continued to watch the search, and then I followed Kevin home.

Kevin's wife was in the kitchen unloading groceries. She was wearing blue scrubs that were decorated with large teeth and different colored toothbrushes. I imagined she worked in a dentist office.

"Hey, hon," she said, smiling at him. "Any luck finding the bear?"

He shook his head no. "I dunno how in the hell they expect us to find the fucking thing out there. It's a lotta land to cover. We're supposed to start lookin' again early in the morning tomorrow."

She nodded. "I guess they figure it couldn't have gotten too far."

"Now, it probably has."

"Yeah, maybe."

Kevin started shuffling through the grocery bags.

"Courtney, where's the Excedrin I asked for?"

She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh my God, I am so sorry. I completely forgot to get it."

"What the fuck? I asked you to get me one goddamn thing, and you can't even do that?"

"I'm sorry. I can go back out and—"

"No, don't bother. Jesus Christ. Why don't you ever write anything down? How many times have I told you to write a fucking list? Then you won't forget things."

"I'm sorry, Kevin."

"Stop apologizing. That's not gonna change anything. I have a horrible fucking headache, and you saying sorry won't make it go away. Some Excedrin would though."

"Okay, I'll go back out." She grabbed her car keys off the table.

He roughly grabbed her arm. "I told you not to bother."

"But your head hurts. I can go back out. It's not a big deal." Her eyes were pleading with him to just let her leave and get him the medicine. She looked afraid.

"No, but it is a big deal. You're supposed to be writing lists—like we talked about. If you had just written a list, then you wouldn't have to waste the time and the gas to go back out. What about dinner? What time will it be now before we can eat if you have to now go back out?"

"I won't be long. I promise."

"You always say that, don't you? But then you take forever."

"I promise I won't take long." She pulled away from him and attempted to pick up her jacket that was hanging over the back of a chair.

He then grabbed her again and threw her against the fridge. Her head hit it hard, and tears formed in her eyes. Magnets and pictures fell to the floor. I desperately wanted to punch this fucking asshole out. But there was nothing I could do.

"No, I told you not to go!" he barked at her. "Why aren't you fucking listening to me?"

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

"And I told you to stop saying you're sorry. Because if you were truly sorry, you wouldn't keep doing this same shit over and over again." He was holding her against the fridge so that she couldn't move. Then he walked over to the counter and grabbed a grocery bag. "Oh, but you remembered to get your deodorant and your tampons!" He threw the double pack of deodorant and the box of tampons at her. She shrieked and tried to shield her face. The deodorant smacked her hand, and the tampons hit her in the shoulder.

"I had a long fucking day, Courtney. I was out in the woods searching for that bear. It was a physically and mentally exhausting day. My head is pounding. My feet are killing me. What did you do all day, Courtney? Hand the dentist some drills, tell people to keep their mouths open? That sounds really tough. It must be so hard working in that nice office," he said, mocking her. "It would've been nice if you had thought of me. If you had been considerate enough to get me the headache medicine like I had asked you to. Just remember that I'm the one who makes most of the money around here, the one who provides for you. Getting me what I ask for is the least you could do."

Tears dripped down her face. She was visibly shaking.

I was horrified to watch this and not be able to do anything about it. Could this guy be any more of a scumbag? I felt sorry for the woman, and I wished I could step in and protect her.

"Stop crying, and make dinner. I'll get the fucking Excedrin."

He then shoved her in front of the stove. Her stomach hit the handle to the oven door, and she cried out in pain. She slumped to the floor and began sobbing.

"I said stop crying, and make dinner! I wanted to relax when I got home, but no, now I have to go to the fucking store. So I think you can handle making dinner while _I_ go back out."

He yanked her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and then her eyes showed immediate regret.

Enraged by her apology, he whacked her across the face. "Stop saying you're sorry!" He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Still crying, Courtney got out the ingredients to start making dinner. Her shoulders shook, and she had to keep stopping what she was doing to wipe the tears from her eyes.

So this man, this _officer of the law_ , was responsible for two people dying, and then he slaps his wife around when he gets home...

By the time her abusive husband got back from the store, dinner was just about done. I was afraid the man would beat her again because it wasn't done yet. But his attitude seemed to have completely changed.

"It smells good," he said, smiling. She nervously smiled back at him.

"Sorry if I overreacted." He kissed her on the lips. "I just have the worst headache today. God, you're so damn sexy. I just wanna rip your clothes off you, and have you right here." He pulled her into a tight embrace and squeezed one of her breasts.

She giggled.

"But I'm serious about you needing to write lists. Then we can avoid these little incidents. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, of course. Absolutely. I'll make sure I write grocery lists before I go to the store."

"Very good."

That's right. Turn it around on her, and make it like it's all her fault that you're a fucking asshole. She forgot to get you your goddamn headache medicine, but that makes it okay for you to hurt her? If you are there, God, will you please give me my hands back so I can strangle this piece of shit?

That night, I had trouble taking my eyes off Courtney (not that I had eyes anymore). I knew it was partially out of concern for her, but I knew it was also because I agreed with her husband on one thing—she was sexy. I felt guilty for violating her privacy even though I was no longer alive, and there was no way she could know I was there.

As I watched her undress, I thought I should turn away, but then I couldn't help myself. I feared I would never be able to touch a woman again... I would just be a Peeping Tom now. I noticed bruises on her body, and then I did stop looking momentarily.

I saw her go into the bathroom and close the door. She dug inside the cabinet underneath the sink and pulled out a pink make-up bag. She unzipped it and took out a round case. She punched out a tiny pill, popped it into her mouth, and poured water from the sink into her hand so she could slurp it down.

Kevin knocked on the door. "Babe, you comin' to bed?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there." She quickly put the pill case back into the make-up bag, zipped it up, and hid it under the sink.

She joined him in bed, wearing a skimpy, black nightie.

"You ready for some baby-makin'?" he asked her, grinning.

"Yeah," she said.

My last girlfriend had a pill case just like the one she had hidden under the sink. It was her birth control. Clearly, Courtney wasn't ready for "baby-makin'", and she didn't want him to know that.

I wasn't about to watch them have sex so I decided to check in on my parents. My mother's sister, Eileen, and her husband, Jeff, were over. They were all sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. My mother was a wreck. Her eyes were red, and she had mounds of tissues crumpled in front of her. My father didn't look much better.

"You should really get to bed, Debbie," Aunt Eileen said to her. "It's getting late, and we need to talk about funeral arrangements tomorrow."

"I—I can't do it. I'm—I'm not supposed to bury my son."

"I know, sweetie. I know. I wish—I wish this was all just a nightmare. I really do. I'm so sorry," Aunt Eileen said.

I couldn't stand to see my parents in this much pain. Even though it was touching to see how much they loved me, it was never something I doubted. I was fortunate to have had such great parents. I always knew they cared about me and would do anything they could for me.

My friends, my ex-girlfriend, and my co- workers had most likely found out about my demise as well. I considered visiting them, but I was hesitant to do so. I had just seen too much grief for one day.

Once I was sure enough time had passed, I decided to venture back to Kevin and Courtney's. Kevin was passed out, but Courtney was still awake. Without fully realizing what was happening, I felt my consciousness sink into Kevin's body.

Oh my God, I had arms and legs again! Well, they were really Kevin's, but as long as I was in his body, they felt like mine. I could feel the soft pillow underneath me and the blanket wrapped over me. I could wiggle my fingers, open and close my eyes, and I could feel Courtney nestled up next to me. But I was in the body of the man who beats his wife, who let me die. _How is this possible? How long will I be able to stay? Why is this happening? Will I ever get any answers?_

I touched the softness of Courtney's skin, relishing how good it felt. She flinched and turned away. I couldn't blame her. I rolled away from her, not sure what I would say if she realized I was awake. This was too bizarre. I was lying in bed with another man's wife, only I was inhabiting the body of her husband. She had no idea that _I_ was there.

I closed my eyes and wondered if I could now get inside this man's mind and see why he had brought the bear to attack that girl.

I saw Kevin sitting inside a bar. A woman was sitting at the table across from him. She had red hair and green eyes. So, I could go back in time now too?

"Amber, please tell me you're joking," he said.

Amber. Amber Monroe. It took a moment for it to register. She was the woman I tried to rescue. She was the woman who died with me.

"No, I'm not. I'm pregnant."

"And are you trying to tell me I'm the father?"

"Yes, yes, of course you are. What kind of a woman do you think I am? I'm not a slut."

"Yes, you are."

"Fuck you. I am not. You're the only man I've been with for the last six months. This is _your_ child."

"And you really expect me to believe that?"

"What do you want—a fucking paternity test?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I want."

"Okay, fine. Whatever. But you'll see that it _is_ your child. And I do expect you to be the father."

"So, are you gonna sue me for child support?"

"No! Why are you being such an asshole? I love you, Kevin. I want us to be a family."

"Well, that is _not_ gonna happen. Are you forgetting that I'm married?"

"I know, Kevin. I know. But—I'm gonna have your baby. I know you love me. I think you should leave Courtney. And then we can get married, and we can raise this baby together."

"You're outta your fucking mind, Amber. I'm not gonna leave my wife."

"Why not?"

"Because I love my wife."

"And don't you love me?"

"No. I don't love you."

She was about ready to cry. "So, why are you with me then?"

"Because you're a good fuck."

Now she was crying. "You don't mean that, Kevin. I know you don't mean that."

"I thought you were on the fucking pill."

"I was, but I—I skipped a few doses by accident so I guess it didn't work."

"You're a liar."

"I'm not lying!"

"No, you did this on purpose so that I would leave my wife. You tricked me. It's not gonna work. I'm not gonna leave her." How ironic. His mistress was probably lying about taking the pill so she'd get pregnant, while his own wife was doing the opposite. "My wife and I are gonna have a baby."

"She's pregnant?" she asked, horrified.

"No, but she will be soon. We're working on it."

"Please, please just leave her, Kevin. I promise you won't regret it. I promise you'll be happy with me."

"No, no way. Why don't you just get an abortion?"

She looked repulsed. "No! I am not gonna kill our baby! How could you even ask me to do such a thing?"

"I _don't_ want to have a baby with you."

"Well, then I'm gonna tell your wife. I'll tell her all about us, and I'll tell her that I'm having your baby."

"Don't you fucking tell her, you bitch."

"Oh, I will. And then she'll leave you, and I _will_ sue you for child support."

"You fucking cunt."

What did either woman see in him? Amber stood up to leave.

"Wait—please don't tell her. I will. Just give me some time to figure out what I'm gonna say, what I'm gonna do."

"So, are you gonna leave her then?"

He sighed. "Just gimme some time. Let me figure things out, and I'll call you. Don't say anything to her. I'll handle it."

"So, you do wanna be with me? I know it's hard to make that decision—to leave your wife and all, but I know that we're meant for each other."

He nodded. "Yeah."

Really? This woman was pathetically stupid. "So, Kevin, you do love me, right?"

"Yeah, of course I do, Amber. You know that. I'm sorry."

Then the scene changed. He was now talking to a man in an office that appeared to be inside a dark basement.

"I want her dead, but I can't have it look like a murder. I can't be linked to this in any way. Do you have any suggestions?" Kevin asked him.

"Well, even if we make the death look accidental, they still might think that it was staged that way and look for suspects. The best thing to do is to make it so they won't have a need to look for a suspect."

"Right, that would be perfect. How do we do that?"

"I'm thinking an animal attack. If she gets mauled by an animal, they already got their suspect."

"Okay, so how in the hell would we pull that off?"

"Well, I know a guy who's got access to all sorts of wild animals. I'm thinking a snake or a wolf or, hell, a bear would probably work. It's the Poconos so there're plenty of bears around here. We could drop the thing off, and make sure it's all nice and pissed off. We'd probably have to tranq' the thing and maybe starve it for a few days so it's hungry. Then you shove her into the agitated beast, and while it rips her to pieces, you get the hell away. I'd stay somewhat close by so you can make sure she's dead. Just make sure it doesn't see you, and get the hell outta there."

"That sounds kinda risky..."

"Well, we'd warn you when we're gonna drop it off. Keep your gun on you just in case."

"Okay, I guess this could work. How much is this gonna cost me?"

"Fifteen grand or so."

"What? Are you fucking kiddin' me?"

"No, you think these animals are cheap? Not to mention we'll be takin' on some risk by dropping it off."

He shook his head. "C'mon. All that I've helped you out with over the years. You'd be in prison now if it weren't for me."

"It's not like you haven't earned a decent cut. And if you hired someone to kill her, you think it would be any cheaper?"

"Can't you at least give me a discount?"

"I'll see what I can do. Maybe I can knock it down to ten grand."

"That's more like it."

Some time must have passed. He was talking to the man again.

"It'll have to be a brown bear."

"What? Why? There aren't any brown bears around here."

"Well, if you want something really large and vicious, they'll be your best bet. You wouldn't wanna waste your ten grand now, wouldja?"

"No, I guess not."

"And here's what we decided to do so that it's less risky for you. Like I said, they'll tranq' the bear, and then they'll take it to the woods and chain it to a tree. We'll show you ahead of time where it will be so you'll know where to take her. Once you push her into the hungry animal, you can easily get away and watch without having to worry about getting attacked since it'll be chained up. After you're sure she's dead, you'll have to shoot the bear with a tranq' gun. Then you can remove the chain and let it go. If the bear is ever found, the authorities will probably just assume that it escaped from someone who keeps wild animals. But it won't be linked to us in anyway, and it won't look like anyone purposely did this to her."

My questions were being answered. Maybe not all of them, but it all made much more sense. I was incensed by how diabolical this man was. Kevin couldn't leave any witnesses alive so that's why he had to let me die too.

When Kevin woke up in the morning, I was ejected from his body. It was a surreal experience, and I wondered if I would be able to do it again. I hoped so. I felt empty now that I was removed from the physical world once more. I desperately wanted to be back in it. Not that I was crazy about being in the body of a murderer...

***

It was Saturday. Kevin and Courtney were both silently getting ready for work. I remembered those mornings where I was too tired to talk, and I still hadn't built up enough energy to begin the day. I found myself already missing them because even though they weren't exactly pleasant, they were a part of life. Those moments made you appreciate the good ones even more.

Kevin kissed her. "Love you, Court. See ya later," he said, acting as if nothing terrible had transpired here last night.

"Love you too." I could tell she hadn't forgotten what had happened. And to think, she had no idea that her husband had not only cheated on her and impregnated another woman, but he had also murdered that woman. And he was a dirty cop. It sounded like criminals were giving him money in exchange for not being arrested. This guy was a lowlife scumbag, the kind I had previously only ever seen in movies.

After watching the bear-search continue for a while, I decided to visit my friends. They had gathered at Shawn and Liz's house. Their two kids were nowhere to be found so I assumed they were with Liz's parents. Shawn had been my best friend since the sixth grade. He was sitting on the couch next to Liz, as she ran her fingers through his wavy hair. He had a beer in his hand, and his beagle, Scout, was resting his head on his lap.

My co-worker, Josh, was there as well. We had both worked for the same HVAC repair company for several years. He was sitting on the recliner, rubbing his prematurely balding head. His tall and lanky girlfriend, Alicia, stood next to him.

The sight of my ex-girlfriend, Jill, startled me. She was coming from the hallway bathroom, rubbing her eyes. She swept her long, strawberry-blonde hair behind her shoulders and slumped down on the couch next to Liz.

"I just keep thinking that if he had moved to the city with me, then this never would have happened," she said, sadly.

"You know you never would've gotten him to leave here," Liz said.

She was right. That's why our relationship had failed. Jill was tired of living in the mountains, and she wanted to move to the city. I refused to go with her, so she left me and moved to Philadelphia. She was upset that I wouldn't go with her, but I was hurt that she was willing to leave me. In the end, it was for the best. Jill was miserable living out here, and I would have been miserable living in Philly. But it was still hard to see her now and to think once again of what our lives could have been.

"I still can't fucking believe it," Shawn said.

"Me either," Josh agreed. "It's gonna be hard not seeing him at work. He was a great guy."

"He was the best. You couldn't have asked for a better friend. He's always been there for me. He'd give the shirt off his back for anyone." Shawn sounded a bit drunk, but I knew that he meant it.

"They did say he died trying to help that girl," Alicia said.

"Who in the hell was she?" Jill asked. "He didn't know her, did he?" She sounded slightly jealous.

"No, I don't think so," Josh said. "It sounded like he was just going for a walk on the trail, and he saw the girl getting attacked. And he stepped in and unfortunately, the bear went after him too. That's what they think happened anyway."

"Has anyone talked to his mom about funeral arrangements? Like, will they be able to have an open casket?" Liz asked.

"Yeah, they could. He was basically eviscerated. His stomach got ripped open, but his face was left alone," Josh said. "But I think they're having him cremated."

Shawn then stood up, looking sick. "Babe, are you okay?"

He didn't answer her. He staggered to the bathroom, and I could hear him retching.

This was getting to be hard to watch too. Without realizing it, the scene had changed, and I was now visiting Courtney at work. She was standing in the waiting room of the dentist office about ready to tell someone to come on back when she paused briefly to watch the news on television.

"Police are saying they caught the bear that attacked and killed two people on Thursday."

Damnit. Of course they caught the bear when I wasn't watching. Whatever omnipresent force was allowing me to view what I wished and easily change channels on a whim should have alerted me to the fact that they caught the bear.

I was then horrified to hear it was a black bear. It figured they got the wrong one. I hoped forensics would determine that, and they wouldn't put the poor thing down. Just because I was killed by an animal didn't stop me from being an animal lover. I would have had at least a couple of dogs if the place I lived at allowed it. Having pets was always a plan for the future. A plan that was now obsolete.

As the day went on, there was still no mention of the bear being the wrong one. The police seemed pleased to have calmed the public who had been terrified to go on the trails, or, in some cases, to step into their own backyards. And of course, the rogue bear would not bode well for the tourism industry in the Poconos.

That night, I patiently waited for Kevin to fall asleep. I was eager to see if I would be able to experience the same thing again. Only this time, I had no interest in getting inside the psycho's head. I simply wanted to use his vocal chords so I could communicate with Courtney. I wanted to tell her what her husband had done, hoping it would push her to leave him and report him to the authorities. All day, I debated on what I would say. _Should I just pretend to be her husband and confess? Or should I tell her the truth, tell her who I really am, and then convince her to turn Kevin in?_

The latter would be challenging. How in the hell could I possibly get her to believe that I wasn't her husband? She would freak out. And even getting her to turn him in would be difficult. It was easy to see she was afraid of him, and he was a police officer. She would be turning him in to his co-workers. They might not even believe her, and they would probably all take his side. Maybe I could drive down to the police station and confess. But then they might just think I was fucking with them. What motivation would drive this man to tell them what he had done? Remorse? He didn't seem to exhibit any. And what if Kevin woke up during the drive? Then I would be booted out, and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Even if I was able to confess, once Kevin woke up, he would recant everything. The man seemed manipulative enough, and he was in a position of power so he could turn everything in his favor.

The most important thing was to get Courtney to leave him. And then I would try to find a way to get justice for Amber and for myself.

I considered blowing Kevin's brains out with his own gun, but then I worried about Courtney. What if they thought she did it and just made it look like a suicide? Kevin didn't seem to be the kind of person who would kill himself. And if they found out he was abusive to her, that would be a motive.

I also hadn't heard a thing on the news about Amber being pregnant. So either they weren't disclosing that to the public, or she had lied to him.

Kevin finally nodded off, and I easily descended into his body. Courtney had turned onto her side away from him, and I was almost certain she was still awake.

I slowly and somewhat hesitantly tapped her on the shoulder. I had to suck up my fears and just talk to her. I had to hope that her husband wouldn't wake up.

"Are you awake?" I asked. It was uncanny for me to speak and hear another man's voice come out of my mouth.

"Yeah." She rolled over and stared at me. My stomach turned over, and I felt like a young boy with a crush.

"Can we talk?" I asked her.

"Sure. What do you wanna talk about?"

"Um—I'm gonna tell you something that you probably won't believe at first, so can you please keep an open mind?"

A perplexed look crossed her face. "Um— sure."

"I'm not your husband. I'm someone else, only I won't be here long—once he wakes up, I'll be kicked out."

Before I could explain, she started to laugh. "Okay, honey. I didn't think you drank _that_ much tonight."

"Courtney, I'm serious. Your husband got me killed. I'm—I'm dead."

She immediately sat up and tried to turn on the light. I quickly put my hand on her arm to stop her, worried the brightness would wake Kevin. "Okay, now you're really freaking me out."

"Look—I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm trying to help you. I've seen how Kevin treats you. He is horrible to you. You need to leave him." I was sitting up now too.

"What the fuck—why are you talking about yourself like that? Why are you talking in the third person?"

"I told you—I'm not your husband. He's asleep. Somehow—and I have no idea how—I am able to go into his body when he's sleeping. My name is Andrew Katz. I'm the guy who was killed by the bear a couple days ago. Your husband was having an affair with the woman who was killed—Amber Monroe."

"Jesus Christ." She jumped out of bed. "Are you talking in your sleep? Are you confessing to me that you're having an affair—while you're sleeping?"

"No. I really am someone else. I swear. I know it's hard to believe. I can hardly believe it myself. After I died, I could see and hear everything going on around me, but I just can't interact with anyone. This is apparently the only way I can."

"So, you're having an affair?"

"Your husband is, yes. I'm sorry to have to tell you this."

"Okay. So my husband was having an affair with the girl who was attacked and killed by the bear?" She sounded like she was humoring me.

"Yes, and he purposely got her killed by the bear. She told him she was pregnant with his baby, and she wanted him to leave you for her. And he didn't want to do that so he had her killed. He's a dirty cop. It sounds like he takes money from criminals, and he keeps them out of jail. He hired someone to bring a bear—a _brown_ bear—here and have it kill her. I was just walking on the trail, and I heard her screaming. I went to help, and I saw the bear attacking her. I stepped in, trying to get the bear to leave her alone, and it went after me too. Then I saw your husband hiding behind a tree. He stood there and watched us both die."

She had her hand pressed to her mouth, and her eyes were bugged open wide. "I can't believe you're telling me this."

"I'm so sorry. I know he's a cop, and you're afraid of him. I'll understand if you don't take this to the police, although I think you should. But mainly, I think you need to leave him. He's a sick, evil bastard, and you don't deserve to be treated the way he treats you."

Tears were streaming down her face. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Courtney—I'm _not_ your husband."

"You're Andrew Katz, the man who was killed?"

"Yes."

"I can't believe that. You have to be Kevin. You're talking in your sleep and making up shit. There's no way any of this is true. You're a police officer. You're my husband. All of this shit that's been going on with the bear attacks has just gotten in your head, and you're saying crazy things while you're asleep. That's all."

"I am _not_ your husband. I would never hurt you."

"Do you have multiple personalities or something now? You're really scaring me, Kevin. You need to wake up."

She then walked over and started shaking me. "Stop! Don't wake him up!"

"Why?"

"Because I need to talk to you. I need to get you to realize that I am telling you the truth." I grabbed Kevin's cell phone off the nightstand. I pulled the passcode out of Kevin's head and punched it in so I could access the phone. I scrolled through texts, trying to find something incriminating. I couldn't find anything. I then realized he used disposable phones to talk to Amber and all his criminal buddies.

I tried to pull more thoughts out of Kevin's head that would help. "That bracelet that Kevin gave you—how much do you think that cost?" I stood up and took it out of the jewelry box on her dresser. It was a white gold bracelet encrusted with alternating diamonds and amethyst stones.

"I don't know."

"It was four thousand dollars."

"What? No, it wasn't. We don't have that kind of money."

"Kevin does. He keeps it in a completely different bank account so you're not aware of it."

"Stop this, Kevin. Just stop it. Right now."

"I'm _not_ Kevin." A sudden memory occurred to me. "I saw you last night in the bathroom. You were taking a birth control pill. You keep them hidden under the sink. You're lying to your husband—he thinks you're trying to get pregnant, but in reality, you're preventing pregnancy." I felt guilty for saying it—for admitting that I was spying on her in a vulnerable situation. But I had to get her to believe me.

She looked petrified. "You—you found my pills? But how—how could you see me taking them? I had the door closed."

"I told you—I'm dead. I can see things— anything I want to see really. I'm sorry for spying on you like that—I really am. I just..."

She started to shake me again. "Kevin—"

I put my hands on her shoulders and looked in her eyes. "Stop."

"You're really not Kevin, are you?"

"I'm not."

"I—I don't know what to say. I can't believe this. I can't."

"I'm sorry, Courtney. I'm really sorry to do this to you. But your husband is a lying, cheating murderer. And I'm afraid that if you stay with him, he will kill you. What are you gonna do if he finds out you're taking birth control pills?"

She started to weep, and without thinking, I pulled her into my arms. It had been too long since I held a woman.

She then pulled away from me. "You're Andrew Katz?"

I nodded.

"I read about you. I felt so badly for you—the whole situation is just so—so sad. Did my husband really do what you said? Did he really get a girl pregnant and then have her killed—and just stand there and watch you both die?"

"Yes."

"And he takes money from criminals..."

"Yes."

"He's horrible."

"I know."

"I'm—I'm afraid of him. If I leave him—he'll kill me."

"If you stay, he'll kill you. I'm gonna do everything I can to keep him from hurting you."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. You could turn him in, y'know."

She shook her head. "No. I can't. He's a cop."

"Maybe you could go to Internal Affairs."

"Is there any evidence to prove that he did this?"

"I don't know." I tried to comb through Kevin's head again for any loose ends, but I was having difficulty coming up with anything. "I can't find anything. I doubt the people that helped him would rat him out..."

"Can you confess—while you're him?"

"I could, but I'm afraid once your husband wakes up, he'll recant it all. And I don't think anyone will believe him. I mean, why would he confess to this when there really isn't any evidence against him? It would just seem farfetched, and they might think he's just playing around. But I could try. I'm just worried he might wake up in the meantime..."

"Yeah. Stepping outside could wake him up..."

"You know, they caught the wrong bear. It was a brown bear, not a black bear."

"Really?"

"Yeah, so that brown bear is still out there."

She sat down on the bed. "I feel sick."

"I'm sorry. Do you want me to get you water or anything?"

She shook her head. "No, thanks."

I sat down next to her and gently rubbed her back. "Maybe you should leave now while he's asleep."

"Where would I go?"

"I don't know. As far away as possible, I guess."

"He would find me. He's a cop. He'd trace my cards or something."

"Get cash out."

"He would find me. I know he would. And I don't have much money of my own. He keeps very little in the bank account, and I'm on a tight allowance. I don't have anywhere to go anyway."

I sighed. "You can't stay here."

"I know. I know. He wasn't like this before we got married, y'know. Of course, we weren't together long before we married. I feel foolish for falling for him and for staying with him even after I realized he wasn't who I thought he was. He used to act like I was the most beautiful girl in the world, and he treated me like I was something special. He can be very charming and sweet when he wants to be..."

"It's all just an act he puts on to get what he wants."

"I don't know what to do. So—you're really dead?"

"Yeah."

"What's that like?"

"It's weird and—lonely. I haven't been dead for that long, but it already feels like it's been forever. I can see what I want to see when I want to see it—like if I think about my parents, I can see them. But it's hard now because they're grieving... And I saw my friends today."

"And you've been—you've been watching us?"

"Yeah. I had to figure out what your husband was up to. I—I was in his body last night too, and I saw him talking to that girl, Amber, when she was alive. I then saw him hiring someone to have her killed by the bear. I can pull thoughts out of his head. It's really odd. All of this is so surreal. I never thought I'd die so young."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—that my husband did this to you."

"This is crazy, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It's really fucking crazy. Maybe I'm dreaming."

"No. No, you're not."

We then talked throughout the entire night, and I felt so connected to her that it was hard to believe we had only just met.

"I wish I had known you when I was alive," I told her.

"I wish that too," she said.

***

When Kevin woke up, I was devastated to have to leave her. I wasn't even able to warn her. I was pushed out, and Kevin took over. I watched him yawn and stretch his arms over his head. "Hey, babe," he said to her.

I could tell that she knew immediately it was no longer me.

"Hey," she said, quietly.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom. "Wanna make us some eggs?" he asked her.

I felt badly that she hadn't slept at all. "Sure," she said.

I watched her during the next few days that followed, and I possessed Kevin's body each night so we could talk. I told her she could sleep, but she chose to be sleep-deprived instead. She fell asleep in my arms on more than one occasion.

On the third night, I visited my friend, Shawn. I wondered if I could possess his body as well. But strangely enough, I felt myself being pushed back to Kevin's house. It was as if whatever was allowing me to do this didn't want me to take over anyone but Kevin.

***

The night before my funeral, I tried to leave the house to make a confession to the police. Kevin woke up and started panicking. "Holy shit. Holy shit. What am I doing out here?"

Courtney just looked at him. "You were sleep walking, hon. Let's get you back to bed." Disappointment painted her face as she pushed him back into the house and got him to return to bed.

As I watched, I suddenly got pulled away and saw the bear in the woods. The bear that killed me. Was this force trying to tell me something? Could I take over the bear? I was desperate to get back to Courtney so I quickly switched gears and arrived back at her house.

Once Kevin fell asleep and I was able to take over his body again, she said, "Well, I guess that's not gonna work. I suppose you could call... But once you leave this place, he'll probably just wake up again. Besides, what if Kevin does go to prison? Then I won't be able to talk to you anymore."

"He needs to go to prison, Court. Or, at the very least, you need to get away from him."

"Can you take over anyone else's body?"

"I don't think so. I tried to see if I could take over my friend's body, but then I just got brought back here."

"Why don't you try to take over mine when I fall asleep?"

"I'll see if I can."

"I wish I could go to your funeral tomorrow, but I have to work. And I don't think they'll let me take off for it when no one knows that I know you."

"I know. It's okay."

"It's strange how this feels normal now."

"Yeah."

"I mean, you look just like my husband, only you're not him. I like you so much better than Kevin. You're so much nicer... I wish you could permanently take over him, and then you could stay here with me."

"Unless he does get caught... But I wish that too."

She then laid her head on my chest. "But you are in my husband's body, so this wouldn't be wrong, would it?" She kissed me on the lips.

I shook my head. "No, not at all." I kissed her back.

She climbed on top of me, and we kissed each other again. I could feel her breasts pressing against my chest, and the arousal I felt was so intense that I didn't want to ever let her go. Unfortunately, Kevin felt her moving on top of him, and it was enough to wake him up. I was forced to vacate, and all I could feel was crushing disappointment and emptiness. I longed to be back with her but, instead, I watched enviously as Kevin got to have her.

"Hey, babe. You need to wake me up like this more often."

She must have known instantly that it was no longer me, but now that he had woken and was in the mood, she couldn't turn him down. I could tell she was upset, but she was trying to hide it.

Courtney ended up falling asleep before Kevin did so I wasn't able to visit her again. I tried to see if I could enter her body, but it turned out I couldn't do it spiritually either.

***

The following day, I went to my own funeral. I saw the urn that contained my ashes, and I immediately felt despondent. I really was gone.

The number of mourners was overwhelming. I honestly didn't think that many people cared about me. Aside from my family, friends, and co- workers, I also saw acquaintances, neighbors, and people I knew from high school.

My parents sat in the front pew. They were both dressed nicely, but they didn't look well. I watched as attendants gave them their condolences, and I cringed to see my mother wiping the constant tears from her eyes with a tissue.

The minister read the poignant eulogy that my parents had written for me. They never expected to lose me so young, but they were proud of me for all I had done in my shortened life. They said I was truly a selfless person—I had died trying to help someone.

"Words can't express how much we love our son. To lose him now is beyond heartbreaking, and we will never stop missing him. He has meant the world to us ever since he was born. He made every day better, and now that he's gone, we will forever feel the weight of this tremendous loss."

I was touched, yet saddened by their words. It was hard to watch my friends struggle to read their eulogies. Shawn was breaking down as he told everyone that I was like a brother to him.

I wished I could tell them how much they meant to me as well.

***

That night, when I was able to inhabit Kevin's body again, I stood up and walked into the bathroom so I could look in the mirror. Kevin's eyes were brown, and his hair was dark as well. He had strong, masculine features and a slight cleft in his chin. He had a muscular, yet lean physique. I was looking at a completely different man in the mirror. I had blue eyes, lighter brown hair, and a somewhat boyish face even though I was close to thirty. I was scrawnier and slightly taller. But my body was no more. And I knew I couldn't keep this going forever.

Courtney was standing in the doorway, watching me.

"I saw pictures of you online today, you know, pictures of you as Andrew. You were very handsome."

"This isn't me."

"I know."

"I'm just ashes now."

"No, you're not."

She walked behind me and put her arms around me as she leaned her head onto my shoulder. "Are you hungry? I can get you something to eat."

"No, I'm not."

"Did you—did you try to go in my body last night?"

"I tried. It didn't work. Nothing happened."

"So, can you only go in Kevin's then?"

"I think so."

"But why?"

"I wish I knew. I guess whoever or whatever is allowing me to do this is doing it so that I can stop him—keep you safe from him."

"Did you watch us last night?" I turned away.

"It's okay if you did. I'm sorry—I really am."

"There is no need for you to apologize. You did nothing wrong."

"So, you really can't sense God or anything?"

"No, I can't sense anything other than what's here. But there has to be something else beyond this world, or else I wouldn't be here, right?"

"Yeah, I would think so."

"So, even when you're dead, you still don't get to figure out the meaning of life."

She turned me around to face her, and then she kissed me.

"Stop."

"Why?" She looked hurt.

"You're just gonna wake him up again."

She sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm—I'm just sad. It was hard seeing my own funeral today."

***

The next day, Courtney was outside the house, planting flowers in her small garden. I watched her, wishing I could help. I longed to be with her, to really be with her as myself.

But I knew what I had to do. I had been thinking about it all day, and even though it pained me, I would have to bring the plan to fruition. And it would have to be sometime soon. It was the following night when I realized it had to happen. I had already told Courtney the night before what to do. She was reluctant, but I knew she would carry it out—as long as she was able to.

"What the fuck is this?" Kevin yelled as he stomped down the stairs, holding her case of birth control pills.

Courtney was standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner.

I could feel her fear, and it quickly morphed into fury inside of me.

She instinctively jerked away from Kevin when he got closer to her as she held onto the handle of the pot on the stove. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her away, and her fingers slipped off the handle. Shit.

"Well, aren't you gonna answer me? Are you taking birth control?"

"No, those are—those are old. I stopped taking them a while ago."

"You're lying to me, aren't you? It's in the middle of a pack. Why would you stop taking them in the middle of a pack? Oh, and look, you just happened to stop taking them on Friday—which just so happened to be yesterday. How ironic. It must be time for you to take another one." He then punched out a pill and grabbed her by the face, shoving it in her mouth. She squirmed, trying to get away from him.

"Swallow it, Courtney. We wouldn't want you to get pregnant now, would we? We've only been trying for several months now. I've been honestly getting worried that something was wrong. I knew it wasn't me with an issue, but I didn't think you'd be avoiding getting pregnant on purpose. Why would you lie to me like that? Huh? Answer me!" He then punched her in the face, and she fell to the floor.

Get up, Courtney. Get up. Get the pot off the stove or one of the pans. Knock him the fuck out. Now.

She tried to stumble to her feet, but he kicked her in the stomach. Hard.

"At least we know there isn't a baby in there, right?" He kicked her again.

She screamed in pain and clutched her stomach.

Oh, Court, I'm so sorry. But you need to get up. You can't let him hurt you like this anymore. Just get up. I know you can do it.

"And here I thought you wanted to have a baby with me, but you're just a lying cunt."

She slowly tried to scramble to her feet, but he shoved her back down to the floor. "Stay on the floor where you belong, you stupid fucking bitch."

Through the tears and pain, she screamed at him, "This is why I can't have a baby with you! You'd kill the baby before it was even born! And if you did avoid hurting me so I wouldn't miscarry, you'd beat the child. I couldn't have that! I couldn't bring a child into this home with _you_ ," she said, her last word filled with disdain.

"So, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna leave me? Let's see you try."

She then stood up. "How did you know you weren't the reason I wasn't getting pregnant? Was it because you already knocked someone up? Did you knock up Amber Monroe, the girl who was killed by the bear?"

He now looked bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You were having an affair with her. And you hired someone to sic a fucking bear on her. And you were there—you _watched_ as she died and as that other man died." She then softly said, "Andrew."

"Where are you getting this ridiculous information?"

"It's all true. Then your police buddies captured a black bear, only it's not the right bear, is it? It was a brown bear."

"Shut your fucking mouth, bitch," he said, his voice wavering. He appeared stunned and worried.

She took this opportunity to grab a pan on the counter, and then she hit him over the head with it. He stumbled and yelled out, and he grabbed for her throat. He started to squeeze, but she hit him again. He fell to the floor and lost consciousness.

I was now able to possess his body. I had a raging headache, and it was a short while before I was able to get up.

"It's me. It's Andrew," I said.

"Oh, thank God. I think he would've killed me." She rushed over to me.

"I know. I need to hurry. You did great, Court. Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine."

"You don't have to be afraid of him anymore."

She began to cry. "I don't want you to leave me."

"I have to, Court. You know I do."

"Maybe we should let him kill me, and then I could be with you."

"No, don't talk like that. I'm dead. You're not. You need to live. And you can't let him get away with any of what he did. Besides—I haven't communicated with anyone else who is dead. So I don't know that we could be together. But what I do know is this—I need you to live. And I want you to be happy and safe."

She was sobbing now. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to leave you either, but I have to. I'm sorry." I pulled her into a tight embrace.

"What if I kept drugging Kevin—you know, so he'll be asleep all the time, and then you could take over him?"

"I don't think that will work, Court. He'll eventually wake up, and then what will you do? I won't be able to protect you then. And it doesn't sound very healthy."

"Do you think you'll be able to visit me again—through someone else?"

"I don't know. But I'll try. And I'll be watching over you—to make sure you're okay. So promise me you'll be okay."

"I will. I promise."

I kissed her. "I have to go."

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too. Goodbye, Courtney."

"Goodbye, Andrew," she said, her voice breaking.

I pulled away from her, turned around, and then I walked out the door, not being able to bear seeing anymore of her tears. Fortunately, the chilly, night air did not wake Kevin up. "You knocked him out good, Court," I muttered. I got in Kevin's SUV, and then I saw Courtney running out the door to watch me leave. I waved to her, and she blew me a kiss. I pretended to catch it in my palm, and then I drove away as tears poured from my eyes.

I sped down the familiar winding, hilly roads, and then I found a trailhead where I could park Kevin's vehicle. I got out, holding a flashlight. The barely visible moon was partially hidden behind wispy clouds in the night sky. I turned on the flashlight and breathed in the fresh air, feeling almost certain this would be the last time I would be able to do so. I then briskly began walking through the dark forest. I could sense where the brown bear was just as I had before. Once I got closer, I slowed my pace and attempted to quiet my steps. It wasn't long before I found it foraging for food. I snuck up behind the large animal and slapped it on its backside.

It turned around and growled at me. It got up on its hind legs and then dove forward, biting into my neck. The bear's victim was wakened, and I was ejected from his body.

Kevin screamed, and I watched as the bear tore him apart.

#  
#

A Siamese Cat

### D.Z.C.

The Settha Palace Hotel in Vientiane does not live up to its name, in that it looks more like a colonial plantation house than a palace _per se_. But then, as Sébastien d'Aumetz liked to point out, these things generally involve a certain amount of poetic license. After all, it's a rare town doesn't boast of at least one establishment rejoicing under the title of 'The Warm Welcome' or 'The Cosy Corner' or something similarly cloying, and execrable service can be guaranteed in most, if not all.

A sprawling pile in cream-colored plaster and lacquered wood, the Settha Palace sits a little way back from the street, in the bosky shade of aged acacias and banana plants. The curving driveway is semi-permanently occupied by an old-fashioned and extremely dusty London taxi. Inside the palace, the brass fittings gleam and staff seem always to outnumber visitors by at least two to one. It is a relic of a more sedate age, and a world away from the fractious, jostling Chinese food stalls that line the road opposite.

D'Aumetz was the only regular in residence when, one evening in early March, Simon Benedict pushed his way through the heavy front doors, nodded irritably to the greetings girls, and made his way to the bar. It was growing late, and the shadows slanted steeply across the room. Soon someone would go round and switch the lights on, but for now the last golden rays of sunlight lit up the scene. D'Aumetz—shabby, elegant, expensive—seemed, ironically, to have acquired an almost angelic glow as he sat by the window with a tumbler of scotch and a book.

Sébastien d'Aumetz was the owner of several clothing factories of varying levels of squalor. Benedict suspected that he also beguiled his spare hours by passing information on to the French intelligence services (the man's compatriots were far less generous in their estimations, and he was known behind his back as The Rat).

"Waiting for someone?" Benedict asked.

"Oh no. Avoiding someone. Take a seat."

Benedict did so, cramming his full-backed figure into one of the armchairs, and nodded to the waitress.

"Sounds thrillingly clandestine," he rumbled.

D'Aumetz smiled in a self-deprecating manner. "Not as such. My children are loud and vulgar and dress like ladyboys. Anne-Sophie insists that I am contractually obliged to like them nonetheless. This is impossible to do in close proximity, so I come here to do it instead."

"You look like you are reading Céline," Benedict observed in precise tones.

"I multi-task," d'Aumetz explained complacently. The waitress brought Benedict's glass of beer. Like d'Aumetz, his order never varied. "You have been away?"

"Contract job down in Khon Kaen for Royal Thai Railways."

"The Chinese project?"

"As you say, the Chinese project."

"Will never happen."

"Possibly, but they were still happy to pay sixty thousand for a Thai-speaking engineer to do a few months' surveying work out in the Isaan dustbowl."

" _A la votre_." D'Aumetz raised his glass. "How was it?" Benedict considered this for a second or two.

"Odd. Or _bizarre_ , as you people would put it."

"Or _zarrebi_ , as my offspring would no doubt say," d'Aumetz confirmed gloomily.

"If you say so." Benedict said rather stiffly. His French stretched little beyond ' _Où est la gare?_ ' and the precise nuance of the slang escaped him. Nevertheless, he had been brought up understanding that it was not done to wash one's dirty children in public.

"In what way, then, was it _bizarre_?"

"Have you ever heard any stories about a cat ghost?"

"A cat ghost? Odd. The Thais seem to have ghosts for every possible occasion, but I have never come across that particular one before." He swirled the dregs around his glass. "No, indeed. I have never heard any stories about a cat ghost. But no doubt you're about to tell me one."

"I'm not going to ram it down your throat if you're not interested," Benedict said, sipping his beer sulkily. D'Aumetz smiled quietly to himself.

"I am fascinated. Begin at the beginning and go on 'til you come to the end. Then stop."

"The job was based at a place called Station 58. It's a little way after Khon Kaen, on the Udon Thani line."

"Aha. Already I detect a mystery, for the station after Khon Kaen is patently and provably Khumpawapi."

"Mmm. I was getting to that... Despite the name, it isn't actually a station. It's a sort of dispatch centre, handling signalling on the Isaan section of the North-eastern Line. It _used_ to be a station, but there I'm getting ahead of myself...

"There were some things I had to take care of in Bangkok before I started the job, so I took the sleeper train up from Hua Lamphong. They made a special stop to set me down. It must have been about four in the morning, and Station 58 is in the middle of nowhere—I mean really in the middle of nowhere, even by Isaan standards. The nearest village is a place called Baan Yang, about twenty miles away. There are a few shabby farms and an old abandoned temple and that's it.

"Anyway, the train rumbled off, and I just stood by the track with my case. I was supposed to get picked up by someone called Bounmi, but clearly he wasn't there yet. The dispatch centre is a in an old, wooden building a few hundred feet back from the tracks, and it works twenty-four hours a day. It looks a bit like a big signal box, you know— everything happens on the second floor, which has windows all along the track side. It was misty, but from where I stood I could even see someone walking around up there. There were also two tortoiseshell cats sitting on the other side of the track, watching me smugly."

"Ah. Ghost cats?"

"Are you taking the piss?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"No, they were physical ones, I assume, though I didn't go over and make sure. I was about to head on up to the dispatch centre and see if maybe Bounmi was waiting for me there, when he pulled up in his pick-up truck.

"Bounmi turned out to own a few acres a little way down the road, and would be providing me with a room for the night. I put my bag in the back and we set off. After a couple of minutes I realized that he was taking us the long way round to get to the main road, but I didn't want to start things off by criticizing his driving, so I said nothing. Later on I found out why he did it, but at the time I just kept my mouth closed."

"This sounds promisingly sinister," d'Aumetz commented.

"Hmm. In any case, we got back to Bounmi's farm, and he bundled me into bed. Of course, the family were all up at sparrow-fart, so I didn't have much choice but to drag myself downstairs and join them for breakfast. It turned out that Bounmi also owned a few modern houses in Udon Thani that he rented out: pink and white adobe, that sort of thing—I always think of the style as California Thai. His own place, however, was a big, old- fashioned farmhouse on stilts. They added running water in '96, but that's about the only mod con they had. There was a wide, shallow pond, surrounded by palm trees and full of fat carp that were hatched, matched and dispatched by means of a couple of rickety wooden jetties with lanterns hanging at the end. Behind the house there were a couple of buffaloes, and some of the family's rice fields. Otherwise it was just grass and dust and scrubby acacias for miles around. It was December then, and relatively chilly by Isaan standards—you know how it is. You seem to go from cool, misty dawn to cool, misty dusk without ever passing through the nice warm bit that's supposed to come in between.

"I'd assumed that Bounmi would drive me out to my billet after breakfast: that was my first shock.

I was booked to stay in his spare room for the whole of the contract.

"I didn't really know how to refuse, so I just said nothing, and resolved to make my feelings plain— loudly and at length—to Royal Thai Railways as soon as I could get hold of them.

"Bounmi had three sons (two grown up and married) and a daughter off at university in Chiang Mai. There was a gaggle of cousins and aunts and things too, but I never learned to tell the difference between them. They're not important to the story, in any case.

"Anyhow, that first morning Bounmi drove me back to Station 58, going the long way round once more, and introduced me to my new colleagues. There were five of them, and they all worked in the upstairs room with the big windows that I had noticed the previous night. It had a big plan of the north-eastern branch line, covered with flashing LEDs to represent signals. The thing was old and so grubby that it was hard to read the names in a lot of places. Underneath it there was a bank of desktop PCs and consoles where the dispatchers worked. They took shifts, making sure that someone was there twenty-four hours a day to keep an eye on the traffic, or what there was of it. Whenever the wind blew, which was seldom, the whole structure creaked and groaned.

"There was a duty station manager (Lek) who came from just outside Udon Thani, plus three dispatchers. Lek was close to retirement. He'd requested the post so that he could cultivate his garden in his spare time, and spend his days off getting blind drunk with his cousins out in Nong Khon Kwang. The senior dispatcher was a woman called Pink. I quite liked her. She'd been a _mia noy_ at some point, if not an actual prostitute—I think that's how she funded her studies. I'm almost certain that she was still supplementing her wages that way—she had a couple of sugar daddies locally and one who'd come up from Bangkok to visit now and then. One of them had paid for a set of enormous false breasts for her—honestly, it was a wonder she could get near the console. I assume 'Pink' was her working name—I actually once heard one of her relatives call her by some painfully traditional diminutive like Birdy or Mouse or something like that.

"Then there were the two junior dispatchers, Tuy and Ice. They were both local too, serving time until they could get a posting somewhere thrilling and cosmopolitan like Nongkhai."

"Hah."

"Precisely. Now I come to think of it, I never actually found out any of their real names, though I dare say it's noted down in the police reports. All I have are the nicknames."

"Police reports?"

"I'm getting to that. Where was I?"

"You'd done four out of five."

"Ah yes. The last one was something special. Maew, the engineer. All of the others were your stereotypical Isaan types—squat and dark and rustic. Maew, on the other hand, could probably have passed for Korean—you know, like the models you see in the ads on the Bangkok MRT. He wasn't Thai-looking at all, much less Isaan. He must have been about thirty, and all the local farm girls would stare at him as though they'd never seen anything like it in all their born days." D'Aumetz allowed a complacent expression to flicker on his face for a second or two, as though he had encountered the phenomenon himself with some frequency. Benedict continued: "He spoke in the purest Krungthep Thai too, unlike the others, who I had trouble understanding half of the time."

"All in all, too good to be true," d'Aumetz commented thoughtfully.

"Well may you say that... Anyway, I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing out there in the back of beyond, and from what I could gather the others weren't sure either. They loathed him, of course. A mixture of redneck resentment and the fact that he never gave them an opening. He wasn't exactly congenial, but he was always perfectly polite.

"Maew was the only one living on-site. There was plenty of room downstairs, but when I asked the others they all made excuses about preferring to be in a town or near their relatives, even if it meant they had a twenty-mile commute each day.

"I have to say, it didn't take me long to grow heartily sick of spending every waking moment outside of work with Bounmi's extended family, and after a couple of weeks I proposed moving into the dispatch centre building myself. Maew politely offered to get a room ready for me, but all of the others gave him a collective Look of Death, and started wittering on about how I'd be far more comfortable in a hotel in town, or staying with Lek's cousin, or in a bathysphere at the bottom of Lake Huron. Anywhere but in the dispatch centre, in fact. This made me wonder a bit. I actually suspected that there must have been a still or a meth lab or something hidden down there somewhere. Anyhow, I backed off diplomatically.

"That evening, Bounmi announced that he'd heard on the grapevine that I wanted to leave, and looked so soulful and puppy-dog-eyed that of course I had to tell him that his house was a delight and my only regret was that I would have to depart at the end of my contract. Later on I found out that he was being paid six hundred and fifty baht a month to put me up, but of course it was too late by then: I was committed.

"I soon got into a routine. I'd get up at the crack of dawn and fight about eight generations of Bounmi's friends and relations for the bathroom, before sitting on the veranda and watching the sun rise and burn away the mist over the fishpond. Bounmi would drive me down to the dispatch centre, and I'd get a little maintenance engine from one of the sheds and go out to do my surveying until about ten. Then I'd come in, write up my results and have my lunch and a siesta, and then go back out around four. Even in December, fart- arsing around with a theodolite out on the tracks is no picnic, I can tell you.

"Sometimes Maew came out to help. I think he was pretty glad to be out of the office, to be honest; the others were desperate to get a rise out of him any way they could. They'd do silly, childish things like messing with the settings on his computer. I think it was wearing him down a bit.

"I'd finish up around seven, after it had got dark, and Bounmi would arrive in his pick-up to drive me home in time to enjoy whatever was leftover from the family meal. Then I'd go to bed and get ready to do the exact same thing the next day. I was hoping that I would have finished the job by the time the monsoon rolled round. If working out on the tracks was unpleasant in December, it would be hellish in a tropical downpour.

"One morning, we were getting ready to set off for the dispatch centre when Bounmi's daughter, who happened to be back from university, asked why on earth we were leaving so early. She pointed out that it should only take us five minutes to get there.

'Twenty,' Bounmi corrected shortly.

'I've done it in five on my scooter,' she insisted. 'Don't tell me you're still going the long way round still?' I glanced up, wondering whether I was finally about to find out the reason for this.

'It's the best way,' Bounmi snapped back. He sounded angry and embarrassed at the same time, if you see what I mean.

'What's the other way?' I asked. I was doing my best to sound polite, but he seemed extremely uncomfortable. His daughter laughed.

'It's five minutes if you drive down by the tracks, but dad won't go that way because he's a superstitious old peasant.' I looked inquisitive. She was fiddling with her phone, talking without looking at either of us. 'There's a spirit house down there that belongs to the ghost cat. Dad won't go near it; none of them will.' I had noticed the dilapidated little shrine by the tracks, well away from the dispatch centre itself. 'Even the railway employees hate it, and they're not locals.' She giggled again; clearly she considered herself to be the sophisticated urban gadabout of the family. 'You should see them sprint back to the office whenever they've finished leaving their offerings there.'

'Ghost cat...?' I asked.

"Bounmi would clearly rather have avoided the subject altogether. His daughter told the tale with relish, however.

"When the north-eastern line was still under construction, a British administrator and his wife had taken up residence in the old Station 58 building—since demolished—to supervise the arrangements. The administrator was, by all accounts, one of those bluff, hearty, Empire- building types that thinks that a bout of dengue is a jolly jape. His wife, on the other hand, was fragile and neurotic, and seems to have hated every second of her time in the colonies. The house boys at the station picked up on this, of course. They saw it as racial snobbery, and of course played up to it no end. They'd torment her by deliberately misconstruing her requests, or letting the doors slam to make her jump—things like that. Her husband, quite reasonably, perhaps, felt that she invited a great deal of this, and insisted that she would have far fewer difficulties if she toughened up a bit. She didn't dare yell at them, but she'd get her revenge by having her husband take away their days off, or confiscate their alcohol. It wasn't long before a bitter mutual hatred developed. Soon every bad dinner or hour of unpaid overtime was being attributed to the administrator's wife, whether it was really her fault or not.

"The couple had no children, but the administrator's wife had a pet cat of which she was very fond. It was just a local stray that had taken to hanging around the station kitchen for scraps, but for her it was something that was happy to give and receive unconditional affection (as long as the food kept coming), and that, apparently, was enough. She'd brush its fur with a little silver hairbrush, and feed it pieces of chicken breast on a china plate. Of course, the houseboys soon came to hate the cat with just as much passion as they hated its mistress. It is not easy to watch a fleabag refuse the finest cuts of meat when you are entirely convinced that its owner has just condemned you to a week of rice-and-water.

"One evening in Summer, a few of the servants were drinking by the train tracks, out in a little dried up gully just out of sight of the station. After a while, the cat wandered by. They managed to entice it over, and finally it came close enough for one of them to grab it."

"Oh dear," d'Aumetz put in sadly. "I think I can see where this is going..."

"Quite. They probably tortured it a bit first, but it wasn't long before one of them had a bright idea. There was a supply train leaving in a few minutes for Bangkok, and so the group of them decided that it would be amusing to attach the creature's collar to the back of the train and its back legs to one of the wooden posts that held up the station awning.

"It was a horrible thing to do, of course, but it might have been swept under the carpet, had the administrator's wife not walked through the station door at the very moment that the train pulled out. Her husband did what he could. He dismissed the servants involved and gave the cat—or the pieces thereof—a respectable burial, but his wife had been pushed over the edge. She hanged herself from the platform canopy a week or two later."

"Tsk tsk," said d'Aumetz mildly, swirling the ice in his glass.

"That's not the end of it though," Benedict continued. "The company sent out another administrator, an Anglo-Indian by the name of Chandra. He was perfectly stable when he arrived, but after a couple of couple of months the servants began gossiping about how odd his behaviour was becoming. He would wander around at night, apparently, and have panic attacks. They'd find him crouched under the benches in the waiting room, or in the big records cupboard in his office. Wide-eyed and shaking, he'd fight tooth and nail against any attempt to remove him, but once they finally managed to calm him down he'd have no idea of what had frightened him to such an extent. After about three months of this, he too hanged himself from the platform canopy.

"The railway company had apparently grown tired of the high employee turnover at Station 58, and built a cottage for future station masters to inhabit a little way down the road from the station building itself, hoping that this would solve the problem. The odd incidents did not stop entirely, however. The porters regularly reported prowlers lurking around the station at night, and two servants were crushed between moving coaches in quick succession.

"The new administrator seems to have been a reasonably open-minded chap, by colonial standards, and agreed with the local _factota_ that they should get a bonze in to give the place the once-over and advise them with regard to the appeasing of any malevolent spirits. By this time, the common consensus was that the administrator's wife was haunting the station, and some polite way of moving her on must be found. The priest, when he had completed his analysis, surprised more or less everyone involved by announcing that the administrator's wife had long since departed for her eternal rest, and their problem lay with the cat, whose malevolent spirit was infesting the building." D'Aumetz considered this information.

"It does seem like a particularly feline thing to do," he said eventually.

"The priest recommended that they set up a shrine to the cat's spirit, and provide regular offerings in atonement. This was done, not without a certain reluctance on the part of everyone involved, and the disturbing incidents slackened off for a while. Nevertheless, Station 58 continued to enjoy a poor reputation for accidents, and a long succession of Royal Thai Railways employees reported strange noises in the night and a sensation of being watched.

"In the fifties, the dispatch centre was added on, and the station itself closed down. The central administration could find no buyer for the building, and in any case it burnt down around six months after the final train stopped there. I dare say a few of the friendly locals had a hand in that. Even to this day, most of them avoid the place. Bounmi certainly did.

"After his daughter finished telling the story, he reluctantly offered to take me round the short way in future. I would have preferred this, but I refused out of politeness."

"You're right," d'Aumetz said judiciously, sipping his whiskey. "That is a little _bizarre_."

"Oh that's not the bizarre part. That's coming up." Benedict turned and nodded at the waitress, pointing at his empty glass. One of the servants was making the tour of the room, switching on a succession of dim, oblique table lamps with old- fashioned green shades.

"I am unhealthily enthralled in any case," d'Aumetz assured Benedict happily. "This is far more thrilling than anything that has happened to me lately."

"Worth interrupting Céline for?"

"Worth even the distraction from my, ah..." d'Aumetz caught the waitress' eye as she poured the beer—she blushed and looked away "... other amusements," he finished dreamily. Benedict seemed a little uncomfortable. He moved his beer to allow the silent attendant to switch on the lamp by his elbow.

"Well, in any case, that also explained why none of the Isaan staff were willing to live in the rooms beneath the dispatch centre, though frankly I was surprised that someone as cynical and cosmopolitan as Pink should be impressed by the legend.

"The next thing that happened was at lunchtime on the following day. They all used to bring their little wicker baskets of sticky rice and their plastic bags of fried vegetables in to eat for lunch. Bounmi's wife always made something up for me. It was generally more or less edible, I suppose, and they didn't charge me extra for the service. Anyway, Maew was sitting in his corner as usual, and he opened his basket of sticky rice, only to find that someone had hidden a cockroach in there.

"Normally he'd just ignore this sort of thing, but this time he said something oh-so-ironic-and- detached about there being a lot of them about. It could have been a perfectly innocent remark, of course, but the others were spoiling for a proper fight, so they weren't going to let it drop. Tuy or Ice, I can't remember which, asked him what he meant by that, and Lek said something about being more careful next time, _et cetera, et cetera_. You know the sort of thing, surely?

"Maew looked ready to let it drop. He picked up his cigarettes and was heading out for a smoke when Lek asked him who made his lunches.

'Your wife,' Maew replied, in exactly the same polite tone he always used, and carefully closed the door behind him. Well that tore it. Ice had to hold Lek back, and Pink was screaming after Maew like a fishwife. Maew just walked slowly and carefully downstairs and sat on the step smoking.

"It was more or less open warfare from then on. Lek was refusing to speak to Maew, and Pink followed his lead. All messages had to be relayed via Tuy or Ice, who would then pass them on to me, if I happened to be in the office, and I would then have to tell Maew. It was utterly ridiculous, and very uncomfortable. I started avoiding the office as much as I possibly could.

"A few days later, the weather began to grow hotter once more, and Maew and I walked down to the cat ghost shrine. As the only two members of staff not terrified of it, the task of laying out sticky rice and lighting incense sticks to the miserable creature had gradually been delegated to us. We walked silently for a while. As I say, it was a hot day, and talking was an effort.

'I've got no idea why I made that "your wife" crack,' Maew said gloomily, after we had made our offerings. 'It's not even the sort of thing I'd say; it's beneath me. I can't think how it slipped out.' I advised him to admit the same to the others (though possibly without the 'it's beneath me' element), but he wouldn't. Tolerating their jibes in dignified silence was one thing, requesting more bullying by means of a humble request for forgiveness was something else entirely.

"We stood there a little longer. By this time, I was making lets-be-off sort of motions. I won't lie; I was itching to get back to my work. Maybe the stories were beginning to get to me, but it did feel decidedly creepy out there near the cat ghost shrine. Hushed and breathless, exactly as though someone was watching you. I said as much to Maew. He didn't reply for a while.

'I like it out here,' he said finally. 'It's quiet.' He was right, of course. Even the constant, frantic chirping of the crickets sounded more subdued there, though this did not seem entirely comforting to me. One of the local (flesh and blood) strays wound itself around his ankles.

"That night we got in from our surveying at around six, and Tuy was extremely excited. You could tell he had a secret that he was just dying to share. Maew and I were ignoring him, as were the others. He was loud and camp and clumsy and, had Maew not been available, he would have been a prime candidate for office whipping-boy himself. As it was, the others felt pressed into solidarity with him against the interloper.

"That night he kept making comments about corruption in high places, going on about how he had friends in Bangkok who told him all about the latest scandals. He obviously wanted us to ask him what these were, but no one wished to give him the satisfaction.

"It didn't take him long to crack, unfortunately.

'What it all boils down to,' he said, in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink sort of tone, 'is that I've found out what our pal Maew's doing out here in the sticks in the first place.' Maew froze, and the others all looked up.

'Oh, so now you're interested?' Tuy asked. He was crowing now, almost ecstatic with self- satisfaction. 'If you must know, I found out from a friend at the Public Works: Mr. Perfect took a bribe and he got caught. That's why he's having to slum it with the likes of us.' The others gaped in a way that must have been extremely gratifying for Tuy. Even I was surprised. It did not seem to fit in with the somewhat austere image that Maew gave out. We all stared across the room at him.

'It's true that I was convicted of accepting money to influence a public tender process,' he said finally. I think we all expected this to be followed by some kind of protestation or justification. 'I'm appealing the decision' or even 'But my mother needed medical treatment'. Something of that nature. Instead he just picked up his cigarettes and left. A few minutes later I saw him standing by the cat ghost shrine, smoking and looking out at the tracks. Tuy and Ice gaped at each other and giggled.

"What happened next, I heard from Pink. That night, Tuy was scheduled to work until 4am, when she would come and take over. She got a call from central operations around midnight, saying that all of the signals on the Isaan branch were stuck and Tuy was not answering either the land line or his mobile. Nor could they reach Maew, who should, in theory, be in the building. She got into her pick- up and made the twenty or so miles to Station 58 in record time. She was assuming that Tuy had had a heart attack or that robbers had come for the dispatch centre's computers and bashed him on the head—something like that.

"When she skidded up the gravel path and halted in front of Station 58, everything was silent. Even the insects, she said. Having lived most of her life in the countryside, the lack of noise was deeply unnerving to her. To be honest, I think I'd have been even more frightened than she was. You know what night-time is like out there where they've cleared the jungle—like being shut in a big, dark box with lots of nasty things that you can't see.

"The lights were on upstairs, but she could hear nothing. She tried knocking on Maew's door first, but no one answered, so she crept upstairs, carrying a wrench from the pick-up for protection. At first she thought that the room was empty. According to her, she screamed the place down when she spotted Tuy crouching under the console, staring out at her with feral eyes."

"Just like Chandra, in fact."

"Just like Chandra. It took her a good half hour to coax him out and into her car. She drove him to Bounmi's house, this being the closest outpost of civilisation, and the entire family was woken up to wrap Tuy in blankets and pour shot glasses of _laolao_ down his throat. It took a while to get him to speak, but the story finally emerged. He had just seen a goods train through, and knew that there would be little to do for the next twenty minutes, so he had slipped out for a smoke. This was not strictly allowed, as someone is supposed to be next to the computers at all times. None of the dispatch centre workers were entirely innocent of the practice, however. He had been standing by the downstairs door when he had thought he heard someone in the bushes. At first he assumed it was Maew, out for the same reason as him. He had called out, but there was no answer. He was about to go back inside when he saw something staring at him from the line of trees. The light from the open door was reflected in a pair of unblinking, yellow eyes, watching him steadily from between the branches."

"Pfft. A stray dog."

"According to Tuy, they were about five or six feet from the ground."

"A cat then, sitting in a tree."

"Well yes, possibly, but in the circumstances no one really liked to mention the C-word. I dare say that the place was riddled with entirely non- metaphysical moggies, but it still brought up some uncomfortable associations.

"Tuy was put to bed in my room, and I volunteered to accompany Pink back to the dispatch centre. Bounmi came along too, bringing his gun. Frankly, I thought that we were more at risk from him than from anything supernatural, but I didn't say so. We rolled cautiously up the path towards the building, headlights on full-beam, sending the geckos skittering away into the shadows. The lights were still blazing out upstairs, and the downstairs door was gaping open.

"I must have been in a bit of a state, because for a second or two I was sure there was some nightmarish creature crouched on the step, readying itself to spring at us. It took a couple of seconds for the shape to resolve itself into Maew, drinking a flask of tea in the most prosaic way you could imagine.

"He looked a little surprised at the cohort of ghostbusters that had apparently come out to meet him. Pink was outraged.

'And just where the hell have you been?' she screamed, jabbing him with a finger.

'Sometimes when I can't sleep, I go and sit by the tracks,' he said, ever so mildly. We explained what had happened. Maew certainly looked as innocent as innocent could be, but I guessed what was coming next. Pink stomped off upstairs to her post, muttering darkly, and Bounmi and I got back in the pick-up to head home. Maew was still sitting on the step when we left, staring out after us.

"True to form, when I climbed up the awkward wooden stairs to the dispatch centre for my lunch the next day, Lek and Ice were muttering in a corner. Maew was at his console, doing his best to ignore them. Despite my best attempts to remain neutral, they insisted on dragging me into their conversation. They had heard about what had happened the previous night, and had soon come to the conclusion that the whole episode had been orchestrated by Maew in revenge for Tuy's revelations of the previous day. I made hemming and hawing noises, and tried desperately to get away, finally announcing that I'd take my lunch outside, since it was such a lovely day. I sat down in the boiling sunlight and clouds of midges, on the step that Maew had occupied the previous night. The local moggies were out in force that day. There were four or five of them sitting in the shade of the trees that lined the track, all watching me. I chucked them a couple of lumps of sticky rice, but they didn't move.

"Tuy arrived back a few days later. He still seemed a little shaky—clearly he was not nearly the man poor Chandra had been. I don't think it had occurred to him that his terrifying experience may have been the result of a practical joke. He had clearly described a pair of yellow eyes staring out of the darkness at him, after all, and whatever else Maew may have been guilty of, certainly no one could accuse him of possessing a pair of those. Nevertheless, after a couple of days spent listening to the others' theories, Tuy's thoughts were clearly beginning to tend that way. This was not an improvement. Being scared half to death by a _bona fide_ ghost is, at least, semi-respectable. Having been induced to cower under a desk by an aloof _khon Krungthep_ with a fashionable haircut was a humiliation not to be borne.

"The next incident happened around a week later. Maew and I finished our surveying late. It as already getting dark when we parked the maintenance car up in a siding and crossed the tracks back to the dispatch centre. I suppose that what happened next could have been our fault. We should have been wearing our fluorescent jackets, but the north-eastern branch isn't exactly frantic with traffic, and most of the time we didn't bother. On the other hand, the electric lights were on, and we had made more than enough noise parking the engine and shifting our kit. We weren't inconspicuous.

"There was a goods train parked on the up line, and rather than walking round, we climbed over the connector between two of the carriages. Another stupid move, I dare say. Certainly something they tell you not to do in training. I went through first, with my case and all the optical gear, and Maew followed me. I heard the jolt and turned just in time to see Maew stumble and fall between the two cars as they slammed together. The train got up to speed quickly, and I was on my hands and knees beside the rails, trying to see between each pair of wheels as they clunked past. The yellow halogen light didn't illuminate the underside of the coaches, and for all I knew Maew had been cut in half by the original impact. I tried yelling, but I could hear nothing over the noise of the train.

"When the last carriage had finally passed, I saw him. He was lying there on his back, on the gravel between the rails. He didn't seem hurt, but he must have lain there perfectly still for the couple of minutes that the train was passing over him, knowing that any stray bit of metal hanging down beneath the carriages would be the end of him. I honestly don't know if I could have done it. The case he had been carrying had been wrenched out of his hand and caught between the wheels and the rail. It was one of those heavy aluminium jobs, but there were only a couple of shreds of metal left, spread along the track.

"I was telling him not to move, and blathering on about calling for an ambulance—like you do when this sort of thing happens. He just pulled himself up, holding onto one of the rails. He didn't even seem to hear me, but turned and walked off towards the dispatch centre. Only Tuy and Lek were up there, as far as I knew. Until then it had not occurred to me that what just happened could have been anything but an accident, but the fact was inescapable: it must have been one of them who gave the train the signal to proceed. They could not possibly have missed our arrival, and must have known that we'd be on the tracks: the decision to signal the goods train was either monstrously careless or an attempt at cold-blooded murder.

"I followed in Maew's footsteps. With the darkness, the stray cats had emerged, and they watched from a discreet distance as I stomped over to the dispatch centre. I had no intention of putting up with any more of this juvenile crap. In fact, I felt as though I should have put a stop to it far earlier, though this was hardly my job.

"Upstairs in the control room, Maew had Tuy up against the wall, one hand at his throat. Lek had clearly tried to wrench him off, and been thrown up against the consoles. Maew was like a thing possessed. I have no idea what he'd just said, but Tuy was shouting—or rather wheezing—a reply.

'I didn't fucking see you! Get off me!' Maew was slowly tightening his grip. Lek dragged himself to his feet and tried to pull Maew back again. He had long fingernails like a lot of the old peasants out there, and he'd already left a set of deep scratches down Maew's face. It was then that I looked down: Tuy's toes were barely touching the ground. I was out of my depth. I had no idea what to do, so I tried to sort of prize Maew away. At first I think he didn't even notice I was there. He was so tense that I certainly couldn't have pulled him off Tuy if he hadn't wanted to come. Thankfully, he started to relax, and finally to let go of Tuy's neck, one finger at a time. Tuy was bleeding quite badly where Maew's nails had dug in.

"Maew looked around, seeming almost confused for a second or two, before turning to head back downstairs, not addressing another word to any of us. I felt that something could do with being said, however. I stared Tuy and Lek down, just about managing not to wag an admonitory finger.

'Just leave him the fuck alone in future. You lot argue all you want, but _I_ could have been between those two bloody carriages when you two decided to play your little practical joke. One more incident like that and I'm writing to headquarters.'

'We didn't see you!' Tuy wailed after me as I stormed out, almost as irate as Maew by this time.

"I don't know what happened after that. I had to go into Udon Thani the next day to speak to some of the Chinese reps. Bounmi drove me into town. He'd heard about the incident the previous night, via the mysterious rural process whereby rumours are transmitted apparently agentlessly. He spent most of the journey muttering about how Station 58 always had been a bad one for accidents. I had trouble concentrating on the technical briefings I had to give, and went to bed early with a headache on both of the nights that I spent in Udon Thani, much to the disapprobation of the Chinese and the Thais, who had planned various excursions to karaoke bars. All in all, I was oddly relieved when Bounmi showed up a couple of days later to take me back to his place. We arrived around ten that night, and I went straight up to bed.

"We were woken around five the next morning by Ice, banging on the door and screaming. I had an odd sensation of déjà-vu. Unlike Pink, however, it seemed as though he had run all the way from the dispatch centre to Bounmi's house. He was nearly out of his mind with terror, and we had trouble getting anything coherent out of him. According to what we could make out, it seemed as though someone was dead. I wanted to palm Ice off on Bounmi's wife and head down there right away. To be honest, I suspected that one or other of them had had another go at Maew and been more successful second time around. Bounmi categorically refused to go there with only myself for company, however. He decided that the thing to do was to form a posse, or at least bring along a few of the local good ole boys as backup.

"By the time he'd managed to collect together a few friends with pick-ups and ancient revolvers for moral support, the sun was already rising. We realized then what had happened. The mist that covered the rice fields was thicker and darker than usual, and we could see the plume of smoke rising above the trees from Bounmi's house.

"The realization that the dispatch centre may well have burnt to the ground while they were busy admiring each other's artillery and polishing off a few Singha Beers for the road smartened Bounmi's _Duck Dynasty_ friends up a bit, and we finally set off around seven.

"In light of the emergency, we went the short way, though most of the men looked profoundly ill-at-ease. The sun was shining brightly through the trees, but the mixture of smoke and mist remained thick. The clumps of forest loomed strangely out of the fog as we rattled on down the track. It was thick enough that we couldn't see the dispatch centre until after we'd passed the cat ghost shrine.

"Our initial diagnosis had been correct. There was little left of the building. A few charred joists sticking up here and there, and a thin coating of ash over the trees nearby. After a long dry season it must have gone up like tissue paper.

"Pink was standing a little way back, staring hopelessly at the wreck. A little further down, alone and apart, Maew was sitting on one of the rails, nursing a burnt hand, sucking his fingers.

"It took us a while to get all the information out of them. By that time, one of the hillbillies had called the Udon Thani police, and a few hours later an ambulance and a couple of cars rocked down the gravel path and ground carefully to a halt in front of the remains of the building. Someone had gone back to Bounmi's farmhouse and brought Ice along to give his witness statement. The police interrogated all of us, holding their clipboards above their heads for some protection against the sunlight.

"Ice and Pink had been due to take over from Lek at 4am. They had arrived to find the place in flames, Maew staring helplessly up at the building. According to him, the first he had known of the fire had been when a burning chunk of the ceiling had fallen on his bed and woken him up. He had only just made it out when the whole thing collapsed.

"The police seemed to be leaning towards the conclusion that Lek had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, and the blaze had started like that. The wreckage had cooled a little by then, and a couple of officers made their way gingerly into what was left of the building. They could find no sign of Lek, but they hadn't expected to. Anyone who'd been in there when it went up would have been turned into a thin coating on the acacias in short order. The ambulance left empty. After a while, a couple of the hillbillies' wives came down with a folding table and a cooler full of beers, and an impromptu wake began. Maew stood a little way to one side, sucking the burns on his hand, until finally one of the wives called him over. Ice and Pink looked uncomfortable, but shifted up to let him sit down. He took one of the chairs, very carefully and politely. One of the wives passed him some ice for his injuries.

"I think that the traffic on the Isaan line was being run by the Bangkok office for the time being. Certainly no trains passed while we were there. The hillbillies got thoroughly drunk in the wreckage. The sun went down and they got out a set of cards and played Beat the Landlord way into the night, shambling off into the bushes for a pee every now and then."

"And...?"

"And what?"

"No mysterious ghostly meows? Bloody paw- prints? It's not very conclusive, is it?" Benedict looked slightly affronted.

" _Life's_ not very conclusive. What do you want? Jam on it?" D'Aumetz shrugged, and knocked back the last of his whiskey.

"I'm just saying that I probably shouldn't read too much into it." Benedict shrugged and finished his beer. A waitress hovered quietly. He stood up.

"Well, I'm meeting some people for dinner..."

"It was nice—" d'Aumetz began, before pulling himself up short. "Wait a minute... 'Maew' ..?"

"Yes?"

"I was assuming it was jokey reference to northern origins. They call Thaksin Shinawatra 'Maew', don't they?"

"I stay out of politics, personally."

"But it's not, is it?" He glanced up, looking inquisitive, challenging. "It has the same meaning as in Lao." Benedict appeared to have lost interest, busy scanning the doorway through to the dining room.

"'Cat'? Quite. But then, I probably shouldn't read too much into it."

#  
#

Sleeping Dog

### Tom Conyers

"So, it's like ecstasy?" asked Georgia.

Lara glanced from the road long enough to devilishly smile at her friend. The two had taken drugs before but none of the more exotic, harder substances, into which category the four pills in Georgia's hands indisputably fell.

Lara resumed her focus on driving (much to Georgia's relief). "Yes, like ecstasy," she reaffirmed.

She overtook a tourist coach, the car nearly going up on two wheels, before adding, teasingly, "But better."

Georgia shook her head with a rueful smile. Just like Lara to get them into this. The two had been friends since high school. Then, as now, everyone thought they were sisters. Superficially, the mistake was understandable; both had jet, slightly wavy hair and dark brown, almost black, eyes. But whereas Lara was fuller in flesh and feature, Georgia liked to think she was narrow in hip and attractively angular in face. Similarly, despite first impressions, their differences in personality were also pronounced: Lara being the more spontaneous, but not to mention foolhardy; Georgia the more considered, yet sometimes verging on staid, of the two. They had been through nearly everything together, from puberty to matriculation through to their first, steady boyfriends. And here they were, about to share a joint experience of another kind: hard drugs.

Lara was tailgating a truck making a fair pace down the highway they'd got on. Georgia knew it wasn't about aggression on Lara's part but a belief that riding in the truck's jet-stream would save gas.

Yes, they were alike there, too, in their frugality, only Georgia would have left a wider margin. She scrutinised the four white innocuous-looking pills in the sealable plastic bag she played with on her lap.

Like ecstasy but better...?

"How better?" she asked aloud, deciding to pocket the pills as a police car tore past.

Lara smirked to herself—she had Georgia hooked. "Well," she explained airily, "when you take ecstasy, even with friends, you're on your _own_ trip."

"And with this?" asked Georgia, trying to lean with the sharp turn Lara was taking as she merged with traffic on the off-ramp.

"With this, you all have _exactly the same_ experience."

"And what exactly _is_ that experience?" Georgia asked, gripping the door handle.

"Well..." began Lara teasingly but without going on, not because she was concentrating on anything particular to do with her driving, but because she was enjoying dragging out the mystery.

Georgia knew the game her friend was playing but was forgiving.

"Well, yes?" she asked, providing the appropriate spur.

"You all hallucinate..."

"Yes!"

"You all hallucinate that you're fucking." Georgia's mouth wouldn't close for a second.

"Each other?" she asked at last as Lara drove up a bus lane before pushing her way back in the car lane twenty vehicles ahead.

"Of course."

Lara narrowly missed the car in front as she swerved round it and applied her accelerator. It had been stopping for an orange light.

"And _are_ you?" asked Georgia as Lara looked in the rear-view mirror to make sure the police camera hadn't gone off.

Satisfied she'd gotten away with running a red light, Lara took a reading of Georgia's face. Judging from what she read there, she figured it was time to cut back on scaring, and start reassuring.

"No, no, I told you, Georgia, you're _tripping_. You're just tripping the same thing, that's all." Georgia looked out the window. Staring at Lara wasn't helping her growing sense of unease. She and Lara had been through a lot of troublesome initiations, albeit always apparently less troubling for Lara. Their first year in college campus, Lara had been keen on trialling pot. Georgia, following her lead, tried it too but gave up almost straightaway due to the edginess it made her feel. She'd coped better with the ecstasy and speed Lara sampled next, but that was as adventurous as Georgia wanted to get.

"Lara, I don't know about this," she heard herself saying before she knew it.

Lara was mildly annoyed. It was _her_ natural effervescence which had meant a run-on effect on Georgia's life, enamelling it in greater vibrancy. Hers! But then a counter-argument entered her head, one often voiced by her own mother. Georgia had a calming influence on Lara's life, diverting her from more harmful whims. Lara pushed the dissenting voice back down.

"What do you mean you don't know?" she asked. "You don't _want_ to know!"

Georgia thought of her boyfriend, Hugo. Reliable, wide-shouldered, even-more- considerate-than-she, Hugo.

"Has Hugo agreed?"

Lara grinned wickedly. "Only if _you_ do."

Huffing, Georgia slipped off her Gladiator sandals and put her lilac painted toes up on the dashboard. Typical of Hugo to delegate any arduous decision-making to her, she thought. Then another factor occurred to Georgia and, quite uncommon to her character, a pulse of anger ran through her.

She turned on Lara. " _That's_ why you want me _and_ Hugo to take this drug? You've always had a thing for Hugo."

Lara pursed her voluptuous lips—everything was voluptuous and sensuous in Lara, before eyeballing the more ascetic-looking Georgia.

"Maybe, Georgia, I've always had a 'thing' for _you_."

Georgia was stunned. She imagined Lara capable of many shifts and caprices in desire, but a segue to lesbianism?

Lara enjoyed the puzzlement on Georgia's face and laughed.

"This is getting too weird," said Georgia, half- laughing herself. "I've never had a 'thing' for your man, you know."

"Craig's not too bad in the sack—as you'll find out."

With that, Lara whooped harder. Georgia quickly tried picturing the suggested scenarios: herself with Lara, herself with Craig, herself with a couple and her own boyfriend. Into what new exciting/scary territories were her and Lara's friendship/relationships entering?

Lara pulled up at the site of their destination, a car park adjoining a suburban sport's field. She got out her side and opened the door for Georgia because the inside door handle was broken on the front passenger's side.

Georgia edged her foot out onto the bitumen, then unsteadily rose to her feet. Lara waited impatiently for Georgia to move out of the way so she could shut the door. She slammed it instead; she was getting annoyed to see the doubt creeping back in her friend's face.

They started walking, Georgia in her sandals, Lara in her folded tan boots.

"Georgia, what can go wrong? It's the ultimate safe-sex drug—fucking with your minds. Look, I won't tell our friends you took it with us, if that's what you're worried about. They'd be envious anyway. Okay?"

Georgia ceased her sleep-walk. After all, Lara's adventures had always broadened Georgia's horizons before.

"Okay, okay, okay."

Lara screamed in joy, hugging her friend. The sport's oval was empty, but it had recently been the site of a cricket match. The cricketers, their girlfriends, parents and families were gathered round the locker rooms enjoying a sausage sizzle cooked on one of the coin-metered barbies.

Georgia and Lara entered the throng of baked people and sweat, deodorant and charred meat, fly-spray and spittle. They passed two ladies in floral-patterned frocks, one pink, one blue, with half-open straw-hats, the doily-shadows decorating their faces. Georgia almost collided with the pink-frocked one as the woman lunged for her fold-out chair, a piled-up, paper plate of food in her chubby fingers.

The pink-frocked lady suddenly gasped.

Georgia paused, while Lara kept going.

The pink-frocked lady's companion turned from pouring lukewarm champagne into a plastic fluted glass. "Prue, what's the matter?"

Prue steadied the overfilled plate resting on her pillow-like knees and fanned her face with a half-scrunched-up serviette.

"I..." she gasped. "I just felt a ghost pass through me."

Georgia gasped in turn. The correlation of facts, her passing the woman at just that moment, and the woman's strange comment, quite unnerved Georgia in a way that she could give no account to.

Before she could give the matter further consideration, she was distracted by Lara calling out to their respective boyfriends, whom she'd found in the crowd.

"Craig! Hugo!"

Georgia pushed her way to join them. Lara took her hand and dragged them through the remaining throng to the veranda of the locker rooms. Craig was an appropriately captivating partner for Lara, with large, athletic shoulders, dark eyebrows, cropped curly black hair and a thin moustache. He was dressed in a yellow hoodie and black striped tracksuit pants. The two kissed.

Hugo, Georgia's boyfriend, was only slightly taller than average height but he was naturally wide of shoulders, long and loose of limbs, with a big nose, ears, eyes, and lips. This contrived to a pleasant effect, apart from a tendency to slouching and a lower lip a little on the puffy side, giving him, and accentuating, a certain poutiness in manner. He was in jeans, a flannel top, and he wore a baseball cap sideways. He and Georgia briefly held hands.

With open palm held out, Lara indicated to Georgia to hand across their treasure. Georgia looked round at the throng and nodded insistently at the audience. Hugo pushed open the door of the locker room, ushering them inside. When Georgia passed through, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay with this, babe?" he asked. Georgia looked over her shoulder at him.

"If _you_ are," she answered, immediately aware that both had thus effectively abrogated responsibility for what they were about to imbibe.

Craig locked the door.

The interior of the lockers was furnished with only that necessary for the various sporting codes that played there, but the "time-out" room was slightly more accommodating, with facilities for making tea and coffee. There was even a mantle over the gas fireplace. It held aloft a rather incongruous, large brown-and-white striated conch.

Georgia relinquished the prize of the pills. "Look," said Lara breathlessly.

All four examined the pills for a long moment. They were round, white, with a paw-print indentation on one side.

"That's it," continued Lara, enjoying having the wrapt attention of her friends and lover. "Sleeping Dog."

At once, Hugo drew back from the pills packet dangling in Lara's hand.

"Sleeping Dog?" he questioned, alarmed.

Lara snatched the package away, stuffing it into the front pocket of her ultra low-rise skinny tight jeans.

"What's the matter?"

Hugo was concerned, and his concern in turn troubled Georgia.

"Lara," said Hugo moderately, although there was an undertone of annoyance beneath his evenness, "you didn't tell me _that_ was what it was called."

Lara huffed, slumping herself down in a brown scraggly couch that had soaked up one too many spilt beers like an oversized sponge.

"So," she shrugged, "you've heard that story too."

It was the turn of Lara's paramour, Craig, to show his first signs of disquietude with the prospect.

"What story?" he asked, before licking his fingers and running them along his thin moustache, as if that was how it was held there.

Lara sighed, rubbed her hands down her blue jeans, shifted forward in the couch to the only point it provided some stability, its wood edge and, with a sigh, explained.

"Some urban legend. Apparently some bar owner took it, went mad, killed some people, then disappeared into the outback. That wasn't Sleeping Dog."

"Then what was it?" asked Georgia, annoyed she was always in the role of providing the follow up question to Lara's routine.

"LSD."

"Great," huffed Hugo, his pouty bottom lip trembling.

Georgia reached for his hand and squeezed it.

She knew the trouble Hugo had had on LSD.

Lara retrieved the packet of pills from her front trouser pocket, no mean feat given their tightness and the fact she was sitting down, and threw them on the large, blue eski that doubled as a coffee table. Georgia extricated herself from Hugo's side and sat with Lara, aware and a little guilty she was putting a damper on Lara's plans. Hugo, abandoned, fell down heavily in the couch opposite, regretting his speed in response to the inadequacy of its support. Craig sat next to him, immediately spreading his arms across the backrest.

Lara laughed. Tension often had that effect on her. Sometimes the result was to only exacerbate that tension, since she was seen to be making light of it, but in this case, as in the majority, the result was conducive of ease. Georgia joined in her mirth.

"Why not?" asked Georgia simply.

With Lara, Georgia usually ended up having a good time.

Hugo leant forward, concerned. Despite his pretended apathy, he had handed the decision to take the pills to Georgia because he hoped she'd say no and he could save face. Now that she was saying yes, he saw his chances of face-saving refusal diminishing. Then his real objection to the idea emerged.

"Babe, a mass orgy? Doesn't that mean I also get it on with _him_?" And Hugo nodded to Craig who was at that point eying up Georgia in hungry anticipation.

Craig's expression altered instantly. "Ew, I hadn't thought of that."

Craig pulled the overblown cushion from behind his back and shoved it down between himself and Hugo. Hugo frowned at the childishness. Lara merely folded her arms.

"Craig, if _we_ can get it on, then _you two_ can," said Lara and then, uncrossing her arms, reached round for Georgia and brought her lips to her own.

Before Georgia was able to make a conscious decision of whether to accept the encroaching advance, she was tentatively and then greedily pashing Lara in return. Surprised at her own sexuality, she was both turned on by the intimacy with Lara, and her peripheral awareness of the escalation in libido this was causing not only in Hugo, but Craig as well.

Just as Georgia was ready to immerse herself unthinkingly in love-making as she had few times before, Lara gently pushed her away and turned challengingly to Hugo and Craig.

The two knew straightaway the imputation. It was only begun at last by Craig, who convinced himself he could not pass up a dare, and so he planted a stagy kiss on Hugo's lips. Hugo, equally, felt himself compelled to meet the challenge and not recoil and so, in this way, both were surprised at the longevity of the embrace; even more surprised when, in a mutual moment, each took the jest a step further with tongues. At last separating for breath, it was in complete earnest that first Craig pulled Hugo's shirt off, and then Hugo, Craig's.

Turning to the girls, surprised at their forgotten presence, but unembarrassed and also freshly aroused, they watched in glee as the two also removed each other's shirts and began unbuttoning bras in an un-fumbling way the men could only envy. Craig took Hugo's hand, and the two rose to step over the eski towards the girls when Hugo slipped in his eagerness and knocked it over.

The noise, for an empty, plastic container, was disconcertingly loud and reverberant. The four momentarily froze. Lara moved first, reaching to grab a hand each of Graig's and Hugo's, to draw them back into the moment, when Hugo pulled his away, breaking the cord.

"Listen," he whispered over the remaining echo of the thud.

"It was just the eski," pleaded Lara, exasperated, keen for the "spell" not to be broken, sensing the moment was like that when you've just woken up and know if there are no further breaks you can go instantly back to sleep.

"No, _listen_ ," insisted Georgia.

All four listened, Lara the least willingly. Apart from their breathing, there was a silence common to only the deepest underground caves or the empty reaches of space.

"Where's everyone outside gone?" asked Hugo, wincing at the deafening noise of even his own whispered voice. "It's silent... deathly."

Craig was the first to move. Quickly, he unlocked the door but then stalled in throwing it open. Turning around to the others, all four noticed with embarrassment their semi-naked states. Craig and Hugo wordlessly put on their shirts, embarrassingly half-putting on the wrong ones first, while Lara and Georgia, equally silently, reclothed themselves.

Seeing that everyone was appropriately covered, Craig again turned to the door, unlocked it a second time and contrary to his first impulse of throwing it open, cautiously pushed it ajar. The silence, seeping in, was even more terrible than that which resounded inside. But what was more horrifying than the absence of sound, was the fact that outside it was pitch black.

Craig voiced the obvious. "Hey... hey, it was the middle of the day when we all walked in here?"

"It was," agreed Hugo.

Craig's voice began to shake. "What's happening? We couldn't have been inside more than five minutes."

Georgia looked down at nothing in particular; something had occurred to her.

"Did we ever actually _take_ the pills?" she asked.

They quickly shuffled back through the door and examined the top of the eski. The package was gone; nor was it on the floor or in or under the couch. None of them could actually remember imbibing the pills.

Craig turned to Lara, grabbing her roughly above the elbow.

"Where'd you get them from? You said you could rely on your dealer."

Hugo interceded, gently pulling Craig away. Lara, arms now folded, walked to a corner of the room, back turned.

"Look, guys," said Hugo. "We're tripping. We're obviously tripping. We've just got to stay calm."

"Stay calm?" said Craig, his voice rising in both volume and pitch. "Stay calm? Somehow it's the middle of the night. Five minutes ago it was twelve - _noon_. Where's the time gone?"

Georgia found that controlling her own panic was made harder by the obvious anxiety in Craig's voice. She decided they must at least be able to reason the situation out.

"Lara," she asked, "how long does this trip last?"

Lara turned round, visible panic now pricking her features as well.

"I... I don't know. I didn't ask."

Craig swore several obscenities, kicking the eski at their termination. Lara sobbed with the thunderous sound.

"Just stay calm, everyone," said Georgia in a wobbly voice. "We'll ring someone—a friend. Find out what time it is."

They immediately each reached for their mobiles to assess the time. None had reception. Hugo convinced Lara and Craig to stay put; he would venture outside to see what he could gauge and then come back for them. Georgia would not let him to go by himself, even though Hugo didn't want Craig and Lara left by themselves. Eventually, he agreed she should accompany him.

The oval was strangely bare; none of the mess one would imagine left from a barbecue. The four lighting towers ringing the oval were on. With the moths flying in their beams, it was like they were four shower nozzles sending down a white spray. Beyond the oval, there appeared to be nothingness; merely a misty black.

They held hands and were about to step off the concrete footing when they heard from inside Lara screaming.

Georgia and Hugo turned apprehensive faces to each other. Rushing inside, Lara explained between shrieks that Craig had gone to the toilet. Deciding she didn't like being alone, she followed him a moment later. But she hadn't been able to find him, anywhere.

And yet, most disturbingly, the three could hear his successive shrieks, each one decreasing in volume. Hugo, in his ongoing chivalry, insisted Georgia remain in the room to comfort Lara while he investigate. Georgia, her mind flooded with the bizarre memory of horror films where the characters are separated one by one and, one by one, are killed off, insisted all three go together.

They narrowed down the source of Craig's screaming to the kitchen. Searching cupboards high and low, he was not found; but the screams seemed to be coming from higher than low. Scrambling onto a bench, Georgia knocked over a few pans that crashed and echoed on the floor, the sound beating their eardrums. There was an oval of water gathering on the ceiling, pooling to a point and pinging on the metal bench below. Craig's screams coincided with each drop.

Hugo was still trying to maintain the sanity of the situation and his own. "He must be in the ceiling."

The water gathered to its last fall, and with it dropped Craig's last cry. For a brief moment, as the bulb of liquid formed, Lara saw Craig's face encapsulated inside it, his face largest at the round bit, foreshortened and tapering away to the tail.

With Hugo helping her down, she tried to explain what she had seen. Lara was near apoplectic with grief and fear. All she could mumble was that they should leave and find help. Neither Hugo nor Georgia were keen to enlighten her to the strange emptiness outside, but neither was their reason up to staying another moment indoors. Quite animalistic, the three fled, crashing out the front door and onto the concrete veranda. It was still, empty night.

They made their way along the grass to where the car park should be. Lara paused to be sick, Georgia holding her hair back in a tableau of better times, while Hugo stumbled forward, trying to peer into the impenetrable dimness.

In another moment, when Georgia looked up from the wet and sticky back of the head of her friend, Hugo was gone.

She screamed his name.

Dimly clawing her way from her insensate state, Lara, too, began calling Hugo's name, then Craig's, and finally managed to issue only inarticulate despair. The same instinct that had seen them flee the locker rooms, seized them both at once and took them back inside.

Lara found the couch, and curled up the way certain insects do when being prodded. Georgia stepped this way and that, but only several paces at a time. She then stopped her moving, and her breathing a pulse later.

Somehow, somewhere in the room, she could hear Hugo's voice. It soon became loud enough that Lara, too, awoke to its pleading. The two wordlessly began searching. However, as with Craig's pleas, which did not seem to emanate from a body, but a surface, Hugo's cries also seemed lacking in organic placement and locality. At last Georgia stopped, amazed, before the conch sitting above the gas fire. She reluctantly reached out for it, Lara watching with equal terror. Georgia held its mouth up to her ear. There was the rushing sound of waves and sea breeze and, on the recorded beach, Hugo, or at least his voice.

"Babe, babe, can you hear me?"

The absurdity of talking into a shell as though it were a receiver was the only factor that delayed Georgia's response. The absurdity of the situation, she overcame in an instant, and it merely seemed an added dreadfulness.

"Hugo, Hugo, where are you?"

"I don't know, but why didn't you come? I kept calling!"

"Did you?" asked Georgia, exasperated.

"Yes, when we hit the sand. There's a beach— never mind how in the middle of suburban Melbourne, but a beach, and I'm standing on it. What's more, it's broad daylight."

Georgia held the shell away from her face momentarily as she reluctantly edged open the front door. Outside, it was still inky black.

"Hugo..." she sobbed, "Hugo, where are you? It isn't... it isn't daylight _here_."

Silence from the shell except for crashing waves and whirling winds.

When Hugo next spoke, it was in a tone of unmasked fear—gone was his pretence of control.

"I don't know, babe, I don't know where I am. Don't stop talking to me, okay?"

"I won't, I won't," cried Georgia, the tears streaming down her face.

The tears also started out in Lara's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she added to the wailing song.

"Wait!"

Hugo's utterance had been harsh. Georgia pressed the shell closer to her ear, its crenulated mouth making imprints in her flesh. Georgia pressed her face closer too, and for a brief instant each remembered happier times listening in to each other's amorous phone calls to suitors.

What issued next, was as confused as it was evocative.

"Oh God... out of the water... monstrous... Impossible, impossible—ple-e-ease!"

And nothing more, no matter how many times the girls screamed into the shell. It was unclear which one let go first, or whether both leg go simultaneously, but the conch was now on the floor, smashed into a thousand egg-shell pieces.

Lara fled screaming through the front door.

Georgia found a moment in her incoherent terror to wonder whether it was safer to stay or follow. Craig had been claimed inside, Hugo out. The threat seemed omnipresent. The further fear of being left alone, compelled her to follow. Stepping out onto the concrete footing, she heard Lara's screams. By this point, Georgia was unsurprised, though no less distressed, to locate the sound coming from her feet. She looked down at the concrete. There was a puddle of water. Bending down, Georgia did not see her own reflection but Lara's staring up at her. Georgia quickly, but without heart, looked up briefly to make sure Lara wasn't somehow, in antagonism to gravity, suspended over her shoulder but when she stared down again, she knew the equally impossible: Lara was in the puddle, desperately trying to cup its edges as it spilt over the side of the concrete lip. Georgia futilely tried to help, but a faster problem presented: the water was seeping into the concrete, fading from a dark to a lighter stain to eventually the colour of the concrete. With this transition, also faded Lara and her screams.

Georgia ran. She felt herself slow and stagger on sand (how, when there was no sand—they were miles from the beach?) and turned the other way, her feet finding grass once more. A staggering blow took out her shins, sending arcing pain up her body. She screwed up her face as if to squeeze out the pain, but to no relief. When at last she could open them, she groped about for the offending barricade. She found a fence made of circular logs, stained green with an agent used for pesticide and preservation in weather. Georgia felt the first sense of hope since the adventure. She recognised the low-fence as the make and style of the one surrounding the carpark. This time, hopping over it, she found her feet on bitumen, then, hands forward, collided with a car.

It was Hugo's, unmistakably, with roof rack and bent front fender.

She didn't have her set of keys. Hugo's might be in his sport's bag, which she'd seen just inside the front door. The locker room glowed ominously like a ship in an otherwise dark sea. Georgia stole herself for the mission. She would walk as straight as she could, and memorise the direction in which to head back.

The puddle was completely dry. The shell still in pieces. She found Hugo's keys, gave a sob, and left. She walked in a crouch, arms out forward and low. To her surprise, she heard a woman gasp. Georgia swivelled round. She could neither see nor, with arms forward, feel anyone. She quickly turned around again, lest with further revolutions she lose her path.

She hit the fence, but with less force, and found the car almost immediately. With key ready, she was in and had the headlights on.

What she saw was this.

Lit up by the headlights, almost with the force of daylight, the barbecue Lara and Georgia had made their way through in what could not have been more than half an hour before. Sitting amid the throng was the pink-frocked lady who had gasped then, as now.

Her companion turned from pouring lukewarm champagne into a plastic fluted glass and inquired of the health of her friend.

"Prue, what's the matter?"

Prue quickly steadied the paper plate on her limb-like legs and waved her face with a half- scrunched-up serviette.

"I... I..." she gasped. "I just felt a ghost pass through me."

Georgia, her throat constricting on these words, as if she had uttered them herself, turned the key the rest of the way, the engine starting up. She pushed the gearstick in reverse and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. It was only then, with the resultant splash, that she realised the car was waterlogged. Something huge, monstrous, slimy, impossible to physiology and equally repugnant to basic geometry and the physics of the natural universe, was rising up to consume her.

The only thing she knew by then was the futility of sound.

Six Months Earlier.

Dane didn't know who his father was; his mother changed the story so many times, he was sceptical he ever would. It didn't matter. He was taken for being either part Samoan, Aboriginal, West Indian or African. He was even occasionally assumed to have Arab blood. All this meant was that wherever he went, he received the "nod from another brother", the nod one black person gives another in meeting or passing when in predominately white cultures.

He did well in school, well enough to get into a Bachelor of Arts degree course, becoming quite the favourite with his philosophy lecturers, and even majoring in the subject. The faculty wanted him to do honours, to take up an academic career, but he didn't see any future in it. At least not the kind that interested him. After the abstractions of thinkers like Wittgenstein, Dane wanted to settle to studying the philosophies of day-to-day existence.

The philosophy of exercise was also becoming increasingly important to him. He'd done gymnastics at school and gym training during university. The boredom of weights training made it a challenge mentally as well as physically, but it helped instil a discipline he'd carried over into his studies and hoped to carry over into his career, whatever that would be. There were many reasons people buffed up. Some to do with how they looked, others with how they felt. Some to wield power, others to dissuade anyone from trying to wield power over them again. For Dane, it was unabashed vanity.

Given his commitment to the cause, it was not surprising that one of the regulars at the gym asked if he wanted to do security work. (There were also the suggestions he do porn, but he ignored these. That latter option appealed to his vanity but not to his sense of class.)

He started off working in security for other people, then ran a security firm of his own, specialising in nightclubs, before eventually deciding he could run a nightclub better than most of the galahs he'd worked for.

Zombie was the result.

Dane stood in the entrance foyer to Zombie in his sleeveless shirt. He had to show off his coiled muscles and tatts, right? Liz was next to him, seated at the table collecting the cover charge from the punters strolling in. Outside, in neon, hanging under the awning, was a sign advertising that it was "Acid Night". So it was the usual trippers. As well as paying their covers and proving they were over eighteen with legit I.D. and fingerprints, they were also signing waivers. Even though acid had been legalised, in fact taken over by government Health and Safety, and hence made with the proper ingredients, not laced with weed killer, ground- glass and the like, it could still be potentially dangerous, hence insurance was at a premium.

Liz was super-efficient, not letting anyone dodge past. She'd started off as a customer, but she spent so much time in the bar that somehow she ended up helping out in busy times and then, before either knew it, she was on the payroll and working full time.

"Dizzy" walked in, giving Dane the "nod from a brother with another mother" that Dane found so amusing. Dizzy's pedigree was unmistakable: Jamaican and, as evidenced by the accent, Jamaican via England landing in Australia sometime in his teens when the Aussie drawl could still take effect.

Liz took Dizzy's money and signature. When he passed through into the bar proper, she turned her oval face, captive in a rococo frame of red curls, up to Dane's.

"That Dizzy wants you bad," she purred, her upturned button nose set squarely in the middle of her nearly round face.

Dane didn't take his eyes off the queue.

"Liz, I haven't fucked guys since college," he said simply.

Liz was quick with a return. " _I_ haven't fucked girls since high-school. I still let the keen ones go down on me."

"I'm married," replied Dane.

"Your wife was one of them," quipped Liz.

Dane shrugged, unconcerned. At that moment, his wife, Sue, entered, skipping the queue. She was blonde, straight hair cut off in an even fringe above her eyes. When Dane met her, she wore black collars, black boots, black eyeliner; her hair was dyed black. Everything, black. Now she wore autumn colours, let the natural blonde grow out, and liked all music unplugged.

They briefly hugged and kissed before Sue hurried out the back to the office.

Dane nodded to Scud, his Norwegian, impossibly tall bouncer, to shut the doors; they were at capacity. The usual groans and complaints were shut out with their closing. Liz got up from her seat at the cash register.

"Okay," she said, "my pay for being front-of- house?"

Dane was about to reward her; why beg? "Your tab," said Dane, withdrawing a tab from the box.

Liz extended her tongue, none too seductively. Every second punter tried the same routine, proffering the tongue for the tab instead of an open palm - Liz was staff; she should be bored by such coquetry. He took her hand and closed her fingers round it.

Liz opened her hand a second later, noting the single tab.

"Can you make it two?" she asked as winsomely as she could.

Dane saw the second trick coming. He humoured her by asking, "For you and who else?"

"Why," said Liz, affecting innocence, "for me and my favourite barman."

"Bar _owner_ ," corrected Dane.

"Ooh, who's being boastful?"

He was. But he deserved to be a little prideful. Getting Zombie up and running had nearly killed him, figuratively speaking.

"Liz, you know I don't take drugs," he told her.

Liz's retort was quick and accurate. "Anymore."

Dane winced. His private drug history was a subject he never brought up, nor wanted broached, by anyone else. And that rule was inclusive of long-term friends like Liz. But it was just like her to take liberties. Whenever Liz and Dane enjoyed a meal out together, Liz would pour Dane more water, if she thought he needed more, fill up his plate with half her food, if his portion wasn't ample. To begin with, she would ask if she could supplement his dietary intake in this way; after a short while, she did it wordlessly, almost unconsciously, as if Dane were her child for an afternoon's outing, for whom it brought her great pride to take fleeting custodial care of. In anyone else, Dane would have found such coddling insufferable; in Liz, he forgave the indulgence, her charm and genuine feeling of warmth for him outweighing any implied condescension in the behaviour.

When Dane entered the bar proper, with its ring of half enclosed booths encircling a dance floor, most people had already taken their tabs.

He began reading out the government health warning he'd learnt by heart, and everyone groaned.

"Okay, I know you've heard it before, but I'm required to say it by law. I could be shut down if I don't. So tune in or not, here it is: This is a government health warning. Drugs can seriously harm your..." and Dane regurgitated the rest of the spiel.

With the legalities out of the way, Dane got the night into action, making sure the standby nurse was available, the D.J. mixing beats, and the V.J. providing the appropriate visuals. He then sat at a stool at the bar, watching a hundred people go temporarily nuts under supervision.

Not only did Dane own and manage Zombie, he'd built it. It was a combination of all the ideas he'd seen work in the bars and nightclubs he'd done security for plus a few notions of his own. A bar was a complicated space to get right. And a "night" like this Acid Night was not simply a matter of changing the sign on the neon outside; it was about creating "installation art". It was its own mini-movie production, with set dressing, costume design, choreography and that all- important soundtrack; all melded to facilitate and stimulate the tripper's mind.

To that end, Dane would approach installation artists at the universities seeing if they wanted to set something up for a bit of cash. It kept his eye in on what was happening in the arts. Also, he'd solicit fashion students; see who wanted to get their clothes worn. And then he'd ask dance students if they wanted to display their moves. The edgy, _Avante Garde_ ones seem to gel best with the punters, but a few classical ballet movers didn't go astray either.

Dane had to admit he liked this part best about a nightclub. Not serving the drinks so much, and definitely not standing outside in the cold deciding who could come in, but creating an atmosphere. (Although deciding who could or couldn't come in was an integral part of fabricating that atmosphere - bouncers and door bitches were casting agents for the show indoors.)

He shook himself back to the present and went over to Liz, asking their takings on the door. The amount seemed measly. He then did a cross-reference in his head with a quick headcount. Oddly, it added up.

He looked over to his wife, who'd just entered the bar (from their living quarters out the back) to fix herself a drink. He knew the sort of venue she'd prefer.

He went to the fish tank he had set up against one wall, under the sky-light, and dropped in flakes for his beloved goldfish, who were already waiting at the surface.

Perhaps they should go back to beer and live music.

The next day, Dane visited his brother, Frank. Frank had a Toorak house. It was all slabs of white concrete with blue/green glass balconies and partitions thrown in. The odd rust-coloured plant with bladed leaves dotted about, surrounded by blue/grey pebbles. Austere and what you'd seen before. Dane didn't like it. As something of a self-appointed connoisseur of spaces, it said "money" to him in the blandest, most generic of ways. He almost always preferred an extravagant kitsch to such lifeless posturing. He liked people to have a style, for their personality to be in their clothes and living space, their individuality expressed outwardly, whether that made it—and him—shallow or not. It was an aesthetic standard some of his friends found exhilarating, some exhausting, and not a few pompous. True to his arrogance, he didn't care.

He parked his Deerta and got out, walking between the marble plinths outside the path. The front door, with its handle like a fridge, and wedge of frosted vertical glass running off- centre, was open.

He shut it properly behind him.

Inside, was the outside, just with furniture.

Anastasia was standing at the bench, licking a stick of ice cream. The 3D was going. Her long, blonde hair was pulled tightly into a bun. Her eyebrows looked painted on and probably were—they were higher than what was natural. He'd never seen her out of makeup or underdressed. Must have been pretty tiring for her. She was very busty. His wife had caught him looking at her breasts once. When Anastasia was out of the room, Sue had said, "They look just like real rock melons."

He nodded at her curtly. "Anastasia—how are you?"

She stopped licking the ice cream. "Hot." Dane chose not to comment. Anastasia, smiling, leant back against the kitchen bench, which was the one piece of marble, stupidly expensive.

Dane looked around. "My brother?" he asked.

Anastasia licked her pouty lips. "Not so hot."

He gave her a quick glance. "I'll find him," he said curtly.

Anastasia licked the stick and leant forward onto the bench, stretching her back and lifting her chin up, displaying her cleavage to full advantage. Dane wanted to laugh but merely turned heel.

Frank was upstairs in his loft. He was playing with a remote controlled car, repairing the rear foil. Frank was white. Through and through, which made a mockery of that line about a brother from another mother. Same mother, different fathers. While Dane's face was contained and in proportion, classical in its lines, Frank's, like his loose body, was spread across his face with a hard slap. They'd found each other through adoption-link. They just hadn't found their respective fathers. The line of Frank's hair sat too close to his eyebrows, like a beanie that had been pulled down too far. Not much older than Dane, he looked older. That other cliché: black don't crack.

Frank looked up when Dane tapped lightly on the open door.

"Dane, mate, how was last night? That batch of LSD—it's the shit."

Frank, heading into his forties, would still try on youth lingo.

Dane picked up the car remote, that was sitting on the bench, and sat down in the now cleared space. "Numbers down," he said.

Frank motioned unconcern. "Yeah, sure, winter."

Dane turned on the car, whose wheels spun in Frank's hand. Frank quickly put it on the floor, and Dane did a few donuts with it.

"Frank, they started going down in summer. Government making drugs legal has kind of killed drug-taking."

Frank stopped the car with his foot and switch off the battery. "Nonsense."

Dane put down the remote and stood. He tried to get the next bit out—he hated being personal. "The truth is, Sue wants us to go back to live music and beer. From now on, I'm only running one drug night a week."

Frank took this in. Typical of Dane not to be bringing an idea, but stating one. "Okay, it's down. Yeah, it's down. But this isn't good for government either."

After decades and countless billions, probably trillions, trying to eradicate drugs, governments across the globe had finally wised up. Not only legalising drugs, but being involved in their manufacture, had made a lot of money for them. And, in parallel, it had also saved money in policing and hospitalisation. Surprisingly to many people, but not to the cynical or those in the know, corruption and graft had also decreased. People got drug cards which limited how often they could take them. Of course there was cheating and corruption in this department—there always is to some degree— but it meant a great reduction in serious health effects.

"Why isn't this good for government?" asked Dane.

Frank snorted like the answer was obvious. "Drugs are a great revenue raiser. Better than parking fines and speeding tickets."

"Ah..."

It amazed Dane how governments could go from being in deficit on drug matters to in the black, and then hooked on that surplus when it startled to dwindle, suffering withdrawals.

"Hey, but good news," laughed Frank, noting Dane's thoughtful and serious face. "Government is privatising drug manufacture and distribution."

Dane frowned. "That doesn't sound wise."

He knew the con of privatisation. Jobs were cut domestically, the remainder outsourced to poorer countries with lower wages in an increasing race to the bottom. The larger players left would then collude to fix prices, forcing out the small fry. They would then go from talking about loyalty to the customer and employers to loyalty to the shareholder. The shareholder was the only person that mattered anymore.

"Our new contractor has already come up with a new drug," said Frank. "Sleeping Dog. I'm now working for them."

Dane laughed. "You're a civil servant no longer?"

"Anastasia and I are up-scaling house next month. I can give you and your clientele an exclusive run on Sleeping dog before we sell it to the other drug houses."

Dane winced. He was no goody two-shoes— that was certain. He didn't obey all rules, but he obeyed the official drug ones. Because they'd been so controversial, they'd been thought out unusually intelligently.

"Doesn't that go against the trade practices act?"

It was Frank's turn to laugh. "What trade practices act? This is private business."

Unamused, Dane excused himself to the bathroom. Why did governments privatise profitable industries but nationalise losses, with the average taxpayer the loser every time? Washing his hands, he noticed the bags under his eyes in the bathroom mirror. His gaze dropped to the vanity. There were white lines on the black marble.

"Is this a licensed venue?" he asked when he rejoined Frank.

Frank took a second to work out what Dane was referring to, but then laughed. "C.E.O. package deal. Leftover speed. Only problem is droopy dick—Anastasia's not happy."

Dane threw up his hands. "Too much information!"

Dane walked downstairs, leaving Frank with his toys. Anastasia hadn't moved from her spot. From this angle, he could see what she was watching: an exercise video on 3D. He hadn't taken much notice of the 3D before; it was always going. He thought about that spectacle she'd made with the stick. Pretty odd to eat ice cream _and_ exercise. She watched him admiringly. Dane was suspicious of people who were outwardly very sexual. How sexual were they? Often they turned out to be the starfish in bed.

"I married the wrong brother," she purred.

Dane stared at her. Anastasia shrugged.

Getting into the car, he could kick himself. The truth was, the attraction was mutual. It occurred to him for the first time that Anastasia would have known that. This annoyed him more. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck his own brother's wife. And she, him.

Why couldn't they?

He started the car and took off. Sue.

What happened? They were best friends. Equals. Soul mates. They loved and respected each other. But somehow, the sex had dried up. The longer they went without doing it, the bigger the issue it became. Did their equality account for a lack of frisson? Had a respect for each other's minds made them too respectful of each other's needs, to the point where they could neither sate the other nor demand their own?

Anastasia had always had a "thing" for Dane. But it bothered Dane now more than ever. Because he felt wanted around her, desired for just his body. Objectified. It felt fucking fantastic. Above all, horny as fuck.

How could he and Sue get that animalism back without sacrificing their friendship, their high esteem for each other?

Evening; the city was a dingy blind pulled over a blinding light. A million tiny stabs let through windows of light. There was a queue outside the bar stretching round the corner, hobbling in the needling rain. Dane was smiling as he calculated the covers and all the bills he could pay.

"Packed," said Liz.

"Close the doors," said Dane.

"We can squeeze more in," said Liz.

They probably could. But if there was a fire, could they get them all out? And if a licensing officer came in, Dane would be fined. There was a fine for everything these days. They'd fine you for farting next.

Dane addressed the crowd. "Tonight, folks, for the first time ever, Sleeping Dog."

"It's new?" asked Dizzy.

"That's why I said 'first time ever'."

Dizzy looked away. Dane felt bad for making Dizzy feel like a dill. He got on to the government health warning. He'd shout him a drink later.

An hour passed, and Dane walked back in the bar, having been working in the office on accounts.

"How we looking?" he asked.

Liz turned to him. "It could be opium night for all the movement they're making."

She turned back to the punters lolling on the couches, pulling on her bottom lip. She let go and it sprang back to words.

"Hey, Dane, doesn't it appear like they're trying to wake up?"

Dane walked among them. He stopped at a girl who looked like her neck might be getting a crook in it and readjusted her pillow. Not only did she look like she was trying to wake up, she didn't look happy either. She was making that moaning sound like people do when they're trying to wake from a nightmare. Soon the whole room was moaning. It was disturbing in a way that was painfully reminiscent to Dane. Trying to snap out of a bad trip—he'd been there. Were these guys on a bad trip from Sleeping Dog? He directed the stand-bye nurse to make sure they came down nice and easy, aided by the appropriate parachute drugs.

He could see Sue talking to that Fred bloke who kept coming in. Were they standing a little too close? There was a time he and Sue couldn't keep their hands off each other. That time of excitement. Was it over, because they each knew each other too well to any longer expect the best? He wasn't going to bother tonight, but god, he was horny. It was like he was a teenager all over again. Why this amorous charge in the air? It was winter, for Christ's sake, not hot, sticky summer.

He stopped off at Geralto's the next morning, saying hello to Costa first. Being into hospitality, he knew everyone else in hospitality, and they him. At least on this strip.

"Heya, what's this I hear about a new drug?" Dane shrugged innocently. Costa, his big, wide face sweating, delivered Dane a friendly clip.

"Usual?"

Dane nodded. He also ordered a couple of scorpions to munch on. He'd tried steak once— the only time he could afford it.

He joined his friends "outside" under the smog-tarp.

The cappuccino had a velvety texture, perfect temperature. Costa was an ace barista. Dane looked up at his friends. They were all smiling at him. It was a bit weird. He couldn't delay the question they knew he wanted to ask.

"Okay, what was it like?"

They looked at each other, embarrassed, and laughed.

"You were watching us, weren't you?" asked Dizzy.

Dane nodded impatiently.

"What were we doing all night?" asked Sharnie.

Dane looked around at their barely contained smiles. "Just lying there." He didn't mention the bit about their pained faces, the whimpering.

Dizzy broke into the first full-fledge grin. "Because in our trip we were fucking."

The others joined him in leering. "En masse," said Dizzy.

They now laughed.

Dane watched them. No longer coy, no longer ashamed, he was the one left out, left out of their joyous tryst. Dane couldn't help but look at Sharnie's exposed shoulders. His eyes ran down her sleek form. He was practically fucking her in his thoughts—was that an infidelity? His best friends had had group sex without even touching. What was Sleeping Dog but a way of facilitating what people did all the time, mentally fucking each other?

Dane excused himself. He had swimming.

Dane knew the figure he cut. He swam three kilometres a day, six days a week, sometimes seven. At 1am, the liquor licence would close, but Dane knew the right cop to pay. And he would switch the window to opaque at the front, close off the front room, and move the punters to the back. They could exit that way too. Most nights he got out about two or three, but on Fridays and Saturdays, he could end up there till the sun came up. Whatever happened, he had one rule: he closed when people stopped buying drinks. He'd sleep in till one the next day, then jump up and go swimming. He had his routine down to two hours. He'd come back and eat a breakfast of watermelon, a tub of yoghurt, and bran. At four, he'd buy extra alcohol or whatever else needed restocking. At six, he'd open. It wasn't much of a life. Mondays and Tuesdays he'd have off. It was his weekend. But one of those days would be spent doing the usual chores, paying bills, washing clothes, repairs etc, and the other day— well, most of his friends were at work. Friends dropped into the bar, some were even regulars, but it wasn't the same as meeting up in neutral territory: Zombie was his place. He could never quite relax there—it was his living.

He exited the pool change rooms, trying to gauge which lane had swimmers going at his pace.

Dane didn't get the swimmers who'd swim one lap to his every five then try to beat him on that lap. What did they prove to themselves? He didn't get the guys soaping their genitals in the showers for half an hour afterwards either. "They sure must be unclean," he once said to the most persistent. Occasionally he'd see a hot girl sliding through the water. He wished Sue swam. It would mean they'd get to see each other outside of work. Plus, she looked great in a swimsuit.

He slipped in the fast lane and began with freestyle.

Anastasia. If he didn't stop thinking about her, he wouldn't be able to hop out of the pool. It was like he was sixteen again.

He was aware Pearl had fallen in behind him.

He met his friend, Pearl, at the pool. A different pool to the one he went to now. But a pool they both lived near at the time. They admired each other's physique, were curious about each other's routine. The walking exercises up and down the lanes, sideways, backwards, twisting from side to side. The feet stationary exercises, with the arms moving. In short, their "drill". They got talking eventually and agreed to swap notes. Soon, they were doing exactly the same routine, a mixture of the two, the best from each. They'd swim one behind the other, Dane leading for twenty laps, Pearl for the next twenty. It had other advantages besides swapping a slipstream. It meant the hobby swimmers, the ones who'd swim then recuperate at one end, before taking off right in front of you and fucking up your rhythm, were less keen to jump into a lane with not one, but now two, big guys who were obviously a team. No doubt they were viewed as overly self-obsessed wankers by the other regulars, but what did Dane care?

They started having beers afterwards at the pub, and a smoke. Something else Sue didn't get. "If you didn't smoke and drink, you'd probably only have to do half the laps to be the same size." She was eminently sensible. Turned out Pearl was a youth worker for a religious institution. At first, the two would try to out-argue each other. Each week they'd swap books—Pearl's on proving God's existence, Dane's on disproving, then thrash the points. One day after a particularly gruelling exercise when they'd just upped the laps, Dane said to Pearl in the showers, "Hey, let's just agree to disagree." It worked because that time at the pub they started to learn about each other beyond religious or atheistic standpoints. They had other interests, ones that didn't conflict.

Pearl explained his name, surprised Dane had never asked. It was what he got teased with at school. But he liked having a girl's name for some reason, and so ended up adopting it.

Dane almost laughed the first time he saw Pearl's house. Dane chose every item of furniture in his place with meticulous care. Their positioning was also of prime importance. They had to add up to a seamless scheme, an idea. Mostly it was old stuff or, if it wasn't old to begin with, he'd thrash it with a bike chain to get the right dents. Pearl obviously just bought what he needed and at the cheapest price. All colours and styles, tacky and nasty. He didn't dress himself with much care either. The guy had a good body, but he hid it in floppy blue/white long-sleeved flannelette shirts and daggy, olive corduroy trousers. And his hair: long, curly, and unkempt. It was this hair that Dane put down to his slight advantage over Pearl in the pool. It dragged like a net clogged with seaweed. Dane wondered if Pearl's self-uglification had something to do with erasing vanity in the face of his god.

Pearl had never taken drugs, never shoplifted, never done the usual things guys and girls do to get kicks when young and, some of them, even when they can no longer claim youth. So he got his kicks through other, legal, permissible-by- God ways. Caving, trail-biking, parachuting. He'd beaten Dane in that last pursuit. Dane believed if something went wrong on all the other pursuits there was still a chance he could get himself out of it. But if the parachute didn't open...? "There's a second," Pearl would say.

Pearl had other interesting traits, endurance tests he'd set himself beyond the pool. Like the summer he decided to dress lightly for the rest of the year, meaning he ended up with only a shirt in winter. He believed he could acclimatise himself, that it would toughen him up. He did it too. Dane privately just thought Pearl needed a root.

The guy was that cliché, a forty-year-old virgin, because he could only have sex in wedlock. And he hadn't yet found his perfect partner. Dane couldn't convey to Pearl that no one does.

This was probably what interested Dane the most about Pearl, this manic safeguarding of his chastity.

When they finished swimming, Dane couldn't help but offer, like Satan, the drug over a few beers.

"Sleeping Dog. You get to fuck someone out of wedlock."

"Dude, you know I can't take drugs," said Pearl.

Because Pearl worked with kids all day, he used words like "dude." Dane could only imagine how they must have laughed at him. At least Pearl, unlike Frank, had an excuse to try to be contemporary.

"Are you tempted at least?" asked Dane. "Pearl, prove to me you're human."

Pearl laughed. " _You_ want to sleep with Anastasia. _I_ don't."

Dane looked at his watch: 5 o'clock. He'd have to open the bar in an hour, to catch some of the zombified after-work crowd. People thought he'd called his bar "Zombie" because he liked dystopian fiction. If his clientele had known his real reason was that the name was a perfect fit for them, they might have been indignant enough to stay away a couple of weeks.

"Next time," said Dane, placing his soapy beer on the bar, and getting up to leave.

He noticed Pearl was staring at him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Dude, remember why you stopped taking drugs."

Dane got in his car, annoyed. Was he so transparent? First, Pearl guessing he wanted to fuck Anastasia, and second, suspecting he was curious himself about trying Sleeping Dog. He prided himself on not being too easy to read, and he'd practically acted as a teleprompter. Driving along Punt Road, he agreed. Drugs still scared him. They scared him ever since that trip that had gone so terribly wrong ten years before. He and Frank had recovered. But their mutual friend, Spike, was in a mental institution because of it.

He couldn't park out the back of the bar because the rubbish guys had carelessly dumped the bin back in the middle of the drive. It was a tight place to begin with. He swore—he'd already told them off about it.

Parking out on Separation Street, he walked round the front. To his surprise, he saw the neon sign had been changed to "Beer and Live Band." The anger he'd suppressed over the bin, reignited. Skud and Liz were turning away irate punters. He pushed his way past Skud and into the bar.

Inside, there was a small crowd wobbling to a three-piece acoustic band, Sue sitting up front, eyes half-closed, smiling. Liz followed him in.

"Sue, we've only got this drug exclusively for two weeks. You seen how many people Liz is turning away?"

"We've made enough money for this month."

"I want enough money for the whole year. Liz, get that fucking sign down. And put up Sleeping Dog."

Sue bristled; he'd humiliated her in front of her friends, their overweening mutual respect out the window. But what sort of damn fool was she? She motioned to the band to keep playing. Dane walked to the lighting desk and pulled the plug on their mikes.

Two hours later, Liz was looking over the crowd lolling in their respective booths. They'd swapped the sign and still managed to fill up.

"I'm not seeing things," she said. "They _look_ like they're trying to wake up."

Sue, who'd disappeared out the back after the altercation, emerged with an overnight bag.

"Liz, shut up," Dane whispered. Sue walked past.

"Where are you going?" asked Dane.

Sue merely stared at him as she continued on to the front door.

"Her mum's," answered Liz.

"Fuck off then."

Sue stopped, stiffened, and turned around. "Dane, there was a time when you would've punched a guy for speaking that way to me."

He watched Scud open the door and let her out. Now she'd made _him_ feel small in front of his friends. True, he'd never spoken to her like that before. Oddly, for the first time in ages, he really wanted her. Wanted to run after her and beg to make her feel good.

But he didn't act on it.

He thought about Sleeping Dog and what his friends had told him over coffee that morning. Seemed like on Sleeping Dog all you did was act. No thinking, no wavering, no endless fucking discussions about the other's feelings. It was pure unadulterated sex.

Dane turned to look at the comatose crowd. Their trip would last two hours, which they'd worked out from the night before. Dane repeatedly asked the stand-bye nurse to check on them. Everyone was okay, despite their expressions and whimpering.

"Liz, take over."

Dane grabbed a Sleeping Dog pill, looked at it a moment, then swallowed it with a whiskey and dry.

Liz smiled at him. "What will my pay go up not to tell?"

Dane turned to her. "You tell, and you won't have a wage."

Liz threw up her hands. "Hey, you know me." "Yeah," said Dane meaningfully, "I know you."

Walking past the toilets on his way to his room, he thought briefly about putting his fingers down his throat and throwing up. There was a very good reason he'd stopped taking drugs. What was he doing? But he was so—so damn horny.

He lay down on his bed after setting his alarm for an hour and a half. He wanted to be up before the punters were up. Surely he could shake the drug's effects early?

He woke without remembering that he'd gone to sleep. He shook his head. Nothing. Annoyed it had brought him no relief, he walked into the bar. What he saw made him stop in his tracks. The punters were no longer lying comatose in their booths; they were awake, naked, and in a seething mass of sexual excess, forming a many- limbed single creature of intense self- gratification. Even the punters, who he hadn't found attractive, looked hot. Dane had been worried on that score. Maybe everyone looked the way they imagined themselves when on Sleeping Dog.

It had worked for him after all. He was about to step forward to join them when he noticed Liz and the others at the bar. They looked bored. It became obvious they could not see what he was seeing, that to them it was still a room of sleeping, whimpering punters.

He turned back to the orgiastic crowd of shimmering limbs and sweat. He looked down to find himself naked, too, and, in his own estimation, even hotter than usual. He eagerly stepped forward.

But hesitated. Damn it, he could kick himself! Never quite being able to get into a trip. Then he felt a hot mouth on his cock. Looking down, it was Dizzy, who'd disengaged himself from the crowd. Dane leant back. Dizzy then rose to his height and kissed him.

Next, he was joined in a broiling mass of parts. Not whole bodies, certainly not souls, but a pornographic coupling of limbs and organs.

He opened his eyes to find himself fucking Dizzy. Dizzy was bent forward, his head over the fish bowl. Now and then, he'd drop his head in it, to issue tiny, wordless bubbles. Holding his breath must have been increasing the pleasure for him. Dane gripped Dizzy's waist tighter and thrust harder. Dizzy lifted his head from the tank.

On Sleeping Dog, sexuality didn't seem to matter; only sex did. He closed his eyes and went with it.

He reached forward and caressed the back of Dizzy's neck, then his hair. Then he saw a flash of something within the tank, as if the water were now fathoms deep, and a vile, impossible- to-conceive creature wallowed there. In his intense fear, his hand gripped Dizzy's hair, unintentionally holding him in the water. The kraken rose up to take him.

Dane sat up in bed. His alarm was going. He was wet with cold sweat.

He raced into the bar. The punters were in their booths, still asleep, groaning. Liz and the other staff were crouched over someone lying prostrate on the floor. Dane felt ill with worry. He quickly pushed aside the panicking stand-bye nurse, and knelt beside Dizzy, who was prostrate on his back in a puddle of water. Dane instinctively turned him on his side. Dizzy coughed up water and even a wriggling goldfish which Liz eventually returned to the tank after everyone had stared at it for a long while.

When Dane stood, he couldn't avoid Liz and the others' question in their eyes: how the hell did you know Dizzy had swallowed the tank water?

When the rest of the punters revived, they drank their coffees and left.

Spending the night alone, Dane felt that same sense his sanity had been threatened that he'd had the last time he took drugs.

It was ten years before. Dane had recently found his brother Frank through adoption-link. Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, they'd also found they got along well, deciding to share a flat together in Moonee Ponds, near Puckle Street. Frank had a rich friend from over the railway, in one of the old Victorian-era large houses, called Spike. Spike's parents had eventually moved out when he wouldn't, leaving him with a stipend and a crumbling house to do whatever he liked in.

Spike was Dane and Frank's age, but he seemed older. Not just because he was a committed druggy, but in his world-worn guise, his lined face and dirty, scraggly hair. He wasn't a drug aficionado in the sense that he desired to escape reality; rather, he wished to ascend the humdrum, to climb his way to heightened states of being. With no job or the financial need to acquire one, Spike had researched his passion intimately and exhaustively: how the Aztecs employed drugs to "astral travel", the Hopi to commune with extra-terrestrials, the Sthrani to swap bodies with animals during mating season.

The extent of his investigations was encyclopaedic.

Dane was pretty sure Frank was as sceptical as himself about these larger pretensions; they were both merely along for the ride.

But for Spike, hallucinogenic plants, roots, chemicals, or food could bridge the gap between the natural world and the waking one, some even initiating out-of-body experiences, which could then lead to astral travel. He'd worked his way through every psychoactive substance he could get his hands on, Dane and Frank joining him in his quest. Datura, DMT, hashish, LSD, magic mushrooms, marijuana, mescaline, opium, peyote, psilocybin... The list went on.

The three didn't go anywhere to imbibe these substances but stayed in the dark house, rigging up their own light shows, playing favourite dialogue-sparse films, programming hours of appropriate music. Unknown to Dane at the time, it would prove great training for Zombie, and the reason his bar was the best.

Together, Dane, Spike and Frank half- perfected a kind of lucid dreaming.

But there was a downside Spike kept warning them about, but which Dane and Frank only gave lip-service to, such was the fun they were having. Psychedelic drugs could help one step into a dream, sure, a dream they could control. But the power of the drug, or mixture of drugs, could end up controlling the person trying to control the dream. Spike persistently warned that the drug user must maintain rigid control of his consciousness, or else risk being swallowed by the hallucination and be spat out crazy.

They'd tried for a hypnogogic experience, that is, a dream state without the paralysis associated with sleep. A dream voyage they could steer.

Then, one day, with Dane and Frank at Spike's, a parcel arrived from Spike's parents that he opened with particular glee. (His absent parents were always sending back parcels from their travels.)

It contained a Peruvian wood statue, which Spike somehow knew to dust. From this dust, he made a concoction for them to imbibe, the most powerful, he warned, yet.

Dane didn't even baulk at this—how casual he'd been, unconcerned. The truth was, no matter how much he took or the strength of the particular substance, there was a part, an invulnerable part, which remained untouched by the effects and knew undoubtingly that the resulting hallucinations weren't real. In some ways, this annoyed him. He never quite got into it the way Frank and, especially, Spike did. His visions were always more prosaic, less fantastical. It flattered his ego that he was always in control but disappointed his hankering for the more heightened experience his brother and friend were enjoying.

They imbibed the drug, once Spike had boiled it down to a dark paste. It was extremely bitter to the tongue. Almost immediately, they began tripping. Dane enjoyed his hallucinations—the strongest he'd had—then the moment turned. Not only was he now unable to assure himself none of this was real; it was more real than reality.

Afterwards, he and Frank were deeply shaken, but Spike was mad.

It took Dane three months before his mind was working properly again. Frank, a week, but Dane disagreed with that figure. Neither broached what they'd seen. And neither visited Spike in the insane ward where he was now confined.

Frank had put their fright down to amount (excessive) and concentration (100% proof), but Dane feared a more profoundly disturbing reason. He had been so disturbed by that trip, and what it did to Spike, that he hadn't touch drugs again.

Until, that is, the other night with Sleeping Dog.

He told Pearl the real reason he'd stopped taking drugs, the only person he'd ever confided this to. They were at Pearl's house after one of their swims, when Dane had finally caught up with Pearl again after that fateful drug session.

"With drugs, I've always felt distanced from their effects. Sure, I've noticed those effects, and enjoyed them, but they were always disassociated from me. It was never real."

"But...?" prompted Pearl.

"Well, on _that_ night, when I hallucinated, the things I saw... no longer could I dismiss them as my mind's wanderings. They were... _real_."

Pearl stared at him. "Okay, dude, so that part in your brain that tells you it isn't real has been switched off. Time to stop taking them."

"No," said Dane.

"No, you won't stop!?"

"No, I'm certainly stopping; _have_ stopped. But that wasn't the problem. If I merely felt that part of my brain was not functioning, I believe I could still accommodate. The problem was this. The things I was seeing weren't the intoxicated dreams of my imagination."

"What were they then?"

"Real."

Pearl twitched, then got up. He poured him and Dane a shot of Tokay, each in mismatched glasses, then sat down again.

"What were these real things you saw?"

"I could read your quotation marks round 'real'."

"They weren't there." Dane raised an eyebrow.

Pearl protested. "Really, dude. Honest."

"Pearl, I know the things I saw I didn't imagine."

"How can you know that?"

"Because they were things I couldn't possibly imagine."

He'd managed, after months, to dismiss those impossible visions as just that, visions after all. But now, he'd seen them again, on Sleeping Dog.

Again, he sought out Pearl.

The first thing Pearl said was, "Dude, I knew you'd take it."

Dane sighed. Yep, he was a billboard.

"So, what did these critters from another dimension look like?" persisted Pearl.

"Well, that's just it; I could only partially see them. But they were hideous, impossible to geometry. I saw a... our words and concepts don't suffice... but let's say it was a room. A room that didn't adhere to our physics. Or to sanity. Well, say we weren't humans, we were centipede-creatures from Alpha Centauri, and we saw an object from earth—a chair, say, or a bike. From those objects, we could fathom some shape of the creature which used them. Well..." And Dane's face visibly paled. "... I got an idea of the shape of these creatures from the furnishings—again an inadequate word—from the objects in that space."

"And...?"

"Diabolical."

Pearl stared at Dane for some moments. "Dude, coming from you, that sounds oddly like religious talk."

"A red man with horns, no. This creature stretched through time, into your history, accounted for fears, fed dread, was impossible to perceive but ominously everywhere."

Pearl looked around, walked up and down.

Finally, Dane asked him for his thoughts.

"Man, anyone else told me this, I'd laugh. But you—you're such a sceptic! I've known you for years, dude. I know what a total cynic you are. So this shakes me."

"Why?" asked Dane, keenly.

"Dude, I don't know. I guess, I guess, and this is what I don't like about it, because... because I can see that _you_ believe it with the same conviction that _I_ believe."

"One of us has to be wrong," said Dane.

"Then let's hope it's you."

The God and world, that Pearl's religion conjured, didn't seem to Dane that wonderful either. But at least that god had an investment in Earth. Dane felt himself agreeing.

"You'd better get moving, dude."

Dane looked at his watch. 4 o'clock. Two hours before he had to open.

Dane went to the market. These days, people were growing fruit and vegetables on their rooves. Some of it looked all right. He kicked himself for not having his Geiger counter on him. He chanced a few purchases and then went to the liquor store to buy the alcohol he needed to restock.

He got a kebab from the café next door and wondered if he shouldn't have paid the extra for them to irradiate it. Not much food tasted good after irradiation. But deaths from food poisoning had gone up that week.

After a bite, he chucked it in the bin.

He looked up to see the sky darkening. The reports that morning were that a typhoon was coming, followed by monsoonal floods. Great, only six weeks back, they were weltering in a heatwave. What the fuck had humans done to the world? No wonder the government was keen to push the doping of the populace.

He received a text from Sharnie as he got in his car. She and the others were at Costa's. He looked at the time on his mobile. He figured he could squeeze in a drink with them before opening. Besides, he had a question he wanted answering.

"How was it?" asked Dane as disinterestedly as possible. Truth was, underneath, he was nervous as hell. The last he'd seen this bunch was when he'd rolled Dizzy over to drain the tank water out of him.

Sharnie laughed. "Shit, it was awesome."

"So, you all remember the same details?" They nodded.

He swallowed dryly. "During the trip, were... were you trying to wake up?"

"Why the fuck _would_ we? It was heaven."

Then why that pained look on their faces during it? Had there been that pained look on his when he took it?

Dane got to the point. "Well, was _I_ there?"

Sharnie laughed. "You don't take drugs, but you should. See you tonight for Sleeping Dog. The ultimate safe sex drug—fucking with your minds."

"I'll pass," said Dizzy.

Dane felt his stomach drop. Did Dizzy remember Dane in the trip? Dane had held Dizzy's head under water, distracted by that dimensional fissure he'd glimped through the tank glass, that rent onto other worlds. Was there such a thing as rape on Sleeping Dog?

Dizzy ignored the protest of his friends and walked off, staring momentarily into Dane's eyes.

Sharnie waited till he was out of earshot and then addressed the circle. "He _was_ involved in the sex. And so-o-o good at it, but then..."

Miriam joined in, "... he seemed to 'pop out' of the room."

The four laughed at the double entendre and could not be made to focus on the topic, no matter how hard Dane pressed. They had the giggles worse than if they were on dope. Their utter idiocy ignited Dane's revulsion for the insouciant side of drug-taking, and he excused himself also. He noted that not one of them noticed his leaving.

Dane dropped by his brother's place.

Anastasia was out; Frank, in his loft.

"Frank, there's something wrong with that drug."

Frank smiled in a disturbingly manic way, like a clown from an amusement park with a fixed open mouth. It was odd that image should have come to mind to Dane, especially given what Frank said next.

"Me and Anastasia went to Luna Park last night, Dane. Most romantic night we've had in ages."

"That's great, Frank, I'm happy for you. But how well has that drug been tested?"

Frank put down his putting iron he was practicing with and beamed at Dane. "Let me show you something."

Dane worked out Frank was leading them to his and Anastasia's bedroom. Dane suddenly didn't want to know, but like in a dream, his feet compelled him there.

There was a large, pink teddy bear on the bed. Dane was aware that the sight of a large, pink teddy on a neatly folded satin red bedspread was not a spectacle that should have fixed him with such existential foreboding.

But it did.

He tried to shake himself of the feeling.

"I won that for Anastasia in the shooting gallery," simpered Frank.

Dane drew his eyes from it to Frank. "Frank, I'm trying to tell you that it's too early for Sleeping Dog to go on the market. It needs more testing, it needs more— "

Anastasia was at the door, dressed only in a sheer, see-through nightgown, her nipples pinging through the fabric.

"There's nothing wrong with that drug," she purred.

Dane gawped. "How would you know?" was all he could manage to say.

Frank and Anastasia looked at each other and foolishly smiled. Anastasia pinned Dane with her glare. "Best fucking root we've had in ages. That's why."

Dane drew his covetous eyes from her. "But it wasn't real, Frank. It was in your head."

Frank smiled sheepishly. "We went to Luna Park afterwards. I'm still a great shot. Won that teddy for Ana. That's real, isn't it?"

The three regarded the teddy.

Anastasia left. Dane found himself following her downstairs to the kitchen, trying desperately to knock out the image he was left with of Frank crawling onto the bed and cradling the bear.

Anastasia regarded him as she reached into the freezer for ice cream. Déjà vu washed over Dane, even though it was merely a case of repetition.

"How do you know something's wrong with Sleeping Dog?" she asked.

Dane could not answer. He was still trying to shake off the profound sense of unreality.

"You were fun when you took Es," she sighed. "Where's the love gone?"

She put a hand on his. Dane looked down. "Anastasia, remember this: you're family only so long as you're married to my brother."

He tried to pull his hand away but could only watch as she ran hers up his. He looked to the stairs, worried Frank would be at the top of them, but Anastasia only smiled as if Frank knew, too, what was about to happen.

She fixed drinks, ice teas, giving Dane one, and then Dane remembered that he _had_ seen Anastasia when he arrived, that she'd fixed a drink for the three of them and then they'd... they'd... A jolt unplanted him.

He could see himself outside, lying on the deckchair, asleep, but looking like he was trying to wake up. In the deck chairs beside him, Frank and Anastasia.

He turned with infinite slowness back to Anastasia at the kitchen marble top, whipping cream. A noise made him turn to the first flight landing, where Frank was now standing, teddy in hand. Frank ripped a hole in it, pulled out several handfuls of foam, before entering it, thrusting, crying. Dane turned, shocked, sad, revolted, as Anastasia undid her top, revealing one breast with a pert and beautiful nipple, and put cream on it. Dane felt himself half-fainting towards it. Her hands bringing his head onto it, he suckled, nibbled. She then pulled his head between her legs with an aggressiveness he wished she could impart to Sue. Doing a different kind of lapping, he felt himself slipping into the moment.

But not quite wholeheartedly. Still this inability to completely lose himself! Was his brother still watching from the first floor landing? Had they both agreed to spike him like this? Whatever the case, Sleeping Dog couldn't override his adverse reaction to anything incestuous.

He craned his neck with infinite fear towards himself, his physical self, outside on the deckchair. His slipped-disk sanity worked overtime not to give out.

Then he screamed. For there it was, a creature like a spilt ink blot that had been blown every which way across the paper, till it was an insane scribble, was crouched over his physical self, trying to enter his body and brain, as his mind was engaged elsewhere, in sex, in the overcharged, heated, moment of orgasmic arrest. Separating himself from Anastasia, he lunged towards his corporal self and the creature bent over him.

Dane woke up, back in his body. Hands splayed up, there was nothing in front of him, at least nothing he could see in this everyday dimension. He looked at Frank and Anastasia asleep in the deckchairs beside him, angered at them spiking him, their dirty trick, but fearful of the horrid look on their faces.

Because while under the influence of Sleeping Dog, hovering over their bodies, he'd also seen creatures trying to enter them.

Quickly filling a bucket of icy water from the pool, he splashed it on their contorted faces and hurried out as they woke up. As he stumbled outside, he saw a dog sitting statue-like on the raised garden bed.

The look the dog gave him frightened him to his core. He hoped it was still the effects of Sleeping Dog wearing off. Getting in his Deerta and pulling away, he tried to place the breed. Short coat, ebony; stiff tail, forked at the end; ears, also held erect, long and triangular; snout, narrow; eyes, a piercing, glowing red. He couldn't. Like a greyhound but not a greyhound, was all he could manage.

Dane got to the bar late. Sharnie had already dished out Sleeping Dog to the punters, which meant she probably also pocketed a few herself. He walked among their lolling bodies. More than ever they appeared to be struggling to wake. If he'd been on time, he hadn't planned to run it that night; didn't want to run it ever again.

He sat at the bar. Liz leaned over him, her red curls falling on his shoulders.

"And yet they all say they had a great time the next day. Fucking each other senseless."

Sue emerged from the back and walked straight up to Dane. "How many people did _you_ fuck when you took it?"

Dane turned to Liz. Liz looked away guiltily. "Blabber mouth," he spat.

Sue reached out a hand and swivelled Dane back round to face her. "Do you remember _your_ drug days and who got you through? You almost went schizophrenic. You'd fuck our friends!" Sue stormed out the back once more.

Yes, it had been Sue who nursed him back to sanity after that trip that left Spike mad. It had been Sue who'd stayed by him ever since. Helped him get up Zombie. Even though a nightclub was anathema to her. She was a morning person, who missed seeing the sun rising. He would often tell her she could go to bed at ten, that he'd handle the bar. But she'd stay up next to him, even as she was nodding off, or gripping her feet in pain. Between work and chores, they didn't have much time for each other. She stayed up late just to be with him. He needed to remember things like that at bad times.

He watched the punters for a good hour-and- a-half. Sue didn't come back in. He got up and went out the back to make it up to her.

Sue was lying on the bed, seemingly asleep. But then, to Dane's horror, he saw an all-too- familiar expression pass over her face.

She was trying to wake.

Fucking Liz! She must have given Sue one of those infernal pills!

He knelt on the bed, shaking her. She woke, and something crept in her eye, which made him throw her back in horror.

"Where's Sue?" he blubbered.

She leapt at him, and the two fell down beside the bed. When he looked down at her face, he was relieved.

"Sue...? Sue, you're back. Where did you go?"

Holding her in his arms like this, he felt a tenderness he hadn't felt for her in a long time.

"A dream, a horrible dream," she murmured, "and before that..."

"So, who did you have sex with?" he asked before he knew it.

Sue pulled away from him and answered tartly, "I was alone. I masturbated; it was the most love I've felt in years."

She left the room, after grabbing her overnight bag, Dane appropriately chastised. If he hadn't said that, if he hadn't responded in that predictable, outmoded way, they would have had sex. More than just sex; they would have made love for the first time in ages.

Perhaps he had imagined this dark side to drugs? These diabolical beings? What's to say his hallucination wasn't that he was certain he wasn't hallucinating? Since he'd been hallucinating at the time, that made a joke of that.

But that shadow that passed over Sue's eyes...?

Well, there was such a side effect as residual flashbacks, sometimes lasting weeks.

Was Sleeping Dog so bad? Perhaps the problem was with him, his never being able to completely lose himself? Sleeping Dog had reinvigorated Frank and Anastasia's love life. His experience on it, and Sue's just now, had almost reinvigorated theirs, if not for his foolishness. He thought about yesterday with Frank. Perhaps Frank, realising Anastasia's "thing" for Dane, had suggested she spike their drinks. What did it matter, Frank must have reasoned, if his wife and brother mentally fucked if that's what they both wanted? And yet that... he pushed the teddy bear image out of his head.

When Dane returned to the bar, Liz told him what he already guessed: Sue had gone to stay at her sister's.

Next night, with it being a Monday and the bar closed, Dane joined Frank at Luna Park. The two had ignored the Ghost Train, the Mad Mouse, and other rides, and headed straight for the shooting gallery with its ducks and drakes. The doubts Dane had managed to put away in the night, had resurfaced toward dawn, and occupied him all day.

"It can't have been," said Frank breezily.

"It was," said Dane, scoring a bull's eye. "It was the same creature."

Frank shifted uncomfortably, missing his shot.

He was usually a better marksman than Dane. "Look, I'm not sure that I even saw it, now," he said irritably.

The carnival music blaring through the speakers was getting to both of them.

"Frank, the same monster I saw when I freaked out on drugs with you and Spike ten years ago is the same monster I saw when..." Dane wanted to avoid last night "...when I took it at work and when I woke Sue—it was in her eyes."

"Hey, Dane, I'm not so sure I saw these creatures you and Spike were convinced you saw. I think I let your conviction sway me."

Dane glimpsed a dog moving among the crowd and wondered how it had got into an amusement park.

"Dane, you're getting overworked."

"Did you hear me?"

Frank merely nodded. "Frank, Spike is mad."

Frank looked off into the night, at the multi- coloured flashing lights all around them. "He's not so mad."

Dane was surprised. "You still visit him?"

It was Dane's greatest shame that he'd never visited Spike in the psychiatric ward. But he feared going because Spike's insanity would be a proof of what he believed he saw that night.

Frank smiled at the expression on Dane's face. "Dane, Spike knows everything there is to know about drugs. Where do you think I got the ingredients for Sleeping Dog?"

This stopped Dane in his tracks. "Spike invented it?"

That weird dog was still watching them. It was very familiar... Was it the one he'd seen at Frank's house?

He turned to his brother. "Frank, you better tell me they're holding off on that drug."

Frank regarded him impatiently. "Yes, until they've done more testing... on animals."

Dane looked round sharply. The dog was gone.

He forewent swimming the next day, and stood outside the psychiatric hospital, his limbs trembling. Forcing himself inside, he was greeted by the head doctor, a woman with disturbing green hair and a long neck. He wasn't sure how the head doctor got away with looking like one of her patients.

Perhaps appropriate staff was rare.

She took him to a room like those interrogation ones in police stations; windowed on one side. Spike was sitting in darkness, mouth twisted, hair frayed and coming down over his eyes. The room was well lit, but somehow Spike wore darkness round him, as a cloak.

The doctor whispered in Dane's ear, "Be careful, he's mad."

He faced her, disconcerted. "I'd hope so, to be here."

She snorted merrily, before nodding to the guard to unlock the door and let him in. Dane sat down at the table. Without any prompting, Spike began to speak in a voice croaking to life after long disuse.

"Kisthagua has visited you in numberless dreams. Sothtogo awaits his creations."

It was nonsense, but it chilled Dane all the same because it was just the sort of nonsense he feared was true. God, he and Spike were the same age. But whereas Dane looked more like thirty than forty, Spike looked double that again.

"Spike, I'm sorry I haven't visited earlier.' Christ, he was way overdue. "But... I..."

The dispassionate way Spike was looking at him, Dane wanted to get straight to the point.

"Are there... creatures... _aliens_?"

Spike watched Dane an uncomfortable while, the shadows under his brows, the faint, inverted light of his eyes, the drawn, sinister mouth, all contriving to an unnerving effect.

"They are dead, but being immortal, cannot die. Their dreams awake in ours. Great Kisthagua wants to rise. Yet, to soar again, he and his blasphemous minions must awake in us."

Dane shivered. Madness to anyone else, but aspects of it added up with what he'd experienced.

"Spike, what are they? Aliens from another dimension?"

Disturbingly, Spike closed his eyes in orgiastic prayer. "Yes, you could call them that."

Dane pinched himself to get sense back. "Okay," he managed sceptically, "I've never believed the visitation fantasy. If there are aliens, why haven't they made contact?"

Spike tittered. Dane looked at the head doctor through the glass. She, too, was looking fearful. Spike droned on.

"Did the Spanish Conquistadors try to make contact with the piranha? Creatures from other worlds have visited Earth, but they have found no sign of intelligent life. When great Kisthagua wakes, the best you can hope for, Dane, is that you are not reserved for a farm or experiment animal, but chosen as a pet. And a pet with a relatively benevolent, unperverted owner."

Spike giggled. His giggle became a monstrously offensive thing, as if directed at Dane's very soul. Dane rose and slammed the table. The security guard moved from the window to the door, but the head doctor grabbed his arm, wanting to hear more.

"Frank says you invented Sleeping Dog. How?"

"I didn't invent it, Dane. Can't you guess, though, what I _did_ do?"

Dane recalled a story Spike had told him and Frank about the South American Indians. The Indians would lime their darts and arrows with a poison called curare, which would stun an animal, so that they could then kill and eat it. Curare was made from young bark scrapings, other assorted plant fragments, and sometimes snake venom or venomous ants. The mixture was boiled in water for two days before being strained and evaporated. What was left was a blood-dark, viscid paste, bitter to the taste.

The remarkable thing about the poison was that it would affect the prey, but not the hunter who then ate it. But most remarkable of all, given that the Amazon rainforest is home to more animal and plant species than anywhere else, is that the Indians should have chanced upon such precise ingredients with so beneficial a result.

According to Spike, the Indians themselves had given an explanation for the fortuity: when in drug-induced states, terrible beings had shown them where to gather the ingredients and exactly how to combine them.

Dane beheld Spike's shadowed eyes. "You _found_ Sleeping Dog," he ventured.

"Very good," said Spike, smiling. "Sothtogo told me where the ingredients could be found here on Earth, leftover from their brief tenancy of our planet. I communicated this to my parents, who immediately travelled to Syria where they followed the relayed directions and unearthed a canopic jar with the viscera of a demi-god and powder vital to Sleeping Dog's formulation."

"And that has fuelled Sleeping Dog's manufacture ever since?"

Spike nodded. This gave Dane hope. If the key ingredient of Sleeping Dog was finite, all the better. Then his mind wandered back to that other connotation of Spike's divulgences.

"Your _parents_ are in on this?"

"They, like me, are human votives of the Argoomarn tribe of Callea."

God, this was crazy! To Dane's horror, Spike burst into an incantation.

"Oh great and terrible Kisthagua, trapped in sleep, awake in _us_. Awake in your unrepentant and perverse disciples!"

Dane looked at the notebook under Spike's hand. "What's in that book?"

"The thoughts they have conveyed to me that I can put in words. The ingredients to Sleeping Dog, among other things."

"Who else has instructions on how to mix the ingredients?"

"Only Frank."

The interview over, Dane was looking through the glass with the head doctor. Spike was writing in his notebook.

"What else is in that book?" he asked. "Has anyone read it?"

She let her head roll on her neck. "Three psychiatrists. They all went mad. Two of them have since killed themselves."

Dane put a proposition to her. She immediately yielded to it.

It took Dane, the head doctor, the guard and three more staff to get the book off Spike. He'd screamed, not in distress, but diabolical ecstasy.

Before driving off, Dane rang Frank, but the call went straight to Message Bank.

"Frank, there's something really dangerous about this drug. I don't want you to just hold off on it. I want you to destroy it altogether. Frank, you've got to destroy the—"

A beep sounded, Frank's Message Bank full. Dane realised he was quite close to Frank's work—he'd drop in instead.

"Can I see Frank Moorlock? He's my brother."

The secretary looked up at him. "He's not in."

"Anyone else associated with Sleeping Dog?"

"Sleeping Dog?" She tapped the name into her computer. "There is no drug due to be released under that name."

This seemed hopeful. Frank must have taken it off the register himself.

When Dane left, unbeknownst to him, he was followed.

That night, Dane changed the neon sign to read, "Beer and Live Band." He'd somehow managed to get Sue's favourite acoustic set back in, despite how he'd treated them.

He flushed the remaining cache of Sleeping Dog pills down the toilet, then returned to the bar.

He wished Sue would walk in, but she must still be staying with her sister. He half-thought of texting her that her favourite band was playing. But it would have been disingenuous, presenting his not selling Sleeping Dog as a gesture to her.

Sharnie was incensed when she showed up, along with all the punters desperate for Sleeping Dog. As Dane suspected, Sharnie was already hooked.

The next day, Dane again stood up Pearl, instead going to the laboratory where the drug was manufactured and tested. He wanted to make sure Frank was eradicating every last trace of its existence.

The chief scientist, an extraordinarily strange- looking creature with what was inarguably a hunchback, regarded him with his small eyes. He had the most startling silver-grey hair Dane had seen.

The laboratory was fluoro-lit, with many and varied machinery. Along one wall were caged dogs, yapping or howling incessantly. Dane's heart sank for them.

The chief scientist seemed glad of company; he had not heard from Frank either.

Dane got straight to the point of whether they had a finite supply of Sleeping Dog's key ingredient. The chief scientist agreed they had, saying they'd kept a sample to try to recreate synthetically, but they weren't having much success.

Dane asked him if he knew how the drug worked.

"All drugs alter the pathways in the brain," he said. "Sleeping Dog doesn't just seem to alter them but creates new ones altogether. The strange thing is that the sex part of the brain is highly stimulated, but so too is the rest, nearly ninety percent. We normally only use about ten. The longer and higher the dose, the more the rest of the brain lights up with activity."

Despite the dogs' audible distress drilling in his mind, a few more pieces fell together for Dane. While Sleeping Dog was finger-popping the brain centres to do with sexual pleasure, keeping us well-nigh distracted in a lugubrious trance, these terrible creatures from another dimension were trying to enter us.

He figured fitting themselves to our dimension was one difficulty. The other, no one had taken Sleeping Dog long enough for the brain to be rewired for a perfect fit.

Dane suspected the reason he seemed most susceptible was that his excessive drug-taking had already halfway reconfigured his mind for alien habitation. Frank must have been a close second. On the subject of Frank, why the hell wasn't he returning Dane's calls?

"That seems the hard part for these aliens," he theorised aloud. "Not entering us, so much, but the waking within us. I woke my wife while she was under the influence of Sleeping Dog. What I saw briefly in her eyes—it wasn't her."

The chief scientist nodded like he'd seen the same thing. He droned on in answer, but Dane found himself staring at the frantic dogs, trying to move and stretch in their cages.

"I saw a dog the other day following Frank," Dane said, half to himself. "I suspect Frank's still taking the drug, becoming more and more susceptible." He turned to the scientist suddenly. "Have you woken any of the dogs while on the drug?"

"Yes, one. I have a curious video of it, in fact. It afterwards tried using its paws to lift its food bowl. It seemed frustrated with them because it couldn't manipulate them."

"Which dog?" asked Dane, alarmed, turning back to the cages.

"That one."

The scientist pointed to an empty cage. Oh no, thought Dane.

Dane insisted on seeing the video, although he knew what the dog looked like. It was the same one he'd seen at Frank's and then at the amusement park. He knew why it was tailing them, too; it wanted to wake Frank while he was under Sleeping Dog's influence, wake the beast trying to wake within him.

He asked the scientist if he could see the remaining sample of the key ingredient. The scientist removed it from a safe and looked relieved when Dane then poured it down a sink.

"One last question."

The chief scientist waited.

"What breed is that missing dog?"

The scientist smiled manically. "A cryptid." Dane cocked his head.

"A cryptid is an animal whose existence has been suggested down the ages but never scientifically documented. I have only found one canine species that looks like it: the totemic animal of the Egyptian god Set."

Sue went back to the bar, deciding to give her and Dane's relationship one more go. He wasn't there; probably swimming. She found a leather- bound notebook hidden under the desk in the office and sat down to read it, at first curiously, then with growing apprehension. She turned to a page that had a picture on it. Jarringly, she realised the picture was of her, seen from above, engaged in her present activity, reading the notebook in the office. It was a wholly disconcerting out-of-body experience, yet one she struggled to draw her eyes from. She, at last, managed to shut the book, only to see two books shut, one half the size of the other. She was now watching herself watching herself, in an infinite corollary of regression.

In horror, she tried to draw away further, to no avail. She was screaming as she was watching herself watching herself watching herself watching her—

She felt someone take her in their arms as she swooned to the floor. Dane had thrown the book from the table, breaking its terrible grip. Sue was sick with giddiness. Dane held her, and she, him. "Which... which gods are those...?" she asked, utterly appalled and terrified.

He gritted his teeth. "The real ones."

Sue felt her sanity lurch towards her throat, as if it had been seated in her stomach. Throw up, and she would be mad.

"It's okay, Sue, it's okay, baby, I'm here for you."

He held her in his arms and kissed her forehead and wouldn't let go.

The next morning, Dane woke Sue early to join him on the roof and watch the sunrise together.

"But we have to work tonight," she said.

He held his fingers to her mouth. "I'm closing the bar for a week. We deserve a holiday."

They sat for an hour, hugging. He told her to go back to bed; he'd serve them breakfast there. She made her way down the roof hatch while Dane stayed a moment longer to watch the last of the red sky fade to blue.

He felt infinite relief.

The last of the key ingredient of Sleeping Dog, he'd destroyed. The instructions for making it, in Spike's notebook, he'd thrown in a barrel in the back alley and set alight. And he'd found an unlikely ally in Anastasia, who'd eagerly agreed to destroy Frank's notebooks too.

Everything would be okay. He made his way down the roof access hatch himself; he had one more surprise for Sue.

He entered their bedroom wearing a bowler hat, a necktie, black trousers and shoes. He was topless apart from braces. He adopted the best accent he could.

"Hello 'ello."

"Dane?" she asked confused, waking slowly.

She must have fallen back to sleep.

"Dane?" he echoed, affecting confusion. "You've got the wrong name, Miss. I'm Luke."

He did a little whirl, ripping off the front of his stripper-trousers, revealing sleek, silk boxers underneath.

"Hope I scrub up all right, Miss. Well, since you paid for the full service, I'm yours to do whatever you like with."

Sue seemed to start crying. Dane felt a flash of anger. God, anything he tried—it didn't work. He became embarrassed he'd bothered with this charade. But then he saw that she was crying tears of mirth.

"Look in your wallet," she managed to get out.

"Eh, miss?" he said, still trying to maintain the role-play.

When she insisted, he looked through his cards as instructed before finding one with a picture of Sue in stilettos and fishnet stockings, brandishing a paddle. It read, "Call Sandy, to fulfil your secret, darkest desires."

Dane smiled, too. They'd had the same idea! He started to speak in his own normal voice when she snapped, "Shut up!"

Dane closed his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Luke," she purred, "it's just that since you're here at my bidding and at my expense, I want to make full utilisation of your services. No more small talk."

She looked him up and down before placing her finger on her lip meditatively. "Well now, tiger, you said I could do anything with you I please?"

Dane felt his heart and groin swelling. "That's right, miss, anything."

Two Days Earlier.

Katrina Global hated these fucking assignments. To make matters worse, this one involved a friend: Sharnie Meyers. Katrina and Sharnie went back years, although they hadn't seen each other in years either. Sharnie had got a job at Zombie, where she seemed to be enjoying a youthful night-time renaissance. Katrina was still to take up the long-standing offer of going along one evening. She couldn't do nightclubs anymore; she couldn't stay awake past ten.

They hadn't caught up, that is, until Sharnie knocked on Katrina's door just the night before, looking like she'd been doused with wet sick.

Sharnie explained she'd got herself addicted to some newfangled drug called "Sleeping Dog" and wanted Katrina to put her journalistic skills to use in scoring for her. Apparently, it had been recalled.

Naturally, Katrina had told her friend where to go for having the nerve.

When she'd mentioned the incident to her boss, Sly, that morning, he of the pointed curly beard, triangular hair, large mouth and oval shiny bald spot at the front of his head, his response had typically accorded with the kind of trash their news service ( _Wazzup?_ ) put out.

"My God, are you mad, Katrina?" he asked in his Vaudevillian way, clearing space on her desk to park his bony arse. "If there's a new drug being trialled on the market, we want the scoop on it. Call up this friend, and follow any leads she may have. At once!"

Katrina shook her head. To think she once shared a kind of sexual frisson with this man—never consummated, thank god. She supposed the thought of the reality of it accounted for the hesitancy on her part. She'd heard from the cafeteria ladies that Sly utilised parallel mirrors in his lovemaking, and Katrina just wasn't keen on seeing her wobbling arse duplicated to infinity.

She excused herself to the bathroom while Sly went through her pen jar, reclaiming the ones of his she'd borrowed.

She messed up her hair in the mirror and evaluated herself. Not a beauty, sure. Face a little too puffy, auburn hair she couldn't seem to make look alive without a good deal of voodoo. Mouth a tad too tiny. She did have eyes though, great big doe-eyed luminous jewels they were, framed by genuine, long lashes.

Career-wise, she was somewhat more satisfied. She'd become something of a celebrity with her weekly video blog, where she debunked whatever was the latest crack-pot conspiracy doing the rounds.

After applying necessary colour to her puffy, white cheeks, she exited and made her way back to her desk, where Sly was still rummaging through her stuff. Donning her Princess-style caped charcoal jacket, and throwing her black baguette bag with silver diamantes over her shoulder, she psyched herself up to the indignity of procuring drugs.

"Can I score you any coke while I'm at it?" she tossed at Sly as she made her way to the lift.

She rang a disconcertedly happy Sharnie to say she was on the case. Sharnie's only suggested lead was some building where it was rumoured the drug was manufactured.

"So, what does this drug do for you, Sharnie?" she asked unsympathetically.

When Sharnie explained, Katrina's mouth dropped.

The building looked harmless enough. Grey, though, with no windows above ground floor. Katrina crossed out "harmless" in her mind, replacing it with "ominous". Already, she was composing copy. She was sitting in her clapped- out car, parked opposite.

She pulled her folded boots over her polka dot tights, scraped the hair out of her eyes, tried to look serious, got out of the car, pulled down her rather short printed dress, and strode across the quiet road to what she assumed was the front entrance. Locked. The glass was so shaded, it was impossible to see in, even by pressing her eyes right up to it.

Eventually, the sliding door opened, and she quickly slipped in as a muscled black man in a tight-fitting tanktop, and with tatts up his arms, left. Yum, she thought. Wouldn't say no to taking Sleeping Dog with him.

When the glass door slid shut behind her, she paused, surprised at the concentration of that thought. She never before realised she had that fantasy, a coupling with a complete stranger. She was evidently curious despite herself about this new drug. No doubt it didn't exist at all, but if it did...

She approached the counter where the receptionist looked at her doubtfully. Katrina couldn't be bothered being subtle.

"Hey, this is gonna sound stupid, but do you have a drug called Sleeping Dog?"

The secretary shook her head. "No. But funny thing is, he just asked the same thing."

Katrina hurried out to see the hunky man take off in his Deerta. She wasted no time getting in her bomb of a car; she had her stranger to follow.

Two nights later, Sly called her while she was on her cramped little balcony, drinking cheap red wine and making eyes at the topless married man across from her as he hung up nappies and other domestic paraphernalia to dry in the artificial wind tunnel between their two blocks. The shirtless thing was working for her; the nappies thing, not so much. Say... about zilch.

"Good work, Katrina," said Sly. "We tracked down that car rego you gave us."

Katrina listened carefully as Sly explained that the car's owner was Sharnie's boss, the manager of Zombie. Okay, she was definitely going along to Zombie now, even if it meant she had to take a nana nap first.

"Well," said Sly matter-of-factly. "Seems he killed everyone in that building, excluding the receptionist, everyone in a laboratory two hours before, and everyone in a private mental clinic the day before that."

Katrina hung up as she watched the married man wink at her before disappearing through his makeshift clothesline, a decidedly unsexy bra passing over his head and swinging in the wind.

Hmm, could she still fancy that bar owner knowing he was a mass murdering psychopath?

Next day, at her work desk, Sly dropped a memory stick in her now empty pen jar.

"Katrina, you've got a new assignment."

Katrina took off her reading glasses, and regarded Sly in his chequered white shirt and braces; the clichéd news chief and not much of a turn-on.

"My last one turns out to be a mass- murdering psychopath, and the mad drug-addict who gave me the story still won't leave me alone."

Sly shrugged. "Goes with the territory."

"So, where is it? The Bahamas, five-star hotel?"

"The desert, two-star motel."

Katrina picked her bag off the floor and put her glasses in it; it was only an hour off lunch; she might as well beat the cafeteria midday rush.

"Great," she said, putting on her coat and lassoing her handbag over her shoulder. "Why are most fruitcakes rural? So, what is it?"

"A coal miner reckons his company has stumbled upon the ruins of an ancient, technologically advanced civilisation."

"So?"

Sly looked genuinely astounded. "Katrina, an ancient, technologically advanced civilisation _here_ , in Australia."

Katrina pushed her chair in. "And the proof?"

"He's managed to sneak a canopic jar belonging to this impossibly old empire out of the coal mine."

Katrina put her hands on her hips. "I'm waiting to be impressed."

Sly leant forward. "Katrina, it was found in a coal seam."

"And? What am I missing?"

Sly shook his head. "Coal was formed two million years ago!"

Katrina yawned. "Right, before humans were even around? Debunked already."

She headed for the lifts, asking if any of the other staff wanted her to bring back coffee.

Sly called after her. "Maybe it wasn't a human civilisation."

Katrina swivelled round after pressing "ground" on the lift buttons. "You buy this crap?"

Sly shrugged. "I just want you informed of the facts."

The lift doors opened. Katrina half stepped in so they wouldn't close. "They're not facts; they're fantasies. Of lonely, unimportant people."

Sly lost his good-humour and stared at her wearily.

"Okay, where's the brief?" she capitulated.

Sly dug the memory stick out of the pen jar, then walked halfway over to her and chucked it.

"Good catch. It's all in there. Along with the electronic plane ticket. I've called your taxi. It should be downstairs. It will take you via your flat so you can pack."

Katrina frowned. "You want me to go right this minute?"

Sly nodded; he had his smile back.

Stale chicken and avocado sandwiches! She wrapped them in the plastic sheaf they came in and threw them on the tray in front of her. Ah well, it was only a four hour flight to Perth. At least she was relatively comfortable. The tall guy next to her was doubled-up like a pelican's neck. There were advantages to being short. Short-ish, she liked to say.

When the flight attendant removed the sandwiches, she got out her laptop, placed it on the tray, and studiously loaded Sly's brief. Not so studiously, she only bothered to read the first page. Flicking through the rest of the document, it seemed merely to consist of a cut-and-paste job of all sorts of historical and mineralogical crap Sly had no doubt simply downloaded from the net as an approximation of research.

She brought up another screen on her laptop and started writing her article instead. She gave it the heading: "Another Bore Debunked."

Before she knew it, she'd fallen asleep.

She always liked Perth Airport. Spacious and clean. Unfortunately, it wasn't her final destination. She had to wait two hours for a connecting flight on a much smaller plane this time—a sixteen-seater, which took her north a further two hours, into mining territory.

The airport this time was an airport in name only. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking it was a glorified bus shelter.

Fortunately, her Wi-Fi worked. She claimed one of the few seats in the waiting area, turned her tablet off plane-safe mode, and emailed her article to Sly.

She then discovered that the baggage collection area was merely a trolley that one of the ground staff had packed and left out on the tarmac.

A man was standing beside it, holding a card with her name on it. He was wearing rather short, blue shorts and black boots. On his top, a colourless, short-sleeved shirt; on his head, an Akubra hat. The clichéd outback Australian.

A fellow passenger, a frumpy woman with dreadlocked hair, was reading the name on the card. "Katrina Global," she articulated slowly before pointing to Katrina. The other passengers collecting their luggage started doing the same.

Katrina sometimes underestimated just how many people viewed her weekly blog.

The frumpy woman pushed her face up to Katrina's. "UFOs _do_ exist!" she shouted in a rage. Katrina limbo-ed past the frump, and ripped the sign off the guy so no one else would realise who she was and hassle her. Why was her lift the only one here who didn't know her?

Walking to the car-park, with him dragging her bag, she appraised him more closely. He had a sandy, two-day stubble. Kind of handsome, if a bit un-manicured for Katrina's tastes.

"Carter Ryan," he said. "Reporter for The Dagga."

She could only assume "The Dagga" was a colloquialism for the local area.

They got in his open-top, beat-up 4WD. "How big's that?"

He took off at once, as opposed to "in increments". She tried to hold her hard-fought hair-job in place.

"Thirty thousand square kilometres," he yelled over the wind. "I've followed your articles."

That could mean one of two responses was coming.

"Another fan," she quipped, hoping it was the first.

"You're a puppet." Damn. The second.

"Governments _do_ lie to us," he shouted, "there _are_ conspiracies, and UFOs exist."

Katrina put on her Ray Bans and looked at the, to her, non-descript scrubland passing by. This Carter Ryan was handsome, sure, but another fruit-loop. "I see," she said at last, trying to feign interest. "The objective reporter."

Taking a side-glance at him, she couldn't tell if he'd got the sarcasm. Maybe he just hadn't heard.

"So, where's this miner with the statue?" she yelled. "You taking me straight to him?"

"No, your motel."

This brought her up. "I'm hoping to leave today. That way I might at least make Adelaide and spend the night in a bed."

Carter looked at her, confused. "Won't you need to research the article?"

Katrina now had the upper hand. "I already wrote it."

His eyebrows arched.

"On the plane. I already emailed it to my boss when we touched down, but he emailed me back to say at least get a picture."

She held up her slim-line phone with super- duper camera.

Carter's lips curled up in a snarl. "What about research? Journalistic integrity?"

Katrina sighed. "You don't research mad ravings to find sense in them."

Carter grimaced. "Were you ever a real reporter?"

She chose not to comment.

"Well, what does this article you've _already written_ say?"

Katrina scoped the dull, straight road ahead, a pyramid balancing an impossibly blue, clear sky. She cleared her throat. "Lonely miner pretends to have found an artefact belonging to a civilisation pre-dating man because no one takes notice of him at work, and his wife cheats on him. I turned up to meet him at our 'secret rendezvous point'. The miner explained that the 'proof' of his fantastic story, the canopic jar, mysteriously disappeared overnight. He can say nothing more on the topic because he fears certain mysterious forces in the government. The end. Katrina Global reporting."

Katrina took off her Ray Bans, batted her large lids and delectable lashes, and let roll moo eyes on Carter. She knew how to work her best asset. The poor man could do nothing but pay greater heed to his driving.

The "secret rendezvous" was the carpark at the back of a roadhouse. If they'd at least met inside, Katrina could have gotten herself a coffee. The miner was shaped like a seal, all belly, tapering off to either end. Had a ridiculous name, too: Dud Babcock.

He had next to no chin and a strange screwed- up paranoiac intensity to his eyes. He jerked his calloused thumb rudely in her direction before loudly whispering to Carter, "This her?"

Carter nodded.

Katrina leant against the 4WD's bull-bar. "Oh boy," she mumbled.

The miner addressed her for the first time. "Anyone follow you?"

Katrina rolled her eyes. "No."

Carter indicated to Dud Babcock to tell his story.

"You won't believe what happened, but last night, the canopic jar— "

"—was stolen," Katrina butted in.

He nodded dumbly, wondering how she could possibly know.

She held up her camera phone and took a snap of him, before walking to the front passenger seat of the 4WD, and getting in. Blushing red from every capillary, Carter got in the driver's side, unable to look at the miner. Or Katrina.

"Airport?" he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

"Airport."

They drove in silence, Katrina taking peeks at Carter now and then under her Ray Bans. She eventually let out a long laugh. He managed, after first going red (with anger or embarrassment, she couldn't say), to find a smile. "Dud Babcok," she tittered. "The name alone should have been a giveaway to you."

He lost the hard-won smile, and turned the wheel left, decelerating quickly and jerkily.

"What are you doing?" she asked, alarmed.

"Petrol."

She felt slightly silly as they drove under the great big free-standing veranda on its two stick- thin iron stilts.

She got out to stretch as he filled the tank. A cop car and ambulance pulled in. She watched Carter watching their occupants out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to recognise one of the them, the ambo driver. "Hey, Rog, what's happening?"

Rog, a man with a bushranger's beard— Katrina didn't know they still existed in this century, let alone the last - lit up with a smile and sauntered over. "Hey, Carter. Last night, a miner got flattened in the coal mine. Only just managed to get his body out an hour ago."

Carter nodded respectfully at the ambulance. "He's in there?"

"What's left of him," laughed Rog.

Katrina winced. No doubt a mortician's levity helps with coping with an ambo's job.

"What was his name?" asked Carter, having finished putting in the petrol. Katrina wished Carter would just pay, instead of extending the conversation. Or did he expect _her_ to cough up?

The other ambo, quite young, returned from paying.

"Yes, the miner's name?" insisted Carter, doubly interested now, given the silence from Rog.

Rog chewed his lip, but then the young ambo blurted with laughter, "Dud Babcok!"

Katrina slapped her thigh. "That's impossible! We just spoke to him not five minutes - ouch."

Carter had kicked her with his heavy leather boot.

"You what, ma'am?" asked Rog, the bushranger beard now appearing rather less avuncular to her. (Yet still decidedly anachronistic.)

"Gotta get goin', Rog," said Carter with affected lightness. He threw his thumb in Katrina's direction. "She's due at the airport."

As they drove away, Katrina turned in her seat. The cops were watching them go as they got on their radios. She turned to Carter, unnerved.

"You still think government conspiracy theories are bullshit?" he asked.

She turned her hands over on her skirt, palms up, then palms down. Her nervous twitch.

"Airport?" asked Carter more civilly.

Katrina chewed the side of her mouth. "No, my hotel."

There were two cop cars, parked right outside their motel room. Katrina let go of the blind. She sat on her single bed, Carter on his.

"They're not watching us. No, they're just... they're just..."

"...parked opposite your hotel room, watching you," he finished for her.

"Us," Katrina ventured, suddenly not wanting to feel alone in all this. Her phone rang. It was Sly. She put it on speaker.

"Katrina, where are you?"

Katrina looked up from her phone, which she'd thrown on the bed, and found Carter's eyes.

"Still in WA," she said.

"But I've printed your article—it went out today."

For a moment, Katrina had a mental blank. She broke her stare with Carter and looked down at her phone. "My article?"

"Yes, the one you emailed me the moment you touched down."

Carter angrily shook his head at her. "Oh no."

There was silence on the other end, then, "What do you mean, 'Oh no'?"

"Sly, I don't believe that miner was onto aliens, but there _is_ something fishy going on."

Another silence. "Katrina, you've just done another brilliant demolition job. No one will believe that miner. _No one_."

She let those words sink in. Had that been the reason she was sent on the job? God, how quickly she'd started thinking like a conspiracy crank.

"I know," she mumbled. "Apparently, he's dead."

Sly seemed to be talking to someone else. The line cleared, and he addressed Katrina again.

"I want you here tomorrow, Katrina. You... you don't want to be in a similar accident. We need you debunking these stories in the media to stave off... mass panic. Your close encounter with that bar manager who was using his own drugs—well, it was your emotive article that's seen a great new bill passed through."

She waited for the punch-line. "Once more, drug-taking is illegal."

Katrina and Carter gazed at each other from their two beds.

"Take your story to another news service," he suggested.

Katrina stood, paced the room, pirouetted, held her hair up close to her head, threw the bathroom door open, walked in, then walked straight back out, slamming the door. She stared at Carter. Yeah, he was hot, if somewhat rather persistently rugged. Would there be a subtle way of making him take a shower? She decided muskiness was an inextricable part of the fantasy, and she should bloody well get into it.

She inhaled deeply, before pushing her bed against his.

"What are you doing?" he asked, only just getting his hairy, brown legs raised in time.

She looked at him innocently. "Oh, so you didn't feel like having sex?"

During their post-coital cups of tea, a second miner had rung Carter, a friend of the first. This time, Katrina didn't make jokes about secret rendezvous. The meeting place decided on was a little frequented desert patch, ignored by the tourists for being "featureless", and not more than an hour's drive from their motel. They were to meet him at dawn.

Carter popped into the bathroom. Katrina heard the shower running. Now he washes! The phone rang: Sly.

Katrina told Sly about the second miner. "Who is he, Katrina? You must tell me. It's important you tell me his name."

Katrina regretted mentioning him. She pretended bad reception, hung up, and turned off her mobile.

Carter emerged, towel round his waist, doing a ridiculous dance. She didn't know whether to tell him about Sly. Soon, she was laughing too much at his woefully unrehearsed strip-tease to remember.

Katrina was glad when they got in the 4WD the next morning that Carter didn't try to take her hand. It had been what it had been. Rather enjoyable and surprisingly tender, but a one-off. It was still a good hour off dawn.

They weren't ten minutes out of town when three black Toyota SUVs came careening from behind a stand of sheoaks. Katrina screamed as Carter braked hard to avoid the one that had swung in front. The second cut off their retreat while the third pulled alongside. All four vehicles came to a stop. From the SUV parallel to their 4WD, two men in camouflage combat gear, and carrying Steyr AUG assault rifles, jumped out.

Katrina was hyperventilating as the soldiers shouted at her. She eventually made out a calm, quiet voice in her ear: Carter's.

"Copy me. Put your hands up and slowly get out of the vehicle."

Not quite an hour later, and they were at the rendezvous point, as planned. Except now with uninvited company. One of the soldiers had driven Carter's 4WD, while Carter and Katrina were prisoners in one of the SUVs.

The soldiers had neither answer their questions nor asked any during the trip.

When let out, they were ordered to sit under a tree behind a rise, where a camouflage sheet was then strung between the boles of two trees. Two soldiers were left to guard them. Katrina noted a figure sitting at the base of one of the trees, his hands bound with plastic handcuffs.

"Hey... Dane?" she said. "From Zombie?" Dane nodded.

"You mass murderer!"

One of the soldiers told her to keep her voice low. Carter looked puzzled. She explained to him who Dane was.

"Except that isn't the real story," said Dane with emotion. "I was going around, making sure all links to Sleeping Dog were destroyed, sure. I admit that. But it turns out these guys were following me, being even more thorough."

"Overkill?" whispered Katrina.

"You could say that."

Katrina's brow wrinkled with a thought. "Then how did you end up here?"

Dane leant back against the tree.

Just when he thought the danger from Sleeping Dog was over, two things occurred. Firstly, a neighbour told him the notebook he'd thrown in a barrel out the back of Zombie and set alight, had been rescued from the flames by a dog.

Secondly, a frantic Anastasia had called not long afterwards, saying a singed dog had woken Frank while he was on Sleeping Dog (Dane cursed - trust his brother to keep his own stash). Anastasia screamed that Frank was Frank no more, and he and the dog had driven off with a charred book in their possession.

When Dane hung up from Anastasia, he then told Sue everything. She would have thought it madness if she hadn't read Spike's notebook. Instead, she let Dane know the notebook mentioned a second canopic jar that also held the extra-terrestrial prime ingredient to Sleeping Dog. From what she could make out, its modern- day location would be WA.

Dane had only just got away as police surrounded his house. He watched in tears as Sue was captured and taken away for questioning. Driving west, he'd heard the news reports, of the murders that were pinned on him. He was always a day behind Frank and the dog, as he followed them first to Adelaide, then across the Nullarbor Plain. Anyone Dane spoke to who'd come in contact with Frank and the dog were thoroughly disturbed as a consequence, although none could quite articulate why.

He next tailed them up north and finally to a mine. Apparently, Frank was making inquiries there, sniffing around. Was that where the second canopic jar could be found? Before Dane could investigate further, he ran into the Australian Special Forces Ops, who were also casing the mine, and they'd chased him down and taken him into custody.

The most important thing, he finished saying, more important than their own welfare, was that that canopic jar, if found, was destroyed. At the least, certainly never opened.

Katrina and Carter took this in.

Carter suddenly looked worried on another score. "If government is killing off everyone with any knowledge of this stuff, then that means we three are..."

Katrina moaned with fear. "Am I being meted out some sort of celestial punishment for a life of arrant scepticism?"

Dane regarded her like he had no patience for levity. "If Great Kisthagua and his minions awake in this world," he intoned, "there'll be no future for anyone on this earth. _Anyone_. And I still have a wife I cherish to think about."

They were told to hush by their guards while the other soldiers finished setting their ambush. All was quiet, as the sky lightened with approaching dawn.

All around them, heard but not seen, birds were clearing their throats, like musicians in an orchestra warming up. A tweet here, a twitter there, a sustained note, a more extended chortle.

Dane looked at the sun lipping the horizon and wondered if this would be the last time he saw it rise. He had at least made up with Sue.

Katrina and Carter noticed a strange glow on the ground, a kind of sickly colour they had never before encountered in the known light spectrum.

They looked up and gawped. Above, floated four objects whose exact natures, even dimensions, appeared to admit of multiple interpretations at once, stymieing and derailing lucid thought. Katrina and Carter's difficulty in perception was not merely mental, but also auditory and olfactory. Even touch was involved, as they recoiled wondering just what those profane things would feel like. Animal, mineral, vegetable? Or a heinous conglomerate of all three? Whatever the true nature of those impossible objects, there was little doubt they were in essence ghastly in their physiognomy.

Katrina and Carter looked down first at their guards, then at Dane. While they, too, appeared sickly from the scrambling of their senses, the element of surprise was not evident in their faces.

"Oh them?" asked Dane. "They're 'the help'."

"What the hell?" mouthed Katrina.

A solider waved a warning barrel at them.

Dane leant in and whispered. "They're the 'less bad' aliens who don't want Kisthagua to wake from the dimensional prison they put him in. Governments have apparently been working with these friendly ones for decades."

Carter tapped the side of his head. "And the bad ones might escape their prison through us, through those of us who mess with reality through drugs."

Dane smiled, his sense of humour reclaimed. "Yep. Seems Reagan's War On Drugs wasn't so mad after all."

Carter stared dumbfounded, many of his theories and suspicions tumbling together to make a kind of patchwork.

An officer came and told Katrina and Carter to get up and wait by their 4WD, which had been parked in the centre of the clay-pan.

Above, the four spaceships/creatures folded themselves into invisibility.

A lone car appeared on the far slope of the basin, silhouetted against the burnished sky. A stocky guy got out, a jar held in his hands.

He looked around before noticing Katrina and Carter beside the 4WD, fidgeting.

The miner kicked up dust as he jogged down the sandy embankment towards them and...

...was hit. A pickup had burst from the cover of a dirt-coloured tarp, colliding with the miner square on and sending him, shattered, into a ditch. Dane recognised the vehicle at once.

"Frank..."

Frank braked and got out, his face a distortion of madness, the dog popping out a moment later, its eyes a leaking, light-filled, red. Dane bit his hand to stop himself from screaming. The soldiers fired, Katrina and Carter ducking round behind the 4WD. The dog fell mid-air, Frank on top of the jar. Dane got up and ran.

The swollen vegetable things above pulsed, sending white light scuttling like legs of a spider across the plane, atomising the dog and frying Frank's lower torso. Dane threw himself against the side of the 4WD, yelling at Katrina and Carter to run as Frank undid the canopic jar before no less than seven lightning strikes reduced him to dust. Soldiers were shouting around them.

Nearly mad with fright, Katrina took Carter's hand, and the two stumbled from the firing and chaos and into a shallow ditch. Katrina raised her head to see Dane fall metres from them, his body exploded from a hail of bullets. Carter took Katrina's hand, and the two got fifty metres when voices in their heads told them to stop. White, brilliant light enveloped them.

One Day Later.

Katrina woke in her motel bed. She looked at the time on her phone: 11:13 am. Hell, quite the sleep-in. She had a terrible headache. Probably she'd been on the piss. God, she meant to stay away from alcohol. Who'd she been drinking with again? Or was it alone...? Tragic.

There was loud knocking. She staggered to the door and opened it, hoping she was dressed. Sunlight caved in. Looking down, hospital grade pyjamas, by the looks of it. Thank god.

The man was staring at her. "Carter," he introduced himself. "Carter Ryan."

Was she meant to know that name?

"Yes?" she asked impatiently, squinting painfully in the glare. Where the fuck were her Ray Bans?

"I'm your Dagga contact," he said. "I'm here to take you to interview the miner."

Driving to the site, both looked at each other several times. Katrina was about to ask if they'd met before but they couldn't have. Surely. She suddenly pictured him naked, and it was with a detail she didn't think herself capable of imagining. God, did she mentally undress complete strangers now?

Carter, or Ryan, or whichever was his first name out of those two, got out and talked to the foreman at the mine site. The two men had a short conversation before Carter rejoined her. He looked perplexed.

"I don't get it."

"What?"

"Dud Babcock."

"Yes?"

"He died..."

She stared at him. "Well?"

"He died a week ago."

As Carter drove her to the airport, Katrina trawled through her memories but no matter how hard, there was a big blank. A week! How could she have lost a week? Carter seemed equally troubled. What could have been on his mind? Who was he again? Had they met before? It was like a part of her brain had been fenced off.

Awkwardly, she and Carter spontaneously hugged at the departure gate. She felt like maybe they had a connection, that she should chance staying and try to get to know him. God knows she'd exhausted all the potentials she could find in Melbourne. In the transit lounge, she rang Sly.

"Katrina! How was the holiday?"

Katrina shook her head. So, that's what she'd been doing?

"Great," she slurred, her headache lingering.

Must have been one hell of a vacation if she couldn't remember any of it.

Fuck, she was going to stay off the drugs from now on.

A week later, Katrina was commuting to work on the train (her car had died), reading the rival news reports on her phone. She saw a horticultural article she'd normally ignore, but for some reason, it piqued her interest. It was about a new species of plant in WA.

That gated paddock in her mind came slightly ajar, and she saw a silhouetted man, who didn't appear to possess his lower half, holding up a strange jar. With a quick, complicated twist of his fingers, the lid came off and out flowed particles which caught and flared orange in the morning sun.

The man then appeared to fry before her eyes. "Dust," someone laughed quite near her, as it blew from the jar and dispersed on the wind. "That's all it contained."

"Not all," yelled another man, a dark, muscley guy.

"No," agreed Katrina.

The memory dimmed, and she read more of the article.

"Seeds," thought Katrina as the gate started to swing shut.

She jumped up in a great panic. "The dust was seeds, the dust was seeds!" she yelled at the top of her lungs.

The gate in her mind locked.

All the other passengers were staring at her. She no longer had any idea what that phrase meant either.

Six Months Later.

"So, it's like ecstasy?" asked Georgia.

Lara glanced from the road long enough to devilishly smile at her friend. The two had taken drugs before but none of the more exotic, harder substances, into which category the four pills in Georgia's hands indisputably fell.

Lara turned back to the road (much to Georgia's relief). "Yes, like ecstasy," she reaffirmed.

Lara overtook a tourist coach, nearly going up on two wheels, before adding, teasingly, "But better."

After more banter, Lara eventually divulged the name of the drug they were about to imbibe.

Georgia had heard of it. Six months back, a black, hitherto unknown, flower had grown up overnight across much of the state of WA, a flower whose petals only opened at night. While the government moved swiftly to eradicate it, claiming it was a menace, swifter, enterprising souls had already picked several samples, which were then disseminated and propagated across the globe. It wasn't long before the drug-curious began experimenting with its hallucinogenic qualities. Because governments had universally gone all puritanical once more, reinstating drugs' status as illegal, manufacturing and refining of it was undertaken in sheds (it didn't need the usual glasshouse) where its potency had been heightened to a dizzying agree.

Yes, Georgia had certainly heard of it.

She looked at the tell-tale indentation on the round pills she was holding in her lap: paw- prints.

Sleeping Dog.

#  
#

Rat Bastard

### John Cassian

### PART ONE

Until I had my son, Michael, I'd been alone my entire life. No family to speak of. Very few friends. That's why it felt so strange when this man—John—came into my life suddenly, and quite literally swept me off my feet. He wasn't anything like me, but that was one of the things I could love about him. Yes, _love_ ; no matter how much I wanted to deny it, I loved him. But I didn't know if I wanted to _marry_ him. I didn't know if I could be forever chained to another person. It was different than with my son. I _had_ to be there for my son, because without me, there wouldn't be anyone to take care of Michael. And I didn't want him to end up like me; alone. I wanted the best for him.

That's why, when I met John Mauritanius, I suddenly saw a brighter future in front of me; a brighter future for myself as well as my son. Michael was already fifteen; just about a man. So I wasn't exactly looking for another man in my life. That's why it was so unexpected when John—this well-off, mild-mannered, soft-spoken, kind-soul of a man—walked up to me one day and asked if I needed an umbrella. It was pouring rain and I was using an old newspaper to cover my head as I ran to my car. It was such an unexpected act of kindness—in today's world of cell phone-gazers, people always caught up in their own bullshit—that I couldn't say no. After all, I didn't want to get drenched, and he genuinely seemed nice. So John helped me to my car, and we ended up talking for what felt like forever in the rain. It had been so long since I had _talked_ to anyone; a real-life, adult conversation. After so many years of raising Michael and being stuck in Kiddy-Talk Land, it felt so good, so _refreshing_ to talk to another person; to have a real conversation that was about me, the me that I was before having a child—not that I didn't talk to people at work, but that was different. That was perfunctory. This was meaningful. This was talking because I _wanted_ to.

John and I dated for about two months before he told me he loved me. And those three words immediately put me on edge. _What did he want?_ I wondered. Was he some sort of psycho killer out to get me? Things didn't work like this in life; at least, not for me; at least not in _my_ life. It was never this easy. I'd never just met someone and hit it off and had them tell me they loved me. It was all moving so fast, like a whirlwind. God, I felt like such a lame-ass _girl_ thinking about love's whirlwind. Was there anything more trite to say? But still, I told John I loved him back, and I meant it. I really meant it.

I just didn't know if I wanted him in my house, in my _life_ , forever. After being alone for so long, it was a truly frightening proposition to let someone in. There was a great vulnerability in it. And if there was one thing I _wasn't_ , it was vulnerable. I took care of myself, and Michael. That was my job. My money-job was secondary. Taking care of Michael and myself: that was my number one priority—no matter how trying it got. But now John wanted to help take care of us _both_. And it seemed way too good to be true.

I started getting downright scared when John began dropping hints about marriage. Living together was one thing—and I hadn't even said yes to that yet—but marriage was doubly terrifying. I felt like I couldn't breathe. It was all moving so fast. I told John I needed to think about it. And he told me that he wouldn't pressure me: he wouldn't propose until we had talked about it enough that we both agreed it was the right thing to do. Again, this put me on edge: wasn't a man supposed to surprise me and propose out of the blue, so that I wouldn't have any choice but to say yes? No, John laughed at me; that may have been how things were done fifty years ago, but today men and women talked about things beforehand—if for no other reason than that no man wanted the shame of proposing to a woman and getting shot down.

So we talked. And talked. And talked. And it seemed more and more like the right thing to do—which scared me even more. That's when I told John I needed more time, and that, as a test, I needed him to look after Michael for a week while I went to clear my head. I had heard for some time about the nearly uninhabited islands off the coast of Thailand. They looked beautiful to me, and _empty_. There were stories of animals and driftwood finding their way to those islands from thousands of miles away; directionless flotsam finding a new home. In some ways, that made the islands even more appealing to me: uninhabited but for accidental tourists. I felt like an accidental tourist myself; having been so caught up in childcare for so long that only now could I finally get a brief moment to myself. But more than anything, the thrill of adventure—of going out on my own, into the unknown; to explore; to get in some precious me-time and to escape mommydom for one small moment—led me onward. It would be the perfect way to escape from the world—from Michael, from John; the perfect way to clear my head and make my decision.

So I took the plunge. I left Michael with John. I flew to Bangkok, and from there to Phuket; then took a ferry out to one of those James Bond islands. I chose the most secluded one I could find. We passed Khao Phing Kan, famous from _The Man with the Golden Gun_ , and kept going. After leaving KPK, as the captain called it, I was the only passenger left on the boat. It was just me, the captain, and one sailor. Both the captain and the sailor looked at me like I was crazy—as I kept urging them on towards the unnamed island another five miles away.

My heart was pounding. It felt like such an adventure. My head was already clearer. Part of me wanted Michael and John there with me, by my side. I felt like my mind and heart were making my marriage decision for me, which was a good thing; it was exactly what I had wanted to happen.

As we approached the island, a deep fog set in. The captain and his sailor both grew disturbed by the fog. They seemed to get more and more agitated, even though the dark green vegetation of the island was visible—if barely— through the fog. The captain told me that we should head back; that I should visit KPK like all the other tourists. I told him no, I wanted to go _there_ —pointing at the secluded island. The captain hesitated a long moment before telling me several rumors about the island and its accidental tourists: apparently, the island was inhabited by otherworldly, half-demon creatures. I laughed out loud, and told the captain I could handle some jungle cats—though, secretly, I knew I'd be totally fucked if anything bigger than a house cat came after me. I was tough, but I was only 5' 2". The captain assured me that there were no large animals on the island—no jungle cats, no crocodiles—but that the natives stayed as far away from the island as they could, _especially_ on foggy days. I laughed and asked the captain if ghost animals were going to attack me. He looked at me stone-faced, probably thinking that I was a crazy white girl with a death wish. And maybe I was, because all this talk of danger and supernatural threats had gotten my blood pumping.

"Look," I told the captain, "come back for me in two days, and I'll pay you double what we agreed on, okay?"

Warily, the captain took my down payment, and brought the ferry towards the rocky shore of the unnamed island. He asked me again if I wanted to turn back, but I told him no; I would go on. Just before I stepped onto shore, the captain screamed for me to wait. I turned around, and saw him waving incense and Buddhist prayer materials at me. He swirled the incense around my head several times, reciting a prayer, and told me that he was praying for my protection from evil spirits.

I thanked him, then hopped out onto shore. I took a deep breath of the thick, humid air. It felt good, especially compared to the cold mugginess of my Pacific Northwest home. I looked back and saw the ferry slipping into a bank of fog; and I felt very alone. And it felt good. No distractions. No one to bother me. Just two days to myself. I could run free, explore, clear my head. And, when the two days were up, hopefully my decision would be made.

I looked up at the rocky peak two thousand feet above me. Black birds circled ominously around it, swooping in towards small animals on the east face—and then fighting over the carrion.

There wasn't much beach before me. It was rocky and difficult terrain, with thick vegetation starting about thirty feet from the water. Everything was damp; littered with stone. I heard a _squawk_ and saw a flight of bats taking off from an evergreen—flying into the fog the direction the ferry had disappeared.

I took out my map. It was a very rudimentary map that I had gotten from the tourism office in Phuket, but it had the basics. I hadn't really surveyed it until now, and found to my surprise that the map was littered with Buddhist symbols of death and warning. The locals really _were_ superstitious of this island. There appeared to be a name written on the map in Thai, even though I had been told that the island had no name. I took out my Thai phrase book and found that the words read "Island Not to be Named." So it wasn't that the island had no name; it was that it was not _to be_ named. I started wondering whether I'd made a horrible mistake coming here, when I felt something slithering on my foot. Looking down, I saw a gigantic black rat with beady red eyes crawling over my toes. I screamed, and kicked it off. The rat went flying into the water, but was an adept swimmer and immediately doggy-paddled back to shore— eyeing me with dark malice. _Great_ , I thought. _I fucking hate rats_.

Picking a direction that I thought would lead me on the quickest route to the base of the rocky peak, I headed off into the humid forest. It seemed preternaturally dark. The fog and mist should have refracted the sunlight, spilling it in all directions—but instead the fog masked the sunlight completely. A chill ran through my spine, but I shook it off and trudged onward. I could see a patch of sunlight on the mountain ahead, and figured that that would be my goal for now.

But I froze when I heard a _growling_ noise to my right: like a large animal breathing, panting, sizing me up. I looked that way, but saw nothing. I was just turning back towards the sunny patch when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large shadow like an alligator moving low to the ground. My eyes went wide and, without another thought, I took off running towards the sunny patch. I looked back, but the shadow was nowhere to be seen.

I was just letting out a sigh of relief when the clouds above me rumbled, and the sky darkened. The sunny patch disappeared as the shadows of clouds covered it, and my heart fell in my chest. I looked back, but luckily the shadowy _thing_ was still nowhere to be seen. I couldn't shake the feeling, though, that I was being hunted—by whatever that thing was. I remembered the animals who'd floated their way to this island from all over the world, and I remembered what the captain had told me about half-demon creatures. The captain's stories sounded like a wendigo, the Algonquian legend from back home about half-human, half-demon creatures that fed on human flesh. Maybe the animals that'd found their way to this island had turned into wendigos. _Okay, now I'm just psyching myself out_ , I thought. I found a small boulder protruding from the underbrush, and scurried up it. I had a good vantage point from up there, so I could see any wendigos— _ha!_ —in the woods. I looked all around, but I saw only mist and trees and rock.

I realized I was panting, almost hyperventilating. So I took a sip of water from my canteen. With shaky fingers, I opened up a granola bar from my pack and took a reassuring bite. But just as I was taking a second bite, I heard that animalistic panting again—like some _huge_ beast was right behind me.

I turned around, and saw the large shadow backing away from my boulder and into the forest. _What the fuck is that?_ I thought. _What the fuck?_ I was shaking, and dropped my granola onto the rock.

Two large black rats scurried up onto my boulder. I screamed like a little girl, jumped off the rock, and started running as the rats— apparently satisfied—feasted on my granola bar. The only thought going through my head was what a bad idea it had been to come here; how I should have listened to the captain; how I shouldn't have been afraid to marry John. But those thoughts—obviously—didn't soothe me as I ran towards God knows where.

I kept hearing the growling noise behind me as I ran, but now I was unsure if I was really hearing it or if it was in my head. Either way, it was making me queasy. Between the exhaustion, the fear, the humidity, those beady-eyed rats with their foaming mouths, and that strange creeping shadow which I was sure must have been the source of the growling noise, I was not in a good way. In fact, I wanted to get off the Island Not to be Named as fast as I fucking could. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , I cursed myself, my own stubbornness. _Well, you got yourself into an adventure now, bitch_. Some fucking adventure.

I paused a moment in a clearing. It was cooler in that clearing, but I wasn't sure why. I looked around and there didn't seem to be any animals—no rats, no birds, no bats, no weird shadows. In fact, the clearing seemed to be devoid of all life— _and_ all sound. Up till then, I had heard a constant background hum of insects and animals and the rustling of plants. But now, in the clearing, everything seemed to be still. Silent. Waiting. Watching.

I shivered, and got out my smartphone. It was satellite-equipped and should have been able to reach out and touch someone from anywhere on the planet—"should have been" being the key operative, because I was getting no signal. It wasn't a surprise that there was no cell signal, but my phone should have been able to reach the satellite. I held my phone aloft, vainly aiming in the direction I imagined the satellite to be. Maybe the cloudy, misty sky was preventing a signal from reaching me. _Or maybe I drank the Kool-Aid when that salesman told me about this phone's amazing satellite capabilities. Fuckin' a..._

My breath caught in my throat all of a sudden, as a horrific stench filled my nostrils. I couldn't describe it as anything other than death; pure death. And it didn't "smell like death" the way some dumb Valley Girl would describe a perfume she didn't like. It smelled like real, honest to God, _death_. I didn't know how I knew the smell was death, but I was certain, to the core of my being, that I was smelling rotting, putrefied _death_.

A thin breeze cut through the trees just then. The silence that had surrounded me was sliced apart. The trees began rustling a ghostly chorus, and for a moment I thought I heard a shrill voice crying out for me to run. It must have been the voice of my mind, yet I didn't heed it. I stood frozen still, staring at the rustling leaves and brush—until I heard the _growl_ again, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I turned slowly to my left and saw that menacing, ghostly shadow crawling out of the dark underbrush of the forest—slithering towards me. It couldn't have been larger than a man, but a crawling man, writhing, made up of smaller shapes—and wreathed in shadows. My mind was playing tricks on me. I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, but the guttural growling intensified as the shape approached. I saw little pinpoints of light in the shadowy shape. Dozens of pinpoints, always in pairs.

Suddenly, the shadow became clear to me as it crystallized into its component parts. It was a large swarm of rats—big, black rats with sharp red eyes—moving as a pack. Sensing my fear, they broke from their collective shape and charged me individually.

My legs felt like Jell-O but finally found the will to move. So I turned and ran. But almost immediately, my legs fell out from underneath me—and a sharp dagger thrust itself up through my shoulder. I cried out in pain, and looked around. I had fallen into a hunter's pit lined with razor sharp bamboo stakes. To my right I could see the carcass of a small dog-like creature impaled on a stake, and on the ground were hundreds of animal skeletons. The smell of putrefied flesh thickened the air around me, belying any thought of quick rescue by returning hunters.

As I looked up to the top of the pit, a good ten feet above me, the deepest fears sank in. The swarm of rats threw themselves one by one into the pit, like pieces of cereal pouring into a bowl. I cried out, and tried to writhe away from them, but the bamboo stake through my shoulder prevented me from moving much. One rat landed right on my leg. I tried to kick it off me, but it bit down into my thigh, with white foam around its mouth. _Rabies_ , I thought, realizing how incredibly fucked I was. I violently twisted away from the rats raining down upon me, and, as I broke free from one stake, my hand and thigh ended up impaled on two more bamboo stakes. I cried out, realizing I was only making my predicament worse; I was ensuring that I would die all that much quicker. Part of me wanted to die right away, rather than get chewed apart by rats. But another part of me wanted to see my son again. And, yes, John too. I wanted to see both my boys. But how? I was going to die in this pit, I knew, as three rats began feasting on my left arm. I had a pang of guilt then, at how elated I'd been to be rid of childcare duties for the duration of my trip. I knew Michael knew how much I wanted my own life. He knew how much I sacrificed for him. And he knew that I still wanted more; I wanted a life to myself, like I had had before that rat bastard knocked me up at the Radiohead concert sixteen years ago. And as I watched three rats chewing flesh off my arm, I felt more guilty than I'd ever felt in my life. I had been happy to leave Michael behind and take my trip to Thailand alone. I had been happy to leave my son behind. I had been happy to get one moment where I could let go of all responsibility—and this was my reward.

A rat fell right on my head, and began chewing through my hair to get to my scalp. I shook my head from side to side, but the rat was latched on tightly. And as I writhed like an epileptic, pushing the bamboo stakes further through my body, an odd chill went through me. It wasn't an evil chill, but a coolness like a glass of cold lemonade on a hot summer's day. I felt my mind slowing down, as I took in my situation with detachment. I began to see bright whiteness around me, and I began to feel better about my predicament. And, swimming in that oddly warm-but-cool sensation, I passed out.

* * *

I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up—still in that hunter's pit, with rats all over me—I had a raging fever. I was also delirious, and hungry— _famished_ like I'd never eaten before in my life. I must have been out for hours; maybe days. I was soaking wet from sweat and mud; and my body was on fire from fever and the bamboo stakes impaling me and the rats boring holes into me from every angle. My immune system was fighting its hardest, but it clearly wasn't enough.

I looked down at myself, and my body felt suddenly light, like an angelic white light were lifting me up. _Am I dead?_ I wondered. _Is this what death feels like?_ But the dull aching in my body belied that thought. I could see I had a lot more rat bites now—all over me. Yet for some reason the thought of more rat bites soothed me rather than destroying whatever ounce of courage I had left. Somehow, the thought of the rats made me feel better. I must have been delirious, I thought, but that angelic white light seemed to lift my spirits and make my body feel light as a feather.

As I looked at the rats crawling over me— wriggling and feasting like an Orwellian nightmare—a sudden and inexplicable thought struck me; and I couldn't shake it. My fear had receded while I was unconscious. Those hours or days I'd been in that pit had filled me with courage—and another feeling altogether. I realized, although I didn't know why, that the rats were not there to consume me; they were there to recruit me. They wanted me to become like them; to join their pack; to hunt; to roam free with them; as one of them.

I spat a mouthful of white foam out of my mouth, as a rat walked up my body and sat perched on my chest, looking at me with red eyes. Somehow, I felt I could read his mind. The rat wanted me to take his power, so that I could see what he saw; know what he had done; become what he had been. And in that moment I knew what I had to do. My mouth foaming white with sickness, I thrust my head forward and caught the rat in my mouth. He wriggled, but I clamped down—hard—biting his head off. He tasted wonderful. I felt the blood and the brains congealing on their way down my esophagus. And I saw a vision of the rat's life. An accidental tourist, he had floated to the island on a bed of palm fronds. He had hunted on his own before joining the pack. And, once he had joined the pack, his life had never been the same. He had become part of something. He was no longer One. He was One of Many. He _was_ the shadow in the night; the growling in the wind that haunted the Island Not to be Named.

I smiled, my mouth full of blood and white foam, as my rat brethren bit into me from all angles. I felt I understood them now, even as one of them began burrowing a hole into my abdomen to gorge on my intestines. I didn't blame him. He was only feeding; he was only being One of Many. And no One could resist the will of the group.

With a _crack_ , I broke my hand free from the bamboo stake in it. My arm felt strangely light, and flapped oddly, almost like a paw. It was probably broken, but that didn't bother me. I felt pain no longer. I felt only joy at being part of the Many. I tore myself free of all the bamboo stakes impaling me, and the rats fell off me one by one. They stood still on the ground beneath me, looking up at me; accepting me as part of their pack. And I accepted them as part of mine.

I felt a deep hunger, and I ate one more rat. He did not struggle as I ate him. He accepted his fate. But still I was not sated.

I heard a thin voice, a voice I had heard before. It said, "Run." I looked over and saw that there was another person caught in the bamboo hunter's trap. It was a man, impaled by four separate stakes. He looked like he had been there for days. He was half dead. And I remembered, then, his voice telling me to run before I had fallen into the pit. Yet I felt no pity for him now. I felt no humanly brotherhood. I saw only my next meal. I was so hungry. Hungrier than I'd ever been in my life. It was truly remarkable, the hunger I felt.

I looked down at my rat pack, and then over to the man. And, as if we had exchanged unspoken words, the pack and I pounced on the man and began tearing his flesh with our teeth. It was joyous, hearing his screams as we consumed him, as we took his power from him. My foaming mouth chewed and slurped and shared flesh with my pack, and I felt more togetherness than I'd ever felt in my life.

That angelic white-black light began to fade into my vision once more. It was hard to describe, both white and black at once. It felt blissful, warm and cool, black and white, like I was finally seeing the world as it was meant to be seen; seeing the world through the eyes I was meant to see it through.

The next thing I knew, I was running with the pack. I was moving faster than I'd ever moved in my life. The wind was whipping past me as the rats and I ran through the tunnels joining the hunter's pits in the forest. The rats swarmed around me like I was their queen. And it felt good, to be part of something like that. We exited the tunnel and ran free through the forest for miles and miles, it seemed, until we came upon a lagoon. I had a sudden terror at the thought of jumping into the water, but when I saw my rat brethren jump in, I took the plunge.

The salt water stung my wounds, but some part of my formerly human brain remembered that salt would disinfect the wounds. My broken limbs were having trouble swimming, and I was terrified at being in the water—even though I had always been a strong swimmer in my former life—but my rat pack swarmed around me like furry floatation devices, letting me float with them towards the shore.

We got out of the water and shook the moisture from our hides. And immediately the pack was on the move once more. There was a small dog-like creature digging a hole in the distance. I narrowed my eyes at the creature and ran with my pack towards it with all speed, growling and spitting and foaming at the mouth. My brethren reached the dog first. It whimpered as they bit at it, then cowered from my hulking form as I jumped on it and bit into its neck, feeling the joyously steaming blood flowing down my face.

### PART TWO

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," I said as I got onto that ferryboat. "I need to find my mother." It had been two weeks since my mom disappeared on an island off the coast of Thailand. John and I had been worried sick. She was only supposed to be gone for a week, and we'd of course heard the stories about Thailand; about human trafficking and kidnappings for ransom. Part of me was hoping that my mom had simply gone under the radar; that she'd finally taken the time to be herself, to serve her own needs. All my life she had been devoted to me, but I knew that she wanted a life of her own; a life that I was depriving her of. That's why I was happy when she met John. I didn't love the guy, but he was all right. And more than anything, he made my mom happy. He always seemed like kind of a wuss, though. Mom and I were outdoors people, adventurers. John was a boardroom-type. A rich kid. They didn't seem like a good match to me, but what did I know? I'd only had one girlfriend up to that point in my life, and it didn't exactly go well; we never had sex, and she ended up cheating on me with someone who wasn't afraid to go all the way.

Looking at John on that ferryboat, though, I had to admit that he'd come prepared. He knew he wasn't an outdoorsman, so he'd brought along three security agents from his company. They were former military contractors who weren't afraid of anything: the perfect foils to prissy-boy John in his Gucci camo gear.

We had already gone through three different ferry boat operators who refused to help us before we found one who would take us to the island my mother had disappeared on. At first, even the fourth ferry boat captain wanted nothing to do with us, until he looked at me oddly, like he recognized me. I asked him if he did, since I'd always been told that I looked like my mother, and he grew very solemn, very apologetic. I asked him what he knew about my mother, and he told me that he had dropped her off on the Island Not to be Named two weeks ago. He came back two days later to pick her up, as per her orders, but she was nowhere to be seen. He and his crewman had hopped onto shore and looked for her, calling out her name, but the evil spirits on the island had chased them away. I almost punched the captain in the face when he mentioned "evil spirits." That fucker had left my mom to die because he was afraid of some ghosts? But the look on the captain's face prevented me from doing anything rash. He was genuinely terrified; convinced that the spirits had taken my mom. I asked him why he didn't do more to rescue her, and he told me that he had contacted the tourism board and the U.S. Embassy, but that that was all he could do. I believed him, because it was pretty plain by his wardrobe that he was a simple man who only made a few measly dollars a day. We were paying him good money—as my mom had—so he had no reason to lie to us.

I told him that he could make it up to us by taking us to the island. He was hesitant, but apologetic and promised to help find my mother. We set sail before dawn, because we wanted to get in as many daylight search hours as possible.

It only took us two hours to pass James Bond Island and get to the Island Not to be Named. But a strange thing happened as we approached the island. A deep fog began to set in. It had been a bright, sunny day up till that point, but the closer we got to the island, the deeper the fog set in. It was dark as dusk when we reached the island, though it wasn't even 9 a.m. yet. The captain let us off at shore, and we instructed him to wait for us. He said he would anchor just off shore—far enough that the spirits couldn't reach him. We didn't argue the point, and let him bless us with some sort of Buddhist ritual. One of John's soldier bodyguards, Lorton, told the captain that we'd set off a flare when we were ready to be picked up. The captain agreed, then piloted his boat into the fogbank and dropped anchor out of sight.

The island was kind of spooky in the fog and drear. It made my stomach fall thinking that my mom had disappeared on a place like this; that she might have died on a place like this. Gone from my mind was the thought that she had disappeared to make a better life for herself. The captain's fear and recognition of me had confirmed that she'd definitely come here; and had definitely not left here—at least not with him. And, from the look of the place, it wasn't exactly easy to get off this island without help.

Lorton, the lead bodyguard, told us that we were going to do a grid search of the island. So, machetes in hand, we hacked our way through vegetation left and right, searching for any sign of my mom.

We'd been searching for over an hour when I felt a weird chill in my spine. At the same moment, John, Lorton and the other two bodyguards looked over in the direction of a weird _growling_ noise. The soldiers dropped into a military crouch. I awkwardly tried to imitate, but realized it was a lot easier to crouch and observe in _Call of Duty_ than in real life. We all eyed the dense, misty forest for the source of the growl, but we saw nothing.

Lorton motioned for us to continue, but just as I was turning back I saw an odd shadow disappear into the brush.

"John!" I cried.

He asked me what I'd seen, and I told him I wasn't sure; it seemed like a shadow. Something big. Lorton was not pleased to hear this, so his men got out two long poles with rope loops on the ends of them—the kind you use to catch wild animals.

Machetes and catchpoles in hand, we continued our grid search, coming upon a large boulder protruding through the vegetation. John cried out and ran towards it, picking up a granola bar wrapper fallen by its base. It was my mother's favorite brand of granola bar. Lorton, though, was not happy when he saw the white, foamy marks on top of the boulder. I asked him what the marks meant, but he wouldn't answer. I asked John to order him to tell us, but John said that we had to trust Lorton; he had finished two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, and knew what he was doing.

We all heard the deep growling noise again and looked over. This time, we all saw the shadowy shape. Lorton held out his catchpole and moved towards it, but, inexplicably, the shadow melted away into the brush and disappeared. "... the fuck?" I heard Lorton mutter.

He was much more on-edge as we continued our search; his head on a swivel, always on the lookout. We came upon an odd clearing, and that was when we saw the hunter's pit. Reeking of rotted flesh, it was ten or fifteen feet deep, and lined with bamboo stakes. The stakes were covered in blood, and there was a man's body parts scattered among the corpses of dogs and other wild beasts.

I cried out, pointing. I saw a scrap of bright teal cloth, bloodied and hanging from a stake in the pit. Teal was my mom's favorite color, and she really liked wearing a teal tank top when she worked out back home.

I tried to reach down into the pit to grab it, but John held me back, telling me that we couldn't be sure it was my mom's shirt. But I had tears in my eyes. She had been in that pit. _I_ was sure of it, even if John wasn't. _But where the fuck did she go?_ I thought, looking from the scrap of teal cloth to the half-eaten man's corpse. "I think I'm gonna be..." I couldn't finish the words, and I vomited all over the ground. The thought of my mother getting eaten alive in that pit was more horrific than I could possibly imagine.

I heard a ghastly scream and looked over to see one of the soldiers on the ground, with a gigantic black rat biting his eyeball out. My eyes went wide. Lorton took a swing at the rat with his machete and sliced the critter in half. The soldier was screaming, "Get it off, get it off," so Lorton grabbed the rat's head—still attached to his friend's face—and gently pulled it off. Almost as soon as he did, he dropped the rat head on the ground in horror—recoiling. He saw the same white foamy material on his friend's face, imbuing the bite marks.

"We need to get out of here—now," Lorton said.

"But what about—?" I started, but Lorton cut me off with a look.

Lorton wrapped a hasty bandage around his comrade's eye, and looped his arm over his neck. The other soldier took point, and handed me the wounded soldier's machete—which was only just in time, because a red-eyed rat lunged right at me. I swatted it away with my machete, but it landed on its feet and came back at me. Swinging recklessly, I finally sliced into the rat—and he ran scurrying off.

But my eyes widened as I looked behind me and saw a gigantic swarm of big black rats following us—and in their center a crawling shadowy form that I couldn't make out. It was big, not quite as big as an alligator, but it was moving like one—with the pack of black rats surrounding it like an entourage. "Oh my God!" I said, and everyone else looked back—seeing the pack. But my eyes were focused on the central beast, the shadowy form coming straight at me. The way it moved reminded me of something, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. It was almost like—

"Run!" Lorton called, and so we all ran as the swarm of rats came closer. Lorton took out the flare gun and shot it into the sky. God willing, the boat captain would head to shore the moment he saw it.

John cried out as a rat bit into his leg. He punched the rat off him, and limped onwards.

We reached the shore—but the boat was nowhere to be seen! We turned back towards the forest, and saw the swarm of rats—and the huge monster in the center of the pack—exiting the forest towards us. I remembered what the monstrous shape had reminded me of: a game that my mother and I used to play. We'd pretend to be bulls, down on all fours, galloping around like longhorns in a rodeo. A chill went through my spine, as I had the strangest thought. _What if, somehow, that's mom, telling me that she's found her peace; she's found her new life; and it's okay for me to move on without her?_ It was such a strange thought I shook it from my mind—but it kept coming back. I was convinced that, somehow, my mother was trying to tell me something.

"Here," Lorton said, handing me the wounded soldier. The man leaned heavily on me, as I backed slowly into the water. I looked behind me, but still saw no boat. _Where is that fucking captain?_

Lorton and the other soldier slashed left and right with their machetes, slicing rats apart with each blow. For a moment, the rats retreated, but the huge shadowy monster in their midst kept coming forward—its mouth foaming. My eyes were firmly on the monster as Lorton and his comrade grabbed their catchpoles and lured the snarling, mud-covered beast towards the surf. It seemed to recoil from the water, and in that moment they looped the two catchpoles around its neck. "Rabid beasts can't stand water. It drives 'em crazy," Lorton said, maneuvering his catchpole so that he and his comrade could drag the beast into the water.

The beast thrashed and writhed, screaming in pain and fear, and part of me felt sorry for it. My amazement grew as the mud cleared off the creature's body, and I saw that it was human. A crawling woman. Wearing half of a teal tank top. One of her breasts was eaten away. She had compound fractures in one arm and one leg, plus three huge gouges in her body—two of which still had pieces of bamboo sticking out of them. And she stank to high heaven, even in the water. Gangrenous green flesh oozed puss from every wound. Dozens upon dozens of rat bites lined her body. Her hair was half missing. Her mouth was foaming white, with shattered, bloody teeth. And her eyes were red and filled with malice.

"M-mom?" I cried out; incredulous. She looked like a fucking zombie, and— remembering the term Lorton had used, "rabid beast"—I recalled a behind-the-scenes clip I'd seen on a TV show about zombies, talking about how rabies was the historical basis for most zombie-like behavior. I just never thought I'd see it in real life.

"Mom!" I yelled again, trying to get her attention, hoping against hope that she was trying to tell me something; that she was all right. But she didn't hear me, her mind so filled with rabid hunger and hatred and fear of the water. She thrashed and whelped like a beast, twisting and writhing to escape the catchpoles.

"Let her go!" I yelled to Lorton, who shook his head.

"She's too far gone. There's nothing we can do."

"She's my mom! We've got to get her to a hospital!"

"There's no cure for rabies when they're this far gone. She'll be dead in hours."

Suddenly, Lorton screamed in pain. Several black rats had snuck up on him and leapt onto his back, biting his spine and shoulders. He dropped his catchpole as he tried to get them off him.

Now held by only one catchpole, my mother thrashed and pulled the other soldier towards her with his catchpole. And that was the moment I knew she was completely gone, because she bit directly into the soldier's neck, pulling out his carotid artery amidst a huge geyser of blood.

Lorton lunged at her, but she swung her compound-fractured forearm into him, stabbing him with her broken bone.

More rats poured into the water, drawn by the scent of blood.

I screamed, wielding my machete at the rats. But I didn't realize I'd let go of the soldier I was supporting. He fell into the water—swarmed by rats—as I backed further into the surf.

I looked all around me. John was swimming out into the foggy ocean to escape the rats, while all three of the soldiers were being eaten alive by either rats or my mother. And I was just standing there terrified, my machete drooping in my hand.

And still, the boat was nowhere to be seen.

Then my mother turned her beady red eyes towards me. And my stomach fell. _What's she going to do?_ I wondered. What could _I_ do against her?

I heard John screaming in pain, but I couldn't pull my eyes away from my mother to see if he was all right. My mom was coming right at me.

"Mom, please! You're sick. We need to get you to a hospital!"

Still, she kept coming.

I was shaking, holding up my machete with trembling fingers. "Please! It's me! It's Michael!"

She lunged at me, and I kicked her away. She bit at my sneaker, so I pushed her off me with my foot. She lunged again, and I held her at bay with my outstretched foot. I saw a golden pendant dangling from her neck. It was heart- shaped, with a small—now blood-soaked— picture of me and her, smiling for the camera.

"Please, mom! Please! It's me!"

But she kept snarling and snapping her teeth at me.

My foot—holding her back—started to weaken under her weight. My knee trembled. She was getting closer and closer, inch-by-inch. The gangrenous stench alone threatened to bowl me over.

Finally my knee buckled and my mother bit at me to tear my face off. I lunged my head back just in time, and kicked her once more. Breathing short, shallow breaths, I held up my machete like a baseball bat, whimpering, "P-please!" But when my mother pounced at me for the last time, I hesitantly swung the machete at her neck. And with a sickening _thwop_ , the machete cut halfway through her throat; and her head dangled half off her shoulders as she plopped into the foaming water in a fleshy pile—splashing up frothy blood.

Panting, I looked at the carnage all around me. Rats were eating the soldiers. John was floating out in the water, and—holy shit!—I suddenly saw the boat appear out of the fog! _Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!_ "Hey!" I screamed, waving both arms frantically at the captain, whose eyes were filled with horror seeing the bloodbath before him.

But my cries must have alerted the rats as well, since they started swimming towards me _en masse_. Terrified, I dropped my machete and swam as fast as I could towards John. When I reached him, I said, "John!" But he didn't respond. I turned his body and saw that his neck had been completely eaten away by a rat nestled under his Gucci camo gear—munching away at his esophagus.

Reeling back, I swam for the boat as fast as I could. The captain helped me onto the boat, then sailed away without another word. I sat on that boat, catching my breath, wondering what the fuck had just happened—as huge black rats swam after us.

#  
#

Chopin & Slacks

### L. K. Evans

I really despise the overused saying, "cats have nine lives." What some see as miracles of survival are simply a cat's genius mind at work, or our will to live on so we can torment whatever has irritated us. One does not die and voilà! come back to life. I know this from experience as I've seen many cats get hit by a car, and guess what? Yeah, they stayed dead. Those were the stupid ones. The smart ones—like myself—know how to avoid such messes. Luck might have something to do with it as well.

The pound is not a pleasant home for a cat. The smells, the sharp barking of dogs, the wailing of other cats, and the occasional visiting stranger makes for a stressful environment. I had been there for some time with none showing interest in me. I am, after all, not a kitten nor one of those long-haired prissy things. I'm a brown tabby with a crooked tail and many ideas on how to properly pet a cat. My former humans found my... education less than tolerable. Over my lifetime, I've been "gifted" to eleven others and have yet to find one worthy of my company. I don't purr for just anyone.

The young morning sun was nearly ready to cast its rays upon my cage when a man blocked the view. I knew him well. Any cat he took never came back.

His heavily gloved hand reached for me and I swatted and bit, but my teeth found no soft meat. Despite my growling and hissing, he bravely hauled me from my cage, shoved me in a carrier, and trekked to a new room—one I'd never seen before.

The next thing I remember was a steel table being terribly cold against my scant belly fur. Two women occupied the simple room and neither seemed bothered by the fact my life was in danger. The base of my neck was balled in Woman One's fists while Woman Two's wrangled my legs together. Woman One held a syringe with a ridiculously long needle. I made every horrendous noise I could and would like to think I emulated a dying horse rather well, for it was then I realized it was the women who murdered, not the man—he was nowhere in sight.

One of my former humans—Harriot—had deemed it necessary to remove my front claws after I'd stripped her house bare of curtains. In my defense, cats do like to sunbathe and how can we when you've blocked all the sun? My handicap proved my demise. While my back claws were working overtime, my front had no defense and the witch was artful in avoiding my fangs. The needle grew closer and I spat viciously.

Brenden, another former owner, was fascinated with movies. That's all he did. He sat his fat ass in an oversized chair, always with some sort of food in his hands, and watched movies. I gained a wealth of knowledge watching those and I dare say I know more than most cats. Matter of fact, when the lazy slob dropped his sandwich, clutched his chest, and turned the color of a beet, I knew he was having a heart attack. I'd seen it several times in those movies. I watched him moaning and groaning and wished he'd get on with it. When he finally died in that brown oversized chair, I got my first taste of sliced turkey and a lovely white cheese with holes.

My point is, Brenden watched a few movies that displayed animals in the hands of wretched people with needles that looked remarkably like the one heading for the back of my neck. Needless to say, I struggled harder.

The door flung open. All three of us whipped our heads around to stare at the person who'd ended all our fun. It was the man, smiling kindly at me.

"Someone wants him," he said.

"I didn't know there had been visitors today," Woman One said.

"There hasn't. Guy came in and asked for the next cat that was set to be put down. He didn't want to meet it. Just said he wanted to save it."

"Idiot doesn't know what he's getting into. This thing isn't adoptable."

"He donated five hundred dollars and the boss agreed. Hand over the cat."

I was shoved into a carrier where I continued my low growl as fair warning for any hands that might seek to violate me in such a confined space.

We passed through three doors before the sterile smell was replaced by sweet perfumes and a musty, office smell—you know, paper and ink, the burnt odor of an overworked printer, old coffee (Harriot loved the stuff). The sharp barking and high-pitched wails changed to the buzz of human conversation and the shuffling of papers.

See? Some would call my near death a product of cats' nine lives, but no, it was luck.

My carrier was set on the ground, and through the air holes I made out a pair of legs covered by what appeared to be freshly pressed, black slacks. There wasn't a spot of dirt on them nor a hint of animal hair. I was relieved to say the least. I don't care to share my home with others. Putting up with a human is punishment enough.

"You're all set, sir," a woman's shrill voice said. "Again, no refunds even if it doesn't work out. You can bring him back, though, and we'll try to find him a home."

"Thank you," a man said. His spoke in a soft baritone, enunciating his words instead of mumbling like Cheryl—one of my former humans—had done. I hate mumbling.

Lifting my carrier, Slacks bade one last farewell to Shrill Voice and walked out another set of doors. Blinding sunlight dappled the inside of my carrier and the fresh scent of trees and a dewy morning cleansed my nose of all the horrid odors of the pound.

I heard a single beep of an alarm and Slacks gently lowered my carrier on to the front seat of a car emitting a strong aroma of recently oiled leather. The whiz of a seatbelt ended with a click and my carrier was secured.

The door slammed closed and only a brief moment passed before another door opened. Leather squeaked and the door thudded shut. The engine hummed, and when it did, a most wonderful sound bloomed to life. It was music, of that I was certain. But it wasn't the dreadful thumping beat of the stuff Charlie listened to that shook the windows, nor was it some whiny woman's voice that Mary always played. Matter of fact, there was no voice. Only a deep, disquieting melody, broken by a slightly higher pitch sound from the same instrument. If only I knew then the foreboding feel of the song was appropriate for my new home.

"Beethoven," Slacks said. " _Sonata No. 14 in C- Sharp Minor. Moonlight Sonata..._ One of my favorites. I hope you don't mind the piano."

During the rather long ride, I eventually ceased my low growl as the melodious tunes soothed me to contented silence. Slacks didn't seem needy of my attention like other humans. No fingers intruded through the air holes, and he didn't coo comforting words. It was the most relaxing ride I'd ever endured.

Eventually we ended up on a road that I later learned had been dirt, which was why the smell of dust drifted through the vents. The ride was considerably bumpy for a time, but at long last we rolled to a stop.

Slacks sat for a moment, and then took in a deep breath. "Here we are."

He squeaked out of the leather seat and in no time, I was being carried towards a home that looked... well, homey. It was a cottage surrounded by woods as far as I could see. No other homes were near and not a single human scent besides Slacks' reached me.

The rustic brown stone was stacked like bricks and capped with tree-bark colored shingles dusted in a layer of pine needles. The landscaping had a natural feel, but clearly the cherry tree and rose bushes were not native to the woods and other hedges were trimmed a little too perfectly. Regardless, the home looked like something out of those story books Linda used to read, which I always found a delight to shred. Obviously, Linda the Story Lady was before Harriot the Declawer.

When Slacks opened the door, I was surprised by the contrast to the exterior. The furnishings were modern leathers, sleek designs in muted browns, matte black, and espresso wood. Striped pillows were as far as he ventured into the pattern world, and, apparently, Slacks didn't like color. Who am I to judge? Even with my limited view of colors it was much preferred to Harriot's obnoxious home done in every garish color imaginable. For such a tidy home, I thought the deep scratches on the dark wood floor seemed out of place.

Slacks took me through a few rooms and ended up in the laundry room where a fresh litterbox, bowl of water, and a half filled dish of food waited. Setting the carrier down, Slacks opened the door.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he said; not peering in, just squatting beside the carrier. "I've never had pets. I can only assume you're scared shitless and would rather stay in there. I'm fine with that. The house is yours; nothing is off limits."

With that, the man left.

I'm not sure how long I stayed in the carrier before my stupid curiosity got the better of me. And yes, the trite saying "curiosity killed the cat" is far more accurate than cats having nine lives.

Poking my head out, I saw the laundry room was the same as many others. Two massive machines and shelves stacked full of bottles. I sniffed the litterbox. Corn litter instead of clay. Environmentalist. Great, another Susy. The food didn't smell too bad. The water was sparkling clean.

With my belly close to the floor, I crept from room to room. I won't bore you with all the details of the tedious time I spent exploring. It wasn't much different than any other home. An office. A bathroom. Two bedrooms, one obviously used, the other not—too tidy. All were decorated much as the living room; muted colors, solid or striped fabrics.

When I entered the living room, Slacks was sitting on the couch with a short glass half filled with clear liquid. He looked up and a sad smile spread. Usually, I would be greeted by squeals of delight or words of encouragement. He said nothing.

There was nothing special about the man's appearance. He wasn't skinny like Charlie but he certainly wasn't fat like Greg. His hair was dark, his eyes darker. What wasn't like any others I'd been with was his somber face. I wondered if he had ever smiled wide enough to show teeth.

I finished exploring the kitchen and returned to stare at Slacks. He stared back. _Moonlight Sonata_ started playing. And we sat. And we stared.

The light had long faded from the sky outside the windows by the time Slacks seemed to shake from his trance. He glanced at me with another pathetic smile.

"We have twenty-six days. Let's make the most of them."

I feasted on salmon my first night. Milk for breakfast. A slice of turkey for lunch. Chicken for dinner. I must admit, Slacks fed me the best food I'd ever eaten. Sure, I had that dry shit, but it was only there in case I ever grew hungry beyond what Slacks provided. My days were spent lounging in the sunlight streaming through the window in his office where he spent much of his time. The room was lovely and warm and smelled of paper.

Occasionally, just to remind him I owned this home, I would get up in the middle of the night and knock a pen on the ground. I would chew a few corners of his books, spread out his papers, and tip over his unfinished glass of water. It wasn't long before he straightened his desk each night so nothing fun was left. He still hadn't attempted to corner or pet me. He never chased or tried to hold me. It was the best week of my life.

During that first week, he rarely left his home save for a few hours every couple of days. He had a definite routine, though; a nightly drink before dinner and then one before bed. He watched no TV and only listened to music without words. He'd stare for hours at nothing. All in all, he was depressing.

The second week, I decided to see how he was with attention. I was bored and in need of a soothing pet. I chose his time before bed when he sat on his couch with the glass of clear liquid. Jumping next to him, I took a sniff of the stuff in his glass. I flinched back, feeling as if it'd singed off my whiskers, and my eyes watered.

"Yeah, you don't want to smell that..." Slacks gave a sad chuckle. "I never named you. Sorry. If you don't mind, I'll go with Chopin."

I didn't care. What was a name to me? I'd had so many in my years.

I pressed the top of my head against his hand. He took the hint well, set aside the glass, and lightly ran his hand over my head. For a guy who never had a pet, he wasn't half bad. Not like Greg who plopped his hand down hard enough to make me flinch then rubbed the same spot over and over. Do you have any idea how infuriating that is? Try it sometime. Just rub your hand over the same spot on your arm and I guarantee you'll be biting something.

Slacks didn't stick to the same spot twice, and every time I flattened my ears in annoyance, he switched. He was a quick learner. As a reward, I crawled into his lap and curled up. His pause made me glance at him. His eyes had grown even more melancholy.

"I should take you back. It's not safe here. But damn, I'm tired of being alone."

I drifted to sleep without a second thought. No place is safe. Safety is an illusion fear generates to make its arrival all the more terrible.

The next few weeks went by with the same routine. I purred a few times which drew puzzled looks from Slacks, but managed to wrestle that sad smile out of him. It really was depressing. I must say, despite my usual dislike of people, Slacks was winning me over. I think it was his aloofness. He didn't bother me when I slept. He didn't give me the same boring food every day. He kept my litterbox remarkably clean. He moved my food into the kitchen instead of the same place I shit. It really was going swimmingly. That is, until the twenty- sixth day... or rather, night.

I could feel Slacks' trepidation building with every hour. He cast furtive glances out the window and his normal composed demeanor grew fidgety. I watched all this unfolding from my spot on the kitchen island. He was on the couch, glass in hand.

As the yellow hue faded from the sky, Slacks looked at me, eyes growing wide, chest heaving, and he whispered, "I'm sorry." His fists balled the cushion of the couch and his eyes bulged. "Run, Chopin!"

I was stupid enough not to listen. I gazed at him as though he was one of those aliens in the movies Brenden always watched. Run? Run from what? It was just the two of us. There was nothing sinister in the air. All that lingered was the oceany scent of halibut that he'd made us for dinner. _Moonriver_ was playing. You can't get much more tranquil than _Moonriver._

"Run!" Slacks growled through clenched teeth.

Then I sensed it. I smelled it. I felt it. To this day I can't listen to _Moonriver_. It brings back that horrid sight. The ghastly sounds. The stench of dog.

I can't really describe what happened accurately. It was like watching Brenden's favorite movie, _300_. Some seconds felt like hours, stretched out in slow motion, while others went by too quick, fast forwarding and making the scene pass in choppy movements.

His shout of pain was chilling enough to freeze blood and the sound of his shirt tearing open seemed far too loud. I heard a grisly _pop pop pop_ as his bones twisted into grotesque shapes. The stench of dog trumped the fishy smell of dinner as fur sprouted over his body. His fingernails stretched into horrible claws, curved and wickedly sharp looking.

He fell to the floor, writhing, gasping for air, just like that fish did when I had knocked over its glass bowl. Slacks' eyes were wide and brimmed with fear. Then the white bled out and only orbs of black remained. The rancid odor of evil pervaded my home.

I ran. My paws slipped and slid on the wood floor and I left a trail of piss in my wake... maybe some other excretions, but we don't need to go into details.

I made it to the laundry room, skidded past the gap between the machines, scrambled to stop, and slammed into the wall. A high pitch howl came from the sitting room. It was both human and wolf.

I wedged myself in between the washer and dryer and squeezed to the back where I hid behind the dryer. I realized I was growling low in my throat, my tail poofed like a Christmas tree.

Another howl, this one more wolflike. Then everything went eerily silent.

At long last, a soft whine came from the living room. It sounded so pathetic; like Rex did after Charlie had beaten him for taking a piece of bacon from the counter. And then I heard claws scratching the wood floor; a crash of breaking glass; the door slamming against the wall. A far off howl faded into the roar of my blood thumping in my ears.

The home was silent.

I must have waited there all night, feeling like eternity would've passed more quickly. When the gray light of morning brightened the home, I heard claws screeching like nails on a chalkboard in what I guessed was the living room. Whatever entered the home breathed heavily; I could hear it from behind the dryer. A woeful whine was followed by a thud.

Silence.

I waited, fighting my curiosity, but didn't last long. Creeping from my spot, belly low to the floor, I peered into the hall. Nothing was out of place. I continued on, pausing to listen for anything odd. Before reaching the sitting room, I heard a faint sob. Tentatively, I peeked into the living room.

Slacks lay naked on the floor, curled up, caked in blood, and weeping. His entire body trembled like a cornered mouse. His soft cry switched to an angry scream. I was frozen, afraid any movement would alert him. Though I smelled no danger, I wasn't ready to trust him. He reeked of dog... and death.

Bolting up, Slacks stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed the butcher knife, and rammed it into his chest over and over.

Stunned, I stared at the holes spurting blood which was immediately squelched by his skin closing over the wounds. He screamed again and tossed the knife in the sink. As if drunk like Greg always was, he staggered around the bar and our gazes locked.

His tortured expression melted to one of confusion. Sinking to his knees, he exhaled a soft laugh and gave me that same dismal smile.

"I didn't kill you? I didn't..." He smiled broader. "I didn't kill you!"

He seemed about ready to burst with joy. His laugh lightened and he tossed his head back, shouting at the ceiling, "Something survived!" He met my gaze and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Chopin, you lucky son-of-a- bitch."

It took me several days before I trusted him again. In true Slacks form, he didn't pressure me. He kept his distance until I was ready. When I finally jumped into his lap one evening, he gave me the sad smile and his eyes grew glassy. He whispered, "I'm not alone anymore."

So things went back to their routine. The harrowing incident happened again weeks later. I took up my hiding spot and survived as I had before. We slipped into our habits quicker. I could deal with this inconvenience as long as I kept getting salmon for dinner.

It was perhaps another month or so before Slacks went out and ruined our friendship. It was afternoon when the car pulled up. I waited patiently at the base of the kitchen island. The door opened and in waddled a bitch—and I mean that in every sense of the word. The dog was old, smelly, and drooly. I hissed my irritation and growled. The dog seemed not to care. She went to smelling everything. Slacks introduced the yellow lab as Sibelius. Labs are the worse. Mindless, obedient morons with no sense of their own body. They'll sit their hundred pound ass on you and wonder why you can't breathe.

The foul thing wandered the living room, tail seeming like some separate entity with the sole purpose of breaking things. It knocked over a lovely vase and then a picture of Slacks with some old woman. Slacks quickly started pushing things back from ledges.

The cretin finally got to me and I leaned back, flattening my ears. She stuck her disgusting nose in my face, tail wagging overtime, making her backend nearly twist to meet her front. When the dumb thing didn't take the hint to back off, I bitch-slapped her across the muzzle. Of course she flinched back, whining and looking pathetic. I was waiting for a scolding from Slacks, but he merely chuckled.

"Leave Chopin alone, Sibelius."

And so it was that my once peaceful home became a place of drool. Luckily Slacks put my food and water bowl on the counter so I could avoid bathing in the puddles when I walked.

The next few weeks were torture. Sibelius wandered the house with those clickety-clackety nails, pissed on the rug a few times, and ended up sleeping on the bed with Slacks, which greatly annoyed me as it'd been my spot for several months. Slacks beckoned to me each night, but I'd be damned if I would shared a bed with a flea bag. So I did what any respectable cat would do: I roamed the house and howled all night.

Time passed until the fateful night of the full moon. To this day, I don't know what Slacks was thinking. Cats are smart. Dogs are dumb. I'd avoided Slacks' evening rendezvous with death by hiding. I'm a lean, gracefully elegant creature able to squeeze into tight spots. Sibelius was a lumbering blockhead who didn't have the sense to get the fuck out of the house.

When I heard Slacks' glass of clear liquid shatter on the floor, I knew the change was happening. Sibelius—have I mentioned how dumb dogs are—went up to Slacks, tail working overtime, tongue bathing Slacks' contorting face. He shoved her, but the idiotic dog insisted on passing along that unconditional love humans seem so fond of.

For me, only one glance at his face twisted in pain was needed before I bolted. His scream followed me to the washroom as well as the foreboding _O Fortuna_ blaring from the stereo. I crammed myself into safety and waited.

Sibelius started barking. It was a happy bark, as if to say: "Oh goody! A new friend with large fangs and claws. Do you like me? I love you."

"Run!" Slacks growled. "Get out of here!"

Stupid dog kept barking. I shuddered at the _pop pop pop_ sound and the scream that followed it. Sibelius's bark turned a little less certain. The only thing that shut her up was a whine by Slacks, horrible and overflowing with pain. Another whine, this one less human, more predator.

Silence.

A howl puffed out my fur like a blowfish. Sibelius managed one bark before it was cut off into a terrifying gurgling yelp. How was that unconditional love working for you now, Sibelius? I'd venture to say not so good. Dogs dumb. Cats smart.

The whines and screams coming from my mortal enemy were not as satisfying as you might think. It was just plain harrowing. As if my terror wasn't heightened enough, the vicious growling coming from Slacks as he tore into his new pet was equally paralyzing. _O Fortuna_ hit its climax.

Though I know it didn't, the symphony of death raged for what seemed like hours. When finally all was silent, I swore I could still hear it around me, reverberating in my small corner. I waited as usual for the first rays of morning before I snuck out of my hiding spot.

The hallway was empty and I crept low into the living room. Slacks was there, naked, blood crusted all over his body, kneeling beside a mangled lump of matted fur and ribbons of entrails. Tears fell down his cheeks as he raised his gaze to me.

"She just barked," Slacks said, voice sounding half alive. "I told her to run. I told her..." Slacks ran a hand over his face and sighed. "No more dogs."

I had two very opposite emotions at that point. Elation that there would be no more dogs and the dreadful knowledge that pile of red could've been me. It's a rude awakening to see what your human is capable of.

Slacks spent the day cleaning and I spent it watching. The mood was somber, and _Für Elise_ added a tranquil quality to the event, making me feel as if we were sitting at dinner instead of mopping up what remained of Sibelius.

The next few days were quiet. I enjoyed the silence. I enjoyed the bed once more. The clean floor. The lack of puddles everywhere. Slacks was despondent for a few days, but eventually came around when I curled up in his lap as he cast me that same miserable smile.

The months that followed Sibelius's death were some of my best. As Slacks' mood improved, he talked to me about life, how years ago his condition had forced him to leave his city office to work from home. He'd chosen this remote house to limit what he killed when he would transform, which he hoped was only animals; bears, deer, wolves. He wasn't sure, but he never heard reports of human deaths.

He spoke often of how difficult it was to be alone and told me of a girl he liked, Madison was her name, though he called her Maddy. Actually, he spent a fair amount of time talking about her and how they'd met at a business meeting in which he'd been pleased to learn she'd been newly hired to his department.

As days and weeks passed, I quickly picked up on the times Slacks talked with her because his smile wasn't so sad. It was almost happy. He'd point at the computer screen and say, "Hey, it's Maddy. She says hi."

Yes, those were the best times. Until complacency ruined everything.

It was a full moon. Slacks sat with his short glass of clear liquid. His eyes were unfocused, waiting for it to happen. _Toccata and Fugue_ was playing. I often mused if he chose these chilling tunes for the moments he would turn, as if setting the scene up for a horror flick.

I was cleaning myself when the glass shattered. I wondered if Slacks had a weekly delivery of glasses. I didn't run right away. I had time and there was a nasty curl of fur that I just had to get straight. It'd been bugging me for some time.

"Chopin," Slacks said through a tight jaw. "Run, fool!"

I really did intend to get up, but it would only take three more licks to work out the kink.

_Pop. Pop. Pop._ I licked faster, fervently. I was so close.

"Cho—"

To this day, I assume I just didn't hear him whine. If I had, I would have run. I know I would have, regardless of that damn obstinate section of fur. But I didn't hear it. When I raised my gaze, Slacks no longer stood in the room. It was a beast standing on its hind-legs, head and fur of a wolf, shoulders hunched, lips peeled back in a snarl, drool dripping from its incisors. Its hackles were spiked and its black eyes were locked on me.

I half pissed myself right there. I bolted, leaping down from the kitchen counter, feet skidding on the hard wood, anal glands leaving a trail of shit. My back claws were all that got me forward. Damn that Harriot and her declawing.

I heard the scraping of Slacks' talons behind me. He was close enough I could smell the stench of his breath, like rotten meat.

I slammed into the washroom doorframe, scrabbling for hold. A growl of triumph issued behind me. Something grabbed my back leg and sent a shot of pain all the way up to my brain. I looked back to see dark blood spilling from where my leg used to be. Slacks was shoving the limb in his mouth, other paw holding my only remaining back leg.

Slacks suddenly howled, not a vicious howl, one of pain... torture, really. He curled up, dragging me with him. He writhed on the floor, dreadful noises coming from his throat. He gagged up my mangled leg.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Bones started shifting. His muzzle retracted as his incisors retreated. He howled, more human sounding than animal. Fur sucked back into his body, revealing skin paler than normal. His black eyes shrank until they were normal size. He screamed, purely human sounding. Just as my vision started to fade, the change was over. Before me, curled up and in agony was Slacks. His hold eased and his body went limp.

Darkness pressed in upon me and I surrendered to it.

I drifted in and out of sleep, waiting for death to get on with it. Slacks' voice was never far away; weeping apologies, telling me to hang on. I smelled oiled leather at one point, heard the roar of a car engine. It was all replaced by a sterile smell and a cold table. Bastard had nearly killed me and then dropped me off at the pound. Asshole.

An unfamiliar voice droned in and out, something about blood work coming back abnormal. The same voice said it'd be more humane to put me down, but then I heard Slacks say absolutely not. "Spare no expense," he'd said. Apparently, he wasn't the asshole I'd thought he was.

I don't remember much else until I woke lying in a ray of sunlight. I was home, of that I was certain. There was a clean smell mingling with the woods and sprinkled with Slacks' musky cologne. I was on his bed, nestled in the plush white comforter. Slacks was by my side and his sad smile greeted me.

"Hey there, Chopin."

I growled. I didn't like being bit. I didn't like the throbbing in my leg or my fuzzy head. I didn't like that everything seemed too bright.

"Hungry?"

Slacks set a plate of salmon in front of me. It smelled too good. I hauled myself up, crying at the soreness of my leg. The back part of me didn't work so well and kinda dragged. Glancing back, the stump reminded me that I'd lost my leg. Funny, I was sure I still felt it.

I limped—I'd like to say gracefully but I'd be lying—over to the salmon and ate my fill. Slacks always knew how to win me over. The saucer of warm milk coated my tummy in bliss. Despite my anger, I purred.

Slacks sad smile faded. "I'm so sorry, Chopin."

Should I forgive him? Maybe. Hell, Slacks was just as tormented as I was. We were a pair, the two of us. Both betrayed by what we thought life should've been. Being passed from home to home had taken all the joy I had as a kitten and drowned it in all the shit of reality. Slacks' seclusion had taken away his hopes of a wife and those tiny things humans pop out that pull cats' tails and squeeze the life out of us. Yeah, we were quite the pair.

I crawled into his lap and that was that.

The following few weeks were simply delightful. Slacks spoiled me rotten. He made all my favorite meals, gave me a saucer of warm milk after dinner, bought stairs that helped me get up to the bed and kitchen counter, he carried me more than normal, but I didn't mind as long as it saved me from the long walks from the bedroom to the kitchen. I had to teach him how to hold me properly. I mean, you try being suspended by you upper arms while your legs— or in my case, leg—dangle unprotected. And on my back? Really? So eventually his arm was a seat for my lower half and his free hand found that massaging my neck got an instant purr out of me.

It was one late evening that we discovered my punishment for not running fast enough on that night not too long ago.

We were sitting on the couch; I'd just finished my milk and Slacks was still sipping his clear liquid. _Danse of Macabre_ by _Camille Saint-Saëns_ was playing softly in the background. The fading sun shot dull red rays through the window, making the glass in Slacks' hand birth those bright lights on the wall. I watched them move with mild interest, wondering if I was in the mood to tackle those lights and show them the true power of cats.

"I guess I should get you in the laundry room," Slacks murmured. He set aside his glass and scooped me up in his arms. "Funny, though, I don't feel it coming on. I feel..." He chuckled softly. "Normal."

The onset was sudden; a need to kill, a need to hunt, a need to taste blood. I was too warm, burning up, panting in an instant.

"Chopin?" Slacks murmured. "You all right, boy?"

No, I wasn't fucking all right. Idiot! I was on fire! And I was hungry! Deathly hungry! I shrieked, arching my spine straight as a board, screaming at the heat searing my insides.

"Fuck!" Slacks shouted, dropping me unceremoniously to the hard floor. I didn't land on my paws. I fell hard on my side, my yowl cut off from the impact.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I never knew pain until that moment. I guess what I had experienced when Slacks chomped my leg off had merely been discomfort. This fucking hurt. Sharp pains shot all over me, as if stuck by a million needles, as if Charles had kicked me again after I had puked on his bed. It hurt more than the time fat Brenden had stepped on my tail and broken it. My incisors felt like someone was trying to yank them out. My blood was surely a lava stream by now. _Danse Macabre_ hit its stride, and I screamed and flailed about in rhythm with it, flapping around like that damn goldfish before I had eaten it.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Slacks said, stumbling back from me. "Shit!"

That was the last thing I heard or remembered for the entire night.

I woke in the laundry room. The bitter taste of blood lingered on my tongue. I was sore all over, as if I'd been beaten again and left in the alley. The stench of blood was everywhere and my fur was matted with it. Plastic IV-like bags were everywhere, torn to shreds and stuck in congealing blood.

I wasn't sure I had enough strength to even raise my head, so I let out the most pathetic meow I'd ever mustered.

The door opened instantly and in walked Slacks. His face sported a few scratches, a couple bite marks, and his arms were encased in white cloth. Blood was still seeping through it.

"Isn't that a bitch?" he murmured. "You cure me only to take the poison in yourself." He ran a hand through his hair. "Damned if I didn't realize how strong you were. Those back claws can sure do a number."

He gently wrapped me in a towel, picked me up, and cradled me close to his chest. I was happy for his warmth. I was freezing.

In the hallway, he stopped at a box on the wall and pressed a few buttons. Heat blew out from above. It was lovely. Slacks started sweating.

"I bet you're famished," Slacks said. "I could always tell when I didn't kill anything. I was starving the next morning."

Food? Oh hell yes. It seemed like days since my last meal and my stomach felt like it was eating itself.

"First, let's get you warmed up."

Slacks carefully lowered me on to a towel he'd laid out on the kitchen counter. It was much warmer than the cold stone. He fixed me a saucer of warm milk, a plate of my favorite white cheese, a slice of turkey, and some cold halibut. I ate it all as he spoke.

"One curse for the other, eh? I'm cured. But now..." His voice trailed off and he looked at his wrapped arms. "You'll turn every month. You'll do this to anyone who's around."

He cast me that sad smile and rubbed the side of my cheek, getting in there with his nails. Damn, I loved it. The purr started up.

"I tried to give you cat's blood. It didn't help you."

What the hell? Did he rob a vet?

"I don't know how to cure you like you cured me."

I didn't doubt it. Cats weren't humans. Surely what worked for one very well didn't—and obviously so—work for the other.

"I could try to kill you..."

That was the first time a human had actually voiced a plan to dispose of me. Most of the time it was a sweet smile followed by lies about going someplace fun. They'd dump me off with the biggest smile I'd ever seen from them. Killing me, though? That was a bit dramatic. However, if I'd acted anything like Slacks, I guess I understood. Such is life, right? Death is just a part of it, same as birth is. And I had never asked for either.

"But I don't think I can," Slacks continued. "I've tried it on myself more times than I can count. Plus, I don't think I have it in me. I can't get rid of you either because of what you could do to someone else. This is my fault and my responsibility. You've been my first friend. You saved my life." He shrugged and his pathetic smile returned. "You and me, we're a pair, the two of us. And I'll stick with you until the end, Chopin."

Yes, we were a pair. I saved him; he condemned me. Guilt was a human emotion I had no problems extorting. I wouldn't be dying anytime soon, but my life would be painful—one leg, some horrid poison forever locked in my blood. And he was cured of the poison, but he wouldn't be finding happiness anytime soon. Such was Slacks' personality: he'd never subject Maddy to me and my new hunger, even if it was just once a month. Nor would he ever let go of his guilt; free from one prison only to shackle himself in a new one.

But hey, one night a month of getting locked in the laundry room only to wake up a little sore in exchange for wonderful meals for the rest of my life? I'd call it a fair trade. I mean, have you ever had Slacks' salmon? To die for.

#  
#

Project Phoenix

### Thaddeus White

It was nice to sew up a nasty cut without a word of complaint from the patient. Admittedly, the patient in this instance was dead, but it was still a pleasant change. Doctor Nicholas Langford found it oddly relaxing. His only real discomfort was the chill of the ice surrounding the corpse, put there to help preserve it.

"How's his arm?" he asked the Professor. If it weren't for the two decades between them they might have been taken for brothers. Silver threads were beginning to lighten the Professor's short black hair, and where Nicholas was clean- shaven his superior sported an old-fashioned moustache.

Professor Charles Black was the lead scientist on Project Phoenix. He sewed up the stump at the end of the corpse's arm. "Coming along nicely. The city surgeons did a reasonable job, but they only wanted to get the body in a fit state for burial. Any other wounds?" the Professor asked.

The corpse was Edward Silver, formerly a factory worker in the city. The last earthquake had struck when he was working at his machine, and the pitiless steel cogs had devoured his right forearm. In brief, he was a perfect specimen for the project. With only a limb missing (the man had bled to death) he was virtually in one piece. The central nervous system was completely intact and there was no physical deterioration due to advanced age or chronic illness. Project Phoenix sought to accomplish the impossible: to bring a man back from the dead. If successful, death would no longer be a thing to be feared. With surgery and transplants between death and rebirth, mortality could be abolished. The greatest minds, most brilliants philosophers and fearless soldiers could serve their nation not for a few short decades, but centuries or even millennia. It would be a golden age of scientific and social advancement.

If it worked.

"No, that's all of them," Nicholas confirmed, after checking they had not left a cut without stitches.

The Professor tied off his last stitch, and raised his eyes to meet Nicholas. "Splendid. Now all we need—"

Doctor Rosemary Leadbetter's entrance cut the Professor short. She looked rather odd wearing thick leather gauntlets over her lab coat, which contrasted sharply with her horn-rimmed glasses and dangling silver earrings. Like Nicholas, she had served as a doctor in the last war, tending the wounded and performing life- saving surgery to the sound of shells hammering the earth and machine-guns cutting men to shreds. The Professor had taught them both at university.

"The rod's ready to go, and the storm's rolling in," she reported. "And the Seer's already whining like a bitch. If you're done, we'd better get moving."

Nicholas and the Professor shared a smile at her description of their illustrious colleague. The Seer was the fourth and final member of the project, and the only one versed in the arcane arts. Two waiting porters slid the subject onto a waiting trolley, and wheeled it through the underground facility's narrow concrete corridors to the laboratory. Rosemary walked ahead of them and held open the lab door, following Nicholas and the Professor inside.

The laboratory, if such a term could be used for a place besmirched by the occult, was a dimly lit, cavernous room. Thick cables descended from the ceiling and were fed into a large transformer, from which a single smaller cable was connected to a diagonal iron cross. An engineer, face obscured behind a mask and clad in thick leather apron and gauntlets, was giving the transformer a final check. Candelabras decorated the walls, upon which unfamiliar swirling designs had been daubed by the project's thaumaturge. Seer John Sands, who possessed the twin distinctions of being the nation's foremost miracle worker and the most irritating man Nicholas had ever met, waited impatiently by the cross. The secret research facility was unusual for combining hard science with the more esoteric vagaries of the occult. It was a heady mix which made not a few Cabinet ministers nervous, but if the project was successful the colossal political triumph would eclipse their doubts. The Seer wore a black robe fringed with silver thread and around his neck hung a finger-sized chunk of polished jet.

"For men of science you have precious little appreciation of time," the Seer snapped. "You," he barked at Nicholas, "hold the head steady whilst I administer the interanimus."

_I'd just as soon hold_ your _head steady whilst someone hammers a nail into it._

Nicholas grasped the corpse's head and held it firmly. The Seer fished the interanimus, a cobalt- silver nail with a head an inch across, from his pocket. The same strange patterns that had been painted on the walls had been etched in miniature onto its broad head.

I can't believe a scientific endeavour is reliant on a hocus pocus divining rod to work...

Given the project had gone to great pains to acquire a corpse with an immaculate central nervous system, Nicholas felt rather put out that the mumbo jumbo merchant was hammering a large nail directly into the subject's temple. There was no other choice, though. Science could provide the enormous power necessary to fuel the experiment, but only thaumaturgy had a hope of calling back a spirit from the Beyond. The interanimus would house the soul for a moment, but if it were to pass back into the brain a direct connection was essential.

The Seer tapped the nail with a deliberate rhythm until it was buried all the way.

The Professor and Nicholas helped the porters haul the subject, which was thankfully quite skinny, to the iron cross. The Seer did not concern himself with such menial work and simply watched as they manhandled the body.

Rosemary spoke with the engineer, ensuring all was working properly.

It took a little time for all the leather straps to be buckled around its wrists and ankles, neck and body, but the team worked as swiftly as they could. Only the Seer's tapping toe broke the silence.

"Quickly now," the Seer ordered. "I need solitude to perform the rite. All of you, get out."

The engineer gave the transformer one last check.

"Just throw the switch when it's time," he told the Seer.

Nicholas followed the engineer, porters, the Professor and Rosemary outside, where they waited in the corridor like an expectant family at a maternity ward. He did not dare speak. The last time he had been waiting in a corridor like this his late wife, Sarah, had been undergoing emergency surgery. Whispers in an ancient tongue crept from the laboratory, and soon rose in volume to a rhythmic chant that grew thunderous. The door started to tremble and shudder. When the vibrations caused it to open a crack he saw the light flickering on and off, and heard a ghostly wind moaning. A shiver ran down Nicholas' spine and goosebumps crawled over his flesh. From within the chamber the electricity crackled, and a tortured scream was ripped from a man's throat.

The chanting stopped, the wind died and silence fell. Ragged breathing and whimpering sobs drove Nicholas to enter the room, Rosemary and the Professor following close behind. Bound to the cross, covered in sweat and tears, chest heaving, the corpse lived again.

* * *

"Could you hold your arm out, please?" Nicholas asked.

"Yes," Phoenix said, obediently thrusting forward his left arm. Naming the project after the bird of legend had been the Seer's notion. The Professor had opposed it, being a man of science not myth, but the project's political masters had liked the idea, and he who pays the piper calls the tune. However, it had surprised them all when the man formerly known as Edward Silver had himself asked to be named Phoenix.

It downright unnerved Nicholas.

Nicholas planted two fingers at the base of Phoenix's wrist, and counted the number of beats.

"Thank you," he said.

Phoenix was staring, again. In the days since his rebirth, the subject rarely blinked and fixed whatever held his interest with an intense gaze. Nicholas felt the eyes on him as he filled in the final box on his form. When he glanced up, Phoenix's grey eyes were looking right at him.

"Seventy-eight. That's perfectly healthy, particularly given your recent trauma," he told Phoenix. The reborn man answered with a mute stare, and Nicholas suppressed the desire to look away. He opened the desk drawer and took out another pen, and a lined sheet of paper. Nicholas put them in front of Phoenix.

"I want to test your fine motor skills. Try writing something down," he said.

Phoenix stared at the pen, and then at Nicholas. "What would you like me to write?"

"Anything that comes to mind."

Phoenix's grey eyes bored into Nicholas, but eventually the subject picked up the pen and began writing fluently across the paper. After a few lines he put the pen down and pushed the paper towards Nicholas, who read it with some surprise.

Nicholas peered at the writing, which was not in any language he knew.

"What does that say?" he asked Phoenix.

Phoenix kept his eyes fixed on his work. "Get better."

Nicholas scratched his chin. "In what language? Where did you learn it?"

Phoenix still did not look up, but a smile crept across his lips. "Between Then and Now."

The doctor retrieved Phoenix's paper and eyed the elegant artwork. "Well, I'd best be off. Reports don't file themselves. I'll arrange for some food. Anything in particular you'd like?"

Phoenix was playing with the sewn-up stump of his right hand. "I am sure you will select something good for me," he replied, his fingers tapping his stump in an irregular beat.

Nicholas said goodbye, and left Phoenix in his room, locking the door behind him. Before taking his report to the office he shared with Rosemary he strode the short distance to the Seer's office. Beneath the brass name plate a garland of flowers had been hung. Nicholas knocked twice and waited. The door opened an inch, and the Seer glared at him.

"What do you want?"

"I have something that I think are thaumaturgic symbols, but they are well beyond my knowledge," Nicholas said, hoping to appeal to the man's vanity. "Would you be able to cast your expert eye over them?"

The Seer sighed, and opened the door.

It was the first time he had seen the office of the project's occult expert. There was not a single electrical or mechanical device. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, and a cluster of half-melted candles congregated on one corner of his desk. He didn't even have a typewriter. It was like stepping back into a time before industry. And enlightenment.

Nicholas held out the paper on which Phoenix had drawn his symbols. The Seer snatched it and held the symbols close to his flickering candles.

"What are you doing with thaumaturgic symbols?"

"Phoenix drew them when I asked him to write," Nicholas explained.

"I recognise several of them, but not all. They are associated with health and recuperation. Several are quite advanced. You realise this means he learnt something in the Beyond?"

Nicholas frowned. "But he was only dead for a day or two."

"Time may not be the same in the Beyond as it is for us. Somewhere, somehow, he learnt thaumaturgy, and acquired quite some expertise in it. This is very impressive. You were right to bring this to me."

Nicholas, taken aback and concerned by the Seer's unexpected civility, said goodbye and left to complete his paperwork.

* * *

Nicholas cast a bloodshot eye over the unsteady pile of manila folders on the desk. Phoenix had been poked, prodded, measured, scanned and questioned almost continuously since his rebirth. Once his body had been confirmed to be working properly the Professor had put the subject through just about every non-invasive medical procedure there was. Whilst the Professor and Rosemary had handled the X-rays, psychometric tests and circadian rhythms, Nicholas had put the subject through a comprehensive array of biological tests and an exhaustive physical inspection. After hours of analysing the results, Phoenix's sleep cycle was in rather better shape than Nicholas'.

A steaming mug of coffee appeared before him.

"You look terrible," Rosemary observed.

"Thanks," Nicholas replied, raising the hot beverage to his lips. "Have you any idea how many damned blood tests there are?" He waved his free hand at the formidable pile of folders. "So far all I've learnt is that Phoenix doesn't have blood parasites."

She sat down and pulled the pile of folders towards her. "I'll run through the tests. You go and make sure it isn't setting fire to itself."

Nicholas sipped the bitter brew. "You hate lab work more than I do. Trying to butter up the Professor?"

She sighed. "No. One of the X-rays has to be redone, and I'm trying to avoid seeing that _thing_ twice today."

"Phoenix has some eccentricities and he's got a strange air about him, but we did run a bolt of lightning through his body and bring him back from the dead. It's fair enough for a fellow to be a shade out of sorts after such a traumatic event."

Rosemary opened the first folder, pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and ran her eyes over the notes within. "Your handwriting is abysmal. And Phoenix isn't out of sorts, he's unbalanced. Staring constantly at people isn't a quirk; it's disturbing. I'd rather wade through a hundred pages of your atrocious handwriting than spend an hour with the subject."

He finished off his coffee and got to his feet. "I'm grateful, regardless. Have fun deciphering my scrawl."

"Have fun with the walking corpse."

He retrieved his stethoscope from his desk drawer and walked the short distance to Phoenix's room. Nicholas unlocked the door, stepped inside and stopped.

In addition to the scientific measurement of pulse rate and brain activity, X-rays and tissue samples, Phoenix had been provided with a large number of artistic tools. The musical instruments remained in a neat pile in one corner and the typewriter was untouched. The paintbox had clearly been more to his liking.

The Professor, Rosemary and Nicholas himself had all been painted on the walls in perfect detail.

"Hello," Phoenix said. He had been waiting by the door, and his sudden greeting made Nicholas jump.

"This is incredible," Nicholas said, examining the portraits in more detail. "How long did it take you?"

"Eight hours and twelve minutes," Phoenix answered.

"I think the Seer might be peeved that you neglected to paint him."

Phoenix smiled, unruffled by the comment. "I will get around to him soon. You are here for the daily check? I was anticipating Rosemary."

He sat down at the desk in the centre of his room and gestured for Nicholas to sit opposite him.

"Yes. Rosemary's snowed under with paperwork."

"I don't think she likes me," Phoenix said, voice level and beady eyes staring straight at him.

Nobody likes you.

"Unbutton your shirt," Nicholas instructed. Whilst Phoenix did so, he readied the stethoscope, then pressed it against the subject's chest. "Your heart's still fine," he said, tugging the stethoscope from his ears. "Rosemary likes everyone."

Phoenix buttoned his shirt up. Despite only having one hand he had quickly grown proficient with basic tasks that would take most men two. "I disagree. She avoids eye contact and has far less interest than you in trivial dialogue. Have I offended her?"

Nicholas beckoned for Phoenix's forearm, and pressed his first two fingers against the wrist to take a pulse rate. "Most men are pleasantly surprised by a woman who doesn't talk too much."

He ran through a few more questions to check Phoenix's short term memory, which remained perfect for events both prior to and following his death.

"Your semantic and episodic memory is perfect. You could make quite the scientist in the future."

"I prefer the arcane arts. Do you like yourself?" Phoenix asked.

Nicholas frowned. "Apart from my arachnophobia, yes. Why do you ask?"

"I meant your painting."

Nicholas glanced back at his own face, and noticed there was something wrong with the eyes. Every other brush stroke was uncannily accurate, but the eyes lacked any pupils. Instead, a strange swirling symbol had been painted in their centres.

"What is that?" Nicholas asked, staring into his own eyes.

"It's your soul," Phoenix answered. "Sarah taught me."

"How do you know that name?" Nicholas asked, dragging his gaze from himself to look at Phoenix. "My wife is dead."

"So was I. Time is not the same in the Beyond as here. I learnt many things."

"Like thaumaturgic symbols?" Nicholas asked, his mind a cocktail of intrigue and trepidation.

Phoenix nodded. "Indeed. You seem to be fatigued. I could help you. A crest on your temple would drive away the stress and tiredness."

Nicholas laughed nervously. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll just have a glass of whisky when I finish work."

Phoenix cocked his head. "As you wish."

"And get to work on the Seer," Nicholas said. "He's bad enough at the best of times. I'm sure he'll be ratty if he finds you've forgotten him."

When Nicholas left Phoenix and shut the door behind him, he took a few deep breaths and got as far away from the creature as possible.

* * *

Nicholas shuffled the deck and waited. He had been expecting to meet Rosemary when he returned to their shared office after supper. Apart from mealtimes, their evening poker game was almost the only time either of them got to relax since the inception of Project Phoenix. He poured a glass of wine for them both, anticipating her arrival, but the clock's hands ticked by and he remained alone. After he had finished off his own glass, and then hers, he decided to go and see if she was checking up on Phoenix. It was possible there had been some anomaly or other with a test result, but if it had been serious enough to warrant hours of investigation he would expect to have been notified of the issue.

Phoenix's room was empty. The door was meant to be kept locked, both to prevent the test subject from leaving and to ensure he remained close to those who could provide him with medical attention should he need it. It hadn't been forced and the abandoned room was orderly, so he guessed Rosemary had taken Phoenix somewhere.

Nicholas left Phoenix's room and made his way towards the Professor's office to find out what was going on. When he passed the laboratory where the resurrection had occurred he heard footsteps and a low murmuring. He opened the door, and saw Phoenix struggling to bind Rosemary's prone body to the cross.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Nicholas demanded.

Not a speck of contrition coloured Phoenix's unnaturally serene expression. "She died. I think she had a heart attack. Help me with these straps, and we can bring her back."

His heart sunk at Phoenix's words, and he stared in stunned silence whilst the subject manhandled her corpse. Rosemary had been alive and well a few hours ago.

"Bring her down," Nicholas told Phoenix.

The test subject paused. "There is a storm due soon. If we can secure her body, we can bring her back."

"She wouldn't want that."

"But—"

Nicholas strode forward and held out his arms for Rosemary's body. Phoenix thought for a moment, then undid the solitary strap he had managed to fasten and eased her body into Nicholas' arms. Nicholas laid her on the laboratory table and stroked her hair.

"Tell me what happened," he said, staring at Rosemary's face. It was exactly the same, and yet utterly different. Earlier that day the fine wrinkles around her eyes had deepened when she joked, and she'd scowled when talking about the Seer.

"She visited me in the afternoon. One of the test results indicated decay, which had by then increased to a visible degree," Phoenix reported, his voice devoid of emotion.

Nicholas turned his gaze towards the test subject. "Show me."

Phoenix held out his arm. The fingernails were a deep purple, and the skin at the end of his fingers was beginning to darken.

Nicholas nodded. "And then?"

"Rosemary conducted a physical examination and found similar, slightly more advanced, symptoms of decay on my feet. She theorised my nose, ears and lips would be next, and then, unless the progression were arrested, total organ failure leading to death. Again." Phoenix smiled, though there was no joy in his eyes. "Without warning she fell to her knees, clutching her chest and struggling to speak. Then she expired."

"And you thought the best thing to do was drag her here, instead of raising the alarm?" Nicholas asked. "The Professor and Seer need to know about this, and then we need to decide what to do with you."

* * *

Nicholas looked at himself in the mirror as he dried his hands. He could feel his heart pumping like a steam engine in his chest. Two pints of water had passed his lips, and yet he still felt thirsty. His skin was red and bags filled with fatigue hung from his eyes.

The greatest scientific achievement in human history has been his, at least in part. Now it seemed that he had helped to father a monster.

Performing the final examination on Rosemary's corpse had been a harrowing experience. The Professor had sought to take that burden from his shoulders, but Nicholas knew if he had refused to let Rosemary check the tests alone she would never have discovered Phoenix's deterioration. She took on his workload, and now she was dead. He owed it to her to perform the examination himself.

It took a long time in the operating theatre, but eventually he found the proof he had been looking for. On the back of her neck, hidden by her hair, was a tiny mark that another man might have mistaken for a mole. Upon inspection with a magnifying glass, he found the unexpected blemish on her skin was a miniature but complex thaumaturgical symbol painted in brown ink. An equally small, and even harder to find, scar was visible immediately above the symbol. He consulted a reference book purloined from the Seer's office, and was unsurprised to discover it was a sign intended to heal. A very small puncture wound had severed her brain stem, and the thaumaturgy had repaired the damage to the skin, and probably the central nervous system as well. Whether Phoenix had sought to occupy Rosemary's body and claim it as his own, Nicholas could not say. What he did know was that it was no heart attack that had taken his friend's life, and that Phoenix was a murderer.

So much for Project Phoenix. What had gone wrong, he did not know. Perhaps Edward Silver had always been a lunatic. Perhaps bringing a soul back damaged it, or put the body through such trauma it caused psychological damage. In the end, it didn't matter. The quest for immortality had killed his friend. The experiment was over, and the Government would have to be informed. Project Phoenix would be filed away in a black box somewhere, the details of its failure never to be divulged.

He washed his hands again, and looked at himself in the mirror.

My hands aren't going to get any cleaner...

At last, he left the water closet and took the folder containing the report of his examination to the Professor's office. Both the Professor and the Seer were waiting for him, and offered sympathetic smiles in greeting. He tossed the folder onto the desk and slumped into the chair waiting for him. The Professor moved to pour him a whisky, but he shook his head.

"Phoenix is a murderer," Nicholas told them.

The Seer got to his feet and started pacing the office, whilst the Professor opened the folder and ran his eyes over the report until he reached the critical line.

"You're sure of this?" Professor Black asked.

Nicholas drummed his fingers on the chair arm and nodded. "The incision's very small, but irrefutable. She was stabbed in the back of the neck, and the wound obscured by both her hair and a tiny thaumaturgical symbol."

The Seer folded his arms and leant against a filing cabinet behind the Professor. "Are you certain? Thaumaturgical symbols can be difficult to decipher even for those of us—"

"I know what it bloody means!" Nicholas snapped. "I'm sorry, but I've checked that symbol repeatedly. It's definitely intended to heal a wound. It means Rosemary was murdered by the creature we brought into this world. Phoenix is a killer. We must notify the Government and terminate the project immediately."

The other two men were silent as they mulled over the implications of his words. He did not blame them. Project Phoenix marked the culmination of years of pain-staking research, and it had come to worse than nothing. Secrecy would ensure no public disgrace, but the Government would not be dangling lucrative assignments their way either. The Seer would probably be sent to a provincial town far from the capital, and the Professor gently encouraged to retire. Nicholas did not know what fate would await him. Thinking of Rosemary, cold and still, he could not bring himself to care.

"Perhaps it's for the best," the Professor finally said. He sighed, and poured himself a whisky.

"I must agree that we have reached the end of the line," the Seer concurred. The thaumaturge's hand dove into the pocket of his black robe and emerged with a jade knife. He plunged the blade into the back of the Professor's neck, and Charles Black slumped over the desk, spilling whisky and blood over the report.

Nicholas charged the Seer and grabbed the skinny occultist's wrist. He headbutted the Seer and twisted his arm, prising the weapon free of his grip. Once the knife was in his hand he pointed the blade at the thaumaturge.

"You'll hang for this, you bastard. Was Rosemary's death your doing?"

The door opened, and Phoenix entered the office. Nicholas leapt at the abomination, knife raised to slit his throat. Phoenix never moved. The jade cut open his jugular, and blood spurted furiously. Red spattered the walls and soaked Nicholas' trousers and shirt. He left the dying creature on the ground and turned back to face the Seer.

"This is insane, Sands. Whatever possessed you?"

A smile crept across the Seer's face. "The same thing that will possess you, Nicholas."

Something struck Nicholas from behind, and dark oblivion swallowed him.

* * *

Pain came before anything else. The back of his head throbbed with it. And there was another sensation. His fingers and toes were tingling. As Nicholas' mind gathered itself, he realised his wrists and ankles were bound tightly. He peeled his eyes open, and was blinded by the shift from darkness to light.

"And so you come back to us," an unnaturally calm voice said softly.

Nicholas turned his head and tried to move, but he was bound to the cross in the laboratory. Phoenix and the Seer stood before him, smiling. A long pink scar was the only sign that he had ever cut open the abomination's throat. Phoenix's face was discoloured by faint purple splotches.

"What are you doing?" he asked the Seer, the words rasping out of his dry throat.

The Seer patted him on the shoulder. "Welcoming you back from the dead. The Phoenix was intending to kill you, but I persuaded him to spare your life."

"You look terrible," Nicholas told Phoenix. "Another few days and your body will break down altogether. You should've stayed dead."

Phoenix laughed. "The Phoenix never dies, mortal. This vessel," he said, spreading his arms wide and turning around, "is decaying. It will, as you said, not last long. But I need linger in this rotting shell for only a short time. I had planned to occupy Rosemary's body. I'm sure that would have been comfortable, but you interrupted. In the end, it was for the best."

The Seer retrieved something from the table, and held up a hammer and a cobalt-silver nail with a head an inch across. "When I first read of the ritual to return the Phoenix to the world, it was in a fragment of a tome lost to eternity. I erred, very slightly. The inhabitation of a corpse, which the Government so kindly helped to facilitate, was wrong. It cannot sustain the vital essence of a god. But a living host," the Seer murmured, stepping closer to him, "will be another matter."

Nicholas felt the cold spike of the nail pressed against his temple, and shuddered.

