

CoffinCam

by Phil Tucker

Published by TransientMe LLC at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Philip Tucker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

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Visit the author website: http://www.transientme.com

Version 2013.02.17

As lucrative as it is illegal, the CoffinCam network caters to the singular tastes of wealthy degenerates around the world - yet you never know what you will see when you observe the dead in their graves.

When a client reports a disturbance on Camera #7, the crew running the network check into the feed - and see that the body has gone missing.

Without the grave having been dug up.

Which means that something has come up from below.

Determined to cash in on this opportunity of a lifetime, they prepare to investigate--even if it means following the corpses into the dark tunnels beneath their graves themselves.

This 20,000 word novella is a terrifying exploration of desire in all its darkest incarnations, and the horrific depths that it may take you.

Table of Contents

Dedication

CoffinCam

Excerpt from Crude Sunlight

About the Author

To Senor Paul

For never going beeeeeep.

## CoffinCam

About to kiss, Gabrielle shoved him hard instead, catching him by surprise. His eyes flared as his shoulders hit the door, which opened to spill him into her apartment. Cursing he stumbled, tried to get his feet under him, but crashed to the ground and landed hard on his ass instead. Laughing, she followed him in, and gazed down into the well of his suddenly furious stare with a languorous, smoky desire that almost stilled his tongue. Almost. He gathered himself, looked up the vertiginous length of her glorious legs, at the black cocktail dress that served only to insinuate, at her feral, predatory eyes through the fringe of blonde hair so pale it was almost white, and began to curse.

Gabrielle ignored him. Lifted her left foot and set it on a low table, the three inch black heels matte in the subdued lighting. The angle of ankle and knee caused her thigh to rise parallel to the floor, smoothly rounded, hem of her dress riding up so that it barely concealed the beginning swell of her ass. The fierce promontory of her knee, smudged with dirt and blood where she had fallen earlier, which dropped in turn to the gleamingly smooth shin, the taut calf, the striations of muscle along its side.

The man shut his mouth.

Gabrielle leaned back, all her weight on the heel of her right foot, shoulders pushed back, hips forward, chin lowering to her chest, arms hanging down by her side. Her eyes pinned him to the ground, and for the first time he imagined her taking up a knife and carving his flesh, cutting him, opening him. He would protest, but he's mesmerized by how her black dress reveals the flexion of muscle in her torso, the smooth, almost babyish swell of her stomach at this angle flanked by the powerful obliques, the ridges of her pelvic cradle against the black fabric.

She towered over him, stared down, lascivious smile fading away and leaving a look of hungry, almost absent distraction on her face. Looked through him. Again he opened his mouth to protest, to laugh over the sudden stillness, but then her hand slid over her right hip and down to cup her sex, pulling the material of her dress tight over the front of her body, bringing her small breasts into sharp relief. The tips of her long fingers disappeared beneath her body, so that he stared, mesmerized by the ridges of her knuckles, then flicked his gaze up once more to where her eyes were half closed, the smile returned, her hips moving in slow oscillations as she pressed down on her mons, affording him tantalizing glimpses of where the smooth inner slopes of her thighs met.

Needing to assert himself, to reject this passivity into which he was been thrown, the man pushed himself up to his knees, moved forward, hands reaching out like those of a supplicant to touch that upraised leg, to trace the length of her calf, the swell of muscle, the flutterings of tension that ran down it. Gabrielle closed her eyes, raised her chin, broad lips curved ever into that delirious smile, her knuckles rippling as if she were running a coin over them, fingers rubbing and probing her cunt. This close he could smell her, the allure of her sex, the cigarette smoke and alcohol, the intoxicating hint of her sweat. His hands traced the complexity of her knee, and then moved up her thigh, enjoying the smoothness of her skin, not knowing whether to watch her face or his own hands as he moved them to cup her own.

Gabrielle's eyes snapped open, and with a subtle shift of posture she leaned forward, taking her foot from the table and driving him back with her knee, completing that arrested step so that she caught him off balance, drove him off the balls of his feet onto his ass once more, striding past him and into the apartment proper, door swinging closed behind her with a click.

He swore, turned to watch as she walked into the open kitchen, pulled open her fridge to lean forward into the frigid light, her hair ghosted to white in its fluorescent glow. He was so hard now it almost hurt, anger and desire warring in his chest, feeling mocked and ignored, played with. He gathered himself, rose. Curled his hands into fists, the unclenched them. Gabrielle drew out a carton of orange juice, and just as he strode around the bar to take hold of her shoulder and spin her around, she did so herself, skewering him with her gaze.

She was taller than him by almost six inches, a towering and impossible six foot something, and those lips, so broad and intoxicating were now cast into a cold frown as she lowered the carton. He stopped, unsure of himself. The look in her eyes was one of sheer enmity, and he imagined once more her taking up a knife.

"Go to the bed," she said, voice hard. "Wait for me there."

"What?" He understood the words, but the switch in emotions left him bewildered.

"Are you stupid?" Her voice was harsh, her face contemptuous. "Bed. Or leave. You decide."

He took a step back, tried to think. Opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked, nearly turned for the door. But her body, he needed to possess it. He imagined her face in the throes of ecstasy, of how he'd turn her to his will once he got his hands on her, imagined her panting, grunting like an animal as he slammed into her from behind, those long legs, her white hair plastered to her brow, how she'd tremble and cry out, mewl in desire. He smacked his palm against the column, the sound loud, and turned on his heel, moved across the loft to where her huge bed was set against the wall, one side pressed against a bank of windows.

The bed was unmade, the white sheets rumpled, a mess of pillows gathered against the headboard. He sat, pulled off his shoes with one hand by the heels, tossed them aside. Paused. Sniffed. The smell of sex was on the sheets, of stale sweat. Almost he stood again, but then growled deep in his chest, a sound he'd never made before, a combination of need and true anger. He began to unbutton his shirt, watched her in the kitchen as she set the carton back and then took up her cell phone and began to scan its screen, face illuminated from beneath by its screen.

He stood. Looked at his shoes, at the bed, at where she stood, ignoring him. A voice in his head told him to leave. That this wouldn't end well. He should refuse to let her play him. Something snapped and he began to button his shirt once more, fingers shaking. She ignored him. Sat, grabbed his shoes, yanked them on. Still she ignored him. He stood, tried to think of something to say, something cutting, but could only imagine acts of violence, things he'd never done before. So instead he shook his head, and began to stride toward the door.

He opened it, turned to curse her and saw her walking toward the bed, pulling the black dress up over her head, angular elbows like knitting needles as the black slip of cloth was tugged free. No bra, no underwear. The tight play of muscles in the small of her back, the perfect curvature of her rear, her scapula and the bony ridge of her spine at the neck. Legs impossibly long, hair mussed as she reached the bed and lowered herself to crawl over it, the faint flash of her sex, dark to contrast the hair on her head. She lay on her side, head propped up on one hand, knee toward the ceiling, fingers tracing curls and arabesques down past her breasts, her dark nipples, over the play of muscles of her abdomen.

"Get over here," she said, and that smile was back, the one he had fallen for at the bar, the one that had hooked not just his flesh but his soul, that had drawn him all the way here to the far side of town. Dawn light was starting to come in through the window, pale and thin, and her body seemed to luminesce, shadows growing deeper, drawing out the impossible paradox of her lean angularity and predatory sexuality. He stood, mouth dry, as she lowered her hand to her sex once more, and slowly inserted a finger.

That smile. He groaned, and allowed the door to close.

***

The hard dawn light only made the morning seem colder. Hunched behind the wheel, Joshua yawned, trying to keep track of the road as he pulled into Peaceful Acres' parking lot. It was empty, with even Mr. Kostoker's Jag missing from its regular spot. Eyes watering from the strength of the yawn, he turned the steering wheel hand over hand and eased into his usual spot. God damn, it was early. The car had only just begun to warm up, the musty air from the vents having finally picked up some heat from the engine. As always, he was tempted to sit in the car for a few minutes more, leave the engine idling as he allowed the nascent warmth to banish the chill from his body. Bad idea. The first and only time he'd done so he'd awoken two hours later to Mr. Kostoker's sour visage staring in at him through the window.

With a groan he turned the key, and then shouldered his door open. Hauled himself out of the seat and into the cold bite of the air, shivering already as he grabbed his bag from the back. Slammed the door, hands stinging, and fighting off another yawn trudged across the lot to the side door. Each exhalation a visible puff through which he then walked, head down, shoulders hunched. He fumbled with his keys, extracted the large silver one, and with difficulty slotted it in. Nothing was easy this early.

The lights were harsh and he squinted once more, moving down the hall and pausing to draw last night's summaries from the plastic hanging folder by the door. Leafing through the pages, humming to himself, he took the first left and reached without looking for the small iron handle on the door that led down into the mortuary proper.

It was cold downstairs, as cold as the morning outside, but the coldness was of a different nature. Outside the air moved, jabbed and slid, searched and sought to pierce his frail cocoon of warmth. Here it lay still, heavy and smothering him with its indifferent inertia, and possessing a chemical, greasy balm that tinctured the skin and had made him take hour long showers the first few weeks on the job. No longer.

One final yawn and he crossed the sloping floor, passed the central drain and flicked on the coffee machine on the far counter. Turned on the radio, dialed away from Mr. Kostoker's smooth jazz station and toward the local college station. Only then did he turn to register what he had read in Kostoker's smooth, slanting script:

10/9, 9:13pm, 24 year old Caucasian Female, Cerebral Aneurysm, Viewing 10/16 , Open Casket, Table 3

Joshua frowned, tapped the sheet against his lips, and then moved past the gleaming silver operating tables toward the only one that was occupied. A plastic sheet lay heavy over her features, obscuring everything but the peaks of her nose, the subtle swellings of her chest, stomach and thighs, and the tented heights of her toes. He drew back the sheet and looked down upon her face. Smooth skin gone waxen and sallow, full lips, golden hair, sunken eyes, but gorgeous, oh yes.

Replacing the sheet, heart thumping, he drew out his cell phone and dialed Gabrielle's number. It rang, and rang, and rang, and just as he was preparing for her voice mail message, anticipating the curt, bored tone, what he would say and just how he would say it, she answered.

"Joshua?" She was breathing heavily. He stood rooted to the spot, phone jammed against his head. Her breath a rhythmic rasp in his ear. Was that a voice in the background raised in protest? "Josh?"

"Hi Gabrielle, yes! It's Joshua here," he said, committing to the conversation like a diver to a dark watered pool. "I, erm, good news, but..." He trailed off, face burning.

"Yes?" Her voice breathless, the word an exhalation.

"I... we have a new candidate," he said.

"We do? Is she beautiful? Fresh?" She was breathing harder now, quicker, as if excited by his words.

"She's... she's perfect. October 16th is the viewing." He was getting turned on. Felt his cock beginning to stir as he listened, glassy eyed, to the sound of her breathing.

"Excellent." She was about to say something but then interrupted herself with a surprised gasp of delight. "Call Simon. I will come by later." Then she hung up.

Joshua stood frozen, cell phone to his ear, blinking as he stared at nothing. His thoughts were of Gabrielle, a torrid kaleidoscope of her thighs, her skin, her imperious manner, the wicked delight that seemed to always play in her eyes. He thought of the way she kissed him, leaning down to press her lips to his forehead, the soft cushioning there of heat against his skin, how the kiss always seemed to go through him like a harpoon into the core of a breaching whale. He shuddered, furious, feeling wretched, strung out with desire.

_Maybe she was out for a morning run,_ he thought as he lowered the phone, dropped it in his pocket. He tried to accept that explanation. Tried to believe it.

_Call Simon_ , she had said, and with extreme reluctance he drew out his phone once more. Simon insisted on not being added to any Contact List, so he dialed the number from memory and waited. It rang only once.

"What," said Simon, voice sharp, distracted. Not a question, but a bored opening gambit.

"Hi Simon. Gabrielle told me to call you. We've got a fresh one due on the 16th."

"Yeah?" The sound of gum being chewed. Joshua imagined him staring at a bank of computer monitors, weasel face bathed in light. "Awesome. Come by tonight. We all need to talk and I'll give you the gear then."

"What time? I get out at—"

"Be here at ten. I should be awake by then. Bring food," he said, and then hung up. Joshua took the phone from his ear and stared at it, and heaved a long suffering sigh for his own benefit.

"Alright, alright," he whispered, "Time to make the donuts."

***

Rain was slashing down that evening like oblique attacks from a razor wielding predator. It hissed as it hit the pavement, lashed at the building fronts and windows, sought to flay the leaves from the few stunted bushes that lined the street before Simon's apartment in Queens. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, but the clouds never unleashed a display of lightning.

Joshua had been trying to parallel park his car for the past five minutes into a cramped space between a jeep and an annoyingly parked motorbike when Gabrielle arrived. Having just pulled out once more into the street, Joshua watched her headlights approach in the rear view mirror, recognizing her car by the dim left light. She drove a beat-up original Mini Cooper, and before he could complain slipped into his spot, executing a frontal parking job with disarming and infuriating ease.

Joshua turned around to stare at over his shoulder at Gabrielle as she kicked open her door and leaped out, a large glossy magazine held over her head as she slammed the door behind her and raced across the street into the entrance to Simon's building. She hadn't even glanced at him. The rain drummed furiously on the roof of his car, and with a sigh he shifted into first gear and then cursed as he stalled out.

Ten minutes later Simon opened his front door and peered out at where Joshua stood dripping on the landing. "You're late," he said, and turned to stalk down the long entrance hall into his rat's nest of a living room.

"Hi Simon," Joshua said to himself, "Great to see you too." Shrugging out of his coat he stepped inside, and then hung it up on one of the hooks impaled the door's back. Music was throbbing from somewhere close, a suggestive bass beat and a crooning vocalist speaking of a paradise she had lost. Trying not to breath too deeply, Joshua followed Simon into the living room, and saw Gabrielle lounging in an armchair, having unceremoniously shoved all of Simon's junk onto the floor. She was flicking through a computer game magazine, clearly doing little more than looking at the pictures, long pale legs extended out over the chair's arm.

"Hi Gabrielle," said Joshua, trying to sound cool, relaxed.

She flicked a glance up at him, gave him a wide smile, "Joshua, you are soaked! Do you need a towel? Simon, get Joshua a towel."

"He can get it himself," said Simon, back in his chair before his computers. He had three set up along one wall, each hooked to a couple of flat screen monitors. Several of them showed paused computer games, one was unabashedly playing pornographic cartoons, while the remaining three showed code.

Joshua debated stepping over to Gabrielle to kiss her cheek, the kind of casual _bon homie_ that would demonstrate their affection for each other, but the moment passed and instead he simply ran his hands energetically through his sparse hair, and gave her what he hoped was a rakish smile, "I'm not made of sugar. A little rain won't melt me away."

Simon snorted at this, and then turned around to face them, "OK, whatever. Listen, we've got a problem."

Gabrielle lowered the magazine, eyes narrowing, and Joshua suddenly sat bolt upright. "They've caught us?" he asked, heart suddenly thundering in his throat. FBI, jail time, the media, his family in tears—it all came rushing at him, just as he had always known it would, they'd have to escape, make a run for it—

"No, moron," said Simon. "Of course not. You think I'd call you guys here if they had?" He shook his head.

"So what is it?" asked Gabrielle. "Did somebody refuse to pay?"

"Easier if I just show you," said Simon, and turned back to his computer. "This is a log from earlier this morning. A user in Japan flagged it and brought it to my attention. I got rid of him by telling him it was a joke I pulled to see if anybody was watching, but, yeah. Check this out. It's fucked."

Joshua and Gabrielle both leaned forward. On one the largest computer monitors a window snapped up into view depicting the inside of a coffin, a moldering woman lying at rest on the faded padding, illuminated by a faint green light. Her face was ruinous, the eyes collapsed into the sockets, the lips pulled back from overlong teeth, her nose little more than cartilage. Joshua tried not to grimace. It was Mary Ellen, the aesthetician from seven months ago. Pill overdose.

He glanced sidelong at Gabrielle. She was gazing avidly at the screen, mouth slightly parted. Joshua looked away. The naked interest—appreciation—on her face always made him uncomfortable.

"Now, this is at around nine this morning. Nine thirteen to be exact. At nine fourteen—watch this."

Joshua looked back. The corpse, which had been lying completely still, began to shudder. Rocking minutely from side to side. Shivers shook its whole body in irregular intervals.

"This goes on for about five minutes," said Simon, "Then this." He fast forwarded, causing the image to blur, and then sat back.

Joshua watched, riveted. Every zombie movie he had ever watched was playing through his mind. A rational part of his brain was saying, _it's just an animal, an animal got into the coffin_ , but a louder voice was just saying _this can't be happening, this can't be happening_ over and over again. The body had slumped down as if the ground had given way beneath her. Mary Ellen's corpse shook again, dropped an inch, then another. It was as if the bottom of the coffin were eating her. Gabrielle stood, moved closer.

"Now here. This is it," said Simon, "Watch."

Two hands emerged from below to clasp Mary Ellen by the chest, and with two fitful tugs yanked her down, out of the camera's line of sight, leaving nothing but the ragged edges of a large hole where she had lain.

"Wow," whispered Gabrielle. She reached out and brushed her fingertips across the screen. "Play it again, slower."

Simon did as he was bid. For a second time they watched the corpse shift and dance, and then two hands emerged from below, coming up through the coffin floor to grasp at her and pull her down. Without being bid Simon paused the video, and they stared at the hands. They were clearly inhuman, the skin pale, smudged with dirt and massively wrinkled, possessing only four short fingers that ended not so much in nails as wide, shallow claws.

"You're messing with us," said Joshua, leaning back. "Haha, April fools."

Simon ignored him, looked up at Gabrielle. She traced the length of the hand with her fingertips, tongue gently licking her lower lip. Straightened, towered over them both. "Show me the live stream."

Simon clicked the mouse, the image blinked, and they stared at the empty coffin. "That's it. Hasn't changed since this morning. I took the feed down as soon as I found out. A couple of her biggest fans have raised a shit storm, but what can I do?"

"But—what the hell?" asked Joshua, looking from one to the other. "We talking grave robbers here?"

"From _beneath_ the coffin?" asked Simon, turning a withering look at him. "That thing is buried six feet deep in the middle of the fucking Queen's Cemetery."

"Those hands," said Gabrielle, almost to herself. "They were not human hands."

"A joke," said Joshua. "Somebody must be staging a hoax or something. Or yes, grave robbers, perhaps they're building tunnels under each coffin so as to take the bodies."

"What do we do?" asked Simon, addressing Gabrielle.

"We have to report this," said Joshua.

"Sure. You go ahead and call the cops and tell them what happened. And how we came to know about it." Simon shook his head, looked back at Gabrielle.

Who stepped back from the monitor and sat down once more. "Show me the video again," she said, voice fighting for calm, "From the beginning, no fast forward."

Simon shrugged and did so. Once more they watched Mary Ellen dance and shake with increasing vigor until the hands appeared and pulled her down, down and out of sight.

"Way I figure it, the reason she's moving in the beginning is because she's being bumped about by whomever's digging their way up," said Simon. "The closer they get to the coffin, or when they're actually breaking through the wood, the more she gets rocked."

Gabrielle nodded, "This is an opportunity."

"An opportunity?" asked Joshua.

"Yes," said Gabrielle, and flashed them both a wide, brilliant smile. "We have the opportunity to do something unique."

"No way," said Simon, sitting back and crossing his arms. "No. Way."

"Think: the hole leading down is still there. The entrance. How much would our customers pay to see what lies beneath? We charge a special rate. Release the footage to them, say we are going in. Ten times the normal rate to watch. A hundred. You know they will pay."

"I don't care if they pay me a million dollars," said Simon, "There's no way I'm going."

"Simon," said Gabrielle, sliding down to her knees so that their eyes were level, "Don't be like that."

"Not going to work," said Simon, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Simon," she said, moving forward and sliding her hands onto his thighs, "You know we need you. Who else would hold the camera? Who else would hold us together. You are the smart one, Simon. You are the one who would help us do this."

Simon leaned back, squirming in his seat. "No. This is crazy. Let's just close down that feed and move on."

"Shh..." said Gabrielle. She pressed the blades of her pelvis against his knees, leaned forward, concern, almost maternal, on her face. "We need you, Simon. Joshua and I can't do this alone. We'll give you half of the money. Joshua and I will split the rest."

Joshua opened his mouth to protest. Why should he get a quarter? He should speak up, protest.

"No way, Gabrielle. You're not going to convince me this time. No way." He shook his head again, but refused to meet her eyes. She sensed him weaken.

"You set the rules," she said, digging her fingers into his quadriceps. "You set all the rules. When you say we leave, we leave. We do what you say. You would be in charge. Totally in charge, of Joshua. Of me."

Simon licked his lips, shook his head desperately, risked a glance at her, looked away. Gabrielle's head followed his like that of a swaying cobra, keeping his eyes on hers.

"How do we even get to the coffin?" he asked weakly. "We can't even reach the damn thing."

"Joshua can arrange it, can't you Josh?" she looked over her shoulder at him. He blinked, nodded. He could, technically. At least bluff their way out if they got caught. Maybe. "See?" Gabrielle smiled at Simon, a satisfied smile. "Put the rules together. Tell us what equipment we need, and we will do this tomorrow night. Agreed?"

"Fine," said Simon, looking down, scowling. "Fine, but if I say we leave, we leave. No debate, no discussions. Clear?"

"Of course," said Gabrielle, pushing herself up to her feet. Looked over at Joshua. "Right?"

"Wrong," said Joshua, rising to his feet. This display had been too much. How many times had she done just the same to him? How many times had he agreed to things he hadn't even understood at the time? Was he just another tool to her? Another means toward an end? Pride arose within him, ragged and desperate. He raised his chin. "Wrong. I'm not doing this. Don't try to convince me."

Gabrielle held his gaze. Her eyes glittered between the strands of pale white hair, and then she pursed her lips. "Alright."

"What?" He felt dizzy. "Alright?"

She shrugged, remained silent. Simon opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped as she silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"Well then, OK," said Joshua, panic rising within him. He hesitated, moved toward the door, stopped, looked back. Gabrielle had already turned away to gaze at the monitor. What was happening? What was he doing? Should he apologize, ask for her forgiveness? The moment stretched out, became unbearable. They both knew he was standing there, and they both ignored him, speaking to each other in low voices. He couldn't just stand there. No matter what he did, he couldn't just stand there. With supreme effort, with a rising wave of despair, he turned away and near fled down the corridor toward the front door.

***

"You really going to let him go?" asked Simon, leaning back in his chair and looking up at Gabrielle. He absent mindedly rubbed at his thighs where he could still feel the burn of her nails through his pants.

"Of course not," said Gabrielle. "We need him."

"So..." said Simon, unsure of himself. "Then why did you let him go?"

Gabrielle stepped back, sat down, crossed her legs. Simon tried to see if she was wearing panties, failed to penetrate the darkness between her thighs. "He needs space. A little time to feel like a man. Strong, independent. But then he will begin to feel alone." She tossed her head back, clearing her face of a few errant strands of hair.

"Alone?" Simon spoke simply to prompt her. Watched.

"Yes. Poor Joshua. He cannot bear the thought of what we do. Cannot carry it alone. He is too weak, too... soft. The thought of all those little cameras with their green lights in all those graves will torment him, make him miserable. He needs us, he needs me, to share that guilt, to take it from him."

"So, what. You're going to talk to him later?"

Gabrielle smiled. "Oh yes. I will talk to him. I will give him an hour. That should be about all he can take."

Simon shrugged, "Alright, whatever." He turned around to check his monitors. Several messages were flashing in his inbox. He scanned each quickly in turn. The world turned, span, ever moving, evolving and growing. A friend arrested in Holland for running an illegal pornography site. A harassment project was underway to drive a family to despair just for the hell of it. A new iteration of his XenoFect virus awaiting his inspection, courtesy of friends from a blackhat forum. Three new recordings from a university student's webcam for him to review, taken without her knowledge as she moved around her room. A new Hentai game straight from the source, coded and translated and awaiting his enjoyment. Finances to review, penny stocks to sell, a legion of XenoFected computers to nurture and deploy. So much to do, so many lives to ruin and so precious little time.

"Tomorrow night then. Be ready," said Gabrielle, and he turned to stare at her. Blanking for a moment on what she was talking about.

"What? Oh, right. Listen, I transferred your share this morning to your account. Same for Joshua. Profits are up. We're going to need to talk about how much we want to grow CoffinCam. The more people, the greater the risk."

Gabrielle stood, took up her purse. "One thing at a time. Focus on tomorrow night. What we film could make CoffinCam a thing of the past."

Simon shrugged, "Alright, whatever." Turned again to his monitors as Gabrielle let herself out.

***

Joshua sat at his work station, hands cradled in his lap, staring through the file before him, staring into the void. The building around him seemed as real as a paper shell, his life a collection of lies and fantasies. Who was he, sitting here alone in this frozen room, with only the dead for company? Misery hung about him like a river fog, draped over his shoulders like a cape of lead. He hadn't moved in minutes, hadn't even blinked. Nobody but the dead for company, the dead and fantasies of lust, of life, of reaching out and touching the raw, quickening pulse of the world.

He snorted with disgust, moving at last. The quickening pulse of the world. How had he considered helping Gabrielle with her 'project' to be something brave? Bold? An image flashed through his mind, of her sitting in the back row of a viewing, dressed in black but with perhaps too short a skirt, sunglasses large enough to make her face look insectile. How she had paused by the open casket, gazed down at the sunken features of the man with a look wholly inappropriate for the occasion. The wicked smile she had hooked him with when she had turned to leave. How his heart had pounded at the sight of her.

Joshua groaned and leaned forward, resting his forehead on his fists. Closed his eyes. How had it gone from that moment, that smile, to dozens of coffins moldering six feet underground, each with its own field of green light and small, staring camera? How had it gone from puerile dreams of bringing Gabrielle home to his apartment for dinner to meeting Simon and listening to her fuck over the phone, unabashed and uncaring?

A harsh buzzing jolted him from his reverie, and he started upright, turned to stare at the small television that was divided into four screens, one showing the front entrance. Gabrielle. Looking up at the camera, face calm, serious. Waiting. His breath caught. She had come to convince him. Change his mind. He should refuse to admit her. Turn her away. Not listen to her words. Joshua stood. He couldn't let her in. Not here, alone. He couldn't trust himself. She would work him. Bend him to her will. Somehow she would change his mind.

He walked over to the television. She continued to look up at the camera with calm patience. Looking up and at him. Meeting his gaze blindly but knowingly. Could he afford to turn her away? Could he live with himself if he hid? Didn't he owe it to himself, to his dignity, to confront her one last time and say no? How weak was he that he couldn't even do that? Agony tore through him. Or were those simply excuses to allow her inside, to be close to her?

Her eyes on his. Gabrielle, sweet, deadly Gabrielle. Joshua reached out and pressed the button next to the buzzer, and upstairs the door unlocked.

***

Gabrielle stared at the small disc of concave glass, at the lens and the mechanism hidden within the camera. She could sense Joshua staring down at her, could feel in each drawn out moment his agonized vacillation. When the door buzzed open she restrained a smile and turned away, entering the dim propriety of the funeral home, the calm stillness of the penultimate home of the dead. Standing in the entrance she glanced down into the viewing room, at the empty altar, at the rows of chairs. _Think_. Joshua was below, no doubt awaiting her in feverish anticipation, whipping himself up into a stubborn fury, prepared to deny her. _Think._

She could hit him with a hammer blow of sex. Strip, down there in the cold blue light, drop each article of clothing to the ground while keeping him locked in her gaze, no smile, no warmth, surrendering herself at long last to him. He would take her, there amidst the bodies, and that fact alone almost convinced her to go through with it. She imagined lying between two corpses on their gleaming silver tables, Joshua a blurred figure above her, the corpses shuddering in time with their movements. Felt a frisson of excitement.

But no. She began to drift forward. No, Joshua was too brittle, and that would lead to complications down the line. A moment of acquiescence bought at the price of an eternity of tiresome expectations. No, she would not strip. She reached the head of the stairs, looked down at the illuminated outline of the fire door below.

Joshua was intelligent, perhaps even more intelligent than she was, in his own way. An intellectual, cut adrift from his feelings. Reasoning wouldn't work, would in fact simply rile him up as his anger found vent through words and logic and accusations. She would need to short circuit that defense as soon as she entered the room. Keep him off balance. So no—no reasoning, no sex. Tonight she would not seek outright mastery.

Her decision made, Gabrielle descended the steep steps and pushed open the fire door with deliberate tentativeness. Took in the large, low ceilinged room with one glance, noting the single body beneath its heavy sheet and Joshua standing in the center of the room, staring at her as if caught in the act of masturbation. He blinked rapidly and then straightened, pushed his shoulders back and raised his chin. She stepped inside, allowing the door to close quietly behind her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, voice taut, striving for coldness.

She didn't respond. Remained by the door. Link her hands behind her back? No, too much. Instead she lowered her chin, bit her lower lip.

"What is it, Gabrielle?" His tone artificially short, peremptory. "You're not going to change my mind." But he was already looking at her differently. Reacting to her silence, the energy she was projecting.

She remained still. In her mind, she took a step down, into her core, and began to open doors, to let loose the constraints. Felt emotions begin to roil, fears and vulnerabilities that had nothing to do with Joshua. Felt a lump rise in her throat. There was so much, so much to life, to death. Her mind roiled as she allowed it to dive deep, summon old feelings and images so that tears came to her eyes.

"Gabrielle?"

It was so easy to bring the pain to the surface. Her vision began to fracture and became kaleidoscopic as the tears swelled. Her chest felt full, and when she judged the moment right, just before the tears brimmed and ran down her cheeks, she looked sharply down, hair falling before her face.

"Gabrielle? What is it?" He was walking toward her. Bravely she rubbed her forearm across her face, pulled her hair back, and then gave him a self-conscious smile, striving for flushed, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't have come. I'll leave."

He was before her now, his soft face creased with confusion, concern. "What's wrong? Did Simon do something to you?"

"Simon?" She looked at him with real confusion for a moment, and then shook her head, "No, Simon has nothing to do with this. With us." Smiled brokenly once more.

"Us?"

"I'm sorry," she said, speaking rapidly now, "I can't do this, I'm sorry I came." She turned to leave, moving quickly, acting flustered, and felt his hand catch her by the elbow, pull her back from the door. _Yes._

"Gabrielle, tell me what's wrong. What's happened?"

She stood still, facing away from him. Looked down. She should have dressed more demurely. Ah well. "Joshua. When you left tonight I thought I didn't care. I thought I didn't... oh this is ridiculous." He didn't speak, but shifted his weight subtly, moved closer. She risked a look at him, saw how intent and pale his face had become. "But after, when you were gone, speaking to Simon, hearing how shallow he was, how... self-absorbed. I realized just how important you've become to me."

Too much. Joshua frowned, his head pulling back an inch as he processed this. "I have?"

Gabrielle turned toward him, intent on preventing him from thinking too much, thought of putting a hand on his chest, refrained. Not yet. "Of course you have," she said, and laughed bitterly. "You think any of those other men I see understand me? Do you think any of them are as... unique as you are?" She paused. His eyes were wide, his face open, naked, his desire to believe her writ large across his features.

_Now._ She placed her hand on his chest. Lowered her voice, "You understand me, Joshua. You're different, special. I never realized it until I let you walk away. You care, you listen. You're so gentle, so wise—so strong. You're the only man I know that thinks about others, that cares about others." A moment of hesitation, then she thought: _fuck it_. "You're the only man I know that is... noble."

Joshua opened his mouth, closed it. Blinked again rapidly in that way of his, staring up into her eyes. She had him. The knowledge flooded her and with a tender smile she stepped closer, "Tell me you forgive me, Joshua. Tell me you won't leave me. I don't know what I would do if you weren't there, in my life."

He stammered something, an affirmative, and Gabrielle stepped in close, hugged him, placed her chin on his shoulder, pressed his solid body to her own. _Careful_ , she thought. She had to ride that line between sexual and best friend. If he moved now to kiss her it would all be ruined. He wouldn't though. He must be thrilled at this new intimacy, and being the coward he was he wouldn't dare for more. Would simply glory in this new revelation. Now he would strive to be what she had described him as—noble, wise, compassionate. To live up to her image of him, for to make a move now would contradict that which she had stated she loved him for.

"Gabrielle," he whispered. "I didn't know—I didn't realize." She felt him move his arm, knew that his hand hovered over her back. _Go on,_ she thought, _rub my back, comfort me_. His hand came down awkwardly, then began to rub her gently between the shoulder blades. "I'm here," he said. Voice gaining in confidence, strength. "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."

Gabrielle turned her head, allowed her cheek to touch his. Looked at the body on the silver table, studied its enigmatic contours, and then allowed herself a small and vicious smile of victory.

***

Calloo callay, oh frabjous day! Joshua felt as if he were floating a foot above the ground, felt as if he had grown somehow, not just stronger but had tapped into a truth about himself he hadn't quite believed. Anything was possible. He studied Gabrielle's face as she studied the cadaver's. He was telling her about the cause of death, but hardly knew what he said. His mouth was on auto-pilot while his mind cavorted and danced with the angels. He could still feel her chin on his shoulder, the soft press of her cheek against his own. He wanted to close his eyes and relive that memory, to summon again her smell, that intimacy. To write down her words and study them.

Gabrielle. Tall, beautiful, dangerous Gabrielle. Crying and in his arms. Needing him. Was moving around the table now, trailing her fingers along its silver rim, and he was saying something about how it was a myth that hair, teeth and nails grew after death, it was simply that the flesh retracted, giving rise to that illusion. What had she said? _Noble._ Was he? She didn't know his thoughts, but he had always acted with decorum. Had always berated himself for a fool, for never having taken that step, but ah, how his wisdom had paid off. This was but the first step. Of course she fooled around with other men, look at her, but a secret part of her, a small voice had always told her that he was special.

She was leaning down now, studying the cadaver's face intently. He fell silent, giving her the moment she craved. Her strange fascination with death. Who was he to judge, if after all it was that very fascination that had brought her to him? That had roped them together, her illicit late night visits their first form of intimacy?

"Can I touch her?" she asked, as she always did. Feeling generous, munificent, wanting to laugh, he nodded. Gabrielle reached out, hesitated, and then traced the line of the cadaver's jaw. For months he had tried to understand her fascination. She had told him it was philosophical, that seeing cadavers made her feel more alive, and he could understand that, on some level. How could one not feel such powerful feelings when you looked at the dead, and thought of how they once walked and breathed and thought and loved?

Still. Gabrielle's fingertips moved to the woman's lips, traced their edge. Still, sometimes... he studied her face. CoffinCam had been her idea. A dream, she had said, it had come to her in a dream. To lie in coffins with the dead and observe them as they rotted, buried underground. She had laughed, self-conscious, shy, and he had rushed to admit some of his own sordid dreams, to make her feel at ease. She had suggested then how it would be possible to slip a camera inside the coffin before it was sealed if one was brave enough, daring enough, willing to flout the constrains of society and realize a profit...

"She's perfect," said Gabrielle, straightening and giving him a smile. "Perfect."

He shrugged, smiled back. "She'll do, right? We need a new body to replace Mary Ellen." He stopped. It came rushing back to him, those hands, that hole. Her plan. Her eyes narrowed for a moment as she stared at him. "Can you believe it? I'd actually forgotten all about it." He scratched the back of his head and laughed weakly. "Crazy."

"You won't let me go alone, will you?" She was watching him intently. He felt his face flush. "You won't force me to go down there alone with Simon?"

"With Simon?"

She nodded. "I don't trust him, not really. I wouldn't want to have to be down there with him alone, in the dark. Will you come? Please?" He'd never seen her like this before, except perhaps at the very beginning when she had first persuaded him to allow her into the basement. It was mesmerizing. To see her, this powerful, sexual, delirious woman needing him. Wanting him, depending on him. He was nodding before he realized it.

"Don't worry, I'll go. I'll be there for you." He hesitated. "I always will." Felt his face flush again.

Gabrielle smiled, canted her head to one side, and reached out to cup his cheek. "Sweet, sweet Joshua. I knew I could count on you."

The urge to catch her hand and turn it, to kiss her palm was a fiery imperative, but he froze, hesitated, and she pulled her hand back. After. After their venture below ground, he would make his move. After he had shown her how brave he was, how she could truly depend on him.

"I have to go," she said, giving the body one last look. "I need to head home. Will you arrange things for tomorrow night?"

"Sure. I'll fake some papers in case we get stopped. But you realize that they won't stand up to any real scrutiny—"

She laughed, silenced him, "They won't have to." She stepped around the corner of the table, looked down at him, a mischievous smile on her face that lit a fire in his groin. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, breath hot and tickling the curves there, "I'm feeling lucky." Then with a laugh she straightened, girlish and delighted at her prank, and spun away, striding toward the front door.

_Good god,_ Joshua thought. "Hold up," he said. "I'm done here. I'll walk you out." He gathered his papers, shoved them into his briefcase, then killed the lights and followed her up the stairs, trying to make out the contours of her calves, admiring the flexion of her ass beneath the taut skirt. He turned off the last of the lights, and then locked up as they left the side door and walked around the building toward the front parking lot.

A guy was parked out front, sitting on a large motorbike. Joshua and Gabrielle stopped. The guy was large, was wearing a black leather jacket and sunglasses. He looked like your average typical asshole. Gabrielle stiffened next to him, and then relaxed.

The guy pulled off the shades, "Hey."

Gabrielle looked down at Joshua, "Come on, let's go."

Without the shades Joshua thought the guy looked like a weak-chinned George Michael. "Hey," he said, voice sharper, "We need to talk."

Gabrielle began to stride across the lot, moving toward her mini. Joshua, stomach tight, hurried to catch up. The guy swung his leg over the motorbike and moved to intercept them. Before he could, Gabrielle swung around and marched right up to him. She was taller than him, and got right into his space, looking down at him with an ugly expression of displeasure on her face.

The guy stepped back, and his own expression turned ugly. "You think that was funny, what you did back at your place?" His hands had balled into fists. Joshua looked around. He should grab a weapon, get ready for a fight. To protect Gabrielle.

"Yes," she said, "I did think it was funny. You looked like an idiot, and I laughed. I laughed for about two minutes, and then I forgot all about you."

The guy opened his mouth, frozen by her anger, the intensity of her stare. "Listen," he said. "This isn't over. You can't do this to me."

Joshua drifted closer, moved out to the side. He should be ready to flank the guy in case things got ugly. But he was realizing this wouldn't come to a fight. The guy had lost his momentum. Had been upstaged by Gabrielle. Joshua stared at her. He'd never seen her this intense, this cold. She was dominating the man with her sheer presence, leaning over him like a drawn bow, forcing him back.

"You pathetic little man. If I ever see you again, I will hurt you." She lowered her face until it was thrust into his. She stared into his wide eyes, and said very clearly and very slowly, "I will tear off your tiny balls with my hands and then kick you in your new vagina before leaving you to bleed out by yourself. Is that clear?"

The guy's face went pale, and he stepped back. Gabrielle straightened, and without looking back began to march once more to her Mini. Joshua stood frozen, horrified, and then ran after her, shooting the guy nervous looks over his shoulder. The man watched them leave, and then got back on his bike.

"Watch your back, bitch! You got something coming!" His voice was furious, but he gunned his bike and turned it to roar out of the lot, making a lot of noise and leaving a pall of smoke behind him.

They reached her Mini and Gabrielle unlocked her door and yanked it open, furious. Joshua hung back, completely unsure of himself, of what to do. Stared at her in fascination. Saw her take a deep breath, and then turn to face him. A strained smile on her face.

"I'm sorry you saw that, Josh."

"Oh, it's no problem, I thought—I thought maybe he was going to do something or..."

"Him?" Gabrielle laughed, "No. He is a little dog, all bark and no bite. He just needed to be put in his place. A few empty words and he is gone."

"Oh," said Joshua. He thought of her voice, of the look of naked fury on her face as she had stared the man down. _I will tear off your tiny balls_. "Well, do you want to call the cops?"

Gabrielle's smile softened, and she shook her head in amusement. "Oh Joshua, you are the sweetest. I'll see you tomorrow night at Simon's, OK?" She hesitated, as if debating her next course of action, and then simply blew him a kiss and climbed into her tiny car, folding herself in behind the wheel before slamming the door closed. Joshua stepped back as she reversed, and then waved to her as she drove away. Troubled, he stood and watched her rear lights recede until she turned left at the corner and disappeared. The parking lot seemed suddenly huge and cold without her presence, and with a shiver Joshua pulled his collar around his neck and hurried toward his car.

***

Simon had everything prepared for them by the time Gabrielle and Joshua arrived the following evening. He had spent hours obsessing over different backpacks online, regardless that none would arrive in time. Had finally and with great reluctance planned an expedition to Home Depot and the local Target to pick up the basic necessities: a heavy MagLite for each of them, as long as his forearm; coils of nylon rope, pre-knotted every three feet; emergency snacks in the form of power bars and power drinks (peanut butter and decadent brownie flavored); the most powerful walkie-talkie's he could acquire. It was only to be a short expedition, and thus he didn't need to buy anything beyond that, but he spent a good thirty minutes debating the value of a medical kit, of a camping stove, flares. Of taking his gun there was no question.

Once he had returned home, haggard and worn by being out in the sunlight and having to talk to strangers, he quickly returned to his computers. Every moment spent away meant missing out on some new development. People just didn't know. Didn't understand. The networks that spanned the world, that connected him to like-minded souls in Russia, Poland, Argentina, all over the US, Norway, Japan—everywhere. When the doorbell rang he looked up, puzzled, and saw that five hours had passed without his noticing.

Placing several processes on auto or pausing them altogether, saving his progress in the latest version of _Rape Man!_ , he jumped up and opened the door. Gabrielle and Joshua had arrived together, she in a pretty hot combination of black pants and shirt, him as always in a loser get-up. He turned and shuffled back, tried to think about what he'd missed, something he'd forgotten to do. His rules.

Quickly he sat down at his computer, ignoring the others as they followed and asked questions and began to pick over his purchases, still in their plastic bags. He opened up Notepad, and typed:

Simon calls when the mission is over. When he says we leave, there are no questions or hesitations. We go.

He looked over his shoulder at the other two, who were watching him now. Why hadn't he prepared this part before? Stupid backpacks.

"Are you ready?" asked Gabrielle, clearly amused.

"Almost. Give me a second," he said, and turned around to stare at his list. What else? What else? For a long, achingly blank moment he stared at the file, then he closed it without saving. Fuck it. "Yeah, I'm ready. Now remember. I'm only going because we agreed—"

"That you get to end the mission when you want," said Gabrielle soothingly, "Yes, I remember. We promise to follow your lead. Do you have the cameras?"

"Yeah," said Simon, feeling surly and not knowing why. He stood up and went to his closet, where he pulled out a box. It was large and filled with unopened packages. Illicit goods purchased with other people's credit cards, mostly. He rummaged through them, making a note to throw a couple of the older items out, till he pulled free three high definition handheld cameras. "Here," he said, chucking the first to Joshua and the second to Gabrielle. "Basic functions you should know, but there's a night vision option I like that I'll show you how to activate. Try to hold these steady. If you wave them around, we won't get anything worth selling."

"Are they going to be streaming live?" asked Joshua, reading the small print on the side of his.

"From underground? Of course not. We'll get back and I'll edit the footage. Which reminds me. When are we going to announce this? If we let slip to the clients that we're investigating, that could build—"

"No," said Gabrielle, "We say nothing until we get back. We don't know what we'll find. This could be big, Simon. Much bigger than just our limited if delightful client base."

Simon shrugged. "Alright, whatever. So, I don't want to spend all night there. We go in, we leave, we come back here. I get to pull the plug, and we all leave, no questions asked. Right?" He stared at Gabrielle. She returned his glare with a demure smile, and then reached up to cross her heart.

***

They crammed into Joshua's car, and he drove over to the large central Queen's cemetery where Mary Ellen had been buried. Gabrielle was intimately familiar with the cemetery's layout, and directed him toward a spot in the back where they could park and slip in. While security was high, the cemetery was simply too large a plot of land to be properly warded. Passing through a gap in the iron railings, Gabrielle seemed an angular shadow, having pulled a black beanie down over her pale hair. Joshua followed with his duffel bag of tools, and Simon brought up the rear with his own specialized equipment.

The cemetery was vast. Undulating fields of tombstones extended away from them, crisscrossed by narrow paths and occasionally interrupted by aggregations of mausoleums. A city of the dead, nearly as old as New York itself. August and stately and silent. Gabrielle took the lead, and together the group made their way east, keeping to the periphery and on the lookout for patrols.

Behind them, a dark shape followed, his motorbike parked a block down from their car, his clothing as black as Gabrielle's. Curious, cold, furious, he followed, eyes locked on Gabrielle's narrow form. Hand curled around the knurled grip of a gun.

***

Joshua wanted to die. They had been digging for almost two hours, sinking the blades of his shovels into the clay dirt with increasingly flagging energy, making their way down toward the coffin. Simon was furious, somehow surprised by this necessity, and Gabrielle had almost driven him away with her teasing. Now the two of them stood in a deep and ragged hole, nothing like the neat rectangle that most coffins were lowered into. Down and down, muscles aching and feeling liquid at once, breath rasping, sweat stinging their eyes and slicking their shirts to their backs. Blisters had formed across his palms, and the small of his back was on fire. This was Hell, and he couldn't even tell how much deeper they had to go.

With a curse he stood and leaned back, hands on his hips, wincing as he tried to crack his back, achieve some release from the pain and pressure that had built above his sacrum. His eyes were now level with the dirt. They must be right on the damn thing, he thought, and looked around, searching for Gabrielle. There, lying on a small mausoleum, little more than a stone coffin extruded from the earth, fingers interlaced behind her head, one knee raised, looking up at the cloud cover that obscured the moon. He studied her. Languid and at ease. Simon had protested at her not taking her turn, but she had just laughed and walked away. Joshua tried to picture her digging, and failed.

_Crunk_. He turned and looked at Simon, who gave him a huge and unexpected grin of delight. In that moment Joshua felt a surge of relief and happiness, his knees nearly buckling. "Thank god," he said, and took up his shovel.

"You're telling me," said Simon, lifting his shovel once more and bringing it down. _Krunp_. "I swear, five more minutes and I was about to quit."

"Sure you were," said Joshua, smiling grimly as he dug his shovel laterally across the spot Simon had hit, removing a thick layer of compacted dirt. He tossed the soil out, and then bent down to run his fingers over the exposed area. Scratched and filthy, it was the _Peace Kingdom_ coffin alright. Had she been buried in the Deluxe? No, her family had failed to raise the $15,000. This was the regular $8,500 model. He wiped the dirt away. Where on the coffin were they? With a groan he looked up at Simon.

"What?" asked Simon, suddenly worried.

"We need to clear the whole surface," said Joshua. "For some reason I didn't realize."

"So we're not done?" Simon looked like he wanted to cry. Joshua stood up. Just how much earth had they already moved? This little break had allowed the cold to begin to seep in, his muscles to begin to cramp.

"No. We need to dig out the sides. Come on. Let's finish this. Five more minutes."

It took them twenty. Gabrielle drifted over, attracted by the sound of their shovels occasionally hitting the coffin, and stood, peering down, hands on her hips. Finally Joshua threw his shovel out of the hole, and knelt down to trace the contours of the coffin lid. Dug his fingers down, searching for the seam, and then curled his finger around the lid. He gestured for Simon to stand on the lower half, and looked up at Gabrielle.

"Ready?"

"Oh yes," she said, voice low, husky. "Let's open her up."

Joshua took a deep breath, and then heaved. The lid came up an inch, ground to a stop. He strained, then let go. "Must be dirt in the hinges or something," he guessed, moving to the far side. He wiped more soil clear, throwing scoops aside, and then reached out again to yank it up. No good. Sitting back on his heels he looked from Gabrielle to Simon. They were both watching him, expectant. As if he were the grave digging expert. Biting the inside corner of his mouth, he considered the coffin. To raise the forward half he had to crouch on the lower, limiting the amount of strength he could exert through the awkwardness of his position. Now, if he could tie a rope to the handle on the lid, and if they all pulled from outside the grave...

A minute later they had all taken hold of the nylon rope, wrapping it around their fists and looping it behind their elbows. Lined up as if for a game of tug of war, Simon counted to three, and they all hauled back. At first there was little give, and then, with terrible, grinding reluctance, the lid lifted up, setting them to staggering back as resistance disappeared.

As one they rushed forward toward the hole's edge, and Simon snatched up his MagLite to direct a disc of white light down into the coffin's interior. No body, as they knew. The small insectile camera inserted in the open lid. But there. In the center. A second ragged hole, torn up from below. The shredded padding, the splintered boards. White gooey stuff cut and scraped along its edges. About the size of a manhole, dropping straight down and out of sight.

"Holy shit," said Simon.

Joshua realized that he hadn't actually believed that there would be a second hole. Had thought, on some basic level, that it had been a hoax. But no. There it was. Something had come up from below for the corpse. Had taken it down into the depths. Suddenly following after it seemed like a really bad idea.

As if sensing the change in resolve amongst the two men, Gabrielle stepped forward and dropped down into the grave. Her feet hit the closed lower half of the coffin with an echoing thud, and she looked up at them. She was tall enough that her head was yet above ground level. "Rope," she said, extending her hand to Simon.

He stared at her, eyes blank, and then simply dug a coil out from where his backpack lay and handed it down to her. She knelt down on the lid, and trained her light down the hole, leaning over to peer into the depths. Joshua restrained the urge to grab hold of her, to pull her back, away. This wasn't safe. This wasn't a good idea. They should call the cops, the authorities, let them deal with this. He remembered the strange, wrinkled hands, the thick nails, curved and heavy like small shovels.

"Alright," said Gabrielle, "I think it only goes down about ten feet or so before leveling out." She unwound the rope and dropped most of it down the hole. Stood and handed the other end to Joshua. "Tie this around something solid."

He nodded, blinking furiously, and looked above. Froze. Was there somebody behind that mausoleum? He stared, suddenly numb with panic, but nothing else moved. Silence. A shadow. He looked up. Clouds were undulating before the moon.

"Joshua, let's go," said Gabrielle, voice sharp with impatience.

He nodded, shook himself, and moved to a slender tree about five yards to one side. Bare branches, little more than a sapling, but strong enough to hold them. Looped the rope around it once, twice, and then tied it off. Gave it three hard tugs, and then turned. "It's tied."

"Good. Gabrielle's face was pale in the gloom, but he could sense her, the excitement, the energy she was giving off. "I'm going to go down first. Then Simon. Joshua, you come last. Cameras out. I want you to film my going in."

"I'll go first," said Joshua, though that was the last thing he wanted to do. The very last, but how could he allow Gabrielle to go ahead? She was a lady—he had to. Heart fluttering in his chest he stepped up to the hole's edge, and peered down. Gabrielle hadn't even bothered to respond. Instead she had stepped down into the coffin itself, and then sat down. Extended her legs below the lower half of the lid that yet lay closed and trapped beneath the dirt, and shot them both a wide, exultant grin.

"This is better than sex," she said, and then scooted forward so that her legs dropped into the hole. Turned onto her stomach and wriggled so that she was halfway in, bent at the waist, and then, holding tight onto the rope, disappeared entirely into the darkness.

"Her flashlight," said Joshua, feeling thick. "She's not turned it on."

Simon swore and clambered awkwardly down into the hole, landing on the coffin with far less grace than Gabrielle. Camera in one hand, he took his flashlight and trained it down into the hole, giving Gabrielle light. Joshua watched from the grave's edge, his stomach a knot of greasy fear. "You see her?"

"Of course I see her," said Simon, not looking up. "She's about six, maybe eight feet down. You OK down there, Gabrielle?"

Joshua heard a muffled response. Waited. Closed his eyes. This was ridiculous. This was insane. Somehow though they had passed the point of no return. Gabrielle had gone in. He couldn't leave now. Couldn't leave her down there without his protection. He had to go. He had to.

Sound from below, Gabrielle's voice badly distorted. Simon sighed, shook his head. "This is fucked. Alright, get down here and film me going in." He repeated Gabrielle's method, sitting down in the coffin, and then lowering his legs into the splinted hole. "What is this white goo?" he asked, face wrinkling in disgust. "Monster slime?"

Joshua descended with a small avalanche of dirt, steadied himself. "No, it's probably just Mary Ellen herself."

"Oh," said Simon, looking like he was about to faint for a moment. "Oh." Then with a huge breath he lay down, wriggled onto his stomach, and disappeared. Joshua leaned over the edge of the coffin lid and trained both camera and light on the top of Simon's head. He was gripping the rope and making his way down in nervous bursts and starts, rocking from side to side as he went. A second light from below—Gabrielle looking around. Joshua restrained the urge to call out, ask what she saw. He'd find out soon enough.

Then Simon was down and it was his turn. He stood, looked around. One last breath of fresh night air. He closed his eyes, tried to calm down. His stomach was so tight he thought he might vomit, lose all the Chinese food from the Panda Express dinner he'd forced himself to eat. Why had he chosen Chinese? He hesitated, took another deep last breath, and then stepped down into the _Peace Kingdom_. The smell was of the soil, thick and pungent, and a mixture of faint, less savory odors. The sickly sweet miasma of the corpse, sunk into the padding. Despite his care Mary Ellen would have leaked all over the coffin as she deliquesced. That was, he supposed, part of the appeal of CoffinCam.

He put his flashlight and camera in his backpack, sat down, knees against his chest, and the slid his legs under the lid. His feet passed over the ragged edge of the hole, and dropped down. His stomach tightened with another twist, and he felt his gorge rise. The _Peace Kingdom_ was a damn solid coffin. It would take real strength to burst through it. Those hands. Those claws. He closed his eyes and forced himself to lie back. He'd pretended to be a corpse once or twice when he first arrived at Peaceful Acres, lying in some of the different coffins and crossing his hands over his chest, Count Dracula style. This was nothing like it.

The sky above had become more luminous. Legs hanging down in the hole, he tried to breath lightly so as to not inhale too much stench, and wriggled his ample ass down, digging with his elbows for traction. Splinters and edges of wood dug into his hamstrings, then poked sharply at his ass. He'd have to flip over now. Look away from the sky. This coffin was tiny. He hated small spaces. He couldn't breathe, that sweet smell, the crusty feel of the fabric beneath his hands. Breath hitching, he turned around, legs extending awkwardly out until he was able to bend at the hips and lower them, toes kicking into the sides of the tunnel and dislodging dirt. He felt himself begin to slip, to slide back and into the hole, and with a panicked scramble he sought the rope. Where was it? He'd forgotten all about it, fixated on the hole, on getting in the coffin. His belly caught on the hole's edge, he teetered, and then his hands closed around the slick nylon cord, held fast.

Heart hammering, he heard Simon yell something up from below. Ignored him. _Stay focused._ Hands clenching the rope, he squirmed back, into the depths of the coffin. The night thicker around here, no longer night but just plain darkness, thick and cloying. The smell in his nose, oiling his sinuses. He'd smelt awful stenches before, but this was something else. Hips went over the edge, and with a panicked slither he caught himself on his elbows, hands already aching. _Now. Go now._ So without allowing himself to think, he dropped down over the edge, and began to descend.

It took forever. It couldn't have been ten feet. It felt like fifty. Down and down, feet catching the knots, swaying and turning to smack his body against the rough sides of the tunnel. Down and down until hands clasped his boots and he almost screamed. Looked down in panic, saw Gabrielle smiling up at him, realized that he had been descending into the light for some time now. Sweat slicked his brow, ran down his spine. He quickly dropped the last six feet, and then sat down, nursing his savaged hands, blinking away the pain and fear and only then, finally, looking around.

It was nightmarish. The tunnel felt tiny, cramped. Simon was crouched to one side, panning his camera back and forth, a _gun_ in his hand. Gabrielle had torn off her beanie, her pale blonde hair luminous in the dark. They were in a horizontal tunnel that extended in two directions, the vertical shaft that led up to Mary Ellen's _Peace Kingdom_ dropping into its center. Barely tall enough for them to stand hunched, sides so close they rubbed against their shoulders. No hallway this, but a rat's tunnel, claustrophobic and close.

"Let's go," said Gabrielle. Hey eyes were alight, Joshua saw. She was keyed up, electrified. Looked beautiful.

"Remember," said Simon, "We go back when I say. We leave when I say we quit. I'm taking point." His voice was hushed in the close darkness.

"Sure," said Gabrielle, but Joshua could tell her energy, her enthusiasm had infected Simon as well. They rose to their feet. She touched one of the walls. "They must have tunneled this out themselves," she said. "By hand. Look at these marks."

Joshua stared at the tunnel walls, but could barely make out what she was talking about. He dug out his camera, flicked on his flashlight. Alright. Alright.

Simon took three large walkie-talkie from his pack and handed two of them over. "These are going to be essential in case we split up," he said, sounding smug. "Here, they're simple." He pressed the large button on the side of his and said, voice calm, serious, "This is Alpha Mega Five, over."

Gabrielle and Joshua's walkie-talkie's immediately began to hiss and spit with static. Simon frowned. "Here," he said, "Let me adjust this." He began to fiddle with the dials, and Gabrielle looked over to Joshua and raised an eyebrow. After a few more moments of experimentation, Simon gave up and took the walkie-talkies back with ill-hidden grace. Pointedly not making eye contact with the other two, he began to walk forward, following the tunnel as it curved around to their left. The smell down here was earthy, warm, a faint hint of something spoiled and sweet in the air. Simon was breathing in shallow, controlled breaths, holding his MagLite and gun ahead of him as best he could in the manner cops did on TV. Already his arms were shaking from the effort, however.

They moved forward in silence. After thirty steps Simon stopped, and raised his light. A new shaft had appeared in the ceiling of the tunnel. Cautiously he stepped below it and looked up, peering into the gloom. Joshua tried to control his imagination. It was so easy to imagine something dropping down on them from above. An animated corpse, all sunken eyes and incisors, going for Simon's throat. Suddenly, panicked, he whipped around and shone his light behind them. Nothing there.

"All clear," said Simon, voice stiff, almost formal. He began to move forward again, Gabrielle and Joshua each pausing beneath the shaft to peer up into the obscure gloom above. They passed another three shafts before the tunnel joined a second and grew wider as a result. They all still had to hunch, but now there was a little more elbow room.

"At what point do we go back?" he asked, feeling breathless, light headed. What kind of airflow was there down here? How deep were they? Everything had become a repetition of curved, hand dug walls, electric white illumination and profound, smothering darkness. If he were to freak out down here, if he were to lose it, he would thrash within this tiny tunnel, constrained by its close walls.

"When we see something," said Gabrielle, and then caught herself, "Or when Simon says we go."

Simon grunted in affirmation, turned to look forward once more. "A little further then. Let's go." Being the shortest of the three he was hunched the least, but still he had to duck his head. They moved on, feet scuffing at the ground, Joshua turning frequently to look behind.

The tunnel was sloping down now. Deeper into the earth. Joshua checked his watch. He should have checked the time when they first came down—no way to tell now how long ago that had been. Sweat was running down his face still. It was getting warmer. Simon slowed.

"It takes a corner here. Slowly now." The curve was too gentle for him to actually peer around, so they traced the tunnel's turn, flashlights playing before them. It opened out into a large burrow, the ceiling still low but the walls pulling away. Simon froze, stopped altogether, but Gabrielle shouldered past him, and Joshua was just one step behind. His heart stuttered, and he nearly screamed.

Arrested by their lights, turning away to shield their faces with great creased palms tipped with shovel claws, were a half dozen _things_. Standing on their rear legs, draped in wrinkled folds of loose pink skin, thick and solid and about four or five feet in height, they were crammed into the back of the chamber, stirring restlessly in the light. Definitely not human. Definitely, definitely not human.

Joshua felt as if his chest were about to burst, stumbled back without realizing it, Simon shoving Gabrielle ahead of them as she strove to get a better point of view. They rounded the corner, left the chamber behind.

Joshua blinked furiously, shaking his head. They hadn't been able to see their faces, just the sides and backs of their heads, blocked by their hands. They hadn't done more than stir, as if sluggish or roused from sleep, but they were there, around the corner, right there.

"We go," said Simon, "That's it, we're out."

"What? Why?" asked Gabrielle, trying to look past Simon's body, light playing along the turn's outer wall.

"Because I fucking said so, is why," said Simon, voice becoming high pitched.

"But they didn't do anything," said Gabrielle, "They're not dangerous, I can feel it. We need to get a better shot. Did any of you even film then?"

"I said we leave! You said I could call it! You said I could!"

"Simon, calm down. We need a better shot, or this was all for nothing. Come on. They were scared of the light, one more peek."

Simon shook his head. He had turned to stare back in the direction of the burrow. "No. Absolutely not. We leave. I'm leaving. You can come with me or stay."

Gabrielle shook her head, "I want one more shot."

Simon looked back at her, gun and flashlight still pointed ahead, "You _promised._ You said I could call it." He sounded like he was almost pleading.

Gabrielle snorted, "When we've come so close? No."

"Fine," said Simon, "Fine, stay down here if you want. I'm out. I'm fucking out." And then he was squirming past Gabrielle, shoving her aside. "Let's go Joshua. Leave this crazy bitch down here if she wants to die."

Joshua stared open mouthed at Simon, and then past him at Gabrielle. She was watching him, face composed, eyes wide. He couldn't think. He was frozen. Numb. The tunnels were pressing in around him. "I..."

"Let's _go_ , asshole. Move!" Simon began to shove past him, pressing him roughly against the tunnel wall.

Gabrielle's eyes were on him. He couldn't look away. He couldn't leave her down here. Nor could he stay. "Gabrielle," he said. "Please. Let's go."

She shook her head with such slow finality that he felt his heart sink and closed his eyes.

"You guys are fucking idiots," snarled Simon, pausing to look back at them once. "Nice knowing you." Then he turned and began to hustle back.

***

Gabrielle watched Simon leave. He was taking the gun, but it would have been too dangerous to try to take it from him. Nor was there any way to convince him to stay. She had made the mistake of allowing him to think of himself as the team leader on this expedition, and now he was wedded to the role. Too empowered. She would have to break him down when she got back out. Reduce him. Make him feel pathetic and worthless so that he would do what she wanted again. She would figure out how when she got out. Now, now was the time to explore.

Joshua looked like was about to faint. Simon was no longer in sight. Just the two of them down here. Poor Joshua. He wanted to leave so badly she could smell his fear. A glance over her shoulder at the tunnel that led to the burrow, and then she stepped forward. Sweat was beading his brow. His lips were pale, and his eyes were skipping everywhere.

She reached out and slid her hand around the back of his neck. Pulled him gently forward, leaned in and kissed him. His lips were soft against hers, motionless. She pressed against him, dug her nails into his skin, hurt him. He came awake. He came to her, his energy, his mind. She felt his mouth begin to move against hers, heard him groan. She reached down and slipped her hand between his legs, took hold of him through his jeans and squeezed, slowly kneading him. He shivered, kissed her harder, and she almost laughed. How easy, how easy it always was.

He grew hard almost immediately under her hand, and just as he reached for her she pulled back. His eyes were fevered now, desperate, alive. "Joshua," she whispered. "It's just you and me now." He nodded, blinking. Reached for her again, but she turned, moved away. "Come on," she said, voice soft, assured of him now. Turned to the tunnel corner. She could hear movement, the softest of whispers, the lightest of treads. They were coming. "Lights up."

Holding hers up along with the camera, shivering with excitement, wanting to cry, she moved forward. Each step akin to that which a bungee jumper takes at the last. Light brilliant and delirious, bringing out each detail of the tunnel wall. A sense of things pulling back, away from her, retreating. She took the last gliding step, brought the room into view, brought her light to play against their bodies.

They recoiled, movements slow, hunching their powerful shoulders, bringing their clawed hands up, turning away. They were beautiful, repulsive, soft and heavily wrinkled, skin like that of a rhino, hanging in heavy folds about them, their heads spherical and without necks, no ears, golden whiskers glinting in the light but otherwise hairless. Massive thighs, tiny lower legs, long feet, their bodies fat and solid. Fascinating. She played her camera across them, took in all their details. They were moving away from her, drifting with slow steps, retreating toward the far tunnels. Grinning, exultant, she moved forward.

They gave way. They were harmless! She laughed, the sound echoing strangely within the chamber, moving the light slowly back and forth like the loving touch of a lash, driving them back before her. Three other tunnels led away from the room, and the creatures shambled away into them. "Are you recording this?" she called over her shoulder, not turning to check. Moved into the center of the room. If only the ceiling were a little higher so that she didn't have to crouch so. But still.

She wanted to see where they took the bodies. Wanted to see them eat. Wanted to see their faces, wanted to see them lower their mouths to that putrescent flesh and slurp up the liquefied remains, see sheets of skin stretch and then tear as gobbets of fluid flesh were torn off. Wanted to hear the sounds, the crunch of bone, the wet slurps. Where did they keep the bodies? A central area? Strewn haphazardly around these tunnels?

Gabrielle was shuddering with pleasure. She was almost crooning to herself. Go for the largest tunnels. They will be the ones that are used the most. So she oriented herself toward the largest of the three, and holding the light before her like a lance, made her way down it. Into the depths, the darkness, the heart of this filthy little world, toward the bodies, following the smell of death, that very smell that had led her on through her whole life.

***

Simon rushed as quickly as he could back toward the escape shaft. There was no way he would stay here. No way. Stupid, filthy whore. She'd played him. For the last time. No way. He was going to pull the plug. So what if CoffinCam was making him a fortune. Did she think he needed her? Did she think he couldn't make money without her? Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have come? Now he was down here alone. Was this the shaft? No. Too dark above. Next one.

Simon hustled along, shoulders brushing against the tunnel walls, gun held out before him. If he saw one of those things he'd just plug it, no questions asked. Where the hell was the way out? Another shaft above him, but not theirs. A sound behind him, and he spun around, falling over as he did so and crashing on his ass, light brought up to bear as he prepared to shoot.

Nothing. Just dust hanging in his flashlight's beam. Silence. Nothing there. Nothing. He must have imagined it. He was breathing too hard. He had to calm down. Stay cool. In the movies those who panicked died. God, he didn't want to die.

Carefully he stood back up. Turned and began to hurry once more, feet thudding into the rough dirt. Come on, _come on_. Had he somehow missed it? Should he double back? No. With a huge sigh of relief that caught at his throat, was almost a sob, he saw the rope hanging down into the tunnel ahead of him, the scuffs of fresh dirt that had fallen with their descent. There.

He rushed up, shoved the gun in his holster and played the light up the shaft. Nearly screamed when he saw a face looking down at him from high above, but it was a person, not a monster, a person.

"Hey, I'm coming up," he yelled.

"Where's Gabrielle?" asked the stranger.

"What? Fuck Gabrielle, I'm coming up," said Simon. Was that a scratching sound? He turned his light up and down the tunnel. Nothing.

"Where's Gabrielle?" asked the guy again, determined.

"I don't know! She's down here somewhere. Whatever man, I'm coming up, make room so I can climb out."

The man stared down at him. _What the hell_ , thought Simon, _he looks like George Michael's retarded cousin._ Then the guy took hold of the rope and began to yank it up.

"Hey!" screamed Simon, grabbing at the rope with one hand. The guy yanked it up further. In a panic Simon dropped the light and leaped, tried to snag the rope with both hands, missed. Furious, wanting to scream, to cry, he snatched up the light and shone it up the shaft. The guy was coiling the rope around his hand and elbow.

"What the fuck are you doing, dude? What the fuck? Throw it down!"

"Tell Gabrielle this is what she gets for messing with me. Ask her if she's bored now."

"Dude! Please! I don't know where she is! Just let me up, and you can tell her yourself!"

The guy stared down at him, and then shook his head. "No." Then he stood and stepped out of Simon's line of sight.

"No?" said Simon to himself. "No?" He couldn't believe it. He was stunned. He stared at the empty shaft. Stared at the hole in the coffin floor some fifteen feet above him. His heart was beating so hard he felt his chest shudder with it. His knees almost gave way, his eyes brimmed with tears. Panicked, he dashed them away.

"Hey!" he screamed, cupping his hands about his mouth. "Hey! Help! Somebody, hey, dude!"

Nothing. He was panting. A scratching sound, a soft _scritching_. Simon snapped the flashlight down and saw that a number of those hairless things had appeared, were somehow close to him, only some ten yards away. Even as he saw them they looked away, turning their faces from his light, raising their hands to shield their faces. A hint of tiny beady black eyes, massive incisors, slits where nostrils had been.

Simon backed away a step, turned to run, froze. Felt hot wetness spread across his crotch. They were in the other direction too. They turned from his light, stopped moving, raised their claws. Panting, whining, he swung his light back to the first group. They had taken a step closer, but stopped once more. They weren't retreating from the light. _They weren't retreating_. Hot liquid was running down his left thigh. He whipped the light back to the second group, caught them drifting toward him once more.

He raised his gun, squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening, the gun bucked in his hand. A red hole appeared in the shoulder of the front creature, and then Simon fired again, yelled as he did so, fired two, three, four shots. The creature fell, dropped to the ground, lay still.

"Ha!" he yelled, turned around to where the others had shied back from the sound. "You like that? You like that?" He raised the gun and aimed at the head of the leader of the second group. Fired, missed. Fired a fifth bullet, hit it in the chest. It squealed, and then he shot it again. It dropped, fell to the ground, legs and claws spasming. Simon turned back, raised the gun, squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Simon's heart sank. "No," he said. He had brought more ammo. He knew he had brought more ammo. Hadn't he? He shoved the gun in his holster, dropped into a squat and unslung his pack. Moving the light back and forth, breathing rapidly, he dug through his pack. Lost patience, dumped out its contents. Nothing. No ammo. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He'd fixated so much on the gun itself he'd forgotten to bring more bullets.

"Help!" he screamed, screamed so loud and hard that he felt something tear in his throat. Pressed his back against the wall. Shone the light up the shaft. There was nobody there. The rope was gone. He was alone. "Oh god," he said, tears running down his cheeks, "Oh god."

***

Joshua followed Gabrielle. She walked ahead of him, alert and afire with excitement, her black clad form moving somehow lithely along the tunnels. He followed after, feeling as if he were pulled on a leash, miserable with terror but unable to leave. To abandon her down here. Though he knew. When she had reached for his crotch, curled her fingers around him, pulled him close, a part of him had thrilled and burned and another had curled in with shame. Right there he had known he was being played, and if that moment she had controlled him so easily, then there could be no doubt that she had played him before, had, no doubt, manipulated him all along.

Tripping, stumbling, he followed after her, down and deeper into this hell. He didn't care about the wrinkled monstrosities, the stolen corpses, the camera that was still recording though it now simply hung by his side. Instead he simply gazed at Gabrielle, his heart leaden within his chest, his mind blank, his soul despairing. What a fool he had been. To think this woman had ever cared for him. To think he had a chance with her. What had she called him? _Noble._ How she must have laughed at him after. How had he believed her?

She ignored him now that she was assured of his presence. Her breath loud in the air, her hand reaching out to touch the walls, to trace the ribbing and its strange carved texture. Pausing at other tunnel entrances, looking into them, pondering out loud their decisions but not waiting for a response. Following this largest of tunnels deeper, ever deeper into the ground.

His eyes stung, and, suddenly furious, he wiped them roughly away. Why was he still following her? Why didn't he turn now, now that he knew the nature of their relationship, and go back after Simon? Why did he still trail after her like a broken puppy? Joshua kept asking himself these questions, seeking a reason, an explanation. He didn't know. Or rather, he knew, but couldn't face the truth of it. The glowing ember that throbbed in his chest, that radiated pain. Even as the illusions of a future with Gabrielle came crashing down, that shard of—what—love? That core of desire and love remained. He stared stonily at her back. Did he love her? This strange and cruel woman, this manipulative bitch, this depraved and deranged person?

Yes. Helpless to deny it, to change his heart. Even as he stared at her he wanted to hold her, to melt her, show her that he was what she had described him to be. To prove that he was capable of love, of nobility, of tenderness, of rescuing her. She would laugh, he knew she would. But he wouldn't abandon her down here. He wouldn't leave her even though she was less afraid than he, even though she cared not at all for him. He would show her what he was capable of, what he was made of. He would prove himself the man she had convinced him he could be.

They spilled out at last into the largest room they had encountered thus far. The floors were smooth, and descended toward a central hole that was at least three yards across and plummeted straight down into the darkness. The walls here were filled with tunnel entrances, at least a dozen of them opening up, though there was no sign of the naked hairless creatures, no sign nor sound. Gabrielle paused, camera held up, and then panned it slowly across the space.

"This must be a central chamber of sorts," she whispered, "There main entrance beneath the cemetery. I wonder how far down this goes."

Joshua stepped forward, careful of the slope's gradient that grew ever sharper till it dropped into the hole and darkness at the room's center. "We can't go down that thing," he said.

Gabrielle didn't respond. Moved about, peering into each tunnel. "They must bring the bodies here," she said. "The corpses, take them below. To—what? The central nest? The rest of the colony? There've been no sign of bones, of eating up here. They must take them all below."

"Gabrielle," said Joshua. "We can't go any further."

She turned at looked at him now, brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"We can't go down that thing. We can't?"

She smiled at him, and for the first time he saw contempt behind the projected warmth, "Josh, relax. We're just going to take a quick look."

He shook his head. The darkness within that vertical shaft looked denser, somehow more dangerous than any other they had come across. It seemed to pull at him, like heights pull at those prone to jumping. Invite him to drop into its velvety heart, to fall into the center of the earth, to taste oblivion at its core. It felt wrong, unnatural, hungry. "This is as far as we go."

Gabrielle ignored him, took her rope out of her pack and began to search the walls for something to tie it to.

"Gabrielle," he said, voice sharp, "Enough. We're going back."

She looked at him again, turning her light full into his face to blind him. He squinted, raised a hand, and she lowered her light. "No," she said, "We're not. We're going down."

"You're crazy," he said.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice cold, hard. "Don't ever. Call me that." There was real danger in her voice.

"Then what would you call this? We've already gone too far. I'm telling you we go back."

Gabrielle smiled at him then, and it was a completely different smile. Here there was mocking contempt displayed openly, raised eyebrows of skeptical surprise. "You're telling me?"

He nodded mutely.

"You? Little pudgy Joshua the mortuary boy? Giving me orders?" She began to walk toward him.

"Gabrielle," he said, trying to sound hard. "Please, let's go."

"I thought you cared about me," she said, drawing close. "I thought you loved me, Joshua. That you were different from all the rest."

"You're just using me," he said, voice thick, "You don't care about me, you never did."

"Poor, poor Joshua." She reached out to touch his cheek, and he flinched away. "You've reached your breaking point, haven you? Can't be pushed any further? Like a little dog you're going to dig your little paws in and whine and whine and refuse to be dragged any further."

"Stop it."

"Or what?" She grinned at him. "You won't do anything. You can't. You're a coward." She slapped him, hard, across the face. He stared at her, shocked. "See? You won't do anything." She slapped him again, harder. He tasted blood in his mouth. "Go on, Josh, stop me. Hit me. Be a man. Show me what a big man you are." She went to slap him again but he raised his arm and clumsily blocked the blow. Her grin grew wider, and she leaned in, brought her face closer to his. "Go on, hit me, push me, do something. Don't just stand there like a pathetic little fool. No? Not going to act? Not much of a man, are you? Just a little boy. A sad, little boy. You make me sick."

Joshua's ears were ringing. He was having trouble breathing. He just stared at her, the naked hostility in her eyes, the venom coming from her lips. She turned from him, went back to searching the walls with her light and rope. "Go away then," she said, "I don't need you. Don't need anybody, really."

He licked his lip, wiped away the blood. He felt nauseous, light headed. He needed to go. Fuck her. She was insane. He took a step back, a second. Was she still manipulating him? Testing him? Trying to push him away so that he would stay? He stared at her, trying to think, but his thoughts were frozen.

"I—I feel sorry for you, Gabrielle," he said at last. She froze as if slapped, turned slowly to stare at him. He almost froze himself, but forced himself to continue. "I—yes, I did love you. I don't know why. But I did. I thought there was—I thought you were something else. But this is where you belong. Where—where you've always belonged. Down here in the dark with the rats and the corpses." His voice was shaking, her narrowed gaze was skewering him, but he forced himself to not back down. "I'm leaving. You can come with me. Your choice." And before he could change his mind he turned and began to stride away, entering the tunnel right behind him, light shaking and wobbling ahead of him as he left her in silence behind him.

***

Simon was breathing in sharp, shallow hitches. The guy hadn't come back. There was no way past the creatures. He kept moving his light from side to side, playing it across their faces just as they started to edge forward once more. How many minutes had already gone by? Ten? It felt like he had been standing here for hours. When would Joshua and Gabrielle come back? Would they come back in time? He could stand here. Couldn't wait. He had to escape. He risked flashing the light up. The walls of the tunnel were compacted dirt, but they weren't rock. Perhaps he could climb.

He brought his light down again, flashed it from side to side. They had stolen forward a foot or two, and with hisses turned their faces away, raised those huge, clumsy shovel claws. God he loathed them, their flaccid bodies, their wrinkled skin, their naked pinkness. Even their very slowness repulsed him, the strangely delicate manner in which they approached. Shuffling forward like old men, coming ever closer to him. They were now perhaps eight yards away on each side. He'd have to try. He had to escape.

Simon took a deep breath, held it. His heart was fluttering in his chest like a bird trapped behind a curtain. Took a second breath, then a third. This was it. Samurai time. This is where he showed how calm and in control he could be. Online he was the master. He was the fastest, the baddest, the sharpest guy on the net. He would escape. He would escape. He would escape.

Moving before he could panic, he shoved the heavy MagLite in his cargo pants pocket and jumped as high as he could, leaping at the wall. Thrust his fingers and hands into the dense loam, felt the dirt and sand give away. Kicked his toes into the wall, lurched up, thrust and fought for purchase. Pulled his body up, and then plunged his hand up higher. Felt a root, felt a surge of elation, and then his feet slid out from under him and he fell.

Crashed to the tunnel floor. Shrieking in fear he yanked his flashlight out and waved it back and forth in blind panic. The creatures were only four yards away, hissing softly now as they reared back and turned away their faces. Kicking his heels he fought to stand, moving the light back and forth, back and forth. Panting, sobbing, he looked up again. Fifteen feet. He had jumped, what, two feet, was five foot six himself. That was nearly half the distance. If he could find that root again. If he could pull himself up, he could maybe shimmy his way to the surface, back to one wall, feet to the other. God, how fast could these things climb? With those claws they might be faster than him.

Sweat was burning down his face, stinging his eyes. He had to try again. He couldn't stand here, letting them shuffle forward, inch by inch. One more try. Find that root. Climb.

He was having trouble breathing. He was so scared he felt as if he were going to pass out. He realized that he was saying, "Please, please, please," over and over again. Last chance.

Simon flashed his light up, sought the root. There. Dropped the light into his pocket, jumped. Dug hands into the soil, fought for the root, grabbed it. Wiry and thick he held tight, kicked his feet into the soil. Found purchase, and screaming, fought to climb higher. Wrenched himself up a foot, left hand scrabbling furiously in the soil above for something to hold onto, a rock, another root, something. Soil and dirt fell into his face, he felt his nails tear, the flare of wet pain as he mashed his hand over and over. Feet slipping free. His right shoulder was on fire where it was bunched, holding his weight up. His left foot slipped free of the wall. He nearly fell, and then his left hand grabbed hold of a rock. His fingers held with terrible force for a second, and then the rock came free in his hand and he fell back, collapsed down into the darkness below him, into the tunnel where large, loose skinned forms were gathered.

Simon screamed, screamed as he hit the tunnel floor, hands digging for his flashlight. Soft heat around him, delicate warm naked skin. Something slammed into his stomach, tore it open. Blank, all-consuming pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but a heavy shovel claw raked across his face, tore off his nose, opened his cheek, ruined his eye, shattered his jaw. _The light_ , he thought, _the light_. Then all thoughts ceased as countless claws tore him open, sprayed his blood across the dirt and walls and ground, rendered him asunder with brutal, mindless force.

***

Gabrielle stared at Joshua's retreating back, livid. She wanted to sprint after him and bury her MagLite in the back of his head, tear the shirt from his back and the flesh from his ribs and spine. How dare he feel sorry for her—how dare _he_ , Joshua, feel pity for _her_? Who did he think he was, presuming to judge her? Didn't he know how pathetic and foolish he was? How he had danced to her tune all these months, breaking laws, breaking his own heart as she wanted? And now he felt pity for her? Anger, lust, adoration, love, even disgust she was used to. Pity?

She hissed and shook her head. The glow of his light faded as he walked further around the tunnel's bend, out of sight. Soon it died out altogether, and she was left standing alone, staring at a dark tunnel mouth. _This is where you belong—down here in the dark with the rats and the corpses_. Gabrielle shuddered. She didn't need him to understand. Didn't need anybody to understand her fascination, her passion, her love for death, decay, the end of life in all its forms and guises. But to insinuate she was dead already, that something about her deserved to be down here alone—she shook her head. Resisted the urge to spit on the floor. Fury stormed up from her core, and she laughed shakily to herself. Idiot.

Gabrielle raised her camera, and looked into the lens. "I'm going to have to edit all this shit out," she said. "Just you and me now, darling. You and me and when I get out? The world, if I decide to share." She smiled, felt her confidence returning. Turned to look down at the central hole, and let out a scream of surprise, shock, disgust.

Naked wrinkled creatures were climbing out of the hole in a writhing carpet, bellies dragging across the ground, all elbows and haunches, porcine heads with long, delicate tusks searching the darkness for her. Dozens of them, freezing as she strobed them with light, turning their faces away. Silent, with more coming from below. A flood of them, a knuckled rug of pink flesh and long whiskers and ivory teeth. Tiny pig eyes closed as she illuminated them. She couldn't get past them. Joshua had been right. How had they appeared so fast?

She turned to run and stumbled. More were coming out from the side tunnels. Shuffling forward, shovel claws held before them, heads hanging low, closing in on her. Where she swung her light they stopped, retracted, but all around her was darkness, and they were moving in. Closing in on her.

"Joshua!" she screamed, fighting down panic. She turned her light about her in steady circles. Which tunnel had he gone down? They all seemed the same to her now. That one? Or that one? The chamber was filled with the soft susurrus of their movement now, the cloying smell of them, sweet with decay. Gabrielle gritted her teeth. She would have to commit to a tunnel and hope it was the right one. One more time she yelled out, less panic in her voice now, "Joshua, come back!" And then she raised her flashlight and began to move forward, pressing the creatures back and away from a tunnel mouth.

They stumbled, shied back, raised their claws, but refused to give way altogether. _What the hell?_ She shoved her light at them, trying to frighten them back, but they simply shuddered and huddled together, closer ranks. Gabrielle quickly turned around, shining the light in a sweep, arresting the approach of dozens upon dozens of the creatures, those from the tunnel dropping into the center of the ground having risen to their feet, joining the press that were shuffling toward her.

"Joshua!" Her scream rang from the low ceiling. "Joshua, help!" She had to stay calm. She began to search for a space between their bodies, a gap, a means of escape. Keep them away with the light. Steady. The light was shaking in her hands. An image flashed through her mind, the first corpse she had ever seen. She blinked. They were all about her now, a curtain of soft, wrinkled flesh, small eyes gleaming in the dark, incisors opening and closing. Flesh eaters, pressing in all around her.

"Joshua!"

***

Joshua lifted his head, a faint cry reaching his ears. He stood slumped against the tunnel wall, having only walked for perhaps a minute before something—resolve, conviction, determination—had flowed from him, leaving him weak, shattered, numb. He had played his words over and over again in his mind, but more than that, recalled the look on her face, the hurt when his words hit their mark. Or had he imagined that? Gabrielle. How can you love somebody who is clearly so bad for you? How can you love someone despite all reason, logic, sense?

A faint cry. _Joshua!_ Had he imagined it? He straightened, turned. From behind. Gabrielle. Trying to play with him again no doubt. Then came the first real scream. Without thinking, he broke into an awkward run, head ducked, moving as fast as he could back in the direction he could. A part of his mind yelled at him to stop, to go back—what was he doing, why was he letting himself be played again?

He was close to the chamber when he heard her first true scream. Not his name, not something cried out, but pain. A scream of pain, curdled and horrifying. Joshua stopped thinking. Lowered his head and charged around the corner, bellowing in fury. Ahead of him a scattered mass of naked forms, closing in on a central knot. A beam of light whipping around in fury in their center. Another scream, and the light dropped.

"No!" he roared as he cannoned into them from behind. Shouldered one aside so hard he knocked it down, the flesh soft and disgusting. Knocked another aside, was past them. Moving fast, into their center, not thinking. They were turning, reacting to his presence, but with bestial need he shoved his way through and then brought his MagLite crashing down on the skull of the last creature before him, cracking it and sending the brute tumbling aside. Without thinking he reached down and picked up Gabrielle. She was bloodied, eyes blinking, unable to focus.

Joshua didn't pause. He simply turned, not losing his momentum, the initiative, and roared back the way he had come, lowering his head as he ran, bulling his way through. Something caught at his shoulder, cut him deep. Another blow on his hip. Yelling in pain and terror he ran, Gabrielle's long body cradled in his arms, her head on his shoulder, face against his neck. He held her to his chest and ran, broke free, into the tunnel mouth. He couldn't tell if he was badly hurt, couldn't feel anything. Into the tunnel, and then around the corner.

He must have been hurt worse than he thought because he tripped. Light headed, he didn't even know how long he had run for, where he had run to. Fell to the ground, Gabrielle crashing to the dirt. Tried to rise, get his feet under him, slumped forward. Blood was clogging his jeans around his hip, his left shoulder was beginning to throb badly.

"Joshua?" Gabrielle's face was smeared with blood, hair caught across her brow. He leaned over her, cradled her head in his lap. Grabbed his flashlight. Her own had been lost somewhere along the way.

"I'm here. I'm here."

She tried to focus on his face, frowned. "You came back. Why did you come back?"

He laughed, despair catching him by the throat. He shook his head, "I don't know. I couldn't leave you."

"You came back," she said, voice soft. She reached up with her hand, touched his chin. "After all I said."

He took hold of her hand, looked back behind them, swinging his light into the tunnel. Nothing, but he could hear faint sounds of movement.

"Shh," he said, "We have to get out. I'm going to carry you." She began to shake her head, but he slid his arms under her legs and shoulder and tried to heave her up once more.

She was too heavy, and he was too weak. Straining he tried to get on his feet, managed to rise to one knee, and then spilled forward again.

"Go," she said. "Go."

Joshua didn't respond. He tried again, taking a deep breath, but his left arm wasn't cooperating. He couldn't get her legs up. And there was so much blood. Too much blood. With dismay he pulled back, and saw the mess that was her stomach.

Dark crimson gleamed in the light of his MagLite. Viscera was showing. The cut was deep, had perforated her upper intestine, who knew what else. He shook his head. Part of him, a clinical, cold part knew that it was too late. Nobody could survive a wound like that without immediate medical attention. Another refused, denied the truth.

"Gabrielle," he said, "God, Gabrielle." Joshua felt something shudder within him, tear. _No_. He slid his arms under her one more time. Lifted her to his chest. Her head rolled limply against him. Grimacing, vision blurring, he rose to his feet. Her legs were sliding out of his left arm's grip. He fought to lift her higher, hitched her up against him, felt her slide again. Staggered forward, crying out in pain and effort, and then his left arm gave away, the pain in his shoulder suddenly tripling as something tore, and they sank to the ground again.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm so sorry."

Gabrielle opened her eyes. Tried to smile. She was fading fast. "You know," she said, voice a whisper, "I didn't know it at the time. But I was right. When I said. That you were a good man."

Joshua closed his eyes, ground them closed against the tears. The pain that was a blender in his chest. A soft sound from behind him. The whispering of soft feet on dirt. He turned, swung his light, nothing there yet. But they were close.

A trembling hand on his cheek. "It's OK. My fault." Her eyes closed. She took a shuddering breath. "Joshua. Run." Her hand dropped from his face, fell to the ground.

"Gabrielle," he said, looking down at her. She wasn't breathing. He touched her cheek. Shook his head. Heard movement. Resisted the urge to scream. He couldn't leave her. He couldn't . Gasping, he forced himself to his feet. She was gone. She was dead, he was alive. He looked back down the tunnel. There. Three, four of them, grouped together, hanging back as if shy, heads lowered, hands raised against the light.

He looked down at Gabrielle. Her body looked gawky, artless. Gone was that terrible beauty, and instead he felt a tenderness for her that nearly broke his mind. Defenseless, vulnerable, and now he was going to leave her body behind. He turned to look again. There were six of them now, several yards closer.

"Damn you!" he screamed at them, taking a couple of steps forward. "Damn you filthy fuckers!" They shrunk back, as if offended, turning their shoulders toward the light, hanging their heads. He looked for something to throw at them, something, anything, but the walls and ground were just plain dirt and soil. Joshua took a step back. Took one last look down at Gabrielle. She was dead. She was dead. He shook his head, and then turned and began to run, the darkness rushing up to claim and swallow her body whole.

He only managed to run for perhaps ten steps before he was forced to slow down to a stagger and stop, reeling. How much blood had he lost? Where was he? Was this the right tunnel? It was growing tighter about him, pressing in on both shoulders, forcing him into a slouch. He continued to walk, trying not to think. To think of Gabrielle, lying in the dark, those things creeping up to her.

Then, a scream. He felt a dagger of ice punch through his chest as he spun around. A low moan, and then a second scream, weak and wet and cutting off. _Gabrielle_. She wasn't dead. He had left her behind alive. He stare into the darkness, too shocked to even raise his light. _He had left her behind, and now they were eating her alive_.

Joshua cried out, a formless, inchoate cry, and staggered back, banging into the walls, knocking his head against the tunnel ceiling. His light dancing before him, and he saw a knot of the pale creatures gathered over her, obscuring the sight of her body. One long leg was kicked out toward him, visible from the knee down, and nothing else. Was it trembling? Shaking? The light stung them, so that they looked up for a moment, blind faces smeared with blood, her blood, and then with their horrific gentleness they turned away from it, brought gore smeared claws up to block the light.

Joshua shook his head. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He backed away. He stumbled, almost fell. Turned, began to march mechanically into the dark. She was dead now. She hadn't been dead before. When they started eating her she had been alive, but now she was dead. He had thought she was dead, it had been a mistake. Her last two screams played in his ears. Weak screams, almost mewlings. His feet were blocks of wood. He didn't even illuminate the tunnel before him, simply marched into the darkness, light hanging by his side.

Wet sounds faintly heard from behind him. Wet sounds, and then the distinct snap of a bone being broken.

Joshua shuddered, stopped. Leaned against the wall. Slid slowly down until he was sitting. Sat, trying not to listen, unable to stop, to block the sounds. _You left her,_ he said, _so you deserve to suffer. To listen_. He stared at the wall before him, light on the ground, illuminating his boots, the rugged soil. Whispering sounds. Sounds of movement. They were following him.

He couldn't think. What had she said? _I didn't know it at the time. But I was right. When I said. That you were a good man._ Joshua felt tears run down his cheeks. He could have checked her pulse. That was all he had to have done. A few more moments by her side, to allow her to die first before leaving her. Instead he had panicked and run.

The soft, gentle sounds of feet padding on the dirt. They were drawing close. Joshua took up his flashlight, pointed it down the tunnel. There, maybe ten yards away. A mass of them. He looked in the other direction. He was so tired. He was spent. There was nothing in him. He thought of Gabrielle's face. Her hand on his cheek. _You came back, after all I said._

He couldn't feel his shoulder anymore. Nor the pain in his hip. He was so tired. He looked at the huddled creatures. Stared at them, indifferent, and then turned off his light. Set the flashlight on the ground beside him, and leaned his head back against the dirt wall. Thought of Gabrielle, of how she had looked at him with wonder when he had laid her down. He smiled, a broken smile. She had looked at him with such wonder, at the end. He would hold onto that, think only of that, as he waited in the dark.

###

## An excerpt from Crude Sunlight

_A tale of psychological horror_

The Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane is a grand and terrible building. Abandoned over forty years ago, its rooms and halls no longer ring with tortured screams.

When his younger brother goes missing, Thomas Verkraft comes to Buffalo to find him. Following a trail of black and white photographs and homemade videos, he tracks Henry down to the doors of the State Asylum.

It's the last building his brother entered before he disappeared.

## Chapter 1

Dusk was falling by the time Thomas arrived in Buffalo and parked his Mercedes outside his missing brother's building, the sky a deep shade of blue that darkened to cobalt toward the east. He got out and slammed the door, invigorated by the cold, pausing to look up at the sky, at the ragged, collapsing castles of cloud that were fading to darker shades of gray. He felt good. He felt energized by the drive, by the aggressive way he'd handled the car on the way up from New York, the manner in which he'd courted the cops, daring them to pull him over. Escaping the problems at home, cauterizing frustration with speed. It was a near miracle that he hadn't been stopped.

His brother's apartment complex was grim, hunched and sullen looking like a pair of crossed arms, rising some six stories into the air. Spatterings of snow crusted the window ledges, were scraped into low drifts lining the approach to the glass lobby doors. A vague attempt at an ornamental garden had been made and then abandoned before the entrance, leaving a circular swathe of withered grass around a bare gravel pit. It was his second time out here, the first having been August last year when he'd helped Henry moved in for his Junior year. He'd never found the time to come back to visit. Ah well. He'd been busy. Missing Henry could ask missing Michelle if he didn't believe him.

Suddenly chilled, Thomas hunched his shoulders and stepped up onto the curb, crossed the wide cement pavement and up to the doors. They were locked. A small steel panel with an LCD screen emitted a dull green glow to his left, and leaning down he squinted at the blocky text and pressed the pound key several times till he came to a list of names. Scrolling, he searched and found and then buzzed Materday, the superintendent.

A long pause. Finally the panel crackled to life. "Yello?"

"Mr. Materday, this is Thomas Verkraft. I've come about Unit 457?"

"Oh... the missing kid. I see." Thomas pursed his lips and waited as the super processed this information. Materday had been the first to notice Henry's disappearance, calling Thomas when the second month's rent had gone unpaid. A chill wind picked up suddenly, blowing through the parking lot, lifting his collar. Thomas checked his watch—almost 7pm. The stock market would soon be opening in China, and things would be picking up at the office in New York. Nothing else seemed forthcoming from the panel. Suddenly annoyed, he opened his mouth to say something sarcastic but the door buzzed before he could so. "Come on in, then. I'll meetcha in the lobby."

Materday backed out of a service door next to the elevator and turned to stare at Thomas. He hadn't improved since the last time they had met. Short, fat, and swarthy, the superintendent had small eyes and a large, splayed nose that must have been broken several times over the course of his life. His chin was practically nonexistent, giving him the appearance of a sly frog in a hunter's cap with the ear flaps down.

"Verkraft?" Thomas nodded, and the super looked down at a massive ring of keys he held in one hand. After a few nervous, darting gestures he finally removed one and gave it to Thomas. "Here's the spare. When are you gonna be done?"

Thomas took it, impressed by the man's indifference. No questions, no concern over the tenant that had been missing for three months now. "Probably by tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to see how much there is tonight, and call the moving guys tomorrow morning."

Materday sniffed loudly, pointedly, and nodded. "All right, good. Have the key back to me tomorrow by 8pm at the latest. Anything left behind gets chucked out on Monday. Got it?"

Thomas looked down at the man and struggled to stay calm. _Don't get upset with this little turd_ , he thought. _Just ignore him_. He nodded, and something about his stare unnerved the super, who turned and bustled back through the service door. Left alone in the lobby, Thomas glanced at the key and then turned to summon the elevator. Entering, he hit the button for the fourth floor and let his eyes unfocus. He'd filed a missing persons report when Materday has called him a month ago, but nothing had come of it. _Just disappeared_ , had been the cop's verdict, _like thousands of others across the country_. The legion of the vanished. They had interviewed Henry's friends, spoken to his professors, given his apartment a cursory search, but the police had come up with no reason to suspect foul play. Their conclusion: that Henry had simply taken off, another kid inspired by _On The Road_ or _Into The Wild_. Materday had called yesterday to see if Thomas as the co-signer would pay Henry's rent. He'd agonized over the decision all night long, and when he'd finally called to say no it had felt like telling a doctor to pull the plug.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, the doors rattled open, and Thomas stepped out. The hall reeked of wet dog, and was the kind of place that roaming site locators for zombie movies would die for, sending back copious photographs and floor plans with adjectives like "creepy!" and "moody-esque!" written all over them. It was poorly lit, the ceiling lights placed a little too far from each other, the carpet a dull, neutral vomit color somewhere between brown and beige. Each end terminated in a fire door, large and ponderous, the iron looking like it had been beaten with hammers. Behind each small, wire-meshed window flickered the lights of the stairwells, and Thomas easily imagined a bloody hand suddenly smacking against the glass.

Henry had lived but two doors down from the elevator, and Thomas quickly unlocked the door and escaped the fetid stench into the dark apartment. Which, Thomas noticed immediately, still had a faint, lingering smell of incense in the air. Henry hadn't been a fan of the dog stench either, it seemed.

The grey light of dusk came in from the broad window on the far side of the living room, illuminating the small apartment with clear, wintry hues. The last time he'd seen it the place had been almost empty. Henry had brought a few boxes of books, a closet full of clothing, a mattress, and little else. Thomas stood in the tiny entrance hallway and remembered the fierce pleasure that Henry had felt for his new apartment, how he had stood with his hands on his hips gazing out through the window as if surveying his kingdom. The sunlight then had been golden, autumnal. Now the light was cold and hard, and nobody stood framed in its pale radiance.

Taking a deep breath, wishing Michelle were here to help, to make a wry comment or simply give his arm a squeeze, he stepped forward, past the small kitchen on the right, cramped and dark, a mess of dirty plates and glasses in the sink. Henry had acquired some furniture, the kind of items you might pick off the curb or buy cheap on the internet. A battered blue couch was set against one wall, facing an ancient, bloated TV set on a short, wide bookcase against the other. A desk was set under the window, its surface dominated by a computer.

Turning, Thomas poked his head through the bedroom door. A rumpled single bed under the window, the sheets littered with large print photographs, casually shaken out of a manila envelope. An open closet door filled with what looked like mostly monochromatic clothing. A bookcase, a bedside table.

Bare basics. Reaching out, he flicked on the lights and fluorescent bulbs bathed everything in an immediate wash of stark, sterile white light, the dust suddenly visible and ubiquitous, lying thickly on the table top and photographs, on the barren length of the window sill, on the framed picture of their parents. It covered everything in sight.

Melancholia took him by the throat. He'd never been very close to Henry; seven years his senior, and preoccupied with his career, he'd paid little attention to his strange and introverted younger brother. When was the last time he'd seen him? Six months now, perhaps, since Henry had come through New York en route to beginning his junior year. Thomas and Michelle had taken him out to a fancy restaurant—D'Orsia—and then dropped him off to go meet up with some of his friends. Thomas had had an early meeting for the next day which had dragged until late afternoon, and by the time he'd managed to escape he'd only had time to take Henry to the airport.

Still musing, distracted, he wandered over to Henry's bed. Thick, slightly curved glossy prints in atmospheric black and white lay over the rumpled sheets like strange autumn leaves. Had the cops gone through them? Reaching down, he picked one up at random and examined it. At first it was hard to determine the subject matter. And then, like a ship emerging from the fog, he saw it. It was a large tunnel, smooth-sided with an iron ladder affixed to the left wall. The flash had caused the water running along the tunnel's bottom to shine like a river of mercury, and in the distance a vague figure could be seen running away into the darkness.

Frowning, he turned it over, and saw a note scribbled in Henry's spider crawl in the lower right corner: _Nov. 17, 3:43am, Steam tunnels under State Hospital_. Thomas turned the photo over again and examined the fleeing figure, holding the photograph to the light. It was small, a smudge of arms and legs, a pale face turned over its shoulder as it ran away from Henry. How odd.

Dropping the print, he lifted a second one. It was much more morbid, a close up of a dead, withered bird, its little spine twisted into a vicious arch so that its beak nearly touched its tail. Bones and dust on a filthy floor. Pulling a face, looking quickly away from the empty eye sockets, Thomas flipped the photograph over and read: _Oct. 3, 6.47pm, Dead pigeon #3 in Radley Hotel._ Thomas clicked his teeth together and dropped the print onto the others. _Avoid the Radley Hotel_ , he thought, and picked up a third.

This one was very different from the first two. It showed a naked girl lying on a bed, a long white thigh in the foreground, filling most of the bottom and left of the print, the rest of her body extending away into the depths of the photograph, shadowed declivities, pale breasts and a laughing face almost drowned in gloom. Thomas stared, mildly shocked, taken aback at once by how attractive the girl was and that his brother had been taking nude photographs. He felt suddenly like a prude, an old man; after all, Henry was twenty. Flipping the photograph, he read: _Nov. 12, 1.28am, Julia_.

Thomas let the photograph fall onto the bed and gazed down abstractedly at it. There must have been at least fifty or so such photographs lying on the bed, most of them showing dark rooms, more tunnels, views of overgrown gardens through mullioned windows. They were dark, evocative, strangely disturbing. Turning, Thomas looked about the bedroom. Where had he developed these photographs? At school? Had he been taking a photography class?

Frustration reared within him. He knew so little about his brother. So little about his life, his interests. He hadn't even known he'd had a girlfriend until the he'd read the police report. Julia. A very attractive girlfriend, at that. He debated searching the photographs for more prints of her, and paused. _Pervert_ , he chided himself, and snorted. _Just keeping it in the family_. What had this Julia told the cops? Had she told them everything she knew?

He drifted out into the living room, and over to the computer, where he sat down and looked about the desk's surface. There was a pile of blank CDs spitted on a central spoke, and a number of papers scattered over the keyboard. Stacking them off to one side, Thomas leaned down and pushed the computer's power button. The tower hummed to life and he leaned back in the chair. A sheet of type caught his eye and he picked it up. _Sunday, August 3rd, 2009_ , read the first line. Leaning back, crossing one arm over his chest, Thomas began to read.

When I was young, my family would often picnic at the edge of the Hume Reservoir, driving off the dirt road that encircled it onto a shallow spit of land that fanned out some thirty meters into the water. The reservoir was vast, the still surface a soft and sullen green. As my parents extracted the collapsible garden table from the trunk, and my older brother remained in the car listening to the radio, I would shed my shirt and sandals and tentatively enter the water. Arms crossed over my chest, I would gaze at a massive and solitary tree that grew in the center of the lake, emerging directly from the water, and dream of swimming out to it. The ground beneath the water was rough, the reservoir's edge flooding and ebbing regularly over the stiff grass that grew in irregular tussocks from the mulchy mud. I would wade out till the water had passed over my hips and stand gazing at the tree, too scared to swim out that far, till my parents called me back to land.

We went only once to the reservoir during that last summer before my parents' divorce. I remember the tension in the car, my gaze fixed on the shoulders of land that would slide into the reservoir's surface as we rounded them to reach our promontory. It had been a dry summer and the sparse grass was bleached to a brittle brown, the dirt gray and soft where the water had receded. As always, I shucked my shirt and sandals and stepped out to the water's edge where the ripples lapped at the dirt. My parents were arguing quietly in flat voices behind the car, and Thomas had walked away along the water's edge, listening to his CD player.

The tree still stood, closer perhaps than it had ever been, a heavy looking branch emerging ponderously from its trunk, close enough to the surface that I could have surged up and grabbed it if I had been treading water beneath. I stepped out into the water, arms crossed over my chest, resisting the cold that goose-pimpled my skin. Pale sunlight broke through the cloud cover to occasionally warm me, to transfigure the water around me from a dull gray green to warmer tones of brown.

When the water reached my ribs I let myself fall forwards and began to swim with tense, rapid breast strokes, heart pounding, losing contact with the muddy floor. I ducked my head under the surface and swam like a frog through the green murk. My head broke surface, I gasped for air and saw that I was still far from my goal. Experimentally, I straightened and tried to touch bottom; my foot penetrated a zone of numbing cold, as distinct from the warm layer above as if drawn with a razor. I yanked my foot up with a gasp, and ducked under once more, to gaze into the depths.

The sun broke free as I did so, so that the water near the surface blazed from dull to emerald green, vivid and dusty, gradating softly down into darkness. I hung suspended, and stared into the velvet black that massed below, a void without light, without warmth, depthless and old, conscious of my presence as I hung before it. I sensed something within it, something looking up at me from the bottom of the reservoir, something inimical to me and mine, and all thought of reaching the tree fled my mind as I turned and surged back towards the shore in a blind panic.

When my feet once more found purchase in the tusseted muck, I rose, breathing heavily, and saw that nobody had noticed my frantic swim towards the shore. My father was rooting around in the cooler with stiff, annoyed motions, while my mother sat in the car, smoking a cigarette and gazing away. I stood shivering, knee deep in water, and realized that I couldn't talk to either of them about the darkness. Instead, I emerged and took up my towel, wrapped myself in it and sat down on the grass, water running down my face, gazing out at the tree that stood miraculously alone in the reservoir's center.

Thomas sat back and closed his eyes, reached up to pinch the brow of his nose. Of course he remembered those summers. The stupid trips their parents had insisted they take to spend time together, which, as far as he could remember, hadn't been particularly fun for anybody. He tried to remember Henry, tried to remember this tree that seemed to have been so important to him, and drew only a blank. It had been so long ago.

A couple of chirpy beeps announced that the computer was ready. A password prompt. Thomas paused, fingers frozen an inch above the keys. Password. Hesitating, he moved the mouse over to the question mark button and clicked it. A little beige box opened up, saying, _Hint: I am._

I am? What sort of hint was that? He'd hoped for something like date of birth or mother's maiden name, but no luck. Clicking on the password box, he typed _Therefore I think_. He pressed Enter. Nothing. He typed _Henry_. Again, nothing. He stared at the hint. _I am_. He had no idea.

He knew that he should be thinking about how much storage space he would need, but he couldn't rouse the enthusiasm. He opened the desk drawers and rifled through their contents. Textbooks, folders, wads of paper, random pens, loose change, a pair of shades, CDs and more. Perhaps he should go through it methodically, sniff out more information, but he felt restless. With a pang he regretted not having brought Buck; he would have attacked this problem with an energy and enthusiasm, which in turn would have galvanized Thomas. As it was, he felt uneasy, listless, subdued. What was Michelle up to, he wondered. Was she thinking of him?

He could feel a large and all-consuming funk coming on, the sort of hellishly introspective mindset that could swallow him for the rest of the night, so instead he stood and walked over to the couch. He sat down heavily. It was comfortable, he decided, despite the metal framework that he could feel through the cushions. Leaning forward, he picked up the remote control and turned on the television.

A blue screen snapped into life. _What, another password?_ he wondered in annoyance, and then realized that it was the video channel. Curious, he shifted around and dug out another controller. VCR. He examined it quickly, then pointed it at the Video Player and pressed Play.

The blue screen vanished, replaced by something that had obviously been shot on a handheld camcorder. It was dark, nighttime, outside some massive building that loomed vaguely in the near distance before the camera. The sound of nervous breathing filled the apartment with a hoarse roar, and Thomas jackknifed forward to lower the volume as Henry spoke, "C'mon, hurry up!"

Henry. He was holding the camera. The voice had come as if from behind Thomas' shoulder, and before he could help it he was on the edge of the couch. Several people dressed in black were leaning a massive ladder against a tall wire fence. Someone muttered something, and another laughed. The chain link fence sagged under the ladder's weight, and then somebody was going up, scaling it like a monkey. Henry turned the camera quickly, showing some trees looming up in the darkness, the lights of the city all around, tall buildings, all of it blurred in this quick check before he focused once more on the ladder.

The first guy had reached the top, swung his legs over, and was now dropping down, grabbing handholds of the diamonds in the wire mesh, the fence chattering and clinking till he dropped from halfway to the grass below. The second figure was already at the top and the third was at the base of the ladder, looking up.

"Okay, here we go," whispered Henry, and stepped up to the ladder. The angle swung up, and suddenly Thomas was looking up at the third person's ass as they climbed up quietly.

"Nice ass," said Henry, eliciting an amused chuckle from above. _Julia_ , he thought. Then Henry was going up, mounting each rung quickly. The screen whipped around violently as he reached the top and dropped the camera to the waiting hands of someone below. It was caught, steadying, fumbled around and then aimed at Henry as he dropped down onto the grass.

Henry's face, right there, staring out of the TV screen at Thomas. He looked excited, eyes wide, a black hood falling back off his head, exposing his tousled mop of black hair. He reached up, pulled the hood down and then grabbed the camera. The point of view swung around, and then they were running, ladder abandoned. The massive building loomed high above them, looking like a fort, a castle, something improbably old and European. The terse, quick breathing of people running. Someone made a joke, people laughed, were hushed. Finally they reached the building's base, lined up against the wall, and the camera panned up and across.

It truly was huge. Made of brick, thick-walled with tall, narrow windows that were choked full of broken glass behind the wire mesh that covered them. Two huge towers rose into the night like the horns of a gazelle, their points capped with verdigrised copper, gleaming eerily in the moonlight.

"C'mon, it's around here somewhere," somebody said, quiet and authoritative. The group moved along the base of the building, walking quietly in single file for about a minute till they rounded a corner and stopped before a huge crack in the wall. It was as if someone had pulled a seam apart, had burst open the bricks so that it gaped, empty and dark like a wound in the side of the building.

The camera focused on the interior but it was too dark within to make anything out. Quiet whisperings, and then everybody drew flashlights. One by one they slipped inside and one of the guys whispered a warning about pigeon shit, something about gas. Henry went last, and then the flashlights were switched on, their broad bright discs swarming across the walls, ceiling, floor. The room was large, empty, the wallpaper bulging with fist sized cysts, the pattern long faded and leached of color by washes of filthy water that had stained it to brown. Crown moldings topped off the walls, giving the place an air of regal desolation.

There were more excited whispers, and then one of them turned to the camera, holding the light beneath her chin, illuminating her face from below as if she were around a campfire and about to tell a ghost story.

_Julia_ , thought Thomas again, _definitely_. Her face was brilliantly lit, the base of her chin, the underside of her nose, the under swellings of her cheeks, her brow and forehead glowing an incandescent whitepink. The rest dimmed to darkness, but her lips were pulled back in an ironic smile, and Thomas saw that she wasn't beautiful, not exactly, but instead incredibly striking, her hair cut short almost like a boy's, her features sharp and betraying a certain harshness. She smiled and then turned back to the darkness.

They moved through the room, shoes crackling on the detritus strewn across the floor, and out into a large hallway. It had the look of a hospital, the corridor wide and box shaped, long and lined with doors. An old hospital, from the looks of it, with the moldings around the doors artfully done in dark wood. It looked damned spooky, Thomas decided, sitting back and shaking his head. There was no _way_ that he'd ever go in there.

Some of this must have been felt by Henry and his companions, for they quieted and began to file down the corridor, the sound of their feet loud in the echoing silence. There were a few old leather and wood wheelchairs abandoned in the hallway, large clunky devices that must have been at least fifty years old. They paused before them and whispered comments to each other, snapped off a few photographs. They paused before each door, flashing their lights inside, seeing little more than broken glass, random pieces of furniture knocked down and destroyed, the walls covered by mostly obscene or drug-related suggestions in spray painted letters.

The end of the corridor opened into a shoebox-shaped hall with a staircase on one end and a large arched entrance leading out into a dark room beyond. They paused, discussed options and as one turned toward the steps. They stopped at the head of the stairs and flashed their lights down into the depths, examining the dim corridor visible far below.

"Eric, what do you think?" asked Henry.

A young man with curly hair the color of beaten bronze turned to look at the camera. "We go down. That's where the steam tunnels are; they lead out under the other wings."

"Well, all right then. Saddle up, guys." Eric nodded and turned to stare down the stairwell. He seemed about to say something further when a loud shuddering sound echoed up from below, like a heavy object being jerked across the floor, something ponderous like a wardrobe or desk. They froze, looked at each other.

"What the hell was that?" Julia, tense, but not frightened.

"A bear?" The third guy, face as-yet unseen. The camera suddenly yawned, whipped around, and the guy let out a yelp of protest as Henry did something to him, the others laughing uneasily, tension broken. The camera swung up to show Eric moving slowly down the stairs, straining to see what might be moving below.

"Hold on guys," said Henry. "I'm going to put in a new tape." Eric looked up, face serious, pensive, and then the film crackled and cut to the blue screen of the video channel.

Thomas blinked and rose to his feet. His heart was beating strongly and without thinking he raised the remote and pressed Rewind. For a second nothing, and then, as if in protest, the whirring sound of the tape rewinding, picking up speed. Thomas waited for five seconds and then pressed Play. A clunk from the VCR, and the image kicked back in. They emerged once more into the shoebox-shaped hall, panned around, focused on the steps. Dialogue, and then as they prepared to go down, that sound.

Thomas paused the tape, causing the image to freeze, two bands of white crinkly chaos appearing across the screen, frozen in overlay. He rewound, pressed play, listened to it again. What was that? Had there been somebody else down there? Henry must have made it back out if the tape were here in the VCR. What had they found below? Had they made it into the other wings? Thomas suddenly wished Michelle were there with him, wondered what she would have made of the tape. Standing, Thomas rounded the low table and crouched before the VCR. There were a number of blank tapes in a shoebox to one side of the TV, each of them numbered in red pen. Ejecting the tape, Thomas saw that it was number 7. A quick rummage of the tapes in the box showed that there was no number 8.

Rising to his feet, Thomas walked into the bedroom and looked down at the photographs. Rustling through them, he picked up the one taken in the tunnel and flipped it over _. Steam tunnels under State Hospital_. He turned it again and stared at the figure in the distance that was running away into the darkness. Was that Eric? Julia? Somebody else they had found down there? He set the photograph aside, and sat on the edge of the bed, pushing photographs back as they began to slide down the indentation his weight had made in the mattress, and picked one up at random.

A view of a mist-wreathed garden through a broken window. A quick flip showed that it wasn't the Hospital. A second: an ornate staircase curving around a hallway, filled with weeds and plants that had grown up the steps and the floor of the hall to the height of a man's chest. Checked, Thomas stared. An interior garden? Then he saw the broken windows. No, a ruin. Another: A dark hallway, a wheelchair sitting by itself against a background of splotchy, scabrous wallpaper. Thomas flipped it: _Nov. 17, 2:52am, Ground floor of State Hospital_.

Frowning, Thomas compared the times of that and the tunnel shot. The photograph of the figure fleeing had been taken nearly fifty minutes after. It had taken the crew about five minutes after the wheelchairs to reach the stairwell and go down. That meant they were in the tunnels or wherever they led for over an hour. Thomas made a face and sat back. An hour down there. He shook his head slowly in amazement.

More photographs, his impatience causing him to flick quickly through them. A stairwell viewed from above that looked like the curve of a nautilus shell. A factory shot from the distance. A control panel covered in dust and filth. An abandoned pair of boots in a locker. A wall covered in graffiti depicting a rotting head. An empty room in which a chandelier had crashed to the floor. A side shot of Julia, arms crossed, head to one side, gazing seriously at the camera.

Thomas dropped the other photographs and examined it. She was wearing a white oxford shirt under a gray sweater, the sleeves pulled up her forearms. He turned it around, and saw _Sept. 29, 3.42pm, Julia Morrow._

Julia Morrow. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his cell phone and dialed 411.

The phone rang twice, and then he quickly navigated the options to reach the operator. A bored woman's voice, rich with cadences and the sound of gum being chewed asked him which listing he desired.

"Julia Morrow, Buffalo, New York."

"Thank you," said the operator, clearly not meaning it. Thomas listened to the sound of keys being typed, and then the woman came back, "All right, connecting you."

Thomas started—connecting him? He stood up, took a step, froze, holding the photograph, staring down into her unequivocal gaze. The phone rang, and rang, and then—

"Hello?"

"Hi—Julia? Julia Morrow?"

"Yeah? Who is this?"

"Hi. This is Thomas Verkraft. Henry's older brother."

She hung up. Thomas took the phone away from his head and stared at it. He looked at her photograph, and then dropped both it and the phone on the bed. Well.

Scratching his head, he walked out and into the kitchen, took a glass from the sink and filled it with tap water. Lifting the glass, he saw that it was filled with dried crud, stained with what looked like strawberry jam, thick and clotted. Frowning, he set it aside, and pulled out a mug that was stained with dry tea, which he easily cleaned and then filled.

Moving back to the couch, he sat down and tried to think, to focus, but his thoughts kept coming back to Julia. She had to know something. Otherwise, why hang up on him so promptly?

His cell phone rang. Thomas set the mug aside and strode back into the bedroom, where he snatched it up and answered.

"Hello?"

"So—" her voice was strangely guarded and tentative at the same time. "You're the brother."

Thomas let out a sigh and nodded, "Yes. His older brother. I'm in town taking care of his belongings."

"What do you want?" She sounded half resigned, as if she were asking a rhetorical question.

"I've got some questions."

"I'm sure you do."

"I'd like some answers."

"Are you trying to sound like an FBI agent, or do you just naturally pull it off?"

"I..." Thomas had no idea how to reply. "I'm about as far from the FBI as you can get," he said, "I'm an emerging market manager for a hedge fund." There was silence on the other end. "Look, can we meet? I'd like to talk to you."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and he tried to picture her, her lips pursed, her brows furrowed as she weighed factors he couldn't imagine. "Fine. The Campus Center coffee house, eleven o'clock."

"All right, great. Listen, I really—"

She hung up. Nonplussed, Thomas stared at the phone again, and then slipped it into his pocket. Well then. It was a start. Fatigue washed over him, and he looked at all the photographs with a suddenly melancholy indifference. What game had Henry been playing? The tapes, the pictures, the disappearance—what had he gotten himself into? Thomas felt worn out. He'd deal with it tomorrow. He'd meet with Julia and then call the movers. But right now all he wanted to do was to get out of this apartment, this building, and go to his hotel room and sleep. Turning off the lights one by one, he paused by the front door and looked over his brother's stuff. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped back out into the dog stench.

Pick up a copy of Crude Sunlight at Smashwords to continue reading!

## About the Author

I'm a young Brazilian Brit whose been writing for as long as I can remember. I live with my wife and a little dog called Simon in savage wilderness of Western Massachusetts.

Connect with me online: visit my webpage at www.transientme.com to learn about my other novels, read my blog, or sign up for my newsletter.

You can also email me at pwtucker@gmail.com

