Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 10 Disturbing Horror Stories (Best of 2025 Compilation)

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

Fuel your nightmares with NoSleep Coffee — fresh, same-day roasted beans shipped right to your door. Use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order: https://nosleepcoffee.com * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleeppodcast #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life, live? Join me every Sunday at 7 p.m. Eastern Time on the Dr. No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never before heard stories in real time. Just search Doctor No Sleep podcast on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Take the next left in 0.2 miles. The woman's voice on the GPS says, I'd rather have my phone talking to me. but the damn rental car refused to pair with mine or Hannah's phone,

so we're forced to use the default GPS in the car's console. Hannah stirs in the passenger seat and rubs her eyes as she blinks herself awake. How long was I asleep? she asks, as I come up on the road and flick my blinker on, even though I haven't seen another car in close to two hours. Always best to be safe. The one time I don't flick my blinker on And that'll be the time a state trooper

Is hiding in the brush off the side of the road You've been in and out of sleep for close to three hours I say You mumbled a lot Having strange dreams Yeah she says And stretches her arms back over her head Her knuckles brushing the car ceiling

Really strange Flying a red eye and then driving for six hours We'll do that I say with a chuckle Turn left here, the GPS woman says. I make the turn onto not quite a gravel road. It isn't dirt, and it isn't gravel, and it isn't pavement. It's like hard-packed rock or something.

The road is lined with tall fir trees and scraggly pines. Their vows hanging over the road, creating deep shadows in the dim light. I thought it was supposed to be sunny? Anna asks, as she rolls her shoulders and her neck. her eyes peering out through her window. If we wanted clouds, we could have stayed in Seattle. It's spring in Montana. Pretty sure it gets rainy and cloudy here too.

Bummer, she says and yons. Oh, yuck. Gross. What? I ask. My eyes on the shadowed road. My breath. She says with a little laugh. It's that little laugh that helped me fall in love with her. Despite all our ears,

issues, that laugh always gives me a warm feeling. I got the sleeping steak. Do you have any gum? Ran out of gum on the plane, I say. But I think there are some mints in the top pocket of my carry-on. Oh, thank God, she says, and undoes her seatbelt. She turns in her seat and reaches back to my carry-on bag. Which pocket? The top one.

Like, if it's upright top, or if it's flat top? What does that even mean? There are two pockets on your bag, Charles, she says, and I can hear that tone start to creep into her voice. If the bag is upright on its wheels, then this pocket is the top one. If it's on its back like it is now, then the other pocket is the top one. The smaller pocket. I guess the one when it's upright. I hear the zipper open and her hand rummage in the papers and receipts I stuffed in there during our trip.

Nope, she says. And I hear the zipper close. Then another zipper opens. More rummaging. The zipper closes and turns back around. The other pocket. Sorry. She doesn't respond.

She pops a mint into her mouth and sighs. Much better than ass breath. Seat belt, I say, and glance over at her. God forbid I stretch and loosen up a little, she says. And that tone is even closer. We don't want to get a ticket. There could be cops anywhere. She looks about and shakes her head.

I doubt there's a cop on this road, she says, then keeps swiveling her head. She leans past me, almost blocking my view of the road. Where are we? What road is this? I don't know. I just do what the GPS lady tells me to do. She leans back in her seat, then reaches out and taps the console screen,

making the map larger so our route is easier to see. see. Um, it told you to turn onto this road? She asks. Yep, I reply. Then I say in a bad imitation of the GPS woman's voice. Turn left here. Anna taps and pinches a couple of times. Then she spreads her fingers wider and wider before she goes back to tapping and pinching. Um, Charles. Hmm? I ask as I turn on the headlights. It's only four in the afternoon, but the Bird trees are making it as dark as twilight. This road isn't on here, she says, and points at the GPS map. We're driving in nothing.

I glance at the GPS and frown. She's right. According to the screen, the little arrow icon that represents our car is driving through open space. There's no gray road highlighted blue. All we see is our icon in the middle of a sea of green. Weird, I say, then point out the windshield. I see a road, so the GPS must be glitching. Are you sure this is the right way?

She asks as she looks left and right, over and over. She even leans forward and looks up at the trees as if they can somehow tell her something. Sure, Anna grew up in the Pacific Northwest, but she's a city as it gets. The only reason she agreed to go to Montana for the third anniversary of our first date was because I promised her a luxury cabin with all the amenities. Hot tub, sauna, kingbed, plush towels, fully stocked bar, satellite internet as good as broadband, and more wood than we can burn in a year waiting to be placed in the mammoth fireplace that according to the vacation rental website takes up almost an entire wall of the cabin.

GPS said to turn left. I turned left. I said then tapped at the screen. See, there's the address of the cabin, and it says we'll be there in one hour. Yeah, I can read, Charles, she says, and the tone is there. I try not to sigh, but it escapes my lips anyway.

What? She snaps. I heard that sigh. I was just breathing. Oh, bullshit. She replies, and pushes her back. into her seat. I wait for her to cross her arms, but she doesn't. So I still might have an out on this one. Sorry, I didn't mean to sigh, I say. It's been a long drive. I can take over. No, no, I got it.

It's only an hour more. I have at least two hours in me. Well, I offered, so don't say I didn't. Wasn't going to. Yet. Hey, I say and glance at her. What's up? I haven't done anything wrong. I'm just following the GPS directions. I don't know how to get to the cabin, do you? She crosses her arms. Fuck. No, Charles, I don't, she says and stares out her window.

But the GPS took us on a road that isn't on the map. So excuse me if I'm a little concerned. Concerned? What are you concerned about? Bears, mountain lions, rednecks, rednecks? Rednecks? We have those in Seattle. I say and chuckle.

Don't fucking laugh at me. She snaps. I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at the fact you lumped rednecks in with bears and mountain lions. I say in chuckle again. Lions and rednecks and bears, oh my. You laugh now, but when they have you bent over a log with your butt cheeks spread wide, you won't be laughing so much then.

Jesus, Hannah, what the fuck? Hey, you wanted to go to the middle of nowhere for our anniversary. I wanted to go to the Bahamas. She takes a deep breath. And then, in a mocking voice that she thinks sounds like me, she says, Hey, Hannah, instead of going somewhere warm, how about we go somewhere colder than where we live? Doesn't that sound fun?

You said you were into this, I reply, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. We talked about this. I told you that we didn't have to go here. Yeah, right. What does that mean? It means, yeah, right. No, it means that you don't believe me.

Should I have? Yes. I said we could go anywhere. You agreed that the cabin looked great. I only agreed because you obviously were set on it. So you don't want to go to the cabin. Too late now. We're already here.

She looks out her window again. Wherever the fuck here is. She turns back to the screen and taps at the GPS. If this even is a here, I think we should turn around. We've already been driving for like 15 minutes. Good. Then it'll only take us 15 minutes to get back to the main road. But the GPS said,

Fuck the GPS, Charles! She snaps and smashes her palm against the screen. There is no fucking road on this map. That means this isn't the road we should have turned on. The GPS literally told me to turn left at this road. I snap back. The GPS thinks there's a road, and the GPS is what's getting us to the cabin. Well, the GPS is on fucking crack, she says, and slams her back into her seat as she crosses her arms again.

We should go back to the main road and find a gas station or something. We'll ask a local. I wonder if the local is a redneck. I ask and try to chuckle. Aren't you worried they'll bend me over a log? Right now, considering how you are acting, I hope they do way worse to you. Fucking hell! I say it hit the brakes.

I get a little joy out of her jerking forward and almost hitting the dashboard. Asshole! She says, then looks around. Why'd you stop? You want me to turn around, right? Yes. Well, you have to stop the car first. Um, no, that's not how cars work, she says with a huff.

You just turn around. The road's not wide enough, I say, and crank the wheel hard to the right as I put the transmission in reverse. I back up as far as the rear camera lets me, before it starts to beep a warning at me. Then I put it in drive, crank the wheel hard to the left, and get us turned around. See? Wow, what an amazing driver you are, she says, her voice thick with sarcasm. Rerouting, the GPS voice says. Make a U-turn and proceed west on the road.

Shut up, Anna says, and turns the GPS off. What did you do that for? I ask. Now I don't know where to go. Back. You go back, she says. And we turned left onto this road. So when we get to the main road, we turned left again. And that'll take us in the direction we were going before. It's not rocket science, Charles.

I know it's not rocket science, I say quietly and focus on the road ahead. The fur bells look lower now, as if they're bending down to swipe at the car. But it's only a trick of the fading light. We sit in silence for 15 minutes as I drive us back to the main road. But there's no road. I keep driving. Neither of us says anything as another five minutes passes. Then ten minutes.

When we've backtracked for a good 30 minutes, Hannah swivels in her seat and stares at me without saying a word. What? I ask after tolerating a solid couple minutes of her stare. You got us lost, she says. not even trying to hide her disgust and disappointment. I didn't get us lost. The GPS said turn left.

I turned left. That's the only turn I took. I guess we drove further than I thought. I guess you did, she says, and glare's over at me. Want me to drive? You think you can do better driving in a straight line than me? I ask and chuckle. It's not a nice chuckle this time.

Be my guest. Whatever, she says. and goes back to staring out of the windshield at the endless road and the endless fir trees and the endless scraggly pines and the endless boughs that droop and creep down toward the car. Another 30 minutes go by. Stop the car, she says. Why? I ask. It has to be this way. I need to pee, Charles, she says.

Outside? I respond and smirk. There are no badees in the woods, Hannah. I'll take some napkins, she says. And despite what you think, I know how to pee outside. I grew up at the base of Mount Rainier. I can survive in the woods just fine, thank you. But you hate the woods. Yet you insisted we vacation out here anyway, she says,

and smacks her hand on the dashboard. Stop the damn car before I piss my pants. I slow the car to a stop, put it in park, and set the brake. When I turn the car off, she frowns at me. I won't be that long. I have to pee, too, I say and get out of the car, ready to stretch my legs. I'm also ready for a little space. Hannah is amazing, but she can be a bit much, especially when she feels inconvenienced.

Don't go too far, I say as I walk toward my side of the road. Just peeing, Charles, not hiking. She says as she walks to her side of the road. the road. I unzip and the brisk evening air sends a chill to my nether regions. It doesn't feel bad. I was looking forward to some naked hot tubbing and then cold plunging into the snow banks that are still around in these parts. So the brisk air just motivates me even more to get back on the road so we can hit our final destination. With a shake, a zip, and a sigh of relief, I turn around and walk back to the car. As I look over the top,

I don't see Hannah anywhere. Hey, where are you? I call out. There's no answer. Hannah? Still no answer. I round the car and walked at the side of the road she went to. I see some of the brush had been disturbed,

and I think I see a boot print, but I can't be sure. I crouched down and move some leaves and twigs. Definitely a boot print, but it looks old. It doesn't look like it came from the sleek boots that Hannah was wearing. I stand back up and cup my hands to my mouth. Hannah! No response. I yell as loud as I can. Again, no response. Fuck! I mutter and fish out my phone. I turn the flashlight on and step off into the woods. I call for her as I hike through the trees. I wave my phone this way and that, hoping I can

catch a glimpse of her. She was wearing a cream sweater and a silver puffy vest. So she should be easy to spot. Hannah! My voice echoes around me and I pause. Maybe she doesn't know which direction my yelling is coming from. I cock my head and listen, straining to hear a reply. I continue walking when I don't hear any response.

I checked my phone and I've been hiking for a good ten minutes. There's no way she went in this far. I start to turn around, but my flashlight catches sight of something. A reflection a few yards off to my right. Hannah? I cry out as I rush toward what I see. But it's not Hannah.

Definitely not Hannah. What the fuck? I whisper as I stared down at a skeleton. It's clad in rotted clothes that have been mostly lost to the elements and forest critters. The skeleton's bones have been picked clean by scavengers and insects. It's the white of the bones that my flashlight reflected off of. In one bony hand as a phone, I'd crouch down and see if it still has a charge, and maybe identify the person, but fuck that.

I'm not getting any closer to this skeleton. I'll just call for help. 911, how may I assist you? The operator answers. Oh, thank God. I wasn't sure if I'd have... But before I can finish, my phone beeps telling me the call was dropped. I checked my cell phone, and I have three bars of service, which is plenty.

I try again. The signal drops again. When I call back, I get only beeping. The call won't even go through. Shit, I say, then look around me. Which way did I come from? Using the skeleton as my starting point, I spin around 180 degrees and hike back

toward where I think I veered off. In a few minutes, I think I see my own tracks, and I turn and walk back in the direction I hope the road is in. Hannah! I yell her name over and over until I'm finally back at the road. She's sitting in the passenger seat. Her eyes are on her phone. Her face telling me she has shitty service too.

When she turns and sees me, she shoves open the door and yells, Where the fuck have you been? Looking for you! I yelled back. I've been calling and calling and you didn't answer. I was calling for you and you didn't answer, she says. I didn't hear you. I didn't hear you.

We look at each other, then both hold up our phones. No service, I say. Three bars, but nothing is going through. Same here. I thought she said you had no service. Right. I have three bars too, but nothing is going through just like you. Three bars is service, Charles.

Not if the calls keep getting dropped. I hold up my hands and take a deep breath. All right, all right. Let's both calm down. We're tired, we're stressed, and we're... Lost. We're fucking lost, thanks to you. She snaps. Get in the car so we can get moving.

I am not staying the night out here. The little part of me almost tells her to go fuck herself. She can drive and see if she does any better. But if she does drive and gets us out of here, I'll never hear the end of it. She will hold it over my head for years. It'll become the story she tells at parties and gatherings. I could be all the way across the room, and when I hear laughter, I'll know she's talking about me and how I got us lost and how she got us found.

Screw that. And there is no way I'm telling her about the skeleton. No way. She'll freak out in a heartbeat. I get in the car and start it up. The screen glows bright and the GPS comes up despite the fact Hannah had turned it off. Must be automatic on ignition, I say before she can comment or complain. I go to switch the screen off, but she grabs my hand.

Wait, she says. She pinches the screen out, and our little blue dot grows smaller and smaller on the screen. There, she says, and taps at the gray line of the main road. It's right there. She looks out the windshield, back at the screen, out the windshield, then back at the screen. That can't be right, she says. What do you mean? That's the main road. We'll just keep driving until we get to it.

But the road is off that way, she says, and, points past me, her finger aiming out my side window. And we've been driving straight. Did you make any other turns when you took this road? Like I said, no, I replied. I'm really trying to keep things calm, but she's pushing all of my buttons. I know, I know. We make our own buttons, so no one can really push them unless we allow it.

But damn if Hannah doesn't know how to get under my skin. Drive for a bit, and let's see what happens, she says. arise on the GPS screen once more. That's the plan, I say, and put the car into drive and press down on the accelerator. We go for about three miles when Hannah says, Stop here. What do you see? Nothing. She says.

Then opens her door and steps out. Where are you going? Hannah, get back in the car. It's getting darker and it's getting colder. We need to keep going. Where? She asks. As she duck.

her head back down into the car and stares at me. We drive and drive and get nowhere, she points at the screen. But look, Charles, the main road is only about a half a mile that way. Maybe we should ditch the car and walk to the road so we can flag someone down. You want to ditch the car, hike through dark woods that neither of us know, and then hope a car comes by that we can flag down? I ask, not masking my skepticism. It's a better plan than driving in a straight line forever. As she stares at me, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She rolls her eyes. I ignore the eye roll. The safest thing is to stay with the car, I say. If we get lost out there after the sun goes all the way down, then we could freeze to death before we find the road or before someone finds us. Who's going to find us? No one is looking for us. My point exactly.

The car has heat. But how much gas? She asks. and I can tell by her tone that she's already looked at the gauge. I steal a glance and don't respond. How much gas, Charles? She asks. Huh? A full tank? Half a tank?

She waits for me to answer, even though I know she knows how much gas we have. Looks like just under a quarter of a tank, she says when I don't respond. Will a quarter of a tank last us all night if we run the heat? Maybe. Really, Charles? It might. I insist. The car uses less gas when it idles than when we're driving.

It should last us all night. So you want to stay right here, then? She's setting a trap and know it. No, I want to keep driving. Which will use up more gas. Trap sprung. If we get out and hide through the woods, we can easily get lost. Even if the car runs out of gas, we're on a road,

and someone will have to come by at some point. Will they, Charles? Yes! I shout. and bang my hands on the steering wheel over and over and over. We should stay with the car! Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is set in that way that tells me I have royally fucked up. I let the stress get to me, and I lashed out.

Big mistake. Hey, I'm sorry, I say. I shouldn't have. Save it. She says and waves a hand at me as she stands up. All I can see is her midsection as she turns slowly in a circle. Then she faces the car again and ducks down. Hand me my water bottle. What for?

I ask as I reach back and grab her water bottle from the side pocket of her backpack. Because I'm thirsty, and I'll get even more thirsty hiking to the main road. Anna, you are not! A hand in my face stops me from finishing my sentence. When she pulls her hand back, she stands back up and walks to the front of the car. The back of her is lit up by the head. headlights, and she takes a long drink from her water bottle, then turns around. Shut off the car, she says, and nods her head toward the woods.

Let's go. No. I say loudly and shake my head in case she can't hear me. We tried driving out, and it isn't working, she says. Look at the GPS. I look at the screen. The blue dot does show us half a mile from the main road if we hike through the woods. Rolling down my window, I lean out and say, It's a bad idea. Oh, for fuck's sake, Charles, she says and takes another drink of water. Then she snaps the lid closed, tucks the bottle into her vest pocket, turns to the woods, and marches off into the darkness.

Hannah, wait! I shout and jump out of the car. She's already almost out of sight by the time I reached the edge of the road where she stepped into the woods. Come with me or stay with the car! She yells back. I'm not going back. Damn it, Hannah. This is ridiculous.

I yell as she is lost in the shadows. Hannah! She doesn't stop, and she doesn't respond. I look at the car. I look at the way she went. I look back at the car. Son of a bitch! I snarl as I run back to the car,

grab the keys, grab my water bottle, then hurry back to the side of the road. Hold on. I'm coming. I race into the darkness. and struggle to find her path. My flashlight helps a little when I turn it on, but I don't see her boot prints or any prints. I don't see a trail.

I don't see Hannah. Hannah! I shout and keep hurrying in the direction I saw her go. Hannah! I think I hear a response, and I run faster toward the sound. After a few minutes, I have to pause and take a break. My chest is heaving,

and my throat burns from the cold air. Hannah, I croak. Drinking from my water bottle, I cooled the burn and shout again. Hannah! No response, just like the last hundred times I've shouted her name, but she doesn't reply. My instinct is to turn in a circle and shine my flashlight in every direction. But turning in a circle could get me disoriented. I've been running in a straight line from the road.

If I want to get back to the car, which I do because, like I said, It's safer to stay with the car, than I just need to go back the way I came. Hannah! I shout one last time before I turn on my heels and march back to the car. The woods are completely dark now, and I look up at the canopy above me, hoping to see some stars through the boughs. But the tree cover is too thick, and all I can make out are the dim outlines of fir branches. With my attention above, I step on a pine cone and my foot goes out from under me.

I fall to my ass, landing on a few more pine cones with a loud crunch. Another crunch echoes out from the woods in response. Anna? I wait for a minute, then pick myself up, wipe myself off, and keep walking back to the road. A loud crunch off to my left makes me stop. Anna? I don't know why I whisper. She can't hear me if I whisper.

But for some reason, shouting feels like a bad idea right now. I whisper again before I keep walking. I shine my light to the right but see nothing there. I shine my light to the left with the same lack of results. I break into a run. Hannah isn't big enough to make that much noise, and whatever is stepping on the pine cones has to be big. Lions and rednecks and bears run through my mind over and over

as I race my way through the trees, weaving past the trunks, desperate to stay on course and get back to the car. Whatever it is, it's right behind me. me. Lions and rednecks and bears. Lions and rednecks and bears. Lions and rednecks and there! The road! The car! I let out a terrified yell as I sprint the last few yards to the rental car. It beeps as I hit the unlock button on the key fob. I dare not waste time and look over my shoulder, even though the crunching is getting louder and louder and louder and holy shit,

it's right on me, and I swear it's going to grab me and rip me to shreds. I get to the car, and I get the door open, and I get inside and I slam the door closed. and hit the door locks, and I turn my head and stare out the window, ready to see the lion or the redneck or bear that is chasing me and... Nothing. There is nothing out there. I press my phone against the window so it doesn't reflect back at me, and let my flashlight illuminate the edge of the road. Nothing. Nata. Zip. Zilch. Zero. I take a deep breath and ease my head against the seat's headrest. It had to be the echoes of my own feet, right?

I panicked, and just heard myself running as all. Nothing was chasing me. No lions or rednecks or bears. I simply freaked myself out. I go to press the start button, but pause. Hannah is still out there. I can't leave her. But I can't go back in those woods either.

I shouted and yelled and called for her, but she didn't respond. Now that I've backtracked to the car, She has to be even farther along than before. Even if I did try to follow her again, I'd never catch up. I press start, and the car revs back to life. The screen blinks on and I look at the GPS. The main road is gone. There's no gray line.

There's only a wide expanse of green showing me the woods I'm in. And the ever-present blue dot that represents me in the damn rental car. Then it hits me. I swipe my phone open and bring. up the message app. I click on Hannah's icon and then tap her info. Unavailable. That's what it says when I try to track her phone. Unavailable. But I still have three bars. She said she had three bars. I should be able to find her on my phone. Unless... You have got to be shitting me. I snap, anger welling in my belly. Really, Hannah? Seriously? She fucking turned off her tracking. That's exactly.

what she did. She's pissed at me and wants me to worry my ass off, so she turned off her tracking. What a fucking... I put the car in drive. You want to play that game? Then let's play that game. I pressed down on the accelerator and start driving once more. After a few minutes, I lift up my phone and say, You know what? Two can play this game. I swipe through my settings until I get to the location part. Then I turn off my location, so she can't find me either. Let's see how she likes it. I drive for a good hour, my eyes locked under the road, ready for the intersection with the main road to appear any second.

Any second. Any second now, the main road will be right in front of me. Any second. Twenty minutes pass. 30 minutes. 40. I keep glancing out my window, hoping maybe I'll see Hannah's flashlight. I may be pissed off at her, but I love her.

Even though she did this to herself, I can't just abandon her. But I can't stop driving either. I have to find the main road. Another 20 minutes of driving goes by. 30. Then I see the reflection of taillights. Holy shit! There's a car ahead!

I speed up and get to the car in seconds. But when I slow and come to a stop, I realize there's more than one car. In fact, there's a whole lot of the car. line of cars in front of me. Slowly, I open the door and step out onto the road. Hello? I call as I bring up my flashlight

and approach the first car. It's an old Subaru, just like a thousand others that are around the area. Dust and pine needles coat the rear window and its rear wiper blade. I carefully move my way to the front.

Then I stop and try not to scream. Skeletons! One in the driver's seat and one in the passenger seat. They're dressed for warm weather, not for early spring in Montana. Have they been here since last summer? I take a deep breath and move on to the next car,

a Honda SUV. My screen can't be held back, and I let loose as I stare inside and see a family of skeletons. Mom and dad in the front with the kids strapped into car seats in the back, trying not to hyperventilate. I go up the row of cars,

and all I see are skeletons. When I turn to the row of cars and raise my flashlight, I see no end to the vehicles. They go on and on and on. Shit! I race back to my car as fast as possible. When I get back in and lock the door, I hold my head in my hands. This isn't right, I say and shake my head back and forth. This isn't happening.

I clench my fists and bang my forehead on the steering wheel over and over until I start to see twinkling lights in my eyes. I stop before I give myself a concussion. Then I look up and out the windshield at the line of cars that stretches on forever and ever and ever. Okay, this is obviously the wrong way. Hard not to see that. All I have to do is turn around and go the other way. The other way?

The other way from what? I look to the screen and want to punch my fist through it as I stare at the nothing that is the GPS. It's all green. No roads anywhere. I pinch out and widen the scope. All green. I keep pinching out and widening the scope, and still it's only green.

Green, green, green, green, green, fucking green! My fist hits the screen and it cracks, the GPS frizzing out to static, than to black. When I look at my knuckles, I see blood, and a second later the pain kicks in. I didn't just split the skin.

I'm sure I broke something. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the darkness. I whip out my phone and roll my window down, shoving my arm outside as I waved the flashlight at the spot where I saw the movement. Hannah! She doesn't answer. What does answer is a low growling, then the crunching of pine cones being obliterated under something big, I say, but without any strength behind it.

I pull my hand back into the car and roll up. up the window as the crunching gets louder and louder. My eyes are locked on the side of the road. I can hear the crunching even with the window rolled up. It becomes so loud that I want to cover my ears. Lions and rednecks and bears. Lions and rednecks and bears. The crunching pauses, and I strain to see anything beyond the illumination of the car's headlights. After what feels like forever, but is only ten minutes according to my phone, I slowly roll the window down. down and listen hard. The crunching has stopped. Either the thing has passed, or it's waiting out there for me. The problem is, it's waiting on the same side of the road that Hannah used

to head to the main road. A main road that won't show up on the GPS. I look at the cracked screen. I guess nothing is showing up on the GPS now. I try 911 again, but the call doesn't even attempt to go through. I get the fail warning instantly. Putting the car in drive, I turn around again, away from the traffic jam of doom, hoping that this will be the last stretch of road before freedom. Do I head toward the cabin? Hannah had the address in her phone, so she might be going there. Hell, maybe she found a route and is there by now.

She's been hiking for hours, so she could easily have made it. Or do I drive back to the highway and report Hannah missing? Do I say we took a wrong turn, had an argument, and she got out and started hiking? I mean, if anything has happened to her, it's not going to look so good for me. Boyfriend drives his girlfriend into the middle of nowhere, and the girlfriend ends up getting lost, then hurt, and possibly worse? A jury will fry me in half a second. I look down at the gas gauge and try not to panic.

The needle is just above empty. I probably have another 50 minutes or so of my own. driving left before I'm out of gas and stranded. When I look up from the dashboard, I can't believe what I'm seeing. A person is hurrying out of the woods on the opposite side of where Hannah had entered. There's somebody else out here. The person races into the middle of the road, waving their arms up over their head for me to stop. I slam on the brakes, and realization hits me. I know that shiny vest. I bought that shiny vest. It's Hannah. But how? She went into the woods on the left side, And now she's coming out of the right side?

She's still waving her arms over her head when she runs toward me. I open the door and step out. As soon as she has passed the headlights and can see me, she skids to a stop. Charles? She asks. Oh, thank God it's you. I say in hurry do her. I wrap her up in my arms, but she is stiff as a board.

I pull away. What's wrong? How are you here? She asks and looks around. This isn't the main road. Road? No, it's the same road. I say and frown at her. I honestly wasn't sure I'd see you again. I don't get it, she says and pushes back for me. I walked in a straight line. She holds up her phone to show me the compass app. The digital needle is spinning around and around.

I don't think it's working, I say. She looks at her phone and scrunches up her face. But it was pointing me in the right direction this whole time, she says. I saw the headlights, and I ran as fast as I could. So happy I'd made it to the main road, but terrified I'd missed the car. Then I got to the road and... And here we are, I say. She says, defeated. But we're together.

Please, let's not split up again. She nods but doesn't say anything. Her eyes are wide and scared, and she keeps looking around. While you were out there, did you hear anything? Her attention returns to me. She nods. Like big footsteps? She nods again.

I don't think it's rednecks. She says quietly and tugs on my arm. Let's get in the car. Good idea, I say and lead her to her side. She breaks from my grip and yanks her door open and then jumps inside, slamming it almost before I can get out of the way. I waste no time and run around back to my door. It's still open from when I jumped out. to greet Hannah. So I'm in and slamming the door in seconds, just as another crunch echoes from

the woods. Hannah whispers, her eyes scanning the area, hunting for the source of the noise. I drive. We travel for a solid 45 minutes. Then we see the reflections of taillights ahead. There! She shouts, and her body bounces in her seat from her excitement. People! I want to believe. I truly do. But as we get closer and closer and closer and finally stop. I see the Subaru symbol on the back of the car. I see the same dirt and dust and pine needles gathered on the back window and the windshield wiper blade. I know what sits in that car. I don't even bother to say anything as Hannah jumps out and races toward the infinite line of cars. Hey! She shouts. Hello! Help us! I see her get to the front of the first car,

and I watch the horror build on her face. Then she runs. to the Honda CRV, and I see more horror. She keeps running, hurrying down the line of cars, until I watch her collapse to her knees as she screams and screams and screams. A chime alerts me to the gas tank being empty. I turn the car off. I sit there in silence, in the dark, on a road that won't let us leave,

as Hannah screams at the line of cars and the skeletons inside. After a long while, she gets herself together, and walks back to our car. When she gets in, she doesn't look at me, but she reaches out for my hand. I take it. Next time we go to the Bahamas, she says. Yes, that sounds good, I reply.

Next time. Hey guys, I'm excited to finally share my brand new horror-themed coffee with all of you. No sleep coffee is here. If you need that first morning cup to get moving, or a late night brew to make it through my darkest tails. This is for you. Every bag is roasted the same day at ships, so it arrives fresh and flavorful every time.

Go to no sleep coffee.com and use promo code No Sleep 20 at checkout for 20% off your first order. Premium roasted coffee, straight from the roaster to your door. That's no sleepcoffee.com promo code No Sleep 20 for 20% off your first order. When she walks in, I know exactly what she's looking for. You can tell by the eyes, looking everywhere but refusing to focus on anything specific in case someone notices them. I always notice them. They cannot hide for me.

Not here. Not in my space. Not in my library. Young, pretty, with black curly hair and skin that tells me she doesn't stress about sunscreen, even though we should all stress about sunscreen. I watch her adjust her backpack and pick a direct. She has no idea which way to go, obviously. So any direction is good enough for her, for now.

Do you have the latest John Grisham novel? An older woman in her 70s asks me, or she could be in her late 60s, maybe even early 80s. I am no good with ages. Like the pretty young woman. 16, 18, 25? Do you know the title? I ask the older woman who could be in her 60s or 80s.

or 80s, definitely not 90s. If I knew the title, I wouldn't have come up here to ask you, the woman huffs. I smell peppermint and cigarettes on her breath. Another way to kill your skin. The cigarettes, not the peppermint. My apologies, I say as I turned to my computer terminal to look up Grisham's latest crowd-pleaser. As I peruse the listings, which I needn't do, since I know exactly what book the woman wants, I keep the young woman in view out of the corner of my eye.

I am a librarian. We have eyes in the back of our heads. We see all in our space. Hello? The older woman snaps and taps her manicured fingernails on the counter. I'm in a hurry. Of course, I say. And keep perusing simply because the longer I take,

the more annoyed the woman becomes. It also gives me a nice little bit of subterfuge to hide behind as I tracked the young woman's progress through the stacks. The older woman continues to tap, tap, tap, tap on the counter. Her eyes locked onto me, her brow low and menacing. Well, as menacing as an older woman in her 60s or 80s can be when she's barely taller than the counter she's tapping on. Ah, here we go, I say as I lose sight of the young woman in the history section.

Are you wanting his latest fiction release or his latest nonfiction release? Non-fiction? The woman asks, incredulous. Do I look like I listen to NPR? I am unsure how the two are related. I'm looking for his fiction, of course. The older woman snaps, then leans in, and reads my name tag. Morgan.

She pauses, looks up at my face, looks down at the name tag, looks up at my face, and snorts derisively. That's a woman's name, not a man's. And yet it's my name, and I am a man. I say, and grab a piece of scrap paper. The book's name is Camino Ghosts. Here is the call number. It is still being shelved in the new fiction section, so don't go wandering in the regular fiction stacks and get lost.

Why would I get lost? It was a joke. You're not funny. Yes, I have been told that. The older woman snatches the scrap of paper away from me and stomps off. Well, more like scuffles off. Her 60 or 80-year-old knees do not look up to the task of stomping. Maybe she is 90, hard to tell. She isn't as old as this library,

though. No, no, this library is much older than 60 or 80 or 90. As far as everyone knows, the library has always been here, built as one of the first buildings in this town, back when it was a village consisting of a mere handful of settlers. People looking for a new and better life on this shore, away from the jeering and hate. they were accustomed to in their old country. I straightened some papers at the counter, then turn to the hold cart, and pretend to sort through the books waiting to be picked up. My eyes dart over to the side, and I see the young woman standing in the medieval Europe shelves of the history section. She is reading each spine

with intense concentration. Time to make myself known. Hello. I say, hiding my smile as the young woman jumps a little and lets out a muffled squeak of fear. My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you. I most certainly did mean to startle her. It's the little things in life that keep us going. Oh, um, hello, the young woman says,

and gives me a weak smile before returning her attention to the shelves and the many, many books resting there. Are you looking for something specific, or just browsing our tombs on medieval Europe? It is a fascinating time in history, so I can understand if you are overwhelmed by the choices before you. I am more than happy to help narrow it down

or recommend something specific. Unless, of course, you already know the title. Do you? Do I? What? Have something specific in mind, I say. And then turn and point toward the end of the row where a bank of computers sits. If you are unfamiliar with our system,

I can instruct you on our computerized card catalog. No actual cards anymore, I'm afraid, but plenty of catalog. She does not laugh at my little joke. Rare is the person who does. Um, I don't know the title, but I was told I could find a certain book here that helps with, well. I wait, yet she does not elaborate. Are you 18? 20.

She says wearily. Ah, community college then. I say nodding. Yeah. I ask because we do have a robust erotica section. if that is what you are asking for, I say in a conspiratorial whisper. I can tell you the more popular titles if you need, but it sounds like you already know what you want.

Care to describe the book? More than likely, I'll be able to tell you the title. The poor deer's eyes are as wide as a startled dears. A deer of a deer, if you will. I laugh a little under my breath at my silly wordplay joke. I should have said it out loud. I am sure the young woman would find a little. amusing. Except that her body language tells me she wants to flee. As to whether her discomfort is

because of what I have said, or because she believes I am laughing at her, I do not know. My apologies, I say. I have misunderstood the situation. What situation? She asks, still unsettled. Um, the situation of the book you are looking for, but do not know the title of. If I may be bold. You seem confused and possibly bordering on upset. I now know you are not looking for the erotica section, so let us strike that from our conversation and start over. What is this book you have been recommended, yet do not know the title of? She swallows hard, and I swear she is about to bolt just like the figurative deer I have described her as. Then she clears her throat, and with a great amount of courage I can see welling up from deep inside her, she actually takes a step closer

to me and not away. Oh, yes. She is most definitely here for what I think she is here for. There is a book that may not have been written by. She begins, but lets the statement trail off, unfinished. Yes, I prompt, and almost step closer, but do not want to spook the little deer, or deer with an A, I should say. She's a young woman, not Bambi after all. Although Bambi was a male and not a female, a distinction most forget, due to how the name has been co-opted by the stronger sex so many decades ago.

A friend told me that there is a book here that can... She trails off again and glances over her shoulder. Then she looks past my shoulder, causing me to turn my head to see what she's looking for. Miss, I am here to help, I say. and there is no need to be embarrassed by any request you may have. If the book exists and it is housed here in my, um, the library, then you have every right to seek it out.

All I need is a little more information. She thinks on this for a moment that nods. Before I know it, she is pushing past me out of the medieval Europe section and straight for the library's entrance. I am barely out of the row by the time she's burst outside into the gloomy winter rain. Excuse me! A familiar voice snaps at me from my left side. This is not large print.

I turned to the woman who is either 60 or 80, and not 90. She's holding up the latest John Grisham novel and waving it in my face. No, ma'am, that is not large print, I say, and snatched the book out of her hand before she makes me nauseous with all that waving. The look on her face is a mixture of offense, surprise, and fear. Good. You did not request the large print version, but I do know we have it in stock, I say. Shall I show you to the large print section before I shelved this for you?

I know where the large print section is, male librarian with a girl's name. She shoves past me, and I am not as forgiving about it as I was with the young woman. My left foot slides out just a hair, barely noticeable to even the most studied observer. The older woman's 60 or 80-year-old foot catches on my... and down she goes. Oh, dear me, I say, and reach down to help her up from the carpeting that was installed sometime in the second half of the previous century. She swats me away and uses the shelf next to her to claw her way back upright.

You tripped me! She gasps as she leans against the end of the shelf. Her face flushed, her hair a mess, my soul delighted. Ma'am, I did no such thing. I say with enough indignation that I can sense a few other people. patrons looking at us. I was turning to help show you to the large print section when you pushed past me. She glars at me for a few seconds, then straightens herself, pushes away from the shelf,

bats her hair down, smooths out her clothes, then moves in close to me, her finger jabbed up under my nose. It's quite a show she puts on, and I don't even bother to take a step back as she winds up for her verbal assault. You are not a nice person, she says, then turns on her heel. and shuffles over to the large print section and as angry away as her 60- or 80-year-old body can. Her blouse is untucked from her pants, and I smile at this bit of chaotic undressory. That's a word, yes? Undressory? If not, it should be. Or perhaps it used to be, and I am only

remembering it now. Hard to say, considering the volumes of words I have consumed over my time as a librarian. Knowing what task I have before me, I hurry back behind the counter to await the older woman's arrival with her hard-fought large print edition of John Grisham's Camino Ghosts. I should really read this, I say when the book is slapped on the counter in front of me. Your card, ma'am? The woman snorts and huffs and sniffs as she pulls her pocketbook from her purse and slides out her library card. I scan it, and the card back, scan the book.

and that over, then steeple my fingers in front of me as I lean my elbows on the counter. I hope you enjoy your read and have a most pleasant day. The book is due back in 14 days, thank you. Looking forward to your return. She does not stop her snorting or huffing or sniffing as she gives me one last glare, then turns about and shuffles her way out of the library. I, of course, do not mention her blouse being untucked. I'm a librarian, not a personal stylist.

Perhaps she wants to look like a person who is one pudding cup away from the nursing home. Who am I to say? The light outside dwindles and dies. An hour later, I walk the shelves and the tables, whispering politely to all who remained that the library is closing. Once the last patron has walked out the door, with a copy of Herman Melville's collection of short stories that were published in Harper's magazine, no less, I lock the doors, turn out the front lights,

then make my way through the dim library, to a shelf that no one ever sees until they are supposed to. Three books sit on the shelf, none with names on the spines. Spines that are worn and cracked and can use some new life to them, some new energy. My thoughts go to the young woman from earlier, and I smile at what she said. A friend told her about a book. Oh, I'm sure a friend. did, a desperate friend, a friend who would save their own skin rather than pay the price they

agreed upon, a friend who should not be anyone's emergency contact, if you understand what I am saying. I run my fingertips along the three spines and I take a deep breath, memories bubbling up from deep, deep inside. But no, I do not have time for those memories. They are deep for a reason. Reluctantly, I walk away from the shelf and continue my closing procedures. All windows are checked and locked. All chairs, pushed under, and lined up with their respective tables. Computers are shut down for the evening. The rear emergency door is latched and secure.

With my duties done, I return to the counter, fetch my courier's bag which is much too large for the contents inside, yet comes in quite handy when I decide to bring a stack of books home with me. Tonight, though, I am not in the reading mood. I am in the thinking mood, and that young woman is the center of my thoughts. I leave and lock the library behind me, ready to start all over again in the morning. And when the morning arrives, and I arrive shortly after with a cup of coffee in my hand, I am not at all surprised to see the young woman waiting for me under the eaves of the front entrance.

I didn't know when you opened, she says, as if that is an explanation for her eagerness, which it is not. We have our hours posted on our website, I say, and maneuver around her to unlock the front door. Excuse me. The young woman almost jumps out of her skin to get out of my way. Before I slide the key into the lock, I pause and look at the young woman. Are you all right, dear? I ask and look back over my shoulder. You aren't in any trouble, are you?

She shakes her head no and tries to smile at me, but fails miserably. I just need... I just need the book. Well, who am I to obstruct the enthusiasm of a reader? I say. And finish my movement by sliding the key into the lock and turning it two full rotations to the right. The bolt inside slides free and I push the door open with my elbow while I hold up a hand to her.

Let me take care of the alarm. and turn some lights on, and you can come right in. Oh, okay, she says, pausing the step forward she was about to take. I enter the library, sighing at the familiar smell and feel of all the books that surround me. With a flick of my elbow, I switch on the front area lights. Then I make my way to the counter, set my coffee down, place my bag on its shelf directly under the computer, and pretend to busy myself as I boot up the computer. There really isn't much to do.

I'm simply killing some time as I surreptitiously watch the young woman fidget and squirm outside the front door. After booting up all of the computers and turning on the backlights, I slowly walk my way to the front, smiling the entire time. Her squirming and fidgeting increases considerably. Poor dear. Come in, come in, I say, and hold the door open for the young woman. She hurries in, and she hurries in,

and looks about the place as if she's never seen a library before, which we all know isn't true, since she had just visited yesterday. I would consider her behavior strange if it wasn't for the nature of the tomb she seeks. I have been thinking, I say, and place a finger to my chin to emphasize how sincerely I have put thought into her matter.

Would this book you need be one that perhaps might be on the subject of something that could be considered unorthodox. She nods yes, then shakes her head no. It's not erotica, she says quickly. No, no, we have established that already, I say, and continue to tap my chin. But it could be considered taboo, couldn't it? Um, maybe, I guess.

She replies, and the uncertainty in her voice tells me she has no idea what she has gotten herself into. Some friends she has indeed. If I were to say a word, will you promise not to laugh or be cruel in your response? She frowns. It's just that if I am wrong in my suspicion, I would hate to be mocked for my mistake when I'm only trying to help. No, I won't laugh. Very well, then, I say and take a deep breath. Then I let it out slowly, and at the very end of the exhale, I say, she doesn't smile, she doesn't laugh.

In fact, she barely reacts at all. Yet the increased speed of the throbbing pulse at the side of her neck tells me I have hit the mark exactly as I thought I would. Come, I say, and wave for her to follow me toward the back of the stacks. Technically, the library doesn't open for another hour, so we shouldn't be disturbed. I'm sorry, she says quietly as she slowly follows me. No need, my dear, I say. I am here, you are here, the books are here, I see no reason for you to apply. I apologize for arriving a tad early.

I lead her to the shelf of three books and stand there, waiting for her to make the first move. It is key that the reader make the first move. Three? She asks finally, after studying the shelf of books and my face in rapid succession. Not one, three, I say. And you believe they are magic?

She asks, and I see the flush of a mrs. embarrassment start to rise from her neck. My friend says they aren't written by people. Is that what your friend says? I ask, knowing full well her friend would say anything to extract themselves from the situation they have gotten into. The young woman tries to smile but can't quite achieve the goal. She nods at the books and looks me in the eye. I have an audition this week, she says, beginning her explanation of why she is in need of the books. let's say, abilities.

There is always an explanation. There is rarely an actual need for the books. In audition? I ask, wide-eyed and impressed, despite not being impressed at all. Fame is so common, so base, that to acknowledge it with anything other than mock enthusiasm would only make my day worse.

There is nothing like being yelled at by a diva in the making. Piano, the young woman replies. Julietard. Juliaard, I say with deep reverence in my voice. I do not add that I have heard this type of story before. That would be rude. I have practiced my entire life for this audition, but... The woman says, her eyes going back to the books and their well-worn spines.

She reaches out but hesitates before touching the covers. That is good, because her fingers would not find leather. Perhaps she'd think it to be pig-since. skin. Perhaps on some level she'd be disgusted by the touch. Perhaps she'd have a chance to change her mind and walk out of this library right now, to go back to her apartment or room or wherever she lives and continue practicing over and over instead of looking for a shortcut, for a sure thing. But that isn't what is about to happen. What did your friends say about these books? Did she mention how they work? She said, she clears her throat.

She said that all I needed to do was tell my desires, and the correct book would show itself. Your desires? Is that the wording she used? Um, yeah. She didn't say to tell the books your needs? No, no, she said desires, the young woman replies, is if I'm confirming something for her. What she doesn't realize is that I have only revealed to her the sadness and hopelessness of her endeavor. Her friend is using her for her own gains, or more correctly, is using her to get herself out of quite the pickle she's found herself in. And how does your friend know about these books? What do you mean?

The young woman asks. Her ignorance is a painful thing for me to behold. Well, let us say that these books are magic. I continue with a sincere smile. And let's say these books can help with your desires. We can each agree to these truths, yes? Um, yes, the young woman replies, obviously confused. You do not sound certain.

On what? Us, you and I, agreeing on the basic foundation that these books are magic and that they can grant a person's desires. You do not sound certain on either of those facts. Well, it's a lot, the young woman admits. It is a lot, I say. And yet you are here, and I have not thrown you out. I throw out insane people all the time. Our streets are filled with the smelly annoyances.

But I have not asked you to leave. In fact, I have escorted you to this shelf myself. Okay, I sigh. While I am not confirming your belief that these books are magic and have the ability to grant desires, I am also not saying you are wrong, I say. So, in order to move forward, we have to be in agreement that these things,

These books are indeed magic, and these books can indeed make your desires real. Um, yeah, sure. I agree to those facts, the young woman says. And I can see I have spooked her. Good. She should be spooked. Excellent, I say. How much time do you have today?

I'm sorry. Time. Today, I say. How much of it do you have? These books cannot be checked out. They must be read here in the library. here in the library. I didn't know that, she says, looking alarmed. I have to be at work at four. And what do you do for employment? I'm a waitress. A noble profession, I say and bat my chest.

Almost as noble as being a librarian. She doesn't laugh at my joke. One day someone will get me. You should get started, I say, and look toward the front of the library. I'll show you to a reading room, but then I must continue my opening duties before the regulars arrive. Um, okay, she says, and reaches for one of the books. To say I have to restrain myself from slapping that hand away as an understatement. Instead, I reach out faster and pluck the first book in the row from the shelf. This is where you start, I say and hold the book out to her. There are no words on the cover, no intricate scroll work, no pressings of

leaves or shelves into the skin with which it is bound and covered. There is only the book itself. The young woman reaches for the book, but this time I do not stop her. Now, she stops on her own. Her fingers only centimeters from the edge. I hold my breath, ready, hoping, believing she will change her mind and run from this building. All thoughts of gaming the system gone from her head. Then she takes the book from my hands and,

studies it. As her finger slides under the front cover, I place my palm on top. These books are not to be opened here, I say, and wave an arm to our left. This way, please. She nods and clutches the book to her chest as I show her to a row of reading rooms set into the back wall of the library. Three are neat and tidy and clean. The fourth is not. It has a sign on the door knob that says, not for public use. This is the door I open. I do not blame the young woman for pausing at the threshold as I walk in and move some of the various boxes and stacks of damaged books from the table and chair. I stacked the debris in the corner of the room, then return to the table and give it a thorough wiping with my shirt sleeve. Here you go, I say and pat the table.

Why can't I use one of the other rooms? she asks. looking about at the junk that is accumulated in the reading room. Because this is the room where you may read those books, I say, answering her question not in the least, yet answering it all the same. She nods and walks slowly to the chair I have pulled out for her. She does not sit down, though. I can tell she is waiting for me to leave. So much for any implied trust that I had assumed we'd built

due to my being friendly and accommodating. Were my joke's not disarming? I'll leave you to it, I say, and scoot around her to the door. When I get there, I pause and ask. May I make a suggestion? Um, sure, she says and sits down now that I'm outside her personal space. If anything you read makes you upset, then stop reading, I advise. Leave the book in here, walk out of this library,

and do not ever mention what you have read or what you think you feel. Feel? Just a little advice, I say. Then close the door and sigh as the click echoes across the library. Morgan, you in here? A voice calls from the front. Back here. I reply, knowing it's our faithful postal worker, Arlo, ready to gather and deliver,

the day's mail before heading off into the wilds of our fair little town. I do not bother to look behind me and glance through the reading room's window to see if the young woman has cracked open the book. I know she has. She has made it this far, and that takes courage. The rest, unfortunately, well, takes everything else. After completing my opening duties

and chatting amiably with Arlo for a few minutes, I make my way to the reading rooms for a glance at our little fool. And there she is, head bent over the book. Her hands gripping the edge of the table, like it is keeping her from being flung up to the ceiling. I watch her for several minutes, and each time she has to turn a page, it's like she's fighting gravity itself. This book she has is the primer. She hasn't even begun to understand what she's gotten herself into. A raised voice from the counter gets my attention, and I drift away from the reading rooms and back to the front,

where I find a certain older woman in her 60s or 80s for whom I have some. such honest affection. Hello again, ma'am. How may I help you? I ask, then nod at the Grisham novel in her hands. Finished already, are we? No, I have not finished already. The older woman snaps. You said this was large print.

This is not large print. She slams the book onto the counter, and a few heads swivel in our direction. I give the disturbed patrons a comforting smile, then return my attention to the older woman in her 60s or 80s. I suppose I should stop calling her that. Her name, according to her account in the library system, is Constance Klein, and she is 73 years old. She also lives at 3641 Nightingale Lane, which is all the way across town in an area of old historic homes, whose owners have made our local town council's life absolutely miserable.

I can't for the life of me see why or how that is possible, considering what a delight. Miss Klein has been. I take the book from the counter and scan it. Then I frown at the screen, turn to Miss Klein, and give her a beaming smile, then look back at the screen and frown. I am sorry, Miss Klein, but this is large print, I say. Then turn the book around and open it to the copyright page. Almost at the bottom, where the print run information is, are the words, large print format. Miss Klein studies the page, then sneers up at me. I need larger. You may at that, I reply.

Unfortunately, I am a librarian and not an ophthalmologist. So short of an actual medical opinion, all I can do is direct you to this lovely spinner rack of reading glasses we have for sale. They come in all sorts of sizes and colors and designs and strengths, and my eyes are perfectly fine, thank you. She snaps. But alas, so is the print, I say, and hope for a laugh at my wordplay.

There is no laugh. I need a better book, she says. Might I suggest the Goldfinch by Donna Tart? Excuse me? The Goldfinch by Donna Tart. I repeat, fearing the woman's hearing is as bad as her eyesight. I heard what you said, Morgan. She says, almost spitting my own name at me.

I just find the suggestion rude. I do not need your sarcasm. I need this book in large print. But that is large print, I say. the largest print available on the market. I could suggest she purchase an e-book reader, where one has the ability to enlarge the font to whatever size one desires. But that would solve her problem, so I remain silent.

My mind drifts away from Miss Klein's invented problem, and I think of the young woman in the reading room and her desire to ace her piano audition. No sooner has this thought entered my head when I hear a door slam open and a barely muffled screen. issue from the back wall. A second later, the young woman is sprinting out from between the stacks and headed straight for the front door, tears streaming down her face and a strand of snot flying back across her cheek, the end of it lost in her dark hair. When the door has closed

behind the fleeing woman, all eyes turned to me. She wanted larger print, I say to the curious and confused faces. Then my eyes fall on Miss Klein and I shake my head. Will there be anything else I can help you with today, ma'am. You haven't helped me with this, she snarls. Somehow able to keep her voice at a library appropriate level and still make me feel as if I should take a step back. Bravo to her, I say. Still some good fight left in this aging body that is slowly dying before me. I might be able to order a copy with larger print, I say, and return my attention to the computer and its vast catalog of books that will not solve her imaginary problem. Hmm. Hmm. Let me see, let me see.

Miss Klein begins her fingernail tapping routine, and I almost start to shake my hips to the rhythm. However, I do not want to prolong my exposure to the lovely woman any longer than necessary. So I shake my head instead. Just as I see Miss Klein about to open her mouth out of the corner of my eye, I gasp. Wow, will you look at this? I say and point at the screen that she obviously cannot look at. There is a version with larger print.

It's even called larger print. Who would have known? Any professional library and worth half their salt, Miss Klein says, then mutters. One who does not have a woman's name. Good luck with that. I say, and smile at her as I'd print out a fake receipt I just made. This is your hold receipt.

Hang on to this, and bring it when we call you to let you know that we have received the book. She takes the receipt and studies it. It says here that it could take up to eight weeks before the book is available. She says, and shakes the receipt at me. I want this book today, Morgan. Today. Oh, dear me, that just isn't possible. There are several people in front of you on the hold list.

Then I pat the book she's already checked out. But you may keep this one in the meantime. Get yourself a jumpstart with the large print before the larger print version is returned. You have not been helpful at all, she says, and snatches the book from the counter. She waves it at me, her thin old, wrists, barely able to handle the anger she wields.

I will complain to your severe ears. I'm sure they will welcome your input, I say and raise my eyebrows. Is there anything else, Ms. Klein? She doesn't bother to answer me and just turns around and storms out of the library. More eyes are on me. Sometimes we can't always get what we want, I say quietly. The eyes look away. Speaking of getting what we want, I make my way back to the cluttered reading room.

I see the table, but it is empty. No worries. I have a feeling I'll find the book. Ah, here it is, flung into the corner as I thought. I picked the book up and inspected. Careful not to crack it open myself, lest I want to be a crying, snotty mess, such as the young woman who ran from the library like the devil himself was on her heels. She should be so lucky.

I leave the reading room, closed the door tight behind me, and replace the book on the shelf. It is not hard to notice that the spine of the book I just set back on the shelf is considerably shinier than the other spines. There is a toll to be paid when reading a book such as this. The day waxes and wanes, and soon I am the only one left in the library as a beauty of a thunderstorm rages outside.

I even think of closing up early when the door opens, as I expected to, and in walks the young woman, soaked to the bone. At least no one can tell if she's still crying or not. I'm Beth, she says as she walks up to the counter. Hello, Beth, I say. Are you ready for the second book?

No. I cocked my head and give her a sad smile. But you read the first book, yes? She nods. And you understood what it was saying, yes? She nods again. But you refuse to continue knowing what the books will take from you? I'm not refusing, she says quietly.

I'm just not ready. Ah, I see, I say. And my sad smile turns to one of understanding. Despite your reticence, you have returned for the second book. She nods. Then let us get you to your task, I say, and lead her to the shelf once more. We close in an hour. Can you read this in that time?

I have my hand on the second book. But do not pull it off the shelf. She must commit first. I think so, she says, which is good enough for me. Good. I say and take the book with me, as I once again escort her to the cluttered reading room, where I set the book on the table and leave without saying a word.

Less than an hour later, I hear muffled crying from the reading room, but I do not go to investigate. I know why she sheds those tears, hard truths being told, hard lessons being learned, a hard price to be paid, a hard choice to be made. Can I read the third book now? Beth asks, startling me as I have my back to the counter while I sort the books on hold. The third book? I respond, and glance at the large clock across from the counter that hangs on the wall just above the front door. The library closes in mere minutes, Beth.

She flinches at the use of her name. but other than that, she doesn't respond. I see the fear and terror in her eyes, which is good, because it means she knows that what she has to do is wrong, yet she also knows that she has passed the point of no return. Truthfully, she passed that point the second her friend did her the unkindness of mentioning the books. Tell you what, I say, and slip out from behind the counter.

I approach her and grasp her shoulders in my hands. Do you prefer pepperoni or Hawaiian? What? Pizza, I say. Which do you prefer? I'm a Hawaiian man myself, but I understand that your generation has some issues with pineapple on pizza. So I am happy to go with regular pepperoni. I don't understand.

Apparently not, I say, and lead her gently to the reading room where I fetch the closed book from the table. Wait here. She does, and I walk the book back to its books. place on the shelf. Its spine is now as shiny as the first book, both looking almost as if I just unwrapped them. I shudder at the thought of what books such as these could possibly ever be wrapped in. When I returned to the reading room, Beth is seated at the table with her head resting on her arms. Are you sure you don't want to go home? No, she says and lifts her

head. There are three books, right? I nod. My audition is on. Friday and today is Tuesday I need to read all of these as fast as possible so I have at least a day or two to she doesn't finish the sentence and I don't need her to I understand what task she has laid out before her I do not very well I say and give her the third book I'll go ahead and order one of each pizza and some soda pop with plenty of caffeine we'll stay until you have read this book but then you will have to go home simply because I refuse to sleep in this library. Work-life balance and all that.

Okay, thank you, she says. Then adds as I turn to leave. Have you read the books? I smile and say, I better order the pizza before the dinner rush delays delivery too much. Then I close the door and walk away, leaving her question intentionally unanswered. By the time the pizza arrives, the library is fully closed,

and I have to let the young man in so he can set the pies on the counter. He stands and waits. I included a tip in the application I used to order the food, but apparently that is not enough. Never swim in leather pants, I say, and grin. What, dude? The delivery driver asks. That's your tip, I say.

Never swim in leather pants. He scrunches up his face, and I fear I have caused the young man to have an exceedingly early stroke for someone his age. I go to my bag and luckily have a few dollar bills in there, as antiquated as cash is these days. Be careful out there, I call loud as he leaves. He does not acknowledge my advice, despite the thunderstorm still raging over our little town. I lock the door and turn back to the counter when even over a peal of thunder, I hear a loud sob come from the back of the library. She has finished the third book. Such a fast reader this one.

I do not wait for her to make her way to me. She'll be lucky if she can stand. With pizzas in hand, I walk my way back to the reading room. Beth? I call out as I knock and open the door. She has slumped over the table. Her eyes glazed, her mouth open, drool, pooling under her chin and cheeks. I would be alarmed if this was the first time I've witnessed a complete reading.

Beth? I say a little louder. Her eyes blink and she sits up sudden. and she grabs her head and moans. How long was I out? She asks. A minute or so at the most, I say, and hold up the two pizza boxes. Hungry?

She shakes her head now. Well, I am, I say, and set the pizzas on the table next to the closed third book. Without a word, I pick up the book and return it to its shelf with the other two. All three spines are shiny and beautiful. Books need to be read. These books need it more than others. When I return to the reading room, I see that Beth has devoured half the pepperoni pizza, her cheeks stuffed with greasy cheese and meat and crust.

You have questions, I say, and set the pepperoni box aside so I can grab a slice of Hawaiian. Please, feel free to ask. I'm not going to get what I desire, am I? She asks around a mouthful of pizza. That depends on you, I say, and nibble at my slice. not wanting to stuff myself, even though I'm starving. I need to be able to answer her questions without spitting mozzarella everywhere. You mean? It depends on if I can find some sucker to come in here and read the books too,

she says, and I hear the bitterness in her voice. Then I see a thought cross her mind. No, I say and shake my head. Your friend Taylor cannot read books. She's already read. Not only will it not satisfy the covenant you have unwittingly fallen into, It would kill her, kill you, and damn both your souls to become possessions of the fay. The fay, she echoes. Ferrys?

In a way, I say and shrug. They have traps like these all over the world for humans such as you. What does that mean? Such as me, she asks, and takes another bite of pizza, even though she hasn't even come close to finishing her last bite. People who want to bend the will of fate and reality to suit their own. on purposes, I say, and nibble. All I wanted was to shine in my audition, she says, then frowns and stares at me. Wait, how did you know Taylor's name? Can't you guess?

She thinks, then she nods. Because she had to come in here and read the books, too. I nod, and she narrows her eyes. What was her desire? She didn't tell you? No. Then that's between her and the books, I say with a shrug. she says, and I can see the anger rekindling inside of her. I am not a monster. I know. But I have to be one in order to keep my soul. Perhaps. What does that mean? It means just because you're a friend, and I use the word loosely for obvious reasons. Just because Taylor decided to take advantage of someone who I believe is a decent good person doesn't mean you have to. But if I don't find someone, then the fay will take my soul.

The rest of your soul. Oh, right. Each book took a piece already? That is the price. I can't do this to someone. I can't keep the reading cycle open. Oh, you will keep the reading cycle open. I suggest, however, that perhaps the person you target doesn't have to be exactly, well, a nice person at all.

Does that count? It doesn't have to be a friend? In all that horror and grotesquery you were full. forced to consume. Did you read anywhere that the next reader must be your friend? Then there's your answer. But who would I trick? I hold up a finger. I have an idea. Give me your cell phone and I'll text you exactly what to say. She hesitates. I have supervised the near damnation of your entire life essence, so I wouldn't worry about giving me your number. She gives me a weak smile, then gives me her number. We sit in silence and eat for a few minutes before she.

she yawns. You need sleep. Here, take the leftovers with you, I say, nodding at the pizza. It's the least I can do. Are you sure? She asks, surprised. Eat up, get some rest, then be ready to make a phone call in the morning, I say and stand up. By the time I see her out the front door, I fear she'll fall asleep on the drive home. But she assures me she is fine. I'll text you tonight, I say as she walks toward the parking lot. Don't worry, it'll all go fine. She gives me a small nod, then gets in her car and drives off. I watch her leave the lot, then go back and gather my things.

I have the text composed in my head by the time I get home. I send it just after brushing my teeth. When I arrive the next morning, I am not surprised to see Miss Klein waiting for me. I received a call this morning from someone with a brain for a change. She snaps. She said that the larger print version of Camino Ghosts was delivered yesterday. Yet I didn't get a call from you, Morgan. The way she snarls my name at me, erases any sort of guilt I may have had, after sending Beth the text, telling her what to say

when she called the older woman who was in her 70s. Oh, well, I apologize profusely, I say and unlock the door. Why don't you come in and I'll show it to you? I must warn you, it's a special edition and I had it delivered directly from the publisher, so it's not even available to the public yet. Is that so? Mrs. Klein replies, shoving past me into the library. That is so, I say, and gesture toward the back of the library. How about I show you? Scurry, scurry, scurry, like ants or mice, definitely some kind of pest.

They just scurry, scurry, scurry, panic in their eyes, fear in their voices, and a loser written all over their faces. It's sad, really. Are you just going to f*** shit there? Or are you going to help us pack up? Bauer snaps. I set my book down, an old crime novel by that guy with the same name as the fast food restaurant. Good book.

I like the main character. He's got style, and he always gets the babe. Then he drops her for a new one by the next book. can't be shackled like that. To say I'm a little annoyed that I have to stop reading is an understatement. They know better than to interrupt me when I'm reading. But I set the book down, rest my cigar in the ashtray

on the side table, pick up the crystal tumbler, and have a sip of some very, very fine whiskey. I already told you, Baumer, I'm not going with y'all. John Baumer, bummer, I've been calling him lately. He slouches and shuffles instead of walking tall like a man. The slouches from his wife always harping on him, telling him he never does anything right. Hard to argue with her there. So he tries to act tough and like he's got things figured out.

Always business. He doesn't know how to relax and enjoy the finer things. Like a good book, a good smoke, and a good drink. I take another sip. I'll amend that last statement. A great drink. Damn fine whiskey. Oh, you're coming with, Balmer says, stopping his frantic packing long enough to give me a harsh look.

You think we're going to leave you here? Let you spill the beans on where we're headed. Spill the beans. I laugh and pick up my cigar and book. Then I lean back into the comfy warmth of the overstuffed leather chair that I have posted up in. Can you be more lame, Balmer? Tell him if he doesn't help, he doesn't get his cut. A smoky boy screams from the bedroom. I'll fucking burn it in front of his face.

Can't burn diamonds, baby. And can't burn gold with a lighter. But I can burn your take of the 50 mil we got in those bags out there. I glance at the pile of duffel bags, thinking about easy score after easy score that we pulled off. It helps to have a little luck on your side. And a little something more than luck. She's right, Bauer says.

We ain't going to split the cash. you if you don't help. Fine by me, I say and return my attention to my book. Dealia Baumer storms out of the bedroom and stands by the couch across the living room from where I'm sitting. She puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes, trying to look intimidating. Not easy to do when you're maybe five foot and weigh a buck five soaking wet at the most. She ain't a bad-looking woman, I'll give her that, even if she is a munchkin. Muscular, solid legs, nice rack. eyes that slice you from stem to stern when she focuses on you. I think Delia and I could have been something, something great,

if it was a different time, a different life, and if she wasn't such a raging harpy. You think we're splitting the golden jewels with you too? She barks, then laughs, which sounds the same as her bark. Not a fucking chance, pal. You want your split, then you help pack. Aggie and Gordo will be here any minute with the RV. You think those two fucking...

Idiots can buy an RV in an hour? I ask and smirk. Ain't gonna happen. They're paying cash, Baumers says as he keeps scurrying, scurrying, scurrying about the small house we rented a few months back when this all started. A lot less paperwork to fill out.

They'll be back any minute. Wishful thinking, I say, and try to start reading again. I see the small shadow rush at me and I brace myself for the slap. Delia likes to slap. When you're her size, you can get away with it. My size? Nah. I slap someone and they go down hard and don't get back up.

Or they don't go down hard and it's on like Donkey Kong. But the bitch don't slap me. She grabs my book and throws it across the room. Rude, I say and pick up my drink. She tries to grab that too, but I'm fast and I hold it out of her reach. Even sitting, I'm almost as tall as her. She makes a move like she's gonna try again, but I hold the burning ember of my cigar in front of me, and she stops cold. Dealia knows I'll do it. And the way Baumer pretends like there's nothing going down, he knows it too. No night in shining armor, this guy. You won't get a pearl or gold ring if you don't start helping, Delia snarls at me. This ain't no free ride, Davis. Scott, I say, bristling at the use of my first name. I never liked being called Davis. Always

preferred my last name. And that's something Delia knows, just like she knows I'll use the cigar on her porcelain white skin. Oh, but the look in her eyes tells me she ain't even close to done with me. She's going to push it as far as she can. I wonder what her angle is. What's she fishing for? Delia may be a crazy bitch with a homicidal streak in her that's nearly as dangerous as mine, but she ain't suicidal. So why is she coming for me so hard? You act like you're a bubble. us all. You and your paperbacks and your cigars and your whiskey. I take a sip and smile at her. From the corner of my eye, I can see Baumers still scurrying, but his eyes flit in our direction, watching the drama play out. You fancy yourself some mastermind, she says and snorts.

Like you got the brains for it. You're just a thug who lucked into something. That's all. You're nothing but murderous muscle and dumb luck. Murderous muscle and dumb luck? I respond to laugh. I aim my chin at the corner of the room where my paperback lies. That line could be in the book I'm reading. You should take up writing and see what you can get done in the time we have left. Fuck you! She says and spits. She actually spits on the carpet. Delia, gross. Bowmer says as he opens kitchen cabinets one after the other. Should we pack the groceries? You plan on eating pine cones when we get to the fucking cabin? Delia shouts at him. No. Then, yeah. Pack the fucking groceries.

Don't forget that expensive bougie granola the Davis likes and his soy milk. Oat milk, I say. Not my fault I was born lactose intolerant. But it is your fault you're a lazy asshole who is sitting around while we do all the work. I told you both. I ain't going with you. How many times I got to say it? I ain't going with y'all. Fuck you.

Delia says. Then she turns and storms back into the bedroom. John! Baumer stops pulling boxes of crackers and oatmeal out of the kitchen cupboards. Looks over at me, tries to glare, but misses hard, then shuffles out of the kitchen toward the bedroom. Good luck, I say. Then point at the corner.

Could you toss me my book on your way by? He actually manages a half-decent glare this time. But the impact is lost because he walks to the corner of the room, picks up my paper back and throws it at me. I set my cigar down and catch the book easily in one hand while I sip more whiskey with the other. She won't let this go, Scott, Bauer says before disappearing into the bedroom.

Delia stomps over and slams the door closed so they can have some private time. And by private time, I mean, so she can scream her lungs out at her husband while he coweres on the bed or in a chair or wherever he does his cowering in there. You fucking coward, she shouts. Hey, now, I hear him say, but the rest of the words are lost as Delia continues.

He's your fucking friend. You brought him into this. Now get him under control. You think I'm going to let that motherfucker just walk? You think he gets to stay behind? With what he knows? What's he no? Bummer asks.

We ain't going to pull no more scores, Delia. That shit is over. It's all changed now. Why is it so important for him to come with us? You fucking know why! I don't, Delia. I don't. It's over.

It's all over. You think this is just about scores? You stupid asshole. You dumb motherfucker. You fucking loser visa. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

The whole place goes silent. It's a miracle, if you ask me. I ain't never heard Delia not come back with spit and venom when Baumer tries to stand up to her. Then I realized she's talking too low for me to hear. Oh fuck. Johnny Boy stepped in it big time. When Delia gets her quiet voice on, it sends shivers down my spine. Not that she scares me, just that I've known people with quiet voices before, and it never turns out well for whoever is the target. You, my fist, asshole, blood than you, I fucking will. Eat now.

is all I can make out. Baby, Bauer pleads. We should just let it go. Did you not hear a fucking word I just said? Delia roars, and I think you hear the bedroom door actually vibrate from the force of that little woman's voice. It's like a humming rattle. The door flies open, and Delia is standing there. Her finger pointed at me.

Bauer looks out of the bedroom at me. I smile and wave my book at him. He sighs, and shuffles. and shuffles out of the bedroom and over to my chair. Scott, we have to talk, he says, and he crouches down in front of me. Well, is it going to be a proper talk? What the fuck does that mean? I mean, is this going to be a two-way conversation where we each say our peace

and try to understand where the other is coming from? I say. Or is this going to be a lecture from you to me where you try to explain how I'm just not getting it? And I need to see things differently. as in, see things your way. What does any of that matter? Because if it's the former, the one where we have a real conversation,

then I'd tell you to pull up a chair, get comfy, and let's hash this out like old friends. I look past him to Delia and lock eyes with the twat. But if it's the latter, then I won't tell you to sit down, because that would hurt like a motherfucker. Since that means what's really going on is Delia has her hand up your ass and is running your mouth for you like a goddamn meat puppet. You asshole, he says and glars at me.

It's a real glare this time. Good for Bauer. Bauer, Johnny. Come on, man. You gotta see what she's doing, right? I set the book and glass aside and pick my cigar up. It's almost out, but I'm able to smoke it back to a cherry red glow. After a few buffs, I blow a smoke ring directly into Bauer's face.

"'Bastard,' he says and waves the smoke away. "'You see it, right?' I ask again. "'What she's doing? "'I'm the only connection you have to your old life. "'I'm the only person here who can remind you of who you used to be "'before you met the head of the Lollipop Guild there. "'Stop with the short jokes,' Bauer pleads. "'Bowmer, man. She's got your balls in a cage.'

"'I say and lean forward, resting my elbows on my legs as I look him in the eye. You used to have guts. You used to be the one who said, fuck it, let's do this shit. You used to be the... He grew the fuck up, Davis! Delia shouts from the bedroom door. I ignore the bitch and keep my focus on Bauer. How about Oklahoma City?

I ask. You remember that fried chicken shack out on that highway? What was it called? I don't know, he says and frowns. It's somebody's name. Exactly. I say. Bridettes or something like that.

Yeah, fucking good chicken. They like to say it was the best in the country, but it wasn't. Marshes outside Atlanta is the best in the country. But it was the best in Oklahoma. That's for damn sure. John? Delia bellows. Bauer flinches, but he stays in front of me.

Good for him. Maybe I have a shot at getting him back to reality. The power of the pussy is strong, and I ain't saying I'm stronger than that. But Bauer and I go a long way back. Juvie days long. The two of us have been raising hell and pulling scores since before we each got our cherries popped. You remember how that line for that chicken was around that shack, out the parking lot and down the road? Yeah, yeah. We figured they'd run out before we got up to the window to order our plates. So did that big beefy motherfucker, the shithead who cut in front of us, then turned and tried to look all hard.

He was nothing but a corn-fed dip shit. Baumer laughs, and I know the hook is about to be set. God damn it, John! We don't have time for fucking memory lane! Delia shouts. Get him in line, or you can both get the fuck out. The hook falls away. I know it, but there's a flicker in Baumers' eyes.

It's only there for a fraction of a second, but I know the guy well enough to see it. Nothing but a corn-fed dipshit, I say, echoing Baumers' words. That's exactly what you said to him. He didn't like that much. No, he did not. Took a swing at my head. He telegraphed that swing a mile off.

When you're as big as that asshole, you rarely actually get into fights. He was used to people back and down just because he was built like a house. But we'd fought bigger, much bigger, and meaner. Downright deadly! He was just some local pussy. The biggest pussy we'd seen in a long time. But still a pussy.

I punched his nuts so hard I felt one pop. Then when he doubled over, I brought my knee up and sent his nose to the back of his head. He lost a few teeth, too. Oh, shit, yeah, he did. I got the scar on my knee to prove it. That's fucking it! Delia screams as she stomps over to the both of us, grabs Bauer by the shoulder, and yanks him to his feet.

That's some warped physics right there, when a munchkin can yank a full-grown man to his feet. I hope I've expressed my proper respect for Delia's drive. The woman may be a hellish twat and the size of a gnat, but she's a force of nature, that's for sure. You got to respect nature when you witness it. Respect, not like, just so we're clear. She spins Baumar around and jams a finger up under his nose. Then she actually shoves the finger in a nostril, hooks it,

and pulls Baumers head down to her level so they're eye to eye. Get him in line or tell him to fuck off out of here. Do you hear me? She snarls in his face. I thought you weren't going to let me go? I ask. Isn't that what you've been saying this whole fucking time, Delia? That I get in line or I get dead?

I never said that. Delia replies without taking her eyes off Baumers' eyes or without taking her finger out of Baumers' nostril. Oh, well, if you never said it then, it must not be true, right? I laugh. Because shit only happens if you see. say it out loud. That's how the world works. For grown-ups, that is. The truth is only the truth if it's explicitly expressed verbally. No grown-up ever acts on their inner voice. The voice

driving them forward. The voice that tells them what they really need to do in a situation like this. In what situation are we in, Davis? Delia asks, still focused on Bauer, still with her finger up his nose. The situation where we all get out of this alive, I say. Or the situation where you push things so far that all there's left to do is spill blood and place blame after the blood is done running. Do you think you'll be doing the spilling Davis? And John and I will do the running? Is that it? I shrug. I'd tell her again to stop calling me Davis, but then I'd just be playing into her hands. She wants me, riled, and she wants me out of control. That way she can sick her husband on me, and he'd have an excuse to stop being a friendly little pussy. I kind of want to see that happen,

to see Baumer get his balls back. I'd even be willing to sacrifice some of my blood, to witness my old friends, step up, and be the man I know he can be. But we're way past all that. There's just isn't time for Baumer to regain his past glory, to get his balls back. And the way he doesn't fight,

even though his wife literally has him hooked by the nose, tells me that no matter what memories I try to bring up, the old Baumer is really and truly gone. just like how everything will be gone come tomorrow. You think I'm going to rat you out? I ask Delia. Tell the authorities and all the folks looking for us where you're hiding. Why would I do that, Delia? Why would I even bother when I have plenty of books, plenty of cigars,

and all the great whiskey I can drink? I glance at the kitchen. Not to mention some bougie granola and oat milk for breakfast, followed by some thick steaks and baked potatoes for dinner. The stakes are coming with us, Delia says. Poking harder at a place in me, she don't want to be poking. Fuck that! I say and laugh.

You can stop and pick up more stakes on the way to the cabin. Shit, Delia. You can buy out the whole meat department at Publix or Food Lion. The Food Lion is closed. Bauer says, his voice nasal and sad. Are you shitting me with that? Delia growls at him. He's right, he's right.

The food lion didn't. clothes, I say. But Publix has plenty of stakes. Why the fuck are we talking about stakes? Delia shouts. Because you said you were taking mind when there is no way we're walking out of here with sirloin in those bags, I say, you're being an unreasonable, greedy cunt, Delia. And that does it. I wasn't planning on pushing this hard, this fast. I wanted to tire them out a little, exhaust them, Brasel them. Makes it all so much easier that way. Delia's finger slides from Baumer's nostril and turns on me.

Her eyes nothing but hate and flames and murder. Damn, she's sexy when she's got murder in her eyes. Some other time, some other place. Apologize, she says. Her quiet voice back. For what? You know for what? Do I?

I said a lot of things there. Is there a specific? something I need to apologize for? For calling me that word. What word? The C word. Lots of C words. Can you be more specific? Scott!

Bauer pleads. Stay out of this, Johnny, I say. This is between me and your wife. You know what you called me. Now apologize. I need to hear you say the word first, just so I can be sure to apologize for the right offense. Just apologize, Scott.

Apologize, Scott, Gomer says in a sad, sad little boy voice. She has to say the word. If she tells me exactly what to apologize for, then I'll apologize. Apologize for calling me a cunt. Oh, is that what you want me to apologize for? No can do. I truly meant what I said. Not going to apologize for something I mean.

You motherfucker! Delia roars and leaps at me. She's only alive. because Bauer manages to grab her around the waist and yank her back before she can claw my face and eyes, or whatever she is trying to claw, as her nails come a hair's breadth away from digging divvets into my cheeks. I get slowly to my feet, lift my glass, and I say, I need to top off my whiskey. Maybe you should take your lady into the bedroom and calm her down, Johnny. Probably a good idea before she gets hurt.

Stop making this worse, Scott! Bauer yells. I'll fucking kill you so hard! Delia shrieks at me as Baumer barely manages to pull her across the room, so she's well out of my reach, and I'm well out of hers. Kill me so hard. I echo and chuckle. Good one. I get to the kitchen and find the whiskey.

Glug-glug goes the amber liquid into the crystal tumbler. It splashes up the sides, thick and smoky. I sip, then set the glass down on the counter. Behind me is a magnetic strip on the wall with all sorts of knives. Pairing knives, a set of steak knives, a bread knife, a fillet knife, and two chef's knives. One eight inches and one twelve inches. There's a cleaver there too. A solid-handled, sharp-as-fuck cleaver. I don't look back at the knives. That'd be a bit much. But I give Baumur a sly smile, and I can see from the look he gives me he knows what I'm thinking. His head shakes just a little.

Others would miss it, but I'm not others. This is how I see it. I say and sip again. You two can pack all your shit up. When Aggie and Gordo get here with that RV, then you all pack up your shit and head to the cabin like you planned. No one out there is panicking now because no one out there knows what's about to go down.

It'll all be as smooth as this whiskey. I sip some more. You can stop at Publix or Walmart or one of the several little convenience stores between here and the cabin and stock up well and good. Pack that RV to the fucking ceiling with canned soup and bottled water and dried beans.

All that survival shit that stores for a long, long time. I sit. I'm staying right here. I'll do my own shopping. Put in my own supplies, then I'll read and drink and smoke until it's all over.

How are you going to buy those supplies, motherfucker? Delia screams. Because if you think you're going to use any of that cash over there, then you are dumber than I fucking. You want your share that you are coming with us. Why? I ask. You fucking hate me. I fucking hate you. What would be the point? We'd be at each other's throats the entire time. Where's the fun in that? Still holding his fighting wife, Baumer looks away.

Oh shit. I say. You don't want me to come with at all. I look over at the far wall, at what sits on a pedestal across from the leather couch. You just want my TV and just You know there's no fucking way I'm letting it out of my hands without a fight. I laugh and walk out of the kitchen. But I don't head to my chair, and I don't head over to the squirming and fighting Baumers. I just stand in the middle of the living room and look at the old console TV. But you want the fight to be up there, at the cabin, in the middle of nowhere so you can get rid of me and bury me deep below the pines.

You want your cake and you want to eat it too. Scott, man, come on. Bauer says. No one wants to get rid of you. Who are we getting rid of? Aggie shouts as he bursts through the front door. Keys jangling in his hand. Better not be me because I got the keys to our sweet new ride.

I'll be dipped in shit. I say as I smile and raise my glass to Aggie. You actually managed to get a job done in a timely fashion. I would have laid odds you would still be there with some salesman whispering in your ear that you needed the marble countertops, not the four mica ones. Oh, well, yeah, about that, Aggie says and steps aside. Guys, meet Nora. Aggie says as he moves so a tall, blonde wisp of a handsome woman can walk into the house.

She talked me into the marble countertops. I talked her into coming with us since it wasn't fair. There'd be only one fine woman at the cabin. Awesome, I say, and then go to my chair to sit down. The show is really about to begin now. I sit and raise my glass to Nora. Please to meet you, I'm Scott. His fucking name is Davis, and there is no way some random coos is coming with us, Aggie.

Have you lost your fucking mind? Delia shouts. I told you it'd be rough at first. Aggie says to Nora, who doesn't look put out or scared by the scene she's walked into. My guess is drugs. She's been snorting coke for years, and she's seen some shit, been in some shit. By how rail thin she is, and how there's just a hint of redness around her nose, I'd put good money on being right.

I may also have a little insight. Can I come in? Gordo calls from outside. Anyone's drawn a gun yet? Not yet. I call out to him. Come on in, Gordo. Aggie and Gordo, the Wright brothers. I shit you not.

Their last name is Wright. They are brothers. And they actually want people to call them the Wright brothers. They insist on it at parties, at the grocery store, when burying a snitch alive. Dark-haired and built-like marathon runners, the two brothers are a couple of fidgety bundles of energy. Not so bright up top, but good to have around when you need to get shit done fast. In the moment, at least. In the moment they respond like trained Dobermans, but send them on an unsupervised errand,

and you're lucky if you see them next week, let alone in the hour when they are supposed to be back. So, having them show up on time tells me it wasn't them that made it happen. Nah, they had supervision. And the fact that Nora can supervise a couple of knuckleheads like the Wright brothers means she isn't stupid or useless. A cokehead, sure. Gotta watch that. But stupid and useless?

Nope. And I instantly see how it all is going to go down. I don't know coos, you little thumbelina wannabe. Nora says, her voice a fake. cultured cadence. It'd have to be fake, because there's no culture around here, that's for sure. What did you call me? Delia says. Her voice suddenly calm and low. This is worse than guns, Gordo says and looks around. Who wants a tour of the RV? Anyone? Anyone? And miss the show? I'm good, Gordo, I say,

and just keep sipping my whiskey. Then I pluck my cigar from the ashtray and get it started again. Ladies, please continue. Shut the fuck up, Davis! Delia yells. The Brights told me about you, Nora says, as she takes a few steps toward Delia, who is still clutched in Baumers' arms. They said you were the brains of the operation,

but all I see is spit and gristle. No meat. I nod in appreciation, then look over at the Wright brothers, and lift my glass so they know I approve. Says the goddamn walking stick with a bad bleach job. Delia growls. You should leave now, lady. This place isn't for you.

Turn around and go before you know too much. And leaving stops being an option. Are threats all you have? Nora asks Delia, a smirk playing at her lips. Ten pounds of rage stuffed in a one pound sack? That's too bad. The rights made you guys sound like a real outfit, filled with smart folks who know how to survive.

Then she really surprises me as she turns and looks straight at the old deep. And I hear survival is the number one priority. She continues. Because from what Aggie and Gordo say, tomorrow is the big day. Is that right? She turns and looks at all of us, then settles her eyes on me. Is it?

She asks me and walks over to my chair. Did that special TV of yours show you what happens tomorrow? Before I know what's happening, she takes my cigar and my whiskey, puffs on one, Sips on the other, then hands both back to me. Got anything to eat? She asks, then spins around like a mad ballerina and heads for the kitchen. You fucking told her? Bauer asks the Wright brothers.

His jaw nearly hanging to the ground. What the fuck were you thinking? Um, you know how things go, Aggie says and shrugs. You start talking about gas mileage and whether or not you need all weather tires. The next thing you know, you accidentally mentioned that a TV showed us the end of the world. Accidentally? I ask and chuckle. I see how many buttons on her blouse are undone.

I'm guessing one more was undone during your little tour of whatever recreational monstrosity you have sitting in the driveway outside. Two buttons, Nora says over her shoulder as she searches through the cabinets. My manager calls them the stroke buttons. Because the young suckers are going to stroke them. later that night, and the old fuckers are going to have a stroke a second after they catch sight of the top of one of your tits, I say. She stops rummaging and looks over at me. She studies me hard, and she smiles. Exactly, she says, then goes back to hunting down just the right snack. You probably told her all about the money, too, Delia snaps. She's calming down.

Her anger isn't as concentrated as it was when there was just me to target. Now she has a the right brothers to be pissed at, and a new rival to square up against. 50 million in cash and close to another 10 in diamonds and jewelry. Nora states like she's listing off the ingredients to a cookie recipe, although I doubt Nora does much baking. You stupid fucking idiots, Delia says. She'd make any calls while you were driving here? Huh? Did she let her people know where we are?

My people? Nora asks and laughs. I don't have any people, tiny team. It's been me on my own for a long while now. So stop being so paranoid and accept the fact that plans have changed. Why? I ask, and all heads turn in my direction. Why what? Norah replies. Why are you here? And don't tell me it's because of the TV.

No person in their right mind would believe a story like that. You assume I'm in my right mind. Big assumption. True, I say, and finish my whiskey. Then I hold out the empty glass. Nora glances at it, looks me in the eye, glances back at the glass, then says, I'm bored, that's why. And two yokels showed up with a whole lot of Benjamins in a backpack, saying they want to buy an RV today. And they needed the deal done in an hour.

Are you telling me you wouldn't want to see what's going on behind that curtain? How'd the TV come up? I asked Nora. Oh, Scott, you know how it is? Gordo starts to say, but I hold up a hand and he shuts right up. Then I stand and walk to the kitchen, my eyes on Nora the whole time. I pour some whiskey, sip it, then return to my chair. When I sit down, I see that Nora was watching me the whole time.

How'd the TV come up? I asked Nora again. Aggie blurted it out when I tried to sell them the extended warranty. Nora says and laughs to herself. Just came out and said, oh, we don't need that. The world is going to be nuked tomorrow, so we're just trying to get to a cabin in the mountains. Delia is so angry that she can't even get the words out she wants to scream at the rights. I understand the feeling. You tell anyone?

I asked Nora. She shakes her head. Are you sure? Could you tell anyone something as crazy as a TV that can show you events that happen 24 hours in the future? She responds. Then she looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow. Well, maybe you would, but I wouldn't. Oh, I definitely wouldn't, I say.

The only reason I have a crew is because things got heavy fast, and I needed extra arms and legs to pull off what we were able to pull off. You're a crew? Delia asks and shakes her head. Fucking dick. What's her problem? Nora asks, having given up on the hunt for a snack, and instead joins me in a liquid lunch.

She pours her whiskey, then walks her. walks out of the kitchen and looks at the TV again. Show me. The switch is right there, I say. Show yourself. She studies the TV for a second, then reaches out and twists a small knob on the top right. The TV hums to life, and a bright circle on the screen appears, then spreads out into a clear image of a burning city.

More burning cities are shown as a runner at the bottom lists the names of all the world's capitals that are going to be nuked by this time tomorrow. tomorrow. She sips her drink and folds her arms across her chest. Her eyes narrow, and she watches the footage. I can tell she's looking for the telltale signs of C.G.I. or AI. She's looking to see if the footage is familiar, maybe repurposed from an old disaster movie. But the more she stands there, the more her body becomes rigid, and I can almost smell the fear coming off of her. She whispers, then turns the TV off. Yeah, he ain't coming to save us, I say.

Where'd you get this thing? She asks me. Not unbelievable? I ask. That too, she says quickly. And you use the TV to do what? Bet on sports? Horses? What? Sort of, I say. It only gets the one channel, so you have to figure out what it's showing you.

She looks around the room and sizes everyone up. And you're the guy who figures it out. She says, and sips her whiskey. You didn't answer my question about where you got it. I didn't, I say. Some mysteries will be left unanswered. I see, she says and walks over to the pile of bags. You're taking this with?

To the cabin? They are, I say. I'm not going. You aren't? Why? Not feeling it. I'd rather stay put and read. Stay put and read?

That's what you want to do when the world ends? Why? You have something better to suggest? Fucking hell, I'm going to throw up, Delia says. You can't trust her, Davis. She's here for the cash, and is only pretended to believe the TV. What the fuck do I care? I say. She's going with you, not staying with me. Who are you to say where I am and am not going? I hold my hands up like I'm surrendering.

She smiles. I wonder how much time we have. I know how much time there is until the big boom. But how much time do we have before it all goes to shit here? Take her, I say to Delia and Balmer. But you can't take the TV. Fuck her. Delia says. Uh, Delia?

Aggie says. It'd be nice to have another woman around when it all happens. Don't get any ideas, boys. Nora says, and I'm almost sad I'm not going with. When are we leaving? Now, Bauer says and finally let's go of his wife. But you aren't coming. Stay here with Scott if you want, but you aren't getting in that RV.

Is that so? That's so. Delia spits. Right, brothers? Load the bags up. We leave in ten minutes. Delia. Aggie says, but Gordo grabs his arm and shakes his head.

It ain't to be, bro, he says. She doesn't believe anyway, Delia says. Then she turns on her husband and jabs a finger in his chest. They'll load for your fucking friend. Not a bad idea, I say, smiling at Baumer. Load the fucking bags! Delia shouts at the right brothers, and they hop too like she's trained them. Delia glares at me and looks at her husband. I'm going to check this RV out. Don't let them fool anything.

Them? I ask, and look at Nora. Are we of them now? Could be worse. She says, and finishes her whiskey. Get you a fresh one? Please. She takes my glass and walks into the kitchen. while the Wright brothers start hauling the cash bags out to the RV. Delia follows behind them, slamming the door on her way out. Bauer stands in the middle of the living room looking from me to Nora and back again.

Leave me a couple hundred grand, will you? I say to Bauer. Beer money. To go with those stakes? He asks and shakes his head. You didn't have to go this way, Scott. Unfortunately, my friend, I think it did. He cocks his head, but I don't elaborate. Then he walks to the remaining two bags, opens one up, and grabs out several stacks of cash. He tosses them at me, one by one, and I catch them easily, placing each stack on the side table next to the astray. 80? That's all?

Take what you're giving, Scott, Dahmer says, and zips the bag back up. Then he throws the strap over his shoulder and hefts it into the air. She's not going to give this up, Scott. You know what happens when she comes back in here. She's not coming back in here, I say. Then I take a deep breath, let it out, and say, Put the bag down and stay, Johnny. Just take a seat and wait it out with me.

Can't do that, Scott. He says, I'm with Delia. She's my wife, and I'm going to spend the rest of the time we have together. Yeah, you are. I say a nod. Well, I tried.

Good luck, brother. I'll be back in a sec. Bamra says and picks up the last bag. I'm sorry. I shrug and watch him walk out the front door. Nora walks over and hands me my whiskey. So how much you went for? I ask her.

She cocks a hip and frowns down at me. What are you talking about? She asks and sips. I stand up and reach for her. She only flinches a little and then stands still, her eyes on mine. I run my finger under her nose and smile. Your dealer? I say, how much you win for, what you're talking about, she says and takes another sip of her whiskey.

I sigh and glance at the TV. You actually believe that thing tells the future? Oh, I don't just believe it. I have tested it time and time again, I say, it's never wrong. How have you tested it? You saw the cash. So? So, the TV showed me a few things that I was blessed to take advantage of.

Sports, bank robberies, armored car heists, the TV showed me at all. So the TV showed you that some crew jacked an armored car? How does that help you? It helps if we're the crew that does it. Turns out, if you really pay attention, you realize that what's on the TV is about you, showing you not just a future, but your future. And it showed you that the world gets nuked tomorrow? Amongst other things.

What other things? What time is it? I don't know. Check your phone. She slides her phone out of her back pocket and says, Um, 3.30. Why? You know why. I haven't a clue what you're talking about. You can stop with the games. I know you don't believe the TV is real, but your mind is about to change. You think so? I know so. The sound of breaks squealing outside echoes into the house.

And I'm about to prove it, I say. We may want to get down. How did you? She starts. But I interrupt her by yanking her to the floor, just as automatic gunfire erupts outside. Bullets pierced the front door and part of the wall, sending shards of the house flying through the living room. We would have been directly in the path of that shrapnel if we hadn't hit the deck. If I hadn't known to hit the deck. There's some shouting and a couple of individual gunshots.

Then silence for a moment before tires squeal and a car speeds away. You knew? Nora says as we lie on the floor, our faces close together. Yep, I say, and slowly get to my feet. I reach down and help her up. She stands on shaky legs, her eyes wide with an emotion that is hard to pin down.

You good? You aren't going to freak out on me, are you? How did you know? How did I know what? That four people would be gunned down in a suburban driveway today around 3.30? Possible victims of a drug cartel? I shrug. I watch a lot of TV.

Fuck me. Norris says and turns in a circle, her hands running through her hair. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! Yeah, it sucks. The nukes, she whispers. If you knew about calling my dealer to set you up, then the nukes. She stops spinning and looks at me, and I definitely know the emotion in her eyes. Pure terror.

The nukes are real, too. Unfortunately, I say. Got anyone you want to call and say goodbye to before we head out? What do you mean before we head out? The pictures on the TV didn't show an RV in the driveway, I say. And I didn't hear one leave. I say we load up the whiskey, those stakes, and the TV and head to the mountains. You game?

Did you see me coming with you on that TV? She asks, still shaky. Nah, it rarely goes into that kind of detail, I reply. But here you are. Here I am. Can't think of a better way to wait out the end of the world. I don't. I don't. You don't?

What does that mean? I don't have anyone to call. Me neither. She thinks for a second, the knots. Fuck it. I made way worse decisions in my life. No reason why I shouldn't run off with a criminal I don't know, because a TV says the world gets nuked tomorrow.

Am I thinking exactly? So we're doing this? We're doing this. She looks over at the TV, then back at me. Cops will be here any second, she says. Second, she says. We have a few minutes. I say and smile at the bedroom door.

Do we? She asks, smiling at me. We do, but just a few. Then we should get to it before the future catches up. I like the way you think. This end of the world thing may not be too bad after all. The first time I died, it was because I stepped on a landmine. Blue both my legs clean off.

Sent a piece of my femur straight up through my pelvis and into my intestines. Blood and shton and piss gushed everywhere. It was my fault, though. I was given one warning when finally sent into town on my own, and that was not to walk across Mrs. Lowenstein's front lawn. She hates it when you walk across her front lawn. And as I lay there dying, in agony, gasping my last breaths, she made her point.

That's why they made walkways, you f***ing idiot. She definitely isn't a personable woman. Not as neighborly as, say, the glasses, Travis and Carol. Lovely people, really, just lovely. Their front lawn is guarded by many turrets. Instead of sprinkler heads that pop up to water the lawn, small gun turrets pop up and shred people's ankles. Then, as they fall over, because who can stand when your ankles are shredded?

The rest of them gets shredded. But the difference between the glasses set up and Mrs. Lowenstein's is that the glasses have the dangers of their yard clearly marked by a simple, homemade sign by the curb. Do not approach the house. Defensive measures are in place. You have been warned. Thank you and have a great day. See? Very nice. Helpful message from a very nice couple. Mrs. Lowenstein, on the other hand, has no sign and sits in a rocker on her front porch, beckoning for people to come visit her. She likes watching folks get their lower extremities blown to smithereens gives her a thrill. Probably why Mr. Dorman gives new residents like me a

heads up. It's not his fault I didn't listen. Now, not all the neighbors are as thoughtful as the glasses or as cruel as Mrs. Lowenstein. I'd say most fall in the middle. Helpful to you if it's helpful to them. Otherwise, you're on your own. And since I was new to town, I was still learning all the finer points of getting by day to day. And learning the finer points of Bishop's Hollow is how you make it down the street without having the back of your head blown off. Got a lot of snipers in Bishop's Hollow. A lot of snipers. Where to start? At the beginning? No. No. You don't want to hear my sad sack of a story. I'm just some loser who loosered his way into a lucky situation.

Dangerous, painful, bloody as fuck, but in its own way, very, very lucky. and lucrative too. I have made bank living in Bishop's Hollow. Not that I can spend that money on anything that isn't already in Bishop's Hollow. Amazon doesn't deliver here. There's no DoorDash that'll bring me coconut chicken from Ming's Temple, which was Daddy's favorite. But we do have a library, so that's nice.

It's free, though, so I can't spend my money there. But there are other places like, well, let's get to that. Bishop's Hollow. That's where I should start. A small town in New England, I think. It's the weather that gives it away. Not that I'm a weather guy. No, I'm not talented. I honestly don't know where I am, because as soon as I accepted the job and shook hands with Mr. Dorman, the recruiter, everything went black. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the processing center in town.

Mr. Dorman was back, and he gave me a short orientation. Although, it was only short because I sort of stopped paying attention. There's a reason I have this job, and not some regular 9 to 5. I have issues that don't exactly make me the most desirable employee. Spacing off when someone is trying to teach me something is one of those issues. Mr. Torrance? Man, the walls in the processing center could really use a coat of paint. I mean, they are painted, but in that soulless beige color.

They need a splash of color, some blue or even green. A splash of orange would be nice too. Maybe bright red? Mr. Torrance. Uh, yeah? I replied. His Mr. Dorman stood in front of me, his hands on his hips, his face filled with frustration. It's a look and stance I'm very used to seeing.

What? Sorry. I said and shook my head. I was checking out the room's paint job. Yes. I could see that. Mr. Dorman responded. And did you come to a conclusion?

Orange and blue, I said. But not University of Florida, orange and blue. More like a burnt orange and a sky blue. Southwest tones, as opposed to Gulf Coast towns. Does that make sense? Mr. Dorman sighed. Yes, James Lee. It does make sense, and you are actually correct.

He admitted and looked about the room. I have put in multiple requests for new decor, But updating the design points in the processing center is not a priority at the moment. Bummer, I said and then frowned. What is it, James Lee? That right there, I said. I prefer J.L. James Lee is what my daddy called me.

And, well, you know how that went. I do, yes, he replied. It is why you are here. He rubbed at his face and turned around, muttering. What did I do to deserve this? I don't know, I said and shrugged. Who'd you hurt? He looked over his shoulder at me, then he looked up at the video camera in the corner.

When he returned his attention to me, he had a weird look on his face, kind of like he had to pee, but wasn't sure. You heard me ask that? Ask what? When I mumbled what I did to deserve this? Um, yeah, I replied. It wasn't hard to hear, just the two of us in the room. I looked around the orientation room, and it was true, just me and Mr. Dorman. The other three dozen seats were empty, all beige, by the way.

beige chair after beige chair, and plastic, no padding on the seat, like the one I was sitting in. Are you okay, J.L? Mr. Dorman asked. You look uncomfortable. Am I squirming? People say I squirm. You are squirming, yes. These chairs are a little hard. on the bum. On the bum? On the bum? My apologies. May we continue with the orientation? Oh, sure. Yeah. Go ahead. I said and smiled, as I pointed at the PowerPoint presentation that was up on the big screen on the far wall. You went to a lot of trouble to make those slides. Thanks for that. Thanks for making a PowerPoint? Well, yeah. You could have just written on cardboard with markers. That works too.

But you went all classy and professional. I mean, nothing is more classy and professional than a solid PowerPoint presentation. Are you fucking with me, J.L.? I sat up straight and frowned. I don't think so, I said. Do I sound like I'm fucking with you? It can be hard to tell sometimes. Hard for you to tell or hard for others to tell.

Both, I suppose. I shrugged. My daddy could never tell. Mr. Dorman winced when I admitted that. Most people wince when I bring up my daddy, people who saw the news. All right, he said and looked at the PowerPoint slide on the screen. Let's continue, shall we? I nodded, and we continued.

I don't remember any of the slides, but I know they were outstanding. Mr. Dorman is very good at PowerPoints. When the orientation was over, Mr. Dorman led me from the orientation room, down a hallway that was painted beige, through a set of double doors, beige also, and into a large room with several sets of shelves, as well as plastic bins stacked ceiling high. Let's get you provisioned, shall we? He said, and went to the first shelf. Mr. Dorman has a funny way of talking sometimes.

I think a therapist of mine once said that ending statements with questions of assent helped the person believe they had agency in the matter at hand. I don't know what any of that means, but I repeated it to a different therapist once, and she was very impressed by my self-awareness. Then I told her the color of her office walls was all wrong, and she stopped speaking to me for the rest of the day. After gathering all sorts of supplies into a really neat backpack, like toothpaste and a toothbrush, hand soap and shampoo, some aromatherapy candles and a bunch of other stuff to make a home all homie, Mr. Dorman showed me to the front door. Bishop's Hollow, he said as he walked us out onto the set of stone steps that led up to the processing center's front doors. Although, I suppose the steps would have led down to Main Street since I was already standing at the top and looking down at the pavement. Subtleties like that matter in Bishop's Hollow.

Say the wrong thing the wrong way, and you end up blood mist, believe me. This town is exactly four miles square, he continued, sweeping his hand out like he was showing. showing me everything. I only see the town square. Yes, right. Well, of course, he replied, seeming miffed. You can't see it all from here. Oh, I thought that was what you were showing me, I said.

Everything. No, I was explaining the town size, but showing you the town square. Confusing. Not really. I think it is. Yes, well. So where do I live? I ask.

the town square over. There was a diner, a barber shop, a beauty parlor, a pharmacy with the soda fountain and lunch counter advertised in the window, a library, a grocery store, a butcher's shop, a hardware store, an office supply store, an accountant's office, a toy store, and a doctor's office. Oh, and at the very end, opposite the processing center, is the town hall which held the courthouse and police station. I pointed at the windows above the butcher shop. Can I live there? No, Mr. Dorman said. No one lives in town.

Then what are those rooms for? I asked, still pointing at the windows above the butcher shop. They have various uses, he said. Then turned and squinted at me. You did pay attention during the orientation presentation, yes? Oh, yeah, totally, I said. Great slideshow, Mr. Dorman. Loved it.

He watched me for a few seconds. When it got uncomfortable, I looked to, at him and gave him a huge smile. Big smiles are reassuring. That's what a different therapist told me once. Your residence will be on the west side of town, he said, and pointed in that direction. Cool, thanks, I said, and hurried down the steps and into the street. I was really eager to see my new place. Oh wait. Nope, I'm wrong. The first time I died wasn't on Mrs. Lowenstein's lawn. It was when I ran out into the street. I got hit by the SUV that had come to pick me up and take me to my new place.

Whoever was driving really shouldn't have been going so fast. Yes, I stepped right into its path. Yes, I wasn't even looking at all. Yes, the SUV outweighs me by a couple thousand pounds, so I was destined to lose that one. But pay attention, right? Then I respawned, which is what I call it, even though it drives everyone nuts.

And Mr. Dorman was showing me the town once again about three hours later. I'm going to walk you down to the curb, J.L., he said, and took me by the elbow. Mr. Dorman is very courteous. Once I was in the SUV's backseat, I thanked Mr. Dorman and waved at him until he was lost from sight, as the driver turned left at the square and aimed us in what I assumed was west, since I apparently lived on the west side of town. I'm J.L., I said to the driver.

He just grunted. First day, I said. He grunted again. Already died once. He didn't grunt. Oh, was that you? I asked. Did you run me over? The driver sighed. I don't hold it against you, I continued. My fault for not looking both ways, or looking at all, really. I was busy thinking Mr. Dorman. He's a nice guy, don't you think? Me too, I said. And that PowerPoint? Don't get me started. That was sure something. I leaned up and put my head between the front seats. Say, do you remember what was in that presentation? Because I sort of spaced off, and I didn't want to tell Mr. Dorman. It would have offended him considering how much work he put into that PowerPoint. I waited, but the driver didn't respond. Didn't even grunt.

He just drove. Right. Sorry, I said and leaned back. I'm being distracting, and you're just trying to get me to my house in one piece. That got a grunt, and I think a laugh. When we pulled up to the place, I frowned. An apartment house? I asked. I have to share space.

Get out, the driver said, and the doors unlocked. I hadn't realized they'd even been locked. Good thing we hadn't had a fiery crash in the SUV. Talk about a death trap. But I thought I was getting my own house, I said. The brochure said I would have my own house. Get out, he said again, and then turned and said. stared at me. That's when I noticed he was missing his left eye and most of his nose.

You bet, I said, and hurried out of the SUV. My new cool backpack gripped tightly in my hands. It was newer than the first one, because the first one got all bloody, and had a tear in it from when I got run over. The SUV drove off as soon as I closed the door. Then I stood there and stared at the sky-blue semi-Victorian house that had been split into different apartments. Four apartments of the row of mailboxes on the wall by the front door told me anything. I noticed these things. I'm very observant. Hey there! I called to the young woman standing next to the mailboxes.

There was no response. So I waved hard and yelled. Hey there! Shut up and do not move. The young woman muttered. It was hard to understand her because she barely opened her mouth when she spoke. Are you a ventriloquist? I asked, as I hurried up the walkway, eager to meet my new door. neighbor. Not to be rude, but I saw your lips move a little. Shut up, she said, still barely

moving her mouth. Oh, sorry. I said, mimicking her. I kept my mouth very still and then said, Why are we talking like this? Was that in the PowerPoint? It was a great PowerPoint, but I sort of spaced out toward it. A bullet hole appeared in the second mailbox from the right. There was a little nameplate on it, James Lee Torrance. What the heck? I said and turned around to face the street. I haven't even gotten a letter yet, and someone has shot a hole in my mailbox. Move! The young woman shouted as she dove and tackled me about the waste. Several bullets impacted the apartment house's front wall, and front door, and front windows. Basically, the front of the apartment house caught some lead. Inside, inside! The young woman said,

and managed to get the screen door open just enough to squeeze through into the apartment in house's entrance way. Not wanting to be rude and leave her holding the door open, I scurried after her on my hands and knees. Several bees went whizzing by my head, which was strange. Where'd the bees come from? Then I realized they weren't bees. They were more bullets, which brought up the question of where the bullets came from. Bullets and bees. Always showing up when you least want them to, right? The young woman spun around on her butt and then leaped to her feet. She grabbed the front door and slammed it closed. I heard several more bees try to get in.

The second she had the door closed, she smashed her hand on a red button and a huge metal plate dropped down to seal off the front door and the side windows. That'll do the trick, I said, and got to my feet to offer the young woman my hand. I'm J.L. I know who you are, she said, and took a couple of deep breaths.

We were all informed you'd be coming. There was a whole orientation for us. Was there a PowerPoint? What? A PowerPoint, a slideshow. Was that part of the orientation about me? Um, yeah, so? Did Mr. Dorman make the PowerPoint?

He's really talented. Wow, they weren't kidding. You're fucking nuts. If I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me, I said and laughed. I'd have a lot of nickels. I bet you would, she said. Then saw that I still had my handout.

She shook it. Astrid von Klamer. I've heard that name before, I said, and put a finger to my chin. Funny, she said and walked off. I'll show you to your apartment. No, no, I have heard your name before, I said, not following her. I had some thinking to do, and sometimes thinking is done best while you stand perfectly still with your finger on your chin. Now, where would I have heard that name?

Von Klimer hotels and resorts. said. If you think you're being cute, you... No, no, that's not it. I responded. Still trying to puzzle out where I'd heard her name before. What are you doing? She snapped. Thinking? I said, then frowned. Darn it. Lost my train of thought. I switched hands. Maybe this finger on my chin will be better. I butchered my whole family while they slept, she said inside. I was 11. It was all over the papers. Nope. I said and kept thinking. Using my other finger wasn't helping any, so I shook my head. It'll come to me.

Can I show you your apartment now? She asked, a little annoyed. You bet, I said and smiled. What's stopping you? Right now, I really wish you could kill others in your household. She said and started up the flight of stairs to the second floor. But that would be too much chaos. Are we in the same household?

I asked. I mean, if we have different apartments, then wouldn't each apartment be a household? We reached the second floor landing, and she pointed at the door on the left. This is me, she said. Two-A. Then she pointed to the door on the right. And you are 2B. Then she pulled a small pistol from her back pocket and aimed it right between my eyes.

If you're right, this could get very messy. If I'm right about what? I asked as she pulled the trigger. Oh, crap. Nope, wrong again. I was killed by the SUV. Then shot by Astrid, before I ended up getting blown to bits on Mrs. Lowenstein's lawn. All the deaths are hard to keep track of. It was my first day.

You didn't even get inside your apartment, Mr. Dorman said, as he opened the door to the SUV and shoved me inside. Are you even trying to stay alive? Aren't we all? The door was slammed in my face. I'd think Mr. Dorman was being rude, but that just didn't feel like a thing Mr. Dorman would do. No one who can make PowerPoint presentations like that man could be rude enough to slam a car door in someone's face. When I finally did get inside my apartment, I was pleasantly surprised. The front room had a couch and two chairs. All beige, unfortunately.

There was a TV in the corner, one of those old boxy kinds. There was a breakfast bar that separated the front room from the dining room kitchen combo. Just off the kitchen was the bathroom, and you actually had to go through the bathroom to get to my bedroom, which was cool, kind of like a secret lair. Although, secret layers shouldn't be painted beige. There was a knock at my door, and I set my backpack down on the couch, glanced out the front window at the street below,

then walked over and opened the door. Hello? Hey, Astrid said, and shoved past me into my new apartment. Come in, I said and closed the door. Can I get you something to drink? I don't know if I have anything since I just walked in, but I'll look. Sparkling or still? What are you babbling about?

Astrid asked, looking my apartment over. If I have water in the fridge, I said and walked into the kitchen. Do you want sparkling or still? I don't want anything. Oh, then why'd you ask for a drink? I didn't ask for a drink. You offered me one. That was nice of me.

Do you want one? One what? A drink? I just said that. no. What the fuck is wrong with you? Might be the nuts thing, I said and shrugged. Who knows, really? Whatever. She said and went to the front window. She looked out at the street below. I do that too. I said and moved next to her so I could share her view. Fuck off, weirdo. She said and pushed me away from her. I just came over to tell you that yes, this whole apartment

house has considered one household. We can't go buck wild and murder each other every time we bump into each other at the mailboxes. Why would I murder you? I asked, seriously concerned. You seem nice. Are you fucking with me? She asked, and gave me the biggest look of disdain I have ever received in my life. And that's saying something.

I would never fuck with you without your consent. I said and laughed. She didn't laugh with me. Huh. That one always killed in the hospital lounge. Of course, everyone there was highly medicated. So they could have been laughing at anything, really. Holy crap, you're going to be a handful, she said.

So, because I broke a rule and killed someone in my household, I am now required to give you a tour of Bishop's Hollow. Oh, great, I exclaimed. Do I need to bring my backpack? Why would you need your backpack? What's in it? Mostly aromatherapy candles. We could burn them as we walk, share the aroma with everyone. No, no, we're definitely not doing that. She took a deep breath and shook her head. I'm not actually going to give you a tour.

You're not? Fuck no. I've got shit to do. But you were told to give me a tour because you broke a rule, I said, confused. Don't you have to? What are they going to do? Kill me? She laughed hard.

I don't get it, I said. You aren't afraid they'll kill you? Then I leaned in close and looked about to make sure no one had come into my apartment and was listening to us and asked, Who's they? Did you pay attention at all during orientation? You bet, I said. What a PowerPoint.

What a PowerPoint. Yeah, you didn't pay attention at all, she said. This should be fun. What should be? Watching you on your first day. Can't wait to see how many times you get killed. Well, so far it's been three, and I haven't even had lunch yet. You should go check out Nicky's.

Nicky's? The diner on the square, she said, and pointed out the window. A small bullet hole appeared right by the tip of her finger. Motherfucker! She growled, and threw the window open so she could lean out and yell. Newsom! Not now, asshole! Then she leaned back in and slammed the window shut, causing a whole web of cracks to spread from the bullet hole.

That's Vince, she said, cocking her head at the cracks that kept spreading on the glass pane. He likes to mess with you, even though shooting into residences, strictly prohibited. She eyed me as I nodded in agreement. But you know that because you paid attention during orientation, she added. Boy, did I. Anyway, try Nikki's, she said, just as the glass pane completely cracked and fell out of the window frame. You're going to want to clean that up. They'll bring a new window in a few minutes. Of course they will, I said and winked at her. Why are you winking? Because you said they. I replied and winked again.

and they, man, they really mined the crazy caves to find you, didn't they? No, they found me in Scranton, I said. I'm not from Scranton, so I'm not sure why I was there. I guess I walked, or did I take a bus? No one takes a bus anymore, she said. That's for poor people. I'm poor, I said. Until now, now I have all kinds of cash.

I am set. You think you're rich? With all the zeros they threw at me? Yeah, I'm rich. It's not real. I saw the check, I said, and held up my arms as far as I could. It was this big. She studied me for a few minutes, so I studied her.

She was average height and average weight. I think. I don't know. What's average? Most of the women I'd seen were in hospital gowns or scrubs or dead or going to be dead. So who was I to say what was or what? wasn't average. And she had brown eyes and brown hair. Kind of nice looking. She made a warm place in my belly when I looked at her, so that meant she was nice looking.

You done ogling me? I wasn't ogling, I said. I was looking you up and down. You're pretty. Want to be my girlfriend? Oh my fuck! She said and laughed. You are exactly what this place needs. I am? Great, I said. And what does this place need? Less born. and more crazy, she said and shrugged right as something in the kitchen shattered. Astrid spun about and yelled out the window. Knock it the fuck off, Newsom! It's his first fucking day! There was a pause, then a voice called out from across the street. Sorry, Astrid. I'll chill until tomorrow.

No, no shooting at the house tomorrow either. Residences are off limits. You're no fun. I heard a window slam shut. He seems nice, I said and smiled at Astrid. So, boyfriend, girlfriend? Only if I'm really drunk and really horny, she said, and walked to the front door. You coming? For what? So I can watch you die a few more times before tonight's meeting.

I'm going to die? Oh, definitely. A few times? If we're lucky. Wow, this place is so cool and so real. I never thought VR could be this real. VR? are? As in virtual reality?

She moved back to me, getting really close so she could look into my eyes. I leaned in. She shoved me away. Don't try to kiss me. I thought we were having a moment. No, I needed to look you in the eye to see if you were fucking with me. Never without your consent, remember? That's rapy, creepy, so stop saying it. Sorry. You really think we're in some virtual reality game or some shit? I don't know if it's a game, but how else do you explain being able to respawn after being killed?

I don't have to explain it, she said. It was already explained in great detail in that slideshow. A masterwork, if you ask me. You keep saying shit like that like you mean something, but I know you didn't even pay attention for one single slide. The first slide says, Hello and welcome to Bishop's Hollow. I responded, pretty proud of myself.

And what did the second slide say? something equally as amazing. Yeah, this is going to be really fun. Great, I love fun. She went and opened my front door. Then let's get to it. She said as she waved me through. Clock's ticking.

Let's see how many times you die before the meeting. What meeting again? Yeah, you're going to be great to have a round. And I'm hung like a horse, so don't forget to get drunk and horny later. I don't want you to miss out. Whatever, she said. Then grabbed my arm and Yang, me out of my apartment. Our romance was already blooming, and I hadn't even spent one night in

Bishop's Hollow. Playa gonna play, right? I don't know what that means. I saw it on a mug once that an orderly always drank his coffee out of. He said he was great with the ladies. He was the one who handed out the paper cups with our pills, so I trusted him 100%. He'd never have a mug that lied. Not that guy. Playa's gonna play. Jail! Astrid yelled, snapping her fingers in front of my face. Stop saying play is gonna play and let's get going. The mug never lies, I replied, and followed her downstairs. That's not the craziest thing you've said so far. She said when we got to the front door.

Okay, last bit of advice. I love advice, I said and frowned. So I hope it's not the last. Last for today, she said. Avoid Mrs. Lowenstein. As much as I want to see you get all exploded and shit, she's gotten out of hand, and we're trying not to encourage her. Astrid was the one who gave me that bit of advice.

I thought it was Mr. Dorman. I knew it wasn't in his PowerPoint presentation, because I distinctly remember someone saying it to me. Not that I'm disparaging Mr. Dorman's work of art, but even a PowerPoint can't tell you all the secrets of the world. Those slideshows try so very hard, but they can't be everything to everyone all the time. Avoid Mrs. Lohenstein, I said and nodded. Got it.

Fifteen minutes later, I was screaming. on Mrs. Lowenstein's front lawn. In my defense, before she yelled about why walkways were invented, she did say there were cookies, and I do love freshly baked cookies. Although come to think of it, she never said they were freshly baked. She just said she had cookies, and I could have some if I came to her porch. Looking back on the moment, I almost feel like it was a setup. And knowing what I know about Mrs. Lowenstein now,

I should never have fallen for the cookie trick, unless it's Oreos, and who can resist the promise of Oreos? After being killed by Mrs. Lowenstein's yard, and after my third respawn of the day, Mr. Dorman stood with me at the top of the processing center steps, and patted me on my shoulder. I thought you were going to be a major problem when they told me to recruit you from the hospital, he said. But it turns out, you're just a minor problem. I'm old enough to drink. What?

He called me a minor. Minor problem. Like with a fake ID? Oh, sweet hell, he said, and stopped patting my shoulder so he could hurry me along down the stairs, just like my daddy used to do. After picking myself up from the fall down the stairs, I looked up to the top of the steps to give Mr. Dorman a thumbs up. But he was already gone, probably back inside to make more awesome power points,

although it's hard to top perfection. Am I getting a ride? I shouted at the processing center. When there was no response, I sat down on the curb and waited for the SUV to show up. The sun began to set, and I got the feeling that I wasn't getting a ride. But the most wonderful thing happened. All of the residents of Bishop's Hollow began to flood the town square. I stood and watched them move onto the grass in the center of the square.

There were beige folding chairs set up in the front of the small gazebo, and people began to take seats in those beige folding chairs. Hey! I called and crossed the street. A horn honked and an SUV raced by, nearly clipping my hip. Careful there, buddy. A man said as I hurried the rest of the way across the street to the grass. Are you trying to get killed?

The man was older than me. Not as old as my daddy the last time I saw him, but close. With salt and pepper hair on his head and in his beard, the guy stood with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a black t-shirt with some metal band on it. The band looked really cool. T-shirts never lie. It's my first day.

I said and offered my hand when I reached him. Yeah, we know. He said and shook my hand. Grady Frisk. James Lee Torrance, I said. But I prefer J.L. From what I've heard, you kill folks who call you James Lee. I do?

Well, I must have a reason. I replied and smiled. Astrid was right. Brady said and shook his head. Come on. Let's get you a little. seat. You never want to be late for or miss a meeting. What's the meeting about? I asked, as I followed him around the rows of seats until we found two at the end of the middle row.

She said you were clueless too, Grady said as he took his seat. I sat next to him and nodded. Astrid's my girlfriend, I said. I know we just met, but she brought it up and I didn't want to be rude. I'm not surprised you say that, Grady said, then pointed at the gazebo. meeting's going to start pay attention keep quiet mr dormant appeared at the gazebo steps and held up his hands mr dorman i shouted and clapped then i spun my fist in the air whoo thank you jell mr dormant said bishops hollow let's welcome james lee torrance as our latest resident but call him jell unless you want to be split up the middle Oh, I don't do that anymore, I said as all heads turned to stare at me. I was rehabilitated.

The heads stared. Then they broke out into laughter. I laughed too, because one should never waste an opportunity to join in laughing maniacally with new friends. All right, all right, Mr. Dorman said. Quiet down. We have business to attend to. A hand shot up from the second row, middle seat. It was an older but very attractive woman.

If Astrid hadn't already been my girlfriend, I would have asked the older but very attractive woman to be. She seemed nice. No questions yet, Nina, Mr. Dorman said. Tell me no again, and I'll slice your balls off and put them in my ball jar. The older but very attractive woman named Nina screamed at Mr. Dorman. How many balls you got in there now, Nina? A man shouted from the very back row. I didn't turn around to see him because Mr. Dorman was clapping his hands together very

loudly, and loud clapping hands are always sure to keep my attention. Knock it off, Mr. Dorman said. Let me get through the evening's announcements, and then we'll go through the rankings. You're going to be on there, Grady said, leaning close so only I could hear. I am? After today? Yeah, definitely. Cool.

He eyed me and frowned. If you say so. First announcement has to do with the Valentine's Day dance. Mr. Dorman said. There won't be one next year. No one reacted. I would have been bummed if I was told there was no Valentine's Day dance next year.

After the insane massacre at this year's dance, management has decided that the cost is just too much. Mr. Dorman continued. The printers had to work overtime for six whole days before everyone could be completed. Online metrics showed a distinct displeasure at this delay, so no more dances. Of any kind?

Someone asked. Or just Valentine's Day. Since Valentine's Day is the only dance we put on, then yeah, all dances. I raised my hand. No, don't. Grady said, and yanked my hand down. Mr. Dorman looked our way and I waved. You are something, that's for sure, Grady said.

Mr. Dorman sighed. Yes, J.L. Hi. I shouted as all heads turned to me. I'm James Lee Torrance. but I go by J.L. Don't call me James or Lee or James Lee. Definitely don't call me Shirley.

No one laughed. I should have made a PowerPoint. Anyway, I just want to say that while I disagree with Mr. Dorman regarding the banning of all dances, we should remember that he works very hard and has lots of important slideshows to make, so let's not waste his time. I waited for the applause.

They didn't applaud. It made me a little sad. Doesn't everyone agree? I asked and stood up. I looked about and saw angry faces. Where were they angry? I was praising the great Mr. Dorman. Thank you, J.L.

But if we could get on with the meeting now, please? Mr. Dorman said. You all should applaud, I said, and started to get that feeling down deep. Not the fluttery one when I look at Astrid. No, the other one. I'm not saying you should applaud for what I said, I continued.

The feeling grubed. growing stronger and stronger. But you should show your appreciation for all the hard work this man does for you. I put my hands together, looked at Mr. Dorman, and bowed. Thank you, Mr. Dorman. Then I sat down and waited. Nice speech. Grady leaned over and said,

Made zero sense, but it was nice. Thank you, I said and waited some more. Then all heads turned and looked away. Their attention back on Mr. Dorman. They aren't clapping or saying thank you. Thank you, I said. Not that kind of meeting, radio replied. You'll get used to.

My hand snapped out and chopped him across the throat. His eyes bugged out and he tried to cough, but there was nowhere going through that crushed windpipe. J.L. Mr. Dorman yelled. People were up on their feet and coming for me. You don't want to clap for Mr. Dorman? I shouted as I stood to meet them.

Then what the fuck do any of you assholes even he'd hands for? The first hand that reached me was ripped off at the wrist. I had a lot of experience removing hands, beginning with my daddies. All that slapping and hitting and punching just wasn't very nice. I didn't like it anymore. So I took his hands and made him watch. Just like with all the assholes trying to jump me. A woman screamed, and I jammed her hand down her throat.

I think it was a right hand, not sure. Then some old fart tried to stab me with a very long knife. I took the knife from him because he was too old for something so dangerous. But then I felt bad, so I gave it back to him. in the right ear. Just stuck it right in. I didn't take his hands. A guy maybe a couple of years younger than me jumped onto my back, but I tucked and threw him into three other guys who were shoving chairs out of their way to get to me. They fell in a clump, and all I had to do was pick up a different chair, spread those legs wide, then slam it down on the pile. One guy got a chair leg through

the guts, another through the chest. A third took a hard hit to the eye socket, but it bounced off. I don't know what happened to the fourth leg, because I was yanked off my feet and thrown backward across the rows of chairs. I was a little dazed, so I didn't defend myself as I should have. I took a few shots to the head and the body. Then someone reached down to pick me up. Big mistake. I sunk my teeth into one of those wrists and bit as hard as I could. When I pulled back, my teeth tore tendons and muscle and skin. As whoever it was screamed, I shook my head back and forth like a rabid dog until the bones broke and the hand popped off. J.L. Stop!

With blood dripping down my front and the nasty taste of bad cologne in my mouth, I shoved away from the guy who tried to grab me. He was screaming and screaming, so I chopped his neck to shut him up. Mr. Dorman was rushing me and had something to say. I didn't get to hear it, as the lights went out just after I felt a nasty bit of pain in the back of my head. I came to, I was back in the processing center. seated in the center seat in the center row of the orientation room. Mr. Dorman was sitting on a stool at the front of the room.

Hey, Mr. Dorman, I said. Great meeting, I looked about. Why are we here? Did something happen? Other than you going crazy, mutilating several residents? He asked, and he didn't sound happy about what he was saying, which was weird, because I'd have been ecstatic that a bunch of people were mutilated for being so rude. No, J.L. Nothing happened. Did they die?

The two you chopped in the neck did, yes, he answered. The rest will live, although several are missing either one or both of their hands. Most likely they will set themselves up to be killed, so their clones can be reprinted whole. No one wants the disadvantage of having missing extremities if they don't have to, not at Bishop's Hollow. Well, if they die, they'll just respawn like me, I said, and gave me. I said, and gave Mr. Dorman two thumbs up. Then I looked at the screen on the wall. Am I going to see a new PowerPoint?

No, J.L. No PowerPoints today. Why not? Because you don't seem able to actually comprehend what you are being taught by the slides. What do you mean? The PowerPoint you were shown had all the information you needed to be successful in Bishop's Hollow.

Yet, you retained none of it. Well, that's just not true, Mr. Dorman. I protested because a protest was in order. I couldn't believe Mr. Dorman didn't think I paid attention to his meticulously built PowerPoint presentation. From the font to the spacing of the lines, he knew his slides. I paid attention to it all. Where are we, J.L., Mr. Dorman asked.

Bishop's Hollow. And what is Bishop's Hollow? A virtual reality simulation for badass killers like me. For the criminally insane, you mean. Oh, are there crazy people in here too? There is no in here, J.L. You were not in a simulation. I laughed and waved a hand at him.

Oh, Mr. Dorman. You should have been a stand-up comic. That was hilarious. I leaned forward, eager to hear his next joke. Next, you'll tell me that I actually died. You did. Four times on your first day. It's not a record, but it is an achievement.

I've always been an o'clock. overachiever. My daddy used to say I could win a first place trophy in any subject, as long as it was for being stupid, being lazy, being off my rocker, being violent, or being obsessed with PowerPoint presentations. Anyone with that many first place trophies has to be an overachiever. Sweet Christ, amen, I added. He left his stool and walked down the aisle to my row. Then he took a seat right next to me and patted me on the shoulder. You have had several traumatic brain injuries in your life, J.L. That is why you weren't convicted of all those horrible things you did.

It was easy to see that you weren't fit to stand trial. No PowerPoints in the courtroom. Well, that's not true, Mr. Dorman said. There are plenty of presentations and... Wait, never mind. I'm not getting into an argument about where PowerPoints are and are not allowed. Me neither. because I'd never argue with you, Mr. Dorman.

Do you remember what you did? To all those people? To your father? Oh, I remember what I did to Daddy, that's for sure. You take a man's hands off and he can't hold his pecker when he pears or wipes his ass after he shits. I didn't think that went through. The police found your father emaciated and near death in his bedroom.

He was covered in his own filth. Shouldn't have lost his hands, I said and shrugged. Wait, near death? He died before he got to the hospital. Phew, I wouldn't be an overachiever if he hadn't died. Sure, right. But, um, do you remember the others?

He pulled something from his pocket, a remote. Then he aimed it at the screen and clicked it. Pictures of young women and young men and old women and old men began to fill the screen. Hey, I know that guy! I shouted as I pointed at the screen. I used my finger to point, since I didn't have a remote. Go back! Mr. Dorman went back one picture.

That's my lawyer, I said proudly. He was expensive. He was a public defender. In over his head, when you decided you didn't want to be classified as mentally unfit to stand trial. You literally bit off all of his fingers, then headbutted him so many times and so badly that he's blind now. So not all the pictures are of people I killed. That's a little misleading, Mr. Dorman.

Mr. Dorman sighed. It can be tiring being wrong sometimes. Anyway, let's move on, he said and clicked the remote. The pictures went away. This is not a virtual reality simulation. It's not? I asked and looked around. Then what's up with all the beige?

It's a soothing color. Lame. Yes, well, the color of the paint doesn't matter. What about the color of the chairs? Do they matter? Mr. Dorman sighed again. What has happened to you, J.L. Is that you have been included in a very exclusive, very secret project. Bishop's Hollow is real.

As real as any place on Earth. It's just special in many ways. Bishop's Hollow is real? I asked, then shook my head. Mr. Dorman, you're pulling my leg. It can't be real. And why is that? Because I died four times just like you said.

People can't die and come back to life. That only happens in video games. You respawn when you die in them. Just like here. I respond. No, Jail. You actually died. Four times.

And you weren't respawned. You were printed. The body you are in right now is a clone of your original. In fact, the body you arrived in was a clone. Officially, you died of a brain aneurysm in the hospital. So I've died five times? I asked, impressed. That deserves a first place trophy. It's still not the record, Mr. Dorman said.

He slowly reached out and patted my shoulder. Are you understanding anything I've said so far? Sure. Simple pimple. Great, great. He took a deep breath. Now the heart part. Nothing is too hard for a man with your PowerPoint skills. Okay, J.L.

Bishop's Hollow serves a very specific purpose. I hope that purpose isn't to make beige a more popular color. No, no, nothing to do with the color beige. The purpose is to allow those close to victims of horrible crimes to find some sort of justice, not closure, because many will never have that, but justice. Got it. I totally understand. I haven't fully explained it yet. Sorry. It's all right, J.L. Thanks. So, one of the people you killed was part of a very prominent, very wealthy family, a family with the means to send you here.

So they can watch you die over and over and over. That sounds boring. Wouldn't they rather watch Netflix? No, J.L. They'd rather watch you. get killed by the other residents. Because that is what happens in Bishop's Hollow. Our customers pay very large sums to be able to order the deaths of those they despise. For example, last week, Grady. Do you remember Grady? Oh, sure, he was nice. We talked at the meeting before everything went all cuckoo. Before you killed him, you mean? If you say so. Well, last week, Grady was hired by one customer to kill Mrs. Simons. I don't know who that is. Doesn't matter. I shrugged because I didn't want to argue with Mr. Dorman. Grady killed Mrs. Simon with a shovel, just as he was asked to do.

After the job was done, several thousand dollars were deposited into his account. The company took 85% and left 15% for him to use as he sees fit. Eighty-five percent? I asked, doing some quick math on my fingers. That's almost 100%. It is, but the point is, that Grady was assigned a job and he completed him. The customer was happy and they rewarded him, and the company for his work. Odds are, they'll ask him to kill Mrs. Simons again down the road. Why is she in the road? What? You said Grady will kill Mrs. Simon again down the road. Why is she in the road? It's an expression. May I continue?

I nod. Thank you. Well, when Mrs. Simons was killed, a little microchip implanted in her brain sent a signal to this building. That signal uploaded all current data, her memories, if you will, and then a new body was printed out in one of the many clone vats we have on hand. She was back to normal in just a couple hours. I laughed.

What's funny? Can you expect me to believe that instead of being in a first, virtual reality simulation, that people can be cloned and have all their memories restored in the new body? That's exactly what I want you to believe. Now who's crazy? I chuckled. Everyone knows cloning isn't real.

Now, virtual reality simulations, those are real. You think that cloning hasn't been invented, but a fully immersive simulation, including total sensory integration with instant recall as possible? Well, duh. I see, he said and rubbed his face. Then he shrugged and patted my shoulder again. You know what? It doesn't matter what you believe,

as long as you play the game one instructed to. Ha, the game! You just admitted this is a simulation. No, J.L. It's what we informally call our platform. The game. Our customers pay to have criminally insane people like you moved to Bishop's Hollow.

Then they pay to watch the 16 million live camera feeds we have set up. And they also pay to have residents killed based on their own preferences. Not all are looking for justice, unfortunately. And many customers end up forgetting about their original targets. They just start ordering kills at random. That's why we call it the game. Do you understand? Nope.

I said and shook my head. Honesty is the best policy. You should make a PowerPoint with all that information. It'll be easier to understand that way. I have made a PowerPoint on all of this, J.L. You watched it yesterday. And I bet it was fantastic. Mr. Dorman smiled at me.

Then he cocked his head. Okay. It's tough love time, Jail. He said and put his hand back on my shoulder. The customers, especially your patron, are getting tired of your obsession with PowerPoint presentations. They are asking that you stop bringing up PowerPoints, or there will be consequences. Consequences?

Yes, J.L. Consequences. What kind of consequences? The deadly kind. Like cancer? No, not like cancer. More like you being killed in horrible ways, kind. Not sure I like that kind. Most people don't.

So do me a favor and stop talking about PowerPoint presentations, okay? I shrugged. All right. I guess I can stop talking about them. I felt dirty even saying those words. Great, J.L. That's just great. Cool. Can I go now? I'm a little hungry. Do I have enough money in my account to get dinner at Nikki's diner?

It's lunchtime. We didn't reprint you until the next day. That way, you and I could have this little talk before I send you out into town. Oh, got it. Do I have enough in my account for lunch then? So you understood that part of what I explained to you? What part? That residents here get a certain percentage of money paid for their work. They do?

What kind of percentage? Mr. Dorman sighed. Never mind. Yes, you can go now. I'll walk you out. And being the stand-up guy he is, Mr. Dorman did walk me out. We stood at the top of the steps and stared out. at Bishop's Hollow, my new home.

Can I have a camera? Sure, what for? Do you need it for surveillance or night vision or what? It helps if you are specific, so the supply team can get you the right camera. Oh, I just need a basic one that can take pictures for the PowerPoint presentation I want to make about Bishop's Hollow. Shit, Mr. Dorman said, and hurried back inside the processing center. Mr. Dorman? I called after him. Where are you going?

You said shit. Do you need to go poop? Then it all went dark. You were shot from 700 yards. Mr. Dorman said when he walked me out to the front steps the second time that day. Do you know why? Because 800 yards is too hard? No. Because you said the P-P word, and a customer got manned so they put out a hit on you. I was killed because I said something about P? That's not right, Mr. Dorman.

I asked you if you had to poop, not P. No, not P, JL. P-P. PowerPoint, remember? I just told you earlier today that there have been requests for you to stop talking about PowerPoints. It's turning some customers off. We don't want that. We want them happy and engaged and spending money for justice. Don't we all?

You really can't hold a clear thought for long, can you? Like brain thoughts? Yes, J.L. Like brain thoughts. Daddy said that when they handed out brains, I was last in line and got the leftovers. He would say I had a chinchilla brain, not a man's brain. But I opened up a chinchilla's head once,

and I opened up a person's head, and set them side by side, and they looked the same. One's just bigger. The person's brain was. Yes, J.L. I get... No, silly.

The chinchilla's brain was bigger. Duh. Mr. Dorman pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. Nicky's is still open for lunch if you want to hurry over there before they switch to the dinner menu. He said and gave me a little shove in the back. Might as well get this over with. Get what over with? Putting you back in Bishop's Hollow.

Sounds like a plan, Mr. Dorman. Then move along, J.L. Move along. I have work to do. Making another mean PowerPoint presentation. There was a thawking noise and then painting. in my chest. Ow!

I said, as I looked down at an arrow shaft, sticking out from between my ribs. You have got to be shitting me, Mr. Dorman said as he walked away. I had shit to do today other than prepping your damn fat, J.L. Then he walked off, leaving me at the top of the steps with an arrow in my chest. Then there was a second thwack. Hey, Mr. Dorman, I got two arrows now. But he was gone, so I just looked down at the arrows. They probably don't let you eat in Nicky's with arrows in you.

I should take care of these. I grabbed each shaft and yanked as hard as I could. Ow! They're barbed! Not that I'd let that stop me. I gripped tighter and pulled even harder. After a few seconds, the arrows both came right out. They took a lot of my fleshy bits with them, and in about two seconds, I felt light-headed.

Gotta sit down, I mumbled. Then collapsed onto my butt on the top step. A top step that was all wet with blood. I wonder where all the blood is from. Mr. Dorman walked me to Nicky's diner when I came to again. It's the dinner menu now, but you will find something you like, I'm sure. He said, opening the door for me. Inside, all of the customers turned and glared at me.

I have work to do people, Mr. Dorman said. I can't keep printing out new JLs. Okay. To do me a favor and try not to kill him for at least an hour or so. No one replied. Great. Mr. Dorman said and left. Hi. I said and waved. You can take a seat at the bar, a waitress said, pointing to the one open seat left. You want coffee, tea, soda pop, water, beer? Do you have grape soda? We have all the sodas, kid. The waitress said, even though she was around my age. Take a seat and I'll get your grape

soda and a menu. Thanks, I said, so happy to finally be in Nicky's Diner. Mr. Dorman should make a PowerPoint about Nicky's. It's cool. I sat down and the waitress set a cup of grape soda in front of me and a menu. And I thanked her and I sipped at the soda and I looked over the menu and I was about to order when a very large man walked up to me and took the soda right out of my hands and then he started to lift it over my head, probably to dump it on me. But I wasn't having that. So I grabbed the salt shaker that was close by and shoved it right through his left eye. It was really fun. Some customers didn't like that, so they came to help get the salt shaker out of their friend's eye.

But I could see forks and knives in their hands, and knowing exactly what Daddy would do to me with forks and knives, I jumped off my barstool, picked it up, and smashed in two of the salt shaker guy's friend's heads. Nicky's is the best. Can you please stop? The waitress shouted as I looked for a new weapon. I really wanted to get back into the kitchen and look for a meat cleaver. Meat cleavers are the best for cutting off hands.

You! The waitress shouted at me. If you wanted to eat here, then you have to behave. He took my grape soda, I said, and pointed down at the dead man at my feet. He was in a pool of blood with a salt shaker sticking out of his eye of all places. I wonder how that got there. I gave his corpse a hard kick. That was rude of you to take my grape soda.

It was rude. A man said from a booth in the back of the diner. He waved at me, and I recognized those hands right away. Hey, Grady! I said and waved at him. I got this, Alice. He said to the waitress. He can join me, and I'll keep an eye on him.

No more fights until after the dinner rush, okay? The waitress, Alice, said to me as she waived her ticket book in my direction. Learn the rules or don't get served here anymore. Sorry, I said. Rules are important. She rolled her eyes and walked back into the kitchen. I made my way around the table to the back booth. Thanks, I said as I sat down across from Grady.

I rubbed the red leather and smiled. Nice booth. One of the perks of knowing how to get along here in Bishop's Hollow, he said and smiled. And, by the way, no hard feelings for killing me with that throat chop. It was an impressive blow. I learned from my daddy, I said. He'd do it to.

me all the time and say that I was lucky he held back each time or I'd be dead. He taught me good. Looks like it, Brady said. Then smiled as Alice set my new grape soda down. Thanks, Alice. Behave. She said to me, then walked off. I didn't get to order my food.

She'll be back. Brady responded. She just needs to clean up your mess. Oh, right. I said. Then looked the menu over a few times before deciding on the fish and I looked up at Grady. What are you getting?

I already ate. I was gonna head out when Dormand walked you in, figured you might need a friendly face. Even after I chopped your throat and you died? Listen, J.L. It's clear you have some cognitive issues. A lot of people here in Bishop's Hollow do. Way worse than you.

But no one here is going quite as hard as you. You gotta chill out. Stop taking everything so personally. Learn the ways of Bishop's Hollow before you make your moves. Right now, you're killing for nothing. Wait for a job that pays before you go all homicidal maniac. I'm not a maniac. I said, not liking Grady at the moment.

No, you're not. You're a cool dude, he said and held up his hands. Such fine hands. That's why I don't want you acting like the maniacs we have in here. Just chill. Can you do that? Can you just chill? Um, I guess.

Alice came back like Grady said she would, and I placed my order for fish and chips. You can have a good life here, J.L., Grady said as Alice walked away. Alice has been here for 20 years now. One of the first. Her? I said, and turned around to point at Alice. She scowled and gave Grady a harsh look. Stop staring and pointing, Grady said. You don't age here. Your clones are the same age of you.

when they wheeled you into the processing center. I'll always be the sage, I asked. They should really put that info in a power. No, Brady said, and lurched across the table to press his hand against my mouth. He was about to lose a few fingers, but then he took his hand away and sighed. You gotta stop saying that, he said and shook his head. You have to learn how to make it work in Bishop's Hollow. Not how to make Bishop's Hollow work for you.

Understood? I nodded. even though I had no idea what he was talking about. Alice learned to make it work, Brady continued. Now she runs Nickies and doesn't have to go out and kill anymore. She doesn't kill at all? I didn't say that. I said she doesn't have to go out and kill.

No need when eventually everyone in town will walk through those doors at some point. And if they don't, she subcontracts. Oh. I said and nodded, even though Grady obviously made the word subcontract up. What I'm saying, J.L., is that you can have a good life here, he said. It's violent and dangerous, but considering you can't really die, well, that gives you an opportunity to change, to learn. Oh, okay. Really?

Yeah, sounds good. I looked over my shoulder. Hey, oh, my fish and chips are ready soon. When I looked back at Grady, he was frowning. What? I asked. What's wrong? Do you remember anything I just said to you?

Sure. Can you tell me the highlights? Sure. He waited. I waited. Now, J.L., he said. What did I just say to you? Something about highlights? Wow.

He said and took a deep breath. No wonder, Dorman is close to cracking. He is? How sad. I like Mr. Dorman. I said and snapped my fingers. Next time you tell me, me something. You should put it in a PowerPoint presentation. Motherfucker, Brady whispered,

as Alice arrived with my fish and chips. He looked up at her. I tried. I know, she said and set my food down in front of me. Thanks. I said and went for my silverware. Alice grabbed me by the back of the head and slammed my face down into the plate of fish and chips. Ow, you're hot! I tried to yell around the face full of fried fish and potatoes. Then a sharp pain exploded in my temple. "'How about you tried dinner at home for a while?' "'Mr. Dorman said, as he personally walked me "'from the processing center to my apartment house. "'I had to nod, because I couldn't really answer him

"'with the ball gag in my mouth. "'I would have never thought someone like Mr. Dorman "'was into stuff like ball gags, "'but you just never know with people. "'Astrid was standing on the porch, "'leaning next to the front door. "'She didn't look happy. "'Not cool, Dorman,' she said when we walked up.

the steps. I tried to say something about Mr. Dorman being very cool, but the words came out all jumbly and muffled. You stay quiet, Astrid said. Then she focused on Mr. Dorman again. His people will really pay me $200 grand to babysit him all night? That's right, Mr. Dorman said. They feel he's not understanding the seriousness of his situation. They would like him to get through at least 24 hours without dying. Otherwise, it will never settle in that brain of his that Bishop's Hollow is not a vacation. I'd never been on a vacation before, and I struggled to get that out, but it was no use.

The ball gag won that battle. Quiet, Astrid said. That's also talking. Are you going to take him? Mr. Dorman asked, giving me a little push toward Astrid. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, she said. Then cocked her head at the front door. Yeah, I'll do it.

But I want the 200 grand to be my percentage, not the full payout. I walk with 200K in my account, after I keep him alive for 24 hours or no deal. I'll talk to management, but I believe we can make that happen, even if the customer doesn't want to increase the amount on their end. Will that suffice? That will suffice, Astrid said, and shook her head. And Jesus Christ, get this thing off of him. She reached up and undid my ball gag.

Oh, wowsers! I said and worked my jaw a few times. I don't know why people think those things are fun. Yeah, they looked like fun in those movies Daddy would show me. But when you actually wear one, I have to say no thanks to that. Let's get you inside before you say something stupid, Astrid said. Besides what you just said. 24 hours, Mr. Dorman said.

No problem, Astrid said, and yanked open the door so she could shove me inside. It was a little rougher treatment than I liked from a girlfriend, but we'd only been together for a short time. So we were still working out the kinks. Let's get you inside and undercover, Astrid said, looking around the neighborhood. She pointed a finger at a window across the street. Not now, Newsom. He hasn't said it. Astrid shoved me through the front door just as someone yelled.

He'll say it at some point. Whatever. Astrid said, and then slammed the door closed without even a goodbye to Mr. Dorman. It looked like we would be working out kinks as well as manners later. Astrid walked me up to my apartment and let me in. You have a key? For 24 hours I do, she said and shoved me inside.

And no, that doesn't make me your girlfriend. Of course not. It's not the love between us that bonds us, not some trinket. Trinket? I read that on a greeting card once. Good for you. She went around the living room and closed all the drapes. Sit, she said and pointed to the couch.

And leave the lights off. they'll see your silhouette. People are saying fuck it to the rules right now. Okay, I replied. I was a little beat, even though I'd just respond only an hour ago. Room by room, she checked out the whole apartment. I think we're good, she said when she came back into the living room. She stood in front of me, looking down, her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed. Daddy used to look at me the same way, just before he explained why my punishment was all my fault. I have never seen Dorman so upset before, she said then smiled. Way to go.

I upset Mr. Dorman? I asked, shocked. Why are you smiling about that? Dorman's a tool, she said and walked away. She plopped down in one of the chairs. He's management's mouthpiece. Never trust that man. He is not on your side.

Yes he is I exclaimed He even made a powerpoint just for me Fucking hell Astrid shouted and threw herself on the floor When nothing happened She slowly pulled herself back up into the chair Was it a bee?

What? A bee Did a bee try to sting you? Is that why you fell on the floor? No, it's because you said the You know what, let's not do this She stood up and went to the kitchen Got any booze? Oh, I don't really drink, I said.

Daddy said it makes your pecker limp, and men like me don't have limp peckers. Holy Christ, you are one weird fucking dude, she said, and started going through all the cupboards. But you aren't wrong, not a drop of booze in the place. I'll be right back. Where are you going? I asked, as she walked to my apartment door. Gonna have to pluck a bottle or two for my stash, he said. I'll be right back, chill.

She left quickly, and I eased back into the couch. Even though I didn't really drink, a cocktail with my girlfriend sounded great. The door flew open and Astrid stuck her head in. Do not go anywhere, she said, eyeing me hard. Stay fucking foot on that fucking couch, you hear me? Staying put right here, sweetheart, I said, knowing that girlfriends liked to be called sweetheart. She shook her head and laughed. I did as she said and didn't go anywhere.

I just sat there and looked around my new apartment. It was only the second time I'd been in it, so it was all brand new to me. That's when I saw the window over by the breakfast bar slowly slide open. A person dressed head to toe in black wriggled through the small gap and tumbled onto the floor. Hi, I said, staying put as asked. The person dressed in black jumped a little and then looked over at me. Are you a ninja? I am death incarnate, they said.

and I could tell it was a woman from the sound of her voice. Oh, cool, I said. I'm James Lee Torrance, but call me J.L. I've never heard the last name incarnate before. Neat. What? The ninja with the last name incarnate asked. So, do you know how to use Nunchucks and throwing stars and all those cool weapons?

My daddy liked to watch Kung Fu movies, and I always wanted to get good at throwing stars. Ninjas are Japanese, and Kung Fu is Chinese. The ninja with the last name incarnate said. Learn your cultures, loser. Loser? I said and stood up. That's rude.

We just met. You should get to know someone before you call them a loser. No time to get acquainted, loser. The ninja said, as she pulled a black pistol with a long suppressor out from behind her back. Where were you keeping that? That had to sting. What? No, gross.

I have a holster at the small in my back. That makes way more sense. Are you going to shoot me with that? I am, because you said Bower... The door to my apartment burst open, and Astrid walked in with a pistol in each hand. She was firing before the ninja could finish her sentence. When it was quiet, and Astrid stood over the ninja corpse, I said. Her name was death incarnate.

Cool, right? Her name is Betty Ortega and she'll be back, Astrid said, when she crouched down and pulled the ninja's ski mask off. We can't stay here. You're coming to my place. A sleepover! Neat! I said and looked around. What should I bring?

Just your crazy self. But first, help me with her, will you? Calpow! Grab her arms and I'll take her legs, Astrid said. Then went and fully opened the window the ninja came in. It makes it easier for cleanup if the bodies are outside. She lifted, I lifted.

We carried the dead ninja to the window and then shoved her out. The wet thunking sound she made when she hit the grass, made me giggle. Sounded like poop. For fuck sake, Astrid said, and grabbed my elbow. Come on, I want you secured in lockdown so I can get some rest. Okay, I said.

But we have to use protection. We are not sleeping together. She snapped. Huh? No, I meant a shotgun, I said. Daddy called his shotgun protection. You killed your daddy, right? Sure did.

And you had a good reason? Sure did. Then maybe don't quote the guy so much. I don't know what that means, but okay. Good, she said, leading me out of my apartment and over to hers. Now, let's get you drunk. She wasn't lying about that. Once she had locked her door, making sure all eight deadbolts were secure,

and the heavy metal bar across the door was secure, and the laser alarms were set on each window, and her bulletproof drapes were drawn. Then she poured me a big glass of alcohol. I don't know what type of alcohol it was, but I didn't like it. Then she found some soda in her fridge and mixed the alcohol with that. It wasn't grape soda, but it tasted pretty nice. I think I had about eight of those.

Ow! I said when I woke up. My head hurts. Why? It's called a hangover, Astrid said from a chair across the room as I lay on the couch. It tend to hurt. I don't like it. I said in sat up.

The world spun and I vomited all over myself. Oops. It's okay. I put plastic down, she said and got up. I'll get a towel. Don't move or you'll get it everywhere. I looked down and saw the plastic on the couch. I also saw a lot of red. Am I bleeding? I asked when she returned with the towel. No, you really liked the Maraschino cherries I was putting in your drinks. So you ate the whole jar, she said. said. She wiped me off and helped me up. Let's get you into the shower. She showed me to the bathroom and waited by the door. Um, turn around. I said as I unbuttoned my jeans. You don't want you to see

you naked? She replied and laughed. I thought I was your girlfriend? Then she shook her head and muttered. Why did I say that? Fuck. I'm not embarrassed. I said in stripped down. Her eyes went wide. She nodded at the shower. You know how to work a shower? Of course, I said. Daddy stopped turning it on for me when I became 16. It was time to man up. Fucking hell, she said, and picked up my clothes before she left. I'll throw these in the washer. Don't use all the hot water. I used all the hot water. After drying off and wrapping the towel around my waist, I walked out of the bathroom and froze in place. Astrid? I asked, seeing her body on the floor. floor with a lot of blood around it. The blood probably came from the gash on her neck that almost

took her head off. Astrid? You okay? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. I whipped about, and got my arm up in time to block the very big knife that was slashing at my face. Ow! I yelled and threw a punch right into the face of an elderly gentleman. I'm your downstairs neighbor. He grunted as he stumbled back, one hand gripping the very big knife and the other going to his nose to stop the gushing blood. Oh, hi, I'm J.L. I said and extended my hand. He stared at it. You're as retarded as they say, he said, and took a couple of steps back. What did you call me? I asked, my voice very low, very calm. Fucking retarded, he said, and wiped his knife on his jeans, then held it up. And unarmed, it looks like. Too bad for you, on both fronts. You don't call me that.

taking a step toward him. That word is not a nice word. You don't say that to people. It's rude and it's mean. What the fuck do I care what's rude or mean? The man asked. I once carved up a whole family on Thanksgiving except for the grandma. Her I gave the stuffing, if you know what I mean.

I do not know what you mean, I said, taking another step toward him. Apologize. For giving the old broad some stuffing? Ha, not gonna. Apologize for calm. me the R word. Everyone is calling you that. Apologize. Fuck you. Apologize. Fuck you. Apologize. Fuck you. I raced at him and he brought the knife up, but he was too old, too slow. And I knocked his arm to the side as I rammed my shoulder into his chest, sending him falling

back against a window. The glass shattered and he cried out as he struggled to get free. I didn't let him. I grabbed him by the throat, yanked him up, grabbed the back of his neck, spun him around, and shoved his head into the broken glass. Then I raked his neck, back and forth, back and forth across that broken glass until I felt it hit bone. Not nice, I said to him, as I walked away and over to Astrid's body. I knelt down and patted the top of her head. You were a good girlfriend. Then I stood up.

The elderly man said everyone was calling me the R word. That was the only thing I hated more than being called James Lee. No one should be called that word. No one. No one, I said out loud. Then I looked about the apartment. Astrid was like me. She knew how to kill. And killers like me and her should have weapons. Lots of weapons. It took me 30 minutes before I found the part of the wall that slid aside. Daddy always said I was good at finding treasure. She had pistols and more pistols. An automatic rifle, lots of knives. A couple of things I couldn't identify. And then there it was.

Protection. A Mossberg pump action, 12-gauge shotgun. And four bandoliers of shells right next to it. Everyone is calling me that? I said, as I grabbed the shotgun in the shells and got myself ready for a walk to Nicky's. I wasn't missing lunch that day. When I stepped out onto the front porch,

six people were coming up the walkway with various weapons, none of them firearms. That was kind of dumb. A bullet whizzed by my head, and I looked over at the house across the street. I'll see you later, Newsom! I shouted, happy with myself that I remembered his name. Then I pointed the shotgun at the six people as they stopped in their tracks. You first!

They tried to run, but they didn't get very far. I'm fast, and the spread on a 12-gauge is pretty neato. Only one made it to the street, and she didn't make it far off the curb before I blew her fucking head off. You call me that word and think it's okay? I shouted. I walked over to the body and stomped on the back. Blood gushed up out of the neck hole.

I smiled and then looked around. Do you call me that, Newsom? I shouted at the house across the street. No, sorry. Newsom replied, and a window slowly closed. How about you? I yelled at a man sitting on his front porch, a couple of houses down. He got up and hurried inside.

I moved out into the middle of the street, then turned in a circle. Anyone else? Huh? You call me the R word? Do you? No one is going to answer you. I spun around and almost blew Grady's guts out. Do you? Huh, Grady? Do you call me that name? No, J.L., I don't, he said, his hands up. But some others do. It's not right, I said.

People like us got to stick together. Play is going to play. Um, I'm not sure that applies to this situation, but I think I get what you're going to. for, he said. We're all stuck here, so why make it worse, right? Yeah, I said. Why make it worse? I paused and frowned, then looked down at my shoes. I wasn't wearing any, or clothes, just my towel.

When I looked back up, Grady was a little closer. Why don't I have shoes on? No clue, J.L. Why am I in the middle of the street with only a towel? Because you're upset about people calling you the R-Whor. He said and got a little closer. You do? I shouted and racked a shell into the shotgun.

Motherfuckers! Grady's eyes went wide, just as I leveled the shotgun at him. J.L., wait, I don't... He yelled as I pulled the trigger. You ever seen one of those things? What are they called? A diorama? I had to make one in school before Daddy said I didn't have to go no more.

Well, that's what the inside of Grady's chest looked like when I stood over his body. But the diorama wasn't showing what happened in some book. It showed what used to be in Grady's chest. Bits of ribs, a little hunk of lung, a partial heart, and a whole lot of blood. Pain ripped my attention from Grady, and I looked over at a woman holding a 9mm. Fucking weird-ass Rita, she started to say. The blast didn't take her whole head off, but it did take the lower half of her face off and most of her neck. She collapsed and slowly started to change.

choked to death on her own blood while I watched. I rolled my left shoulder and winced. You shot me, I said to the choking woman. And you were going to call me that word. I knelt down next to her. I'll see your clone in a couple of hours. And that surprised me. Clones. We are clones. Mr. Dorman's PowerPoint had started to stick in my head. Good for Mr. Dorman. I spent the rest of the day either shooting at someone or being shot at. I think by the time dinner rolled around, I had five bullet wounds, three knife wounds, and a gash on my thigh from this one guy who wrapped barbed wire around his fists. He was fun to kill. By the time I got to Nicky's, I was starving and bleeding out.

And I'd lost my towel. Grape soda and some fish and chips, I said as I walked inside. The cook was standing by the door, and he tried to gut me with his knife, but I was way too fast for that. I blocked his thrust with one hand and jammed that shotgun barrel up under his chin with the other. No! Alice shouted from behind the counter. Don't you dare paint my ceiling red with his brains! Brains are gray, I said.

But I suppose that's better than being beige. Put the shotgun down, and I will make sure you get your grape soda and fish and chips, all right? Why wouldn't you? I ask. Aren't you supposed to get me what I order? James Lee Torrance. You butchered your way through Bishop's Ships. hollow like no one has done in a very long time. Alice said. What I should be doing is putting you down like a rabid dog. But from what I hear, you got a beef with folks using a certain slur. My daddy called

me that, I said. Then I'd had enough, just like today. Well, your daddy ain't here, and not everyone you gunned down called you that word. So maybe we call it even, and you set the shotgun aside so Miller there can make your dinner for you. Sound good? I am. I am starving. I didn't get to have breakfast because my tummy was all ucky from drinking. A girlfriend Astrid and I made drinks last night. Alice stared at me for a moment, then shook her head. Did you go all apeshit because you had a hangover? No, I said in shrugged.

Maybe. Never had one before. Jesus, the customers are going to have a field day with you. Now they're going to try to get you drunk so you go on more rampages. I bet they were laughing and whooping and cheering all day long. I didn't hear anything. They're not here, dumb at... Uh, J.L. They watch on their computers.

Oh, like when Daddy watched his snuff films. Alice blinked a few times, and I was worried she was having a stroke. Sure, she finally said. Like that. Noddy customers. I said and smiled. Then I yawned. I sure am hungry.

You go sit at the back booth, and Miller will make your dinner while I get your grape soda. Sound good? Yep. I moved the shotgun out from under Miller's chin, smiled at him. No hard feelings? Fuck you. He snapped. Miller! Alice growled. He sighed. Yeah, sure. No hard feelings. Cool. I said and limped my way to the back booth.

Alice brought the grape soda, and I finished it in two gulps. She brought me another one right away. By the time I had my fish and chips in front of me, I wasn't feeling so good. Then I perked up when Astrid walked in. You're alive! I yelled and tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't move. Also, my butt was stuck to the seat because I was naked and covered in blood, but mostly because my legs wouldn't move.

That's how it works around here, she said and sat down across for me. How are you feeling? about ready to call it a day. I'm eating dinner, I said, and tried to pick up another fry, but it slipped through my fingers, my numb fingers. Oopsie. Yeah, you don't look too good, Astrid said. Maybe we'll just sit here until you fade out.

Might be easier than trying to get you back to your apartment. Okay, I said in yon. I'm sleepy. You've had a big day. Did I? You did. You killed 34 people, maimed another dozen, and you're still walking. Today will become legend. Cool. Then I yawned again and sort of slumped over. Can't reach my grape, I said just before it all went dark. Mr. Dorman stares at me for a moment as he sits behind his beige desk.

While he stares, I take some time to glance around. Beige walls, beige office furnace. including the already mentioned desk, the filing cabinet, the two chairs, one of which I'm sitting in right now, and a beige coat rack with a brown windbreaker hanging on it. Missed some beige, I say and point at the coat on the rack. The answer is no. What was the question? He sighs. He does that a lot around me.

No, J.L. You cannot put all of that into a PowerPoint presentation and show it to new residents so they don't call you the R word. or try to get you drunk or call you James Lee. That is what you're asking, yes? To put everything you just told me into a PowerPoint presentation to be shown during orientation? That's a great idea!

I exclaim and jump up. Thank you, Mr. Dorman! The answer is no, J.L. He says calmly. Sure sounded like a yes to me. It's a no. A hard no. A no that cannot be misinterpreted as a yes.

Oh. Okay. I say in shrug. Worth a try. I just want to live up to the high standards you have set here in Bishop's Hollow, Mr. Dorman. Of course, J.L. Anyway, I gotta go.

I say and give him a wink. Gonna go have lunch at Nicky's with my girlfriend. Astrid's not your... He shakes his head. You know what? Have fun at lunch. Tell Astrid, I say hello. Not a chance, Mr. Dorman.

I say and go to his office door. No way I'm telling my girlfriend that the Mr. Dorman said hello. She jumps ship to you in a heartbeat, but I get it. Play is going to play, right, Mr. Dorman? Right, J.L. He says and picks up his phone. I have work to do.

Have fun at lunch. You know I will. I say and leave his office. I checked the 45 on my right hip, the 9mm on my left hip, the machete's strapped to my right leg, then the Mossberg pump action 12-gauge shotgun I have strapped over my back that Astrid let me keep. You know, for protection.

I leave Mr. Dorman's office and make my way out of the processing center. I know the way by heart now. Been walking this hall for months now. It hasn't been every day that I've spawned, but close. When I reach the front steps, I take a deep breath, pull the shotgun from my back, and pump in a shell as bullets start flying around me. Gotta run.

Time for lunch so I can see my girlfriend. My lip curls at the sound of my mother's voice, echoing down the basement stairs. It's Denny Ma, Ma. Not Frank's your other son, and he's gone. I hear her breathing hard at the top of the stairs, then shouts. What are you doing down there? Nothing. I yell from the ratty green couch we have shoved into the far corner. There's also a rug and a little TV stand with a TV and an old VCR.

The satellite signal a shit out here where we live, due to the wrong angle or low-lying hills or some shit like that. And the cable company shut our cable off last month. Don't even ask about internet. That ain't a thing. So all I got to watch is whatever I can get over the air with the rabbit ears antenna and the old VHS tapes my brother left behind in a nasty shoebox. My mother yells. Yes, she pronounces it.

Pronography. Rhymes with prawn, like I'm down here watching some nature special on shrimps. I'm not. I'm watching porn. I ain't watching pornography. A shout, which ain't a lie since there is no shrimps anywhere to be seen in this video. They don't hire guys with shrimps between their legs. I could totally do porn.

Doesn't look like a tough job. The ladies do all the real work. They're the ones that got to act and shit. Of course, I'd have to get up off this couch and get myself in shape a little. Maybe lose five pounds. Or ten. Possibly 20 since the camera adds ten pounds, they say. Yep. Just gotta get in shape and lose 30 pounds.

It also sleep with a lady, too. Never done that. Just haven't had the opportunity. Yeah. So lose 40 pounds and sleep with a real lady. And then I'll be a star. It sounds like pornography. My mother shouts. It's not, Ma. I yell, then find the remote and stop the old tape.

It's a nature show on shrimps. On shrimps? On shrimps? Those are some damn loud shrimps. Then I hear the basement door close and click shut. Thank God. I thought she'd never leave. I press play on the remote.

Nothing happens. Huh? I press play again. Nothing happens again. Or nothing still happens. However you want to say it, no porn comes back on the screen. I open the remote and take out the double-A batteries and put them back in on operas.

opposite sides. That usually does the trick. Not this time. I press and press and press. No goddamn porn. God damn it! I hear my mother shot back from up in the kitchen, but I ignore it. She's got nothing to say worth hearing. The remote sits in my hand like a dried turd. My eyes go from it to the TV, from it to the VCR, back and forth, back and forth. I'm stalling. I know I gotta get up. Just don't wanna. Gonna need some fortitude. I grab the bong, back it tight, and light up like there's no tomorrow. Coughing hard over and over, my mind starts to clear. That's the stuff.

I choke out as I set the bong back on the floor next to the couch. What was I doing? Oh, right. Calling myself to my feet, I realize I haven't stood up from the couch on a long time. My legs are jelly. I glanced back at where I was sitting and make sure I didn't piss myself. It doesn't look like it, but you never know. The couch is pretty stained already, like really stained. I shrug and stumble the six feet over to the VCR. Pressing eject, the cartridge slides out, and I expect there to be a tangle of tape spilling out. But it just slides out like normal. I grabbed the tape and check it over. Nothing wrong that I can see. So I put it back in.

It doesn't want to go back in. What the shit, man? I mumble as I try again and again, jamming the tape into the slot in every direction I can think of. I come at it from the side. Nope. I angle down and try to slide it in that way. Nope.

I hook it from the bottom. Nope. Doesn't matter how I try to trick the fucking machine, the damn tape won't go in the slot. Son of a bitch! My mother screams from above. Nothing, Ma! Fuck off and leave me alone! She doesn't shout back, so either she didn't hear me,

or my ears just don't give a shit and tune her out. Probably that last part, because goddamn, that woman really gets on my last nerve. I stare at the tape in my hands, and look over at the shoebox next to the VCR and the other tapes. There's one about big-boobed girls on spring break, and one about big-boobed girls in a sorority, and one about big-boobed girls at a car wash. and one about girls at some boarding school, but they aren't all big boobed.

There are also some old kids cartoon shows on a tape, but fuck those. Then I see a different tape. Huh? I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. I have never seen this tape in my life, and I've gone through all these tapes more than a few times. There's an old woman screaming on the front, and she looks familiar. A shotgun is on there and a whole lot of dripping blood, and some stairs. It's a messed up cover and makes no sense.

A fucking horror movie? I shiver. I hate horror movies. So I set the weird tape aside and try the one with the big-boobed girls in the sorority. The tape won't go in the slot. You know, if my older brother Frank were still here, he'd make some joke about how I can't get it in the slot

because I'm such a loser. But Frank ain't here no more now, is he? Nope. He and Ma got into an art. argument. The next morning, he was gone. Backed his shit right up and left, except for his car. He didn't take his car, which was weird. Ma says he left it for me to use, but I know that's bullshit. Frank hated my guts. And besides, I never did get my license. He left it because it was out of gas and two of the tires were slashed. No clue how they got slashed. They were like that

when I went out and looked at them. The tape with the big-boobbed sorority girls goes back into the shoebox. I pull out the one with the big-boobed spring breakers. Nope, on that one, too. And the car wash is a bust. I even try the boarding school tape, even though not all the girls are big-boobed. Even that one won't go in the goddamn BCR. What the fuck?

My stories! Ma yells from the top of the stairs. I didn't even hear the door open. I'm not Frank, Ma! I shout. reminding her for like the millionth fucking time. I'm Denny. Don't sass me, mister.

I know who came out of my hoo-ha. Just keep it down while I watch my stories. And no prongography. I ain't watching pornography. God damn, Ma. Leave me alone. The door shuts again, and I mutter curses under my breath,

because God damn that woman gets on my nerves. She'd better watch herself. She doesn't know what I'm capable of doing, which is a lot. I can do a lot. One day she'll see. But today I want to watch a movie, a porno movie.

Except none of the tapes are working no more, so I guess I'll have to see what's on the actual TV. Sighing loud because life is fucking hard, man. I kneel in front of the TV and change the channel from channel 4 to channel 6. The screen is a bunch of staticky nothing, so I grab one of the rabbit ears and move the piece of metal

until I start to see something like a person on the screen. I grab the other rabbit ear and move it a few inches to the left. The picture clears up enough for me to see that it's a game show. Some frumpy housewife is jumping up and down because she guessed how much a can of fucking beans costs. I like the jumping. The front has a nice rack. I wouldn't call her Big Boo,

but she got more than a lot of the boarding schools got. The game show host congratulates her, but I can see he's line. It's like when Frank used to give me a compliment, but I knew he was really making fun of me. He did that a lot. Make fun of me. I'm kind of glad the asshole is gone to tell the truth. Not that I like being left alone with Ma here. God damn her.

The Frump runs to the host and hugs him. I've had enough of this shit, so I changed the channel to Channel 8. There's more static, but not as bad as before. I adjust the antennae again and see it some talk show. The host is a woman with really big hair. That's all that's big. She's flat-chested, and I curl my lip up in disgust. But then the camera pulls back, and her guests are just right.

A caption at the bottom of the screen says, When Good Girls Go Bad, and I am instantly hooked. I hurry back to the couch, flop down, pick up the bong, pack it, and get to work, making everything all right, all right, all right. Then just as two of the good girls who are going bad stand up and start to face off against each other, a real catfight brewing. The picture goes all staticy. Then it cuts out and all I see is snow.

Son of a bitch! A foot pounds from above. Fuck off, Ma! I yell at the basement ceiling. The foot pounds again. God damn, Ma! I said fuck off! No more foot pounding, but I swear I can hear the angry pout on her face.

She always gets angry and pouty when I tell her to fuck off. It's her own damn fault. I wouldn't have to tell her to fuck off if she'd just leave me alone and fuck off. The TV is nothing but snow and white noise. I haul my ass up again and shuffle over to the fucking thing, smacking the side of it when I get there. Nothing. I smack it again.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Smack, smack, smack. Nope, not this time. I won't warn you again for you. Ma shouts, back at the top of the stairs. Ma, it's Denny, not Frank. God damn, woman.

Pull your head out of your ass. Don't you make me come down there and teach you some manners, young man? I can still whoop your butt. Ma, you can't whip a piece of white bread. My stomach grills. White bread makes me think of a sandwich. Ma, make me a fucking sandwich. I'm hungry.

Make your own damn sandwich. I'm trying to find you. fix the TV. What's wrong with the TV? If I knew that, then it'd already be fucking fixed. Stop cursing it me, Frank. God damn, Ma. It's me. It's Denny. Denny? Yeah. Well, keep it down. The door closes, and I go back to fixing the TV. Except nothing I do helps. I remove the rabbit ears in every damn direction they can go. I check each channel. One by goddamn one. No picture.

I heard a sound like a man shouting my name, but that's only because I'm high. It's only me and ma in the house, and no one on TV would know my name. I take a step back from the TV, and I swear to God I'm ready to kick that screen in when the shoebox catches my eye. I haven't tried putting that stupid horror tape in the VCR.

So I lower my foot, giving the TV a harsh look because it knows what it did, and step to the shoebox sitting on top of the VCR. I pick up the horror tape and turn it over in my hands. This farmhouse will know all the horror before the night is over, the back reads, and that's all it says. The rest of the description, and most of the graphics,

are smudged with old mildew. I wipe the stuff off and it takes everything with it, erasing the words and graphics, and leaving a black and blue and brown mess. Stupid tape, I say. and go to put it back in the shoebox. The tape slips out of the cover and almost smashes onto the basement's concrete floor. But I dip my hand down and catch it in time.

I can be really coordinated when I want. I should have been a ninja or baseball player. Or one of those guys who spins those signs and tosses them up in the air in front of cell phone stores. Mostly, I should have been a ninja. With the tape in my hand and no other choice, I stick it into the VCR slot. It slides in easily and the grabber thing grabs it.

I do a little happy dance and shuffle back to the couch. I'm seated and loading my bong when I realize I left the remote by the TV. There is the scrape of a chair upstairs and heavy footsteps. I ignore them. It's just Ma being a bitch. Before I can get to the TV, and way before I can grab the remote, the tape starts playing. I freeze. On the screen is me. Me? He is standing right where I'm standing now, except the me on the TV is covered in blood and looking all around like he super panicked and wants to hide, which is exactly what he does. He finally spins about and scrambles over to the couch. What in the hell? The me on the TV attempts to leap over the back at the couch, but misses and slams into the back cushions instead, then rolls himself up over it, falling out of sight.

Then a face appears for a split second and I gasp. Frank? But the face is gone just as fast. I shake off my confusion and hurry to the VCR, hitting pause while I grab the remote. The image stops and several lines on the screen warp and twist everything on the screen. The couch is almost split in half, and the wall behind it is just a bunch of wriggly mush.

Then I go and sit my ass back down on the couch. No, I don't look behind it. That'd be some goddamn coward shit, and I'm not a coward. We've already established that I should be a ninja, and ninjas are not cowards. I hit play on the remote. The squiggly, wiggly lines go away, and I stare at the image of my basement in the couch with the bloody stains and handprints now on it. Nothing happens. No TV me, no Frank's face.

I wait for a good few minutes. Still nothing happens. Fuck this, I say and press rewind. But it doesn't do anything. Come on! I press and press and press, and the tape still won't rewind. So I hit stop, then I hit rewind.

The VCR makes a loud thunk, then a loud thunk, then I hear the whir of the motor rewinding the tape. Counting to ten, I hit stop, and the whirring slows, then the thunk and clunk happen again. Let's see what you got for me, I say, and hit play. Frank's face is there, screaming silently out. at me and I almost screen back at him except he disappears once more. Now the images of the basement, same angle and everything.

It's like there's a video camera on top of the TV, recording it all except there isn't a video camera on top of the TV. Not right now. We used to have one, but Frank ponded it so he could get an iPod. And I haven't seen Frank or his iPod in a very long time, so what the hell? Thinking of Frank, I start to wonder when this video was made. I don't remember making it. And how could I? My phone is a flip phone that was Frank's old one. He left that too, which was kind of stupid of him.

Who leaves their phone in car? I guess Frank was an asshole and an idiot. I packed the bong. When I take a hit, I suck in too fast and start coughing like my lungs, want to crawl out of my throat and explode all over the rug. War pounding from upstairs. I'd tell Ma to fuck off some more, but I can't catch my breath, so I just cough and cough.

The image on the screen shows me coming down the basement stairs, then plopping onto the couch. TV Me packs the bong and hits it. Good on TV Me. He hits it too hard too, and both me and TV Me are suffering through an epic coughing fit. The pounding from above gets louder and louder and louder. Then I hear the doorbell ring.

Ma shouts something. I don't know if she's calling me to go answer the door or yelling at the person at the door to go away. Hard to hear since I'm still coughing. Footsteps above. Angry, heavy footsteps. Ma is pissed. She must have been yelling at the person at the door to go away.

Still coughing, although not as bad, I watch as TV me gets his shit together and slowly stops coughing. I slow and stop too. Voices from upstairs filter down through the floorboards. That voice is Ma. County office. Don't know that one. It's a guy, though.

Your ass! Ma again. Come back. The guy. My ass! Why is Ma talking about asses so much? Then, I jump and look up at the ceiling. The TV me does too and jumps up from the couch,

hurrying up the stairs and off the screen in a flash. Should I do that too? I hear someone yelling. The guy. He's shouting something about, Now I know that, Kaboom. That's Daddy's old shotgun. I'm off the couch and running to the stairs.

No guy is shouting anymore. I don't hear Ma either. When I get to the top of the stairs, I shove the door open and hurry through the kitchen. Ma! I yell and rush down the hallway to the front door. I'm out on the porch and a heartbeat, because I'm a fast fucking ninja. Then I come to a full stop. Ma?

I ask right before I rush to the railing and throw up over it into Ma's azaleas. I don't know who that used to be on the front steps, but there ain't much of a little of him left intact, that's for goddamn sure. Stupid fucking assholes interrupting my stories. Ma mutters as I stand up. Turn around slowly and wipe the puke from my mouth with the back of my hand. Done with it. Yeah, yeah, done with it.

Ain't going to deal with these assholes no more. Ma, I say. And she pauses as she breaks the shotgun with one hand and holds two fresh shells in her other. She slowly turns her head and looks at me. Her eyes are bloodshot and kind of wild. Ma? I say again. You all right? She cocks her head.

I already killed your noisy ass. She says to me and continues what she was doing. She dumps the old shells out, then slides the fresh shells into the barrel, snapping it back together with a flick of her arm. How'd you come back? Devil send you? He sent you to take my soul down to hell? That it, Frank? Ma, I'm not...

I start to say, but don't finish, because I'm diving down onto the porch as Ma swings. the shotgun at me. She pulls the trigger and the air over me explodes. So does the railing I just leaned over and used to hold myself up as I puked in Ma's azaleas. God damn, Ma! I'm sorry about the azaleas! I scream as I scramble on my hands and knees, shouldering into her legs, knocking her out of my way as I try to get around her so I can get off the porch and make a run for it. Fucking chill, Ma! God damn! I make it to the steps, but forget that there's a lot of blood and body bits coating them.

My hand hits what looks like part of an ear and slips out from under me. I lose my balance and face-plant hard on the edge of the top step, my teeth biting right through the tip of my tongue. Screaming from the pain, I use my other hand to push myself up, but can't hold on, and in half a second I'm slipping and tumbling head over ass down the front steps. I killed you proper before, Frank! Ma screams as she reloads the shotgun. I'll kill you proper again!

It's me! It's deady! I shot around my bloody tongue as I try to get my feet under me, but they keep slipping in the dead guy's mess. Ma don't care who it is. She levels the shotgun at me, and I have a second to roll to the side before she puts both barrels into the pile of goo that used to be whoever was unlucky enough to come

and interrupt Ma's stories today. I managed to get to my feet and race around the house. The basement storm doors are locked and bolted, so I keep going until I reach the side door into the kitchen. Yanking on the knob, I slam into the door. It's fucking locked. God damn, Ma! Why'd she fucking lock the kitchen door?

But she ain't as smart as me. I crouch and pick up the flower pot on the right side. Huh? No key. I set the pot down and pick up the flower pot on the left side. There's the fucking key. With it gripped in my hand, I stand and unlock the door. Blood is pouring out of my mouth and all down the front of my t-shirt.

I'm soaked in my own blood. I shoved the door open and run into the kitchen. Ma is coming down the hallway with a shotgun up. Gonna kill you dead this time for sure, Frank. Ma, goddamn, it's me, it's Denny. But I can see by the cuckoo look in her eye that she doesn't hear me. Always coming home high off your damn mind, stumbling through the door like some stray dog,

and always interrupting my stories. What kind of son are you? You deserve this, Frank. Ma, stop! She fires and I throw myself to the kitchen floor. My hands are super bloody, and they slip out from under me. My face plants again, and I feel my nose go crunch. Pain shoots through my bones, rattling my teeth,

and I gasp and grunt, crawling toward the basement door. My hands and knees and whole body slip sliding through my own blood. I managed to get to the door, reach up, yank it open, and then I'm on the basement stairs. I stand and pull the door closed, then right. down the stairs, which is exactly what TV Me is doing. It's the same scene from before, the exact same one. Yeah, well, fuck the TV and the tape and the TV me and everything. I'm gonna do this right. I turn and sprint to the couch, leaping over the back in one fluid motion, just like

a ninja. Well, almost. I totally slam into the back cushions and have to sort of drag and roll myself up over the top of the couch. When I fall behind it, my shoulder slams into the concrete floor and the pain radiates all the way up into my head making my tongue and my nose cry with pain all my shit really fucking hurts I could use a bong hit so I crawl around the side and grab the bong and my stash that's when I see Frank's face again on the TV he's screaming and screaming and screaming use your goddamn words I shout at the Frank ghost thing whatever it is then I scramble back behind the couch I have the bong packed and lit just as I hear the

door open above. You can't hide, Frank! Ma shouts, and then she starts down the stairs. I go for full courage and hit that bomb. Then I realized that I hit it all wrong, and the smoke is going down the wrong pipe. And oh fuck, I'm so gonna cough my brains out! Where ya! I can tell from her voice that she's halfway down the stairs.

Where ya? Teach you to interrupt my stories again. You hear me, Frank? Gonna finally teach ya! My lungs ache and my chest hitches as the the smoke fights to get free. But I hold it and hold it, and then cough like I've never coughed before. There you are!

My eardrums nearly burst as both barrels unload on the couch. Bits of stuffing and wood splinters explode all around me. After a moment, I check and make sure I'm not hit. It doesn't feel like it. What the heck is this? Ma asks. Is that me? Why am I on the TV?

There's a pause. Frank, why am I on the TV? Slowly, I crawl to the end of the couch and peek out. Ma is watching the TV, and I can just catch a part of the screen. Yeah, now the damn tape is showing her in the basement. She's reloading the shotgun. As if that reminds Ma, she does the same thing, and in seconds she and TV Ma are locked and loaded.

Did you kill Frank, too? Ma asks the TV. I don't hear an answer, and can't see if TV Ma nods or not. Ma? I whisper, and then duck my head back. Who's that? Where are you, Frank? It's not Frank, Ma. I say from behind the couch.

It's me. It's Denny. Danny? Yeah, Ma, Denny. Frank ain't back there with you, is he? No, Ma. Frank's gone, remember? He left. Ha, ha, ha, ma. I pull myself up and look over the back of the couch. Ma is giggling like a schoolgirl.

Frank ain't gone? Ma says around her giggles. Who told you that? You did Ma, I say and stand all the way up. You told me he left. Ma keeps giggling, then looks over her shoulder at the corner of the basement. It's an area we had to repair once because the wall was starting to crumble. I've stared at those newer concrete blocks for hours, tracing their outlines with my eyes over and over while I took bong hits.

Then it hits me like a shotgun, which is a horrible thing to think right now considering. I think I know where Frank actually ended up. Ma, did you kill Frank? Ain't you been listening? She asks as her giggles subside. I've been telling you that I killed you all day long. But I'm not Frank, I say. I'm Denny, your other son.

My other son? Yeah, Ma, your other son. I say and start to ease out from behind the couch. Danny? Yeah, ma. Not Frank? No, Ma. She nods.

Then she lifts the shotgun. gun. Danny interrupts my stories too! As the life pours out of me and it all fades to black, I hear her ad... God damn, pronography watcher! First rule is the diner is for eating. The manager, Horton Shulkill, says to me as I try to tie my apron around my waist. When he doesn't continue, I look up and see him glaring at me. You gonna listen, kid? Are you gonna play with yourself? Um, sorry. I say. and give up on the apron.

I can't seem to get it tied. Forget about the apron. I don't want to get my shirt messy. Horton eyes me, then laughs. It isn't a kind laugh. It isn't meant to make me feel better. No, it's a cruel laugh. The laugh of someone who knows better.

Kid, by the time your shift is over, you'll be lucky that shirt isn't covered in shit, blood or vomit, are all three. This is the midnight diner. The whole city comes here, and the city brings its messes right along. Which is why we have the rules. You follow the rules, and you'll make it here just fine. You miss even one rule and, well, it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that. Right, sorry, I say, and just let the strings of my apron fall to the side. Horton's size reaches out and tries to tie my apron.

for me and tries and tries. Atticus! He shouts, making the few customers in the diner look up from their plates. Get your ass out of here now! I'm busy! A voice calls out from the kitchen. I don't give a good goddamn! Get your ass out here now!

The sound of pans being thrown and dishes breaking echoes out from the order window. Then silence. Finally, a grizzled old man. man who has to be in his late 80s or close to it comes shuffling out of the kitchen's swinging door. Like Horton, Atticus is human, which isn't always the case in the city. But the guy is so shriveled and wrinkly that he looks like he could be any one of several different species. A small troll, a large hobgoblin, an elf left too long in the sun, a hairless wendigo,

although he'd have to have antlers coming out of his head to be a wendigo. But who knows? Maybe he had them removed. What'd you do to this apron? Horton asks Atticus, his finger aiming right at my wrist. Did you hex the strings? No. Atticus says, and turns to go back to the kitchen.

Hold your horses, mister. Horton barks. Are you lying to me? Yep. Atticus says without breaking stride. He's lost to the kitchen once more, and the sounds of pots and pans banging start up again. Give me that.

Horton says, and snaps his fingers at me. Give you what? What do you think? The damn apron. Right. Sorry. I take the apron off and hand it to him. He mumbles a few words that I can't quite hear,

then tosses the apron back at me. It hits me in the face, and I fumble to keep from dropping it. Do I need to tell you what to do next? No, sir. Sorry, I say, and put the apron back on. The strings tie without a problem. Well,

Now that we have that stupidity out of the way, Horton says and rubs his face. Where were we? You said the first rule is that the diner is for eating. The first rule? We're only on the first damn rule. He shakes his head and turns away from me, muttering. I'm going to burn this place down one day. Mark my words.

Can I get some more coffee? A young ogre shouts from the corner booth. Coming right up! Horton says, his voice cheery and polite, not the mean grass. he's been subjecting me to, he nods. Follow me. Porton grabs the coffee pot from the machine and walks out from behind the counter. I do as he says and follow right behind.

We walk past a few customers finishing their meals. None of them is who I'm looking for. How is everything? He asks the young ogre, who is busy reading a very thick book. Good book? It's fine, the young ogre says, and pushes his coffee cup close to the edge of the table. Excellent, excellent, Wharton says, pouring coffee.

Are you interested in ordering some food? Or will it just be coffee this morning? Just coffee! The ogre says in a tone that tells me he's five seconds from smashing the now full cup with his fist, or with the book. The thing is thick enough to easily crack ceramic, sure. Very well then,

Orton says, and gives a little bow. Just holler when you need more. The ogre stops reading and looks up at Horton. His eyes are the color of brushed steel. Or you can do your job and keep my cup full without me having to ask. Can you do that old man? Can you? Horton swallows, and the sound echoes throughout the diner. Then he widens his smile and does the same small bow again.

Of course. He turns to leave and almost crashes into me. I have to scramble to get out of his way. I glance at the young ogre. but he's back to reading his book, as if none of that had just happened. If I was my regular self, I'd show him some manners, but I can't crack now. This is a long game. When we're back behind the counter, I asked Corton.

Is one of the rules that we have to kiss rude customers' asses? You ever see what an ogre can do to a man's head with just one hand? Corton asks, setting the coffee pot back in the machine. Um, no, I lie. Then shut your trap about rude customers. Unless they start to get violent, they can be as rude as they want to be. He fixes his eyes on me and grins. It's a genuine grin.

As long as they can pay. Is that a rule? What? That they pay? No, no, that's commerce. That's the law. Right. Of course.

Sorry. Stop saying sorry. Or I'll give you something to be sorry about. My dad used to say that. That, wise man. He was eaten by a griffin over near Stalkers Park when I was eight. Stalkers Park? What was he doing over there? Stocking? Walked into that one, Horton mutters. We stand there for a second, me anxious that have already blown the job before I've even taken my first order. And Horton, probably wondering whether he's made a huge mistake in hiring me. I can't blow this job.

I put in a lot of work to get it. Why is the first rule the diner is for eating? What does that even mean? Horton takes a deep breath to get himself back on track. It means this diner is for eating, not for fighting, not for working, not for hunting, not for nothing except for sitting down, ordering some food and eating it. Or drinking. What?

Or drinking. Like the ogre in the corner. He's just drinking. Horton blinks, then shakes his head. Yeah, and for drinking too. But that's sort of implied in the eating. I start to argue the point, since drinking isn't the same as eating. But the look on Horton's face makes my words die before they can pass my lips.

The front door chimes, and three women of indiscriminate age walk in. Their heads close together as they whisper to each other. I say indiscriminate age, because their features continually shift from young to old to middle age over and over and over. Sit anywhere you'd like, ladies, Horton calls out. The three look up and stare at us. Their faces solidify into three young women, and they each give us huge smiles.

Thank you, kind sir, one of them says, ushering her friends to the closest table. They plop down and lean close again. Their whispers, like a cold draft warming its way through a crack in an old window pane. Orton grabs three menus and then nods at me to follow. Ladies, he says, setting a menu in front of each of them. Something to drink to start.

Black tea, one says. Same. The second says. I like the fruit smoothie, but instead of strawberries, can you add frog livers? The third asks. No, I am sorry, but we cannot do substitutions. Cannot? Oh, I'm sure you can figure out a way to make this sweet.

The woman says, adding her eyes at Horton. Unfortunately, no. Horton says, then he turns to me. That is the second rule. No substitutions. Why? Yeah, we'd like to know why, too. The third woman says. My apologies, ladies, Horton says.

I am training this young man. It is his first day. He clears his throat. The reason for the second rule is that we have a set menu and only one cook. Substitutions tend to create hiccups in our efficient flow, and orders become backed up, hurting all customers. That's it, the first woman asks. You don't want to be inconvenienced?

That, and we also do not want any inadvertent hexes to be created. Orton continues. You'd be surprised how a tweak here and a tweak there can change an ordinary dish like a tuna melt into a nightmare of a sentient sandwich that tries to eat all of the customers. Oh, crap. Has that happened? I asked. It was an example only, Horton says. Then focuses on the third woman.

Would you still care for the smoothie as is, ma'am? Yeah, sure. I don't care, the woman says with a shrug. I just like the taste of liver, but strawberries are good too. Excellent. Two black teas and a smoothie coming right up. I'll have the teas out right away. The smoothie will just be a minute. He leaves the table, and I follow right behind. Witches, he says under his breath, as he grabs two cups for the tea and puts in the order for the smoothie. They are one of the main reasons we don't do substitutions.

Them? I ask, looking over at the women. Stop staring, fool. Sorry. You see, kid, witches will substitute ingredients all day long until the next thing you know, you've brewed up some elixir for them that not only cost ten, ten, ten. what the original dish would have cost, but can also turn you into a dog or tree or shoe salesman. I don't want to be any of those things. No one does, kid. No one does. He pours hot water over the tea bags, then picks up the cups and starts to walk away. I begin to follow, but he shakes his head.

Go check on the ogre and see how his coffee is, Orton says. Also, see if he wants his check. The lunch rush will be soon, and we'll need the table. Lunch rush? It's two in the morning. Not everyone eats lunch in the middle of the day, kid. Oh, right. Sorry. I'll ask. I look around, basically turning in a circle like a moron, then stop, take a breath, grab the coffee pot, and head over to the corner booth. Gotta play the part. Got to play the part. Got to play the part. Got to play the part. Want a fill up? I asked the young ogre. No. Um, would you like the check?

No. Oh. I just sort of stand in place. He shut me down on the two things I was supposed to accomplish, so I'm not quite sure where to go from here. You need something? The ogre asks, without looking up from his book. I, um, well, we sort of will need the table in a bit, I say.

The lunch rush is coming. And that's my problem, how? Oh, it's not. It's not. And why are you still standing here bothering me? Smoothie up! Atticus shouts from the order window. I, uh, well, um...

I stammer as I try to figure out how to get myself out of this customer service debacle have gotten myself into. What's the name of the book? What? The book you're reading? What's the name? He rolls his eyes, then flips the book over. How to make enemies and disembowl people? I say, reading the cover out loud. So it's self-help?

It helps someone. The young ogre says, then goes back to reading. Right, great. I'll come back soon and check on your coffee. Good idea. I hurry back behind the counter and set the coffee pot into the machine. My hands are shaking so hard I thought I was going to drop the pot. Don't worry, ogre's bites are worse than their barks, Atticus says from the order window. Don't you mean their barks are worse than their bites?

Did I say that? No. Then you figure it. it out, genius? I nod an apology and narrow my eyes. Is this the smoothie for the table with the three ladies? I ask, seeing that the smoothie hasn't been picked up and delivered yet. I look about the diner. Where's Horton? No clue, genius. Atticus says, then moves away from the order window and out of sight. Then there's more crashing of pots and pans. I grabbed the smoothie and deliver it to the table. Straw? I ask.

Thanks, the third woman says as she proceeds to gulp down the smoothie. The other two just watch me closely, their eyes twinkling like they have a secret. If they're witches like Horton said, then they probably have all kinds of secrets. But something in the way they keep shifting in their seats tells me that this secret is relevant to the diner. Um, not to be a bother, but have you seen the manager? I ask. We have. The first woman replies. Oh, good, I say with audible relief. Um, did you happen to see where he went? Bossed track of the bus, did you?

The second woman asks. The third woman is busy smacking her lips, having finished her smoothie. I tried to think of something to say that doesn't sound stupid. When nothing comes to mind, I just nod. Have you looked for him? The second woman asks. Like, really looked for him? The first woman adds.

Not yet, no, I say, and I'm about to continue when something catches my eye. Horton is inside the salt shaker and pounding his little tiny fists against the glass as he screams and screams and screams. I point. Did you do that? Who? Us? The first woman asks with fake innocence. Do we look like we could shrink a man and put him inside a salt shaker?

The second woman asks. I'm ready to order. Are you guys ready to order? order? The third woman says. Totally. The first woman says. You okay, kid? The second woman asks me. You look like you're going to be sick. My eyes never leave the salt shaker. It's, you know, my first day, and now my boss is an assault shaker, and the lunch rush is coming, and I haven't even learned the third rule for the midnight diner. I say all in a rush. Lunch rush? It's 2.30 in the morning, the second woman says. I think I'll have the Monte Cristo sandwich.

The third woman says. But I don't know. Rules? The first woman asks and leans toward me. Tell us about these rules. Um, the diner is for eating and no substitutions, I say in Shrug. That's all I've learned. The first woman frowns.

That's so sad. Maybe I'll have the sloppy Joe instead. The third woman muses and looks at me. How much real Joe is there in the sandwich? An arm, a leg, a torso? Are we talking the whole Joe here? I'd have to ask the cook. Look at that sad face, the first woman says.

He's really bumming me out. You want to set the prick free from the shanker, don't you? The second woman responds to the first. For the kids' sake. Seriously? Look at him. They do, and I shrink a little. Not literally.

I don't think I could shrink any more than I have. but I give the appearance of collapsing in on myself. Honestly, I'm surprised they haven't sniffed me out. Chris crinkle on a cracker. Yeah, he does look sad. The second woman says with a laugh, Just pitiful. Hey, can I get some more coffee?

The young ogre shouts. Be right there, sir. Sir? The second woman says, looking over her shoulder. Did you just call an ogre, sir? It's the polite thing to do. Is that one of the rules? The first woman asks.

I don't know. I reply. Maybe. I haven't heard all the rules. We know. The first woman interrupts. The black-eyed peas. The third woman says, tapping the menu.

How exactly do they get the black eyes? Do you punch the peas yourselves? Do they already come pre-beaten? Hey, man, my coffee? Be right there, sir. I sigh and try to steady my voice. May I please ask you ladies to release the manager so I can continue training? Only because you said please.

The first woman says and grabs the salt shaker. She tosses it to me and I barely catch it after bobbling it a bit. Take that behind your counter and dump it on the floor. He'll be good as new. Just dump it out? I ask, holding the salt shaker like it's a precious egg. Behind the counter, it won't work unless you're not. you're behind the counter. Oh, okay. Thanks. I hurried to the counter, trying to look at the

corner booth along the way. I'll get that coffee for you now. Behind the counter, I crouched down and unscrew the shaker's lid. Then I turned it upside down and let the contents, which include Horton, dump out onto the rubber runner. Before I can even move, Horton is growing full size, the top of his head clipping my chin and making me bite my tongue. Damn, witches! Horton exclaims under his breath as he brushes salt from his clothes. Always with the little tricks, he frowns. What's wrong with you, kid?

Bit my tongue. Coffee! The young ogre roars. I'm stuck inside a salt shaker for a few minutes, and you've already forgotten how to do your job, Gordon says, exasperated. I was setting you free. I protest as I grabbed the coffee pot.

I'm on it, I'm on it. My stomach growls. Uh-oh. No breaks and no meals until after your shift, Orton says. What? I ask, halfway around the counter. You will have to ignore your stomach, kid. You work until the work is done.

I stare at him for a moment as my stomach growls again. He thinks he knows why. He's wrong. Go on. He snaps. Get the ogre's coffee. I nod and hurry off. Took you long enough?

The young ogre says when I reach his table and fill his cup. I'll take that stupid check now. Oh, great, I say. I'll be right back. Great. What does that mean? You want to get rid of me. Is that it? What?

No, no. It's just the booth will be free for the rush, that's all. I didn't mean anything by it. Better not have. I'm sweating like a cursed pig when I get back behind the counter and start looking for the ogre's check. Orton hands it to me. Cash only, he says.

Good to know. Good to know. I say and start to walk off. He grabs my arm. No, that's the third rule. Cash only. We don't take jewels, gold, weapons of any kind, cursed or not. And certainly no cursed feathers, rocks, beans, definitely no magic beans. Firstborns, wishes, promises, goose eggs, golden or otherwise. Spun straw or frogs. And no personal checks or credit cards. So just cash. Just cash. Just cash. I nod and hustle back to the ogre. His check pinched between my fingers. Here you go, I say, and set the check down by his coffee cup. You pay at the register. He just rolls his eyes. When I return to the counter, the ogre is heading toward the restrooms.

The door chime dings, and about a dozen wraiths come shuffling into the diner, each with a stack of delivery bags in their arms. They hiss and grunt from inside their dark hoods, and I watch their short bodies move toward the center. Be nice to the wraiths, Porton whispers to me as he bends over the counter to look at the short creatures. Each wraith's head barely clears the top of the counter. That's the fourth rule. Oh, I'm always nice to wraiths.

It's just a good general rule to have. Be nice to the wraiths. They handle all food deliveries in the city. And if you piss even one of them off, then word spreads. And soon you're getting three-day-old pad-tie-dye delivered. to you instead of fresh lobster rolls. Yeah, being nice to the wraiths is always a good idea. Plus, I want to stay off their radar. If anything can sniff me out, it's a wraith. Atticus! Horton shouts. What?

Atticus asks after he appears in the order window. Then he looks past us at the tops of hoods at the counter. Oh, right. Send him back. Atticus has your orders ready in the kitchen, Corton says to the wraiths. The wraiths shuffled past the counter and through the kitchen door. The sound of pots and pans being banged around increases a hundredfold, and I swear someone is screaming too. But then the kitchen door swings open, and the wraiths walk out with their delivery bags full,

all headed for the front door. What happened back there? I asked Gordon. What do you mean? The wraiths picked up their orders. That's what happened back there. Yeah. But it sounded like... It sounded like work is what it sounded like.

You know work, right, kid? I get the hint and let the subject drop. Um, what's the fifth rule? Always ask about allergens or dietary needs, he says. Speaking of, have you taken the witch's orders yet? Oh, no. I was busy getting you out of the salt shaker. Well, you still have to do your job.

Right. I was going to go back to them after filling the ogre's coffee. But then you... You're blaming me for your laziness? What? No, I'm not blaming you for anything. I was just... So you take responsibility for your own laziness.

That's how it should be. I wasn't being... Go take their order. Okay, sure. And I'll remember the fifth rule. You'll remember all the rules. But I've only learned... Go!

I scrambled out from behind the counter and over to the witches. Have you decided? Going with the Monte Cristo. The third woman says, It's not made from real count, is it? My system can't do too much aristocracy. Tears me up inside. It's not pretty.

It's not, the second woman says. And I'll have the vegetable soup. But instead of green beans, I'd like newt legs. Thanks. No substitution, sorry. How about I substitute your head for a donkey's ass? I bet you'll be real sorry then. Dear, calm down.

The first woman says to the second. The kid is only doing his job. Whatever. The second woman replies. She looks me up and down. Kid. Right. Would you still like the soup?

I ask, ignoring her scrutiny. She may suspect, but she doesn't know. If she did, they'd let me know. Fine. I'll have the soup with the green beans. She finally says. We could get fried newtlegs on the side, the third woman suggests.

Do that, the second says to me. Fried meat legs on the side. Got it, I say, and look at the first woman. And for you? You never answered me about the amount of count in the Monte Cristo. The third woman says. None as far as I know. I say, my focus still on the first woman.

Ma'am, the garden salad with blue cheese dressing. Extra onions, please. Great, I'll get your order in right away. Thank you, ladies. I say and rushed back to the counter, excited to put in my first order. Did you ask about allergens? Orton asks me. Crap!

No, I forgot. I'll go ask now. Yes, you will. Do you know what would happen if a minor demon were to come in here and there was salt in its food? Um, no. Well, it's not good. They swell up and then explode. And it can take weeks to find all the pieces.

Demons have a way of detonating in the most of... annoying of ways. I didn't know that. Or if you were to serve a cupcake to a werewolf. What if the decorations have silver in them? Sometimes Atticus gets a little crazy with the edible glitter. It gives the food pizzazzed. Atticus shouts from the kitchen. I don't want any werewolves or minor demons to get hurt, I say. No, no, you do not. Gordon responds and snaps his fingers. Go ask them. I go and ask the witches if they have any food allergies or special dietary needs. The third woman wonders about the amount of count and the Monte Cristo again. I rush back to Horton, who tells me that it is a ridiculous question,

and to stop letting the witches waste my time. No count. I call over to the witches. Thanks, doll. The third woman replies. Here, the young ogre says, setting his check on the counter along with a $10 bill. Keep the change. Oh, thanks. I say, and grab the check. And grab the check and money then walk to the register. Have a great day. It's night. Oh, right. Sorry.

Have a great night. I entered the check and break the tent from the register's till. I'm about to put the tip in my pocket when Horton grabs my hand. I took his order when he got here. That's my tip, he snarls. Little flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. I open my hand and he snatches the money out of it in a blink. I barely see him move before my.

My palm is empty. You'll make plenty during the rush, he says, and then glances at the clock on the wall above the order window. Speaking of, it should start right about now. The front door opens, and people and creatures and entities of all shapes, sizes, and species come pouring in. None of the species I'm hoping for. A group of leprechauns takes the corner booth where the young ogre had been.

Three babadooks sit in a middle booth, a lone hand. takes a two-top. A human dressed in an overcoat and looking like some private detective or something sits at the corner booth with a gorgeous woman with snakes for hair. Since no one turns to stone, I guess the woman isn't a true Gorgon. She probably had her hair stylist enchant her hair. Rule six is no substitutions, Horton says as he starts doing stretches. Remember that. I thought that was rule number two? It's both. It's an important rule. You give those lepracons anything with blueberries in it, and they will rip this diner apart like frat boys on pixie dust.

That would be bad. You think? He sighs, then takes a deep breath, holds it, and sighs again. Gird your loins, kid. We go into battle now. All at once, the door opens, and even more people and creatures come in. Within a minute, the diner is packed to capacity. Every booth and table occupied, with a line stretching.

out the door. Still, none of them are my target. I'm taking orders, asking questions, reminding the customers that it's cash only, and carefully explaining that there are no substitutions. And asking about food allergies, I have to keep remembering to ask that. How filtered is your blood? The beautiful woman sitting with the private dick, asks. I mean, I assume he's a private dick. He just has that vibe. I'm not sure. I'll ask, I say. knowing I have zero time to ask. Is there something you are avoiding that you need to make sure is filtered out?

Regret. She says. I can't stand the taste of regret. I'm not sure we can filter that out. Don't listen to Vampira here, the private dick says. It's Angelica and fuck you, Peyton. She snaps. I'm joking.

The private dick. I guess his name is Peyton, says. I bring clients here all the time. The blood is top-notch. Then I'll have a pint of the blood of the day, she says to me. Excellent choice. And you, sir? Coffee and whatever cake you have. I really don't care what it is.

Just grab the first slice, you see. I think it's Black Forest. That works. He eyes me carefully. Anything else? He slowly shakes his head. I place their order and six others. Then get back out on the floor and keep drinks filled.

Plates moving. Napkins handed out. dropped forks replaced, and a million other things that happen all at once. Food is ready. Food is delivered. Horton screams at me over my mistakes. I fix the mistakes. More drinks filled, and food delivered. Hey, kid. Aiton, the private dick says, when I dropped the check off at his table. Do I know you? I don't know, I say, clearing their plates. Yeah, I swear I know you, he says, snapping his fingers as he thinks.

Something about the eyes. Leave the kid alone, Peyton, Angelica says. He's trying to work. Peyton eyes me, then shakes his head. Damn it, it's not coming to me. You pay it to register, I say when he picks up his check. Yeah, kid, I know. More drinks refilled, more food delivered, more orders taken.

A booth of cobbles almost starts a fight with the leprechauns as they leave. But Horton gets in between them and smooths out the ruffled shambor. rocks. The three witches have finished eating, but wave me off every time I try to give them their check. We're thinking about dessert, the third woman says, giving me a wink. You look sweet. What flavor are you? Frustration. The second woman says, taking in a deep sniff. Oh, and something else? What is it with you, kid? Learned any new rules during the rush? The first woman asks. Uh, no, been too busy. I say and grimace. Are you sure you don't want the check?

They don't respond except to bat their eyes and smile at me. Okay, well, let me know if you decide on dessert. Oh, we'll let you know. The third woman says. Then she burps before patting her stomach. I think that sandwich did have count in it. She farts. Yep, there was count.

I go pale and they all laugh. She's playing with you. The first woman says to me as I almost start to hyperventilate. She double-checked before she even took her first bite. The third woman farts again. Must be the smoothie, she says. And all three cackle so loud it cuts through the noise of the lunch rush. Although now the rush is starting to slow down.

Fewer and fewer citizens of this infernal city come through the door. What time do you close? Payton asks me as I refill his coffee. I, uh... I blink a few times. Um, I don't know. Can you ask for me? Yeah, sure.

I find Horton after he delivers two unicorn burgers to a pair of bog dwellers. They're moldy rags, hanging off them like Spanish moss from an old oak. Rule number seven, Horton says, not pausing to answer my question, forcing me to hurry behind in his wake as he flits from table to table. Diner hours are set. Okay, great, but what time do we close? At midnight? At midnight?

I thought we opened it at midnight? We do. We close at midnight and open at midnight. He stops and glars at me. It's why this place is called the midnight diner. But if we are always open, why is it a rule? Because it is. But diner hours are set. Seems like a waste of a rule.

You can just post that on the door. It is, Horton points at the front door. Open from midnight to midnight. Says it right there. Yeah, but... Do you want to argue or do you want to work? Sorry. I say and grab two omelets from the order window

and deliver them to a pair of college students dressed all in black leather. Hot sauce? One asks. The other snaps his fingers and hot sauce appears next to their plates. Thanks. I hurry over to Peyton, the private dick.

Um, the hours are. I start to say and he laughs. Ha, ha, ha, I was just messing with you, kid. I told him not to. Angelica adds. You do remind me of someone I know, though. I shrug and walk off. Slowly, table by table, the diner starts to clear out,

until all that are left are the three witches, who still say they are deciding on dessert. The private dick and his blood-drinking date, a booth filled with haints who I'm pretty sure are talking about skipping out on their bill, and a pair of banshees having a quiet meal of oats and cream. Oh, and a single vampire who keeps claring at the private dick's date. Can I get you anything else? I ask the vampire.

He looks up at me and snarls, revealing one of his sharp canines. I gulp. How is the blood of the day? Adequate. He says, his eyes leaving me and returning to Angelica. Good, good. I say and set his check on the table. You can pay at the register.

I will pay here at the table, he says, and wriggles his fingers at me. Repeat it back to me. I'm sorry? What I just said. About paying at the table? Yes, repeat it back to me. Um, you will pay here at the table. Very good.

But, and I apologize for this, you have to pay at the register. He tears his eyes away from Angelica and glares at me. What did you just say? That you have to pay at the register. His eyes flash red, and he wriggles his fingers at me again. No, I will pay here at the table. Sir. I am sure you would like to do that, but we require you to pay it to register.

He blinks a few times and then looks at his fingers. How are you not mesmerized? Oh, I'm working. They don't allow mesmerization while employees are on shift. Is that so? Yes, it's an official rule. I'm still learning those, but it was in the employee handbook that my manager made me read before I started today. Also, there's no way to mesmerize me the way I am.

The vampire glares at it. me even harder. Do you know who I am? I shake my head. I am Count Ralph Collingsworth. I shake my head again. I don't know who that is. I am Count Ralph Collingsworth. Yes, you said that. You not knowing who I am is no excuse. Excuse for what? For this horrid treatment you are subjecting me to. Is there a problem here? Orton asks as he comes up behind me and roughly shoves me to the side. Ah, Count Collingsworth, it's good to see you. Horton, the Count says and nods. I see you have a new trainee. Yes, I do. Is he being trained today? He is, yes. Ah, so that is why he does not know that I pay at the table. Horton sighs. Count Collingsworth, we have gone over this time and time

again. All customers pay at the register. The count wriggles his, his fingers, but Horton just waves him off. Now, none of that, Count. Do I need to call Melinda again? The Count stops wriggling his fingers and tucks his hands into his lap. Please don't, he says in a small voice. Horton sighs. Then you have to behave. All customers pay at the register. Okay. Thank you, Count.

Yeah, sure. No problem, Wharton. Horton leaves, and I follow right on his tail. What was all that about? Count Collingsworth is special needs, Orton says. He got left out in the sun one morning and has been off ever since. This used to be his favorite haunt of his, so he comes here almost every day and every day he tries to pay at the table. Well, if he's special needs, shouldn't we accommodate him?

Not at the midnight diner, no. Rule number eight is all customers are equal. Species, social status, or special needs do not apply when a customer walks through the front door. Customers follow the rules and they pay at the register. They cannot do that, and then, well, they shall be punished. Horton grunts and punches his leg. Damn it. That's rule number ten.

Those who break the rules shall be punished. We skipped rule nine. I know. I take a step back as Horton's face turns bright red. He's gonna blow. Atticus says, hurrying out from the kitchen with a bowl of ice water. He dumps it over Horton's head, and literal steam wafts up to the ceiling. That'll fix it.

Thank you, Atticus. Horton says as he wipes water from his eyes. I am sorry it got to that point. It's okay, I say. I wasn't apologizing to you, Horton snaps. You're the reason I skipped a rule in the first place. Sorry. Shut up with your sorries.

Hot dogs are up. Atticus says and returns to the kitchen. I'll take them, I say, and grab the plates as fast as I can in order to get away from Horton's anger. After I set the plates down in front of the bog dwellers, I turn and almost scream. Peyton is standing right behind me. I do know you, he says. Not in this form, no, but I know you. What are you?

A human being? I don't think so. I glanced down at his hands and see him moving his fingers as he works a hex. Please don't. My stomach growls. He smirks and stills his fingers. Hungry? I don't respond.

Okay, kid. I'll let it pass this time, he says. Then holds out his hand, palm up. My check? Right, right, yeah. I say and shuffle through the clump I have stuffed in my apron pocket. Here you go. You can pay at the register, I know.

He says, I do know you. I swear I do. Now it's my turn to say leave the kid. alone, Angelica says, coming up behind Peyton and taking him by the shoulders. Come along, dear. We have work to do tonight. That we do. Payton says, then walks off to the register, where Horton is waiting with a smile plastered to his face. Everything good this evening? I hear Horton say, then see Count Collingsworth stand up, his chair flying back, smashing to pieces against the wall. Will you not even look at me, Angelica? The count shouts, Horton. Horton,

mutters. I'll call Melinda. Nah, it's cool, Peyton says, and pulls something from his overcoat. I can take care of this for you. No, Angelica says sharply. This is my mess, and I will take care of it. She walks over to Count Collingsworth. Ralph, we went on three dates in college. That's all. I am not your girlfriend. You are married to Melinda. Oh shit, you actually know this guy? Payton asks, If my heart could beat, it would still beat for you, Angelica. The Count says, That's sweet, Ralph, but you are married, and you are with him? The Count glares at Peyton.

This private dick? I prefer private investigator over private detective, but whatever. Peyton says. Then he holds up the large gold cross he's holding in his hand. Count Collingsworth hisses and throws his arms across his face. How dare you? He shrieks it. Payton.

Damn it, Peyton. I had this handled. Angelica snarls. You are only making things worse. Belinda is on the way, Porton says to me. Oh, okay, good. I reply, not knowing what that means. Have a seat, buddy. Payton says to the Count, his arm outstretched.

The Gold Cross flittering in the diner's lights. Stop it. Angelica snaps and points at Peyton. Put that away. Or I swear tonight will be the last night I ever help you out on a case again. Peyton keeps his arm steady. Then he drops it quickly and tucks the cross back into his coat. My apologies, Angelica, Peyton says and tips his hat at her.

You know me and vampires. I do, she says, then returns her attention to the Count. It was good to see you, Ralph. A woman bursts through the diner's front door. Her skin is made of stone and her eyes are a bright green like they are made of emeralds. Melinda, the wife. Horton whispers to me. That was fast.

She's a celestial, not of this dimension, but love is love. Oh, my Ralphie. The stone woman says as she hurries over to Count Collingsworth. Then she freezes and sniffs the air. Her body turns slowly, and her emerald eyes flash at Peyton. You dare rendish a crucifix at my husband? She spits at the private dick. Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Peyton says, holding up his hands. I'm not looking for him. a fight with the celestial. The guy was bothering my friend is all. Melinda's gaze shifts to Angelica, and the anger dissipates. Oh, Angie, I didn't see you there, she says, and lowers her head an apology. Is this a coincidence, or did he follow you here? Does it matter? Angelica asks. No, I suppose not. Well, I am sorry Ralph has accosted you. My stomach growls. All eyes land on me. I say. Feed your workers, Horton.

Belinda says as she gently takes the count by the elbow and steers him toward the door. And thank you for calling. This could have been much worse. You too have a nice evening, Horton says, then turns on me. Eat before you come to work. I did, I say. Oh, I did. But there is never enough.

I'm hoping this new job will change that. It's just been five hours since my shift started. Then you eat after you work. Right. Sorry, um, the count didn't pay his check. Added to Peyton's bill, Angelica says and heads for the front door. It's the least he can do. Peyton doesn't argue as I ring him up.

I'll figure out how I know you, Peyton says to me. You come from the Grove? I don't answer. He's too close to the truth. He chuckles and slides a five across the counter. For your trouble. Then he's gone out the door with Angelica. Customers come and go, and the clock ticks away, counting down until my shift ends.

What's rule number nine? I ask Horton as I wiped down a booth, cleaning up the mess a pair of mantis people, left behind after shredding their meals to tiny bits, before eating it all by shoving everything into their mouths as fast as possible. Rule number nine is no outside food or drink, he says from the register, as he counts the till and pulls out the large bills so they can go in the safe. He shrugs. Health code. Makes sense.

The clock keeps ticking, and I watch the minute hand move along. Then the front door opens, and I cannot believe my luck. Not only is it happening, but it's happening on my first night. Oh, I knew it would only be a matter of time. It's why I took this job. Yes, the extra cash is good, but I don't need it. It's not worth the trouble I had to go through to get this job. No, it's finally being really.

rid of this hunger for a few weeks that makes it all worth the hassle. The pack of gnomes gab and chat as they walk through the diner to the very back booth. I watched them the entire way. Nooms, Porton says, his voice filled with disgust. Worst tippers in the city. They come in here often? I ask, keeping my voice even. Every once in a while. I thought gnomes stuck to their gardens.

They do, they do. But everyone comes to the midnight diner event. Eventually, even gnomes, even gnomes. Well, are you going to take them their menus or not, kid? I grab up a stack of menus and hurry over to the gnomes, hoping, praying they are the ones. God, what would be the odds? After all this time, all this waiting,

to have the exact gnomes show up on my first day, feels like fate. But first I have to get their drink order. Hello, I say, and distribute the menus. What beverages would you gentlemen like? And lady, one of the gnomes says in a deep voice. Sorry, I say a nod. It's really hard to tell them apart.

All gnomes sport those white beards, even the women. They order chamomile tea and a basket of donuts to start. Before I walk away, one of the gnomes frowns. Do you smell that? He asks, then looks at me. What is that smell? We had some bog dwellers in here earlier, I say. I hear cackling and look over my shoulder.

The three witches are still here, still deciding on dessert. I lean down and whisper. One of the witches has bad gas. No, no, no, not witch farts, the gnome says. His beard waggling back and forth as he shakes his head. I know me some witch farts. This isn't it. An ogre was here earlier tonight, I say and tap the table.

Right in this booth. That's probably what it is. The gnome says after a second or two. Let me get your teas and place that donut order while you decide on what else you want. I say and hurry back to the counter. That was too close. He shouldn't have even suspected. No, no.

I spent way too much on the hex for him to even have gotten a hint. I'll have to talk to the wizard tomorrow about that screw up. But the good news is that when I leaned down, I could smell that it's them. The gnomes I'm looking for. Luckily, the gnomes have forgotten all about me and are busy chatting about best control. control and watering schedules, and how many babies they each can steal and hide inside the hollows of old oak trees. They don't suspect at all. Here you go, I say when I return, and take each cup of tea off the tray I carry, setting them in front of the gnomes.

Donuts will be right up. Have we decided on anything else? I don't think it's the ogre, the one gnome says. Let it go, Oswald. The lady gnome says, you do this every time we leave the garden. You are so paranoid. We're going to stop inviting you. Another gnome says. No, no. The gnome, Oswald, says,

I smell it, I do. We should leave. Oh, but what about your donuts? I ask nonchalantly. They can't leave, not yet. Yeah, Oswald, the donuts. The lady gnome says. Relax.

Nothing can happen to us in the midnight diner. Because what's the first rule of the midnight diner? A gnome asks, elbowing Oswald in the side. He rolls his eyes. The diner is for eating. The diner is for eating. They all echo, lifting their heads and shouting the words up at the ceiling. Very true, huza!

Horton says from the counter. Customers are always safe here at the midnight diner, for the diner is for eating only, and those who break the rules will be punished. Punished, punished, punished! The gnomes chant over and over, until Oswald starts to smile and join them. They all laugh when they are done chanting. I just stand there and smile, looking like a perfectly safe, normal human waiter.

Donuts! Atticus shouts from the order window. My stomach growls. The gnome's laughter stops instantly, and all of their little, bearded faces turn in my direction. I know that sound, one of them says. Me too. Another agrees. Oh dear. I say in glance at the clock.

Well, my shift isn't all the way over. I guess it's close enough. The gnomes look like they want to bolt. I shake a finger at them. You'll never make it, I say. Then casually walk to the front door. I think we're ready to order dessert. One of the witches says as I pass by their table.

I don't know which witch says it. I don't really care. Not anymore. To think it all happens on my first shift. Hey kid, did you hear me? I heard you. I say as I untie my apron and take it off, letting it fall to the floor.

Oh, I heard you. I reached the door and go to turn the lock, but there isn't one. I suppose there's no need when the diner opens at midnight and closes at midnight. Oh, well, nothing a little brute strength can't take care of. I grab the door's handles and yank hard, warping the metal frame, locking the door in place by sheer physics. What are you doing? Orton snaps, storming over to me. Kill it!

One of the gnome shouts. It'll eat us all! I feel the change happening. Oh, yes, it's happening. What are you doing? Orton barks again when he reaches me. Do you hear me? I just ask you a question.

My joints start to pop, and I can feel my muscles thicken and then elongate as the wizard's hex wears off. Kill the damn thing! A gnome shouts. Oh, crap! One of the witches says, We really should have ordered dessert sooner.

They all three slip from the booth and face me. Don't even bother witches. I say, my voice warping, growing deeper and deeper with each syllable. You cannot harm me. Stay out of this, and you may leave intact. They stare at me. Then as one, they shrug and sit back down. We'll order to surf when you're done, one says. Porton is still in front of me, but the anger on his face has turned to panic. What is this? What are you?

Corton asks, retreating from my changing form. He's a damn Sasquatch! A gnome yells. Our mortal enemy! I stretch and grow until I am at my full eight-foot height with arms like tree trunks and legs like stone columns. I haven't had no been so long. I say as I push past Horton, brushing him aside like he's a blade of grass.

Hey, who ordered the... Atticus calls from the order window, stopping in mid-sentence. Oh shit, a squatch. Nope. He disappears from the window and the sound of pots and pants. crashing is followed by a backdoor slamming. The gnomes hear the back door and try to make a break for it. I bounce. You will be punished!

Port and screeches as he flees to the relative safety behind the counter. I catch one gnome by his pointy hat, my claws piercing the red felt and digging into his brain. With a flick of my wrist, I toss him in the air, open my jaws wide, and devour him in one gulp. So good. I sigh, already targeting the next bite. They try. They really do. The little buggers scramble under chairs, try to break through the windows, and scurry to get to the kitchen. But very few things are faster than a hungry Sasquatch.

Gnomes can be, if they are in their garden environment, but not inside like this. In the end, I catch each and every gnome, sending them all to the pit that is my belly. When I have finished, I wiped the corners of my mouth with a napkin and smile at Horton. Why aren't you dead? He asks, looking about the diner as if something should be happening. How do you mean? I ask. A back of gnomes is no match for me. No, no, the rules. Orton snaps.

Rule number ten is those who break the rules shall be punished. You have not been punished. The diner should have eviscerated you, stripped your fur and skin off, and plastered your bloody body to the ceiling. Why would all of that happen? Because you broke the rules. Which rules? The first one! Oh, you mean the diner is for eating?

I ask and look over at the witches. Their bored smirks tell me they get what I'm saying. I turned back to Horton. But that's what I did, Horton. I hate. His mouth flaps like a merman out of water, and I chuckle. My throaty rumble making the light fixtures clank together. I cross to the door and shove it open.

Then I pick up the apron and toss it to Horton. He catches it and looks down at it. his hands like he's never seen an apron before. Sorry, Orton, but I'm going to have to quit. I say with one massive, hairy foot already out the door. I came here to do what I needed to do. Get rid of a damn gang of gnomes who keep eating my roses. You understand, right?

I glance at the witches. Ladies. They nodded me as I walk out, the third one's voice drifting out the door behind me. Oh, let's get ice cream sundaes for dessert. How does that sound? I only arrived at the new post a few hours before sunrise. It's always hard for me to sleep that first night. And I'm finally getting comfortable on the cot and about to drift off

when some asshole tickles the bottom of my feet. Gah! What the hell, man? Up in that, a new guy. Get your shit together and meet us out front. The dusty ruins of this goddamn ghost town ain't gonna patrol themselves. Yo, let's go. I stand, drenched in sweat, my head pounding, and pull on the rest of the rest of the house.

my desert camo uniform, then my service weapons. The building my unit is using for its headquarters, an abandoned schoolhouse, feels like a damn oven, though as soon as I step out the front doors and join my fellow soldiers in the street outside, I wish I was back inside that oven. The sun is a blinding white ball of fire in the sky, and sure, that's kind of what it always is, but out here, in this toasted valley in the middle of sandy nowhere, it makes me. It makes my eyes feel like they're roasting in my skull. I blink in the sunlight, yawning, and turn to take in the sights. There's not much to see. We're in the heart of the old city, though most of it has been reduced to rubble. Every building is a broken shell of what it once was. Our bombs did that,

and then there were the dust storms. They've rolled through and covered everything, erasing any and all color, so that everywhere I look, the scene is the same beige hue of sun-tanned bone. Even the sky is parched. Talk about depressing. Becker, I presume, says a tall officer with playful eyes and a handle bar mustache. I'm pretty sure the mustache isn't protocol. Welcome, son, to Satan's taint. I salute. Thank you, Sergeant. Happy to be here, sir. Are you now? says the sergeant.

At ease, soldier. The boys call me Sarge. And what do they call you? Just Lance Corporal Becker, sir. And tell me, Lance Corporal Becker, do you have a flagpole up your butt? I don't think so, sir. Well, that's good.

Me neither. So, chill the fuck out, all right? You're far from the front lines now, and we take our at-ease seriously out here. You feel me? Ah, yes, sir. No flagpoles up the butt, sir. That's better. Now then, let's introduce you to the boys. That ugly fucker there is Plato. Plato's our point, man.

Plato sticks a piece of gum in his mouth and nods at me. And this little fucking nerd here is Piglet. He's our medic. Piglet is a head shorter than everyone else. He straightens his glasses and waves a hand. It's nice to have you with us, Becker. Kit Kat here's on. on the security team with you. The soldier who had tickled my feet

lets out a hearty belch. Sup, bitch! And finally there's... Now where the fuck did he go? Where the fuck a chef? Right here, boss, calls out another soldier, jogging to join us from the ruins of a nearby structure. This guy is huge.

A mountain of muscle with a crew cut. The sleeves of his uniform are rolled up to show his meaty forearms. I was just choking. snake. Oh yeah? What was it? Desert Cobra? More like an anaconda. Whoa, seriously? I ask, which elicits a round of laughter from the others. Hey, who invited their kid brother to play with us big boys? Sarge grins. Becker here just arrived. Becker, meet Chev. He's our drag man. Takes up the rear on these patrols. Oh yeah, you love it up the rear, don't you, Chef?

Swings a long, muscular arm at gum-chewing Kit-Cat, who laughs and hops backward out of range. All right, boys, let's get this puppet show on the road. Patrol commencing. Plato leads the way, and we follow in loose formation. We had west on the main road, moving downhill toward the river. This patrol team is far more relaxed than I'm used to. Sure, they've got on their gear, their helmets, and they cast glances down each rubble-strewn that we pass, but still it makes me nervous. I wipe sweat from my eyes, then look to my right to Kit Kat. So I guess you guys don't see a lot of action out here? Depends on how you define action. Shev here loves to get frisky with all the goats in the valley. Does that count?

Do fuck, man? You know I only do that with the goats that remind me of your mother. Sarge turns to look back at us. Goats, eh? Horny. hairy and with them crazy eyes. Why, that describes my own dear mother. The whole team laughs at that, though I can only muster a weak smile, and the serge notices this. It's called fucking around, Lance Corporal. You should try it. I told you, you're good here. I've been going on this godforsaken patrol every day for 14 long months, and you know what I've seen? Diddley shit. This here city, It was abandoned, long before the war even started.

No idea why. And as soon as the enemy tried to use it as a hideout, five years ago, we bombed their shit out of the place. They won't be back. How do you know, sir? Because who the fuck wants to be here? shouts Kit Kat. Plato guides us to where the road meets the river.

Though, of course, the riverbed is dry, full of smooth, tan rocks and scattered debris. And the bridge ahead collapsed during the bomb. and had never been repaired. We turn right, heading north along yet another dusty street. The ruinous city rises up to the east and to our west across the river. Those layered rows of crumbling homes and roofless shops remind me of tombstones, which I guess makes us the caretakers of this vast and desolate cemetery.

You know, Becker, this valley actually used to be quite lovely, little piglet tells me, breaking the sweltering silence. There were groves of olive trees along both sides of the river. Some of those trees were hundreds and hundreds of years old, yet still producing fruit. Yo! Vegetables, man! What's that? You just called olives fruit. They're fucking veggies.

Everybody knows that. They're like savory or whatever. But their seeds are on the inside, I say. I'm pretty sure that makes them fruit. Who the fuck cares where the seeds are? You ever buy olives at the supermarket? They ain't shelved with the fucking tangerines now, are they? Shev chuckles.

Ah, a fair point, says Picklet, removing his glasses to clean them on his sleeve. While I do believe that any botanist would classify them as a fruit, perhaps even a stone fruit, seeing as they develop from the flour and contain a pit, a chef might indeed see it differently, given the olives' flavor profile and its roll. in cuisine. Categorization. Like that. It's all relative in the end. Just humanity's attempt to imbue

order upon a chaotic universe. My sun-burning forehead wrinkles as my eyebrows raise, and I sniff a laugh. I can't help but like this piglet fella. Huh, who knew? Man, fuck you, piglet. What are you going to tell me next? That olive oil is technically motherfucking fruit juice? You're going to make a fucking popsicle out of Kitt Kitt's head jerks and puffs of blood burst from each side of his neck. As his body crumples to the street, the shock wave of a distant gunshot rolls over us. For one electrified moment, I stand rooted to the spot, staring at the air next to me, where Kit Kat was one second before, and where his blood still hangs in two little clouds. Then...

Sniper! I dropped to my stomach in the dust. Piglet dives beside me and starts crawling toward Kitt. Kit Kat. Get down! I screamed, looking back at the sergeant, who has frozen in place, his gaze west across the river. Beyond Sarge, I see Plato start to crouch, but a bullet slices through his chest and out his back. Shove jumps over me and tackles Sarge onto the road. Stay down, boss. No, no, no, no, no, no, says Biglet. I look back at him. He's grasping at Kit Kat's neck, but there's blood everywhere. So much blood. And Kit Kat's eyes.

are as vacant as the desert sky. He's gone, man. Sarge grabs his radio. Contact, enemy sniper. We're taking fire from the west end. What the hell was that? Was that? Oh, fuck.

I think they just took out the base. What? No fucking way. Over the buildings to our southeast, a cloud of black smoke rolls up into the sky. Do you read us? Sarge screams into the radio. Hey, come in, God damn it.

Do you guys hear that? Peering south down the sky. road, I see them, a dozen armed men coming around the corner by the collapsed bridge, heading north toward their position. Enemy contact due south! We gotta move! We gotta move! I spin on the ground, kicking up a cloud of chalky dust and scramble forward.

Shav helps Sarge to his feet, and they hurry up the road at a crouch. F-fuck! They're coming from the north, too! I look up, my eyes burning from the dust, and see a pair of pickup trucks driving down the slope toward us, more armed men in the back of the trucks. Into the alley, boys! Sarge and Shev dashed into a narrow passage between high, cracked walls. Piglet takes one look back at Kit Kat's body.

Then I pull him into a run, and we follow. We race into the shadows, panting, our weapons, and equipment banging and clanging as we sprint down the curvy passage. How the fucking fuck? hollers Sarge. Do they get into the city undetected? We reached the end of the alley and stumbled down. and stumbled back into the scorching sunlight on another road. Where the fuck are we, boss?

I turned in place. There are dusty, broken walls on every side. I can hear the enemy's voices. They're trucks. They're gunfire. In the alley. Watch out, new guy. Shev shoves me aside and opens fire down the passage.

Down there, too! We got to go this way. Come on! We turn and start running up the curved incline of the street, not knowing where it leads. passing in and out of the shadows of the hollowed ruins, and then, turning a corner, find ourselves racing between high walls of stone.

Shit! We slowed to a jog. Behind us, the lane curves back down to the heart of the city and the oncoming enemies. On either side, the walls are 20 feet high and don't look easy to climb. We're trapped. So we turn as one and face the end of the city street.

A structure stands there, four stories tall, made of pale pink sandstone. It's the only building around with no cracks or cave-ins. At the entrance, there's a pair of heavy steel doors and a rusty chain looped through their handles. The fuck is that place. Who cares? We hurry to the doors. A hefty padlock is hooked on the chain. Shev, says the serge, whose face has gone as pale as dust in the air. Shev shoots at the lock. Hurry up! squeals Piglet. Shev kicks the smoking lock into pieces.

then yanks the chain free. Behind us, a pickup truck swerves into view. I tried to pull open the left-hand door, but it won't budge. Shev yanks the right-hand door open a few inches. The hinges squeal and door scrapes against the ground. Piglet goes first, squeezing through the gap, even as the men in the back at the truck opened fire. Bullets hit the ground, the walls the door.

I fire a volley at the truck. Then push my way through the jammed doors, stumbling into a dark room beyond. I choke on the air inside. It smells like death. Go on, Shev. You first, boss. I turn, panting, and watch as Sarge flattens himself against the left-hand door, and wriggles

sideways into the gap. His hand is inside, his shoulder, then a bullet strikes him in the head, and he goes limp, his body wedged in the doorway. God damn it! Biglet and I rushed to grab the sergeant's body and yank it inside. But before we can, Shev pulls it out from the other side. Bullets ping against the steel doors as Shev shoves his huge body into the opening, and with a pained grunt, forces himself inside.

He bowls into us, and we stagger backward, boots crunching into filth on the floor. Shev grabs the door and slams it close. I can see blood spreading down the back of his uniform from a bullet wound on his left shoulder. You're hit, man! Shev ignores me, leaning against the metal door, giving himself a moment to catch his breath. Piglet tugs on my sleeve. What? I think we're trapped.

I look around. A thin curtain of light slices into the room from between the doors. And by its dusty glow, I see a cracked and dirty tile floor, some broken chairs to each side, and by the far wall, a partially collapsed counter.

It looks like some kind of lobby, maybe. Everything's covered in cobwebs, and there's only one way out, a hallway to the right of the counter, only... What the hell? The hall has been completely blocked by broken furniture and debris,

all stacked into a barricade from floor to ceiling. We gotta clear that shit. No time. Shev's got his breath back. He's marching toward the broken counter, ejecting the spent magazine from his gun and inserting another. This is our last stand, gentlemen. Let's make it count.

Moving behind the counter, the huge soldier takes a knee, aiming at the doors with his heavy machine gun. Oh God, oh God, oh God! Wines Piglet, but he rushes to join Shev. I can't seem to move. my legs. This can't be happening. I mean, I just got here, and I'm so fucking tired. I just want to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I just want to. The light flickers and dims as someone moves just outside the doors. I hold my breath and rush behind the counter, taking a knee with the other

two and raise my gun. My hands are shaking. We stare through the dim room at the closed doors. We can hear men on the other side, whispering in the land's native language. It sounds like they're arguing. Hey? This is Shev, and Piglet and I look over at him. He nods. For Sarge. Piglet nods back. For for Sarge. They look at me. Hey, I just met the guy, I mumble. Then chains rattle outside, and we all whip our heads to face the doors again. But no one's trying to open them. We can see motion on the other side, men moving in and out of the light. We hear the chain bang and rattle against the door. What are they doing? After a few seconds, the noises die away.

The men move out of the light. We hear their footsteps departing, and their voices growing quiet. Shev stands, crouching over his gun, and moves to the doors and peers through the crack. Duff fuck? They chained up the doors again, and they've backed up. They're all standing at their trucks over at the corner. Just watching, waiting. Waiting for what?

Piglet stands up. We have to find enough. other way out of here. He moves over to the stacked debris in the hallway, and setting down his gun, starts to yank out pieces of the junk before tossing them to the floor. This building is a bit odd, but it's got to have a back door, right? Surely, we just have to find it. I move to join Piglet, shouldering my weapon, and tear out a scrap of splintery wood from the barricade. I'm trying not to breathe in too much of the dust we're kicking up. The air in this place burns my lungs. It's hot, dry, stale, reeking.

Smells like dead animals in here. What is this place? I think it's some sort of hospital, I say, wintzing as I tried to extract a twisted piece of metal. Are they still at the trucks? Hmm, yeah, looks like it. Here, move over, guys. Shev moves to join us, and hanging his gun over his left shoulder, starts yanking shit from the pile. I take a step back, wiping my face on my sleeve.

Shev, you're losing a lot of blood. You gotta let me check you out. The bullet passed in and out. It was clean. You can patch me up when we get out of here. He pulls out the twisted metal, and most of the barricade collapses back into the hall. I step up to the doorway. Looks inviting, I mumble, staring into the pitch-black corridor.

Attach your tacticals! I see Pigleth unlatch the flashlight from his belt and clip it onto his gun. Shev and I do the same. And when our three lights are clicked on, we aim the beams into the hall. They can only reveal, in gray cones of drifting dust mites, the space a few yards ahead of us. We clamber over the wreckage and into the hall, weapons raised, moving in formation. Shev leads the way, checking around each doorway as we pass. The rooms are empty, but that does nothing to calm my nerves.

You guys seeing this? In all the rooms? Looks like examination tables. But they all have... Restraints? And they're all torn up and stained. Yeah, and hey, in this room, there's a bunch of chains. Was this place a hospital or a prison?

Or something else? We reached the end of the hall where a pair of swinging doors hang broken on their hinges, and we can see a stairwell on the other side. The smell is so bad now that I'm getting lightheaded. I have to adjust my grip on the gun to hold one arm over my nose and mouth. Shev scoots around the broken doors, twisting to his right, then twisting to his left. Piglet charges in next to Shev, raising his gun.

Hold your fire. It's a fucking kid. I come in behind them, my finger tight on the trigger, despite Shev's warning, and I stare at the figure in the adjacent hall. What? What the hell is wrong with it? The child, I can't tell if it's a boy or a girl, is standing in the center of the hall staring up at us. bug-eyed, unblinking, and its eyes are pale and milky. The eyes have no color. They're just pure white with tiny specks for pupils. And its face, it's like a rotten skull, gaunt, and decaying.

The child's breath groans from a lipless mouth. Its teeth are black and broken, and the tongue within its mouth looks swollen and dry, covered in white splotches and pimples. Good God! What's happened to you? All three of our flashlight beams converge on the kid's face. But now the medic's. slowly lowers his weapon, casting light upon the kid's impossibly thin neck, then down its emaciated

torso, which is cocooned in the filthy fabric of a straitjacket. The child's arms are tied tightly across its chest and around its back. From the bottom of the straitjacket, its spindly legs jut out, like a bird's, so thin and wrinkly. One foot is bare, all bones and leathery skin, and on the other, the child wears a gray sock, worn down to the consistency of a spider's Webb. How is this kid still alive? Piglet lowers himself to one knee and reaches out a hand, slowly, carefully. He speaks softly, addressing Shev, even as he smiles at the child. The human body is an amazing and mysterious thing, sometimes vulnerable to the most insignificant seeming factors, but other times, resilient against unimaginable trauma and agony and...

The child snarls and pouncees at Piglet. Its mouth snapping at his outstretched hand, but Shev punches out his left arm and shoves Piglet backward. The crazy little attacker changes its target, sinking its black teeth into Shev's forearm. Ah, son of a bitch! Shev lifts his arm and jerks it wildly in the air. The kid swings side to side, scrawny legs kicking not letting go.

Careful! Fuck careful! Shev swings his right arm down in a powerful punch, knocking the kid backward through the air, along with a few black teeth and a lot of red blood. The tiny body hits the ground and rolls into darkness. Shev grunts, his face screwed up in pain. Blood drips from the bite in his left arm.

Looks like the kid tore out a good chunk of flesh, and more blood spreads again from the bullet wound in his right shoulder. Piglet stands and takes one step down the hall to check on the kid. When it's suddenly back, bent and scuttling toward them on its bony legs, blood running down its chin as it charges. Oh, no, you don't! Shev aims a kick at the child, but it leaps sideways, and as Shev stumbles, crashing against the wall, I turn and raise my gun. But the kid's already on the stairs, feet scurrying up and out of sight.

Then we hear its little rapid footsteps on the floor above, running down the hall overhead. We have to follow! No the fuck we don't. What we have to do is find a way out of here, remember? We don't have time to try and help, whatever the fuck that thing is. It's an ill and injured child! Is right, big! We gotta move, and that thing, it ain't human.

Not anymore. But we don't even know which way to go. Voices screech from upstairs. More than one. A lot more. Not that way. Right. Follow me.

Shev turns left on the next hall. I follow, clapping piglet on the back. Come on. We move down the hall, but after a few seconds, Shev halts. I stare up at his huge back. We hear him hiccup. Then choke, then he spasms, reaching out an arm to clutch a door frame and steady himself. You okay there, big guy?

Yeah, yeah, just, I'm fine. Let's keep going. He falls to his knees, his head whipping forward and back, and starts dry heaving in great gasps. Shev? What's wrong, man? Piglet moves around the giant, kneeling soldier, aiming his light on Shev's face. I see Piglet's eyes go wide behind his glasses. Clutching tight to my gun, I push myself against the wall and slide cautiously past Shev, then turn to look at him. Oh, he's shit!

Shev's mouth is stretched completely open, his eyes bulged, his skin so pale it looks translucent. His voice is a strangled whisper in the back of his throat. He can't breathe. Maybe anaphylaxis? I don't know. I don't know what to do. I don't know! Shev's eyes begin to change.

The iris is shrinking. fading, the blood vessels swelling, then retracting to the edges, so wide, so white, so angry. Shev! I grab a handful of Piglet's uniform and yank him back as I run. He stumbles, knocking into me, and I trip on my own boots and hit the floor. I try to rise, but Piglet is crawling over me, panting and raving. I shove him off, spin, and aim my gun. Its light passes over Shev's face as he rises drunkenly to his feet again, lumbering and moaning,

his arms limpid asides, his gun swinging from its strap on his shoulder, casting ghostly light in wild motion. Next to me, piglets back up too, and starts running down the hall. I pull myself to my feet and take one stride after him. When something hits me hard in the back, my breath is knocked for my lungs as I fly forward and crash to the ground. My whole body aches as I roll into my back and sit up. Shev is lumbering toward me, groaning, moaning, jerking side to side.

I raise my weapon and pull the trigger. It's jammed. Shev's wickedly white gaze moves from me and my gun, down to his own weapon, hanging off his shoulder. Oh man, you gotta be fucking kidding me! Shev's fingers clutched drunkenly at his gun and squeeze. Bullets fly in all directions as he lumbers forward again, spraying gunfire left, right, up, down.

I roll to my left into the nearest doorway and stagger upright, bumping into a table. I gasp and turn, my light shining off old medical equipment covered in cobwebs, dusty glass jars of colored liquids, and right behind me, an operating table with a bloated corpse rotting atop it. Whoa, shit! I choke, then I flinch as one of Shev's bullets tears through the wall and shatters a jar of black liquid. Glass and hissing chemicals splashed to the floor, and I spin, slapping the bottom

of my gun's magazine, then yanking back the charging handle. As the jammed round ejects, Shev stomps into the doorway, swaying in place. I let go of the charging handle and it's It slams the next round into the chamber. Shev's eyes swivel to me and he turns. I hit the forward assist and raising my gun, fire around between his eyes. His body jerks once, goes rigid, then tips backward into the hall.

I exhale. A zombie with a fucking gun! What the fuck, man! From the floors above, I hear them screaming. Dozens of them. Screeching in their inhuman voices, their feet pounding the floorboards as they stampede. shaking myself, I step over Shev's body.

From the right, two figures run at me. I turn my gun and it's light on them. It's the boy in the straight jacket again, and a man in a tattered lab coat. I take them both out. Piglet, have you found a way out of here? From the hall behind me, I hear scuffling, then. Er, yes!

I walked backward down the hall, watching as more figures emerge from the stairs and scramble toward me. Men and women in straight jackets, A naked old man, a toddler in rags, all with colorless eyes and skeletal bodies, jerking and twitching and screeching as they charge. I opened fire. They scream as they die, tripping over each other, black blood bursting around the hall like liquid fireworks. As I pass a door to my right, a quick glance shows me that Piglet is on his back on the floor,

holding up his gun like a shield to fend off the snarling body on top of him. I fire a final volley into the hall, then jump into the room and slam the floor. the door shut. Shoot! I aim for his attacker's head, but my gun clicks. I eject the empty magazine and reach for another on my belt, but I'm out. Becker, please! I throw the machine gun down and unholster my sidearm.

Then I put a round through the snarling bastard's head. The body goes limp, and Piglet pushes it sideways off of him. You okay? Piglet nods, still flat on his back and very pale, clutching his gun to his chest, he swallows. Look, over there! I turn. On the wall across the room, I see a few horizontal slashes of sunlight, showing through a boarded-up window. Hell yeah! We both jump and look at the door.

It's shaking on its hinges. Bodies in the hall are hurling themselves against it, again and again. We got to block the door with something. That! Hurry! We grab a rusty cabinet by the wall and start to drag it into place. But the door bursts open. I leap and throw my shoulder against it. shoving back against the horde in the hall.

The door swings almost shut, but skeletal arms and snapping-jawed heads reach around the opening, clawing and biting and hissing at me. Push it. I'm trying! Piglet shoves the heavy cabinet, shifting it a few inches at a time. I strain against the quaking door, the attacker's rancid breath turning my stomach.

Finally, I jump back, fire three shots through the door, then grab the cabinet and help Piglet shove it firmly into place. It worked, though it immediately starts to shake and rock as the bodies in the hall continue to slam against the door. I am so done with these goddamn zombies, man. I grumble, marching over to the window. You really think? That's what they are? I shrug and grab one of the boards. I don't fucking know. What else would you call him?

I tuck the board free. He grabs the board below mine and yanks. Well, I believe zombies specifically refers to a reanimated corpse, but this, this seems to be more like. an infection, or perhaps even a parasite, which gains control of the host. I pull down another board with the grunt. Sunlight streams in like a beam of fire. I'd blink and exhale.

I thought you said categories like that were bullshit, like with the olives and tangerines. There's no glass on the window. I stare out into the dusty outskirts of the city. He nods. Ah, yes, categorization. Tis but our meager attempt to, too, uh. I pull out the last board and look at it.

to imbue order upon a chaotic universe. He swoons. I take a step back. Piglet steadies himself, taking breaths and little gasps. Then he raises his right hand into the sunlight and turns his arm. There's a tiny, bloody bite mark on the edge of his thumb, and the skin around it is black and shriveled. Oh, I...

Um, right, okay. Uh, Becker, I need... I need you to take out your knife fast. Oh, man. No, no, listen. If we amputate right away at the wrist, or, or, or maybe at the elbow, the infection might stay contained, right?

Yeah. He looks at me. I raise my pistol. What's your real name anyway? You don't have to do that. You don't? Over by the door, a drawer falls noisily out of the cabinet

as it rocks back and forth, and the snarling gets louder. What's your name? Piglet. Please, this could work. Can you just try to... Sighing, I slip my pistol back into its holster, then turned to the window. Grabbing onto the windowsill, I lift myself up, then the world drifts, blurs, tilts. What the fuck? The sun and the sand and the ruins outside dip and drop out of sight as my body falls backward.

I land on my side on the filthy floor. next to Piglet's body. Nah, this isn't. I just have to... The banging is getting louder. The shrieks, the howls, the reaching hands clawing and shoving at the cabinet. And yet, it's like my ears are filled with cotton.

Everything is muffled, warped, distorted. I force myself to sit up. I wish the room would stop spinning. And my body, it tingles, ice in my veins, fire on my skin. I raise a shaky hand to my head. toward the window, reaching, reaching for the sunlight, then bring the hand back, back to rest on the top of my head.

My hair, it's all wet. My fingertips glide over the raised ridges of teeth marks on my scalp. Oh, God, oh man, it's so hot in here. God damn it is too hot. And I'm just so fucking tired. I'm so tired. I just got to see her for a minute. Gotta catch my breath.

I'll rest. Then I'll go in this light set here. A blind of fire. I will come to me a fire. The bright lights from the dozens of cameras nearly blind me with their strange intensity as I'm led from the helicopter and into the hangar. The cameras, with their lights and their operators, follow right on my heels until I pass the rows of chairs, halfway already full of reporters. I'm directed to the long table that's been set up for the press conference.

Despite the fact that I'm wearing thermal underwear, a long-sleeved tea, two sweaters, a hoodie, and a thick parka, I still shiver as I take my seat behind a bank of microphones that almost block my view of the waiting journalists. I'm one of them. I was. Maybe I still am. It's hard to say what I am anymore. If someone were to ask me right now, and some of those faces out there just might, I wouldn't be able to say what I am, who I am.

I know my name, but a name is nothing compared to what lurks in the soul. That's the real me, that lurking soul. What waits underneath. A glance to my right tells me that my entourage won't be joining me behind the microphones. They may be lawyers and suits, but none of them want to be on record or quoted regarding anything about me and the tragedy. A healthy distance is what one of them said as I was grilled relentlessly on this ship before finally being allowed to come over to the mainland via that helicopter. None of the lawyers, and only half the suits, wanted this press conference.

But the other half of the suits insisted, as did the CEO of Corbell Communications, the media company that owns the magazine I work for, so a press conference was set up. The cat was already out of the bag, so to speak, so they must have figured that no further damage could be done. Little do they know. One of the lawyers, a tall woman named Bishop or Bichet or something like that, walks up to me and leans over my shoulder,

putting her mouth close to the microphone array. If everyone could take their seats, please, we can begin. She says. Laura Bashir, lead counsel for Corbell Communications. I would like to remind all of you that Mr. Floyd here has just been rescued from a traumatic ordeal. So I ask that you maybe save your heartball questions for the follow-up press conference next week. For now, let's stick to the basics and try to show a little compassion, okay? None of the reporters seated in front of me nod or agree to Miss Beshear's request. And I don't blame them. I wouldn't agree either.

if I was in their shoes. Shit went down and they all know it. There isn't a single, friendly face in the house, despite the fact I know some of them personally, and have even worked with a few over the years. I'm a story, and that is it. What they don't understand is the story isn't mine. Not really. But despite it not being mine, I shall tell it. It is something they all must hear. Miss Bichet pats me on the shoulder then returns to the gaggle of attorneys and suits waiting in the wings. Hello, I say a nod at the reporters.

My name is Tanner Floyd, and I'll tell you what I can. A lot of it is still bits and pieces, the details are rough, but I can give you the broadstrokes. First, I was assigned to the icebreaker, the North Point, to conduct interviews with the crew in order to get a sense of the changing climate through their eyes.

I was, and still am, Or I think I am, employed by Corbell Communications, specifically the publication Outpost, which specializes in wilderness, climate, environment, and adventure reporting. Hands shoot up and questions or shouted. I wave them away and wait until it all quiets down. When it's time for questions, I'll let you know. I say, and get a couple chuckles from the crowd.

Second, yes, we did find the lost ship Aethon trapped in ice about 80 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle. I'm sure you all know that the last official report sighting of the Athon was in the late 1800s. There have been unconfirmed sightings over this century, plus since, but until the North Point came upon it last month. The Athon was presumed to be at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. More hands up, more shouting.

Hey! I yell. The lawyers and suits all jump. I don't blame them. Interrupt me again? And no one gets to ask questions. Are we clear? A month ago, I would have never shouted like that, especially not at my colleagues and peers.

But that was a month ago. The place quiets down once more. I continue. The North Point had 36 crew members when I came aboard. I was the 37th occupant on the ship. I ended up being the last person alive, as far as I know. Hands shooed up, but no one starts shouting. I sigh.

Nelson. I say, pointing at a bearded man I've known for years. What you got for me? Is it true that Leonardo DiCaprio will be playing you in the movie adaptation of the events that occurred? I laugh, and so do most of the reporters. Nelson Richmond is a hard ass of a journalist, so it's obvious to us veterans that he's lobbying me a softball on purpose. I don't know, I say and look over at the lawyers and suits.

Miss Bashir shrugs. Maybe. There's more laugh. after, that Nelson asks. So what did happen, Tanner? What can you tell us? I force a smile, but as the thoughts that I have struggled to keep under control come racing to the forefront of my mind, I know this could be one of the last smiles that graces my face.

So really what you're saying, Captain, is that climate change is good for your business. Is that it? I ask. The man seated across from me scowls. It's a little more nuanced than that. But as the average temperature climbs, your ship is called on more and more to help navigate through the broken ice flows in the Arctic, creating clearer passages for other ships. I mean, your business is growing. There's no denying. Yes, but you have to understand that.

Cap, you need to come see this. The voice calls out from Captain Driscoll's radio. The man grabs the radio off the table and replies. Where are you at, look you? Top deck portside. There's a ship in the ice, cap, and it looks old. On my way, Driscoll grins at me, but the grin doesn't meet his eyes. Let's put a pin in this interview for now.

We can talk later or tomorrow. Again, my article is due as soon as we dock, Captain, so I'm going to hold you to that. Tomorrow at the latest, I promise. It's a promise he doesn't keep. We both stand up, and Driscoll raises an eyebrow. Oh, are you coming with? No reason not to, right? I'm here to observe, interview, and report.

Sounds like there's something worth observing. So yeah, I'm coming with. Listen, Tanner, you should see this gig as a vacation. There's nothing out here worth reporting. A whole lot of ice and some ships that need to get through that ice. That's about it. Just relax. Let us do all the work.

And write your story like you intend to anyway. Whoa. What the hell does that mean? Do you think I've already got some preconceived notion about you and your crew? About me and my crew? No, not at all. Why would you? You never met us until you stepped aboard.

He takes off his Seattle Mariners baseball cap and rubs his forehead a few times before putting the cap back on. Listen, Tanner, I like you. He holds up a hand before I can object. No, I do. It's just that the angle you are taking on this story of yours makes me and mine sound like we're responsible

for all this climate change shit. That's not my intent at all, Captain. Intent or not? That's how it looks to me. The crew have been commenting on it. No one is exactly thrilled. That explains a lot. I assumed it was just the outsider thing.

But maybe it's just that my approach, like the captain said, is off. I'm coming on too strong with the climate questions. Okay, I say. What do you suggest I do? Chill out. Get to know everyone. Forget about your story and just live with us. Pitch in, do some work. If you really want to know what it's like. There are a million tasks that need doing every day on the North Point. Lend a hand. Show you know what hard work is.

And the crew will start to relax around you. Try to fit in is what you're saying. No, because you'll never fit in, Tanner. Look at you. When was the last time you did serious manual labor for a living? I shrug. It's been a while. I bet. And when was the last time you had a job where your life is literally on the line?

That's easy. Ukraine. I was embedded with two Delta Force operators who were training Ukrainian strike squads. Oh, all right then. That counts. Respect on that one. Thanks. But you get where I'm coming from, right?

Get to know the crew. Let the crew get to know me, then ask questions. You do it right, and you won't have to ask questions. This crew is a bunch of jabberjaws. Not around me. Not yet, but when you relax, you'll wish they'd shut up. Trust me. He laughs and claps me on the shoulder. Cap. Triscall's radio squawks.

On my way, he replies. Then cocks his head towards the hatch. Let's see what Lague found. By the time we get up to the port side of the top deck, half the crew has gathered at the ship's railing. They see the captain coming and make way. I quickly follow in his wake, before the courtesy expires and I'm blocked out.

Well, shit, Driscoll says and takes his ball cap off to scratch the top of his head. That is old, Driscoll looks at me. How much do you know about maritime history, Tanner? Great. A test. in front of the crew. Awesome. All eyes fall on me.

Are you asking me to name the ship? I ask, Driscoll. No, no. Just tell me what you see. I get closer to the edge and place my hands on the rail. I instantly pull them back as some of the crew chuckle.

That metal is freezing cold, literally, and I could have lost a layer of skin from my palms if I hadn't reacted so fast. My guess it's a late 19th century British frigate, possibly Navy. but more than likely privateer. The crew are watching me closely, and I try to keep my breathing even,

so I don't show how panicked I am over this impromptu quiz. Driscoll raises an eyebrow. Why do you say more likely a privateer? What are you seeing? The main mast isn't British Navy regulation. And if I'm not mistaken, the maidenhead is a, well, dragon,

and not a maiden at all, which makes me think the ship is actually Welsh. Driscoll looks about, and I can see a couple of heads nod. He smiles at me. Not bad, Tanner. Not bad at all. Except for the maidenhead part, the British Navy allowed different forms other than topless women.

Dragons weren't out of the norm. So you think it's Navy? Oh, hell no. The masked part is dead on. This ship is looking for instant maneuverability. British naval frigates are built for strength in battle. What else gives it away? I only see three cannon ports.

There you go. Three visible cannon ports. With how the ship is tilted, there could be two more ports below the water line, but I suspect there is only one. Not enough for naval use. Driscoll goes quiet and stares at the ship. After a few minutes of his silence, I get a little antsy. But the crew are calm as can be and simply wait for the captain's next move.

He slaps the rail and grins at the crew. Who wants to risk life and limb for absolutely no practical reason, other than to see what there is to see on that ship? Every hand shoots up, including mine. Driscoll laughs. I'll pick five. We'll go after lunch. In the interim, I want eyes on this ship at all times.

Watch the ice flows around it. Look for lift or drop. Is it moving at all? I want to know as many variables as possible before a single boot. steps onto that deck, understood. Aye, aye, captain, the crew respond. Good. Now, let's get some chow so we have full and warm bellies

before we get lost in the very cold past. Careful. Chief mate, Lague says to me as we step from the gangplank to the old ship's deck. Wood still rots, even in the Arctic. Just a shit ton slower, Bose and Jimmy Leach says. We found a rowboat completely preserved once.

With the rowers still sitting upright, his hands frozen solid to the oars. A.B. Seaman Niles Bilsen adds, Poor guy got lost and completely disoriented. Seaman Claude Melanue says, He'd been missing for two and a half years. Cut the chatter. Captain Driscoll says as he approaches the main hatch to the lower decks. Eyes open, ears open, mouths shut.

Keep watch on each other. No one strays from the group. If I say we leave, then we leave. leave immediately without debate or discussion. I have no plans for this old girl to be my tomb. Aye, aye, they say. I'm not fast enough, so I just nod. Leach, you stay up here. I want a man on this end of the gangplank. Just in case. Got it, Cap. Leach says, and sits his ass down on the end of the gangplank I just stepped off of. Driscoll nods to the man, looks at all of us, takes out a high-powered flashlight and turns it on. Then, without another word, he steps through the main hatch. We do the same with our flashlights and follow right behind him, finding ourselves descending

a rickety set of steps to the next deck. With the sub-zeroed temperatures, there shouldn't be much of an odor, but there is. It's faint, and I can't tell if the others notice. But when I glance over my shoulder, I see Claude frowning. Death, I say, and he nods. When you embed with soldiers during an active war, you learn what death smells like, in all its forms, whether you want to or not. Captain, I smell it, Driscoll responds without looking back at me. Let's start checking doors. Open slowly and be careful in case loose timbers might be braced against it from the inside. I don't want any skulls crushed today, you hear? I-eye! Driscoll approaches the first door, while Lague goes to the one opposite it. They open the door

simultaneously, each look inside, flash their lights about, then ease out and close the doors. They meet eyes, shake their heads, and move on with the rest of us close behind. All the way down the corridor, they do that, never finding anything. Like, absolutely nothing. Where's the furniture? Legue asks. The cabins are empty. Firewood? Bilsen suggests. Possibly. Driscoll responds. Let's keep going. He takes a step and stops. Where is it, Cap? Legue asks.

These boards, he says, and taps them with the toe of his left boot. Hear that? When no one responds, he laughs. I suppose none of you have worked on an all wooden ship, have you? Everyone shakes their heads. Well, the thing about wooden ships is that they are soft. They bend and mold to their environment. In a wooden ship, nothing is perfectly solid or stature.

stable, because no matter how much you seal it, wood is porous. It will soak up moisture eventually. He gives the floorboards a hard stop. The sound is thick, solid, and unforgiving. If this ship has been here for over 150 years, then this wood should be spongy. Even in this cold, I ask, wouldn't the moisture freeze? That's probably why they are so hard. Maybe, sure, Triscoll responds. But this feels... His words drift off, and instead of continuing his thought, Driscoll continues walking down the corridor,

his toe tapping here and there at the wooden boards. When we reach the hatch at the end of the corridor, and descend to the next deck, the death smell gets way worse. This doesn't make any sense, Driscoll says. Melanoo, what's the temperature? Negative 24 Celsius. Um...

I say, and scrunch up my feet. face at Melanue. That's what in Fahrenheit? Negative 8? Negative 9? It's more like negative 11, Bilsson says. But close enough. Oh, okay.

I know from my time in Ukraine and other frigid climates that smells tend to be muted in the cold. Simple science, really. The molecules are so slow that they can't rise to your nose. It's why everything smells crisp and clean after a fresh snow. This place doesn't smell crisp. doesn't smell crisp or clean or fresh. We'll check every cabin carefully before we go into the hold, Driscoll says. But be prepared.

From the smell of things, one of these cabins may still be occupied. We all nod, then split up, and take a side of the new corridor we're in. Melanoo and I take the right side, while Lague and Bilsen take the other. The captain doesn't stop to help search the cabins. His eyes are on the hatch at the far end. We're a deck lower, so the corridor is about one and a half times as long as the deck above, which means we have four extra doors to check. Lague opens the first door on the left, while Bilsen Leiprogs him and checks the second door on the left.

Melanoo and I do the same with him taking the first on the right, while I move past and check the second on the right. Empty! Legue calls out from inside his room. Same, Bilsen says. Empty here too. I say when I step back into the corridor. Melanoo's door is wide open, but he hasn't called out or returned. Claude?

Legue says. What do you see in there? Still no response. We give each other worried looks, then converge on the cabin door. Melanoo stands in the center of the empty room, his back to us. We wait and exchange confused glances. Claude? Lague asks again and steps into the room.

He reaches out and grabs Melanoo, shoulder. You good, man? Melanoo jumps and spins around, his eyes wide with pure terror. I think he's going to strike Legue, but the man blinks a few times, then tries to force a smile. You okay, Legue asks. Yeah, just thought I heard something, is all? Melanue's smile never materializes. All he can manage is a pained grimace. What do you think you heard, I ask. The man's eyes track slowly toward me. You said you heard something. What was it? What did you hear? He blinks.

I don't know. Then he shakes his head, and the grimace disappears, and his lips curl into a real grin. Probably nothing. Old ships, you know? I don't know, but I nod like I do. We have more cabins to check, Legu says. Come on. Except when we all step back into the corridor, we see the hatch at the end. and open, and Driscoll is gone.

Cap? Leguer calls as he walks toward the hatch. Captain? Driscoll! Bilsen shouts. Legu cocks his head. I hear him. Come on!

We skipped the last few rooms and hurried to the hatch. The steps it opens onto are mostly cracked and broken. How'd you get down there? Bilsen asks, leaning through the hatch and frowning at the useless steps. Use the edges. Melanoo says and places a foot on the side of a step. It's more stable. here just be careful there isn't much room for your boots he isn't kidding after

Melanue and Bilsen it's my turn and I swear that with each step I'm going to tumble through the broken parts and fall down into the deep dark hold move quickly with confidence like you says that's how you learn to live out at sea move quickly and with confidence thanks I do as he suggests and I'm at the bottom of the steps in no time Bilsen and Melanoo are waiting in the center of the hold. Just like with everything above, the hold is empty, not a single crate or barrel, not even any rope or tools or anything you'd expect to see in an ancient ship's hold. There's also no Captain Driscoll, Lague yells. We all turn in slow, separate circles,

are flashlights trying to cut through the gloom and shadows that fill the hold. Driscoll is nowhere. Ligue moves toward one shadowed end, and it's easy to see the space is empty. Bilsen moves in a different direction with the same results. Drisco! Melanoo shouts. Captain! What's that? I ask, spying a floorboard that isn't flush with the rest. Warped wood, Bilsen says. No, no, look at it. I say in hurry to the board. Hold on. It's a trap door. I bend down and grab a small ring of iron set into the board

and pull as I stand. A trap door about four feet wide lifts easily on surprisingly quiet hinges. light spills up from below. Captain Driscoll, are you down there? Move. Legue says and pushes past me. He shines his flashlight through the opening. There's a ladder. Without saying another word, he hooks a leg over and climbs down through the trap door.

Bilsen is right behind him. After you, Melanoo says, grabbing onto the hatch. I'll stay up here and keep an eye on things. He must see the look on my face because he quickly adds. You're the reporter. The story is down there, not right here. He has a point. So after another second's hesitation,

I follow Bilsson and Lagueu through the trap door. When I reach the bottom, my boots land in about two inches of freezing cold seawater. I shine my flashlight around and see Bilsen and Lague standing behind Captain Driscoll as the man crouches down, holding something in his hands that's blocked from view. What you find?

I ask as I walk over to them. The smell of death increases, with every step. Bilsen says in a hushed whisper, Looks like a journal. Might be a captain's log, Legu says quietly. Then raises his voice to say,

Is that it, Cap? Is it the captain's log? Captain Driscoll doesn't respond. Is it? Legue asks again. Cap? Hey, what is it? Captain Driscoll!

Bilsen shouts. Driscoll starts, but doesn't turn and look our way. Instead, he slowly stands up. His back still to us, and says, No, no, it is not the captain's log. When he does turn around, I have to stifle a gasp. His skin is bone white, and his eyes are sunken into his skull.

The man looks like he's been living on this ship for weeks or months. His hands shake as he holds out what he's been studying. This is something else, he says. In his hands is a thick ledger bound in dark leather. One hand grips the ledger by the spine, while the other caresses the cover. It's a journal, but not from the captain of this ship? Lague asks.

Driscoll slowly turns in Lague's direction. He doesn't look directly at him, though. His eyes sort of drift off to the side, staring past Lague's left shoulder. No, not from the captain, Driscoll finally replies. Something more powerful than that. Someone, you mean, Bilsen says, and I can tell by the tone in his mind.

voice that he's worried. Good, that makes two of us. I'm worried as shit. There is something way off with Captain Driscoll. We should get back to the ship, I suggest. What did you say? Driscoll says to Bilsen. He said the journalist from someone, not something, I say. You said something and... Before any of us can blink, Driscoll wallaves me across the face with the ledger. I stumble back, my hand goes to my cheek. My feet come out from under me, and I land ass first in the two inches of Arctic seawater. What the fuck, Cap? Bilsen says, as I rubbed my cheek. He hurries over and helps me up. Thanks, I say. My cheek stings like hell. Cap, can I see that? Legue asks and holds out a hand.

No, Griskel says, and clutches the ledger tied to his chest. I am the captain. This is mine. Hey, how's he going down there? Melanu shouts from the trap door. You all good? Yeah, we're good. Legue replies. He drops his hand. Cap?

I think it's time we head back, don't you? To where? Driscoll asks. His voice is thin and far off. To North Point, sir. To the crew. Driscoll's eyes brighten, and a little flush comes to his white cheeks.

The crew? Yes, yes. We should return to the crew. Okay. Bilsen says, and grimaces at me. I feel the same and grimace back. We should hurry, Driscoll says and takes a single step. There's a loud crack, and Driscoll drops fast, his right leg having broken through the hall. Sea water rushes up around his thigh, and he stares at each of us as if he hasn't seen us

before. Leggeu? Bilsen? He cries. What the fuck is going on? Shit! Leguu shouts and reaches for the captain. He grabs him by the arm and yanks hard. Grab on, Cap. But Driscoll doesn't grab on. Both hands are firmly clutched around the journal as the water starts to rise fast. Get him under the armpits! Bilsson shouts. Lague rushes around behind Driscoll and slips his hands up under Driscoll's armpits.

He rears back, putting all his strength into it, and Driscoll screams. The water around his leg turns cloudy. Shit, he must be caught on a splinter. Bilsenielsen yells. Melanoo! Melanoo! Go get help and fucking fast! What? Melanoo says, making me jump as his voice suddenly comes from right by my left ear. He looks fine. Just pull him up.

What the fuck are you talking about? He's bleeding. And why are you down here? Get your house back up and go get help. Nah, he'll be fine, right, Cap? Melanue asks, ignoring Lague's orders. He shoves by Bilsen and squats down in front of Driscoll. You'll be fine, Melanue holds out his hand. It'll all be fine.

Driscoll hesitates, then nods, and places the journal in Melanoo's hand. Yes, it'll all be fine. The second the journal leaves Driscoll's hands, the ship creaks and begins to tilt to starboard. The water around Driscoll rushes up through the hall even faster. Help me! Lague shouts and Bilsen hurries over to try to pull the captain free. Melanoo stands up, the journal in his hands, turns, and walks back to the ladder. Where are you going now?

I yell at his back. Help us. Oh, he'll be fine, Melanu says. Then I hear a zipper, and he tucks the journal away inside his coat so we can have both hands to climb the ladder. A terrifying thought, slams into my brain. He's going to close that trap door and lock us in here, so we drown. Tanner, Lague yells.

Help us with Driscoll. I ignore his shouts and race after Melanoo. What are you doing, asshole? Wilson shouts. Get back here. I'm at the ladder and almost to the top. when the trapdoor comes crashing down. Fortunately, I'm there to block it.

Unfortunately, the trapdoor hits me squarely on the skull, and lights flash before my eyes. I'm about to lose my grip on the ladder, but I find some inner strength and shove up hard with my legs, shouldering the trapdoor aside. I scramble out of that lower hold and into the main hold. Melanoo is navigating the broken steps.

Melanu! What the hell, man? Come back! Then a massive cracking noise echoes up from below, and before I can say or do anything, I watch as the lower hold fills with water so fast that it's coming up out of the trap door within two seconds of the noise. Oh shit! I whisper and scurry away from the water that's quickly filling the main hold now. Oh shit! I run to the steps and try to climb my way up to the next deck, but the ship is tilting even more now, and the boards no longer feel firm, but are soft and rotted.

I can barely get my boots placed in the right spots next to the runner without slipping off and splashing down into rising ice-cold seawater. My eyes go to where the trapdoor is, and I swear I see a body float up from that hole. Grabbing onto anything I can get a grip on, I finally clamber up the steps and throw myself out into the corridor. No melanoo. I'm able to get to my feet, but it's like running in a carnival fun house. The ship is now at a 45-degree angle, and I'm stepping as much on the wall as I am the floor. None of it is solid. My boots keep breaking through rotted boards, and I almost don't make it to the end of the passageway. One more set of soft steps, and I'm on the first deck.

Still no sign of Melanoo. I'm racing down the corridor when an ear-piercing scream stops me in my tracks. I spin about, and Captain Driscoll is sprinting at me, his arms out, hands like claws, eyes wild with madness. Driscoll, no! I yell and cover my face with my arms, waiting for the impact. But it never comes. I pull my arms away and the corridor is empty.

The ship shifts again. and I basically have to climb the last steps like a sideways ladder. When I'm up on the top deck and staggering toward the gangplank, Leach has already escaped to the north point, where several members of the crew are trying to hold the plank steady for me. Hurry, God damn it! Second mate, Arlene Switzer shouts over at me. We can't hold on much longer!

I'm on the plank and tightroping my way across, when the ship behind me rolls hard, and the next thing I know, I'm in open air, and all that's below me is seawater and large, chunks of ice. If I go in there, I'm dead. The ice will close over me and the crew won't be able to get me out before I freeze to death. Then hands have me by the back of my coat, and are yanking me up and over the north point's railing. I splay out on the deck and gasped for air as I roll over onto my back. Switzer stands over me, her hands on her hips.

Where is everyone? Where's the captain? She asks. I shake my head. No, you can't be serious. I just stare at her. Well, fuck! What happened? Someone asks. What did happen? A reporter named Martha Vasco asks me, as I sit and tell my story. Because it sounds like you left the captain of the North Point and two key crew members behind to drown on that ship. She flips through her notes. The, uh, athon, I say. The ship's name was the athon.

Athon, yes, she says. Like her agreeing with me gives it legitimacy. You left them to die. It's a statement, not a question. I think maybe we should take a break, Bashir says, suddenly at my elbow. Mr. Floyd needs some rest, and the doctors would like to do some more thorough exams just to be sure he's in good health. How about we take this up in the morning? Mr. Floyd will be flying out tomorrow afternoon and will...

No, I'm good, I say and smile up at the lawyer. I want to finish this. She leans in close and puts her hand on a few of the microphones. We both know that it does nothing except. give the appearance of a private conference. The mics are still going to pick up everything we say. Are you sure about this, Tanner? She asks me, her voice, pointlessly hushed.

I think it would be better if we call it for now, and resume in the morning. That gives you some time to eat and rest, and it gives the doctor's time to run some tests, and it gives me time to prepare a more formal statement. No, I say in a normal voice. I want to tell my story now. Then I lower my voice.

I need to tell it, Miss Bashir. The doctors can wait. She studies me for several seconds, then nods. Of course, Mr. Floyd. Continue. Where's Melanoo? I ask as I huddle under about a hundred blankets while I wrap my hands around a steaming mug of coffee.

That's a good question, Switzer says. Why don't you tell me? Me? How would I know? You saw him last? What? No. Leach would have seen him when he came above decks. Leach didn't see anyone, but he had to.

Melanie left with the journal before I got up out of that ship. We're seated at one of the booths in the mess. Switzer and Chief Medical Officer Craig Lansing sit on one side, while I shiver and huddle on the other. Their eyes are locked on me, and I shudder under their intense gaze. What journal? Switzer asks. And the ship is called the athon, Lansing adds. We were able to barely make out the name once the ship started to tip and sink.

A-thon, I say, and a jolting pain stabs the back of my skull. Ow! What's wrong? Lansing asks and stands up. Switzer places her hand on one of his, and he sits back down. What journal? Switzer asks again. I don't know, I say, her eyes narrow. It's the truth, I don't. Start at the beginning, she says, and then leans back against the booth.

Her arms crossed over her chest. Of all the crew, Switz's. and I have probably connected the least. Usually the first mate is the one who's standoffish, trying to act as a buffer between everyone and the captain. But on the north point, it's the second mate who has taken that upon herself. She hasn't trusted me since I stepped aboard, and she really doesn't trust me now, not after three of the crew, including the captain, first mate, and an A.B. C.men have died, leaving me the only witness. Except I'm not the only witness. I go through it all from how there wasn't a stick of furniture or old supplies or any equipment on board,

not even a damn rope. I tell her and Lansing about the weird smell of death, even though we never found the source. But that's not true. A memory of the death smell growing stronger as I got closer to the captain hits me like a ton of bricks. I think the smell was coming from the journal. The death smell? Switzer asks.

You think the death smell was coming from a book? Yeah, I remember walking toward Bilsen and Lague, and that smell just kept getting worse and worse. I shrug, but they can't see it with all the blankets wrapped around me. I mean, there was nothing on that ship. We checked. The only item we found, or Driscoll found, was that journal. You think a journal smelled of death? Lansing asks, incredulous. I find that hard to believe. Even if it was leather and it became wet, it wouldn't smell like death. Earthy, a little funky, but not death. I know, but that was what I smelled.

And I wasn't the only one. Everyone else smelled it, too. And it got worse the lower in the ship we went. I swear, I think the journal was, you'd think the journal was what? Switzer snaps. Alive? Dead? Made of rotting flesh?

When she says that, another sharp pain erupts in the back of my head. I make sure not to bring attention to it. Lansing has poked and prodded me enough for one day, or night, or whatever time it is, I don't even know anymore. The hull broke and began flooding the ship, Switzer says. Then you, no, no, Driscoll's leg fell through the hole. There must have been a soft spot in the wood, but it didn't start flooding until... Until? Until what? Until Driscoll handed the journal over to Melanoo. Once that happened, it all went to shit. The ship started flooding and all the boards went soft. They share a

Look, then Switzer says, And you ran away. No, no, I didn't run away. I was chasing after Melanoo. Why? Because I had a sudden premonition he was going to lock us down there alive. A premonition? I guess, yeah.

I used to get them in Ukraine. I just know shit was about to go down, and nine times out of ten, I was right. So this could have been the tenth time, Switzer says him to glares. Except I was right, I argue. Melanoo did try to close that trap door. If I hadn't gone after him, he would have closed it on all of us. Not that it mattered in the end.

You're the only one who made it out. And Melanoo? So you say. How could none of you have seen him? I ask, my voice rising. He got out way before me. He must have crossed the gangplank. He had to.

I don't care if Leach didn't see him. Someone must have. Unless there was a moment when no one was keeping watch. We had eyes on that ship at all times, Switzer says. He didn't cross over. Okay, then he died on the ship. What was the name again?

Athon, Lansing says. We're looking it up. From what we've learned, it disappeared around 1883. Privateer, Switzer says. Her radio squawks. Captain, come in. Switzer's eyes stay on me. That's you.

Lansing says, nudging Switzer with his elbow. Oh, right. She says with a heavy voice and picks up her radio. Switzer here. What have you got for me, Leach? Coast Guard is on the horn. I can patch it through to... No, I'll take the call on the bridge. Switzer replies and stands up.

Lansing scoots out of the booth to let her by. Tell them I'll be there in a minute. We'll do. Switzer points the radio at me. We're not even close to Dunn. But I have to make an official report to the Coast Guard so they know what's happened. What has happened? I asked.

I know people died, but there was more going on with that ship. I could feel it. I rubbed my cheek. right where the journal hit me. If we can find Melanoo, he'll say the same. Will he? Switzer asks, then nods at Lansing and walks out of the mess, leaving me alone with Lansing.

Is that a rash on your cheek? He asks me. I hadn't noticed that before. Here, let me have a look. What happened to the North Point crew? A reporter calls out, interrupting my telling of my tale. Don't answer that. Bashir says from off to the side,

then addresses the group of journalists. Folks, we are going to let Mr. Floyd finish what he asked to say, then we'll reconvene in the morning for questions. From the way she says it, I doubt she's going to let that happen. And the way eyes are rolled throughout the room, most of the reporters don't buy it either. I'm getting to that, I say. If you let me finish, then you'll have all the answers you need. So, you do have answers. Nelson asks me.

Because it sounds like you aren't sure what happened. May I finish? Yes, of course. Sorry, he says, and gestures for me to continue. I look to Miss Bashir, and after a moment she nods. I continue. It's the smell that wakes me up. Wake up, Tanner.

It wants you now. What sleep lingered in my head disappears the second I hear Melanoo's voice. Claude? I ask, sitting up, my hand slapping for the lamp next to my small bed. Where have you been? I flip on the light and scream. The man is covered in blood from head to toe. And that's not all that is on him.

In Ukraine, I watched three soldiers get blown apart by an RPG. When the rocket hit them, all that was left was a thick spray of human remains. That's what coats Melanoo. Blood, brains, bone chips, shit, and probably piss. But it's impossible to tell any of it apart. Everything a human body holds is on Melanoo. Don't be afraid, he says, which is a bullshit thing to say because I'm terrified. No, I'm more than terrified.

Every ounce of my soul is screaming for me to run, to get away from this crazy man, to jump off the ship into the Arctic, if that's what it takes to escape the insanity that stands before me. In his hands is the journal, and it's spotless. Dig it! He says and offers me the book. It wants you to have it. What does? What's happened, Claude?

Why are you drenched in blood? Drenched in blood, he smiles. Oh, it likes that. He hugs the journal close to his chest and rocks back in the world. forth. Oh, it likes that a lot. Then he sighs and offers me the journal again. The blood and bits of people that rubbed off Melanoo and cling to its cover are absorbed into the leather right before my eyes. Claude, what is going on? Come see, he says, and pulls the journal back again, once more clutching it to his chest. He gestures for me to follow out of my cabin. Come on, Tanner. It will show you.

Don't be afraid. It promises that you are the one. It promises. Can't you hear it? And I do. I do hear it. A voice far away calling my name, like my mother would on late summer nights as I walked our old farm. She'd call and call, and her voice would drift along the wind until it reached me acres and acres away. But I don't tell Melanoo this. I don't say a word to him as I get up and throw on some sweatpants. shirtless and freezing. I do follow Melanoo out of my cabin and down the passageway. Blood is everywhere, and as we pass large patches of it on the walls, Melanoo casually presses the journal to the blood.

It soaks it all up like a sponge. What's in it? I ask. And he doesn't need me to clarify. He knows I'm talking about the journal. Truth, he replies, leading me to the stairs that take us up to the next deck. So much truth. My bare feet slip and slide through awful and various bodily fluids, but I barely notice. My attention is on Melanoo's back.

I'm watching him like a hawk, ready to bolt the second he turns and tries to attack me. I'm not going to hurt you, he says without looking back, like he can read my mind. It wouldn't like that. Where did all this blood come from? I ask. Where's the rest of the crew? Then we reach the hatch to the mess, and I have my answer. The crew is no more.

Well, not whole, at least. Every surface is covered in what's left of them. And I know it's all of them. I can hear the voice confirming it in my head. Did you? I have to swallow hard to keep the gorge at bay. Um, Claude? Did you kill everyone?

Of course. He says as he walks into the mess, then turns around. The journal still held to his chest. It's what it wanted. It's what they wanted. too. As soon as I explained it all, the crew knew that their sacrifice was for a greater purpose. They were going to become something more, something forever. He holds the journal out to me for a third time.

Take it. It's yours now. That's what it's saying. You hear it. It's yours. It's yours. It's yours. It's yours. He repeats those words over and over as I walk to him and gently take the book out of his grasp. The moment I touch it, the rash on my cheek burns like wildfire, then goes cold as ice. I reach up and rub my cheek, feeling for the irritated bumps that had appeared. But my skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Melanoo chuckles, then falls to the floor. There's one less thing to do, Tanner, he says, looking up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. It said I can be a part of it too.

I get to be included so I live forever with all the crews from all the ships from all the ships. from all the years. Claude, I don't... But I do. I can see it clear as day in my head. I see everything Claude did. The journal shows me. While I slept, he finally appeared

and told Switzer to call an all-hands meeting in the mess. She argued, so he beat her to death with the journal. It sucked up her blood like a thirsty dog. Whatever is left of her is up on the bridge, along with several others from the crew. So Melanoo called the meeting himself. I never woke up, even when the ship's PA bellowed with his happy voice.

The mess, filled with the crew and one by one, Melanoo bathed their skulls in. Some tried to run, but the journal wouldn't let them leave. It was well-fed and was at full strength. I feel that strength in my hands right now. Do it, Melanoo begs. Make me whole with the journal. Yes, is all I say is I lift. the journal over my head.

Thank you! Melanoe gasps, then closes his eyes. I bring the journal down, and instead of the soft thud I expect to hear, there's a loud crack, like a bat hitting a baseball. Melanoo grunts, but doesn't fall over. His eyes stay closed as I hit him again and again and again. When his body finally collapses, his head splits wide open. I kneel down and set the book on his chest.

Without letting go, I shake and shut up. as the journal devours every piece of melanoo, sucking him straight through the cover. Then he's gone. Like that, there is no more clawed melanoe. But there's still plenty of crew to feast on. I walk the journal along every inch of the ship until the walls, the floors, the ladders, and everything is nearly spotless. The journal is swollen to almost bursting, and blood drips from the corners as it happily struggles to consume it all.

Then, when it is finished, I make my way to the bridge, and I send the SOS call. And that's the story, I say as I unzip my parka. Stunned faces stare back at me. Then Nelson says, What's that smell? I smile as I remove the journal from under my second sweater. When I hold it up, the room turns to pure chaos.

From the reporters to the doctors, to the Coast Guard sailors, to the lawyers and suits, everyone begins to rip each other to shreds. They claw and scratch and bite and tear. Some pick up chairs and bludgeon those next to them, but most just use their hands. Except for Miss Laura Bashir. I turned my head and see her standing there, staring at me as her colleagues go insane with homicidal violence. But none of them touch her.

It wants you, I say, and hold the journal up. Can't you hear it? It wants you. She cocks her head, looking like a dog after a far-offer. whistle has been blown. Then she nods and walks to me, taking slow, careful, measured steps. When she reaches me, I hold the journal out to her. She nods. Oh, that's good. That pleases it. It is very happy. Take it. It's yours now. She takes the journal from my hands and then caresses the cover. It'll be very hungry, I say, giving the journal one last pat before it is no longer mine. You will feed it.

Bashir nods, then slowly lifts the journal over her head. My heart swells with joy and I close my eyes. Now I will be part of it too, I say. And soon, so will the world. The journal collides with my skull, and I think it before all goes dark. The infernal city is an unforgiving place. A darkness spreads through it, even on the sunniest of days. Not that there are many of those, certainly not here.

Here, the first time I laid eyes on Natas Lee Penitentiary for the wicked and deranged was when my mother brought me here as a small boy. I was no more than eight or nine, definitely not ten yet. No, that was a much different year. Much, much different. The Lee, as it is more commonly known, loomed above my small frame. I clutched my mother's hand with all my strength, terrified by the side of the massive stone and brick building,

There are other materials that make up the framework of the building, but I wouldn't discover those until much, much later. Be brave, Amel, she said. Yes, Mother. It is only a building. Yes, Mother. Inside are people like you and me? Yes, Mother.

Some of them are horrible, awful things. Oh, but do not be afraid, because some of them are kind and gentle. Yes, Amel, they are. then why do they have to be here? I stared at the edifice and the centuries of lichen and moss that covered the stonework. How could anyone, or anything for that matter, live in such a place? It was horrid.

A depressing symbol of indifference to those who built the very city it is supposed to protect. Of course, being eight or nine, I did not have the vocabulary or experience to express myself in such a way. Now, at that time, I would simply have said, It makes me sad. Me too, my love, me too. My father lived in the Lee and had since I was born. My mother told me grand tales of their courtship and their love, how he had wooed her and wooed her,

but she refused to give in. Until one day, she saw past his more animalistic nature and found the man she would fall madly, deeply in love with. It was a process, she would say. A day-by-day awakening. Awakening, I asked in my small voice, for I wasn't even eight or nine at the time of her telling. Yes, my love, an awakening, like after your nap. You know that feeling of opening your eyes, and you aren't sure where you are,

but you know you are where you are supposed to be. I nodded like a good son, despite having no idea what she meant. It didn't matter anyway. My mother was explaining it to herself more than she was explaining it to me. He refused to give up and slowly bit by bit. My heart opened to him. It did? I exclaimed. Visions of my mother's chest split down the middle. Her heart exposed and beating rapidly, filling my small head. Oh, my love, that is only a saying.

She laughed and kissed my forehead. Why did father have to leave? I asked as we sat in silence for a moment. He didn't leave, my love. It was taken. Taken? Taken from us because the city was frightened. How can a city be frightened?

Ignorance. I did not know what ignorance meant at the time. But I do now. I know it firsthand, like a lost glove that is found and still fits perfectly, despite having been left outside in the elements to dampen and dry, dampen and dry. That day, with my hand in my mothers, I braved the massive iron gate and the mean-looking watchman. I braved the long walk up the weed-choked gravel drive,

and I braved the ancient lichen and moss covered entrance. That day I entered the Lee, and my life changed forever. I am sorry, the headguard said when we checked in at the front desk, which was secured behind a large iron cage from not just the prisoners, but the visitors as well. I do not enjoy this. Enjoy what? My mother asked. I could see she was confused, and by the way her grip on my hand became tighter and tighter, I knew she was growing upset.

Your husband? Well, he passed, the headguard said. The man was terrifying to look at. His nose was a knobby chunk of flesh on his face, sitting just under two beady eyes, with a single brow looming over them all. His skin was pale, too pale, and his teeth were more stains than enamel. But he smiled politely, and despite those teeth, there was warmth in that smile. I am truly sorry, he said, and reached down under his desk to procure a small burlap sack.

Here are his possessions. I remember my mother only standing there. saying nothing, doing nothing. I remember the guard asking if she was all right. Did she need him to call her a taxi? I remember her hand letting go of mine as she fell to her knees, the blank look on her face finally breaking. I remember the shrieking and the screaming and the crying.

Most of the latter was for me as guards, and attendance came to try to soothe my mother. I remember her turning to look at me as she said, close your ears my love close them tight like I taught you I remember doing as I was told and sticking my thumbs deep deep into my ear canals until I felt pain then and I can never forget this my mother opened her mouth wide and truly screamed a guard shouted and pressed a hand to his nose it was bleeding like a chicken after having been beheaded another guard stumbled across the Lee's lobby his hands pressed to his

ears as blood streamed between his fingers. An attendant opened his mouth to cry out, but he never got a chance. His head burst apart right before my eyes. All of their heads burst apart right before my eyes. One after another, after another, after another, until only the headguard was left. He looked about at the bloodshed my mother had caused and sighed. I couldn't hear the sigh, but I could see his chest rise and fall. Most of all, I was. I remember the look of honest sorrow on his face. He left his cage, cudgel in hand, walked to my mother, and struck her once, twice, three times. She fell onto her side, now with a crack in her skull that would never really heal.

I remember my mother's blood mixing with out of the guards and attendants. Then, the head guard was crouching before me. He set his bloody cudgel down and gently pulled my thumbs out of my ears. You have suffered great loss today, boy, he said. Do not let it define you. The city can and will provide a decent life for you if you let it. And I suppose that is the question. Did I let it?

Or did it take me like it took my father? The second time I laid eyes on the Lee was my mother's 40th birthday. I was 15. My foster parents, a couple of old trolls who weren't fooling anyone as they tried to play human family, dropped me off at the Iron Gate without so much as a good day. The same watchman was still working the guardhouse as on the day I'd first arrived with my mother. He sneered at me, spitting tobacco juice at my feet as I walked up and presented him with my visitation form. While he studied the form, Brown spit dribbled down his chin. Then he

wiped his chin with the form, wadded it up, and threw it on the ground. "'In with you, then,' he said, and the iron gate opened wide. The walk to the front door seemed so much longer than when I was eight or nine. But back then, I had the strength of my mother's hand to move me along. This time I was completely alone, a feeling I had grown more accustomed to day after day, week after week. Oh, it's you, the head guard said when I stepped up to his protective iron cage. He looked down at a clipboard on his desk and nodded.

You're on the list. What? I asked when he looked up at me with worried eyes. I snorted in that teenager way. You're going to tell me my mother is dead too? No, your mother is perfectly fine, he responded. Well, not perfectly fine, if I am being honest. She's alive, so let that be a comfort.

What are you not telling me? Before he could speak, a gentleman wearing a decent suit and a very nice fedora was led out of the massive door set behind the head guard's cage. And that's when she shot me. The man with the fedora said and laughed. The guard showing him out laughed with him. Can you believe that? Knowing you, Peyton.

Yeah, I can believe that. The guard said. Fair enough, fair enough. The fedora man said. Then he caught sight of me and raised an eyebrow. Uh-oh, looks like trouble. He gave me a wink, tipped that fine fedora at me,

and walked out of the Lee like he owned the place. Don't forget the cookies next time, Peyton! The guard called after him. Then the guard looked at me, sniffed like I was a pile of dog crap, and returned to his post inside the Lee proper. Who was that? I asked. A local PI, the head guard replied. Good guy, but a pain in the ass.

He's got a few clients here, so we see him around a lot. Clients? In the Lee? Some folks think they have been wrongly incarcerated. Those who still have the means, hire a PI like Peyton to help their cases and get them released. Is that possible? Can I do that? Can I hire him to get my mother out? The headguard smiled, and it was so sad to see on that ugly face.

No, kid, I'm sorry. But your mother's case isn't going to be overturned. You were there when it happened. You saw what she did. I saw it too. It's unfortunate she must be here, but she was responsible for the deaths of... I know. I snapped. He gave an understanding nod when he could have given me a harsh rebuke for my rudeness. After taking a deep breath, he stood up and walked to the back of his cage, unlocking it so he could come around and take me by the elbow. We should get on with this. It'll be sun down in two hours. and you should not be in the Lee after sundown.

I would learn later how right he was on that point. Sun down at the Lee is not for the faint of heart. When we entered the Lee proper, the guard who'd sniffed at me rolled his eyes. Take the front desk, Stu, the headguard said. What? Nah, I'm at the door all shift, he protested. Would you rather work the crematory? Or the refuse bin the rest of the week?

Oh man, come on, that's not cool. He said the headguard's name, but I couldn't understand it. It wasn't that I couldn't hear the guard say the name. It was like the headguard's name became a loud buzzing, like a million bees instead. The headguard saw the confusion on my face and smiled. A security X, he said to me. So no one can get leverage on me. I am the headguard and first protector of the league.

If an unsamely sort knew my true name, they could get to my family, my friends. Oh, was all I could say. I didn't have family or friends, so I didn't understand the importance of a threat like that. Why did I hear Stu's name then? Good question, the head guard began, but was quickly interrupted by Stu. Because here at the Lee, there's a pecking order, he said. And I ain't anywhere near the top. Someone comes from my. My family are friends in order to coerce me into making trouble. Well, it won't matter much.

All I know how's to do is enter through the employee entrance and then get to work. That's an oversimplification. But Stu is not incorrect, the head guard said. Now, let's get you to your mother, shall we? Good luck, Stu said. She's in a mood today. And I am sure that seeing her son will help with that mood. The head guard responded, giving Stu a harsh look.

The man only shrugged in response. The way to the visitation room was a fever dream. I'd later learned that it was intended to be, so that folks with ill intent would feel like the rug was pulled out from underneath them. The lee has a lot to teach if you listen. We went through another huge door and into a long corridor. On either side were open cells all empty. I began to ask about them,

but the head guard placed a finger to his lips, telling me to stay quiet. I didn't argue, because as we walked, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. The cells weren't as unoccupied as I'd thought. Yet when I turned my head, I saw no one or thing in any of them. Well done, Edgard said to me when we stepped through yet another huge door, leaving the maybe empty cells behind.

Those who speak to the phantoms can become lost instantly. Then why have them so close to the front? We layered the security here at the Lee, is all he said. The next corridor was empty. No cells, no doors, nothing but long stone walls that stretched on forever. By the time we reached the end, I would have sworn a year had passed, and I'd turned 16. But the second we entered the next corridor, that feeling was gone, shoved away by the sight before me. Welcome to the Lee, the head guard said, as I stared at the endless road.

rows and levels of prison cells. But how? I asked. It was a fair question since from the outside, the lee was four stories. This, what was before me, had endless stories, all stretching up and up and up, until all I could see was darkness. Layers of security, the head guard said. Now, stay close to me. The visitation room for your mother is down this way.

Why not have it closer to the front instead of those phantom cells? We do have one up front, just not for prisoners like your mother. He shook his head and clapped me on the shoulder. Too dangerous, son, for everyone. I nodded to the head guard like I understood, which I did in a way. You don't know self-loathing until you have your father taken from you, only for him to die in prison, then to have your mother taken from you and placed in that very same prison

that was your father's tomb. My family was a dangerous family, and the city had to be protected. As we walked, eyes of many colors and shapes and sizes watched me. Angry eyes, terrified eyes, sad eyes, pleading eyes, hungry eyes. Hey, blith! Why don't you bring that fine young lad over here? A man wearing a ceramic mask shouted as we walked by his cell. He knows your name, I whispered. Aren't you worried he'll tell someone? Who will he tell? No one ever leaves the Lee. I stopped in my tracks.

What? He sighed and I heard the instant regret. You didn't know. No what? What does that mean? No one ever leaves the Lee. Exactly as it sounds, son. Once you were sent to the Lee, you stay at the Lee forever.

This is not a rehabilitation facility. This is a penitentiary. for the wicked and deranged. The wicked and the deranged do not get better. That's crap! I shouted. My mother will get better. The cells erupted in laughter and shouts. I was mocked and insulted for my exclamation. I'll be your mother, kid. Give me five minutes with your mother and I'll make her better. You tell them, kid, it's crap. All crap, crap, you need a daddy too, kid. You ain't your daddy, lamb. And he tastes delicious. Quiet, the headguard barked, and every single voice stopped instantly.

That's better. He took me by the arm and got me moving again. Come on, we shouldn't waste any more time. The rest of the way to the visitation room was a haze. When the headguard led me into the small, cramped space, he pointed at a chair and said, Sit, hurry now. You only have a few minutes left. Minutes? I was supposed to have an hour! I cried.

It's been almost an hour. Our time is fickle in the lee. I didn't understand what he meant, but I understand now. I sat and he stood behind me. Open, he said. The wall before me slid away, squeaking as it moved on an old, rusty track. The room was suddenly double in space, and sitting across for me, her arms and legs strapped to her chair, a heavy, thick muzzle across her mouth, was my mother.

Mom, I exclaimed. Her eyes tracked slowly, then fell on my face. I couldn't see the frown on her lips, but I could see it in her eyes. She didn't know who I was. Mom? Give her a moment, the headguard said. But we don't have a moment! The confusion in my mother's eyes began to dissipate.

Then her eyebrows shot up, and she started to thrash in her seat. None of that, Miss Lily, the headguard said. Be calm. you can speak with your boy, he swallowed hard. He can speak to you, I mean, he nudged my shoulder. Go on, son. Mom, what happened to you? I asked as I studied her appearance. My mother had been full of life and beauty. She was vibrant and active, and had energy that our friends and neighbors wanted to be around. It was what drew my father to her. But the woman before me was none of that. This woman wore a soiled night shirt, barely modest enough not to embarrass me.

Her hair was stringy and unkept. I could see the knots and tangles, haloing her face. Her skin was bone white, and the bags under her eyes had bags under them, cascading down until they were lost from sight below the thick muzzle. Is she sick? I asked. Not in the way you are asking, no. But she is not well either. Mom, I wanted to come see you and say, she waited completely still now.

I wanted to say that I'm doing fine, and you don't need to worry about me. That was a lie that I doubted she believed. Mothers know these things. My original plan was to tell her how horrible my foster parents were. I was going to talk to her about my plans for when she got out, and we could be together again. How I'd get a job and support us, and how she could stay home and relax. No more stress for her. her, I'd be the one taking care of everything. But as I looked upon her sad state, and the

reality that no one left the lease set in, I knew my dream was only empty thoughts and wishes. The trolls I live with take good care of me, another lie. And I'm doing great at school. A massive whopper, since I hadn't been to school in over a year. I even plan on starting a trade once I graduate. Except for the graduate part, it wasn't exactly. exactly a lie, since my foster parents told me I had to get a job or get out, and I couldn't afford to live on my own yet. She went along with my fantasies, nodding in the right places. I pictured her brilliant smile behind that muzzle, even though I knew she wasn't smiling. No one could smile in her state.

Five minutes, the head guard announced. My mother began to thrash again. Miss Lily, please don't waste the minutes. She calmed, and her eyes locked on. to mine. I saw everything in there. Her love for me, her hate for the Lee. That was when the plan started to piece together in my head. I don't know what I said for the rest of my time with her, except for my parting words. I won't leave you alone in here, Mom. I promise. The shouts and insults were only half-hearted as the headguard led me away, and we retraced our steps to the main lobby. She can't ever leave, the headguard said to me, now back in his cage and seated behind his desk.

Stu was happy to give up the seat. You know that, right? I know, I said, but he didn't understand what I meant by my promise. For weeks and months after that visit, I would wake up with nightmares of phantoms and empty cells and prisoners wanting to be my daddy. I saw eyes and bars and straps and muzzles,

but I never dreamed about my mother. She never made an appearance during my troubled sleep. The years went by, I visited her regularly when I wasn't working for the refuse department, hauling trash away from brownstones that I could never afford to live in. By the time I was old enough to escape the troll's house, I had saved a decent amount so I could get a small apartment on the poor edge of the grove. The moans and screeches that came from those woods took some getting used to,

but so do most things in the infernal city. Mom, guess what? I said to her one afternoon as she sat, strapped in her chair. muzzle firmly in place. Her eyebrows rose. I got a new job. Guess where? She tilted her head. Here! I'm going to be an attendant here at the Lee!

I can see you every day now. Isn't that great? From the way she went berserk, I sensed that she didn't think it was great. She broke one arm's strap and started to claw at her muzzle. Guards streamed in from the door behind her and tried to subdue her, but they had almost no effect. For the first time since she had been taken from me, I actually feared my mother. What would happen if she got her muzzle off and screamed,

like she did that day when we learned of my father's passing? I was about to jam my thumbs into my ears when a voice held. Miss Lily, that is enough. I looked over my shoulder at the head guard. He gave me a nod, then strode past me. In all the years I had visited, I had never seen him cross that line. He never stepped onto that side of the sliding wall. If you do not behave, then what will happen to your soul?

son, he asked as he got closer. If he is to work here, he'll need all the protection he can get. And you want him protected, don't you, Miss Lily? She slowed, then stopped her fight. I could tell by the way the guards held themselves that they wanted nothing more than to hurt my mother, to teach her a lesson for fighting them. But I could also tell that they feared the headguard more than anything.

Most quickly left. A few who stayed, backed up against the wall. and gave the headguard and my mother plenty of space. You know how the Lee can be, Miss Lily, he said, his voice a soothing drone. It must accept those who dwell and work here. If it sees how upset you are, do you think it will accept your son? Her eyes shot from me to the headguard. I saw fury and hatred in those eyes.

Then slowly, as the headguard remained before her, the look changed. to resignation and, finally, acceptance. She nodded. Very good, Miss Lily, Edgard said. Unfortunately, you know what happens now. She nods again. I am sorry, Miss Lily, but the Leaas rules.

She nodded again. Then her eyes fell on me, and I saw the love in them. I'll be back, Mom, I said. We'll see each other a lot from now on. She didn't nod. The headguard glanced at the other guards, and they cautiously moved forward, wary of my mother's free arm. She didn't fight them as they secured her and walked her out of the visitation room. But she did give me a last glance over her shoulder, and I saw the worry in her eyes. Come on, son, the headguard said. Let's get you out of here. You shall have plenty of time

in the lee. No need to waste your freedom now. Waste my freedom? He didn't reply, and I wondered about those words for days. Then I started my work at the Lee. An attendant isn't a guard or a nurse, or even a custodian. An attendant attends. To the needs of the guards, the needs of the prisoners, and, as I would find out, the needs of the Lee itself.

I did laundry and washed and folded a thousand sheets. I wrung towels out before placing. them in the massive machine. Best to get as much of the more unseemly liquids out first, so they don't taint the rest of the laundry. I mopped out cells as they became empty, never once learning where the previous occupants had gone. If no one ever left the lee, then an empty cell couldn't be a good thing. However, visiting my mother proved more difficult than I had expected. For some reason, the head guard was keeping me away from her. I was granted the occasional visit, but not the daily interaction I was hoping for.

When I asked, he would only say, It's not for me to decide. Then who does decide that? The warden? I've never met the warden. Where is he? Can I ask him? There is no warden at the lee, son,

was his response, and that was that. It was infuriating. I hadn't gotten the job of rinsing out bloody bedsheets or wringing out mucus and crusted towels for the fun of it, and it wasn't like the pay was going to change my life. No, I had taken the job to be close to my mother, and they weren't allowing that to happen. My dreams became rushed and violent, barely remembering their substance. I'd wake in the night, coated in sweat, with images of large teeth and thick fur flitting

across my exhausted mind. They became so frequent and disturbing, despite my lack of memory upon waking, that I dreaded even laying my head on my pillow. I believe the headguard noticed my exhaustion, but never really. said anything. He would give me a friendly nod and smile when I walked by his cage, his eyes lingering on me a little longer than usual. On Wednesdays, I waxed the lobby floors with a substance that smelled like beetle dung, which shined up those floors like nothing else I had ever seen. I could bend over and catch a perfect reflection of my own face, staring back. It was during one of those

staring sessions that I learned something important. The Lee weren't built for humans. My foster mother, the larger of the trolls, used to tell me, Makes it perfect for you, Amel. I didn't know what she meant then. But after several weeks of washing and fetching and scraping and scrubbing and waxing, I finally found out. Hello, Emil, my reflection said to me. I have been watching you.

That's a strange thing for your reflection to say to you, and a little obvious if you ask me. No need to be alarmed, it continues. This is all perfectly normal here at the Lee. While I wouldn't classify it as perfectly normal, it wasn't an inaccurate statement. The Lee was a place where wonders and nightmares intermingled on a daily basis,

where a helmeted Gorgon could play chess with an elderly leprechaun, and you wouldn't blink twice. In the Lee, if you didn't see an apparition walking through the stone walls at least once a week, you had to wonder if perhaps a mass exorcism had occurred on your day off. Not that I got days off. My five days a week became six days a week, became seven days a week. I was working every single day, from dawn to dusk, basically making it home in time to eat a small dinner and go to bed so I could get up and do it all over again. That schedule

didn't help my souring mood at being denied more time with my mother. And my reflection knew that. You are getting close, Amel, it said. So close that I can feel it in you. I wanted to speak, but I swallowed the words, knowing the headguard would hear me. He pretended like he didn't notice me, but I knew he watched me closely. He watched everyone closely. Good boy, my reflection said. Let's keep this between us.

I gave an imperceptible nod. My reflection smiled. Do you know why I picked you, Amil? shook my head. You don't? Are you sure? I could see the amusement on its face, knowing I couldn't fully answer. Because I have watched you grow from that scared little boy into the strong and powerful young man

who stands upon my freshly waxed floor. And a splendid job you have done, by the way. Best wax it's received in years. I shuffled uncomfortably since I wasn't used to getting compliments. Have you been sleeping a meal? Have the dreams started up? It waved to hand. Of course they have.

You're of that age. I bet your father had the same type of dreams when he was young like you. I frowned. Oh yes. I knew your father. Very well, in fact. We spent many an evening conversing about his life and his love for his family. It was so unfortunate that he could not survive here with me.

He was a strong, strong beast, but in the end, he wasn't strong enough, was he? That word. It felt like a knife being jammed through my ear canal and straight into my brain. You don't know, I reflection stated. Which is why I brought you here before your life takes a turn for the worse. And it will take a turn for the worse, Emil. For your kind, it always does, especially when you find love. You suppress your true nature for your amor.

It's a tale as old as time. But what isn't told in that tale is that suppressing that nature will leave. lead to your downfall. The confusion on my face must have been obvious, because my reflection laughed and laughed. Not to worry, Emil, you are with me now, and those who are with me will always thrive. No need to fear all that fur and all those teeth. Miel, the headguard asked. Are you okay? Yes, fine, I said way too quickly. When I looked over at the cage, the headguard was staring at me with sad eyes. Ah, so that's how it is, he said nodding to himself.

Well, bound to happen someday. What is bound to happen? I asked. I glanced down, and my reflection was smiling a curious smile. What is going on? Might as well get this over with now. No need to wait for some symbolic moment. The Lee does love its symbolic moments.

The head guard stood up from his desk. took off his uniform jacket and set it on the back of his chair. He emptied his pockets, setting his wallet and watch and other do-dads onto the desk. Be sure that my family gets these, please, he says. Not that I have seen them lately. It has been such a long time. A very long time, my reflection said. I said, what are you talking about? He doesn't respond, only walked to the cage door, unlocked,

it and stepped out. Aren't you going to lock it back up? He said as he circled the cage and came toward me. I won't be returning. No, he won't, a reflection said. Bennett snorted at me.

He may want to remove your clothes, Emil. It saves the supply room from having to order a new uniform. Will someone please tell me what's going on? I cried. No, the head guard said. No one will ever tell you what is going on. That is something you. You learn on the job, or you don't learn at all.

He rolled up his sleeves as he approached me. I noticed the hair on his arms growing longer as his fingernail stretched and warped into thick talons. What are you? I asked. Not a match for what you are, he said as he stripped off his shirt. He slid out of his pants as his body began to change. His skin rippled and his limbs elongated. Then he hunched over as his back arched and thick black hair sprang from every pore. I watched in horror at his transformation from a man into a snarling wolf that had to be the size of a small car.

Seeing him like that, watching him transform, awakened something in me, and all of my dreams that had existed on the edge of my subconscious came flooding back. The fur, the large teeth, the ripping and the shredding and killing. The images no longer flitted through my mind, but stayed there, telling me who I truly was. So I changed to match him. But like he had said, He wasn't a match for me. My body didn't twist and warp.

He didn't sprout from my skin, nor did a snout growth on my face. No. What happened to me was an all-encompassing growth that turned me from a young man of maybe six feet into a true beast of ten feet with fur as thick and warm as a yetis and claws and teeth to rival the small dragons. I wish I could say I was respectful with the headguard, but while I now, Despite his new formidable appearance, it was all over in seconds. And when I returned to my man form, I sighed at the mess I had made.

I'm going to need more than a mop for this, I said as I looked about at the hunks of flesh and strips of skin strewn all across the lobby. Jonah was a good man, my reflection said, startling me. I'd forgotten all about it. Not surprising, since I had just massacred someone I had looked up to for such a long time. Then it hit me. He said his name out loud, and I heard it. It did, yes, my reflection said.

No need to disguise who he is. His service has ended today, just as yours will one day. Not until I get this all cleaned up. No, do not bother with the mob. That is attendant work. Your job is behind that desk, in that cage. That's where the head guard works. Do I need to spell it out for you, Emil?

It didn't. And I walked into the cage, put the uniform jacket on, and took my place behind the desk. And I've been here ever since, I say to the attendant, waxing the lobby floor. Maybe one day you'll become head guard. I doubt it, he replies. I'm not headguard material. I turn into mist, not a giant beast. Ah, yes, I see the problem.

It would be hard for Mist to beat me and take my mantle. It's freaking hard for Mist to do much of it. anything. And I'm not much into the whole ritual killing in order to move up the employment ladder. Forget what I mean. He pauses his mopping. Do you see your mom more at least? Oh, yes, of course, I say, and lean back in my chair. It's why the lead picked me. A beast is easy to control when it has a beauty around to soothe it, even if that beauty is a mad banshee. That's your mom you're talking about. Don't be disgusting. It's not like that.

I'm just saying that the Lee put me right where I need to be. If you say so, shut up and keep waxing. I need to see my reflection later, so the Lee and I can have our evening chat. Okay, sorry, he says and gets back to work. Then he asks, Hey, why wasn't the Lee built for humans? It can hold monsters that can destroy buildings.

Why can't it hold humans? No one said it couldn't. But to answer your question, it's a riddle. A riddle? The Lee was never built. It was born. Just like all living things in this infernal city. The attendant blanches and looks around, seeing the Lee in a brand new way. I can smell his sudden fear from where I sit. No, mist or no mist. He is definitely not headguard material. Very few of us are. Men were first spotted by the gas station. The one just off Miller Street, south toward the highway. Andy Cartwright said he spotted a few of them walking along the road

when he first clocked in that morning. Through the unshakable darkness of a February dawn, he had caught them through the glow of the gas station sign, their long coats, blowing like banners in the freezing wind, and their faces cold and dirty with slush. Loretta Wilson said she had seen one or two men coming down the road past her house at around 6.30. She had looked out her window to see if the mail had come, and, in the gloom, they were trudging single file through the unplowed snow like lost soldiers. At around 7.15, Leo McCarthy had claimed to have seen five of them on his way to work, five dark shadows and filthy rags by the drainage ditch out near where the warehouses used to stand. At around 8 o'clock, the men, a dozen of them

soaking in grimy, had arrived at the Willow Tree Inn. As per custom, a room was left open for them on the fifth floor and was prepared accordingly by the time the first man appeared in the lobby. By 9.30, the whole town knew that the men had arrived and, although there was the usual fretting and worrying, everyone understood by now that it was best to continue as per usual. The men had arrived just as they had last year, and the year before that, so there was nothing else anyone could do. Life in Jackson Crossing would go on, just as it usually did. This is why Jeannie Davis was able to go into the ABC drugstore that very same morning, pick up her prescription and a quart of milk, and say hello to Robert Taylor behind the counter.

Bobby was a nice young man only just in his senior year, and he always had a good word to say to her. The morning was slow, and there were very few customers, perhaps due to either the earliness of the day or the lingering unease around town. But this was no concern to either Jeannie or Bobby. And they spent the good half of the morning talking about weather, the local basketball team, and of course, the arrival of the men. So, you see any of them around yet, Mrs. Davis? Bobby asked, checking the inside of his cash drawer to see if he still had any change left. A couple people in here saw him. They're here a little early this time, ain't they?

No, it's always around this time. Last week in February, or at least close enough to it. Jeannie scratched her chin and thought, looking out past the displays of winter-gold. gloves and snow shovels and the front windows to the main street. Already she could see more ambulances out than usual, scurrying around the slush-covered streets with a nervous anticipation. Did you hear if anything happened yet, or is it still too early? Well, Mr. Sherman was in here earlier, and he mentioned something about his neighbor's dog going missing, Bobby shrug.

So far, nothing else has happened. You think that's a good sign? If nothing happens the first time, if nothing happens the first time, day, it'll happen the second day, Jeannie said, making a face as if she remembered an unpleasant thought. You're probably too young to remember this, but back when I was your age, oh, around 1976, I think. The men came like they usually did, and they stayed quiet for the whole first day. On the second day. Jeannie's voice trailed off. Whatever she was about to say seemed to catch in her throat and she took a moment to compose herself things were much better after the men came so it

all evened out in the end did you know that the town was able to get the roads repaved after that we couldn't have afforded that without the men oh i understand i remember when they came about eight or nine years ago and bobby swallowed softly tapping his knuckles against the counter in a slightly nervous way my dad had his hide in the cellar after the second day we slelt slept on the floor on mattresses, couldn't go upstairs or turn on the lights. Bobby gave us soft, almost nostalgic smile. But after that week was over, when everything was cleaned up, we had a huge carnival. Biggest one I ever went to, they gave us a whole week off school just to go to it.

Exactly. The men. The men always make sure things work out for us in the end. We just have to make sure they get what they want first. Jeannie snapped her fingers together in realization, looking down at her bag of milk and heart medicine. Oh, shoot. You know what I forgot? I have to swing by the store and stock up on groceries. I hate going out whenever the men are in town. I'd rather be safe at home than out and about when they're doing their business. Nah, you're probably out of luck going. From what I heard, the stores got cleaned out pretty early this morning. Seems like a lot of people had the same idea as you, Mrs. Davis. Bobby pointed over to a small section in the back of the tiny drugstore. A section of canned goods and non-perishable items clustered as neatly as possible.

We got some stuff here. Not a whole lot. But it's basically all the essentials. If you want, I'll even try to snag you a discount or two. Oh, bless your heart, Bobby. Hopefully things work out well for you by the end of the week. Jeannie loaded a small shopping basket with some essentials. A loaf of bread, some toiletries, canned fruit bandages. and Bobby, true to his word, was able to secure a 15% discount.

The two wished each other a pleasant rest of the day and, should they not see each other, the best of luck before Jeannie walked out back into the freezing gray of the afternoon. Meanwhile, across town, many had noticed that their pets had been missing for quite some time. Empty leashes attached to wooden stakes blew carelessly in the wind. Cats both stray and domesticated didn't return. Some children cried over the loss of their beloved pet. Others were assured that they would come back in the morning. The dusk swallowed what little light was left in the day,

and the town of Jackson Crossing went silent again. Tuesday. Joe Schuster looked for any more broken glass, giving the porch another cautious sweep, just to be sure. He would need to find plywood to cover the windows. He had a few sheets left in the garage, from where he and Eddie fixed up the back deck, There were three windows on the front of the house, two in the back, and one each on the sides.

He was lucky enough that he didn't have a sunroom like the Richards down the block. God knows what they were doing about the mess. Up and down Chamber Street, the houses stood, their yards twinkling with fresh snow and shattered glass. Every window on every house was completely and utterly shattered, the result of the men's handiwork last night. And from where Joe stood, he could see. his neighbors drift back and forth through the empty window frames like ghosts. In some houses, curtains blew out in the freezing wind, and in other yards piles of garbage and broken mailboxes

littered the curb, letters and empty soda cans scattered across the ice. One particularly impressive feat the men did was at the Scots' house, a large stone sculpture of an angel, weighing about 120 or so pounds, and used to mark the grave of a family pet, had been picked up, and tossed with such force that it smashed not only the ornamental glass of the patio door into thousands of multicolored gemstones, but had impaled the statue directly through the wooden door behind it. Beth Scott was, of course, rather distraught about it, and sat on the patio steps in her robe while her husband tried to reassure her. "'Worn it, Joe,' came a familiar voice from behind. Walking up along the driveway, carrying a broom of his own,

was Elliot King, who lived right behind him, a yard over. He stopped at the patio steps and looked over the house. Seems like you got hit too, didn't you? Need any help sweeping up? No, no thank you, Eli. I just finished. Yeah, everyone on chamber got hit pretty bad. Joe leaned on his broom, watching as a few of his neighbors pulled what was once a decorative mailbox. Now, a mangled heap of wood and tin from a sewer grate. Hell, I didn't even hear anything last night. I only noticed it when Jenny almost cut herself on glass when she woke up. Folks on Jefferson Street got whacked, too.

From what I heard, most of Laurel, too. Elliot stopped and spat a wad of black tobacco into the pristine snow. I heard him last night. Tore up my back porch got awful. I was afraid they were going to come in. Both men relaxed at the avoided scenario. The question of why Elliot didn't stop the men when he had to be. heard them went unasked. They knew the answer to that question. Everyone in town did.

If anyone hadn't had the common sense to know not to interrupt the men during their business, then that was their fault. I'm just lucky all they got on my house was the windows. Joe swept off what looked like more glass into the cracks alongside the patio wall. Across the street, a man who had stepped on a fragment of what used to be his bay window was getting his foot bandaged, the blood glittering in the dim rays of winter sun. You hear what they did to Jerry's truck? He called me at six in the goddamn morning, screaming his head off. Oh, you want any coffee, by the way?

Jenny just made a fresh pot. Nah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Eli politely waved his hand at the offer. He shook his head and spat again, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out the small sleeve of Indian fire tobacco chew. Jerry shouldn't be getting upset like that. I mean, I understand. I don't want to wake up to broken glass and trash thrown into my living room, sure, but...

He took a finger full of tobacco and put it in his bottom lip. You know, you never know if the men here you are not. Remember what happened to Will Turner? I know, I know. I helped organize the fundraiser dinner for Allison and Robin. Joe sighed and laid his broom down. But Jerry knows not to say anything. He's not an idiot.

I understand where he's coming from, though. He just got that truck back in November. Sure, everyone's on edge. We're all going to have to put up with it until Sunday morning, one way or another. Elliot spout again, and he grimaced as it landed on his boot. Windows, trucks, flowers. Everything's replaceable, you know? Yep.

The men stood there in silence for a few moments, looking up at the endless gray horizon above them, as if seeking God behind it. Elliot swung his broom back over his shoulder and thumbed to the narrow streets across from them. All right, I promised I'd help the Christian sweep up their front room, or, well, what's left of it anyway. They have that new baby and all. Elliot turned on his heel and prepared to walk away before looking back at his neighbor. Oh, and by the way, if you and Jenny need a place to stay tonight, me and Marsha got that spare bedroom. Joe gave a wistful smile and nodded his head.

Thank you, Eli, but I'm sure it will be all right. I don't think it'll be so cold. Nothing, some extra blankets and plywood on the windows won't fix. Later that evening, the temperature dropped 15 degrees by 5 p.m. And another 16 by 7 p.m. What had been warm, glowing houses just a night before were now dark rows of battered ice boxes, with gaping windows that constantly sucked.

in the bitter cold air. Most families either moved in with neighbors fortunate enough to have been spared from the men, or stayed in the hotel on the outskirts of town. Those who had nowhere else to go may do however they could. Some slept around a space heater in a single, windowless room. Like cavemen, gathered around a primitive fire. Others chose to sleep in their cars, running the heat for so long that halfway through the night, the batteries died. In certain homes, faucets and showerheads froze over, and exposed water pipes had already begun to show signs of expansion and leaking. Those who had decided to stay in the hotel were, of course, in a slightly better position. There was abundant heat and running hot water, but overcrowding had quickly developed,

and rooms had to be shared at two families each. No one dared to go anywhere near the fifth floor, let alone near the room where the men stayed. Throughout the evening, there came from above them sounds of the men as they worked, the slamming of heavy boots, the tuneless, hacking songs, and the putrid odor that wafted through the vents. One child, young enough to not understand his parents' fears, had ventured out to see one of the men for himself. He was found only 30 minutes later,

huddled in the elevator and face red from crying. His constant screaming, and sobbing, unfortunately, kept his fellow neighbors up through the night. Wednesday. The Jackson Crossing Elementary School had been in place for well over 63 years. It had, at present, 412 students, nine teachers, a principal, and four custodians. It boasted a full gym, an impressive playground, and had very recently opened a new computer room for students to use for the beginning of the school year. Mrs. Steiner's fourth grade class, had just finished making spring-themed greeting cards to send to the Quiet Glen's nursing home across

town, while Mrs. Baker students were preparing for an upcoming field trip to the local historical museum. When school was not in session, its wide auditorium would be used for local meetings, swap meets, and sports like basketball or volleyball. The Jackson Crossing Elementary School was now a smoldering stretch of bricks and rebar, a hideous black scar against the pristine snubes. No. Someone had spotted the fire around 4 a.m. The glow of the fire was so intense that it was believed there was a rupture in the underground gas lines. By the time the firefighters had arrived, there was nothing left to save. It burned for four hours until it was put out around eight, and even then, smaller fires had to be extinguished even later in the day. The few frames

of the building that were left standing teetered in the wind, with the rest of what had once been the kindergarten and preschool rooms collapsing into a charred pile shortly after the last of the fire had been put out. The cause of the fire was obvious. Gasoline canisters were found scattered around the singed playground, and the smell of it was strong enough to already solve the mystery beforehand. Everyone knew who the culprits were. Charlie Burke had spotted the men from his bedroom window the evening before, skittering around the schoolyard like roaches under the streetlights. Diane Willowell, who worked at the Sonoco station up the road from the school, had sold the gas to the men that same evening. They came in, huddled together in their natural way, and they flatly demanded $35 worth of gas.

Of course, Miss Wilmot had her suspicions, but she also knew better than to refuse the men. $35 filled three gas canisters, and the men paid and crumpled up dollar bills that were damped to the touch. No one would blame Miss Wilmot. If she hadn't given them the gas, the men would have gotten it another way somehow. He just had to let these sorts of things happen. By mid-afternoon, a postal worker doing his daily rounds found the collage alongside the road, 10 or so blocks going south from the school grounds. It was called a collage because of its composition,

a kaleidoscope of art projects, macaroni pictures, and decorations befitting of a first-grade classroom, scattered in the dirt and snow like common litter. Clay's sculptures smashed, fingerprint drawings smeared with what looked like dirt, blood, or excrement, crayon drawings, torn and shoved into the knot holes of dead trees, and, perhaps most surprising, was the fish tank from Mrs. Sterling's classroom. It was in relatively pristine condition, though the men had emptied the water from it and filled it with a foul-smelling sludge. Inside, torn up pictures of Mrs. Sterling's The the children were no longer,

were no doubt excited to learn they wouldn't be going to school for a while. It was like another Christmas break, or so their parents told them. The adults pretended to be happy for them, both to keep up an act of normalcy and out of fear a man may hear them. There were some who expressed anger, as anyone would, but more reasonable voices prevailed. Yes, the school would be deeply missed, and, yes, the teachers and staff would need to find work again soon. But this was good for the town in the long run.

The men always made sure things worked out. They'll build a new school as soon as March starts. In all the excitement, however, there was one man who, ironically, wasn't present to express his concerns. That would have been the principal of Jackson Crossing Elton. Elementary, John Baxter. The alarm was only raised when Mrs. Baxter called around, asking if anyone had seen or heard from her husband in the past 12 hours. He had not come home the previous day and, what with the matter concerning the school? She was worried something had happened to him. His car had been found in the parking lot that same morning, parked in its usual spot.

His wallet and satchel were still in the passenger seat, though the keys were missing, and The snow around the wheels indicated it hadn't moved since it was first parked. If you ask Mr. Brenner, who was the former music teacher, he'll tell you that the search for Harvey Baxter went on for several hours all through Jackson Crossing. He'll tell you that there was, if not for a brief period, some form of hope that Baxter was alive in the first few hours of the search, that there was a desperate attempt to believe that somehow, some way, the man who dressed up his Santa Claus every year for his, for his pupils was alive, and this was all just a terrible misunderstanding. Mr. Brenner will also tell

you that he was one of the first people to have learned that Harvey Baxter was found in the smoldering wreckage of his workplace. He was found, he heard, curled under a desk, buried beneath a half ton of charred brickwork. His body was in too severe a state to be properly examined, but it brings everyone some comfort to hope that it was quick and painless. Mrs. Baxter on the other hand, is currently in the Rehabilitation Clinic in Woodvale. She is doing well and, should her behavior continue to improve, it is hoped she will be out as late as autumn. Thursday. Dad? Yes? Why do we have to stay in here? Because there's someone looking around the house, and they don't want us to bother them while they're looking. Christopher DeAngelo wished that he

had a better explanation to give Mark. The six-year-old boy, who was currently sitting beside him on the looking down at the floor as if he could see directly into the living room below him. What could he possibly explain to him? That they were sitting here, locked in the bedroom, because there was something stomping around their house, and he couldn't do anything about it? Just 35 minutes ago, they were in the middle of a peaceful, ordinary dinner. Angela had made a pot roast,

and Christopher had just gotten back from helping the chester's down the street, put some new plywood in their windows. The discussion about what to do with Mark until the town found a new place to host his class was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering in the spare room down the hall. At first, they thought one of the branches from the tree beside the house had broken and smashed into the window. But the telltale scent of a dying campfire and the crashing of heavy boots immediately gave away the real culprit. They were lucky to have made it upstairs in time. Christopher had seen the pale, vainless hand of the man clutching at the hallway doorframe,

fingers, nailless, and smooth, right as he ran up the steps. The man, fortunately, had not seen them and had taken to wandering aimlessly from the den to the kitchen. His bootsteps echoed through the house, and every so often there would be a tumultuous crash and splintering before fading back into frenzied stomping. What's he even doing down there? Mark asked, listening to the sound of something heavy, being thrown under the floor. He's making a mess, isn't he? Yes, yes, he's making a mess, said Angela, trying with all her might to force a smile on her face.

But that's okay, because we can clean it up later. But when I do that, you say I shouldn't. This is different. Christopher knew with all his heart that he should go down there and force the man out. There was a shotgun under his bed, single-shunders. shot. And if he was lucky, maybe a warning shot or two would drive the man out. It would be so easy to go down there and hold the gun to him, to tell him that he had 60 seconds to leave, or else he would put one clean through his filthy chest. But both he and Angela knew better. If the men could be

hurt by things like bullets, they wouldn't have come back from all those years ago. The men were capable of God only knows what, and to anger them would only make things worse. How long are we going to be up here. I don't know. Can we go meet him? The man downstairs? No. Angela shot forward, her eyes wide with fear at the thought. I mean, he's just very busy, and he doesn't want to be bothered. Remember that nice man who came and looked at our house in the summer? He's like that, but can't dad talk to him? Christopher gulped, and his heart fell like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. God, what innocence, Mark thought of his father as a strong, unstoppable hero, a man afraid of nothing and no one. Why couldn't he just go downstairs and tell the bad man currently smashing

their plates to leave? That's what Nick Cooper thought he was, too. He wasn't a bad man by any means. He was a cop for 20-odd years, and he volunteered his time coaching the Little League team. But he had a terrible habit of speaking out when he shouldn't have. One year, The men came as they usually did, and they went about their business. Everyone knew by then to stay quiet and keep out of their way. Nick didn't. He started talking about how it wasn't fair that they let the men do this to them every year, that it was humiliating, that everyone let those things walk all over them.

There was no guarantee they'd even repay them for it. If anything, Nick said, everyone would be better off if they just shot the men the next time they came around. And one overcast Friday morning, Nick put his theory to the test. No one is, to this day, sure what exactly happened between him and the man. Nick claimed that he shot him while he was prowling around his house, crawling in the dirt underneath the window of his daughter's room. Point blank, right in the head, between the spaces where eyes would be.

And it bled murky white. But it died, Nick said. It dropped dead right in front of him like how a deer would. Nick left behind his wife and daughter. No one is sure where he went or what even happened to him. His father got Nick's baseball cap, bloodied and battered, sent to him in a musty, torn-up box with no return address. His cousin in New York claimed that he got his torn-up driver's license in a urine-scented envelope. About two years ago, they found bones out back near the spillway, dressed in what looked like Nick's old jacket.

The jacket was indeed his, but the bones were unable to be tested. Christopher looked down at his son and faked a chuckle. That's because he's doing something very important, kiddo. He probably doesn't want me asking him questions when he's working. Mark looked down at the floor again and then back at his father. But what's he working on? Nothing. But...

There came another terrible loud crash. Most likely the cabinet by the couch or the heavy oak bookshelf. It echoed through the house like thunder and Angela bitter lip, trying not to look too scared in front of her son. There was, for only a second, a deep, piercing silence. And then came the boot steps again, louder this time, heavier and more deliberate. Is he? Angela's eyes widened in terror. No, no, tell me he's not coming up the stairs.

There was a muffled thump as the man's boots hit the first step. The dirty souls ripping into the carpet. Another thump than another. They could hear his long, slender fingers brush against the wall. leaving filthy stains against the paint. His voice, low and mumbling obscenities in either an alien language or a thick, inhuman tongue, could be heard echoing just beyond the door. Christopher looked to his wife and son, then below the bed. He told Mark to get behind his mother and stay there, bending down to pull a long

shotgun from beneath the bed frame. Chris, please, don't do this! Angela clung to Mark, tucking him behind her as best she could. If the man came in through the door, at least he'd see her first. Her voice trembled. Her eyes following how the barrel of the gun opened to receive a single slug into the chamber before snapping shut. You don't know what'll happen!

Another bang as a boot crashed down onto the top step, and a great weight stumbled after it. The smell was overpowering, raw and putrid. Christopher looked at his wife of seven years with a somber, determined expression, exhaustion in his eyes. I don't want to know what'll happen if I don't do anything. Maybe we'll get lucky, maybe. Taking an extra second to look over Angela and Mark,

as if it would be the last time he'd ever see them again. Christopher closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sound of banging, the man's body lurching and slamming against the walls as it staggered closer, only became louder and more violent. It sounded like any moment the man would throw his weight against the flimsy wooden door, and then he would see them. a starving fox seeing three helpless rabbits. Christopher grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open.

In an instant, there was a flash of light and a single, deafening bang that filled the hallway with a plume of white smoke. There was no scream, no gasp, no thud of a body falling against carpet. There was nothing even there at all. Friday. The staff at the Willow Tree had noticed that it had gone eerily quiet in the men's room on the fifth floor. Usually there would be stomping, hooting, or growling, maybe even the sounds of furniture and heavy objects being dragged back and forth across the floor.

But today there was silence, and that was the most concerning thing of all. After some debate and drawing sticks, one attendant was chosen to investigate. When he finally gained the courage to open the door to the men's room, expecting to see all sorts of grotesque and horrible things, the young man was pleasantly surprised. The room was not only empty, but in a pristine state. The bed had been well made, the floor was spotless, and the furniture was exactly where it had always been. Even the trademark smell of the men was gone, replaced by a light, floral smell, that gave the room its usual air of normalcy. While it was admittedly strange that the men had not checked out as they traditionally did,

For many, there was a sense of long-awaited relief. Perhaps, they told themselves, the men had made the decision to leave town early this year. It was uncharacteristic, sure, but who knew with the men anyway? Their behavior was always unpredictable. It wasn't as bad as it had been in other years, so it was a small mercy that there was only one fatality. But in all the excitement that the men had left, no one had noticed that other events had happening around town. No one would notice that the tools from Al Phillips shed had mysteriously

vanished overnight, as did the hacksaw and chains from the Walker's garage. No one would notice that on certain houses, placed just out of view on back doors or beneath windowsills, was a dark, misshapen handprint, made from either ash or soot. There would especially be no mention of any murmuring or harsh whispering from the concrete drainage ditches out near the end of town. On Friday, nothing happened. Saturday. Fire chief Bradley Hendrickson desperately wanted a cigarette. He wanted to feel something, anything, other than this constant disgust and exhaustion that

had swept over him the past several hours. He sat down on the back fender of an ambulance, the freezing night air brushing over him to remind him that, no, he wasn't dreaming. All around him were the sounds of people shouting, some sort of people shouting, some sort of screaming, and the endless din of radio chatter. The night sky, starless and endless, was illuminated by a sea of colors, red, blue, violets, orange, all coming from the various lights and beacons that went up and down Cherry Street.

To his right, the sidewalk was littered with a river of blue tarpaulins, underneath which was either a body or what was left of a body. To his left, police and paramedics were moving house to house, Some carrying the critically wounded out on stretchers and others helping hysterical civilians to the safety of waiting ambulances or police cruisers. Hendrickson knew these people. For God's sake, he went to school with most of them growing up. He knew every name in every house, whether one house had kids in it or if the house across

from it had any pets. Right now, he was sitting directly in front of Donald Thompson's house. The one with the door ripped off its hinges and the blood smeared. like paint across the back. Each of them, a sledgehammer straight to the head. Gina with such force that her head was almost completely taken off. Across the street from the Thompsons was the Morrison House. On the porch, naked, save for a blanket, was Grace Morrison,

sobbing to a sympathetic police officer. Paramedics buzzed in and out of the house with various tools. From what he had heard, they found what was left of Neil Morrison, shoved halfway through his chimney, bent, and contorted at such an angle that the hardest task was trying to remove him. The kid was in stable condition, thank God, but whether or not he'd talk right again was still up for determination. And there were the McDonald's up the block. He hadn't seen what had happened to them, but it made a younger paramedic run outside and vomit. It must have been unspeakable for the people of Cherry Street.

31 houses all in the span of a single evening, exposed to the most unimaginable brutality. The men had attacked when everyone least expected it, when they let their guards down. Any other day of the week, they might have been a little more prepared. Not that it would have stopped them, of course, but it would have still been better to go down fighting. Hey, Chief, the voice of Martin Burns broke Hendrickson from his stupor. The older paramedic, smelling of blood and antiseptic, walked to the world. over to him. You, uh, feeling all right? Yeah, Marty, I'm fine. I'm... Hendrickson was a god-awful liar, and Burns knew it. I'm just, I don't know. It's a lot to take in. I've been here when the men

were around before, but this is just a whole other level of it. A deep sigh escaped Martin's lips, his breath freezing into a wispy cloud that hung in the frozen air. I know what you mean, Brad. got done helping Earl and Wanda out with the Kurz folks. The three of them, we couldn't do much for. But Sam is in transit right now, and we're hoping he pulls through. What about the Gibson's, did they? No, they didn't. They were still in their chains in the living room. Martha died right when we got there. She lost a lot of blood, but she held on just long enough for us to... He trailed off, kicking loose snow with his foot. If we just got there a little sooner, maybe we could have saved her. There was silence between the men.

Hendrickson looked up and led out a small, soft squeak of a cry that was only just barely muffled by the humming of the ambulance's engine. Why do we do it, Marty? God damn, every year we let them come in here, and they do this to us. Every year it's the same thing. And what do we get out of it? They repay us every year, Brad. You know this.

You can't know this. eye that things get better for the rest of us every time the men come here. Remember the year they came in 81 or later in 89? None of us thought anything, anything, would be worth going through what the men put us through. But every year, in spite of all of it, it all works out in the end, and we're happier for it. Bradley Hendrickson gritted his teeth and a pained expression washed over his face. He watched as a paramedic carried a small body on. from a house under a blanket and laid the short, legless form onto the pavement. What could be worth all of this then, Marty? They've been here for 82 years. 82! Back when our

town was just farmhouses and weeds, how has any of this been worth it? To put up with all of this. What they'd do to us? It helped our grandfathers out, and their grandfathers too. But we don't need their help anymore, Marty! Whatever they offered our grandfathers! Hendrickson banged the sight of the ambulance in frustration, as if he was trying to explain a simple fact to an ignorant child. Whatever they offered them, we don't need now. Martin looked at Hendrickson and then back and forth, scanning for anyone who may hear. He leaned in close, close enough that his breath would brush against his companion's ear before it froze over. I get it, but you can't go against tradition.

You just can't. Yeah, well, what a... if I wanted to leave. I'll take Ella, and we'll go somewhere else where those goddamn men can't find us. Bradley? Martin's voice was stern, a combination of pity, sorrow, and strictness that came out in a few short words. You know you can't do that. Hendrickson looked back at Martin. His eyes glittered in the glow of the ambulance lights with a dim resignation. He opened his mouth slightly to say something, but closed it when he felt a hand on his shoulder. We need your help over here, chief, said a fireman, his face haunted and distant. He thumbed to a corner house where a group

of their colleagues were finishing putting out what had been a small but intense fire. Bradley Hendrickson looked back at Martin, who simply shook his head, shrugged, and promised to talk to him later. Then, slipping his helmet back on and saying a quiet prayer to whatever God still looked down on Jackson Crossing, he walked away to hell. Sunday, it was quiet again. The men had left again, though this time everyone was sure it was genuine. Alex Whitaker had seen the last man wandering up the road out of town, hunched over and wobbling, right around early dawn. At the stroke of 9 a.m., it was over for another year.

Jackson Crossing began to pick up the pieces. Weather reports that morning said that March would be unseasonably warm this time of year, and it would finally end the awful overcast cold that had been a very cold that had been plagued the town for most of the month. The snow had begun to melt in some places already, and through the grime and mud, little green sprouts appeared in the thawed soil. There was talk that the men had left a generous payment. Several suitcases were taken from the men's room in the willow tree, and much speculation abounded over what riches could possibly be inside of them. Already surveyors were looking over the burnt remains of the elementary school, and men in suits

stood with blueprints of potential designs. Bigger classrooms, a larger gymnasium, a new teacher's lounge, any and everything was discussed. The Harvey Baxter Elementary School would be a wonderful name for it. That's what he would have wanted after all. Mrs. Baxter, or more appropriately, Miss Baxter, would enjoy it when she came home. The houses on Chamber, Jefferson, and Laurel were getting their windows repaired. Some houses suffered water damage when their pipes froze and burst, while others had been looted by animal or man. As for the houses on Cherry Street, there were plans on the annual town hall meeting to bulldoze the whole lot.

They were still finding index fingers and teeth along the sidewalk. And a few hours ago, the scalp of a middle-aged woman was pulled from a clogged sewer drain. It would be much better to bulldoze the whole damn street and make it into something better. A memorial park might be nice, wouldn't it? They certainly had the money to do it. No one ever found what was beyond the town limits in the woods to the south where the creek flows in. The amalgam of mangled carcasses,

of neighborhood dogs and cats that had been smashed and stomped together into a single furry mass and tossed into the shallow depths of the half-frozen creek. The snow had frozen them together like a rat king and the ice that clung to their stiff, gnarled bodies had kept them preserved in a grotesquely impressive display. They would have only been there for a week, if not less. But it was springtime now,

and March would wash away all traces of brutal winter. Jackson Crossing had paid its price, as it did, and will always pay, and it would enjoy it until another February came around again. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan.

I'll see you in the next one.