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Hardcover ISBN 978-1-926959-35-1

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Cover photo by Petr Kratochvil (http://bit.ly/11yrvmo)

All authors retain the copyright to their respective stories.

# Introduction

I believe in luck as the intersection of opportunity and the readiness to pursue it. We Had Stars Once is the final domino in a long chain of luck.

On 30 June 2010, after a conversation with some fellow commenters at io9.com (Where they come from the future.), I posted in the open forum, Observation Deck, inviting fellow fiction writers to join me in penning a flash fiction story to be shared the following day, which was Thursday. Thursday Tales was born. Annalee Newitz wrote about us and even participated a time or two. Our numbers grew, I began a weekly digest of stories, and we got our own forum. I began calling us the Niners, and Thursday Tales became an institution. I faltered, and took a long hiatus late in 2010, but they were still going.

By early 2013, things had settled down for me. I decided to rejoin Thursday Tales. I had just participated in an anthology and decided that if I couldn't write consistently, I could try my hand at anthologizing. There seemed no better group to ask than my beloved Niners. My suggestion was met with hearty approval and over time, what was a small, "for practice" project became the real thing. We acquired a cover artist, were gifted with content editors, and got a publisher. Everything fell into place, as if it were meant to be. Opportunity and readiness had prevailed. Luck was on our side.

Collected here are sixteen stories from the Thursday Tales writing group. Inside this volume are fantasy, horror, and science fiction stories. Some were written in our earlier days, others were written very recently; all are available online in their original, unedited forms. Thursday Tales is the exercise of getting your story out, and the difference between the originals and their final forms is, in some cases, quite striking. Each contributor has a unique voice, because we are a group made up of all kinds. We have parents and nonparents, religious and nonreligious, married and single; one of the writers is a ten-year old. All that matters is that you write and share.

We Had Stars Once is a celebration of the writers of Thursday Tales. For three years, these writers have been grappling with the craft of writing, and over time fantastic stories, amazing serials, and heart-touching works have come of their dedication to storytelling. These writers prove the adage that writers write. Their relentless dedication and encouragement has kept the group together since 2010, and will hopefully keep us together for a long time.

Happy third birthday, Thursday Tales, and happy third anniversary to my beloved Niners. I am so proud of every one of you, whether you're in this book or not. Without you, this wouldn't exist.

Special thanks go out to David Young (EdificeComplex) for the gorgeous cover art, Tomb Svalborg for the title of titles, Christie Yant for getting me started when I was all freaked out, 1889 Labs for being so encouraging, and Kelley Ross and Heath Wheeler, thank you for content editing. Mom, you're the best backup copy editor anyone could ask for. <3

— Constella "Gaudy Mouse" Espj

# Derby Girl  
by J.A. Platt

Beatrix skated as fast as she could. Faster than she thought possible with a broken wheel and her palms streaming blood from the last wipeout. It was impossible to see. No electricity here, no moonlight, just the stinging rain and the faintest outlines of buildings traced by the glow of the emergency floodlights. Hard laughter and the slap of skates echoed off the alley walls.

A crash of metal ricocheted behind her. She whipped her head around, sure she'd see them swarming down the alley. There was only the black of the buildings, the wet pavement, the spindly silhouettes of dark street lamps.

Distracted, Beatrix hit the wall, the brick scraping her already raw hands. Her wrist guards had been left in the locker room with the rest of her gear when she'd heard them coming. She pushed away from the wall, moving slowly now, wary as she neared the end of the alley. The ghost of light from the center of town was brighter here and she came to a stop leaning her shoulder against the wall, pushing wet hair from her face.

The street was as empty as the alley; everyone was near the lights. Even the patrols weren't out in the downed sections. The real cops and their real guns were busy manning the barricades down by the generators.

The dregs with tasers were left to hunt bounties in the dark.

Beatrix felt for her ID and tucked it deeper into her pocket. She couldn't lose it. Not if she wanted to get down to the lights.

It was brighter to the right so she rolled onto the sidewalk, skimming along on one skate, pushing with the other, wincing at the way it scraped over the pavement, the broken wheel rasping like a file.

When she saw movement ahead her heart stuttered in her chest. She tucked herself into the doorway of a burned-out deli and tried not to breathe.

At the end of the street was one of the avenues, four lanes wide and bright. So bright she could see the strolling gait of a man walking by. He walked with his hands loose at his sides, coat shining with rain. And then a woman appeared. Walking. Followed by two more.

A clatter of wheels and laughter floated out of the darkness behind her.

Beatrix dropped to one knee and clawed at the laces of the broken skate. Rain and blood made the knots slick. When they gave, she ripped the skate off, putting her dry sock on the ground. Cold water soaked through to her skin while she worked at the other skate.

Another group was passing. Beatrix walked as naturally as she could toward the intersection, already feeling slow and vulnerable. It took all of her resolve to drop her custom skates into the trash can on the sidewalk.

The group ambled out of sight and she let out a shaky breath. She wiped her bloody hands against the sides of her dark pants. As long as she kept them in her pockets and moved with the crowd she could pass for another tourist. No one would even glance at her feet on a night like this.

She took a step toward the avenue.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you Slaughter?"

Beatrix could hear the thin whine of other wheels against the concrete. Lynx was closing behind her with at least five more coming up fast. She slid her right foot back, lifting the heel and adjusting her weight forward like she was at the line waiting for the whistle, ready to take off. With a deep breath she bolted for the lights.

* * *

There was an ache building in her side; she wouldn't be able to run much longer.

Beatrix darted through the growing crowd, ducking between grumbling locals coming in for second curfew, the pain in her feet slamming up through her shins.

A pair of boys passed her, bags held over their heads as they ran for the gates. One of them tossed something black into the trash as they pounded across the intersection, long legs propelling them over the pavement.

Covering the same ground seconds later, she ducked around the curve of a golf umbrella, seeing the trashcan and the crumpled umbrella the boy had thrown away. She grabbed it with a stinging hand and tucked it tight under her arm, squinting hard into the rain.

A tour group was milling at the next intersection, their black umbrellas and black shirts creating a smudge of darkness in the growing light.

Beatrix pushed herself harder, putting as much distance as she could between her and the eyes she felt on her back. When she could make out individuals in the tour group she slowed to a jog, heart hammering in chest, the bent umbrella in both hands. She moved closer, skirting the loose edges of the group, fumbling with the bent stays of the umbrella as she passed an older man with white hair peering at a map of the ruins that surrounded the city. Stumbling to a stop, she forced the umbrella halfway open before it collapsed again. With a curse she looked around. She caught the man's eye and shrugged in apparent embarrassment.

He glanced at the group behind him, then beckoned her with a wink.

Beatrix smiled and walked over, the ruined umbrella clutched in her fist. She strained to hear the skaters over the rain. "Thanks."

He tucked the map into his pocket and held the umbrella over both of them. "It's not much, you couldn't get wetter."

"True enough." Beatrix took a casual look back the way she'd come, searching for that smooth bobbing movement of a figure skating through the crowd. Her breath caught when she saw a blue uniform turned black by the rain. The girl was too short to be Lynx and rolled past without even looking at the tour group.

A firm grip settled on her arm and she whipped around with the umbrella tight in her hand. "We're headed for the gate," the man said, half-shouting over the rain.

Beatrix nodded and he led the way, holding his umbrella to the side so it covered her head and shoulders. They shuffled into the middle of the group, claustrophobic and safe. She caught a glimpse of another skating figure as they joined the end of the line for the gate.

"So," the man said.

He'd raised his hand to touch her shoulder and stopped short. A smile seemed to reassure him; he beckoned her forward, voice low but clear. "The police are nervous here. You will want to pull those socks up before they can wonder why you have no shoes."

Her breath caught and her toes curled in her wet socks. "I lost them—"

Shaking his head he put a thick finger to his lips. "We've all had a wild night or two." He looked out over her head as though he was trying to spot the skaters too.

Beatrix bent and yanked up one sock, then the other, the fabric cold and prickly on her skin.

The man held the umbrella over them as they rounded the first bend in the line and lost sight of the street. He didn't speak as they wound through the barricades and mounted the stairs to the gate. She pressed her bleeding hands inside her pockets and imagined she could see figures rolling in the crowd below, heads turning left and right, looking for a black uniform in the sea of people. They would stay clear of the cops to avoid splitting the bounty. Unauthorized competitors were worth five hundred a head.

"You go ahead," the man said near her ear.

Beatrix hadn't noticed they were at the head of the line. The gray-uniformed police were thrown into sharp relief under their awnings, the only bright, dry things in the night. Digging in her pocket, she felt her ID slide against her slick palm as she stepped forward. An officer with bored brown eyes was watching her, giving her no time to wipe it before she held it out to him.

The back of the card had blood across the corner as he raised it to inspect the country seal. His eye implant focused and refocused as he measured the exact dimensions of the seal and recorded the numbers under it.

Beatrix knew she was caught before his eyes widened, before he took a step back or reached for his comm.

There was nowhere to run with cops ahead and the wall of people behind.

* * *

"Ich verstehe immer noch nicht. Wo ist Ihr Übersetzer?" she said, asking for a translator.

"Look, I know this isn't you," the police sergeant said, waving the ID card at her, flicking his thumbnail against the bloody edge.

A fleck of blood chipped off onto the table. Beatrix kept her eyes on him, her clipped Berlin accent matching the address on the ID chip. "No Englisch. Haben Sie nicht einen Übersetzer?"

He stood, leaning over her, the light flashing on the silver buttons of his coat and the wide shield over his heart. "No English my ass," he said, hooking a thumb through his black belt, fingers brushing his sidearm.

Beatrix met his eyes with the most confused expression she could manage and cursed herself for not filing travel dates. It would have limited the number of days she could use the ID but she would've been less likely to get stopped. On a blackout night it could be hours until the intelligence section commander showed up and sent her on her way with a lecture and a warning.

"You're going to tell me who you are before you leave this room, I guarantee that." The sergeant stood over her for another minute before he turned to the door. Over his wide shoulder, she caught a glimpse of patrolmen and a few officers loitering in the hall. They were gone a second later as the door closed, but not before she had seen the narrow, predatory face of Captain Garret Fillmore.

The sounds from the hall were muffled by the blood rushing in her ears. Fillmore knew her by sight. She would be charged with unauthorized competition, identity theft and whatever else he could come up with. It would be an end of everything: the skating, her career, Charlie's career.

The door handle rattled and Beatrix froze.

An intelligence officer with familiar blue eyes slipped inside. He had a pair of boots in one hand. "I thought you'd want these, Madame Secretary."

She let out a shaky breath. She had seen him at the Department of Defense. The hair had been shorter then but the eyes were the same. "Thank you. It's been a long night."

He nodded and stepped toward her with the shoes held out. "I checked your file when I saw them bring you in. It said size nine."

Beatrix took them with her free hand and bent, not quite able to reach her feet. She twisted her wrist in the cuff and sighed, a weary sound to cover the sudden surge of adrenaline making her hands shake.

"Um, I could," the intelligence officer stammered, gesturing to her socks and flushing a deep red.

"Thank you. You worked with Charlie, didn't you Officer...?"

He went down on one knee and pulled off her socks. "Langley. Harry Langley, ma'am. I was stationed with your husband when I was a second lieutenant." He folded the socks and set them aside.

"Thank you, Harry." Beatrix was straining to hear the high buzz of Fillmore's voice, an approaching step, a hand on the doorknob.

"I'm sorry I couldn't round up any dry socks." Harry was drying her feet with his handkerchief.

There was a flash of guilt as she looked down at him, his blonde head bent over her feet. She would do something for him. After. "I appreciate getting the wet ones off."

Harry smiled, slipping the boots over her feet and tying them up her ankles with quick fingers. "It was chance the depot had these."

Beatrix shifted against her cuff, trapping it silently between the chair and her skin. Metal pressed hard into her wrist, grating against the bone until her eyes watered. Her arm was relaxed when Harry looked up. "Is this really necessary?" She nodded toward her reddened skin.

His expression was apologetic. "All these new regs, you know how it-" he stopped, frowning at her wrist and reaching for his keys. "Damn Benton, he always does them too tight."

The click of the lock giving way was the loudest sound in the room.

Harry hovered over her wrist, loosening the bracelet.

He didn't see her move until it was too late.

With a tight grip on the arms of the chair Beatrix drove her knee into the underside of his jaw. The bone was so hard she thought she'd broken her leg. She shook her wrist free of the cuff. Blood leaked from the unconscious officer's mouth as she took his comm and his keys and stood on stiff legs. There was another door behind her chair, one no one had used. She clenched her jaw and opened it.

A speeder bay.

Two-man speeders lined the far wall and there were a few crewmen standing near the bay doors looking out at the rain flashing in the floodlights.

Beatrix walked to a speeder, hoping that Harry had transport clearance. It started on the first swipe of his key and she sat astride the long body, the thrusters lifting her feet off the ground. She opened the rear compartment and pulled on the rain gear, her focus on the men at the doors, jerking every time they moved.

When she eased out of the slot she was in yellow to her knees, her face hidden behind a helmet, her hands in sticky black gloves. She accelerated toward the closest bay door; the garage crews were particular about speed through the exit sensors.

Beatrix passed the men as fast as she dared and saw the closest do a double take. She was already out of the garage when she realized her mistake. On blackout nights every speeder had to be pre-authorized.

Now this one was stolen.

* * *

The stark white faces of buildings towered over her, their edges sharp even as everything else was blurred by the rain and the speed she coaxed out of the engine. Sirens rose and fell behind her as she looked for anything familiar, darting between hotel shuttles, buses and lumbering cargo transports.

The next cross street was narrow, gray in the reflected light, the far end cut off by a riser for the monorail. Beatrix continued up the steep hill, squinting through the rain, feeling sweat run down her back as she tried to picture where the next checkpoint was. Once she crossed, she'd be out of gate jurisdiction.

At the top of the hill her breath caught in her throat.

The spotlight. Brighter than sunlight, so bright that there were no shadows, so bright that even in the lashing rain the buildings around it became pillars of light, concentric rings of whiteness that stood like sentinels around an earthbound sun. Only at the very edges of City Island did the light begin to fade, turning the ribbon of river around it a silvery gray.

Exhilaration filled her chest as Beatrix threw the speeder down the hill toward the river. The lights flashed behind her, painting the street pink, their red faded in the glow of the spotlight. They were gaining; the second body on the police speeders gave them an extra push downhill. She saw the nose of one edging up beside her, grinned, and maxed out the throttle.

The river was below them, the spotlight a sliver of blinding moon peeking through the buildings. Beatrix dropped the speeder closer to the pavement and ducked her head against the fuel tank, drawing her elbows in, squeezing her leaden legs tight, trying anything to streamline her and gain more speed.

The cops on her right nosed out in front, another speeder crowding in on the left when red light lashed across her console.

Checkpoint lock down. Every cop and bounty hunter in city limits had been alerted.

The riverside highway was coming up fast, an endless stream of traffic whipping by.

Beatrix gripped the thruster control tight in her left hand and her grin became a grimace. There was only one chance.

The traffic was so close it blocked out the river, the spotlight, everything. She could smell the ozone burn of the engines, see the wide eyes of tourists whizzing past, hear the curses of the patrolmen beside her.

She hit the thrusters, jamming the slider as far as it would go; her eyes squinted almost shut, her stomach staying back on the street.

The speeder jumped high, sliding into a huge arc, spinning her in a lazy circle as the buses and speeders and shuttles passed feet below her. Beatrix caught a glimpse of the patrol speeders and their lights flashing against the wall of traffic before she started to fall.

She felt the briefest moment of relief when she looked down and saw the shimmering surface of the water.

Then it was rushing toward her. Closing over her and dragging the speeder down into the silver depths.

* * *

Beatrix pushed through the water with heavy legs, coat dragging at her back, helmet filling with water every time her head dipped forward. It felt like she'd been swimming for hours, the riverbank at the base of the bridge still out of reach. They would drag the river once they found the speeder. The patrols would discover her in this lead coat, pulled headfirst to the bottom by her helmet, no ID, no prints if the fish got to her. Just another body pulled from the river, another statistic on Charlie's security report.

Her boot touched something hard. Her feet jerked away and she looked down so fast, the bottom of the helmet filled with water. A panicked kick hit rock and bobbed her head free of the surface. She brought both feet down and was standing.

Heart hammering, she dove forward, slipping, splashing, and crawling until she was on the rocky bank, stones hard under her knees. Beatrix lay on her back and drew deep, rattling breaths, eyes stinging from the water and the effort. Along the bank she could see the sharp line of shadow where the bridge ended and the spotlight shone over the rocks. She lay there and watched as the white light began to pulse red. Smaller lights darted over the silver water, alternating red and bright white.

The tinny wail of a siren pulsed in her ears and she knew the light show was for her. With a distant sense of urgency, Beatrix pushed off the thick gloves and jerked at the zipper of the coat. When the coat flapped open she worked her arms free and fell back, the helmet dragging her head down. She raised her hands to the buckle and felt a tangle of canvas. It took concentration to work out the shape she was feeling; she had to close her eyes to picture it, a knot of excess canvas around the buckle. Holding the knot steady with one hand, she tried to catch her nail under one of the loops, face contorted in frustration as her fingers slipped again and again.

She was pulling hard at the strap without realizing it and stopped, clenching her hands. There was nowhere in Center City she could go with the helmet on, not with the blue gate seal etched on the side. The backs of her eyes stung and she wiped her bleeding palms on her pants before she tried again.

When the knot finally gave, Beatrix saw the underside of the bridge through a blur of tears. The buckle parted with a soft click and she pushed the helmet off, tears slipping over her cheeks and into her ears.

Beatrix wished she was home. Home with a shower and dry clothes and Charlie back early from the senate session so they could curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

The sound of the third curfew bell made her struggle to her feet. There were figures on the shore, tiny gray uniforms with long shadows and flashlights swinging in purposeful arcs.

Beatrix scrambled up the steep bank, away from the patrols, her hands and boots sliding on the wet rocks. At the edge of the bridge's shadow she paused, panting and dizzy. She smoothed her shirt, ran her fingers through her hair, and wiped her face with her sleeve.

She stepped into the white light and smiled in reflex. On this side of the bridge, the police lights were blotted out by the spotlight.

* * *

The streets in the center of town were brighter than day and almost empty, the color washed from the storefronts and the trees and the neat little fences that surrounded them. A few insomniacs shuffled along the wide sidewalks with their heads down, shades drawn over their faces, unable to sleep in the un-tinted rooms allotted to foreign workers. The stumbling grayed-out figures were almost comforting. They meant home was close.

Without a shade for her eyes Beatrix kept her head up, her hands in her pockets, and fought not to squint in the full glare of the spotlight. The street ahead was dimmer, a silver twilight that spanned three blocks before it became blinding brightness again.

A tall iron fence separated the deepest shadows from the bright storefronts, ivy blocking any sign of the houses beyond. She slowed her pace, listening to the dragging steps of the insomniacs. There was a panel under the wide leaves. Beatrix tapped out the code without looking away from the street.

The gate opened with a faint groan, the weight of the metal grinding down on the hinges. When she closed it behind her, the locks clicked into place one after the other. She stood by the gate, her heart pounding in her chest as she was faced with a quiet residential street and the black windows of the houses. With a steadying breath she pushed away from the gate, alert for a late night stroller.

A dog barked and Beatrix faltered for a step before walking on toward the shaded jogging path at the end of the block. Her shoulders dropped in relief when she reached the shadow of the trees. Seven houses down, she left the path, pushing through thick bushes at the base of a tall, wrought iron fence. She pulled her sleeves down over her hands and took a deep breath before she reached for the top rail. There was a searing pain in her right hand as she boosted herself to the top of the fence. With one leg over she had to pause, panting and exposed. Beatrix clenched her jaw and got her other leg over, her arms shaking hard as she lowered herself to the ground, not letting go until the toes of her boots touched grass.

She walked unsteadily to the back door of her house, hand cradled against her chest, so thirsty her throat felt raw. The entry code let her into the dark kitchen. Her boots squeaked against the tile floor, making her hunch her shoulders. Beatrix took a glass from the drying rack and turned the tap on, filling the glass and drinking too fast, the water running over her cheeks and down her neck.

"Stop right there," a deep voice barked.

The glass fell from her fingers and her head came around so fast her neck cracked. A tall shadow had appeared between her and the back door.

Beatrix coiled her legs beneath her and threw herself across the room.

She hit him high in the chest and he staggered back, his thick arms reaching, crushing her against his him.

"Charlie," she said against his neck.

Charlie lifted her off her feet and turned them in a slow circle. "I thought I'd try to catch the finals. Did you win?"

Beatrix ignored the pain in her hands, linking them behind his back and squeezing hard. "I won."

# Out of Sight  
by Kelley Ross

Master Sergeant Hisaki Shibukawa storms into his commanding officer's meeting still clad in the light armor used on training runs. Blood, mostly from the fresh squad he almost lost, coats his arms and chest piece. Fragrant splashes of the clear bile that serves as the blood in their advanced combat training drones create visual distortions on the armor.

He slides between two officers who recoil from his approach, and slams a fist full of ghost collars onto the meeting table. The collars are still wet. Blood oozes through his fingers as his eyes, burning with rage, meet General Maxwell's across the table.

"Gentlemen," the General addresses the seated personnel, "if you would excuse us."

They hurry to leave. Maxwell adjusts his uniform and smiles at Hisaki. The General's cold blue eyes, in stark contrast with his warm mahogany skin, gleam with smug superiority.

"Master Sergeant. What brings you here on this fine day?" He gestures out the window to a bright and sunny afternoon.

Hisaki's dark gaze remains fixed on the General.

"You know damn well what, sir. That wasn't battle training. There shouldn't have been any ghosts within a hundred miles of that site. It was a green squad with pop guns for Christ's sake."

Maxwell stands and turns to the window, looking out over the parade ground.

"You know I don't often stand for insubordination, Master Sergeant," he says calmly. "Yet you are still here. Doesn't that strike you as unusual?"

Hisaki's jaw works and he stops himself from clenching his hands into tight fists. The General has a point. MPs should have escorted him halfway out of the building by now.

Maxwell reaches back to the table for a glass of water and then returns to the window as he sips it.

"I suspect you would find it equally unusual to walk in on a meeting that is solely about you and your recent accomplishment. You had a squad of untested, scared, sniveling new recruits with nothing better than rocks to defend them against 40 combat ghosts all loaded for bear. You were outnumbered two-to-one, yet the ghosts were annihilated and five of your men didn't even need to be hospitalized. We lost a lot of good officers to find you, Shibukawa."

Hisaki freezes. Maxwell eyes him, then checks to make sure the door is closed before he continues.

"Out of fifty training missions that accidentally encountered a full complement of ghosts, yours was the only one with survivors."

Hisaki takes a moment to let the General's words sink in. More than a thousand soldiers executed mere weeks after joining a cause they believed in. Kids trying to prove themselves, to make their families proud... all dead while their General shows no remorse. If anything, he seems relieved. Hisaki can hardly conceal his disgust with his commanding officer.

To his credit, Maxwell seems to notice Hisaki's obvious inner struggle and softens his expression. When he speaks, his voice is level and almost sympathetic.

"This project was not undertaken in vain. There are innumerable lives that will be saved by what has happened and what you will do."

Hisaki frowns and growls: "What exactly will that be, sir?"

"You will be briefed on the ship waiting for you," Maxwell says as he turns back to the window. "You are dismissed, Master Sergeant."

* * *

This is the second private transport Hisaki has embarked on in his entire life. These are the cushy vessels reserved for high-end diplomatic missions or special events. He was a kid travelling with his ambassador father for his first trip. His dad thought it would be fun for him to live like royalty for a few days. It wasn't. He felt out of place the entire time, and not much has changed since. This trip has fewer servants, but he's still sleeping on silk sheets.

Three dropships and their pilots are joining him for the trip. He's not actually seen them or the crew of the transport. His life is being put in a lot of strange hands and he's not sure if he likes it.

Maxwell briefs him via a pre-recorded vid. The transport will land him and the dropships in the middle of nowhere. The dropships will take him to the planet where his package is imprisoned. There, they will drop him off and wait. He will traverse four miles of jungle along a route that he is not to deviate from. His package will be waiting at the end.

The package is actually a group of forty people between 30 and 40 years of age. Most of them are not combat trained. Maxwell stresses he is not allowed to talk to them past giving orders and finding out their first names. He then lists two court martial-able offenses: skin to skin contact and a greater than 20% casualty rate.

Hisaki pauses the vid. Backs up. Plays it again.

"Do not touch them skin to skin," comes Maxwell's stern voice.

"Why the hell not?" Hisaki asks out loud, talking over Maxwell.

"And if you lose more than 20%—which I know you won't—you will also be court martialed," Maxwell continues. "Do not let them interact with or touch the dropship pilots. Just get them onboard and back to the transport and we'll do the rest to get these people where they belong."

The screen goes blank. Hisaki stares at it, his head cocked to the side in thought. Forty middle aged people with no combat training, 300 ghosts, and him. If he fails, Maxwell will have his head on a platter. The thousands killed to find just the right leader for this mission will have died in vain.

These people had better be worth it.

* * *

Hisaki runs as fast as his armor and gear will allow, the forty prisoners keeping up with him admirably, despite how miserable and drenched they look. They're all dressed in the clothes they had been wearing when captured; there's a lot of business casual. He feels a little guilty wearing climate-controlled armor in this hot, dense jungle, but at least they get to wear comfortable shoes.

He spots one of his landmark trees and points left down a barely visible game trail. He stops one of the de facto leaders: a young woman with sharp brown eyes and long auburn hair, named Aislynn.

"Go straight to the clearing, but do not enter until I tell you. Do you understand?"

She nods with a barely audible "Yeah" between panting breaths then turns to the group and repeats the order. They take off. Hisaki raises his rifle and waits, counting as they rush by. One man, Ethan, eyes as wild as his unkempt sandy beard, has picked up a rifle from a ghost Hisaki killed and brings up the rear. Hisaki doesn't object to his being armed; he moves like a man with military training, but he has no idea how Ethan had time to stop and grab the weapon.

Ethan is almost to Hisaki when a bolt of superheated plasma catches him in the lower back. He grunts and spills forward, cradling his rifle to his chest. He pushes himself over and sits up, taking aim at his attacker. Hisaki and Ethan open fire simultaneously on the ghost, sending it to the ground with a volley of armor-piercing rounds. Ethan slumps back down.

Hisaki kneels next to him, but Ethan waves him off. With a labored breath he says, "Go."

"I'm not leaving anyone behind."

Ethan slaps the growing puddle of blood underneath him and says with more force: "Go!" He points at Hisaki's equipment: "Grenade."

"I'll do you one better."

He unslings his pack and digs out his last antipersonnel mine.

Ethan smiles with red-tinted teeth, then laughs. Hisaki tries to hand him the mine and it's pulled from his hand by an unseen force instead, and floats over to land in a spot a few yards away. When he turns back to Ethan, he sees he's focused on the mine and suddenly looks far more drained. Ethan's eyes meet Hisaki's and he grins a wolfish grin and reaches for the detonator. A slight smile of understanding upturns the corner of Hisaki's mouth and he wraps Ethan's hand around the clacker. Ethan raises his free hand to his brow.

Hisaki returns the salute and takes off down the trail. He taps his radio.

"Firebird one, copy."

There's a burst of static and the pilot of the lead dropship replies in a slow drawl: "Read you five by five, Sarge."

"I'm going to need some deforestation at waist height in a few minutes. You think you can do that?"

"Where do you want it?"

"On my beacon. Give me ten seconds after I turn it on, no more. Once they detect the signal, they'll be all over us."

"Still think there's at least two hundred of them out there?"

"What do your sensors say?"

"Twenty; thirty tops."

"Ever see a cockroach colony?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Once I turn the beacon on, you will."

"Whatever you say, sir. Firebird one out."

The radio clicks off as he reaches the group of prisoners crouched at the edge of the clearing, barely able to see over the tall grass. He pulls up next to Aislynn.

"Everyone accounted for?"

"All but you and Ethan." She looks over her shoulder down the trail.

An explosion shakes the trees and spooks most of the group.

"He's not coming."

Aislynn swallows and gives a single nod.

Hisaki stands up to address the others. "We have five hundred meters to the rendezvous. When I say go, you run. When I say stop, you lay down flat on the ground until I give the word. Understood?"

There is general assent. He scans the edges of the clearing and yells "Go!" at the top of his lungs.

They break cover and run. Hisaki is out in front, surprised to find Aislynn keeping up with him. He yells for them to stop and drops to the ground facing the group, clicking on his beacon once he's sure they're all down.

The three dropships are already in the air behind him. When the beacon lights up, Hisaki hears the ships wheel toward the clearing and Firebird one starts the countdown.

"Ten."

Hisaki hears the ghosts rushing through the grass.

"Nine."

Shrieks, barks, and growls pierce the air.

"Eight."

A few of the prisoners start to whimper in fear. One man looks around, frantic.

"Seven."

Hisaki sees the outlines of the ghosts darkening the sea of green.

"Six."

Aislynn whispers next to him, willing the group to remain calm.

"Five."

Her whispers become more insistent.

"Four."

Hisaki sees the frantic man's arm muscles twitch. Aislynn begins to crawl toward him.

"Three."

Aislynn reaches the man as he begins to stand.

"Two."

Hisaki slides towards Aislynn.

"One."

The man reaches his full height.

"Fire!"

Hisaki grabs Aislynn's ankle and drags her backward as hard as he can. The dropships open fire and thousands of bullets tear through the air. The frantic man's upper half drops to the ground in front of Aislynn, his bottom half toppling to the side. She watches as his blood pours over the ground, her brown eyes wide with horror and anger. Hisaki jumps to his feet the moment the guns go silent.

"Run!"

Everyone stands and sprints toward their designated dropships—except for Aislynn. Hisaki drops to one knee and leans in close.

"You need to stand and you need to run."

She closes her eyes and takes a breath. When she opens them, Hisaki sees they are clear and focused. They stand and sprint for the remaining dropship. With forty meters left, Aislynn hits the dirt, pulling Hisaki down with her. A bolt of plasma cuts through the air where his torso had just been and burns out on the gray hull of the dropship.

Hisaki switches his beacon off and leads Aislynn in a slow combat crawl. He scans the brush behind them and curses under his breath in Japanese when he sees nothing. He's aware that Aislynn is moving toward him but doesn't pay her much attention until her hands are working off his helmet. He immediately pulls away, not wanting a court martial and growing suspicious of who, exactly, these people are.

"Trust me," she says.

"Easy for you to say."

"You asked me to trust you and I have. I've not regretted that yet. Give me the same consideration. Please. Whatever awaits us at home—at least we'll be able to get there."

Hisaki frowns but lets her remove his helmet. Then her hands are on either side of his head, the first two fingers of each hand on his temples.

"Close your eyes."

He raises an eyebrow. "Close my eyes? So I can see them?"

"Are you seeing them terribly well with your eyes open?"

Hisaki concedes and closes his eyes.

"You're very tense, Master Sergeant."

"Can't imagine why."

"I need you to be calm or this won't work."

Hisaki takes a deep breath and forces his mind and body into a calmer state. It's soon replaced by nervous energy and a strong prey drive. This confuses him until he realizes that he's feeling the ghosts that surround them and he fully understands who these people are, why they've been imprisoned, and why his government wants them alive and out.

Suddenly, momentarily, none of that matters.

He knows where the ghosts are.

Hisaki turns to his back, unclips a grenade from his belt, and throws it into the highest concentration of ghosts. They're not as far away as he would like and he rolls Aislynn beneath his armored body and covers his head with his arms. The explosion rattles his teeth and sends dirt and body parts flying over them.

As soon as it's clear, her hands are on him again. He doesn't balk this time, doesn't fight her even though everything he's been taught tells him not to let a psi within ten miles of his person. Right now, he needs to use every tool he can so that his person can get within ten miles of safety and home.

Now that he knows what to look for, it's easy to pinpoint the location of the ghosts that survived his grenade. They're alarmed but determined. He opens his eyes and looks down at Aislynn. She gives him a supportive smile and nod, and releases him.

Hisaki replaces his helmet and activates his camouflage. He takes a deep breath, stands, and opens fire. Aislynn's psi power—her empathy—courses through him, allowing him to feel the locations of the ghosts as they advance. By the time his magazine is empty, only wind moves through the grass. Hisaki quickly reloads, keeping his weapon at the ready. When nothing returns fire and he's certain he can't feel them any longer, he yells for Aislynn to run.

Aislynn sprints for the dropship with Hisaki at her heels, acting as a shield. He's relieved when she leaps into the dropship, and jumps in behind her. He hits the door controls then taps his comm.

"All clear. Let's get these people home."

# Spotted  
by Constella Espj

Clem took a long pull from his coffee mug and savored the rich, earthy flavor.

Laura grimaced. "How can you just gulp it down scalding hot like that without spitting it all over your beard?"

He raised the mug to her in a toast and took another swig. "It's mind over matter. I focus on my enjoyment of the taste of the coffee instead of the burning in my mouth. Besides, this coffee is great. You should be the only one allowed to make any around here."

"Did I ever tell you you're my favorite trainee?" She was about to say something else when her phone went off. She hurried to her locker and returned moments later, biting her lower lip. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "Think I'm gonna take a half-day." She fairly sang, "Looks like I'm going camping!"

"I thought the kids were at their dad's?" Clem tried to sound casual, but Laura glanced at him with a strange look on her face. Hastily, he lifted his palm in a quizzical gesture. He was thankful it didn't look sweaty. "Usually you go camping with them."

"Oh, an old friend's in town. He was gonna go out by himself but since I don't have the kids, he invited me along."

Clem listened tolerantly as she went on about her friend's custom RV and how he was going to take her rock climbing.

"I like rock climbing." He felt like an idiot as soon as he said it.

Laura slapped him on the arm as she walked to the door. "You shoulda told me! I've never been. C'mon, time to walk."

Concourse 3 was Clem's favorite because it had a bakery that made excellent brioche. In every other way, it was the same as the other concourses. A relaxing, lounge-like entrance terminated in a door marked "Security Zone. Do Not Enter Unless Instructed." In order of flight departure, passengers were herded through the door. On the other side was a hellish, single-file line that could take as much as an hour to wait through. At the front of the line, the passengers were rewarded with an obstacle course through an enhanced body scanner, a possible pat down, and a friendly sniff by the airport dogs which, when accomplished, allowed them and their carry-ons to move through to the departure gates.

Barring the nearly-invisible white, spotlight-shaped lapel pin, Clem could have been a business traveler on the wrong side of the cordon. His walk up the glacially-moving queue went as usual. The security zone was awash in emotions. Passengers were excited, bored, tired, and annoyed at having to stand in a slow line. It was painted on their faces and postures, and detectable in their tones of voice. Clem wondered if Laura, from her position behind the blind wall spanning the length of the line, was as bored as he was. Probably not. She's going camping, Clem thought glumly. As he neared the twenty-minute mark painted on the wall and floor, he refocused his thoughts to the line.

Something caught his eye. It was a flash of oddly-shaped white. A tanned thumb was moving against it and, as he got closer, he could see a streak of purple. It was a worry stone. Clem's chest tightened. Nothing about the man's demeanor signaled intent anxiety, but the way he stroked the stone dried up Clem's throat and clenched his guts. He slid his gaze to the man's eyes. They were piercingly blue and widened momentarily, then crinkled into a friendly smile.

He felt—knew—this man's intent. Naked panic stole his breath and he looked down at his hands, willing them not to shake. A piece of the ridiculously-named "Spotiquette" came to him. "Even if you're alarmed, don't alarm the passenger." Don't give yourself away. From the corner of his eye, Clem saw blue-clad figures gathering in front of the bank of scanners. Laura had sensed his distress. He returned the man's smile, then continued down the line.

When he reached the front of the line, Clem's handler, Fred, ushered him through a door in the wall. Laura met them, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

"Are you okay? I know making a spot can be jarring but, Clem, I didn't get anything from anyone." She started toward the door for her own walk down the line. "Maybe the guy's broadcasting really quietly. If intent is there, I'll find it."

From behind Clem, Fred spoke up. "You look pretty rattled." His presence made Clem nervous. He knew Fred was studying him, so he focused on his hands and tried to look like he was concentrating.

"Still feeling it?"

"Yeah."

What Clem was feeling was like he was going to throw up. He hoped, selfishly, that Laura confirmed his spot. It seemed like hours before she returned, and she looked puzzled.

"That guy's broadcasting nothing but normal travel anxiety." She turned to Fred. "Dana's in handling room five. Can you go talk to him? Maybe something will bubble up."

Fred nodded; he didn't look happy. "You guys need to file discrepancy reports. We'll talk about it Monday."

After Fred was gone, Laura sighed. "This isn't good, Clem. I mean, better a false positive than a false negative, but still." She was clearly disappointed. She had recruited and trained him for Spotlight after teaching a workshop he'd attended. Business card in hand, she'd approached him and said he was a natural. Her record was exemplary, as were those of her trainees. He knew he had let her down.

"I'm sorry," Clem said meekly.

Laura shook her head, pushing a curly red tendril behind her ear. "It's not the end of the world. You just need more training, I guess. I gotta file my report and get outta here. After you're done with yours, get some lunch." She offered a conciliatory smile. "See you on Monday, unless I disappear into the wilderness."

On the way back to his desk, Clem passed Dana and Fred in the handling room. The suspicious passenger was nowhere in sight. Clem was glad they didn't see him; they were probably discussing his false alarm. Halfway through typing his report, he heard approaching footfalls.

"I poked at him a bit and nothing popped. He's just nervous about flying and worried his wife won't take him back. Most suspicious thing he had was a fancy candle in his checked luggage. Size of an end table." Fred stretched out his arms. "Hell, I'd be worried too if I had a wife who required a thousand-dollar, hand-sculpted candle just to get myself out of the doghouse."

Clem couldn't shake the feeling of terrible rightness, but he knew this wasn't the time to press the issue. He squeaked out, "His name's clean?"

"Yep. Name, background, employer, and even his broadcasts were clean. Dana and I signed off on him and we let him go—with a free upgrade to first class."

Clem winced.

"Guy probably had a flash of acute anxiety," continued Fred. "Explains the worry stone. Maybe you need to get one. You're still keyed up." As a handler, Fred was a human lie detector. He relied on different tools than a spotter, but he could read a person as well as any empath could.

Clem forced a chuckle, and pretended to pick a speck of lint from his sleeve.

Fred glanced at Clem's screen. "Finish up your report and send it to me. Have lunch, relax, then get back in the game. Dana's going to walk with you the rest of the day."

The walk with Dana was awkward. He hadn't needed a senior monitor in eight months, and now he was functionally a newbie again. He tried not to broadcast his uncertainty and disquiet. Instead, he thought about his training.

"A capable spotter can distinguish between normal emotions and 'intent anxiety', the particular mix of emotions that is present when someone is being deceptive or about to commit a crime. Human beings are amazingly predictable, and when you're about to, say, try to kill everyone on a plane, you're nervous about it, and your heightened anticipation will register as an aberrant broadcast. It stands out, well, like a spotlight in the dark."

"Pay attention; you're distracted. If you need to take a break, I can finish this walk myself." Dana was all business after what happened.

After the rotation ended, Clem went into the Baffle to think. The dimly-lit room was shielded from emotional broadcasts, and any company which regularly employed spotters had one. He tried to dispel the cold fear that still slithered through him. After fifteen minutes, he reluctantly left the secluded confines to go back to his desk.

As he rounded the corner, a commotion broke out. His heart sank and he hesitated before turning toward the crowded break room. As he got closer, he could make out individual voices, sobbing, cursing, or repeating prayers out loud. Over the cacophony, he heard Dana's voice lift in an anguished wail. The tension in his belly uncoiled and stretched upward. Through the doorway he surveyed the assembled staff. Some were holding one another, others were wiping wet faces. All of them were transfixed by the television. Clem followed their gaze.

Fred tried to interpolate himself between Clem and the news, but Clem caught a glimpse of fiery debris raining from the sky, before it was interrupted by the handler's blocky body.

"Clem."

The background noise of the room dimmed away. Fred's voice seemed to be echoing.

"Your spot..."

Clem's throat burned and he felt himself sinking. He was dimly aware of being helped into a chair. "Oh no." Something was being pressed into his hand and he looked down to see a cup of clear liquid. Fred was squatting next to him.

"Drink some water. You look like you're going to be sick." Fred looked sick too. "We're trying to get ahold of Laura, but her phone's off. " He shook his head, bewildered. "I'm so sorry, Clem. You were right. I don't know what happened. None of us detected anything." His eyes were wet and intense, and Clem dropped his gaze to his fingers around the cup.

"There was an explosion. It ignited the fuel tanks and ripped the whole thing apart. Three hundred people—" Fred fell silent. Clem knew the in-flight spotter had been Fred's friend.

Abruptly, Fred stood. "I need to talk to Dana. When you're pulled back together, stop by my office."

With heavy steps, Clem made his way to his cubicle. For the first time since he started, the space felt unfamiliar. He pushed the mouse aimlessly around on his desk while waiting for Fred's office door to open. When it did, he turned to see Dana emerge, puffy-faced. Their eyes locked and she stared helplessly, raising her hands in a gesture of confusion and pain. He felt terrible for her, and worse for Laura, who couldn't have picked a worse time to go incommunicado. Her attention shifted to his screen, displaying the report that damned her and Laura, and her shoulders slumped. Unable to bear the tension, Clem looked away. His hands were shaking.

When Clem entered his office, Fred looked up and rubbed his meaty hand over his face. "I read your report. This is a disaster. We're going to be cleaning this up for...I don't know how long."

Clem didn't reply.

"You notice anything unusual about Laura today?"

"Not really. Well..." Clem paused and twisted his lips, unsure if he should continue. "She was pretty excited this morning about going camping this weekend."

"Uh-huh. So that's why she left early." Fred grunted. "That's pretty strange, don't you think?"

"What?"

"You get a spot which turns out to be correct and Laura fails to confirm it, and then becomes unreachable."

"What about Dana? She missed it too."

He exhaled a sharp breath. "This guy, I don't know. He must have been some well-trained psychopath to broadcast so normally. It's the only thing Dana and I could think of. There's just no way we shouldn't have stopped him otherwise." His already strained face darkened. A column of investigators filed noisily past the office. He rose.

"It's time to go explain ourselves. I wish I could congratulate you on your first spot. You'll have to answer some questions, but not as many as the rest of us. You're in the clear; everyone else is in it pretty deep."

The rest of the day was a blur of interrogations during which Clem tried not to collapse in grief. He was sent home pending investigation, and admonished that he would be contacted further. The parking structure was backed up, so as he waited to exit the airport, Clem recalled Fred's puzzlement. In his devastation, he had grasped at straws.

"It's easy to spot a psychopath. Their minds aren't full of feelings of joy or fear or weariness. They broadcast predatory vigilance." Daisy pointed at a raised hand. "Clem?"

"We can't use them at all? For anything?" By now, Clem had learned how draining it was to control broadcasts.

"We can't train them for any of our jobs. They can't be relied upon and they can't form normal bonds. You need to be able to count on every team member to be genuine and dedicated. They can't work as spotters or handlers. On the other hand, they almost never volunteer for suicidal attacks because it goes against their self-interest. They're just not part of any equation."

At home, Clem walked mechanically across the living room and sagged onto the couch. Enervated, he looked around at the room; his eyes stopped at a framed photograph on his desk. It was of him and Laura at the company picnic, holding up a "First Place!" ribbon. She'd convinced him to enter the baking contest with her, and they'd had fun making a mess, and a cake. He remembered thinking back then that he hoped those times would never end. Now, the photograph was a stab in the heart.

While making lunch a few days later, he heard a muffled chirp from his bedroom. He turned off the stove and rushed toward it. The chirp sounded again impatiently, as if it knew his employer did not like to be kept waiting. He yanked open a drawer stuffed with cables and small electronics, and extracted a cheap flip phone. He opened the flashing cover and put it to his ear.

"The test is complete, come back to the home office." The line went dead.

He knew he should be happy, but he couldn't stop thinking of his coworkers. Even though he'd only done his job, he felt guilt that he wasn't prepared for. Laura would be hunted down for questioning and she, Dana, and Fred would be relentlessly interrogated, or worse. Spotlight's credibility was already in question, and everyone's now-shaky sense of safety would be destabilized even further. For a long time, maybe forever, none of them would know why.

He snapped the phone in half and put it into a plastic bag. He sat on his bed, holding the bag and reflecting on his tenure at Spotlight. He enjoyed the work environment and the relationships he formed with his colleagues. This wasn't the ending he would have chosen. He sighed, then called Human Resources from his home phone to announce his imminent resignation, citing stress. He promised to pick up his last paycheck and say goodbye to everyone.

As soon as he hung up, he went into the bathroom and pulled out his shaving kit. A little over an hour later, he emerged bald and divested of his facial hair, colored contact lenses, and carefully practiced drawl.

He picked up the photo frame and opened the back. A second photo was behind the one from the picnic. He flipped it over. Against the mountains, he stood with his arm around another young man who was smiling and holding something white and purple. In training, Clem's focus had come to him easily and naturally, and he tried to mentor his friend, who couldn't look at his hands without being obvious. As a joke, Clem had given him a worry stone and, to their surprise, it worked. Seven months later, they went their separate ways. Clem was chosen for penetration testing, while his friend went to the passenger team. Looking into the same blue eyes he'd seen on his last day of work, Clem recalled their final conversation, two years previous.

"I'll miss you, man, but if I get this airport job I hope I never see you."

Clerc laughed heartily. "You should look forward to it! It would mean that our method is successful."

His loyalties didn't let him say it, back then or on that day at the airport, but Clem wanted desperately to preserve Clerc from his role in the test. He regretted bitterly that he hadn't raised a fuss. Wished Laura had spotted him. Wished Clerc's resolve had been weak enough to be broken by Fred's questioning.

He hardly slept that night. Relieved of the constant pressure of focus and control, his untethered emotions poured out in wracking sobs. He cried for Laura, for Clerc, and for himself. He had really liked Laura, and it hurt to know that like Clerc, the last time he'd seen her he hadn't been able to say goodbye.

Next morning, Clem shouldered a meager backpack with his few real belongings and new identification. He checked himself in the bathroom mirror before putting on a ball cap. His own face, so long hidden, stared nakedly back at him. He touched his fingers to the ashes of the photographs he had burned in the sink, then shut off the light. A cleaner would arrive soon to purge the apartment of evidence of Clem's existence.

He took the freeway, driving past the exit for the airport where he'd been employed the day before, and continued to the next state. He left the car in commuter parking and walked several blocks toward the train station. In an alley, he paused to pull the plastic bag from his pocket. He dropped it onto the ground and crunched the burner phone to pieces beneath his heel, then tossed the bag into a restaurant dumpster. At the train station, he purchased a ticket and smiled at a pretty spotter who caught his gaze. He was confident she was broadcasting a sudden self-consciousness.

"What if they catch me? She's really good." Despite nearly a year of training, Clem wasn't certain he could carry out the test. How could he expect to fool a woman who had trained law enforcement and security, human resources, and even diplomats who displayed empathic abilities?

"It's part of the risk," Daisy said. "But you've performed well and if I were still at Spotlight and didn't know you, you could work next to me and I would never know you aren't an empath." She put a hand over his. "Just remember your focus. No empath could pull this off; they broadcast too easily. You're one of a handful of people who has a chance of carrying out this penetration test. If you get this Spotlight job at the airport, I'll have done my work. If Clerc gets through security, you'll have done yours. The world is full of people willing to pay a lot of money if we can show them a proof of concept."

Daisy handed him the brochure for a weeklong workshop called Everyday Empathy. Smiling up from the glossy cover was its instructor, a world-renowned Spotlight empath named Laura. "Good luck."

# Rescue Missions  
by A.M. Harte

Dragon suitably beheaded, Prince Charming galloped across the castle moat, brandishing his sword with practiced flair. If only a painter could capture me like this, he thought. His white stallion would be frozen mid-leap, neck arched in a perfect curve, mane and tail streaming through the air. He would be sitting astride Wexford in a resplendent scarlet tunic, with a stern profile and smiling eyes.

Wexford cantered straight into the castle courtyard, his hooves clatter-clattering on the mismatched cobblestones. He wheeled to a halt in the courtyard's center and stamped his foot twice.

"Never fear, Princess!" Prince Charming called out, uncertain whether she could hear him but nonetheless exhilarated by the returning echo. "I shall rescue you!"

He dismounted, giving Wexford one solid pat on the neck. Wexford ignored him. Prince Charming shook his head and walked towards the stairs leading up to the main doorway, squinting through the narrow slits of his visor. "Stupid horse," he muttered. Perhaps he'd leave Wexford out of the painting after all.

Prince Charming misjudged the first step. His suit of armor was so heavy he tripped and crashed onto his face. Wexford's loud whinny sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Not to be discouraged, Prince Charming leapt to his feet and stomped all the way up the stairs, pushing the castle doors open and walking inside. Once inside, he stopped and looked around in surprise. He had been expecting an abandoned castle, overrun with weeds and the lazy cobwebs of large, contented spiders. Instead he found a tidy entrance hall, candles burning brightly in the lamps. The highly polished wooden furniture gleamed so brightly that he could see his face in the reflection.

But there was no time to waste admiring the décor. He had a princess to save! He could already imagine the reunion: her lying asleep on her bed, golden locks cascading over one shoulder, face upturned, waiting for a kiss. He'd walk into her room, lean down and press his lips against hers. Only that could break the curse upon her. Her eyes would flutter open, she'd take one look at him and fall in love. Wexford would carry them home to live happily ever after. Prince Charming smiled self-deprecatingly. The things a man had to do nowadays to find himself a wife!

The highest room of the tallest tower—that's where Sleeping Beauty was. Prince Charming huffed and puffed his way up the stairs, using his broadsword as a walking stick. When he'd finally reached the top, he was so tired he had to sit down for a few minutes and breathe deeply. Once he'd composed himself, he got to his feet and walked the last few steps over to the narrow wooden door behind which waited his prize.

Prince Charming reached for the door, then hesitated. If it was truly to be love at first sight, he would need to look his best. He pulled out his travel comb and a small towel, wiped his face dry and combed his hair into a neat side parting. Then he opened the door and walked in to meet his future wife.

Except there was one small problem to his great plan: the bed was empty.

Prince Charming walked over to the bed and stared at the neatly pressed sheets in abject confusion. Where was she? The instructions had been clear; this is where the wicked witch had left Sleeping Beauty, ready to be rescued. But this bed didn't even look like it had been slept in.

That's when he noticed the note on the pillow.

He picked it up. Was it a love letter? It didn't look like the love letters he had seen before. It wasn't pink, and it didn't smell like perfume. It smelled like old newspapers, and—when Prince Charming turned the paper around to stare at the back—he realized it was a piece of an old newspaper. It had a completed crossword on the back!

He turned it back around and stared at the no-nonsense handwriting. At least it was easier to read than the usual girly cursive.

Dear Prince Charming, the letter said.

I am very sorry not to be waiting for you, as you no doubt expected. As it happens, I knew the witch was going to poison me, so took an anti-sleeping potion beforehand. I tried to keep myself busy by learning languages like Ogrish. However, I've grown bored of waiting for you to rescue me. Prince Dashing was captured by ogres when he was out fishing, so I've gone to rescue him instead. I hope you don't mind. If you want, you can wait here until I get back.

Lots of love,

from Sleeping Beauty.

Prince Charming sat down on the bed and let the letter fall to the floor. Now what was he going to tell his parents?

# Battlemage  
by Veronica Stephens

I have always known war. Since my tenth year, I have joined the other mages as they ride into battle, casting destruction. Blue flame flickers over my blue skin, signifying my strengths in fire and death magik, but the potential for all forms flows through my veins.

As a child, I focused on honing my abilities along with a green boy and yellow girl. We were taught our sorcery beneath the castle of our Master. The green boy and I would practice various strategies of magik and the yellow girl would heal us. Our elder, yellow also, watched us while our sires attended to matters of the court. She was stern and not above chiding us, something I learned just before my first march.

"Ello, tell me about the aura-popper," I demanded from where we stood in the practice yard, my focus on a small flame as it danced across my fingertips.

"They are called 'auralplorers' and you are not to worry about them and I am not 'Ello'," she snapped as she monitored the green boy, whom I called "Rock", while he dug a tunnel below us. "We are not to be named and you know this."

"But what am I to call you when we ride with the others," I whined, then closed my fist and extinguished the flame.

"You will call me as everyone else does! Yellow!"

"And how will the old yellow know that I am not calling him?" I placed both hands above my head to start a fire in the air above.

"You will call him Healer, as is his rightful title."

"And when will you earn that title?"

Ello frowned. "When I have been found worthy; may that be many a day away from now."

That day did come and my day came with it. It was my fourth march, perhaps fifth—all have blended together into a single, never ending event. I was still young, but Ello had grown into a fine assistant for the adult yellow Healer. He and a red Battlemage, the woman who bore me into this world, set us to work.

"Green, raise a wall around the Master and his personal guard," commanded the Battlemage. "Blue, rain brimstone on the enemy archers to allow our men a chance to flank them. Yellows, be ready for the wounded! They will be here shortly. I must report to our Master."

A sphere of colored wind carried her away moments before arrows pelted us from above. I blasted flame above us in an attempt to burn them away, but I was not fast enough. Two arrows cleared the blaze. One lay on the ground, singed. The other protruded from the arm of the Healer. Ello immediately moved to pluck the arrow from the wound, but the Healer stopped her.

"Save your energy for the fight. I can tend to myself," he ordered. "Remember how I instructed you. Certain wounds can wait for others that are more pressing. Look. The Battlemage returns."

The fight pressed on. I concentrated my efforts on killing the archers. Anger at myself for not being fast enough boiled in my veins. I pushed the anger into my hands, let it fuel my blue flame. Molten lava formed a perfect sphere above the archery group closest to us and plummeted down into their screaming ranks. Chunks of brimstone followed, finishing those that remained.

My Master's Horsemen rode through the newly created gap. They slashed and skewered our enemy. Spears of rock skewered up out of the ground in a pattern I knew well from training. I searched the field for another group to target and a new sensation began to rise in me. My stomach seemed to plunge down past my feet as sour bile pushed up into my mouth. A deep pit seemed to open within my body and, inside it, an emptiness called to me.

I closed my eyes, swallowed, and tried to banish the feeling. The more I concentrated on the abyss growing inside me, the stronger I was able to feel them; all the dead from the battle. They were gathered as though they awaited orders from a Commander. I stood before them in the void, just beyond arm's reach. One of the men was familiar and I recognized him as a guard from my Master's castle. My hand reached out toward him—

Crack!

My eyes snapped open to see the battlefield I stood on, my hand throbbing with pain where I had been struck.

"Do not!" The Healer hissed in my ear. He gestured toward the enemy across the field. "They cannot know the full range of your abilities! No matter how strong the urge may be, now is not the time to wield your power over death."

"How did you know," I asked, my voice trembling. "This is the first time I've seen them."

"I know who you were born of," he said, then stepped back and motioned to the few remaining skirmishes before us. "The end is nigh. Assist where you are able."

He walked away, weary. I stayed where I was, unable to move as I looked over the fallen. Some of them had been under the command of the Master; others were from the ranks of the enemy. All of them had been waiting for my mandate in the void. When the Master gave word that we were to return to camp, I still had not moved. It was Ello's pleading voice that brought me out of my fog.

"Let me care for you!"

"There is no need," the Healer wheezed. "I have dealt with myself sufficiently."

"But you are not well!"

"Of course I'm not well!" the Healer countered harshly. "I'm dying. The arrow that pierced my flesh had been poisoned. Achieved, no doubt, by an orange mage."

Next to me, Rock stood, his face lowered, allowing none to glimpse it. He placed an arm around the Healer.

"Come Fa—Healer. I will see to your resting place."

The Healer paused and turned to myself and Ello. Upon her, he bestowed the title of Healer and ordered her to report to the Master immediately. Her despair was clear, but she bowed her head and started for the castle. The Healer asked Rock to give him a moment with me. Rock reluctantly agreed. Once he stood out of earshot, the Healer regarded me with serenity.

"You are the successor to a very powerful line. Refine your abilities, but do so in secret. You saw, didn't you? You understood? All who have fallen in battle await a Leader, one to pledge their allegiance to. That is a dangerous power to wield and to spread knowledge of. You must be careful. When it is time, you must rise up and control the armies of the dead as their Battlemage."

# Illusion  
by Dan Jensen

1.

David Johnson was a 35-year-old man with a job that just barely paid the rent and bills. The car he drove was nothing special and he probably could have bought a better one with all the money he'd spent on repairing it. Sugar had been eliminated from his diet as much as possible; he ate fairly well. A lot of his free time was spent watching movies and he loved playing video games online with his friends.

Most of all he loved his girlfriend of two years, Kate. She was his entire world. Without her, he would never have changed.

The police found him sitting in his kitchen one Friday afternoon, staring at Kate's dead body with a knife in his hand. They yelled at him to drop the knife but he didn't move; his eyes didn't shift from the open wound on Kate's neck. One officer had to pry the knife out of David's hand, and it was nearly impossible to place handcuffs on his frozen arms. A medic performed a brief examination on him and concluded that he was in a catatonic state, completely unresponsive to stimuli. David was picked up and dragged away to an awaiting police car.

2.

David was five years old when he first had the dream that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Earlier that day he had stolen ten dollars from his mother's purse, his first-ever bad deed. While he felt satisfied with the money, he also discovered feelings of guilt and tried to understand them. That night while he slept his mind transported him to a desert, where he stood before a high fence made of steel mesh. It was a clear, sunny day and a mild breeze caressed his face with warm air. Something moved on the other side of the fence and startled him. David saw a figure, human in shape yet bearing no physical features of a person. It was naked and its skin was wet and grey. Its face had no features. No ears. No mouth. No eyes. Yet it seemed to be looking right at him. David was suddenly terrified of the thing. After a few seconds he slowly walked to his left. The thing kept looking in his direction and followed him along. David stopped. So did the thing.

David woke up screaming and his mother rushed into his room to check on him. After telling her about the dream, he also confessed to the theft and gave her back the money. She forgave him, and the creature in his dream was nothing but a bad memory.

* * *

The following year David's best friend accidentally broke his mother's priceless antique vase. When his friend's mother came home she questioned the boys about it. David went along with his friend's story about how they went outside to play and it must have happened while they were out, probably caused by the cat. David didn't like lying to the lady as she was always so nice to him, but he knew that otherwise his friend would be severely punished. His friend's mother was in tears at losing such a precious belonging and David hated being involved in such an awful situation.

That night, David found himself standing before the fence in the desert with the faceless thing staring at him. David was still terrified at the sight of it, but reassured by the huge fence between him and the thing. David approached the fence and the thing stood where it was. He was so close to the fence now. Feeling secure, he looked away to see if he could spot where it ended but he couldn't. It seemed endless. As David turned back the thing was standing right in front of him against the fence.

He gasped himself awake.

3.

As the years went by and David grew up, his innocence gradually corroded. He lied sometimes, cheated here and there, and once in a while put himself above others. Initially there was one creature in his dream staring at him from beyond the fence, but with every bad thought and wrong deed another creature would appear. Through his childhood it scared him every time another creature would appear—two, then three, then four creatures—until after some time he grew used to them. The dream wouldn't come every night, only once every few months. David would fall asleep and find himself in the desert, then turn around toward the fence where dozens of faceless beings would be constantly staring at him. As David became comfortable with them he would sometimes find new ways to taunt them, throwing a rock over the fence or smacking his hand against it. The creatures never seemed to want to harm David, and he could never understand why they were there.

* * *

As an adult, David was fascinated by serial killers and armed bandits, by rapists and mass murderers. What made these people do the terrible things they did? What went through the mind of a person who could pick up a gun and end the lives of innocents? David found it all so interesting, as committing such a horrifying act was something he could never imagine actually doing. There was a world of difference between trying to understand evil and physically acting it out. He loved life and all things in it. He cherished his friends and his family, and loved Kate with all of his heart.

There was one movie night when David went so far as to wonder what would happen if he stabbed Kate through the heart with a large kitchen knife. David wondered how much pressure he would need to drive the knife through her ribcage, wondered how long it would be before anyone realized Kate was missing, wondered where the best place would be to bury the body, and wondered how he would feel afterward.

He stopped himself and felt horrible at thinking of something like that, but he knew that since he would never actually do something so dreadful, it was okay. He continued watching the movie with Kate snuggled into his arms. He stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled at him and told him that she loved him. He didn't hesitate telling her that he loved her, too.

Later that night when the two were asleep in bed, David had the dream again, and another creature joined the crowd. This time, however, the things came up to the fence and were putting their fingers through it. It didn't feel right to David – they'd never approached him like this before. For the first time since he was a child he felt afraid of them.

4.

At first David felt as though he had crossed a line imagining committing murder. He wasn't that kind of person, and was scared that there was something wrong with him. Was it acceptable for a sane and rational man to think such things? Did everybody entertain the thought of killing someone at some point in their lives? He figured as long as he kept these thoughts locked away then there wouldn't be anything to worry about. After all, how can one understand evil if one doesn't think about it?

* * *

David sat down to dinner with Kate and her family. The conversation was banal as usual, but they were nice and friendly people. Her parents were close to retiring and her younger sister had recently graduated from university with a degree that would likely never benefit her. As the conversation drifted, so did David's mind.

How would someone kill an entire family? How would it be possible to restrain the others while you killed one of them? It's no wonder families are murdered in their sleep! At least that way the killer has the element of surprise. Unless you took something like a chainsaw...

David stopped himself. He was doing it again. Was there something seriously wrong with him? No. It was fine to explore one's own dark side as long as there was a clear comprehension of right from wrong. David felt confident enough in his own sanity to understand that there was no problem imagining cracking Kate's father's skull open with an axe since he would never actually do anything so grotesque.

* * *

The dream came to him again that night, only this time the creatures were quite agitated. They moved around like a crowd at a concert. Although he was still feeling scared of them, David cautiously approached the fence. The creatures were practically climbing over each other to be closer to him. David looked up at the fence and noticed that it was beginning to sway gently.

5.

The hands of the clock kept revolving and the pages of the calendar continually changed, yet each day of David's life was beginning to feel the same. He was content with the way things were, but his world was starting to bore him. It had been a while since any dark thoughts had passed through his mind. Not that it mattered anymore since he had accepted that imagining terrible things was just part of life. The demons in his mind no longer frightened him. So what if he pictured strangling the old lady sitting across from him on the bus and wondered what would happen if he stabbed the bus driver in the throat while the vehicle was in motion? He had come to terms with these fantasies. It resulted in more faceless creatures pushing against the mesh fence, but it was strong enough to hold them back. He'd even resumed taunting them again. He was in control. There was nothing to fear.

* * *

David and Kate had a tempestuous argument. Ordinarily they were quite adept at working things out rationally, but this time they both thought their side was worth fighting for. Their voices competed to be heard over each other's, doors were slammed and household objects were broken. David locked Kate out of their bedroom and went to sleep to the sound of her crying in the living room. He didn't care – she was wrong, he was right and she deserved to be uncomfortable for the night.

He drifted to sleep and was again standing before the fence. The crowd of creatures was stirring, but David had had enough. He slammed his fist against the fence and screamed obscenities at them. His anger seemed to excite them. He continued to pound against the fence with both fists and could feel his skin touch the slimy texture of their fingers. He gripped the fence and shook it. The creatures did the same. At once the aggressive crowd rushed against the fence and David could see it was about to topple. He ran back to avoid being crushed by it, and the noise it made was deafening.

Once the dust had settled, David could see that there was nothing between him and the things. He was ready to fight. He clenched his teeth and his fists, but the creatures didn't attack. They walked calmly over and surrounded him. As the circle closed in he began to relax a little. Once they were close to him the creatures reached out and placed their hands on him gently, welcoming. David began to weep. He stood there surrounded by these beings who seemed to understand him and accept him.

* * *

In a trance-like state, David walked out to the living room but Kate was nowhere to be seen. He could hear water running from the tap in the kitchen and walked toward it. She had her back to him, drinking from a glass by the sink. Without thinking about it, David picked a large kitchen knife off the counter and grabbed Kate's hair with his other hand. She dropped the glass in shock as he forced the knife into the side of her neck and sliced her throat from left to right. She turned around as he stepped back, gagging on her own blood, her eyes wide and uncomprehending of the blank expression on her lover's face. David watched her fall to her knees, and as the last breath exited her body she slumped to the floor. He could only stare at what he'd done.

He sat down beside Kate's body with the knife still in his hand, unable to let it go. A few days passed before there was a commotion at the door and the police forced their way into the apartment. Had he not slept? Why did he kill the girl he loved? Maybe he didn't love her after all. He had experienced the taking of another's life, but he couldn't register what it felt like.

A bright light shone into his eyes and something clamped around his wrists, and the next thing he was aware of was sitting in the back of a car. Were there voices? He wasn't sure. There was just a dull white noise echoing in his mind. As he sat in the car he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window and felt it strange that it was possible to be seeing himself when he had no eyes or any other features.

# The Basement  
by Jonathan Martin

An ancient grandfather clock chimed, the pendulum steadily rocking back and forth.

Elsewhere in the house, a mouse froze mid-drink, cocking its head to the side. A black-gloved hand descended out of the shadows and plucked the mouse from the puddle. Quickly, the figure sliced open the creature's throat, then held it to keep the blood spray away. Once the rodent had stopped twitching, its tail was violently cut free. The figure added the tail to a growing collection tucked into his belt and tossed the body to a waiting cat.

* * *

The next night

"I should never have let you talk me into coming here, James," Stacy said, looking up through the pounding rain at the ancient house.

"What are you afraid of? You saw the cops here the other night. There's nothing here," James said and then turned back to the house, his hands in his leather jacket. "You're right though, it is creepy-looking."

The front door was still noticeably red despite years of the sun's fading effects. The structure's once-crisp paint had long been stripped away, leaving gray wooden boards that looked as if they would crack against the onslaught of the current storm. The second floor's lone remaining shutter slapped against the house, a dull thud punctuating the howls of the wind. A rusted weathercock, perched atop the highest peak, dangled uselessly as the strong wind threatened to tear it from its rooftop.

"What do you think happened here?" Autumn asked, her face pressed against the metal gate.

"It doesn't matter," James said, and then hit Steven on the shoulder. "Did you bring it?"

"Yeah," Steven said, cutting his eyes at James and opening his backpack. Within was a nearly full bottle of bourbon. "My dad won't notice it's missing for at least a week." He pulled his glasses from his face and tried to wipe them on his damp shirt, only managing to smear the raindrops further.

"Why weren't you at school today?" Stacy asked.

"I had a dentist appointment."

"Nobody cares. Let's do this," James said, turning on his flashlight and walking up the driveway. Stacy, Autumn, and Steven followed close behind.

The wooden porch creaked as they ventured up the three steps, deftly avoiding the large puddle of fetid water at the top. The door to the house stood ajar, its tired red paint cracked and peeling. One of the small stained glass windows that framed the doorway was missing a pane, shards of glass shining in the flashlight's beam on the floor inside the house.

James pushed, and the door opened with a loud groan. In the foyer, a rotting rug occupied most of the scuffed wooden floor. Barely visible beneath the growing black mold was an image of a pair of hounds flushing a fowl from thick underbrush. Nothing happened when he flicked the light switch. He swept his flashlight to the right, illuminating an open pair of French doors that led into a sitting room. The furniture was covered with plastic sheets, dust from years of disuse disturbed only by rodent tracks and what appeared to be the paw prints of a cat.

Autumn shone her flashlight to the left and spotted a hole in the wall, large enough for her to see through. Looking through, she saw what appeared to have once been an office. A large wooden desk sat in the center of the room, an ancient red leather chair toppled next to it. The shelves lining the walls were empty save for a scurrying rat.

James led them into the sitting room. "We could hang in here," he said, sitting down on a green wing-backed chair and kicking up a cloud of dust.

"I don't like all the windows," Steven said, trying to be heard over James' coughing. "Someone will see us."

James rose, brushing off his pants. "Fine, you lead then." He shoved the flashlight at Steven, who raised his hands and shook his head. "Pussy," James said under his breath as he crossed the foyer.

Using his flashlight, James led the way deeper into the house, their umbrellas leaving a wet trail behind them. The first door they came to led into a kitchen. Dust coated the chipped marble countertops and old, stained floral wallpaper peeled off the wall like sunburnt skin.

"Did you bring cups?" Autumn asked, opening the cupboards one by one.

"Nope," Steven replied.

"Damn." Autumn slammed the last cupboard closed. "Nothing."

"What about in here?" Stacy asked, opening a narrow door in the far corner.

Autumn joined her, her flashlight revealing a pantry, empty except for a single can sitting upon a shelf. They turned back to the kitchen as James grabbed Steven and spun him around, unzipping the backpack.

"Hey!" Steven protested, feeling the weight of the bottle lifted from his back. He turned around, but James was already taking a swig.

"Leave some for us," Stacy giggled, reaching for the bourbon and taking a sip of her own. Autumn was next and finally the bottle was passed to Steven, who choked down a swallow, coughing afterward. Shoving the bottle back into James' hands, he ran from the kitchen. James rolled his eyes and took another swig when the sound of Steven's distant retching filtered into the kitchen.

Slowly, Steven returned. James crammed the bottle back into Steven's backpack and zipped it shut. He glared at Steven, then strode out of the kitchen, bellowing "Come on!"

The next doorway to the right opened into a dining room. An empty china cabinet lay upon its side, shattered glass littering the floor. The thick, broken leg of a large oak table sat on the floor a few feet away, the table itself askew. Rain beat against a heavy wooden door on the other side of the table, the backyard beyond. Out in the hallway, a staircase off to the left led up and back toward the front of the house.

Steven staggered against the railing and then jumped as a loud crack of thunder shook the house.

"Lightweight," James laughed and started up the hallway next to the stairs, suddenly falling to one knee.

"Are you okay?" Autumn asked, rushing forward and almost falling herself. "Careful, it's wet," she told the other two, shining her flashlight where James had fallen. "Ewww!" She squealed, looking at the small crimson puddle on the floor. "Is that blood?"

"I don't know," Steven said, swallowing hard. "Maybe we shouldn't go upstairs."

"Don't be a coward," James said, lifting his umbrella over his shoulder, ready to swing.

Makeshift club at the ready, he sidestepped down the hallway. He threw open the door to a bathroom where an old, porcelain tub hunched upon its clawed feet, the once-copper pipes green with corrosion. James moved to the next door and found a small coat closet, hangers rusted to the coat rack.

The office Autumn had spied sat at the end of the hallway through an open door. It was empty except for an impaled rat, still twitching on a desk spike. Blood dripped from where its tail had been, feeding a small pool atop the cracked leather desktop.

"Gross," Autumn said, gagging.

James dropped his umbrella near the dying rat and took the bourbon back from Steven. "Here's to you little guy," he said, taking another pull from the bottle. He tried to return the liquor to Steven's backpack, but Steven backed away.

"You can keep it."

"Wasn't the chair over there?" Autumn asked, pointing next to the desk.

"Bah, you're imagining things," James said. He eyed Steven with a malicious grin. "Let's go upstairs."

The teens ascended the steps, James weaving back and forth as he led, the stairs groaning beneath them. A decaying library sat on the left at the top of the stairwell. A few rotten books, the covers long since eaten by rodents, lined the few remaining shelves. An overturned world globe sat in the middle of the room, forgotten in the dust. A pair of easy chairs faced what had once been a fireplace but now was nothing more than a pile of bricks. Beside the ruined fireplace stood an old grandfather clock. The hands were still moving, the pendulum swinging silently.

Stacy approached the clock, Steven close behind. "After all this time..." she said.

"Someone had to have fixed this up, or wound it," Steven replied, checking his watch. "It's a minute slow."

The clock struck nine, the sudden loud chiming drawing a scream from Steven and the girls. As the last chime died, the air was filled with James' laughter.

"James!" Stacy chided.

James glared at Stacy, then handed the almost empty bottle to Autumn. Chest heaving with anger, he looked around and grabbed the globe. With a grunt, he threw it at the clock, shattering its glass face. He stared at the now skewed hands and took a deep breath, shoving Steven toward the first door in the upstairs hall. "You first."

James closely followed behind Steven into what had once been a bedroom. A stained mattress sagged against the right hand wall. Against the left sat a chest of drawers with a broken mirror atop it.

"Nothing in here," Steven said, turning around and bumping into James. "You know what, screw you guys."

"Steven!" Stacy said, but he ignored her. He took a seat in one of the chairs, kicking up a cloud of dust.

"What an ass," James said, then turned to Steven. "You're being a wet blanket, like usual. We're going to the next room. I'm tired of your shit." James grabbed Stacy's wrist and dragged her to the next door, pushing it open so forcefully that it hit the wall and bounced back, clipping him in the shoulder.

"Ok, you can let go now," Stacy said when they were through. The room was empty except for an ancient radiator against the left wall and a lone table in front of the window. A yellowing telephone, the plastic casing cracked, sat atop the table.

James snatched the bottle of bourbon from Autumn and took another gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "You haven't had much," he slurred, handing the bottle to Stacy.

She took another sip before Autumn grabbed the bottle. "This is how you do it," she said, upending it into her mouth.

"Give me that." James grabbed the bottle and finished it off, then threw it at the phone. It missed and he watched as it smashed harmlessly against the wall.

Stacy approached the phone, picking the receiver up and placing it to her ear. "It's dead," she said, setting the receiver down and then jumping as her cell phone rang.

James laughed as Stacy flipped her phone open and put it to her ear.

"Help me! I'm in the basement!"

It was Steven and, when Stacy bolted from the room, he was no longer in the library chair.

"Maybe he went into the uh..." started James. He leaned heavily against the wall and pushed open the door to the left, poking his head inside. "...bathroom," he finished then added, "Nope."

"And he's not over here," Autumn said, stumbling against the door frame as she came back out of the last room on the right.

James snorted. "That pussy, he probably got scared and went home."

Autumn giggled. "Pussy."

"He's a pussy," James said again, walking up to the old clock, the weight still counting away the seconds. "And this is stupid," he declared, pushing the clock over, shattering the glass door with a loud crash. James stumbled and fell in the broken glass, clear slivers slicing into his palms as he caught himself with his hands. "Son of a bitch." He stood up, hands held out. "I think I saw an old towel in the bathroom," he said, walking back down the hall. He returned a moment later empty-handed. "Must've been downstairs," he mumbled and headed down the steps.

Stacy called after him when he was halfway down the stairs.

"Just hold tight, I'll be right back," he called back up, slurring the words.

Five minutes later, he had still not returned and Stacy began to get worried.

"Pussy." Autumn giggled again.

"Knock it off," Stacy said, glaring at her companion. "We should never have come here."

"You're such a buzz kill," Autumn said. "You and Steven would be perfect together." She snickered and set her flashlight in one of the chairs. Her hand dug into her hip pocket and pulled out a flask. "Drink some of this. Go on, show me you're not a pussy too."

Stacy took the container, unscrewed the top, and sniffed at its contents. "What is it?" she asked, handing the flask back.

"Vodka," Autumn said, taking a sip. "I knew he'd—" she paused and took a drink "—I knew James would drink most of whatever Steven brought, so..." She held up the flask and took another mouthful.

"I can't carry you out of here." Stacy grabbed the flask.

"Hey! Give it back."

"No!"

"Fine, be a bitch," Autumn said, stumbling toward the staircase, leaving her flashlight in the chair. She looked as if she were going to topple, but recovered at the last minute.

"Autumn, wait! I'm sorry," Stacy said, but there was no answer.

Stacy gave the flask a disgusted look before pouring it out on to the dusty floor and dropping it.

Taking a deep breath, Stacy crept to the edge of the stairs, hearing the front door slam below. As she peered down into the gloom, she slowly descended the steps, wincing with every creak and groan of the wood below her feet. At the foot of the stairs, she turned to the left, the walls of the narrow hallway seeming to close in on her as she walked. A light seeped out from below the bathroom door and she reached out, sweat forming on her brow as she turned the knob.

The bathroom was empty, except for James' leather jacket and lit flashlight lying on the floor, its beam illuminating a pair of lines in the dust leading away from the bathroom. She followed the trail out past the stairs, stopping when she noticed the back door was open. The fallen leg of the dining room table now leaned against the wall.

"Very funny guys," Stacy called as she backed into the wall. Rain and wind was the only response. "Guys? Fine, I'll play along." She walked around the table and froze.

Help him! He's in the basement.

The words were scrawled in the dust of the wooden floor, the wind threatening to blow them away.

Shaken, Stacy inched to the back door and looked out. A fallen tree crushed the far fence line, the trunk twisted and gnarled. The remains of a child's swing dangled from the nearby branch of another tree. Not seeing any sign of her friends, she started to turn back into the house when she noticed that the tracks she had been following continued in the mud outside. Stepping out of the doorway, Stacy saw the tracks led her around the far corner of the house. She stopped, her breath caught in her throat.

The doors of a storm cellar were open wide before her, light pouring from within.

"Hello?" Stacy called out as she stood at the top of the wooden stairs, the rain pounding down on her and into the cellar. She descended the staircase and froze, mouth open in a silent scream.

A heavy wooden table sat in the middle of the room underneath a single bare bulb. James lay supine on it with a white towel stuffed in his mouth. A deep cut and a large knot marred his forehead. Thick straps bound him to the table, the leather cutting into his bare wrists. When he saw Stacy, his eyes widened. He thrashed, forcing his bonds deeper into his flesh. Stacy rushed to the table and worked at the buckles, while James frantically shook his head.

The cellar door above them slammed shut. Stacy rounded the table and backed away from James into the dark shadows in the corner of the room. She crouched down, almost knocking over a wheelbarrow that leaned against the wall. Her shaking hands managed to catch it and set it back up without making a sound. She stifled a scream when a cat slinked from the darkness beside her and brushed against her leg.

"It took me three weeks to fix that clock," Steven said as he emerged from the staircase. Water dripped from his clothes to the dirty basement floor. He pulled a tangle of scaled tails from his belt and threw an object into the corner where Stacy huddled. As it neared, Stacy recognized the shape of a dead rat. She closed her eyes tight and held her breath as the corpse landed nearby, drawing the cat's attention. When she opened her eyes, Steven was pulling a blood-stained blade from his pocket.

"And you went and ruined it!" Steven growled, pulling the knife across James' cheek, drawing blood and a whimper from him. "Who's the pussy now?" He screamed at James, plunging the blade through the already bleeding cheek. He dropped the tails, one by one, onto James' chest. "I've been practicing. And once I'm done with you—" His eyes travelled to the corner where Stacy hid. "I'll get to really shine."

# Hell  
by Chad Mullens

What has the world come to? I asked my gaunt reflection in the filth-covered mirror. The wild-bearded man on the other side of the glass didn't answer. Instead, he stared back at me with piercing hazel eyes that accused me of all the failures I had committed over the last year.

"Go to Hell!" I screamed as I crashed my fist through the thin pane and into the drywall. Hot blood sprayed across the yellowed wall and shards of silvered glass. The dog that had followed me since Chesaning darted into the toilet stall of the abandoned gas station restroom.

With a heaving chest, I ground the mirror shards with my heel as I wrapped a stained handkerchief around my bleeding hand. Sighing, I hefted my heavy pack, slung my shotgun over my shoulder, and adjusted the clumsy brace of knives around my belt. "C'mon, Mutt!" I barked as I kicked open the door and stepped out into the bright autumn morning.

* * *

Eighteen months ago, the world woke up to a story on the news. A new virus was spreading across the world. Its official name was some combination of capital letters salted with numbers, but everyone ended up calling it the Shakes. The Shakes was an airborne virus that caused victims to run an extremely high fever and shiver uncontrollably. There weren't any liquefied organs or open lesions that turned people into bedridden nightmares. It simply struck and cooked a person's brain, killing them outright, or striking them dumb. Before the TVs went blank, I think I heard them say that the officials only expected twenty percent of the population to survive.

It was amazing how fast everything crumbled. Within weeks, America's infrastructure collapsed. Gas stations ran out of fuel, food disappeared, and soon after, the utilities cut out. I quickly learned that I couldn't be the mild mannered father I used to be – especially after the Shakes took my little girl. I never fully appreciated that my wife, son, and I had survived.

Hunt, scavenge, fortify became my mantra. My wife and son changed our little house from a modern home into to a packed hoarder's den. They worked hard while I picked through the homes of our dead neighbors or hunted for anything bigger than a squirrel. Mostly, I walked around our small town of Breckenridge, Michigan in a dazed stupor.

Sometime around Easter, I had risen early to cycle over to Alma and Saint Louis in hopes of catching some fish in the river. As my heavy legs pushed my bike through the center of town, the sweet smell of spring carried the acerbic-tinged odor of something rotting. I thought little of it in my grogginess and continued on.

The Pine River was swollen with spring melt. It took several hours to find a suitable fishing spot among the riparian tangles. After a long morning my efforts were fruitful and I was in even better spirits over finding an unopened box of wine in one of the remote houses on the river's edge. I had hoped that Sarah would be as thrilled as I was over an intimate dinner of carp and wine. My legs felt less heavy as I pumped the pedals and a warm breeze pushed me home.

Central Michigan is mostly flat and open farmland dotted with wind turbines, so I could see the smoke as soon as I headed east out of Saint Louis. The tall stack of black ugliness against the brilliant blue of sky instantly stole my breath. Once panic set in, the few miles between the towns only took a few minutes, yet it seemed like an eternity.

"No, no, no..." I had panted between ragged breaths.

My worst fears crashed through any illusions I had managed to throw up in my head. The whole of Breckenridge seemed to be on fire. Rotten corn in one of the silos at the mill had exploded and ignited the surrounding buildings. There was a wall of fire between me and my home. I couldn't reach my family. By the time I had circled around the conflagration, our house was engulfed in flames.

"Steven! Where are you?" My wife's cries pierced my heart as she cried out my name in panic.

I tried to get in, I really did. But the thick smoke and scorching flames triggered my cowardice and I was left crying in the street as the screams from inside grew to a crescendo before fading beneath the roar of the fire.

* * *

My hand throbbed as I rounded the corner of the gas station. "Let's find some bandages for your stupid owner, Mutt."

Using a chunk of parking block, I busted out the display window of the station. A cursory glance of the inside told me that I was not the first one to raid it. In fact, the door hadn't even been locked. I shook my head. Violent behavior sometimes just felt good.

There wasn't much left on the shelves. A few nonessentials that the previous raiders had knocked on the floor; canned cat food, roach killer, and paper towels. I used the towels to soak up more blood on my hand as I looked behind the counter. Whoever had been here before me had been thorough.

Truth be told, I didn't know where I was or what I was doing. Since the fire that had stolen my family, I had wandered aimlessly. I was a mess. Everything I knew had collapsed, beginning with the world and ending with my family. I needed a purpose again.

There was a map of Michigan on the wall, a blue and white mitten with a red "X" that marked my current location.

"Westphalia?" I laughed at how far I'd wandered. I'd never even heard of the town, but I now knew I was northwest of Lansing and that was a start. But where would I go from there?

Below the map was a table full of brochures of travel destinations. I picked up a handful and rifled through them to see if anything piqued my interest. I threw the ones that didn't appeal to me on the floor; Grand Ledge, Holland, Clare, Bay City, Mackinaw City. In frustration I cast the lot aside, except for the one that stuck to my blood-soaked bandage. It read: Go to Hell, Stay for the BBQ.

Hell instantly grabbed my attention.

"Whaddya say, Mutt? Wanna go to Hell with me?" I asked the tan shadow that always followed me.

It was a tiny little town just northwest of Detroit. I felt it would be a suitable place for me to evolve into the demon that seemed to possess me. Under early wintry clouds, it took me over a week of one foot in front of the other in an eerily gray and silent world.

* * *

I progressed southeast toward Lansing, in slightly higher spirits. Lansing was on the way toward my goal and if there was any form of government left in the state, it would be there.

There were remarkably few people traveling the highways. I passed countless cars abandoned on the roadside as they ran out of fuel. Perhaps it was because of the cooling weather, or the fact that people strayed away from a tall, manic-looking man sporting a shotgun and unruly beard. The twenty-five miles progressed quickly as I camped out under vivid stars and shared what was left of small game with my canine companion. At times I was almost able to forget my recent past, lost in the tranquility of silence and solitude. But it always came crashing back to me in my dreams of people shaking apart, burning bodies of children, and shadowy figures sharing haunting laughter as I raged against chains that held me just out of reach.

* * *

I became a killer in Lansing. I had made it through the once-bustling Capital to the southeast side of town before I was approached by a man with greasy hair and the sulfuric smell of battery acid. The stranger sauntered toward me, confidently showing a broken smile and yellow teeth.

"Looking for any entertainment?" He asked in a voice that reminded me of oil-laden gravel pressed under car tires.

"No thanks," I replied cautiously. Everything about him made my hackles stand on end. I wasn't pleased that the first human contact I'd had in months was a seedy pimp.

"Looks to me like you're pretty lonely," he oozed, winked a jaundiced eye, and added, "I bet I have just the thing you need."

"No, really, I'm fine," I insisted.

"Come on man," he said. "I got it all. Young ladies, boys, mature, even got a cripple if that does it for you."

"No," I replied flatly. "I just want to be on my way."

"Where you headed?" he asked, eying me suspiciously.

"Out of town. Back out to the country," I said as I started to walk away.

"Which direction?"

"North," I lied. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Cold up north, sure you don't want a little company first?" He persisted.

"No, and that's my final answer," I grunted as I used my greater mass to shoulder past him.

The pimp let loose an expletive and scrambled to get in front of me again, "What's the matter, don't like people? Got it for your little dog there?" He spat and matched my stride while walking backwards.

"Go to hell!" I barked. "I told you I'm not interested. Leave me alone!" I quickened my pace, quaking in anger and frustration.

"Go to hell?" He chuckled before his ugly face reddened and he ranted, "I'm just a businessman trying to make a living. What's your problem? Don't know how to do it? Got a little dick do ya? 'Fraid my toys will laugh at you, huh? Well, they'll do whatever I tell them to. They'd even screw their own mothers if I told them to. What do you know, you limp dick? I gave you a chance to get your rocks off before I did you in, now I'm just gonna kill you fer fun."

He knocked off my pack as he tried to wrestle the shotgun from my shoulder and my anger flared. Months of pent-up emotions were suddenly boiling up with the force of a mega-caldera. How dare he try to use my own gun to kill me? I twisted it out of his hands and shoved him onto the ground. He scrambled backwards on his rear, his hands flailing in front of him.

"Hey, man, it was just a joke. I wasn't really going to kill you. Just give you a scare, make you want to enjoy life a little so you'll give me some business."

"This is the only business you'll be getting from me," I said evenly as I leveled my shotgun at him. All I could think about was that this depraved soul was the one who had started the fire in Breckenridge that had taken my Sarah and little Stevie. My vision turned red in a heartbeat as my finger pulled the trigger. He jerked and fell to his back, red spreading out over his threadbare shirt.

"Son of a..." he managed before slumping to the ground.

I don't know how long I stood there absently pulling the trigger of the emptied shotgun before the cry of a young girl broke my trance.

"Daddy Pickels?" The chocolate-faced girl was around eleven. She was clearly not the dead man's progeny.

Several pre-teen boys and girls, along with an old woman and a one legged man who hobbled on crutches, were approaching with terrified looks on their faces.

"You killed him," one of the boys said in an agitated and squeaky voice.

"Now what are we supposed to do?" asked another.

"Get 'im," raged the old woman.

The group descended on the corpse in a Biblical rage. Their vengeance, far worse than I would have imagined, was delivered upon the holed body of a twisted individual. I swept up my pack and ran as fast and as far as my emaciated body would let me.

* * *

Moving quickly through Okemos I found myself in Webberville within a few days. I was reluctant to go to my grandparent's house, but I was in a state of shock and in need of a good night of rest. The weather was continually getting colder and my supplies were running low again.

I found them in their bedroom, victims of the Shakes. I left them lying next to each other. They were just one more piece in the bramble of terrible events unfolding around me.

My grandfather kept a small bedroom full of yard-sale musical instruments, old clocks and cameras; a decade's worth of salvaged treasures of a kind old man. Sulking among the treasures I finally broke to the pressure that had been building inside. For three days I cried almost constantly at all the world had lost, all that I had lost.

Among the cassette tapes of hymns and stacks of old cookbooks I found my peace with God. I read the Holy Bible for the first time and argued with a deity I had never embraced. I called him a son-of-a-bitch and wanted to hear, "I forgive you." I screamed, "I hate you!" But I wanted to hear, "I love you." I rallied and raved and finally relented before telling him, "I choose to ignore you." I desperately wanted to hear, "Ignore me if you want, but I'm still here." The truth was that I heard no voice, no music, nor Herald, only the emptiness of the human condition.

I emerged a changed man. Releasing the grief that I had been repressing allowed me to assume a new role: the role of a survivor. I was in control of my life because I was willing to accept what fate blew at me. I would adapt, change, and anneal myself to reality. I would become the aggressor and not the victim. I had killed, had even somewhat enjoyed it because it was justice to some degree. I would be willing to do it again to preserve myself.

As I approached my chosen destination, I reflected on the life that made me happy. I would relive those memories of my former life, not because they haunted me, but because they strengthened me. They would keep me grounded to the person I was, while I developed into the person I had to be. I would remember looking into the blue seas of love that were the eyes of my wife as I said, "I do". I would remember the first time I held my children and the tears that mingled with their first cries of life. I would remember the simple things, like eating dinner as a family or watching silly cartoons because they were all we could do to stop an angry toddler from crying. I would remember life, even though the path I have followed may take me to death.

After cresting a small rise in the road I could finally see it. My mangy dog was lifting his leg to the post of the green sign with four bold white letters, five foot long and covered with the icicles of winter's first storm. Hell had frozen over.

# Hunger Pangs  
by Daphne Danielson

I am filled with regret about last night. I regret grinding on smelly men, drinking strange mixed drinks, and I mostly regret being born. How I got to work this morning, I don't even know. My headache is starting to dwindle; it no longer feels like something is clawing out the backs of my eyeballs. All I want right now is something fatty, something greasy, something salty and bloody rare. Hunger is gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Food, I need to eat something soon.

Thank God for scrubs. You can sleep in them and still look presentable for the next day. Looks like I chose a coordinating set, but nothing really matches these neon purple surgical gloves. My hands are running on autopilot. Rinse, soak, scrub, dry, pack for autoclave. My reflection in the chromed steel of the sink fixtures looks bad. Not just hung over, but drawn thin. The skin of my face is too tightly stretched over my skull and I have dark circles and bags taking up residence beneath my eyes. Luckily, I have extended wear contacts or I'd be in a lot of discomfort right now. My stomach's growl is loud enough to startle myself from staring at my reflection.

"I heard that one! Do you need a granola bar?" says Zola, my bleached blonde co-worker in the sterilization department, chirpy as always. She is the reason that I feel like warmed-over crap. If she hadn't forced me into going to that horrible bar where her boyfriend's band was playing, then I wouldn't be shaking like a leaf. I need to learn how to say no even if it means listening to her whining at me for a week.

"You really had a great time at the concert. We should do that again! Maybe they'll get a weekend gig instead of open mic Tuesday. That would be really fun. I think that he's really coming into his own artistically, and the world will start to notice that he has this beautiful soul, and the clips that we put on the net will give him so many opportunities to make wonderful music, and you look like you're going to throw up. You really can't hold your liquor, can you? That's really sad. If you throw up in there we'll have to replace all the enzymatic cleaner."

I wasn't thinking about puking, but now I am. Thanks again, Zola.

"Zola, I don't remember last night." Deep breaths. "Did I do anything... stupid?"

"Naaaaaaaaah."

I'm flooded with relief, but then she continues.

"You bit this guy's lip when you were making out with him, but he was into it, so you're okay. I hope you got his number."

Crap.

I snap off my gloves and grab a dental floss pick from my scrub pocket. Must floss any part of that guy out of my teeth, I just have to. Gloving up again, I lean against the sink, woozy with hunger.

Zola rolls her eyes at me. "Do you need the mouthwash too? Look I'm going to go clean op room 4. Get yourself together."

She leaves and I carefully look around the red plastic biohazard bins. Oh sweet Jesus thank you, they did a lipoma excision and it hadn't gone to the incinerator yet. Carefully and casually as I can, I swipe the acorn-sized chunk of blood-streaked human fat from the bin, invert my glove and stash it in my pants pocket.

"Zola! I need to get some fresh air for a moment. I'll be back in a bit!" Hollering down the hallway to room four, I walk to my car, trying not to sprint to the door.

Slipping into my car, I sit parked under the shadows of the overgrown oaks planted around the rundown self-storage lot, and fish the glove from my pocket. I pop the morsel of human fat into my mouth and it is better than the most succulent seasoned steak. Rolling it around in my mouth, I suck on it like a lozenge before chewing it 35 times exactly. It runs down my throat with one indulgent swallow and my hand tremors stop. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I see my dark circles are fading. I want more, I want to bury my face in the biohazard vat and eat human flesh until I make myself bloated and sick.

I can stop. I can stop at any time.

Too late, I notice that there is a man sitting in the overgrown hedges and shadows behind my car. Probably just a transient going through the dumpsters. The medical complex was built as part of a gentrification program and isn't in the best part of town. I get called out to remove used needles and syringes from the landscaping all the time.

The bloody syringes beckon me to suck on them from time to time, but I don't want to ingest the random drugs too. Booze or drugs affect me so much faster than anyone else I've known; I think I'm the cheapest date ever. No, it's much safer to sneak a few bits here and there from the bio-bins. Generally they've done a pretty good tox screen prior to surgery.

Heading back into the building, I make sure I have my pepper spray key chain in my hand. Never hurts to be safe, right? Zola is in room four.

"Puke much?" she asks me.

Nodding, I run my tongue over my teeth, hunting for any leftover tidbits.

"I always feel better after throwing up too."

She takes a breath and I zone out while she starts talking about her boyfriend again. I should be good for another 48 hours or so, but I still have to restrain myself from drooling at the blood-stained drapes.

"Mirri!"

"What?" Honestly I wasn't listening at all. I was thinking about licking the droplets of dried blood spattered on the surgical tray. No more drinking, never again.

"Did you hear that there was another death?"

"What? Another one? Was it post-surgical or during?"

Usually I'd have heard about anyone expiring during a procedure, that's some major gossip right there. Deaths in the clinic were really rare because we mostly did cosmetic surgery, colonoscopies, and other outpatient procedures. Most people don't croak during plastic surgery unless something went horribly wrong.

"Died at home. Massive infection after an excess skin removal. It's really sad. They had to get bariatric surgery and recover from that, then change their diet permanently and give up cheeseburgers and then when they lost all that weight, " she clucks her tongue, "poof! They die getting the extra floppy, flappy skin cut off them. It's really sad." Zola sighs and starts talking again about her man.

That is really sad, I have to admit. I squash my sensual daydream about hunks of pale flabby skin excised from fleshy limbs and the texture of that taut membrane squeaking between my teeth.

Thinking about what I will make for dinner tonight, I decide on a very rare pork chop. It won't be the same but I'm used to making compromises. I can't just steal a cadaver and store it in the freezer like leftover pot-roast. I'd probably get bored of the same person anyways.

* * *

Piling my groceries onto the sticky black conveyor belt, I blearily watch them travel to the overly cheerful cashier. Her name tag says Betty. Betty always has to comment on my food because I never tell her not to. I still haven't told her that she needs to have that growth on her neck looked at.

"Doing the Atkin's diet still?"

She bags my pork chops, beef marrow bones, protein powder and soluble fiber laxative. You don't want to know how backed up you can get on a pure protein diet.

Nodding, I fish my wallet out of my overstuffed bag crammed with receipts and expired coupons.

"Honey, you don't need to lose any weight! You're positively skeletal these days. You need more fat on your bones." She clucks her tongue and shakes her head at me.

"Did I tell you that I have this nephew? He's just gotten out of a relationship with his baby-momma and he's got a job at the shipping container plant, works odd hours just like you and I was thinking that you'd really hit it off—" her voice grates in my ears and her jowls shake while she prattles.

Shut up, just shut up!

I swipe my card so hard in the machine that I accidentally drop my purse on the floor. It explodes on the dirty beige supermarket linoleum.

"Crap!" Stooping down to pick up my scattered purse droppings, I knock heads with the man behind me in line. We connect hard enough to make me fall on my ass.

"Mother love a freaking goat! Oh sweet God that hurts! I'm so sorry!" I'm apologizing, inhaling hissing breaths through my teeth, and my eyes are watering from the pain. I gather up as much of my stuff as I can. Before he can speak, I snatch my bagged groceries and bolt out of the store to my car.

In the vanity mirror I see that I have an egg-sized bruise on my forehead. The angry red spot is already starting to turn purple and green at the edges. My injury should be healed by morning. It seems like accelerated healing is the only benefit of my dietary quirkiness.

Leaning the car seat way back, I grab the plastic-sealed styrofoam flat of pork chops and put it on my forehead. Didn't even talk to that guy I head-butted; I guess he was kinda cute.

I bet Betty doesn't want to set me up with her nephew now. Ha! Looking on the bright side for once, are we Mirri? I've decided that I want a full refund on today. Make that this entire week.

Someone raps their knuckles on my window, startling me. My pork chops land on my lap. It's Mister Headbutt. He's smiling at me with big white teeth and the beginning of a nasty black eye. He's dangling my phone in one hand and my pepper-spray in the other. I roll down the window halfway.

"You dropped these."

He's older than I thought, lightly tanned with black hair that looked like he cut it by himself without a mirror. The whites of his brown eyes are yellower than his teeth. Probably some kind of hepatitis, I think absently. I'm always noticing these small physical signs of health and illness in other people. It's like I can tell if they'd be tasty or not.

I hold out my hand for my stuff and he shakes his head, "Nope! You owe me a cup of coffee for this shiner. How about over there," he gestures at the greasy spoon truck stop across the parking lot. "You've always wanted to hang out with truckers. You know you have."

He grins winsomely and I think, why not? What could it hurt? It's not like I'm looking for a relationship. Who'd want to date me? I'd probably wake up in the middle of the night literally nibbling on their ear.

Taking a chance, I nod okay and he hands me my phone and pepper spray.

"That pepper stuff doesn't really work very well by the way," he casually mentions.

We meet at the truck stop. Half the neon in the sign has burnt out and it now offers H-O F-O-O. This amuses both of us and we chuckle awkwardly while sitting down in the cracked red high-backed vinyl benches at the very far end of the dining area. He turns over two mugs on the table, then sits across from me and studies my face. I feel like he's looking for something. A date. I'm actually on a date. This is too weird.

A waitress walks over, carrying a carafe of coffee. "What'll you have?"

"Two cups of coffee please."

She pours for both of us. Coffee makes me too hyper, but I hide behind my cup and tap my fingers nervously on the stained porcelain. The waitress goes back to organizing silverware, and I stare at my new acquaintance over the chipped rim.

"Is it everything you thought it would be?" He gestures expansively with his arms. "It could be the scene of a nature documentary with a serious old British guy narrating, 'And here we observe the native Truckercanus americana in their habitat'." He laughs a little too loud at his own joke.

"My name is Adam. Adam Forbo."

I'm close enough now to smell his sweat; yep he's a drinker. Great. He's killing his liver so the yellowed eyes make sense. Well, who am I to judge? I'd eat that liver.

"Mirrianna Shelley." Pausing, I await the inevitable joke.

"Like Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, right?"

I'm pleased when he doesn't say that it rhymes with marijuana. I giggle, "Just call me Mirri."

He's not wearing a wedding ring and there's no tan line where a ring should be. His large hands are calloused and scarred. The nails are clipped short.

"So what do you do when you're not fending off the supermarket matchmaker, Mrs. Mirri?"

Rolling my eyes, I groan. "Oh I'm not married." It feels very important to emphasize that—extremely important. He has really long eyelashes, they almost touch his cheeks when he blinks. "Medical sterilization and biohazard cleanup technician. I take care of the nasty bits that are left over after surgery. It's not the most glamorous of jobs, but it pays well enough. Good benefits. What do you do?"

He's not wearing a suit or any specialized clothing. Just a broken-in baggy brown leather jacket, a blue flannel shirt, work boots and clean jeans. "I'm a consultant. I travel a lot for my job, talk to people, take care of problems people don't want to admit exist." He grins, "It's also not that glamorous of jobs."

Forbo leans in close as if to tell a secret. "Can I ask you something?"

My cheeks flush red and I add another packet of sugar to my cold coffee just to occupy my anxious fingers.

"Do those hurt? Your earring things." He asks with guileless curiosity and he leans his chin on his hand. Oh God, I am on a date.

Worrying the small stainless steel taper in my earlobe gently, I stammer, "Well— not any more. They're called plugs. You have to work your way up slowly, stretching the tissue. I just wanted little ones. My earlobes were a little funny looking and I wanted to make them look more normal." Blushing, I am blushing!

This guy seems fascinated by me and that is strange. Nobody is ever interested in me. I'm not a pretty woman, no matter what my kind parents tell me. I'm too skinny to have any boobs to speak of. I'm short and my dark hair is too, easier to keep it out of the way at work. I look like a teenage boy on chemo on my worst days.

He nods, leans closer and suddenly stares into my eyes so intensely that I feel like running for the exit. But, he's not smiling anymore. What did I say?

"Colored contacts too. Brown ones, I see. Classy." With one hand, he seizes my wrist. "So, are you just playing stupid?"

His grip feels like he could pulp my wrist bones with one squeeze.

"You're hurting me. I'm going to scream. Let go." My voice is stronger than I expected. I'm a bit proud of that. "I don't know what you're talking about." The waitress looks over at us.

Laughing, he lets go of my wrist and turns to the waitress, grins theatrically and winks at her. She shrugs and turns away to give us our privacy during our lovers' spat.

"You're not strong enough to break my grip. Oh this is rich. You don't even know what you are. You're a ghoul, you dumbass." He slides in next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder to keep me from sliding under the table to escape and presses me against the diner wall.

"A what?" A whisper, my mouth is suddenly desert-dry. It is hard to breathe.

"A ghoul. A monster that eats human flesh." He squints at me, judging. "I'd say you're only a half-ghoul though. You still can pass for human without trying too hard. Do mommy and daddy eat babies? Did they teach you how to pass for human?" He unzips his jacket to show me that he's armed with a gun in a shoulder holster and a huge knife. "Don't worry. I'll hunt them down too. Thumbed through your messages. 1-2-3-4 is not the most secure pass code, genius." Savoring my horrified expression, he gloats, "They are selling their newest self-published book at a Christian revival. I'll just go visit them and get rid of a few more monsters. Monsters tend to hang out in places like that. Nobody pays attention to your deviant freaky ways as long as you say enough 'Hallelujahs!'"

"I'm adopted!" I blurt out. "My parents are good people—"

He raises a doubting eyebrow. "Sure they are."

"They are good humans. Adopted! From Romania during the fall of the Soviet Union. They adopted me from an orphanage, they are innocent!" Pleading in a fierce whisper, "What do you want from me?"

"Oh I don't want you at all. You're nothing, you garbage-eater." Snorting in derision, Forbo hugs me closer, and points his finger in my face. "You're going to help me catch the pure-blood ghoul that's munching on the patients at your clinic."

* * *

"The problem with your kind munching on living people is that your filthy dirty mouths are filled with nasty bacteria from eating carrion. You're no better than a turkey vulture or one of those giant lizards—"

"Komodo dragons."Interrupting his ranting. "They're called Komodo dragons."

Forbo is digging into a plate of eggs and bacon that he made me pay for, while detailing exactly why I am an abomination in the eyes of God. It feels horribly claustrophobic in the tiny diner booth, I'm still smashed up against the grease-flecked diner wall. His water-stained jacket sleeve smells like dead things, body odor and booze. I hope he chokes on those eggs.

We've been sitting here for over an hour now and he hasn't shut up once. Maybe he's planning to talk me to death? Forbo is utterly insane, and utterly certain in his convictions. In spite of myself, I want to hear more of his ideas. I've never had any diagnosis, no clue as to what I am, but I know I'm not normal. No illusions about that.

"Exactly. Scavengers, disgusting beasts. Nature's trash cans." Swilling his whiskey self-spiked coffee, he belches. "Your bite infects the poor bastard that you gnaw on and then they die from infection. I bet you just love that. They are sick and dying and easy targets for more snacking with less effort. If you lose a tooth, then another one drops down to replace it, like a shark."

I don't believe that; that's crazy talk. I've never actually lost a tooth. Well my baby teeth, but everyone loses those. I have excellent dental hygiene. Floss, mouthwash, sonic toothbrush morning and night. Bleh, I can't stand the feeling of anything on my teeth, be it plaque or pieces of food. Floss, I'd floss right now if I could.

Seriously, I can't imagine snacking on a living person. Well, maybe just one person. Forbo's killing himself anyway with booze and he did threaten to kill my parents and me. Maybe start with his brown plump glossy grapes. I'd pop them into my mouth and suck on them until they burst.

Nodding because it seems like he wants me to pay closer attention; it seems like he's playing at teaching the village idiot. I'm thinking about how I can get back to my car to drive straight to the police and how his eyes might taste.

I cannot believe I thought he was cute. Wish I'd head-butted him into unconsciousness.

"Well, you're the monster killer guy, what do you want me to do?"

"We're called hunters. You're going to do a little recon inside your clinic for me. I can't access that fancy computer system. I want to know who is treating the people who are dying." He wipes runny yellow yolk off his plate with a piece of toast, smacking his rubbery lips.

"The way I figure it, someone in there is either a pure-blood ghoul or working for one. Just in case you're thinking about how you're going to escape and run straight to the cops..." He smirks at me and chews on some charred bacon. "I wouldn't recommend that. You know, poor mommy and daddy. Accidents have been known to happen, especially to old people." He slurps his coffee. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you if you do what I say." He pats me on the arm condescendingly.

Forbo's lying about not hurting me. There's too much venom in his voice when he talks about "my kind". He's been killing for decades and getting away with it, probably getting off on it.

Well, I am quite hopelessly screwed. If I'd known that some crazy person was going to hunt me down and kill me over my human offal addiction, then I'd have taken much, much bigger bites. Hell, I'd have had human flesh for breakfast, lunch and dinner and taken home doggie bags of tender bits for midnight snacks. My stomach starts to growl just thinking about it.

"I've been watching you for weeks now Mirri, especially your little lunch breaks in that landboat of a car." Forbo nudges me with his elbow.

Great. I was dating my own murderous, insane stalker. I have terrible taste, not only in food but in men too. At least I'm consistent.

"Use that tiny brain of yours to find out who is the common thread in these deaths. Then I'll leave you and your parents alone and you can go back to eating out of hospital garbage cans." He laughs when I flinch at the mention of garbage cans. They are biohazard bins, moron. I don't eat out of dumpsters!

"Isn't that cute, you're blushing. You could almost pass for human. Go on home to East Aspen Drive and get some rest in that pretty white four-poster bed. You've got a busy day ahead of you." Of course, he already knows where I live. My shoulders slumped in defeat, I nod assent. Tears start to spill out of my eyes and I grab paper napkins to stanch the flow. You're not going to make me cry, you horrible man.

"Good girl. Or rather, good ghoul." Forbo laughs too loud and too long at his pun. I stare daggers at his reddened face. I had never truly hated anyone before, but this evening has been full of revelations.

* * *

The first thing I do when I get home is to deadbolt the door and call a 24-hour locksmith on my landline to change the locks that very night. I don't have a window in my bedroom, so how would he know that I have a four-poster white wrought iron bed?

It came with the apartment, don't judge me.

The jackass kept my cell phone. He's probably going to run up a huge bill on phone sex lines and drunk dials to his buddies, but at least I'm still breathing.

Of course my parents are out of the service area again, and I leave a message to call me at work in the morning. Mom and dad are going to be a little pissed that they have to move to a new campground, but I'm sure they'll enjoy continuing breathing just as much as I do.

After the locksmith finishes, I draw up the hottest bath that I can stand and pour in half a bottle of bubble gum scented bubble bath. My teeth are chattering. Shivering in the steaming hot water, I feel scalding tears flooding down my face.

Mortal danger threatens and yet I'm relieved. I know what I am now. There's more of my kind out there. I'm not alone anymore. The hard, brittle shell of isolation and despair that I built up during years of hiding cracks with every chest wracking sob. I stay in the tub until the bubbles pop and the water is tepid, then crawl into my ridiculous bed to sleep until the alarm rings.

* * *

One of the good things about working in a newer medical facility is that everything is linked up by the Electronic Medical Record. You don't have to chase down a paper chart filled with all the little bits of paper crap that a patient acquires.

This is also a bad thing since it's hard to cover up your digital trail if you start looking in places that you shouldn't. Luckily, some people are sloppier about logging out than others. I borrow one of the record tech's logged in terminals when she heads out for her lengthy smoke break.

Suck down that sweet, sweet nicotine Karen. You just take your time.

Seven hits when I look up recent patients by deceased status. Wow, that's more than I thought I'd find. One died in the clinic and the rest passed at home from septic shock. The clinic death was an overdose of anesthesia. There's already a lawsuit starting on that case, I bet. I am so screwed if anyone catches me doing this. Well, better to be unemployed than dead.

Glancing over the names in the surgical roster, I see that there are only two names that pop up in all the cases. Leslie Cushing, surgical nurse and Phil Graves, anesthesiologist. Very interesting.

Clinic rumor has it that these two are having a bit of an affair outside of the office and Zola swears she caught them banging in his little red sports car. He's such a total douche bag. Always trying to play grab-ass in the OR. I mean who does that these days? He intentionally wears his shirt collars popped up. Leslie's got worse taste in men than I do. Wait... no she doesn't, not any more.

Deleting my query, I slip out the door. Sorry Karen, but you have to log out of your terminal when you go on smoke break, you know that.

Thank God that I only have to work a few hours this morning. I don't think I could have survived a whole day. After my stressful late night with Forbo, the smell of the electrocautery gun wafting out of procedure room two smells like the most mouth-watering barbeque. Oh yeah. Jackpot! The vascular surgeon is pulling an all morning varicose vein stripping marathon. I'm going to clean this room. I'll do anything to get into the aftermath of that action. I wipe my involuntary slobber off with the back of my hand.

Zola is only too happy to leave the cleanup to me. The vascular surgeon is sloppy with his sharps and she'd rather not have to deal with an accidental stick from a needle or scalpel. I'm not worried. My head bump has already completely healed. Apparently I am one of nature's apex scavengers and don't have to worry about getting sick. When was the last time I even had a sniffle?

I stifle an orgasmic groan of delight when I discover a pile of stripped leg veins. When surgeons strip massive varicose veins with blown out valves they pull them inside out like a nylon stocking through a small incision in the leg. They look like deep red, wriggly worms. Stuffing as many as I can find into a small red biohazard bag, I shiver in anticipation of slurping down these tasty morsels, then stash the bag in my scrub pants.

There's nothing wrong with me. I'm now a part of the natural order of things. That's what ghouls are, I decide. We're misunderstood creatures that were meant to dispose of the weak and the dead. I'm doing society a favor by consuming this succulent, salty, wet human tissue.

At the end of my short shift, I go behind the clinic and have a little private time in the overgrown backyard of the self-storage lot. Nobody has been running this place for at least a year. How many of the storage bays have stuff in them anymore? Only two or three have padlocks on them. I suppress the urge to rifle through the dilapidated buildings and find a lovely oak-shaded patch of paving stones to have a little private picnic on.

Sitting down and leaning against the tree, I fish my bag of stolen munchies out of my scrub pants. Oh yes, they are still body temp warm and that's perfect. For some reason human parts taste so much better when they are at about 98.6 degrees. It must be like a fine wine connoisseur thing. I stifle a giggle while contemplating the bouquet and aroma of viscera. I'm able to think so much more clearly about my dietary quirks now that I know what I am. Embracing my heritage, yeah that's right, that's what I'm doing. I'm not going to be a glutton. I can control myself. I can stop anytime.

Dipping my fingers in the bag and swirling around my fingertips, I enjoy the silky feeling of the veins against my skin. Who did these veins belong to? Why did they want to get rid of them badly enough to have surgery? Were they painful? Did the swollen varicosities just look gross when they wore a bathing suit? Did they pop open and bleed when they bumped against the kitchen counter? Are these free-range organic people, waiter?

Smiling in anticipation, I lick my fingers and let the flavor overwhelm my taste buds. Slowly, Mirri, slowly. I put the end of a vein between my lips and gently suck on the end of one of the still hollow collapsed tubes. Deliberately, I take my time slurping up the vessel like a piece of tough rubbery spaghetti.

* * *

The first time I ate something that I wasn't supposed to was in rehab. I've always had messed up issues with food. Nothing tasted good. Nothing was appetizing. I just stopped eating when I was supposed to be eating my parents out of house and home. My poor parents tried patience, prayer, counseling and a few sessions of "laying of hands", but finally I ended up in an inpatient treatment center because I needed a feeding tube. How do you explain to people that you just don't enjoy eating food, the most delicious desserts hold no appeal and even though you might die, you just have no desire to eat?

One mindless day when I was in the rec ward shuffling about, wasting endless time looking for a puzzle piece on the floor, I found a whole toenail. It was in a bloody adhesive bandage. It had a tiny piece of hangnail dangling off the side and the cracked remains of pink glitter nail polish. It must have fallen off one of the patients and been missed by the janitors. Instinctively I snatched it with my skeletal fingers and shoved it into my mouth, sobbing with relief. I chewed that toenail up, then I sucked the blood-encrusted bandage until no hint of flavor remained.

A new hunger flickered alight and began to slowly burn. Finally, I desired food, the most taboo and despised food on the planet, but at least I was hungry. Not only did I want to eat, finally, but I felt waves of glowy warmth and even faint arousal. I've been seeking that sweet, comforting high for the rest of my life, but I'm not an addict. I'm not! I'm a natural part of the food chain.

I shake off those old memories. My body is warm and I feel euphoric again. Grabbing another vein, then another I repeat the whole sensual experience over and over again, until in a quick, silvery flash, a very large, very sharp hunting knife digs into the ground right between my legs. Yipping in surprise, I crush the bag to my chest. It's the hunter. Forbo.

"Damn girl! I feel kinda dirty and hot. You were really getting off on that, weren't you?" He leers at me with his big white teeth and blackened eye. This is not the time for this, I can't tell if I'm more pissed that he's thrown a knife at me or because he interrupted my feast.

"You've got blood all over your face. Messy garbage-eater. What was that anyway? An artery?" He stalks over, yanks his knife from the ground and points it at my neck. "I want a name." He looms over me, stinking of sweat and liver failure. The tip of his massive knife cuts my skin as he slowly draws it down my throat. A few drops of blood well up from the stinging cut, but it quickly seals. Forbo smirks, "Yeah, you've had a good snack."

I just want to survive this. I'm trapped! I want to read his name in an obituary. I want to tap dance on his headstone. I want to finish my meal! My hands are starting to sweat and the aroma from the bag crushed against my chest is driving me crazy. God, I'm shaking again. I'm so close to filling up my belly and he's cutting me!

"Leslie Cushing and Phil Graves!" I scream in his face, my throat constricting in rage. Fingers curled into hooks, I shriek, "Leave me alone!"

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach when I see his cold, calculating smile.

"Thanks monster. I've got plans for them." He starts to stalk off into the shadows. I'm horrified by what I've just done. "Nice work."

"Don't hurt them! I don't know if they're really doing what you said. They're just the only names that popped up on all the deaths! Don't hurt them!" I beg on my knees, arms outstretched, but he silently strides away. I hear his car start within moments, then drive off.

* * *

I just want to go home, wallow in self-pity on my stupid bed and try to not vomit.

Crap. Now I've dropped my car keys somewhere, probably back there in the yard. Stupid, stupid. I kick rocks in the driveway in frustration. Nothing has gone right since the moment I said yes to a cup of coffee with a handsome stranger.

My keys are lying next to my now-empty biohazard bag; the bright red plastic flutters in the breeze. Maybe an animal?

"Your offering, it was delicious."

Clutching my keys in my fist, I whip around. A tall man is standing behind me in the dappled shadows. "What is your name, half-blood?" His strangely accented voice is oily and clings to my ears. The ghoul.

"Mirri?" My voice sounds squeaky with fear. Oh crap! Oh crap!

"There are not many of our kind in this young country. You are the first I've seen in many decades. Where do you come from, little half-blood Mirri?" His irises are so fiercely orange, they burn like embers and his earlobes are deeply pointed, much more than mine were before my piercings. But what transfixes me is that when he speaks I see a mouth full of pearly razors. A shark's mouth made by nature to bite chunks of skin and strip flesh from bones. I run my tongue over my blunt, inefficient teeth.

"I— I— Romania... Adopted!"

Curious and judgmental, he circles me closely, "Ah. A cuckoo from the Old World. Reared in the New World. Did you eat your siblings, young cuckoo?"

Menacing, he smiles softly. His breath smells like old death and ripe decomposition. The ghoul reaches out and tugs on my earring, then strokes a lock of my hair in an alarmingly intimate way.

He's sniffing my hair!

Sharpened thick yellow fingernails graze my cheek, leaving red welts behind.

I reflexively pull away and blurt, "I — no. I'm an only child. I'm a cuckoo?"

"You are woefully uneducated. Cuckoos lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. The cuckoo chick hatches and is bigger, louder and much hungrier than the rest of the brood, so they get all the food. Eventually the inferior chicks die or are killed. I assumed that you would have eaten the weaker human offspring."

The ghoul says as an almost casual aside, "Infant humans are quite delicious. Tender and squirming."

He glides to a tattered woven rainbow lawn chair that wasn't there before and sits, like a king holding court, then gestures with a grand sweeping motion at the ground. "Sit. I wish to learn more about you." It's a command, not a request.

Cautiously I kneel, ready to spring up and run. Ropy muscles bunch under his short shirt sleeves. He could catch me in seconds if I did run, and rip out my throat with his bare hands. Even if I am part ghoul, he'd feast on me, I know it.

"Okay?"

Maybe I can amuse him or stall until Forbo returns. If he returns. Stall Mirri, stall!

"Why do you hide what you are with those painted lenses and those warping earrings? Have you no pride in your noble heritage?" He thumps his chest with a fist. "You're only a half-blood. I suppose you are the progeny of a different kind of hunger than we ghouls usually focus on, but still!" Licking his lips, devouring me with his gaze like a famine victim at an all-you-can-eat buffet. "You should be stalking the weak and the wounded, eating your fill and propagating the species." Then he tugs on his pointed earlobe and smiles, but it never reaches his eyes.

"I didn't know what I was." I want to run away, but my legs are shaking. "I just found out, like a day ago. I thought I was just a human freak."

Propagating the species? This is not an option. Ever.

"I don't think I really know anything about...us." Deep breath. "Tell me more about being you. You know, doing things the right and proper way. I don't even know what to call you..."

"Lord and Master would be appropriate." He chuckles. "My name is Narcisse, and I am a pure-blood ghoul, little Mirri. I made my way here to this rough, but pleasingly ignorant land years ago and have been enjoying the rustic, fatty fare. It is truly amazing how many humans just sleep out in the open and most leave their offspring unguarded. They have forgotten all the old warnings and do not remember to watch for the things that hunt them from the shadows."

Narcisse licks his lips again and swings his arms open wide.

"This is the Land of Plenty. Sadly, I was banished from the Old World for my proclivities for creative consumption." He rolls his shocking orange eyes and shrugs. "Old snobs clinging to the past. They were only interested in hiding and could not remember how important we were. We were treated like dark gods for good reason." Making a fist, he jabs it at the sky. "We are stronger, faster and more intelligent than the human cattle."

"Sadly, I did not know how much I longed for the company of other ghouls until I smelled your delicious offering and your scent. We shall be hunting partners!" In gleeful excitement, he claps his hands.

Collapsing his rainbow lawn chair, he tucks it under his arm. "You look like you need a good meal. You are all skin and bones. You shall come with me and I shall feed you. Poor starving little cuckoo."

Narcisse grabs my hand in an iron grip, his nails stabbing against my palm, and pulls me along to his lair in the old storage building, muttering in a language I cannot understand.

"I've already eaten, I'm fine! I don't want to impose—" Stammering, I stumble on the rough ground. He catches me around the shoulders with one arm, like we're old buddies and squeezes me hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. He grins with glistening knives.

"I insist! You're my honored guest. You must! You must! I have some excellent varieties and I haven't had a good chat in so many decades." Like a constricting python his arm tightens around my shoulders and his eye-watering foul breath odor makes it even harder to breathe. Panic rises in my throat, my heart thumps against my sternum, and I numbly nod yes.

Narcisse leads me into the abandoned storage building, up creaky steel stairs and into a large unit on the third floor. It looks like it had been retrofitted as an apartment at one time, maybe for the manager. The peeling beige walls are lined with large plastic camping coolers, humming industrial deep freezes, and hundreds of mismatched photographs, necklaces and other trophies. The one window overlooks the back entrance and patient loading bay of my workplace. Everything looks like it has been scavenged from other units, like a mismatched dining set, a worn grandfather clock ticking away the seconds, and a stained twin bed with cartoon character sheets.

"Sit! Sit!" The ghoul pushes me over to an overstuffed, moth-eaten red velvet chair. "Put your feet up! Relax!" He shuts the door and grabs a floral frilly apron off a wall hook. Narcisse looks like a demented 1950's housewife.

"I'll get us some light refreshments. Oh it's been ages since I had a proper dinner party!" Digging through a refrigerator, he pulls out a battered mint-green plastic container. He giggles and hums a jaunty little tune while plating bits of offal onto chipped gold-rimmed china.

Oh God, what is he going to serve me? Who is he going to serve? It's one thing to eat something that a person volunteered or paid to have removed; that's just recycling. I'm helping the environment by eating biowaste. This— this is murder. I'll be eating the evidence!

"I thought this building was abandoned? It looks like you've been here... a while?"

"Oh, only a year or so. I moved in when the owner suffered an untimely demise. Poor man, I've been managing his estate. I've looked after the place, paying the bills, sprucing up the décor, and disposing of drifters that try to move in."

Tilting his head, he squints at the masking tape label on the storage container. "Yes, I think this is the last of him. I saved the tender bits for a special occasion! I always eat the small bowel first; it is so hard to properly store, just turns to mush. Now the sweetmeats, I save for last!"

He very proudly and formally presents the plate to me. "Welcome, honored guest. We share a meal. We share hospitality. We share a common goal. We are bound together by honor." He repeats this in a language that I do not understand and then commands, "Take it!"

Reaching out with shaky hands, I am ashamed at how loudly my stomach growls. My mouth starts to water and I pluck a morsel from the plate. I am about to pop it in my mouth when he shrieks, "Stop!"

I freeze in place and he bustles over with a lacy linen napkin that he tucks on my lap, and a delicate silver fork.

Narcisse gestures for me to continue, sits down in a similar chair and props his chin on his folded fingers, watching my reaction with glowing orange eyes.

Holding my plate with my pinky extended, I delicately stab the organ meat with my fork. His head nods and bobs approval. What a messed up tea party. One bite and I nearly swoon from the explosion of delicious flavors on my tongue. My host claps his hands in delight.

"That's a mixture of pancreas and kidney. I made the pate myself! What can you tell about the donor?"

Rolling the paste around in my mouth, I notice a bitterness with a touch of sour tang. "Diabetic with renal failure, I would guess..." I guiltily swallow and poke the next piece with my fork.

Narcisse smiles in smug satisfaction. "They are so fragile, these humans. All their diseases and conditions only add to the complexity of flavors in each meal. Sometimes I like to pair a dried-out alcoholic with a syphilitic just to enhance texture and bouquet."

Leaning in to share a confidence, "Now I always wait when I see track marks on their bodies. The stuff they inject gives me such a terrible headache and then I have to sleep half the day just to feel like my old self. So much more potent than the old days, I tell you. The wonders of modern chemistry, I suppose."

"I can't drink much either," I mutter. "I'm not much fun to have at parties."

"Unless you start biting humans, I suppose. That's always a conversation starter." He laughs. "You know, once I learned to stop smiling with all my lovely teeth and wear sunglasses, it was so easy to blend into the herd. A few spritzes of this perfume that they call patchouli and my natural body aroma is covered as well. Then I'm free to wander about on my bicycle and hunt as much as I like. Did you know that I can see and hear from my window all the people who leave the surgical center?"

"You can?" Easy Mirri, just let him talk. Stall, stall, stall. Just stay alive.

"Oh yes, they are all trussed up in bandages and so very vulnerable. I like to follow home the ones who talk about how 'they can't wait to get home and how they live so very close'. I just hop on my bicycle and when they are alone, break into their homes, steal anything of value that is small or shiny, and then take a few yummy bites near their surgical sites."

Narcisse makes a show of examining his sharpened fingernails. "If you were a pure-blood, your first bite would paralyze your prey almost immediately and they'd be raving from infection and sepsis hours later." His voice wavers with nostalgia. "In the old days that was very handy, you could make a meal really, really last. You could savor every moment of their fear. Watch their eyes roll back in their heads and hear them inhale their last breath."

"You're too young." Sighing, "You'll never know the old days."

"So you don't have humans working for you? Wouldn't that be easier?" He cocks his head, suddenly suspicious.

Oh crap!

I shove the next portion in my mouth. "Ooh! This is so good." Making a big show of my pleasure, I chew theatrically and smile at him. It really is good too. I am such a monster.

"It is quite tasty, isn't it?" Narcisse laughs. "Oh I never use humans for anything besides the obvious. They're clever but so stupid in their insistence that they are the top of the food chain. They all walk in blissful ignorance. I've always hunted alone. But that's all going to change, isn't it?"

Walking behind me, he reaches down and strokes my hair. He tenderly pets me with his wickedly sharp fingernails and croons softly. "We're not alone anymore, you and I. I never knew how lonely I was until I found you, little Mirri. We're going to be so close. You're going to live with me. We're going to be a family. We've got each other now, little half-blood."

Narcisse grabs me by my shoulders and neatly lifts me out of the chair. The china plate falls to the floor and shatters. He mashes the back of my head against his frilly apron-clad chest and croons a wordless lullaby while stroking my hair.

I hope that he mistakes my tears of terror for tears of joy, because I cannot stop sobbing. Oh God, what am I going to do now?

* * *

Narcisse let me out of the storage unit so I could go pack a suitcase. A lovely little suitcase with everything that I'll need for my new life of ruthlessly slaughtering the innocent to make a fabulous buffet. Do not hyperventilate on the way up to your apartment, Mirri. I wouldn't be surprised if he followed me here too, just to make sure I'd come back.

I drag out a plastic shoe box from under my bed. It is filled to the brim with a cornucopia of pharmaceutical delights. Red pills, blue pills, white capsules, uppers, downers and pain pills all nestled in vacuum sealed foil packets. Oooh shiny!

Half of these pills are unknown to me. When people bring in medications to get rid of they can't be donated or given out again. It's not safe. So the pills get dumped in the biowaste bins. I've collected them over the years like a magpie.

In my dark moments, I've contemplated just ending my own complicated and taboo existence, but I never could go through with it. I couldn't do that to my parents and I harbor faint hopes of making it to Heaven, eventually. God forgives everyone and everything, right? So I just collected the pills. At least they wouldn't end up in the water supply making mutant fish.

A wild glimmering of an idea: I could use these pills to drug Narcisse and then Forbo could do his crazy hunter thing. Then I could run away really fast from Forbo. At least it's a straightforward plan.

Okay, I admit it's incredibly stupid. I should just pack up the car and drive to the next state. I still have to try to save Phil and Leslie. I dial my cell phone and wait until Forbo picks up. Is my musical ringtone really that annoying? No wonder only insane men are calling me. I make a mental note to change it, if I survive the night.

"Forbo, it's Mirri," I plead when he answers. "Don't hurt them!"

"Why not?" My gut tightens with dread. He's probably already killed them.

"Are they still alive?! I found the ghoul! He works alone!" Oh please, oh please...

"Where is the ghoul, Mirri? Tell me now before I do something you'll regret."

I'm reminded how much I despise him. Maybe Narcisse is the lesser of these two evils.

"He's in the old storage building behind the clinic—" I stammer and he curtly cuts me off.

"Got it."

"Wait! I can help you! Narcisse is really strong and fast and—" And I'm listening to a dial tone. He hung up on me. Of course he did.

Pacing back and forth, I gnaw on a plastic dental floss pick. I'm not planning on attending Narcisse's horrible slumber party. I'm certainly not going to be murdered and dumped in a ditch somewhere by Forbo. One way or another, I'm ending this.

I empty the shoebox into a plastic bag and shove it into my overnight bag, piling some scrubs, zipper bags and surgical gloves on top. Never can have too many pairs of gloves. I scribble a letter to my parents that I love them, and thank them for raising me, then leave it on the nightstand. They will be so devastated if I don't survive this. Then I pray, like I would as a child, to God for mercy. I hope that He loves even me, one of His most pitiful and horrible children. Grabbing my bag, I take a deep breath. No turning back now.

At the old storage building, I smell delicious fresh blood almost instantly. Oh crap. I swallow hard, grab my bag and creep over in the shadows of the setting sun, probably sounding more like a rampaging elephant than a ninja. There's a body lying in the corner of the storage building lobby and it looks terribly familiar. Forbo. Damn it. Damn him.

Where is Narcisse? Is he hiding? Is he waiting for me? Nothing.

The dark puddle around Forbo's body is barely congealed and the flies are just starting to notice. I move closer and I have to stifle a shriek at the sight of Forbo's glistening bowels spilling out from under his tattered shirt. His right hand is still clutching that stupid knife with mangled fingers. His brown eyes stare lifelessly at the ceiling.

Leaning against the wall for support, I hear my stomach growl while my heart threatens to beat out of my chest. Looking on the bright side, I guess I don't have to worry about my parents' safety anymore, do I?

I snap on a pair of gloves. I reach into Forbo's pockets and steal whatever he had in his possession including my phone (I'll take that thank you very much), a set of car keys, a leather-bound notebook crammed full of scribbled notes, and a small caliber handgun, loaded. Oh yes, a large wad of tightly rolled bills. These all get shoved in my bag, hidden under the scrubs.

As an afterthought, I close his jaundiced eyes. He did have such long eyelashes.

There's different scented blood on the knife blade and I take a small taste, spitting it out immediately. So bitter! That must be ghoul blood. I guess pure-bloods don't taste very good. Not that I had any plans to snack on Narcisse.

What to do, what to do? Think Mirri.

Narcisse must have been badly wounded or he'd be here feasting and packing away innards for late night snacks in his little plastic housewife containers. I bet he's holed up in the upstairs apartment.

Gosh, wouldn't it be nice if his new little buddy brought him some fresh small intestines? He did mention that he always eats them first and he wouldn't have had time to defrost anything yet. Now what this delicacy needed was a little seasoning. A little pharmaceutical seasoning.

"Sorry Forbo," I whisper, "It would be a shame to let all this lovely meat go to waste and I assume that you really don't mind right now." Grabbing his knife, I cut a length of small intestine, unraveling it from his abdominal cavity like a fleshy ball of grisly pink yarn. Probably need more than that, Narcisse is going to be hungry and I don't want to be the main course.

I must be in some sort of shock because carving up Forbo's guts shouldn't be this easy. Why aren't I crying? Should be a sobbing nervous wreck, but I'm not. I catch myself humming softly during my butchering. That's just messed up, Mirri.

Oh well. Time to stuff the turkey.

Working quickly, I shove pills into the slack intestinal cavities, making sure to push them way down with my gloved fingers. The wetness of the digestive juices should soften up the capsules so they won't be crunchy, the ghoul shouldn't notice that. One pill would knock me for a loop, so I'm hoping fifty will flat out kill him. I stuff in as many as I can without stiffening the intestine; they go into a zipper bag. My stomach nervously grumbles. One small piece is on the top, unstuffed, just in case I have to play food taster. I'm not looking forward to eating Forbo, I'm really not.

Okay, did I forget anything? Better grab the knife too, I stick it into the sheath I found around Forbo's leg.

I hope Narcisse is really hungry. Ravenous. I know I would be; I'm always starving. I'm salivating so much that I have to wipe the drool from my lips, and spit. One little bite wouldn't hurt, right? No. I steel my resolve, I will not eat any part of Forbo. I take off my gloves with a snap. It's just too intimate and I don't want to remember the taste of his entrails. He was going to kill me and my family.

* * *

"Narcisse? Hello? Are you there?" I whisper into the dark apartment space, hoping that he really isn't. Maybe he decided to run to the next state. Maybe he died! Ha. Life's not that charmed. Clutching my bag full of sabotaged entrails, I try to not to let my knees knock together. "I'm back..." I can smell his blood, lots of it. That's promising?

A dry, dusty whisper tinged with hope answers me. "My little cuckoo?"

Flipping on the light as I enter the room, I flinch as the odor of decomposition burns my nostrils again. Narcisse is lying on his ratty twin bed, curled up in brown-black stained cartoon character sheets. He flutters his eyelids and moans in pain.

"He hurt me. Little Mirri, I hurt." His voice trembles and he sobs gently, pitifully. I actually feel a little sorry for him, even though he is a vicious monster. Well, I suppose I'm not that much better.

"Can I see?" I keep my voice calm and quiet, like I'm talking to a wounded animal. "Shhh, let me look."

He whimpers and acquiesces to my request, lifting the sheets away from his torso. Forbo did some serious damage. Narcisse is split from his navel to his sternum, leaking blood and visceral fluids, his guts held inside by strips of clothing. Any human would be dead by now. I don't know how he's still conscious. "So hungry." He shivers in shock, but he'll heal from this if he eats. He's so vulnerable right now.

Shushing him softly, "Don't talk. I'll get you food." I dig in my bag for one of the drug-laced intestines, "I'll take care of you. We're family." I don't know why I said that. Scary. Praying that he won't notice the taste of the pills, I put the bloody organ against his lips.

He rolls his orange-ember eyes back in his head and opens his mouth so wide that his jaws must have unhinged like a snake's. He chokes back the meat without chewing it; the gobbet slides down his gullet. He gasps and feebly reaches for more. Happy to oblige, I give him the next section and soon he has nearly devoured my zipper bag of drugged guts. His wound is starting to seal now. Damn, that was fast.

"Oh little cuckoo. You are my little guardian angel. We shall be so happy together with our little family and we shall dominate the humans and make them our slaves to be nibbled and sampled at our pleasure and I feeeeeeeel funny..." He starts to sound like Zola at the end of a bar crawl. "I just want, I just want to tell you, something... Something..."

I lean over and stroke his forehead, like an indulgent nurse. "What? What do you want to tell me?"

"Smile for me. Smile Mirri, show me what it looks...what it looks like to be happy?" His eyes are not tracking well and cross randomly. I paste a big, fake happy grin on my face.

Casually he backhands me across the mouth, whip-crack loud and I fly against the wall. I can taste my own blood filling my mouth. Spitting on the floor, I try to clear my ringing head. He's going to kill me.

"I've aaaaaalways hated your human teeeeeth." Narcisse slurs. "Now, now you will have ghoul teeeeth. And if you don't—" He sits up and bobbles from side to side like a toddler's toy. "I shall hit you some more until you loook like meeee and then we shall take pictures and have our portrait painted and we will be so happy together that we willlllll—" He falls off the bed and lands in a face-first pile on the floor. I try to not choke to death on my own blood, my mouth full of broken teeth, stifling sobs of pain.

Grabbing Forbo's knife from my bag without hesitation, I stand up. I could use the gun, but I don't want anyone to hear it and frankly, I don't know, really, how to shoot one. I'm going to learn how to shoot a gun and use many, many kinds of weapons, if I survive this. How do you kill something that heals so fast? Well, he needs blood, so that's a good place to start. Eliminate the blood.

The sharp blade slices into his flesh and severs the arteries at his wrist. First one, then the other. He's not bleeding out fast enough for my inexperienced tastes so I draw the knife across his throat, pretending that I'm just carving up some leftover turkey at Thanksgiving. La lala. I'm not really murdering anyone, la lala, this is self-defense. Narcisse gurgles and I panic, pushing harder and harder. His body spasms and shakes. I cut until the blade gets caught in his neck bones. I feel sick to my stomach from my own blood, metallic and coppery tasting, dribbling down my chest and soaking my scrub top.

Narcisse didn't have as much blood as I expected, no arterial spray to speak of. Thanks for that small grace, Forbo. The ghoul is not breathing, I can't feel a pulse, but I'm not going to take any chances. I stand up and give the body a few hard kicks in the ribs.

I'm not your dearie and I am so not your family.

My mouth really, really hurts with an intense, eye-watering throb and I think he's broken my jaw, possibly part of my cheekbone. I need to eat so I can heal. Might as well take advantage of the one good thing that being a monster gives me. There's one clean piece of Forbo left in that bag. I stare longingly at it, but no, I'll take my chances with what's in the fridge.

I don't know these remains, but somehow it's easier to suck on a random piece of a random person than to eat the hunter. And I'd rather die than eat nasty bitter Narcisse bits. Just the thought threatens to make my gorge rise. So I grab a container from the fridge and slump down on the floor, cutting tiny bites off the meat after wiping my blade on some curtains. Liver and a kidney. I stash the leftovers in my bag.

The sink doesn't work and I'm glad I never had to use the toilet. Guess the water bill didn't get paid. He doesn't seem to be coming back to life, but I still don't trust Narcisse, not even a presumptively dead Narcisse.

I toss the place after slipping on some gloves. He collected junk from his victims like photos and clothing mostly, but I find a big wad of cash stashed in a pile of used women's lingerie. Gross. That's why I wear gloves, right there in a nutshell.

There is a small book, beautifully bound in a pale pink-brown fine grained leather. Human hide. The pages are hand-lettered in beautiful Copperplate writing. I've got a collection of freaky, psychopaths' journals now. Lucky me.

Hopefully, a large locked ornate jewelry box won't have rotting body parts, locks of hair or some other kind of nasty trophy in it.

Best of all, I find a cigarette lighter and a container of lighter fluid in the bottom of a dresser drawer. Flicking the flint, I rejoice at the small, steady flame.

There's no shortage of tinder in this building. I find yellowed newspaper, heaps of junk mail and magazines piled to the ceiling in several units. A firebug's dream. I build a funeral pyre for both Narcisse and Forbo, dragging the latter upstairs on a tarp-covered toboggan. I don't know if it's ghoul-power or adrenaline, but I easily get them both dragged onto the bed. I drizzle them with lighter fluid and soak the tinder under the bodies with some gasoline I found in the trunk of Forbo's car. Then, just like Dad taught me at Bible Camp, I light the fire in several different places and watch the flames grow with a hungry roar.

Running down the stairs, I escape with my loot in tow after making sure that the fire. burns hot and fast. Hopping in my car, I try to act casual.

When I drive off I can see smoke in my rear-view mirror. Huge billows of nasty black smoke against the twilight sky. Huh. I guess the fire sprinklers were shut off too. Good.

Hope I haven't set my workplace on fire, too. Oh well. Can't be helped now. Now I hear many different emergency sirens echoing against the hills.

I pull over into an empty parking lot and change my scrub top, wiping off my aching face as best I can. My hair is stiff with bloody spatters. The bruising on my jaw is as dark as a ripe plum, but I'm healing. I cautiously bare my battered teeth, pulling back my split and bloody lips with my fingers.

I'm missing my upper canine on the left side and a bicuspid next to that. My perfect teeth were just about the only pretty thing about me! Now I look like a hillbilly or a defeated prize fighter. Probing the empty sockets with my tongue, I feel a razor tip poking out of my gum. It cuts my tongue with the slightest pressure. Yup, proper ghoul teeth.

Well, there's not going to be any deep French kissing in my future. I roll my eyes, like that's going to be an issue. Just one more thing to practice hiding from the humans. I catch that thought and squash it down hard. I'm still human too. Partly. Mostly. Probably.

Leaning back my car seat, I angle the rear-view mirror so that I can watch dirty black smoke billow over the horizon. It mingles with the sunrise, and stains the sky a dull red. Red as congealed blood on a dirty concrete floor. I nibble on the last bit of freezer-burnt kidney, relaxing for the first time in days. Mmm... salty. Then I reach for my floss.

# Compelled  
by John Slover

Two men sat in comfortable chairs, looking at an orange fire burning bright in an old stone fireplace. It was dark aside from the fire, and silent aside from their slow breaths. Eventually, something inside the younger of the two compelled him to speak.

"I had a dream," he said softly.

"Most of us do, from time to time," the older man replied.

"This one was strange, and the memory of it is like an affliction that can't be shed."

"Well, then, spread the disease to me, and perhaps you can be cured of it."

The younger man paused, and nodded, before continuing.

"I was in a basement," he said, "in the dark. The only source of light was that of a fire before me. It was inside a wide, strange stove, of the blackest cast iron. I could see the fire inside, beyond the slits of the grate on the hinged door set into the belly of it. It was roaring too hot, and too red, in a way that wasn't natural. I could see the blackened wooden handle on the front of it, and I knew that I had to grasp that handle, and turn it, and open that stove. I knew I had to, but I fought against it, impotently, with every part of me.

"I found myself stepping forward across a wooden slat floor worn slick with years of use, though I was sure no other human had stepped foot there before me. As I walked, I heard whispers in the air around me, and the floor rippled strangely beneath my feet. Every step brought me closer to its hellish heat.

"Then, I was there, standing before its monstrous shape. My mind was filled with echoes of unspoken words and whispered half-thoughts, and my hand was reaching out for the handle, and nothing in this world could stop it.

"As my hand brushed against the handle, the whispers turned to shrieks, flooding my mind with terror and pain, of experiences which were not mine, but were made mine.

"My hand grasped that blackened handle, and turned it, the flood in my brain growing with each moment. The moment I dragged that door open, I saw the flames, and it became clear... I knew..." His voice trailed off, and there was silence once more. Before, it had been pleasant. Now it was stifling, as was the heat from the fireplace.

"You knew what?" the other man asked, finally, his face appearing calm, but his voice belying trepidation. The younger man looked at him for a while, and took off his glasses before speaking, carefully folding and setting them on a small round table beside his chair.

"I knew humanity had been crafted, and that it was for a purpose. I knew, though, that no benign deity had done so. I knew there were no gods nor devils, and no heaven full of pleasures. There was, however, a hell. That was the knowledge in the flame, in the stove. It was not the hell dreamt up by mankind, of fires that burn away the flesh, to punish us for our disobedience. It was a place of anguish beyond reckoning, for each of us, man, woman, and child. There was a hell, and we were made to burn in it, without exception, without hope of escape or reprieve. Creatures far beyond our reckoning had built us for this."

"But... why? Why would they?"

"They fed from it, grew fat on our fear, on our pain. They bathed in it, and bred in it. We were cattle, being fattened for the slaughter."

The silence came again. The younger man glanced over at his companion, and saw him ashen and pale, a single tear streaming down his face.

"Why do you look so frightened? What is it?"

His friend seemed to have a hard time speaking, and glanced down, wringing his hands fitfully. He finally looked up, his face full of terror, and managed to croak out a few short words.

"You told my dream."

# Companions  
by Hannah Wilson

The mountains rose out of stony planes, a long spine of earth and trees that stretched across the horizon. Waning sunlight cast the mountainside in a pale orange glow. Flat pine needles reflected the light, washing the forest in false autumn colors.

Cutting a path through the trees, overgrown with moss and creeping vines, was a steep dirt road. The stones that once lined either side of the trail had slipped away, succumbing to the incline. In their place, ground cover slowly reclaimed the road. The rhythmic sound of hoof beats against the ground was muffled by the dense trees all around.

Two men rode side by side up the twisting mountain path. Both were young, very close in age. In the quickly vanishing sunlight they slowed their pace.

The taller man sat straight-backed in his saddle, watching around them, into the trees and at the gravel surface of the road as the pale white light of the moon replaced the sun. A shallow widow's peak topped his square, serious face. His untidy hair was a deep black, and it continued down his face into a short beard.

The other rider brushed curly blond hair off his face only to have it slide in front of his eyes a few seconds later.

The tall man shifted in his seat, darting his eyes to his companion, then back to the road. After a moment he did it again, this time sighing in frustration.

"We should have reached it by now. We should dismount before a horse breaks a leg."

The blond answered, "The trapper said we should be able to get there before sundown."

"That's my point, Gipp." The tall man stopped his horse.

Gipp looked up, pulling the reins of his horse, looking into the trees as darkness settled around them. He had noticed the sunset, but failed to process its significance to their mission.

"I'm sorry, you're right, Faski. We should have been there by now." He slipped off his saddle.

"We should press on rather than make camp. The cabin can't be far away, we can stay there for the night." Faski dismounted.

They stopped talking as they rounded another turn. The road before them narrowed, no longer wide enough for them to walk abreast. Faski went ahead, Gipp falling in behind. The road was almost completely worn away here, lost to roots; they had to concentrate to keep their horses on solid footing.

Both men halted; their horses shifted, sensing tension from their masters. Faski sniffed the air.

"Fire." Gipp said, "Close."

"Too close, we should have smelled it before, seen smoke."

Faski looked up to the sky, the bright field of stars unobscured. He pulled on the horse's reins, hurrying it up the path.

"Is it wise to charge ahead?" Gipp called, even as he too hurried his pace.

"This is no coincidence, Gipp."

After a sharp incline and a short series of switchbacks that cut across the mountainside, the men saw an orange glow in the trees. A moment later the lowest stars in the sky vanished behind creeping tendrils of smoke.

Pulling his bow from his case, Faski dropped to one knee to string it before continuing into the forest. Gipp fished in his mess of saddlebags for his long scabbard, drawing the blade, then followed Faski into the trees.

Their horses stood together on the road, trained to wait for their riders to return.

Faski rarely took his sword belt off, so it hung by his leg as they navigated through the dense foliage. He gestured through the trees, indicating Gipp should approach whatever burned in the woods from the left.

Gipp nodded and moved away, his eyes on the red-orange glow.

The trees thinned into a clearing, large enough that in the darkness neither man could see the other side. A small cabin was at the center, its inside filled with flame, smoke pouring out of the windows.

Faski stopped at the tree line and lifted his bow, steadying his aim. He watched the cabin down the shaft of an arrow, trying to find a sign of who had done this.

Gipp left the tree line, aware that Faski remained in darkness, and moved slowly across the field. The heat of the fire hit him like a wave, making his skin feel pulled and dry. He lifted one arm in a vain attempt to block the heat.

The glint of light off metal registered with Gipp before he saw the form wielding the blade. He dodged the attack, taking hurried steps backward.

"Faski!" Gipp called as he raised his sword.

Faski pivoted and the arrow loosed a heartbeat later.

The attacker slumped to the ground before Gipp, an arrow through the side of his neck, a hatchet still clutched in his hand. Gipp's sword was up in time to block the second man, who charged at him from the direction of the burning cabin. His wild, undisciplined hacking was easy to deflect; in seconds Gipp had disarmed him of his shortsword. The man came at Gipp with his bare hands but didn't make it two steps before being cut down.

Gipp cast the fallen men a quick glance, enough to see that they wore no uniforms and had no distinguishing marks that he could make out.

When he looked up, Faski was in the clearing, running after more figures. Gipp ran to join him. The heat grew more intense as he passed the cabin, and the sound of fire eating wood briefly overwhelmed his ears.

His senses were restored in a moment and he thought he heard Faski calling to him. He wanted to shout out to him, but realized it was not Faski's voice he heard.

He stopped dead and looked to the cabin. The sound was clear, behind the crackle and pop of wood being consumed, someone was calling for help.

"Faski!" He yelled, but the man was already far away, past the cabin and almost vanished into the trees on the far side of the field.

Gipp thought for only a moment, weighing his choice. If he tried to save whoever was in the cabin Faski would face an unknown number of men alone. If he chased Faski, the people in the cabin might never make it out.

Trusting Faski's superior swordsmanship, Gipp moved toward the cabin. The screaming was unmistakable now, multiple voices, high pitched and full of terror.

Smoke poured out the edges of the door. Before swinging it wide to whatever might be inside, he moved to a low window next to it. Peering in, his eyes watering in the smoke, he saw flames eating one corner of the room. On the far side were three small figures, huddled together, unmoving except to lift their heads to scream.

He dropped his sword onto the grass and opened the door. The wall of smoke that rushed out was more than he'd anticipated. It slammed against him, stinging his eyes and clogging his lungs. He dropped into a crouch and coughed heavily, heaving out all the smoke he could manage. One wall was gone to the flames, and yellow-orange tendrils inched across the ceiling. He moved forward, pulling his shirt up to cover his mouth.

"Please, help!" a choking call came from his left.

The three small figures gripped each other tightly, their faces covered to guard against the heavy smoke that filled the room.

Keeping his legs bent and his head low, Gipp moved quickly to them.

"Come here," he pulled the shirt from his face, "I'll get you out." As he approached, he reached to lift the closest figure.

Only one of the three lifted her eyes to him, a girl, maybe 15 years old. The others kept their faces hidden but they were smaller than the girl, younger, children.

The girl shook her head and pulled at her arm. Gipp's eyes darted to chains around her wrists, holding her to the ground. Each child had such a chain, and each chain was thick and held in place by strong iron bolts.

Frantically, Gipp tried to think of a way to loosen the chains. His mind fell to his sword, outside; he could use it to pry the chains from the floor. He was about to run for the sword when a huge crash sounded across the room.

A thick beam fell from the ceiling, smashing into what remained of the furniture in the far corner, and rolled to rest in front of the door. Flames leapt out, landing on yet unburned parts of the wall and catching light. The children screamed and Gipp threw his arms over them to block them from the falling debris.

Gipp cast a look around the room for a tool. His eyes fell instantly on the fireplace where a simple cook fire burned. He was up and across the room as soon as he recognized the poker which had fallen into the hearth. Flames reached out as he crossed the room, catching his arm. He pulled back, ignoring the twinge of pain.

Heat radiated out from the poker, warming his hand so the skin turned red, but he gripped it tightly as he hurried back to the children.

He worked at the chain holding the smallest child, forcing the poker through the loop that held it to the ground. The loop spread open, but the child did not move, still clutched to the boy. Gipp freed him next.

The fire was over their heads now. Embers flew in the air, burning the skin on the back of Gipp's neck as they landed.

He pulled the freed children out of the corner, pointed them to the low window beside the now-blocked door, yelling for them to get out. The two scurried for the window, the boy crouched over the smaller child to shield against falling embers.

In a moment Gipp had pried open a link and the girl was free. The fire worked down every wall now, and danced across the floor at them. Staying low and dodging lines of flames, Gipp and the girl crossed the room.

He lifted her up to the window as soon as they were close. She vanished from sight, dropping down on the other side. Gipp gripped the frame and lifted himself up. Then the air was pushed out of his lungs and the window disappeared as he was forced to the ground. His head rang, and he tried to scream, tried to lift his arms to push himself to his feet, but his body was heavy and his throat burned with pain.

The last thing he saw was the world turning from bright orange to a shadowy dark.

* * *

In the woods, Faski steadied his aim. The first man was falling with an arrow in his back by the time Faski was taking aim at the second. This time the arrow did not hit center, but struck the man in the side. He lost his footing, falling, grasping at the shaft.

The third man was moving too erratically to track with a bow. Faski wrapped his bow around his shoulder and drew his sword to run the man down. He spared a thought to Gipp, who seemed to have stayed in the field, maybe dealing with more men.

Faski's breath grew heavy as he ran, his eyes darting between the man ahead and the ground, avoiding any roots or stones. As Faski closed in on the man he let out a shout, a cry for help. His sword came down and the man dropped to the ground.

With the last man down Faski looked at his surroundings, how far he'd come from the cabin, which was now just an orange glow in the distance. He dropped to the ground, his knee sinking into a bed of rotting pine needles. He lifted the man, turning him over to see his face.

"What were you doing up here! Why attack us?" He pulled the man's face to his own.

Moonlight cut through the tree cover in long, thick shafts. One illuminated the man's face, now only a maze of blood and skin, collapsed when it fell hard onto a stone. Faski dropped him, standing and wiping his sword clean on the man's pant leg.

"Gipp!" He called out into the woods, turning back to the cabin and waiting a moment for an answer. When none came he called again, "Gipp, where are you?"

He slipped the sword into its scabbard, taking hurried steps back to the clearing.

The roar of the flames hit him along with the hot air as he broke into the field. A short distance from the cabin were small forms, huddled together.

He ran to them, his sword up, guarding against another attack. When he saw their young faces, he dropped it into the grass and knelt beside them.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his hands moving from child to child, looking for signs of injury.

They pulled back from him, wary. The older children shielded the youngest from him.

"You're safe now." His features softened as he spoke to them, his grey eyes warm and sincere.

The two oldest children exchanged a look. The boy nodded and the girl pointed to the burning building.

"You have to help him," she said, "he didn't come out."

"Who?" Faski turned to the cabin, the flames that ate at the roof were so tall they blocked out the sky above.

He stood, looking around the clearing, seeing a long, metal shaft in the grass, a sword blade that reflected stars, flame and a cloud of smoke.

"The man, the one who got us out."

"Man?" Faski didn't know if anything could come out of that cabin alive now, then his eyes snapped wide as he truly understood the girl's words, "Gipp!"

He ran to the cabin, the air so hot it felt like his skin was already burning. Fire danced in the windows, through the planks of wood; most of the roof had collapsed. The door was open, but burning debris blocked the opening. He pushed at it with his foot, trying to open a space wide enough to pass through.

Easing through, Faski ripped off his coat to beat back the flames that lined the doorway.

"Gipp!" he called, barely able to hear his own voice over the roar.

His eyes darted desperately in the haze of orange and red. A small spot of light yellow caught his focus: rings of blond hair on the floor just to his left.

Splayed out beside the door was Gipp, a burning beam pinning him to the floor by the waist.

Unable to pull Gipp out, he wrapped the coat around his hands and pushed the beam. The effort strained his muscles and fire spread onto his coat, but finally the beam rolled to the ground beside Gipp

He took his friend, holding him just under the arms, and pulled him toward the door. He kept his head low and walked backward through it as fast as he could, flames jumping to his clothes as he passed.

When he was out in the field he kept walking, pulling Gipp as far away from the cabin as his strength would allow before he collapsed in a fit of coughing, slamming his hands into his shirt to put out the small fires that clung to him.

The cold air of the night felt good in his lungs, clearing out the smoke. When he could breathe again he turned to his friend, who was face down in the grass, his back a messy pulp of burns and blood. Kneeling next to Gipp, Faski inspected the wounds, not seeing the burns that covered his own hands. The firelight danced over the injuries, making them look swollen and fierce.

A small hand rested atop his. He looked up into the oval eyes of a young elf. The suddenness of it shocked him; it was rare to see an elf at all in this part of the world, let alone a child, who should rightly be in some protected grove of Matron Wood.

"She might be able to help." It was the boy speaking, standing just behind the young elf. Shackles hung from his wrists as he gripped his arms to his chest.

"She can use her craft," the girl said, "Rhi can do small healing. She's cured fevers before." She stood next to the elf, her hands on the small child's shoulders.

"Craft..." Faski said, "you're all crafters?"

"Not really," the girl turned her head to the burning cabin, "We've not learned anything, we were just starting to practice when those people took us. But Rhi is an elf," she squeezed the elf's shoulders, "she knew a little healing to start."

Faski nodded, looking to the small child as he gripped affectionately at Gipp's shoulders.

"Please try, I don't think he'd survive the ride back down the mountain." A hot tear ran down his face, clearing away the dirt and ash.

The elf nodded, her spindly fingers moving in the air over the long red gash that ran from the middle of Gipp's shoulder blade down to his waist. The strain of it was obvious. The smooth, graceful lines that made up her round face twisted and bent in pain.

Faski watched and his hands dug deeply in the fabric of Gipp's shirt. One wall of the cabin collapsed. The crash sounded out, but it was ignored as all eyes watched the elf's hands work.

Gipp stirred, jerking his head around and trying to get his arms under him. Faski grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to gently hold him down.

"Don't move, you're hurt."

"The children?" he managed to say, still straining to hold his head up.

"They're here, they're safe." He put his hand on Gipp's head, "Lay still."

Gipp put his head down and closed his eyes, breathing heavily, but steadily. Faski ran his hand over Gipp's dense blond curls and looked at the wounds. Though still extensive and deep, they were no longer inflamed.

The small elf sunk to the grass and the other children surrounded her. The boy sat cross legged and lifted the elf to his chest. Her eyes were closed and her head rested on his shoulder. The girl leaned over her for a moment, then sat next to the boy, her eyes fixed on the building. Faski stared at the boy, who nodded back, indicating the elf was alright.

Faski closed his eyes and exhaled a long, deep breath and slumped to the ground next to his friend.

The remaining cabin walls came down. A huge puff of smoke, dotted with glowing embers, rushed upward into the night sky, covering the face of the moon.

# Catharsis  
by Heath Wheeler

Remember the guy in high school that everyone wanted to be? He was usually the quarterback of the football team and had more friends than anyone else. He was dating the hottest girl in school, drove the nicest car, and got good grades because he convinced the smart kid to do his homework for him. That guy totally wasn't me.

No, I was the smart kid doing the quarterback's homework. I was the kid no one wanted to hang out with because I was into weird stuff like role playing games and comic books. Girls wouldn't give me the time of day and my family was too poor to afford a second car so I was stuck taking the bus. I had one best friend and a couple of people whom I considered good buddies but to everyone else I might as well have been invisible.

Except for the bullies of course. I got picked on mercilessly, made fun of, and called every name in the book. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, though, right? If I just put my time in, studied like mad, and ignored all the dickheads, I would get accepted to a prestigious college, earn my degree, and land an awesome job. Then I could go to the local burger joint and make the quarterback ask me if I wanted fries with that.

As it turns out, I did survive high school. I was accepted into a private university, had my degree after four years, and got hired at a pretty decent job right out of school. The only problem was that nothing else had changed. The few friends I had moved away and I spent my free time playing computer games online and watching anime. Women still wanted nothing to do with me and I drove a mid-sized sedan because I couldn't afford the maintenance on anything better. At work, I would pick up the slack for the office superstar because he had too much else going on in his life. By my late twenties, I had fallen into a nice, comfortable rut.

I came home from work on a Friday night and tossed my briefcase onto the couch. My tie was choking me so I pulled it off. After sloughing off my loafers and draping my jacket on the back of a dining room chair, I made my way to the fridge. A microbrew sounded wonderful. I sank my teeth into a slice of cold pepperoni pizza and then booted up my computer. My guild was going to be running a raid tonight and I wasn't about to miss it. As soon as I got logged in, my cell phone buzzed.

:Getting out of your dungeon tonight, little brother?: The screen flashed at me. That would be my sister, Audrey.

My thumbs flew over the virtual keyboard. :Shut it, sis.:

Several seconds later my phone buzzed again. :You're never going to get laid with that attitude.:

:I'd rather not discuss my sex life with my sister.:

:LOL. What sex life?:

I chucked my phone onto my desk in disgust. What did she know? Hell, I'd had sex before. Although... shit. When was the last time I'd actually had sex? I thought about it and realized the first and last time was at a party in college that my roommate had dragged me to. Most of the night was hazy and I'm pretty sure I was suffering from a minor case of whiskey dick, but I had still managed to get lucky.

It didn't matter; there was a raid on. A couple of mouse clicks and my dwarven berserker began slaughtering orcs with extreme prejudice.

:Ding!: I typed as I gained a level.

My guildmates responded in a chorus of :Grats!:

Nearly two hours later we'd ganked the boss orc and divvied up his loot. I rolled on a pair of enchanted boots and completed my armor set. After one last round of congratulations I logged off and shut down my computer. My phone was still where I had left it, the black screen mocking me.

Never getting laid, huh?

I slipped my loafers back on and grabbed my jacket. There was a bar nearby that some of my coworkers had talked about. I could mock Audrey the next morning.

As soon as I walked in, my senses were assaulted. Bass thudded into my chest, the disgusting stench of stale sweat mixed with flowery body spray filled my nose, and the warmth from accumulated body heat was enough for beads of perspiration to spring from my forehead. I could barely see, but managed to make my way to the bar without stumbling into anyone. The bartender was flirting with a twenty-something blonde. I eventually caught his attention and he came over.

"What can I get you?" he shouted over the house music as he laid a drink napkin down in front of me. He had an eyebrow piercing and was wearing a T-shirt with skulls and roses on it.

I leaned forward so I didn't have to yell as loudly. "Whatever amber ale you have on tap is fine."

"No problem." He filled a pint glass and set it down on the napkin before taking my money and going back to chat up the blonde.

Beer in hand, I surveyed the room. The dance floor took up most of the space but there were several standing tables off to the right. Most of the tables had groups of women at them but I knew better than to try and pull a mob when it had backup. Eventually I found a bored-looking brunette all by herself so I walked over as coolly and casually as I could muster.

"Hi, I'm Edwin. Can I buy you another?" I gestured to her half-empty drink.

She looked me up and down. "Sure. Rum and diet cola."

"Coming right up."

The pounding techno beats were starting to make me sick to my stomach but I couldn't wimp out now. I yelled at the bartender again before returning with the lady's drink. She had been joined by a broad-shouldered guy in a leather bomber jacket.

"Am I interrupting?" I set the glass down and smiled as unthreateningly as possible.

The new guy turned towards me. He was at least half a head taller and probably fifty pounds heavier than I was. "I was just about to ask the lady to dance, so yeah, you are."

The brunette shrugged as if to say, "Sorry," so I just nodded and walked away.

What the hell was I thinking? This was a stupid idea.

Stupid Audrey. I couldn't believe I took her bait. After leaving my unfinished beer at the bar, I headed outside. What had made me think I could just go to a bar and pick up a girl for a one night stand? That guy wasn't me. That guy wasn't me at all.

I tossed my jacket into the passenger seat of my car and started the engine. I was pulling out of the parking lot when I felt a heavy thud and my head bounced off the steering wheel.

"Son of a bitch!" I whipped around and saw the muscle car that had just hit me. After throwing my car into park and putting the flashers on, I stepped out to survey the damage.

The other driver was furious. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?" He was literally foaming at the mouth and a cloud of booze-breath hit me square in the face.

"I was just trying to leave, man. I think you backed into me."

The damage wasn't too bad. He'd smashed his taillight on my bumper, which was dented in, and we had swapped some paint. It was nothing that insurance wouldn't pay for.

"Are you saying this was my fault?" His voice pitched up and he gestured wildly at me.

"No, I didn't say that. We can let the insurance companies sort all that out." I reached for my wallet so I could dig out my insurance card. "If I can just get your information-"

In retrospect, I should have realized that putting a hand in my pocket wasn't the best idea when faced with a drunken maniac. At the time, though, I was in an unfamiliar situation and was just trying to get out of it as quickly as I could.

I felt the shot before I heard it. Pain exploded in my left biceps and radiated throughout the rest of my body like a shockwave. Bright red blood blossomed on my white dress shirt.

"You... you shot..." I stammered. My mind felt cloudy. Iron bands were wrapped around my chest making it almost impossible to breathe. Blackness started to creep into the edges of my vision.

Something inside me snapped. Deep scarlet flooded my sight and I roared like a wounded bear. I launched myself over the cars at my attacker, hammering fists down on him as hard and fast as I could.

The next thing I remember was waking up in a small room with concrete walls. Wire springs dug into my back through a thin mattress and my head pounded like a bass drum. I groaned and the cot above me creaked with the weight of its occupant.

"He lives!" A bald, chocolate head popped over the edge of the top bunk. "We got a badass over here."

"Who are you? Where am I? What the hell happened?"

"Oh, that's rich. Little man doesn't remember killing somebody."

That got my attention. "What? No, I didn't. Who could I have possibly killed?"

He laughed like rolling thunder. "Some poor bastard in a parking lot. The video of you doing real nasty things to him went viral on the internet."

Did I really kill that guy? Was I even capable of killing someone? I'd been plenty angry before and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't at least thought about killing certain people at one time or another. Could I have actually gone through with it, though? I tried to think back, to remember what exactly happened after the car accident in the bar's parking lot. But it was gone, blank, almost like there was a hole cut out of my memory. "I... I don't remember that."

"That's probably the drugs. They've had you so doped up I'd be surprised if you still remember your own name. Word is, the docs were worried about having nothing between you and them but some leather straps and an IV. Once you were fully healed they threw you in Gen Pop as fast as they could."

It was then that I noticed my bright orange clothing. "Wait. Am I in jail?"

"Shit, you don't remember anything, do you? Said you were 'a danger to yourself and others' so you've been asleep ever since then. The warden said you and I would get along real good, seeing as how we have a lot in common." The glint in his eye as he flashed his pearly whites told me he was being honest.

As I tried to make sense of this new information, there was a commotion outside the bars of my cell. The rest of the prisoners were getting restless. Something was going on.

My legs wobbled as I got up. After not being used for a while, they struggled to support my weight. I managed not to fall flat on my face, at least.

"Recreation time, ladies! Get up and get moving!" The guards called out as they walked down the corridor. A loud buzzing sound preceded the cell doors sliding open.

My cellmate leapt down from his bunk. He was twice my size and knocked the wind out of me as he clapped me on the back with one hand and held out the other. "Name's Clay."

His hand was as big as a frying pan. I shook it and tried to ignore his crushing grip. "Edwin."

"Come on, then. Yard time!"

Not knowing what else to do, I followed him out to the yard. As the afternoon sun kissed my forehead, every prison movie and television show I'd ever seen ran through my mind. I really didn't want to have to join the white supremacists for protection. Maybe Clay could help me out and I could be the token white guy? The Vatos Locos were an option too; I grew up in SoCal so hablé pequeño español. As long as I didn't have to hold on to anyone's pocket or be anybody's bitch I'd be alright.

Lifting weights sounded like a recipe for mockery and I'd never been any good at basketball, but I could at least walk around the yard. It would give me a good opportunity to look around, get my bearings, and try to figure out whom to ally myself with.

I started wandering. There were plenty of prisoners standing around, but not a single guard. That didn't seem right, but before I could speculate about it, a beach ball of a man with a swastika tattooed on his shaved head blocked my path.

"Where you going, boy?"

"Oh, just out for a stroll." I gave him a half-smile.

He stepped forward and bumped me with his gut. "We own this yard. If you wanna use it you gotta pay the toll."

"That seems fair. What's the price?" I took a step back but ran up against another skinhead. I looked to the sides and saw more of them starting to surround me.

"Just your ass. And maybe that pretty mouth. Gotta do something about all those teeth, though, first."

My arms were suddenly wrenched behind my back and a boot kicked me in the back of the legs, dropping me to my knees. The fat neo-Nazi grabbed my cheeks in his stubby fingers and squeezed. "Pucker up, sweetheart!"

I screwed my eyes shut. This shouldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. I'd wake up in bed drenched in sweat and swear I'd never watch late night cable TV and eat polish sausage again.

"Help! Guards! Guards!" I screamed my lungs out.

Laughter rained down on me. "The guards ain't gonna help your kind. You gotta learn this lesson the hard way."

I wasn't dreaming. This was a nightmare I wouldn't be able to wake from, and the memory wouldn't fade with the light of day. They ripped my shirt off and yanked my pants down. Sunlight shined where it normally doesn't. I gritted my teeth and braced myself.

No.

I'd be damned if I was going to be an easy target. I was tired of being the whipping boy. Everyone always thought they could do or say whatever they wanted to me and I would just have to take it. Well, I wasn't going to take it anymore.

My eyes snapped open. Crimson leaked into the edges of my vision. My skin, already warmed by the sun, grew even hotter. My heart pounded, pumping faster and faster, deafening me with the sound of rushing blood. Suddenly, I felt like I could bend steel. I burst free from the full nelson and slapped my hands on either side of the racist's chubby face. As I saw red, his eyes darted back and forth looking for help. His skin turned the color of a nasty sunburn at my touch. He squealed like a hog being butchered as thin tendrils of acrid, black smoke curled around my fingers.

My hands burst into flame and I watched with sick pleasure as my would-be rapist's flesh bubbled and started to cook. The underlying fat melted first, causing his skin to sag and droop. White-hot flame licked his eyeballs as they sizzled and popped like bacon on a griddle. I pushed him down to the ground, stood up, and watched as the fire danced on his corpse, his mouth stuck open in an eternal wail.

The rest of the gang had begun backing away, their faces frozen in sheer terror. They weren't getting off that easy. My fingernails dug into my palms as I balled my hands into tight fists. Fury washed over me and the flame covering my hands spread quickly up my arms and engulfed my entire body.

Wreathed in crackling fire, I lifted my arms to the sky and bellowed. My primal scream was matched by a roaring wall of flame that spread outward from my body. The searing heat blasted into the skinheads and flayed the flesh from their bones, leaving nothing more than charred and scattered viscera.

I stood in the center of the pile of smoking human wreckage, shaking from the adrenaline. As my rage subsided, so did the fire. I watched in wonderment as the flames retreated from my body, leaving me naked and covered in ash. The last of the flames winked out at my hands, smoke trailing from my fingertips.

The yard was quiet and still as a graveyard. The guards had finally shown up, but were standing around looking confused and seemingly wary of getting too close to me. After an eternity, Clay stepped out of the crowd and came over.

"Feel better?"

I couldn't keep the corners of my mouth from turning up. "Much. But the rest of these pieces of shit had better not piss me off again."

"I don't think that'll be a problem. You're the boss now." He grinned as he loosed his thunderous chuckle again.

I'm the boss now.

Yeah, that guy was definitely me.

# Leaving Earth  
by A.N. Bender

Tilly sipped from her steaming mug, enjoying the taste of the coffee. Susan dipped her head, trying to meet her friend's eyes. Tilly avoided her.

"That was a great play, wasn't it? It feels terrible that I won't be able to see any more with you. Why do you have to go?" Susan's voice trailed off, sadly.

Tilly said, "This is a great opportunity for me to see what's out there."

Susan frowned. "The world is big, and you haven't even seen a tiny piece of it. Why can't you just find a job here somewhere?" She nibbled on her donut trying not to think of her sorrow.

"There are lots of babysitters on Earth, but they don't have enough in space. Those working families need someone to care for their children. I'm qualified, and I feel like this is something I need to do. I will miss you." She smiled at Susan's boyfriend. "You too, Joey."

Joey said to Tilly, "I'll miss you very much, Tilly. Things will be different after you're gone." His voice cracked. "It's getting late. I have to take you to the spaceport on time."

At the spaceport they hugged Tilly and said their goodbyes. Susan had to look down at the floor and Joey's smile looked faked.

Tilly said, "You guys have been good friends to me. I'm going to miss you so much. I'll get in touch the first chance I get." She raised her hand to wave, then turned away before she started to cry.

In the spacecraft Tilly thought, I can look for a job here! She liked helping people, and there were a lot of people here. From the cries of little kids to the snoring of the old, she loved every bit. She was sure this was her place. A few days later she was in the cargo bay, looking sadly at her scooter which had become broken somehow.

A little girl came up to her and asked politely, "Are you Miss Tilly?"

She said to her, "Yes milady, why do you ask? Who are you?"

The young girl said, "I saw you in a magazine. You're the famous babysitter! My mom said you're a good role model." She looked at the scooter. "Oh, I see that your scooter is broken. I know a guy that can fix it. His name is Jake Jones, and he's a racer! Girls think he's cute." She smiled.

Tilly laughed. "Are you trying to set me up?"

"We're about to stop at the planet where he has his shop. You should go see him. He has black hair with fiery red streaks in it and he's very muscular."

"Thank you! When I get my scooter fixed, I'll do something nice for you too."

When they landed, Tilly used the girl's directions to find the shop. On the way inside, she stopped to stare at the door, which looked blood-spattered.

A voice called out, "Sorry about the door. Someone got happy with the paint gun."

Tilly brought her scooter into the shop. "Can you please fix my scooter for me? They threw it into the ship when I got on, and now it's broken."

"It's very expensive to get the anti-gravity drive for this model because they make them on Earth. How 'bout this? On my lunch break I have to go look for spare parts anyway. We can check the scrap yard." He smiled at her. "We have a lot of scrap yards on this planet."

"Um, okay."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jake. You have that new ship smell, and there are bigger shops on this planet. I'm sure someone's told you about me."

"A little girl told me. How did you know?"

"Did you meet her on the spacecraft?"

"Yes," she said.

"That was my little sister. She's always trying to get me a date. She never gives up." He smiled and shook his head.

Tilly told Jake, "Maybe she just wants you to be happy."

"I'm pretty happy with my racing. That's what I want to do. All my life I've dreamed of that, and that's what I'm doing."

At lunchtime, Tilly met Jake at the scrap yard he suggested. She helped him look for the other parts he needed, then they both searched for an anti-gravity drive. They didn't find it, but they still enjoyed themselves.

"I know the ship will be here for a few weeks," Jake said. "There's a larger scrap yard, but it's kind of far away. I'm going this weekend, and you can come along if you like. We'll probably find your drive there."

Tilly replied, "If it means having fun again and maybe also finding a drive for my scooter, then I'd love to."

When the weekend came, Tilly was really looking forward to going to the scrap yard. She couldn't tell whether she was more excited about getting her scooter repaired or seeing Jake again. They went through parts of old machines, broken space crap, alien poo, and just regular old junk.

Tilly was looking through a big pile of scraps when Jake hollered, "I found one that I think will fit. Let's get back to the shop and put it into your scooter."

Back at the shop, Jake said, "Your scooter needs a little touch-up. I can paint it when I'm done."

"Right now, how it works is more important than how it looks. But when I'm ready to get a paint job, I'll come to you." Tilly paused. "Do you do rainbows?"

Jake laughed. "Maybe."

As Tilly was walking to the door, Jake called out, "Wait!"

She stopped and turned around.

"Would you like to come see me race in a few days?" He was nervous.

Tilly was happy he asked. "Sure, I would love to!" She skipped out of the shop, smiling.

She came back a few days later. "She's all done," Jake told her. He took her into the garage to show her.

"Jake, this is awesome," Tilly exclaimed. She barely noticed that it was floating, because she was so dazzled by the rainbow of colors Jake had painted it. It looked better than when it was new. "Thank you so much, but I don't know how I'll pay you right now for this paint job. I just started working."

Jake grinned. "It's on the house. Why don't you take her for a test drive?"

"I've got to go to work now, so it's the perfect time."

"You'll be riding in style!" replied Jake. "Before you leave, this is for you." He handed her a ticket.

Tilly took the ticket. "I can't thank you enough, Jake. It was lucky I met your sister on the ship. I'll definitely be at the race to cheer you on."

As Tilly headed back to the spaceport on her scooter, she thought about her life since leaving Earth. She still missed her friends back home, but now, she had made a new one.

# TomorrowLand  
by Les Mackenzie

"God dammit," Sara cursed as she bumped into the hutch. The unforgiving edge of the wooden monstrosity shifted slightly as she rushed past it ignoring the sharp pain forming in her hip. The old rotary phone was ringing; just one of Gran's many functional antiques. Sara wanted to hate the old house. But it quickly became home after James disappeared.

Sara stopped before answering. Silently hoping it was James. She quickly scolded herself for thinking he was on the other end of the phone. It was stupid and she knew it. But old habits died hard. Especially around Valentine's Day.

Sara held out hope that he was alive, somewhere. She always would. She understood the importance of keeping hope alive. But knew James was never coming back.

Before Cynthia was born, she and Vanessa and Gran had spent thousands on investigators, pamphlets and even a fake psychic to track James down. All of it wasted hope. When Cynthia was born, Gran moved them into her old house, the place where James grew up. "Mitchells look out for their own," was all the old lady ever said about the living arrangement. Before she passed, she always told Sara that Cynthia was a Mitchell through and through. Cynthia reminded Sara so much of James.

She picked up the phone.

"Sara." His voice was garbled and long like it was being run through a Theremin. "It's James, sweetie." Her chest tightened, her lips suddenly dry and papery.

"James?" she stammered.

James continued anxiously, she could tell they didn't have much time. She wanted to hear every word before the call failed. "I love you and I'm sorry for leaving."

His voice dropped off for a second, replaced by static and hum. Sara held her breath, hoping that she wasn't going insane. That she was actually talking to him. His voice returned, more serious this time. She hung on every word. "Don't take Cynthia to Chicago. Something horrible is about to happen."

The warning was distorted, repeating itself like a dial tone. The words echoed across the babbling line. "Something horrible is about to happen."

* * *

"Name?"

The patient looked slowly around the drab ferroconcrete room before answering. "James Mitchell."

"What's your middle name, James?"

It was fuzzy, but there. "Bernard," he replied, tapping his finger nails gently on the table top. The K-7 was almost out of his system. But the sketchy morning after feel was front and center.

The handler only nodded, ignoring the slight hesitation, jotting it down in her notebook. Every handler was the same: cold, clinical, precise. But never the same person, every time a new lab coat. "How do you feel, James?"

"Fine," he lied. He was nauseated and had a slight headache. But that was the worst of it. James didn't want to jeopardize his payday. The limit was six 'calls' but based on his test results James could probably go seven or eight. It would never happen, it was too dangerous, and he knew it. The drugs had side effects, potentially horrible side effects according to the orientation video.

"I have a few more questions if that's alright?"

"Of course, shoot." The verbal questions were always basic, and it wasn't the first time he had heard them. It was the written portion that really tested his wit.

"What's your father's name?"

"Bernard."

"Your mother?"

"Cynthia."

"Your wife?"

"Never had one." He lied again, this time more convincingly.

"Where does your sister live, James?"

"She doesn't. My whole family was killed in a car accident November fourth, nineteen eighty four." He was irritated now. It helped as much as it hurt the evaluation process.

"How do you feel now, James?"

I could use a comfortable bed and a stiff drink. "Still fine." He grinned.

She paused looking down at her notebook. "Okay then. I think we're ready for the sensory acuity test."

* * *

James sat in the 'booth' the following morning, no longer sketched out from the call substances; K-7 was as bad as meth when coming down. It was morning according to the clock on the wall but he couldn't tell from the dreary tomb walls and horrible lack of natural light. He was alone, ushered in then left to his own devices.

Five weeks and James hadn't seen more than these two rooms and the hallway connecting them, virtually alone except the weekly handler and the nameless technicians. He was beginning to feel the gnawing uneasiness of cabin fever. It could have been the echo of withdrawal working through his system but he knew that isolation had its own nasty bag of tricks.

Eye on the prize, he repeated to himself. Eye on the prize, it would all be worth it in the end.

Sadly, the self-assurance didn't make the loneliness go away.

No internet, no TV, no human contact or interaction until he reached the end of the cycle, except the ever-present authorized personnel. No vices to keep him sane, no fun in his room, no mischief to be had in the booth. So he just waited for the package to arrive and the next call procedure to begin.

The technicians injected him before he had entered the booth. The K-7 was slow to start but James knew it would kick in soon.

A short while passed as James began whispering to himself. "Two thousand six," he repeated over and over again, under his breath. "Two thousand six. Two thousand six."

It was a nervous ritual developed around the third week, borderlining on OCD. Before every call he repeated the year, over and over unbidden, like a maniac counting sheep but never getting past number one. Oddly the ritual centered him, and he needed all the focus he could muster going forward.

He didn't dare tell the handlers about his new mental oddity. He probably should have.

Worst case scenario he would be pulled from the project. But James hated looking for work, especially with a payout this big. And what's a little mental illness at the end of the day?

James stared at the cream-colored table top and thought of his father, not for the first time in the past few weeks. Isolation gave you time to think- a lot of time. Nothing in this room reminded James of the man, except maybe himself. Same hands, he thought bitterly as he stared down at the perfectly manicured backs, thick open fingers. His hands had never seen a day of work in their twenty-six years, not like Bernard Mitchell.

His dad wasn't a professional, wasn't part of a corporation that offered financial freedom for a pittance of time. He was a line worker and a union man; the union took his father's blood and sweat for pennies a day. Dad dropped dead at fifty-six from a heart attack. He died on the job, not in a car accident.

James was ambivalent toward the memory. Bernie Mitchell was just there to pay the bills while James and his sister were growing up. Mom raised them both. James never related to the man who worked ridiculous rotating shifts and slept in what limited spare time was afforded to him. There was a family vacation here and there but it was all fuzzy now. And a family trip once a year didn't make up for a lifetime of not being there.

He wanted to be different. That's why he left. That's why he became a musician crashing on Gran's couch. Sadly, the starving artist never paid the bills even with dedication and hard work.

When the first corporate headhunter appeared offering James the consultant job he thought it was a scam, dismissing the opportunity as a poorly planned practical joke. But when the second headhunter appeared with a contract promising James a ridiculous amount of money for six months of work, he jumped at the chance. The opportunity to work for the corporation was selling out, but the price was right even if he was just a glorified guinea pig. I'm in this for the money. I won't die like him. I won't drop dead on the job like some slave.

He would finish his assignment and make time for what mattered, the people he loved, for Sara. And James would have the financial independence to do it. So here he was, a consultant for 'the man,' "bringing people the future, today." The catchphrase propaganda was fed to him every day since signing the contract. To be honest, James could give a shit about anyone's future but his own.

The door to the booth opened, pulling James out of his reverie. Two technicians in white smocks entered. Between them they carried the package. They didn't say anything, no small talk, no eye contact; typical propeller heads. Silently they set the box on the table top.

They left.

James took a moment to admire the package. The box was wooden, polished to a deep cherry sheen. It was just a box, James knew. But he also knew what was inside.

The contents: the telephone was a simple rotary device, its color matching the bland, creamy tabletop. It reminded James of the phone that used to sit on the counter in Gran's kitchen.

James never really wondered how the phone did what they said it did. He wasn't technical; it took him days to find the play button on his mp3 player after struggling with the sealed box. Technology was always strange voodoo to him, even the old, analogue kind.

James slid his hands along the edge of the box, groping for the finger slots, finding them quickly. He slowly removed the lid and placed it gently down on the table.

A sudden adrenal response forced the K-7 to surge through his system. It was the telephone. The sight of it turned him into Pavlov's dog. The conditioned response had become visceral. He slowly reached for the receiver, a telltale thrum weaving up his arm as he touched the creamy plastic. The thrumming was the drugs, he told himself. The best LSD on God's green earth couldn't touch K-7.

The counselors explained the call procedure as a type of psychic experiment where James would collect data from the future and somehow feed it to the present. A non-invasive temporal conduit, whatever that meant.

From what he understood the telephone created some sort of link to their time frame or point of perspective or some other nonsense. Sounded like bullshit to him, the corporation developed a drug that could see the future but couldn't do a background check and find his family?

James held the phone to his ear. The vibration, soft at first, grew steadily louder, filling his senses, his synapses, invasively at first then becoming mellow, less defined as it sank in. He began to see things, slow at first; quickly turning into a deluge of sound and color his brain was unable to parse. People, places, technology, supposedly all there like watching the evening news on fast forward. But not just one night, it was the whole annual broadcast schedule in brilliant light and sound.

Like clockwork the hallucinations took over. He felt himself lifting off the chair, floating, weightless as the booth distorted, shrinking and growing at the same time. The vibrations had ceased, James had become the vibration, the booth disappeared as he reached past the veil.

James saw Sara, Vanessa, Bernard, Gran, all of them connected by a single thread. There was sudden sorrow as he saw fate's shadow, saw them linked together in a macabre mosaic. Something was wrong! Focus! But he couldn't. Something was different. He could feel it. The vibrations began to waver, becoming a violent staccato of heat and pressure. The hallucination ceased as James was snapped back to reality. To the table, the chair, and the phone held to his ear. The world around him crumbled and broke into choking waves of fire and pain and darkness.

* * *

James' eyes snapped open, his breath coming in desperate gasps. The booth exploded; he felt the ferroconcrete debris shower him. He shot upright but he wasn't in the booth anymore.

The small hospital room was decorated with opaque white drapes and an array of beeping, hissing machinery. The walls were a bland toothpaste green and matte white tile. The room was bright, sterile, but it wasn't the booth.

"Mr. Mitchell." A woman emerged from behind one of the curtains. She was a doctor by the uniform and nonchalant air about her, a nurse quickly followed.

James noted the restraints holding him tightly to the bed frame. "They're a precaution," the doctor assured. "Is your name James Mitchell?" she asked, clearly taking the observational approach. Like the corporate handlers she had a clinical detachment.

"Yes," James replied, taking in the disinfected room and all of its possible exits. She wasn't company. He needed to contact the corporation.

"Mr. Mitchell, can you tell us what happened?"

The simple question crushed him. "The call failed..." he whispered, remembering the final painful moments before waking up here, wherever here was.

"Call, I don't understand?" the doctor asked, clearly confused by the jargon.

"Where am I?" James turned the line of questioning. The less she knew the better.

"Pine Field Sinai Medical," the doctor replied.

"How did I get here?"

"There was an accident in the building where you were found. Can you tell us what happened?"

Again with the same question, this was against the NDA. Even if James knew what happened he shouldn't be here. "No I can't. I would like to make a phone call please." I need to get out of here.

"Of course, but we've already notified your emergency contact." She could see he was agitated.

James forced himself to settle. "Emergency contact?"

"Yes, your wife was on file when we ran your DNA scan through the system." the doctor explained, glancing at the monitors.

"DNA scan?"When did that become a thing?

"It's standard procedure on admissions without identification. We run your genetic sample through the global database." The room began to spin as the doctor spoke. "Are you okay Mr. Mitchell?"

"No." James coughed as the doctor hovered in, placing a hand on his wrist. "And call me James. Mr. Mitchell was my father." He tried to act aloof despite the gyrating room.

It was the K-7 coursing through his system: dry mouth, nausea, reflux. It should have worn off but the call failed. He needed to detox before his blood became poison, one of the more dangerous known side effects.

"You may have a concussion, James. I just need to take a quick look." She shone a penlight in his eye. It was oppressively bright, causing him to wince. It wasn't a concussion. "What is the month and year James?"

"June two thousand and six."

The doctor shook her head, looking back at the nurse. "We'll need to run a CT scan and a neural synaptic section," she said clinically calm, turning back to James. "Have you experienced long term memory loss in the past James?"

"No, my memory is fine."

The doctor shook her head soberly. "James I'm afraid you've suffered some additional trauma we didn't find in our initial work. Have you been using drugs?"

"No," James lied.

"The beta band toxicology screen shows a lot of unidentified substances in your system, Mr. Mitchell. We need to know what you've been taking before we can help you."

James understood the gravity of the statement, the fact that he wasn't James anymore. Her tone had changed but it was against the corporate NDA to reveal anything. "I'm not allowed to discuss my work or any medication regimen I am currently adhering to. It's against company policy."

The doctor paused, clearly irritated. "And what company is that, Mr. Mitchell?" she began as the door burst open.

In walked the last person he wanted to see.

"James?" If the corporation found her his contract would be terminated. He would lose everything. James hardened himself. He needed her gone until the contract was over.

She looked haggard with worry, somehow older. James noticed her hair, dark, streaked with strands of silver that shouldn't have been there. Cut far shorter than when he said good bye.

"Sara? Jesus Christ. What happened?" James demanded realizing just how old she looked in the light.

"What happened?" She burst, one part anger, one part relief. "You disappeared, James. Vanessa, Gran and I, we thought..." To her credit she kept the tears at bay. "Where the hell have you been?" She needed to know. James could see it in her eyes. But he didn't understand.

"What do you mean?" James was more defensive than he liked. But Sara didn't flinch. "I've only been gone five weeks. You act like I've been gone for five years."

Sara's face became stone as she looked to the doctor, then back to her husband. "No, James," she whispered. "You've been gone for nine."

* * *

It was true. At first James thought Sara was crazy but the evidence was there. Sara was older now, clearly more than five weeks. And so was her license, passport, and something she called an SI application installed on a cell phone on steroids now called a "smart phone". Sara wasn't much for elaborate pranks, even before.

This was no prank; James felt it in his gut.

Nine years.

The doctor had disappeared into the hallway. She had removed his restraints and given him something to "counteract" the K-7. But it only took the edge off. Sara sat with him.

"You would have loved her," she whispered finally, her body trembling, her arms holding in the pain as she wrapped them desperately across her chest.

"Who?" James asked as she clearly fought the misery.

Sara opened her wallet again, this time leafing through the folds as if searching for a memory better left forgotten but always close. It was a faded photograph. She slowly handed it to James.

He took it hesitantly as if it were fragile, noting the date in dark pen scrawled across the back. November 16, 2008. James turned the picture over. It was the Sara he remembered. She was holding a little girl. No older than two years with thick blonde hair that shone like motes of sunshine, playful blue eyes, and an impish grin. She was familiar and she was beautiful.

"I wanted to tell you." The words made the picture grow heavy in his hand as Sara bowed her head. The tears came now. "Her name was Cynthia. She was—"

"Was?" The past tense made James feel ill. "What happened, sweetie?"James took her quaking hand, holding it to his chest.

"I'm so sorry, James. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't keep her safe."

"What happened, sweetie?" James insisted. He didn't want to acknowledge the little girl, didn't want to admit what he knew, what he felt. But James needed to know where she was. Like Sara needed to know where he had been.

"We were in Chicago... during the Valentine's Day attacks. She was so little. She pulled away from me for a second and disappeared. The buildings were falling and people were screaming. I couldn't find her until after. There were too many people."

"What attacks?"

"If I would have told you—maybe this would all be different." Sara continued losing herself in misery.

Before James could delve deeper someone began shouting in the hallway.

James looked to the doorway then back to Sara, jumping out of bed. "Sara. I need you to get out of here. I am so sorry but if they find you here- if they figure out who you are—"

She looked up through the watery veil. "What?" Her eyes were suddenly cold and desperate.

A gunshot echoed through the ward like thunder. The single ripple triggered an adrenal response deep in James' guts. The K-7 bloomed through him. The thrumming became shadows of the future, but only for an instant.

James could see the men in the hallway, the ones looking for him, pouring into the room. The feeling faded as suddenly as it appeared. If the corporate bagmen opened fire in a hospital hallway what would they do to Sara?

James turned to Sara, snatching her smart phone. "I can't explain. Hide in the bathroom. If they take you away, lie. You don't know me. Do you understand?"

Of all the times to have an argument, now was not it. "No! I won't just leave you. I can't." She always had great timing.

"You have to." He gripped the phone. "I have to make a call. I'll make this right. I promise. I love you."

# Treason  
by David Ross

Kaen stood at the station side of the supply umbilicus, waiting for the captain of the Verlen to disembark. When she finally appeared and descended down the causeway he found himself smiling for a legitimate reason for the first time in months—not just putting on a show for dignitaries or various members of Tslao royalty. "Beloved sister, it has been too long since our paths have met."

"These are trying times, Commander Lhenan." Akena paid attention to formalities for as long as it suited her, then pulled him into a hug. "You should know that best of all."

"I fear I do, Captain." He suddenly felt weary, the weight of the losses the Tslao had endured over the last few years recalled and heaped upon his shoulders. He sighed, but it didn't wash away his smile. "At least I now carry news that may help alleviate some suffering."

"Is it so?" Her ears shifted up just a bit, curiosity piqued. She was a decade younger—not old by any means—but the stresses of the last few years had aged her significantly. The fur at the base of her antennae and the corners of her mouth had started to turn silver, standing out sharply against the rest of her deep red fur.

"It is. I have spoken extensively with Governor Tereha since the incident on Zshela and he has a few very... progressive ideas."

"You say that like you mean dangerous." Akena admonished him with her eyes. She had never liked it when he was evasive.

"It may be, but I do not think the supply umbilicus is a good place to discuss the finer points of division between the two. I think my ship would be better," he teased her and marveled at how little they had changed since they were children. "I trust you have been taking good care of him."

"He is my ship now, old brother." She grinned and jabbed him in the ribs before stepping back into the zero-g causeway and floating slowly away. "I had Engineering tidy up a storage locker for you. They have gotten most of the grease out, so it should be better than this station's lodging."

"That will be a step up from my current accommodations." He followed her across the narrow channel between the deep space supply station and the Verlen. "I do not mind cramped quarters, so long as the life support functions."

"That system is working fine." She stepped down into the artificial gravity in the Verlen's cargo bay. "How long do you have until the Governor's yacht is repaired?"

"A few days; a week at most."

"Good. Engineering is doing some maintenance on the reactor. We could be underway during that, but giving the crew a few days to stretch their legs will be appreciated." She stayed a few steps ahead of him and took the dorsal corridor, secure in the knowledge that Kaen would still know his way around.

He snorted and stepped into his old ship. It smelled right, a piercing mix of synthetic grease, insulation and welding fumes. But something was off. Not the way it sounded, but the beat of its heart through his boots, the minute vibrations beneath his toes. He picked up his pace, calling out to her. "What have you done to my ship?"

"The Verlen's need for maintenance is not exaggerated, brother. I wished to have time to enjoy your company and I need no ruse to ensure that." She was already at the captain's quarters, the hatch left open behind her.

The narrow passageway was comforting and familiar despite the strange thrum coming from Engineering. It only took a few moments to catch up with her; the Verlen was not a large craft. He pulled the hatch closed behind him, locking it. "Very well. As you know, I have neglected my duties as elder of the family."

"I have come to question how much the old ways apply anymore." Akena sat in the chair at her desk, leaning on her elbow. "Our homeworld is uninhabitable, half of our people are vagrants and Humans seem to appear every time I shake out my boots. This is not how I envisioned my future."

He snorted out a curt laugh and clicked his teeth in annoyance. "Zshela was where I went to prepare to retire from the military. A quiet frontier planet with an established geoengineering project. You have seen how that ended."

"You became a hero to our people, brother." She needled him with a smug grin. "An auspicious way to begin your retirement."

"There were few options available. I simply took the least poor choice, despite the cost to myself." Kaen gestured to his right antenna, the thin appendage missing except for a stump as long as his hand. He set his pack on the ground with a grumble and laid out on the bunk. "It is convenient I should mention choices now that we are somewhere private."

"Yes, brother. Tell me of the Governor's progressive ideas." Akena leaned in, eager to hear what he had to say.

"You are aware of the piracy problem in this sector?"

"How could I not be? Our primary directive here is the eradication of piracy." She was almost annoyed by the obvious question.

"It has been unsuccessful, correct?"

"Yes." Akena spat out the word.

Kaen sat up and rubbed his temples. "Governor Tereha has managed to make contact with the largest pirate clan and has begun negotiations."

His sister sat in stunned silence for a heartbeat, then burst out, "Why has he not informed us of this? If he is negotiating, why is there no cease fire? Why do our people continue to die to keep the shipping lanes clear?"

"He does not negotiate on behalf of the Tslao Empire."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then who does he negotiate for?"

"This sector. Given the instability of the Empire, he believes it would be safest to split off before there was any sort of central collapse."

"That is—"

"I know what it is. Will you listen to me, Akena, or does our conversation end here?"

This revelation had certainly cooled her interest, but she dipped her head in assent. "No, brother. Proceed."

"He does not wish to overthrow the Empress. He does not think ill of the Empire. He believes—I believe this could actually help save it. The military forces currently here would be split. The Empire would have less space to secure, and with greater numbers."

Akena nodded, following along. "Tereha's sector would have its remaining forces bolstered by the pirates."

"You are as quick as always. They would be given pardons and would have to work within certain guides, but he believes there will be enough regular military to keep them in line while they are shaped into something more honorable."

"He makes significant assumptions. How does he intend to bring military forces— Ah. I see." She leaned back in her chair, ears and antennae pulled down tight against her head and crossed her arms, lips pressed into a thin grimace. "He needs a respected member of the military, a hero, to agree with him."

"That is part of what brings me here. It is good for me to support him, but it would be better to have us do so."

"I should turn you in myself." Akena clenched her jaw, eyes narrow. "I do not understand how you could believe this is even worth consideration."

"Any other time, I would not. I want the Empire to survive, to be strong again. If I must walk away from it to see that happen...." He trailed off, looked at his hands and shrugged. "Perhaps sacrifice has become part of life for me now."

She reached out and took his hand. He knew this kind of talk would be shocking to her and that read clear on her face. "There must be some other way."

"Is there? The ranks of the pirates grow steadily while our forces dwindle. Humans can only offer us so much help and there are still many who look down upon that." He laughed, the sound weak and bitter. "At least we do not have Human raiders to worry about as well."

Akena nodded. She was privy to the same reports and intel that he was; she knew exactly how things were going. "Is what he suggests even feasible? There is little manufacturing and no shipbuilding capability here. There would be no monetary system in place. Even with shipments of aid from the Humans, the populace is on the knife's edge for food and medical supplies."

"There is shipbuilding capacity here. The pirates have a shipyard for small craft, and have nearly finished one capable of manufacturing ships this large." He patted the wall of the cabin with an affectionate smile. "It is not perfect, but it is a good start. He has thought long about this, sister, and I had the same questions you do."

Akena considered that for a very long time and when she did speak, she was hopeful. "Will you show me?"

Kaen could easily show her his recollection of his conversations with the governor with a neural link, but now was not the best time. "Of course. But if you would prefer, I could arrange a meeting with the governor immediately. He would best be able to answer your questions."

"He would meet with me now?"

"Yes. The clans are not patient. We do not have much time to demonstrate that we can sway any of the Royal Navy to our side."

Akena rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Yes. I will speak with him."

* * *

Governor Tereha had come aboard the Verlen almost immediately. He had spoken to Akena extensively since then and shared many neural links to ensure that what she said matched how she felt. Only after he was sure she was trustworthy did he offer up a new set of coordinates. It only took two days' cruise to reach them.

Kaen, his sister, and the Governor waited in the port cargo bay as the Verlen was brought around to the northern pole of a rogue asteroid. Kaen was already annoyed at Tereha for monopolizing his last living relative for the past few days, and the prospect of jumping from the ship to a hidden airlock on the asteroid did not help his mood.

"You are sure they do not have an umbilicus built yet?" Kaen stepped into his spacesuit with the ease of someone who had spent most of his life in and out of vacuum.

"They have one, but they will not extend it until they have opened the hangar for the first time." Tereha gave him a charismatic smile and spread his hands as if to ask what could be done about it. "It is their way."

Kaen grunted in reply and zipped up the back of his suit, then triggered the autofit, so that the suit adjusted itself to his body. It would get the job done, but he wished he had his combat armor.

Akena stood by the bay controls, waiting for them to prepare. As was the preference of crews on small ships, she wore a fitted engineer's suit. It had ample storage, a little bit of armor, and shielding that allowed the user to function in a vacuum even without a helmet. "I have been thinking of something, Governor. This sector receives much of its financing from the Empire. How do you intend to replace it?"

"Primarily mining and ship sales." He was less prepared than either of them, still trying to stuff his legs into his suit.

"Those are long term items. Unless the pirates have been doing mining surveys." She keyed the sequence to open the bay doors, the containment field popping on before the doors began to part. "I am not sure who would be buying ships and minerals from us, either."

He chuckled, finally slipping his foot into place. "They have, recently. I expect that most of the commodities will be sold to the Tslao Empire. Perhaps we could interest some Humans in exotic ships as well."

"That will take years. What is to be done until then?"

"I think we will be using our new friends extensively to take care of the short term." He nodded at the dark asteroid abreast of the ship, a barely visible trio of lights marking the entrance.

"We will engage in piracy? Of the Empire?" She looked at Kaen over the Governor's shoulder, an eyebrow raised as she helped him into his suit and zipped it up.

"A small amount, I am sure. But once the clan has had the opportunity to clone the Verlen's stealth technology and fit more ships with it, we will turn our attention to Human space. Their settlements have nearly encroached upon this sector already. They are like mud beetles. Having a spider to prey upon them will keep them in check."

"An excellent plan." Kaen did little to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He knew Humans well enough to know that was an indescribably stupid idea, with or without stealth capabilities. They would have little trouble mustering enough forces to crush a fledgling government. He nodded back at Akena.

The captain stepped forward and slammed Tereha into the deck. She twisted an arm behind him and knelt, a knee pressed into his back.

Tereha started in surprise, his face carved deep with anger when he could focus again. "What are you—release me!"

Akena unsheathed a short knife from her kit and stuck it in the rubbery deck plate, the opalescent white blade glimmering in the bay lights.

His eyes widened when he recognized the material, reserved for Royals and their agents, but regained his composure quickly. "Kaen, what is this about?"

"What you have proposed is illegal in several ways, Governor. You have planned seditious acts, insurrection and have aided the Empire's enemies. All of those are punishable by death." Kaen picked up the knife and displayed the symbol at the finger guard to Tereha, the mark of the Empress. "But you may avoid that if you prove useful."

Tereha began to show signs of panic. "This is—this is just a misunderstanding. Certainly you can see that, Kaen. We have shared so much, you have shown me your true feelings many times."

"I have." Kaen nodded in agreement. Memories and emotions were notoriously hard to just make up during a neural link. Outright lies would be obvious, so he built them on foundations of truth. "I would turn away from the Empire if that would give it strength. Your plans did give me hope for the future when I felt hopeless. But not as you intended."

The Governor swallowed hard as the depth of the game that had been played unfolded in his mind. The Empress had likely known about his actions for several months now. He sighed and surrendered. "Very well. What is it that might stay my execution?"

Kaen crouched in front of the Governor, screwing something onto a beam welder. He tightened it down and pulled the trigger. In a few seconds, the metal of the betrayer's sigil glowed orange hot. He nodded at the asteroid. "I want you to tell them something for me."

"This is unnecessary." Tereha's usual calm was fractured, his eyes twitching wildly between the burning hot piece of metal and Kaen. "It has not been practiced for centuries."

Kaen didn't acknowledge anything had been said as he took hold of one of Tereha's antennae and lowered the welding gun, hesitating over the base of the delicate appendage. "After you arrive, let them know they have five minutes to surrender if they desire to avoid a similar disgrace."

# A Single Soul  
by David Karr

Sun shined down on the citizens of the city as they went about their day. Brightly-colored capes flitted about, performing heroic deeds of derring-do. I stood watch on my corner perch of my building. Day time wasn't so bad.

I enjoyed watching from on high. It allowed me to see more and understand the patterns. There weren't as many distractions up here. My anonymity ran deeper than my mask. Even in a city where danger could swoop from above, not many remembered to look up.

My vantage point also allowed me a front-row seat for watching the change that happened when sunlight retreated from the tide of night. The darker palette of costumes took over. It became more difficult to discern the good from the bad.

That was why she stood out in her bright clothes. She emerged from the Eleusis and hesitated. Probably a college student out with friends; the city had been friendly and bright when she went inside. Now, left alone, it stood before her, dark and looming.

She didn't see the delinquent following her, but I did. He, too, was young. This wouldn't be his first victim, but he was still a novice criminal. A seasoned predator would have chased a little longer, waiting for the prey to panic or make a mistake. He pounced before I was in position.

Too far away to hear the threat, I caught the glint of metal when he pulled his revolver. The books she'd been clutching close to her chest fell with a muffled flump to the ground. He was lucky that she didn't make a sound. I could have used the noise for cover to sneak closer faster.

She started to move backward. He panicked, and a gunshot echoed into the night. I was three steps away.

I cursed him for being an idiot. I cursed myself for being slow. I put him down with vigor and ignored his cries of pain. His pleas were not as motivating as the silence coming from the girl.

It was bad. Blood was everywhere. There was no hope but I checked for a pulse anyway. My fingers pressed against her neck in time to feel a ragged heartbeat fade to nothing.

The city fell silent, seeming to mourn the loss of another of her children. A voice cried out—a woman's voice. I turned quickly, looking for the source. She sounded close, right next to me. I faced the body of the fallen girl. It couldn't have come from her. Her body was pale and unmoving.

When the voice called again, the realization struck me down to my soul. I knew it as one knows things in a dream. The voice that cried in the night, only heard by my ears was hers. I stared at her lifeless body. Her voice couldn't be coming from there. Still, like a dream, the meaning of her garbled words cut across the barrier between there and here. She was trapped, begging for me to save her

With her corpse slumped over my shoulder, I tried not to think about why a dead body was harder to carry than a living one. It was a simple calculation of gravity. A hundred pounds is a hundred pounds whether it's a sack of potatoes or a body. An unconscious body, like a sack of potatoes, wanted nothing except to stay on the ground. But dead bodies—I can't explain it—are just heavier. It's like you're carrying everything they were and everything they could have been. The hospital grew closer, not even two blocks away now. Some wetness slowly slid down my back. In her condition, even the best doctor in the world couldn't help her. No, her savior wasn't in science—not tonight. I clenched my jaw. Magic. I didn't trust it. It could be too random, too powerful—or it could do nothing.

Pandora's Pithos, aptly—if ironically—named, when I considered my attitude on magic, was just ahead. It would be open, though there were no signs indicating 24-hour service. The type of clientele it catered to, however, were decidedly more active at this hour. Clientele decidedly not me. And on my first visit, I brought them this. A dead girl who cried in my mind, begged and pleaded for all she was worth not to be dead.

I pushed the door open with my foot and tried not to fall over. A dreamy-eyed clerk looked up and her peaceful greeting froze on her lips. She thawed and began to yell at me about how this wasn't a morgue. I barely heard her over my own gibbering voice, and the girl... the girl was constantly begging me not to let her die. Slowly, I managed to explain the reason for my entrance. This was a mystic's shop. Weren't they familiar with the goings-on of that in-between space where the factual and the fantastical collide? This, she said in so many words, was beyond even that. She made a call. I wanted to listen in to prepare myself for the cops or a coroner, but I was too busy thinking encouraging thoughts to my spiritual associate.

It took too many minutes for a man to emerge from the back. I surmised that this was who the clerk had called. He gently examined the body lying on his counter as I repeated my story.

Life begets life, the man told me. The universe recycled itself again and again, life after life until nothing more remained. Always, it was created from something. Despite—and often in spite of—his mystical abilities, he could not create or grant life from nothingness. It had to come from somewhere. That her spirit had yet to let go and her body lay lifeless on the floor of his shop did not motivate him.

This upset me terribly and it upset her even more. At first I was angry with him. Magic, for all of its wonder and mystery, was not a cure-all; miraculous and unknowable, sure, but not perfect nor all-serving. He was right. My unusual circumstance aside, how could I ask that the laws of nature be corrupted? What was my place in the universe? It didn't care about me, let alone this girl. It would continue to recycle no matter what.

I became angry with myself. Already, I tried once to save her and failed. Now my second chance had been squandered. Life begets life, the mystic said, and then there is the end. I considered my life. I thought of my childhood only briefly. A series of blurred images and colors; faces and voices barely remembered. I considered my career—not the one that paid for my rent and food but the one lived behind a mask. I thought of the people I could help, and sadly recalled the ones I could not.

I had seen life and I had seen death; now I had seen this: a life stuck in the in-between. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry. Sorry that I couldn't stop it; sorry that she had to go. I wanted to tell her anything. My mind flashed backward through time. I didn't have the words to say anything to her.

Life begets life, he said.

I looked at the body of the girl stuck in-between. Her whole life was ahead of her. Mine had been lived. I turned to the mystic.

"Take mine."

# authors

J.A. Platt has been writing for twelve years and resides in the Bronx. She enjoys bow ties and Rainier cherries.  
http://the-black-squirrel.blogspot.com

Kelley Ross has been writing for nineteen years and is a spectacular carbon-based lifeform. She enjoys bathing in red ink and hearing the strangled cries of pretty princesses.  
http://nikoda.blogspot.com

Constella Espj likes watching scary movies and making fancy cupcakes, but does not like oatmeal or romantic comedies. Her writing can be found at http://alphabete-noir.com

A.M. Harte is a London-based speculative fiction enthusiast and chocolate addict. She has somehow published a zombie love collection titled Hungry For You and the dystopian science fantasy Above Ground. She is excellent at missing deadlines, has long forgotten what 'free time' means, and enjoys procrastinating at http://amharte.com.

Veronica S. has been writing on and off for years and can be found online at http://my-scribble-pad.blogspot.com and likes repetitively folding paper into geometric shapes.

Dan Jensen lives in Australia and doesn't take life too seriously. When not writing or making movies, he spends his time trying to elevate his cat to international celebrity status. http://www.darklightstudios.com.au

Jonathan Martin has been writing for nearly his entire adult life and when he is not looking at hats can be found in North Texas. He enjoys spending time with his family and all forms of woodworking.

http://www.wastedproductions.com

Chad Mullens, a.k.a. theTummy, has been writing for five years and resides in Central Michigan. He enjoys spending time with his family, weight lifting, and reading or telling stories. Most of his stories can be found at  
http://www.chadmullensauthor.wordpress.com.

Daphne Danielson has been writing for decades and resides in the Pacific Northwest. She enjoys painting with pixels, spinning yarn and observing strange human behaviors. She can be found at [  
http://libertinem.blogspot.com/](http://libertinem.blogspot.com/)

John Slover has been writing for around a decade, and can be found adjacent to the Susquehanna river in Pennsylvania. He enjoys art of all sorts, and not being on fire. He is a guest writer at http://alphabete-noir.com

Hannah Wilson has been writing for over five years. She works in libraries and enjoys all forms of storytelling.  
http://clutteredshelving.blogspot.com/

Heath Wheeler has been writing for thirteen years and lives in Seattle, Washington. He enjoys being a dad, playing games of all sorts, and DIY projects.  
http://tensidedtales.blogspot.com

A.N. Bender has been writing for a few days and resides in Las Vegas. She enjoys playing Pokémon and watching anime. If she writes anything it can be found at  
http://alphabete-noir.com

Les Mackenzie is a speculative fiction writer who writes horror, fantasy and science fiction in his spare time. He works in the Canadian tech industry nine-to-five but from five o'clock on he's living the dream. http://lesmackenzie.net

David Ross has been writing for sixteen years and is better than you at Halo. He is also smarter and better-looking than you. http://shiniwrites.blogspot.com

David Karr currently prefers Star Trek to Star Wars and has always liked DC over Marvel but there's no higher reasoning behind those preferences so don't be mad that I don't like the things you like the way you like them because, really, all those things are pretty good.  
http://bortomatic.blogspot.com

# About 1889 Labs

1889 Labs is an independent publisher dedicated to producing the best strange fiction conceivable by the human brain. Catering to a specific demographic of men and women between the ages of 3 and 97, we print everything from kids books to serious stories for adults.

visit 1889.ca for other titles including...

The Antithesis

Heaven and Hell like you've never seen them before. New Jury recruit Alezair Czynri lives in Purgatory and helps enforce the Code between angels and demons. But a storm lays just over the horizon... one that brings with it a war.

Gangster

From the dark, basement speakeasies of 1926 Chicago, to the decadent parties of the Hollywood elite, psychopathic Clara slices her way through various people across America in her quest for fame.
