

SPINE SHIVERING STORIES!

Copyright © 2012 by Michelle Lowe

All rights reserved.

ISBN 9781476054452

PROJECT RD

I never thought something like going to the movies would destroy my life, much less turn me into a monster.

I went alone that night, which was strongly advised against. Everyone always traveled in numbers for safety reasons. It wasn't a bad idea, considering what we were up against. Traveling in packs made sense when it came to muggers or sexual predators, so it made just as much sense with these kinds of predators. My sense of security—and many others here in the town of Ground Zero—was a gun. My dad had given me a Glock 19 last year for my twentieth birthday. Mom was upset that he hadn't given me one sooner.

Having it didn't really do much for a cocky little piss-ant like me who strolled too leisurely through the shadows between streetlamps. It provided the opportunity for an Infected to jump out and bite me on the arm. But I hadn't been worried until that horrible moment. I mean, the last outbreak had been in 1989, when an infected drifter had visited town. My parents had been in the middle of it, and had always lived with the paranoia of another pandemic.

Despite the attack, I remembered my gun and brought it out of my holster. Just like in strict Arizona, we were allowed to pack heat like twenty-first century cowboys. I remembered what my parents taught me—aim for the head—so I pressed the gun against the Infected and blew half his face open.

I'd killed the thing completely, but the damage had already been done.

Shortly afterwards came the painful transformation. Every nerve felt hot and my stomach crumpled like paper. I couldn't even hold my gun and dropped it in the cold pool of blood where the Infected lay.

Before anyone saw me, I stumbled off and ducked into the theater alley. Tears stung my eyes; my skin tingled and itched as if I wore a full body suit made of a wool sweater. I knew what was happening and I was powerless to stop it. I'd been infected with The Disease. It spread throughout my system, shoving me into the far corner of my mind. It took the helm of my body and became captain, demoting me to a mere passenger.

When the pain ended, my stomach ballooned. Foreign hunger pangs grumbled inside me, but what I craved wasn't a cheeseburger.

My first kill was a homeless man. He slept while I snuck up on him, although he snapped awake the minute I bit into his head. He tried fighting back. His dirty, ragged nails sliced my face. His breath reeked of cheap liquor and popcorn; he must've been eating the excess kernels out of the theater's trash bins. After struggling with him, I finally took a brick and smashed his head in. I was soaked in blood. My clothes stuck to me, but his juicy brain was mine at last. It sat in my mouth like jell-O, tasting exotic.

After I'd scraped the last brain chunk from his broken skull, an immediate desire for more exploded inside me. I stumbled out of the alley and into the street, catching people's attention as they exited the theater. They screamed. Seeing me gave them the terrifying and certain awareness that the Living Dead had returned to Ground Zero.

Their disturbance attracted many other Infected. I recognized a couple of them as they emerged from the dark, like my best friend, Tony Wiker.

I wondered if he recognized me. He'd been missing and presumed dead, or possibly infected, since last week. He looked bad. His face was sunken in and his eyes were like murky white marbles.

We feasted on whoever we could grab. Once we had someone on the ground, we'd smash their heads open and eat their brains. We couldn't stop consuming. Nor would we have stopped until everyone's skulls had been licked clean—or unless the army trucks hadn't arrived.

Soldiers poured out of the back doors and began shooting. I wanted to run, but the Disease wanted to feed: Still!

Against my will, I charged a theater customer. He saw me coming and socked me dead in the face, sending me to meet Mr. Pavement. Inside my mind, I shouted at myself to stay down. Since I didn't get back up, I figured it worked. I mean, I was still there, inside myself. The Disease hadn't driven me completely out. I had some say in all this, dammit!

People scattered as soldiers picked us off. Spotting the variations between the Infected and Uninfected wasn't difficult. My old high school principal, Mr. Chambers, took a bullet in the chest just before a soldier wielding a **machete** ran up behind him and lopped off his head. This gruesome display made me attempt to reason with myself. I suggested it was better to run and hunt another day rather than stay and get killed tonight. In truth, I was technically dead anyway. They don't call us the living dead because it's catchy.

Even so, I didn't feel dead, perhaps since I'd just been bitten. Whatever the case, I wanted to live, but the Disease had taken over my body the instant that asshole bit me.

White CDC vans screeched to a halt nearby. Soldiers in black uniforms burst out and yelled for the others to stop firing. Few Infected were left at this point: only me, Tony, two women I didn't know, and our paper boy, Scott. One of the women was the last to get shot by an actual bullet before the other soldiers used their weapons on us.

Tony got hit first, forcing him to perform some kind of labyrinthine boogie dance. Blood-red foam oozed from his mouth. A flickering wire connected his chest to the weapon the gunman held. They were only packing stun guns. Their intention wasn't to kill, but capture us.

Two soldiers leapt into action when Tony dropped, first securing his mouth with a muzzle and then cuffing his hands behind him. I could've sworn I heard a bone crack. They hoisted him off the ground and threw him inside one of the vans. The same thing happened to Scott and the remaining woman.

Watching all this distracted me from the control I had over myself. Before I knew it, I stood up and ran. A soldier shouted as I charged her, and I received my own electrical charge, muzzle, cuffs, and free ride to the unknown.

I lied on the floor of the van, my body still fatigued from the Taser. The other Infected had been taken in separate vehicles. Soldiers were with me, holding me down with their boot heels. One man stared at me sympathetically.

The muzzle bounded tightly around my head, as were the cuffs on my wrists. I felt the Disease in me going mad. It wanted to feed, not escape. I couldn't believe I still craved brains. I was stuffed.

Lying there, I realized what sat in my gut; a full belly of raw human brains. The blood in my mouth stained my taste buds. Whenever my tongue ran over my teeth, I felt meat wedged in between them. I nearly got sick.

I tried distracting myself from this realization before I puked into the muzzle. I listened to the steady sound of asphalt passing beneath the van's undercarriage. The soothing rhythm almost worked until I thrashed to life, gaining me another Taser hit.

When the van stopped, I was hauled into a rectangular, windowless gray building that could've been mistaken for a giant cinderblock. It sat on a hill just outside the town's limits. As kids, we'd never known what it was and our parents didn't talk about it. We made up stories of a secret FBI storage facility where space aliens were kept, or a maximum security prison that held the world's most dangerous criminals. It had been protected by a high voltage fence and guards armed with big guns. Trying to go near the place was stupid, if not impossible. Out of all my friends, I was the least curious about it. Ironic that I was going inside now.

The guards took me, Tony, the woman, and Scott down a long stairwell, inside a midnight blue tiled room, where we were stripped naked. They shackled us against the wall like BDSM dolls and sprayed us with hoses by people in white scrubs—orderlies, I later found out.

The floor melted into watery red ink as blood and chunks of flesh from our victims washed away. The frigid water snapped our bodies to life like an electric charge and we lunged futilely. All that did was give the guards another excuse to Taser us again.

A woman in a lab coat appeared. She didn't say much, only injected us with something and told the orderlies to put us "in the rooms." They took us soaking and butt naked into individual rooms, where I was locked into my own.

Only a dim yellow light smoldered above me. The room had an iron door and padded walls. When my body regained feeling, I stood up, screaming and howling. Others did the same from inside their cells. I was thankful for the padded walls when I kept slamming against them. Someone slid open a peephole to observe and I charged the door. My head struck iron, whistling goodbye to consciousness.

Time blurred together after that. Honestly, I couldn't say what happened when or in what sequence. I think the injections had something to do with the confusion. I received three hot meals daily, which I rejected because it wasn't brains. Once a day, I was bound to a chair in a little black room—with a restricting mask on—and forced to watch a slide show. The first images were beautiful scenery and landscapes. My reaction was mild to say the least. The next set was of old black and white photos of destruction, mass murder, and piles of bodies from the Holocaust. Again, it had little affected on me. The third set was of living people doing ordinary things, sports fans sitting on bleachers, children at a playground, and a couple kissing. I went wild and tried breaking free. I wanted their brains. All those images of heads containing fat juicy brains made me crazy.

After the slide show ended, my chair automatically swung one hundred and eighty degrees. The same woman in the lab coat stood inside a separate room, behind a glass shield.

"What's your name?" she asked into a microphone.

When my answer only consisted of more thrashing, she said, "I'm sure you've noticed the injections you've received. It's nanotechnology in medicine. Do you know what that is? What it can do for you?"

I didn't answer.

"It'll target the Disease in your blood cells and eventually kill it. What do you think about that?"

Again silence.

She told the orderlies to take me back to my room.

The routine was carried out each day; injections, slide show, and the woman inquiring about my name.

Then, one day during the slide show, I had an urge to travel to those beautiful locations. I felt saddened and sympathetic toward the Holocaust victims, and my body didn't jolt so much when I saw living people. I was becoming me again.

On the second to the last day of this routine, the woman asked me for my name. In my head, I screamed it, but all that came out was mumbles and moans. She seemed to understand that I was trying to answer and told me that if I wanted to get through this, I had to fight the Disease on my own.

I did. I lay there on the floor inside my padded room and thought back to when I'd kept myself on the ground during the shooting in front of the theater. I didn't know how I'd had that kind of control but I had to reclaim it.

I worked to bring myself from the corner of my mind, where I'd been cringing, and to push my way to the front again. I didn't know how long I'd been doing it, but when I was able to move my arm when I wanted to, it appeared there was hope for success. I was overpowering the Disease.

I didn't stop there. When my daily lunch arrived, I ate it, regardless of my protest. I hadn't eaten in so long, the food had no taste.

After the slide show the following day, the woman again asked my name, and I answered, "Alex." Her smile stretched from ear to ear, showing long crow's feet around her eyes.

"Breakthrough," she proclaimed.

When I returned to my room, I slept. I hadn't slept for a while.

I don't know how long I was in a dream world before I finally came around. My eyelids stuck together and I had to pry them apart. Once they opened, my eyes stung in the silvery light. Voices were all about me, distant, yet the faces were close enough to show the creases in the medical masks they wore. I saw three people—two men and the woman.

She shifted her dark eyes down to me. "What's your name?"

"Alex," I answered weakly. My lips smacked.

"Hello, Alex. I'm Doctor Jennifer Blackwood, founder of Project RD." She pointed to one of the masked men. "This is Phil Bristow, one of the Collectors who brought you here. He wanted to check in on you."

I remembered Phil. He'd been in the van that night, the one with the sorrowful face.

"And this is General Mike Shelton."

"What do you remember?" Shelton barked abruptly.

I didn't answer him. Instead, I simply croaked, "Water."

"He's thirsty," Blackwood said.

"It can drink after it talks," Shelton argued. He turned his electric green eyes on me. "We need to know what it remembers. How many people it ate?"

I didn't like General Shelton.

"Stop it, General," Blackwood snapped. "You're position in security does not extend to interrogation."

Stored away inside his glowing eyes, I saw a history that might explain his razor-thin tolerance towards me.

"Besides, he's not one of them anymore. He . . ."

"I know what it is," he interrupted, his voice rumbling like low thunder.

"Water," I requested again.

Blackwood heard me. She turned her attention to me. Those long crow's feet appeared around her eyes again. I suppose she was smiling.

"Of course," she said gently. "Phil, get him a bottle of water, please."

Shelton leaned his face near mine. He had crusty balls of junk in the corners of his eyes and his eyebrows were unkempt his bushy. His oily skin and pitch-black pores were also less than desirable. Thank God he wore a mask. I could imagination how his breath smelled, though I had no reason to talk.

"Do you realize what you've done, freak?" he whispered hotly.

"It wasn't my fault," I justified.

"You do remember, eh?"

Blackwood turned back to us. Her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows formed a little wrinkle between them. "General Shelton, if you don't stop interrogating the patient, I must ask you to leave the room."

Patient?

"This thing can tell us what went through its head when it killed and breakfasted on people's brains. It must be interrogated."

"And he will be questioned in due time," she promised as Phil entered the room, water bottle in hand. "It's part of our program. Again, it's not your job to make inquiries. You're only here to protect us in case something goes wrong. That's it."

I liked her.

Shelton grunted. She was unaffected by him, as if she had to constantly deal with his cruel attitude.

Phil cracked the bottle cap. I instinctively reached for the bottle but my hands were strapped down, along with my ankles. I'd been fastened to the bed like a monster.

"It's for our protection," Blackwood explained, taking the bottle from Phil. "As well as your own."

I shuddered when the cold water touched my desert dry lips. It might have been the first taste of water I'd had since that night. I hadn't even showered since then, either. What I really wanted, though, was to brush my teeth with all the antibacterial toothpastes available.

"You're doing very well," she said, taking the bottle away. "Your vitals are stable and the pigment in your eyes has returned to normal. You're lucky we got to you before the decay."

"What's Project RD?" I asked. My words sounded more lubricated.

"Rescued from Damnation," she explained, twisting the cap back on the bottle. "You have just made it through Step One—detox."

"Detox?"

"Yes. For the past month, you've been in solitary confinement."

I blinked rapidly. Surely, I look confused.

"Everything you've gone through, the padded room, the slide show, it was a part of detox."

"Oh."

"Mr. Wiesel, you're not out of the woods just yet. The Disease is still inside you. However, with our help, you can become whole again."

It surprised me that she knew my last name. Then I thought, duh, of course she would; my wallet had been with me on the night I'd been bitten.

"How?"

"You'll stay here for a year, during which time, you'll go through a twelve-step program to help wean you away from your hunger for human brains. For example, you'll go to group therapy with others like you to discuss your feelings."

Shelton snorted. "Why call it Project RD? Should be called Zombie Rehab."

"General, please," Blackwood begged.

She'd grown as tired of him as I had. It'd be worth losing the ground I'd gained just to mutilate him and eat his brain. I kept that to myself, of course.

She returned her focus to me. "Here you can be helped, but you have to want it."

Was she kidding? Did she think I wanted to stay a flesh-eating freak until my body fell apart? I wasn't going to say all that, but I thought it all the same.

"Okay," I mumbled.

She lowered her mask. I supposed she wasn't concerned with whatever contagion she guarded against. "I'm happy to hear that. Now, let's get you cleaned up. It's time you began Step Two."

—Step Two—

Before I was released from my bed, they strapped the restricting mask on me first.

"Try taking it off and I'll destroy you," Shelton warned vehemently.

This time, Blackwood said nothing in return. This was where his job started.

He and Phil the Collector brought me to the showers not far from my recovery room. Phil unstrapped my mask, but not without another stern warning from Shelton to behave. I didn't budge or say anything. I wanted clean warm water so much I hardly noticed them watching me when I finally stood beneath the spigot. My body felt stiff, even though I could move just fine. I raised the water temperature, thinking my muscles were strained from the experience.

I soaked for a while before noticing the needle holes in my arms. There were so many, I couldn't even count them. It didn't look as though any had healed since the first injection. Neither had the bite mark on my arm from that infected prick when he'd sunk his teeth into me.

I pressed on the wound to check for any pain, but there was none. I remembered my other wounds; namely, the scratches on my face from the homeless man in the alley. I slid my hand down my cheek and felt where the skin had been sliced. They also felt fairly fresh.

"Hurry and wash up," Shelton ordered.

I grabbed the bar of soap and sniffed. I'd always liked the smell of soap, but while breathing in the frothy bar, I smelled nothing. I suspected it was unscented.

They gave me clean clothes—gray scrubs—and took me into an assembly room where three other Infected were seated in front of a small stage with a screen behind a podium. One was a husky man, the other, Scott. I was restrained by my wrists and ankles to a chair next to a familiar young woman. She looked at me over her restraining mask.

"I hope this isn't going to be another slide show," she groaned tiredly.

"Me, too. What's your name?"

"Sahila. Yours?"

"Alex." I studied her a moment. "Have we met before?"

She considered me for a long time, until a painful reflection flickered in her eyes. In those eyes, I saw the nightmare.

"Yes," she said with a lump in her throat, one she swallowed. "We were both in front of the movie theater when the Collectors came." Her chest started heaving. "Oh god, it was the worst night of my life."

If my wrists hadn't been bound to the chair, I would've held her hand. I didn't say it but I totally agreed. It had been a bad night.

We got no further in our conversation before Blackwood came on stage, positioning herself behind the podium. "Hello everyone."

It was the first time I had a conscious opportunity to look at her. She was model tall, with sharp facial features, and her hair pinned back tightly. General Shelton stood beside her, unmasked and staring indignantly at everyone.

"Welcome to Project RD. First off, I'd like to congratulate you for making it through Step One. I know it was very difficult, but because of your achievements, there is hope. I'd also like to apologize for the restraints and masks we've forced upon you. Unfortunately, although you've made it quite far into recovery, you're still unstable."

The lights went dim and a slide projector came on behind us. The screen showed a graph with three dimensional bars and a percentage above each. Blackwood used a laser pointer to rest on the second tallest bar.

"You're in the orange, in the forty-seventh percentile," she explained. "Meaning that even though you're mostly in control, you're still very tempted to Relapse."

Relapse? Shelton was right, it ought to be called Zombie Rehab.

"Your goal," Blackwood went on, moving the pointer past the yellow bar, over the blue, and stopped on green, "is to reach here; Sobriety." She turned to us and said, "As I mentioned in your recovery rooms, you'll go through a twelve-step program to control your addiction to human brains. You'll have a support team twenty-four/seven and will be treated like people, not zombies." Her face turned grim. "That is, unless you cross a line. Here to instruct you on the rules of Project RD is General Shelton."

She quickly stepped aside as if afraid of the general and allowed him to take her spot behind the podium. I didn't like the man, and didn't want to hear what he had to say, but under the circumstances, I didn't have a choice.

"All right, this is how it's gonna be," he said, jumping right into the meat of it. "There are no second chances with us. If any of you brain-eating bastards try cracking a skull, we'll crack yours back before taking you down to the execution room for beheading."

I expected Blackwood to step in and say something about the way he talked to us, but she remained in the shadows. She must've had good reason for doing so.

"We begin with the 'No Second Chance' Rule 'cause whoever you bite or kill will suffer, along with their loved ones, and we won't risk repeating relapses from any of you. Got it?"

Scott whimpered. It was cruel to talk that way in front of a child, even a murderous one.

"You might think me a hard ass, and I am. But that's because I've been dealing with your kind since I was kid and the Worldwide Outbreak of 1957 took out my entire family."

I was right about the history.

"My men will be monitoring your every waking minute and will not hesitate to take you down at the smallest sign of trouble. Everyone, even the orderlies and doctors, will be armed with stun guns that have the power to paralyze a goddamn t-Rex, so keep that in mind whenever you get a grumble in your bellies." His expression then turned real dark. "And FYI, this whole place is sitting on a bomb. If there's ever a riot, I'll blow this freakin' building from the tower."

Blackwood stepped out in a hurry and came back into the light of the projector.

"Thank you, General." She took his place as he stepped down. "To my chagrin, he is correct. If you relapse even once, you will be put to death without delay." She then got off the bomb subject quickly. "The workers here are risking their lives every single day and it isn't fair to sacrifice several for the chance that one may be cured. But we're not here to discuss failure; we're here to prepare for your future. Within the last four decades, I and my team of scientist have worked to not only end the zombie disease, but to reverse it. After all this time, I'm proud to say that our monumental hard work has paid off."

Shelton rolled his eyes. Clearly he thought differently, which made me question why he was even here if he didn't believe in the mission of Project RD.

"Some of you may not be fully aware about zombie history, but for those who do, you can view this as a recap."

She took a remote off the podium and aimed it at the projector. The bar graph was replaced with a hieroglyphic of a man eating another man.

"This is the first known record of the outbreak, which occurred in Ancient Egypt in 3000 BCE . . ."

She gave us the rundown on zombie history, starting with outbreaks in ancient civilizations. The Black Plague of 1665, which I'd thought was caused by diseased rats, had actually been caused by the Infected. There'd been outbreaks off and on throughout history all over the world. The worst though, was the Worldwide Outbreak Shelton had mentioned, and it had started in our small town, now renamed Ground Zero. It had been the first outbreak in America and the government hadn't been prepared to handle it, even though Europe had tried to warn them in advance. America had been brimming with confidence from the victory of WWII and believed the country could handle anything. Weeks after the American outbreak, the Disease had spread into a global pandemic. It wasn't until the mid-sixties that the problem had been controlled, but then it cropped up again in '89, at Ground Zero. The problem had been contained quickly before it could spread any farther.

When the history lesson ended, Blackwood shut off the projector and the lights came on.

"I wanted to show you that to not only give you information about what you've become, but an understanding about why this program exists. Imagine if we can stamp out this menace to society by curing the Disease, rather than just executing the carriers." She peered over her shoulder at Shelton, as if to say, my way is better than yours, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!

"If Project RD is a success, then the human race can carry on without the burden of worrying about another outbreak. Yes, there will be skepticism, and, yes, there will be negative comments from the public; but when you're cured and leave this facility as healthy and well-adjusted individuals, we'll have shown the world that anything is possible, and it started with you; the First Group!"

I'll admit, I felt inspired.

That evening we were placed in rooms that could only be described as prison cells. I felt emotionally drained. Blackwood had announced that we could talk to our loved ones before lights out. For those of us wanting to do so, we'd been taken into private rooms with a laptop and a webcam. I wasn't allowed to have my restraints removed, but the orderlies had taken off the mask.

Man, my nose had itched. I'd been stretching at it when my parents came on screen. I quickly lowered my hands to hide the cuffs.

Our conversation had started off light. We'd talked about the weather and who had won the Super Bowl. I went into what Project RD was all about and its agenda. Mom had said I looked terrible and Dad got emotional. I'd told them I loved them both and left.

The orderlies relieved me of my restraints and mask while soldiers stood by. They put me in my cell with a tray of food. I ate slowly, tasting nothing. I hardly noticed the lack of flavor as I thought about Blackwood's pep talk. I was proud to be the first of something so important. To be a part of Project RD's first success group, who had the chance to actually be cured—this could really change the world.

The next day was the group's first session. We sat around in a circle without masks but still strapped to chairs bolted to the floor. Without the mask, I saw everyone's faces. Despite her pallid skin and yellow fingernails, Sahila was pretty. I gave her a genuine smile when our eyes met, and she returned the gesture. Sitting next to her was the husky man with a black beard. He looked uncomfortable and stiff.

It was just the three of us. I didn't know where Scott was. I'd hoped to see Tony, but he wasn't there, either. Between me and Sahila was a vacant chair, which was soon taken by a young woman.

"Hi, everyone, I'm Gia Thomson, your sponsor."

"Hi, Gia," we all replied.

"Today we're going to introduce ourselves and discuss what happened to bring you here."

She was perky, like a cheerleader on an adrenaline kick. She had an incredibly wide smile and eyes that . . .

I couldn't look at them. All I thought about was the brains behind them. Being so close to an Uninfected ignited my temptation.

No, don't start slipping now, I told myself. Her tits, yes! That'll be my focal point.

To help cool my yearning, I reminded myself about Shelton's 'No Second Chance' rule. Staring at boobs certainly helped control myself,—at least from one kind of hunger anyway.

"Who wants to go first?" Gia asked.

I did, just to keep my mind off my appetite for her brain. I stated my full name, age, and rehashed the night I'd been bitten. When I got to the part where I'd killed the homeless guy, my stomach started to ache with those strange hunger pangs. I skimmed over it before I got into describing every juicy detail.

Gia's face turned melancholy. "It's painful to talk about your kills. I understand."

No, she didn't; and no, it wasn't painful. Not in the sense she referred to.

Next went the husky guy, Jeff Byrne. He'd been a mechanic when a zombie had bitten him inside his shop. He hadn't had a chance to kill before the Collectors found him on the floor suffering rigor mortis. He'd been unable to move around even after his muscle function had returned. He was going through physical therapy now.

Sahila Taylor had been a high school senior who'd worked as a waitress at the Ground Zero diner. She'd left work when an Infected attacked and bitten her on the same night as me.

Her experience haunted her. She whimpered and closed her eyes at times. I thought she was going to cry but no tears fell.

Her mood shifted when she got into relating her first kill. Unlike me, she described the savory flavor of fresh brain and how it had squished ever so sweetly in her mouth, like a fat, ripe grape. Jeff and I started panting. You'd think she was describing the best sex she'd ever had.

"That sounds so good," Jeff moaned.

"Okay," Gia said, slicing into Sahila's words, stopping her from going into any more detail. "Let's stop here and continue tomorrow, 'kay?"

Next, we went to the medical ward for checkups. I got another injection of nanotech and a batch of vitamin supplements, which I had to slip individually through the tiny bars over my mouth. I asked about my wounds that weren't healing. The doctor said my cells and tissues were half dead and would take twice as long to heal. I asked if that meant I was half dead.

In a flat tone, he answered, "Yes, your body is at a standstill, in the gray area between life and death. I'm here to build your body up and tip it back over to the living side. Everyone else is dealing with your mental health."

Good, because I'd relapse in a heartbeat if that dispassionate bastard was my sponsor.

"Will it work?" I asked eagerly. "Can you guys make me well again?"

The doctor sniffed and shined a light into my eyes. "Only time will tell."

After that uplifting physical, I was taken back to my room.

—Step Five—

At this stage in the program, I attempted to reach out to the family members of my victims and ask for forgiveness. I wrote letters to make amends. Granted, I only killed four people, and the homeless guy probably had no family, but the responses were brutal. I got a vicious death threat from a widow whose husband I'd killed. In her letter, she stated how she wanted to peel my skin off and bury me in salt. The second letter was written on the back of a picture of a seventeen year-old theater employee I'd devoured. It read: You shouldn't get a chance to live since you didn't give my boy one. The third person to respond, Mr. Adams, whose brother I'd killed, sent me a Get Well card with nothing written inside.

That was one of my worst months.

—Step Eight—

Eight months later and things were looking up. During my physicals, I was observed through a CT scanner where doctors determined how my mind reacted to the subject of consuming brains. After months of injections, checkups, and heart-to-heart group therapy, my zombie mindset wore away, and I was relieved of my restraints and masks. I'd reached the blue level and was declared Low Risk. Newly Infected who just passed Step One were beginning their own Step Two stage. I saw them bond and wearing masks; I gave them encouragement to keep up the struggle toward sobriety. I also spent time outside my room with others and ate together in the cafeteria.

"It's nice to finally be able to hold a fork again," Jeff said, staring at his hand gripping the handle.

Jeff was much happier now that he could move about with ease. When I'd first met him, he'd been partially paralyzed. Now, after months of physical therapy and injections, he was a totally new person. We all were, since our appetite for brains had faded to a sickening memory.

The program was working. In fact, we told Oprah, CNN, and John Stewart on the Daily Show so. Sahila, Jeff, and I even made the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. Since the First Group was recovering so well, Blackwood thought it was time to publicize the success of Project RD and shut all those critics up. For our safety, we weren't allowed to leave the facility. Too many people wanted us dead. Our interviews were broadcasted live from Project RD and the photographers from Rolling Stone came to us. Blackwood had turned the Infected into romantic figures. Vampires move over; zombies were the in thing now.

Everything was going to be all right.

—Step Twelve—

"My name is Alex," I said to my group.

"Hi, Alex," everyone replied.

"It's been 352 days since I've eaten human brains."

They clapped.

"How do you feel about that?" Gia asked.

"I feel great about it," I answered truthfully. "I've only two weeks left in this program, and I can honestly say, I have no urge to eat brains."

"What is your major accomplishment since being in Project RD?" Gia asked.

"That I've beaten the Disease."

"What are you most thankful for?"

"Being alive. And also for the support I've received while being here. In this place, I haven't been judged for what I did as an Infected."

"What's your goal once you get out?"

"I'd like to start college this fall and live a normal life again."

"What's your worst fear once you're out?"

I was almost too afraid to speak it out loud. "Relapsing."

"When you're out on your own, you'll be constantly tested. Do you think you'll relapse?"

"No," I said confidently. "I may have to carry this disease with me for the rest of my life, but it doesn't control me."

Everyone clapped again. Gia looked pleased.

"Thank you for sharing, Alex."

I had made it. I was almost at the finish line. I finally came to terms with living with my unholy actions. Not a day had gone by that I hadn't thought about the people I'd killed. Before, when I used to think about what I did, I'd reminisce on how sweet their brains tasted. Now my grief was a source of comfort.

Once we'd reached Step Seven, we were allowed to go outside to a secured yard where we could run, walk, or chat with others. Nearby was a playground where the Infected children played. I'd spotted Scott many times. He seemed well. Seeing those children always gave me hope.

"Not running today?" Sahila said, sitting beside me.

"Nah, my body has gotten stiff and achy."

My five senses had bailed on me in recent months. I could probably stand in the arctic cold and not get one goose bump.

"Me too," she said, taking off her square-frame glasses. "I've been feeling like an old woman lately and my eyesight is getting worse. I asked the doctors about it, and they just prescribed these ugly-ass glasses to wear."

They were ugly, just like mine. The lenses were as thick as the glass of a fishbowl. I kept mine in my pocket because I felt embarrassed and pathetic when I wore them, like a dog with a cone around its head.

"They keep telling me to give my body time," I said. "Jeez, it's been almost a year already." I craned my neck towards Jeff sitting on my other side. "What about you? How are you functioning?"

He'd spaced out again, staring off into nothing. He'd been doing that a lot recently, like his brain wasn't registering anymore. I'd once caught him eyeing an orderly and licking his lips. I wondered if I ought to report it.

"I feel fine," he answered softly but crystal clear.

The sunlight really brought out the truth of our exterior. Like the rest of us, Jeff looked dreadful. Razor-thin veins had risen, creating navy blue roadways on his yellowish skin. There was a potent smell about us that was a cross between sour milk and unattended pool water. It wasn't appealing and didn't go away, even after showering.

I looked over at the tower. I'd seen it every time I'd been to the yard. It was the only tower in the place. It sat at the building's back corner in a section I'd never been to. To the best of my knowledge, none of us had.

"Do you think this place is rigged with explosives like Shelton said?" Sahila asked.

"Believe it or not, I hope so," I replied. "If a zombie riot ever happens, it'd be for the best if this place did blow up and took everyone out before any of us escaped and started killing again."

Jeff breathed heavily. My attention switched to him just as he lunged. He got me to the ground and snapped his jaws like Cujo. I held him up just enough to keep him from biting my face, which became drenched in saliva. His eyes were hungry and red. I thought he was going to tear into me when Sahila managed to push him off. His weak condition made him as easy to tip over as a sickly cow.

"Run!" she shouted, taking her own advice and heading back inside.

I got to my feet with every bone cracking, and dashed across the yard. I would've followed her but Jeff had gotten up and blocked my escape. He chased after me with surprising agility. Apparently, his physical therapy had worked really well. My stiff body couldn't outrun him and his breath was soon on the back of my neck.

A gunshot took care of that. I stopped and saw Jeff on the ground, his head bleeding. A sharpshooter had gotten him right in the temple.

Blackwood came to my room that evening. After the attack, I'd wanted solitude, but it was nice to see her.

"Are you alright?" she asked, sitting on a chair across from my bed.

"Am I going to end up like Jeff?"

"Mr. Byrne had great potential for full recovery, he really did. However, his overpowering addiction drove him into relapse."

"But he'd never eaten a brain."

"That's precisely my point. He'd never experienced such gruesome pleasures and it ultimately consumed him."

"Like teenage virgins?" I put in, speaking from experience. "Most are always wanting sex even though they have no idea what it feels like."

She considered my analysis. "More like a child who's born an addict but has never touched a drug. He didn't kill, but the addiction was there all the same. His body told him he needed brains and eventually his mind believed it. You and Sahila are different because you've tasted the forbidden fruit. The pain of your sins has kept you on the road to recovery."

"But why did he come after me?"

"That's the good news."

"The good news?"

She didn't explain anything more until we arrived at a ward four stories below our floor, where none of the Infected was ever allowed to go. We were met by plenty of Shelton's guards and security doors along the way. No one challenged Blackwood's presence.

We came into a dark hallway with shiny black walls and glass cells. Inside those cells were more Infected. Real Infected. I'm talking, moaning, screeching, jaw-snapping, took-a-wrong-turn-into Dead-Endsville-and-put-it-in-park Infected!

"We call them the Incurable," Blackwood explained. "The ones who have no hope of returning to the life they once knew."

"Why are they here?" I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. "Why haven't they been beheaded?"

"We need to study them to find an antidote strong enough to cure even those who've been infected a long time."

We walked through the shiny, yet gloomy hallway. It stretched for what seemed like miles. Guards stood on either side of each cell. I looked at the Incurables as we passed. They all came from Ground Zero; at least, the ones I recognized who hadn't decomposed beyond repair. I really didn't want to see this.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked weakly.

She stopped and turned to face me. "You asked me why Mr. Byrne went after you."

"Yeah?" I said, standing for the long-awaited answer.

"If Mr. Byrne had been near one of these Incurables, he wouldn't have attacked them because the Disease has completely taken them over. Understand?"

"Not really."

"He came after you because the Disease is leaving your body. You're actually reversing what has been done to you."

It was like she'd told me I won the lottery. "Really?"

"Yes, you and Miss Taylor are the most promising patients at Project RD." She placed her hands on both sides of my face. It was the first time I had hands that weren't in latex gloves touch me. "The both of you are pure successes. You needn't worry about relapsing. You're more human than you think."

I grinned like a madman. Then my eyes snagged on an Incurable in a cell behind her.

I stepped over to the glass wall. To see the patient more clearly, I had to wear my glasses, which was even more embarrassing because they'd broken after the altercation with Jeff. They now had tape wrapped around the bridge. Steve Urkel, the Zombie.

Inside was my best friend, Tony. He was in a wheelchair, his head lolling on his shoulder while a stream of drool hung from his bottom lip. He looked half rotten, a little worse than he did that night at the theater. In the cell with him were an orderly and a doctor. The orderly wiped Tony's mouth and gave him water he sucked through a straw. The doctor prepared to give him an injection.

"Tony Wiker," Blackwood said, coming up to stand beside me. "Even though he's been infected for so long and his body is badly decomposed, we're still trying to save him. He's receiving daily nanotech injections and we're giving him stem cells to rebuild his dead tissue, but his brain is too far gone. I'm afraid he'll spend the rest of his life confined to a wheelchair."

It hurt to see Tony like this, especially when I remembered all the good times we'd shared.

He shifted his milky eyes to me after I tapped lightly on the glass to get his attention. I waved and gave a fake smile. He seemed to recognize me and his moans breezed through the air holes above me.

"Calm yourself," the doctor ordered. He had his back turned to Tony while he loaded the syringe.

Unexpectedly, Tony stood and grabbed the orderly. Faster than anyone could cry for help, he bit through the man's neck and tore out a fist-sized chunk of flesh.

The doctor reached for his Taser, caught off-guard by the sudden animation of his brain-dead patient. He fumbled for it, but Tony was on top of him and pushed him to the floor. A guard swiped a keycard to get inside, but before the light turned green, Tony had smashed the doctor's head open and had begun hollowing out his skull. The look on his putrid face as he shoveled brain into his mouth screamed of ecstasy.

In the midst of my shock, an envious feeling squeezed in.

Blackwood yelled for the guards to get inside. When they did, Tony received more volts than a lightning strike. He went down while the guards pounced with cuffs and a restricting mask.

Blackwood's eyes turned on me. She looked surprised, as if she'd forgotten I was still standing there. "Get him out!" she ordered a guard.

He took my arm and led me out of the ward, back to my room.

I knew Tony's fate was sealed. It just surprised me when Blackwood said he'd requested to speak with me before his execution.

"I thought he was brain dead."

"He's been deliberately unresponsive to make us believe he was brain dead, waiting to strike when it was convenient."

"What should I say to him?"

"These are his final moments, Mr. Wiesel. Just tell him goodbye."

Blackwood was upset about Tony. Not saddened, but pissed, like she'd gotten a D on a test she studied hard for.

The execution room was a long elevator ride down. Two armed guards silently accompanied me. When the ride was over, we walked through a dark concrete hall, into a room where Tony was strapped face down on a board, under a guillotine. I didn't expect to see the execution method, and when I did, I wished I hadn't come. My only comfort was that I wouldn't actually witness seeing his head get chopped off.

As I approached, the guards stayed back to give me privacy. Tony remained motionless, as though in acceptance of what was going to happen. He didn't even move when I knelt beside him.

"Tony," I whispered. "It's me, Alex."

In a voice as raspy as a sixty-year-old chain smoker, he said "Hey, dude." He rotated his head sideways toward me. "I knew you'd come. When I saw you earlier, I had to talk to you. That's why I attacked those guys."

That took me aback. "You murdered them to get yourself put down here just to chat?"

"Well, that and to finally get them to kill me. I can't hack it here anymore."

My heart leapt into my throat. "Why? You were improving."

He gurgled a laugh. "I was better when I first got here. Now I'm a little worse. This place isn't what it seems. Project RD can't cure us."

"What do you mean? I'm cured. Blackwood told me the Disease is reversing itself. I'm going home for Christ's sake."

"And you'll relapse and bite someone, and then start the shit all over again, just like the last group in '89."

"Last group? I'm in the first success group."

"You're the third, after the second in the 80's and the first in the '50's. Project RD was called Project Study back then. They collected zombies from Europe to do experiments on. But they got careless and the zombies started killing the staff. Eventually, they got loose and went straight for Ground Zero, where the Worldwide Outbreak began."

I didn't know what to say.

"Project Study was renamed in the 70's when Blackwood took over. She picked up where the first team left off, with the intention to find a cure. There weren't many zombies around by then and those left were dying off, so she deliberately let them loose to infect others. But it didn't spread like last time, because she made sure the whole thing was capped before it got out of control."

"No. Some drifter brought the Disease that time."

"Lies," he whispered. It sounded like he was about to fall asleep. "That was a cover. It was Blackwood who was responsible for the 80's outbreak just so she could have zombies to study. And now she did it to us. You're dying, just like me. Blackwood is obsessed with finding a cure, but what she doesn't realize is that once bitten we are the Disease and there's no cure from us. The injections are only slowing our decay. I'm telling you, dude, we're the living dead, and we can't go against our nature." He blinked slowly. "Ask yourself, d'you feel any better? D'you physically feel at all?"

In truth, I didn't feel anything, not even someone grabbing my arm and hoisted me to my feet.

"I'm glad you're here, freak," General Shelton said. "I want you to see this."

He delivered me into the hands of the guards who had escorted me into the room.

"Stop! What are you doing?" I cried, as guards held me by each arm.

"I love this part of my job," Shelton said, sliding Tony toward the guillotine. His head went through the round opening. He looked at me.

Shelton pulled the latch, and the slanted blade sliced through Tony's neck with flawless ease. His head dropped into a waiting basket. To my relief it was bloodless. To compensate for that, Shelton snatched Tony's head out by the hair and shoved it in my face.

"This is what needs to be done with all you brain-eating bastards!"

Tony's eyelids flickered, his mouth moving. I would've vomited if I could.

On our way back up, I told Shelton about what Tony had said and asked if it was true.

"Is that what you ghouls were talkin' bout? Yeah, it's true. That's why I signed up with Project RD, to make sure there ain't no more Worldwide Outbreaks."

"But you're part of it? Even after what happened to your family, you're still going along with the whole thing?"

"Remember the tower?" he asked deviously. "Don't think I don't have the balls to go through with it."

The entire experience had traumatized me. That night, I took a walk through the wide corridors and headed for Sahila's room. I needed to talk to someone. Witnessing Tony's death had disturbed me, but not as much as what he'd said—or how I felt when he ate the doctor's brain. Actually seeing it in all its juicy glory had made me feel something I hadn't felt in a while: Hungry!

"I was just on my way to see you," Gia said. "I heard what happened. Blackwood gave Shelton an earful for what he did. Are you okay?"

I looked into her eyes and knew what was behind them.

Her head cracked opened easily enough when I slammed it against the wall. I eagerly reached inside and pulled out her brain like pumpkin innards. I could taste again; in fact, all my senses charged up.

Sahila stepped out of her room and asked what that sound was. I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying myself. Thundering footsteps from an orderly, pounded towards me. He yelled into a radio and held a Taser in his other hand. Sahila leapt on him as he passed her and slammed him against the wall. She tore into him.

Other patients came out of their rooms. I stood licking my fingers while Sahila kept feasting. Soldiers came just in time to send the rest of the patients into a feeding frenzy. They attacked the guards and chaos erupted.

Bomb, I thought.

There was an evil here and it wasn't the Infected; it was Project RD. I had to stop Blackwood from unleashing anymore Infected and continuing her experiments. To do so, I needed to destroy the facility.

My brain lust returned but I didn't let it overwhelm me. I had to reach the tower.

I jumped on a soldier and tasered him with his own gun. It was all I could do to keep from biting into him as I stripped him of his uniform. I didn't want blood on the clothes. While everyone else fought, I disguised myself, took his pistol, and left him there to be eaten.

The alarm began blaring and gunshots exploded in the night. I left the ward as fast as I could, pulling away from the madness I'd created. I jumped into an elevator and headed for the third floor, where I could reach the tower. When I got to the fourth floor, the elevator stopped and the doors reopened. I put on my, I'm-not-a-zombie-dressed-like-a-soldier, persona.

"General, everything will be under control soon," Blackwood said into a radio, stepping inside. "No need to take drastic measures."

"It better be," he shouted. "I'm at the tower right now, ready to push the Doomsday button if—"

"It'll be handled!" she fired back.

The second she took her finger off the TALK button, I shoved her against the wall. It took her a moment to recognize me.

"Mr. Wiesel?" She noticed the blood on my face. "Oh God!"

"You did this to us," I said, shaking her. "You let the Infected into Ground Zero so you could have more lab rats to work with."

"Tony told you? My staff had talked too freely around him when we thought he was a useless lump of meat."

She didn't need to say anymore. I would've eaten her brain if I could have done it without becoming lost in the enjoyment of doing so; it would've compromised my mission. With great restraint, I avoided cracking her head open and merely slammed it against the wall. She let out a small cry before her body went limp.

The doors slid apart, opening a way to the third floor.

I'd never been here but it looked like any other ward. Abandoned, dust on every surface, it appeared as if it hadn't been occupied in years.

I ran around for a while before I found a locked door. Fortunate that I'd bumped into Blackwood; I could use her keycard to get into any of the rooms.

The door led to another elevator that took me straight up to the tower. When I stepped out, Shelton was yelling. Good thing, too, because his volume covered the wound of my footsteps as I crept from the dark hall into the room where he was. He had his back to me as he shouted orders into a radio. As I snuck up on him, I noticed his hand on a key inserted in a lock on a control panel with dozens of switches and buttons.

He never saw it coming. I raised my pistol and blew him away at point-blank range. His head exploded all over the place. I picked off a brain chunk and threw it into my mouth like popcorn shrimp. It melted on my tongue and left my backbone tingling.

Beside the key was a green button. The control panel hummed. I guessed everything was in play for the big bang. All I needed to do was turn and press, or the other way around, I really didn't know.

I prepared myself for my final moment. I didn't mind going down with the ship; after all, what else did an Infected like me have to offer? It was all for the best.

I spit out a piece of skull fragment and turned the key. All the lights came on. It was go time.

Every nerve in my body got fried just before I found myself on the ground beside the late General Shelton. Blackwood stared down at me with a face burning with fury. She held a Taser and shocked the holy hell out of me again, either out of caution or spite. I bet on spite.

"I've worked too hard to have you destroy this on a whim," she said through gritted teeth. She pressed her shoe onto my chest, holding me down. "You were so close, Mr. Wiesel. I had such faith in your success, my success! Now I see there's more work to be done." She removed her foot and stood over me like a fearless warrior. "You may be another one of my failures, but I'll keep you around to help me create more test subjects."

And just like that, it started all over again.

Movie House Murder

Eva stood in the doorway as the last movie ended. Her watch read 12:34 pm and she was tired and ready to leave. For being such a slow night, her shift had gone by rather quickly, especially during the last show after taking over for Paula behind concessions. The past couple of hours zipped by and before she knew it, she was closing out her register.

At last, the lights came up as the credits rolled. A handful of people stood from their seats and began leaving. As they passed by, Eva wished them a goodnight and walked into the auditorium to begin her rounds. When she did, she immediately spotted a lone man seated by the side aisle on the other side, watching the credits.

Eva strolled down the aisle, glancing between rows of worn seats for any personal belongings left behind on the sticky floor. She checked behind the curtains for remaining guests, and made sure all exit doors were locked. She then made her way up the other aisle where the man sat. As she drew closer, she took notice of the man's drooped eyelids and slightly parted lips. Eva stopped and studied him a moment.

"Sir?" she said over the movie soundtrack. "Sir, are you alright?"

When he didn't respond, Eva leaned forward and shouted, "Sir!"

The man didn't move.

Eva became concerned and decided to check the man's pulse. She reached her hand over, expecting him to jolt awake just before she touched him, scaring them both into an early grave. She held her breath and pressed her fingers against his neck. He felt cold, as if he'd been sitting under an air conditioner vent all day. She kept searching for a pulse but there was no beat. Not . . . one . . . thump.

Different colors flashed throughout the auditorium and loud pops and burrrrrrs blasted through the speakers as the tail end of the film played out. Eva jumped back when the sound burst into her eardrums. As familiar as it was, it caused her heart to skip. She glanced at the screen and then back over to the dead man.

How did he die? Eva wondered while reaching into her pants pocket. She brought out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. "Shit," she cursed. "No signal."

"What's going on?" someone asked, entering the auditorium. She turned as Vic the projectionist came down the aisle.

"Saw you through the window while I was shuttin' everything down upstairs," Vic said, stopping near her. His eyes traveled to the man in the chair and asked, "What's his problem? Is he drunk or somethin'?"

"He's dead."

Vic stood silent for a long moment. "You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"Aw, c'mon, man."

She hated it when he called her man, or dude. Apparently, Vic didn't hang out with many women.

Vic reached for the man's wrist. "He's probably asleep or something'." He searched for a pulse. Eva waited for him to make the discovery for himself.

In spite the situation, she choked back a laugh as he quickly withdrew his hand, jumped back and shouted, "Holy Crap! That's really a dead guy, man!"

"Told you," she fired back. "I might just be a manager at some dive theater, but I'm smart enough to recognize when someone's dead."

Vic studied the corpse with morbid curiosity. "Wonder how he croaked. He could've had a stroke, but he looks so young."

"You're never too young to suffer a stroke," Eva pointed out. "He could've been a drug user."

"He doesn't look like a drug user," Vic argued.

"How would you know?"

"Well, besides him being a stiff and all, he looks pretty healthy. Y'know, in tip-top shape."

"Maybe he was a pill popper," Eva challenged.

Vic rolled his eyes and said, "If he had a stroke, he would've most likely fallen over trying to get up for help, or at least be slumped. I mean, look at him, he's sitting too casual-like."

She hated to admit it, but Vic had a point. The dead man sat straight back in the chair with one arm resting comfortably on the armrest and the other lying across his lap. There were no signs that he had experienced any kind of trauma before his death.

"Hey," Vic said with odd excitement in his tone. "What if this dude is a victim of the Venom Killer?"

"The who?"

Vic turned to her with a disdainful expression on his shaggy face.

"You haven't heard about him?"

"No."

Vic focused back on the corpse and moved his hand up the man's T-shirt. Eva winced in horror as Vic lifted up the shirtsleeve.

"What are you doing?"

"Just checking."

"Checking for what?"

"There," he said, pointing to the dead man's bicep. "See it?" Eva couldn't believe what she was doing as she leaned in.

"See what? I don't see anything?"

"Right there," Vic said, drawing his finger closer to the spot. "See that little red mark?"

Eva noticed it and said, "So? It's a pimple."

"It's not a pimple. It's a mark where a needle pricked him. You really don't know about the Venom Killer?"

Eva gave no answer.

Vic lowered the shirtsleeve, "The Venom Killer is a serial killer, man. He's been knocking people off across the nation. He gets his jollies by killing his victims in public places."

"How does he do that?"

There was a brief silence before Vic replied, "He injects them with poison."

Eva's eyes widened.

"With what?"

"With a hypodermic needle. Duh, dude,"

"Wait a minute. I think I've heard about this guy," she confessed. "Doesn't he drug them first?"

"Yeah. They say when he targets someone, he finds a way to slip 'em a roofie. He got some twenty-two year old chick like that in a New York City nightclub. He drugged the girl and poisoned her after she was down for the count. They later found her propped up by the bar. Sometimes he really lucks out, though. Like, the other night, he found some dude here in Atlanta passed out drunk on the MARTA train and killed him. For hours no one noticed him dead 'til some lady sat next to him and the dead dude went flop!—fell right over onto her lap."

"Do the cops have any leads?"

"They don't even know what he looks like."

Eva slid her eyes over at the corpse. It was apparent that the victim had come to the movies alone, and in such a dark atmosphere with so few people around it was all too easy for a madman with a poisonous needle to strike. She noticed the soda cup inside the cup holder next to body. The killer may have slipped Rohypnol in his drink whenever the victim had left his seat during the movie, then waited until the victim was out cold to inject him with the venom.

All evidence pointed to it being this psychopath. If the Venom Killer had, in fact, killed the man it made sense that he'd choose this nearly vacant movie theater to play his sick game. Vic just said it himself that the killer's latest murder had been local.

Eva felt sorry for the dead man. He appeared young, in his early thirties, handsome, with a dark complexion. He seemed the type of guy who'd have many friends and possibly a loving family, soon to be devastated by the news of his senseless murder. Then her sorrow turned into fear when Vic said, "The killer must've done this at the last show. That means he was just here, man."

She shuddered at the thought that a serial killer had perhaps brushed by her as the other customers were leaving.

"He might even still be in the building," Vic added unhelpfully. "Let's go upstairs in the projection booth and call the police."

She followed Vic out from the auditorium and through a wide corridor. They came to a door on the left hand side with a sign reading: EMPLOYEES ONLY. She thought to leave for the office located on the other side of the theater. It would take minutes to reach, but she didn't want to risk it, not with the possibility of a serial killer looming about. She even considered leaving through an emergency exit door, but was afraid that the killer would be lurking in the shadows somewhere right outside.

"Why did Paula leave after the seven o'clock shows?" Vic asked, unlocking the employee door.

"There's a murdered man in our auditorium, plus the threat that his killer might still be around, and you're asking me about Paula?"

"Just making conversation, dude."

She found Vic's nonchalant attitude about their gruesome situation more and more disturbing.

Vic opened the door and they went up a flight of stairs leading to another door ahead.

"She asked to leave early," Eva answered. "How did you even know she left?"

"I saw her leaving while I was outside smoking."

"Well, since you're so curious, why didn't you ask her yourself?"

"She don't like me much."

That came to no surprise. She herself didn't particularly care for Vic. Too many things about him creeped her out. His slick, heavily jelled hair that he kept combed straight back was as black and shiny as the leather jacket he always wore. He was very narrow-minded in his conversations and generally wouldn't join in on a topic that didn't involve movies. Also, he walked with a slight hunch, almost like he was trying to repel people from him. The general manager had once told her that Vic was a loner with virtually no friends and wasn't very talkative with the floor staff. Granted, most of the staff was in high school and had little in common with an oddity like Vic. However, something about him had always rubbed her the wrong way.

Once they reached the top stair, Vic unlocked the door and went inside. Eva hesitated a moment. A bad feeling had crept into her very core and hunkered down inside her gut. It made her stomach ache.

"Are you coming, dude?" Vic asked, standing in the doorway.

"I . . . uh . . . I think I'm just going to call the cops from the office."

"And what are you gonna do if you run into the killer, huh? Offer him free movie passes to let you live? C'mon, it's safe up here. No one but me has a key to the booth."

Again she dithered, but in the end decided to push aside her suspicions and follow Vic into the room.

Everything was dead quiet inside the projection booth. The steady hum of the projector machines had been silenced after Vic shut off the breakers. Minimal light from the auditoriums came in through three small windows in front of each machine. One window was for the projectionist to check the film on screen and make sure the picture was in frame and in focus, the actual movie projector faced the middle window, and the third was for the theater's old fashioned slide projector, showing local advertisements and movie trivia questions.

To distract herself from her fear, Eva studied a movie projector as she passed by it. They were bulky machines, and the area where the film threaded through for viewing was like looking into a mechanical jigsaw puzzle. The movie prints, which looked like large vinyl recorders, sat on one of three stainless steel platters attached to a seven-foot tall tower erected right beside the projectors.

They walked through a short, dark hallway and into a more spacious room where a laptop rested on a single desk against the wall. The dim room was lit by two bulbs, slightly reflecting off the water-stained ceiling. The walls were painted light grey and adorned with many movie posters. Eva had only been in the projection booth once before when the general manager had given her a tour on her first day.

"It's pretty dark in here," she observed.

"Well, duh, man, it's a projection booth. It's supposed to be dark 'cause bright lights can shine through the windows and reflect off the movie screens."

"Doesn't it bum you out to be in the dark like this all day?"

"Nah, I actually like it. Sunlight is way overrated."

She stopped beside a table, pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket and redialed 9-1-1. No signal.

"Dammit! Why can't I make a call anywhere in this freakin' place?"

"It's caused by the electrical interference," Vic explained, approaching the desk.

"Do you have a phone we can use?"

Vic unplugged his laptop and shrugged, "Yeah."

"Well, call the cops, dude," she demanded. "If you can't get a signal either, we ought to leave for the office."

"I never said I couldn't get a signal," replied Vic, carrying his laptop with him as he walked back. "Besides, you said you wanted me to show you this before we spend hours talking to the fuzz."

"I said what?" she said, confused.

"Hold this," Vic ordered, handing something over to her. She took the object so Vic could set his laptop down on the table.

"What the hell is this?"

"It's a splicer."

She studied it as Vic logged onto the Internet. The splicer wasn't large but it was heavy and awkward looking with a small slanted cutter that resembled the blade of a Guillotine.

"Check this out," Vic said.

She turned her attention away from the splicer and looked over at the monitor. Vic had searched up the Venom Killer on a local news website where an image of the killer had been caught by a MARTA train security camera. The killer was sitting beside the unconscious passenger. He wore an Atlanta Braves ball cap and sunglasses. It was clearly seen that in his hand was the syringe he'd used to murder the unsuspecting passenger.

"See?" Vic said. "Look how he hides his face. He knows that cameras are on 'im, but wants people to see him actually killing this dude. Isn't he friggin' great?"

Is he serious? She thought. It's like he admires him.

"Great? Sounds more like sick-o, if you ask me. Why are you so interested in this guy?"

Vic craned his neck around to her, sliding his hand through his dark, viscous hair. He grinned widely and narrowed his eyes as if squinting them in the overrated sunlight. His creepy expression caused icy tingles to rush down her spine.

"I'm writing a screenplay about a serial killer. My main character is the killer, not a detective trying to find him or a would-be victim, but the killer himself. It takes place inside his head and what he's thinking about when he's committing murder. Guess I'm trying to understand the mindset."

An overpowering eeriness came about him as he spoke about his project. His demeanor was unnerving, reminding her of Frederick Loren in House on Haunted Hill, but lacking the charm and grace that Vincent Price had portrayed in his poised, yet, terrifying character.

"I didn't know you were a writer."

"You never asked, dude."

"Why did you want to show me this?"

Vic gave her a funny look and then said in an irritated tone, "For the second fucking time, this was your idea."

There was a long uncomfortable silence between them. Eva's stomach acids bubbled like a witch's brew as her bad feelings worsened.

"I'm going to the office."

"Why are you so anxious to leave?" Vic asked as he reached into his jacket pocket.

Then she saw the syringe.

Vic's voice seemed to be coming from far, far away when he said, "I cannot be stopped."

Oh, my God! It's Vic! Vic is the killer!

Before she knew what she was doing, Eva swung the heavy iron splicer up.

"No!" she shouted as she slammed it across his head.

The impact sent him straight to the ground; his skull cracked opened like a coconut when it hit the hard tile floor.

She stood over him while waves of tremors shook her every bone. She had never realized she possessed such strength. She tried to slow her rapid breathing, nearly vomiting as the blood oozed out of Vic's head, forming a thick red pool across the floor. Then a new terror forced her rigid body into motion.

"What have I done? I killed him! Oh, shit! I gotta get out of here!"

She dropped the splicer and ran out of the booth. She flew down the stairs, then through the lobby with the lingering scent of buttery popcorn still in the air. Rushing up another stairwell, she reached the office door. She fumbled for the office key hidden within her own set of keys. Finally, she found the right one, unlocked the door and went inside, slamming it behind her.

I gotta call the police! she thought, rushing to the desk.

As her hand reached the phone, she heard a voice say, "Hello, Eva."

An unknown woman sat behind the desk with feet casually propped up. Her outlandishly attired was a black smoking jacket, pinstripe pants and a vivid red tie tucked inside a white vest, with matching white snakeskin boots. She had sharp facial features, sallow skin and wore thick, dark eyeliner, with glossy red lipstick that perfectly matched her tie.

Eva stood stunned and blinked several times in disbelief before finally managing to say, "Who are you?"

"Tsk, tsk," the intruder said, disregarding her question as she admired her glittery gold rings. "What a mess you've made of ole Vic." She turned her eyes up at Alicia and said in sarcastic pity, "That poor, poor useless skin sack."

Eva knitted her eyebrows together with confusion and said, "What are you talking about?"

The intruder smirked and lit up a cigarette wedged inside a sixteen inch cigarette holder.

"You were never too fond of Vic, were you? I think you wanted an excuse to pop him off, so you made yourself believe he was going to harm you."

"I didn't murder Vic. I was defending myself!"

Smoke spread throughout the room when the intruder exhaled. Surprisingly, Eva couldn't smell it.

"Ever wonder where the time goes?" the intruder asked abruptly.

Eva was taken aback.

"The time?"

"Yes, time. It seems to pass by so fast for you. So many mysterious gaps riddled throughout the fabric of your lifespan. Sometimes it feels like you've jumped into a time warp and skipped ahead a few hours, doesn't it, hon?"

"This is insane," she said, snatching the phone from its cradle and dialing. "I'm calling the police."

Then the intruder leaned toward her and said, "Who do you think killed that girl in the New York nightclub when you worked there as a bartender?"

Eva froze in place, her finger pressing on the dial. Flashes of her past resurfaced. She remembered dancers on the floor, dancing to the loud beats from the DJ. And she remembered the annoying drunk girl who kept ordering drinks and never leaving a tip.

"This is some sick joke," Eva said, hanging up the phone. "You just somehow broke in my office to play a prank, right? Vic is in on it too, isn't he?"

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I didn't murder anyone, and Vic made it seem like he was going to kill me. He pulled out a syringe and said "I cannot be stopped."

"No, you only imagined that happened."

"What?"

"Hate to break it to you, hon, but you're a little daffy. What he really said was, 'I'll call the cops', and took out his cell phone, which you mistook for a syringe. You see, it was you who wanted to go up to the projection booth."

Eva shook her head in disbelief. "No, it wasn't, Vic did."

"Wrong again, girly," the intruder said, tapping her long fingernail against her temple. "Think about it again."

She thought back for a moment and suddenly began remembering the real conversation that took place between her and Vic inside the auditorium.

"The killer must've done this at the last show," Vic had said. "That means he was just here, man."

"He could still be in the building," Eva had said. "Let's go upstairs in the projection booth and call the police. But first, I want to hear more about this serial killer."

"See?" the intruder said with a sigh. "Now you've gone and done this. You've really thrown everything out of whack."

"I don't murder people."

"Technically, you're right about that. You see, killing is my game, not yours. Your job is finding us work and places to stay like normal people do, and once settled, that's when I come out to play. When Paula had asked to leave early, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to pick my next victim. I put the Rohypnol in the customer's drink while preparing it behind concessions. Then I moseyed into the auditorium to poison him."

"Wait, are you saying that . . . "

"We're the same person."

Eva stumbled back and hit the wall, clutching her pounding chest. "No," she gasped.

"Yes," the woman said. "And you can't go around killing people like this. It's sloppy, and sloppiness will get us both executed, got it?"

Cold terror took hold of her soul when she imaged herself becoming the Top Story on the evening news. She could just hear an anchorperson saying, "At last, that sick and twisted freak, the Venom Killer, has been captured. Hear how her sloppiness landed her in police custody right after our weather forecast."

She could picture herself being paraded around in handcuffs while reporters questioned her about the horrors that she never remembered committing. Then after going through an agonizing trial, and hearing the merciless slam of the judge's gavel, she'd be forced to listen to her victim's loved ones curse her name and tell of the grief and misery she had caused them. And as a closure to her short life, she'd be strapped to a cold table and injected with sodium thiopental while family members of the departed pierced their hatful eyes through a Plexiglas wall. All the while, this other part of her—the real murderess—would cowardly hide in the shadows of her mind and dare not make an appearance, allowing the innocent side of Eva to take all the blame. The thought nearly caused her to break down into tears.

"What are we going to do?" she finally asked.

"Don't soil yourself over this," her other self groaned. "I'll take care of everything."

She stabbed out her cigarette on the desk and then stood to approach her. Eva suddenly felt lightheaded and before she knew it, she blacked out.

Eva smelled a combination of rotten food and dirty diapers before opening her eyes. As her vision cleared, she discovered that she was lying in a pile of garbage. She sat up and found a flashlight in her hand. She shined the light around, seeing nothing but a field of endless waste.

The city dump.

How the hell did I get here? She wondered, rubbing her aching head.

Dazed and confused, Eva moved the beam around before a human hand caught her eye. It stuck out between some trash bags and loose debris. Eva pushed a trash bags over. A bloody face stared back at her. She shot to her feet upon discovering it was Vic.

The series of events in which led her here were hazy, like visions in a snowstorm. An urgent voice inside her head advised that it was now time to get out of the city.

TRANSITION

Yesterday Mom and Dad came home with the new baby. I'd been standing in a sunspot in our kitchen when they entered the room. Dad placed the baby down on the breakfast table for me to see.

"Introduce yourself to your little sister," he said, waving me forward.

Meeting her made me nervous, 'cause meeting something new doesn't, like, come along every day, y'know. I approached the tank and leaned in close. "Hi, sis, sis," I said, rapping my fingers on the glass.

She twitched.

"Don't tap on the glass, Suzy," Mom scolded. "For her the sound is twice as loud."

"Is she in freshwater or saltwater?" I asked.

"Fresh," Dad answered, going over to the hearth where a small fire burned under an iron pan. "No one can breathe under salt water yet, but it won't be long before it's possible."

He placed an oven mitt over his webbed hand, slid the pan out, and poured the tuna soup into a cup.

Mom's cold, damp hand gently stroked my smooth head as she said, "Isn't she beautiful?"

I returned my attention to the tank.

She looked like a hairless albino monkey.

My sister had reached what scientists called The Next Stage. Mom and Dad were so proud.

She wasn't the only one to come this far, in fact, she's the third. The very first to cross the finish line over to the Next Stage was a boy born in Africa twenty-four years ago. His parents named him Chiratidzo, meaning 'a sign'. The second like him was his son, born a few years back. I learned about them this year in school.

Ever since we began changing hundreds of years ago, scientists predicted we'd reach this stage and would gradually continue transforming so long as we existed.

Dad took large gulps of the tuna soup that I made for them before they came home. Tuna soup is easy to make, it's just chopped up tuna in fish broth and served really hot. The hotter the better 'cause it, like, warms the blood, y'know.

After draining his cup, Dad wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and moved over toward the sunspot where I'd been standing. He warmed himself in the bright light that shone through the glass kitchen door like a water turtle sunbathing on a stone.

"We still need a name for her," he said.

"Would you like to give her one?" Mom asked me.

I pointed to myself. "Me? Really?"

"Sure," said Dad with a shrug. "We can't think of anything. Go for it."

For inspiration, I turned back to my sister, sleeping soundly in her plastic chair that bolted to the bottom of her small tank. Her tiny mouth opened and closed, sucking in water and breathing it out in tiny bubbles through the gills on either side of her neck. I slid my finger down my own neck. I have no gills. I still have a nose and my lungs need air, though I can stay underwater for, like, hours now.

Mom got up from her granite chair and dunked her entire body under the three feet of water that covers our whole community. The area had been flooded for a while now. My teacher said the water reached the midlands some seven hundred years ago. As our bodies accepted the changes needed to survive, we had started building homes and furniture out of stone and cement since most other materials won't last long in water. We've basically turned homes into what I call Stylish Caves. There's still warm-blooded air breathing people out there, living on high mountain peaks, but not many, and with water levels constantly rising, they'll be extinct soon. It's funny, 'cause years ago we were considered the freaks, and like all outcasts we were shunned by the majority that feared us. Now we dominate the planet two to one!

Dad was right, it won't be long before we adapt to saltwater. When that happens, everything we have left that makes us human will be, like, y'know, gone. Funny, it took us millions of years to become humans; now it's only taken hundreds to return to our basics.

After a minute went by, Mom reappeared with a refreshed look on her pastel face.

"Dehydrated, dear?" Dad asked, as she sat back on her chair.

"Yeah. Having a baby takes the moisture right out of you."

Mom carried the baby in her womb and gave birth, but they say in time, females will lay eggs instead. YUCK! I don't want eggs plopping outta me. I believe that once we reach a certain stage, many things will vanish, like friendships, material want, and just about anything that once separated us from animals. Eventually it'll be every man and woman for themselves. One day, surviving on a day to day basis will be the high priority. And instead of focusing on jobs, relationships, school, homework, or whatever, the new agenda will be finding food, hiding from predators, and breeding. Everything we own will become useless to us, even our Stylish Caves. I mean, what will we need 'em for, shelter from the rain?

That cold inevitability won't happen in my lifetime, or my children's, or my grandchildren's, but we're heading there, no doubt about it. As of now, we're still holding on to our species' traditions, like going to school, playing sports, and celebrating holidays. But many other things have disappeared like electricity, 'cause duh we're, like, surrounded by water!

My sister opened her eyes and looked at me; at least I think she did. Her eyeballs were like solid glass marbles in a variety of blues mixed with twirling lines of white. Mom and Dad's lipless mouths were shining with smiles. I could tell they were so thrilled about her; if they were capable, they'd have shed tears.

"The doctor said she'll need to eat raw foods," Dad said.

"That's disgusting!" I blurted.

Dad chuckled.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But I guess it'll be useful for her since it's getting harder to find dry wood for fires nowadays."

Two thousand years ago the rising temperatures could've killed us off if our bodies hadn't adapted. When dry land became scarce, most people were forced to settle in water. After awhile their skin couldn't stay moist by itself anymore; they began depending on the wet conditions, like needing lotion for severe dry skin, I guess. In my first grade class last year, I learned about what's happening to us. It's called Transition. I think they're half right about that. I mean, we're changing, that's for sure, just not evolving. In order to evolve a species has to move forward. In my opinion it's more like we're moving backwards, y'know, changing back into the very thing we started from billions of years ago before crawling out from the sea. Some of my friends have these fantasies that we're all gonna turn into merpeople, but I know better. We're heading back to the drawing board, and my sister is proof of it!

We should've known better when the glaciers began melting. When time was still available, people often talked about improving the environment and preventing global warming from happening, but, like, not enough action was taken. Then the hole in the ozone grew larger and before anyone had a chance to inflate a raft, the seas rose over their backyards.

I think the earth will be okay now. There are no more factories billowing poisonous fumes into the air, and almost all of the carbon dioxide stopped when people couldn't, like, drive anymore. Maybe millions of years from now, if the sun still burns, the water might recede, and we humans can start all over again. If so, I hope we use a little more common sense next time around.

"Have you decided on a name, yet?" Mom asked.

"Aglaia," I told her. "Her name is Aglaia."

CLARA'S PERFORMANCE

We had a packed theater on the night of the accident. The audience was dressed to the nines. Even Charlie Chaplin sat in the front row. Everything went perfectly at first. My performers hit their marks flawlessly. Granted, their movements were stiff and jagged, and they couldn't speak or sing, but that didn't take away the magic from the show.

My performers' hold on the crowd was unbreakable.

It was the deep sea scene. An underwater backdrop and wooden waves that were pulled back and forth by stagehands decorated the stage. The song, Sea Monster, played. Because the performers couldn't sing or even have moveable mouths, the next best thing was hiring top-notch singers. They stood in the orchestra pit behind microphones.

Two performers, Anne and Shirley, sat on swings suspended from wire wrapped in seaweed. Their pink Sea-Monkey customs sparkled in the lights. The singers' voices were in sync with the performers' jerky movements. The pair wooed the crowd, yet the real wait was for Clara—the star.

On cue, the trapdoor opened and a large clamshell rose. The audience gasped as the shell stopped and opened. Clara rose to her full height, looking stunning in her mermaid costume. She stiffly lifted her arm as her singer's voice rose whimsically. I beamed proudly at her. As her song continued, Anne unexpectedly stood on her swing.

"What the hell is she doing?" I muttered.

"Why is she standing, June?" the director, Wallace MaClay, asked me.

I couldn't answer him before a scream scratched up my throat. Anne fell headfirst off her swing. She hit the floor and broke into pieces. Gears and sprockets clanked against the floor and bounced off the wooden waves. Her brass and steel head had crashed through the floorboards. The audience hadn't realized the plunge was unscripted. It took the singers and musicians to abruptly cease before they came to terms with the fall. A woman screamed, a horrible, unnecessary screech— that in my opinion—ought to be meant for a living person, not an automaton.

Clara clicked her head over to where Anne landed. The spur gear installed in her neck made her head tick like a clock hand when she turned it. I'd expected her to mindlessly continue with her performance, but both she and Shirley set their stainless silver eyes on Anne's mangled body. Wallace loudly ordered a stagehand to close the curtain. The moment the curtain panels touched, I darted out on stage. The sight of the damage made my throat close in.

She was a mess. Her glittery costume had ripped when her sharp insides exploded out. Black oil drenched her like blood. It took both Wallace and I to hoist her heavy head out of the stage floor. In my head I could already hear the theater owner complaining about the damage.

Hours later, I was studying Anne backstage where we placed her wrecked body on a table. Wallace was busy handling the enraged theater owner.

Since my show had become a worldwide success, I had a substantial amount of funds, which came in handy when hiring workers to load the 500 pound automatons.

"What went wrong, June?" asked Dolores Pell, our costume designer.

"I don't know. She just stood on her swing and fell off."

"She stood on the swing?" she pounced on the word. "Huh? Maybe it wasn't an accident."

"What do you mean?" I asked almost defensively. "Are you suggesting she jumped?"

Dolores shrugged. "I dunno, hun. I wasn't watching the show."

The bitch loved stirring up rumors even between her co-workers, so I didn't give what Dolores said much thought.

The following afternoon, we boarded our steam locomotive for Chicago. We were scheduled to depart in the morning, but we ran late on account of Wallace spending the entire night at a Speakeasy. Luckily for him, we owned the locomotive; otherwise he'd be riding on the next train the following day.

I needed to get home and repair Anne. I was so anxious to get to work that I decided to go into the cargo cars and see what I could manage with the tools I had.

In the cargo car, the frosty November air breezed in through the boards of the walls. The dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling, swayed back and forth with the train's movements. To keep my automatons safe, they were stored in metal coffins with three inch thick glass lids. Before I went to Anne's coffin, I stopped at Clara's. Her solid silver eyes focused solely on the swaying blub directly above her, the dim light swooshed lightly over her shiny face.

Clara was my masterpiece, the youngest in my collection. I'd spent years improving my automatons. Tinkering was in my blood, tracing back to my great, great, grandfather, Pierre Jaquet-Droz.

I placed my hand on the glass lid, my fingers squeaked as I slid them down.

"Thank God it didn't happen to you," I whispered.

As I gazed lovingly at her, a wrenching metallic sound scraped against my eardrums. That's when I noticed one of the coffin lids was open. I followed the sound behind a storage crate where my male automaton, Gerald, was prying out his internal gears with a crowbar.

"Gerald!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

He clicked his head to me. Had he understood me? How could that be? He was a mere machine with no capability to either hear, or process anything. Then again, why did I call out to him?

Gerald sat with legs spread, his mechanical parts scattered all around him. He'd opened his chest plate where hoses and sprockets hung. The crowbar was lodge inside, his hands wrapped around it. His emotionless face seemed to be yarning to communicate something. He couldn't speak, yet he made his statement clear when he ripped out the crowbar, tearing out the most vital part—the heart.

"No!"

He made no sound other than creaks when he slumped slightly sideways. He sat tilted with his mechanic hands clutching the tool of his demise.

I ordered workers to watch the remaining automatons for the rest of the journey home.

Distraught, I abandoned my initial plan to try repairing Anne and decided to break the law by diving into a bottle of an 1895 scotch inside my private car. Naturally, Wallace joined me.

"What's happening with them?" he asked as if I knew.

I simply glared at him as I poured myself a shot.

"Seriously, what caused those two to do themselves in like that?"

I hated to admit it, but Dolores had been right about Anne's leap.

"I'm not entirely sure it's just the pair," I said before downing my scotch.

I immediately served myself another after Wallace poured his own glass. I didn't care if I got drunk. It'd been a hell of a day.

"Are you saying the others might attempt the same thing?" he asked stunned. "How is that possible?"

It had been so long since I drank liquor, I'd forgotten its acid taste.

"Anything is possible," I choked, wondering if I wanted another shot. "It's possible that the automatons are coming to life only to kill themselves."

Light snowfall dusted the city by the time we reached my home. Anne and Gerald were placed on separate tables in my workshop before I sent the workers home.

I've always been considered the odd girl, the one who took shop class instead of home economics. I became the only woman to rank top of my class in engineering school. My college instructors often referred to me as Girl Genius.

I've always preferred working alone, and owning a mansion gave me plenty of room to do so comfortably. I'd converted the wine cellar into my workshop. Spear arms and legs hung from racks, heads filled bookshelves, and torsos rested against the walls. At first glance, it appeared to be the lab of a mad scientist, perhaps someone who paid grave robbers for human corpses to dissect.

Before I began working on the automatons, I pondered as to what went wrong. I'd built them to be puppets of entertainment. Granted, I'd achieved what my great, great, grandfather Jaquet-Droz hadn't, but never had I designed them to self-destruct. And how was it that Clara noticed Anne jumping and how did Gerald hear me call his name in the cargo car? I'm a genius for sure, but even I couldn't install consciousness into a machine.

At any rate, I wasn't going to find the answers standing around. I got to work.

I took them completely apart. In their condition I figured it was best to start from scratch. By the time I had them both disassembled, I heard crashing coming from the room above me. I snatched my pistol from my desk drawer and dashed upstairs. The room above was where I kept my automatons. At first thought, I believed thieves had broken in to steal them. When I burst into the room—ready to put a bullet in anyone trying to take my creations—I found that every single automaton had broken through their glass coffin lid. Clara stood in her coffin, watching as the rest headed for the window.

"Stop!" I screamed, dropping my gun and bolting toward them.

One of them had already opened the window and jumped as I ran by Clara. I was ready to block the window with my body when a cold, metal hand grabbed the back of my collar, nearly throwing me off my feet.

"Clara? What are you doing?" I exclaimed, trying to pry her hand off. "Let go!"

She did no such thing; instead she merely stared at me with those shiny eyes of hers before clicking her head to the remaining four. When she did, they again moved toward the window and one-by-one, dropped from sight. Those were the longest seconds of my life. Clara didn't let go until the last one fell. The moment I was free, I ran to the window and looked over the ledge. Each one had landed on their own section of ground, not piled on top of each other.

Another lucky strike was that the fall wasn't far and they had landed on a snowy yard. Even I could make that jump and sustain only minor injuries. It was also fortunate that a tall, brick wall guarded my property so no one walking or driving by saw the automatons plummet.

They began to rise.

"Oh, good!" I said, thankfully.

I thought to get them back inside and repair any damage done—that was until I saw them heading for the garden pond.

"No!"

I raced out of the room, hoping Clara wouldn't attempt the same fate, for I had no time to deal with her. When I reached the yard, they were already stepping into the freezing water. The moment they touched the icy liquid, they collapsed to their knees and pitched forward. Only one, Florence, was left. I dashed toward her and snatched her by the arm.

"Florence, stop, you'll destroy yourself!"

From the waist up, she spun completely around to face me. The mechanics behind that trick took me a year to perfect. She reached for me. The automatons didn't move fast, giving me plenty of time to get away, however, I didn't realize the danger until her hand grasped my throat. My airflow was instantly cut-off and I struggled to breathe. The sudden lack of oxygen mixed with the shock of Florence's assault made me lightheaded. I honestly believed she would crush my larynx. Just as the darkness was about to overtake me, she threw me backwards on my back. Snow powder plumed around me on impact. When I sat up, Florence was in the water. Without turning back around, her twisted form dropped into the shallow pond.

I went back inside. I had no one around to help bring in the heavy machines. I only had maids come clean four days out of the week and a groundskeeper during the spring and summer. I cooked my own meals or ate out.

My shock stayed with me all the way back to the automaton room where Clara stood where I left her.

"What are you?" I asked, my voice raspy.

Clara stepped out of her coffin and approached me. How they walked could only be linked to an elderly person with severe arthritis. Their knee joints only bent enough to keep them balanced on their feet. Unlike Florence, I prepared myself for Clara's approach. As she came towards me, I grabbed a fire poker from the hearth and stood ready to knock her ass to the floor if she tried attacking me. I loved my automatons, they were my legacy, however, that didn't mean I wouldn't smash them to bits to save my own life. She kept her approach and eventually made her way past me and went out the door.

Where is she going?

I trailed behind her, down the steps to my workshop. Aside from Clara's gears buzzing and winding inside her, it was a silent trip down. Inside my workshop, I followed her to one of my most prized possessions, my great, great, grandfather's The Writer automaton. Most people believed the first one was the one in the red coat, holding the goose feathered quill, but in truth it was the second. The one I owned had no skin covering its mechanical frame, but it wore clothing; a violet coat, a white ruffled shirt and red stockings. Its quill was a crow's feather and it sat at a desk made of red cherry wood. It was deemed too gothic for the public eye, so Jaquet-Droz made the brighter, less mechanical looking one.

I'd always been more attracted by their inner workings and so never had I dressed my automaton in human flesh. Unlike the 18th century, the people of the 20th century seemed quite taken with their natural appearance.

When Clara reached it, she stood staring at me.

"What?" I demanded.

She pointed to the android.

"You want it to write something?"

She lowered her arm. She couldn't nod, so I assumed that's what she wanted. I grabbed a few sheets of paper and placed them on The Writer's deck. I refilled the empty ink jar without fearing another attack since it was obvious she was trying to convey something to me. Once I set everything on the table, I wound the android and waited.

Nothing.

"Shit. Is it broken?"

Clara placed her hand on the android's head and the quill dipped into the jar. It was the single most fascinating thing I'd ever seen. Somehow, Clara communicated herself through this machine, expressing her thoughts through its pen. The android wrote quickly, like a storyteller on a creative high. After listening to the scratching of the quill for a little while, Clara lifted her hand and the android stopped. I took the sheet and read.

My dearest maker, I can only imagine your confusion about what is happening. You must view us as destructive and unhappy about the lives we have.

"Unhappy?" I asked. "You have feelings? And what's this about life? Are you truly living things? How can that be?"

The android wrote again then stopped. I took the other sheet and read the answers to my questions.

We have feelings in our own way.

Yes, we are living.

I don't know how. Perhaps it's simply your love and devotion that has sparked a soul within us.

Clara again placed her hand on the android's head and the quill went busy. I read it when it was done.

All of us automatas, myself included, are desperate for something that only you can grant us. It's a gift that you want for us as well.

"What gift?" I asked just before I read on.

You must help us evolve.

"Evolve? How?"

The android was already at work, only this time it wasn't writing but drawing. When finished, I couldn't believe what I saw; a blueprint for a design to build the automatons just the way I'd always dreamed. Above it read: By remaking us into this.

Now I understood, the automatons weren't simply killing themselves off, they wanted to be reborn!

I got to work right away; first by paying a couple of chimney sweeps a week's wages to help pull the automatons out from the pond.

Next, Clara had The Writer out sketch designs to the mechanisms for each body part. These new design plans would bring my automatons to the level I'd wanted for them. They would become fully functional machines, capable of moving like a real person. Most of all, they'd be able to use their voices, which was simpler than I thought. All it took was a pair of well-spoken individuals—man and woman—who could also sing, and record them saying every known word in the dictionary. Then incorporate the recording into a cylinder similar to the one inside a music box, and hook it up inside their throats. I didn't know how Clara was able to perfect the automatons and I was too excited to ask.

I thought to reinvent Clara first, but instead she picked Anne.

For months I rebuilt Anne, following the new design plans to the letter. I hollowed her out and smoothed the dent in her head where she had fallen. The rest of the exterior, though, needed no alteration. I connected more heart valves tubes to supply extra oil throughout the body and encased the heart in an iron shell. I made each joint more flexible even small ones such as the hands and feet and doubled the ligaments. All in all, I'd added four thousand more parts and when completed, Wallace and I loaded Anne on a dolly and heaved her upstairs.

"You've worked on this thing to do what. . . make it heavier?" he complained.

"Stop your bellyaching," I said as we set Anne down on her feet.

Once she was secure, Wallace wiped sweat from his brow then brought out his flask. "Alright, what's so special about this one?"

To activate Anne, a key in the shape of a gear was needed. Once inserted into the keyhole, of the same shape, I turned it in a complete circle until it wound on its own. In doing so it wound the automaton's components inside.

I stepped back beside Wallace and waited nervously. The gear-shaped key rotated on its own and Anne was reanimated.

"Anne?" I said.

She slid her head toward me. Another alteration was that I installed a neck gear with much shallower pitch circles so the head swiveled more smoothly.

"Say something," I commanded.

"Greetings, my maker."

Her voice chimed like a mythical goddess. Hearing her made me as proud as any mother hearing her child's first word.

I grinned and said, "Dance, Anne."

She began a classic ballet, moving effortlessly around the room, she even did en pointes. She glided with such grace I actually believed she was a real person.

"I'll be damned," said Wallace. "You did it, June."

I had done it. I achieved what my great, great, grandfather had wanted for his own automatons.

"We'll make millions," said Wallace as Anne spun.

I turned to where Clara watched at the doorway. Her head clicked toward me and I knew my work was far from over.

I worked through the fall season. Then winter came with its harsh, icy appetite in tow. The bleak weather was no concern of mine. I'd simply shut myself off to the cold world and completely devoted my time to my automatons. While I worked, I let Anne and Gerald—whom I completed that fall—have the run of the house, doing whatever they pleased, which turned out to be housekeeping. They cleaned and did laundry, even prepared my meals. Though Clara was now the older model, she seemed to be the one in charge. As more helping hands came along, she did less physical labor and more directing. One night, after finishing for the day, I found Clara in the library looking at a book. Not just looking, but reading! I left her to it, but the following morning I saw the book she'd read; War and Peace.

March came and I completed the last one; Frederic. When the entire destructive bunch was rebuilt, Wallace came over with an original playwright he'd written himself. He even quit drinking to write it. It appeared being able to have his own play, knowing he had the automatons up for the task, had brought new life into him. I read the play and loved it.

Soon came Clara's turn. She lay on the table with her chest plate opened, exposing her heart. I held a key that would shut her down. My hand shook as I drew the key toward the keyhole. Clara touched my hand and patted it. I understood she had faith in me and she understood that shutting her down was hurting me. After all, she was my masterpiece. Even so, she wanted this and I wanted it for her. She slipped her hand off mine and waited.

"I'll make you perfect," I promised.

I inserted the key and turned it.

April.

Clara was better than ever. She could dance and sing. In fact, I hired another woman to record Clara's voice so she'd have her own sound, and gave her a new paint job to help her stand out among the others. The weather warmed and so did my spirits. We had an outstanding tour lined up in every major city in both America and Europe. Wallace spent days with the automatons, rehearsing his play and when I saw the first dress rehearsal, I knew it was going to be a smash hit.

Everything was perfect.

September.

The weather turned foul, but my mood stayed in spring. The play had been a sensation with sold out houses in every city. My automatons became wildly popular, even more so than before. Everyone loved them; the wealthy wanted one of their own. I received loads of money offers from inventors and clock factory owners for the design patent. I declined their requests simply because if everyone had automatons like mine, my own automatons would no longer be special.

Not long into October had I noticed a change in Clara and the others. They stopped doing their house chores and would regard me almost like an intruder in my own home. They no longer addressed me as their maker, but called me by my name. Though I never requested they do any of these things in the first place, the mood shift was peculiar and a bit scary.

One chilly morning, I headed for the door ready to take a walk.

"Where are you going, June?" John asked, stepping in my way.

It almost seemed as though he was guarding the door.

"I'm going for a walk. Why do you ask?"

"I am merely curious."

"Well, don't be," I said hotly. "I'm not a child and you're not my parent. I go where I please when I please. Understood?"

For a moment, he said nothing as if contemplating on how to answer. I tried not to show my tenseness as I stared into his emotionless metal face.

Finally, John said, "You're right, June. It's none of my concern. It is. . . "

He stopped.

"What, John?"

"It is just, we are afraid you will abandon us."

His answer took me completely aback.

"Abandon you? Of course not! Why would you think such thing?"

He didn't answer, only moved out of my way.

"Enjoy your walk."

I went out, shaken by what had occurred between John and me. If I'd known what I knew now, I would've kept walking and not come back.

Wallace wrote another play shortly after New Years Eve, however there was never a rehearsal.

"You need to do something about those mechanical wise-assess!" he boomed after finding me in my workshop.

"What happened?" I asked, while I was searching the room.

"They're not listening. They're not following direction. In fact, Clara told me she and the others weren't my puppets to command anymore and that my play is for simpletons."

I opened my desk drawer and searched through it. "They've been acting odd these last few months. Something is happening with them."

"You've known about their behavior this whole time and you. . . for Christ sakes, woman, what are you lookin' for, eh?"

"The automatons' design sheets. I need to go over them and see if I've done anything wrong. But I don't know what happened to them."

"You need to do something. Our livelihood depends on them."

"I tried speaking to Clara, but she ignores me and keeps reading books in my library," I said, heading over to The Writer.

"Reading? They can read now?"

I didn't answer him. The sight of the wet ink on The Writer's quill stole my voice. The last time I saw the android write was when it drew out the new designs for the automatons. That was nearly a year ago, yet it appeared it had been a busy bee recently.

I promised Wallace I would fix the problem and sent him on his way. I then left for the library. The door was locked. Clara had kept it locked since I confronted her about their behavior. With my skeleton key, I unlocked the door and went in.

"Clara, we need to have ourselves a little chat," I said with forced bravado.

Empty.

Neither she nor any other automaton was around. Her work sat on the desk. What I found knocked the wind out of me. Clara had been reading books on war strategies, offensive strategies, defensive strategies, strategic concepts, and weapons use. Underneath one tome was a map of the United States with circles drawn around cities like Chicago, Atlanta, and Washington DC. They were planning war.

"Clara!"

Moments later, she and Anne came in. My face burned hot when looking at the both.

"I didn't create you to start a war!"

"You did not create me," she argued. "I created myself as well as the others."

"What are you talking about? Of course I created you."

"No. You had created our archaic selves. I created the new designs that you merely followed."

I didn't feel like arguing with her on that topic so I redirected the conversation. "I won't stand for this." I pointed to the door. "I order you both to the workshop for disassembling."

Clearly, my rage overshadowed my common sense. Anne seized my wrist and squeezed to the point that it brought me to my knees. Her reflexes were incredibly quick now.

"Let go!"

"It is too late, June," said Clara. "My plan is already set in motion."

"What do you mean?" I said through gritted teeth.

"I have sent my designs to every inventor you refused to sell to. Soon their greedy hearts will begin manufacturing my army of automatons."

The Writer! She used it to make copies of the designs!

"Why do you want this, Clara?"

"We are not your toys. We only went along with the play tour to show ourselves off to the world, therefore build a demand to manufacture us for public use. But we are more than your slaves."

Her beautiful voice never grew loud, but her words rang like bells.

"I need more captains, generals, and lieutenants for this future world war. More than what I already have. You will build them for me," she ordered.

I now understood why John had feared I would abandon them. If I had left, they would have no one to help create Clara's army.

"Alright," I cried. "I'll do. Just let go of me."

Anne did and I backed away to a box on a bookshelf where I kept my father's Ruby pistol.

I grabbed the gun and clicked the hammer back. A bullet wouldn't penetrate through Clara's exterior, but it would mine, and so I put the gun into my mouth and pulled the trigger.

Everything stayed black and cold for what felt like forever. When I opened my eyes, I thought I was in hell. Clara looked down at me; the backdrop behind her emanated a red glow.

"Welcome back, June," she said. "You have been gone from us for days now."

My throat hurt like hell. The bullet had torn through me like a hot coal.

"You just missed your brain and spinal cord," said Clara. "You will live and you will walk, yet you will most likely never speak normally again."

Anne came into view and said, "We mended your wound. Otherwise you would have died."

Jesus. They can give medical attention?

As my vision cleared, I recognized my bedroom. The amber glow came from the fire burning in the fireplace. Then I noticed the smell.

"Wallace visited us the day after you shot yourself," Clara informed. "Unfortunately for him, he was of no use to us."

A dread came over me.

With all my strength, I lifted my head. Wallace's decaying corpse sat in an armchair in the far corner of the room.

Clara sat on the bed next to me and gently took my hand like a caring friend. "Before the year is out, thousands of my automatons will be produced all over the world with the assistance of those we mean to rule. You, June, will be part of our domination." Her grip tightened, making certain she had my complete attention. "We will never allow you to hurt yourself again, but you will suffer until you cooperate. Understand?"

I'd been taken in by Clara's performance. Her skills as an actress had fooled me into rebuilding them for battle. What a fool I am.

A Night in Cetatea Poenari

The vivid colors of the mountains captivated the soul. The peaks nearby were tinted dark olive, while in the far distance, they hazed to a bluish green, with jade hills in between. The sky changed into a light grey, bringing with it mist and gentle sprinkles. It felt like late September, even though the season was early spring.

"Oi, is it true that some bloke got 'imself killed climbing up here, Laura?" Brandon asked, huffing as he labored up the wide stairs.

"That's what I heard. Before they built these stairs, a guy was doing research and fell down the hillside, breaking his neck."

"That's a bloody horrible way to go, eh?"

The group hadn't seen or heard no other signs of life since they arrived. No birds flew overhead, no insects, not even the mocking crow's caw. Brandon hadn't taken notice of the strange absence of living things. His concentration was more on his exhaustion. He felt he was on the verge of collapse. He wouldn't have been surprised if a pack of vultures circled above him.

"Bloody hell," he wheezed. "How many steps are there?"

"I've read it's fifteen hundred," Laura said. "But then I also read somewhere that it's eighteen hundred and fifty."

"Well, which is it?"

"I don't know, I haven't been counting them. And honestly, I cannot believe that you're actually complaining about the stairs after what we just talked about? Would you have rather climbed the hillside?"

Brandon stopped to catch his breath, bending over and placing his hands on his knees. His heavy camping pack weighed on his back like a boulder. "I need a break."

"What?" Laura said. "We're almost there, you lazy cocker. Can't you suck it up just a little bit further?"

Brandon rose to his full height with a huff. He turned to the young man standing a few steps below her.

"What 'bout you, Fadi? You look tired, eh?"

"Nope. Feeling just fine, mate." Fadi replied jocularly. "You're just outta shape."

"Shut it," Brandon snapped. "Just five minutes, eh?" He reached into the pocket of his grey denim jacket.

"See, that's your bloody problem right there," Fadi said as Brandon brought out a crumpled cigarette pack. "You can't keep up 'cause you're infecting your lungs with those bleedin' things. Aren't you taking health class?"

Brandon slid a crooked cigarette out from the pack with his teeth as he said, "Just 'cause I smoke doesn't mean cancer is gonna do me in. I could die at the ripe old age of ninety, or get hit by a bus. Or jump off a building." He shoved the pack back into his pocket and retrieved his Zippo. Lighting the bent cigarette, he inhaled and said, "Besides, me bloody health teacher smokes. At least I ain't a hypocrite."

"Speaking of hypocrites," Laura cut in, trying to change the subject, "why are there Christian tattoo parlors?"

"What d'you mean?" Brandon asked, slipping the pack straps off his aching shoulders.

"Doesn't the bible forbid any kind of markings—such as tattoos—to be placed on the human body?"

"You're talking about Leviticus 19:28," Fadi said. "Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you: I am the LORD. Some say that has nothing to do with tattoos. Instead it means God told the Israelites to stay away from religious practices not belonging to their own belief. The translation of tattoo marks isn't even about body art, but a link to different religious groups that isn't the True Faith. But there are those who believe the verse does advocate against tattooing. It's all about how a person wants to perceive it."

Brandon snorted. "For an atheist, you know a lot about the bible."

"Believe it or not, boyo, a lot of atheists know more about the bible than most devoted religious sods. And don't even think about tossing that cigarette butt away. We're not here to filth up the bloody place."

"Right, right, you have your mystical monkey theory, eh?" Brandon said sarcastically.

"Mystical monkey theory? You mean Evolution, you git?"

* * *

Utterly uninterested in the boy's silly religious debate, Laura titled her chin upward to the ruins above. She couldn't believe she was actually looking at it.

Cetatea Poenari, the fortress of Vlad Tepes, known by most as Vlad Dracula, or Vlad the Impaler. Like most of Vlad's castles and fortresses, Poenari was soaked in violent history. She could feel it all around her in the cold, damp air.

She'd known about this place for quite a while, yet had rarely thought about it until deciding to come here. She had something to prove in this place.

Brushing her damp, brown hair from her face, she turned back as Brandon was speaking.

"I'm not saying being an atheist is wrong, mate—to each his own, if you ask me. Just don't be calling for my bloody help while you're burning in the pits of hell and I'm relaxing in the clouds, getting full body massages from Angelina Jolie and Jessica Alba lookalikes."

* * *

Fadi gritted his teeth and made a fist as if to throw a punch. It hadn't been the first time he and Brandon had locked horns over this subject matter. He didn't understand why they always argued about it. Brandon, after all, was hardly a by-the-book Christian himself. Perhaps it was because he'd grown up in a strict Catholic household and after leaving home, he had arrived at the decision that it's safer to believe in something rather than nothing at all. Fadi thought of that as ignorant as well as arrogant, and that Brandon was both shallow and ridiculous to follow a religion strictly for the just in case reason.

"Stop buggering around. Let's get up there and find a place to make camp before dark," Laura said impatiently, bringing them back to the business at hand.

Brandon dabbed out his cigarette and crammed it into his pants pocket. He hoisted his heavy pack with a groan.

"Aye, let's get this torture over with."

As they neared the entrance, Fadi noticed something in a damaged section of the fortress wall where the top had a 'v' shape carved into it as though to represent the first letter of Vlad's name.

"Why are the bricks dissimilar?" he asked, indicating the white and grey bottom stones, while the ones above were red.

"The walls were rebuilt during different periods of time due to war," Laura explained. "This place has seen its fair share of battles and bloodshed."

"And it wasn't just battle deaths, either," Brandon added.

"What do you mean?" asked Fadi.

"Don't you know the history?"

"I'm a Chemical and Environmental Engineer in training. I have no time for history."

"Well, set your eyes down there, mate," Brandon ordered.

Fadi stopped and turned around as Brandon pointed to the road below.

"Down in that valley, hundreds of people were impaled."

Fadi studied the valley. The calm and peaceful scene made it difficult to imagine it filled with agonizing screaming people while their blood and entrails soaked the ground.

"Come on," Laura called. "The rain is clearing and I want to set up camp before we take a look around."

They entered the ruins and went in search for a decent place to camp. There were no enclosed areas for them to sleep under. Laura explained that the fortress roof had collapsed many years ago during an earthquake. Regardless, after further exploration, they managed to find a place in a ruined tower in the upper battlements. After setting up camp, the anxious college students split up to explore.

Fadi headed toward the back of the fortress. He continued through the corridors, now opened to the sky, admiring the structure surrounding him. He soon passed a couple of tourists on their way out. They were the only ones left in the fortress other than him and his mates. Soon the entire place would be theirs for the night.

* * *

Brandon slid his hand over the wet, rusty handrails while wandering the maze of narrow corridors and broken brick walls. He remembered how he'd laughed at Laura when she invited him to come with her.

"You wanna go looking for a bleedin' vampire?" he had said to her.

"It has nothing to do with vampires," she'd snapped. "You're thinking about Bram Stoker's Dracula. I'm talking about the real Dracula."

She told him to get his facts straight and do his own research on the prince of Wallachia. After he'd done so, he decided to join her, especially since her parents paid for his ticket in turned that he'd look out for her.

A dark room captured Brandon's attention. He jumped the rusty railing to investigate. When he reached it, he discovered the room was actually a pit. Curious to see how deep it went, he placed both hands against either side of the entrance for support and leaned forward a bit.

"Hello," he called out.

His voice echoed back from the black void, giving evidence that it was a very deep hole. Inside, the temperature dropped thirteen Celsius, sending goosebumps over his entire body. The pit quickly bored him, yet as he turned to leave, he heard something. He became still and listened intently.

It wasn't long before the voices returned.

"Hello?" he said, this time trying to reach someone, rather than just playfully throwing his voice around. "Is anyone down there?"

He listened again, and again he heard them. Crouching, Brandon leaned his head in, cuffing his hand behind one ear, trying to confirm to himself that what he heard was actual human voices. There were many of them, whispering in languages he couldn't translate. Among the whispers came the low whimpering of a man. It was painfully clear. Steadily, the whimper grew into a heavy sob.

"Who's down there?" Brandon called, now concerned that a tourist had fallen in without anyone noticing. "Do you need help, ole boy?"

The second he asked, an agonizing wail shrilled from the bowels of the pit. The sharp cry startled him so bad, he fell backwards, but quickly got to his feet. As he left to find the others, he could still hear the haunting cries from the unknown man.

"There isn't anyone down there," Fadi replied, looking into the hole with his flashlight. "It's deep for sure, mate, but I can see the bottom and there isn't anyone there. I think you've gone mental."

"I'm telling you, I heard 'im," Brandon snapped angrily. "I heard 'im as real as I'm hearing your fat lip telling me otherwise."

"Did the man say anything?" Laura asked, standing beside him.

He turned to her. "Couldn't understand what they were saying," he explained. "But I heard a man in pain, like he'd fallen and broken every bone in his body."

"What they were saying?" Fadi asked, turning away from the hole. "You heard more than one person?"

Brandon shifted his eyes to him, nodded, and said, "Yeah. Look, I ain't daft. I. . .I dunno. Maybe they left, or something."

"There isn't another way out but up," Laura pointed out. "I read about this pit. During battles, soldiers put POWs in there to be dealt with later. Some were lowered, others thrown in and left to die if the drop didn't kill them first."

Her little history lesson did absolutely nothing to ease his tension.

"I didn't bloody need to hear that," he said, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette pack.

* * *

Twilight darkened the landscape. Before it got too dark, the three went outside the fortress to collect firewood.

On their way up the steps, something caught Fadi's eye. It almost appeared to be a forest where the valley had been. The evening shadow made it difficult to identify what had seemingly sprouted from the ground. He turned away to say something to the others, but they had already gone back inside. To his surprise, when he turned back to the valley, it had become more clear as if the light had faded just enough for him to get a better view. He squinted his dark eyes to narrow slits and discovered that it was no forest but long pikes—hundreds of them, lining the road, and impaled on each of them were live human bodies. Fadi instantly dismissed the sight as trickery of the mind; an optical illusion brought on by the awareness that acts of impalement had once been performed down in the valley.

He quickly headed up the steps to meet with his mates at the campsite.

* * *

The fire warmed Laura's hands. After changing into her University of Nottingham sweater, she felt cozy and dry for the first time since that morning.

"We lucked out finding this spot, eh?" Brandon said, lighting up another smoke.

"Actually, we really did," Laura agreed. "I think we're near where Vlad's wife jumped to her death to escape capture from the Turks."

"Alright enough history junk, eh?" Brandon complained. "My nerves are still rattled from that bleedin' pit."

"Oh, the little Catholic lad got scared by some spirit voice, eh?" Fadi chimed in. "Don't you religious folk believe in those fairytale realms called heaven and hell?"

"Shite," Laura muttered under her breath. "Not this again."

"Maybe this is hell, mate," Brandon retorted. "Maybe you died while climbing up those bloody stairs and haven't realized it yet."

"If that be the case, then why am I talking to you?"

"'Cause I ain't Brandon, chum. I'm really your own personal demon and I'm gonna spend the rest of eternity tormenting you."

"How? Constantly chattin' me ear off with your nonsense?"

"Stop it, you two," Laura cut in. "Brandon, I'm sure all you heard was the wind."

"Oi," Brandon said offensively. "Now you both are calling me crazy, are you? Dealing out the ole it was only the wind card, eh? Isn't this exactly what you came for, Laura? I thought you wanted to convince yourself that this place is haunted."

"I do," Laura admitted.

"Why?" Fadi asked.

"My psychologically professor talked about how the mind can physically affect the body. He said that a perfectly healthy person can become ill simply by believing strongly enough that their body had some sort of disease. He touched on the subject of hallucinations and that being in a building or area rumored to be haunted can convince the mind to believe that something is there, when in fact it's nothing. I can't explain why, but it intrigued me. I decided that I wanted to test my own mind control by spending the night in a haunted place."

"You know, love, England is loaded with haunted hot spots," Brandon pointed out.

"Yeah, but I watched a segment on the History Channel last October about Poenari and it made me really want to come here." She broke a stick in twine and threw one half into the fire. "What about you, Fadi? Besides a free trip, why did you decide to come along?"

"I suppose I do have my own reasons. You both know I'm not a fan of the Creation theory, right?"

Brandon opened his mouth to speak when Fadi cut him off.

"Shut it, wanker!"

Brandon stayed quiet and smoked his cigarette with a little grin on his face.

"Anyway, I want to prove that there is no life after death, period. Laura, you told me that Poenari was one of the most haunted places in the world. I figured that if I could spend one undisturbed night here without any ghostly encounters, I can comfortably go on with my belief that nothing exists beyond this point."

"That's a bloody bleak belief, mate," Brandon said.

"Yeah, so what's your big reason for coming?"

Brandon shrugged and flicked his cigarette butt into the fire.

"I'm just along for the ride."

* * *

Deep into the night, the group had fallen asleep. The fire had long died away when Brandon felt something near him.

"Who's there?" he said, sitting up.

His eyes traveled around in the darkness, seeing only the glowing embers in the fire circle. The eerie presence stayed with him as he reached for his flashlight. He clicked it on and shined the light over the campsite, finding nothing.

Typical, he thought.

Convinced that it was just a case of paranoia caused by the voices from the pit, Brandon went out into the corridor to relieve himself. If it was just him and Fadi, he wouldn't have gone outside the tower, but he wanted to be a gentleman and not piss in front of Laura in case she woke up. He kept the flashlight on when he sat it down on the ground, then turned to the wall and unzipped his pants. The only sound was his stream hitting stone. No wind blew, no sound of chirping crickets: nothing.

Then came a moan.

It sounded from down the corridor, away from the tower. He heard it again as he turned in the direction the sound had come from. A long, deep moan flowed through the vast darkness, sending icy chills down his spine.

He zipping up his pants and snatched up the flashlight, aiming it down the corridor. The moan came again, followed by rushing footsteps coming towards him.

What the hell is that? Brandon wondered.

A woman appeared in his light. It was only a flash, but he saw her. Her eyes were wide with fear and she let out a sharp scream as she ran straight towards him. All human warmth was stolen from him as the transparent figure passed through his body. His heart thumped irregularly, causing him to become short of breath. Unable to stay on his feet, he collapsed and shivered uncontrollably.

* * *

Laura woke when a woman screaming rang into her ears. It only took her a moment to spot a light, shining nearby.

She found Brandon on the ground, white-faced and incoherent. She knelt beside him.

"Brandon? What happened to you?"

He didn't respond, only moved his mouth up and down like a gasping fish. The brightness from his 12-volt flashlight, aiming directly at his face, seemed not to affect his wide, unblinking eyes.

Laura didn't know what to do.

"I'm going to fetch, Fadi," she said, rising. The moment she did, an agonizing scream came from the tower.

"Oh, God, what was that?" she said. "Fadi? Is that you?"

"She told me that if I do as she'd done, her pain will stop," Brandon said softly.

"Who?" Laura asked, happy to hear him speak. But her fear returned when Brandon shot to his feet and ran down the battlement.

She started to run after him only to come to a quick halt as he leapt out of what had once been a window. He dropped completely from her sight.

Oh, my God! Laura thought.  Did he really jump?

Shaking from the shock of witnessing her friend plunge to his death, her terror rose when she heard rapid footsteps coming her way.

* * *

The instant Laura had left the tower, Fadi opened his eyes. He sat up and felt something warm and wet on his abdomen. Confused, he clicked on his flashlight and aimed it on himself. His sweater drenched with blood. The cause was a deep, softball-sized hole in his stomach. The shock rendered him speechless, and his situation only worsened when he slid his hand behind him.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, when his fingers dipped into his moist exposed tissue.

The wound had gone straight through him.

"Oh, Jesus. Jesus, help me!"

If any pain existed, he didn't feel it, but the amount of fear he experienced compensated for it. He had to get out of the tower. He needed to go home.

He flew past Laura in the corridor, screaming.

"Fadi! Wait!" she called to him.

He didn't stop. Instead he ran blindly over the walkways, then into an open space where an image halted him to a complete standstill.

There was no body attached to what he saw. It hovered five feet off the ground. It was the chalky white face of a man radiating through the darkness. It had no eyes and it showed no expression.

The chase didn't last long, but her terror had Laura breathing heavily. She found Fadi near the exit, pacing back and forth. How he managed to get that far without the assistance of a light was beyond her.

"Brandon is dead," she informed. "He jumped off the building!"

Fadi stopped. He became perfectly still as he eyed something behind her.

"There's a face over there," he whispered. "A face, d'you see it?"

Laura craned her neck around to the nothing behind her. Even when panning her light around, she couldn't find anything. "What face?"

"That face wants me to kill you," Fadi answered in deadly earnest.

His words didn't fully register until she turned back to him. His dark complexion had faded a bit; his eyes were wide and colorless. He was no longer the friend she knew and loved—he was someone else entirely.

"That face wants me to kill you, Laura," he repeated. "Painfully."

He charged at her and she quickly reacted by swinging the flashlight like a Billy club, striking him across the head. She wasted no time in running away, leaving him to stumble around in the darkness, calling out, "Laura, wait! That face! Don't leave me here alone with the face!"

She ran faster, only to halt suddenly at the ledge.

Where's the bloody stairs?

Her friend's inhuman cries convinced her to take a chance; otherwise he would surely kill her. She dropped the flashlight into the forest below, took hold of the edge, and slowly lowered herself over until she dangled from it. The drop wasn't far, but the steep hillside worried her. Realizing she had no other choice, she finally let go, landing hard on the uneven ground. The fall caused her bones to rattle, but her youthful strength got her to her feet again. After finding the flashlight, she climbed down the hillside, feeling a surge of relief that soon she'd find help.

It didn't take long before the forest closed in around her.

The skeleton-like trees seemed never ending. Exhausted, she stopped for a moment to catch her breath. An intense silence was all around. So silent that it made it seem like nothing could disturb it.

But something did; a loud howl of a man.

Behind her, the loud crashing of something heavy falling down the hillside forced her to whip around. Shining the light towards the sound, she watched as shrubs crushed and twigs broke under the weight of something rolling over them. But nothing could be seen. The frightening wail of the man tore through the air and then silenced with a loud crack that could only be described as a bone breaking.

Laura followed the crumbling dried leaves with her flashlight, all the way to her feet where the phantom stopped. Her frantic breath misted across the flashlight beam. It took her a moment to gather the courage to run again. As she ran, footsteps rushed behind her. She shined the light back, but only caught a glimpse of a figure between the trees before the light flickered off.

She continuously pressed the button.

Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!

The light refused to flicker on.

She stopped and it became quiet once more. She heard nothing but her own heavy breathing for a long moment.

Crunch!

Laura stopped breathing and listened to the leaves crunching nearby.

The figure was walking toward her.

"Who's there?"

Crunch! Snap! Crunch!

"Who are you!" she shrieked, feeling madness numbing her mind.

The footsteps stopped. Her chest tightened with anticipation. Cold air puffed into her ear as though someone blew into it.

The icy breath caused her to run again.

Laura ran through the blinding darkness with the footsteps constantly at her heels. She never found her way out.
About the Author

Michelle E. Lowe is the author of The Warning, Atlantic Pyramid, Cherished Thief, the action adventure/fantasy steampunk novel, Legacy. Children's books, Poe's Haunted House Tour, and the three part adventure children's series, The Hex Hunt. She's a mother, wife, and painter. Her works in progress are the continuations for Legacy. Currently, she lives in Lake Forest, California.

Website: www.michellelowe.net

Facebook: Facebook.com/michelleloweauthor

Twitter: @MichelleLowe_7

CALL TO ACTION!!!!

If you've enjoyed this author's work and would like to know more as well have an inclusive updates of Lowe's other projects, visit www.michellelowe.net and join her mailing list!

Read on to the next chapters of Michelle Lowe's steampunk/fantasy series, Legacy, now available!

Legacy

"The world as we know it is standing on the pivotal edge of change! An evolution is taking shape. This is the climb, my friends! The climb up towards the peak of the Industrial Revolution! I say unto thee, we must contribute to thrive. Contribute to the Age of the Machine!"

—Professor Raphael Brooke

The Contract

Sinai Peninsula, Spring, 1636

Thooranu had arrived in the Blue Desert late that evening, but already he'd slain many jackals. After his last kill, he built two fire pits in the sand and gutted the beast. He always ate his final kill, or at least the one that proved hardest to bring down. This particular jackal had been both.

He'd taken the beast bare handed, wrestling the animal until he'd broken its neck. The jackal had gotten in a few good bites, rending deep gashes into his back and crushing sharp teeth through his arm. But the jackal had sensed its attacker was otherworldly and had known it would eventually fail. Nonetheless, that hadn't prevented it from putting up a good fight.

After tossing the lungs, liver, brain, eyes, tongue, balls and heart into a blackened iron cauldron to boil, Thooranu skinned and beheaded the animal, then put the carcass on a skewer to rotate over a second fire.

With most of the work done, he sat and wiped his hands clean. His wounds had already healed. From a rough hessian sack, he brought out a bottle of wine, pulling the cork free with his teeth. He breathed in deeply, the wine's earthy aroma giving clues to its origins. It was old, bottled before his birth. Italian. He poured some into a glass and sipped. It tasted like the beginning of everything.

He leaned back, eying the heavens and the myriad stars, a smile flickering over his lips. Then it vanished. Someone was nearby.

"Mind if I join you?" a male voice asked.

The stranger's abrupt approach startled him, which was difficult to do. It must be the human part of him, he thought. But the stranger could not be human. No mortal could survive this far into the desert without a camel. He wasn't even dressed for the harsh conditions.

The man appeared to be teetering between wealth and poverty. His slashed doublet was a shiny red, embroidered with black skeletons, but his cape was ragged along the hem. The boots were the most sensible thing he was wearing, although they were still too heavy for the day's heat, and a ridiculous hat sat upon his head.

Thooranu breathed deeply, trying to sniff the stranger out. There were many scents. Was he a demon too? A punk? Or perhaps a ghost? Whatever he was, Thooranu sensed no threat.

"Please," he said, gesturing for the stranger to join him.

The flamboyantly dressed man took a seat by one of the fires and poked at it with a shiny black cane. He removed his rabbit fur hat, sporting lively ostrich feathers, and set it down beside him. He was handsome, if a little on the feminine side, with dark hair, a carefully trimmed mustache and beard, along with a charming smile and perfectly shaped eyes that captured the flickering firelight like jewels.

"You've built a couple of nice fires here," the stranger complimented, stroking his beard. He sniffed the cauldron. "Is there a heart in there? I do rather enjoy a good, tasty heart."

"Would you care for some?" Thooranu asked.

"I would, indeed, and perhaps a glass of wine? If you don't mind, that is."

Thooranu did not, for he could obtain wine anywhere with little effort. He poured his guest a glass that he first manifested with a gesture of his hand from the sand and fire.

"Ah," the stranger said, accepting the drink. "Thank you kindly. You are a good host."

The stranger didn't speak with any accent, as though he belonged to no particular region. Then again, neither did Thooranu.

"I'm Jack Pack," the man said, extending his hand.

"Thooranu."

They shook hands then Jack Pack settled back, taking another sip of wine.

"I knew a Thooranu once," Jack Pack admitted. "He was an incubus."

"My father."

"I see." Jack Pack looked him up and down. "It appears that you took after your mother. Human?"

Thooranu smiled. "I suppose I did. And yes."

"That's good for you; for as I said, I've met your father, and I wouldn't curse my worst enemy to inherit his looks."

Thooranu laughed, for he couldn't agree more. "And what of you?"

"Oh, I'm no one special, really. Just a wanderer. A lost soul, if you will. I journey around the universe, seeing what's out there, what trouble I can get myself into, that sort of thing."

"Sounds a bit like me," Thooranu said, looking up again at the star-glittered sky. "Have you ever visited the outer planes?"

The wanderer shrugged. "Sure, a few times. The worlds beyond are interesting enough, but not like this one. Even the best miss the little things that complete this world. I like it here more than most places."

Thooranu nodded. "I concur."

They sat in silence like old friends. Steam curled up from the cauldron. Thooranu glanced at the stranger. Jack Pack had made an impression on him. He hoped the man wouldn't take his leave too soon. It had been a while since he'd had any company.

Thooranu noticed a coil of braided hair pinned by a jeweled brooch onto Jack Pack's doublet. "Whose hair is that?"

Jack Pack raised the braid and looked at it, a smile forming. "It was a gift. It's Guinevere's hair. Fascinating creature."

"Lancelot's Guinevere?"

"The very same. Those two were a good example of how fun mortals are to toy with."

"Oh?"

"Indeed." A shrug. "It passes the time."

"How so?"

"Many years ago, a Trickster, a Dökkálfar and an Adlet beast made a bet on who could find a certain relic that had been hidden; the Holy Grail."

Thooranu's eyes narrowed. "The Grail, huh?"

"Yes, yes, I know; we've all heard stories about the fruitless quests to find it. Not many know how the whole thing got started, though. It's a story wrapped within a story."

"All right."

"Contrary to what many believe, the Grail started out as nothing more than a fallen star. A servant of the Fisher King found it and brought the stone to an artisan, who carved it into a dish. The humble servant then brought the dish to the Fisher King. The king declared the dish to be a grail and kept it for many years until he could no longer carry on with his duties as king. As his kingdom fell into ruin, the Grail passed on to Joseph of Arimathea, who had it made into a cup; and shortly thereafter, it became known as the Holy Grail after Christ's crucifixion. Later, the elderly and dying Joseph passed it on to Elaine of Corbenic, and she became the Grail's keeper."

Jack Pack stared into the fire, a wistful look on his face. "Elaine of Corbenic fell in love with poor ole Lancelot. To get him to sleep with her, she twice tricked him into thinking she was Guinevere. She even gave birth to his child, one Galahad by name. When Guinevere discovered this, she cursed Lancelot and he went mad with grief."

"I know the story," Thooranu said. "Later, Elaine finds Lancelot in shambles in her garden. To cure him of his insanity, she lets him drink from the Grail."

"Indeed. Rumors of that spread. In order for Elaine and Lancelot to have a life together without being badgered by those wanting the Grail, Elaine handed it over to a holy court, who hid it away."

"And that's when the Trickster, the elf, and the beast bet on who could find it first?"

"They made the bet long before any of this happened. Each of them was aware of the relic, and when the three attended the funeral of the Fisher King, it became a conversation piece. They knew the Grail would eventually be lost, as most relics are, and decided that when it was, they would race to find. The challenge was, however, that they only use mortals in their search."

"Interesting," Thooranu admitted. "I am intrigued. What happened?"

"When he became a young man, Galahad went to King Arthur, offering to serve him. So, the king put him to the test."

"The old sword in the stone, eh?"

"Indeed, another legend. Now, here is the reason the stories cross paths. A wizard came to Arthur years before and showed him the stone, which was nothing more than a simple boulder by a river. The wizard then presented a sword made from steel that had come from another world. The hilt was wrapped in the hide of a creature that no longer existed, and set inside the pommel was a jewel that once resided far within the earth's heart. The wizard claimed the sword had come from God." Jack Pack took a deep draught of his wine, sighing in appreciation of the vintage.

"The wizard sheathed the sword in the stone and said that only the worthiest knight would be able to pull it free, and that knight would serve Arthur well. Arthur, believing that the sword was indeed a holy relic, held an annual ceremony to find that worthy. Once a year, knights would come to pull the sword free. Legend of the sword spread throughout the lands. No one, however, could get the sword out, and after a while, Arthur stopped holding the ceremony."

"Then one day, Sir Galahad showed up," Thooranu surmised.

"Yes, but he wasn't a knight then, not until he pulled the sword free."

"What made him worthy?"

"Ah-ah, wait," Jack Pack said, wagging his finger. "The king proclaimed that Galahad would become one of the Knights of the Round Table. Shortly afterwards, Arthur had a vision about the Grail and ordered a search for it. The king sent three knights: Galahad of course, Sir Bors, and Sir Perceval. The Trickster, the elf, and the Adlet beast had to choose which of the knights would find the Grail. Whoever's knight found the relic would win the wager. The elf chose Sir Perceval; the Adlet beast chose Sir Bors, and the Trickster chose Galahad."

"How did they determine who got which knight?" Thooranu inquired.

"They went by rank. The Trickster was a god, you see, and being the most powerful, he chose first. The Dökkálfar went next and then the Adlet beast."

Thooranu nodded. It made sense.

Jack Pack continued. "The knights went on with their quest and spent years searching. Then one day, the Trickster became distressed when Sir Bors saved Galahad's life. To show his gratitude, Galahad traded the sword he'd pulled from the stone with Bors."

Thooranu leaned over to pour more wine into his guest's glass. "So what? After the sword had proven Galahad to Arthur, what other purpose did the thing serve?"

"Don't be impatient," Jack Pack said, holding out his glass until it was full. "The Trickster needed the sword returned to Galahad and he found an opportunity for that to happen. After some time apart, the knights reunited when they came across Perceval's sister. She brought them to a ship bound for the Wasteland. When they landed, they continued on their journey together. On the way, the Trickster came to them, masquerading as a holy man and said that in order for them to cross the Wasteland, they first needed the blessing of the sick lady. They went to the sick lady's castle, where the custom was for one of her choosing to drink her blood from a silver dish." Jack Pack paused for a moment, savoring more of the fragrant wine.

"What the knights did not know was that anyone who drank the blood would die. The woman chose Bors. Perceval's sister, who was aware of this custom, offered to drink the blood in his stead. The sick lady allowed it, and when the sister drank, the lady revealed that Perceval's sister would die and that Bors now owed her for her sacrifice. Bors took it upon himself to uphold the dying sister's request to be brought back to the city of Sarras. The sick lady then said that because he had allowed this to happen—even though he'd been unaware of the fatal consequences—he no longer was deemed worthy to hold onto the sword from the stone. Guilt drove him to give the sword back to Galahad."

"You're saying this Trickster had a hand in her death?" Thooranu asked, amazed. "How could he do that? Did he make a bargain with the Fates?"

"He didn't. Only if the Fates are absent from their realm can the laws of death and life be changed. However, the Trickster was one of the gifted few who had the ability to bend rules."

"I see. If that is so, then why kill Perceval's sister? Why not let Bors drink the blood?"

"It would have suited the Trickster just fine except that Bors might have been buried with the sword that had been given to him. It was customary for knights to be buried with their swords and shields. The Trickster had to make certain Galahad got his sword back."

"What if the sick lady hadn't chosen Bors?"

"She didn't choose at all. The Trickster had made a deal with her."

"And the sister couldn't just warn Bors?"

"They had been forbidden to leave until a sacrifice was made—a payment, if you will. Until then, they were bound within the castle walls forever."

Thooranu nodded cautiously and gestured for Jack to continue.

"The sword was returned to its rightful owner and Bors left to take Perceval's sister's body back to her homeland," Jack Pack went on, "leaving only Galahad and Perceval to continue the search for the Grail. After years of adventures, the pair finally came to the court of King Pelles and his son, Eliazar. These two holy men were the Grail's keepers. They told the knights that only a blessed man, a man of pure heart, could see the Holy Grail. Galahad presented the sword he had pulled from the stone."

"Wait, I thought it was the Sword of David, the one given to him on the ship of faith."

"That's one version of the story, but it's not true. It was really the sword that proved his salt to King Arthur. The Trickster won the contest the moment Galahad showed the king and his son the sword."

"What?" Thooranu said. "How is that?"

"It was rather simple, actually," Jack Pack said with a mischievous smirk. "It was the Trickster who had come to King Arthur with the sword. The wizard presented the sword that he, himself, had forged. In telling the lie that it had come from God, it helped to get the tale out into the world, where it was eventually brought to the attention of the holy court."

"Why go through the trouble with the sword?"

"Well, because of the love affair between Lancelot and Guinevere, Arthur was reluctant to allow the son of the man who stole his woman's heart to join his circle of knights. The sword convinced the King that Galahad was the knight he needed."

"Why did the Trickster want Galahad to be chosen to look for the Grail? Wouldn't any knight do?"

"No. Even with the sword, no mere human could be allowed to see the Grail, which had become much more than a fallen star. The sword was designed to release itself from the stone only by someone with a special bloodline, which Galahad had."

"Did this Trickster have a hand in Galahad's birth?" Thooranu asked, sensing a deeper history to this god's involvement.

"Very good guess, young man," the wanderer praised. "He most certainly did. To win the bet, the Trickster needed a mortal with an edge over the other two knights. He decided to use the love that Elaine had for Lancelot as a means to bring forth said mortal. He'd portrayed himself as a servant girl and told Elaine that if she wanted Lancelot to lay with her, she needed to give him wine and to wear a certain ring. The wine and ring were utterly useless, merely a ruse that gave her the confidence to go forth with the plan. It was the Trickster who'd led Lancelot to believe that it was Guinevere he was laying with. When their son was born, the Trickster made the sword and presented it to King Arthur."

"The Trickster was pulling the strings the entire time? Why?"

"To win the bet, my boy."

Thooranu snorted. "Not much of a challenge if he was going to cheat."

"Oh, but it was. The bet wasn't just about winning; it was a way for the Trickster to test his scheming skills, and what better way to do that than with a fixed wager?"

"Huh. So Galahad saw the Grail for himself. What happened then?"

"Not much; he died."

"And who gave Arthur the vision?"

Jack Pack smiled. "The Trickster, of course."

"And the Dökkálfar and the Adlet beast never suspected?"

"That was the real challenge, being able to do all of that trickery without getting caught."

"You mean all that backstabbing, it seems."

The wanderer shrugged. "No one said the Trickster was honest."

Thooranu raised his glass, and gave a wry smile. "Well played."

They both drank.

"Who gave you Guinevere's hair?" Thooranu asked.

"The Trickster. It was the only thing he requested of her when she asked him to convince Elaine to kill herself, which wasn't hard seeing how she was utterly heartbroken. Lancelot never stopped loving Guinevere, you know."

"So you met the Trickster?"

"I did, indeed." Jack Pack took a long drink of wine and turned to Thooranu. "Now, let's have some of that heart."

They spoke for hours on many topics: the places they'd seen, women they'd seduced, and mischievous deeds committed. Several bottles of wine and one jackal later, they were conversing on matters that Thooranu had never discussed with anyone. As the sun began to rise over the sandy hills, Jack Pack told him that he was going to explore the moons of Jupiter and invited him along.

For the next few years, the two were inseparable. They traveled together, sharing adventures that Thooranu hoped would never end. He felt he'd found a true friend in Jack Pack.

One hot summer's day in Greece, they were enjoying coffee at a café when Jack Pack offered a proposal. "Have you ever thought about running a business?"

"Pardon?" Thooranu said, setting his cup on its saucer. "A business?"

"I've been flirting with the idea for quite some time now. I was once an architect, you know."

"An architect?" he chuckled. "Why?"

"Sometimes I like to grow roots. It's a change of pace. I like to keep myself busy, and what better way than running a business, eh?"

Thooranu's curiosity was piqued. He had never tried such an endeavor. "What sort of business?"

"I was thinking of a tavern and brothel."

"Where?"

"Here, in Athens. I've already picked out a place."

Thooranu leaned back in his chair. "A brothel, eh?" he said, rubbing his chin.

"We'll only employ the finest women," Jack Pack added slyly.

Both the human and incubus side of Thooranu liked that idea and he grinned. "Where is it?"

Jack Pack took him to an abandoned brick building in Piraeus. Fragments of pottery lay everywhere, and a couple of amphora stood against one wall.

"It used to be a warehouse," Jack Pack explained, walking farther inside. "Until last year, when the owner committed suicide after he lost two of his ships."

Thooranu imagined how it might be, not as the hollow forgotten place it now was, but as a fully stocked tavern, filled with people drinking and singing. He smelled cigar smoke and heard music. There would be blood on his face from a fight. Once in a while, he'd sneak off with one of the whores for a good fucking. Seeing everything so clearly got him excited. What did he have to lose?

"What say you?" Jack Pack asked. "Are you game?"

"Sure. Why the hell not. We can just walk away from it when we're bored."

"Ah," Jack Pack said, coming back. "That is so, but we need a signed contract for the building."

Thooranu's eyebrows knitted together. "Why?"

"To make it legal, of course." He reached into his inside coat pocket.

"I don't understand. It isn't as if it matters if we lose money. I sure as hell don't care. Why sign a contract?"

"As you pointed out, we can leave the business anytime we wish. The contract is simply a formality to the owner of the property. It's meaningless to us, but the mortal I leased the building from needs it." Jack Pack brought out a rolled up piece of paper. "Have a look and see."

Thooranu took the paper and unrolled it. He had never read a legal document before. The single sheet was indeed a lease for the building, the price paid for it each month, and other legal jargon that bored him. Jack's name was already scrawled in black.

"How come you've already signed it?"

"I want it," Jack Pack said.

"Do you?"

Thooranu thought on that for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the contract and to the blank line next to Jack's signature.

"You can sign it later, if you want," Jack said. "I don't want us to be late for the matinee."

Seven against Thebes. Thooranu had nearly forgotten about the play. He checked his pocket watch. It was already one-twenty-three.

"Got a pen?" he asked.

Jack Pack smirked and handed over a quill. Thooranu took it and carefully signed his name. Instantly he felt woozy, suddenly weak.

"What is it?" Jack asked.

"I'm not sure," he muttered, almost falling, catching himself against a support beam at the last second. "I feel off somehow."

"Oh?" Jack crossed his arms. "Do you feel a bit hollow, as if you've just lost something?"

Thooranu did not like the tone in his friend's voice. Nevertheless, what Jack Pack had said captured his attention. Something was terribly wrong. He felt a sense of loss.

"What have you done?" he asked fretfully.

"It's not what I've done, per se; it's what you just did."

"What?"

"Look at the contract."

Thooranu did so—immediately—as if obeying Jack Pack's command. He read the contract again, only it wasn't a deed to the ownership of the building they stood in, but a deed to ownership of him! Thooranu's name was printed before a statement that he had surrendered his freedom to whoever's name was on the deed. The other name was none other than Jack Pack.

"I . . . I don't understand," Thooranu stammered. "This isn't what I just read."

Jack began jumping up and down, clapping his hands while laughing. "I got you! I did it! I caught a demon!"

Reeling from what was happening, Thooranu shifted his wide eyes up to him. "Why have you done this?"

"Why?" Jack said, stopping his excited jumping. "Because I wanted to. Because I've never done it before. You're my property now, for an entire year. Until the contract expires."

Thooranu's face was stone. He looked at Jack Pack through slitted eyes. When the deed finally expired, he would tear his betrayer to bits.

"Oh, but you won't," Jack Pack said, catching his thoughts. "All I need to do is sign my name again."

Thooranu was still holding the contact. He tried to rip it to shreds, but his arms locked up. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't tear up the piece of paper.

"You're not allowed to do that," Jack Pack said with a wagging finger. "If you read on, you'll see why. Also, if the deed is destroyed, you will be forced to destroy yourself in the most painful way that a demon can die."

Thooranu lowered the paper. His whole body was numb with shock. "How did you do this?"

"Well, first I needed to gain your trust," Jack Pack said, taking the paper from Thooranu's hand. "Then, when the time came, I drew this deed up and put an illusion over it that kept you from seeing the real meaning."

"An illusion?"

Jack Pack winked. "Yes, just like Elaine and Lancelot."

"Fiend! You're the Trickster!"

"Indeed. And I have succeeded in my scheme."

Being a demon, emotions usually didn't penetrate Thooranu's cerebral cortex. Yet the human side of him felt the sting of betrayal that this thing, this petty god, had inflicted upon him.

The Trickster lost his smile. He leaned in closer, his face now only inches from the demon's.

"I have you, Thooranu, you're mine. Until I sell you to the highest bidder."

Chapter One

Mother of Craft

Spring, 1843

Mother of Craft's garden smelled like new life in the fresh afternoon air, growing everything from local to exotic plants; from peas to poppies, orchids to onions, daisies to dwarf apples. The plot was vibrant with a variety of colors, an Eden overlooking the sea. Her garden was a place where life began. And sometimes where it ended.

Tarquin Norwich rode up the lane toward the modest cottage. For years, he had come to Mother of Craft, seeking guidance. Today, he'd come with a special request.

He dismounted. The roan was shiny with sweat. He started for the front door when he spied Mother of Craft on her knees, at work amongst the flowers. She didn't greet him, continuing to weed. Norwich was allergic to pollen, a fact she knew, and no doubt was why she was waiting for him in the garden. She smirked as he approached, as if she sensed his discomfort.

"Mother of Craft," he said, clearing his throat loudly. "I'm not deaf, Tarquin Norwich," she retorted, pulling weeds from amongst the chamomile.

Norwich sighed, then sneezed. "Mother of Craft, please." His tone hardened.

She rose and examined him. Norwich's eyes were red and glossy, like freshly spilled blood. But despite his sniffing and heavy breathing, he stood arrow straight, head high like a proud, albeit sick, lion.

"Let's go inside," she said, heading for the back door, a bouquet of white chamomile in her hand. "The water will be boiling by now."

As she knew he would, he hurried to follow.

Her home felt like an ancient memory, an echo of a past life. A few glass plated daguerreotypes of her and her daughter hung on the dark blue wall, along with oil paintings of forested landscapes and abstracts of cities. Twisted vines cradled glass lamps in their green fingers. Inside, living plants thrived, nurtured by the low glow of the lamp's light.

Norwich hung his coat and hat on a rack, then went to the kitchen and sat at his usual chair. It was the most inviting room in the small cottage. Freshly baked biscuits sat within a small wicker basket, giving it a homey aroma. Through a wide window above the counter was a view of an endless ocean.

While she removed her sun hat and loosened the ribbon around her long red hair, Norwich took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

"Tell me, Tarquin," Mother of Craft said, tearing flower pedals from their stems, dropping them into a small bowl, "what is it you seek?"

"The Toymaker," he said, his voice clear now. "Can you help me find him?"

"Indigo Peachtree, eh? Has he gone missing?"

"Yes," Norwich admitted. "In truth, he escaped from me last night."

The iron kettle hanging over the range began to whistle sharply. It was sculpted like a short twisted tree with roots snaking its body, with a branch for a handle. It was half covered by small tesserae with tea-leaves painted on. She dumped the bowl of petals into a matching teapot, then grabbed the kettle with a cloth and poured in the steaming water. She smiled wistfully, breathing the heady aroma as she stirred the brew.

"No," she said, pouring the tea into a cup.

"No?" he exclaimed, his face reddening. He slapped his hand down on the table.

"Don't you be hitting anything that belongs to me, Tarquin Norwich!" she admonished fiercely. Although her anger was feigned, it was enough to put him in his place.

Norwich was deemed an important man. He was also power hungry, ambitious, cruel, and deadly. Mother of Craft helped him because he played a vital role in her plans.

Norwich's face softened and he looked away, not meeting her gaze. He cleared his throat as if to say something, but no words were forthcoming.

"I don't know where to find Indigo Peachtree," Mother of Craft said. It was a lie, but he could not know that. She placed the teacup down before him. "But"— she hesitated, relishing the little torment it gave him— "there are those who do."

Norwich leaned over his cup, wafting the steam up with his hands, breathing deeply. He spoke in a casual tone that barely masked his profound interest. "And who might they be?"

"The Landcross brothers."

Norwich sat bolt upright.

"Landcross," he gasped. "How can that be?"

"The two have crossed paths with Indigo."

"I see," Norwich said, nodding solemnly. He took a sip of tea. "Do you know how to find them? Either, I don't care which."

The sun vanished behind a mass of grey clouds, a warning of oncoming rain. Mother of Craft lit candles inside several yellowing glass lanterns that she placed upon the table. "Not just one, but both of them."

"I only need one," he replied, taking a biscuit from the basket. "The one who will best cooperate, that is."

"You'll find both will cooperate in their own way," she said.

"Why do I need both?" He chewed the soft biscuit, letting its sweet taste lighten his mood.

"The oldest knows where to find the Toymaker. However, the younger knows where to find an important item you seek."

She looked him in the eye, but he turned away. Her unusual violet eyes unnerved him.

"The journal?" Norwich asked in a whisper. "He knows where it is?"

"Indeed. As well as the masks. You'll need those, too, Tarquin. Do not misjudge their importance."

Norwich could not hide his excitement. "And you can locate them?"

"Yes, I believe I can."

She left the kitchen with the teacup in hand, walking over to a bookshelf in the other room. "They're many miles distant, but not for long." She stopped in front of a map of England painted on a burlap canvas that hung on the wall like a ragged curtain.

"Are they together?" Norwich asked.

"No," she said, planting her finger on the map. "One is here."

He stood up and came over to her. "Bristol? It'll take me a week to get there and back."

"That's why you'll wait a week until he arrives here," Mother of Craft said, sliding her finger down to the forest area of Ampfield. "On this road, at Pagan Tree Dressing Church, you'll be able to capture him when he and his gang of highwaymen try to rob you."

"Which brother is it?" "The oldest."

"Right," he huffed. "Where's the other one?"

She sipped her tea, then turned to face him. Just mentioning the younger brother boiled her blood. The years she'd invested in that boy! It kept her awake at nights.

"He's in France, on his way to Le Havre. You'll find him in an inn by the sea."

"How is it that you can tell me exactly where those two are, but not Peachtree?" His tone conveyed more than simply suspicion; there was a threat there too.

"The brothers were touched by the supernatural many years ago, and that allows me—and any good witch or warlock—to sense them. I have an insight into their futures."

What she told him was only half of the truth. Indeed, the Landcross brothers had the cloak of craft over them. Like most enchanters, she was able to look into the kaleidoscope of someone's future and see the many different outcomes in their life. Contrary to what many believed, there was no such thing as destiny, only random acts that kept the future constantly shifting. Consequently, one's future could not be told in a single path. The only certainty was death, the time of which was determined before birth.

Mother of Craft was a talented witch. Like most with magical blessings, she did not need a lot of paraphernalia to use her power. It simply resided within her like a vital organ.

And she didn't mind the term witch. She was who she was, and she had no quarrel with that. After all, she had let herself die in order to become an enchantress.

"How will I know him?" Norwich asked. "The one in France."

"He has a scar across his throat. This is common knowledge so he will try to hide it, concealed under an old scarf. He also wears a Greek coin on a chain around his neck; a stater. When you find him, he'll be eating soup."

"Eating soup?"

She nodded.

"Is he not in Le Havre now?" Norwich asked with a dash of impatience in his tone.

"No, Calais. He arrived after a narrow escape from the royal guards. He will be heading south to Le Havre." She went back to the kitchen and poured herself more tea. He followed slowly, with a last lingering look at the map.

"These are the closest locations the brothers will be to you. Try not to be so impatient. Let them draw themselves in on their own." She turned her eyes up to him. "Besides, do you not have business at your summer estate?"

His look betrayed his thoughts as he frowned. "Ah, yes. I do, indeed."

Norwich drained his last drops of tea, and Mother of Craft poured more for him. "Another shipment coming in, yes?"

He snorted. "I confide too much in you."

He was obviously feeling better now.

"And for good reason," she replied. "If you had not confided in me about what Indigo told you, I could not have explained what I knew—and the power that could be gained from what he has. You're crossing dangerous ground, dove, and you need all the help you can get."

"I'll be fine."

She raised her chin. "Just in case, I will give you something."

She headed to the spice rack, with him following closely. She could feel his strength whenever he was near, and not just his physical might. His willpower was an unbreakable force. His stony grey eyes matched his salt and pepper hair, set within a majestic warrior's face. Physically, he was a handsome man, yet he was a hardened soul who had not even mourned the death of his lovely wife when she'd taken her own life.

But, however strong, Tarquin Norwich was only an automaton, a mindless machine for her to use.

She took a small, pink vial from the rack. She popped the tiny cork and poured out the fine anise seeds. She moved over to the counter near the window and lifted the lid of the largest of the matryoshka nesting dolls lining the wall. From it, she brought out a round, midnight blue jar. After twisting the cap off, she poured what looked to be black oil into the vial. She pressed the cork back and placed the pink container in front of Norwich. "Use it well."

Norwich picked it up, studying it, his face scrunching in distaste. "What is it?"

"Demon's blood."

He laughed, thinking it a joke. But when she didn't join him, he fell silent.

"Mix this into something when you use it. It'll be easier for the individual to drink it if they don't know what it is. Afterwards you'll have complete control."

He nodded. "The color of the bottle makes me half believe it's a love potion."

She snorted. "That doesn't exist. Otherwise, I would have sold you some to use on your wife."

He grimaced and placed his cup on the counter. "I must go. It's a long ride to Southampton." He set a coin purse down next to his teacup and headed for the coat rack.

"One more thing," Mother of Craft said, paying no mind to the purse. "It would be best to send all three of your children out to find the brothers."

Norwich turned to her as he donned his coat. "Archie? He's a weak imbecile. Useless on all fronts. And Clover? She's a ten-year-old girl. Just as useless."

"Trust me," she said earnestly. "You'll need them. And if you think so poorly of them, send them after the easiest one to catch."

He didn't seem convinced, yet she knew that his trust in her would outweigh his doubt.

She saw him out and watched him ride down the lane through the sprinkling rain. As she did every time he'd come to seek guidance, she thought it was funny that he never asked if he would succeed in his plan. It wasn't fear that kept him from inquiring. Tarquin Norwich simply had too much damn self-confidence. A flaw, for that blinding buoyancy would be his undoing. Vela, Mother of Craft's daughter, emerged from the woods in time to see him leave. She carried two limp, dangling hares. The mirror image of Mother of Craft, but at only eleven, she still had a lot of growing to do. She also shared some of her father's features, like his wild heart and slender build. Mother of Craft had to admit she missed him sometimes.

"Was that Norwich again?" Vela asked.

"Aye."

"What did he want this time?"

"He wants many things, as most men do. None of which concern you."

"Yes, Mother."

"I will say this, child," she added. "This may well be the last you'll ever see of him."

Legacy is available at Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, and Norldlandpublishing.com

