 
DeadPixel Publications Presents

Terrible Cherubs

Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets

Version 1.1 ~ Copyright 2015

DeadPixel Publications

Cover Design by Allison M Dickson

Smashwords Edition

Stories by: Steve Wetherell, Katrina Monroe, Robert Brumm, Renee Miller, J.W. Kent, Allison M. Dickson, Thomas Cardin, Hanna Elizabeth, Will Swardstrom, Brian L. Braden, Tony Bertauski

This book is intended to be read by adults and may be unsuitable for readers under 17.

Some of the stories contain indecent language, descriptions of graphic violence, sexual situations, and other stuff that might make your grandmother blush.
The damned couldn't scream, but Dyson still hated the way they stared at him when he sank his pitchfork into their flesh. In The Torso Farmer, Dyson must either endure an existence of hellish drudgery, or risk his life seeking answers in the world above. Either way, he could end up dead. By Steve Wetherell

After a long day of work, professional colleagues often meet for dinner and drinks, swap stories, and enjoy one another's company. In The Seven at Work, these colleagues share an unusual profession. Perhaps you've already met them? Chances are, you have. By Katrina Monroe

Prisoners in Camp 24 know one wrong answer could buy a one way trip to the Death Post. Unfortunately, so could a right answer. Jack has learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut, but a new inmate is about to change everything. By Robert Brumm

Imitation is the best form of flattery. That is, unless you're a serial killer. Then it might get you killed, or at least skinned alive. Along the way, you'll find plenty of seduction, sex, and murder in Flesh and Blood. By Renee Miller

In The Raven's Claw, it's 1757 and two frontiersmen are captured by Shawnee raiders. A gruesome death at the hands of the Shawnee may be preferable to the terror that awaits them if they survive. By J.W. Kent

Desperate for love, Renee hopes the man she just met could be the one. After years of searching, she feels an immediate, almost eerie connection with Ethan. In The Dawning, there's just one problem, Ethan might be too perfect...just like all the rest. By Allison M. Dickson

In The Dragon is in the Details, two adventurers journey to Capistrael bearing a mysterious spear and many questions. The sorcerer Ramund knows the answers they seek, and the spear they carry, could summon a fearsome and powerful enemy. By Thomas Cardin

A married couple pulls over on a deserted stretch of country road for a little fun before going to a Halloween party. The road, however, isn't deserted, and the night becomes a roller coaster of terror. In a Dead Zone, no cell signal means no help. Kate and Rodney must make a choice: Fight or Die. By Hanna Elizabeth

Ever get so busy making a living you forget to live? The assumptions we make in life, and the simple questions we fail to ask, can be lethal...especially when a Razor is involved. By Will Swardstrom

In The Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen, Mike has to choose between his future or his only friend. In high school, the dysfunctional friendships are often the ones which last a lifetime, or perhaps two lifetimes. By Brian L. Braden

Tatty is all grown up, and coming home to face her past. She's made peace with her demons, but the "saints" in her hometown haven't. Sinner explores the hell we often endure when seeking forgiveness and redemption. By Tony Bertauski
The Torso Farmer

Steve Wetherwell

If you wanted an easy life in Reclamation, you didn't let the bodies pile up. Dyson knew this from experience. If you kept them shifting along, then the fall from the conveyor belt almost always killed them. After all, they had no arms or legs to break their fall, so a snapped neck or a burst skull was practically assured. This being the case, it was an easy enough thing to spot the "A" or "B" branded on their chest, lodge the pitching fork under their chin, and heave them into the relevant chute.

It was when the bodies started to pile up that things got a little messy. If it was a busy day, or you were a little slow because maybe your back hurt, or maybe you were feeling a little demotivated because your wage allowance had gone down again, or your seventy hour week had suddenly become an eighty hour week, or because the Helping Hands didn't like the look of you and had decided to break your shins, then the bodies would create something of a cushion in the landing zone, and the fall became less than lethal.

This wasn't the end of the world, as such, but the way the torsos twitched and struggled and wept and stared at you was off-putting to say the least. At least they couldn't scream– their mouths were sewn up before the mechanical process that separated them from their arms and legs, before even the examination and branding. But they would struggle, which was odd, because they really shouldn't have been aware of what was happening to them. They shouldn't have had any references to pain or panic. Any references at all really, vat grown as they were.

Dyson used to perform a small mercy for the strugglers, twisting his pitching fork in such a way that it would break their necks, or at the very least choke them to unconsciousness, but on particularly busy days there was not time for that. He had to hurl them, weeping and jerking, into the relevant chute. He wondered if they suffered more in the reject chute, there to be incinerated to ashes, or the reclamation chute, there to have their organs carefully and efficiently removed before being dumped in the wash tub, where chemicals softened their flesh for easy removal. He doubted any of the bodies survived long enough to experience being flayed to the bone, but the thought sometimes made Dyson wake in the night, wondering who was screaming, realizing, embarrassed, that it was him.

So far, today's steady flow kept Dyson on top of things. He was a good worker; dependable, stolid. Twenty years behind the fork will give a methodical man a certain state of mind. He will ignore the ache in his back, he will cease to wonder at the ticking of the clock, and he will put one foot in front of the other while his mind floats somewhere else in a kind of hibernation, waiting for the whistle that signalled his reprieve. Not for Dyson the crutches of the other workers in Reclamation. Not for Dyson the stims to keep the mind perky, or the licorice flavor-rubs to filter out the smell of bad cheese and disinfectant.

Dyson was strong. Dyson was efficient. Dyson hadn't had a conversation with another human being in five years.

He jabbed his fork and heaved a wobbling meat-sack into chute A. Behind him came the reassuring smack of skull on floor. He wondered if he was proud of his job, and realised with dull alarm that even if he was, would he recognize it? Was pride something he would know instinctively? Something that would reignite the blackened matchstick days? Unlikely.

Dyson didn't know how pride felt, but he could at least feel useful. His job was a necessary one, or course. Since the Great Malaise, ages before his birth, the vat grown clones were the only viable source of protein in all of Valhalla. Without them, the masses would have to survive solely on the vending machine splodges of brown vegetable mass, white vegetable mass, orange vegetable mass, and on holiday occasions, yellow vegetable mass.

When Dyson had first taken the position jovially referred to as 'Forker' he had tried to give up the meat-patties. This was a usual thing, apparently, for new forkers. He had nearly starved himself to death before eventually giving in and bringing a patty to his lips. The vegetable allowances were simply not enough to live on.

To be fair, most of the masses enjoyed the meat-patties well enough. Oh, they knew where they came from, but there was a difference between knowing and looking into the weeping, terrified eyes of an adolescent quadriplegic about to face annihilation.

Every few months the Guiding Light would announce further progress in reclaiming the animal genome sequences from human donors, and there would be some token excitement and chatter at the possibility of conjuring a pig, or a cow, or even a chicken from the common cellular ancestry found in humans. The aim being, eventually, that they might resurrect the long extinct animals, and make them once again into slaves.

Dyson had surmised long ago that these announcements were inherently misleading in their optimism. After all, didn't he shovel up the results? The twisted spindles of limbs and tortured flesh that were inevitably stamped with a "B"? The mutants who didn't even need the fall to kill them, their lives already ended by erupting digestive systems or some otherwise betrayal of flesh?

No. There would be no chickens or lambs or cows in fields for the masses to lord over. And even if there were, where would they roam? What would they eat? If there was not enough processed vegetable mass for the people, then what would you feed the livestock?

Dyson suspected, deep in his sleeping mind, that society was something like a snake eating its own tail. The animals were gone, lost ages ago to the malaise that took not just the beasts of the air and field and sea, but a goodly portion of all that was arable. They would not come back, and even if they did, would they want to? Would it be any better to put a dumb animal on these conveyor belts than a dumb clone? Would their suffering be any less? Would they be any less significant?

These were ethical thoughts, and Dyson, who had shovelled a million or more soulless meat-puppets to their doom, had put on a shelf his understanding of 'ethical'.

The masses were harvested, their genetic material mixed and matched in a hurricane of sperm and blood and science. Then they were processed, re-birthed for fuel and food and replacement organs. Then they were harvested. Then they were eaten. So it went on in a kind of monstrous masturbation. Fucking yourself on an epic, species-wide scale.

Dyson bent his back to his work, his black skin made grey in places with dust matted to sweat, his muscles shifting and sliding like cable, his heavy brow creased over a blank slate of a face.

He contemplated the week ahead. The work, mostly, of course. Eating the same meal he always ate in his cubicle sized apartment. The state-sanctioned video games and drama-vids until the eventual sleep, which he enjoyed most of all. The maybe trip to a bar, where he might drink synthesized coffee and think about talking to people, but never actually would. The mandatory visit to the Spank Bank, where he would enter a musky booth, stick his dick in a portal, and watch a randomly generated holo-vid of whatever was currently popular in porn while a machine sucked him off and swallowed his genetic material. This would, of course, be the highlight of his week. Then the work again, always, forever.

Dyson was awoken from his contemplation as his fork found a struggler. His arms began to move without thinking, taking the necessary steps to end the faux-life before him, but stopped as the inner him realized something his wandering mind had not.

The struggler was him.

Down to the shape of the skull, the heavy brow, the one eye green and one eye brown that other people might find alluring had he ever looked anyone in the eye. The struggler was him, not yet dead from shock or blood loss, alive enough to look directly up at him. And Dyson saw something he had not seen before in the struggler's eyes. Beneath the usual hot panic and cold despair, he saw something that should not have been there. He saw recognition.

He felt an awakening of himself in that moment, as though his soul had suddenly caught up with his body after a long chase. He thought to cry out, to roar his outrage, to weep like a child and bemoan this fresh new horror. He did none of these things. He picked up the struggler by the neck, and hurled it into the relevant chute. And though his body shook, and his mind screamed, and his guts swirled, Dyson worked the rest of his shift without comment.

+++

At shift-whistle, Dyson hung up his pitching fork and made his way across the metal-grilled floor towards the elevator. He swiped-out with his omnicard, pulled aside the gate and stood with the likewise silent men and women of D-shift, all of them identically attired in the state-provided grey overalls and boots. There was a squeal that begged for maintenance as the elevator began its slow and juddering ascent from the basement levels. Dyson watched the other floors as he passed. The cutting room, the stamping room, the quality control floor, marketing, then the usual ten minutes of blank solid metal as they passed the laboratory floors.

Eventually they reached topside, which, as with everything in Valhalla, was really just a different basement. He trudged down the corridor, steps clanging in time with fellow workers, each of them filtering off into different corridors, their way lit by flickering track lighting. Those who lived in Valhalla made do with a little less than those who lived above in Shangri La, who in turn made do with less than those above them in Nirvana. Dyson did not suspect it was a matter of class- they were all workers of one kind or another- it was just that the cleaners, maintenance men and council-workers were all based in the upper floors, and so by the time they reached Valhalla they had usually run low on an already stringent supply of fucks to give. Dyson supposed that this was just human nature, and that if he ever killed himself he'd be sure to do it on an upper floor, so that his body might be found before it had turned to cheese-paste.

Even the ad-boards didn't work properly in Valhalla. Where the corridors in other levels rarely went a square foot without a neon billboard for this or that stim or sex-service, many in Valhalla had darkened, either fallen to vandalism, or from neglect. Dyson considered this a small blessing.

He trudged along, and when he passed a glowering contingent of Helping Hands, each a different shade of black in their poorly fitted plastic armor, he kept his gaze to the floor. Dyson was a big guy, and people liked to pick fights with big guys, especially if they knew that said big guy would not fight back. The Helping Hands said nothing at first, though one spat at his feet as he passed. Dyson walked on without comment.

"Why you looking at your shoes, clone-fucker?" called a voice behind him. "Don't you know you can't fuck your shoes? Why would you fuck your shoes, you clone-fucking mother-fucker?"

Dyson kept walking, resisting the urge to shake his head. He considered himself to be fairly dumb, but the Helping Hands would always make him feel like an unsung genius whenever they opened their mouths. He supposed that creative thinking was not a prerequisite to recruitment. Not that he'd ever suggest so. The Helping Hands were given relative autonomy in keeping order, and were enthusiastic in doing so. They might think you drunk and disorderly, or loitering with intent, or looking at them funny, and then they would enjoy breaking out every single one of your teeth with a billy-club before hauling you to a holding cell.

The holding cells were up near The Right Hand of Allah, each of them rumoured to be bigger than Dyson's apartment. He guessed there might be an irony in this, but he was not interested enough to dig for it.

Dyson rounded a corner and started, as he almost bumped into a figure. A pasty white face with x's for eyes looked up at him from under a tatty beret. The figure stepped back, revealed as maybe a girl or maybe a woman– difficult to tell under the makeup, even if she was dressed in a manner to showcase as much of her skinny frame as possible. She didn't so much wear as ride a black mini skirt. A striped black and white top floated above her midriff, thin black braces pushed against clementine breasts. Her thighs were bare until the knee, when cheap stockings took over until the whole ensemble ended abruptly at a pair of ridiculously large red shoes. She grinned broadly with red lips and yellow teeth, put a gloved hand behind her back and produced a bladder horn, which she honked at the same time as her other hand squeezed her breast. She gave a salacious wink that may have been textbook, if such a textbook existed.

Dyson blinked, puzzled, so abruptly pulled into human contact that he struggled to remember how human contact was supposed to go. The mime clearly wasn't a street entertainer, because street entertainers in Valhalla were rare as saints. More likely, she was a sex-worker, the last bastion of entrepreneurialism in a world of government rationed sex, drugs and rock n' roll. Up against the state-sanctioned mega-whores and digital sex booths, common street walkers were constantly adapting to more and more specific kinks to stay in business. Dyson supposed that clown-fucking was among the least harmful of these.

"Sorry," he mumbled, but the words came out as bone-dust. He squeezed past and continued walking. The mime followed in step, matching his gait, wearing a comic expression of misery. Dyson turned to look at her, and tried to remember how smiling was supposed to go.

The mime's eyes suddenly widened. She put a hand to her mouth as though shocked, and with her other hand lifted up the front of her skirt. There revealed a perfectly pale pussy, the jet black pubic hair shaved carefully into an exclamation mark.

Dyson cleared his throat, making room for unfamiliar words. "I don't have any money," he said.

The mime sighed, then put two fingers to her lips, eyebrows raising in quiet question.

Dyson shook his head. "No, no vaporettes either. No stims, no pills, nothing like that. Sorry."

The mime bowed her head, looked at him with all the sadness in the world, and slowly rubbed her gloved hand across her belly.

Dyson sighed. Then fumbled in his overall pocket until he pulled out a half eaten mash bar. The wrapper advertised it as chocolate flavour, its manufacturers knowing full well that nobody remembered what chocolate actually tasted like. "Here," he said.

The mime took it with a smile, and then raised her eyebrows in question again. She put a fist to the side of her mouth and stuck her tongue into her cheek. Dyson was a little while understanding the pantomime.

"Oh. Thank you, no. No, I have to get home. You have a good evening."

The mime shrugged, took a bite of the mash bar and skipped away down the corridor.

"Don't go back that way!" Dyson called after her, his voice cracking with unfamiliar exertion. "There's Helping Hands back there. Looking bored, you know?"

The mime nodded, threw him a smart salute and then marched primly in the opposite direction.

Dyson watched as she disappeared around a corner, then he watched the space where she had been for a while. Then he turned and walked on, alone.

+++

Dyson was aware firstly of the ghost-lights wafting over his head, bulging and blurring from the bottom of his vision to the top before disappearing. Brief and complete darkness before the next light came and went. He was next aware that it was not the lights that were moving but him. He tried to open his mouth to comment on this, but could not. There was something keeping his mouth closed. He tried to reach for it, but could not. He had no arms. The lights came and went, and finally he became aware of the cold metal of the conveyor belt on his naked back. The scream in his throat was animal.

+++

Dyson awoke, eyes wet, mouth dry. The thin luminous strip above his door was the only light. He sat up in the dark and reached out for the faucet at the foot of his bed, using precious water ration in order to feel something real against his face. He was awake, and glad of it. The strip was blue, which meant it was some way 'til morning, but Dyson was in no hurry to return to sleep. He stood up, ducking slightly against the low ceiling, and felt around for his work clothes. He patted his pocket to make sure the omnicard was still where he had left it, then he departed his tiny room and returned to the empty corridors. He walked purposefully until he came to a bar where the signage had long since been lost to vandalism and apathy. It was mostly empty, though night shift was soon to end.

Dyson looked around at the darkened booths, some of them vacant, some of them haunted, before settling onto a stool. The barmaid had a face that time and circumstance had tempered into a permanent scowl. With a voice that couldn't care less, she asked him what he wanted.

"Whisky."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm gonna have to scan your card first, buddy."

Dyson handed over his omnicard without comment. The barmaid scanned it on her console, her face briefly morphing with surprise as she saw the available credit.

"Ship come in, buddy?"

Dyson thought about telling the lady that he rarely spent what he earned, and briefly imagined a conversation wherein he orated whatever hidden philosophies he may have been hoarding for just such an occasion. It proved to be too daunting a possibility, and so he merely cleared his throat instead. The barmaid poured him his drink, setting it carefully before him along with his omnicard.

Dyson sipped at the whisky and was both shocked and elated at the unfamiliar burn. Alcohol was expensive, rarely bought when stims and synths were so much cheaper, but something in Dyson had decided that today was a day of import. He could not have told you why.

He sipped a tiny sip again and felt the itch of eyes upon him. He looked to his left where an old man perched on a stool beside him. The old man grinned at him with fencepost teeth.

"Glad to meet ya, friend," he said. He spoke with a crow's voice, and held out a hand that was all tendon and bone. "Glad to meet ya, glad to meet ya, glad to meet ya."

Dyson met the old man's gaze and saw the tell tale signs of more drugs than druthers. He noted the white collar set into the black shirt. The old man saw him looking and straightened himself. "From God's lips to your ears, friend, sure enough. He tells me all I need to know, and I pass it 'round if I think a fella's worthy of passing on to. Do you think you're worthy, fella? Worthy of God?"

Dyson turned back to his drink and said nothing.

The old man snaked upright, his boney hand digging into the meat of Dyson's shoulder, his mouldy breath in Dyson's ear. "Let me tell you, son, we think we left Him behind, but He's dug in deep to us. He's there all right, and He's waiting, and when we're finished finding the core of every sin He'll be there with his balance sheet, friend, He'll be there with his balance sheet. Buy an old man a drink? Come on rich boy you buy an old man a drink and I'll save your fucking soul, buy an old man a drink and I'll pull you out of damnation, wouldn't you like that? To be pulled out of damnation? To feel the light of God upon your face again? You too good for the light of God, you shit?"

The claw tightened, the breath grew hot, Dyson stood suddenly and his own momentum knocked the old man back and off balance, where he sprawled against the bar stools. The old man looked up into Dyson's silent face and spoke through deep and awful tears.

"If we had any dignity we'd starve. If we had any pride we'd kill ourselves."

A voice rang out across the bar. "That's enough of that, you old bastard."

Dyson turned, flushed with guilt, and saw an agent of the Helping Hand stride across the floor with the confidence indicative of her position. She was short, young and freckled, forgoing the uniform black helmet to let her pink hair bubble out. Her hand hung at the holster of her baton as she walked over to the old man, who dropped to his knees before her.

"Oh holy God who sends his angels of darkness to punish me for my blasphemy, oh these terrible cherubs with their toddler minds and their monkey rage and their savage truths–"

The agent swung a kick at the old man's ribs, sending him into a coughing wheeze. "I said 'enough', you stupid old bastard. Ain't you got ears on your head? You fucking retarded? There ain't no sky man that listens to you, and if there was he'd think you were a shit, same as me. You worship me if you need to worship something, you hear?"

She kicked the old man again, and then two more times for good measure, before turning to Dyson. "This old prick with you? He your daddy? He your boyfriend?"

Dyson shook his head, and the agent suddenly had a knife in her hand, waving it over Dyson's face slowly so he could get a good look. It was an antique blade, a relic of a long forgotten war, and if anyone else had held it they would have found themselves in the cells without delay.

"You see that I'm serious, fucker?" the agent said. Her voice remained casual, and her lips, young as they were, stretched thin with self-satisfaction. "You see I'll take your face away if you fuck with me?"

Dyson nodded.

"You want to fight with your boyfriend then you do it at home, you sick fuck. Understand?"

Dyson nodded.

The agent kept the knife at his throat, but moved closer so that Dyson could feel the shell of her plastic body armour against his chest. His breath hitched as her fingers closed around his balls. She whispered in his ear.

"Or maybe I'll take something else? Maybe I'll take something else from you and feed it to your boyfriend there while you watch? Would you like that? Does that make you hot, you sick fuck?"

Dyson said nothing, stared straight ahead and dared not even swallow against the copper taste of fear in his mouth.

The knife was gone and the agent walked away in a blink of an eye. She did not look back as she spoke. "Or maybe not? Who gives a shit."

They stood there in tableau for a while; Dyson, the old man, the bartender. Dyson left his drink and went to work.

+++

If you needed something bad enough then everything was too expensive. Valhalla always had a cheap fix ready somewhere, but for those far beyond cheap the government sanctioned highs were not enough. There were those suppliers and entrepreneurs who filled the gaps, growing, distilling and cooking up poison that even rats would turn their noses up at, had there been any more rats. The junkies, those that had quietly decided to die doing what they loved, came to those crooked cooks just as surely as a child to its mother.

Dyson's sister, Beko, had been such a child. Barely seventeen and already bent in ways beyond imagining. Mouth full of ugly tastes, head full of angry ghosts. So committed to her own destruction, she'd surprised even the people fucking her with just how fucked she was.

She'd come back to her and Dyson's shared one room at a little past midnight, skull filled with scavenged powders, her once brilliant black skin faded to the grey-blue of a bloated tick. She had woken up her younger brother, and talked to him at length about spirals while the slow trickle of blood from her nostril became a gush. Then she had died, leaving Dyson alone and just twelve.

Eventually they'd heard him crying, and sent the Helping Hands to take the body, without telling him where– a small and surprising mercy.

One of the suits had come to see him, a rounded man with rounded glasses and a ridiculous tie. He'd explained to Dyson that, although he no longer had a big sister to take care of him, he would have the next best thing; a job, so that he might take care of himself.

And so Dyson, small, stupid and weak, went to work.

In time, he became a man. Whatever that was.

+++

Dyson clocked on to D floor far earlier than usual. The first thing he saw was the mountain of bodies. A slip-sliding pyramid of wrecked flesh in beigey-brown hues, slick with rivulets of red. A totem of obscenity. A thing of things.

With every other heartbeat a new torso wheeled in from the conveyor belt in the ceiling, flumped onto the pile beneath it, rolled and gaggled like a silly game. Came to rest, struggling, bleeding, merging. There was the background gurgle of many throats trying to scream through sealed lips. There was the feel of a thousand glaring eyes, not all of them dead.

Dyson stood before the pyramid in revered silence, an acolyte before a strange new God.

The night-shift worker, maybe ten years younger than Dyson and boney at the shoulders, stood with his pitching fork dangling in his hand. He turned around and revealed a face raw from tears, shiny with terror.

"I just kinda thought– what if I just stopped, ya know? What if I just stopped doing it?"

He pointed at the pile with a shaking hand, his pitching fork dropping to the floor with a clatter.

"Nothing happened. It didn't stop. It just goes on." The lad's lips began to quiver. "It doesn't stop. Oh, Jesus what do we do, man? What do we do?"

Dyson slowly bent and retrieved the pitching fork. He pressed it into the younger man's hands. "We dig, son. We dig."

The boy and man worked, harder than either ever had. Dyson felt fire blossom in his back and his knees and his shoulders, but there was fire elsewhere too. Stomach. Heart. Head.

When the boy faltered, fumbled and eventually fell, Dyson dragged him clear and began to dig again. Bodies were heaved and thrown, making hollow clangs against the metal sides of the chutes as they tumbled away into darkness.

He worked. Oh, how he worked.

Dyson's head eventually tuned out from his body, until the rasping of his breath and the thudding of his heart became hymns in a distant cathedral of agony. He saw face after face before him, women, men, young and old, clones and the processed dead alike. Mutants, failures, food and sustenance.

Once, he saw his sister's face, grey and scabby at the nose, beseeching him through sewn-up lips for one more fix. Once, he saw a body still bearing smudges of white makeup, its pubis adorned with mad punctuation, its sex made a punchline. He saw a priest. He saw a bartender. He saw his own face again, many times, sometimes as a boy and sometimes a man (whatever that was).

Most of all he saw the fork and the chute and nothing in between.

He had become an engine of sheared gears and red-hot bearings by the time relief finally tapped him on the shoulder. The woman who took over his shift frowned at him, perhaps seeing that Dyson was only slightly there, a ghost haunting his own body.

"You okay, chief?"

Dyson said nothing, his tongue dried to the roof of his mouth, his throat closed to a tiny hole. He breathed open-mouthed, a guppy in a desert.

The woman nodded to the slush of bodies beneath the chute. "You on a go slow or something?"

Dyson stared at her a while, and then grinned, face stretching in unfamiliar ways. Over the permasound of moving parts and buzzing wire, he laughed until he thought he might die.

+++

The elevator door opened, but only with protest. Dyson, placing one foot in front of the other as a toddler might line up bricks, stumbled in and fell heavily against the wall. Those other workers, clocking off, clocking on, paid him little heed.

Dyson listened through ringing ears to the people talking.

"They say I'm transferring to the bikes next week, but I'll believe it when I see it. Ain't that the life? Get to sit, at least, huh? I did a few months on the treadmills but it ain't the same. Slow down on those things and you say hello to all the feet behind you. We used to fight to get to the front where the handle was, or else stay at the back where all you had to worry about was dodging the odd clumsy asshole. You could make a game of it.

"Most of them survived it, you know, just got up and got back on again. Some didn't, maybe if they got stepped on too much. Used to be a couple of Helping Hands stood by, just pick 'em up and chuck 'em in the reclamation chute. You know, some of those guys, I know this, man, I know this. Some of those guys weren't even dead. Just dog tired. Same thing to those fuckers, though, right? Damn right.

"The bikes, though? Sweet deal if you've got the knees for it."

Dyson slowly slid down the wall, cheeks cold and throat dry. Darkness took him down through the metal grilled floor and on to somewhere silent.

+++

The elevator door opened. The light was like none he had seen before. Dyson got to his feet and, crooked and wincing, stepped out of the elevator.

There was green, green like he had only ever seen on vid screens. There was grass, softer than his mattress. There were trees that were pretty, nameless and laden with... fruit, probably. He looked behind him to see that the elevator was housed in a gleaming metal box, the only man-made object in a field of improbable nature.

Above Dyson was sky, and the sight of it nearly pinned him to the ground. Stars. An impossible multitude of stars. More than all the bulbs in Valhalla, surely. As he watched there was a faint violet shimmer that rippled across the sky.

"A vid screen?" he murmured.

"No, not that my friend. The stars are real enough, just behind a pulsefield is all."

Dyson looked to the man who had approached him. A familiar voice. A familiar face. Both his own.

"Welcome, friend."

The man who was not Dyson smiled in a way that Dyson had never smiled. The one green eye and one brown nestled comfortably in cheerful creases. The teeth bared easily and prettily. The man was dressed not in overalls, but in a loose grey shawl and baggy trousers.

"What is this?" said Dyson. "What floor am I on?"

"The top floor... Dyson, is it?" The man held Dyson's omnicard in his hand, peering down at it. "Though I'm a little puzzled as to how you got here. You're not authorised to be on this floor."

"The top floor?" Dyson mouthed the words as though tasting a foreign tongue. "I... don't know." He gestured around him to the floors of grass, the walls of trees, the ceiling of stars. "What is this place? Who are you? Are you the Guiding Light?"

The man who was not Dyson smiled again. "More like one of the people who guide the Guiding Light."

There was a movement and another figure approached, seeming to appear from very far away and coming closer faster than her languid pace should have propelled her. She too was dressed in loose, grey clothes, and under the thatch of silver hair Dyson thought he saw a familiar face.

"Do I know you?"

The woman looked at Dyson with barely concealed bemusement. "I should think not." She turned to the man who was not Dyson, kissed him slowly on the mouth. "This your boyfriend?" she whispered. The man laughed.

The woman turned away and as she did, plucked one of the strange fruits from a low hanging branch. She tossed it to Dyson, who caught it awkwardly.

"You look hungry," she said, and then turned and walked away, her body travelling far further than her steps should have taken her.

The man nodded encouragingly at Dyson. "Go ahead."

Dyson bit into the fruit, juice slapping his chin. He did not have a word for how it tasted.

"Good?" said the not-Dyson.

Dyson nodded.

"Why are you here, Dyson?"

Nothing.

"Shall I tell you why you're here?"

Less.

"You're here because the world gave up. We fucked it so hard it just gave up, then we fucked it some more. Fucked it 'til it stopped twitching. And when it did, when the Great Malaise took hold, we left. Those of us that could. Those rich and clever and pretty. To find a new world to fuck."

Dyson looked up at the ceiling of stars, realised they were moving, slowly.

"But captains need a crew. This journey will take many lifetimes, you see. So who do we hate enough to man the bilges and stoke the boilers? Without beasts to burden, who do we hate enough to enslave for all of time?"

The man took Dyson's hand in his own. "We are not so awful a people that we don't recognise our need for redemption. Who do we hate enough to feed our machines and our bellies? Why, ourselves, of course. Each pioneer his own master, his own slave, his own sustenance. And ain't that just karmic?"

Dyson snatched back his hand, exhaustion breeding a strange form of defiance. "Is it? Then how come you're up here and I'm down there? And how many of us sweat to skeletons so that you might see the stars and walk on nature?"

The man smiled, palms open. "Do you prefer we all suffer in the dark? We are exactly the same, you and I, bar circumstance. If it were you up here and me down there, would it be any different?"

Dyson tried to spit through his dry mouth. "Might make a nice change."

The man shook his head. "Nothing would change. Not really. And besides, this isn't forever. We scrabble in the dark, but we move toward the light. A better world awaits us."

"Where? When?"

The man shrugged. "Fuck knows, hombre."

Dyson stepped back, dizzy and tired. He sat down on the floor. "Why me?"

The man knelt down, put his fingers to Dyson's cheek. "Why anybody? Why anything? Things are the way they are. You aren't being punished, Dyson. No more than any of us are. You didn't do anything wrong. Your only mistake was breathing in and out."

"Is that a fact?" Dyson mused. "Was that my mistake?" He felt gears slide inside himself, clockwork that had run dependably for his entire life seizing and jumping. "And is that your mistake? Is that your mistake too? Here, let me fix that for you."

Dyson stretched out his strong, rough hands, catching the man by the throat. He squeezed, watching the one eye blue and one eye brown bulge in the man's sockets, his face becoming a rubber mask.

"Is this your mistake?" Dyson screamed. "Is this my mistake?"

He tightened his grip, the face before him turned scarlet, then maroon. The eyes popped obscenely, but the mouth smiled. Even as a swollen purple tongue erupted like puss from a zit, the mouth was smiling. As Dyson squeezed harder his vision began to darken, his head began to lighten. For a moment he was nothing but a pair of grasping hands. Then he was nothing at all.

+++

Dyson was aware firstly of the ghost-lights wafting over his head, bulging and blurring from the bottom of his vision to the top before disappearing. Brief and complete darkness before the next light came and went. He was next aware that it was not the lights that were moving but him. He tried to open his mouth to comment on this, but could not. There was something keeping his mouth closed. He tried to reach for it, but could not. He had no arms. The lights came and went, and finally he became aware of the cold metal of the conveyor belt on his naked back. The scream in his throat was animal.

+++

If you wanted an easy life in Reclamation, you didn't let the bodies pile up.

Continue reading or return to table of contents.
The Seven at Work

Katrina Monroe
A long line of cars glistened beneath the unforgiving sun. Wrath tapped the digital thermometer beneath a sputtering fan in his greenhouse-like box. It read a blistering ninety-seven degrees.

"Think I could get my change sometime this century?"

"Hmm?"

Sweat framed the man's wrinkled, tight-lipped face. He waggled his hand in frustration, dangling half his body out of his car window.

"Nice day, isn't it?" Wrath offered lazily.

The man groaned. "Yeah. Sure."

Wrath slowly counted out three quarters and dropped them into the man's outstretched palm one at a time. The gate lifted and the man's car fishtailed as he sped toward the narrow onramp.

"Asshole!" he called.

The corner of Wrath's mouth twitched.

The man's car collided with an oncoming mini-van, erupting in a volcano of crunched metal and body parts.

Another car jerked alongside the stall. The driver stared ahead, gape-mouthed.

"That'll be one-seventy-five," Wrath said.

##

"Trick or Treat!"

Jenny loved peanut M&Ms. Especially the red ones. She'd collected eight packages of them so far. After each house, she shoved her prizes to the bottom of her pillow case, hidden beneath fruit and boxes of bubblegum flavored toothpaste.

She adjusted her mask and sprinted for the next block. Mom only gave her two hours and she was running behind.

Greed ran alongside Jenny, pushing her when her pace slowed. They had to get more. A lot more. The pillowcase was barely a quarter full.

"Shameful," Greed said.

Jenny agreed.

She hit each house hard, flashing her best, toothiest smile and widening her already giant green eyes.

Then The Princess showed up.

The Princess wore a sequined gown that ended in ruffle socks and pearl-white shoes. Her mother cheered from the sidewalk when she'd emerge from doorways holding more candy than was given to Jenny.

"She's prettier," Greed said.

"Shut up."

Jenny competed with The Princess at ten more houses. Each person to answer the door handed over two pieces of candy to The Princess, while Jenny got one. At the last house—Jenny's two hours were almost up—a man answered, carrying a bowl of peanut M&M packages. Not the little ones either. The big ones, like the ones Jenny's dad would sometimes buy for her from the gas station.

Her mouth watered as she held out her pillow case. "Trick or treat!"

The Princess copied Jenny's flawless recitation and smile.

"Well, aren't you just the prettiest little princess I've ever seen?" The man dumped half the bowl into The Princess's bag.

Jenny's smile faltered slightly.

"And what are you supposed to be?" he asked her.

"The green-eyed monster," Jenny said.

The man nodded. "I see it now."

Behind Jenny, Greed fluffed up like a proud papa bird.

The man placed one package of Jenny's most favorite candy ever into her sack. One.

The Princess smiled at Jenny before skipping off toward her mother.

Jenny's stomach hurt. Her head throbbed. She didn't want to cry, but she wanted to do something because it was all unfair.

"Do it," Greed said. "I'll hold your candy."

Jenny dropped the bag and ran toward The Princess. She gripped a handful of The Princess's perfect yellow hair and pulled until the girl screamed.

##

With one hand, Lust reached between her splayed legs and spread herself open. With the other, she waved.

A wall of cloudy, bullet-proof glass separated her from the clients. In her opinion, an unnecessary precaution. None of these men would ever hurt her. She controlled them.

The boy hesitated before sitting down in a hard, plastic chair. White to hide the stains of previous visitors.

"I'm Mickey," he said.

Lust guessed him to be no older than fourteen. Wearing a bright smile, she pushed her first two fingers inside and giggled as he blushed and his jeans tented.

"Go on, sweetie," she urged in a voice like honey.

He fumbled with his button and unzipped, pulling his small, pink cock through the slit in his white briefs.

Mickey looked to her for approval.

She nodded. With little effort, her dainty fist was inside. She lifted and licked her taut nipple.

Mickey tugged furiously.

In another room next to Lust's booth, a two-way mirror separated Mickey and another client. Chester was a regular with irregular tastes. Boys like Mickey wandered in occasionally, while men like Chester came every day, waiting patiently in their little room for a treat.

As Mickey doubled over in climax, Chester caught a glimpse of the boy's pale ass. He licked his lips, fist going to work.

##

Tuesday was the busy night at the Down Home Buffet and Kitchen. If customers remembered to clip the Monday coupon, they could almost eat for free.

Every table was full tonight. Every mouth chewing and gnawing and sucking. It was a chorus – a symphony!– that danced in Gluttony's ears.

An impish boy, as wide and round as a boulder, wheezed as he carried a plate of fried confections to a table where adult copies of the boy shoveled with gleeful abandon.

Gluttony made a note to drop one of his special coupons at their table before their meal was over: good for two free meals. There was time. They were far from finished.

##

There was no mistaking the frown on the cherub-faced girl. She held her doll from its ragged arm, twisting it this way and that.

Envy watched her from across the swing-set, cradling her own doll – pristine, porcelain face and soft, chocolate-brown curls. She cooed over it, cradling its delicate head and sneered at the cherub-faced girl.

The girl scowled at her foul companion. Once desperately loved, now viciously disdained. She dropped the doll in the sand and ran crying to her mother's skirt.

##

Phil hated The View. A bunch of bitter old women who needed to get laid, bickering about shit nobody cared about.

But the television was so far away and the batteries in the remote had long run out of juice. He had more somewhere. Probably.

The token black woman laughed so hard her eyes rolled back in her skull, making her look like a Halloween decoration. Phil sneered. One more minute of this and he'd claw his own eyes out just for the distraction.

It's not that bad, Sloth whispered. You could be stuck watching an exercise program.

Phil snorted. "Right."

His immense girth sank deeper into the already bowing couch. His favorite cushion was reduced to a strip of corduroy, but scooting to the other end seemed like a herculean task. Leaning forward to adjust a crick in his back, Phil put unexpected pressure on his bladder and the need to piss hit emergency level.

It's sterile, Sloth whispered. No need to get up.

Phil separated his legs and released a hot stream that spread beneath his ass and down both legs. It smelled like onions.

Sloth laughed. You're considering number two, aren't you?

Phil shifted uncomfortably. He lifted a leg to release a cloud of noxious gas from beneath.

Do it.

It was only a little bowel movement. Barely smelled.

In the morning, Phil's mother found him as she'd left him the week before—head lolled back against the couch, television blaring over the sound of her thoughts.

##

Pride sat beside Amelia as she shivered on a bench. The temperature had dipped too suddenly for October. No one at Bridge End was prepared for it. An extra garbage can had been found on the dock of the river and rolled into the clearing beneath the bridge, but only so many hands could fit over the meager fire.

Pulling her coat tighter around her, Amelia considered going home. Pride nudged her, dislodging the thought.

"Cold," she said.

Pride patted her leg. "I know, dear. It'll pass."

Amelia nodded, though she wasn't so sure. Without her daily web check of the weather, she was left to read the future in the cloudy sky. Her phone sat useless in her pocket. No charger. No outlet.

"We're proving a point, Amelia. Don't forget that."

"What point?"

Pride sighed. "That they need you."

"They need me," Amelia repeated with renewed feeling.

There was no money for a hotel, otherwise she'd have gone there. No friends to take her in. No relatives nearby. Amelia hadn't realized how isolated she'd been until finally leaving the apartment and her ungrateful husband and children behind.

I'm hungry.

I have no clean socks.

Where's the toilet paper?

Wipe my ass.

Feed me.

Clothe me.

Fuck me.

Love me.

Too much.

Pride wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders, which calmed the shudders wracking her bones.

A woman with a haggard face framed by stringy black hair approached Amelia. In her hand, she held a small, unlabeled bottle of amber liquid.

"You been here before," the woman said.

Amelia nodded.

The woman grunted. "Family?"

Amelia paused a moment before shaking her head.

"Thought not. The way you huggin' yourself like that... Anyway. This'll help." She handed Amelia the bottle.

"Thanks."

The woman cackled. "Thank me in the morning. That is, if we both wake up. That'll knock you out long enough to forget the chatterin' in your teeth but there's no substitute for a warm bed."

God, what am I doing?

Amelia made to stand, but Pride pulled her back down.

"One night," Pride said. "That's all they'll need to come to their senses."

"One night," she repeated.

##

The Seven met at the end of the month, as usual, at Hell's Kitchen—a favorite restaurant among them. Sloth was the last to arrive, cradling a pile of napkins.

Pride sneered from the head of the table. He'd had his success stories bound and laminated.

Envy and Greed were separated by Lust. She had a thing for Greed, for his bright green eyes. Lust admired the way his gaze found its target every time. There was nothing he couldn't have. Well, except for her.

"Where's the waiter?" Gluttony asked. "I'm fucking starving."

"Oh, please," Pride said.

"Could someone sort these for me? It's all just..." Sloth dumped his scribbled-on napkins over the table.

Wrath slammed his fists on the table, sending glasses crashing to the floor. "Someone start already. Christ. It's like we haven't done this every month for all of eternity."

Pride cleared his throat. "I'll begin."

Gluttony stuffed a bread roll into his mouth.

Lust teased the inseam of Greed's pants with a fingertip while Envy looked on, scowling.

Sloth sighed.

"Amelia is my greatest achievement, to date," he began. "Her death sparked an outright revolt of unappreciated housewives in the tri-state area..."

Wrath fumed. Always thinking of himself, he thought. Only Wrath understood the bigger picture. What they were meant to accomplish. What it would all lead to.

Continue reading or return to table of contents.
Camp 24

Robert Brumm
They always held public executions first thing in the morning. Anxiety among the inmates ticked up a notch in that moment between roll call and breakfast. Most days it only took a second before one of the guards blew his whistle and we'd shuffle off for the mess hall like well-trained dogs. If that whistle didn't come, the kitchen workers would be dishing out one less breakfast that morning.

I'm sure at some point the countless bureaucrats who ran the camp held a meeting to discuss the best time to hold executions. I always pictured some overweight and balding junior officer raising a pudgy finger to suggest holding them before breakfast. His theory would be that reminding inmates of the consequences of betraying the State in the morning was an effective way of keeping order. He probably had a notepad of charts and graphs to back it up. Junior Officer Pudgy Finger probably earned a commendation for his suggestion. We earned the opportunity to see one of our comrades die on an empty stomach.

That morning, no whistle came. The camp commander, flanked by a guard on each side, approached us holding a tablet. It wouldn't have taken a psychic to figure out what was going through my head and the head of every other inmate surrounding me. One of our fates would be determined by the six digit number displayed on that electronic screen.

The camp commander was Captain Renshaw, one of the coldest and most sadistic people I'd ever had the displeasure of meeting in my forty-one years. It made sense, I suppose. You don't put a kind-hearted softy in charge of a prison labor camp. More of that bureaucratic think tank hard at work. Renshaw set the tone of the camp from the top and all his guards followed suit. Each one a bigger bastard than the last.

Renshaw held the tablet up and read it out loud to the group. He told the unlucky person assigned to that number to come forward. We all kept our eyes forward like good little inmates, resisting the urge to look around. See if it was a friend or just an acquaintance. An enemy or a complete stranger. I knew I'd find out in a second anyway, so I didn't give it much thought. I was just glad it wasn't me.

You might ask why I would be relieved, assuming I was innocent of breaking any camp rules. I'd have a good laugh at your naivety if it wasn't so depressing. It didn't take much to earn an execution. At least half of the time, the accused probably hadn't done a damn thing. It wouldn't surprise me if Renshaw kept all our numbers in a hat by his bedside and picked them at random.

The accused turned out to be a young woman I'd only seen a handful of times, since she was relatively new. She approached the captain slowly, head down and hands shaking. One of the guards grabbed her by the arm as Renshaw turned to address us.

"Inmate 401586 has been found guilty of attempting to initiate subversive and disruptive discussions against the State in private!"

Bullshit. She was young and pretty. Some guard probably knocked her up. Maybe even Renshaw himself.

"She has also been found guilty of planning an escape attempt with several other inmates. The identities of these traitors have not been confirmed, but I can assure you they will be brought to justice."

More bullshit. Just an excuse for the next unlucky bastard to get called up there.

"For these crimes against the State, inmate 401586 has been sentenced to death."

The guard pulled her over to the post in the middle of the yard. I guess we should've had a name for it, but nobody liked to talk about the post. It was only used for one purpose and we all had a sinking feeling we'd become intimately familiar with it one day. For the sake of the story I'll go ahead and name it the Death Post.

The guard pushed the girl up against the Death Post as another handcuffed her wrists behind her. Once that was completed, he used a belt to secure her legs to the post just above the knees. This prevented her legs from buckling, so she'd remain upright after she died. Another little detail probably decided on in a meeting.

Without hesitation or fanfare, the guard pushed her head against the post with one hand and unsheathed his combat knife with the other. He slashed her throat wide open, holding her still as she thrashed about for a moment. A river of blood flowed down her jumpsuit in the seconds it took before she stopped moving. I read once it took only seven seconds for a person to bleed out if their carotid arteries are cut. I never timed it, but that seemed about right.

We all stood perfectly still. Nobody gasped in shock or cried out in anguish. Nobody cursed the guards or collapsed to the dirt in sorrow. Those of us entertaining a sick curiosity watched out of the corner of our eye; the rest of us stared straight ahead.

Satisfied justice had been served, Captain Renshaw stormed off and the whistle for breakfast was blown. We quietly marched to the mess hall as inmate 401586 remained strapped to the Death Post. Head down, chest covered in blood, they left her on display for the rest of the day until she was cut her down and incinerated after dark.

One less meal to serve.

+

Breakfast was a ball of rice and a cup of watered down, chicken-flavored stock. Same breakfast as the day before and every day since I'd arrived at camp. It was not to be confused with dinner, which consisted of a ball of rice and a cup of watered down chicken-flavored stock. The only variety occurred in the temperature of each item, which varied from cold to lukewarm.

The only meat came from the rats we caught ourselves. It wasn't against the rules, since it helped to keep the rodent population in check and offered the guards a source of entertainment as they watched us hunt and trap them.

There were a lot of rats in camp. Strange, considering we left no food scraps behind. Despite that, they were hard to find and harder to catch. Since rat meat was so hard to come by, it also served as a valuable form of currency. That, however, was against the rules. Any sort of inmate-to-inmate commerce was a punishable offence.

I sat down at my usual table deciding to go with rice soup that morning, dumping the ball into the cup and having both items at the same time. My friend Ezra sat down opposite me and ate his meal the same as always - all the rice first, followed by the broth. He gave up long ago trying to convince me that you got fuller eating it this way.

We sat in silence until there were just a few grains left in his cup. "I knew her, you know," he said.

"Huh? Who?"

He nodded toward the yard.

"Oh." I ran my finger along the inside of the plastic cup and licked it clean. "Was it true?"

Ezra glanced to both sides to make sure no guards were in earshot. "The escape talk? I think so."

Ezra noticed the look of shock on my face and waved it off. "Don't worry, I wasn't into anything. I'd only heard rumors. She never spoke about it directly to me."

"If the guards saw you two talking enough times..."

"I know," he interrupted. "Don't worry about it."

A guard posted by the door blew his whistle, signaling the end of breakfast. We got to our feet and lined up to return the dirty dishes.

I didn't bother asking Ezra how they caught the girl, because it was the same story every time. Another inmate reported her. The State kept us in check in two ways. The regular executions, beatings, and general abuse was effective, but even more so was the mistrust among the prisoners. Mothers betrayed husbands and children betrayed parents. Survival in the camp was a full time job and if dropping the dime on another inmate earned you an extra ration or reprieve from an abusive guard, you took it without shame. Just the way the State liked it.

There was only one person left on the planet I trusted, and he happened to be walking with me as we left the mess hall. I'd known Ezra since I was a kid. We served together in Kazakhstan and I saved his life on two occasions. He returned the favor once for me. As a result, we trusted each other completely. Yet, in my darkest hours as I lay awake in the middle of the night, doubt crept in. Ezra was arrested almost three years before I was and he looked weaker each day. I saw the despair in his eyes and every man has his breaking point. How long would it be before I started to watch what I said around him?

"You ever think about it?" he asked.

"What?"

"You know. The big 'E' word."

"I'm not that brainwashed yet," I said. "Of course I think about it. But I'm not dumb enough to talk about it out loud, so let's change the subject."

We picked a spot in the middle of the yard and sat in the dirt, facing away from the dead girl. Enough October sunlight penetrated the smog layer above our heads to feel good on my skin. I closed my eyes and faced the sky, trying to forget another miserable winter would soon be upon us.

"What's the good word, Brothers?" Another inmate, Malachi, squatted in front of us. "I heard they found a coal pocket in the hills outside Braselton."

"And I heard they found your missing thumb up your ass," I said. "What's your point?"

Ezra laughed.

"You're a real prick sometimes, Jack." Malachi said.

"Today it's coal in Braselton. Last week it was a patch of land in Dover ready to take corn." I picked up a pebble and bounced it off Malachi's chest. "You put more effort into spreading rumors than actual work, if it were to come along. And you'd be the first to bitch about it once it got here."

Malachi stood. "Piss off then. You're a real prick sometimes, you know that?" he repeated.

"So I've heard."

Ezra shook his head and watched Malachi storm off. "Bit ornery today, are we?"

"The hell with him and his coal."

We were in a co-called labor camp, but labor had been hard to come by over the last few years. When I'd first arrived, it was twelve hour days in the fields outside the camp. We'd board buses at dawn and spend all day planting seeds, plowing fields, picking weeds, and harvesting crops. In the winter, it was working in the coal mines, swinging picks or pushing carts.

After five straight years of drought, practically anything green within a thousand miles was a fantasy. Mining became a year round gig until the last chunk of coal was finally picked clean from the hills. After that they switched us to infrastructure stuff, like road work.

Despite the plentiful slave labor, the State couldn't even afford to keep that up, and lately we hadn't had any regular work. Clearing rocks from a hundred acres of dirt in the blazing heat is about as much fun as it sounds, but not having any work has it's downside.

For one thing, all of us inmates milling around the camp all day increased the guards' workload and, in turn, made life for us more miserable. Beatings and general abuse increased every day we were stuck behind the wire.

I also found that the life of a prisoner is much worse with nothing to fill your day. The labor forced on us was brutal most of the time, but at least we were doing something. At the end of the day I'd collapse in my rack with exhaustion.

I turned at some commotion coming from the other side of the yard. Two guards beat an inmate with clubs while he curled into the fetal position in the dirt. After a few blows, the guards stopped to argue with each other, but I couldn't make out what the disagreement was about. The inmate lay still, no doubt hoping they would forget about him and move on. After a few seconds one of the guards pulled out his service pistol and shot the inmate in the head before storming off.

I turned back around. Ezra didn't have to, since he never moved a muscle, just stared off into the distance beyond the wire.

"The big 'E' word," he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah." It was all I could think to say.

+

New inmates always stick out. Carrying bright orange signs proclaiming NEW INMATE would be more subtle than the spotless jumpsuit and freshly shaven head. If that weren't enough to tip you off, the general look of being well-fed and healthy said it all. The latter wasn't quite so prominent as it used to be. We never heard much about what was going on in the outside world, but over the last few years it seemed the civilians weren't doing much better than us.

I watched as a small group of dazed newcomers wandered about the yard. Most of them were probably arrested on flimsy charges they still couldn't wrap their heads around. I could tell by the look in their eyes that it hadn't sunk in yet. Somehow, the charges would be dropped. Cooler heads would prevail. Justice would be served. The look in their eyes could be summed up in one word. Hope. Poor bastards.

It doesn't really matter why I got arrested, but you're probably curious. I wish I could say I got caught stealing food for my family so they wouldn't starve. Or maybe I committed a crime of passion, standing up for my beliefs and doing what was right, no matter the consequences. The truth is far less romantic.

One day after work I came home and slammed the door harder than usual behind me. I was pissed off about something. I don't remember about what, but I was generally pissed off about something all the time back then. I hated my job, I drank every minute when I wasn't on duty, and I was generally a miserable son of a bitch. Ask my poor wife Kim, who was six months pregnant at the time.

The flimsy nail holding up a portrait of the Father gave way, thanks to one too many slammed doors. The picture fell, and the sound of breaking glass didn't exactly improve my mood.

It fell in just the right way to break the frame as well, making it a complete loss. Kim, wanting to keep the peace and spare herself from my ranting and raving, took the picture and told me not to worry. The wedding photo hanging in our bedroom was the same size, so after dinner she'd swap the frames. We'd go to bed that night with an empty space above the dresser, but our fearless leader would take his place back on the living room wall.

She set the picture on the kitchen table to tend to after we ate, right in the line of fire of my clumsiness. I'd been sitting at the table for less than a minute when my elbow knocked over a full glass of juice, dousing the photo of the Father and destroying it for good.

That was the proverbial last straw. All I wanted was to eat my dinner and collapse on the couch, but now I had unexpected errands to run. Not only was it illegal not to have a portrait of the Father prominently displayed in every home, but the State was very specific when it came to disposing of them. I'd have to take the juice-soaked picture to city hall where it would be disposed of properly and I'd have to fill out a report on the accident. Most people owned the same portraits of the Father their entire lives, passed down through generations, so the State made sure you had a damn good reason for throwing one away.

I was livid and made the rash decision I've been paying for ever since. I tossed the photo into the trash bin, case closed. With the curtains shut tight and no company expected that evening, we'd squeak by with a portrait-free home that night and Kim could buy one first thing in the morning. Lord knows they weren't hard to come by. She was a nervous wreck, but she didn't fight me on it. We finished eating, I took out the trash, and spent the night staring at the television as always.

They arrested me a few hours after my shift started the next day. They never told me how they found out, but I had a pretty good guess. Kim and I didn't live in the best of neighborhoods and the homeless in the area relied on dumpster diving as a way of making a living. Some bum probably rifled through our garbage can that night looking for something salvageable and found the Father amongst the trash. He reported finding it in the garbage can assigned to our apartment, sealing our fate. Simple as that. I was charged with treason against the United Federation of Nations and sentenced to serve an undetermined length of time at Rehabilitation Camp 24.

That morning before I left for work was the last time I saw Kim, over eight years ago. I know she was arrested and sent to another camp, but I don't know if she's still alive or what happened to our baby. I don't know if it was a boy or girl, or if she lived long enough to deliver it. Don't know what Kim named it or if it even survived birth. We get no health care in the camps and any woman unlucky to find herself pregnant as an inmate has to give birth on her own. Hopefully, she found a friend or two that could help. As you might imagine, the infant survival rate in the camps isn't too impressive.

Ezra moaned next to me and bent forward holding his stomach, snapping me out of my haze of self-pity. He got to his feet without a word and jogged for the latrines. Poor guy had been suffering with what we guessed was dysentery for over two weeks and had been spending more and more time in the shitters.

I turned my attention back to the new people, two men and three women. They probably had arrived that morning and felt the need to stick together since they didn't know what else to do. It's pretty common. I hung around with a couple of guys myself when I first arrived before I found out that Ezra was in the same camp. One of them died from pneumonia our first winter, the other executed for stealing food.

One of the women stood out and I couldn't really put my finger on why. She was plain looking, nothing out of the ordinary. It's hard for me to explain other than she had an odd look to her. Like she was waiting for the punchline of a joke or had a secret she was just dying to tell somebody. She kept a pace or two behind the others and if you plucked her out of this miserable place and plopped her in a park, she'd fit right in strolling along a path.

I got to my feet on an impulse and walked over to the group. A flash of unease and fear washed over their faces as I approached, which was understandable. I hadn't looked at my reflection for quite some time, but I had a pretty good idea of what I looked like based on the other men in camp. Sunken eyes and ratty beard. A head full of shaggy and filthy hair. A stained and tattered jumpsuit that hung off my emaciated frame.

They all looked nervous except the girl. Her expression of slight amusement didn't falter as she watched me. One of the guys stepped forward and swallowed. "We don't want any trouble, Brother."

I pointed to the corner of the yard. "How about you go and don't want any trouble over there? I want to talk to her." I nodded at the girl.

The men exchanged nervous glances.

"Look," I sighed. "I'm harmless, ask around. It's not me you have to worry about, it's the guards, okay?" I held up my hands.

"It's okay, guys," the girl said. "I'll catch up with you."

As the group walked off, I caught a whiff of 'fresh meat' smell, that pungent astringent they doused over the new inmate's heads after shaving them.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Melanie. How about you?"

"Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Brother. I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances."

"That makes two of us." I kicked the dirt under my feet, realizing I'd run out of things to say already. I couldn't even explain why I had jumped up and came over to talk to her. She looked me dead in the eyes, the little smile on her face never faltering. If she felt uncomfortable by the silence, it didn't show. I was about to resort to commenting on the weather when she saved me.

"I guess it's rude to ask somebody why they're here, right?" she asked.

I laughed and rubbed the back of my neck. For the first time, her smile wavered, changing into a look of confusion.

"Sorry," I said. "I haven't come across somebody worried about being rude in a long time. Nobody really asks, because it doesn't matter. It's sort of one of the unwritten rules around here."

"Ah," she said. "Gotcha."

Another moment of uncomfortable silenced passed. Uncomfortable for me, anyway.

"Well, I guess I'll let you get back to your friends. If you need anything let me know, Sister." As soon as it left my lips, I realized what an idiotic thing it was to say. There wasn't a damn thing I could do to help anybody.

"Will do, Jack." She smiled and touched my arm for just a second. It felt like I stuck my finger in a light socket. I stood there in a daze with my heart racing as I watched her saunter off.

+

I've always been a light sleeper, so the door to the barracks opening in the middle of the night was enough to wake me. We weren't allowed to leave the barracks under any circumstances, so there could only be one reason for the door opening.

The single light bulb on the ceiling switched on followed by the stern voice of one of the guards. "Inmate 399462, front and center!"

I blinked, certain I'd heard wrong. My bunkmate next to me lifted his head for a second, farted, and rolled over on the bare plywood platform serving as our bed.

"Inmate 399462!"

A round of murmurs, coughs, and grumbling, spread through the crowded room of forty-eight inmates. I finally tossed aside my blanket and crawled out into the walkway. Two guards stood by the open door, glaring at me. A handful of curious inmates stuck their heads out of their bunks to see who it was. I glanced down at the patch sewn to the breast of my jumpsuit, hoping by some miracle different digits were there besides the six I'd known by heart for the last eight years.

+

The last time I was beaten was around two months ago. We were in line for roll call one morning and I'd been nursing a cold for a couple of weeks. Overall, it wasn't all that bad of a cold, but I had an annoying and lingering cough.

That morning my cough was worse than ever and, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep quiet as we lined up. Considering the miserable close quarter conditions, at least half the camp population was sick at any given time. Coughing during roll call wasn't uncommon.

Despite that, a particularly nasty guard had taken offense with my hacking that morning and got in my face. I just couldn't contain the coughing as he barked at me, and it didn't take long for him to lose his patience. He jabbed me once in the stomach with his baton and when I fell to the dirt he cracked one of my ribs. The next morning the entire right side of my body was black and blue.

As I sat strapped to a metal chair the night the guards ordered me out of bed, a broken rib and a few bruises sounded pretty good compared to what they'd been dishing out so far. They hadn't asked me any questions. In fact, neither of the two guards said a word as they took turns pummeling me.

The fact I could tell they were holding back terrified me more than anything else. I had a sinking feeling things were just getting started and they didn't want it over too soon.

I slumped forward in the metal chair bolted to the floor, the handcuffs securing my wrists behind me the only thing keeping me from falling off. Blood dripped from my nose and mouth onto my lap. I actually wondered if it would be enough to earn a fresh uniform. One of those strange and inappropriate thoughts that often go through my head during times of trauma.

The door opened and I lifted my head to see Captain Renshaw walk in. I still had no idea what I did to earn a trip to the interrogation room, but a visit from Renshaw couldn't be good. One of the guards placed a folding chair in front of me and the captain sat down. He briefly glanced at the patch sewn to my chest before calmly crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap.

"So. Inmate 399462," he said. "You were seen speaking to a female inmate yesterday morning."

It was more of a statement then a question so I just stared at him, waiting to see if there was more. The guard to my right dealt a quick jab to my ribs. After the pain subsided I lifted my head and answered. "I speak to women all the time, Captain. Can you be more specific?"

The same guard to my right took a step forward, but Renshaw held up his hand and stopped him. "I think you know who I'm referring to," he said. "A new inmate, yes?"

"Yeah. I talked to her for a few minutes, I guess. That isn't against the rules now, is it?"

Left hook, splitting my lip open in another spot. The splattering blood from my face missed Renshaw by a few inches. He waited patiently while I caught my breath.

"What did you two talk about?"

"I asked what her name was."

"And?"

"And...that was about it."

"You're being unclear, inmate 399462," Renshaw said. "Specifically using the word about implies that you discussed more than just her name. If that's true, then I can only assume you're deliberately leaving out details."

Before I could respond, the guard to my left struck my kneecap with his baton. The pain exploded like bright light, consuming my entire world and sending every sense into overdrive. Renshaw waited while I screamed in agony.

"So, tell me," he said after I finally fell silent. "What details are you leaving out?"

I tried to replay the conversation in my head and nail down every word that passed between us. All I could think of was her piercing eyes and the feel of her fingers on my arm. "Ah...she wanted to know if it was rude to ask people why they were here."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I laughed. I thought it was funny that she'd worry about being rude."

Renshaw seemed to consider my answer for a minute while I panted and waited for the next blow. None came.

"At the risk of being rude, why are you here, Brother Kamer?" Renshaw asked.

I looked up and met the captain's eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. I couldn't remember the last time somebody spoke my last name out loud. Except for Ezra and a handful of others who called me Jack, I was inmate 399462. My last name was meaningless.

I considered my words carefully before speaking. "I'm a traitor to the State."

"You freely admit this."

"Yes."

"Very good." Renshaw leaned forward in his chair. "Where is she?"

"What?"

Open palm to the back of my head, hard enough to fill my vision with stars.

"The girl told you where she was going. What her plans were."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Admit this and I can assure you it'll be much easier on you."

"Wait a minute, are you saying this girl escaped?"

Left guard stepped up again with another blow to the knee before I could protest or react. More bright light. More screaming.

Renshaw didn't wait for me to quiet down this time. "Don't answer my questions with a question!" he roared. "Where was she headed? Who helped her escape?"

"I don't know anything," I protested.

"Was it you?"

"Yesterday was the first time I'd talked to her, I swear. She didn't say anything about escaping."

One of the guards struck me across both shoulder blades with his baton. You had to hand it to the bastards, they knew exactly where to strike and how hard without inflicting any permanent damage.

This went on for quite some time. Renshaw barked different variations of the same questions. I pleaded my ignorance. In the meantime, the guards took turns coming up with new ways of inflicting pain.

After what felt like hours, Renshaw finally sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He stared at me for a few minutes, puffing away and not saying anything. I appreciated the reprieve, but didn't get my hopes up that this would be the end of the interrogation. He confirmed my fears when he crushed the cigarette butt with his heel and muttered a single word before walking out the door.

"Tube."

+

One of the guards uncuffed my wrists and dragged me to my feet, my battered knees protesting the whole way. My legs buckled. I collapsed to the floor, which didn't improve the mood of my captors. After a couple of kicks to the ribs, they dragged me into the adjacent room. While one of the guards pulled me into a sitting position, the other approached with a looped length of rope attached to the ceiling by a pulley system.

So that was it, they were going to string me up. No public execution for inmate 399462. I'd like to say I was grateful that Ezra wouldn't have to watch his closest friend die, but such selfless thoughts didn't cross my mind as I faced death. Knowing that I'd be hung by the neck in a dingy room in a dingy corner of the camp left me feeling more alone than I'd ever felt before.

Instead of putting the rope around my neck, the guard slipped it under my armpits and hoisted me to my feet. When I saw the corrugated metal pipe sunken into the room's dirt floor, Renshaw's cryptic command of "tube" suddenly made sense.

I tried to resist in vain as the guards lowered me into the pipe. By the time my bare feet touched solid ground, I could barely make out any light from the room above and the temperature felt like it dropped at least ten degrees. It was such a tight fit that I couldn't move my arms, bend my aching legs, or sit down. I tilted my head to look up, but only banged it on hard steel. I couldn't get enough of an angle to see the mouth of the pipe above my head.

That's when panic took over.

I never considered myself to be claustrophobic, but we're not talking about a stranded elevator here. I resisted the urge to scream and tried to get my rapid breathing under control. If they intended to leave me down there, then they wouldn't have bothered to leave the rope tied around my chest. I would get pulled out eventually, and I told myself this several times. Didn't help much.

I was actually relieved when Renshaw's voice echoed from above minutes later. "Inmate 399462! I'm only going to ask you this one more time. Did you help her escape?"

"No! For fucksake, I didn't do anything!" I strained my neck, trying to get a glimpse of something, anything, in the room above. After a few seconds of no answers, I finally lost it. "Please! Pull me out of here, I don't know anything!"

No answer. I was about to yell again when the first drops hit my face. These were immediately followed by a stream of icy cold water.

The next few minutes consisted of me screaming, accompanied by pathetic attempts to climb out. All the while, the water level quickly crept up my legs.

When the water got to my chest, the darkness around me broke when one of the guards pointed a flashlight down the pipe. I hoped for a second that was a sign of something positive, but they only wanted to know exactly when to shut off the hose.

When the water reached my chin, the flow from above turned into a trickle and stopped altogether. I had to stand on my toes to keep my nose above water. The flashlight stayed as the guards watched.

I shook uncontrollably and my vision grew dark from hyperventilating. I tried to stand as still as possible, but no matter how hard I tried, water kept getting in my nose and mouth. A layer of greasy film floated across the surface. My eyes stung from the contaminates floating in the putrid liquid. It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that the guards pissed down the hole just to add to my misery.

A moment of clarity flashed through my mind as I struggled against the panic of inevitable drowning. Why not just stick my face in the water and take a deep breath? What exactly was I fighting for anyway? Another day of relentless hunger pains? Another freezing night on a plywood bed under a tattered and flea infested blanket? I would never walk out of camp a free man and although I'd refused to admit it, I knew deep down it was true. I could draw it out over months and years of suffering or I could just end it now with a lung-full of water.

A moment of clarity, but only for a second. The primitive and reptilian part of my brain fought for the oldest instinct we possess. Survival.

"I did it!" I screamed. "I helped the girl escape. Do you hear me? I did it!"

The rope dug under my armpits as I was slowly lifted from the water. A minute later, I dangled above the mouth of the pipe, shivering and exhausted. Beaten and battered. Renshaw held up a clipboard and a pen.

I signed the bottom line of my confession without reading it. It didn't matter. Changing my mind would only earn me a trip back down the tube, or something worse. Renshaw would always come up with something worse.

+

I probably gave you the impression earlier that public executions always start by an inmate getting pulled out of line after roll call. Sometimes it happens like that. Other times the unlucky son of a bitch is dragged into the yard from solitary and back into general population just to get a blade across the throat or a bullet in the head.

My jumpsuit was still damp as the guards led me across the yard behind Captain Renshaw. It was another cold morning under a grey sky, the last I would ever see. I trudged toward the Death Post under my own power, my fate accepted. As Renshaw took his place in front of the line, I stood with my back against the post. My wrists cuffed behind me, legs secured tightly above my sore knees with the old bloodstained leather belt.

I scanned the crowd as Renshaw made his speech declaring the crimes I'd committed to earn my execution. I searched for Ezra but didn't see him. I wondered what Kim was doing at that moment. If she was lining up at roll in a camp of her own or if she was free, living with our daughter or son somewhere out there. I closed my eyes as a single tear rolled down my cheek, the realization slamming into me that they'd never know what happened to me. Somehow I always knew that one day I'd find them both if they were still alive. The harsh reality of knowing it wouldn't, hurt more than any physical pain the guards could dish out.

The yard fell silent as Captain Renshaw finished and turned to approach me. His face vanished in a mist of red, a second before a single rifle shot echoed through the camp, and collapsed to the dirt.

The dazed guards by my side had a second to look at each other before one of them went down from a rifle shot to the chest. The other guard quickly did the math and sprinted in the other direction, only to be gunned down a second later.

Everything happened so fast that the inmates continued to stand at attention. Only a handful risked muttering in confusion and exchanged glances. Despite our main tormentor lying in the dirt, half his head missing, most of us wouldn't have put it past the State to stage some elaborate test to judge our conditioning. If I wouldn't have been bound to the post, I probably would have been frozen in my tracks as well.

A massive truck with a snow plow attached to the front, smashed through the main gate and broke our collaborative state of shock. Two pickup trucks followed, their large mounted machine guns blazing at the guards taking defensive positions inside the wire.

My fellow inmates scattered like roaches to escape the gunfire that seemed to come from every direction. I stood helpless and watched as armed men and women poured through the demolished gate.

Soon the chaotic violence tapered off, plunging the camp into eerie silence. It didn't take too many guards to keep the hundreds of inmates in control - only twenty or so. I counted that many dead or dying on the ground. Inmates who had run for cover in the barracks slowly appeared in the windows and doorways.

A man stepped out of the snowplow truck brandishing a pistol in one hand, a bullhorn in the other. "This camp has been liberated by the People's Libertarian Militia," he shouted. Two canvas covered troop transport trucks pulled up to the gate behind him. "Come with us if you want freedom!"

Some of the inmates rushed for the trucks, a good number stayed where they were, frozen in fear and uncertainty.

"Jack!" Ezra limped over to me as quickly as he could, one arm draped around Malachi's shoulder. "Hold on, we'll get you out of here."

"Quickly!" the man with the megaphone shouted from across the yard. "Reinforcements are just minutes away."

Malachi and Ezra searched the dead guard at my feet for the handcuff key. "Hurry!" I pleaded. "They're going to leave without us."

"This guy's got nothing," Malachi said. He turned to Ezra. "Check Renshaw."

"We meet again."

I turned to the woman's voice. "You."

She took off her olive drab cap to reveal the short stubble on her scalp and those unforgettable eyes. She slung her submachine gun over her shoulder and smiled. "Yeah, me. Jack, wasn't it?"

I nodded.

"What do you say, Jack? Wanna get out of here?"

"We can't find the keys to the handcuffs," Ezra said.

Another girl in fatigues strode over. "Holly, what's the hold up?"

"Holly?" I asked. "I thought your name was Melanie."

She winked. "I wouldn't be much of a spy if I used my real name, now would I, Jack?" She nodded at Ezra and Malachi. "Don't worry, boys. Head for the trucks. We'll get him." She disappeared behind me and fired her gun, breaking the chain to my handcuffs.

The other girl slung her rifle around her shoulder and took me by the arm as Holly unfastened the belt at my legs. "Come on," she said. "Let's get you out of here."

The girls took me by the arms and helped me to the trucks as several of their comrades lit Molotov cocktails and tossed them into the compound's buildings. I climbed into the back of one of the trucks just as the last of the inmates jumped in. We were on the move.

The girl who helped Holly handed me a canteen and I drank greedily.

"Slow down," she said. "Don't worry, you'll get your fill."

"So are you some sort of spy too?" I asked her.

"Jack, meet Libby," Holly said from behind. She crouched down on the bed of the truck besides me as we rocked back and forth. "She'd have to get those pretty locks cut off in order to infiltrate the camps, so the answer is 'no.'"

"Very funny," Libby said. "Don't forget, I outrank you."

"Yes, ma'am!" Holly saluted Libby who just smiled and shook her head. She moved on to check on the other inmates huddled in the back of the truck.

"Where are you taking us?" I asked.

Holly smiled and gently touched my cheek. "Some place safe. Some place free."

I looked out the back of the truck as the road slipped by underneath us. The last time I'd left the camp was in a similar truck to mine for coal. Now I was leaving as a fugitive.

"What if we're caught?"

"Don't worry," she said. "We're getting pretty good at this. They haven't found a way to stop us yet."

"You've attacked other camps?"

"Third one this year. It's our way of trying to make a difference and fight back." One of the inmates shouted out in pain from the front of the truck, arm wrapped in a blood-soaked tourniquet.

"I better go see if I can help," Holly said. She caressed my face again. "Rest."

I watched the dark smoke billow into the sky as my prison for the last eight years burned to the ground. For eight years I had a feeling I pushed down and kept dormant, knowing that embracing it in the slightest could break me.

As I sat in the back of that rickety truck and watched the smoke as the miles slipped by, I let that feeling escape, if only for a second.

Hope.

Continue reading or return to table of contents.
Flesh and Blood

Renee Miller
ONE

Francine decided she should have sex more often.

The gentle friction of a man's cock sliding in and out of her body cooled the embers in her mind, although only temporarily. If she moved her hips to the side, just so, the intensity of her pleasure increased, but she wouldn't do that just yet. It'd been a while since Francine enjoyed a sexual encounter, so she wanted to prolong the experience. Part of her whispered she should prolong him as well... but the fire balked at romantic whims like that.

"Faster," he urged, thrusting his hips.

Francine opened her eyes, the moment ruined. She could go faster, but then he'd get off first. This wasn't about him. "Shut up, or I'll gag you too."

He smiled, pulling at the cuffs that secured his arms over his head. "I should spank you. Bet you'd like that."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Shut up."

His soft chuckle stoked the flame in her belly. Francine picked up the pace. She ground her hips over him and then, leaning forward, tilted them just so. So close. Francine slid her gloved hand beneath the mattress, touching the worn wood handle. The fire blazed, urging her to end it. End him.

Not yet.

Closing her fingers around the knife, Francine pulled it from its hiding place. She rolled her hips faster, climax mounting, the heat spreading over her belly, down her legs.

Almost time.

"I'm gonna come," he grunted.

Of course he was. She lifted the knife, grinding faster and faster, until tiny dots of light danced in her vision.

Now.

He cried out, both pleasure and pain contorting his face as the knife plunged into his chest. His expression shifted slowly, as though played at half speed, and understanding reflected in his eyes. Francine felt him stiffen and shudder. He was lucky. Most men didn't get to die as pleasantly.

She watched him struggle, albeit weakly, with the cuffs. He choked, sputtered, as his wounded heart bled out. She pulled the knife from his chest and held it up so he could see his blood streaming down the blade, over her hand. Francine felt its warmth licking her wrist and then her arm. Trembling, Francine pressed the blade to her breasts, enjoying the slick yet sticky sensation of his blood on her nipples. She found release as he choked on his last breaths.

The fire had grown almost painful, burning a path to her chest. Soon it would mar her vision, fill her brain, and she planned to revel in its glory.

But not yet.

Francine had a stage to set. A picture to copy.

She moved off his body, which was now as limp as his dick, and opened the nightstand drawer. Shaking out the plastic bag she'd hidden inside, Francine turned back to the bed. His pretty blue eyes stared vacantly, a little bulged, but she'd grown used to that. She removed the condom and dropped it in the bag. Then, knife in hand, just in case he had one last hoorah in him, she picked up the key to the cuffs, and released one arm. It flopped beside him on the mattress. She released the other arm and then tossed the cuffs and the key into the bag. It would have been nice to remove the wig, but not yet. Damn things made her head itch.

Francine glanced at the clock and realized she had to move quickly. Her landlord would be by in less than six hours to show the unit to prospective tenants.

#

"Please," Joe begged. "Don't do this."

Robert leaned against the wall, the cool brick rough against his bare skin. He was naked, except for a shower cap and socks. While he knew he must look like a lunatic, his decision to kill in the nude was practical. No fibers. No hairs, thanks to his meticulous shaving. No evidence. He took great pains to ensure he didn't get caught. His common sense had served him well for more than a decade. In the early days, he'd worn a suit, the kind crime scene investigators wore to avoid contaminating the scene, but those had to be purchased. Purchasing such unusual items left a trail. A scent. Evidence.

"Joe." Robert ran a finger along the knife, wishing he didn't have to wear the gloves so he could feel the edge of the blade properly. But then he'd have to wipe his prints on the off chance he misplaced it or some idiot stole it, and there was always a small margin for error in such things. "I'm going to make you a deal."

"I'll do anything," Joe promised. He hung from a harness at the end of a chain Robert had looped over the beams of the storage unit. Joe shuddered violently. "I won't tell. I swear. Just let me go."

Robert sighed. Joe was a moron. When Robert said they needed to talk about the hookers, Joe stupidly followed him to this storage unit, owned by an unsuspecting couple just wanting a place to store their many useless possessions. He'd taken the bait too easily, which sucked some of the fun out of the game. The chase was the best part, but Joe didn't even try to run. Robert sighed again.

"You made your point, man," Joe continued. "I won't do it again."

Stupid that Joe believed he could escape this and prevent Robert from getting what he wanted. Idiot.

"If you shut up, I'll make it as painless as possible," Robert said.

Joe sobbed.

"Crying only makes me angry. Be a man, for fucksakes."

Joe's body shook. Snot bubbled from his nose, mingling with the blood. Christ, Robert had only torn a few strips from him—short ones at that. Hardly reason to be so damn upset.

Robert knelt, picking up the skin he'd peeled from Joe's right bicep. It was smooth and floppy. Cold. Joe stared, hiccupping as he tried to stop bawling.

"Did those whores beg you to stop?" Robert tossed the skin on the floor again and walked toward Joe. "Did they promise they wouldn't tell?"

"I never killed them," Joe said. "We just... they were prostitutes."

"So they deserved to be raped? You're a cop, man. You're supposed to protect people."

Joe sniffed. "They fuck people for money."

Robert pressed the knife against Joe's thigh. He pushed the tip into the flesh, releasing it from the muscle beneath. Peeling human skin was much like skinning a deer, but required a little more finesse. When Robert skinned an animal, it was already dead, so it didn't move around so much.

Joe screamed as Robert sliced the skin down to the knee. He tried to jerk away, which only caused him to scream more. Robert moved the knife a few inches to the left, repeating the action, smiling as Joe swore through his agony.

"You're a psycho," Joe cried. He spat in Robert's direction, but missed his target.

"Close," Robert admitted. "I don't like labels, but if I had to choose, I'd say I'm more of a sociopath. I'm not crazy, Joe. Sociopaths, in general, are actually highly intelligent and controlled individuals. It's why I'm so good at what I do."

"Only a lunatic skins someone alive."

"Your small mind is why you wouldn't have made it in homicide. Can't catch a killer if you don't think like one."

"They'll find you."

Robert chuckled. No they wouldn't. "I'm not hiding."

"Someone will put it all together. They'll ask questions. You'll need an alibi."

"Not when I'm the investigator."

"This whole time... fucking crazy."

Robert hated when morons like Joe tossed that word around. He was far from mentally unstable. "We've been partners for how long? Almost a year, right?"

"Can't believe I didn't realize I was working with Dexter."

"Oh, I don't have a dark passenger or any of that nonsense, Joe. You see, writers make up that stuff so the reader is empathetic. It's the whole unlikeable protagonist thing. I'm not likeable. Don't care to be."

"You're killing criminals, just like on TV."

"I kill some criminals, but I don't choose who dies based on that. It has nothing to do with sins or crimes."

"You said—"

"I didn't choose you because you raped those women, Joe. I decided you'd die long before I knew about that. It's just a bonus you're such a bastard."

"You don't have to do this," Joe said. "Just let me down and we'll work something out."

"Nothing to work out. Life's a game. You lost. It's as simple as that."

"Please," Joe started sobbing again.

"A year is a long time to listen to your shit. Frankly, I'm tired of your mouth, Joe. Every day you spew your hate, your bigotry, your bullshit. I've let it all go, because stupidity isn't a reason to die. Not usually."

"You're my judge, are you?" Joe's voice was barely a whisper. He was weakening. Robert hadn't planned on him being such a bleeder.

"Someone has to be, but that's not why you're here."

"Fuck off."

"When we met, my first instinct was to put a bullet in your head. I knew this wouldn't end well for you, so I requested a different partner. The captain said no. I tried to make it work, but the sad reality is I can't stand you." Robert lifted the knife to Joe's neck. He slid the edge of the blade just beneath Joe's chin, watching the blood flow from the wound down to his chest. "So I'm taking matters into my own hands."

#

Francine sat on her balcony, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. Her head itched from the hours she'd spent wearing the wig. She should rest, but he fire still raged inside, consuming her, energizing her. As a crime reporter, she'd interviewed many serial killers. They spoke of feeling cold or a dark force within them, pushing them to hurt others. Francine had never encountered this dark energy. Her inner demon was light; a roaring fire that burned inside every cell.

Sometimes it made her reckless, as it had last night. She knew killing someone so close to home was pushing the envelope. It put her on the police's radar, made her visible. Francine wasn't worried, though. If she'd learned one thing since giving into the fire, it was that no one suspected a woman. Serial killers were predominantly male—the ones that got caught anyway. Women were weaker, less aggressive. Men destroyed. Women nurtured.

Copying the crimes of others was her insurance. It'd become easier when she realized she didn't have to get it perfect. She used to drive herself crazy trying to duplicate the murders exactly, but soon learned the cops only looked for a certain number of similarities. Killers adapted, so sometimes they deviated from their usual plan.

That realization had freed Francine.

Last night, for example, wasn't planned. Well it was, but not so soon. She'd dated Brad a few times, feeling him out. She made sure he was a good target. An easy target. She moved up the timeline of his death when he mentioned moving to Seattle. She couldn't follow him there, not without leaving a trail. Francine usually avoided rushing things, but she'd made an exception this time. All the work she'd put into setting him up would have been wasted. She'd have to start over, and the fire demanded blood now. How long before there wasn't enough blood to keep it satisfied?

She shook the doubts from her mind and focused on her success instead. Would he notice? Would he be angry? The Bloodletter had been so quiet, even after she'd written a lengthy feature on his murders. The fire whispered to her, suggesting she encourage him to come out and play. Francine wished she could meet him; show him what he'd inspired. He was so meticulous, but so brutal. His victims, all male, were usually drained of blood while they still breathed. He had sex with them first, always using a condom, and bathed in their blood afterward. There was talk of him drinking it too, but Francine had no desire to copy every detail.

Would he chastise her for the modifications she'd made? Francine didn't think so. He'd made mistakes too, killing two of his victims prior to draining them. The police theorized these victims put up too much of a struggle, so the Bloodletter had to modify his usual process. They'd believe last night's victim was a fighter as well, so Francine's impatience wouldn't send up any red flags. The Bloodletter would get the glory, and she'd be rewarded by his return to the limelight.

A knock at the door brought Francine out of her thoughts. She stood, smoothing her robe and then mussing her hair a little. As she walked to the door, Francine rubbed her eyes. She should look disheveled, as though they'd interrupted her sleep.

She reached the door and peered through the peephole. A tall man, his athletic build noticeable beneath his perfectly tailored suit, stared back. His gaze was so cold, so penetrating, Francine felt a flutter in her chest. Clearing her throat, she turned the knob.

The man flashed a badge. "Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am, but I need to ask you a few questions."

His voice was like velvet. Francine's cheeks warmed as his gaze traveled the length of her barely clothed body. "Sure," she said. "Is there something wrong?"

"Did you hear anything unusual last night?" he asked.

"No. I was out late, though. When I got home, I kind of slipped into a coma."

He frowned, his dark eyes boring into her soul. Could he tell what she was? Francine shivered at the possibility.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Someone was murdered in the apartment next door."

She felt a smile pushing at her lips, but covered it with her hand. "But, no one lives there."

"Your landlord said as much," he said, his gaze lowering to her breasts. "I'm going to have to ask you to stay here until we finish up. I'll have more questions later."

"Of course." Francine pulled the edges of her robe together. "Could I—I mean, I'm a journalist. Is there anything you can tell me about the crime?"

He smiled. "We'll issue a statement later."

"Okay, thank you."

"Don't go anywhere," he reminded her. "I'm not finished with you yet."

Francine nodded and closed the door, a thrill dancing over her spine at the promise in his eyes.

TWO

Robert hated the paper booties. They crinkled as he walked the room, never quite fitting his shoes properly. He forgot about the booties as he surveyed the scene. The bed was unmade, its once pristine white sheets now saturated with the man's blood. He stood over it now, staring at the stain, his mind replaying the events that put it there.

"Looks like a knee print." He pointed to the rounded white area near the base of the stain.

"How do you see that?" The forensic tech, a new guy with a fancy camera, snapped a picture of the area Robert pointed out.

"The stain shows an outline of the body." Robert knelt next to the bed. "But here, where his hips would have been, it widens a little. Like maybe someone straddled him."

"It'll probably be like the rest. We'll find evidence of intercourse."

Robert nodded. On the surface, it looked like a Bloodletter murder, but something felt off. The only two victims murdered by the Bloodletter had shown signs of a struggle. A deviation the killer probably hated, but this one...

"Looks like the killer was straddling him, possibly stabbed him during sex." Robert rubbed his chin and stood. He eyed the bed, his gaze moving to the headboard. "Get a few shots of the wood there, where it's chipped."

"Cuffs?" The tech snapped more photos. "There's splinters on the pillow too."

"Yeah." Robert turned from the bed. He walked to the bathroom, where the evidence suggested the Bloodletter's hand, but not convincingly enough. "Not much blood in the tub."

The forensic team leader, a pretty blonde woman whose name Robert didn't remember, chuckled. "There's enough to bathe in. Isn't that all this whack job cares about?"

Robert stared at the scene. The body had been next to the tub, kneeling with his wrists over the edge. They'd removed it soon after he arrived. Red lines remained as a reminder of his blood trickling into the tub. Spatter indicated someone splashed in the liquid, as though bathing in it, but Robert didn't believe the killer actually sat in the blood. There was no back print at the rear of the tub for one thing, and the handprints on the wall were too high. When the Bloodletter rose from his bath, he always braced himself on the wall with gloved hands, which had given them an idea of his size. These prints indicated his arms were abnormally long and his hands ridiculously small. A woman's?

He thought of the woman next door—the reporter. When her robe had opened, he'd seen a brownish streak near her nipple. Could have been dried blood.

"I have to go," he said. "If you need me, I'll be next door."

"Think she heard anything?" The blonde pressed a sticky sheet to the wall, although they both knew the transfer would reveal nothing. The killer would have worn gloves, copycat or not.

"I think she saw something."

#

"Do you mind if I take notes?" Francine barely had time to change before the cop returned. He sat on her sofa, hands folded in his lap.

"For?"

"My article. I'm a crime reporter for the—"

"Right, I forgot." He shrugged, but she noticed a slight tick in his jaw. "Be my guest."

Francine sat in a chair facing him, notepad and pen in hand. She knew the details, but notes helped her make sure she didn't reveal more than the police shared. "Thank you."

"What time did you come home last night?"

She pretended to think about it. "I didn't look at the clock. Probably around midnight? What time did the victim die?"

"It's not confirmed yet, but the coroner estimates around three a.m."

She nodded. Pretty accurate.

He tapped his knee. "You heard nothing next door? Not even the door closing?"

"Doors close here all the time. I don't pay attention anymore."

"I noticed the walls are pretty thin. I could hear everything in the apartment upstairs when we were inspecting the scene."

She laughed. "The guys upstairs are elephants."

He stared. God, he was cold. Francine cleared her throat.

The cop rubbed his chin. "Your bedroom shares a wall with the bedroom next door."

"Is that where he was killed?"

He nodded. "You should have heard something."

Did he suspect her? Francine suppressed a shiver. "Like I said, I pretty much slept like the dead." She frowned. "No pun intended."

A knock at the door, and then a blonde woman rushed in. The cop turned as the woman whispered something in his ear. He raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

She frowned. "Wish I wasn't, Robert, but it's definitely Joe."

"Jesus." Robert glanced at Francine.

"I'll just... make some coffee." Francine walked past them. Once inside the kitchen, she stood behind the door, listening to their hushed tones.

"It's definitely the Stripper?" Robert asked.

"Oh yeah. He made sure we had no doubts. Escalating in a big way."

"Fuck me," Robert muttered.

"He was thorough this time. No skin left on the body they said. Almost looks like this one was personal."

"He doesn't work like that," Robert said. "Stop looking at me like that. Could be a coincidence."

"You baited him last time with your statement."

"So?"

"So, you called him an unimaginative coward and now Joe's dead."

Francine cleared her throat as she emerged from the kitchen. Robert nodded toward the blonde and then stood. Turning to Francine, he smiled, but just barely. "I have to go."

"So we're done here?" Francine remembered the press release after the last Stripper killing. She chuckled as she'd written his words, thinking the same as the blonde; bad idea. "When will you be issuing a statement to the press?"

"We can't until we've investigated." He pulled out a small black notepad and a pen. "If you'd give me your contact details, I'll try to make sure you get the release a few hours before the rest."

Francine took the notepad and wrote her email and cell number on the first page. She handed it back to him. Their fingers brushed as he took the notepad, and she smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it. You're going to another crime scene?"

He nodded. "Sorry, I really have to go."

Francine's frustration bloomed. He wasn't going to share. So be it. She'd be direct. "I couldn't help but hear part of your conversation. Sorry. Thin walls, as you said."

He rubbed his chin. "And?"

"Has the Stripper murdered someone else?"

"Think so. I can't confirm it yet, so don't quote me."

Francine nodded. "He's not really news anyway." Robert scowled. "I mean, there's no link between victims and his murders are so sporadic, it's hard to connect any of them. A lot of people think these are copycat crimes."

"You've done your homework."

"I report crime. Kind of my job. My research shows the public doesn't get worked up about the Stripper."

"Well, this time he killed a cop. I really have to go. I'll call you."

Francine chewed her lip as Robert and his blonde cohort left her apartment. Fucking bastard. She'd followed the Stripper for a couple of years. Now and then, she considered copying him, but he was an arrogant prick, and skinning someone wasn't easy. She wasn't confident she could set the scene convincingly.

The fire ignited. Damn it. Cop killers caused media frenzies. How dare he upstage her show? How dare they treat him like he was more important than the Bloodletter, copycat or not? She paced the short length of floor in front of her sofa. She could send in the article she'd already written about the Bloodletter, but had to wait for the damn press release to make sure she didn't have more details than the rest. By then, they'd share the Stripper's story as well, and the Bloodletter would be outshined.

#

Robert had left the door of the storage unit open. He'd wanted Joe found immediately so he wouldn't have to be the worried friend for too long, a role he didn't play very well. He didn't like recognizing his shortcomings, but being aware of weaknesses made him stronger. Forced him to work harder. His reward was the exhilaration that accompanied fooling everyone, and the confirmation of his superiority.

He sat in his car, watching the white suited men walk in and out of the unit. To those outside, it looked like he was bracing himself; trying to work up the nerve to see what the Stripper had done to his partner. God, he hated the name the press had given him. Stripper... fucking imbeciles. The Skinner or the Filleter—even Flayer would've been better. Skinning was entirely different from stripping.

A tap on his window. Robert closed his eyes and then opened the door. His boss, whose name was Eugene, but everyone referred to him as "Cap," stepped back.

"We can do this one, Robbie," Cap said. Robert hated people shortening his name. "You don't have to go inside."

"I've been doing this a long time, Cap." Robert got out of the car and took a deep breath. "He's not going to scare me off now."

Cap nodded. "You need to leave at any time, it's all right. I almost tossed my breakfast. It's not pretty."

"Never is." Robert walked to the unit, pausing for effect before going inside.

Joe hung where he left him, sans most of his flesh. They'd find only trace amounts of skin left on the corpse. Bits and pieces he couldn't be bothered to remove. Already the unit smelled of death, which enhanced the magnificence of the picture he'd painted. He'd allowed himself to be a little dramatic this time, intentionally spattering blood everywhere to imply the Stripper had lost another screw in his already shaky psyche.

"You okay?" Cap touched his shoulder.

He was fantastic. "Fuck," Robert said as he looked at the walls, the floor, making sure he avoided looking at Joe. Cap would see it as being unable to look at his friend's suffering. Robert wanted to minimize the risk he might look at his work with pride, a dead giveaway of his guilt. "He had a bone to pick this time."

Cap snorted. "Sorry. Sounded funny. This is fucked up."

"What are the odds the only two active serial killers in the city commit a crime on the same night?"

Robert couldn't shake the redhead from his mind. She was small, but muscular, and paid careful attention to details most people wouldn't notice. Her apartment was meticulously clean, almost sterile. Her appearance was almost perfect, and her demeanor reminded him of others before her. She was careful, precise. He noticed the control in her expressions and her movements, the way she tried to appear unassuming and approachable. But her blue eyes reflected the barely leashed animal he'd encountered often in his work.

Cap sighed. "We were just talking about that. Odds are pretty out there, and the Bloodletter hasn't killed in months. Thought he'd moved on, to be honest."

"And?"

"And what? We were obviously wrong."

"The scene isn't right." Robert walked to the far side of the unit, where he pretended to inspect the spatter pattern on a stack of boxes. "The killer was straddling the victim. I'm thinking she was fucking him when she killed him. Stabbed him in the chest and then dragged him to the bathroom to drain him."

"She?"

"The other victims were gay. This one wasn't, unless he's hiding it."

"It's possible."

"True. But that's not all. The Bloodletter avoids killing them before draining their blood if he can help it. Only he would know that, though, since we didn't release it to the press. This one was cuffed to the bed, and there's no sign he struggled or forced the killer to change his pattern."

"Weird."

"And Bloodletter victims show evidence of ejaculation before death, like this one. But with the other murders, it was anyone's guess whether it was vaginal, anal or oral sex. He's been careful to avoid giving any indication of his gender. The scene I saw this morning screams a female killer."

"Copycat?"

Robert nodded. "Think so."

"Could be a revenge thing. Jilted lover or whatever. Used the Bloodletter's MO to make it look like nothing personal."

"It was a copycat, but I'm not convinced it was revenge."

"Think this is a copycat too? Odds are even wider we'd have two of those on the same night."

"This is the Stripper. Definitely." He turned to the wall where he'd written his message.THERE WILL BE MORE was written with patches of skin he'd carefully stuck to the cement. He always left the same message. It led others to believe he was insane, but meant nothing. Just a prop.

"Fuck." Cap straightened his jacket. "Poor Joe."

"He said he had a lead," Robert sighed. He finally allowed himself to admire his handiwork. "We agreed to check it out together."

"Don't blame yourself, Robbie. Joe's a big boy."

"I should've known he'd check it out alone. Said he had information, that we might catch the Stripper red handed. I said to wait. We should confirm it was legit first."

"He definitely confirmed it."

Robert nodded. "Should've known he wouldn't listen to me."

"Nah, you weren't Joe's babysitter, Robbie. He knew better than to go on his own. Lone wolves always get fucked."

Cap was nuts, but never doubted Robert's word. Never questioned his hunches. It was almost too easy, which sucked all the fun out of it sometimes.

"Let's let the creeps do their job." Cap didn't like the forensic team, particularly the ones that loved their jobs. Thought it was unhealthy to enjoy being around death. Robert admitted he might be right. "We'll sift through the evidence later."

"Yeah," Robert walked toward the door, shoulders slumped.

"Let's get a drink."

"I've got a lead on the Bloodletter thing I want to check out," Robert said.

"Not by yourself."

"Just talking to a possible witness." Robert stopped at his car. He turned to find Cap a few feet away.

"You shouldn't go alone," Cap said. "Copycats are still animals like the rest."

"Nothing dangerous about this redhead," Robert winked.

Cap smiled. "Ah, I see. Check in later?"

"Promise."

Robert got in his car, but didn't start it right away. He tapped the steering wheel, his mind on the redhead. Copycats had no imagination. No guts. They used the genius of others instead of finding their own way. Yet, something about her kindled a small respect in Robert. Women were so rare in this business. Was this her first kill? Revenge as Cap suggested? Or was the redhead more talented than that?

THREE

Francine read her previous articles on both killers. The Bloodletter had been the perfect choice, and was much more popular with the media than the Stripper. Christ, he even had a fan site. The Stripper hadn't generated much buzz after his first few victims five years before. He obviously wanted the spotlight, so he upped the ante with this cop bullshit. She wanted to hate him, but admired his balls. Killing a cop was a sure fire way to be noticed.

Robert the detective emailed her two press releases. The first was a brief summary of the Bloodletter scene, with a few disappointing words near the end. "Inconsistencies... crime of passion... suspected impersonator..." She printed the release, but fumed at her failure. True, they couldn't prove it was her, but she wanted them to point the finger at the Bloodletter. The last thing she wanted was to diminish her brilliance by implying it was someone less impressive. A pathetic woman trying to cover an act of revenge. Assholes.

The second release detailed the Stripper's scene. Francine read the few lines, her chest burning. The victim, a homicide cop like Robert, had been contacted anonymously according to his partner (name not released), and was investigating a possible lead. He was found in a storage unit (undisclosed location) stripped of his skin. The preliminary investigation suggests he was partially skinned while still alive. The remainder of flesh was removed post-mortem.

Robert sent a few pictures of both crime scenes. Francine felt a tickle of arousal at the image of the Stripper's message. The photographs of her scene paled in comparison. The tips of her fingers tingled, and a steady ache mounted in her belly. The fire was unhappy. It demanded more. Always more. Usually it left her alone for a few months after being sated, but today it was angry. Disappointed.

Her cell phone buzzed, forcing her thoughts from the fire. Francine touched the screen and put the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Ms. Walker?"

"Yes."

"This is Detective Hanes. We spoke this morning?"

"I just received your emails. Thank you for letting me have these first."

"No big deal. The official release is going out in an hour, so you didn't get that big a jump on it."

Dick. Francine took a breath. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping we could meet somewhere. I need to discuss a few things that don't add up."

Her heart pounded. Did he know? She felt the fire rekindle. "Of course. Do I come down to the police station?"

"We don't have to be so formal. I saw a bar near your building. The one with the green sign?"

"O'Donnell's?"

"Sure. I have a few loose ends to tie up, but we could meet around seven?"

Francine didn't want to make it too easy for him. She was silent for a moment and then sighed. "Seven's not good for me. Is five all right?"

"Sure." He didn't even pause to think about it. Loose ends my ass. "See you then."

He hung up before she could reply. Francine stared at the photo on her computer screen. THERE WILL BE MORE. The Stripper won this time. Killing a cop was a bold move. She had to admire his audacity. In a way, they were very alike. Francine was careful to choose her victims based on the original killer's MO. Male, female; she didn't have a preference. She chose whatever suited the killer she emulated. The Stripper seemed to choose randomly as well. He'd killed almost equal numbers of men and women. The gender of his victims appeared to be unrelated to his motivation.

Francine made sure she left no evidence, as did the Stripper, but the Stripper had a flaw in his methods. Francine selected both good and bad types; a nun once, and a pedophile another time. All of the Stripper's victims were largely disliked by those that knew them. Whether or not he chose assholes intentionally, the existence of a possible motivation was a fatal mistake and often led to errors that got a killer caught.

She pulled the file containing her notes on the Stripper up on her computer. The cops believed he used the same knife to skin his victims. She too had favorite tools. The blade she'd used last night, for example, had belonged to her stepfather. The first blood it tasted had been his. Francine had never taken credit for his death, though. He remained behind the old farmhouse, under the vegetable patch the new owners seeded over with grass. Her copying of other killers made it difficult to use the knife as much as she'd like. Stranglers rarely used knives. The Firebug didn't need anything but a flame. She'd liked that one. Almost enough to do it again...

But she never emulated the same killer twice.

The fire pushed into her mind, whispering encouragement. Maybe it was right. She'd recorded every detail reported about the Stripper, and the only challenge was in removing the skin. Surely, with the right knife, it wouldn't be that difficult. The cops had identified the knife as something called a skinning knife, with a gut hook that was used by hunters to skin animals. She could find a similar knife at a sporting goods store. Close enough to make it look like the Stripper might have lost the original, or had to improvise as the impulse overtook his usual diligence.

She turned her attention to the list of victims. What hadn't he targeted yet? Francine tapped the keyboard, her eyes moving over the screen as the fire built in her gut. She needed an easy target. The fire whispered. Vagrants were rarely missed and it wasn't difficult to lure them somewhere private. Would the cops believe the Stripper committed a crime impulsively? His escalation with the cop might be a good thing. He was taunting them, so a murder so soon after the vicious one last night wouldn't be completely implausible.

Francine glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen and closed the laptop. Drinks with Detective Hanes first, followed by a minor distraction to throw him of her scent. Then a trip to her least favorite part of town later. She could stalk her prey, scout a kill location, and have it all set up for tomorrow night.

The fire agreed, waning a little as she stood from the desk. It whispered again. This time it suggested something more dangerous than skinning a hobo. Robert Hanes was an attractive man. The coldness in his eyes intrigued Francine. It challenged her to find out what stoked the fire she suspected he hid deep inside.

#

Robert Googled Francine before their meeting, and a few red flags had popped up in his brain. He sat across from her, a scarred and slightly sticky tabletop between them. He tried to imagine her doing what he suspected. As a journalist, her area of expertise was serial killers. She'd written dozens of feature articles and one book, detailing the dark minds of killers from all over the country. Her articles were informative, but distant... most of them lacked any sort of emotion. However, a small few were written with an excitement he couldn't ignore. Each included police reports, witness accounts, and quotes from various law enforcement sources. His name popped up in some, but only in passing, as he was often the lead investigator in the Stripper and Bloodletter killings. She was dismissive of the Stripper, almost mocking him. However the Bloodletter had earned a detailed feature delving into his possible motivations. Robert sensed admiration in the words she chose. The same with the Firebug, though she never wrote another article about him after her second piece the year before. Funny. The Firebug was at the top of the FBI's most wanted list. He'd killed in almost every state, with two more victims in the past six months. The only area he'd popped up more than once in was New York... the same state Francine called home.

"You look tired," Francine said.

Robert blinked. "I guess I am. Long day."

"Was he your friend?"

"Who?"

"The cop. The one that died."

Robert nodded. She had answered his questions about the night before. Her answers were believable, but something in her eyes woke Robert's lizard brain. Stupid term, but apt. She knew something, but he couldn't figure out whether she was the killer, or was stalking him... or her.

"You two were close?" she prompted.

"Yeah," Robert said. "He was my partner."

"Wow. That's... think the killer is warning you? Do you have a suspect?"

Direct. A little aggressive. She was good at prodding information from people. He'd give her that. "I can't share any more than I did in the release. Sorry."

Curling a lock of hair around her finger, Francine smiled. "I figured as much. Had to try."

"Wouldn't have respected you as a journalist if you didn't." He returned her smile.

"I hate bars." She glanced at the pool tables at the back of the room. "Why don't we go to my place?"

"I can't get involved with a witness in an ongoing investigation." Hard to get was probably what she liked. Robert was good at that.

"Who said anything about getting involved? One drink. I have to be somewhere in a couple of hours anyway."

Something in her smile tickled his gut. No. He couldn't choose her. She was too close. Too hot. "Okay. One drink."

#

Robert visited the men's room before leaving the bar. The small box on the wall requested five dollars for a single condom but Robert paid the hefty price. Better safe than sorry was more than a quaint warning in his line of work. Francine was already outside by the time he emerged. They walked the short distance to her building in silence. In the elevator, they stood side-by-side, neither uttering so much as a sigh.

When the doors opened, he followed her down the hall to her apartment, his gaze resting briefly on the yellow tape covering the door next to it. She made quick work of the lock and walked inside her apartment. Robert trailed behind her, his gut tightening a little at the way he inadvertently followed her lead. He barely closed the door when she turned and reached behind her back. He heard the zip of her dress.

Robert smiled and took off his jacket. "This is very unprofessional."

She matched his grin and lowered the dress to reveal her tits. "Very."

Robert recalled the smudge he'd noticed on her breasts the day before. He knew what she wanted and his gut said to give it to her, even if it complicated things immensely.

He closed the distance between them, and then tugged the front of her dress, pulling her against him. "My boss would skin me alive if he knew I was here."

"So he's the Stripper?" She loosened his tie, but didn't lift it over his head.

"Bad joke," he said and crushed her mouth with his.

Francine let go of his tie, moving her hands to his belt. She opened her mouth, letting him inside, and pushed her hips against him.

"Seriously, I could get fired."

"Won't tell a soul," she promised. She pushed aside his belt and released the button on his pants. He felt her hand reach into his pants, and then her fingers closing around his cock. "Well, we know it's not a gun in your pocket."

He chuckled. Francine wasn't hard to like. She was sexy, smart and bold. He didn't have to force his arousal, as he often did with other women. Still, his gut tingled as he recalled the tiny details that whispered she was a copycat... the most pathetic kind of psychopath.

Francine kissed his neck, and then nipped at the skin beneath his ear. "Fuck me, Detective Hanes."

He gripped her waist, lifting her as he walked toward the bedroom. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her lips to his while grinding herself against him.

"No," she said. "The desk."

Robert stopped. Her command touched the depths of his gut again, but he pushed his anger down. Just because he obeyed a command or two didn't mean he didn't control the situation. Turning back, he carried her to the desk, setting her down brusquely before turning her around. "You like giving orders?"

She nodded. "Don't you?"

He took the foil package from his pocket and tore it open. No evidence. Sliding the slick rubber over his erection, he then lifted the hem of her dress.

"What's taking you so long?" she taunted.

Robert pushed his hand between her thighs. She wore no panties, which didn't surprise him. She knew he'd fuck her, just as he knew she wanted him to. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she gasped. His gut nudged him, and Robert shoved a third finger in, purposely making it painful. Francine moaned.

"I said fuck me," she snapped. "Stop wasting time with that shit."

She wants a fucking. So be it. Robert removed his fingers and gripped her ass. He thrust into her backside, smiling at the cry of surprise his intrusion elicited. Thrusting again, he held her tightly as lust consumed the gnawing in his gut.

"Hurts," Francine managed.

"Does it?" He pumped faster.

"Yes." She sounded breathless, but not afraid. Robert felt his legs weakening as his orgasm loomed.

"Want me to stop?"

"No way." She pushed her ass against him and for the first time in a long while, Robert lost control.

FOUR

"Now, lass, this is unnecessary." The dirty piece of shit Francine lured to the warehouse didn't seem scared enough. Probably his alcohol soaked brain diluting the seriousness of his situation.

Detective Hanes left the night before almost immediately after he ejaculated in her ass. She'd stood there for a moment, still bent over the desk, heart pounding, flames blazing in her chest. His footsteps sounded on the carpet, the door opened, then closed. She figured he was upset. Worried she'd go to his boss. She had bruises on her hips, her neck, and on the tender skin of her thighs. The detective's dark side had surprised and thrilled her. She planned to meet it again very soon.

But she had a job to do first. He'd be frustrated when he found her handiwork, but there'd be no doubt the Stripper killed the vagrant. She worked too hard to fail.

The warehouse had been vacant for about a year. The "For Sale" sign was cracked, its color faded. She'd cut the lock meant to keep squatters out, and slung a chain over the bare rafters of what used to be a meat packing room. Finding a harness proved difficult, so she'd made her own out of smaller chains and secured them with a padlock around the vagrant's chest. She'd cuffed his hands to the chain above his head. Not exactly like the Stripper, but close enough. Picking up the knife she'd found at the hunting and fishing depot a few miles out of the city, Francine approached the bum. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't beg for mercy.

"What you going to do with that now?" he asked.

"I'm going to remove your clothes," she said. Should've knocked him out first, but she had to hear him scream. Every detail had to be like the Stripper's killings. Otherwise, the fire wouldn't be sated.

Francine cut the dirty remnants of his coat. With gloved hands, she tossed it to the floor. She moved to his baggy jeans, and then his shirt. Stripped bare, the vagrant wasn't so dirty. His skin was pale; bruises on his belly suggested a fight, or just some prick kicking him while he slept on the street.

"Gonna have your way with me, eh?" the vagrant grinned with rotting teeth.

"I'm going to skin you," she said, pressing the knife to his thigh, just next to his testicles. The blade was exceptionally sharp, cutting the flesh with the slightest of pressure. Francine cut a straight line, but the vagrant didn't react as she hoped. He'd gasped, but watched the blood, as though as fascinated as she was.

Francine turned the knife, slicing the skin away from the muscle. This time he flinched.

"Ach," he grunted. "That smarts."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Nah," he sniffed. "Don't want to die, but when your time comes, it comes. Got a belly full of whiskey, thanks to you, and a pretty lady touching me privates. Worse ways to go."

Fucking lunatic. Francine flicked the blade, slicing a chunk of flesh from his leg. He yelped, but the sound of pain was followed by laughter. The fire screamed for his torment. Francine's vision clouded and she sliced again and again. No longer caring about the Stripper or his damn crime scene, she sliced at the vagrant until he finally cried out.

"Enough," he said, his head hanging. "Just get it over with."

Francine smiled. "Not a chance. This is going to take all night."

#

Robert stood beneath the mutilated body, disgust churning in his belly. The flesh of the corpse was hacked away. No finesse, no care. He scratched his chin, eyeing the message roughly scrawled on the wall next to the body. THERE WILL BE MORE was written in the man's flesh, but if he didn't know what it should say, it'd be difficult to read, the pieces too asymmetrical to make proper letters.

"Stripper must be cracking." Cap knelt on the floor, examining the blood and bits of flesh coating the dirty cement. "Didn't even use the same type of harness this time."

"It's not him," Robert muttered.

"Looks like him."

"No it doesn't." Robert looked up at the body. The face was still intact. He never left the skin on the face. Always scalped them completely. The torso was almost entirely stripped of flesh, but the legs and arms were whole, with several nicks and gouges. Fucking amateur. "Look closer. This is nothing like the Stripper's murders. The guy was hacked, not skinned."

Cap stood. Robert felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders as Cap patted him. "You're the expert. I see what you mean now that you point it out. The Stripper is precise, almost like he's in total control."

He is.

Cap leaned close to the torso, eyeing the jagged tear just beneath the vagrant's nipple. "I'd say this one was rushed. Angry."

"I think you might be right." Robert hadn't noticed the anger at first, his own fury blinding him to the obvious. "Maybe the killer was trying to copy the Stripper, and when she... or he failed, he got frustrated. Started hacking away at the poor bastard."

"Is it so hard to skin a man?"

Robert almost laughed. "I wouldn't know firsthand, but the Stripper manages to remove most of the flesh without killing them. I imagine that'd take some skill." He knew full well it took years of practice.

"So the Bloodletter and the Stripper both have a fan."

"Or a competitor."

Cap drew a breath and released it slowly, letting it whistle between his teeth. "Just what we fucking need. Three psychos fighting it out."

Something on the corpse's hand caught Robert's eye. He knelt, shining his phone light on the knuckles. His breath caught as he eyed the long red hair coiled around the index finger.

Tsk, tsk, Francine.

#

Francine's police scanner warbled with the details of the warehouse a few hours before, but she'd heard nothing since. Tapping the desk, she contemplated calling Robert. Would he share details? Would her interest raise suspicion? She knew she'd failed, but would the cops overlook her screw-ups and credit the kill to the Stripper anyway?

Would the Stripper want revenge for her horribly inadequate emulation?

Every time Francine copied a killer, she wondered the same thing. The fire wanted one of them to confront her, to know she saw them, but they never did. The price of perfection, she supposed. If the cops couldn't figure her out, the killers weren't likely to either.

A knock at the door startled Francine from her thoughts. She stood, smoothing her skirt before walking across the living room to answer it. She peered through the peephole. Robert's cold eyes stared back. He looked angry.

She opened the door. "I didn't think I'd see you so soon."

He walked past her, but didn't reply.

"Is something wrong?" She touched her neck, rubbing the bruise he'd left with his mouth. The memory made her wet. His anger now might be rewarding.

He faced her, a scowl marring his handsome face. "Where were you last night?"

"Here. Why? I don't recall making any promises. You took off before I could say anything, actually."

"Where. Were. You?" he repeated, taking a step closer.

A thrill danced up her spine. "Here, I said. Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

Robert reached out, grabbing a handful of her hair. He yanked her against him.

A frisson of apprehension tickled her skin when she saw his hands. "Why are you wearing gloves?"

"The same reason you wear them."

The fire danced in her belly. "You're not making any sense."

"I know what you've done."

"I've done nothing that warrants you manhandling me like this."

"Stop the charade. Lying will only make it worse."

"And if I am lying?" she smiled as he tightened his grip, sending sparks of pain through her scalp. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Robert lifted her skirt with his free hand, and then ripped at her panties. "Why are you fucking with me?"

He shoved his fingers inside her. Francine closed her eyes, enjoying the delicious heat his movements ignited in her belly. "I'm not fucking with you, but we can remedy that if you want."

"Stupid bitch." He removed his fingers, shoving her toward the bedroom. "You know what I mean."

Francine didn't know why he was so angry. Maybe her crime scene sent him over the edge. He thought he knew the Stripper, but now he wasn't so sure. His obvious distress made him forget to take off the gloves. She grinned as he pushed her into her bedroom. She stumbled through the doorway, fighting to hide the smile before turning to face him.

Robert kicked the door closed. He removed his jacket, and then unbuckled his pants. Reaching into the jacket pocket, he removed something, and then tore at his shirt. He dropped jacket and shirt on the floor as he advanced toward her. "The warehouse, Francine. I know it was you."

His words sent the fire blazing. He couldn't know. Obviously, he was cracking under the pressure. "What warehouse? Robert, you're scaring me."

He smiled, suddenly in control once more. As he stripped the remainder of his clothes, she noted the way his body relaxed, the lines on his forehead smoothing out. She caught the movement of his arm. All warmth left her body as he lifted a knife.

The skinning knife from the police photos.

"Robert—this changes things. Don't you see?"

He slipped a shower cap over his hair.

She laughed.

Robert pushed her and she fell onto the bed. "Amused? You won't be in a minute. Have I mentioned how much I hate posers?"

"I'm not," she stammered as he bent over her. This was not at all what she planned. Robert—a cop—was the Stripper? No. He was cracking. Had to be. "I—it's not what it seems. Give me a chance to explain."

"Not interested."

She lay back as he straddled her thighs. She felt his erection against her thigh and realized she could still salvage the situation.

Robert rested the hand holding the knife next to her face. She was careful not to look at it, and lifted her hips.

He smiled. "You think sex is going to make me change my mind?"

"We could try to negotiate a mutually satisfying arrangement."

He lifted his hand to his mouth. With his teeth, he opened the foil packet.

"Robert—"

"Shut up."

She watched him slide the condom on, and then he shifted his body, thrusting inside her.

"Let's talk about this," she said.

"I'd rather fuck you first."

"If you're the Stripper, you'd know this is a mistake." She grasped to form words as he moved in and out of her. "You kill me here, it sends a message."

"It does." He quickened his thrusts, pushing into her violently.

While terrified, Francine felt her climax building. She'd waited for this, a mentor confronting his student, for so long. She didn't believe he'd kill her. The Stripper was a professional. That much she was sure of. If Robert was him, he wouldn't do it like this.

"You killed the guy next door." He slowed his thrusts. "Why?"

"The fire," she said arching her back. "It tells me. I have to or it'll consume me."

"Psycho." Robert pushed into her again, his body shuddering.

"So are you." She was disappointed that he was finished, but he hadn't moved the knife. He wouldn't do it.

He kissed her mouth gently, and then stared into her eyes. "I'm not crazy, Francine, though you certainly are certifiable."

"You skin people alive."

"Yes," he grinned. She felt the sting of the knife on her cheek. "I do."

"Touching." Cap's voice froze a place deep inside Robert.

"Cap?" Robert slid off Francine. The knife felt heavy in his hand. "It's not what you think."

Cap grinned as he slid a glove over his hand. "So many mistakes, Robert. I think it's time to call a professional."

FIVE

"Christ." Joshua, the new guy, slowly walked into the bedroom. His face was pale. "What in the flying fuck happened in here?"

Cap followed him inside, schooling his features to reflect the same shock. "Looks like someone's pissed."

The redhead's body lay in the middle of the bed, hands bound with Robert's tie. Her body was completely skinned. Her eyes bulged, and seemed to look down at the heap of red hair and Robert's skinning knife laying on her chest. Above her head, strips of skin had been stuck to the wall, but the message was different this time.

"Copycat," Cap read aloud. "Huh." While he admired Robert's skill as the Stripper, skinning someone was a shit ton of work. Cap preferred to let them bleed out. Quick and relatively painless.

"Yeah." Joshua walked toward the open bathroom door. He flicked the light on and gasped. "You might want to look in here."

Cap tore his gaze from the flesh on the wall and walked to the bathroom. "Oh fuck, this is just... I don't even have the words."

He allowed himself a quick smile as he eyed Robert's body, immersed in his own blood. On the wall there was another message: AMATEUR.

"It's like the fucking psychos got together for a party." Cap was careful to keep his booty covered feet on the carpet, but leaned into the bathroom. Every surface was covered in blood. The shower curtain, once a pristine white, now patterned with a dozen handprints, all Robert's post-mortem, of course.

"I guess the crazies take care of their own," Joshua quipped.

Cap stepped back into the bedroom, and stood next to Francine's body. She'd put up a good fight, more so than Robert. "This is going to be one hell of a report. Think she's what he says she is?"

"You did find a red hair at the warehouse," Joshua reminded him. "Forensics haven't finished analyzing it though."

"If it matches hers... just, holy shit. Poor Robbie."

"Think it was the Stripper?"

"Not sure. Maybe. The Bloodletter's still on the loose too." Cap rubbed his bald head. "Let the creeps process this shit. I need a drink."

Joshua nodded and walked to the door. Cap stood for a moment surveying his handiwork. "Fucking amateurs."

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The Raven's Claw

J.W. Kent
I find myself thinking a great deal about old Winthrope these days. That horrid little man was my tutor when I was a boy. I can hear him even now, his quiet voice at odds with the violence he displayed whilst employing his switch. "You are in error, Jeremiah. Be not dismayed, we all make mistakes. The secret of life is to learn from them, move on, and benefit from those lessons."

Well, riddle me this... how can one benefit from a mistake that only leads to a multitude of pain and suffering? Is it not difficult to "move on" from an error that renders naught but eternal damnation?

Yes, I had a tutor, when so many others in the early eighteenth century did not. I count myself fortunate for the education, if not the abuse that loathsome toad subjected me to in my defenseless youth. While my family was not wealthy, we did rather well for ourselves. My father was a respected member of the merchant class, and we lived in a fine old manor house in Yorkshire. As the third son,I had no hope of an inheritance. My mother, bless her, aspired that I join the church, but my fondness for the charms of the female form made me quite reluctant to impose the limitations of a clergyman upon myself. I could have purchased a commission in the King's Army, but I lacked the funds, and had no desire to take the King's shilling as a private soldier, or associate with the riff -raff that make up the ranks. Therefore, when the opportunity presented itself, I made my way to the New World, and found myself in the valley of Virginia.

Two years did I spend in the Opequon settlement, where I quickly found my skills as a farmer were much lacking. I was able to make a modest living for myself writing letters, and thanks to old Winthrope, who had insisted that I learn the German language, I taught English to the many German settlers that made their way to the frontier. Life in the valley was hard, but when war broke out with France, it became almost unbearable. The Shawnee, employed by the French to spread terror throughout the valley, raided, murdered, and burned. We were not encroaching on their lands, and indeed, the warriors of that tribe had to journey several days to create their mischief. Their leader, Killbuck, was a most canny general, and knew his trade well.

During this time of fear and uncertainty, I fell in love with one of my students, Cloe by name. She did not return my affections, however, and spurned me, saying she had no desire to wed a man who did not have the ability to grow his own crops. Despondent, I joined the Provincial Rangers, and was sent farther west to the valley of the Cacapon and Fort Edwards. My skills at woodcraft were little better than my farming, and I endured a large amount of ridicule at first. Luckily, my ability to read and write soon made me a valuable asset to the garrison, and I enjoyed a great deal more freedom than most of my associates.

It was there that I met Polly. She seemed so innocent. Her intense blue eyes, jet black hair, and fair complexion instantly infatuated me. She laughed when I asked her why she lived all alone, so far from the protection of the garrison, and said that she had naught to fear, the Indians left her in peace. She sweetly insinuated that a handsome young man such as myself would be a welcome caller to her cabin, and I was shocked to learn that she was far from the innocent young lass she appeared. Indeed, for a few coins, she would share the secrets of her charms, and twice I blissfully dallied with her, losing myself in her milk-white skin.

After my second visit, she gave me a gift at my parting. It was a pendant, and she told me it would please her if I wore it about my neck when next I called. Polly also said she needed a few yards of cloth, and if I were to bring along a companion who could pay well, she would allow me any liberty I desired.

So it was, on that fateful day after Martinmas, in the year of our Lord, 1757 that I trod the forest toward her home, with that horrid pendant about my neck, my manhood already swelling in anticipation. My companion, Adam, was one of the few friends I had made in that dreary outpost, and was of about my age. I wish my greatest sin was in coveting his lovely Virginia Rifle, with its sliding wooden patchbox, and elegant carving on the stock. The fowler that I carried seemed mundane, and poor in comparison.

It had been a warm autumn. The trees were bedecked with a gorgeous display of yellow and red leaves, and we walked with reverence for the sheer beauty of the wilds. We had assumed the Shawnee would be in their homeland, preparing for winter, but we were much mistaken.

The ambush took us entirely unawares. I managed to discharge my fowler, and the thumb-sized lead ball turned a painted face into a red ruin. I had never before killed a man, and my emotions were torn between horror at the ease in which I did so, and satisfaction that I had at least taken one of the savages with me to the grave. I had little opportunity to reflect on my action, as I was immediately thrown to the ground, and one of the savages then kneeled on my chest.

Poor Adam was unable to get off a shot, as a Shawnee warrior with mighty thews grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his side.

The man atop me raised a trade axe as if to strike, but stayed his hand when a Frenchman earnestly shouted something to him. The coward had hid behind a tree until the both of us were captured, and I wish to this day that his words had been but a moment too late.

I was stripped of my belongings. One of the ten Shawnee raiders donned my hunting jacket, dyed a dark brown with the hulls of black walnuts, and another my fine linen waistcoat. Even my tri-corn hat was taken from me, so it was bareheaded that I was led the mile or so to my captors' camp.

They started with Adam. Perhaps they made me watch to prolong my agony, since it was I who had slain one of their own. While they brutalized Adam, I endured the anticipation of knowing I was next. He was stripped naked, and bound to a large stake. Their festivities began when they discharged their firearms, Roman-nosed French fowlers for the most part, into the ground at his feet. They reloaded with not even a patch to contain the powder, and one at a time fired the blank charges into his flesh at close range. The burning powder penetrated his skin, and continued to burn. His screams haunt me to this day. Over, and over they reloaded thusly, firing the charges into his body, leaving black, ugly circles of torment on his belly, legs and buttocks. One even gleefully sent a blast into his scrotum, and Adam's wail echoed off the trees.

After forty or so such blasts, they built a small fire close to his feet. Horribly, it was not large enough to immolate him, but the heat began to slow cook him, as I preferred roast pork. My bowels turned to water as I watched the hair on his legs first smolder, and then burst into flame. After a time, his skin split like an overcooked sausage, and turned dark brown. The fire was then pushed back with branches, to allow access for yet further torment. Poor Adam did not even flinch when first one ear, and then the other was sliced off. He did however struggle enough that his head had to be restrained, when his eyelids were removed. They next held a large burning brand close to his face, and the noises he made while his eyes boiled in his head were not anything that should ever issue from a human mouth. Twice during his torment, poor Adam lost consciousness, but was quickly revived when water was thrown into his battered face.

During all of this, the Frenchman laughed, and poked at me, mocking my terror. I sincerely wish that he is rotting in hell. My only hope at that point was they would be exhausted from Adam's torment, and tiring from their sport, would kill me swiftly.

I knew my time was near, when one of the warriors drew his knife, and removed Adam's scalp. My unfortunate companion was cut from the stake, and thrown face-down into the coals of the fire. I still find it hard to believe there was any spark of life yet left in him, but he desperately struggled for a moment to remove himself from the coals, before becoming still. And then it was my turn.

The apparent leader of the Shawnee war party strode up to me, carrying Adam's rifle. He spoke, and I was raised to my wobbly, shaking feet. He stepped close enough to me that I could smell the rancid fat that the pigment of his war-paint had been mixed in. His ears, stretched by plugs or some other method, were cut along the outside edge and hung almost to his shoulders. From his nose hung a fan-shaped pendant, probably fashioned from a scrap cut from a trade pot, and my mind incredulously wondered what it would be like to sneeze with such an ornament in place.

I don't know where I found the courage, but I met his gaze. I saw no evil in his eyes. He was after all, only doing his job, and since I can not fault a man for being good at his trade, I found it in my heart to forgive him. A strange thought under the circumstances, I know, but it lent me a little peace. We looked into each other's eyes for at least a minute, before he nodded, and my shirt was torn off of me, revealing Polly's gift. He stepped back, his eyes filled with both fear and disappointment.

The pendant Polly had given me is a wretched looking thing. Hanging from a thin leather strip, was the dried foot of a large raven, curled up like a talon. Copper wire had been carefully wrapped around the stub of the leg, and three short, black feathers were attached by it.

The Shawnee leader spoke a few terse words. My hands were so numb from the tight leather straps about my wrists that I wasn't even aware that my bonds had been cut, until the rush of returning circulation sent agonizing pins and needles into them.

One by one, the Shawnee warriors deposited my belongings at my feet: my fowler, my jacket, my waistcoat. The pile grew as my shot-bag and powder horn joined them. Even my stag-handled knife was returned. Confused beyond words, all I could do was mutely stand there.

The Frenchman shouted in protest, and the leader calmly raised Adam's rifle, and sent a fifty four caliber ball into the son of a bitch's heart. Never argue with a Shawnee when his mind is made up.

The savages then vanished into the woods. The last look the leader gave me was one of pity. Bastard.

I sobbed with relief, not knowing they had doomed me to a far worse torment than poor Adam. I had believed then that his death was horrible beyond imagining; if I could, I would laugh at just how naive I was. I would gladly trade places with him. I envy him, at least he is free. You might suggest I could have saved myself, had I fled in the other direction, rather than heading straight to Polly's cabin, but my skin had already touched the Raven's Claw. I am her slave. She owns my soul.

Polly, she named herself to me. She has been known by many names over the ages: Lillith, Ishtar, Ate, and I unknowingly went to her like a lamb to the slaughter. I have witnessed, and have been forced to partake in acts that would fry your mind. I am denied the blissful retreat of insanity, I am not allowed death. I cannot age.

At some point in the last hundred years or so, she found that it is great fun to cause madness in otherwise normal people, and let them do her work for her. Children still disappear wherever we go; an evil demonic bitch still has to eat, after all, but for the most part my job is to get the latest victim to touch the cursed claw. I am the perfect tool for this job; handsome, with the ability to put people at ease. Remember Jack the Ripper? Yeah, that was our doing. The most successful effort, at least from her perspective, came about after our stay in Germany during the late 1930s. Before you put all the blame on me for the horrors of what transpired afterwards, I think part of the blame should rest on the head of old Winthrope. It was his insistence on my learning German that allowed me to get close enough to that arrogant little prick with the goofy moustache to set it all in motion.

Even now, I await the reason for our visit to Milwaukee. Such a squalid, ugly town this is. At least San Francisco had some charm; sure, I would love a little peace and love to go with the madness and death... Groovy.

Ah, here he is now, the poor bastard, boarding this smelly modern contrivance so inelegantly called a bus. His name is Jeff. Pardon me while I am forced to do the mistresses bidding...

"Hello, Mr. Dahmer? Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"No. Wow, man, that's weird as shit... Hey, how do you know my name?"

It really doesn't matter, the dumbass touched the claw. He is hers now. If I had a heart, it would break.

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The Dawning

Allison M Dickson
We agree to meet at Freshies, a local café where the coffee is bad and the lighting is bright. It's the perfect place for making sure the person you've met online is really a person. Sure, I could ask if Ethan is human over a candlelit dinner, but it would be a waste of breath. Analogues aren't legally required to answer the question truthfully, based on some nonsense about companies having the right to protect their investments from thieves and poachers. Convenient for the Analogues, but not so much for the rest of us.

My parents never had to worry about this sort of thing. When they met on the Internet thirty years ago, the most basic assumption—that they were human beings—was a safe one. Now it's the hardest bet of all to make, and I've lost it more times than I'm willing to admit. I am nonetheless taking another swing at finding an organic mate in our increasingly inorganic world. People like me are the new optimists, the hopeless romantics. Others might say we're just too stupid to know when to quit, but I don't know if that's what's driving me on this crazy mission. It's something else, intangible, this notion of the right person, the one for whom I was made, waiting for me out there. I search for him like early prospectors sifted pans of pebbles in search of those elusive gold nuggets. It's too soon to tell, but Ethan may just be the one.

Of course, he has to show up first, and those odds are never in my favor.

Having arrived a few minutes early, I order an Americano and take a seat by the window, all the while reminding myself what I need to look for when he arrives, as if I couldn't recite the routine in my sleep. While no corporation or government entity has provided official rules for determining if people are real or Analogue, advice has been available in countless books, blogs, forums, and news articles worldwide for the last few years, and everyone knows it by heart. Even little children are learning the cues. What must it be like to grow up in a world like this, with suspicion bred into your DNA? It drains me.

I have decided he won't show. No one I've met online actually has. It must be a defect I have, something weak and gullible. I should just get up and leave in order to avoid yet another embarrassment. The employees likely call me a lost cause behind my back.

A bell chimes just as I put my purse strap over my shoulder, and a tall gentleman with a flop of dark blond hair walks in. I can only see his profile, but I know it's Ethan Kindred. My guy. Well, not my guy yet, but seeing him breeds a warm familiarity in my gut, probably because of the rapport we established online. My giddiness is nearly all-consuming, but I take a shaky breath and adjust my hair and skirt, ignoring the cartwheels in my stomach.

He scans the room for a second and heads over when he sees me, flashing a smile the whole way. His teeth are white, but not blinding, and I allow myself another nip of relief. We shake hands and linger at it a bit. Not for intimacy's sake, at least not completely. It's a tactile test, flesh meeting flesh. Even the most rudimentary contact can tell you a lot. Though his hand carries the chill of early spring, warmth radiates from beneath the flesh. I feel callouses, confirming what he told me about being a carpenter.

Good signs, but far from definitive.

"Hi, Renee. It's great to see you in person."

"Yes, same to you. I'm glad you came." Both true and not true. My nerves are howling and I want to leave, but in my current state, if I ran out of here right now, I would trip over my own feet and crash through the glass door. The only way out is through.

"You seem a little nervous," he says, grinning.

"I am. But only a little."

"It's okay. I am too. I'll grab a drink and be right back. Do you need anything?" I shake my head, and he steps up to the counter to order his coffee.

His movements seem normal, human, but that's as meaningless as warm flesh. They all move fluidly, they all feel warm to the touch. If they didn't, it would save us a lot of time. I have to admit he is more handsome than his pictures looked online, but not enough to set off any red flags yet. Pleasing is a better word to describe him. It's the sort of face shaped by the softness of a womb rather than the hard edges of a machine, but this is the sort of confirmation bias I'm trying to avoid.

He carries his drink over and sits down. I see he ordered standard black drip, which, if I know Freshies as well as I think, has been sitting on a burner for the last two hours getting nice and nasty.

Neither of us speaks for the first few minutes as we conduct the first part of the ritual: sensing all the senses. Authenticity is determined not by one factor, but by the total sum. It isn't enough to read about a love of coffee on our profiles. We must also watch each other's manual dexterity as we pick up our mugs by the handles, avoiding the hot spots, and then listen for the sound of a slurp as we carefully sample the scalding liquid to avoid burning our tongues. Ethan passes both tests easily enough, as do I.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the drink, but that isn't what I'm looking for. It's subtler, and if you blink you miss it. There it is, the slight downturn of his mouth as he registers the pungent acidity of the unadulterated java. All but the most hardened souls wince when they get a taste of Freshies. It's why this place exists, to host these ever so precarious first dates in our paranoid new world. Even my Americano feels like a hard bite on the tongue.

This brief moment, a simple sip of coffee, has now become a vital currency with which we buy our reality.

Ethan sets down his mug with a mew of distaste. "Gah! This stuff sucks, doesn't it?"

I grin, but inwardly I'm doing a backflip. Analogues don't tend to use such informal discourse. Okay, stay calm, Renee. We're not through the woods yet.

"I was thinking it was more like tar strained through a sweaty gym sock," I reply.

"That's more accurate." We both giggle again, and everything feels a bit more relaxed between us, even as we embark on the next part of the ritual.

Five years ago, scanning someone's features in an open and evaluating way would have been considered rude and possibly earned you a slap across the face. Now it's as compulsory as signaling before you make a turn. We humans have always been a mosaic of flaws, and we once worked so hard and spent so much money hiding every wrinkle, pimple, birthmark, scar, and bruise with expensive creams and powders. Now we hold our blemishes high. Our skin, with all its idiosyncrasies, is a roadmap to the land of the bona fide. I have psoriasis, a condition that once caused me great embarrassment, but it's now a source of envy for many, a veritable badge of humanity.

I pity the beautiful people now, the genetically gifted ones who will always have to work that much harder to prove themselves. The Analogues may start copying our flaws as well someday, but it's a nightmare to even ponder. At that point, we will have to slice open our stomachs and empty our guts onto the floor to show what's inside.

Ethan studies the spots of inflamed flesh on my hands while I examine the wrinkles bracketing his eyes and the small mole kissing his left temple. A bright red dot near his chin tells me he cut himself shaving, and only just got the nick to clot. His blood isn't what reassures me; Analogues can bleed every bit as much as humans. They can also cry and piss, from what I've heard. I'm more interested in the unsteady hand that likely led to the cut.

Most telling, however, are his eyes. They're dark blue pools brimming with the thirty-six years he's allegedly lived. You can usually feel a person's life experience wafting off of them like cologne, and I can feel it immediately with Ethan. He's wandered the earth and felt its changes down to his bones, but a beleaguered optimism still manages to peek through the cracks, kind of like the sun finally emerging after a destructive hurricane.

He can probably sense my years as well, all twenty-nine of them. I go to pick up my coffee cup, but wind up knocking it over instead. The vile black fluid spills across the table and we both back away to avoid it touching us. So much for my own steady hands, but I'll proudly boast any flaw I can right now, even if I come off looking like a klutz. A slight Indian man rushes over with a towel and silently wipes up the mess before scurrying away.

I sit back and let out a sigh. "That was exciting."

"Indeed. Did you burn yourself?"

"No, I'm good. Still better than I was before you got here."

He grins, and his eyes twinkle in a way that make me want to leap across the table and kiss him. "It's tough out there. To tell you the truth, I almost didn't come. I was afraid of the disappointment I would feel if you didn't show up, or if you'd walked in and immediately appeared perfect. You know, too perfect."

"Yes, I understand. I was actually about to leave when you showed up."

"Then it seems the universe is on my side today. This is an interesting place, though. Everyone seems to be meeting for the first time."

My eyes wander over to a couple sitting at a table in the corner, where a mousy-haired chubby girl with pockmarked cheeks is holding hands with a chiseled demigod, the sort of guy who looks like he fell off a fashion runway in the Garment District. The girl doesn't look suspicious of the perfection before her. In fact, her eyes are shining with adoration for her almost certainly synthetic boyfriend.

A girl like her never would have found a guy like that before the world changed. Analogues don't judge or seem to care at all about our flaws. Maybe that's the point of them, so no one has to feel lonely anymore or settle for what they don't want. Why do humans try so hard to outrun their own happiness? That girl has it figured out, and I suddenly want to be her.

I turn back to Ethan. "This process is so exhausting. You have to think at some point things would get easier, labeling Analogues so people could just choose who they wanted."

He snorts and takes another wincing sip of coffee. "That will never happen. Too many politicians and businessmen are invested in this experiment."

"You sound a little cynical."

"I suppose I do. Then again, it's hard not to be after the Dawning."

We've had this conversation before in our online chats, but it never seems to grow old. Everyone talks about the Dawning, even five years after the day we all learned about the lie of social media, that nearly everyone on it was part of a fancy new A.I. designed to interact with us, take our information and use it to manipulate us. The hacker group responsible, New Dawn, exposed at least five companies who were part of the program, and it nearly brought the world to its knees. Since then, it seems the lies have gone well beyond artificial intelligence floating around like so much flotsam on the Internet. Some say the Analogues may have even come first. No one knows for sure, but everyone has their theories and their questions. What's to become of us in another five years? Will the human race be outmoded altogether? Has it already?

It's getting so hard to tell what's real. It seems pointless to keep trying. I gave up with the online Turing tests, but I still go through the rituals of checking for human characteristics when I meet someone in person, even if it's mostly reflexive. Perhaps I should just stop.

If Ethan revealed himself right now to be an Analogue, would I get up and walk away? The very large part of me tired of being a single woman with two cats and a tiny apartment weights me in my seat, and it knows the answer to that question.

Of course, I can't say any of this aloud. It's a touchy topic for most people. We humans fear being marginalized. It makes us ugly and defensive. I've seen enough murders and the torturing of Analogues online to know it's best to just keep those feelings buried until you can be absolutely sure you're in a safe place. The darkest part of my mind wonders if he's one of those Analogue torturers seeking out a new victim, but I shove that thought away. Paranoia is a real buzzkill, and Ethan doesn't give me that vibe anyway.

He's staring at me, as if waiting for me to pick the conversation up again. "I get the sense you've been through all this before. Dating after the Dawning, I mean."

He grunts and plucks a few sugar packets out of the holder. At Freshies, they call those little white flags of surrender. "Oh, I've done this a few times, but it never works out."

"Were they all human? It's okay. You can tell me."

"In some ways too human." He stirs the white granules into his drink, leaving me to wonder if he's really answered my question. I want to press further, but he counters. "What about you? Do you date much?"

"Honestly, I've never gotten this far. Ever since the Dawning, I've arranged to meet only a handful of my online acquaintances in person, and they've all stood me up, either because they're jerks or because they're A.I. without a body to match."

"Or they could have been afraid, kind of like we were."

"Sure, yeah. Either way, I have a pretty terrible track record with these things."

"Oh, I wouldn't feel so bad." He sips his newly sweetened coffee. "I was fooled by my own mother, you know."

"How so?"

"Well, my biological mother, I should say. I was adopted. My bio mom reached out to me online about five years ago, not long before the Dawning. We spoke every day for a few months. It was wonderful having her back in my life, especially since my adopted parents both died when I was young. I had planned to fly out to California to visit her that Christmas, and then everything went to hell. It turned out three-quarters of my online friends, including her, were all fakes. After the dust settled, I did a little digging and learned my bio mom died a few years before. Drug overdose."

I stare at him. No words feel adequate, so I reach over and touch his hand, hoping it isn't too forward. "Oh Ethan, that's so terrible."

He looks surprised by my touch, but not displeased. "That's the nature of it, though. The system could sense what we wanted most, and then created it. Maybe in some weird way, it thought it was being benevolent by giving me my real mother. The thought has kept me going through all of this. As much as it hurts, I refuse to believe the people responsible for this are truly evil, you know? Misguided, maybe, but not malevolent."

We are silent for a moment, and I let the busy chatter of the other patrons swirl around me. The world outside is so much different than it was five years ago, but in here it feels like a time warp. People are laughing, holding hands, working on their computers, living in the moment. It's hard to feel malevolence in a place like this. "Do you ever wish the Dawning hadn't happened?"

It's the first time I've ever asked someone this, but Ethan makes me feel comfortable, which I suppose is odd considering how little we truly know one another. A thought about star-crossed lovers from a past life comes to me. Usually that stuff is too fanciful for my blood, but I'm in too good a mood to swat it away.

"You mean do I wish I was still living in an illusion? Do I wish I could keep believing the lie that hundreds of people I once confided in, sent gifts to, laughed with, and prayed for were every bit as real and important to me as the ones I know in the flesh? A lot of people have died since that day, of broken hearts or in jail cells because they tried to protest what was going on and realized how impossible it was to win."

He's sitting up higher, eyes brighter and filled with more than a touch of anger. I almost regret having asked the question, because it has stoked a fire in him, but then he sighs and slumps back in his chair again. "I wish every single day the Dawning hadn't happened. What good did it do any of us, really? I haven't been able to trust anything or anyone ever since. I can't even remember the last night I slept all the way through."

His words pummel me. Every single one of them ring true, echoing what I've carried inside of me so long, but felt too afraid to admit. No one wants to say they wish they were still living a lie, even if it's what we all feel, but I'm grateful he and I can share this secret together. I wipe a small tear from the corner of my eye. "I know exactly what you mean."

He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I believe in his warmth and I grab hold of it. "You want to get out of here? This place sucks."

Without another word, I get up and follow him out of the bustling café, still clasping his hand. We stroll down the street after agreeing to head over to Central Park. It's strange how quiet the city seems now compared to what it once was. The traffic is no longer a snarl of cars, exhaust, and horns. It's a placid and orderly caravan. The news boasts every day about falling crime rates. Everyone knows it's because of the Analogues, even if no one has the balls to say it.

But where did all the people go? Did they all flee when I wasn't looking? Not that I mind as Ethan and I stroll along a once chaotic avenue, possibly the only two humans in the vicinity, impervious to the other bodies passing us by.

"I used to hate this place," he says. "Before the Dawning, I had actually been looking to leave the city."

"Where would you go?"

"Lots of places. It's a big world. Haven't you ever thought of leaving?"

His question hits me unexpectedly. If someone had asked me this an hour ago, I would have said leaving New York was anathema. It's a place people all around the world dream of visiting, and I should be so lucky to be able to live here. But that answer feels empty and rehearsed to me now. If Ethan offered to take me somewhere else, I would go. "I guess if I had a good enough reason to leave, I would consider it."

He stops and looks at me for a moment, frowning but somehow also hopeful. "You really mean that?"

"I have no reason to lie. Did you expect me to say something else?"

He grins and shakes his head. "I guess maybe I think you're too good to be true."

"I was thinking the same thing about you."

We enter the park, where other people are strolling hand in hand along the paths while birds flit from branch to branch. Notes from a lone saxophone carry on the breeze. Even the kids seem content. I've heard talk of Analogue offspring, but it seems too absurd to take seriously. Maybe it's just the effect of growing up in a more temperate world.

"It's strange how so many things are better now, but we want to keep believing the lies of yesterday."

He nods. "The lies made us feel important, I guess. But maybe that was the problem all along. Humans shouldn't feel so important. It goes to our heads."

We stop at a small duck pond. The fowl, fat and spoiled on scraps of hot dog buns and other castaway junk food, paddle along in search of food, muttering among themselves like curmudgeons who remember when the world was a better place. Ethan turns to me, and I realize I'm close enough to smell him. It's the sweetness of fresh-cut wood, and the coffee he just drank. Comforting smells I could lose myself in.

I step closer and crane my neck ever so slightly upward, hoping this signals it's okay to kiss me. It works. The coffee tastes better on his lips. Everything is better than it was before I met him. I don't want to leave this bubble we've created. We barely know each other. But he gives me a sense of refuge, and maybe that's enough for now.

The great tragedy of life is all kisses must end. "Where do we go from here?" he whispers, and I can't tell if he means it philosophically or literally. Perhaps both.

"Is it too forward if I suggest your place?" I'm taking a leap, hoping it doesn't drive him off, but he grins and takes me by the hand.

***

His apartment is like most in this city, at least for those who live here on a shoestring. I can barely turn around in it, but it manages to be cozy. Bookshelves line every wall and stretch to the ceiling. A ratty old wing chair squats in the corner, with a beautiful wooden stool for putting up his feet,—possibly something he made. The only piece of modern technology in the place is a scarred old tablet lying on a stack of books. He has a single burner cooktop and a small convection oven. The bed folds up into the wall. There is a common shower down the hall, but he at least has a commode and a sink for basic necessities. He puts a kettle on the burner and then folds down the bed.

"Not to be presumptuous," he says. "I'm just limited on furniture."

"Understood. But I don't mind you being presumptive." Did I really just say that? Part of me feels like I overstepped some boundary, but who makes such boundaries in the first place, and why do I care about them? I'm in a man's apartment. An attractive man's apartment. He wouldn't have had me here if he didn't want me on that bed, and by the way he's looking at me, I can tell I've got it right. Well, mostly. Something is on his mind, because that frown is back again. I could do without those troubled looks.

The kettle whistles, and he pulls it off the burner.

"Renee, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

He pours hot water over the waiting teabags and then sets the kettle aside. "Have you ever had sex?"

I look down at my feet, cheeks burning hot. So much for trying to act confident. "Is it bad that I haven't?"

He steps over to me and takes my hands. "No, God no. I don't want you to feel bad for something like that ever. But are you sure you want to do this so soon after we've met?"

"I don't feel like we've just met, though. I think that's why I want to do it."

He's still looking down at my hands. "So your instincts are telling you it's okay, but is it because of me or because you just want to have sex?"

"It's because I want to have sex, with you. I trust you. You're attractive and kind. My body is telling me it needs to be close to you. Why? Aren't you feeling the same way?"

He smiles. "Oh believe me, I'm feeling it. I was feeling it before we even met in person, and now that you're standing here in my apartment, it's pretty much all I'm thinking about."

I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer, sensing his senses, not because the "rules" say I should, but because he feels right. His body is solid and beautiful with its human flaws. The sweet, masculine smell of him swirls around my head. His hands caress my face and run down my back with a gentle confidence, and when he kisses me again, I drop any worry I might have had about whether or not he, or anyone else for that matter, is real.

This is real enough.

***

I'm sitting naked in Ethan's chair, paralyzed completely, unable to remember how I got here. He's pacing back and forth on the postage stamp of space in front of the door, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. A set of long, bloody scratch marks runs down his back.

"Ethan?" It feels like an act of ventriloquism through my frozen lips and jaw. He doesn't appear to notice, but continues to pace while chewing on his thumbnail. He's nervous, but panic is a rat trapped in my ribcage, and it's digging frantically for escape. Unable to so much as tremble, I fear my insides will just liquefy.

I'm dreaming, of course. The body is paralyzed during deep sleep, and I'm just in a lucid state. My vision starts to gray around the edges and I think I might be leaving the dream, but then a knock sounds, bringing me back, and when he opens the door I feel a cool breeze on my naked body and know this is actually happening.

Two men with small suitcases file in, followed by a scowling battering ram of a brunette. She towers over all three of the men with the help of a pair of red stiletto heels, but I have a feeling she would still have at least an inch on Ethan without them. Clearly, she enjoys her intimidating presence, judging by how she carries herself. If she isn't an Analogue, she probably models herself after one. Her two peons stand silently beside her, both of them of Indian descent, their skin the color of burnt caramel. I know one of them. Where have I seen him?

I'm feeling a lot less sure of myself right now. My memory and instincts are scattershot. All I can sense is danger blinking in my head like a red light.

Ethan starts to speak, but the woman grabs his arm and whips him around to examine the scratches on his back. "My God, what the hell did you do to her?" she demands.

"Nothing I wasn't supposed to!"

"Oh come on. She has been perfect on every test, and right before we go to production, she snaps? You broke protocol, and the warden and Mr. Ambrose both are going to have a goddamn field day with you."

Ethan looks pained and afraid, and I can't even process the rest of what she just said. Warden? Is Ethan a prisoner?

"I'm telling you, Olga, she's just not right yet. I followed the script perfectly, but she's changing somehow. It's a bug." The others lean forward, like I'm a strange new insect pinned to a board.

One of the men, the one I know from somewhere, hunkers down and examines my hands. "How was she in the coffee shop? Aggressive at all?"

Ethan shakes his head. "No. She was normal, I guess. She had the Americano like always, drank a few sips, checked me out. We pretty much talked about the same stuff as always."

Olga raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean 'pretty much?'"

"I don't know. I can't remember every single word. I'm not an Analogue, remember?"

"Did she do the coffee metaphor?"

"Yes. The one about the gym sock."

I cry out again, but no one seems to hear or care. It's as if I'm stuck inside an airtight jar. They've drugged me. That much is clear. How else would I be paralyzed? I can't imagine what they plan to do with me next.

Oh Ethan, how could I have been so wrong about you?

"Did she drop the coffee cup?" asks Olga.

Ethan looks like he's barely holding onto his patience, but he rolls his eyes. "Yes, she always drops the cup. This isn't a motor thing."

That's when it occurs to me where I've seen the Indian man kneeling before me. He cleaned up my spilled coffee! I . . . I can barely think. His fingers are flying across that tablet, and it's making my head spin.

Olga turns to Ethan, hands planted on her generous hips. "You're going to tell me everything that happened while Naveen cleans your wounds."

"Look, that's not necessary. I'll just take a shower while you review the footage."

"Nonsense. Those scratches are deep and will get infected if we don't treat them. And I want to hear it all in your words, because if you're trying to game this whole thing in some way, I'll smell it on your breath. All you convicts are the same."

The other man, Naveen presumably, opens up his case and pulls out first aid materials. Ethan winces as the alcohol-soaked gauze makes contact with his broken flesh. Definitely human, those winces. Worse than any from Freshies coffee. He looks over at me, and his eyes soften. Even now, in spite of everything I have seen and heard, my heart swells with affection. That's real. The rest of this . . . well, it can't be. There has to be an explanation for it. Something other than what it looks like.

"Did you tell her the story about your bio mother?" Olga asks.

"Yes."

"How did she react?"

"Concerned, curious. The same as always."

"And she conversed with you about wishing the Dawning hadn't happened? Did anything change there?"

"Word for word, the identical discussion." He's lying. The hesitation before he answers is so slight you could almost miss it, and I hope Olga does.

The man flashes a penlight in my eyes and starts typing on a tablet. "How did she respond when you asked the flight risk question? Did she become agitated or express a desire to flee?"

"No. She has no interest in leaving New York." No hesitation this time, but most certainly a lie. Is he trying to protect me? They could find out the truth easily enough, but it's possible he's hoping they won't check. A hell of a gamble on his part.

"Who initiated the sexual encounter? Was it you or her?" Naveen asks.

Ethan runs his hand through his hair. "She did, actually. I guess she was a touch more forward overall, which probably explains the scratches, you know, during."

The corner of Olga's thin red mouth turns up in a grin as she looks at me. "Isn't that interesting? Rajat, you may have to recalibrate our girl's libido just a touch. She's supposed to be a demure virgin. If I wanted a sex kitten, I would have given her bigger tits."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Rage and confusion are all I understand right now. They're talking about me as if I am a product. An Analogue. Impossible! I am a human being. I have parents and memories and two cats named Liam and Ringo. I have flaws. My name is Renee . . . what's my last name?

"At what point during the act did she give you those scratches?" Olga asks.

"Near the end. I think she had an orgasm. A real one."

Olga and her two assistants look at one another and burst out laughing. "I am sorry, but that is impossible," says Rajat. "We haven't coded anything to that degree."

"That's what you say, but I felt it. And feel free to have a look at my back again. Obviously something changed."

Olga starts pacing in the same place Ethan was earlier. "I knew this would happen when you started programming in that blasted skin disease, Rajat. It's autoimmune. It affects every system, not just skin. We're playing with fire here, and Mr. Ambrose is not going to stand for it."

"I will have another look when we get her back to the lab, Ma'am," Rajat says. I can see sweat beading up on his forehead, and all I want to do is cry. My one irrefutable badge of humanity is nothing more than unstable computer code programmed by a terrified Indian engineer. I am an Analogue. I can feel my heartbeat, and the way it swelled with joy when Ethan kissed me, and when he was inside me. When he whispered he loved me.

I wasn't sure if it was true then, but now I know it is, because he's met me many times before. Is that why he feels so familiar to me? Maybe an imprint of him remains.

Ethan is sitting on the bed watching me, those blue eyes holding all his years on display. Years that saw the inside of a prison and whatever horrors led him there. I'm sending him everything I have, begging him to help me. And he has to, because he loves me. I know by the way he whispered it, barely audible even to me, so these three wouldn't hear.

"Well clearly we're not ready for production," Olga says. "Mr. Ambrose will be upset at another delay, but I think with a little convincing, he will allow a few more tests. We need this one to be perfect, gentlemen. There is no room for error, not even for me."

Ethan stands up. "I'll be ready to go again tomorrow."

Olga rolls her eyes. "Nonsense. Not with those scratches on your back, Casanova. We'll go with your understudy and swap out her memory files. If we need you again, we'll call."

"No, come on! I know her better than anyone else. You can't switch horses in midstream. My back will heal up fine."

I feel a faint trickle of hope. Yes, Ethan. That's it. Fight for me. I don't know who you are or what led you into the employ of these monsters, but I know you're not one of them.

The woman sneers at him. "Oh would you look at this, boys? Our tester has gone and fallen in love with our girl." She throws her withering black gaze my way. "Not that I can blame you one little bit. She is quite lovely. I modeled her after myself, only less . . . imposing."

"It isn't about that," Ethan mutters. His lie is obvious to everyone in the room now.

She comes over to him and strokes the side of his face in a way I can't tell is motherly or something more. Either way, I don't like it. "Sure sure. Look, I see it all the time. You convicts are all so pathetic and lonely, and too tired of using each other for companionship. It's why you're so damn useful for this job. Go ahead and love her. It helps ensure you'll do what it takes to protect our assets. But we've given you one job." She raises one long finger, which is tipped with a long red fingernail. "One. Follow the script to the letter. If you can't manage that, there are hundreds of other inmates on the waitlist anxious to take your place. Is that clear?"

Sufficiently cowed, Ethan hangs his head. Meanwhile, I have another dozen or so reasons to weep, if only I could. "Yes, Ma'am. Perfectly clear."

"Good." She looks at Rajat. "Get her dressed. We can't take her out of here naked as the day she was built. Appearances are still important. And go ahead and wipe her memory. I'm satisfied enough with the convict's statement, and we don't really have time to verify every little thing."

"Please, let me dress her," Ethan says. "I do it every time."

Olga sighs. "Fine, just make it snappy. We're going to be up all night debugging and rebuilding half of her databases."

It physically hurts to hear my consciousness referred to so mechanically. If only they knew the miracle they'd created, but they're fools, proof the human race is still far too myopic and dangerous to save itself.

Ethan gathers my skirt, blouse, and undergarments from the floor at foot of the bed and starts dressing me. It should frighten me how practiced he seems at this, but I feel safer when he's close. Better him than those other three, especially the woman who looks at me like a wayward dog in need of severe training. As he buttons my blouse, he reaches up to straighten up my hair, and the barest whisper leaves his mouth, which I realize now I can only hear because I don't have human ears.

"I'll get us out of here. I promise."

When he steps back, he still looks afraid, but hopeful. I wish I could tell him I received the message, and will do everything in my power to keep it safe. And tomorrow, when he asks me if I've ever thought about leaving New York, the secret part of my mind holding onto this memory will speak up, tell me to take him by the hand and say, "Let's leave right now."

Rajat is typing away madly on his tablet, and I can hear a ringing in my ears, distant but growing closer. It's the sound of my dying memories. Soon I will know only darkness.

Ethan winks at me. "See you tomorrow."

Yes. Tomorrow. When I wake up, I will see him again for the first time. But I will have his promise with me, the one I'm carrying now into the void.

Continue reading or return to table of contents.

The Dragon is in the Details

Thomas Cardin
On the morning's rising tide, a small river sloop jigged past several departing fishing boats to tie up at the Capistrael docks. Two men, the only persons aboard, hopped ashore and stared upward at the rising spiral of a city. The larger of the two men, he with a large leaf-bladed spear extending high over his back, wore the leathers and furs of a northerner. The smaller man concealed much of his appearance and shape beneath a voluminous dark cloak.

Vittaro turned his gaze away from the ancient city to eye the leaf-bladed spear rearing high above Sigmeyer's shoulder. "It's a big mistake to carry that thing around out in the open."

Sigmeyer let loose a heavy sigh. "Again with this? Where do you suggest I hide it? Under my cloak like you hide your arsenal? It is over eight feet long. Are you suggesting I fold it up somehow?"

"Have you tried? It is magical after all." Vittaro lowered his voice and ducked deeper beneath his dark hood. "Listen, all I am saying is perhaps you should cover it up like you always have and leave it on the boat. Why today do you have to carry it with you?"

"That from you?" Sigmeyer chuckled deep in his broad chest. "He who locks all his belongings down at night behind a dozen trip wires and traps? I will not risk it to thieves. I know how they work. Regardless, I have told you, today is different."

They stepped off of the guano stained dock and onto the broad, stone-paved avenue, a great stairway that spiraled up toward the central white palace of Capistrael. Every few strides they met with a half-foot rise.

Vittaro silently tallied the number of dockhands and citizens who likewise threw a glance toward the long spear. "What makes today different?" he asked.

"It is the fourth day of the Month of the Child, is it not?"

Vittaro sniffed at the cold spring air blowing in off the sea. "I suppose it is."

"Well then today is the day that I am supposed to come to this city and find a sorcerer to divine its purpose and lore. I have carried it with me for over three years, waiting for today."

"Very well," Vittaro said with a roll of his narrow shoulders. "Can we at least find this sorcerer first—before you find an inn and get started on drinking? I'll even pay for half his fee. I do not like the word inscribed at the base of the spearhead. It is a bad thing, I'm sure of it."

Sigmeyer halted to round on the smaller Vittaro. "But do you know what it says? No. And you are going to pay for all of it, drinks as well. Your purse is bulging from last night's winnings on the ore barge. Winnings I earned you."

"You won your bout all by yourself, did you?" Vittaro said. "You know that rum I brought you beforehand had more than just rum in it. You must have felt it surging through your already sizeable muscles." He made a show of placing his hands on his hips. The practiced gesture brushed his dark cloak back to expose the hilts of several long blades.

"Oh, Lady's tangled web! Are you using the deadly act on me? We have been together since I found you in the pits of Baddaska. Put your toys away." Sigmeyer turned to continue up the rising avenue. "I still would have won without you slipping me whatever that was," he added under his breath.

Vittaro's ears missed nothing, but he let his cloak fall and continued beside his friend. "You needed an edge. I think that guy had some ogre blood somewhere in his family tree."

"Hah, I know you better than that. You would not bet on me unless it was a sure thing."

"So you are saying it wasn't a sure thing before that rum? Half, and you're on your own for your drinks."

Sigmeyer sighed. "Very well. Speaking of family trees, are you still sticking with your story?"

"My story?"

"I know you are not a half elf, my dusky-skinned friend."

Vittaro sputtered. "Of course I am! As I have told you many times, my father was an elf, my mother a dark-skinned woman from southern Ousenar. She was of pure ancient Zuxran blood."

"And I have told you many times, I have met half elves before, and you are not one. They are not a mix between humans and elves, but a race unto themselves. They are only called half elves because they tend to be larger boned and more human-like in appearance than true elves. More importantly, elves and humans cannot interbreed."

"You speak out of ignorance, my friend. Such breeding was possible because of my mother's rare blood."

"Your mother could not have been a Zuxran. Zuxrans were among the ancients, most of whom died in the Cataclysm. The only survivors were folk of the Keth valley on Erenar, and this is long before half elves appeared on Vorallon."

"You know your history, I'll not dispute that, but there were indeed survivors on Ousenar. They feared persecution from those very same survivors across the Vestral Sea and so they kept their existence hidden. You'll not read of them in any dusty books."

"Very well then, if your mother traces her lineage so far back, surely she has told you what the nature of the great Cataclysm was?"

"A disease," Vittaro answered without pause. "A virulent disease that killed plants, animals, and people alike."

Sigmeyer chuckled again. "Now you are just spouting what the sages spread among the commoners who have half an ear to listen."

"I am sure you are going to tell me something else is true. You have some mystical knowledge that none other in all of Vorallon knows?"

"Oh, I am not the only man who knows, Vittaro," Sigmeyer said. "Well, perhaps I could be, but I do not believe so. I offer you an exchange. If someday you are honest with me about your heritage, then soon shall follow from my lips the truth of Vorallon's past."

He stopped as he said this last, turning toward the facade of a tall building of cut stone blocks and blackened iron trim. Sigils and glyphs adorned the heavy doorway.

"If this is not the abode of a sorcerer then I do not know what is," Sigmeyer said, pulling the long spear from the leather sling at his back. The dry rasp of its ironwood shaft made Vittaro flinch back, but he hid the twitch with a shifting of his cloak.

Vittaro nodded toward the glyphs. "That is the ancient divine script."

"And I am sure you cannot read it either."

"Well no, but it is unmistakable."

Sigmeyer cast a long look at Vittaro before turning back to the door and rapping upon it with a leather-gauntleted fist. They waited but a moment before the iron portal cracked open enough to expose half of a wizened old face.

"Who sent you?" a thready voice rasped.

"We are free men, none sent us," Sigmeyer said. "We seek the divining power of a sorcerer. We have gold."

"You are not from the king?"

"No, we do not even know who the king is here," Sigmeyer said. "But I imagine he lives in the palace at the top of this mountain of a city."

The door swung open showing that the wizened face belonged to a bent old man. "Travelers, come in, come in. Welcome to the city of Capistrael and the home of the sorcerer Ramund."

"This is a mistake," Vittaro whispered.

"Oh, your hood is on too tight," Sigmeyer returned as he stepped across the threshold into a foyer of darkly oiled wood walls and plush, cushioned furniture.

"Come sir," the old man said to the hesitating Vittaro. "You have nothing to fear in our abode. Ramund is an honest man."

Vittaro did not budge. "An honest man who fears the king?"

"Ramund was an advisor to King Levant," the old man said. "Since the queen's disappearance last year, the king has dismissed all his advisors, but there is no enmity between them, I assure you."

Vittaro looked past the old man to where Sigmeyer now sat in one of the cushy chairs. "There's drama here, something neither of us need involve ourselves in."

Sigmeyer rapped the butt of the spear upon the polished floor and gave his head a tilt. "Pass me your pouch and I shall meet you later at the inn." He turned to the old man. "This city has an inn, does it not?"

"Several very fine establishments, yes."

"Which of them is best, but also most dimly lit?" Sigmeyer asked.

"That would be The Stormfront," the man said without raising an eyebrow. "It lies just a quarter turn up the Avenue of Three Thousand Steps."

"There you have it, Vittaro," Sigmeyer said. "Just give me my share of the money and wait for me there."

Vittaro slipped through the doorway and sat across from Sigmeyer. He answered his tall companion's grin with a shrug. "Every city has drama."

"I shall inform Ramund that you gentlemen are here," the old man said as he closed the outer doorway. He crossed the foyer to a black silk curtain that separated them from the remainder of the building. "I am sure he won't be but a moment."

Sigmeyer turned to his small companion after the curtain settled behind the old man. "You have a weakness, my friend. It is clearly not women, for I have never seen you partake, nor is it fine drink for you drink only most sparingly. You will, however, enter the most foul and disreputable of locations in the pursuit of gold."

"Hmmph. So you sit there and grin," Vittaro replied. "Which is this place, foul or disreputable?"

"Neither. Tis far worse, far more dangerous. The tower of a sorcerer holds mysteries in abundance, but also a swift death for those who cross its master."

"And this you know how?"

"Did I not just a few passing moments ago tell you I was party to certain mysteries? This is not the first time I have been in such a place."

"So you're cautioning me to behave? Me? I'm always the soul of discretion."

"I am not asking you to behave nor to be discrete," Sigmeyer said. "I am telling you that whatever you may see, whatever fine glittery thing catches your eye, do not do it. Leave it. Pretend it does not exist. I say this in the hopes that you and I both will leave here wearing the same bodies in which we entered, and living ones at that."

"I know we just stepped off the boat, but I'm no fool," Vittaro replied. "Since we met, I believe it is you who have added the most scars to his thick hide."

The big man chuckled. "Only because I am a fighting man. It is my stock in trade to exchange blows with other men and more than a few beasts. I would also add that the reason you have almost no scars is because I am there to take them for you, so please, this once, do as I ask."

The smaller man blew out a sigh from beneath his hood then nodded his head.

"Good."

A moment later the old man parted the curtain wide. "Please enter, gentlemen. Master Ramund is pleased to aid you this morning."

Both men rose and followed the bent old man. They entered a room shrouded in vibrant blue drapes spangled with luminous silver stars. Of any other entrances or exits, they could see none. Beyond a long table of black ebon in the center of the chamber stood a tall, thin man of middle years. He wore tight-fitted white garments from his neck to his feet. With a nod of his blond head he greeted them.

"Welcome travelers," he said.

"Thank you for seeing us," Sigmeyer said, with a gracious nod.

"Hmm," Ramund began. "Before we do any business together I must know one thing."

"I am sure your man has told you that no one sent us here," Sigmeyer said.

"Yes, yes he did. No, the thing I must know is which god do each of you serve?"

Vittaro and Sigmeyer shared a glance. "Pardon me?" Vittaro blurted.

Ramund straightened his shoulders. "I must know what god you owe allegiance to, if any, and I must know true."

"May I ask why?" Sigmeyer said. "Neither of us are men of any great faith."

"One of the ancients, a Gifted One, said it best: 'It is not for us to believe or have faith, rather it is for us to earn the belief and faith of our god.' Now, most men who come before me seeking knowledge are in the service of one god or another, though some know it not." Ramund's eyes narrowed. "There are dark forces at work in this age, and I would not aid in one of their nefarious causes."

"I know the name of the Gifted One who said those words," Sigmeyer said. "And by his name I swear we do not knowingly do the bidding of any one god. We are men who follow our own hearts and the knowledge in our heads. We roam Vorallon free."

"This is a mistake," Vittaro muttered earning an elbow from Sigmeyer.

Ramund raised an eyebrow and a corner of his lip twitched upwards. "If this is so, speak this Gifted One's name. Swear me this oath." He made a broad gesture around the room. "My enchantments will tell me if you lie."

"Very well," Sigmeyer said, taking a deep breath. "By Hethal's name, high priest of Lord Lorn and survivor of the Cataclysm, he who was gifted with sight of the future—I swear, to our knowing, we serve no gods."

Ramund collapsed into a chair like a puppet with its strings cut. "Impossible."

Sigmeyer turned his head just enough to wink at Vittaro. "Why do you say this? Is this not the oath you asked me to swear?"

"Yes," Ramund said, raising stunned eyes to them. "But I expected a cavalier response, a lie. Not whatever that was. That was the truth; that or the enchantments I have cast upon this room have failed me."

"For now, why do you not assume that I am an honest man, and I spoke only the truth. Knowledge freely given is priceless."

"His name was Hethal, this I knew, but how can you know the rest? His gift? The time he lived. Such facts are hidden from even one such as I. No god will speak of them to their followers. This knowledge has been lost for thousands of years. Some say it is forbidden."

Sigmeyer gestured toward the table. "If we have satisfied the one question you would ask of us before doing business, may we sit?"

Ramund limply nodded and Sigmeyer advanced to the table and took a seat, unsurprised that Vittaro did likewise.

Sigmeyer let out a satisfied sigh as he enjoyed the comfort of yet another plush cushioned chair. "Now, as for your other questions, I have the answers to them as well. True answers, and I offer them in trade for your service in divining for me the nature and lore of this great spear." He lifted the spear and thumped its butt down upon the carpeted floor.

Vittaro jolted in his seat, then relaxed with his own sigh, one hand on the heavy pouch at his hip.

Ramund sat forward. "Yes, of course. You must tell me how you came by this knowledge. Everything."

"No," the big man said with a slow shake of his head. "I will tell you how I came by this spear, and perhaps a few other tidbits, but the entirety is still forbidden."

"But you say you serve no god, nay, you swore to the fact. How can you consider this knowledge forbidden if that is true?"

"I swore that we served no god, knowingly. To swear otherwise would surely be a mistake for any mortal as you yourself admitted. It may be that in your divining of this spear we shall all discover the answer."

"Are you saying the spear is linked to this source of knowledge?"

"I could not whistle that song any better if I knew the words," Sigmeyer said with a chuckle.

Ramund shook his head with a sigh. "Bertram, fetch the Cloth of Adawa."

The old man, forgotten until that moment, slid behind one of the blue drapes to return a moment later with a swatch of dull black cloth, which he spread across the top of the table.

Ramund rose to wave a hand over the table and cloth for several moments before speaking. "If you would be so kind as to lay your spear gently upon the cloth, good sir, I shall begin."

Sigmeyer raised his spear and lightly laid it across the length of the table.

"This cloth is my most prized possession. It is imbued with the magic of one of the ancients."

"If it does what I think it does," Sigmeyer said. "Then you have pronounced her name wrong."

Ramund's shoulders dropped. "What is your name, sir? I would know the name of the man who would turn my world upside down in one breath."

"In this age I am known simply as Sigmeyer," the big man said, then laughed. "Nay, I am just throwing you in the middens—I love that phrase. I am just a man, and my name is indeed Sigmeyer, as my mother shouted while smacking my backside."

"An event I'm sure she had many just occasions to repeat," Vittaro muttered.

Sigmeyer leaned toward his companion and winked again. "She did indeed, my friend. That might explain why I am able to roll with a blow that would fell another man."

Ramund gave a disgusted chuff, then laid his palms on the black cloth, one to either side of the broad head of the spear. He remained thus for several long heartbeats, neither blinking nor apparently breathing.

"Is he doing it now?" Vittaro whispered.

"I imagine so," Sigmeyer whispered in return. "This should be most entertaining."

Vittaro turned to give the big man a dark look from under his deep cowl. "After all those words about not messing with a sorcerer. You have set him up, haven't you?"

Sigmeyer kept his eyes straight ahead. "I am sure I do not know what you mean. We have come here simply to learn the nature and lore of this spear, as I have said before."

"But you know something else he will learn, don't you? Something else that will shock him perhaps?"

Sigmeyer shrugged. "Perhaps."

Ramund leaped back from the table as if stung, his slender chest heaving. Vittaro half rose from his seat and clasped two hilts at his waist.

"Sit," Sigmeyer growled. "Do not make the man's day any worse."

After regaining some of his composure, Ramund turned and threw back one of the draperies, revealing a bookcase stuffed with thick tomes. He ran his fingers across one row, as if caressing a lover. "Do you know what these are?"

"Books?" Vittaro said as he settled back into his chair.

"Yes, they are books," Ramund said. "And these in particular are the Histories of Vorallon as passed down from the sages, those who pieced together the world after the Gifted Ones vanished."

With one shove he dashed a dozen or more books to the floor. "They're all lies. None of them are true. Do you know how I know this? Because by their lore, that spear should not exist! Its makers should not exist, nor its intended target." The sorcerer shook his head. "Lady preserve us if it exists."

"Easy now," Sigmeyer said raising his palms. "Take it one thing at a time, and slowly. I spent months digesting the knowledge I was given. Trust me, you are meant to know these truths."

Ramund returned to his seat and sat, staring at the spear. "It was crafted by the first great sorceress of the ancient ones. Her name was Lady Iris, but that is not the whole of the story, no. She had aid in its crafting. Do you already know who, or what, aided her?" He raised his gaze to Sigmeyer. "Have you just been baiting me this whole time?"

"No. This time sir, you tell me things that I do not know."

Ramund gave a dubious nod of his head. "They were only legends, tales crafted to scare young children, but this proves their existence. The Lady Iris was aided by dragons, great dragons, each of them so powerfully gifted that their spirits alone sustained Vorallon in the years after the Cataclysm while men and other creatures were too few to do likewise. Sustained his living, sentient spirit."

"You speak of the world, Vorallon, as a living thing?" Vittaro asked.

Sigmeyer chuckled. "You are not the first to utter such a thing, my friend."

"Oh, it is," Ramund said, answering Vittaro. "The spirit of Vorallon is the source of all our magic. When a sorcerer casts a spell, he is drawing upon that spirit, and at the same time feeding it."

"Go on then," Sigmeyer said with a gesture toward the spear. "Do you know why the Lady Iris and these dragons crafted this spear?"

"To slay another dragon, of course," Ramund said. "One of their own, a betrayer from the world who gave them birth. His name is written upon the base of the spearhead just there, 'Ferdahl'."

"I do not understand," Vittaro said. "Why does the existence of dragons make all of our history wrong? Doesn't it simply mean that the sages were wrong about them? If they never saw one, and who has, then it is just a mistake on that one matter. They simply missed the count of one tree in all the forest."

"No, no," Ramund said. "It is far more complicated than that. The sages kept their histories simple. According to their writings, following the Cataclysm, the survivors, men, elves, dwarves, all the beasts and creatures, spread outwards again from the few places where they had escaped the destruction." Ramund gestured toward the books scattered on the floor. "They tell the story in great detail, filling those books with who and what went where. You and me, all of us, we're all descended from those survivors. Or so they would have us believe."

Vittaro leaned forward on his elbows. "What do you mean?"

"The dragons came from another world, survivors of their own Cataclysm. They sustained Vorallon, but only for a brief time, less than a single generation of men. The world needs us, needs our emotions, our highs and our lows, our losses and our triumphs. Vorallon feeds and grows on those energies. Without them, and enough of us to generate them, he would succumb to a slumber that would leave us without magic. This is something every sorcerer knows."

Sigmeyer leaned towards his smaller companion. "These dragons would have had to sustain Vorallon for many generations, long enough for this spread and growth of the survivors to have occurred. And there is no note in the histories that magic went away during this period of regrowth."

"I still do not follow the sense of this," Vittaro said with a shake of his head. "Such things are beyond me. From the lore of this spear you can tell that the dragons sustained Vorallon only briefly?"

Ramund nodded. "Yes, that spear is why. Once its construction began, the majority of their energy flowed into it. And it still does."

"These dragons are still alive?" Vittaro leaned back from the spear, nearly spilling his chair over. "I knew this was a mistake. Only bad things will befall us. I am surprised calamity has not found us yet."

Sigmeyer smiled as he reached out and retrieved the spear. "So how do you account for this missing energy, sorcerer, this sustaining power? Perhaps Vorallon did sleep and the sages lied about that?"

Ramund shook his head. "Impossible. The energy flowing to the spear has been uninterrupted for over four thousand years. If Vorallon had slept, such a flow would have halted, for it is the essence of magic as well. No, we know the Cataclysm happened, even the lore of the spear tells me such. Not enough people and creatures survived to have sustained Vorallon, and the dragons only did so briefly, nowhere near the amount of time required to have repopulated the world."

"But you know what happened?" Vittaro asked the sorcerer.

"I know what must have happened," he replied. "The dragons came from another world; the lore of the spear tells me this. It must also be that we did as well. We are no descendants of the ancients, the Gifted Ones." He stopped and thought for a moment before continuing. "Well, some of us may be. It is said that the children of the ancient ones built this city and other marvels that still stand. But for the most part it must be that the people and creatures of Vorallon came here in a manner similar to these dragons."

Vittaro looked down at the scattered books. "So these histories are a lie?" He looked back up at Sigmeyer. "Why would they lie? Wait, you yourself said that the half elves came to Vorallon after the Cataclysm. I thought you were just making a joke. You knew all this."

Sigmeyer shrugged. "I said I did not know about the dragons."

"Perhaps it is time for you to hold up your end of our bargain, northman," Ramund said.

"I shall, but I would know of this 'Ferdahl' first. The one this spear was made to slay."

The sorcerer leaned back in his chair and gave Sigmeyer a level stare for several moments before answering. "I think I will hold onto that until you tell me where you found the spear and how you came to know what you know of Vorallon's history."

"You are sure I have not shaken up your day enough?" Sigmeyer asked. "We could return tomorrow once you have had more time to digest things."

Ramund came to his feet. "No, and no again. You will tell me what you know now."

"Very well." Sigmeyer leaned to Vittaro. "I did ask him, you heard me."

"Enough nonsense!" Ramund thundered loud despite from his narrow frame.

"You know the coasts of southern Erenar?"

"They are rocky, inhospitable," Ramund answered.

"Just so," Sigmund said with a nod. "I was rounding them from east to west in the very same sloop I sailed upon today. She is quite seaworthy. In the eve of one day a storm came up out of the Vestral Sea, and I brought her in among a shelter of rocks within a natural storm break. But what I took for rocks were the remains of a castle fallen into the bay, and on the cliffs above yet stood a single tower, the last standing remnant of this castle. As the storm raged I scaled the cliffs to learn what I could of such an edifice, standing in a place where none lived. The castle was very old, but I knew it could not have been a structure of the ancients for those stand without decay. I was wrong."

"Wait," Vittaro said. "So it was built by the ancients?"

"Indeed. The places like this city we are in now are special. They were built with a magic that keeps them strong and whole against the passage of time. This castle I found, it was special too. Where this city is built to stand, this castle was built to decay. I found the marks of treasure hunters upon the stones; many had found this castle before I did. Chisels and hammers had sought out hidden riches."

"So you found the spear in a hiding place they missed?" Ramund asked.

Sigmeyer nodded. "In a way. While I explored the tower the storm continued to rage. The ground shook with the strikes of lightning as though the Warrior and the Hunter fought in the sky above. One of those bolts struck the tower and sheared a vast chunk of wall away, nearly spilling me into the bay. Once I regained my feet, I found that the fallen stone revealed a hole crafted deep in the center of the wall itself. A hidden compartment indeed, but there was no manner I could determine that anyone could have accessed this cache until the wall had been cloven away entirely. Within this hole stood the spear, wrapped in canvas that appeared as fresh and whole as a clean sail. It was not the only treasure within however. The canvas also protected a book and a parchment, each fresh and unmarred by time."

"Preposterous!" Ramund slammed a hand down on the table. "You claim to be there at just such a time, at that exact moment, of the centuries that such a structure must have stood."

"I have hidden both the parchment and the book," Sigmeyer continued as if Ramund's outburst had gone unheard. "The parchment is a note written in the Gifted One Hethal's own hand. A note written to me, bearing my name."

"You weave an impossible tale," Ramund said, crossing his arms. "Can you produce this note? It is conveniently stashed somewhere, I take it."

Sigmeyer shook his head. "It is precious to me and no other eyes but mine shall see it or the book. Hethal chose me. He looked into the future and found me. Many great people may have lived within its walls during its life, but that castle was built for me to find at exactly that time in the storm, and as I said, it was built to decay and for that cache to be exposed only in that storm. His note told me to bring the spear to Capistrael on this day and seek out a sorcerer who could uncover its lore and purpose. He also instructed me to read the book—keeping certain parts secret."

Ramund took a deep breath. "Very well, what can you tell me of this book?"

"It is nothing less than the story of the Cataclysm and the rise of those Gifted Ones who would be all that prevented the complete loss of Vorallon's existence. The Cataclysm was nearly the end of all things."

"But can you tell me why is this forbidden? What is it that we are not supposed to know?"

"It is forbidden because it exposes a lie."

"You have exposed countless lies while you have sat there."

"Those lies do not change us, and they do not change who we are—they do not change the balance. This was not always true, however. What I have been able to piece together about the repopulating of Vorallon can change none of us now. Even my friend here can walk about as a being who is part of Vorallon, though that was not always so." At Sigmeyer's words, Vittaro ducked down deeper within his hood. "We needed the lies in those histories to believe that we all had a place here. At least until enough generations had passed for us all to become part of Vorallon."

Ramund peered deep into the impenetrable darkness of Vittaro's hood before returning his gaze to Sigmeyer. "Perhaps the same is true for the lie within this book you found?"

"Let me ask you this instead," Sigmeyer said. "You will do no business with one who serves one of the darker gods. Who is it specifically? Are you afraid to name his name?"

"I am not afraid, but it is unwise to name the Lord of Vengeance."

"And why is that?"

"To do so could draw his gaze upon me."

"I am sure he and his brothers already look upon us," Sigmeyer said with a chuckle. "I will name him; he is Lord Chreen. He is the Lord of Nefryt where the vile descend upon their death to have their spirits cleansed from their souls. He is brother to Lord Lorn and Lord Aran. Together they are the three Lords of Balance. He performs a function for the wellbeing of Vorallon, as do his brothers. He serves this world."

"He is to be worshiped by only the most foul of men and creatures." Ramund waved his hands as he spoke as though fending off an unseen thing. "His vengeance is death. He would slay us all and add us to his demon hordes."

Sigmeyer leaned on his elbows. "You are unshakable in this belief?"

"What are you asking, northman?"

"I am telling you as much of the lie as I can. I can say no more."

Ramund leaned back, silenced by Sigmeyer's words. Finally he shook his head. "You have lied to me. I do not know how you did so with my enchantments in place, but you have lied. You tell me you serve no god and now you openly name the most vile of them all."

"I did not lie," Sigmeyer said in a level voice, though he balled his fist upon the table. "I serve the Gifted Ones who entrusted me with this spear. I serve those who defeated Dakkar so that Vorallon could live and we could exist. Did they in turn serve the gods? Most certainly. Lord Aran, Lord Lorn, and the Lady of Destiny placed their faith in those ancient men and women. What does that make me if those ancient ones in turn have placed their faith in me? They too placed their faith in you, sorcerer."

Ramund narrowed his eyes. "Placed their faith in me how? What do you mean, northman?"

Sigmeyer gestured to the black cloth upon the table. "Is there another sorcerer in all of Vorallon who has a cloth such as this? Or one who could see so much of the lore of this spear through any other means as you have done today?"

Ramund leaned his head back and sighed. He remained silent for a moment before looking back at his guests. "I must answer no to both of your questions. This cloth has been in my family for generations, and I know of no other means that would yield such a clear accounting of that spear's lore. But why was any of this even necessary? Hethal wrote you a note, why would he not have laid everything out before you if he foresaw your victory? Why lead you to my door instead?"

"Hethal's gift holds great power, this he did explain. If he tells someone their future, then they may change it in untold ways, even if he tells them in a note over four centuries old. He circumvented that by leading me to you. Now you have told me everything I need to know, and the future is still safely immutable by my actions."

"So he sought me out. In that distant past, he knew where I would be. He knew where this cloth would be. I have only just last night returned from a long sojourn to the sapphire towers of Nimya where the Council of Mages deliberate the nature of all things."

Vittaro chuckled. "I wager you could bend their ears quite a bit after today."

"You said earlier that I had mispronounced the name 'Adawa'," Ramund said, ignoring Vittaro. "I call the cloth what my father called it, and his father before."

"Adwa-Ki was the matriarch of the Elves of the Keth Forest, a Gifted One whose touch alone would yield to her all the lore of a thing, even a person. I believe your cloth must be imbued with a bit of her power. Most likely through an enchantment of Lady Iris herself. They fought side by side in the great Cataclysm."

"Can you at least tell me the nature of the Cataclysm? What did befall Vorallon?"

"You know that our universe is just one of many?"

"Yes. If I didn't, learning the lore of your spear would have corrected that," Ramund said. "Those dragons did not simply come from another world, they came from an entirely different universe."

"Very good, and I can tell you that in many of those other universes are other worlds like Vorallon, worlds whose spirits have risen to sentience. This is a thing that the Old Gods rejoice in. Those worlds rise to sentience by their very adoration of the life which lives, loves, and battles upon their surface. If what I have learned of Vorallon and the extents to which the gods will go to insure his survival are true, this does not come about by chance. This life is carefully nourished and warded until such sentience arises, and afterward it is protected and guided even more fiercely."

"The Lords of Balance are those wardens for Vorallon," Ramund said.

"And for those other universes as well; each has their own Lords of Balance, raised up and placed there by the Old Gods. A system that insures the growth and continued life of each precious world, but on one of these worlds those Lords of Balance failed."

"In what way did they fail? Did their world die or fall back into slumber as Vorallon nearly did?"

"No, neither of those things. It would have been a blessing if either had occurred. Those Lords of Balance gave their world everything he wanted. And in that way they failed for he wanted only war. He relished death and what comes afterward. Eventually he turned away from life entirely. This was a very old universe, and that world whose name was Dakkar let the stars wink out about him one by one, until only he remained. If any of the other worlds in his universe had been close to sentience, he had snuffed them out. The Lord Chreen of that world eventually slew his own brothers and launched a genocide among the beings that lived upon its surface, all at the command of his world, Dakkar. Those who died in this genocide did not ascend to Jaarda nor descend to Nefryt. Their spirits and flesh were consumed by Dakkar, reanimated into something twisted, neither living nor dead."

"You speak of undeath," Ramund said. "The living dead."

Sigmeyer nodded. "The Cataclysm was Dakkar invading Vorallon. Many years before that he sent his one yet living servant to our universe to prepare the way. He sent Lord Chreen as his herald before our three Lords of Balance had yet risen, just as Vorallon burgeoned upon sentience. Eventually he was slain by the first godstone hero, Elena the Huntress-"

"The first what?" Ramund blurted.

"Yes, sorry, you would not know of the godstone heroes," Sigmeyer said almost in apology. "They were very special, even among the Gifted Ones. Heroes chosen by the Lady of Destiny and given godstone forged by the ancient dwarves into weapons of destiny."

"But what is this godstone?"

"As near as I can tell, it is the very substance of Vorallon's spirit made solid. To appearances it is a dull silvery metal. Each such weapon was forged with a singular purpose, a destiny."

"That sounds very much like your spear."

Sigmeyer looked up at the head of his spear. "This is not godstone, yet it was indeed forged with a singular purpose."

"Nay," Ramund said. "You are right, the spearhead is forged from adamantite. The first of such metal I have ever beheld. If nothing else, you hold the wealth of an entire kingdom. But continue your tale, you were speaking of the death of this other Lord Chreen."

"He was indeed slain, but not before he had drawn the substance of Dakkar's spirit into our world and hidden it away."

"Why? Why all this waiting and heralding?" Ramund asked. "What kept him from attacking immediately?"

Sigmeyer shook his head. "That the ancients did not know, though there were those among them who had the ability to find out. Personally I believe that the Old Gods themselves prevented such an inquiry. I feel however that the reason had to do with some difference between Dakkar's universe and our own, something that could only transform over time until it met with the God of Undeath's liking. The fortunate thing was that it gave the Old Gods the time they needed to create the means for his defeat."

"So he did not succeed, yet the Cataclysm he created destroyed most of the life upon Vorallon?"

Sigmeyer shook his head again. "His blight, for that is what his spirit was, did destroy the life of Ousenar, across the narrow Vestral Sea from Erenar. The greatest loss of life was carried out before the blight struck however, carried out by the newly risen Lord Lorn."

"Impossible," Ramund began but Sigmeyer silenced him with a slap of his hand upon the table.

"He did what the Old Gods bade him do. Never forget that the charge of the Lords of Balance is the life of Vorallon, above the lives of any of us. To insure that Vorallon would endure, the souls of many had to be preserved from the Blight of Undeath, for were it to strike them, even with the slightest touch, those people would not die. They would have been consumed by Dakkar, their souls and spirits lost forever—never to be reborn in time. By reaping those he could beforehand, Lord Lorn preserved their precious souls in the realms of Jaarda and Nefryt."

Ramund swallowed hard. "Could such a thing happen again? Dakkar was defeated and destroyed, wasn't he?"

"He was defeated, and driven back to his own universe, but not destroyed. The very reason we know of undeath to this day, and have the misfortune to stumble upon the undead from time to time, is because some of his blight, Dakkar's spirit, still remains in our universe, like a disease of rot that could not be completely cut out of a limb."

Sigmeyer fell silent, his hands caressing the haft of the spear.

"Is that everything you can tell me?" Ramund asked.

Sigmeyer looked up at the sorcerer. "Nay, there is one more thing. The creatures of Dakkar's world, those who fought endless wars for his desires, they were not men like you or I."

"What were they?"

"They were dragons. Great dragons whose life spans spanned many thousands of years. And the world was very old at the time of Dakkar's change to undeath. Those dragons, over their many eons of war, had become unstoppable forces of destruction. When Dakkar's Lord Chreen came to Vorallon he did so in his natural form, that of an enormous black dragon that the ancient Zuxrans named Kamunki."

"Enormous he may have been, but this Elena the Huntress slew him," Vittaro said.

"Aye," Sigmeyer said with a slow nod. "She did, but she was a godstone hero, with a spear of godstone destined to pierce Kamunki's black heart. She was also a Gifted One who could outrun even the fastest deer of her ancient forest. Lastly, in killing the great beast, she herself was slain, dragged down into the pit that his blood melted into the floor of his lair."

Vittaro shook his head. "You are no Gifted One."

"No, but I was chosen to wield this spear." Sigmeyer turned his gaze upon Ramund. "I am to wield this spear against Ferdahl, am I not?"

"Yes," Ramund replied. "So says the lore of the weapon, but this Ferdahl, northman; it is time I shared what the lore has told me of him. He is a great beast of golden scales who, more than four thousand years ago, measured fully four hundred feet in length. Ferdahl lead the opposing faction of dragons whom the survivors, those who aided in the forging of this weapon, fled from when the Lady of Destiny brought them hither to this world. He breathes fire, as do all his kin. You will die if you face this beast, taking all your secrets with you."

Sigmeyer squared his shoulders. "I will defeat him. Hethal chose me for this task, of all men. Would he not have looked upon my battle with Ferdahl and seen my success before constructing that castle, or even having this spear crafted? How will I find this Ferdahl? Does the lore tell you?"

"You can't be serious," Vittaro said. "This thing is over four hundred feet long. That is like ten of your sloops set end to end."

"How do I find him, sorcerer?" Sigmeyer pressed.

"You may have changed my life today, northman, but you have also sealed your fate," Ramund said. "The magic of this spear is such that it will draw the dragon to you. You see, Ferdahl swore vengeance upon his foes, and though a universe now separates them his gift was such that he would find a way here if any could. Yes, the dragons are Gifted Ones as well. Those who aided in crafting the spear have given unto it much of their essence, while they themselves remain hidden. It is that essence which Ferdahl will track down. It will lead him directly to you. It is also most likely that he has given himself up entirely to this Dakkar and been made into creature of undeath."

"You have to find these hidden dragons, Sigmeyer," Vittaro urged. "Tell them it was a mistake. Make them face this Ferdahl instead of sacrificing yourself."

"Oh I intend to find them," Sigmeyer said. "Just as I have tracked down every race who now lives upon Vorallon, but whether I find them before or after Ferdahl finds me, I shall still face him and defeat him."

"Well then, you're a fool if you think I'm going to share in your journey any further beyond today, my friend," Vittaro said.

"Am I? The dragon may kill me, but I will most certainly destroy him. Hethal has foreseen it. He would only have entrusted this task to one who would succeed. Do you have any idea what a corpse of such a beast, even just one of his golden scales, would be worth? As well he will have this spear that is worth an entire kingdom's wealth buried in his heart. No, my friend, I think I can count on you to stay quite near me. In this battle, I am a sure bet."

"You may need an edge."

"Which I am sure you can give me, my friend."

Ramund stood. "Is my role in this done? Is there no more to Hethal's note?"

"There is more," Sigmeyer said. "It tells me where next to go, and when I should be there, but it does not say I should do any of this alone. Your role, sorcerer Ramund, is only finished if you wish it to be."

Ramund crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "You do know more. How much more has Hethal shared with you?"

"A great deal. He could not lay out my future entirely, for it would lead to me altering it. What he gave me are clues which I must sort out myself."

"And where does this next clue take you?"

Sigmeyer rose from the table. "My sloop leaves on tomorrow's tide, only those aboard her at that time shall know her next destination. If you are coming, bring provisions for a long voyage, and warm clothes. Now we must leave for the Stormfront, my friend has a sack of gold and I aim to drink away as much of it as he will allow tonight."

Sigmeyer left the room and Vittaro rose to follow, dusky hand clutching his pouch tight.

"Does drink loosen his tongue?" Ramund asked.

Vittaro chuckled. "Far from it. And the barbarian knows I will pay, for it will blissfully seal his lips to all but drink."
"He already knows I am going to go with the two of you, doesn't he?"

Vittaro paused to turn toward the sorcerer. "Yeah. He didn't leave either of us any choice in the matter. This may be the biggest mistake of our lives, but if there is a man alive who is better suited to slaying a dragon, I have not met him. Sigmeyer's even nastier with a weapon in his hand than he is with words, if you can believe that."

Continue reading or return to table of contents.
The Dead Zone

Hanna Elizabeth
Rodney and I hemmed and hawed over going to the Halloween Party this year. It meant finding a babysitter for our two little hellions, getting costumes, dressing up. All of it seemed like so much work, but after much deliberation, we decided to go anyway.

I bought a sexy little German Barmaid outfit, with a pink crinoline, and thigh-high socks. I completed the look with a pair of high-heeled Maryjanes. Rodney decided to go for something easy and bought a long black cloak that he wore over a nice black suit. He looked rather dapper as a vampire.

After we tucked Addie and Miles into bed, we gave the babysitter pizza money and made sure she knew what numbers to call in case of emergency. Then we stuffed ourselves into Rodney's midlife crisis and took off. The gibbous moon was high in the sky, casting eerie shadows on the road. All I knew was that the party was to be held at a friend of a friend's McMansion at the end of a quiet dead-end street.

"Where is this place?" I asked, breaking the trance-like silence.

"Sorry honey, I was lost in thought."

"I'm beginning to think we're lost. The GPS hasn't said anything in so long, I'm starting to wonder if it's broken or something."

"It's fine. Jay said it was out in the boonies." Rodney retreated into silence and I watched as the breeze made the tree shadows sway and skitter around our car.

"This road is creepy." I said, gooseflesh breaking out on my exposed arms and thighs. I wished I'd gone for a long-skirted witch costume instead.

Rodney chuckled, "You've been watching too many movies."

My mind raced faster than the blurred lines beneath our tires, and the soft hum of the engine lulled me into an uneasy trance. All of the day's troubles came crashing down around me, pressing me into the fine leather seat. They tripped over themselves to gain the spotlight. The way the frumpy Entrance Administrator had scowled when I sat down for the interview at the early learning center. Had I dressed too casually? I can't believe I cracked that joke about having kids too early in life, only to find out the administrator had her first at nineteen. Stupid. Had I ruined Addie's chance of being accepted? Was Miles' cough that wouldn't go away, something worse? With the constant threat of his asthma flaring, would the babysitter know what to do? Did I give her the new inhaler or the old one? Is it too much responsibility for a teenager? The seatbelt constricted my ability to breathe.

"Maybe we should just turn around and go home."

"Seriously, Kate? We get one night out in God knows how long and you want to run home, just because it's too far away?"

I sighed. "No. I just keep thinking I'd rather be in my pajamas with a glass of wine." I didn't want to tell him I was stressing about the kids, because he was right. Taking a deep breath, I tried to will myself to relax.

"I kind of like what you're wearing."

I laughed and smacked his arm. "You would."

"In fact," he stopped the car on the edge of the road, "I've been thinking about bending you over the hood ever since we pulled off the highway."

"Why, that's pretty lewd behavior for a police officer."

"Retired. Besides, I know you'll love the adrenaline rush, Soldier."

"Retired. You know me so well." Heat flooded my face. Leaning over the gearshift, our lips met. He traced a scorching path up and down my chilled arms with his hands. As our tongues met, he growled, his hands exploring over my too-thin bodice, cupping my breasts and squeezing. I moaned against his mouth. He broke away, pushed the door open, and got out.

I watched him cross in front of the car. He yanked open my door and pulled me out. "What if a car comes?" I asked without conviction.

"There haven't been any other cars since we started down this road."

He pushed me against the cold metal. I heard the jingle of his belt, then his zipper. I widened my stance. Running his hands up my thighs and under the rough crinoline he held me tight against him with one arm, while his other found my panties. His fingers slipped beneath the edge of my ruffled pantaloons and explored, getting closer and closer to my center. Rodney's mouth found the sensitive spot at the base of my neck. The world around me became hazy; the rustling of the trees, the shadows, the stress– none of it mattered. With a shudder, I came, crying out in the darkness.

Before the tremors stopped, Rodney pushed me forward until my face touched the cold metal of the car. Pushing my panties down around my knees, he buried himself inside me. I gasped as he pulled out and entered me again.

"Harder," I said through gritted teeth, my nipples grazing the hood. The blood rushed to my head as he did what I demanded. I felt my orgasm building again. As it ripped through me, Rodney shuddered to a stop behind me.

Lights danced in the edges of my vision. It took me a few seconds to figure out that it wasn't the orgasm, but the headlights of a car on the horizon.

"Car." I said, feebly.

Rodney opened the passenger side door, pulled a napkin out of the glovebox and handed it to me as he zipped himself up and redid his belt. "Time to go."

I wiped myself off, pulled my pantaloons up, and slid into the passenger seat just as a pickup truck came barrelling down the road behind us.

It came to a screeching halt and backed up, its bumper gleamed in our headlights. The taillights glowed like a demon's eyes, until the driver put it in park and climbed out.

"Everything alright here?" The stranger asked.

Rodney reached his side of the car, but stood watching the stranger approach. "Everything's fine. The missus and I are just on our way to a party."

"A fancy dress party, huh?" The stranger took a step closer, but stayed in the shadows.

"That's right." Rodney stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, his back straight, hands hovering at his sides. Typical cop-stance. He was making himself appear bigger than he really was. With that realization, I started looking around the car for his concealed carry. This guy probably didn't mean any harm, but I didn't want to take that chance and be unprepared. Opening the glove compartment, I found the Kimber Ultra Carry II that I'd given Rodney for his birthday. It's a small semi-automatic gun, with big bullets. It would make someone think twice about attacking. After checking to make sure it was loaded, I chambered a round, shut the glove compartment, and then tucked the gun under my leg.

"Well, there ain't nothin down here but an abandoned farm." The stranger said.

"Really? I guess our GPS led us astray then."

The stranger laughed, "Those fancy gizmos don't work in the dead zone."

A chill swept over my spine. "Rodney, I think we should just go."

Rodney said to the stranger, "Well, thank you for the heads up. We'll just turn around and go back the way we came."

"That's unlikely." The stranger pointed behind us.

I turned in my seat. Through the small rear window, I saw another pickup truck parked behind us. The doors on either side opened and out spilled two younger, muscle-bound men carrying shotguns. Another one jumped out of the bed. They didn't look like the kind to spend hours at the gym. I figured they were probably farm boys who ate meat and potatoes at every meal.

"Dear God, please help us. Please see us safely home to our babies." I prayed. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought about never seeing them again. Pushing those thoughts away, I summoned every ounce of my training as a soldier. I would remain calm. I would make the most of any opportunity against the enemy. We would survive. Dying wasn't an option.

"Now listen," Rodney was saying, "we don't want any trouble here." He held his hands up, his body tense.

I fumbled with my phone, but the stranger was right, there wasn't any signal.

"Damn it." I said under my breath. My heart thumped, and I felt sweat beading on my forehead.

"This here's how it's gonna work," said the stranger, "Y'all are coming with us. Give us any trouble and we'll shoot you. Understand?" The stranger looked at Rodney, then through the windshield at me.

I nodded, gripping the gun tighter. Every self-defence class, everything you read about abduction says not to let your attacker take you from point A to point B. But heaven help me, these guys had guns too and they were a damned sight bigger than mine! If I could just manage to shoot one of them, it might give us enough time to get the hell out of here.

I whispered, "Kimber" to Rodney, but wasn't sure he heard me. Quickly, I palmed the small gun just as one of the guys from the truck behind us opened my door and yanked me out. The ogres' eyes darkened upon seeing my outfit, a snarl of a smile crossed his face. He was about to say something when I shifted the gun and squeezed the trigger, catching him in the stomach. He staggered back, shock spreading across his wide face. I spun around, dropped to one knee, and shot out one of the tires of the truck behind us. It was a bad angle, but I thought I could hear the tell-tale hiss of air escaping before chaos ensued.

Rodney was already behind the wheel by the time I scrambled into the car and shut the door. As Rodney pulled out, I powered down my window and fired a shot at the back tire of the truck in front of us. The stranger was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, he'd taken cover. I heard him shouting at the others to "fucking shoot them" but they were too busy with their buddy who was lying on the ground, bleeding.

One of them must have come to their senses though, because buckshot peppered the side of our car as we fishtailed on the gravel shoulder, "Get down!" Rodney yelled, but it was too late. Feeling as though someone clubbed me in the shoulder, I knew I'd been hit.

"Shit." Rodney realized what had happened, as I put my hand over the wound to staunch the blood. With the amount of adrenaline pumping through me, I barely felt it. I was more worried about them coming after us.

"Go. Go. Go!" I yelled.

As we sped back the way we'd come, I glanced over my shoulder to see if they were following. Sure enough, one of the trucks turned around in the middle of the road, tires squealing.

"Damn it. They're coming." I said, "Go faster."

"Keep trying your cell phone. Maybe we'll get within range of a tower."

I dug for my cell phone, but found Rodney's instead. Holding it up, I searched for that elusive signal. Just one bar and I'd feel safer. "Nothing."

"Try the GPS. There's a button for emergencies on there."

I touched the screen and activated voice recognition. "Emergency," I said aloud.

"I'm sorry," the computer said, "Your request can not be fulfilled at this time."

"Call 911!" I yelled at it. Still no luck.

"God-damn it!" Rodney hit the steering wheel with his palm.

I knew he was frustrated. As a retired police officer he wasn't used to running away, but sometimes you had to run away in order to survive. I glanced behind us and saw that the truck's headlights seemed closer than they should have been. "They're gaining on us!"

Rodney rammed his foot to the floor, flinging my head back against the seat. The night whizzed by in a blur. After a few minutes, I chanced another look back and with great relief saw that their headlights had shrunk to mere pinpoints of light.

"I think we're losing them."

"How's your arm?"

"Fine. Just don't slow down."

"Wasn't planning on it."

Taking a curve, the Z-6 BMW handled like it was meant for racing. I'd never been so happy that Rodney had indulged his midlife crisis.

What had taken us an hour to traverse, took us only twenty minutes to retrace. At the end of the road was a farm I hadn't noticed the first time. It sat back off the road, and even from this distance didn't look like a working farm. A rusty tractor sat out front like an old dinosaur, swallowed up in a field of long grass. Moonlight shone through the dilapidated barn, highlighting the doors' gaping mouth. A single bald lightbulb on the porch revealed its chipped paint and aging façade.

"I wonder if that's where they live," I mused.

"Could be. I'll have Hal run the address and see what they come up with."

When we came to the ramp to the interstate, I asked Rodney, "Think we're safe?"

"I don't think I'll feel safe until we get back to civilization."

That made two of us.

# ~ * ~

At the hospital they took x-rays, numbed my shoulder, removed the buckshot, bandaged me up, and shot me full of painkillers. And then the police showed up. Because it was a gun wound, they took our statements, promised to check out the address we'd given them, and then left.

"Do you think they were just humoring us?" I asked, as they disappeared out the door.

Rodney sat on the edge of the bed. "Why do you think that?"

"I dunno. Just a feeling."

He smiled as he brushed my bangs away from my forehead and then took my hands in his. "Sweetie, you've lost a lot of blood. Your perception might be a little bit off."

Taking comfort in the warmth of his skin, I rested my head back against the pillow and allowed myself to enjoy the prescription painkiller high coursing through my system. "True."

After a small nap, the nurse came in to give us instructions on how to care for my wound, a script for an anti-inflammatory, another for pain, and I was discharged.

While Rodney took the babysitter home, I trudged up the stairs and checked on the kids. I'd never been so grateful to see them. I visited Miles first. He'd kicked off all of his covers, his face serious, his PJ's soaked with sweat. Pulling his blankets up, I leaned over and kissed his damp forehead. After a few minutes, I went through the Jack and Jill bath to see Addie. Smoothing the blonde strands of hair away from her face, I sat back in the chair where I often read her bedtime stories, and watched her sleep. Rodney's cell phone buzzed in my hand. I'd forgotten I even had it.

I looked at the screen and saw my picture. Answering, I whispered, "Ah, you found my phone!"

The call dropped. I stared at the blank screen for a moment, wondering if Rodney was all right, then shrugged it off. He probably butt-dialed. I shoved the phone into my bodice and sat back.

I must have dozed off, because Rodney woke me when he got back. "Come to bed, Kate." My shoulder was throbbing so I took my medicine, stripped down, and crawled into bed.

"It all seems like a nightmare."

Careful of my shoulder, Rodney pulled me closer. "I called Jay."

"What did he say?"

"I told him what happened and he said we turned down the wrong road."

"I'd say so."

# ~*~

"Kate." Rodney was shaking me. My arm protested the jostling and I whimpered. I struggled to surface from a dream in which I was trying to get to the kids, but every time I thought I'd found them, someone or something would try to stop me.

"Wake up, Kate. I think someone's in the house."

My eyes snapped open to find my husband leaning over me, his hot breath on my face. "What?"

"I think someone's in the house. You need to get up. Go to the kids and lock yourselves in."

It was difficult trying to grasp his words through the haze of sleep and drugs. "Where are you going?" I clutched his shirt in a death grip.

Peeling my fingers away, Rodney opened my nightstand and retrieved my gun. He pressed it into my hand. "I'm going downstairs to check it out."

"No. You can't!" I protested, but he was halfway across the room.

He grinned. "It's probably just the cat."

"We don't have a cat!" I pleaded to his retreating form.

I scurried out of bed, grabbing my pajamas and noticed the door to the closet where we kept the gun safe was ajar. I hoped that meant Rodney had grabbed one before he woke me. I grabbed Rodney's cell phone and hurried out the door. Stealing down the hall, I listened hard for any sign of Rodney or intruders. Hearing nothing but the beating of my heart, I slipped into Addie's room. Locking the door, I went through the Jack and Jill bath to Miles' room to do the same. I couldn't defend two rooms, but I could defend one, so I retraced my steps.

Picking Addie up was made even more difficult with a hole in my shoulder. Pain ripped through me, but I managed to carry her into her brother's room without waking her or crying out. I considered that a success. However, I knew if someone was really in the house, then we were sitting ducks. I trusted Rodney's instincts and his skills, but he could easily be outnumbered and outgunned. I thought back to the men from the road, a shiver rippling through me. Grabbing for the pile of clothes I'd chucked on the chair in the corner, I pulled on my pajamas. Finding Rodney's cell phone I punched in 911.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"I think someone's in our house." I said, "My husband heard something. He went to investigate. Please send help."

"Ma'am, please calm down. You say you think someone is in your house and your husband went to investigate?"

"That's right. Please, send help."

"Are you someplace safe?"

"I'm locked in a room with my children. Please, hurry." She asked for our address and I managed to give it to her.

"We have a patrol car in your area, they should be there shortly," the operator added. "Just stay on the line with me, okay, Ma'am?"

A crash from downstairs woke Miles. "Momma?" He said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his fist.

"Shh." I rushed over to him, hoping to keep him from waking his sister. "It's okay, go back to sleep."

"Why's Addie in my bed?"

"Just a dream, sweetie." It wouldn't be the first time Addie had woken, only to climb into bed with him.

"I'm glad you're home." He whispered before closing his eyes and falling back to sleep.

The 911 operator was saying something, but I was too concerned about Rodney to listen to her. I went to the door and put my ear against it, hoping I could hear something. I heard a creak on the stairs and my heart leapt into my throat. A light knock sounded on the door, "Kate. It's all clear."

"Ma'am! Ma'am!" The operator shouted from the phone.

I unlocked the door and allowed Rodney access. "What happened?" I asked before he even squeezed through the small space I'd allowed between the door and the jam.

"It was nothing. Must have been the wind."

"What was the crash?"

"I walked into the curio cabinet. I'm afraid I might have broken the glass."

I went to squeeze his arm, a small sign to show I couldn't care less about the stupid curio cabinet. I realized I still held the phone, "I'm sorry. My husband is back and he says he thinks it was a false alarm."

"Ma'am, I suggest you allow the police to do a walk-through anyway. They should be pulling up to your house any moment now."

"Yes. Thank you. We will." With that, I hung up. Putting my gun on the highest hanging ornamental shelf, right beside Mile's first Teddy Bear and far out of reach of little hands, I motioned for Rodney to follow me. He looked at me questioningly as we left the room. After closing the door softly behind us, I said, "When you didn't come right back, I called the police. They're here now."

Rodney and I went downstairs and opened the door before they could knock. Rodney recognized one of them as Hal, his former partner. He'd called Hal from the hospital after the two officers who'd taken our statements left, to see if any red flags popped up on the farmhouse we'd driven past. It felt comfortable having him around. Rodney told them what he'd heard and how he searched the house. They came in and did a sweep of the downstairs while we waited.

"Want us to check the upstairs?" Hal's new partner asked. He was a rookie, young, but he seemed able enough.

Rodney answered before I could string together a reply, "No, thank you. I think we're all set."

As Rodney walked them to the door, I heard Hal say, "We'll take a walk around the perimeter just to be sure."

"Thanks. We appreciate it."

"Any time."

Rodney joined me by the window and we watched until the police cruiser pulled away. We turned off all the lights and went back upstairs.

"Should we put Addie back in her own bed?" I asked as we passed the kids rooms.

"I think she'll be fine where she is."

Crawling into to bed, I finally had a chance to ask Rodney what he'd heard before I woke up.

"It was probably just a nightmare bleeding into reality," he said dismissively, planting a kiss on my forehead. "We should get some sleep."

The clock on my nightstand said it was one-thirty in the morning, but it felt like the night that would never end. I didn't think sleep would come, but the warmth of Rodney's body snug against mine and his even breathing, soon lulled me back to dreamland.

# ~ * ~

Nothing lived in the dead zone. No birds flew through the air; no mice scurried through the fields. Not even a plant stirred in the breeze. The only light emanated from the road which was lit up like a runway. Dust swirled about my feet as I walked, and no matter how far I went, the road never ended. The dead zone expanded, swallowing everything in its gaping maw. In the distance, I heard Addie screaming. The scene sharpened and shifted. Dark buildings came into view up ahead. I ran, but running didn't get me there. Hands on knees, I fought for breath.

I heard a round being chambered behind me and I stilled. Gritty laughter filled the sky and carried on the wind like so much sand. I fought the urge to breathe it in, my lungs burned with the effort. Dark clouds swirled above my head, threatening to take me under. Addie's cries were a backdrop to it all, urging me on. I crawled, gravel and grit blistering my hands and knees. I had to get to my baby. Someone grasped my ponytail and yanked me to a stop. A shot rang out, making me jump. The pain came swiftly. Like a knife, it cut me down. Searing my arm, my neck, down my back, the pain raged on.

I woke up screaming.

But beyond the horror, I heard Addie's screams as well.

# ~ * ~

Fumbling, I fell out of bed and hit the carpet on all fours. Scrambling to my feet and ignoring the pain in my arm, I took off running. Rodney wasn't far behind. Addie's cries filled the house. Running to her room, I tried the door, only to find it locked. Remembering earlier, I turned around and ran right into Rodney.

"She's in Mile's room." I said, panic gripping my insides.

We turned in unison. Rodney got there first, flinging open the door. The nightlight cast enough light for us to see Addie standing in the center of the room, screaming. Miles was sitting up in bed, his eyes as wide as saucers. Rodney grabbed her up and held her close. The screaming stopped, but it turned into giant sobs and incoherent babbling.

Miles, who sat in the same spot in the middle of his bed, pointed, "Mom."

I followed the direction of his finger and screamed when I saw a dark figure standing in the adjoining bathroom. I thought for a moment that maybe this was just another nightmare. "Rodney."

The figure emerged from the shadows, its form taking shape slowly, like a nightmare come to life. "It was mighty rude of y'all to just take off like that." The stranger said, leveling his shotgun at us.

Rodney hushed Addie and slowly slid her to the floor, pushing her behind him. Instinctively, I'd already put myself between Miles and the gun.

"Cute kids you got."

"Stay away from them." I said, my voice guttural and hard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miles scurry off the bed. I could only hope he'd stay down.

"What do you want?" Rodney asked.

The stranger laughed, but instead of answering Rodney, he said to me, "Too bad you ain't still wearing your fancy outfit. That woulda made a good picture for the po-lice to find."

Even in the dim light, I could see Rodney's jaw clenching. The stranger was obviously a few bricks short of a wall, but it didn't stop me from wanting to know how he found us. I asked as much. Then I remembered my phone. Sighing I said, "You found my phone."

"That's right, little lady. Junior died tonight because of you, and I'm here to see to it that you pay for your sins."

I'd dealt with a lot of crazies in Iraq. Granted, I didn't have my kids yet and I usually had a weapon, but I'd just have to improvise. At least Rodney was by my side.

"Fine. You can kill me. Just leave my family out of this." I said.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, "Like you kept my son out of it?"

Oh shit. The Ogre was his son.

Rodney rushed the stranger, pushing the barrel up. I lunged for the shelf hanging high on the wall. A boom and a flash filled in the darkened room behind me. Ears ringing, I spun around. Rodney was down. My heart lurched, but there wasn't time to think about it. The stranger was recovering. The kids screamed. Retrieving my gun, I chambered a round, the slide snapping sharply back into place. The stranger pointed his gun at me as I dropped to one knee and squeezed the trigger, just as another blast from his shotgun filled the room. The buckshot sprayed high, lodging like a sky full of stars in the ceiling above and spattering drywall all over the floor. The stranger fell, clutching his chest. I hurried over, picking up the shotgun. My phone lay beside him. I snatched it up too.

Addie sobbed in the corner.

"Are you two alright?"

Miles peeked over the edge of the bed and nodded. "Is the bad man dead?" His small face was pale, his eyes two large pools of terror.

I nodded and knelt beside Rodney. He was conscious, but bleeding heavily from multiple wounds in his chest. I found a towel lying nearby and folding it, pushed it against them. "My hero." I said, tears filling my eyes. He tried to say something, but it came out a coughing croak. "Don't try to talk."

For the third time that night, I dialed 911.

# ~ * ~

The sun had just started to fill the sky with muted pinks and purples when the police and EMTs arrived, sirens wailing. Only a few minutes had passed, but Miles had gained enough courage to crawl out from behind his bed. Even at the tender age of eight, he reminded me of his father.

"I'll go let them in," he told me.

"Addie?" I asked.

"Sucking her thumb." He pointed to the corner beyond his bed. There wasn't much chance Miles would forget what happened tonight, but being half his age, Addie might. I wanted to comfort her, but that would have to wait. Right now, keeping Rodney alive and conscious was my top priority. "Stay with me, Rodney. Help's here."

Seconds later, the overhead light was thrown on and a pair of strong arms pulled me away. I stood there immobilized watching the EMTs work, until Hal blocked my view. He was holding Addie. "Let's get you and Addie out of here."

I nodded feebly, noticing that Addie's head was buried in his neck. Good, I thought. I didn't want her to see any more than she already had.

Hal stopped outside my bedroom, "Why don't you get changed."

I looked down at my blood-soaked pajama top and pants. Rodney's blood. I nodded.

Hal touched my good arm. "I'm sure it looks worse than it is. Still, you don't want to scare the kids. We'll wait for you in the kitchen."

I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

# ~ * ~

After changing, I went downstairs to find Hal in the kitchen with the kids. Miles slurped some chocolate milk and Addie still sucked on her thumb.

Kissing each kid on the top of their heads I said, "I don't suppose she'll give up that habit anytime soon."

"They're loading Rodney up now." Hal said, and then added, "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of calling my wife. She's going to come by and get the kids so you can follow Rodney to the hospital."

"That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you, Hal."

"I'll need to take your statement, but it shouldn't take long. I'll drive you to the hospital myself when we're through."

Swallowing back the tears, I nodded.

While I was giving my statement, Hal's wife, Mary, arrived. When the guys had worked together, we'd all gone out a few times. She's a pleasant woman who, like her husband, can calm a person down just by walking in the room. Though being close in age, we didn't have a lot in common, other than our husbands both being cops, so we hadn't stayed in contact. Despite that, she gave me a hug when she bustled in. I voiced my concern about it being too much to ask. She assured me that it wasn't any trouble and she'd keep them for as long as I needed. "We'll be fine, just take care of Rodney."

"I'll try to bring some clothes by later," I said, first giving Addie a hug and kiss, and then Miles, to whom I added, "Watch your little sister and be good for Mary." I could tell they were both in shock, their skin cold and clammy, their eyes still dilated. Mary hustled them out, and I finished my statement.

True to his word, Hal took me to the hospital. Rodney was already in surgery. A nurse led us to a small family waiting room. "A doctor will be in to talk to you shortly." And off she went.

I took a seat in one of the pastel-covered chairs and rubbed my forehead. "It all seems so surreal."

Hal stayed with me. He even called Rodney's parents to let them know what had happened. They'd moved to Florida last year and were happy as clams. They often urged us to make the move, but neither one of us wanted to leave our home. Now, I found myself dreading ever returning to our house. Any sense of security I'd felt there had been stripped away.

When I was just about ready to rip my hair out by the roots, a doctor came in dressed in a surgical gown, his mask a white tumor on his neck. "Mrs. McDermott?"

I stood, "Yes?"

"Mr. McDermott's injuries were quite severe, but we managed to remove all of the buckshot. We also had to remove one of his ribs and part of his left lung, but we managed to stop the internal bleeding. He's stable, but not out of the woods. He's being moved to the ICU now."

"When can I see him?"

"In about an hour. Give us time to get him settled."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Before walking out the door, he turned back, "Being shot at close range like that... well, he's lucky to be alive. The next twenty-four hours are critical."

I nodded. The cold reality of just how thin my husband's lifeline was loomed all around me. Death mocked me from the darkness edging my vision.

Before I could pass out, Hal put his arm around my shoulders and guided me back to the chair that I'd occupied all morning. "I'm going to get some more coffee, would you care for some?"

"Yes, please."

Hal returned a few minutes later carrying two steaming cups. "It's hospital coffee, but it's better than nothing."

"Thank you." I took the paper cup from him. It was a comforting distraction from the tangle of thoughts I'd been battling while alone.

A short time later, another nurse came in to escort me back to see Rodney. I was advised that he was in an induced coma and that I'd have five minutes. I could tell which one was Rodney's room, by the uniformed officer standing guard outside. He was rather young and I didn't recognize him, but he nodded and allowed us access. The nurse came in with me and looked at the machines readouts, made some notes and then turned to go. Before leaving the room, she reminded me, "Five minutes."

A breathing tube snaked down his throat, and I heard the soft swishing of air being supplied to his damaged lungs. Tubes and wires ran from his arm up to a machine that monitored his pulse and whatever else. My heart broke all over again. I bent down to his pale face and brushed a light kiss on his hollow-looking cheek. Tears pooled and ran down my face; my voice broke as I ran my hand through his hair, whispering, "I'm here, Rodney. The kids are safe. We need you to get better. We need you to come back to us."

Before I knew it, the nurse returned.

"I love you, Rodney." I kissed his pale lips one last time before heading back to the small room where Hal waited.

# ~ * ~

"Why don't you stay with us for a while? Mary would love the company," Hal offered while we waited. I knew he meant until the police had a chance to find the other two guys who'd been there during the altercation on the side of the road last night. He was probably afraid I'd crumble if he brought it up, but it wasn't like I hadn't been worrying about them this whole time.

"I don't want to be an imposition," I started, but Hal put his hand up to stop me.

"I talked to Mary. She has the guest room all fixed up and the kids have already made themselves at home. She's made her special lasagna for dinner tonight and she's making a big breakfast as we speak."

I was too exhausted to argue, so I agreed.

On the way to his house, I asked, "Is there an ID on the perp yet?"

"Yeah, name's Edward Layton. Lives with his three sons on a farm in Clayton County. They've all been behind bars multiple times for various things. DWI, drunk and disorderly, assault, battery, possession... you name it, they've done it. One of the boys, Eddie, was even arrested for rape, but the victim disappeared before the DA could go after him. She's not been seen since. I believe he's the one you shot on the road.

I swallowed hard, "Doesn't surprise me. The way he looked at me was terrifying—like I was dinner."

"I don't know how you managed to keep such a cool head. I know you're ex-military, but what you did took guts."

"I don't know about that. I was scared out of my mind, but I saw an opportunity and took it. I knew I couldn't let them take us anywhere. That would have been a death sentence, for sure."

Hal fell silent. Probably thinking about what he and Mary would have done in our shoes. It wasn't worth thinking about. As long as they caught the bastards, our little slice of the world would be safe. At least it would feel safer.

Hal broke through my thoughts, "Jones and Rainy went out to their farm this morning. The place is deserted. Looks like they've gone underground."

A chill swept down my spine. Would I ever feel safe again?

When we arrived, Mary had made a big breakfast and was just putting it all out in serving dishes. The kids were helping set the table. Miles went about his task with quiet efficiency and Addie was her usual chatty self. They both ran to me with open arms when they noticed I was in the room. After hugs and kisses, I told them that their dad would be staying at the hospital for a while, but that he'd be fine eventually.

After Addie ran off to catch Mary's cat, Miles asked, "Mom, what about the bad man?"

"He's dead, sweetie." I knew my son well enough to know he understood what death meant. His lizard died last winter, and in this context, I thought it would come as a relief to know that the bad man wouldn't be back.

"When can we go home?"

"Not for a while."

"Good," he said and then added, "I like it here."

On the one hand, to hear him echo my thoughts about going back to the house broke my heart. On the other, I was glad he felt safe because I wasn't sure where else we'd go.

I took a long shower, and then pulled on some clothes I'd borrowed from Mary before I laid down with the kids in the spare bedroom. I awoke later with an idea and slipped out of bed. As quietly as I could, I padded to the door. Their house, also a quaint little Cape Cod was the mirror image of ours, the only exception being that they'd converted one of the smaller bedrooms into an office and the guest bathroom was only accessible from the hallway.

I went downstairs and found Mary sitting at the dining room table clipping coupons. "Is Hal here?"

"No he won't be back until dinner. I'm getting ready to run to the store, do you need anything? How about the kids? Do they have a favorite food, or how about snacks?"

"You don't have to do that. In fact, why don't I chip in for the groceries since my kids will end up eating all of your food anyway?"

Mary chuckled and shook her head, "You know, Hal and I wanted a family of our own, but I can't get pregnant. Having you and the kids here feels so right. Let me dote on them while I can, okay?"

"Fine. But I really do want to pitch in. Just tell me what you need and I'll see to it."

"Now," Mary tsked, "What I really need you to do is rest. When I get back, I'll watch the kids so the nice officer sitting out in his car can take you to the hospital. I'm sure you're anxious to see Rodney again."

Mary gathered up her coupons and left me to my own devices, saying, "If you're hungry, help yourself to whatever you can find!"

I decided to take a look around to see if I could come up with something helpful to do, but the house was immaculate. The hardwood floors didn't have an ounce of fur on them and the bathrooms shone. My kitchen would be envious of how clean Mary's kitchen was kept. There wasn't even a pillow out of place on the couch. Overcome with weariness, I moved one of the fluffed pillows and lay down. Mary's cat, Oscar, settled on my chest. His purring added another level of comfort.

# ~ * ~

After going to see Rodney, and there being no change in his condition—except as one nurse pointed out, he'd survived the day—I got back to Hal and Mary's house just in time for dinner. The kids were already seated and quiet, which was nothing short of a miracle. Mary said Hal was changing out of his work clothes and that he'd swung by the house, "There's a bag upstairs in your room. I have no idea what he brought you, but I hope some of it works." She said with a knowing smile.

"I'll just go freshen up." I said, adding by way of explanation, "Hospital cooties and all."

"Good thinking. We'll be right here.

The bag of clothes was a mishmash of things. Luckily, I didn't keep any clothes that didn't fit in my closet because it looked like he just went through and dumped it all in a bag. He even brought me some undies and socks, which was really going above and beyond the call of duty. I washed up in the little bathroom and changed into a t-shirt and my favorite pair of jeans. The children were laying on the floor in the living room watching television when I sat down at the table.

Mary placed a basket of garlic bread and the salad on the table. "I hope you don't mind. I already plated your lasagna."

Sweet heaven, the smell of the roasted garlic and other spices wafted up from my plate. I inhaled deeply. "Mary, this smells wonderful!"

Hal smiled proudly at his wife, "She's one hell of a cook, that's for sure!" Adding with a wink, "That's why I married her."

"Oh hush, you!" Mary laughed. "I couldn't cook worth a darn when we got married. Honestly, if it wasn't for Betty Crocker, we'd have starved ages ago."

"Well, you certainly could've fooled me." I said, "This looks and smells as good as what my momma used to make, and she was known for her lasagna."

"I just hope it's as good as it smells." Mary said, "Dig in! We don't stand on ceremony around here."

The conversation was light as we ate. Mary brought up Halloween, which was tomorrow night, "Do the children have costumes?"

"They do. Miles decided to go as a red Power Ranger and while we were buying the costume, Addie saw the pink one and her desire to be a ballerina died on the spot."

After a hearty laugh, Hal sobered, "Not to be a downer, but I have a favor to ask of you, Kate."

"Sure. Shoot."

"Well, we think the Layton boys are still in town. A car matching the description of one of their girlfriends was seen outside your house this afternoon. The neighbor catty-cornered to your place called it in because they were parked in front of his house. He thought it was suspicious so he took the garbage can out and got their license plate."

"That was Jameson, no doubt. He'd be the first one to yell at the neighborhood kids to get off his lawn." I took a sip of water, "So, what's the favor?"

I can't say I was surprised when he told me what they'd cooked up. It was basically the same plan I'd come up with earlier. Before I could say anything though, Mary hit the table with her palm, making us jump and the silverware rattle, "Hal! You can't ask her to do that! Not after what she's been through!"

"It's okay, Mary." I said, "Really. I want to do this. I was even going to suggest something similar. I think we'll all sleep easier if these guys are caught."

"At least wait a few days." Mary said.

Understanding her concern, I covered her hand with mine, "If we wait, then we lose the upper hand. I killed their brother and their father. They want me. If we give them time to plan anything, we lose any edge we might have had, and we need this to be on our terms."

Mary nodded and squeezed my hand.

With that settled, I turned to Hal, "How soon can we put this in motion?"

"We can be ready by tomorrow night."

"Great. This is one Halloween I'm sure to remember." The sooner this was over, the sooner we could go back to our lives. I wasn't surprised the brothers knew where I lived, and I wasn't surprised they were plotting their revenge. I just didn't want to be out somewhere with the kids when they decided to act. If it was on my terms, then I controlled the players. If I hid, then I'd always worry that they were in the shadows waiting to pounce. No. It was better to be done with it.

# ~ * ~

The kids went trick or treating with Mary and her friend, Camilla, and Camilla's three kids, while a plain-clothes officer dropped me off at my house. She grabbed my forearm as I climbed out, "Remember, you're not alone. Just say the word and we'll swoop in."

"I know. Thanks." Stepping up to the front door, a chill ran down my spine. Just fitting the key in the lock felt foreign. I didn't think it would ever feel like home again. I planned to suggest moving to Rodney when he recovered. At the thought of my husband lying in the hospital with tubes and wires keeping him alive, my blood boiled. With renewed resolve I opened the door and stepped into the house.

Turning the lights on as I went, I headed straight up to my bedroom where we had a gun safe built into the closet. The casual observer wouldn't be able to tell it was any more than a closet. Between Rodney and I, we had an impressive collection. Fifteen guns might seem excessive to some, but to us, these weren't merely weapons. Some were collector editions, but their value didn't make them any less effective.

I stuffed a duffle bag with every gun we had; making sure each one had a magazine loaded and an extra for good measure. Once that was done, I strapped a holster on my thigh and tucked another one in the back of my waistband. I put my Glock-17, also known as Thelma, in my thigh holster and another smaller Glock, Louise, at my back. After that was done, I went through each room, leaving a gun hidden, but accessible, should I be caught unaware. There wasn't any guarantee that they'd come, but if they did, I'd be ready for them.

Once I was done distributing the guns throughout the house, I sat down on the couch and turned on the television. I wasn't interested in what was on, but I found an old Halloween Classic on AMC and waited.

# ~ * ~

I must have fallen asleep because a voice in my ear woke me up. "Activity on Magnolia," the tinny male voice said. Suppressing the urge to bolt upright, I laid still.

Heart hammering, I whispered, "Copy that." A different movie was playing on TV. It was one of the Friday the 13th flicks—just what I needed at the moment. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I forced myself to take a few calming breaths. With as little movement as possible, I reached under the blanket and released the snap on my thigh-holster. I didn't remove Thelma, though. Instead, I just rested my hand on her.

After what seemed like an excruciatingly long wait, the voice in my ear said, "All clear." After releasing a long whoosh of air, I managed, "Roger."

Securing Thelma, I rose and stretched before checking my watch.

Midnight.

I'd managed to get four hours of sleep. Not too shabby, I thought as I padded to the bathroom to relieve my over-stimulated bladder. Maybe they won't come tonight.

At two, I decided to call it a night.

"Birdie is heading to her nest." I chuckled, knowing it would be transmitted via the bone mic in my ear. Turning off all but a couple of lights, I trudged upstairs to my room. I did everything I would normally do: brushed my teeth, washed my face. Then I crawled into bed. I thought of my husband lying alone in the hospital, fighting for his life. As I drifted off to sleep, my mind drew on that and threw me back to the days when I was the one on a roof in the middle of a war zone, picking off targets. Only having the barest of facts like a name and face, was supposed to keep me at an emotional distance from my targets. It didn't. I was trained to be a machine, but I was still human. I didn't have to wonder if the nightmares would come. Tonight would be no exception.

I tried some of the breathing techniques I'd learned in therapy to calm myself and try to reach sleep. When that failed, I pulled out my Kindle and tried to pick up where I'd left off in the book I was reading, but even that was beyond me. My gaze washed over the words like water washes through a gully, but soon enough sleep claimed me anyway.

I awoke with a start, a high-pitched whine in my ear, and my heart thrumming in my chest. A weight pushed down on me, making it hard to breathe, making it impossible to move. Panic seized me before the heaviness of sleep lifted. Everything shifted into sharp focus. A hand pressed against my mouth, smelling of gasoline and cigarettes. The germaphobe in me wondered briefly where that hand had been, when was the last time it was washed? I gagged.

"Wakey, wakey, bitch." Spittle sprayed my face, his breath lingered around me like a cloud of sewer gas.

I tried to move my arms, but he straddled me, pinning them beneath the covers. His right hand moved in front of my face, the glint of steel flickering in the pale moonlight streaming through the windows. A knife. I wriggled, trying to free myself, trying to throw him off.

He tsked, "I don't think so." He lifted his hand from my mouth, "Scream if you wanna. Nobody gonna hear ya anymore."

He sat back, his knee lifting off of my right hand enough to free it while he picked at his fingernails with the sharp point of his knife. The other knee dug painfully into the back of my left hand. He really should have stayed put. Careful not to draw attention, I searched the bed for the gun I'd hidden earlier. It should have been within easy reach. I found my Kindle, but that wasn't going to help me.

"Looking for this?" He asked. My gun swung from his index finger. "Figured a girl like you would be curling up next to something cold." Looking over at Rodney's empty side of the bed, he added, "He's luckier than you will be, but not for long."

He laughed, a long mirthless cackle.

His eyes locked with mine as his laugh dried up. "Nah. I've got special plans for you, darlin'."

A shiver shook my body. They say if you're abducted to talk to your captor, to humanize yourself. That's assuming they're human. I didn't see any humanity in this lunatic and I refused to beg. At least I'd die knowing my kids were safe.

He leaned forward again, putting more pressure on my hand, crushing it under his knee until there was an audible pop. The sudden pain had me seeing stars and biting down on my lip to keep from screaming. Sweat broke out all over my body and bile stung the back of my throat. Turning my head to the side, I vomited.

A wide Joker-grin flooded his face, "I'm gonna have fun breaking you."

The sound of someone trudging up the stairs caught his attention. My hand and my shoulder both throbbed, making it difficult to think. Pushing those sensations into a box in my mind, I refocused on the man on top of me.

"It ain't pretty, Larry, but it's done." A gruff voice said from the doorway.

"Good." Larry said. I had no idea what he was talking about but I wasn't about to interrupt their conversation. They kept talking, while I slid my good hand up to my pillow. Reaching under it, I withdrew my Glock 19. Knowing one was already in the chamber and ready to go, in one fluid motion, I brought the gun up and blew a hole into my attackers' forehead. Blood splattered me as he fell forward, just missing my face with his and crushing me under his weight.

"Fuck!" The gruff voice said from across the room.

I felt the vibration of boots as they stomped over to the bed.

"You fucking bitch. What did you do?"

I barely heard him over the ringing in my ears, but I couldn't waste time talking to him anyway. I needed to assess the situation and it wasn't good, pinned as I was, beneath two hundred pounds of dead idiot. I tried to shift my weight by lifting my right leg and pushing him off, but it was impossible. Maybe if I didn't have to worry about the remaining Layton brother, I could've done more, but as it was, Larry was acting like a shield. Albeit, a really foul smelling, bloodletting shield.

I still had the gun in my hand, but Larry made it impossible to move my arm. The other Layton brother paced the room, mumbling and hitting himself in the head with his gun. He also said "Fuck!" at the end of every circuit. I'm pretty sure he was crying too, but I couldn't really see his face from where I lay. Sooner or later though, the crazy lunatic was going to get mad and when he did, I knew I'd better have a plan.

Except, the whole "plan thing" didn't really work. Ever. I mean, where was Hal and his merry men? Was that who the crazy fuck had "taken care of"? I didn't want their deaths on my conscience. Especially Hal. How would I ever face Mary again? Thinking of Mary brought me full circle. My kids. They didn't deserve this. And what about Rodney? What if he didn't survive? All for a stupid Halloween party that we never actually attended! Fiery anger burned through my stomach and up my chest.

Breaking my silence, I said, "You know what your first mistake was?"

The pacing stopped. The air felt charged.

"You boys assumed you had the upper hand, and you know what they say about assuming."

"Everything would've been fine if you hadn't been such a fucking bitch."

I sighed. "No. Everything would have been fine had you boys not concocted some half-assed plan to kidnap two people. I mean, who does that? And as a family, no less?"

"That was Eddie's idea."

"Well then, Eddie got himself killed."

In two long strides he reached to the bed, "You know what your mistake was lady?"

"Name's Kate," I said dryly.

"Okay. Kate. Do you know what your mistake was, Kate?" A sneer evident in his voice.

"And your name would be?"

"Billy."

"Fine. Please, enlighten me, Billy."

"You killed my family, you fucking bitch. Now it's your turn." He pulled his brother off me. Larry hit the floor with a thud. Momentarily distracted by his brother's prostrate form, I drew my gun and fired.

The shot hit Billy in the stomach. He looked at me through the semi-darkness, his mouth forming an "o". He came at me with arms outstretched. I fired again. This time, the bullet ripped through the center of his chest. His body bucked, but he kept coming.

"You too stupid to die?" I yelled. Probably shouldn't mock a madman, Kate, a voice inside my head admonished.

His hands reached for my neck and I fired again, but nothing happened. The fucking useless piece of shit jammed. Tossing it away, I kicked out from under the covers and twisted around, just in time for his hands to find my neck. He squeezed. Blood flowed freely from his wounds onto my tank top and ran down to pool at my neck, where it mingled with his brother's blood. Bright pinpoints of light flickered around the edges of my vision. Kicking out, I scored a shot to his balls. He let go with a huff. Stumbling backward over his brother, he landed in a heap on the floor.

Ignoring the pain in my hand and shoulder, grabbing my gun again, I scrambled up, clearing the chamber as I went. The pain in my hand blossomed and left me seeing stars. My head swam.

"Stay down, Asshole!" But even in the dark I could see that he wasn't trying to get up. He was too busy holding his balls. "Unbelievable. Two bullets don't take you down, but a kick to your balls does? Pathetic."

Sirens in the distance caught my attention. Now, I had a choice to make. I could let Billy live, which would surely happen if the paramedics got here first, or I could put another bullet in him for good measure, knowing he'd never return to haunt us again. It didn't take long to decide.

I fired another shot.

# ~ * ~

## Three Weeks Later – Present Day

Rodney had to have another surgery last week to repair an artery they'd missed that had been nicked by the buckshot. Since then, they've moved him out of Critical Care and into his own room. The kids are excited to see him.

Hal was the first to arrive on the scene the night that Larry and Billy paid me a visit. He was more concerned with my welfare than what had happened. Being covered in blood like I was, I'm sure I looked horrific and my hand was pretty mangled too. He told me that Billy had led them on a wild goose chase, only to double back and kill the two officers who stayed behind to watch the house. He'd then disabled the radio in the van and headed inside. The whole thing, from the time Billy led them away, until they received a 911 call from my neighbor, good old Mr. Jameson reporting shots fired, only lasted fifteen minutes. I could have sworn it was an hour or more.

There weren't any charges filed against me, since I killed in self-defence. Four times. They even offered me a job, once my wounds heal. I'm not sure that's something I want to do, but it was a nice gesture.

With my hand broken in several places and my shoulder still healing, it's made it hard to do just about everything. But I haven't let that stop me. I spent all last week packing our stuff and having it moved. There's no way I can live in that house again. It's already on the market and I've rented a small place closer to Hal and Mary.

They've been great. Mary's become a dear friend and the kids have taken to calling them Aunt Mary and Uncle Hal. We're lucky to have them in our lives.

The kids seem to be okay. Miles had a few nightmares at first but those seem to be fading like dreams tend to do. In an odd twist of fate, my nightmares have ceased. I'm not sure if it's because I faced down my demons and won, or if I've just been too exhausted to dream. I guess time will tell.

"Mommy, mommy! Look! It's our drawings!" Addie says in her sweet sing-song voice. Rodney's door is decorated in the kids art that they've been sending with me every time I visit.

A nurse who's passing by says, "Those sure are pretty drawings. Did you make them for your daddy?"

Addie nods, blushing.

"Well, they're beautiful. I'm sure your daddy loves them."

"Thank you," Addie squeaks.

Swinging the door wide, Miles holds it for us. I've prepared them as best I could for the tubes and machines. Miles thought it sounded cool. "Like Robocop," he'd said.

Rodney's awake and sitting up in bed when we burst into the room. His coloring is good. It's was the best he's looked since The Dead Zone.

Continue reading or return to table of contents.

Razor

Will Swardstrom
I was married to Felicia for seven years. During that time, we loved, we fought, we laughed, and we cried. It was the best seven years of my life. Just like any other marriage, I suppose, we had good and bad times, but I am an eternal optimist. I always look on the bright side of life.

Perhaps that was my mistake. Maybe I should have been more of a cynic. Maybe I should have questioned the way things were.

Maybe.

Or maybe I just made one little mistake. Over and over again. For seven years.

When Felicia and I were married, the first thing she bought me was an electric razor. She always hated the full beard I grew from time-to-time, but would lovingly rub her hands across my face if I trimmed it up. It was her little attempt to change me, and as a newlywed, I allowed it. She was the best thing to ever happen to me. If I had to trim my facial hair from time to time to keep her, so be it.

I guess I'll never really know if she loved me like I thought she did.

Felicia died a week ago.

I haven't shaved in that time. I'm afraid to. I've left my razor—the very razor she gave me—unplugged since Felicia died, terrified at the truth of what would happen if I dared to plug it back in.

When I first got the razor, I would plug it into the wall outlet to charge and often forgot about it. It was just a razor, charging on its base in the master bathroom. What's the big deal? But the next time I went to shave, the razor's charging cable was unplugged from the wall.

Strange, I thought to myself. I didn't recall unplugging it, but then remembered Felicia. Less than a month into my marriage, I sometimes forgot I was a married man. I used to be the only one responsible for anything in my apartment. Felicia now shared my space, though, and she followed behind me, cleaning my little messes here and there. This must have been her—unplugging the razor when I wasn't using it.

I just shrugged, plugged in the wall charger, and went to work on my beard. A few minutes later, I was trimmed and ready to go, and I didn't really think much about it.

Later that night, Felicia trudged up the stairs leading to our apartment, apparently exhausted after a long shift working in the photo lab at the nearby drug store. It was the years between the end of film cameras and the beginnings of digital, and the local store was holding fast to their one-hour photography services. Most days, Felicia ran a couple rolls of film, but saw more digital cameras than not and customers trying to figure out "how to get that picture off my phone and onto a piece of paper."

Once she opened the door, though, she was back to being my wife. Gone was the remnants of photo frustration. In its place was a refreshing smile when she saw my face.

"Good! You shaved," Felicia said, dropping her purse and photo smock on the couch. "I'm so glad I bought you that razor."

"Me too," I said, flashing a smile. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"Oh. You mean like this?"

She took a few steps into the room and placed her hands on my cheeks, pulling me in for a long, deep kiss. We'd been married less than a month. The new hadn't worn off yet. I kissed her back, no need for any more words. The bedroom was our next, and final, destination of the evening.

I'd forgotten about the razor. Of course I had.

It was the first time I never asked. That was my mistake, and it would be a mistake I would repeat over and over.

++++++

From then on, I just assumed Felicia was the one unplugging my razor. For years I plugged the razor in, shaved, and left it charging. Every time I went back to trim up my beard or goatee, I would find the cable unplugged. I never saw her do it, but then again, I was rarely in the bathroom at the same time as my wife. If I was, whether or not my razor was plugged in was certainly not on my mind.

I guess I saw that simple little act as a gesture of love. No matter what, Felicia was looking out for me. Even with our ups and downs, I could always count on that little thing.

I shouldn't have.

I don't think Felicia ever loved me like that. Not that she didn't love me, but I don't think the electric razor in our bathroom was exactly something she ever put much thought into.

A few years after we were married, life had gotten to both of us. And by life, I mean our student loans. Whoever invented student loans may very well have a pact with Beelzebub himself. One moment, you are cruising through life, content with very little, but excited about the future, and the next, the payments for those unsubsidized loans begin. Crippling isn't quite how I would describe it, but my mother taught me not to swear.

Anyway, the job Felicia had at the photo lab eventually got phased out due to the digital age. Her degree was in accounting, but unfortunately, the recession took care of any spare white collar jobs. She took a job as a receptionist at a local law firm just to make the loan payments. Then, she took a second job part-time doing basic technical service calls for the cable company. Some days, she spent sixteen hours on the phone.

She wasn't alone there. My loan payments were even higher than hers. Fortunately, I was able to catch on at the local newspaper, but only as a copyeditor. I also got on for a back-up press room operator, but those hours were a little more hit and miss. Between our multiple jobs, there were weeks where we barely saw each other, except for waking up and going to sleep.

We went weeks without sharing a meal together, days without relaxing in front of the TV, and a date night was the furthest thing from either of our minds. To us, a good night's sleep was what we looked forward to most.

One day when Felicia was working an extra shift at the cable company, I had the night off. Rubbing my face, I realized it had been over a week since I'd shaved. I always trimmed for Felicia and since I rarely saw her, I hadn't worried about shaving for a while. I wandered over to the bathroom sink and found my razor.

Plugged in.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew we were both busy. Life was hectic, but she had always unplugged it before. No matter what. Was this her version of the cold shoulder? Did it mean something?

I decided not to shave, after all. The bed was welcome and close, so I laid on top of the covers. I wanted to sleep, but my mind was a mess. It was rare for either of us to work less than sixty hours a week. The stress was taking a toll on us, but I guess I fooled myself into thinking our marriage was safe.

Somewhere deep inside I knew something was wrong. It wasn't just the hours at the newspaper or the lack of time with my wife. It was stupid, but that one little thing made it all come into focus.

I needed to do something. I didn't know how or why, but if I didn't figure it out, my marriage was going to fall apart.

++++++

My parents had always promised to help us out, but we'd proudly refused any financial assistance. We'd gotten ourselves into this mess, and we'd get ourselves out—even if it killed us. So, as soon as I dragged myself off the bed, I called my father. For some people, Dad was the worst person to call, but my father was the most generous person I knew. I also knew he was a hopeless romantic, taking my mom on countless dates, trips, and cruises throughout their marriage. He was the one to talk to.

I didn't even need that long on the phone. Within twenty minutes, I'd worked it out. I just needed to talk to Felicia.

Waiting until she got home was perhaps the most nerve-racking few hours of my life.

When Felicia finally walked in the door, she turned and dropped her purse on the couch before she even noticed me. Before she'd seen the lit candles.

"What? Greg?" Felicia asked.

"Let me say this: I know something is wrong. I don't know how exactly, but we've gotten off track somewhere along the way. I don't want to lose you," I said, hardly able to contain my emotions. I had thought about what I was going to say for a couple hours, and I was still stuck for words. "Felicia, I love you. I always have, and I want to fix it."

"Fix it? What do you mean?"

I could see the tears beginning to well in her eyes, but she refused to acknowledge something was off.

"I know what you did—or rather, what you didn't do, Felicia. I want you to give me a second chance," I said.

With that, she collapsed on the couch, sagging into its dusty cushions. I went to her side, but she buried her face in her hands, weeping loudly.

"Oh, Greg. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. I promise I'll quit if you want. I can find a different job. Please, I just missed you—I missed us so much and he was right there..." she trailed off.

I was confused. She was talking about something else. Someone else.

"What?" I asked quietly.

"Rob from the law firm. He's some hotshot ambulance chaser. I think I told you about him when I first took the job. He talks to me when everyone else is out of the office. He...he thinks there's something between us," she said between tears.

"Is...is there?"

She shook her head. "No. I can't say I didn't consider it. I hardly ever see you anymore. Between your two jobs and my two jobs, I was sitting there one day in the office thinking, 'what if?' We've talked, but that's it. I'm sorry—I'll turn in my resignation tomorrow morning."

I didn't know what to say. I'd planned this all out and then she dropped a bombshell. Whatever I expected, this was worse. I was silent for half a minute, before I regained myself. I needed to be Felicia's husband. She was laying herself bare for me, and I needed to step up.

I took her in my arms, trying to calm her sobs. I wanted to cry as well, but I shoved my own feelings aside to alleviate Felicia's fears.

"If you feel that's what you need to do, I understand. We'll make it work. I believe in you—always have, always will. Maybe you can pick up more hours at the cable company."

She sniffled. "Maybe..."

"But, before you do, plan on taking a few days off after you're done at the law firm. I've got a plan to get us back on track."

"Us?"

"Yeah. I called my dad..."

"Greg," she said.

"I did, and it's too late. He's giving us the money whether you like it or not. Anyway, we're going to take a small vacation. We'll go up to a cabin in the mountains for a few days—just the two of us."

She looked at me for a few seconds, a smile threatening to take over her face.

"And I promised we'd pay him back," I said, knowing she wouldn't want it any other way.

Felicia threw her arms around me and squeezed.

"You don't know how much I needed this. I miss you so much," she said. "You aren't mad?"

"I can't say I'm happy about it, but you aren't the only one to blame. It's my fault, too, that you had to take that job. We'll figure it out," I said, kissing her forehead. "I know we will."

++++++

The razor was never discussed that night. Instead, we began the work of patching up our marriage, falling in love all over again during our days away at our cabin hideaway.

It turned out the cable company wanted to hire her full time anyway, and not just doing customer service. They had liked her work ethic, and had an opening in their Accounts Payable Department. Our first day back from our mountain getaway, she started as a full-time accountant.

Life was good. We were in love and making it work. We had good jobs and were happy.

Until Felicia's kidneys stopped working.

Here's the thing about kidneys – you pretty much need them to live. Day after day, your blood funnels through an external machine, doing the job your kidneys should be doing. It isn't ideal, but it does the job. The tediousness, the constant draining and refilling of your lifesource, the drudgery of it all is enough for some people to want to call it quits.

That wasn't Felicia, but then again, she wasn't really given a lot of choices.

I've learned a lot about kidneys and kidney failure since she was diagnosed, but most people endure the process over the course of years; from when the kidneys begin to decline up until the organs eventually just can't go on any longer. From what other people have told me, the journey takes a long time and by the time you reach the end, it is an inevitability – one that has been accepted by everyone involved long before it actually happens.

Felicia went from being a healthy young woman to having two non-functioning kidneys within just a matter of weeks. The decline was so sudden, we had dozens of doctors, nurses, and specialists stumped as they tried to figure out what was happening to her. What was happening to us.

She couldn't be placed on the donor list—not for months. I thought we might be able to wait that long, but the look I caught when the doctors were talking to each other was worrying. I'd seen that look before, and it wasn't good. They wanted to keep her at the hospital, but I was starting to wonder if that was best. If Felicia's days were numbered, I wanted her to be at home. Not in some cold, sterile hospital. The doctors wouldn't budge, telling me that she needed daily dialysis. Even then, her blood was just not keeping up with the daily dialysis.

"We'd rather she stayed here," Dr. Anderson told me a few days after the diagnosis came down.

"What about going home?"

"You don't have the proper equipment at home. She needs to stay here."

I knew the main reason they wanted her to stay close was the strangeness of her case. Like I said, the kidneys usually lasted a lot longer. From diagnosis to transplant surgery or death, patients spent years being treated. Felicia's kidneys were literally dead weight already.

Her case was so bizarre that the local television station heard about it and ran a feature on her and her abnormal kidneys. A friend ran a crowdfunding campaign on our behalf and within a week enough had been raised to bring Felicia home and to have a dialysis machine full-time at the house. Normally, this wouldn't have been an option, but our situation was far from normal.

As we prepared to leave the hospital, Dr. Anderson pulled me aside.

"Greg, I want to prepare you for the inevitable. I think you already know the truth: Felicia is not going to get better. We've spent a long time going over her tests, analyzing everything about her case, but there is something wrong with her that we still can't identify."

"What do you mean?"

He looked away for a moment, and then refocused on me. "I'm saying her time is limited. Medical science has progressed a long way, but I think we're still going to be figuring out Felicia's case long after she's gone," he said, then added, "which probably won't be very long."

I was stunned. We were in our late twenties. We were supposed to be invincible. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to you when you weren't even thirty yet.

"I'm so sorry." Dr. Anderson said. "If I were you, I'd come to grips with it and start making the final preparations. Say what needs to be said. Your wife is going to die."

++++++

I didn't believe Dr. Anderson. Not completely. When you haven't even broken a bone in your whole life, it's hard to understand your wife is going to die when she was at the pinnacle of health just weeks earlier. I guess part of me wanted to just wake up from this nightmare, Felicia by my side and have her tell me it was all going to be okay.

But it wasn't.

During the final few weeks of her life, I had a routine. I'd get up and clean the house, make breakfast, and get Felicia's dialysis machine ready. After she woke up, we'd hook her up. It was draining, but within a few hours, it was the high point of the day. After that, I just did everything I could.

After a few days, Felicia knew.

"Greg?"

"Mmm?" I replied, still half asleep. I pulled my cell phone out and saw the time. 3:12 a.m. "What do you need, honey?"

"I'm going to die."

If I wasn't awake yet, that cleared my head quickly. I hadn't talked to her about what Dr. Anderson had shared with me before we left the hospital. I didn't want to worry her, but she knew. It was her body, after all.

I turned over and found her gaze burrowing into me. Already I felt tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I couldn't help it; I nodded.

"You knew."

Not a question. Not an accusation. No anger. Just a statement.

"I did. Dr. Anderson said he didn't know what was wrong. They knew about the kidneys, but they really couldn't figure out why it was happening. What is really going on..." I reached out and pulled her close to me. "I'm so sorry. I wish..."

"It's okay. I've laid awake the last few nights thinking about it. I guess I've gone through most of the stages of grief as this point. I've had a good life. My childhood wasn't bad, my parents were pretty great, and I've been to Disney World," she said, pulling back to show me a small smile. I squeezed her shoulders, and she added, "...and of course I had a freaking awesome husband."

"And you're an amazing wife," I said. "I can't believe I was lucky enough to find you. All this time, and you still take care of me. Even this morning, I walked into the bathroom to find you unplugged my razor. Every time I use it, I leave it plugged in, and when I go back in later, you've unplugged it. It was such a small thing, but all this time, I've known you loved me just by that little gesture."
Felicia pulled back from me again and gave me a strange look.

"Greg, what are you talking about?"

++++++

Felicia passed away three days later. It was quiet; she went in her sleep. The dialysis just couldn't keep up with her blood. When the end finally came, she was at peace.

But I wasn't.

I wanted to believe she was somehow delirious when she didn't know about the razor. I hoped beyond reason she was just tired and her brain wasn't firing right because her body was in the process of shutting down. I wished...

But ultimately, the truth was staring me in the face. For seven years we'd lived in this apartment and for seven years I'd allowed someone else to unplug my razor in the bathroom. I thought that someone was Felicia, but ultimately it wasn't.

The day after Felicia's funeral I walked into the bathroom. It was remarkably clean; Felicia's mother had stopped by a few days earlier and made it sparkle. I didn't touch anything except for the cord to my electric razor. I looked at it – there wasn't anything out of the ordinary about it, so I slowly pushed it into the wall outlet.

I couldn't bear to stay in the apartment, so I walked out, locking the door behind me. I just walked around the city. I put one foot in front of the other for hours. I didn't really know how far I walked; all I know is that the sky was threatening complete darkness by the time I returned.

The bathroom wasn't near the front door, but I froze at the threshold to the apartment.

I wasn't ready. I wanted to run away, but just like I did when I tried to wear a groove into the city's sidewalks, I simply put one foot in front of another and walked to the bathroom. Reaching around the door frame, I flipped on the light switch. As soon as the light filled the room, I saw two things that made my heart stop.

The electric razor was unplugged.

And on the mirror, a message written in my dead wife's lipstick: "Now we can be together."

Continue reading or return to table of contents.
Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen

Brian L. Braden

Recent Calls, Unknown Caller, DALLAS TX 9:52 p.m. 14 Dec 2016. 47 seconds

The number you are calling is not answering. At the tone, leave a message or dial one for more options.

BEEP.

(background voices and noise) "What da HELL is up, bro! Mike. Mikey. Mii-keeey! MY-KAY! Its Todd, man. Can you believe it, I'm in town. Lets get together, throw down, and you know, old times, and shit.

(pause) "So...how's everything going? You still got that job down at the base? Yo, speaking of that, like no kidding, Tommy Lee Jones, like no shit, Men-in-Black-Tommy, came by the apartment a few months back, you know, (sniffs) when I was still on probo. He flashed a badge, asked a lot of questions 'bout you. Said something about a security clearance. Don't worry, I didn't tell him shit. I think he got my name from Kaylee. I bet that bitch told him some bullshit. Don't worry, I straightened his ass out. Mike Cleggitt, kick-ass patriot, that's what I told him!(sniff) I set you up pretty man, real pretty. So, hey, how about returning the favor?

"Huh, what? (Muffled noises, voice slightly farther away) Fuck off! Find another goddamn payphone, asshole.

(voice loud again) "My old lady kicked me out again. Can you believe that shit? (laughs) I dunno what's wrong with the bitch. I treat her good, real good. Who needs her bullshit anyway, right?

(pause) So, hey dude, I'm downtown at the bus station, and could really use a place to crash for a few nights. I was wondering if you could swing by and pick me up. I know I owe you a lot of money, but I'm sort a hurting (cough) and... (pause).

"I promise this time I'm clean. I just need a place to lay low for a while.

"Jesus, Mikey, (voice cracks) I don't know who else to call. You're the only one I got. You're my best...

BEEP.

***

The dying odors of summer, hot asphalt and greasy onion rings, dominated the West Flatte Dairy Queen parking lot. August of 1997 hadn't received word his tenure had expired, and football season begged September to grace the Texas Hill Country with her cleansing north wind.

Mike felt the seasons of his life changing, even if the world around him seemed forever the same. The applause from this afternoon's student assembly still rang in his ears, the brilliant camera flash, the sensation of the principle's firm handshake.

Small town boy makes good, the paper said. Michael Cleggitt, rancher's son and West Flatte native, population 1,298, had just won the prestigious Dr. Edward Teller Scholarship for Engineering and Physics. One of only two high school kids in the whole United States, Principle Tomlin had said.

In Texas, however, such academic accolades were respected, but still didn't catapult one to the level of hero, like Jimbo McCullen, the local 2-and-2 high school quarterback.

This event did, however, stand ready to launch the quiet, small town boy to a new life far beyond these dusty West Texas hills. The once impossible now lay within his reach.

Tonight, the previously unattainable also stood before him dressed in a blue and white cheerleader uniform.

"Todd Toobin is a dick!"

Pop! Kaylee's nimble tongue dutifully scampered forth, collected the deflated bag, and returned it to its place between her smacking gums, all without missing a syllable of rapid fire Texas twang. "Did ya hear me, Mikey? He's a dick. D-I-C-K!"

She craned up on her tip toes and knocked on his forehead. "Hell-lo? Hey, boy, 'R you in there? Mr. MIT smart guy, I'm talking to you."

The shock of the word "dick" emerging from Kaylee's pretty little mouth, simultaneously surprised and excited Mike.

It also pissed him off. "I heard you," he stammered. "I think you're being unfair."

Blonde ponytail bouncing, hands on hips, Kaylee's smacking halted as she struck an indignant pose. "It's my party. You're invited, he's not. What's not fair about that?"

"Your order is up." The moon faced old lady poked her head out of the ORDER HERE window, pushing the grease stained paper bag toward Mike. She didn't immediately withdraw, pretending to chip away at a piece of peeling formica while eavesdropping on the couple.

"Sorry, Kaylee, but if Todd can't go, neither can I."

"You're going to skip my party to go hang out with Todd Toobin. Seriously? And do what, find some freshmen who think you're cool, and play D&D in Todd's trailer?"

"He's my best friend," Mike stuttered. "He used to be your friend."

"Mikey, we were all friends in the fourth grade, and Todd was a jerk then, too. Me and everyone else figured that out, grew up and moved on." She smirked. "'Cept you, of course."

Mike shrugged and looked around the parking lot. "Yeah, he's a jerk now and then, but he's always there for me."

Unlike some people, he wanted to add.

"Was he there for you when he drove off at the Piggly Wiggly the minute Sheriff Dodson strolled in, leaving you holding a fake ID and a six pack?"

"I'm not the first kid in Flatte County busted trying to buy beer with a fake ID," Mike replied too quickly, too defensively. "Dodson gave me a warning. Dad whupped my ass. No big deal."

"Todd taped gay porn all over the football team's locker room."

Mike cracked an involuntary smile, thinking how Todd had put a picture of Jimbo's head over a male dancer's nude, oiled body. "Yeah, but that was funny."

"It wasn't funny! Neither was the bomb threat last year to get out of exams. No one could prove it, but we all know who did it."

She crossed her arms, face darkening and speaking in a hushed whisper. "He laced Mrs. Reddin's coffee with LSD." Her words, full of truth, stung.

"No one can prove that." The words stumbled out, along with the shame of actually muttering them.

Mike couldn't look at her. Kaylee didn't relent, craning around and forcing him to look her in the eyes. "Oh. My. God, Mikey! She almost died."

"He's my best friend."

"Because you're his only friend. Because he's a first rate asshole. And he ain't changed, not a lick. Why can't you see that? My God, where do you get this overdeveloped sense of loyalty? We graduate in nine months and we're all off to Angelo State, and you've got a scholarship to MIT. No one in this shithole has ever done that. Todd..." she tapped her foot, "Todd will be lucky to land a job at the 7/11. He's not going anywhere, you are. Don't spend your senior year tied to that loser."

Kaylee slid close, eyes searching his in a way they'd never searched before, the way no girl's ever had. Her hand lightly touched his, accompanied by a smile hinting at unfolding possibilities. Perhaps Kaylee saw him differently now, in a way he didn't, or couldn't yet see himself. Maybe the long gulf of teenage ostracism, that dark chasm between innocent grade school friendships and adult relationships, had finally come to an end.

"We're all so proud of you. I haven't been the best friend to you over the last few years. I'd like that to change.

"But like my momma says, you can't change the past. And there ain't no way in hell you can change Todd Toobin. You got to get living in the here and now."

Profanity-laced shouts from across the parking lot broke the spell and drew Mike's attention, just in time to see Todd leap from the passenger door of Mike's old Ford truck. Like a Goth scarecrow, Todd strutted across the cracked asphalt, middle fingers waving in the air as if he were conducting an orchestra playing Fuck You Symphony No. 5.

The football players rose from the picnic table. They slowly drew away from their chicken strip baskets and cheeseburgers; a pride of young male lions, interrupted during feeding by an obnoxious hyena. Jimbo, the quarterback and alpha-male, led the way. Thick necked and steady eyed, the Homecoming King slowly advanced on Todd. A chorus of "Whup his ass, Jimbo!" rose from the kids now pouring out of the Dairy Queen to watch the impending fight.

Impending slaughter, Mike thought. "Shit."

No one cheered for Todd, but no one ever cheered for Todd.

Varsity jacket and clean button-up, squared up against torn flannel and dirty Megadeth t-shirt. John Deere hat faced black beaner. Unlaced combat boots went toe-to-toe against cowboy boots. Testosterone-swollen brawn stood against pasty gangle.

Kaylee blew a giant bubble, and let it pop. "Problem solved, hon, 'cause Todd's gunna be dead in about two minutes."

Todd didn't stand a chance against the West Flatte offensive line, but Mike knew Todd didn't care. Todd never cared. Watching Todd should have irritated Mike, but instead he felt pity.

Mike began to walk across the parking lot, but Kaylee grasped his hand. "You can't save him forever."

Mike walked the line between adolescent hope and grim calculation. Calculation - that terrible, nagging gift that opened doors, forever shut others, and left Mike no place to hide from himself. Before she died, Momma told him Almighty God gifted him with a brilliant mind to shine the light of knowledge on mankind's darkness. Perhaps, but Mike would have traded a few rays of shining light for a chance to get laid.

In Flatte County, his brilliant mind got him shunned by most except his teachers, and never found him a higher class of friend then Todd Toobin. The cold spotlight of calculation also said Kaylee was using him, just as she had done countless times before. Mike wanted to turn off the spotlight, and embrace the blissful darkness of self-delusion.

"Does Jimbo know you didn't invite him?" he asked without looking at her.

"I didn't invite him," she said, voice rising toward the end, signaling another of her famous half-truths.

Across the parking lot, Jimbo lunged. Todd dodged. Jimbo missed. Todd laughed and danced away, middle fingers raised even higher as he taunted the beast again.

"Is Jimbo gunna be there tonight?" Mike pressed.

"You don't worry yourself about Jimbo." A tinge of poorly disguised irritation polluted her voice, but she quickly covered it with a tone as sweet as Texas iced tea. "Daddy's making a bonfire and roasting a pig. He's even going to buy us beer just as long as no one drives home. The boys are crashing in the ranch house. A sleepover." He turned in time to see Kaylee flash a woman's smolder. "It'll be fun."

Mike tore his eyes away just as Jimbo swung again. Todd went down hard to the mob's cheers.

Jimbo's raging snarl suddenly frightened Mike.

"I'll let you know about tonight." Mike yanked away and jogged across the parking lot.

Todd had just begun to pull himself up on all fours when Jimbo buried his pointed boot into his stomach, sending Todd sprawling on his back.

"Cut it out, you son of a bitch!" Mike dropped the bag, spilling onion rings onto the asphalt, and broke into a full run. The rest of Flatte County's offensive line shuffled forward, forming a wall between Mike and the ongoing beating.

A siren barked once, accompanied by a short burst of flashing blue lights. Mike leapt out of the way before the cruiser crushed his toes.

The embodiment of Flatte County law put on his cowboy hat and slid out of the cruiser, quickly followed by an enormous belly.

"Step back, Mikey," Sheriff Dodson barked and strolled around the car, pointing his baton toward the quickly dissipating line of football players. "Y'all get your asses out of my way."

The sheriff pushed thick black frames up his nose, and then rested his thumbs in his gun belt. "Todd Toobin, why am I not surprised. Get your sorry ass up off the ground."

He turned to Jimbo, tone softening, "You gunna tell me what this is all about?"

Jimbo shrugged, nodding to Todd. "He started it."

Wiping blood from his nose, Todd finally stood. "Fascist."

"Dick!" Jimbo lunged forward until the sheriff's baton blocked the way.

"Jimbo, you going to make any more trouble tonight? I'd hate to see you benched the rest of the season."

"No sir."

"Todd, I've seen enough of you today. Get out of here, or I'm going to lock you up and figure out a charge later."

Todd opened his mouth to say something, but caught Mike's frantic hand-across-the-throat gesture behind the sheriff's back. With eyes screaming defiance, he slinked backwards toward Mike's truck.

Jimbo strolled by, bumping hard against Mike's shoulder as he passed. "Next time, I'll kick his ass and yours. And stay the hell away from Kaylee."

"Mikey, get over here." Dodson sheathed his baton and leaned against the car, the buttons over his ample midriff strained. Arms crossed, he leveled his hardest glare upon Mike.

Mike shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and stared at the cracks around his feet. Then he noticed the tipped food bag still resting on the ground, onion rings spread over the black top.

"I saw your daddy today down at the co-op," Dodson said casually. "He told me all about your scholarship. Whole town's mighty proud of you."

"Yessir." Mike scooped up the bag and peaked in.

"Did you know I was at the high school today?"

"No sir." Hot dog, ketchup, and one of the two bags of onion rings were still intact. Mike's stomach growled.

"Are you listening to me?" The Sheriff's voice switched from paternal to cop.

He dropped the bag to his side and gave Dodson his full attention. "Yessir."

Dodson glared at him incredulously. "You better be listening boy, because while lil' ole candy ass Principle Tomlin was forking over that pretty piece of paper, me and my deputies ran a drug sweep at the school. Do you know why we were running a drug sweep?"

"No sir."

"'Cause I received credible information that your buddy over there..." he pointed to Todd sitting in the truck. "...is up to his ass in dealing."

The Sheriff stood, and the cruiser's springs groaned in relief. "I don't supposed you'd know anything 'bout that, would you?"

Nausea threatened to overwhelm Mike. "No sir."

"Your daddy is my friend. So was your momma," he paused, letting those words sink in for effect. "She'd be right proud of you."

He felt Sheriff Dodson's eyes burning into him, trying to squeeze a response, trying to break him. "I'd hate to think what it would do to your Pa if your scholarship got revoked."

"Can I go now?" was all he could think to say.

"Mikey...think hard about who you're keeping company with. Me and my deputies are going to be dropping by the high school a lot, we might even be bringing drug sniffing dogs. If you're caught up in Todd's shit, I will bust you in a heartbeat. You'll spend the rest of your life shoveling horse shit or flipping burgers, thinking about what could have been. Do you understand me?"

"Yessir. Can I go now?"

Sheriff Dodson opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. Mike wondered how he steered around that enormous belly. Dodson remove this hat and stuck his head out the window. "Scrape Todd Toobin off, or that little prick will ruin your life."

Mike slowly walked back to his truck, casting a wary eye over his shoulder at the Sheriff's car, which had backed into one of the lot's darker corners and shut off its lights.

A moment later Mike settled onto the ripped vinyl bench seat beside his best friend. Todd snatched the bag and started wolfing down onion rings. "I need serious nourishment," he said between voracious smacking.

Todd paused and looked around, as if something wasn't right. He frowned at Mikey, blood drying under his nose. "No Coke?"

That earned a hard stare, which only merited a slight shrug from Todd, and sent him back to his onion rings. "No problem, man. I'll grab one later." Todd began fingering the loose change at the bottom of the filthy ashtray. "Don't worry, Mikey, I'll pay you back later, promise."

Sure you will, Mike thought, as his appetite suddenly vanished.

"Do I got any blood on my face?"

"No more than usual. If you cry I'm going to call you a pussy."

"You can't call me a pussy, because you've never seen one before."

"I'm looking at one now."

Todd threw the wadded onion ring bag at Mike before settling into the seat and attacking the hot dog. The pair sat without a word as Mike observed the goings-on around the parking lot.

Cars full of local teens cruised Main Street, occasionally pulling into the Dairy Queen before rejoining the stream of headlights and taillights on the strip. Mike glanced up at the cracked Dairy Queen sign, remembering how Todd had thrown the rock that split open the red plastic. Each night since middle school, unfiltered white light escaped into the Texas night, summoning a horde of dancing moths to worship its glaring goodness.

Why did you do it, he had asked Todd. Todd never answered, only shrugged and moved on to the next quest for excitement, which was throwing rocks at the tornado siren behind the DQ. The siren's metal casing resisted Todd's assaults with greater success than the plastic sign. An adult's shout forced the middle school boys to seek mischief elsewhere that night.

The real question Mike had to ask himself was why he participated in Todd's chaos. Todd, special ed student and juvenile delinquent, was like that crack in the Dairy Queen sign, a tear in the fabric of the universe where energy, dangerous and bright, spilled forth. Mike knew he was a bland, colorless moth, hoping some of that light would soak into his body and give it color and purpose.

A hundred life-and-death teenage dramas unfolded below the swirling insects. Over by the order pickup window, Jimbo had found his way to Kaylee. Interlocking arms, she beamed up at the quarterback, as if her conversation with Mike had never happened.

Mike found himself staring at a black shadow lining the bottom of the Dairy Queen sign; a dark, graceful curve composed of hundreds of dead moths piled up inside the case. He traced the arching, almost perfect curve with his eyes, as a memory from his advanced placement physics class bubbled up in his mind. Mr. Wilson had discussed quantum physics at the beginning of the term.

The pile of moth corpses matched a quantum probability curve.

Todd released a loud belch, wadded up the bag and threw it on the floor board. Shaken from the trance, Mike glanced down and saw it had landed on a blood splattered and crumpled blue cloth.

"Dude, my shirt. What the hell?"

Todd spoke around his full mouth, "I needed something to stop the bleeding, so I grabbed a rag from behind the seat."

"That isn't a rag, that's my Honor Club shirt."

"Sorry, but it was either that or bleed all over your seat. Anyway, you should thank me. You don't really want to wear that shirt. I saved you from looking like a pansy-ass."

Todd followed Mike's gaze across the parking lot. "Jimbo McClellen is a ball sucking faggot. I'll figure out a way to get him back."

For a moment, Mike considered asking him what started the fight, but thought better of it.

Todd's eyes narrowed on Jimbo. "Dude, sound the war drums."

Mike shook his head vigorously. "No. No way, man. Not the right time. Anyway, it skips."

"It's always the right time for war drums." Todd popped open the glove box and ruffled around the crumpled papers and half-a-dozen uncased compact discs.

"It's not in the player, and I can't find it."

That didn't stop Todd from looking. A moment later, with Todd's trademark goofy grin, he held up a scratched CD-R with WAR DRUMS scrawled on it in thick, black Sharpie.

"You're a shitty liar."

Mike glanced uncomfortably over at Kaylee. "C'mon, not a good time. Anyway, it's scratched all to hell."

"Just some dust." Todd spit on the play side and wiped it with his t-shirt. He leaned under the dash and inserted the CD into the six-disc player.

Todd pushed the power button and rolled the bass to max. Raw voltage poured into the three fifteen-inch woofers behind the bench seat.

Mike slapped his hand away. "You're going to blow the speakers."

"What're you talking about? I helped you build this."

"No, you drank my Dad's beer and watched me build it."

Todd shrugged. "Whatever. You needed managing."

Last July, Mike and Todd installed this custom car stereo during that time in their youth that all teenage boys go through, when one firmly believes a kick-ass car stereo will earn friends and pave a pathway between a girl's legs.

Mike had proven the theorem false, but in the process built indisputably the most powerful car stereo in Flatte County, perhaps in West Texas. It didn't win any dates, but it did establish his acoustic dominance, making him a homemade car stereo legend. He didn't know what the fuss was all about, as it was just a matter of energy, transmitted over space at varying levels of power, amplitude, and frequency, to deliver a desired effect.

Perhaps Mike built the stereo, but Todd usually provided the music. If Mike understood physics, then Todd knew how to mix a CD which took full advantage of the stereo's capabilities.

Todd leaned out the window and shouted at the top of his lungs. "Sound the war drums!"

The popular kids at the picnic tables rolled their eyes and snickered, but whoops and cheers rose from the parking lot's edges.

Mike smiled despite himself. "Fuck it. Sound the war drums."

"Hell yeah," Todd pounded on the dash. "War Drums!"

With only one button, Mike set the graphic equalizer to a custom setting programmed just for this mix. He thought about putting in his earplugs, as last time it had hurt.

A little pain might feel good, he thought.

CD #3. Track 1. PLAY.

The woofers hummed. The seat throbbed. The rearview mirror vibrated. Around the truck, people covered their ears. Bars on the equalizer skyrocketed from green to yellow to red. Mike's homemade monstrosity roared to life with the opening drums solo from Conan the Barbarian.

The stock speakers from a nearby Dodge truck, no match for Mike's, went silent. Shania Twain surrendered to the onslaught. Farther away, the Mexican kids hiked the volume on their low-riders' speakers, but eventually retreated before the war drums. As drums preceded armies of old, these were only harbingers of what would come, attention getters and woofer warmups.

Todd screamed out the window, but the woofers drowned him out. We are here, they pounded across the parking lot. You can't ignore us. We matter.

Then the drums faded, but for only a moment, before the main speakers and tweeters kicked in with Van Halen's Eruption.

All eyes turned to the Ford pick-up. Some knew what would come next, but others didn't. Those expecting David Lee Roth belting You Really Got Me Now following Eddie's guitar solo were disappointed.

Hands resting in lap, Todd sat calmly and lip-synced Tubthumping's opening dialogue.

Truth is, I THOUGHT it mattered. I thought that MUSIC mattered. But does it bollocks? Not compared to how people matter.

Todd began to sway, grinning and nudging Mike with his elbow to join him.

We'll be singing

When we're winning

We'll be singing...

I get knocked down

But I get up again

You're never gonna to keep me down!

Mike didn't know what shook the truck more, Todd's sudden explosion of fists, feet and elbows, or the thunder pouring from the eight speakers under the dash, doors and floorboard.

Todd shouted out the open window, sometimes pumping his fist, sometimes flashing the bird; not at anyone in particular, but in defiance to everyone and everything. To Mike, he looked like a crazy British soccer hooligan, celebrating his favorite club's victory. Mike surrendered too, and let the infectious energy carry him away like only a teenage boy could understand. The music became a drug; a volatile, untamed cocktail of anger, angst, and raw testosterone that can create or destroy worlds.

He drinks a whiskey drink

He drinks a vodka drink

He drinks a lager drink

He drinks a cider drink

Inside the truck, hands in unison mimicked drinking with each line. Outside the truck, teens in the pre-designated places of popularity shot impotent glares at Mike's truck. However, those faceless kids who lingered at the edges of the light, the nameless ones who drove the old beater cars or rusted out pick-ups, found themselves tapping their fingers on steering wheels, or dancing to the beat.

He sings the songs that remind him

Of the good times

He sings the songs that remind him

Of the better times

Todd pointed to Mike and mouthed, "Bitch part."

Mike flashed a casual middle finger.

Oh, Danny boy, Danny boy, Danny boy

Across the parking lot, the Sheriff issued a warning flash from his blue lights. Mike dropped the volume dramatically, and cut off the power booster. "Fun's over."

"Bastard," Todd fumed.

Anthem over, country music and Tejano, and the sons and daughters of Flatte County's well-to-do, once again held court in the Dairy Queen parking lot. The green LED counter softly clicked, and the player switched to the next CD. Chumbawamba's defiance ceded to Crash Test Dummy's somber tones. The atmosphere inside the truck seemed to change with the music.

Mike stared hard into the rear view mirror, wondering who stared back. He recognized his momma's hazel eyes behind black frame glasses, but not much else. His daddy's square jaw seemed more pronounced as pimples slowly surrendered to stubble. Maybe a man lurked in there, ready to step out from behind the boy and forge his own destiny.

Maybe not.

Todd broke the silence. "What did Kaylee want? I bet she wanted you to do her homework or something. Bitch is a user."

"She's not a bitch."

He turned to see Todd staring at him incredulously.

"I mean it. She's lots of things, but bitch isn't one of them."

"Do you really think you have a chance with her? Dude, she's a prep. You're not."

"And what are we?"

"We're the Freak and the Geek. Fuck her, and fuck Jimbo, and fuck everyone else. End of story."

Todd changed the subject. "Time to get the hell outa here. Let's drive to Dixie Mart and grab some beer."

The good feeling Mike had only a few minutes ago had cooled. "I just spent the last of my money on your food. Unless you can scrape up some cash, we ain't drinking tonight."

"Then let's go to Julio's. He's always got beer."

"His trailer smells like cat piss. I'll pass."

"Mikey, he's got liquor and a Playstation." Todd leaned in. "A Playstation."

Mike knew it was more than liquor and a Playstation that kept Todd hanging around the unemployed thirty year old. Julio's sister happened to be the sheriff's radio dispatcher, an instrumental fact which kept Julio, and Todd, out of jail.

Mike turned to Todd with a hard stare as something snapped deep inside. His entire universe suddenly shifted to accommodate the birth of a new worldview. "So, do you know why the Sheriff was at the school today?"

Todd leaned back against the cracked upholstery, hands behind his head. "No idea."

Mike paused for a few moments, tapping the steering wheel. "What did you think when the vice principal handed me my scholarship? Pretty cool, huh?"

Todd sniffed, wiped his nose and looked away, as if finding something out the passenger window suddenly interesting. "It was awesome. Really proud of you, dude."

Mike sighed, slumped and rolled his eyes up at the torn headliner. "Todd, the vice principal wasn't there, and neither were you. And I didn't say 'they,' I said 'sheriff.'"

"Why are you giving me the third degree?"

"Yes or no - were you at the assembly or not?"

"Sorry, had to take a serious shit, couldn't hold it."

Mike cranked the truck. The old six cylinder sputtered to life in a cloud of blue smoke.

"I'm not going to Julio's, and I'm not going to scrape up the money to buy your beer. Kaylee invited me to the party at her ranch tonight."

Todd shrugged. "Okay, cool. We'll go to Kaylee's. If you want to hang with a bunch of preppy faggots, then I'm in."

"I'm going to Kaylee's. She didn't invite you."

Mike braced himself for the inevitable Todd Toobin Jedi Mind Trick. It started with an unblinking, mute stare. The silence lasted just as long as necessary until Mike looked at Todd. Then the treatment progressed to Stage II, an expert blend of emotionally wounded combined with an ice-cold dose of go-to-hell. Once the weak-willed victim broke the silence, Todd would quickly pounce with baseless allegations and, if necessary counter-allegations. Todd had used it countless times on Mike, his mother, and about every teacher in the Flatte County school system.

"I get it, land a scholarship and ditch your best friend. Go ahead, hang out with assholes who think they're too good for everyone else. Maybe they'll make you King Cocksucker. Sorry for being alive, Mikey."

Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to blurt "It's not like that..." No, he wouldn't fall into that trap again. Ever.

"Just get out."

"Fine, asswipe. Drop me off at the high school, and I'll be out of your way."

"I'm not going to argue with you." Mike pulled down on the steering column shifter. The transmission dropped into drive with a clunk as he prepared to inch into the lot around the milling teenagers. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Why the hell do you want to go to the high school?"

"I'm gunna break in."

Mike slammed the shifter up into park. "You're kidding, right?"

Back in control, Todd pushed in the cigarette lighter and calmly produced a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket. He tapped the crumpled box against his knee. "No."

"Why the hell do you want to break into the high school?"

"Because I had to hide four dime bags of Julio's weed when the Sheriff showed up."

"Get out."

The lighter popped, Todd lit the cigarette and opened the door. "Don't you want to know where I stashed 'em?"

"No," he lied. "Get out."

"I hid 'em in your locker, asshole."

"You didn't!"

"Bet your ass, I did." Todd opened the door to step out "And guess what? Julio says Dodson is showing up first thing Monday with dogs. I won't have time to grab the dope by then."

"Jesus Christ," Mike grabbed the sides of his head and pulled his hair. His heart sank until it scraped his stomach. "You son of a bitch! If they find that weed I'll lose my scholarship. I'll lose everything."

Across the parking lot, Mike spied two figures walking toward the picnic table, hand-in-hand. Kaylee stared adoringly up at Jimbo, and Jimbo sneered smugly toward Mike's truck.

Todd followed his gaze, and blew out a long stream of blue smoke into the dim dashboard light. "Yeah, that sucks.

"You can go to Kaylee's tonight and be her tool, or you can help me get my dope out of your locker."

"And be your tool?"

An almost imperceptible, deep whump penetrated the night. The truck died instantly, without so much as a chug or engine knock. The dashboard went dark and the CD player mute. At the same moment, total darkness bathed not only the Dairy Queen parking lot, but all of Main Street. Cars rolled to a halt, headlights extinguished. Dueling speakers made peace in the darkness as crickets could once again be heard.

Todd's cigarette cast the only light. "Duuude...what the hell?"

Mike tried the key, but the ignitors didn't even click.

Teenagers across the parking lot and in the street issued excited screams and laughter.

"Weird shit, huh?" Todd took a long drag, bathing the front seat in ruddy ember light. "This is awesome. If we leave now we can break in, grab the shit, and get out before the power comes back on."

"How did the cars and the power both fail at the same time?" Mike mumbled, not listening. "I read about stuff that can do that, but..."

Sheriff Dodson's silhouette waddled across the parking lot toward were Jimbo and Kaylee stood. He kept banging one of those long, black policeman flashlights against his open palm, obviously trying to coax it into operation.

"This can't be happening," Mike whispered and leaned forward, scanning the sky.

"What? What can't be happening?"

"EMP. Electro-Magnetic Pulse. I did a paper on it for AP science. But it can't be happening because only a nuke can cause it."

"Like what, Russians? I thought we're best buds now or something."

Across the parking lot, near where Kaylee, the Sheriff, and Jimbo stood, a flashlight blinked to life.

"Hey, someone has power..." Todd trailed off.

The flashlight steadily grew brighter. Then, to his horror, Mike realized it floated autonomously. Like a will-o-wisp hovering a few feet above the pavement, it bathed the parking lot in a sterile blue hue.

The light grew into an orb, taking on shape and depth. Kaylee, the Sheriff, and Jimbo took a few steps back.

"Do you hear that?" Todd asked in a hushed tone. "I got a bad feeling."

"Yeah."

A low thrumming, like a washing machine spinning on its final cycle, vibrated throughout the truck, steadily growing in volume. Static electricity crackled through the air, and the hair stood up on Mike's arms.

And then the universe split open.

The blue sphere rapidly ballooned, momentarily giving the illusion of accelerating towards Mike. The trio in the center of the parking lot fell over backwards. Kaylee screamed and held up her hands, as if to block the featureless, glowing orb now looming over her.

Led by the screaming West Flatte offensive line, the crowd fled the Dairy Queen and scattered into the street. Kids abandoned their dead trucks and cars, and bolted into the night. Transfixed, Mike's curiosity overrode his fear and kept him firmly in place.

Sporadic electric bolts arced from the orb and danced off the Dairy Queen sign. It flickered insanely, bathing the parking lot in a drunken strobe. Electric fingers popped and sizzled across nearby power lines and caressed the tornado siren, which howled in response.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Todd cupped his hands over his ears and screamed over the siren, but neither of them moved. Immobilized by burning curiosity, and the impossibility of what unfolded in the parking lot, he was compelled to watch.

The orb's glowing belly gave birth to giant, ladder-like structures. Once beyond the glare, they sharpened into focus, and became recognizable as mechanical legs, which were quickly followed by an enormous metal torso. It slid from the orb much like a child erupts feet first from the bottom of a slide, and then squatted with a clang on all four limbs.

"Oh, shit," Todd said.

The robot crouched like a mechanical gorilla; high tech, yet primal, like some force of nature twisted and perverted by the hands of a cruel intelligence. Its chest looked like a tank chassis. Black pistons and gleaming hydraulic servos, visible inside its metallic exoskeleton, pumped furiously. Oversized forearms and hands terminated in human-like fingers sheathed in black synthetic covers reminiscent of thimbles. Heavy armored plates shielded each set of knuckles. An ethereal umbilical of light extended from the orb to the machine like a tail, or perhaps a leash. A tiny array of sensors, perched absurdly on its massive shoulders like a shrunken head, swiveled left and right as if the machine attempted to gain its bearings.

It knuckle-walked forward like an ape until the Sheriff, Kaylee, and Jimbo lay at its feet. The Gorilla-bot's tiny head swiveled impassively at the three figures; a terrible pagan god come to life, debating what to do with the living sacrifices at its feet.

"Oh, shit," Todd repeated.

A thread of red laser light flickered in and out of view in the humid air. A little red dot came to rest on the Sheriff's horrified face. Mike could almost see Dodson's wide eyes behind those Coke bottle glasses.

Mike had seen Terminator and Predator enough to know red laser dots always meant Bad Shit.

And then Bad Shit happened.

Mike jumped in his seat as a metal knuckle rotated and slammed into the concrete with lighting speed and jackhammer force. Cracks erupted in the asphalt, radiating outward in every direction. Time seemed to slow as Mike struggled to understand what the strange flecks were that suddenly speckled the windshield. Cold realization dawned on him, just about the time Todd began screaming.

Jimbo scrambled up and bolted toward the street, leaving Kaylee to fend for herself. Covered in blood, she shrieked and crawled away from the pit containing the Sheriff's flattened body.

Mike grabbed the handle and opened the door, determined to save Kaylee. Todd snatched his arm, pulling him back.

"Don't be stupid, it'll kill you!"

With grace Mike wouldn't have thought possible, the Gorilla-bot leapt over Kaylee and through the air, landing between Jimbo and escape. A second later, a metal knuckle sent Jimbo sailing through the air and smashing into the top of the Dairy Queen sign. Plastic and glass erupted in a spray of sparks. Jimbo's lifeless body sat in a reclining position atop the sign, imbedded in its shattered remnants.

"It bitchslapped Jimbo!" Todd shrieked.

Mike glanced right. A red dot, steady as an evening star, rested solidly on Todd's chest.

The Gorilla-bot slowly rose on two legs. Mike couldn't see if it had eyes, but felt its alien stare locked firmly on them.

"Oh, shit," Todd said for the last time.

"Run." Mike reached for the door handle again, but before he reached it dust and trash exploded upward as his head violently slammed against the cab's ceiling.

Mike's chest erupted in pain as he fell forward into the steering wheel, knocking the air from his lungs. Once the stars cleared from his vision, he looked directly into a single red light. The Gorilla-bot's cycloptic eye stared malevolently at him through the spider-webbed windshield.

He felt something warm trickling down his chin and tried to push away from the steering wheel, but couldn't understand why it required so much effort. That's when he saw the machine's two massive fists, interlocked into a single sledgehammer, resting in the crumpled metal pit that used to be his truck's hood. The truck's entire front end had been flattened, causing Mike to lean forward against the steering wheel.

The machine leaned closer, as if examining Mike. There, on its chassis, he clearly saw the letters "I.D."

"Mikey..." Todd groaned beside him, slumped against the dashboard.

The cold red light flicked right. Something slammed violently against Mike's right side, and then his left.

The world went dark.

He awoke to the sound of scraping and tinkling glass. Mike tried to move, but something pinned his right arm. He tried to lift his left, only to be rewarded with agonizing pain. Mike ordered his eyes open, but only the right one obeyed.

The nightmare wasn't over. The Gorilla-bot still loomed before him, gently brushing away the windshield's remnants from the dashboard, which now slanted bizarrely right. With his good eye, Mike followed the dash until it terminated in a twisted mass of metal and plastic that, only a few moments ago, had been the truck's entire passenger side...

And Todd.

Tears of rage and sadness filled his vision. He glared at the metal monster, which had leaned in closer still, its tiny head almost poking into the cab. Behind the red light, Mike spied a camera lens, and detected a servo's faint whine. The camera's aperture tightened into a pinprick.

Someone is watching me, studying me, Mike thought. Someone, not something, did this.

Someone murdered my friend.

"Fuck you," Mike croaked and spit at the monster, but the bloody wad fell short, splattering on the dash.

Gorilla-bot's head slid deeper into the cab, and was now mere inches from Mike's face. He could feel heat emanating from electronics, hear the thrum from some mysterious power source located deep in its body. Then, in a voice like a submerged sub-woofer, it spoke.

"Todd Toobin is a dick."

With that, it turned, and in the same knuckle-walk, loped back to the orb, stepped in and vanished. The orb dimmed and shrank until it extinguished, abandoning the West Flatte Dairy Queen to darkness.

***

mike. mike. Mike. Mike! Mike! "Mike!" "MIKE!"

Blurry hands yanked away the interface goggles, starting the process of sucking Mike back into the here and now. A sharp slap finished the job.

"Sweet Mother of God, please no damage. No damage. No damage..."

The sterile, fluorescent-white control room gelled into focus. Mike's brain shifted gears, and everything made sense, including Jason's breathy pleas.

Mike knew he'd gone too far.

"I lost it, didn't I?" he mumbled.

"Jesus Christ, do you think?" Jason gently pushed Mike down into the chair. "Let's just sit down, okay? Slide away from all the pretty and dangerous buttons, and take your brain off the stove for a little bit, while I find out what you broke."

He'd never felt such emptiness, a sickening hollowness like someone had gouged out his soul with a jagged ice cream scoop.

"You're drooling." Jason handed him a tissue, and then continued frantically pounding on the keyboard.

Mike wiped the dribble from his chin and followed Jason's gaze through the thick safety glass. Still on all fours, the I.D. emerged from the enormous quantum portal, a sphere which appeared to be constructed from a zillion erector set kits. It climbed the shallow ramp and returned to the cage-like maintenance gantry. Dragging a thick power cable behind like a tail, the I.D. entered the gantry, turned and squatted.

"We might get lucky. It's responding normally, and the finger sheaths look intact. I don't see any damage to the knuckle plates. Thank God for mil-spec, if that steel plate had been commercial grade, it'd be dented as shit. We won't know until I run the diagnostic."

Jason shoved another Cheeto in his mouth and chewed nervously. After a few clicks on his keyboard, two thick metal clamps extended from the gantry and locked around the I.D.'s waist.

"Locked and secured." A dozen bristling mechanical arms plugged into the machine DARPA officially called I.D., Interdimensional Drone, but everyone affectionately dubbed "Sam" after a character in an old 1980's television series. A laser generated lattice materialized, and slowly began to slide up and down the robot.

Mike smacked his dry lips. "Sorry, man. Dunno what came over me."

Jason snorted and grinned nervously. "I know what came over you, asshole. You went postal. If that's the way you want to play, I'm cool, but layoff the Godzilla shit, okay?"

An alert window popped up on the monitor.

"Here it comes..."

The interface's after-effects almost fully worn off, Mike found the strength to lean forward in the chair. Jason's apprehension infected him, replacing his emotional numbness. If he had damaged Sam, they could both lose their jobs.

"Power - green; Electro-Hydraulics - green; Interface - Green; Computers - Green..." Jason threw his arms up. "Yes! Structure - Green."

Jason paused, staring hard at the robot in the sealed bay. He grimaced, and chewed on his lower lip, before taking a deep breath of resolution. "I gotta go in and make sure. If those finger sheaths are damaged, it may not show up on the diagnostic." Jason ran his fingers through his hair. "If they're torn, we are in deep, deep shit."

He tossed the crumpled Cheetos bag beside his keyboard. "Stay here, touch nothing." He looked at the clock and then at the clean suits hanging on the wall. "Fuck it."

He dashed to the airlock, tapped the code and, with a hiss, vanished through the white metal door. A moment later, Jason emerged into the clean room, another gross violation in a night of gross violations. He scrambled up the right gantry walkway until he stood level with the robot's hands. Any other time, Mike would have thought such a sight absurd; an overweight middle-aged man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt, wrinkled khaki shorts, black socks, and flip flops in a spotless white laboratory environment. This wasn't any other time, and Mike barely noticed Jason's frantic inspection.

Instead, the grainy, slightly out of focus image on the monitor gripped Mike's attention. His own blood-covered face, albeit much younger, glared back at him with rage so hot it burned across time-space. In the dark monitor, Mike's bloated reflection, a depleted ghost, overlapped his younger self. The two faces reverberated in his thoughts, the mental equivalent to feedback from a microphone held too close to the speaker, until it threatened to tear his mind apart.

Mike didn't hear Jason reemerge from the air lock until he sat down beside him and tapped a few more commands. "Good news, everything is intact. Bad news, we brought back a shit load of quantum contaminant. Sam's arms are covered in blood."

"Oh, shit. What have I done?"

"Don't freak out on me, buddy. Its blood from another universe, blood with a different quantum spin, it doesn't count. I'll take care of it." Mike could hear the anger and frustration in Jason's voice, even through his nervous laugh. "Whatchya going to do next time, buddy, level the town?"

"No next time," Mike croaked. "Promise."

'Decontamination Cycle: Confirm? (ENT)' flashed on the screen. Jason flipped his graying ponytail and wiped orange-stained fingers on his shirt, jostling his "Contractor, Unrestricted Access" badge.

He tapped enter. With a barely perceptible whoosh, a chemical fog obscured everything beyond the window. Jason leaned back, hands behind his head, and put his feet on the console. "Physical evidence erased. Hopefully, Doc won't run a contamination diagnostic until after the morning session. She'll think she did it, and it will be her problem, not ours.

"Mike, run Swipe Virus." Jason glanced at his watch. "5 a.m.. Doc and the Major won't be here for another hour. Plenty of time for Swipe to eliminate our digital fingerprint."

Mike didn't respond; he felt too sick. The righteous rage had fully ebbed, replaced with nausea.

Jason stared at Mike out of the corner of his eye. He rolled his chair next to Mike's, and tapped a few keys.

"I got it. Why don't you mosey down to the break room until the shift ends and get your head straight. I'll clean up here."

"I'm good, really."

"Right," Jason laughed. He leaned in and nodded at the image on the screen. "You've done a good job fixing the quantum fluctuation filters. Two months ago we couldn't even recognize individual faces. Now I can actually tell that's your ugly mug. No wonder you never got laid in high school."

"No big deal," Mike whispered, eyes still glued to the monitor. "It's just a matter of energy, transmitted over space at varying levels of power, amplitude and frequency, to deliver a desired effect."

"If you say so." Jason rolled back to his console station. Beyond the window, the chemical fog cleared, revealing a spotless robot. Teenage Mike's image vanished from the monitor. Old Mike stared back for a moment before being washed away by an official DARPA logo and the words "U.S. Army Project VALIANT DANCER. McGregor Aerospace, Prime Contractor."

Swipe had cleansed the video files, which meant all the security files and cameras had already been altered with stock footage Jason stored in hidden, encrypted files. All evidence of the night's interdimensional excursion had been wiped clean.

"Of course, Doc took all the credit for your work on the filters, just like I didn't get any credit for fixing all the company's software glitches."

Jason picked up a clipboard and made a few annotations on a checklist. "The Chinese would have hacked this place months ago if it weren't for me. We do more for this project than half the Ph.D.s they got crawling around here. If we want to take Sam for a spin on the night shift, so what?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," Mike said, still staring at the monitor.

Jason frowned. "Mike, it's harmless. You know that. It's a parallel universe. Zero impact on reality. No harm no foul. Killing someone in a video game has more repercussions."

"I know. I just don't want to do it again." Mike swallowed hard, trying not to vomit. "I...I killed people. Oh, Jesus, I killed my best friend." He swallowed back the vomit. "I kept thinking about how he fucked me, how I hated him for it."

Twenty years of frustration and anger broke free and burst forth in a babbling confession.

"We broke into the high school that night...got busted. My dad left me to spend the night in jail. I lost my scholarship. That night ruined my life." Mike lowered his head onto the console and sobbed. "I wanted to fix everything, start over, even if it was only for a different version of me. I never imagined I'd lose control like that, that I would kill."

"Okay, enough of this bullshit. It's over." Jason tapped the keyboard and turned the monitor toward Mike, where a red line split into countless spiderwebs until it painted the screen's right side solid crimson. "3.14 seconds after Sam showed up, BOOM! Full divergence. BOOM! An infinite number of parallel universes, and not a damn one will ever impact ours. Not...a...damn...one. You can't change the past, so how about getting your head back into the here and now?"

"I know, but it's real to me in that universe. When I saw my own eyes, the hate," Mike paused, lower lip trembling.

Jason's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything else. In his co-worker's eyes, Mike caught a glimmer of sympathy.

"It's cool. Everything is cool. We all had screwed up teenage years," Jason laughed. "If I ever went back, I'd probably flatten my old man." He paused as if considering the possibility. "Or my ex-wife. Anyway, it's over, let it go."

The network of lines, each signifying the creation of an entire universe, vanished, replaced by a clean graph.

Jason turned the monitor back around. "Swipe did her job. She's back in her hiding box in the accounting software, where no one will find her." He stood and put the clipboard on a wall hook, obviously confident no one would ever discover Mike and Jason, two low-level contract employees, had taken a super-secret time machine for yet another illicit nightly romp.

Jason considered the imposing robot and shook his head. "Still don't know why they made it so damn big and mean looking if it can't impact anything in this reality."

Mike cleared his throat. "This isn't worth losing our jobs."

Jason shrugged nonchalantly. "Doc won't fire us, we know too much. Kill us, maybe, but not fire us. Shit, she hasn't even sent Sam back past 15 minutes, and then only to the lab. Imagine the look on her face if she knew we had Neanderthals worshipping Sam like a god. Do you remember the tits on those cave women?"

Mike cracked a smile, but he couldn't calm the aftershocks rumbling through his soul.

Tonight, he had killed.

Jason glanced over at another monitor, this one showing the parking lot outside the top secret facility. "Shit, she's early."

In the pre-dawn darkness, an image of a squat, frumpy grey haired woman with an oversized purse, strolling toward the guard shack could be seen.

"Lucky we stopped when we did," Mike said.

"Yeah," Jason glanced down at Mike. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. No problem."

Jason's stare lingered for a few moments. "Seriously, you scared the shit out of me tonight. Let's stick to cave women and leave our own pasts alone. Okay?"

"Yeah. Cave women. Deal."

***

"I smell it, too." The Major wrinkled his nose, and tried to look everywhere around the bay except directly at her. One day, he knew he would let his gaze linger a fraction too long, and all self-control would evaporate into a fit of laughter. Such a lapse would do little to advance the project, or his career.

The hooded clean suit amplified the Professor's already squat, pudgy physique to the point of absurdity. This morning, her permanent scowl had somehow obtained a new level of pissed off. Arms folded, wrinkled face now almost beet red, she looked like premenstrual Oompa Loompa.

I guess that makes me Willy Wonka, he thought and stifled a laugh.

"That smell, it does not belong here. Of zhat, I am certain!" The Professor's German accent, stern and clinical, almost made her intimidating.

Almost.

"Someone entered my bay last night." She narrowed her eyes and pursed her thin lips. "Jason. It had to be Jason. That little shit never follows protocols. The slob left Cheeto crumbs all over the console...AGAIN!"

The Major sucked in his lips and nodded seriously, fighting with all his strength, but a snort escaped anyway.

She snapped around. "Is zere a problem, Major?"

"No. No problem, Professor. I'll talk to Jason when he reports tonight." He glanced up at the control console window, where Maggie held up a piece of paper with the words "Send in the Fembots!" scrawled in black Sharpee. The morning shift rolled in laughter, safely behind the sound proof window.

"So help me, if I find out he introduced a contaminant into my bay, I'm going to fire him. Fire!"

The Major raised an eyebrow. She might own the science, but the Army owned everything else, and for all practical purposes, the Major was the Army in this lab.

Jason and Mike were exceptional technicians, even if a bit too informal. Mike Clegitt bordered on genius, and had solved many of the I.D.'s quantum field hurdles. Unfortunately, the Professor despised them both, forcing the Major to relegate his best contractors to the overnight shift, and strictly to caretaker duties.

"I doubt we can fire them," he laughed half-jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. "They know too much. But we could always shoot them if that would make you feel better."

"Iz zat supposed to be funny?" She glared up at him with puckered scowl, accent suddenly thickening.

Everyone behind the console window quickly gathered their composure before the Professor turned to look up at them.

"Ms. Ross, check the logs and security feed and see if anyone entered the launch bay last night."

After a few moments, Maggie shook her head and clicked the intercom. "No ma'am. Logs and sensors show no one entered after we sealed it yesterday afternoon."

"Hmmph." Arms behind her back, she knotted her bushy eyebrows. "So, then what zee hell is zat smell?"

"It smells like cooking grease," the Major offered. "Maybe there is a leak in the complex's filtration system. We should delay the next test until we find it."

"Major! Professor!" shouted a technician at the gantry's base. "You should see this."

A moment later, they stood with several technicians in a circle at the I.D.'s feet, examining something lying on the floor between them.

"Vaht iz it?" She bent over and peered at the white, bumpy ring lying on the floor, so pale it almost blended perfectly with the tile.

"Perhaps an o-ring from one of Sam's hydraulics," a technician offered.

The Major bent over for a better look. He sighed, and picked it up between two fingers, and took a whiff.

Jason and Mike, what the hell have you two been up to? he thought.

"That, Professor, is not an o-ring. That's an onion ring that's been bleached by decontamination aerosol."

***

On the car radio an announcer gave the morning traffic report while Todd chewed in silence. Mike didn't try to force conversation, but resigned himself to watch the scene unfolding across the avenue where a pack of kids waited on the school bus.

Clear eyed and clueless, teenage boys gathered in a grinning mob around the girls packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the park bench. The girls held their school books tightly to their bosoms like shields, but their eyes welcomed the boys' innocent attentions. Naturally, the boys tried to one-up each other, snatching backpacks, chasing and occasionally tackling one another, while the girls giggled behind closed hands.

"Being young means having no regrets," Mike said absently.

"Whatd'ya say?" Todd looked up from his half-eaten chicken biscuit and hash browns.

"Nothing."

At the bus station, Todd had appeared far older than his thirty-eight years. His only belonging, a stained surplus Army duffle bag, now rested in the truck bed behind them. Mike felt sure, stuffed somewhere in that bag, was a cardboard sign with "Will Work For Food" scrawled on it.

Now, in the sharp morning light, Mike thought his best friend looked a thousand years old.

Where Mike had sodded and grown fat, time had depleted Todd. Wiry strength had wasted to emaciated gaunt. Tattoos haphazardly inked across arms and neck in moments of youthful pride, now clung desperately to sagging flesh.

Mike watched Todd chew quickly, lifelessly, as if he hadn't eaten in days, until the biscuit and hash browns vanished.

Todd belched and turned, revealing a yellow smile missing a few teeth. A wreath of wispy gray hair poked out beneath his black stocking cap.

Mike's heart sank as he finally got a good look at Todd's sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Mike handed him his unopened biscuit. "I'm not hungry, do you want mine?"

"Thanks, man."

As Todd continued to eat, Mike turned his attention to the kids. Their laughter penetrated the morning rush hour traffic. The girls were all standing now, one of whom playfully hit a tall blond boy with mock outrage.

"Can't believe you still have this truck."

"Megan got the minivan and the house, I had to sell my Mustang to cover alimony between jobs. Dad still had it out in the barn. It took me a few weeks to get it running. New tires, replaced bearings, plugs, you know, that kinda stuff. But..." he motioned across the dash. "...here it is. I made a few updates, too. Sorta turned into a hobby."

"Sorry about your dad. If I'd known, I would have come to the funeral."

Mike shrugged, knowing Todd probably wouldn't have come.

That's just Todd, he thought. Nothing is going to change, not a damn thing, so no use getting upset about it.

He hurried to change the subject. "Look, dude, you can stay at my apartment as long as you need. I got a spare room. It doesn't have a bed, but I can borrow a cot from my neighbor."

After a few moments, the distinct lack of noise from across the cab drew Mike's attention.

Hands trembling, Todd stared at the half-eaten biscuit as if it held all the secrets to the universe. "Do you know when I was last in this truck?"

"Yeah," Mike whispered. "The night we broke into the high school."

"I fucked up your life." Todd's voice cracked. "I fucked up my life."

Todd turned his sunken gaze to Mike, the old spark gone. "I'm going to change, Mike. I promise."

Mike didn't know which hurt more, the rage on his own youthful face in a different universe, or the pain on his only friend's face beside him.

"No, you're not. You're going to heal, but you're not going to change. I'm not going to change, either. But I'm going to move on. Sometimes, moving on is the best we can do. Sometimes, it's the only thing we can do.

"You can't change the past." Mike thumbed over the smartphone plugged into the upgraded equalizer's MP3 port until he found the song he'd converted from a homemade CD he never threw away. "It is what it is."

Todd buried his head in his hands. Mike thought he heard a stifled sob.

"If you cry, I'm going to call you a pussy."

Todd grinned with misty eyes, and threw the wadded wrapper at Mike. "How would you know, you've never seen a pussy."

"I'm looking at one right now."

Play.

Woofers hummed to life and levitated ancient dust off the floorboards and into the air. Concentric percussion circles danced over the steaming coffee in the cupholder, as if a herd of T-rex's were rumbling by.

The teens across the street ceased their antics, drawn to the sound of the bass.

"War drums," Mike grinned and adjusted the equalizer.

Todd launched himself halfway out the window and shouted at the top of his lungs, "WAR DRUMS!"

***

The kids filed onto the school bus, all the time gawking and pointing at the crazy old men in the pickup truck across the street. One guy looked homeless, the other a fat nerd.

Some shook their heads and made wisecracks. Others marveled at the way the bus's windows rattled under the onslaught from perhaps the loudest stereo they had ever heard.

We'll be singing

When we're winning

We'll be singing...

I get knocked down

But I get up again

You're never gunna to keep me down!

Continue reading or return to table of contents.

Sinner

Tony Bertauski
TATTY IS A SLUT.

Tatia traced the letters carved into the formica, the edges raised, the valleys filled from decades of grease, grime and sweaty forearms. Megan Sherman etched that with a steak knife twenty years ago because Tatia had fucked her boyfriend behind the Dairy Queen so, factually, it was accurate. Fucking Billy was a mistake. Yanking a wad of hair from Megan Sherman's scalp was, too. Just two items on a long list.

The phone rang like a school bell.

"Toasty's," Irene answered, untwisting the curly cord. "Okay. All right. An hour."

The old woman stuck the ticket below a row of clam chowder, the labels faded and stained. No one ate clam chowder. It smelled like rotten pussy.

"You want something?"

"Coffee," Tatia said.

Irene had worked for twenty years plus at The Toasty, a diner half the size of a single car garage that was three drunks deep on a Saturday night, all waiting for a cracked bar stool so they could pound an order of cheese balls with more oil than a County fair grease trap.

She looked a hundred years old back then. She was still wrinkled like a baked apple, still hunched between the shoulders and she shuffled between the coffee machine to the counter, but the old hag still balanced a Marlboro 100 between her thin lips like a circus act. The Toasty was the last place on Earth an employee could still smoke. God Bless America.

Church bells rang across the street.

"Cream?" Irene asked.

"Sugar."

The old woman took a dispenser from the shelf. "Tatty, that you?"

"Yes." Tatia couldn't help but smile.

Irene's eyes, magnified in the oval glasses, focused on her teeth. Tatia quickly covered her mouth. She could go to AA meetings the rest of her life, repent till the day she died, but those meth-rotted teeth would tell her story in seconds—all the lower-than-low scumbags she screwedfor a pinch, all the people she fucked-over for tomorrow's swirl. All the people she quit on. Irene could replace the counter some day and TATTY IS A SLUT would be gone, but Tatty's mistakes were etched on her face.

"Where you been?" Irene asked.

"Moved away."

"Now you're back?"

"Just visiting."

The smoker's laugh gurgled in the old woman's throat and, as sure as church bells rang on Sunday, turned into a hacking cough. Irene spat in the trash.

"You all grown up, Tatty."

"Shit happens."

"You ain't changed."

Laughter, again. Cough, hack and spit. The old woman went back to flipping burgers. Across the street, the heavy oak doors of Murpheyville First Baptist opened. The first of the congregation hustled down the concrete steps. Penance paid, Sunday was free to spend at the lake or the bowling alley or wherever the good folks of Murpheyville whittled away an afternoon.

"Something to eat?" Irene dropped a brown paper bag on the counter, the bottom half soaked with grease. Three other bags waited for pick up.

"No."

"Just come for the shit coffee?"

"Couldn't live without it."

She laughed without coughing. A small miracle.

The tiny bell rang above the door. Tatty picked up the coffee, turned her head to avoid the cop. She didn't give a shit about the badge, she hadn't broken any laws. It was the man in the uniform, the one that graduated in her class. Twice the size he'd been back then with a belly that could hide triplets, Brad Carroll snatched two greasy papers and dropped money on the counter. Tatty felt Brad– former quarterback, former heartbreaker, current lardass– stare while waiting for his change. He didn't recognize her, didn't ask her what she was doing back in town, what she'd been doing since high school and just how fucked her life had become since leaving this shithole. He took his change and oily bags and left.

Irene lit another 100 and tossed a burger on the grill.

Across the street, the pastor was on the top step greeting his flock with a beefy handshake and a booming God Bless You. His legs were sticks, but his upper body ballooned out as if God had squeezed his lower halflike a tube of toothpaste. She'd seen the pastor lean back in a La-Z-Boy with a bowl of chili balanced on his gut and a tall boy within reach. Now a glutton for God's glory, as he told his flock on Sundays, he only got drunk on the Holy Spirit. But he'd still eat the shit out of bowl of good chili. Cue laughter.

He was their pastor. Her father.

Amidst the crowd of retirees, two young girls slipped out holding hands. They wore white dresses with frilly edges. The older one, fifteen years old, led the five year old to the pastor. He held the older one by the shoulders. Several old dearies gathered around clutching handbags and listened to God's glutton spout something that made them all laugh. The pastor's laughter gonged louder than the church bells.

The girls skipped down the steps.

"Be right back." Tatia slipped off the vinyl barstool.

Irene sucked her cigarette and watched her leave, the little bell ringing. She wouldn't get paid for that shit cup of joe.

Tatia walked in the building's shadow where the sidewalk cracked and buckled, keeping pace with the girls across the street. They stopped at the corner and crossed after looking both ways. A block away, the church crowd thinned out.

"Cheri?" Tatia crossed the road. "Tina?"

The girls stopped.

When Tatia stood on their side of the road, the little girl turned around. Tatia dropped to her knees. She smiled, she couldn't help it. They knew who she was, what she'd done. She couldn't hide that.

"Mommy!" Tina shouted.

Tatia caught Tina, felt her tiny arms wrapping around her—so soft, so warm and innocent. Tatia closed her eyes and held on, her daughter's hair like corn silk, fragrant with conditioner—the distinct smell of talcum on her neck, the same dusting Tatia used to get before church. It made her nose runny. The tears, though, were already there.

"What are you doing here?" Cheri crossed her arms.

"Mind your manners."

Cheri sneered and set her feet—the same look Tatia used to see in the mirror when she was that age. She set Tina down and looked behind her, the sidewalk still clear.

"You been good?" She played with Tina's hair. "Santa bring you everything for Christmas?"

Tina told her about the truck Pa-pa got her, the one that ran on a battery for like an hour. She could drive it anywhere in the cul-de-sac but not on the main road. But then Cheri broke it and now Pa-pa wouldn't fix it.

"You coming for sodas?" the little girl asked.

"I got a better idea. What if we go to lunch?"

Cheri rattled the car keys. "Come on, Tina."

"You got your permit?"

"Yeah."

"And Pa-pa let you pierce your nose?" Tatia sniffed. "You weren't supposed to do that till you were eighteen."

"Tina, come on."

"My car's right around the corner," Tatia said. "There's a cooler in the back. I got Dr. Pepper and Frito chips and subs from Subway. Dr. Pepper's your favorite, right little monkey?"

Tina jumped up and down, cheering.

"I got a whole jug for you."

Tina squealed like deflating balloon, squeezed her mom's cheeks, hands quivering. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

"What do you say, Cheri? We just go to the park, have some lunch. Text Pa-pa where we are, tell him I'll bring you back later. He just goes fishing in the afternoon anyways, he won't miss a thing."

Tatia wiped her nose. Her hand quivered.

"Using again?" Cheri asked.

"Just allergies, I promise. Baby powder makes my nose itch, you know that. Come on now, it'd be fun if we can just eat and talk."

Tina pulled Tatia's arm.

"Ask your sissy to come," Tatia whispered. "Get to her come so we can have fun, drink Dr. Pepper—"

"That's enough." The bully voice boomed behind her, froze her legs. Tatia about melted on the sidewalk.

She swept Tina up and stepped away before turning around. The pastor was reaching for Tina, but the little girl wrapped her arms and legs around Tatia like a frightened gibbon, buried her face in Tatia's neck.

Tatia's nose began to leak.

"Not supposed to be here, Tatty," her father said.

"That right?" She tried to keep the quiver out of her words. "Ask Tina what she wants. Tina, honey-darling, you want to go have lunch with Momma or go with Pa-pa?"

"It don't matter what she wants."

"No, it only matters what Roy wants."

She stopped calling him Dad when she turned fifteen. You have to earn that, she told him in a rare moment of clarity. It was the one time she hit him where it hurt. Even now, after all the shit, calling him Roy still hurt him just a little.

Roy looked past her. Tatia backed into the grass. Cheri was reaching for Tina now, had Tatia cornered between the sidewalk and the house behind her. People were slowing down in their cars, stopping on the sidewalks. Tina started to cry.

"Shhh-shhh," Tatia said, rocking.

"This ain't what you want, Tatty. Just put her down. I won't call anyone if you do. Just put her down and be on your way." Roy lifted his phone, his thumb a swipe away.

Tatia looked around, all eyes on her. Stop signs. All her fucking life, everywhere she turned, it was fucking stop signs and potholes. Jesus Christ, when was she going to get a goddamn green light? For once, just a green light to let her go where she wanted. She'd blown through enough red lights to know the dangers. Which was fine as long as no one was in the passenger seat with her.

She kissed her daughter, whispered, "It's all right, darling. I'm just going to put you down, let you go back to Pa-pa."

Tina clung like the first day of pre-school. Roy and Cheri waited like crisis negotiators.

"Honey." Tatia stroked Tina's hair. "I promise, next time I promise, we'll have lunch and drink soda, all right?"

It was a struggle to unlatch the five year old, but Cheri was there to snatch her up. Tina sobbed and kicked, her cheeks pink and wet. "Go on back to church," Roy said.

Some of the congregation were waiting behind Roy, wrapped their arms around Cheri and guided her across the street, shooshing Tina like a couple of professional mothers. Tatia could only watch as her father stood like a road block.

"You can't do this," she said.

"I didn't do anything."

The shakes hit her hard. She knew it looked like withdrawal, knew what everyone was thinking, but she couldn't stop it. Jonesing can look the same as scared shitless. Roy nodded with his lower lip plumped out, that expression she'd seen a million times growing up when he got his way. It was the fucking final nail because that bastard was always plumping out that lip.

"What do you want?" Tatia shouted. "I've been clean a goddamn year, I done all the things I was told to do! What more do you want from me?"

The fat man turned around and started walking. He didn't stand for the Lord's name taken in vain. Tatia dug a bronze chip from her back pocket and threw it. The edge caught her father in the back of his balding head.

He whipped around, hand out. "That's enough."

The alpha male tone spiked her feet to the ground. She wiped her nose, shaking. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to take some responsibility."

"I haven't done all you asked?"

"It's not enough."

"What then? What else?"

He lowered his chin. It disappeared into a roll of flesh.

"You want me to accept Jesus, is that it? Come into the church and kneel down and let him wash away all my sins, so that everything just goes away like that, right? Is that it? Jesus will forgive me, then you will; Cheri too? Jesus will fly down on his magic camel and solve my problems, bring my kids back and we'll all walk on water happily ever after."

"You need to move along." He moved closer, pudgy finger still pointed at her, sweat stains spreading in his armpits. "You breaking a restraining order right now, and you tempting my patience. I will call the police, if you make me."

"Is that what Jesus did for you, Roy? All that shit you did to me and mom, he just made it all go away?"

His cheeks turned the color of a baboon's ass, all three chins jiggling. That was defcon one—the final stage of Roy's rage. It slapped her with memories of him reaching for his belt. Sometimes he hit her with it. Sometimes he just undid the buckle.

He stormed off. His people were watching, his flock listening.

"Did you confess your sins, Roy?" She followed him. "Did you confess them in private, so no one heard them but Jesus? Or did you tell everyone what you done to me and Momma? 'Cause I've confessed. The whole goddamn world knows my sins. They know everything I've done, all out in the light for everyone to judge and shake their heads. I confessed them all!"

She stopped on the corner, let him cross the street. Her vision blurred.

"I crawled on the fucking cross and what do I get? I get punished over and over and over because Tatty's a slut. Ain't that right, Roy? Tatty's the fucking slut!"

Steel returned to her voice, the words bouncing down the street.

"Remember back in the day, Roy?" He stopped. He recognized the change in her tone. "Back when you drank mad dog instead of Jesus juice, remember?"

The times he came home late smelling of smoke, booze and cheap perfume, the nights he got bedrooms confused and snuggled up to Tatia, his chest hairs against her back, heavy arm slung over her little body. He'd snore into her neck and she'd lay there and take it. Till his hips began to grind.

The weekends were worse.

"Don't." He crossed the street, nimble for a twice heart attack victim. "I done been forgiven. You are not my Lord and Savior."

"There are other ways to be forgiven."
"This ain't one of them." He held the phone in her face. "If you don't leave, you will never see them again."

"You already turned Cheri against me."

"I told you, I ain't done nothing."

"She hates me."

"You plant weeds, weeds are gonna grow."

"Just...just don't poison Tina, all right?"

Her father, the fat pastor, plumped out the lip and turned around. He was halfway to the church. Her father, the man that found Jesus after a lifetime of sinning, kept his back to her. His back to her, walking away. Suddenly, she felt like a little girl.

She fell into full-blown sobs, not another intelligible word.

Roy went up the steps, ushered his granddaughters back inside. Parishioners were there to console their grief. Someone came to Tatia's side, an elderly couple offering a hand that she slapped at. She walked like a drunk, plodding steps side to side until she reached the black sedan where Cheri had been waiting with a key ring on her finger.

Tatia's reflection looked back from the window—hollow eyes and leaky nose.

She punched the window. Her knuckles popped, the window unfazed. Life had always been that way—always unyielding, always the victor. Breaking her bones. Life plumped its lip at her while she cradled her fist.

She planted her foot into the driver's door. It buckled with a satisfying flump.

She slammed her fist on the hood, dull pain lighting her hand. She screamed like a coked-up meth-head come off a five day bender.

She grabbed a brick off the street and with both hands began carving the trunk. She had etched four letters, made it to the second N before someone tackled her. Officer Brad pinned her on the ground, cuffed her hands while she screamed and kicked. She couldn't confess Roy's sins for him. Even if she could, who would believe her? She was a sinner.

There wasn't enough Jesus juice in the universe to change that.

Return to table of contents.
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