

B.B.

AND

RED

STEPHEN LOMER
Copyright © 2017 Port Nine Publishing

All rights reserved.

The events and characters presented

in this book are works of fiction.

Any similarity to persons or places living

or dead is purely coincidental and unintended.

www.stephenlomer.com

ISBN: 9781370151981

DEDICATION

To Patricia Ann Boudreault, the inspiration for

"Maybe God Left Us Out of the Plans He Made."

I hope you were able to hear me.

ALSO AVAILABLE  
BY STEPHEN LOMER

Stargazer Lilies or Nothing at All

Typo Squad

Hell's Nerds

CONTENTS

I. B.B. AND RED

II. A SPEEDY CONCLUSION

III. ANY LAST WORDS

IV. NO PLACE LIKE HOME

V. MAYBE GOD LEFT US OUT OF THE PLANS HE MADE

VI. DEFENDING THE WALL

VII. A WEEK BACK

VIII. JAIL BRAKE

IX. BRAINS AND GUTS

X. STONE'S THROW

XI. LITTLE RICKY'S NIGHT OUT

XII. ROYAL FLUSH

XIII. A POUND OF CURE

# I.

#  B.B. AND RED

My name is Red. This is my story.

The day was gray and overcast. A cold, bitter wind blew what few dead leaves remained off the skeletal branches. It was a bad day for traveling—for any outdoor activity, really—but that wouldn't dissuade me. I'd get to my grandmother's house or freeze to death trying.

It wasn't love for my grandmother that convinced me to wrap myself in my heavy traveling cloak and pack food and a bottle of wine in my basket. No, not love by a long shot. Grandmother and I don't get along, and probably never will. But grandmother owns that gorgeous house in the woods. The one with central air and the indoor swimming pool. As long as I kept in the old bag's good graces, the house would be mine someday. Grandmother had a case of the sniffles. So I was off.

The wind whipped my long black hair around as I stepped out on the path toward the woods. If I'd been off to meet one of the boys—even Sneezy—I would have been annoyed that I'd soon be completely windswept. But it was just grandmother, after all. The old battle axe was half-blind as it was, and sometimes thought I was a girl she knew in her youth named Gretel. Whatever. With any luck, my next trip to the house would be as the owner, not a visitor.

I reached the edge of the woods and paused as I peered into the dark corridor formed by the denuded trees. Now, I'm a brave one—anyone who knows me would likely list gutsy and sexy as my top two qualities, and not necessarily in that order—but the darkness and the howling wind made me think twice, if only for a moment, about finishing my journey.

I stepped into the woods and picked up my pace.

I'd only been on the path for a few minutes when I saw him. He was a few yards ahead, leaning against a tree, looking as though he hadn't a care in the world. My heart skipped a beat. I knew this day had to come, but I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say or do. Or what he might say or do.

I took a deep breath as I walked boldly up to him, a fixed smirk on my face.

"Well, well," I said. "If it isn't B.B. Wolf."

B.B. turned his attention toward me and a wide, toothy grin split his face. I felt heat spreading from my chest to my extremities.

"Heya Red," he said, his voice deep and smooth as silk. "My, my, you look good enough to eat."

My smirk became a smile in spite of myself. "If anyone would know, you would."

B.B. chuckled softly. "It ain't fit for man nor beast out here today, Red. Where ya headed?"

I held up my basket. "Gertrude's."

B.B.'s eyes widened. "That rattling old sack of bones is still alive? She must be in her late hundreds by now."

"Yeah, the Grim Reaper's moved into her guest room," I said. "He doesn't want to be too far away."

This time B.B. laughed out loud. "I thought you didn't get along with granny."

"I don't," I replied. "She's a real pain in the ass. But I'm in the will. And if I want to stay in the will, I've got to come running every time she gets so much as a hangnail. I wish she'd just kick off, for heaven's sake."

B.B.'s expression grew thoughtful. He stared at me so long that I became uncomfortable.

"What?" I demanded finally.

B.B. took a few steps toward me and took me by the shoulders. I looked up at him and felt the old familiar heat between us.

"Things didn't work out for us the way I wanted them to," B.B. said with surprising softness, "but I still feel the way I always did about you, Red. And you know I'd do anything for you. You know that."

I cleared my throat. "I know."

"So why don't you let me do you a favor?" B.B. said, his hot breath warming my cold cheeks.

"What kind of favor?"

B.B. looked over to the left at a thatch of crocuses. "I think your grandmother would like some flowers too," he said. "Why don't you spend a little time here picking some while I go take care of a few things?"

Comprehension dawned and my face lit up. "You're so right," I said with false enthusiasm. "Grandma does love crocuses, after all. Well, don't let me keep you from your errands, Mr. Wolf."

B.B. flashed one last dangerous smile and then disappeared in a flash. I wandered slowly over to the flower patch and squatted down next to them. As I deliberately picked them one at a time, I muttered under my breath, "I'll put these on your grave, you senile old bag."

I arrived at the house a short while later. Nothing looked out of place, but my excitement grew more and more as I approached the front door. I knocked.

"Come in!" came a strange, quavering voice from inside. I swung the door wide and stepped inside. I pulled off my traveling cloak and hung it by the door, and then made my way hesitantly to the bedroom.

"Grandmother?" I called out.

"In here, darling," came that same yodeling voice again.

I walked in the room and couldn't believe my eyes. There was B.B. in my grandmother's bed, wearing one of my grandmother's nightgowns and cap, and what looked like her spare reading glasses. I burst out laughing.

"Oh, you sick freak!" I said finally.

"Come closer, dear," B.B. said, grinning. "Granny can't hear so well these days."

I put my hands behind my back and approached the bed coyly.

"My goodness, grandmother," I said in mock astonishment. "What big eyes you have."

"All the better to see you with," B.B. said in his cracking grandmother voice.

"And what big arms you have," I said.

"All the better to hug you with," B.B. replied.

I began unbuttoning my dress. "And are there any other physical attributes I might remark upon?"

B.B. threw back the covers and gestured for me to join him. "That, my dear," he growled, "you'll just have to discover for yourself."

I lay dozing next to B.B. as the afternoon shadows crawled across the bedroom floor. I sighed contentedly as I looked up at his face.

"I don't know how I can ever thank you," I said softly.

"It was my pleasure," B.B. said. "In every sense."

I rolled on my back and happened to glance out the window, just in time to see one of the loggers who had been cutting down trees in the area approaching the house.

"Oh God!" I cried, and B.B. was awake in an instant.

"What? What is it?"

"A logger!" I said frantically, just as we heard the latch to the front door open.

"Mrs. Hood?" the logger called. "Just checking in, making sure you're okay."

"He can't catch us!" I hissed. "He'll figure out we were in on it together!"

"Then hide!" B.B. hissed back. "Let me handle him!"

"There's no time!" I said. Then my eyes grew big. "Swallow me!"

"Hello?" the logger called, closer still.

"What?" B.B. asked, shocked.

"Swallow me! When he's gone, I can come back out! Quick!"

B.B. opened his maw as wide as he could and the next thing I knew, I was in his stomach. It was warm and squelchy, and things were moving and squirming all around me. I held my breath and listened as intently as I could.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" the logger asked. I could picture him thumbing the blade of his axe.

"Oh, hi!" B.B. called with overt enthusiasm. "I . . . I didn't hear you come in. I'm, uh, just . . . um, housesitting."

"Housesitting," the woodcutter repeated flatly.

"Yep, just housesitting for the old gal. Least I could do, you know. She . . . knew my dad."

"I see," the logger said. "And is there a reason that you're dressed in her clothes and sleeping in her bed?"

"Oh that," B.B. said. "That's . . . that's easy to explain. It . . . makes me feel . . . pretty. Y'know. Pretty?"

"Really," the logger said. His voice was much closer and I heard the sound of covers being yanked off hard. I'm sure B.B.'s belly was horribly distended.

"Big breakfast?" the logger asked.

"Oh yes," B.B. said. "Most important meal of the day. Had a lovely bagel with cream cheese, some oatmeal, a nice order of really crisp bacon—"

"Well let's have a look, shall we?" the logger said, and suddenly daylight flooded over me. B.B. howled in agony as I came tumbling out of his innards, alive, covered in his entrails. I looked to my right and saw my grandmother next to me, covered as well, and son of a bitch, still alive.

Yes, that's right. I had sex with B.B. while my grandmother was still alive in his belly.

"Next time stick with corn flakes," the logger said as he grabbed B.B. by the scruff of his neck and dragged him, writhing and bleeding, out the front door.

I got to my feet and, sputtering and slipping in the mess, attempted to chase them down. By the time I got out the front door, the logger had finished heaving two large stones into B.B.'s open wound.

"No!" I cried. "No! Leave him alone! Let me explain!"

The logger paid no attention to me. He stood B.B. upright and kicked him in his hindquarters. "Now march!" he shouted.

B.B. took a pair of ungainly steps, but the weight of the stones was too much. He lurched forward and collapsed, dead.

I stood in the doorway, my eyes as wide as saucers, my hands covering my mouth in horror. I remained that way as grandmother joined me and took in the sight of B.B. impassively.

"Well," grandmother said, "it was a grand adventure, but it looks like you're stuck with me for a while longer." She shuffled back into the house, wheezing laughter.

"Ah, balls," I muttered.

# II.

#  A SPEEDY CONCLUSION

The ten people gathered around the large oak dining room table sat in silence, occasionally stealing furtive looks at one another, waiting for whatever was coming. A distant thunderstorm approached from the darkened mountains in the east, and thin raindrops had begun spattering the high windows and hissing into the dancing flames in the fireplace.

Through the double doors at the far end of the room entered a middle-aged gentleman in a dark overcoat and hat. He strode purposefully toward the other end of the room, and all heads turned to watch him.

"Good evening," he said, taking position at the head of the table. "I am Chief Inspector Mason. Thank you all for coming tonight."

Mason put his hands behind his back and took a long, assessing look at the assorted faces staring back at him.

"As you may be aware, I am currently investigating the circumstances surrounding Lord Filby's death. I can reveal here, tonight, that without question, Lord Filby was murdered."

There was a collective gasp around the table.

"Indeed," Mason said, nodding. "Furthermore, after reviewing all the available evidence, I have concluded that the murderer . . . is someone in this room."

Lightning forked across the sky and a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the house, but in the dining room, there was absolute silence. Accusatory eyes met across the table.

"But who did the deed?" Mason asked dramatically. He moved behind the nearest chair, upon which was seated an older gentleman with thinning white hair and a monocle.

"Was it Lord Filby's older brother Reginald?" Mason asked. "The man who was always consumed by jealousy when it came to Lord Filby's success in life?"

"Now see here!" Reginald sputtered, but Mason had already moved to the next chair. A beautiful redheaded woman with a long black cigarette holder held between her graceful fingers watched him warily.

"Could it have been Lady Filby, Lord Filby's lovely young wife, grown weary of her husband's controlling ways, which were impeding her . . . socializing?"

He moved to the next chair, with an older woman in a shabby topcoat.

"Or perhaps it was Mary Lofton, the upstairs maid, who knew how much money Lord Filby had access to and was frustrated with her meager wages, year over year."

To the next chair, with a dashing young man calmly sipping port from a small glass. "Or was it—?"

Before he could finish, a young blonde woman across the table raised her hand. Inspector Mason looked at her, momentarily thrown. His head tilted in curiosity.

"You are Elizabeth, Lord Filby's daughter," he said, regaining his thread.

She nodded.

"Yes, well, I've arranged something of an order here. I'll be around to you shortly."

"All right," she said, lowering her hand. "I just thought I could save you some time by admitting that I did it."

Mason and everyone else at the table stared at her.

"I beg your pardon?" Mason asked.

"I did it," Elizabeth repeated. "I murdered Lord Filby."

"What?" hissed Lady Filby.

"Why would you do such a terrible thing?" asked a gentleman to Elizabeth's right.

Elizabeth shrugged. "He was a miserable bastard. I hated him. So I killed him."

"But however did you get away with it?" Reginald asked.

"It was simple, really," Elizabeth said. "He went to bed early that night, so I—"

"Excuse me!" Inspector Mason cut across her, and everyone turned once again to face him. He looked positively stricken.

"Young lady, I had a rather lengthy and spirited presentation prepared for tonight," he said to Elizabeth. "And now you've gone and ruined it."

"Presentation?" Elizabeth asked, mystified.

"Yes!" Mason said. "I was going to go round the table, introducing everyone and throwing out motives, and then I was going to eliminate suspects one by one until only two remained, and then make a grand pronouncement about who done it. And then explain how and so forth."

"I say, dear man," a heavyset gentleman across the table said, "are you out of sorts because this young woman's confession spoiled your bit of theater?"

Mason looked down at his intertwined hands. "It's just that I never have opportunities like this," he muttered. "I thought it might be a bit of fun."

"Fun?" the heavyset man said in disbelief. "Good Lord, a man has been murdered!"

"Yes, and now you have a confession!" said Reginald, pointing at Elizabeth. "Surely that is what you truly wanted!"

"I suppose," Mason muttered. "But you see I practiced quite hard for this. Took acting lessons, memorized my lines. Waited for a night when a thunderstorm was predicted. It was quite a lot of effort, really."

The room filled with silence again, save for the rain now hammering at the windows.

"Look," Mason said after a few moments, "since we know now who the murderer is, could I just go through my bit anyway? We're all here. What harm could it do?"

Everyone looked around at one another.

"Oh, go on then," Reginald said. Mason regained his former energy.

"Right!" he said, standing once again behind the good-looking young man. "Could it have been Marcus, the stable boy who secretly pined for Lady Filby?"

Marcus smiled at Lady Filby and winked. She turned a bright shade of pink.

Mason moved behind an even younger man. "Or perhaps Lord Filby's nephew Hawthorn, whose sexuality offended the old man's delicate sensibilities?"

Hawthorn looked shocked for a moment, but then shrugged and smiled. The inspector rounded the end of the table to the other side, and came to stand behind a tall, thin man with a pencil-thin mustache.

"Could it have been Lord Filby's longtime valet, Fletcher, who had to endure the old man's verbal abuse for decades?"

Mason passed by Elizabeth with a glare and moved to the next chair down.

"What about Josef, the architect who built this very manor for Lord Filby but was never paid a shilling for his work and had grown weary of the slow-moving courts?"

On to the next chair, where sat a lovely dark-haired woman.

"Or might it have been Raven, the old man's mistress, tired of waiting on his promises of leaving his wife and family for her?"

Across the table, Lady Filby's eyes widened. "Lovely to finally meet you," Raven whispered awkwardly.

The inspector reached the final chair. "Or could it be Lord Filby's darling sister Lady Sterling-Poundsworth, who resented being left to care for their ailing father while Filby lived a life of decadence and luxury?"

He had reached the head of the table once again, and there was a manic glint in his eyes. He placed both hands wide on the polished surface, leaned forward, and looked slowly from one face to another.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed at last, "tonight we will discover . . . who killed Lord Filby!"

# III.

#  ANY LAST WORDS

Jack sat uncomfortably in the therapist's office. The doctor, an older woman with dark cat's eye glasses and a severe bun atop her head, stared at him, waiting for him to say something, but Jack had nothing to say. To escape her expectant gaze, he smoothed out the legs of his khakis, taking extra time to secure a small piece of white fuzz that had attached itself to him and toss it away.

The doctor adjusted her glasses and exhaled deeply through her nostrils. Neither action helped defuse the mounting sense of discomfort and awkwardness in the room.

"Jack," the doctor said at last, "you were required to come to this session."

"Mmm-hmm," Jack said, now staring at a bust of Sigmund Freud on her credenza. "I know."

The doctor exhaled deeply once again. "You're not required to talk, of course. Not if you don't want to. But I really think it might be helpful for you."

"Mmm-hmm," Jack repeated. "Sure."

The doctor uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way, shifting her weight in her wingback chair. Her blank notebook remained in her lap.

"Do you drink?" she asked him suddenly.

He looked at her in surprise. "No," he replied. "Why?"

She scribbled a note in her notebook. "Just wanted to have something to write down."

Jack grinned. "I don't smoke or do drugs either," he said. "If you need more stuff to fill the page."

She grinned back and made two more quick notes.

"But you do absorb the ghosts of the recently deceased into your own body?" she asked, the pen still hovering over the paper.

The question caught Jack completely off guard.

"Well," he said, after the initial shock wore off. "Yeah."

"Would you like to talk about that?" she asked, flipping to the next page in her notebook.

"Um . . . sure," Jack replied.

"Good," the doctor said. "When did this first happen?"

Jack took a deep breath. "Well . . ."

He was in the back of his family's station wagon. It was a bright, sunlit day as they pulled into the cemetery, and Jack was uncomfortably warm in his suit and tie.

His father parked and said a few words of comfort to his mother, who sniffed into a handkerchief and nodded. They all got out of the car, and the three of them headed toward the small hill where everyone else had gathered.

Jack was sad that his uncle Guy was gone, but not as sad as his mother was. She and Guy had been twins, and close their entire lives. As Jack made his way along, he noticed his mother lagging behind. He stopped, went back to her, and took her hand.

"It's okay, Mom," he said softly. "C'mon."

His mother nodded again and allowed Jack to lead her to the gravesite.

The funeral had a massive turnout, which was not at all surprising to Jack. Uncle Guy had always been the life of the party, and had many friends, though no family of his own. As he stood between his mother and father and looked around at the faces of people he vaguely recognized, Jack noticed even the priest presiding over the funeral looked more somber than usual. Then he remembered that Guy had been an altar boy in his youth, and the priest probably knew him well.

As the funeral progressed, Jack felt increasingly nauseated and dizzy. He chalked it up to the sun that continued to bear down on them as the priest read words of comfort, but then he felt a distinct tingling sensation on the bottom of his feet. It crawled up his ankles to his knees, and then up his spine until it reached his head. He had a sudden burst inside his brain, like a firework, and he was no longer in control of himself.

He could still perceive what he was doing, but it was as though he were a passenger in the back of a taxi with a partition between himself and the driver. He felt himself turn his head and look up at his mother, and then heard himself say, "Thanks for the comic book, Beezer."

He saw his mother looking back at him, shocked, disbelieving.

"What did you say?" she whispered urgently to him.

"I fell and skinned my elbow," Jack heard his voice saying, though he had no sense of saying it. "You had a quarter. It was your babysitting money and you and Anne were going to use it to go to the movies."

He saw his mother's eyes go so wide that he feared they would fall out. Her hand went to her mouth and fresh tears coursed down her cheeks.

"You used the quarter to buy me a comic book to make me feel better. Spider-Man. I never thanked you then, so I want to thank you now. I love you, Beeze."

And with that final word, the tingling sensation in Jack's body reversed course. As it flowed from the soles of his feet and back into the ground, he felt his brain regain control of his body. But only for a moment, as everything faded to black.

"So your uncle Guy's ghost took over your body because he had one final message for his sister," the doctor summarized, scribbling away.

"That's right," Jack said.

"And you don't think that it was anything that you could have . . . imagined?" asked the doctor.

"Well, my mother confirmed that I'd said all those things," Jack replied. "And she said that no one ever knew that his pet name for her had been Beezer."

"I see," said the doctor, and Jack felt a wave of irritation.

"It's true," he said defensively.

The doctor nodded noncommittally. "So once you realized you had this . . . ability, you started attending funerals on a regular basis?"

"Yeah, that's right," Jack replied. "I figured if these ghosts wanted one last word with their loved ones, I should give them the chance."

"So the ghosts continued speaking through you," the doctor said.

"Well, most of them," Jack said. "Sometimes I'd get the tingling and feel them in my head, and they'd decide that they didn't have the right words. Or that they had nothing to say after all. One guy just guided me over to his wife and had me take her hand and he looked at her face one last time before he disappeared. That was a little awkward."

The doctor scratched a few more notes and then flipped to a new page.

"So the reason you've been assigned to this session is the result of a plea bargain you struck, to avoid jail time for assault," the doctor said baldly. "Do you want to tell me about that?"

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Well, the first scuffle I got into was unrelated to the others," Jack said.

"How so?"

"Well, I attended a funeral a couple of years ago . . ."

Jack had never seen anything like it in his life.

As he had stood waiting next to the crudely dug—and altogether too shallow—grave, the funeral procession roared in like unholy thunder. The guests arrived on motorcycles, ATVs, and souped-up rustbuckets. Mullets and missing teeth were the order of the day. The deceased arrived on the back of a mud-caked pickup, not in a casket but in a battered orange crate.

The pallbearers wore matching sleeveless Iron Maiden t-shirts, and their jeans ran the gamut from ripped to barely qualifying as pants. Jack drew more than a few curious stares, dressed in his suit and tie, but no one said a word to him as the orange crate was plopped down at an awkward angle, half in and half out of the hole.

A heavyset man with a furious sunburn stood in the priest position and removed his John Deere hat.

"We's here today to say fare-thee-well to our friend and brother, Duke 'The Great Pussy Hunter' Judson," the man said.

Jack felt the familiar tingle in his feet. When it reached his head and he felt the presence of another person in his mind, he was surprised to feel such a wave of happiness, almost glee. Most of the ghosts he hosted were sad and somber, but apparently not The Great Pussy Hunter.

"Hey Goober!" Jack heard himself cry, interrupting the eulogy. A huge man across from him with great mutton chop sideburns and a red cap with MAKE AMERICA GRATE AGAIN written on it in marker looked up.

"I fucked your sister, Goober!" Jack cried rapturously. "And she gave me crabs!"

The ghost made a hasty retreat out of Jack's body, leaving Jack to suffer the wrath of Goober, who was, clearly, very protective of his sister.

"So your first fight was with Goober," the doctor said with a smile she couldn't quite conceal.

"I wouldn't characterize it so much as a fight," Jack said ruefully. "More like I stood there and Goober tired himself out punching me in the face."

"I see," the doctor said. "When did the actual fighting begin?"

Jack stared at her for a few moments, wondering how to answer. He decided to just tell the truth; the doctor didn't seem to believe a word he was saying anyway.

"The actual fighting began," Jack said at last, "when Death showed up."

Jack had stood under a stately oak tree and watched one of the biggest funerals he'd ever attended. The young man in the casket had been an incredibly popular athlete at the high school, just weeks away from graduation with the ink barely dry on a full football scholarship, when he decided that he was sober enough to drive his two best friends home.

The two best friends in question stood graveside, bandaged, bruised, and stitched, one of them in a wheelchair, likely for the rest of his life. Standing with them were the young man's family, and gathered in a mass of humanity was what looked like the entire school body, including coaches, faculty, and even the janitor.

Jack had a sense of what would happen that day. He'd been to hundreds of funerals by that point, and was rarely wrong when it came to final messages. The deceased would most likely want to apologize to his friends for what he did to them, and possibly hold his girlfriend's hand once more before shuffling off this mortal coil.

Jack felt the familiar tingling sensation, but as it moved up his body, he noticed something odd out of the corner of his eye.

One of the limo drivers, standing silent and still next to his vehicle, suddenly looked up and caught sight of Jack. Before he knew what was happening, the limo driver had hooked an arm around Jack's neck and dragged him behind the oak tree, out of sight of the mourners.

"Hey!" Jack shouted as the limo driver shoved him up against the crumbling bark and jammed his forearm against Jack's neck. "Hey!"

The ghost in him seemed to sense something was wrong and the tingling sensation faded. Jack saw the driver's eyes were glowing bright red—so bright that they seemed to have caught fire.

"Listen, and listen well," the limo driver hissed. "No more funerals. Do you understand?"

Jack hooked his hands inside the man's forearm to take some pressure off his throat.

"What are you talking about?" Jack said, his anger rising. "Let go of me! Who do you think you are?"

The limo driver leaned in until the tip of his nose was nearly touching the tip of Jack's.

"I am Death," he said quietly, the words filled with menace. "Those ghosts rightfully belong to me. They're not entitled to one last go-round just because you're able to give them one. So I'm warning you. Stay out of my business."

With one last push, the man released Jack. His eyes faded back to their original brown and he blinked a few times, looking around. He didn't seem to know how he'd gotten so far from his limo, and Jack wasn't about to tell him.

"So. Death," the doctor said.

Jack once again felt his hackles rise. "Yes, that's right, Death," he said irritably.

"And Death was annoyed with you because you were giving these people another minute or so among the living?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Look, believe whatever you want. I'm just telling you what happened."

"I'm here to help you, Jack," the doctor said soothingly. "I'm not here to believe or disbelieve anything."

Jack had serious doubts about that, but said nothing.

"I'm assuming you didn't heed Death's warning," the doctor continued. "That you kept attending funerals anyway."

"That's right," Jack said. "I have a gift. I'm not just going to set it aside when I can offer people closure."

"And how did Death feel about that?"

Jack looked at her incredulously. "How do you think?"

The doctor reached over to her desk and grabbed a folder. She opened it on her lap.

"I have an incident report here that's part of your file," she said, scanning the document within. "It appears that, at least at some point, your encounters with Death were rather comical."

Jack's expression soured. "Maybe some people thought so."

"According to this," the doctor said, "you were in attendance at the funeral of a gentleman by the name of James Cooney. Do you remember that?"

"How could I forget?" Jack said.

Jack had stood at the gravesite of Mr. Cooney, a philanthropist and loving family man who had died of a massive heart attack as he and his golf partners had walked from the clubhouse to the first tee at Silver Oaks Golf Course. Jack had the sense that Mr. Cooney had something important to tell his grieving widow, something he'd assumed he'd have years to convey.

But Jack couldn't relax the way he normally did. He scanned the crowd of mourners ceaselessly, watching everyone's eyes for any sign that they might suddenly change color.

As the tingling in his soles began, he saw Mr. Cooney's eldest son, Junior, raise his head and look directly at him, eyes ablaze. Jack knew he needed to buy Mr. Cooney time, so he did the only thing he could think of—he ran.

"Erin!" Mr. Cooney cried through Jack's mouth as Jack sprinted around the circle of mourners, Cooney's son hot on his heels. "Erin! There's a hidden safe in the attic!"

"I warned you!" Junior snarled, stretching out his arms and trying to snag Jack by the collar. The rest of the guests looked on in horror as the two men ran in circles around the gravesite.

"The combination is 15 left, 38 right, 33 left!" Jack shouted breathlessly, running as fast as his dress shoes would carry him.

"Stop it!" Junior screamed, reversing direction in mid-stride to try and fake Jack out. Jack spotted the move and changed direction as well, so now the two men were running counter-clockwise around the wide-eyed guests.

"I love you!" Jack shouted, and he felt Mr. Cooney's ghost drain out of him. He turned and shouted at Junior, "Okay! Okay! He's gone!"

But Death didn't release Junior, and the chase continued. Jack angled toward the main road leading into the cemetery and ran toward the main gates, certain that Death would respect the boundary and give up. But Death kept running, so Jack did too.

"'Don't you have a retirement home to keep an eye on?' is apparently what the guests heard you shout as you disappeared out of the cemetery," the doctor said with a wry grin.

"That son of a bitch chased me all over town before he finally let the poor guy go," Jack said. "I had a hell of a time explaining to him why he was in the parking lot of a 7-11 and not standing with his family at Green Hills Cemetery."

"You have to admit," the doctor said, replacing the folder on her desk, "that's a little bit funny."

"I suppose it is, now," Jack admitted. "But being chased down by Death gets old fast."

"I'm sure. So, when did things turn violent?" the doctor asked.

"The very next funeral," Jack replied. "You can say what you want about Death, but he's no dummy. He took over the guy right next to me. I didn't even have time to look around and bam! Caught me with a left hook before the deceased had even reached my kneecaps."

"And how did you respond?" the doctor asked.

"At first I tried to cover up, see if I could give the ghost a chance to do something," Jack said. "But Death was pummeling me. So I threw a punch and caught him off guard. Next thing you know we're beating the shit out of each other, and friends and family members are diving in to pull us off one another. You think they looked mortified when Junior and I were running in circles around that gravesite? Imagine how these people looked when there was a coffin-side brawl."

The doctor smiled again. "And that's when you were arrested?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "As far as the witnesses were concerned, I was beating up on the dearly departed's favorite grandson. And no amount of explanation from me was going to convince them that I was some sort of ghost whisperer and the grandson had been temporarily possessed by Death. So I wound up in jail. That's when things got really interesting."

"Oh?" the doctor asked, looking up from her notes. "How so?"

"You remember Mr. Cooney?" Jack asked. "The gentleman who had to tell his widow about the secret safe?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mrs. Cooney somehow got word that I was behind bars," Jack said. "She was so grateful about that tip-off—the safe turned out to have a million bucks in it, by the way—that she bailed me out."

"Fascinating," the doctor said. "Was that the extent of your interaction with Mrs. Cooney?"

"No," Jack said. "She also insisted on paying my attorney fees when I appeared in court."

"It sounds like Mrs. Cooney is a generous woman."

Jack frowned. "Okay, I'm sleeping with Mrs. Cooney. Are you happy? It's not like she's a married woman."

"No, indeed," the doctor said. "But circling back to your appearance in court. You decided to tell the truth about the ghosts and Death and all of it. Why?"

"I was under oath," Jack said simply.

"I see," the doctor said.

"And the judge ordered me to have a psychiatric evaluation, and now I'm here, talking to you, and that catches us all up," Jack said.

"Very well," the doctor said, finishing up her notes.

The doctor stood and crossed the room to the large picture window that overlooked a placid lake. She took off her glasses and placed one of the stems in her mouth as she stared thoughtfully. She remained there for a long time, so long that Jack began to feel uncomfortable again.

"So?" he said at last. "What do you think?"

"Tell me, Jack. Do you intend to continue serving as a conduit for these ghosts?" the doctor asked abruptly. "Will you keep going to funerals?"

Jack hesitated. "Yes."

"You realize," the doctor said, still staring through the glass, "that I could have you remanded to a psychiatric facility."

"You could," Jack replied. "But people die there too. It won't stop me."

"Mm," the doctor said, turning away from the window and grabbing something from her desk. "Then I suppose you leave me little choice."

She returned to her seat across from Jack and looked down at her notes. "You said that Death knew right where to find you."

"Yes," Jack said.

"Because Death is smart. Cunning. Resourceful," she said, still referring to her notes.

Jack laughed uneasily. "You sound like you're a fan."

The doctor finally looked up. Her eyes were glowing bright red. She raised her hand, and Jack saw what she had picked up from her desk: a glinting, sharp letter opener.

"You might say that," Death said through the doctor's mouth, and before Jack could react, she had jammed the letter opener deep into his chest, all the way to the hilt.

Jack was so shocked he barely felt the pain as the blade pierced his heart. He tried to say something, but only choked up a mouthful of blood. The room began fading from his vision, the edges black as his consciousness dribbled away. He could feel himself drifting, untethering, light as a feather . . .

And then, just as he was sure the end had well and truly come, he felt himself being drawn back toward his body. The pain in his chest came rushing back, but so did that old familiar tingling sensation in his feet. He was entering his own body, just as so many other ghosts had done before him.

His eyes opened and he saw the doctor standing above him. She was focused on cleaning droplets of blood from her glasses and didn't notice what was happening until Jack took a loud, whooping gasp of breath. The doctor jumped back and hurriedly put her glasses back on.

Jack reached up and grabbed the letter opener and yanked with all his might. It slid out, along with a gusher of blood, and he let it slip from his hand to the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

The doctor's still-glowing eyes were wide with shock. Jack put his hand over the wound on his chest and smiled at her.

Death couldn't help smiling a bit too. The two of them considered one another for a long few moments.

"Huh," Death said at last. "I'll admit it. I was not expecting that."

"Me neither," Jack said weakly. The pain was subsiding. The blood flow was stemming.

Death reached over casually to the chair the doctor had been sitting in and grabbed a large cushion. In one smooth motion, she grabbed it with both hands and jammed it over Jack's face.

Jack began thrashing, clawing at the doctor's hands, but he was still too weak to fight her off with Death's strength flowing through her. The world was muffled and dark. His hot breath spread across his face and he felt his life slowly fading once more.

He blew out his final, shallow breath, and once again felt the sense of detachment from his body. And then, just as before, he came back to himself and felt the sensation of reentry.

The doctor had removed the pillow to admire her handiwork. Jack sat motionless for a few moments, and then took in a shallow breath, looked at Death, and said simply, "Nope."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Death said, throwing the pillow on the floor in frustration.

Jack sat up and examined himself. There was a hole in his shirt over the spot where Death had stabbed him, and he was still soaked with blood, but the wound had completely healed. There wasn't a scar or even a mark to be seen.

Death folded the doctor's arms and scowled. "It would seem," she said at last, "that whatever gift you have with ghosts has also made you immortal."

"Oh yeah?" Jack asked. "Neat."

"No, it's not neat," Death said snidely. "I'm supposed to be the immortal one."

Jack thought it over for a moment. "We could be immortal together," he suggested.

Death looked at him with the doctor's glowing red eyes. "What?"

"I imagine immortality is probably lonely," Jack said. "I know I don't want to live forever all by myself."

Death cocked the doctor's head to the side. "It would be kind of nice to have someone to spend time with."

"Okay, great," Jack said. "But a few ground rules. First, you can't be randomly trying to kill me like you just did."

Death smiled. "Sorry. I'll try not to. But it's what I do."

Jack nodded. "And you're going to need to buy me a new shirt, because this one is my favorite and it's all messed up now." He held out the bloody hole to illustrate his point.

"Fine, a new shirt," Death said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "You've got to come to terms with me channeling ghosts. Because I'm still going to."

Death scowled. "Well there doesn't seem to be much I can do about that, does there? But how about we cap it? Give them all one minute, no more."

"Deal," Jack said, rising and shaking the doctor's hand.

"So," Death sighed. "Now what?"

Jack thought it over. "Go get a beer?"

Death shrugged the doctor's shoulders. "Sure."

"Great," Jack said, grabbing his coat. "Hey, can you do something about the crazy glowy eyes thing?"

"Oh," Death said. "No."

"Okay, we'll get you some shades, you'll look great," Jack said. "C'mon, let's get going. Eternity's waiting."

# IV.

#  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

As Professor Chen entered his lab, his three assistants jumped up, their faces eager, their expressions achingly hopeful.

He looked at them and slowly shook his head.

"What?" Nina said, deflating just like the other two.

"They said no," Chen said in a flat monotone, crossing the lab and placing his briefcase on a table near the experiment's glowing power supply.

"But why?" asked Joseph, crossing the lab toward his mentor. "Surely they were able to see that the math checks out."

"Oh yes," sighed Chen. "They were able to see that."

"And the tests?" asked Jodi. "Didn't the tests count for anything?"

"Mmm-hmm," Chen said noncommittally. "They were all very impressed with the test results."

"Well then what's the problem?" Nina asked.

"Apparently, sending a beam of light into another dimension is fine," Chen explained, gazing longingly at the teleportation chamber on the far side of the lab. "As is sending a cantaloupe and half a dozen white mice."

"But not human subjects," Joseph finished flatly, and Chen nodded.

Disappointment settled into the lab like freshly fallen snow. After a few silent minutes, Jodi spoke up.

"So now what?"

Chen took a deep breath. "Now we try and come up with a commercial application for interdimensional cantaloupes."

That night, Chen sat alone in his study, dictating notes into his recorder, a glass of brandy on a table near his elbow.

"The committee said that the research shows great promise, and complimented my team and me for such groundbreaking work," Chen said tonelessly. "But that sending humans into a parallel dimension is much too risky, and that any such test was likely decades away. If ever."

Chen scratched his beard, unsure how much he should say.

"The trick is that no one on the committee knows that I don't have decades," he said, his voice growing huskier. "I have less than a year. I'm out of treatment options, and the disease is slowly but surely progressing."

He swallowed hard.

"My only dream is to be the first human to step into another dimension, and now I'm drowning in bureaucracy and tripping on red tape. I've never been one to defy the university's decisions, but I find myself in the unique position of having little left to lose."

An unexpected grin twitched at the corners of his mouth.

"So one way or another," he said, "I'm going through with it. The committee be damned."

Chen made his way across campus, ducking in and around the darkness and shadows of the late hour. He didn't encounter anyone, for which he was profoundly grateful, and he scanned his pass card at the back door of Perkins Hall, letting himself into the darkened and silent building.

He reached the lab, entered, closed the door behind him, and switched on the lights. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of Joseph, Nina, and Jodi standing there, smiling at him.

"Jesus Christ!" he cried, grabbing his chest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Jodi asked. "We're going to assist you with your interdimensional jump."

Chen stared at them. "What makes you think I'm going to attempt an interdimensional jump?"

Joseph folded his arms and cocked his head. "Professor Chen, we've worked together for more than three years now. We can read you like a book."

"Is that so?" Chen replied, folding his own arms. "All right then. What am I thinking right now?"

"That you're pleased we've already charged up the prefire chambers," Joseph said, "since that will save a lot of time."

Chen frowned. "Lucky guess."

Nina, Joseph, and Jodi started moving about the lab, making the necessary preparations.

"You could get expelled for this," Chen said, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. "You know that, right?"

Jodi smiled at him. "Well surely there's a university in a parallel dimension that will have us," she said brightly.

An hour later, all of the equipment was powered up and humming. Professor Chen, with Nina's help, had fastened the oxygen helmet to his environmental suit. She pressed a few buttons near his right shoulder and he heard a faint crackle and whine, and then Nina's voice coming through the speakers near his ears.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine," he said, checking the range of motion in his arms and legs. "I suppose I should have peed first, though, huh?"

Nina laughed and Joseph crossed the lab to join them. "Just remember, if you use the men's room at an interdimensional 7-11, be sure to make a small purchase."

"I only hope they take debit cards," Chen replied.

Jodi swung open the dimensional displacement chamber door, made a few adjustments inside, and looked over. "We're ready," she said simply.

Nina and Joseph each grabbed an arm and helped Professor Chen cross the lab. He stepped up into the chamber and then clumsily turned around to face them.

"Thank you all," Chen said sincerely.

"Our pleasure," Joseph replied.

"See you soon," Jodi said.

"We've got the interdimensional tether set to maximum," Nina said. "If things go tits up, just give a tug and we'll get you back pronto."

"I'll be sure to take lots of pictures," Chen said. He nodded to his students and they all nodded back, and then Jodi swung the chamber door shut and sealed it.

There was only a small porthole window through which Chen could see the lab, but his students were all out of sight, tending to various controls. He suddenly felt very alone, and butterflies began to take flight in his stomach. His breathing sounded very loud in his helmet.

The chamber suddenly lit with a bright pink light, and a low, resonating hum. Chen could feel the vibration throughout his body, as though every nerve was spasming at once.

The hum continued to build in loudness and intensity, and the light brightened from bright pink to the purest white. Everything was happening just as it had in every experiment they'd performed. Professor Chen was counting down in his head to the moment when the dimensional portal would open and pull him through when he suddenly heard something under the loud thrumming of the chamber. It sounded like panicked shouting. Through the all-enveloping light, he thought he saw the outline of a hand pounding on the chamber door's porthole window

. . . and then blackness seized him and he passed out.

Professor Chen came very slowly back to consciousness, opening his eyes one at a time and taking slow, deep breaths. He stood with some difficulty, the world coming grudgingly into focus, and adrenaline shot into his veins. The scientist part of him told him to resist making a conclusion by what he was seeing, but the non-scientist part was ready to declare that his trip had been successful.

The ground he stood on radiated an alternating red and yellow glow. In some spots it looked like pockmarked rock; in others, like highly polished glass. He shuffled his feet clumsily and made a slow circle in his environmental suit. The horizon stretched endlessly in every direction under an inky, blue-black sky.

It suddenly occurred to him to activate the display on the inside of his facemask and check his vital signs and take readings on this new place. Numbers and graphs popped up in front of him and he ran through them quickly. His oxygen level and heart rate were both normal, as was his body temperature. The atmosphere outside the suit appeared to be somewhat hostile, but no more so than many deserts in his home dimension. There was definitely breathable air, but Chen thought it best to remain protected for the time being.

Another light popped up on the display, one that he didn't recognize, and it took him a few moments to realize that the light was coming from outside. He turned off the display and squinted toward the horizon, where the pinprick of light was growing steadily brighter. His heart began hammering in his chest at the thought of what he was about to encounter.

When it was close enough, he could see that the light was some sort of floating, glowing disk, and there was something that appeared to be riding it.

It was a creature of some sort. It looked not unlike a velociraptor, except it had silvery skin, a more flattened face, and longer arms. It rode the disk like a surfboard, and when it reached Chen, it dismounted and landed gracefully on the pulsing, glowing ground. The disk hovered a few feet away.

Professor Chen braced himself, completely unsure what to expect. But the last thing he ever imagined was that the creature would greet him in a clipped, British accent.

"Professor Chen!" it said enthusiastically, smiling and presenting rows of long, sharp teeth. "Welcome! How are you?"

"How . . . how am I?" Professor Chen said, completely flummoxed.

"Yes, my dear man," the creature said. "Are you well? Unharmed, I hope?"

"Uh," Chen said, unsure. "Yeah. Yes. I'm fine, thank you. Fine."

"Splendid!" the creature said.

"I do have a lot of questions," Chen said, gaining his footing.

"Ah," the creature said, its smile fading. "Yes. Well, you see, I'm a . . . oh, what's the word? A conduit. No, that's not right. A liaison? Hmm, that's closer."

"An ambassador?" Chen offered up.

The creature's smile reappeared. "Yes!" it cried. "Yes, that's precisely it, an ambassador. And as such, I'm not really authorized to answer questions. But I am here to take you to those who will."

"I see," Professor Chen nodded. "Well . . . is there something I can call you, at least? Do you have a name?"

"I do, but it's exceedingly difficult to pronounce," the creature said dismissively. "You may call me whatever you like."

"Will 'Raptor' do?" Chen asked, with a small smile.

"Certainly," the creature said.

"Fine then," Chen said. "Raptor."

"Now that we've gotten that out of the way, would you come with me, please?" Raptor said politely. "I know you must be eager to ask your questions, and we have a long way to go."

"Lead the way," Chen said.

Raptor nodded and turned toward the glowing disk. It suddenly split into two identical disks, and one slid under Raptor's feet while the other slid under Chen's. He felt himself being lifted a few feet off the ground, and then he was moving forward, held perfectly upright somehow, Raptor a little bit ahead of him and to his left.

They traveled for quite some time, the landscape remaining the same. Chen scanned restlessly for some sign of a building or a tree or a volcano, something he could use as a touchstone, but there was nothing to interrupt the glowing, flat surface. He was just starting to get impatient, his scientific curiosity beginning to wane, when he saw it.

Ahead of them yawned a massive canyon, one that made the famous one in Arizona look like a gopher hole. It had to be hundreds of miles across, and stretched to infinity in both directions. As he and Raptor approached the lip, Chen had a moment of panic when he was sure the disk carrying him would just plummet down to the bottom, but the disk kept skimming along as though the canyon wasn't even there.

Chen looked down. The canyon wasn't as deep as he'd expected, and it was crisscrossed with beams of light similar to the disks. They were being used as bridges by creatures just like Raptor, moving here and there, and down below them, at the very bottom of the canyon, were small pinkish-white creatures that Chen couldn't quite make out.

Chen opened his mouth to start hammering Raptor with questions, but remembered that he wasn't authorized to answer. Instead he stared hungrily at the alien landscape below him, memorizing everything he could so that when the time came to ask questions, he'd be ready.

Once past the canyon, they approached what Chen had been looking for all along—a city. The buildings were dome-shaped and many of them stretched so far to the sky that their tops were lost in the clouds. They were built of the same strange light as the disks and the walkways in the canyon.

There were many more creatures now, and as Raptor and Chen passed through toward the heart of the city, they stopped what they were doing to look. Chen began to feel uncomfortable, as though he'd been thrust under a great spotlight, but remembered that he was the first human to cross over into their dimension. It was only natural they'd be curious.

At last they arrived in front of a magnificent palace. The light that composed the many turrets and spires was golden instead of white, and Chen marveled at the pure beauty of it.

Raptor jumped down from his light disk and offered a steadying hand to Chen.

"We've arrived," Raptor said. "I've no doubt you have even more questions now than before."

"Quite a few," Chen said, drinking in the shimmering archway that led into the palace. He noticed that the creatures around the palace were carrying long, serrated spears and wore helmets and armor.

"Well, you'll soon have all your answers," Raptor said, but without a smile and without looking Chen in the eye. "This way, please."

They entered the palace over a shimmering drawbridge and passed into a cavernous main hall. At the far end of the hall sat seven of the creatures behind a table of golden light, seated on high-backed glowing chairs. The left and right walls were lined with more armed creatures standing at attention.

Raptor and Chen approached the creature at the center spot of the table.

"Professor Chen," Raptor said as an introduction, bowing his head. He then stepped backward and off to the side.

The creature was slightly larger than Raptor, and had none of the good humor of Raptor's face. He eyed Chen beadily, and had an air of impatience about him.

Several seconds passed. Chen was unsure who was supposed to speak first. He looked over at Raptor, but Raptor's eyes were downcast.

"If you have questions," the head creature grunted finally, "ask them now."

"Oh," Chen replied. "Yes. Uh, where am I?"

The head creature frowned at him. "If you have specific questions, ask them now," he said.

"My apologies." Chen thought it over. "What dimension is this?"

"We refer to it as Dimension 6971," the creature said.

I did it, Chen thought. I really did it. I crossed over to another dimension.

"And what species are you?"

"We are known as the Xor," the creature replied.

"Fascinating," Chen said. "Xor. And this city? What is this city called?"

The head creature finally smiled, revealing even longer, sharper teeth than Raptor's. He made a chuckling sound, as did the rest of the creatures seated at the table.

"Detroit," the head creature said simply.

Professor Chen felt himself smile. "But that's extraordinary! We have a Detroit where I come from! Tell me more about this Detroit."

"It's a city in Michigan," the head creature said. "Known primarily for the auto industry and a sub-par football team."

The surrounding creatures all made the chuckling sound again.

"I'm not sure I understand," Professor Chen said.

"The only reason you're standing here in our presence, Professor Chen," the head creature said, "is because we owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Gratitude?"

"Indeed. Your interdimensional device didn't send you anywhere. You're still on Earth," the creature said.

Chen felt his heart drop into his stomach and all the blood drain from his face.

"But it did open an interdimensional rift that allowed the Xor—all four billion of us—to travel to Earth," the creature said. "Dimension 6971."

"That's—" Professor Chen began thickly. He cleared his throat. "That's not possible. This planet looks nothing like Earth."

"This is not our first invasion," the head creature said. "We conquer and convert efficiently."

Professor Chen found himself speechless.

"All out of questions?" the head creature taunted. "Excellent. Now we come to the matter of what to do with you."

"Do with me?" Chen asked in a tight voice not at all like his own.

"Yes," the head creature said. "My thought was to set you to work under the lash down in Terror Chasm. You'd be reunited with your former assistants. Joseph, Nina, and Jodi are excellent slaves."

Chen fought a wave of nausea as he thought back to his trip over the canyon, to the pinkish-white creatures down at the bottom, and realized what they must be.

"But as I said, the Xor owe you a debt, and Terror Chasm is a fate worse than death," the creature continued. "So I've decided to introduce you to my family."

"Your family?" Chen asked.

"Oh yes," the creature said. His eyes narrowed and he bared all of his teeth in a sick parody of a grin. "I have many young that need to be fed. And you should make a tasty snack."

# V.

#  MAYBE GOD LEFT US OUT OF THE PLANS HE MADE

Kenny was trying to pay attention to what the doctor was saying, but the doctor had a small scar on his chin shaped like a backwards comma, and Kenny was fixated on it. He knew it was an odd thing, a bizarre thing to focus on, but it was an odd time, a bizarre time, and not a whole lot made sense any more.

They were standing outside the hospital room. It was late, and only every third light in the hallway was lit. The shadows made Kenny feel uncomfortable.

"It could be any time now," the doctor was saying in his low, concerned, sad doctor voice. Kenny knew what the doctor was trying to do, but his mother was only one patient. The doctor was probably thinking about his other patients, the ones he could save and make well, and Kenny's mother was not among them.

"Okay," Kenny heard himself say. It wasn't okay, but that didn't seem to matter now.

The doctor nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, and went back about his doctor business.

Kenny checked his phone. It seemed as good a way as any to delay facing what he was about to face. There was a new email from McConnell Funeral Home, confirming his choice of coffin and floral arrangements. The undertaker had spoken to him in a low, concerned, sad undertaker voice. So many people were speaking to him that way now. Almost like they were afraid his mother would overhear that she was dying.

Another new email from Eternity Monuments showed his purchase of his mother's headstone and wanted verification of the details. He scrolled down.

MAUREEN GRADY

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

BORN 9/9/1955

DIED X/X/XXXX

So Eternity Monuments was waiting to see when she was going to die. That was the only information they needed and then they could go ahead and chisel away. That's all she was to them. Just a date on a stone. As least the sales guy at Eternity Monuments spoke in a normal voice. He'd been positively chipper.

He tucked his phone back in his pocket. There was only so long he could put this off.

Kenny peered into the room. The only light on was the one above his mother's bed. A bunch of machines beeped and sighed and hummed softly, filling her with things and drawing things out of her, like she was a pool that needed draining.

Kenny crossed to the far side of the bed where an empty chair waited. He sat and was able to see his mother up close for the first time since the curable crossed over to the terminal. The skin on her face sagged under her eyes and over her cheeks and under her chin, as though her skull had shrunk and everything on the outside of it was loose. There were small blue veins crisscrossing her eyelids. A clear tube was taped to her lips, filling her struggling lungs every few seconds.

He thought about the cancer inside her, consuming her a small piece at a time. The cancer was probably thrilled that her body was no longer fighting back. It made things easier.

Kenny took his mother's hand in his. It was smooth and soft, but cold, and sat limply in his grip. In his mind's eye, he saw her as she had been when he was small, so full of light, so ready to laugh at the silliest things, so unlined and without burdens or cares. He superimposed that mother over this one, and smiled a small, sad smile.

"Hi Mom," he said in a choked voice. "I know you can't hear me, but I wanted you to know I was here."

Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of Maureen's mind, something stirred. It was swimming under fathoms of drugs and painkillers, an ocean that sat between her and consciousness. But it was there.

And it heard something.

"Hi Mom." It was Kenny. Her baby boy. Her beloved Kenny. "I know you can't hear me, but I wanted you to know I was here."

Kenny! she cried. Kenny! Yes, I hear you! I can hear you!

It was the first time in his entire life he'd had trouble talking to his mother. He simply didn't know what to say. What did you say to the woman who had known you since the moment you'd taken your first breath when you knew she was shortly to take her last?

An old man in a hospital gown shuffled past the door and looked inside. He seemed to understand everything with a glance, and in a sweetly tender voice said, "Try remembering the good times." He nodded and moved along.

Kenny smiled. There were plenty of good times to remember, and maybe that was the best way to spend whatever time remained.

"How about Christmas at Clarity Lake?"

Maureen's consciousness twitched and squirmed, desperate to push through the unyielding depths that kept her from her son.

Yes! she said. You were five. We stayed at the cabin. Your Auntie Joan drove up early Christmas Eve to hide your presents, did you know that? And you told your father and me that Santa would probably leave a lot of ash in the fireplace, so after you went to bed, your father knocked around in the chimney with a poker to make sure the ash would be there. He got a face full of soot! He was so mad!

"I had so much fun that week," Kenny said thoughtfully, and he squeezed his mother's unresponsive hand without thinking about it. "I was so happy. We were so happy."

He shifted in the chair, maintaining his hold on her unresponsive hand.

"And then there was the time," he said, grinning, pink creeping out of his collar and coloring his cheeks, "that you caught me being . . . intimate with Jenny Carson after I sneaked her into my bedroom." He shook his head, unable to believe he was bringing this up with his mother, despite the fact that she couldn't hear him.

But she heard him clearly.

Oh yes, she said. Oh yes. How could I forget that? I had to punish you, but here's something I never told you—my own mother caught me and your father being . . . intimate . . . after I snuck him into my bedroom when I was the same age you were.

As deep down as she was, she felt a sharp pang of regret.

I should have shared that with you. Why did I never share that with you? I'd give anything to be able to tell you that right now.

"I remember you didn't let me talk to Jenny for a month." Kenny laughed. "Pretty brutal punishment."

You think you were punished? she said. You should have been on the receiving end of one of your grandmother's cupped hands to the ear. I was cross-eyed for a month.

Kenny's eyes became thoughtful, unfocused, as though he was looking at a hole in time and space and seeing his memories play out on a movie screen.

"Your 30th wedding anniversary party . . ." he said, and the tears that he'd fought so hard against began to well.

Maureen could hear the catch in her son's throat and she fought, thrashed, strained with all her might to rise through the haze that kept her from waking, but it would not yield.

She settled for sharing the memory with Kenny. That was the most magical evening I've ever had in my entire life, she said. And that's saying something. When they played our wedding song and your father took me out on the dance floor, and then you came out and danced with your sister . . . it was a perfect moment. A shining, perfect moment.

She felt another sharp pang.

And then we lost them both. In one night, we lost them both. And then it was just you and me.

Kenny had been lost in the same thoughts as his mother, though he had no way of knowing it, and said quietly, "And then it was just you and me."

The tears tracked down his face and fell on the hospital blanket. So many strange, funny, long-forgotten memories were coming back to him, unbidden, and he didn't know what to do with any of them.

"Then, of course, there was my driver's test . . ." he said.

You wanted me to go with you because you were afraid your father would make you too nervous, Maureen recalled fondly. You were probably right.

"I was so bad," Kenny chuckled. "I screwed everything up so bad. The three-point turn. The parallel parking. To this day I still can't figure out why that woman passed me."

I know exactly why she passed you, Maureen said. She thought you were cute. I bet you could have gotten a date out of it as well. But you've never appreciated how good-looking you are and how many dates you could have had.

"Do you remember Tony Cerino?" he asked his mother out of nowhere.

Your best friend when we lived on Hillswood Road? Of course I remember Tony.

"He thought you were hot," Kenny said, and coughed out a watery laugh through his tears. "When we were twelve. He thought you were hot."

What, only when you two were twelve? Was I suddenly not hot when Tony turned thirteen?

"I kicked his ass," Kenny said. "Heh. I told him to shut his damn mouth about my mother."

That must have been the night you came home with your knuckles all bruised and you didn't want to talk about it.

"Tony Cerino," Kenny said, shaking his head. "Shit."

Kenny kept his one-sided conversation going well into the small hours of the morning. He would be crying bitter tears one moment and laughing heartily the next as he regaled his mother with memories in which she figured prominently and with some that he'd kept closely guarded secrets until the moment he spoke them.

It was just as dawn began creeping over the horizon, though she had no way of knowing what time it was, that Maureen sensed a change. She found that she could suddenly hear things she hadn't before. She could hear Kenny's breathing. She could hear his heart beating, could hear his tears as they dropped onto the bed. Icy fear gripped her.

What's happening?

Whatever she was, wherever she was, she felt something tug at her, pull her, moving her down, away, into the nothingness below.

NOOOOOOOOOO! she shrieked, and she resisted, she squirmed, she fought for all she was worth. She was a fish in a net, frantically trying to escape the eager fisherman and return to the cool, clear water. With a mighty effort she managed to slip free, but she knew that she'd be pulled back down again, and this time she wouldn't be able to resist.

No, you don't understand, I can't leave him, she jabbered. I can't leave him, he needs me, he's my beautiful baby boy and he needs me, I'll never hear his voice again, I'll never be near him again, please, PLEASE!

She found herself once again under that immense, dark barrier. With every ounce of strength left, with every atom, every molecule, she pushed herself up through it. As she rose up, up, up she felt all the pain of her ravaged body come crashing back in. She was decaying, she was rotting from the inside, and she was so desperately weak. But if she was leaving forever, she could at least do this one last thing . . .

Kenny wept. He didn't think there could possibly be any more tears, but there were, an endless supply, and the pain in his heart came up like slag.

Then his mother squeezed his hand.

He looked up at her, wide-eyed. "Mom?" he cried. "Mom? Can you hear me? Mom, I love you. I love you, Mom. I love you."

I love you too, she said. She was spiraling back down, back below the pain of consciousness, back under the cloud of medications, and the world began to grow dim around the edges.

She reached the place she'd been before, where she'd last heard Kenny's voice, and once again felt that irresistible pull, dragging her down into darkness, into oblivion, into the eternity of nothingness. This time she did not resist. And it was bliss.

I love you too was her last thought before she ceased to be.

# VI.

#  DEFENDING THE WALL

Thrace ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His feet kicked up water and mud from the many puddles that dotted his path, and his breath heaved in and out of his lungs as he chanced quick, terrified looks over his shoulder. He could see figures emerging from the mist crawling off the lake. They were coming.

He finally reached the drawbridge and dashed over it, skidding to a halt just inside the archway that led to the castle beyond. Putting both hands on the iron bars of the nearby crank, he turned it with all his might, and the iron gate that protected the castle's main entrance came down slowly, its bottom teeth finally coming to rest in the holes below it.

Thrace took a few moments to try and get his breath back, then scampered up a narrow stone staircase that took him to the front battlements, just above the main gate. He first peered over the side that overlooked the castle itself, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. Thrace swallowed hard. It was up to him, then.

He poked the top of his head over the front parapet and saw them advancing. It was a small party—no more than thirty or forty—but even if it had only been two or three, he was still outnumbered. And unarmed.

"Thrace!" a distant voice called. They were close.

"Who goes?" Thrace cried, trying and failing to keep his voice low and even.

"You know who goes!" the voice called back. "Open the gate!"

"Never!" Thrace replied. "I'll be dust and bone on this wall before I ever open that gate!"

He could hear them muttering among themselves. Thrace closed his eyes and willed his heart to stop beating so painfully in his chest. If he only had a crossbow, a bunch of stones to toss, anything.

After a few moments of pregnant silence, a new voice called up to him.

"Thrace?"

It was a woman's voice, sweet and lyrical. Why in the world had they brought a woman with them as part of a raiding party?

"You forgot something," the woman's voice said.

Thrace slowly hoisted himself out of his crouch and looked over the wall, ready to jump right back if he found himself the target of any ranged weapons.

He spotted the woman at the base of the wall. Her hair was long and blonde and her eyes, peering up at him, were a brilliant blue.

One of her hands was held up to him, and in it was a small orange bottle.

"Your meds," the woman said, shaking the bottle with a soft rattle. "You forgot your meds this morning."

Thrace looked at the rest of the faces staring up at him. They all looked somehow familiar. He felt his fear ebbing away. Was the woman an enchantress? Had she somehow cast a spell on him?

"Come on, Thrace!" a man near the gate called up to him. "Get down here and take your meds! The rest of us want to tour the castle too!"

# VII.

#  A WEEK BACK

First voice memo:

Testing. Testing. Are you hearing me? Are you recording me? I should have worked with voice memos sooner. I've only had the phone for three years. Why would I ever bother using voice memos? Okay, play that back.

Next voice memo:

Okay, I need you to start recording whenever you hear me talking. Got it? Good. Here we go.

To whoever may find this, I want to tell my story. But before I start, I want to make sure to tell my mother, Patricia Smart, and my sister, Ashley Smart, both of Bellmoral, Oregon, that I love them more than I can ever say.

My name is Alan Smart. I'm twenty-two years old, and I've done a very stupid thing.

I'm a free solo climber. If you don't know what that is, it means I climb mountains and cliffs with just my bare hands, no gear at all. I've climbed some of the toughest faces all over the U.S., Europe, China, Australia. I've climbed them all.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine told me about a place called Faitasiga Rock, a tiny island in the Tongan Archipelago. He said it was the ultimate free solo climbing experience, and if I really wanted to challenge myself, I should go there. I decided I had to check it out.

I made it to Tonga with no problems, but once there, I couldn't get anyone to talk to me about Faitasiga Rock. In fact, just bringing it up scared off most of the locals I talked to. Then finally I got a sailor, an old guy named Ponn who took people out on sunset cruises, to tell me about it.

Ponn told me that the older natives believe Faitasiga Rock is haunted. The younger ones are a little more sensible, but they still consider it extremely unlucky. No one ever goes near it.

Ponn said that if the Tongans found out he'd been here, they'd think he was tainted, and would never trust him again. So if I wanted to go to Faitasiga Rock, I was on my own.

So I stole a boat. A really nice speedboat that I fully intended to return once I was done with it. So technically, I borrowed it. Though I'm not sure the owner would have ever wanted it back if he'd known where I took it.

I'll never forget seeing Faitasiga Rock for the first time.

A blazing pink dawn had just broken over the horizon and I spotted it, a tiny black speck in the distance, jutting up from the water's surface like a giant middle finger. I angled toward it and it grew and grew, impossibly tall, a stone monolith in the middle of the Pacific.

When I was close enough and could see it properly, I couldn't breathe. There was a small, fingernail-shaped stretch of beach, a few lone palm trees swaying in the wind, and the smoothest, flattest rock face I'd ever seen, climbing straight up, thousands of feet of it, just waiting to be conquered.

I moored the boat at the edge of the beach and climbed out, trying to take in the enormity of the rock in front of me. Even with my head tilted all the way back, I couldn't see the top of the thing. And there were no handholds or fissures that I could see. I couldn't wait to get started.

It took me most of the morning just to find anything I could use to get off the sand. Turned out there was a small seam on the face toward the end of the beach that you'd completely miss unless you were really looking for it. And I really was. So I started my ascent.

It was hard. Oh man, was it hard. But every time I thought I'd reached a spot where I simply couldn't continue, I'd find a tiny crack or a little outcropping and use it to keep going. But it was hard.

I was probably 500 feet up when I came to a completely empty patch. I mean, there was nothing. The rock face was as smooth as a baby's ass and as blank as a new canvas. I must have hung there for half an hour, scouring for something to grab, something to use, but my luck had run out. There was simply no way to keep going. On that route, anyway.

I took a look over my shoulder and saw an amazing scene. The sky was a cloudless periwinkle blue. The sun sparkled off the ocean's surface and lit the white sand so brightly I could hardly stand to look at it. Even the boat, sitting crookedly at the spot where the water met the sand, looked like it had been cut out of a magazine and pasted there. At that moment, I hadn't decided whether or not I was going to attempt the climb at another spot, so if I was going to capture the beauty of that moment, I needed to take a selfie.

I lined up the perfect shot, smiled my biggest smile . . . and fell.

It was terror. Terror the likes of which I've never known. I'd just barely registered that I was no longer hanging on the rock, no longer clinging to anything at all and that the cliff face was speeding past me and the salt air whipping past me when I was enveloped in a rush of long leaves. I'd hit one of the palm trees, which had slowed me down a bit, but I still hit the sand hard.

I remember when I first arrived here, I was surprised at how smooth the sand was. Usually you see debris, blowdown, shells, all sorts of stuff. But there was none of that. There was only a single stone, about the size of your fist, and I only noticed it because that was the only thing that broke up the perfect sandscape. One single stone. And I managed to land on it. I'm fairly certain that's what broke my back.

I suppose, if I'm accentuating the positive, at least I'm not in any pain. I can't feel anything below my shoulders. I also can't move my head, so I can't see if anything's broken or mangled. All I can see is this one specific patch of sky above me. Could be worse. I could have landed face down.

Fortunately, my phone landed in the sand somewhere near me. Like I said, I can't turn my head to look, but it's close enough to hear my voice, so at least there's that.

And . . . that's my story. Which I suppose is all pretty moot unless someone finds my phone someday. And that's pretty unlikely, given everyone's attitude toward this place. But I guess in the interest of battery conservation, I'll wrap up for now. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Well, my phone can't connect to anyone or anything, so I can't get a weather forecast, but I don't need my app to know there's a thunderstorm coming. I can hear the distant rumble, and out of my peripheral vision I can see the flashes of lightning. This should be interesting. At least I'll have something to wet my whistle, which at this point, is pretty fucking dry. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Well that was fun.

The first few drops did, indeed, wet my whistle, and then the next million or so very nearly drowned me.

My mouth filled too fast, and since I can't turn my head, I spit the rainwater out but it just filled right back up again. When I closed my mouth, the rain went right up my nose. I feel like I've been waterboarded. Let's not do that again anytime soon, okay?

Oh, by the way, it may be obvious, but my phone survived that storm. I really must let the HardCase company know that they make a quality product. Maybe I'll write a review. If I ever get out of here.

Right, yes, speaking of my phone, it now has 49 percent battery life remaining. Less than half. Don't know what I'm going to do when there's no one and nothing left to talk to. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Where am I? Oh . . . right. I'm paralyzed on a beach. That's why I can't move anything. I think I've got a really bad sunburn. And I'm so thirsty. Didn't it rain not too long ago? I can't see if any storm clouds are on the horizon. I've only got this little patch of blue sky. There's a small white cloud moving from left to right across my field of vision. It looks a little like a turtle. I guess I'll watch that for a while.

Oh, and for anyone keeping score at home, there's 23 percent power remaining. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Where's the . . . ? I thought . . . I heard my dad calling me. I thought it was time to get up for school. But Dad's dead. Right? Dad's dead?

It was . . . I was just thinking of Thanksgiving. I was back home with Mom and Ashley and it . . . it was Thanksgiving morning. I could smell the turkey and Mom's fresh-baked rolls cooking in the oven. I was . . . hugging Ashley tight. My arms still worked and I felt her wrapped tight around my neck. I was whole and . . . happy.

I don't want to die here. I don't want to die. But . . . who's going to save me?

What's the . . . ? I'm supposed to . . . say something. Right? Oh. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Dad's not . . . Dad's not dead. Stupid. Mom . . . used to say . . . "Your father's dead to me." He kept . . . coming home with that stuff, that stuff that strippers put on. What's . . . what's the word? Glitter. Body glitter. Dad . . . kept coming home . . . with body glitter on his work clothes. He wound up . . . calling it . . . "divorce dust." Heh. Hee hee hee. Voice end memo. No. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Something . . . moving. On the sand. Between me and the ocean. Can't . . . see it properly. What is that?

Eh. Probably . . . losing my shit. When . . . did I eat last? Thanksgiving? That right?

End. End the thing. The voice memo. End voice memo.

Next voice memo:

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God help me please! No! No! No! There's—there's—there's a crab! A giant fucking crab! There's a crab on my chest! I can't shake him off! I can't shake him off! Get it off me! Get it the fuck off me!

Aaagh! It's clawing me! It's clawing my fucking face! Help me! Please! Somebody help meeeeeeeee! Aaaaaahhhh!

End of voice memos.

# VIII.

#  JAIL BRAKE

It had been a perfectly calm, ordinary day at Kirkbride Minimum Security Prison. Stan Kemske, an average guy with an above-average aversion to paying taxes, was meeting with his lawyer, Fred.

"Well?" Stan had started off.

Fred sighed. "I brought your request to the judge. He denied it."

Stan's cheeks immediately flushed, but his voice remained steady. "Why?"

"Try and see it from his point of view, okay?" Fred said. His voice had a weariness to it that told of many similar discussions. "If he lets you out, he's gonna have a stack of papers eight miles high with requests from everyone else in here."

"Good!" Stan shouted. The guards outside the room looked over, so he lowered his voice. "Good. He should have a request from every man and woman in every prison from here to Azerbaijan. It's inhumane, Fred."

Fred leaned in. "Look, I agree with you, okay? I do. But what do you want them to do? Just let all the murderers and rapists out on the street?"

Stan folded his hands on the table between them and closed his eyes. "If there were a fire here, they would evacuate the prisoners. They wouldn't let them stay here and die like rats in cages."

"But they would put them in another prison," Fred said. "They wouldn't just let them go."

"These are extenuating circumstances, Fred," Stan said patiently. "We are all going to die in here. The world is ending, for Christ's sake."

"I know the world is ending, goddammit," Fred said irritably. "We're all going to die. What difference does it make where we are when it happens?"

The two men considered each other for a moment.

"Fred, I don't care what we have to do or what kind of paperwork we have to file. You've got to get me out."

Fred shook his head slowly. "Stan. Listen to me very carefully. It doesn't matter what you say or what you do. They are not letting you out of here." He let his words sink in for a minute, then stood and started gathering up some paperwork. Stan sat in his chair, stone-faced.

As Fred walked toward the door, he turned and said, "Look, don't feel bad, okay? They're not letting the animals out of the zoo either."

That's when all hell broke loose.

"Get me the warden!" Stan screamed. Fred squirmed, trying to loosen Stan's grip around his throat to gasp some air, and the blade at his neck pierced the skin. Crimson tracks rolled down to his shirt collar.

The sight of blood seemed to change the guards' minds. One grabbed the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.

"Sully, get the warden down to C-133 right away. We got a hostage situation."

The other guard took a step toward the cell door, palms up in surrender. "Okay, Kemske, okay. We called the warden, he's coming, okay? Just relax."

Stan held tight to Fred, whose face was turning a startling shade of purple as oxygen wheezed in and out. "You should have tried harder, Fred," Stan said distractedly. "I didn't want it to happen this way. You should have tried harder."

After a few tense minutes, the warden walked calmly into the room outside the visitors' cell. He looked the situation over, took a deep breath, and sighed. In his right hand he held a document.

"Mr. Kemske? You wanted to see me?" the warden said quietly.

"Yes. I wanted to see you, warden. I didn't want to have to do this. I'm not a violent man by nature, but I'll do what I have to to get out of here. Now let me out, or I'll kill him."

The warden smiled—a small, tight smile without any humor whatsoever. As though it were just an ordinary business meeting, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses. He brought the document he'd been holding up to eye level.

"Funny you should mention that. I've just received an official notice from the governor's office," the warden said. "All non-violent criminal offenders are to be released from incarceration immediately."

A look of stupefied joy spread across Stan's face. He dropped the shiv and let go of Fred, who gave him a quick, angry shove and then ran, sweaty and crimson-faced, for the cell door. One of the guards unlocked it and Fred ran through. The guard locked it again quickly.

"My e-mails?" Stan said, still in disbelief.

The warden nodded. "So it would seem. Apparently the governor hadn't considered the plight of the prisoners in his jurisdiction until you made him aware of it. I expect he's been somewhat distracted, as have we all, what with the end times upon us."

From the hallway beyond the visitors' area came an echoing whoop of joy, followed by another and then dozens more as the news spread around the prison. A chorus of shouting, singing, and laughter bounced off the cinderblock walls.

"Yes!" Stan shouted, swept up in the moment. "I did it!"

"Yes," the warden said, folding his arms. "You certainly did."

Past the doorway walked a figure clad in an orange jumpsuit, the first of the prisoners headed to processing before release. The man turned to look in the room and saw Stan sitting there. His face lit up.

"Hey!" he shouted and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. "We're out! We're all out! Thanks, man!"

Stan gave a big thumbs-up of his own and the man moved along. He stood and walked toward the locked cell door where the warden and two guards stood on the other side.

"Well?" Stan said.

"Well what?" the warden replied.

"I'd like for one of them to unlock the door," Stan said, nodding his head at the guards. "It's time for me to go."

The warden sized him up. "You're not going anywhere."

"What? What are you talking about?"

The warden held up the letter. "This specifically says 'non-violent criminal offenders.'"

Stan blinked. "So? Last time I checked, tax evasion qualified as non-violent."

"Ah. True," the warden said. "But assault with a deadly weapon does not."

All of the blood drained from Stan's face. "Assault—"

"You had poor Fred in quite the stranglehold, too," the warden continued. "Might even call that kidnapping with intent to murder. Either way, you have several witnesses who heard you threaten to kill him. So I'm afraid . . . you're not going anywhere."

The warden turned and headed toward the outer door, where a long line of orange jumpsuits had formed. The guards fell in step with him.

"But," Stan said, his voice barely a whisper. "But I was just . . . I was just trying . . ."

The guard slammed the outer door shut with a hollow clang, and bolts shifted loudly as he locked it.

# IX.

#  BRAINS AND GUTS

Romeo paced restlessly.

He knew they needed to escape, and soon. And now he had an idea about how they were supposed to do so.

He approached the bars and pressed his face against the cold metal. "Lima?" he whispered. "Are you there?"

After a few seconds, the whispered reply came back. "I'm here."

He could picture her in his mind's eye, her face pressed against her own bars, her lovely brown eyes searching, watching, making sure they weren't overheard.

"I think it has to be tonight," Romeo whispered.

"What?" she hissed. "Tonight? Romeo, that's crazy. We don't have a plan. We don't have anyplace to go."

"New York," he replied instantly, as though he had been anticipating her protests. "To start. I have family there. They'll help us."

"Why didn't you mention your family in New York before now?"

"It's . . . a long story. Look, they're not going to like the idea of taking us in, especially now, with what they've done to us, but they're still family, and they'll help us."

"Okay," Lima whispered, but she didn't sound convinced. "That takes care of where we're going. Now how do we get out of here?"

"Joanne," Romeo said simply.

"Joanne?" Lima replied. "The lab tech?"

"Yeah," Romeo said. "I've been talking to her a lot lately on the way to and from the sessions. She's sympathetic. I think if we ask, she might help us."

"She's not going to help us. Do you have any idea how much trouble she'd be in with Doctor White if she did? After all the work he's put in to enhance us?"

"She'll help us," Romeo said confidently. "I know she'll help us. She's due in to take our vitals at two. I'm going to ask her then."

"Why the rush, all of a sudden?" Lima asked. "Why do we have to escape tonight?"

Romeo paused.

"Romeo?"

He sighed deeply. "I overheard Joanne talking to Doctor White yesterday," he said heavily. "White still has a ways to go with me, with enhancing my intellect, but he's reached the end with you."

"And what does that mean?" Lima asked anxiously. "'Reached the end'?"

"It means his next step will be cutting your head open to see what's what."

Romeo heard Lima's sharp intake of breath.

"And I have no idea when he might be planning to do that, but the sooner we get out of here, the better," Romeo said. "So tonight."

"All right," Lima said shakily. "Let's try it."

An hour later, Joanne held up her keycard and beeped her way into the holding area. She carried a clipboard and wore a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her shoulders. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail.

"So," she said brightly from the other side of the bars. "How are my two favorite subjects tonight?"

"That's all we are to you?" spat Lima. "Subjects?"

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Lima," Joanne said awkwardly. "I—"

"Lima's just a little on edge," Romeo said quickly. "How are you, Joanne?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Joanne said. "A little tired. These overnight shifts are tough."

"Yeah, I can imagine," Romeo said. "Still, at least you have the place pretty much to yourself, right? Not like during the day."

"Oh no, this place is a zoo during the day," Joanne laughed. "I much prefer the night shift."

"Fewer guards then?" Romeo asked. "Less security?"

"Well," Joanne said, her smile faltering. "Yeah."

"I need to ask you a favor, Joanne," Romeo said, pressing his face once again against the bars. He paused, and then glanced sideways. "We need to ask you a favor."

"Okay."

"We need you to help us break out of here," Romeo said baldly. "Tonight."

"Oh," Joanne said, hesitant. "No, I'm sorry, I can't—"

"Yes you can," Romeo cut across her. "You know what's next for Lima if Doctor White has his way. And then how long before he takes a bone saw to my skull to see what his enhancements have done?"

Joanne stared at Romeo, then at Lima.

"Look around you!" Romeo hissed, gesturing to empty cells all around them that lined the outside wall of the lab. "How many have already died at his hands?"

"Doctor White is trying to make life better for everyone," Joanne recited. "It requires certain sacrifices—"

"There you go, Romeo," Lima piped up. "We've been upgraded from subjects to sacrifices."

"Sacrifices," Romeo echoed. He nodded his head toward the empty cell next to his. "Sierra was a sacrifice. Victor was a sacrifice. Charlie. Juliett. How many more, Joanne?"

Joanne stared at the floor.

"How many more?" Romeo shouted, pounding the bars. He could see the guard outside the lab turn his head slightly toward the sound, listen for a moment, and then return to position.

Romeo dropped his voice low again. "Please. You've got to help us get out of here."

"I—" she began, and then cut off. After a long few moments, her eyes still downcast, she nodded her head.

"You will?" Romeo said, unable to believe it.

"Yes," Joanne said. "Okay. But if we get caught . . ."

"We won't," Lima piped up. "We won't. Joanne, thank you."

"Okay," Joanne said, looking around. "Let me think about this for a second."

She crossed the lab and peered out into the hallway beyond. Most of the lights were out because of the late hour, and shadows crossed the ceiling and walls. The lone guard stood at his post.

Joanne crossed back to the cells, digging out a key ring from her lab coat pocket. She unlocked Lima's cell and then Romeo's, swinging the doors wide. They both stepped out hesitantly, as though expecting the doors to slam shut again.

"Here's the plan," she whispered to the two of them. "I'll get rid of the guard, and then I'll key you to the cafeteria and into the kitchens. There's a window they always leave open because it gets so hot in there. The window leads directly out to the grounds. From there, you're on your own."

Romeo and Lima nodded enthusiastically. Joanne pulled out her cell phone and smiled. "Be right back."

She ran out into the hallway, her eyes fixed on the glowing screen in front of her.

"Carl!" she cried to the guard, running up to him. "Carl!"

"What?" asked the guard.

"I just got a text about a shooter in the building!"

"What?" said Carl. "Where?"

"East wing!" Joanne cried, working up some sudden fake tears for effect.

"Find cover!" Carl commanded, already sprinting in the opposite direction.

As soon as he was gone, Joanne used her key card to reopen the lab door and gestured for Romeo and Lima to come out and join her. They did, and Joanne led the way down the dimly lit corridor.

They turned left, and Joanne used her key card to open the door in front of them. She checked that the coast was clear and gestured them forward. The trio turned another corner and were within sight of the cafeteria when a loud klaxon split the silence of the hallway and bright lights began flashing.

"They know something's wrong!" Joanne shouted over the din. "Come on! Hurry!"

They dashed through the empty cafeteria and flew through a pair of double doors and into the kitchen. Joanne pointed to a small window just above the stainless steel sinks. The window was open, but small, and set very high in the wall.

"Here!" Joanne cried, lacing her fingers together in a cradle. The alarm continued to wail and shouted voices were approaching.

Joanne boosted Lima up first. She scrabbled to catch hold of the sill, but was able to pull herself up and out. Then she boosted Romeo, who pressed his stomach to the ground outside and wriggled through the opening.

Lima and Romeo both turned to Joanne. "Thank you!" they said together.

"Go!" Joanne shouted.

Romeo and Lima took off running across the dewy grass, steering clear of the pools of light cast by the streetlights that circled the main parking lot. They ran across a main access road and into a darkened copse of trees, and both paused, breathless, to look at one another and smile.

"We did it," Lima said.

"We did it!" Romeo repeated, a huge smile on his face.

"So," Lima said. "Which way is New York?"

"North," Romeo said simply. "Come on, let's see if we can hitch a ride."

They emerged from the trees right out onto a darkened stretch of highway. They didn't even see the eighteen-wheeler bearing down on them and they were crushed in an instant under its wheels.

The driver never even slowed.

They were only lab rats, after all.

# X.

#  STONE'S THROW

Every night. The beautiful man with the torn-out eyes stared at her every night.

It was partially her fault for being such a creature of habit. The subway cars were long and not all that crowded, so she could sit wherever she pleased. But she always chose the same seat, right across from the ancient, yellowing poster from the modeling school, with the beautiful man's eyes long since ripped away by street punks with switchblades and nothing better to do with them.

The car rattled and clanked its way along, and the familiar stops came crackling out of the rusty speakers in the ceiling. Sanford. Reighton Hills. Ordway.

She pulled her purse in closer to her body and closed her eyes for a moment. Which was perfect timing, because the golden butterflies were finally home from school and they desperately wanted her to play the tuba for them. She was so sorry to tell them that she left her tuba in her soapbox derby racer last summer, but she'd be happy to recite the poem she wrote for parents' day when she was in fifth grade. None of it mattered, she was late for the parade, and parades only came through Pittsburgh in May. Was it May? No, it must have been early January because the frosting wasn't sweet enough . . .

The jolt of the subway car stopping woke her with a terrible start, and as she looked around, a hot drop of fear spread from her stomach to her fingertips. How long had she been asleep? She had no sense of time or distance.

The car was completely empty. She could see the vague outline of an unfamiliar subway stop through the grime-covered windows.

A terrible panic swept over her. This wasn't her stop. She'd never slept past her stop before.

"Where am I?" she asked in a strangled whisper. The beautiful no-eyed man said nothing.

She rose unsteadily and peeked her head out of the car. The subway station was unnaturally clean and there wasn't a soul in sight. There were also no signs to tell her where she was, nor any maps to tell her how to get back.

Then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the figure of a young man at the furthest end of the platform. He was hunched over his phone and his face glowed white-blue from the screen's light.

She reached into her pocket and grabbed her keys, jamming the longest and sharpest one between her fingers. He was too far away to tell if he looked like trouble or not, but if he decided to give her a hard time in this place, he was going to get the business end of a hard key punch.

"Excuse me!" she called, making her way toward him. He made no sign of hearing her. As she got close, she saw he had earbuds tucked deep into his ears. She released her keys back into her pocket and waved her arms in a wide arc. "Hello? Excuse me. Hello?"

The young man noticed her and tugged on the cord to pull his headphones out.

"Look, I'm sorry to bother you, but . . ." Her words trailed off. She knew this young man. His face was intensely familiar. Where did she know him from?

It came to her in a rush. It was the no-eyed man from the poster, but with both eyes intact and in the flesh. What in the world were the odds that it would be him on a deserted platform in the middle of God-knew-where?

She regained her composure. ". . . but . . . I was wondering if you could tell me where we are." The young man's brow furrowed in confusion, and then he looked around as though he was just noticing the subway platform.

"Oh. Um, I don't think I'm supposed to tell you," he said in a low voice.

"Not . . . not supposed to tell me?" she repeated, bewildered. "Why not?"

"Because of that," he said, pointing back the way she'd come. She looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing but the stopped subway car and the abandoned platform.

She turned back to him with the words "Because of what?" on her lips, but the young man was gone. Vanished.

A wave of unreality washed over her. She looked back at the platform. Because of that, he'd said. She strode purposefully back toward the car she'd emerged from, determined to figure out what he'd been talking about.

She reached the spot just outside the open doors of her car and looked around. There was nothing to see. No hint of where she was or what was happening. Her chest constricted and she felt hot tears of frustration welling up in her eyes.

Then she heard it. A soft, low note coming from back inside the subway car. She turned and stepped cautiously toward it.

On the seat where she'd been sitting was a small golden butterfly, and it was playing her tuba.

# XI.

#  LITTLE RICKY'S NIGHT OUT

In the gleaming white plaza just outside Throb, the most popular strip club on Xazlorix III, teleporters crackled with energy as species from across the galaxy beamed in for an evening's entertainment.

Out of one of the teleporters stepped Zac, a good-looking young man who was a few days away from tying the knot. From the next teleporter down came Dylan, Zac's best friend and shortly-to-be best man.

"Well? Are you excited?" asked Dylan.

Zac pulled his gaze down from the stars beyond the clear dome above and looked up at the pulsing lights and holographic ani-women streaming across Throb's marquee.

"I can't believe it," he said. "This place is legendary."

"Hell, man, they don't call Xazlorix III the Planet of Decadence for nothing," Dylan replied gleefully. "Besides, how could I do anything less for my boy's bachelor party?"

Zac smiled. He was looking forward to the greatest night of his unmarried life.

"Well?" Dylan asked, rubbing his hands together. "What are we waiting for?"

The two of them moved toward the club, but after only a few feet, a woman's voice called across the plaza.

"Zac?" cried the voice. "Zac!"

Zac and Dylan turned to see Zac's mother, Linda, emerging from one of the teleporters with Zac's much younger brother, Ricky, on her hip.

"Oh God," Zac whispered.

His mother ran over to them.

"Hello, Dylan," she said distractedly.

"Mom," said Zac, horrified. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, honey, I know it's your bachelor party, but I need you to take Ricky for me."

"What?"

Linda handed the toddler over before Zac could protest. The child cooed and waved his hands around.

"Well, the radioactive meteorite season started early this year and your father needs my help adjusting the crop shields," Linda explained.

"But Mom!"

"No buts!" Linda cut him off. "Now you take good care of your brother, and I'll see you at home. Not too late."

She quickly kissed Zac and Ricky on their cheeks and then hurried off to a vacant teleporter. In a flash, she disappeared.

"Great," Zac said as Ricky squirmed in his arms. "Just great. Now what?"

The two of them looked around, as though a solution would materialize out of thin air, and then Dylan seemed to have an inspiration.

"Give him to me," said Dylan. "I have an idea."

Dylan took the gurgling Ricky on his hip and led the way toward the club. A massive creature, a human-gorilla hybrid, stood guard as bouncer. He spotted Ricky and put up his huge hand.

"Sorry, fellas," he grunted. "No one underage allowed."

"Underage?" asked Dylan, feigning confusion. "Oh, him! No, he's from Octagus. They age backward there. He's seventy-three. Surely that's old enough, right?"

He gave a big, exaggerated thumbs-up. The gorilla man cottoned on, pulled out a thumbprint scanner, and pressed it to Dylan's thumb. Credits exchanged.

"Oh, of course," the gorilla-man said, tucking the scanner back into his pocket. "Octagus. I see it now. Go on in, boys. Have fun."

Zac and Dylan sat in a round booth at the back of the massive club. The ceiling was clear, offering a spectacular view of local stars, planets, and nebulae. Multi-spectral flashing lights floated by and upbeat music thumped while waitresses—some humanoid, some robot, and others gelatinous—circulated around the floor.

Despite the fun to be had everywhere they looked, Dylan and Zac were both abjectly miserable. Zac looked to his left and watched little Ricky, mesmerized by the flashing colors, holding his left foot in one hand and attempting to eat all the fingers off the other. There was drool on his chin, and he looked impossibly small in the high-backed booth.

Materializing out of the packed crowd came a human-snake hybrid, wearing a smart white three-piece suit over his reptilian skin.

"Boysssss. Boysssss!" he hissed. "Why sssuch sssad faces in my essstablishment?"

"Who're you?" asked Dylan.

"Name issss Sssssidewinder," the snake man replied. "I'm the owner of Throb."

"Oh. Nice to meet you," said Dylan. He pointed to Zac. "It's my friend's bachelor party."

"Well! Congratulationsss!" hissed Sidewinder. "Let me sssend over sssome of my finest girlsss."

"No, don't bother," said Zac. He reached down, grabbed Ricky, and plopped him on the table in front of him. "I'm stuck babysitting."

"Ahhh. I sssee," said Sidewinder. "Well perhapsss there's sssomething I can do to help."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, round metal device.

"What's that?" asked Dylan.

"Sssubcutaneous cerebral enhancer. A little sssomething I picked up on Orion Prime."

Zac took the device and examined it.

"How does it work?"

"Oh, just place it on the young gentleman's head," said Sidewinder airily. "You'll sssee. Have fun, boysss."

Sidewinder disappeared into the throngs of people and creatures. Zac turned to Dylan.

"What do you think?"

"I dunno," said Dylan. "Do you think it's safe?"

"We got it from a half-snake man," Zac said warily.

"Why don't you try it first?" Dylan said. "If it doesn't hurt you, it shouldn't hurt him."

"All right," Zac replied. "But if I end up a mindless zombie, you're gonna have to answer to my fiancée."

He carefully placed the device on his head. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the worst, but nothing happened.

Dylan grabbed the device and put it on his own head. Still nothing.

"Was that Sidewinder guy messing with us?" asked Zac.

"Maybe. But if it didn't hurt us, it shouldn't hurt Ricky," Dylan said. "There's no harm in trying."

Zac nodded. He turned Ricky to face him and placed the metal circle on the boy's head. It immediately disappeared under Ricky's skin as the young boy's eyes went wide. His head inflated for an instant like a balloon, and deflated just as quickly.

Zac and Dylan stared, mystified, as tiny Ricky stood up and looked around, suddenly lucid. He turned his attention to Zac. He opened his mouth, and a deep, masculine voice issued forth.

"Well is this a bachelor party or a funeral?"

Dylan and Zac stared, openmouthed. Ricky turned and walked across the tabletop on his chubby little legs and waved his tiny hand to flag down a waitress, a beautiful half-woman, half-badger.

"Hey, sweetheart!" Ricky cried. "Freshen up these drinks and get me a glass of your best Saturn Ale."

The waitress smiled and nodded, and as she turned, Ricky reached out with his tiny hand and slapped her on her furry ass. He turned to Zac with a lecherous grin.

"I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave."

Ricky looked at Zac's and Dylan's still shocked, stony faces.

"Well come on, you dopes!" shouted Ricky. "I've seen livelier people in oil paintings! Let's get this party started!"

Zac and Dylan turned to each other and shrugged.

"Hey, Zac, help me down, will ya? I wanna shake my caboose."

The boys slid out of the booth as Zac grabbed Ricky under his arms and lowered him from the table to the floor. Ricky was off like a shot, weaving between people's legs as fast as his own chubby little legs would carry him. Dylan and Zac gave chase.

They found Ricky in the middle of the zero-grav dance floor, where a circle had already cleared around him and the other dancers were watching him, laughing and cheering as he went through complex gyrations. Zac and Dylan started moving to the beat.

Ricky suddenly pointed at a beautiful blonde woman with enormous breasts wearing a see-through catsuit.

"Hey sugar lips!" his deep voice called to her. "Gimme a lift, will ya?"

The woman reached down and hoisted Ricky up, holding his small hand and dancing him around the floor, laughing.

"Ooh, I'd love to send a probe to Uranus, honey.," Ricky smiled.

Zac and Dylan found suitable partners for themselves, and the three boys danced the night away.

Hours later in the VIP Room, Zac and Ricky sat side-by-side on a floating plasma couch while two topless cyborg women danced for them. The brothers both had half-lidded eyes; the drinks had been flowing and the hour had grown late. Ricky's tiny hand was wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle that rested in his lap.

"Hey Zac?" said Ricky.

"Yeah?"

"I just wanna tell you, man. Eileen is a great girl. You guys are gonna be really—hic!—happy together."

Zac looked down at his brother and Ricky looked up.

"I mean it, man. Cheers."

"Thanks, Ricky," said Zac with a drunken, lopsided grin. "You're a good guy."

"'Bout time you noticed, bitch."

"Hey," Zac said, nudging Ricky's tiny shoulder. "You got any advice for, y'know, the bedroom?"

"I do," Ricky nodded, though his head tipped sideways. "Sex is like playing bridge. If you don't have a good partner, you better have a good hand."

Zac and Ricky stared at one another for a moment, then they both roared with laughter.

"I'll drink to that!" Zac said when the laughter finally subsided. He hoisted his bottle toward his little brother. Ricky awkwardly hoisted his bottle toward Zac, then put his hands on both sides of it to lift it to his face.

The curtains to the VIP Room suddenly flew open and Dylan appeared, drunk and panicked, completely oblivious to the half-naked women dancing in front of him.

"There you are!" Dylan cried.

"Hey, my best man!" Zac called out. "Come have a drink with us!"

"Dude, I just stepped out for a smoke and I saw your mom teleport in!" Dylan jabbered. "She's on the warpath!"

Zac sat up, suddenly awake and alert.

"Oh God. What time is it?"

"It's four in the morning," Dylan said.

"Four in the—?" Zac trailed off. "Oh my God. Oh my God. I'm dead. I am so, so dead."

"Ah, what are you worried about?" said Ricky. "You're a grown man, aren't you? Tell Mom to come in and have a drink and calm her bitch ass down." He snickered to himself.

Zac looked at Ricky as if seeing him for the first time. He turned back to Dylan in a panic.

"How do we get that thing out of his head?"

"How should I know?" shouted Dylan.

"Well go find that snake guy and ask him!" Like magic, Sidewinder fluttered in through the curtains.

"Sssomeone looking for me?"

"Oh, thank God," said Zac. "How do we get that enhancer thing out of my brother's head?"

"Oh, I'm sssorry," replied Sidewinder. "That implant isss permanent."

"What?"

"Yesss, quality piece of merchandise," Sidewinder continued. "Sssix hundred creditsss. Thumbprint?"

Before Zac even knew what was happening, Sidewinder had his thumb on a scanner. It beeped and Sidewinder pocketed it.

"A pleasure, boysss. Come back anytime."

Sidewinder disappeared. Zac buried his face in his hands.

"Zachary David!" his mother's voice thundered from beyond the curtains. "Where are you?"

Zac looked up in alarm. He turned to Dylan, who could only shrug helplessly. Desperate, Zac reached for the nearest cyborg girl and yanked off one of her power cells.

"Hey!" the cyborg girl cried. "Touching is extra!"

Zac jammed the power cell to the side of Ricky's head. There was a discharge of purple energy as Ricky's body jittered crazily and his eyes crossed.

A moment later, the curtains flew open to reveal Zac's mother, all in a rage. She looked to be torn between ripping Zac's head off and sweeping Ricky into her arms. She chose the latter.

"My baby!" she cried, cradling Ricky, who had been transformed back into the cooing, gurgling, squirmy child that Linda knew and loved. She peppered his face with kisses and hugged him tight. She cast a withering glare at Zac.

"We're leaving," she commanded.

Linda led the way toward the teleporters with Ricky over her shoulder, followed by an exhausted Zac and Dylan. As they made their way along, Ricky's head came up off his mother's shoulder. He stared directly at Zac, raised his little fist, and flipped him off with his tiny middle finger. Then with a smirk, he rested his head back down for a much-needed and well-deserved nap.

# XII.

#  ROYAL FLUSH

In the skies above Methraxis IV, a small, battered ship angled its way toward a landing pad, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake. The left anti-grav unit flickered and lost power, and the ship made a hard sideways landing on the smooth metal surface of the pad, leaving a divot in the center.

The ship's main door sighed open, splitting up the words STUART & SONS PLUMBING AND ULTRASONIC SHOWER REPAIR written in glowing letters on the side. Out of the ship stepped Joe, a young, good-looking man dressed in blue coveralls and carrying a toolbox. He glanced anxiously over at the ding his ship had left on the landing pad. He disappeared back into the ship, powered it up, and moved it backward a few feet, concealing the damage. He reappeared and examined his handiwork. Good enough.

Joe stepped out of the ship and looked around. A long white moving walkway led away from the landing pad toward a walled compound in the distance. Shifting, orange-colored sand surrounded him, glowing under the Methraxian sun.

A figure made its way toward him—a tall, blindingly white figure that he could only assume was native to the planet. Whoever he was, he carried himself ramrod straight as the walkway conveyed him along. Joe shielded his eyes as the figure drew close to him.

"Good day to you," the stranger said pleasantly, nodding toward Joe. "I am Rix, the manager. Welcome to the Pleasure Planet Hotel Resort and Intestinal Cleansing Spa."

"Intestinal Cleansing Spa?" asked Joe.

"Yes. We normally leave that out of the brochure. It's evidently off-putting."

"I can see how it would be."

"Just so you know, I did not lure you here under false pretenses," Rix said suddenly.

"I . . . didn't assume that you had," Joe replied. "Is that something you say to everyone who comes here?"

Rix looked momentarily thrown, but gathered himself quickly. "I cannot recall what I say to everyone who comes here."

Joe stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair enough. So you called because you're having a problem with a toilet?"

"Er . . . in a manner of speaking, yes. What you would call our toilet attempted to consume too much and is now unwell."

"Ah," Joe said, nodding. "That's certainly a delicate way of putting it."

"You must help."

"Oh. Well, I'll do my best."

"Very good," said Rix, turning away from the landing pad. "Please come with me."

They stepped on the walkway, which reversed direction and carried them toward the main hotel on the resort grounds.

"Are you a Methraxian?" Joe asked as the resort grew closer.

"Yes."

"Wow," said Joe. "I've never met anyone from your race before. Are you all this . . . smooth?"

"If you are referring to my complete lack of body hair and my flawlessly clear opalescent skin, then yes," Rix replied. "Those are traits all Methraxians share."

"Interesting. Anything else I should know about Methraxians?"

"Yes," said Rix, shifting his eyes away. "We are terrible at deception. Which you must accept as true, as we are terrible at deception."

They stepped off the walkway and were bowed in through the main gate by two more Methraxians. As Joe caught sight of the resort, he stopped in his tracks. The hotel was magnificent, more like a palace, pure white with intricate filigreed gold and silver inlays and what looked like abalone glass in the windows. Spiraling pillars held up the front portico, and small multicolored fireworks flew up from the domed roof and exploded silently in the sky above.

The grounds around the hotel were immaculate and featured several hyperball courts, bubbling natural springs, a number of bars with exotic liquids in oddly-shaped bottles, a pool, zero-grav hammocks, an outdoor gym, and a small petting zoo filled with cooing little puffs of fur in every color imaginable. The only thing missing, Joe noticed, was guests.

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

"All of our guests are currently sleeping," Rix said. "But not eternally, as that would indicate they are all dead, which is not something to which I would ever admit."

"All sleeping?" Joe pressed. "In the middle of the day? With all of this stuff to do?"

"It would make both our lives easier if you remained focused on the task at hand," Rix said.

Rix led Joe into the cavernous main lobby of the resort's hotel. Behind the main desk, several other Methraxians stood at the ready and nodded as Rix and Joe passed by. There was still no sign of any guests.

The two of them stopped at a magnificent golden door with a sign that read RESTROOM, and then apparently the same in a number of alien languages.

"Here we are," said Rix.

They stepped inside. The bathroom was wholly unremarkable—toilet, sink, mirror, and tiled walls. Joe set his toolbox down next to the toilet.

"Are you having problems with all the toilets, or just this one?" Joe asked.

"This is the only one."

"The only one in the lobby, you mean?"

"The only one for the entire resort."

Joe considered this. "It must be pretty popular."

"Oh yes," Rix replied "Every guest has been in here at least once."

Joe reached over and gave the toilet's handle a jiggle. Rix's reaction was immediate.

"Please be careful with that!" he cried. "It is the reproductive organ."

Joe let go of the handle and chuckled to himself.

"Rix, if you think that's a reproductive organ, I can see why you need a plumber."

He grabbed the lid to the toilet tank and removed it. Instead of the usual parts, the tank was crammed with multicolored shapes all stitched together in what looked like a thick spider web.

"What the hell is this?"

"Have you identified the problem?" Rix asked earnestly. "Can you fix it?"

"I don't even know what the hell I'm looking at," Joe said. "Rix, I've worked on some exotic toilets, but this one takes the cake."

"Please try," said Rix.

Joe set the lid aside and started poking around. There were terrible squelching sounds as he did, and the shapes inside seemed to react to his touch. He found a green pod near the bottom of the tank and squeezed it. Whatever was inside drained out, and the entire mechanism came to life. Joe pulled his hands back in horror, but Rix was delighted.

"Well done!" Rix cried. "Oh, well done!"

Joe swallowed hard. "Are those . . . are those organs?"

As he spoke, the toilet bowl suddenly widened at the bottom. Before he had a chance to react, an enormous tongue shot out of the hole at the bottom of the bowl, wrapped itself around Joe, and pulled him in.

Rix, still smiling, replaced the lid on the tank. He then knelt down in front of the toilet with his eyes closed and a serene expression.

"Your highness."

The toilet returned to its normal shape. The water in the bowl gurgled.

"Of course," Rix said. "Anything. I live to serve."

The water gurgled again.

"I hear and obey, your excellency. Thank you."

Rix got up and left the bathroom.

At the lobby's front desk, a fellow Methraxian named T'Nad waited anxiously at check-in. He spotted Rix approaching.

"Well?" asked T'Nad anxiously.

"His royal highness is feeling better and his appetite has returned," Rix said with an enormous smile.

T'nad smiled too. "Praise be. Does he need anything?"

"Yes," said Rix. "Start contacting local plumbers and get them out here immediately. The king has a new favorite meal."

# XIII.

#  A POUND OF CURE

Giuseppe "Gino" Squitieri stood next to a massive, ornate oak desk, surrounded by shelves of first-edition books and objets d'art. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and helping him tie his tie was his best friend and enforcer, Sebastiano "Sebby" Cassese.

Filling the rest of the room were six other men, all in tuxedos, all with telltale bulges under their coats.

"Is it tied straight?" asked Gino.

"Yeah, it's tied straight," Sebby replied. "It's ya head that's lopsided."

"You gonna start with me?" Gino shouted. "Hah? You gonna start with me when I'm about to be married?"

A soft knock at the office door interrupted them.

"Jesus, like I don't have enough to deal with today," Gino grumbled. "Come in!"

The door swung open to reveal Nova DeSantos, a lovely redhead wearing a beautiful black dress. The only flaw in her appearance was her eyes—pink and puffy, as though she'd been crying.

"Hey, Miss DeSantos!" Gino said genially. "Good to see you."

"Mister Squitieri," she said softly, nodding.

Sebby finished with Gino's tie and straightened his lapels. He stepped back and joined the other men, who were all watching Nova carefully.

"So? How do I look?"

"Very—" Nova stopped and cleared her throat. "Very nice, Mister Squitieri."

"Hey, thanks. Listen, I gotta tell ya, I was never a hundred percent on the idea of a weddin' planner, but you did a beautiful job. Just beautiful." Gino turned to the other men in the room. "Didn't she do a beautiful job, boys?"

The men murmured their assent. Gino crossed the room to one of the windows and opened the blinds. Bright sunshine poured into the room.

"They said you were the best, and they were right. I mean lookit that! The tables set with my grandmother's—God rest her soul—special linens. The Stargazer lilies. You even managed to get those albino peacocks my fiancée is so crazy about."

He turned back from the window to face Nova again.

"It's gonna be a perfect day, and I have you to thank for it. So thank you."

"You're welcome, Mister Squitieri," Nova said. She wrung her hands as fresh tears built in her eyes.

"Somethin' else on your mind?" Gino asked casually.

"I was . . . I wanted to know when I might have my daughter back."

The mood in the room immediately darkened.

"Have your daughter back?"

"Y-yes," Nova stammered.

Gino crossed the room and was suddenly very close to Nova, who cast her eyes downward.

"Your daughter has been my guest," Gino said, his voice heavy with menace. "I only had her removed from your home so that you would be motivated to focus all of your energy on helpin' to plan my weddin'."

"I know," Nova nodded. "I just . . . I just need to know that she's all right."

"Of course she's all right. And she will remain all right as long as my weddin' day goes off without a hitch. If something should go wrong, well, whatever happens to her will be on your head, won't it?"

Nova looked up in alarm and locked eyes with Gino. It was very clear he meant it.

"Nothing will go wrong," she said, her voice leaden with fear.

"It better not."

Gino stepped back and resumed his previously convivial attitude.

"Hey, you'll be happy to hear that your daughter's made a new friend. She's been playin' with Sebby's daughter. How old is your girl, Sebby?"

"Ten," said Sebby.

"Ah, see that? They're the same age. I bet they're havin' a ball."

Nova nodded.

"Thank you for your time, Mister Squitieri," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I have some last-minute details to tend to."

"Of course," said Gino, now smiling. "We want everything perfect, don't we?"

"Yes of course we do."

Nova turned to leave, but stopped at the sound of Gino's voice.

"Oh, actually, that reminds me," he said. "One last minor detail."

Nova turned back. "Yes?"

"When I watch my bride-to-be walk down the aisle, I want her to be perfect as well."

"I . . . hired the best makeup people in the business," Nova said. "Found the most beautiful dress I've ever seen."

"And that's all well and good," Gino said. "But she's been stayin' with my mother and her sisters for the last month, learnin' how I like my shirts folded, how to shine my shoes . . . and how to cook all my favorite foods. I'm afraid she might have put on some weight, y'know? So I need you to make sure she's under, say, 120 pounds."

Nova's eyes went wide, and she rushed forward, forgetting herself.

"That was never—!"

She stopped short as Sebby and the other men reached inside their coats with an almost synchronized motion. She took a step back.

"That was never part of the deal," she said, her voice strangled with sobs.

"Yeah, well, now it is."

"But . . . but what am I supposed to do if she has gained weight?" Nova cried. "It's too late now! The wedding is today! I'm not a trainer! I'm not a nutritionist! How can I possibly—?"

"Hey, you're the hotshot wedding planner," Gino cut across her. "I'm guessin' you've had to think on your feet before. You'll come up with somethin'."

He pulled out an ornate gold pocket watch and checked it.

"You've got about ninety minutes 'til showtime, Ms. DeSantos. If I were you, I'd use the time wisely."

Nova looked hopelessly from one face to another, but there was no compassion and no help. She backed out of the office with every eye upon her and broke into a run, up the grand staircase to the second floor.

As she stopped outside the double doors to the master bedroom, she took a deep breath, furiously wiped fresh tears from her eyes, and then knocked. A voice called for her to come in.

In the bedroom, in front of a full-length mirror surrounded by attending bridesmaids, stood Lisa, a radiant, dark-haired beauty. Her makeup was flawless and her ornate dress breathtaking, but the one thing Nova cared about was the one thing impossible to tell. Lisa might have been under 120. She might not.

Lisa spotted Nova in the mirror and squealed with glee.

"Nova!"

She ran across the room and enveloped Nova in an enormous hug. After a few moments she released her, glowing.

"You've done such an amazing job," Lisa gushed. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

Nova tried to smile, but it wouldn't come. She swayed a bit, and Lisa held her by both arms.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh. Yes. Yes, I'm fine," Nova said unconvincingly. "Just . . . running through some last-minute stuff in my head. You know. You look beautiful."

"Thank you!" Lisa said as she spun around so Nova could take in the full effect of her finery.

"That's . . . not the original dress you had. Is it?"

Lisa's smile faltered the tiniest bit.

"Well . . . no, actually, it isn't. I loved that dress, but . . . well, after a month with Gino's family, I couldn't fit into it." Lisa laughed in an embarrassed sort of way.

"And there wasn't time to alter it, so I got this one. But you know what? I think I love this one even more."

"Yes. Yes, it's lovely. Lisa . . ."

Nova hesitated, debating exactly what to say next.

"Do you happen to have a scale handy?"

Lisa looked at her quizzically.

"Um . . . sure. Why?"

Nova thought fast.

"Oh, I . . . have a bet with the caterer. He insists his samples have put ten pounds on me, but I say he's crazy."

Lisa smiled and pointed toward the en suite.

"You're going to win that bet," she said, smiling. "You look great! It's right in there."

Nova hurried into the bathroom. She looked around frantically, next to the shower, next to the sink, behind the toilet, but there was no scale to be found. She rushed back out into the bedroom, where one of Lisa's bridesmaids was fitting her veil.

"There's no scale in there."

Lisa only had eyes for her reflection.

"There isn't? Huh. It was there this morning when I took a shower."

The bedroom door opened and Lisa's mother poked her head in.

"Sweetheart?" she said. "It's time."

Lisa and her bridesmaids gathered their things and, beaming, headed out the door. Lisa noticed Nova rooted to the spot.

"Nova? Aren't you coming?"

"Yes," Nova said blankly. "Be right there."

Lisa left Nova alone in the bedroom. She slowly sank to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably.

In the sumptuous living room a short while later, the bride and groom, the bridesmaids and groomsmen, family members, and friends gathered near the French doors that led out to the backyard amid a buzz of excited conversation. Nova entered the room, visibly shaking. She didn't even bother wiping the tears away, but in the general hubbub, no one noticed.

Finally, Gino held his hand up for quiet. He smiled at Lisa.

"Before we head out there and take our sacred vows before the good Lord and my grandmother—God rest her soul—there's one last thing I'd like you to do."

"Of course!" said Lisa. "Anything."

Gino snapped his fingers and Sebby magically appeared, holding a digital scale. He placed it on the floor next to Lisa, glanced up at Nova, and then stepped back.

"What's this for?" asked Lisa.

Gino smiled. "I'd just like you to weigh yourself, that's all."

"What? Why?"

"An old family tradition," Gino said, his smile slowly fading. "Call me superstitious."

Lisa looked around the room, which had gone deathly quiet. No one seemed to understand what was happening.

"Gino, this is silly," Lisa said. Then in a softer voice, "I don't want to weigh myself in front of all these people."

Gino's expression darkened, just as it had in his office earlier.

"When I tell you to get on the goddamn scale, you get on the goddamn scale. Do you understand me?"

He grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her up on the scale. There was absolute silence in the room. Gino gathered up the front of Lisa's dress so he could see the display. Nova quietly angled around so she could see it as well.

The numbers counted up. 109. 111. 115. 117. Nova felt like she was about to vomit or pass out. Or both. 119. The moment froze in time, and then the display began to flash, indicating 119 as Lisa's final weight.

Gino's demeanor once again turned on a dime. He gave a joyful shout, and indicated everyone else should do the same.

"One hundred nineteen!" Gino cried. "That's good luck on a weddin' day!"

Everyone hesitantly joined in, except for Nova, whose legs had given out. She fell into a nearby chair and took a deep, shuddering breath.

At the country club later, the reception was in full swing, echoing with music, excited conversation, and laughter. Nova stood by herself in an empty coat room, anxiously chewing her fingernail.

After a few moments, a door at the end of the coat room opened and Sebby walked in, guiding a young girl by the shoulder. The girl lit up at the sight of Nova.

"Mommy!"

The girl ran over and Nova swept her up in her arms.

"Baby! Oh my sweet baby. Are you all right? Let me look at you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," the girl said. "I made a new friend. Her name is Angelina. Can she come over and play?"

"Well . . . we'll see, honey. We'll see." Nova locked eyes with Sebby for a moment. Sebby nodded his head, indicating they should leave.

"Come on, honey. Let's go home."

The girl took Nova's hand and they walked quickly out the front door. Sebby watched them go, and in a few moments was joined by Carmine Ciaffoni, who was short but tough-looking. He was one of Gino's men.

"Hey," said Carmine.

"Hey yourself."

"So. I take it Gino don't know that you tampered with the scale."

"No," said Sebby. "He don't. And you ain't gonna tell him, you understand?"

Carmine nodded. He thought for a few moments.

"Why'd you do it?"

Sebby turned and stared at Carmine.

"You think I'm gonna kill a 10-year-old girl over a few pounds? Jesus, Carmine. My girl is 10 years old. It'd be like pulling the trigger on my own daughter. No way."

"Fair enough," Carmine nodded. "Hey, ya know, me myself? A few extra pounds don't bother me none. I like a girl with some meat on her bones."

Sebby thought for a moment and then smiled.

"In that case, c'mon. Lemme introduce you to my cousin Annalisa."

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephen Lomer is the author of the short story collection Stargazer Lilies or Nothing at All and the wildly popular Typo Squad. A grammar nerd, Star Trek fan, and other things that chicks dig, Stephen is the creator, owner, and a regular contributor to the website Television Woodshed. He's a hardcore fan of the Houston Texans, despite living in the Hub of the Universe his whole life, and believes Mark Twain was correct about pretty much everything.

Stephen lives on Boston's North Shore with his wife, Teresa.

