Strawberries Bleed at Midnight

by Keily Arnold


When Samantha bit into another bright red strawberry, the juice leaked through her lips, dripping onto her apron and staining the white cloth. She groaned. She had hoped to avoid another argument with her husband. She’d earned a strawberry or two. Her husband and the farm hands had turned in at the first signs of twilight, but even as the sun set, she busied herself with picking more. Every muscle ached from bending over and crouching down. Her legs burned from the last fire ant hill she’d had the misfortune of stepping in. Her body screamed for rest.

She set down her basket and looked up at the sky. Pink, orange, and red hues streaked the horizon. It was the only thing about Ider, Alabama that still held any sort of magic for her. She’d spent her entire life in the small town. She’d grown up with the same unchanging group of people and married James right after graduating from Ider High School. Farm life had suited her, as it suited most of the citizens of Ider. She’d been content with James. When she found out she was pregnant at age twenty with the twins, she’d been ecstatic. Samantha had latched onto motherhood and stumbled her way through the first five years. For those precious moments, Ider had seemed new and different. Peter and Evelyn had given her a purpose, a destiny besides being a farmer’s wife.

Then she found Peter’s body at the edge of the woods.

The sky’s brilliant colors gave way to shades of gray. Soon, it would be too dark to pick berries. Then she’d have to return home to whatever mood James was in. She scratched her arm, nails scraping against the bruises that littered her skin. She yanked down her sleeve to cover them.

When she lifted her gaze again, she stared at the woods that bordered their land. A single dirt road led into town. If James had already passed out from another night of drinking, he wouldn’t hear her snatch the keys to their truck from his coat pocket. Evelyn wouldn’t make a sound if Samantha snatched her from bed and ran out to the truck. In the three months since Peter had died, Evelyn hadn’t spoken a word. They would drive up north to some booming city and leave farm life, James, and Peter behind.

She gripped her basket with tired, sore fingers. There was no leaving Peter behind. She’d never lose the image of his mangled body. Whatever had snatched him from the fields had torn into him with crude and savage force, ripping open his arms and legs. His chest had been clawed open, and his still heart torn out. Evelyn had found one of his fingers a few feet from the corpse, and Samantha had to pry it from her tiny, frozen hands as she screamed.

“What are you still doing out here? Get inside.”

Samantha turned around. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of whiskey-laced breath that blew onto her face as James sighed.

“You’ve been eating them again,” he said.
He motioned to the basket. It was a lazy wave of his hand, but she knew better than to question it. She knew what he wanted. She set down the basket and closed her eyes.

The first blow hit her in the chest, knocking the breath out of her. The second time, he kicked her legs to knock her over. He kicked her ribs three times, each time harder than the last. She knew better than to make a sound. He’d only hit harder, and Evelyn would probably hear.

“Get inside,” he said.

She rose with care. One hand dusted off her blouse. When he wasn’t looking, her fingers lingered over the places where she’d find bruises later. She hurried past him to the little house that occupied their land. Evelyn waited in the doorway. Her tiny fists swiped the sleep from her eyes.

Samantha scooped her up in her arms. She’d hoped the motion would shock some tiny peep out of the girl, but she remained as silent as ever.

Evelyn had been the chatty twin. While Peter explored and brought home all sorts of odds and ends, Evelyn went on and on about their adventures. Peter this, Peter that.

Ever since he died, she could only scream in her sleep.

Samantha tucked her back into bed. Evelyn stared up at her, mouth in a flat line. She gripped Samantha’s wrist, nails digging into the skin.

“I’ll stay with you,” Samantha promised.

The lie was sour on her tongue, and she was sure it was just as unpleasant to Evelyn’s ears. It was a mother’s lie, a comfort and betrayal all in one. Once Evelyn closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, Samantha would leave for her own bed and pray that James was already asleep.

Evelyn slept anyway, and Samantha crept from the room. A light was on at the end of the hallway, right behind her bedroom door. Her stomach twisted in revulsion. Her fingers lingered on the doorknob. James would kiss her, touch her, apologize until she almost believed he still loved her. He’d act like he forgave her for letting the twins play at the edge of the woods.

The door opened, and James pulled her into his arms.


When it was time to go to church the next morning, Samantha spent an extra thirty minutes scrubbing her skin. She lingered in the bathtub even when her teeth began to chatter enough to give her a headache. Once she finally got out, she took a long look at herself in her bedroom mirror. Fading gray bruises lingered next to new purple splotches, and raw, red flesh marred the rest of her. Every inch below the neck had to be hidden under her best Sunday dress. She’d show her pretty, unblemished face and pretend like her ribs weren’t still throbbing from the night before.

She took Evelyn to Sunday School after James left for the pre-service bible study. The Sunday School building was a short distance from the church itself. It was housed in the same small, red brick structure that Evelyn went to school in.

On her way to the church, she concocted a list of excuses to keep from attending. Her eyes lingered on the woods in the distance. That thing was still out there. She knew it. It may have only had Peter, but it could still get Evelyn or Linda or Daniel or any of the other children in Ider.

“You must be Samantha.”

Samantha froze at the sound. She turned to face the speaker. The speaker was a young woman who seemed to be around her own age. Her eyes were a deep gray like ash. Her skin had the same sun-kissed look shared by all the women of Ider. Her lips were painted ruby, and her cheeks held a faint, healthy blush. Her fair hair fell to her waist in waves and looked as soft as corn silk. There was a sudden urge to reach out and touch it, but Samantha resisted.

The woman smiled. She placed a hand over her heart, drawing Samantha’s eyes lower. Samantha averted her gaze, a blush dusting her cheeks.

“Adeline,” the woman said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you these past few weeks. Everyone’s missed you at church. That husband of yours said you’ve been sick the past few weeks.”

Samantha eyed the stranger with a mixture of fear and wonder. No one left Ider, but no one ever visited, either. The part of her that was still a product of the small town wanted to know everything. Where had she come from? Was she a relative of one of the citizens? She certainly dressed like she belonged in Ider with her simple, light blue Sunday dress that fell to her ankles. Samantha eyed Adeline’s hands. They weren’t a farmer’s hands. There were no calluses or smears of dirt. The nails were neatly trimmed, and the skin looked soft.

“Service is about to start,” Samantha said.

She pushed past Adeline, but one of those soft hands grasped her wrist. She didn’t move a muscle as Adeline rolled up her sleeve just enough to expose one of the bruises. Samantha’s mouth opened and shut at a rapid rate, unable to properly form any excuse.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“You look like you need a minute,” Adeline said. “God’s not going anywhere.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted, but Samantha faltered under the warm touch. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her besides James. There had been plenty of hugs and pats on the back when Peter had died, but after some point, she’d shied away from them all.

She didn’t want to pull away. Something about that moment left her feeling more exposed than she’d ever felt. She was just as much of a stranger to the people of Ider as Adeline was. They didn’t understand what it was like to see Peter’s torn body carelessly tossed in the grass.

Adeline wouldn’t understand, either. However, Samantha knew there was one thing Adeline could give her.

“You won’t tell anyone?” Samantha asked. Her voice cracked slightly, a precursor to tears. She wouldn’t cry. She was strong.

“Not a soul,” Adeline said.

Adeline drew her closer. As Samantha rested her head on the woman’s breast, something finally broke. She hadn’t cried in months, and she wasn’t going to start again. Instead, she slumped to her knees. She buried her face in Adeline’s skirt and screamed.


There were whispers all through town over the next month concerning Adeline’s origin, but Samantha might as well have stuffed her ears with cotton. When she went into town, Adeline met her. They shopped together, had lunch at the local diner, and even went for walks along the woods that Samantha had once hated. Samantha started to crave the simple touches that Adeline provided her. Sometimes, it was her fingers running over Samantha’s hair to smooth it down in the name of helping her look “presentable.” Other times, Adeline’s fingers accidently brushed Samantha’s on their walks, and Samantha recoiled as though stung by a yellowjacket. When Adeline leaned over to whisper in Samantha’s ear, her warm breath sent shivers down Samantha’s spine. Samantha didn’t have a name for how she had begun to feel, but she prayed for it to pass. She prayed that one day Adeline would disappear with her small, tempting touches and knowing look in her eye.

Samantha had once loved her husband, but what she felt for Adeline didn’t compare in any way. It felt darker, coiled within her like a copperhead waiting to strike. Adeline treated her like she mattered again, and she never wanted it to end. She knew a prayer was only worth something if she felt it in her heart, and truthfully, she never wanted Adeline to leave. Her fantasies of running from James had started to include Adeline.

Samantha even found the nerve to have Adeline over for dinner one evening while James was out with the farmhands for another night of drinking. Afterwards, they laid down by the strawberry fields as Evelyn slept, gazing up at the stars.

“How did you know?” Samantha asked.

She wasn’t sure how many times the question had come up. Each time Adeline had laughed it off with her high, warm laugh that made Samantha’s heart stutter.

“My husband,” Adeline said, “was a cruel man as well. It’s easy to spot a woman who knows that pain.”

“What happened to him?” Samantha asked.

Adeline rolled onto her side, propping her head up on her arm.

“I ran,” she said.

There was almost a hint of hope in her whisper, a hint of urging that reminded Samantha of Peter and why she could never leave. Her eyes turned to the woods.

“It’s been four months since he died, Samantha,” Adeline said.

Samantha pushed herself to her feet. She stared down at Adeline with burning eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You show up from nowhere, claim to know what I’ve gone through, and now you want me to just run away with you? Who do you think you are? I have a daughter. A husband.”

She faltered as Adeline rose to face her. They stood there in the moonlight. Samantha breathed quick, fast pants to match her racing heart. Adeline’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Come with me,” she said.

Samantha opened her mouth, but clamped it shut the moment Adeline’s hand grasped her wrist. The strange coolness of the woman’s flesh startled Samantha, and she shivered. She found herself being led toward the woods. Crickets chirped their evening song, and an owl hooted from the treetops. Light filtered down through leaves from the half moon above.

“No, I don’t want to go in there,” Samantha said. She tugged at her wrist, but Adeline’s grip was firm and strong. Memories of Peter filled her mind, and her stomach twisted with the sudden urge to vomit.

“Don’t you want to meet the others?” Adeline asked. She glanced back at Samantha, and her eyes were as dark as the night sky. She closed the distance between them.

“The others?” Samantha asked.

“Like us,” Adeline said. Her fingers danced over the bruises on Samantha’s arms.

Dread fell over Samantha like a black veil. The forest fell silent around them. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She felt the answer before it even became hers. She felt the pull for Adeline, the need to be with her. So it was Samantha that pulled her in for a bruising kiss, and it was Adeline who laughed in a way that seemed to seal her fate.

“Yes,” Samantha said. “I’ll go wherever you want.”

A bright, orange light flickered ahead of them. Samantha looked to Adeline for some sort of reassurance, but the other woman ignored her. Her skin was as white as the pale moon overhead, and dark shadows lingered beneath her eyes. Had she always been that way?

As they drew closer to the source of light, Samantha swore she saw Adeline’s shadow writhe like a serpent.

They came upon a small clearing. A small fire crackled in the center. Six women huddled around it. They shared the same dark hair and eyes as Adeline, and their skin was just as pale. She almost mistook them for ghosts until she noticed their bodies moving as they breathed in the summer air. As Samantha drew nearer, she saw their kind smiles. Their kindness relaxed her, and she joined them by the fire. They all seemed to be dressed for church in beautiful Sunday dresses made of fabrics Samantha had never had the pleasure of seeing before.

They whispered among themselves for a while. Adeline remained by Samantha’s side. Her cold hand gripped Samantha’s.

“We’re celebrating tonight,” Adeline said.

“Celebrating what?” Samantha asked.

She wanted to know who the women were, but then she noticed the bronze cup that one of the women held. One of the women took a sip from the cup and passed it on. She jumped to her feet and danced, twirling around the fire in a frenzy. The hypnotic movement made Samantha sway to the rhythm of something she couldn’t hear. The urge to join her was almost maddening, but Adeline’s wrist kept her grounded. The next woman took a sip and passed it on before joining in. This continued until the cup reached Samantha. She looked into it, and disgust twisted her features.

The chalice reminded her of the cups used for communion, but the liquid inside was dark red and thick like syrup. A sweet scent drifted up from the cup.

“Go on,” Adeline said. “Drink with us.”

The women danced and laughed around them. Their figures blurred as they spun and spun.

Samantha crinkled her nose and tilted the cup to her lips. The thick liquid dripped into her mouth, tasting of strawberries and something she couldn’t quite name, and she swallowed gulps of it. A dizziness washed over her, and she laughed along with the other women. Adeline took the cup from her trembling hands and sipped what was left. Samantha jumped up and joined the dancing women.

She clasped Adeline’s hands and pulled her into the circle. They laughed and whirled around the flickering flames. The shapes of the other women twisted and writhed. They spun faster and faster until Samantha collapsed on a pile of leaves, bursting with laughter. Adeline hovered over her, a smile on her lips. Samantha tilted her head to meet Adeline’s lips in a heated kiss. Something sharp nicked her lip, and the taste of her own blood filled her mouth.

“Stay with us,” Adeline said.


Samantha woke in the strawberry field. Her husband’s voice called out to her, but she didn’t respond. Her heart thundered in her chest. She sat up, head whipping to the side. The sounds of crickets and owls filled her ears. The border of the forest was dark, but no one stood waiting for her. Adeline was nowhere in sight. Her basket lay nearby, filled to the brim with strawberries she didn’t remember picking. She reached her shaking fingers to her lips to touch where she’d been cut, but there was nothing there. Images flickered in her mind: Adeline sliding Samantha’s dress from her shoulders, lips hovering over the pulse on her neck, soft caresses and sighs. A shameful blush crept up her neck.

She returned to her home, head bowed. James waited for her in the doorway. From the position of the sun in the sky, it wasn’t quite noon, but the scent of alcohol hung in the air. His dark eyes watched her approach. She waited for him to hit her, scold her, anything. He said nothing as she crept past him.

Evelyn waited at the kitchen table, eyebrows knit in confusion. Her stomach’s growls reached Samantha’s ears, and the shame she felt only worsened.

“Mama will make your breakfast,” she said. The smile she offered was shaky, but Evelyn seemed pleased.

Samantha fixed breakfast without another word. She served James and Evelyn, who had already dressed in their Sunday best. They ate like ravenous wolves, but Samantha could only stare at her plate. Her stomach rolled as the scent of eggs and bacon reached her nose. She excused herself from the table, pushing her plate to James. He said nothing as he scraped her leftovers onto his plate.

Once she closed the door of their bathroom behind her, her nausea subsided. She didn’t want to wash lingering touches from her body, but she didn’t want to smell like sweat and dirt at church. She shrugged off her dress, only to freeze in place.

Her bruises had vanished.

She pressed down on her skin that had been purple, black, and green before. There was no pain, just pressure. She slumped to the floor. Her hands twisted in her hair as she panted, eyes wide with terror. A few knocks on the door jolted her back to reality.

“Samantha, hurry up,” James said. His voice was muffled.

She laughed, and if he heard, he made no indication.


This time, Samantha did not take Evelyn to Sunday School, and Adeline was nowhere in sight. She looked for the other woman as she made her way to church, but no one seemed to be out. Ider seemed to have stilled overnight. There were no birds chirping or squirrels foraging. The air was hot and heavy without even the slightest breeze. The summer cicadas seemed to have taken the day off from singing their dreadful song. Evelyn clung to Samantha’s dress and watched the forest with her wide eyes.

When Samantha entered the church, a new sound greeted her. A woman wailed, her cries echoing through the small church. A group of people hovered around the pew where she sat. Some glanced up at Samantha, but the others tried their best to comfort the howling woman.

Samantha knew before James walked up to her with his face twisted in a scowl. He shoved past her with several men in tow.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He glared at her.

“To kill the animal that hurt my son,” he said.

His son. Samantha’s fingers clenched into fists as she approached the huddle of townspeople. One broke away, an old widow by the name of Esther. She hobbled over to Samantha and pulled at her sleeve, guiding her away from the scene. Another woman, Sara, reached for Evelyn’s hand. Samantha opened her mouth to protest, but Esther held a finger to her lips to silence her.

“It’ll be fine,” Esther said. “Evelyn needs to be with the other children. She doesn’t need to be reminded, don’t you agree?”

Once they were safely outside of the church, Samantha pulled her sleeve from the woman’s grip.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They think it’s the same animal that got your boy,” Esther said. She wrung her hands together and licked her lips. Her eyes refused to meet Samantha’s terrified gaze. “It’s Ruth. Her father found her out by the woods this morning.”

The world spun around Samantha, and she stumbled back. Esther reached out as if to steady her.

“Your husband is going to find the animal,” Esther said. “Don’t you worry. Come have a seat on the porch.”

Samantha couldn’t bear the woman’s wails. A cold sweat broke out on her skin. The taste of strawberries was heavy on her tongue.

“No,” she said. “I’m going home.”

“You look pale, my dear,” Esther said. “Do you need someone to walk you?”

“No,” Samantha said.

“Get some rest,” Esther said. “We’ll look after Evelyn.”

Samantha turned her back to the old woman and began the long walk home.


Samantha sat in the fields until Adeline came.

She looked up at the fair-haired woman, her lips pressed in a firm line.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said.

Adeline smiled and stopped a few feet away.

“That was real,” Samantha said. “I thought it was some feverish dream. The dancing, the laughter, the fire, the—”

Adeline’s smile broadened into a grin.

“Did you kill Ruth?” Samantha asked.

“You wanted to escape this place, Samantha,” Adeline said.

She moved closer and joined Samantha on the ground. Her face was mere inches away, and Samantha’s eyes fell to her lips.

“He’s never going to stop,” Adeline said. “My husband nearly broke my neck. Do you really think James will ever forgive you for what happened to your boy?”

Samantha looked down at her hands. Her nails dug into the dirt.

“Why Ruth?” Samantha asked. In a smaller voice, she added, “Why Peter?”

Adeline gripped her jaw, forcing their gazes to meet. Samantha’s eyes were wet.

“You already drank,” Adeline said. “So does it matter?”

Adeline drew a nail across her wrist. Black blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto the grass.

“Three times,” Adeline said. “Three times, and you can forget all about Peter.”

Samantha closed her eyes, but the aroma of strawberries hung in the air. Her throat burned, her body ached. She dove forward and latched her mouth onto the bleeding wrist. The taste of strawberries faded into something bitter and salty, rotten. She gagged at the taste, but she continued to drink. Adeline’s laugh echoed in her ears. The world faded to black.


She woke to the sound of her doctor speaking with her husband. Her eyes remained shut, but she smelled the familiar pine scent of their room. Heavy quilts had been placed over her, though they didn’t warm the chill that seemed to have taken over.

“She hardly ate this morning,” James said.

“How long has she been showing signs of weakness?” the doctor asked.

“I didn’t notice anything wrong with her when I went hunting yesterday,” James said.

“On top of the weakness, she’s pale, and her heart is struggling,” the doctor said. “My diagnosis would be anemia. It’s probably been brought on by her poor appetite.”

The conversation continued as the two moved away from Samantha, and Samantha bit back a scream. A rotten taste lingered on her tongue. Three times, Adeline had said. The first time had been the cup with the sweet, strawberry liquid. The second had been Adeline’s oozing wrist. Samantha wouldn’t allow the third time.

The door slammed against the wall of the bedroom. Samantha’s eyes snapped open to meet the infuriated gaze of her husband. Sunlight poured through the window, and cicadas sang their awful tune around the house.

“Get up,” he said. “What were you thinking, leaving Evelyn by herself? First Peter, now Evelyn? What kind of mother are you?”

He yanked her from the bed, and her weakened body fell to the floor. She didn’t cry out as pain shot through her body. His boot snapped against her ribs, and her body convulsed. A sharp jolt of agony blossomed in her chest, radiating from her heart. Her head rolled to the side, eyes meeting her reflection in her floor-length mirror. Her pulse slowed. The boot collided with her chest as her heart gave one last, pitiful thump. Her eyes darkened in the mirror, the pupils dilating until they swallowed her eyes in black.

Her husband kicked at her lifeless body, red creeping up his neck. He shouted at her, waved his hands, but her glazed eyes gazed up at him, unblinking. Finally, he crouched down to feel for her pulse. Nothing.

He began to pace back and forth, hands gripping handfuls of his hair. He moved toward the door, only for his foot to catch on something and send his body to the ground.

A weight pressed against him. Samantha’s body crouched over him. Her dark eyes gazed down, meeting his terrified gaze. Her lips were parted, but she no longer breathed. She gripped his shoulders, pinning his struggling body to the floor with surprising strength. Her mouth opened wide, jaw unhinging into a gaping hole. Two long fangs glistened as they stretched out from among rows of sharp teeth.

His screams turned to gurgles as her fangs plunged into his throat.


Night fell over the farm.

Samantha huddled in the corner of her bedroom. Her body ached. The blood she’d drained from her husband stained the floors from where she’d thrown up. She wasn’t alive, but she wasn’t like Adeline. Not yet. She knew that much. Her husband’s blood hadn’t been right for her. It was too old, tainted.

Evelyn crept into the room, and Samantha moaned.

“Mama?” she asked.

Three times, Adeline had said. Samantha thought of Peter and Ruth, the little children of Ider who had been slaughtered by rabid coyotes or bears or something that laughed and danced in the woods while their parents screamed over their corpses.

She held out her arms to Evelyn, and the little girl went to her mother.


Samantha stepped out from the shadows of her bedroom. She kicked aside the corpse of her husband. She was gentler with Evelyn’s body, stepping over it with care. Her bare feet crossed the house without a sound. She crossed the fields, inhaling the scent of strawberries as she walked. A sweet taste lingered on her tongue.

At the edge of the forest, Adeline waited with open arms.

Samantha moved toward her with a smile on her reddened lips. She fell into the embrace, eyes closing in pleasure while hatred burned in her heart. Tonight, she would dance, and she’d forget them: James, Peter, Evelyn, and all of Ider.

Behind her, her shadow writhed like a serpent.


Illuminati, Inc.

by Ben Pierce


Mr. Stills walked in like he always did, Starbucks in one hand and JFK’s skull in the other. He didn’t like to leave it at the office overnight. His hair was almost all grey now, and the stress lines on his face grew deeper every day. He strolled through the cubicle pit and found me outside his office, waiting for him to unlock it.

“Anderson,” he said cheerfully. “What’s first on the agenda today?”

“It’s Jay-Z, sir. He wants to know when you’ll take those pictures off the Internet. He’s called three times already.”

“The ones of Beyoncé?” He pushed the door open. “Shit, how long has it been? Can’t he just get over it? I’ve got bigger problems than his wife trying to join the club during the Superbowl.”

“He is threatening to come forward, sir.”

Mr. Stills chuckled. “Anderson, they always threaten to do that.” He set the skull down in its usual spot. “I’ll remind him how I got this—” he held up Tupac’s bandana before wrapping it around JFK’s skull “—if he insists on being talkative.”

“Right, right,” I replied.

“You look nervous Anderson,” he said. “Small guys like Jay-Z don’t get to you. What’s really going on?”

“It’s the labs, sir.” I gulped. “Um, they made a discovery overnight.”

His face fell. “Oh god, not this shit again.” He took off his jacket and stood up. “Let’s go put them in order.” The elevator took us down six floors, spitting us out in the science department. People in lab coats were bustling about, trying to avoid eye contact and look busy.

“Who’s in charge this week?” Mr. Stills shouted to everyone in earshot.

A shorter man with thinning black hair and round glasses came to the front of the room. “I am, sir. Dr. Ian Thomson.”

“What the fuck are you idiots doing now?” Mr. Stills replied.

“Well, um, we developed a drug that can prevent, and even stop a heart attack as it happens. It’s a miracle really.”

Mr. Stills began to laugh wildly. “It’s a miracle everyone!” He began clapping. “It’s a fucking miracle!” No one would clap with him, they all knew what a smile meant. Stills dropped the act and walked up to the doctor, breathing that impossibly minty breath that I had learned to fear into his face. The doctor started to sweat.

“The thing about miracles,” Mr. Stills growled quietly, but loud enough for several nearby lab coats to hear, “is that it is the exact fucking opposite of what I want!”The doctor panicked. “Well, um, we could give it to the employees here, and you know, they would live longer and that’s good and—”

The doctor couldn’t see Mr. Stills press the button on his cufflinks, but everyone else could. The doctor probably didn’t even hear the two reptilian guards come up to drag him away.

“It was an accident, I swear!” the doctor yelled, almost defiantly before disappearing down a corridor.

Mr. Stills licked his lips. “Plague,” he said to everyone there. “Get on it.” As we entered the elevator again the scientists began running around like monkeys on cocaine.

“Plague, sir?” I asked as we went up.

He shot a sideways glance at me. “They royally fucked up swine flu. I asked for something big and they gave me that shit.” He paused and looked at the doors again. “Did I ever tell you why I faked the moon landing?”

Dozens of times. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Control, Anderson. It’s all about control.” I knew how this speech went. “People can’t be trusted to do the smart thing. You have to make them do it. When I go up to the surface, I see what my father saw, and his father before him: I see people largely going about their lives the way they want to.” A pause to lick his lips again. “It’s sickening. It’s how my father felt, and his father before him. You know my grandfather founded the Illuminati?”

It wasn’t true, but I nodded anyway. His grandfather simply took over the position of CEO, and resurrected the ancient Italian title. I nodded quickly as the doors opened and we entered his office again. I didn’t actually have a desk, I just had a little stool next to Mr. Stills’ desk so I could take his phone calls and have a flat surface to write on.

“How about you, Anderson? Do you have a family?”

“No, sir.” He knew that.

“Any ladies out there that spark your interest?”

“Not at the moment, sir.” This happened at least once a month.

“Let’s keep it that way, Angie was apparently very good at her job before your incident.” The final word was drenched with his accusatory and disgusted tone, as though he were talking to a child he hated. The incident between Angie and I had happened six months ago, and this was the first time he’d brought it up.

He sighed. “What other parts of my organization need attention?”

“Actually,” I said looking through last night’s records, “everything seems to be okay.” Focus, Gary, don’t let him get to you.

He stared at me with his mouth open. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Everything is going smoothly, sir.” My stomach was turning over, and the urge to vomit was escalating.

He seemed genuinely confused. “Is NASA still running? Have the reptilians attacked? Is Alex Jones still on the air? What about Putin?”

“Defunded, still subterranean, still an idiot, got him by the balls, respectively, sir.”

He stared at the wall, still unable to understand. “Well, that’s not right. Something’s wrong with your data, Anderson.”

“I can have the interns double check, sir.”

“Do that,” he replied, content. “I’ll send an email to Jay-Z.”

“I’ll leave you to it, sir,” I said as I walked out of the office. The breakroom was empty, like it always was. I poured myself some coffee that might have been fresh.

“Gary?” Stacy had crept out of her cubicle, and was reaching into the fridge. “I don’t think that coffee’s fresh.”

“Do you know how old it is?” I asked her.

“I think it’s yesterday’s.”

My coffee went down the drain. “How are you doing, Stacy?”

“I’m doing pretty well.” Stacy was short, always moderately dressed, but very pretty anyway. Her long, wavy brown hair always bounced along in her ponytail, keeping hair off her face and her pink and black glasses. “It’s just the normal week here.” She pulled a Red Bull from the back of the fridge and cracked it open. “What are you doing over the weekend?”

“Is it Friday already?” I asked.

“No,” she chuckled, “it’s Thursday, but we get tomorrow off because it’s a big tourism weekend.”

“Right,” I replied. “I forgot about that. It’s the one good thing about tourists.”

“So, do you have plans for the weekend?”

“Not really. I tend to stay home and unwind on the weekends. Until Stills gives me a call.”

“Do you want to catch a movie or something?”

Yes. “I don’t know, I don’t really like movies.”


No. “Yeah, they tend to bore me.”

“Well, why don’t you come jet ski with my friends and I?”

“I really just want to relax this weekend.” Don’t be nice Stacy, nice girls are demoted to the Testing Center just below the labs.

“Oh, okay.” Stacy went back to her cubicle, disappointed. I felt like an ass, but workplace romances were strictly forbidden in the Illuminati Headquarters. I learned that after a brief fling with Angie, who used to have Stacy’s job.

Angie stopped coming to work after our romance culminated in a peck on the cheek in the breakroom. In three days she was replaced with Stacy. Two weeks after that I found a fingernail painted with Angie’s signature ladybug style—that she changed from orange to red just because I like red better than orange—attached to my car’s window with double-sided tape. I didn’t even ask Stills. My car smelled like vomit for weeks.

I went back to Stills’ office and found him screaming “fuck you, what the fuck have you done for us” into the phone. He’d dragged the phone cord across his desk scattering papers, folders, and JFK’s skull on the floor.

He slammed the phone back into its cradle, several times just to make sure the speaker would never work properly. He grabbed his chest and reached for the antacid.

“Fucking celebrities,” he grumbled. “Thinking they’re so special. We insult the real stars by referring to our celebrities like that.” He chewed the gummy antacid. “This has to be acid reflux. Schedule me an appointment with one of the jackasses in the labs.”

“You don’t want to see an outside doctor?” I asked.

“Fuck no, I don’t trust those quacks.”

“I’ll set one up for tomorrow,” I replied. Mr. Stills had been having the heartburn problem for a few weeks now. It was probably his diet of red meat and Tabasco.

“Jay-Z’s a fucking prick. I want him dead next week.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little hasty?”

“Do I employ you for your opinions?” he roared back. “Don’t get all assertive, Anderson. I’m in charge here.”

“Right, sir. Sorry.” He was being far more aggressive than normal today.

He calmed down after that. “You’re the best help I’ve got, Anderson. I’ve never had an assistant as long as I’ve had you.” His eyes locked on mine, remembering his role. “Don’t fuck it up.” I picked up the things he’d sent flying and organized them again, by importance first, color second.

“How’s my will coming along?” he asked.

“It’s been sitting on your desk for approval, sir.” I’d been telling him that for two weeks.

“I’ll stamp it later,” he muttered angrily. He preferred a stamp to a signature, for some idiotic reason. “I know you’re not stupid enough to try and pull one over on me.” He sneered. “And you certainly don’t have the balls.”

I didn’t respond. He was baiting me; it meant he wanted a reason to drag me down with the doctor and Angie. I felt a chill run down my spine.

“Shit,” Mr. Stills began. “I need a smoke. Let’s go topside. Everything’s closed up, right?”

I checked my watch. “Yes, sir. The park closed half an hour ago.”

He pulled a carton out of his desk and once more we entered his private elevator, and rode it to the surface. We stepped out and walked a little way before he lit a cigarette. He turned around and stared at the entrance.

“Walt was such a prick. Why’d he have to go and put this on top of our entrance? It’s hideous.”

I stood next to him and looked up at Cinderella’s Castle. “I think it’s alright. It is for little kids.”

“When my father sold him this land, I don’t think he foresaw this shit hole.”

“There’s a lot that people can’t foresee,” I said with a nod. “Disney World being one of them.”

“That’s the problem with the world, Anderson,” Mr. Stills murmured. “Too much disorder.” He began coughing, as he always did when he smoked. “Fucking heartburn,” he said as he grabbed his chest. “I don’t know if—” He hit the floor.

“Holy shit!” I yelled. What the hell was I supposed to do?

He wasn’t saying anything, he wasn’t moving. I put my hand on his chest, and felt nothing. He wasn’t even breathing. It took less than five seconds for the panic to rip through my brain. I frantically pounded on his chest, hoping that my ignorance of CPR might be cancelled out by the magic of Disney World. Two minutes passed without a fairy godmother showing up. I put my palms against my temples and screamed.

“Why couldn’t you have allowed CPR as part of the basic employee training you asshole? I suggested it and you say ‘If you see some fucker dying in here it’s probably not an accident.’ Fuck you, you stupid shit! You can’t control anything!”

The reality hit me. Stills had removed all security cameras around Cinderella’s castle because he “didn’t want those fuckers in the security room thinking they were hot shit.” Motion sensors had replaced them. Help wasn’t coming unless I went down to get it. If I didn’t move quickly, the reign of Edwin Albert Stills III would come to a close.

Let him die.

I had to get down there and get someone, if I screamed loud enough, word would eventually get to the right person.

Let him die.

We didn’t have a successor lined up, since numbnuts never had children. It would be a clusterfuck down there for weeks even if I—

Let him die.

The words went through my head for the third time before pictures joined them. Stills had a total of thirty-seven people “terminated” while he was CEO. It was the highest number the organization had recorded. Angie was just one of thirty-seven to him. I could’ve been one of thirty-eight. I was probably halfway there. I stood up calmly and I called the elevator.

I stepped into the elevator and sighed. I closed my eyes and I relaxed. The elevator continued to creep down, and I prepared an act. I didn’t know how this would end. But I did know he hadn’t reviewed or stamped his will yet. I knew I’d have time to review it. Fear was replaced by a cold, and furious certainty. The doors opened to his office.




by Lisa Franek


The bus lurched around a corner, causing the woman next to Rupert to slide into him, pressing him up against the cold glass of the window. He sighed, knowing he should have sat somewhere else. But he was tired. It had been a long day. Winters had the longest days. That was when old people and children took ill, and the illnesses spread like wildfire through households, claiming anyone with even the slightest weakness. It was tragic to see the tiny bodies of children come in, and merciful to see the old, knowing they had fought to the end. And when he saw them, Rupert always sighed and looked out to the grassy hills, knowing there was still plenty of space out there for them. If only he could dig fast enough. He knew tomorrow would be worse, and that there was a storm coming after that. And after the storm, there would be more.

Rupert looked out the window at the grimy streets full of blackened snow and smudged people and wondered which faces he would soon see, either white and still, or streaked with grief. There would be many. That much he knew. The bus stopped, and the woman got up to exit. Rupert felt the seat sigh with relief, just quickly enough for another person to take her place. Rupert looked sideways as the man sat next to him, feeling uneasy in the close quarters of a seat too small for two grown men. At least the woman was soft and cushiony. This man was angular and gruff, and seemed to be made entirely of sandpaper. Rupert knew he himself didn’t exactly exude grace or softness, but this man was hard like stone. Rupert leaned into the window glass, looking for space and finding none.

Sometimes the vast open spaces of the graveyard were lonely, but mostly he longed for them. Especially in times like this. Rupert’s friends, if one could call the rabble at the tavern that, thought it depressing that Rupert dug graves for the dead, but Rupert rather enjoyed it. It was solitary work, where he was left alone with only his thoughts and his shovel. That was enough. He knew what was expected, and he knew what to do. It was the confinement of the city streets that gave him anxiety. The noise, the chatter. It was endless and pointless, and he found himself knowing too much about people that he would rather not know. He marveled at their ability to ignore things that were painfully obvious; the cheating lover, the pilfering employee, the duplicitous friend. No one seemed to know they were all being duped, but Rupert saw it with alarming clarity. He would take the silence of the graves to the treacherousness of the city any day.

The man peered at Rupert, causing him to stiffen, as if waiting for a blow. “Do I know you?” the man asked.

Rupert exhaled only slightly to answer. “I don’t believe so.” He gave a quick smile that ended up being more of a grimace, but the man didn’t waver. He examined Rupert’s face carefully, his brain searching for the name that would match. Or even a place of meeting. Rupert was relieved to see that none came. He knew he did not know this man, but also knew the possibility of mistaken identity was high, given the number of people in Chicago. And Rupert knew he had one of those faces that seemed to be familiar to everyone, since he was often called by other people’s names. Sometimes he wondered if those people had somehow seen him in passing while digging his graves. They could easily be visiting a departed friend or relative, or attending a funeral, and their brain had recorded his face in that moment of heightened emotions. He knew it was much easier to remember things when there were emotions tied to them, and no one came to the cemetery without their emotions on display. At least, not the normal ones.

Every now and then, Rupert would see one with no emotion walking among the headstones, and a chill would run through him. They always looked like everyone else, and sometimes even managed to produce crocodile tears, but he saw them. Empty and lifeless. This man had a similar countenance. Rupert closed his eyes and rested his head against the window, hoping things would stay quiet. The bus was full of people who were tired; their thoughts slow and quiet. Rupert was grateful.

But then it came. Rupert opened his eyes and looked at the man sitting next to him. The man stared intensely at his hands clasped on his lap, moving one thumb to cover the other and back again. Of all the people on this bus, the man sitting next to Rupert was deep in thought, fixating on one thing and one thing only: money.

Rupert looked at the man’s hands. They were dirty and calloused; not the hands of a man used to having money. His clothes looked old, but were clean. Rupert looked up to find the man staring directly at him. “Something wrong?” the man asked. Rupert shook his head and shrugged. Part of him knew he should stay quiet, but he had to know.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Rupert said. The man looked at him quizzically, raising an eyebrow and scowling. “You seem tense, that’s all.” Rupert indicated the man’s tightly gripped hands, and the man stared at him for a moment, then smiled slightly.

“I guess I’m not used to being around all these people,” he said. Rupert nodded. At least they had this in common. “Damon,” he said, holding out his hand. Rupert shook it, knowing he didn’t really want to know this man, but now they were here, meeting. He would know things about Damon before too long. Damon shook his head and looked around the bus, then leaned over to Rupert. “All these people coming home from work. Lots of people.”

Rupert nodded. Damon was clearly not coming home from work, he asked the question anyway: “You’re not?”

Damon shook his head. “Looking. It’s not easy. Especially during the winter. Things are slow.” Rupert nodded in agreement as Damon continued. “What do you do?”

“I dig graves. Cavalry Cemetery.”

Damon shook his head and smiled. “Wow. You’re like the cryptkeeper or something. Wild.”

“It’s a living.”

“You know, it’s steady work. At least there’s that. In this day and age, that’s something.”

Rupert nodded. “This is my stop,” he said as the bus slowed and pulled towards the curb, and Rupert was grateful.


Rupert walked along the hill at the end of the cemetery towards the big oak tree at the back. It had been there since the cemetery had been staked out; a marker of where the edge of the property was. Rupert kicked the snow as he walked, knowing that in a couple of days, it would require boots and a thick coat, and it would silence everything in a thick layer of softness. He stood next to the oak and looked out onto the expanse, with headstones jutting up in somewhat regular patterns. Some had angels perched over them, while others were simple and bare. There were some small mausoleums on the other end of the cemetery where the more fortunate laid their kin to rest, but no matter where they were, Rupert knew it was always cold and dark. He sighed as he looked at the tree again, then drove a stake into the ground. Before too long, a deep hole would take its place. But for now, Rupert had others to dig.

He walked out of the cemetery, blowing on his hands for warmth. “Thought I might find you here,” Damon said. Rupert stopped short, startled. Damon stood leaning against the pillar of the entrance, and Rupert wondered how long he had been standing there. He didn’t look cold, but his hands were jammed deep into his pockets and his collar was pulled up around his cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” Rupert asked more pointedly than he had intended. Damon wasn’t someone to provoke. Rupert already knew that. Damon kicked a rock and slowly walked toward Rupert, then shrugged.

“Looking for work. Think you could get me on?”

Rupert looked back at the gates behind them. Cavalry was a big place; there was always room for another hand. Still, Rupert was hesitant. As big as it was, Rupert knew that having Damon close by would feel just like the bus. Damon was loud, and he had no idea. Rupert looked back at Damon and shrugged.

“It’s just for a little while,” Damon said, “until I get back on my feet.” He chuckled. “Who wants to dig graves forever? Certainly not me.” Rupert drew his mouth up into what was almost a smile. Rupert had tried other jobs, but this was the one for him. It was somehow comforting that he and Damon did not have that in common. And even more comforting that Damon didn’t plan on staying long. Rupert looked at Damon, who stared intently back at him. It was unnerving, really.

“Well, I guess until you get on your feet again, it should be alright. Start tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here bright and early.” Damon shoved his hands down into his pockets again and stalked away, and Rupert sighed, glad to have distance between them.


Damon leaned on his shovel and looked around. “Don’t you ever get bored? Digging the same holes every day?” Rupert shook his head as he drove his shovel into the hard ground.

“I find it peaceful. Quieting.”

Damon laughed. “You’re a weird guy, Rupert.” Damon lifted himself off his shovel and started digging again. “I don’t know how you do it,” he continued. “Me, I’d rather do a million other things. This is just temporary for me, you know.”

“You said that. A few times.”

“Well, you’re not saying much, so there’s only so many things I have to say.”

Rupert shook his head, knowing that wasn’t the truth. “I doubt it,” was all he said in answer. It had only been one day, and Rupert was already tired of having Damon here. Damon was uncomfortable with the vast silence of death, and did his best to fill it with noise. Rupert gritted his teeth as he continued digging. It’s only temporary, he kept telling himself. It would become his mantra over the next several weeks.


Rupert lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Damon’s thoughts had become so loud over the last few days that they drowned out his own. The time Rupert spent in his bed were the only quiet moments of his day now, and he was anxious to be rid of Damon. Damon had taken to the work quickly, his strong back making the work go faster than expected. It was a good thing, too. The storm had come a week ago, and the bodies were already starting to come in. Starvation, exposure, illness. Just as Rupert had expected.

Rupert closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that sleep would come quickly. He rolled over and embraced the quiet. But then it came. Damon’s thoughts. Rupert pushed them away, exasperated. Damon had infiltrated every corner of Rupert’s life, when all he had wanted was to be left alone to the quiet. He still hadn’t dug the hole near the tree, but he knew he would have to soon.


“Why are you always so quiet?” Damon asked.

“Seems like you do enough talking for both of us,” Rupert joked. Damon didn’t laugh, so Rupert took a more serious tone. “I like the quiet.”

“You must, working here.”

Rupert watched as Damon dug, asking the question he already knew the answer to. “What would you rather be doing?”

“Anything. Back in the day, me and my boys had all kinds of fun.”

“I bet you did.” Rupert already knew, but he went along with it anyway.

“All the trouble we caused,” Damon shook his head and smiled at the memory. “Drinking and carrying on. Boy, did we get into some trouble back then.”

“What kind of trouble?” Rupert had already seen it. Angry barkeeps, smashed windows, police giving chase. He’d seen Damon and his friends drinking and carousing with women, gambling, and generally causing trouble. But here, Rupert heard a new thought. Damon was diving down a deep hole that Rupert had unwittingly pushed him into.

“I killed a man.” Damon said it quietly, more to himself than to Rupert. And then Rupert saw it. He saw Damon rifling through the man’s pockets and finding a key before running. “It was an accident. It was supposed to be your run of the mill back alley fight. We’d had a disagreement, and we’d both had plenty to drink. I was just going to give him a good drubbing and a couple of black eyes. But that dummy had to bring his beer bottle with him. He smashed it on the wall and tried to stab me with it, but I moved out of the way and pushed him.”

Damon stopped digging for a second and leaned on his shovel, looking up into the sky. It was grey with clouds, and neither Damon or Rupert could remember when they had last seen the sun. It had been a harsh winter, and it was going to get worse before it got better.

“Then what?” Rupert asked.

Damon sighed as he continued digging. “He went down. Fell on the bottle. Right on his neck. By the time I turned him over, he was already bleeding out, so all that was left was to rifle through his pockets to see if there was anything worth anything.”


“And then I got the hell out of there. I hid out for a couple of days, but it was inevitable. The cops came and got me and took me away.”

“How long were you locked up?” Rupert hadn’t seen the answer to this question.

“Seven years.”

Damon continued to dig, but with new intensity. Rupert watched him, feeling the strength of his anger every time the shovel pierced the dirt. Damon had a score to settle. Rupert still wasn’t sure who the score was with, but it was there, obvious as day.

“Storm’s coming,” Rupert changed the subject. Damon nodded slightly and kept digging. “It’s going to be a big one, they say. A foot or so.”

“About time too,” Damon answered.

Rupert watched him, wondering what he meant. For the first time, Rupert found himself digging through Damon’s thoughts, looking for whatever he was scheming. Why would a storm be so important? Then he found it.

The key. Damon didn’t know what it was for, but the dead man’s wallet indicated that he was just some rich guy who ended up on the wrong side of town one day, drunk and belligerent. Rupert kept digging. He had to know. Damon had lost all contact with his friends while he was in prison, and filled his days with books, learning about the world. Learning about the stock market, learning about other cities, travel, and so on. Damon could weather anything. Any storm, any situation, any difficulty. He was the ultimate survivor, and now here he was, digging graves for a living. Temporarily, he kept insisting. For the first time in ages, Rupert finally believed it. Damon had a plan, and Rupert was an accidental part of it.


Rupert felt a chill in the air, colder than the day before. The storm was coming. His time was running out, so he walked up to the oak tree to start digging. When Damon finally found him, he just stood and watched as Rupert dug.

“I don’t remember seeing this plot in the list,” he said.

“Special project,” Rupert said. It wasn’t something he felt like explaining, and even if he did, Damon wouldn’t understand. It was best that he did this one himself. “You can get started on the graves for the twins if you want.”

Damon shrugged, but didn’t move otherwise. “I don’t feel much like digging today. That ever happen to you?”

“Sometimes. Usually in the spring. Things slow down then, so it’s easier to take a rest here and there.”

Damon nodded and spat on the ground. “Well, I don’t feel like it today. I think today will probably be my last day, anyway.” Rupert stopped digging and looked at Damon. The key. Damon had figured it out. And now Rupert knew as well. He hadn’t wanted to know. He had just wanted Damon to be gone and leave him alone, but now it was too late. There was no going back from this. Damon was sitting on freedom. Rupert was surprised he had come to the cemetery at all, now that he had a way out.

“Last day?” Rupert asked. “Well, you said it was temporary. Where you off to?” He wanted to hear the lie.

“Movin’ on. Thinking I may head west. Maybe out to California.” That part was true. Rupert smiled. Damon may be a thug and a criminal, but he wasn’t a liar. At least there was that. “What’s so funny?” Damon asked.

Rupert shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just happy for you, that’s all. California seems pretty nice right about now.”

Damon scoffed. “You bet your ass it does. I’m done with the cold.” He looked up at the sky for emphasis. He was going to try to beat the storm, but he was going to have to hurry.

Rupert stopped digging and looked up at the sky with Damon, then picked up his shovel. “Well, I guess we should get those graves done. It’ll go faster if we both do it.”

Damon smiled. “What about the one you’re digging now?”

Rupert glanced back at the hole he had started and sighed. “I can finish it tomorrow.” Damon looked confused, but clapped Rupert on the shoulder heartily.

“Alright then. Let’s get to it.”


Rupert’s hands were stiff with cold. He and Damon had finished the graves as the cold crept across the cemetery. As the day had worn on, Damon’s mood had improved, and he put his back into his work with fresh gusto. Rupert had never seen him work so hard, but he knew the excitement that filled Damon’s head was drifting down his chest to his legs, making him jittery. The work was the only thing keeping him together as he worked through his plan with more focus than Rupert had ever seen in him.

“Well, I think that’s enough for today,” Rupert said as he leaned on his shovel. “Beers to celebrate? I mean, it is your last day and all. I never had a partner before. It was kinda nice, actually.” Lie. Rupert had hated every moment of working with Damon. But he was happy now. Tomorrow, everything would be different.

Damon thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. But just one. I’ve got stuff to do before I go.”

“Sure thing.”

They each pulled up a stool at the bar, letting their weight sink with the satisfaction of fatigue. Beers were set in front of them, and Damon gulped it down, probably more out of habit than thirst. Rupert sipped his drink as he watched Damon empty his glass, then ordered him another. It was a celebration, after all. Damon protested only momentarily; he had missed the taste of beer, and it was refreshing. Rupert didn’t have to talk him into the third or fourth beers, and it all became too easy after that. As Damon drank, Rupert watched the snow fall lightly outside. He hoped the brunt of the storm would hold off until morning at least. That would make things easier.

Rupert helped Damon get home and put him to bed, then found the book with the key in it. He went back outside and trudged down the street. Snow was already collecting, and it was coming down harder every moment. He would have to hurry. He thought he might be able to wait until morning, but now he considered the possibility that the dark would make things a lot easier. No one pays attention in the dark. Especially when it’s snowing.

He pulled his collar up around his cheeks and forged ahead through the wintry night. He didn’t have far to go, and came upon a dark house on the edge of the less rough part of town. It was a home that had fallen in disrepair, but it was obvious that it had been beautiful at one time. Rupert went around to the back of the house and pushed a door open. It scraped against the floor as he leaned into it with his shoulder. Once inside, he pulled a flashlight out and clicked it on, then made his way upstairs to the bedroom. The walls were dark stained wood, making the room seem even darker in the black night. Rupert looked around the room at the paintings and wondered if any of them were worth anything. He shrugged. He wasn’t here for the paintings, anyway. Rupert spotted a built-in bookcase and held his flashlight up to read the titles. He found the collection of Dickens novels and pulled one out, smiling when they all came together, revealing a safe behind them. He pulled the key from his pocket and opened the safe, chuckling that the gift he had cursed his entire life had finally yielded something good. He slid a metal box from the safe and opened it. Loose jewels, cash, and gold. It was all there. He could do whatever he wanted now. Find his own open space away from everyone and live in peace.

As Rupert stepped back outside, the snow hit him in the face immediately. It was really coming down now; it was difficult to see very far ahead. He had to hurry. He made his way to the train station, not noticing that he was the only person out on the streets. It was late, and the cold was keeping people inside near their fires.

He threw open the doors of the station wide, excited about what the next adventure would be. The sound of his footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous building, and it was only then that Rupert realized he was one of few people inside. There was no one staffing the ticket windows, and there was no sound of trains coming or going. Rupert found an empty bench and curled up to wait for someone to come in. He could buy a ticket then.


The snow had piled up; biggest storm Chicago had ever seen. Snow was two feet deep, and Rupert had trudged through it, up to the oak tree. It was easy to clear the snow away from the hole he had started yesterday, and he had made good progress for the last few hours. The dirt was piling up quickly, and every few minutes, Rupert would glance over to the box on the ground next to him. He was fueled by anger and frustration, and the sinking feeling that he needed to finish quickly, even though he already knew he would finish at exactly the right time. He took a moment to stretch; his muscles sore from the digging and from sleeping on a wooden bench all night.

The train station was at a standstill, and he’d learned that there was no way they were going to reopen that day. Begrudgingly, he had come to work; there was nowhere else to go. He jammed his shovel deep into the hard ground, feeling the cocoon of snow on all sides, insulating him from the city and the noise. It was welcome, as if he had come back full circle to the beginning, with snowflakes falling lightly around him; the brunt of the storm over. Until he heard Damon.

Rupert leaned on his shovel and watched Damon trudge slowly up the hill, seething with anger. He gripped his shovel tighter, knowing it could be used if he could get close enough. If. Damon stopped when he was close, and sighed with fatigue. His face was ruddy and there were bags under his eyes. Rupert lifted his shovel just slightly above the dirt until Damon pulled a gun from his jacket. Rupert sighed and let the shovel rest again.

“How did you know?” Damon asked.

“It’s hard to explain.” Damon didn’t answer, but his look said he expected one from Rupert. “I have this thing. I always thought of it as a curse. Until you came along, that is.”

“I didn’t do nothin’.”

“You made plans. You spent the last seven weeks figuring things out. I have to admit, I never expected you to come up with the answer. But you did. And when you thought of it, I heard it.”

“What do you mean, you heard it?” Damon lifted the gun higher, agitated. Rupert raised his hands, letting the shovel fall flat.

“It’s this thing I have. I can hear people’s thoughts, see what’s going to happen.”

“You mean like a psychic or somethin’?”

Rupert shrugged. “Kind of.”

“Is that why you work here?” Damon was sharp, Rupert had to give him that.

“It’s the only place that’s quiet.”

“And this?” Damon motioned toward the hole in front of them.

“Started digging it the day after I met you.”

“You knew way back then?”

“Not exactly. It was just a feeling back then. I didn’t know everything until I saw you walking up that hill five minutes ago.”

“So you know what happens now, right?”

Rupert sighed and nodded.

“Too bad,” Damon said, “I actually kind of liked you.” Before Rupert could take another breath, a shot rang through the air, causing snow to fall from the branches of the oak. Rupert closed his eyes, then fell squarely into the hole at his feet. Damon picked up the box, then trudged back down the hill as the snowflakes started their work of burying the gravedigger.


Willow Hill

by Jason Wyckoff


November 10, 1914

Dear Mr. Cole,

Please find below my responses to your questions about the vanishing of Evan Pendleton in 1905 and his mother Maggie Pendleton’s subsequent “accident” in 1909. For your convenience, I have enumerated my remarks and also enclosed your original letter so that you may match the responses to your queries.

As you know, I have long held what most consider outlandish beliefs about the events in question. Since your questions to me were posed without the irony or indeed the tone of outright mockery that usually colors expressions of interest in my recollection of these matters, I trust that, in your forthcoming study of the region’s mining communities, my perspective will be fairly represented. I have included in my responses as much background on the characteristics of Shadows as is necessary to comprehend my view of events.

Augustus Turnbull

1. I knew Maggie Pendleton as a neighbor and fellow church-goer, as well as a teacher at the school Evan attended—the town’s only school, in fact. He was a quiet but inquisitive boy, and for a child in a mining town, who was often left to his own devices, exceptionally well-behaved for his age. As for Maggie, I cannot stress enough that I believe her to have been of sound mind. Most of those people close to her, after hearing her own account of her son’s vanishing, concluded that the incident had so traumatized the girl that her grip on reality had come loose. It is little wonder that she almost stopped talking about it altogether. But even through her grief she always spoke lucidly about what had happened that day, on those rare occasions when she spoke of it at all. Furthermore, the precision with which she planned and acted four years later suggests that her mind was as sharp then as it had ever been, and that is quite sharp indeed.

2. As you come down the west side of Willow Hill, starting from the ancient tree that gives the place its name, you find the old mine entrance about a quarter mile above the spot where the land levels off. Beyond that point, you have a meadow maybe a hundred yards across, and past that, the road. Follow it south, you come quickly to the town’s outskirts and, before long, its named streets; travel it north, and in a few miles or so you find yourself on a forest road used mainly by loggers and trappers, since it eventually becomes a simple dirt path and connects to no other thoroughfare beyond the wood’s edge. The road itself is lightly wooded on the western side, with a border of blackberry bushes running along its edge.

3. The two of them were as close as any parent and child I have ever known, and after Evan’s father died the boy grew all the more attached to Maggie. A sad tale in itself, Pete’s passing. He was one of the hewers killed in the 1898 cave-in, before Evan had even learned to walk. Maggie loved him deeply, and he was devoted to her. They didn’t have much, but they did have each other, and, for a year at least, they both had Evan. Would that all our hearts were filled with as much love as Pete’s and Maggie’s were for their poor, doomed family. You should have seen them all together on a Sunday, for Pete so cherished the time they were able to spend at leisure after church services. Coarse he may have been, and old before his time he certainly was, but let there be no doubt that he was a gentle and caring father, and a loving husband.

4. Maggie was deeply affected by Evan’s vanishing, and in that respect she wasn’t at all unusual among those who’ve had a loved one taken. Nor was she unusual in wanting to exact vengeance. Very few children are devoured by Shadows, but the kin of those few invariably carry the pain with them for the rest of their lives, all the more surely if they happened to witness the event themselves. What made Maggie unusual was the fact that she did actually develop a scheme to destroy the Shadow that consumed her son. Most people in her position would view the situation as hopeless. But even that didn’t make her unique; some do channel their grief and rage into plans of retaliation. What made Maggie exceptional was that her plan was a good one.

5. Firstly, you must understand that it’s nearly impossible to catch a Shadow off-guard. If one decides it isn’t interested in you, it will hide, and Shadows are fast, patient, and hard to find. If one of them does take an interest in you, those same qualities make it very difficult to resist. Some people draw on religious faith and invoke the names of their gods to confront them, but that won’t impede a determined Shadow. Many who are pursued simply run, but if a Shadow wants to find you, it will. Savvier people do not try to outrun Shadows; instead, knowing that Shadows are dark creatures, these folks will, if possible, attempt to counter them with light from every direction, and indeed this has become the preferred method of combating Shadows. That tactic can keep a Shadow at bay, though usually only temporarily. Maggie understood that their weakness was not in their dark nature, but in their dependence on what is extrinsic to them. Shadows need light; in fact they feed on it, and so she came up with the novel idea of trapping the Shadow and then starving it with darkness.

6. I have considered the question of the corporeality of Shadows at great length over the years, without ever having come to a firm conclusion. They can do harm to earthly beings such as ourselves, which strongly suggests that they are embodied. Maggie’s story seems to support that view, though it does not prove it conclusively.

7. As to why more people are not taken by Shadows, only the Shadows themselves could know for certain. But the prevailing view is that although they are creatures of darkness, they are not inherently creatures of malevolence. I daresay that most, if not all of us, have found ourselves in the presence of a Shadow on at least one occasion, though an overwhelming majority of folk would not recognize the situation for what it was.

8. Maggie would never admit to having been off the road and into the wood with her young son, and always told the story so as to give the impression that the Shadow had reached out of the thick tangle of trees and bushes to take the boy. No one ever pressed her on that point, but it is difficult for me to accept the implication that a Shadow had ventured into open space at dusk to reach its victim. And I cannot stress enough the fact that the mine’s entrance is nowhere near the road.

9. According to Maggie, the two of them had almost no warning. Since Shadows move silently, their only inkling of trouble was the sensation of what Maggie called a presence in the moments before an unnatural dimness overtook them. By her account, that was when their eyes met and she opened her mouth to tell him to run—but her lips had barely pursed to voice the word when the place where Evan stood went completely empty. It’s not just that he disappeared, you understand, it’s that for a period of perhaps two or three seconds at most, there was simply a void where he had stood. No light, no trees, no leaves on the ground, no Evan. And then it was over, and everything looked just as it had before, except that Evan was gone. According to Maggie, he had never made a sound.

10. These other theories about Evan’s disappearance are unconvincing. As to whether Maggie herself was responsible, no one who saw firsthand the woman’s shock and grief over the loss of her only son could possibly believe that she was the guilty party. The local authorities concluded as much, and this as well as most other hypotheses are inadequate to account for the fact that no trace whatsoever of Evan’s body was ever found.

11. Once a Shadow has done any serious mischief it usually makes itself scarce, but—and this is important to bear in mind—it doesn’t usually travel far. To answer your question, it seems that they are territorial. Or at the very least, they do not like to venture a long way from what they consider their home. Even still, it’s noteworthy that the Shadow that took Evan not only lingered, but readily made its presence known. Had it not, things would have gone very differently.

12. It’s clear enough to me that Maggie was hounded by a Shadow, but as to how anyone could know it was the same one that took Evan, that is a fair and difficult question. How can one tell darkness from darkness? The only answer I can give, unsatisfying as it may be, is that we must trust those who tell their own tales, and when Maggie told hers—infrequent as those retellings were, as time went on—she swore on Evan’s precious soul that she knew and would never forget this Shadow. She knew it in the same way that you might know who has entered a room just by the sound of their footsteps, she said.

13. There are only so many places that are, or can be, consumed by total darkness. Even an abandoned and shuttered cabin, lying still in the cold quiet of a winter night, will admit the light of the stars and moon through the minute cracks and gaps in its boards. It may well be that you or I would sense nothing but an empty darkness, but a Shadow will survive on even those meager celestial offerings. Indeed, a Shadow inhabiting such a place, having to live on the shards of light that break through cracks too small to see, would be a furious, unimaginably fearsome thing.

Beyond that, I suspect that Maggie had no love of the mine after Pete’s death, and would have had no qualms about destroying it.

14. I cannot say with any certainty how Maggie acquired the explosives, and speculation on the matter would be unfruitful. Being a putter herself after Pete’s passing, when necessity drove her to the mine she so hated and resented, it likely would not have been altogether difficult to find and take what she needed.

15. The Shadow had to be baited into entering the mine, and Maggie could offer no lure but her own self. That’s both the elegance and the ugliness of her plot.

16. There were no visible or audible signs of activity beneath the surface after the collapse. Maggie must surely have been inside the shaft when the uppermost portion of the tunnel caved in, but even after all the inquiries, when efforts were undertaken six months later to reopen the mine under new ownership—a process which took some weeks of difficult labor—no sign of her could be found. And that is what so puzzled the authorities, for some trace of the girl should have remained. Ever the hard-nosed realists, they still saw fit to conclude that Maggie had been killed in the explosion, and declared the matter closed.

17. This is the most vexing question of all, and anyone with the knowledge sufficient to answer it is in no position to enlighten the rest of us. Indeed, it only invites further questions. If the Shadow could be trapped in the mine, then how could there be no trace of it once the shaft had been cleared? If Maggie was killed, either by the creature or the cave-in, then why were her remains never found? If, on the other hand, the Shadow had transported Maggie, and Evan before her, to some other place than this world, then how could the thing possibly have been trapped in a mine at all?

In my view, the question looming behind all these others is this: Can a thing be both part of this world as well as something beyond it? It is a description one would apply to God, but to a Shadow? My mind balks, but my heart speaks blasphemy. My heart. Were it the other way round, I could sleep more easily.

The mine did reopen, as you know. I have visited the place myself, but being a schoolteacher and not a miner, I have never set foot in the mine before or after the events in question. I have heard nothing from the town’s miners that sheds any further light on the matter of the Pendletons. The consensus is that it is, at the end of the day, a sad story of a miner’s wife who, consumed by grief at the loss of her beloved as well as her only child, employed the instrument of her husband’s demise to end her own earthly suffering.

Perhaps it is, but again, my heart says otherwise.


We Celebrate the Falling Leaves

by Michael J. Albers


Late fall flowers dotted the mountain meadow except for the area around a scraggly tree that stood alone in the center. A black ring surrounded it, as if the ground had been doused in weed killer. Mark’s nose scrunched as he sat by his tent, looked at the tree, and wondered how it kept everything away.

Still pondering the tree, he heard voices on the trail. Mark shook his head and muttered, “Keep moving, please. I don’t really want to spend the night with people. Especially not that couple I passed a few hours back. They’ll never shut up.”

He watched a couple walk into sight and softly groaned. A dishwater blond ponytail, just brushing the girl’s shoulders, bobbed as she walked. They waved. He forced a smile and waved back.

“Looks like it could rain tonight,” the man said as they walked up. “Seems like you got a nice spot. Mind if we pitch our tent here, too.”

Yes, yes I do, big time, but I must be nice, Mark thought. “Naw, go ahead. It looks pretty flat and sort of sheltered over there.”

“Thanks. I’m Roger, by the way, and this is Clarisse.”

Mark nodded. “I’m Mark.”

Their matching gray hiking shorts looked new, as did Clarisse’s backpack. Roger’s gear showed only enough wear to take off the shine. Both wore tennis shoes rather than hiking boots. Roger’s hair was cut very short; Mark idly wondered if he normally shaved his head.

Their new gear contrasted with Mark’s, with its unraveling seams and multiple patches. If it wasn’t for the cancer eating out his gut, Santa might have lugged a new backpack down his apartment’s non-existent chimney. As it was, the doctor had told him he’d see Christmas, but spring was iffy. With another round of chemo scheduled for next week and the weather turning colder, he doubted his ragged backpack would see the woods again.

Roger set up the tent while Clarisse watched. They chattered on about a TV show Mark had never watched. He shook his head. Their tent went across the slope, not up it. Whoever slept downhill was going to get rolled into. At least his tent was too small to share if it rained and theirs flooded. Or maybe he’d just let Clarisse in. He rolled his eyes at the thought, as if a girl as cute as her had ever spared him a second glance.

Their campfire cooking ability matched their gear. Frustrated from watching their stumbling incompetence, Mark ended up cooking their freeze-dried beef stroganoff as the last sky glow faded behind the mountain. The rain clouds had blown through, leaving behind a cloudless sky with bright sparkling stars. He was thankful they all sat in comfortable silence staring at the occasional flicker of flame from the glowing coals. When he finally announced it was his bedtime, to his surprise, Clarisse hopped up and gave him a hug. “Night. Thanks for cooking supper for us.”

Mark lay in his sleeping bag, listening to Clarisse and Roger get ready for bed. He smiled; they were clueless, but likable. He had been alone too long; only thirty-eight and already a curmudgeonly old man. Curmudgeon or not, he hoped they didn’t get noisy before they went to sleep. Their murmuring voices filled his tent as he drifted off to sleep.

Drums, flutes, chanting voices. His eyes popped open to loud music. What the hell were Roger and Clarisse up to now? Ready to growl, he stuck his head out of the tent. A twirling column of people danced and pranced on a wide road that extended into the woods in both directions. A road that hadn’t existed when he went to sleep ran through huge trees that had replaced the meadow. Glowing balls flittered around above the dancer’s heads, lighting the road. He pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed a t-shirt, and crawled out of his tent. Roger stood by his tent wearing just hiking shorts and Clarisse wore very short bike shorts and had her arms high over her head, struggling with a sports bra.

She paused and looked over toward him. “Mark, what is this?”

He finished pulling on the t-shirt, lifted his hands, and shrugged.

Five dancers with waist-length silver hair whirled off from the group, full multicolored skirts floating as they twirled, and approached them. “Come join us. Dance with us. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

Clarisse grabbed her phone from her short’s waistband, took a picture, and then grabbed Roger’s hand. “Come on! It’ll be fun. We can put pics on Facebook when we get back. Everyone will be jealous!”

Clarisse and Roger skipped and twirled into the swirling crowd. “Hey, you know when you go with the fairies…” Mark shook his head as he watched them blend into the dancers.

The dancers moved closer to him, their arms waved in his face, and they motioned for him to follow. “Come join us. Dance with us. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

“What is this? One of those fairy things where I’ll return in a hundred years?”

The dancers joined hands and skipped in a circle around him. “Come join us. Dance with us. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

“No, I really don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Come join us. Dance with us. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

Mark looked around and then threw his arms up. “Oh, what the hell. Why not? In a hundred years, they should have a pill to cure a bad colon.”

The dancers twirled and whirled down the road with Clarisse and Roger twirling and whirling with them. Mark walked, dodging the flailing arms. All three walked with bare feet and the spongy ground, which lacked thorns or rocks, tickled his feet.

The procession moved through the woods and approached a huge stone building. Large stones, many four or five feet across, formed the walls, which extended up about two stories with a crenellated roof. A heavy wooden double door blocked the end of the path. Mark noted how it resembled the deeply carved doors of medieval cathedrals he had seen during his college trip to Europe. The group danced up to the doors and formed a semi-circle around them. They raised their hands and chanted “Let us enter. Let us enter. We celebrate the falling leaves.” The doors swung open and the dancers swirled inside.

As Mark passed through the door, some of the dancers grabbed his arms and pulled him into a side room.

“Here,” one said “you must be properly dressed for the banquet.”

The dancers moved in and pulled off Mark’s clothes. He realized that other dancers surrounded Clarisse and Roger. In a moment, all three stood naked and, just as quickly, they stood dressed. Both Mark and Roger wore fine pale purple velvet tail-coats with tight black pants and knee-high boots. Clarisse wore a stunning pale purple velvet dress with a low-cut tight bodice and a full skirt that fell to just above her ankles. She smiled and flipped her hips, swirling the skirt.

“Now come. We celebrate the falling leaves.” The dancers grabbed them, pulled them through a different door, and into a huge room before they twirled off, leaving the three people behind.

More of the glowing globes floated around, lighting the room. Tables formed a large open rectangle. At the center of one end stood a huge chair with a high back. On that huge throne sat a man who wore a dark purple and red robe, dense with gold embroidery. A large golden crown on his head glittered, light sparkling off four large stones and many smaller ones. On each side of the throne sat other fancy chairs in decreasing heights, occupied by people wearing brightly colored clothes resplendent with gold and silver embroidery. The chairs on the other three sides of the rectangle looked normal sized and were empty. The close-set stone floor had a stair-step design that caused the side tables to drop down at one-foot intervals every few tables. The tables at the throne end were almost six feet higher than the other end. The large open space in the center contained an open stage set slightly higher than the throne table. Mark wondered if the people at the low tables could see the stage. He guessed the tables could seat a couple of hundred people and, looking around at the dancers still twirling around the room as more came in through the door, decided there could be that many.

Fast, rolling music came from the group of musicians set in the room’s corner. The group had a couple of recorders and flutes, three bodhrans of various sizes, and several stringed instruments he didn’t recognize.

Mark felt a touch on his arm. A girl with long silver hair wearing a green tunic stood beside him. He glanced at her ears and felt disappointed to see they were not pointed, but shaped the same as his.

“Come,” she said, “I’ll show you your seat.” She slipped her arm into his and led him to a side table that was only a step down from throne table level.

“Wow, a table so close to the bigwigs,” Mark said.

“You are our guests. Of course you sit at a high table.”

The dancers continued to stream and prance into the hall. When the last one entered, the doors slammed shut and the music cut off with the door’s bang.

The king, Mark decided since he sat in the biggest chair and wore a crown, he would call him the king, stood and threw his arms wide. “Come. Be seated. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

The dancers all moved toward their seats. From the way they moved, it was clear they knew their assigned places. Noting other people had sat down, he also sat and looked around. His shoulders lifted in a minimal shrug. Oh, well, he thought, thus far, except for the strange dance to get here, this isn’t much different from those medieval reenactment pictures Karen keeps bombarding us with at work.

“Mark, Mark,” Clarisse said as other servants, also wearing green tunics, led her and Roger to the chairs beside him, “isn’t this just so cool. I was trying to get some pictures and my phone just like died. Can you believe that would happen now? This is so cool.”

Mark sighed and looked at her. “Yeah well, I guess since we’ll be spending a hundred years here, it should be cool.”

Clarisse’s face scrunched up. “Huh? One hundred years?”

“Yeah. That’s how long the fairies keep you,” Mark said. “Haven’t you read those stories?”

“Oh really! Fairies! Be real. This is just so cool. I’ve got a group of girlfriends who get together every Tuesday for dinner and…”

The king clapped his hands and everyone went silent. He clapped again and the music restarted. From a side door, a troop of people in motley poured out, raced through the gaps between the tables, leaped onto the stage, and began a wild tumbling routine. Servants, all wearing matching green tunics, moved around the tables and placed clear goblets of a caramel-colored liquid before each guest.

Mark reached for his glass and then froze. Oh, yeah, he thought, going with the fairies is bad enough, but drinking or eating their food is seriously bad. He turned to Clarisse and Roger, “Hey, we really should… oh, too late.” He watched as Clarisse and Roger both took big swallows from their goblets and popped a little brisket from a basket on the table into their mouths.

Clarisse smiled at him, “What did you say?”

“Never mind.”

He picked up his own goblet and stared at the liquid as he swirled it. It seemed slightly thicker than wine. He gave a slow nod. “Guess you’re right, Grandma. In for a penny, in for a dollar.” He lifted the goblet in a toast. “Here’s to the next hundred years. May they be better than the last three.” A smooth sweetness rolled across his tongue and left it tingling.

The banquet continued with rounds of food and drink, each accompanied by a different group of entertainers. Mark relaxed and enjoyed the food and entertainment, but wished Clarisse and Roger would stop babbling about how cool everything was and how she wished her phone worked. As a group of jugglers ran off the stage, the king stood and pointed at the three of them. “Dance for me; for all of us.” He waved his arm and pointed to the stage. “Dance for me; for all of us. We celebrate the falling leaves.”

Clarisse and Roger jumped out of their seats and trotted up onto the stage.

A little tingle moved up his spine. Mark moved his head between the musicians in the corner and Clarisse and Roger, who had began to dance wildly to the music, their arms swinging in wide arcs. Her full skirt swirled; her legs flashed with high kicks. His head drooped. He didn’t like dancing, but he did feel obligated to dance a little to repay their host for his generosity. He certainly didn’t feel like dancing that wild ride Clarisse and Roger were on. He stood and idly wondered if once he started would he spend a hundred years dancing like a maniac? With a shrug, he walked onto the stage and picked a spot well away from Clarisse and Roger’s wild arm and leg flings. Shaking his head at them, he started to dance.

He stopped, stunned by the silence. The music surrounded him again. He started to dance again and once more the music went silent. Yet, when he stopped, it was back. Glancing at Clarisse and Roger and the party guests, it was clear the music only stopped for him. He stood motionless and let the beat of the bodhrans fill his head. Behind him, he heard a snicker. Glancing around the room, he noticed that although most eyes focused on Clarisse and Roger, a beautiful lady sat at the corner of the lowest level of tables smiling at him. Her silver hair was almost invisible beneath flowers entwined in it as they spilled past her shoulders and out of sight below the table. Her eyes bore into him, sending shivers through his body. “Oh geez,” he muttered, “One hundred years of dancing to no music?” He started to dance again and again it disappeared. He paused and the music returned. “Ok, now this is getting irritating.”

The servants distributed flower bouquets. The partiers cheered on Clarisse and Roger and tossed flowers one by one onto the stage. When a flower struck Roger or Clarisse, it stuck and they rapidly transformed into bouncing bouquets. The few flowers that struck Mark fell to the floor. He stumbled, slipping on a flower stem, and he saw a half smile cross the lady’s face. He turned away and shook his head to clear the distressing flashback of a bad college party where a hot sorority girl had teased him for a short time before flittering back to her friends.

Enough, he thought. He lifted his hands and shrugged at the king. “I’m sorry, but I can’t find the music and I’m not much of a dancer anyway. I’m sorry. Those two are much better.” He waved his hand toward the gyrating flower bouquets of Roger and Clarisse.

The king’s jaw dropped and color drained from his face. “Dance.”

Another light tingle moved halfway up his spine. Mark shook his head. “I’m sorry. No.” As he walked off the stage, he thought he heard a giggle come from the direction of the lady who had been staring at him. Damn it, lady, he thought, don’t make fun of me now.

The king leaped up. His heavy high-backed throne tipped backwards and crashed to the floor, drink trays flew as servants scattered and one yelped as it hit her in the shoulder.

The room went dead silent, except for Clarisse and Roger who kept up their wild gyrations with their feet stomping on the floor. Everyone stared at the king. He glared at Mark. “You, dance!” He stabbed his finger toward the stage. “DANCE!” His voice reverberated through the room.

“I really appreciate the dinner,” Mark said, “and I did dance for a minute or so, but I’m just not into dancing, sorry. And your music. Nothing personal, but when I dance, I can’t hear the music.”

“DANCE!” The king pointed both arms at Mark, his hands trembling. He swung his arms as if to toss Mark back onto the stage. He clapped his hands. “Music. Play.”

The music resumed. As Mark plopped down in his chair, the lady at the end table burst into hysterical laughter.

Hey, lady, what is your problem? Mark thought.

The king pointed at the lady at the far end. “You, my dearest sister, silence.” He ran over, grabbed Mark’s shoulder, yanked him to his feet, and shoved him against the table. Goblets tipped and wine soaked into the back of his pants. His face hovered inches from Mark’s as he screamed, “DANCE!”

“Ow. Hey, damn it. I don’t care who the hell you are, you don’t shove me like that. My regrets, but may I be excused?” Mark unclenched his fists and glared at the king.

The king’s bright red cheeks pulsed. His head rolled back as he screamed. A room-shaking, terrifying scream.

Again the music stopped. Only the stomp of Clarisse and Roger’s feet and the increasingly hysterical laughter of the king’s sister filled the room. Mark realized she now stood beside him. She wore a pale purple dress that matched Clarisse’s. Her thick silver flower-entwined hair reached to her knees.

She placed her hand on Mark’s forearm. “Wait. You don’t want to be excused now. This party is about to get very entertaining.”

“And so.” She stepped up to stand face to face with her seething brother, who had a good eight inches on her. “You sold your soul to steal my throne. To rule until you couldn’t enchant a human.” She spat in his face. “Did eternity come quicker than you expected?”

Mark heard distant trumpets blowing.

A gasp went through the hall.

“I still rule. He will obey me.” He pushed the lady aside, grabbed Mark’s jacket, and pulled him nose-to-nose. Sour wine and spicy cheese breath filled Mark’s nostrils. “Dance! Now! Dance!”

“The Black Rider comes. Give me your crown,” the lady said, “For you, it is forfeit.”

Galloping horse hooves mixed with the trumpets, shook the entire building. Many of the guests, mostly from the king’s end of the tables, leaped to their feet and frantically looked around.

The king shifted his grip on Mark’s jacket and lifted his heels off the floor. He screamed, his nose touching Mark’s. “You will obey. You. Will. Dance.”

The sound of the horses and trumpets stopped.

The king’s face went pale. He turned his head toward the far wall and tossed Mark away. “No. He can’t be here. No!”

A loud trumpet blast shook the building. A section of the wall crumbled and large stones tumbled inward across the floor. Four riders, dressed in solid black on jet black horses, leaped through the hole and soared over the rumble. Three of them carried trumpets; the fourth rider rode up to the king and looked down on him.

“I believe you owe me a debt payment.”

“No, no. I can still make him dance. I know I can.”

“Silence.” The Black Rider laughed. “I upheld my part and now, my payment.”

The king struggled but said nothing. Mark realized that the command for silence had been more than a basic request to shut up.

The Black Rider reached down and pulled the crown off the king’s head. “These two stones are mine.” He grabbed the two largest jewels and ripped them out of the gold, twisting the crown and leaving torn edges around the settings. He dropped the gems in a pocket of his cloak. Then he pulled off a large purple one. “And this one is your sister’s.” He jammed the crown back onto the king’s head. “You no longer deserve such a fine crown. We should melt it down.”

Mark watched in horror as the upper edges of the gold folded over and sagged down. With a scream of pain, the king tore the crown from his head and flung it away. It clattered and bounced across the floor before coming to rest against a wall.

The rider reached into his cloak and pulled out a golden circlet. He pushed the purple jewel he had just torn from the crown into it, smoothed the gold edges with his thumb, and tossed it to the king’s sister. “Lentara, your crown and your power.” He bowed to her in his saddle. “I trust you’ll wear it better than your brother.”

“And now,” he pointed at the trembling king, “my payment.”

The other three riders began to play their trumpets in what resembled a fast swing tune. The king and many other partiers began to whirl, imitating Clarisse and Roger in their wild gyrations. The other riders wheeled their horses and, still playing, leaped over the rubble pile. The former king led the dancers as they clambered after them, slipping and sliding on the stones while they continued their dance. Clarisse and Roger, still covered in flowers, moved with the group.

“Wait,” Mark yelled, “you have no right to take them.”

The Black Rider spun in his saddle to face Mark. He tossed up his hand and everything froze. Dancer’s arms and legs hung suspended in space.


Mark’s knees went rubber under the glare. “I said,” he gulped. “I said whatever deal you made could not have included Clarisse and Roger.”

“And how can you know that?”

I can’t, Mark thought, I guess I really can’t. He shook his head.

“I didn’t think so.”

“No. No, wait, I do know. If you knew they would be here, then you knew how the deal would end. That means you didn’t make a fair deal.”

“My deals are always fair.” For a long moment the Black Rider stared. Then he laughed. “Fine. Humans mean nothing to me.” He waved his hand and Clarisse and Roger disappeared. “They are back in your world where they belong. Satisfied?”

He turned his horse and everyone started moving again. He rode up to the rocks and turned. “Lentara.” He saluted the lady and then his horse soared over the pile of rocks. The trumpets stopped; silence echoed through the room.

Lentara smiled as she positioned the circlet on her head. The flowers entwined in her hair fell, surrounding her feet in a rainbow of color. She lightly touched Mark’s elbow. “Thank you. My brother stole my crown with a pact that he would rule until he couldn’t enchant a human. He was stupid enough to believe that meant forever.”

Mark looked around the room, now missing half the partiers. “So, am I stuck here, or do I go home to find a hundred years has passed?”

The lady laughed. “The hundred years is your world’s story. Time is time; even we can’t do that.”

“What did he do with Clarisse and Roger? Did he really send them back as he told me? They were irritating, yes, but they don’t deserve anything bad.”

Lentara started, staring at him. “The Dark Rider responded to your challenge?”

Mark nodded.

“Then he returned them. The Dark Rider is many things, but he never lies and doesn’t play word games.”

“That’s good to hear.” Mark buried his face in his hands. “Oh well. Now I can return to my life for the four months or so that I’ve got left.”

“Four months? No.” She shook her head, sending ripples through her long silver hair. She tilted her head, a puzzled look on her face and stared at him for several seconds. “No, you have a long life before you.” She placed the fingertips of both hands lightly on his forehead and slowly drew them down across his face. “I owe you my crown; we owe you a great debt. When you need me, I will be there.”


Mark’s eyes popped open, the morning light faintly illuminated the top of his tent.

Gasping, he rolled his head both ways. “What the hell?” Finally, his eyes fixed on his backpack.

“Whoa! Yeah, I’m camping. What a dream. What a crazy-ass dream. Must be some delayed chemo drug or pain drug reaction or something.” He took a big breath. “Wow. If this becomes the norm, it’s going to be hell.”

He crawled out of his tent. The mountains still blocked the sun, but the sky was well lit. The spot of Clarisse and Roger’s tent stood empty. He frowned; no way could they break camp without waking him. The frown deepened. The ground where the tent had stood was undisturbed. Several pale purple flowers grew there.

“Man, were they part of the dream, too?”

He looked toward the meadow and stumbled as his knees turned to rubber. The lone scraggly twisted tree had transformed into a large tree, dense with leaves in flaming fall colors.

“No doubt about it, I need coffee. Lots of coffee. I wish I had brought whiskey. Lots and lots of whiskey.”

He tugged his backpack out of the tent and flipped it open to pull out coffee and a breakfast MRE. His jaw slowly worked up and down.

Trembling hands lifted the golden crown out of the pack. The three sharp edged holes showed where the gems had been ripped out, and the melted top had run down over a row of smaller gems. The base was dented and smashed.

“Oh, shit.” He looked over to the pale blue flowers.

“So, Clarisse and Roger were here last night. Oh crap! Does anyone know they were hiking here?” He looked down the trail into the woods. “He said he returned them. Are they ok? Where are they?” He set the crown down and swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that question.”

He lifted his head, forehead scrunched up. “Wait, she said I had a long life before me.” His hand touched his stomach where the constant pain of the past year was gone.

“I’ll just tell my oncologist the fairy queen owed me one.” He smiled. “Bet she’ll get me a fast appointment with a different type of doc.”


First Contact

A Play in One Act
by Bryan Carrigan


Cast of Characters
Matthew Prescott: A clean-cut, all-American, astronaut.
Duke: A NASA mission director

Setting: A NASA flight control conference room. Kazakhstan, Russia.

Time: Present day.

Scene 1

SETTING: A NASA conference room. A table, a few chairs, a few poster-size photographs of STS launches.

AT RISE: MATTHEW PRESCOTT has been kept waiting for some time. DUKE enters.

…it’s about time!

How are we feeling, Prescott?

Tell me you’ve got a burger and fries hidden behind that clipboard. A nice, juicy porterhouse? Mashed potatoes? Budweiser? I don’t know the Russian word for beer.

Keep pushing the milk, Commander.

You’re killing me, Duke.

One hundred and thirty-seven days in isolation aboard the ISS—mineral depletion is within norms. Right now, your bones have the density of balsa wood. Calcium. Vitamin D. Milk. Do what the doctors tell you, and right now, they’re telling you—

Could I at least get it in the form of a strawberry milkshake?

They’re going to name a high school after you.

I’m pretty sure this is goat’s milk.

You’re a goddamn national hero. Act like it.
(Prescott laughs.)
Does something about this amuse you, Commander?


Fuckin’ A right you are.

I’m getting some t-shirts printed up that say “I survived the great NASA clusterfuck of 2018.” You want one?


Buehlman and McGinnis, Pushkin and Sato—name high schools after those guys.


Don’t. I like you, Duke. I’ve the bone density of balsa wood, but I swear to god I’ll break my hand on your face.

You’re right.

I keep looking for the DCB—I’ve been staring at that thing for so fucking long, trying to make sense out of—I’ve got the afterglow from the indicator lights seared into my eyeballs. I didn’t ask for this, Duke.

I know. Still…

Fucking goat’s milk.

I’ll see what I can do about that cheeseburger. I’ve got no idea if the Russians can do french fries.

What went wrong?

(Off Prescott’s look.)
You know how these things go. The Russians insist there was nothing wrong with their rocket, they’re putting it squarely on Buehlman. We need the Soyuz to reach the ISS so we’re not saying anything. But best guess? One of the capsule’s OMS engines misfired. There was nothing Buehlman or McGinnis could have done…


That’s not to say we’re in any hurry to launch another Soyuz. Word is, until the Titans are go for launch or Space X steps up, the ISS is going to be operated remotely.

Can’t image all this has made your life any easier.

Easy is not why I signed on.
I don’t much like writing eulogies. I’m much better at manufacturing heroes.

Any chance you can get Five Guys to sign me to an endorsement deal? I’ll give you ten percent—

As soon as the docs clear you—

This isn’t normal, is it?

They’re playing it extra-cautious.

Guys have stayed up longer. That Russian—?

Kozyrskii. Yeah, he died seventeen months after returning to Earth.


As in, he didn’t drink his goat’s milk.

Now’s probably the wrong time to mention that I may have left the lights on up there.

You’re gonna have to do the morning shows.

And the film canisters. Shit! You wouldn’t believe the footage I shot—every canister of iMax film we had—I mean, it’s not like I had anything else to do… I can’t believe I left that up there…

The White House wants you for a photo op. They’re giving you a medal.

Can’t I use the “bone density of balsa wood” to get out of it?

Are you still a Commander on active duty in the United States Navy?


C’mon, Prescott, the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America has requested your presence at a state dinner to be held in your honor at the White House.

…the White House?

I’ve been there. The food sucks.

Was there a contingency plan?

Which one?

This is the longest conversation I’ve had in four and a half months. First order of business once the Titans are ready for launch: free wifi. The largest manmade object ever put into orbit, the pinnacle of human achievement—that I couldn’t Skype, much less send an email—actually, you might want to do that second, the toilet in the crew module… never mind.

I’ll get the engineers right on that.

There was no rescue plan.


How close did I come?

The CO² scrubbers had about nineteen days left in them. The O² generators maybe a week more.


One of the eggs came up with a workaround that would have bought you another couple, three days. But with communications offline, no uplink…

I’m glad I didn’t stick around.

I’m supposed to debrief you… your decision, why you waited, why you punched out when you did, that sort of thing.

Sounds swell. Some other time, maybe.

…are you all right?

There’s this buzzing—ever since re-entry—I think I may have ruptured an eardrum.

You don’t look so good. Let me get one of the docs to check you out.

Nah, forget it.

You’re sure?
(Prescott staggers, collapses into a chair.)
I’m getting—

I’m all right. Gravity.

Still thirty-two feet per second squared last I checked.

I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to parade me in front of the press just yet.

Go, no go—it’s your call.

Good to know.

But here’s the thing—


Hear me out. We’ve got a narrow window of opportunity—right now, out there, people care about manned space flight again. I mean, you should have seen it, every hobby shop across the country sold out of telescopes. Night after night, fathers and sons tracked the ISS from horizon to horizon. The country, hell, the whole world—

I saw something. Up there.


I’m ninety-nine point forty-four percent sure I’m cracked, that I was hallucinating—

What did you see, Matthew?

Don’t patronize me, Duke.

You’re not the first—

—to have a psychotic break from reality two hundred and eighty-six miles above the surface of the Earth? I think I am.

Friendship Seven—there’s a tape of Glenn, he says, “I am in a big mass of some very small particles, they’re brilliantly lit up like they’re luminescent. I never saw anything like it. They round a little: they’re coming by the capsule and they look like little stars. A whole shower of them coming by. They swirl around the capsule and go in front of the window and they’re all brilliantly lighted.” Shepard saw the same thing—you can imagine the shitstorm that ensued. Turns out, they were ice crystals formed from the capsule’s exhaust.

We’re not talking ice crystals, Duke. This wasn’t…

What? Look, Prescott, it’s okay. Whatever you tell me, it stays between us and the goat’s milk.

I can’t believe—they’re never going to let me go back up again, are they?
(A beat.)

No, they’re not.

…damn it!

No one blames you for what happened, but you know how these things go.

I’m glad I broke the toilet.

Even if… the decision had been made before you even—

Damaged goods. I know.

If it’s any consolation—

It’s really not.

I think we’ve covered enough for—

I saw a ship. Yeah, it’s as crazy as it sounds—I saw a ship leave Earth on a ballistic trajectory—hell, at first I thought it was you guys coming to rescue me but the launch vector was all wrong.

You’ve been under an inordinate amount of stress. Given what you’ve been through, it’s only natural—

It blasted off from Canada, Duke. I don’t give a crap how much stress I’ve been under—I wouldn’t hallucinate a rocket park in British Columbia.

It could’ve been anything: a test launch, a science fair project, a couple of kids with too many D-engines.


When was this? Hey, look, if there was a launch, anywhere on the planet, you tell me when and I’ll track it. NORAD—

Ninety-one days ago.

Okay. Ninety-one days. British Columbia. I’ll start making calls. We’ll get to the bottom of this. If there was a launch—

Forget the launch. Three days ago, it returned.


It wasn’t one of ours, Duke. And it sure as hell wasn’t some Russian Soyuz piece of crap.

You’re starting to worry me, Matthew.

Good. ’Cause I’m scared shitless.

It’s possible… maybe one of the CO² scrubbers failed… you rest easy, kid. I’m going to go order up some tests.

Damn it, I don’t need an MRI!

I’m not so sure about that. Look, Matthew, put yourself in my position.

Don’t you think I have? I know how crazy this sounds—


An unidentified flying—

Let’s not use that term. We’re professionals.

An unidentified flying object blasted off from the west coast of Canada three months ago. It completed two orbits, then slingshot itself into the outer solar system. Three days ago, it returned. It buzzed the ISS—


—and made planetfall somewhere in the Yucatan peninsula.
(A beat.)

Aliens have landed in Mexico?

If I’m wrong—

You are.

—if it was a hallucination, the product of a fevered imagination and one too many Star Trek episodes—you cancel the morning shows and I serve out the remainder of my commitment flying a desk at some radar station in the ass-crack of the Alaskan arctic. But if I’m right…

Matthew, listen to yourself.

If I’m right, then this is the moment when everything changes. Life on other planets, FTL space travel, first contact—the whole paradigm—our place in the cosmos—everything changes.

I’m ordering up a 5150 pysch eval.

You haven’t even asked me what it looked like.

Heat, fuel, air—with any luck, we can smother this thing before you burn yourself.

Wedge shaped. Flat. Almost like an almond. Made out of some composite material that absorbs light… but you already know all this, don’t you?

Yes. I’m secretly in league with the Nazi space aliens from Dimension X. We all are here at NASA—every one of us except you.

I can’t get this taste out of my mouth.

How much of what happened do you remember?

…it’s like I’m sucking on a penny.

Walk me through it. How did it start?

You think I’ve cracked.

You have cracked, Matthew. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing; honestly, I think it might be what’s kept you alive this long.

I know what I saw.

Think it through, Matthew—if there were aliens, if they had the intelligence to cross the vastness of space, if they had successfully secreted themselves throughout the population of British Columbia, why on Earth would they ineptly reveal themselves to an astronaut aboard the International Space Station?

…what’s wrong with me, Duke?

It’s a miracle you’re alive. You made it home, in one piece—

The re-supply capsule clipped us right at S5, knocking out the multipurpose lab and shearing off our secondary array. You asked how it all started. Pushkin and Sato were in the lab… thirteen seconds—

It was an accident.


Wait, weren’t you—
(Duke pages through his log book.)
You were supposed to be setting up the multipurpose lab, not Sato.

I was EVA trying to un-foul the robotic arm.

So what you’re going through is survivor’s guilt. It’s normal. What’s not normal is spending one hundred and thirty-seven days in isolation telling yourself it should have been you and not Sato who died. If it hadn’t been for the robotic arm—

It amazes me that piece of crap saved my life. Turns out, opening an airlock from the outside isn’t as easy as you’d think.

Opening the airlock—there’s a story you can tell on the morning shows.


Endurance, perseverance, some good old-fashioned American ingenuity, and a whole lot of dumb luck—it’s a good story. No aliens necessary.

I can’t—

Four dead astronauts—two Americans—NASA won’t survive another black eye. We need a win, Matthew. We need you to step up.

What if—

No what if’s, no conjecture, no fantasy—focus. This is go or no go time, Commander.

Message received.

All right.

They wanted to be seen.

God damn it!

They wanted me to—

If they had wanted to be seen, they’d have landed their fucking space ship in the middle of the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza.

I know what I saw.

No, you don’t. Three days ago, a solar flare bombarded the ISS with a tsunami of electromagnetic radiation. It happens. We have protocols to minimize crew exposure, but those protocols presuppose an uplink with Houston and a functioning DCB—neither of which were in effect three days ago.

A solar flare? That’s the best you’ve got. I don’t even rate a weather balloon? An experimental satellite? I get a solar flare?

This isn’t a cover up.

The hell it’s not.

Magnet, hard drive. Magnet—
(Holds up a fist.)
—hard drive.
(He taps his head.)
Your jaw is tingling. Your eyes feel dry. Scratchy. Every time you stand up, you feel light headed.

I feel… ok, you may be onto something.

There’s a very real chance that you are the last astronaut NASA will send into orbit. You could very well represent the end of manned space flight.

The station is still salvageable—minus the secondary array, power generation is in the red, but I managed to get most everything else back online—we just need—

We still haven’t recovered from the arsenic-based life debacle. Or the Mars asteroid. We’re NASA. We don’t do aliens. If you go on Good Morning America—if you are the end of manned space flight, don’t let us go out a punch line…

Message received. I can tell ’em the toilet story.

Yeah, the morning shows? We try and keep them excrement-free. Except CBS. Those clowns will air anything.

An EM burst?

Knocked out cell phone service in Europe, the Middle East, and the better part of Russia.

X-rays and Gamma rays…

Keep pushing the milk. I’ll see what I can do about the morning shows—maybe a pre-taped segment—something that gives us editorial control. How’s that sound? If we don’t like the question…

Sounds good, Duke.

Take it easy, Matthew. Let me do my job. You’re a goddamn hero.
(Duke gathers up his papers. Makes to exit.)

There’s just one problem with that bullshit story of yours, Duke.
(Duke stops.)


I had the DCB back online. The board was green. I spent a hundred and thirty-seven days aboard the ISS with nothing to do except fix things—I can give you a status read on every diagnostic she’s got. The Alpha Magnetic Spectrometer? Not even a twitch. Nothing. No Gammas. No X-rays. I’m not an idiot, the first thing I did after I stabilized the pressure variances and patched the hull was a hard reset of the radiation alarms. There was no solar flare.

Endurance, perseverance, ingenuity…

What the hell happened to me, Duke?

What do you think would happen if you told the world that life exists on other planets?

Damn it, Duke, just tell me—!

Instead of being a morning show hero, author of a best-selling memoir, inspiration to a generation of junior stargazers—you’d become another what’s-her-name? That chick who drove cross-country wearing space diapers.

You tracked the ship.

I’m telling you this for your own good.

You already have it, don’t you? Locked away in some Area 51 black site.

The world knows your capsule landed in the Russian Steppe. We haven’t yet released word of your condition.

My condition!?! Did you just—

You’re either a hero or a footnote. It’s your choice, Matthew.

You can’t keep something like this secret.

Matthew Prescott, after surviving one hundred and thirty-seven days aboard the derelict International Space Station, perished during a daring re-entry when the heat shield on his Soyuz capsule failed—

Jesus, you’re serious.

You’re the one who wants to tell the world of an imminent alien invasion.

C’mon—this isn’t a Will Smith movie—odds are, they’re explorers. Scientists. No doubt they—

They’ve come to Earth in secret. They’ve gone to great lengths to avoid detection.


They obviously had the means to rescue you, Matthew. They chose not to do so.

I had the means to rescue me—it just took me the better part of five months to work up the balls to do so.

If you break radio silence on this, there’s no telling what could happen.

War of the Worlds? Don’t make me laugh.

How’s about mass panic? Another global recession? Unemployment on a scale not seen since the Great Depression? Food shortages, starvation, pandemics—still think this is funny, Commander?

I think you’re…
(Prescott nearly faints.)


I’m all right.

Vertigo sets in after the tingling in the jaw subsides. It won’t be long now.

(re: the milk)
…you’re doing this to me.

I told you—we’ve gone to great lengths to keep our presence here a secret.


Not so loud. Think of the neighbors.

You’re one of them.

One more dead astronaut.
You’ll get a high school named after you. Worst case, a post office. Do they still do that? Name post offices after people?
(Prescott lunges for the call button.)


Honestly, I like you, Matthew. I had hopes… high hopes.
Earth is a rare thing—perfectly nestled in the goldilocks zone with a rotating iron core and a healthy magnetic field… abundant water, abundant nitrogen—a smidge too much oxygen for my taste—
(re: the call button)
You might as well give that up. No one is coming.

You won’t…

I won’t what? Get away with this? Of course I will. I already have.
(Prescott staggers. Duke helps him to chair.)
Easy. Don’t try to fight it—there’s no reason to make this any more unpleasant than it needs to be.

Houston… we have a problem.

Something about your impending demise amuses you?

You don’t get it—it’s still up there.

We’re moving into the non-lucid phase…

The proof—in glorious 70mm iMax—I’ve got hours of footage. Your ship. Proof that aliens exist. Everything NASA needs to expose you… it’s still up there.


Killing me solves nothing. The next guy—

There won’t be a—

There’s always a next guy. Endurance? Perseverance? We’re NASA. We don’t quit easy.

Then there won’t be a station for the—

The receiver’s shot. You can’t bring the station down remotely. And every stargazer the world round has a scope pointed upwards—your ship can’t get near it without being seen. One way or another, your secret’s out.

Drink your milk, Matthew.

They’ll name a high school after me.



The New Guy

by Ben Pierce


Clark stumbled backward, putting his hand on his chest as blood ran through his fingers. A voice roared from behind him, telling him to get down. He hit the floor as quickly as he could. He heard a gunshot and saw the hound flinch as the bullet ripped through the massive beast. It must have been as long as Clark was tall. As it growled, exposing rotting teeth, it turned and Clark saw that its ribs were protruding out from a bit of decaying flesh.

It lunged at Clark, but this time he intercepted it with one of his daggers. The hound yelped as it hit the ground.

“Move!” Pain said from behind him. Clark was shoved aside as Pain pointed his revolver at the hound’s head and pulled the trigger. A blinding flash of blue light emanated from the gun. When Clark opened his eyes again, the hound was nowhere to be seen.

“What was that?” Clark asked.

“It’s called a Dip.” Pain’s robe seemed to disintegrate into thin air. “Nasty little things,” he chuckled. “Or I should say nasty big things. People once believed them to be dogs under the devil’s control, but now most people simply believe that they’re myths.” He glanced at Clark, “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just a flesh wound.” He winced as he put his hand to his chest once more. “It’s not a big deal.”

Pain nodded. “You can take the robe off now.”

“How do I do that? Getting it on was hard enough!”

“Just focus on reverting back to your human self,” Pain said as he started to walk down the beach. “You can do it. You’re a big boy.”

Clark did his best to concentrate, trying to block out the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. He thought of the life he once had, the taste of his favorite dessert, the smell of pine needles from his home up north. He felt his psychic senses leave him, and his clothes seemed to get lighter. He opened his eyes to find that he was once again wearing his t-shirt and jeans. He also saw that Pain was now quite a distance away. Clark had to run to catch up with him.

“So, is that it?” Clark asked. “Are we done for the night?”

“It?” Pain said with a hint of surprise. “You’ve just seen something that most people believe to be nothing but a nightmare, and you want more?”

“Yeah, I’m not afraid of what Hell has to offer.”

Pain gave a wicked cackle. “Boy, you know nothing of Hell.”

After arriving back at the beach’s parking lot they climbed into Pain’s car and took off. Pain was listening to talk radio, which literally managed to put Clark to sleep.

When Clark’s eyes drifted open, he found that they were driving through a small patch of suburbia.

“Is there a reason we’re in the suburbs?” Clark asked impatiently. “I mean, there can’t possibly be any hellhounds here.”

“You’d be surprised what you can find in the suburbs,” Pain said. “And it was called a Dip.” Clark looked down at the clock to see that he had been asleep for almost an hour, so it was a very good thing that Pain’s BMW was comfortable. Suddenly, Pain pulled off the road and parked in a patch of grass. “Here we are.”

Clark looked around. Aside from a park that had its gate closed, there was nothing here but infinitely more suburban homes. “This is nowhere.”

“We’re going to the park.”

“At three in the morning? It’s clearly closed.” Without another word, Pain stepped out of the car and started walking toward the park. A shadow engulfed him, and suddenly he was clad in his black robes. Clark followed him, allowing the shadows to consume him as well; the two hopped the gate with ease. “Why are we here?” Clark asked impatiently.

“We’re looking for Oak Trail,” Pain said approaching the nearest map. “And keep your voice down. We don’t want them to hear us.”

“Them?” Clark whispered. “More dogs?”

“I’m afraid that it’s going to be quite a bit worse than that,” Pain whispered as he took off down a trail. Clark followed him. He found himself doing it a lot that night. Suddenly, a feminine scream pierced the silence.

Clark took off sprinting. The screaming continued as he ran deeper into the woods searching for the source of the sound. Clark arrived at a clearing, and suddenly the noise ceased as he saw a woman looking at him. She was on her knees, crying at the base of an oak tree. Something wasn’t right about this. Clark kept a hand on one of his daggers and approached her. “This is the spot,” she muttered. “This is the spot.” She kept repeating it over and over again.

“What spot?” he asked her. She was wearing all white, and she almost seemed to glow.

“The spot where he killed us,” she answered, as her eyes burnt a hole in Clark’s face.

He was struck with an intense fear. He heard another scream, this time masculine, but not a pained scream like before. It was filled with anger. Clark looked up to see a shapeless black object moving toward him with the face of a man. It swooped in and sent Clark flying backward. It felt like a train had just hit him. As he stood up, he saw the shapeless mass coming in once more. This time Clark charged it, drew back his daggers and stabbed, with perfect timing. The blob retreated, then hovered in midair until the face appeared once more. It said nothing, it only continued to yell.

Then Clark heard the familiar sound of gunfire, and watched the face twist and distort until it faded back into the black. Pain slowly approached it, with his gun pointed at it the whole time. The face appeared once more and came at him, but Pain simply fired again. It crashed into the ground and stopped moving.

“Finish it off,” Pain said as he walked away from it and towards the phantom girl.

Clark approached the now still black mass, and stabbed it with his daggers. It began to shake, and then pieces started to rise up into the air and fade away. Tiny black spheres continued to fly upward until the entire shadow disappeared. He looked over to see that Pain had taken the girl’s hand and she was now standing. Clark walked over in time to hear Pain say: “It’s alright. You can go now.”

The girl smiled. “Thank you.” With that she too began to turn into small white orbs, which floated up into the sky. They rose up until they were too small to see.

“Is that what the Reapers do?” Clark asked, still looking towards the heavens.

“Yes,” Pain said as he began to walk away. “That’s what the Reapers do.”


Foot Soldiers

by Steven Sheffield Cooke


Pede snuggled in the warm hamper, wishing he could remain here forever. This was what it was all about. The only thing better was the crisp sparkly feeling that energized him when he emerged from the dryer. At times like these, Pede knew he had a special purpose; he just hadn’t found out what it was.

Light flooded the hamper. Washday had arrived. Pede was tossed into a cool metal tub reeking of stale soap and hard water. Bunched next to him was a sweaty old tee shirt. Pede didn’t mind; he was already dozing off. A stream of cold blue liquid ended the nap. The lid slammed shut, letting the darkness loose. Quarters jangled into the machine. Hot water flooded the tub, creeping up the sides until everybody was soaked. Even this wasn’t enough to keep Pede awake for long. He drifted off with the warm memory of comfy hampers.


Pede awoke a while later. He felt different. The familiar bumping and clanging noises were there, but they were coming from other machines, not his. His weekly bath had been interrupted before, but never quite like this. He was no longer wet. Something had gone wrong. He was pressed against a hard wall, unable to move. That was unusual in itself. Up to this point, Pede had never had any desire or ability to move about on his own. Why was he suddenly thinking about things like this?

The motion of his machine stopped. Pede fell away from the wall and joined some of his hampermates in a loose tumble on the bottom of the machine. The tee shirt was nowhere to be seen. A small hatch near the top creaked open and the toe-piece of an unfamiliar sock poked through. Pede had never seen this hatch before. Every other time he had been in a tub, he had always entered and left through the big opening on top.

Suddenly, Pede felt a tug and found himself being drawn toward this new portal. Several of his drawer-buddies were going with him. None of them looked like they were enjoying this either. As he reached the hatch, Pede was sucked through, only to start sliding down a long dark tube. When he reached the end, he found himself in a pile with scores and scores of other socks. All of them were strangers. How long had he been asleep?

Once the pile leveled out, Pede noticed he was in a narrow hallway that led off in two directions. Up and down the curving corridor, socks were stuck near the walls, heel-to-heel and toe-to-toe. There were many styles: arrogant dress socks, colorful knits, and pedantic grays. Off to the left side was an old cotton relic with ancient darning scars and unpatched holes. He was only one of many heavy-duty sports socks with dual color stripes.

Pede looked for his mate. They had gotten separated during a routine wash load almost two months ago. Recently, Pede’s life had been a cycle back and forth between the warm hamper and the wash cycle. He was getting plenty of rest, but he longed for his mate. He also missed those trips outside. Besides that, he was getting out of shape—a few more washings and he would be too shriveled and distorted to serve his regular function.

“Hey, does anybody know where we are?” The question came from an argyle with yellow diamonds. Similar questions echoed up and down the line.

“I remember being in the washer.”

“Yeah, what about that hatch?”

“Who took us out?”

“Why are we here?”

Pede listened to the exchange without adding his own questions. Nobody seemed to be getting any answers. This activity amazed Pede when he stopped to think about it. He could not remember trying to communicate with other articles of clothing before. He’d been aware of their presence of course, but had never had any reason or inclination to try and talk with them. He found this exciting. He wanted to join in, but could not think of anything important enough to say. All of the good questions had already been asked. Pede listened intently, but soon started to doze off again.


After a time, the sounds of activity came from around a bend in the corridor. A small parade of olive green military socks stomped into sight.

“Attention troops! Everybody listen! We all need to assemble at Main Base as soon as possible. We don’t have much time. Everybody form into ranks of twelve and follow us. Come on! Double-time it!”

The military types turned smartly and tramped off. Pede looked at the others as they formed rough ranks by the dozen and hustled to follow. Everyone was too surprised to talk. Pede was too startled by this turn of events to notice he was moving around on his own for the first time. By the time this sunk in, he was hustling to keep up with the tide of marching socks hustling down the corridor.

Mechanical sounds banged and clanged around them as they made their way. At one point they tromped through a rough hole in the wall. After that, the walls became narrower and dirtier. The flooring sloped upwards in a lazy spiral. The novelty of moving about quickly became boredom as the marching went on, and on, and on. Then they came upon a large door and were forced to stop. They had arrived, but where?

A green light came on, accompanied by a soft buzzer. The door slid quietly upward, allowing several squads through before the door started to close.

After a brief period of semi-darkness, another door opened and the socks trooped into a meeting area. As the socks moved forward, it was obvious their squad was just one of many new arrivals. They filed down ramps and chutes, emerging on the floor of a huge hall. Hundreds upon hundreds of loose socks were crammed seam-to-seam in long ragged rows. Everyone shuffled together until it seemed the room would burst.

Background conversations swelled as they tried out their new voices. Nobody seemed to know what was going on, but that didn’t stop everyone from trying to find out what someone else knew.

The electronic squeal of microphone feedback brought a wave of silence over the group. All attention was now focused on a raised dais. A grayish-green sock, heavily bedecked with gold braid, was moving toward a small lectern in the precise center.

“Attention! Your attention please! I know you’re all wondering why you’re here. You have been recruited to help us overcome the entrenched positions of our invading enemy. I shouldn’t have to remind everyone about the socknapping, torture, and mutilation that have plagued our kind. Who among you has not lost a mate or buddy recently? This is all because of the evil efforts of the Seersucking Sock Slavers. We cannot waver from this mission. You will be divided into squads and issued orders on the way to your battle zones. Good luck!” The packed room exploded into bedlam. Shouts of “What enemy?” and “Why us?” echoed amongst a myriad of others. Everyone was trying to find out what was going on from others more ignorant than themselves.

Doors banged open. They were pushed back up the ramps. There was a series of circular metal conveyances lined up along the rampways. They looked like they could barely hold a dozen socks apiece.

As soon as each container was filled, it was whisked quickly upward on some kind of cable. Pede was crowded into a bin with a dozen other tube socks, a couple of argyles, and a pea-green heavy-duty sock with a sergeant’s insignia neatly stitched along one side. Most socks were paired up with their mates. Pede was one of the few mate-less socks in the squad.

No conversation was possible when the ship was jumbled and shaken and raised into the air. The roaring motion seemed to go on forever. When the silence returned, it had a sound of its own.

“Okay, troops, listen up!” The sergeant took advantage of the silence to take control. “We only have a few minutes until the drop-off point, so listen closely. I can only do this once. I’m sorry we didn’t have time to train you, but the enemy offensive is already underway. We have to stop them before it’s too late. We will be dropped behind their lines to create whatever diversions we can. Central Control has asked us to locate their communication and power centers. We have to inflict as much damage as possible.”

A red light winked on. “We’re there, get ready.”

“Wait,” asked one of the argyles, “how do we get to the battlefield?”

“You gotta be kidding,” laughed the sergeant. “Just spread your wings.” A buzzer sounded and their transport turned upside down.

They fluttered wildly for a moment as a barren landscape of whites and tans rushed at them. The sergeant bellowed his instructions, trying to explain how to control their descent. When Pede thought he understood the general idea, he tried it. He usually caught onto things pretty fast. He had to this time; those that didn’t, dropped from the class in a hurry.

By flaring the wide edges of his opening, while keeping the rest of himself rigid, Pede was able to capture the rushing air, slowing his fall and giving himself some control as he ballooned downward. Others were not as lucky. A green-and-yellow-banded sock had a large toe-hole. The wind whistled right through, letting him plummet in an uncontrollable shriek. A brown dress sock held himself too rigid. He inverted, turning outside-in. A couple of others had minor mishaps that sent them spinning toward the patchwork of colors below.

As Pede ballooned downward, he tried to view the area. He’d never heard of a Seersucker Sock Slaver before, but they sounded pretty awful. He wanted to avoid contact with them if possible.

The bulk of the group landed safely in a dirty spot behind some large white buildings. A red-and-blue-banded guy blew off course and landed in a patch of wires. He was badly torn as he fell through. He landed in a patch of running water, which carried him to a drain hole where he was sucked away. Another hapless sock blew into one of the buildings. He lost his wind and fluttered straight into the ground.

The sergeant signaled for a medic. A pair of red-and-white socks rushed up with a small hamper. They piled the victim in and sprinted off.

“C’mon, let’s move it!” the sergeant bellowed. “Get your threads in motion, NOW!”

As the troops rallied around the sergeant, the chanted melody of a marching song drifted through the still air, “Over heel! Over toe! Marching proudly as we go! With those dryers, spinning, around…”

Pede’s squad followed the sergeant past the first white building. Everyone kept up the pace. After a brief pause, a distant booming sound caused the sergeant to spin around. He signaled for everyone to flatten out.

“Incoming! Hit the dirt!” Most troops followed his lead, but a few confused socks stayed upright, twisting around to look.

Moments later, a whistling sound pierced the quiet. A puffy white ball impacted on one of the upright socks. He was instantly covered in sticky threads. “Lint traps! Everybody run for it!”

The squad was up and moving fast. The extra incentive given by watching the lint-covered sock get plastered to the pavement was enough to keep them going hard.

They scattered in all directions. Some charged straight ahead. Others diverted along a wall. Another group headed toward a wooden section. Pede was with a couple of guys that squeezed into a gap between the white buildings. They were the lucky ones.

The running group went through a patch of debris that must have contained a hidden switch of some kind. Strands of thick wire were suddenly springing into their path. At strategic points along the wire, briars were carefully affixed. The group stumbled into these snags before they could stop. Not a single sock in that group escaped the ambush.

The troops heading the other way ran into a section of puddled water where dust bunnies wallowed in slime. Suddenly, they were pulled through the air, directly into a series of parallel metallic strips. “Static!” screamed the sergeant. The rest of his group joined him on the wall. They were stuck like they had been glued there. The retreating group also ran into trouble. When they got under the wooden platform, small snake-like tendrils dropped down and snapped onto the fleeing socks. “Garters!” cursed one of the older argyles, like he’d seen their kind before. The garters made fast work of snapping up the scrambling socks. When they were done, the unlucky prisoners dangled limply.

Pede had paused to watch the progress of the other groups.

When the last one had been captured, he moved to follow the other two socks that had moved to the far side of the white building. They moved around the corner. Their screams halted Pede in his tracks. He took off in the other direction, not pausing to see what he’d missed. He had no interest in meeting his Seersucking enemy.

Running blindly, Pede started to realize how alone he really was. He was cut off from the sight of any friendly forces, probably far behind the enemy’s lines. Pede found himself approaching another bank of white buildings. This group featured a large circular window in the front of each one. He stretched out in the cool shadows underneath the window of the last building on the block and tried to figure out a plan.

A short while later, Pede heard, but from his slumped position could not see, an enemy commander giving orders. “Okay soldiers, this power outpost is the main source of energy for the local defense grid. It provides the power for our entire wing. I don’t have to stress how important it is to protect it from those darned socks.”

Pede could not believe his luck. Of all the places to blindly wander, he had stumbled upon this. He took time to think. He shouldn’t waste this opportunity. He couldn’t return to his lines. Right now, he wasn’t even sure which way the lines were. He needed help. He looked around at the area, trying to see enough detail so he could find it when he returned. The row of buildings with the circular-glass windows was the best landmark he could see.

As Pede was surveying the landscape, the sounds of a nearby battle intruded. Pede went racing around a corner and saw a group of socks trapped in a shallow depression. He ducked down and headed toward them.

He cleared a small ridge and found a dozen socks trapped in a narrow gully. From a shoebox outpost, a squad of the enemy was bombarding their position with lint bombs. Static lines cut off both flanks.

It was his first glance at the enemy. From this distance, he could not see them too well. All he got was a brief impression of small, round metallic bodies, with sharp barbs and edged surfaces. They had a captured sock out at the edge of the shoebox and were ripping parts of it to shreds in an attempt to get the other socks to surrender. Pede ducked back and circled the hill.

When he arrived behind the shoebox outpost, Pede found a loose scrap of metal and used it to short out the static lines. The resulting discharge blew him heel over toe. When he regained his sense of direction, the shoebox was a smoking ruin. The socks that had been trapped were cautiously looking up to see what had happened.

Pede called out to them, “C’mon guys, move it! They’ll have reinforcements headed this way. Stretch your seams, NOW!”

They all tried to out-yell each other as they raced up, gushing thanks.

Embarrassed by this attention, Pede calmed them down. He looked at the torn remains of the sock that had been tortured by the enemy. He couldn’t let that happen to any more socks. “There’s no time left. I found something that seems important to them. Let’s go destroy it.”

Pede outlined a simple plan; all he had time for under the circumstances. He moved his ragtag platoon over to the thick grey cable of a power conduit.

Several of the socks volunteered to let themselves be seen, luring off the guards. Pede went to work on the cable. As the balance of his platoon engaged the enemy, he worked the plug-end loose from its receptacle, and then faded back, waiting to see what this would accomplish.

Within a short time, an elite group of green socks ’chuted down from the skies. With them was a heavily decorated Field Marshall. With their help, they quickly finished off the last of the Seersuckers. Once their high-tech weapons lost their power, they were surprisingly easy to dispose of.

At this point, the Field Marshall addressed the ragged bunch of socks Pede was with, “Who’s in charge of this unit?”

Pede spoke up, “I think I am, sir.”

“You caused all this destruction?”

“Destruction, sir? I don’t understand. I heard this area was important to the enemy, so we disconnected the power cable. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“So, you don’t even realize what you’ve done?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Trooper, what is your rank?”

“Sir, I was just recruited. I’m not even sure if I have a rank.”

“Who gave you the authority to proceed like this?”

“Nobody, really. My sergeant had ordered us to harass the enemy as much as possible, but he was captured before we got too far. Did we do wrong?”

“On the contrary, this power station was fueling the enemy’s weapons for this entire sector. We’ve been trying to find it since their invasion began. Hundreds of your brothers have perished or been captured since the battle began. Our High

Command was almost ready to start negotiations for surrender, when suddenly, a short while ago, all of the heavy artillery facing us stopped firing. We now have those Seersucking Slavers in a full rout. You have done a great service to the United Brotherhood of Socks.”

The return trip to the headquarters area was filled with a series of detailed explanations. The trip passed quickly. Rumors circulated about the wild battles still occurring on the other fronts, but the enemy was not winning anywhere, from the sound of the reports.

When they arrived at the assembly area, they were ushered into sick bay. Starched white medical socks steamed off their dirt, darned their snags, and removed their burrs. When they had been fixed up and were resting, a load of badly mistreated socks was brought through the entry. They were stained and soiled, some had bad snags and others were almost ripped in half. The scuttlebutt going around was that the crews still out fighting had found a prisoner camp and liberated them. It did not look like some of them were going to ever cover a foot again.

Later, Pede was led down a long hallway, emerging through a wide doorway. It looked like every sock in creation was laid out in neat rows beneath him. Pede was sobered slightly as he noticed how empty the back rows were. Before the action had begun, this room had been crammed to capacity.

Pede was promoted to Unit Commander. His squad all received special commissions. For Pede, the high point of the ceremony came when his mate was trundled out on a support gurney. He was all stretched out and limp, but Pede had faith everything was going to turn out for the best. He was part of a pair again; happy until he thought of all the mate-less socks still out there.

As they were transported back to the areas where they had been recruited from, Pede was besieged with questions. It took a while, but he grew tired of retelling the same story.


Pede awoke with a dizzy feeling. He was tumbling around with other cotton and polyester items. He had a flash of fear. Were they being attacked again? Then, he recognized the familiar feel of the dryer. He was home. He was unable to move or speak. Things were back to normal. Oh well, it had been interesting while it had lasted. The only thing he was going to miss was the ability to communicate with others.

Pede started to doze off again, when he noticed a sparkling object. A bright medal with the word “Valor” embossed across its top was clipped neatly to his fibers. Pede dozed off into a happy dream.



by David Downey


“Why did you want to come here?”

“Just wanted to check it out before they make it illegal,” answered Vic. “It’s only a matter of time.”

I leaned in close and whispered, “Shit, you’re not actually thinking of trying it, are you?”

“I’ll play it by ear.”

“You don’t ‘play Syn by ear’. That shit changes you! And after just one dose. Look around you.”

It was easy to pick out the Synners at the bar. They were sitting (they always sat, if not in chairs, then on the floor), staring at nothing. They were often mouthing words to themselves. I’ve seen them sometimes laugh for no reason, and occasionally cry for no reason. But once you approached them, they sparked to life, immediately breaking out of their stupor and engaging you with a smile. I’d never met a mean Synner.

And this was where all the Synners in town hung out: at the local Pepper’s. The chain bar and grill wasn’t as classy as Vermillions, but wasn’t a dive like Max’s (where Vic and I frequented).

“Got a special today,” the smiling bartender announced as he appeared across from us. “Free Syn with a drink.”

“Any drink?” asked Vic.

“Dude, you don’t want to get Syn from a bar.”

“There’s no such thing as bad Syn,” the bartender said evenly.

“It’s all bad,” I muttered.

“I’ll take it with a vodka tonic.”

“What vodka?”

“Well will do.”

“Tell you what: I’ll pour you a Sidorov Elite at the same price.”

Vic brightened. “Thanks!”

The bartender turned to me. “Same thing?”

“Nah, I’ll take a whisky on the rocks. No Syn.”

The bartender didn’t offer to upgrade my drink.

Plopping both of our tumblers down on the bar, the bartender unclenched his ring and pinky fingers about Vic’s drink, letting a tiny white pill tumble onto the red cocktail napkin beneath.

Vic plucked it up and held it between us. It looked like a grain of uncooked rice, only fatter. It had no seams or markings; it was perfectly plain.

“You want to check it out before I pop it?”

“Hell, no.” I was paranoid that if I touched it, some of it may rub off on me and get absorbed through my skin, like LSD. Then it occurred to me that the bartender could’ve laced my drink with Syn. I swirled the tumbler in my hand, futilely trying to discern a tiny white tablet amid the dark whisky and glistening ice. I ended up spilling some. Drying my fingers on my napkin, I asked Vic, “You really going to do this?”

“You should do it with me.”

“Nah, one of us needs to stay sane to look after the other.”

“No one’s ever overdosed or died from Syn.”

I resisted the urge to tell the bartender to shut the fuck up.

We clinked our glasses. “‘Long live the new flesh’,” Vic toasted. (Knowing Vic, the phrase must’ve come from some horror movie.)

Vic popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed it with a gulp of vodka tonic.

I brought the whisky to my mouth, but didn’t take a sip. I tried hard not to lick my lips.

Vic’s eyes grew wide, his jaw fell slack. Then the edges of his lips curled, forming an open-mouth smile. His arms fell lax to his sides.

“No, hold on to the bar,” the bartender instructed.

I put an arm around him to make sure he didn’t topple from his bar stool. “Shit, you’re already feeling it? What’s it like?”

“Oh my god, it’s like— Everyone… from everywhere, shit! It’s really hard to concentrate on words. Hard to talk…”

“Alright, I’ll let you enjoy your high. Is it okay if I let go of you? You won’t fall over, right?”

Vic nodded, his eyes now closed, his mouth an intense grin, his hands latched onto the edge of the bar.

After I was sure Vic was okay on his own, I hopped off my stool. Making my way to the bathroom, I thoroughly wiped my mouth on my sleeve. I locked myself in the bathroom’s only stall. Planting my foot on the toilet seat, I hiked up my pant leg and fished out my flask from my sock. Unscrewing its cap, I took a stinging swig. It was my turn to smile.


I thankfully woke up still a little drunk, instead of hungover. Sober up or continue the buzz? I asked myself as I rolled out of bed. I’ll let the day decide!

Tasting the familiar tang of stale booze in my mouth, it was obvious I didn’t brush my teeth before crashing last night. Time to remedy that, I thought, as I walked out of my bedroom and down the hallway.

After taking my wakeup piss, I leaned over the bathroom sink and looked at my reflection in the mirror to survey the damage. My goatee and long sideburns were now in a shallow sea of stubble. Acceptable, I judged. I’ll shave later. My brown eyes were slightly bloodshot. Normal. My hair was a disaster. Normally groomed into a pompadour, the front looked like a wooly brown turd, pinched off at the right. Douse my hair and style it? Nah, I’ll baseball cap it for now, and deal with it proper when I take a shower later.

After brushing my teeth, rubbing on some deodorant, slapping on jeans and a Generics concert tee, shoving my flask in my sock, grabbing my phone (which I was surprised and grateful that I had the presence of mind last night to plug into its charger before passing out) and donning the all-important hat, I was ready to face the ’rents.

As usual, Dad was in his recliner in the living room watching TV, while Mom was busy in the kitchen. “Good morning, Durant,” she greeted.

“‘Morning, Mom,” I said, as I made my way to the fridge to grab some orange juice.

“I just made some breakfast for your dad and me,” she said, gesturing to the strips of bacon sitting on the paper towel-lined plate. “I can cook you some eggs.”

The thought of eggs made me slightly nauseous. “No thanks, Mom.” Even though the OJ tasted sour from my just brushed teeth, I guzzled down an entire glass and poured another.

“You’re too skinny, Durant. You need to eat more.”

Mom was right: I was, by far, the skinniest in the family.

On the opposite end of our family’s weight spectrum was Dad. While some men drank, smoked, or gambled, my dad’s addiction was eating. When Mom would ask how a business trip went, he’d list the Michelin-starred restaurants he dined at and describe each decadent meal in lavish detail. And his light features—a blond crewcut, light blue eyes, and pale complexion—made him look bigger still. (I’d often describe my dad as the whitest person I knew. Vic once joked, “He’s so white, he’s pink!”) Alarmingly, the stress of financing my older brother’s law degree at the University of Southern California had fueled his addiction, adding to his weight. He was now the most rotund I’d ever seen him.

My brother, David (“Don’t call me Dave”), was definitely his father’s son: same blue eyes, fair skin, but with dirtier blond hair. Though he was easily the second largest in our family, he was not fat like Dad. He sported a sturdy build, which served him well when he played center and defensive end in high school. Yet it was not hard to imagine his stockiness bloating into Dad-like obesity in twenty years’ time.

While Mom was the shortest of all of us, I suspected I still weighed less than her. Though she was petite, she had an ample bust and curvy hips. (I punched Vic in the arm whenever he referred to her as a MILF.) While David was built from my dad’s mold, I most resembled Mom: we shared the same thick brown hair and dark eyes.

And then there was skinny, dark featured me. (Vic relished calling me “ethnic” though my family was as white as they came.) I was so slim because I hardly ever ate. Not because I was on a diet or anything. When I woke, I was usually too nauseous from my hangover to eat. When I began feeling better in the late afternoon, I’d begin drinking again, the empty calories killing my appetite. Hence, my only food would inevitably be the greasy hamburgers or tacos I’d grab on the way home from the bars after last call.

“So what did you do last night?” my mom asked.

“The usual: Hung out with Vic,” I volunteered, as I nibbled on some bacon. What I didn’t volunteer was that after I got bored hanging around Vic’s Synned ass (and more importantly, after I drained my flask), I left him and went barhopping. I vaguely remembered returning to Pepper’s to check up on him on my way home, but he wasn’t there. In a jolt, I checked my phone. I had sent him five texts last night. He didn’t respond to a single one. Fucker, I thought as I slipped my phone back in my pocket.

“I hope you and Vic aren’t experimenting with that Syn drug,” said my mom, as if she was reading my mind. “Please promise me you’ll never take it.”

Before I could come up with a comforting answer, my dad barked from the living room, “How’s the job search going?”

“No one’s hiring during Memorial Day weekend. I’ll hit it once the three-day is over.”

I heard him grunt his disgust.

My last job was floor man and occasional cashier at French’s Electronics. But they fired me a month ago for taking too many sick days. (I really wasn’t lying all the times I called in sick. I was truly physically ill, throwing up from drinking too much the night before.) Since then, I’d been casually looking for another gig while collecting unemployment.

But besides the occasional snide inquiry, my dad didn’t push me to get a job. And though he made it obvious he’d prefer I move out, he didn’t push me on that front either. He never pushed me to do anything.

But he pushed David to play football in high school like his old man. He pushed David to go to college. And he pushed David to go to law school.

In short, my father never hid the fact that he loved David more than me.

“That reminds me,” said Mom. “David will be spending the three-day weekend with us. He should get here sometime this afternoon. So I’m making a big steak dinner for all of us. Please be here around five.”

Ah, the favored brother returns. The day has indeed decided for me. Getting drunk it is! “Okay, Mom,” I assured her, as I kissed her on the cheek, before heading out.

“God damn it! ESPN’s off the air!” was the last thing I heard before I shut the door behind me.


Swinging open the door to Pepper’s, I walked into a wall of wet sour air. Gross. This place smells like a locker room. Why isn’t the AC on?

And why aren’t the lights on? The only illumination in the bar and grill was the noon sun beaming through the windows’ slatted blinds.

Peeking into the dining room, I noticed it was mostly empty. At the few tables that were occupied, the diners sat upright in their booths, not talking to one another, with no food in front of them.

The bar was far more crowded, but just as sedate. Every seat around the bar was taken, but except for the occasional burst of laughter or heaving sob, the patrons sat silent. None of them had drinks. The surrounding, dauntingly tall, cocktail tables were mostly vacant, the Synners opting to sit on the ground instead, their backs propped against the reassuring wall.

How can Pepper’s operate like this? I wondered as I squeezed in between two “customers” at the bar. Wouldn’t corporate shut this franchise down?

As I looked around for the bartender, I recognized some of the same people here from last night. None of them had changed their clothes.

“How are you doing, buddy?” said Vic, seemingly materializing next to me. He was likewise wearing the same red t-shirt and black jeans from when I last saw him.

“Dude, where the fuck have you been? I texted you a hundred times!”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Busy. Busy, uh, meeting people. Yeah, meeting people.”

“You’re still tripping, aren’t you?”

As an answer, he gave me a creepy toothy Syn smile. “Do you want to try it?”

“Fuck, no! I came here to check up on you. After I get a drink, I’m out of here.”

Vic trotted to the opposite side of the bar. “Cool. What do you want?”

“Shit, what are you doing? Get out of there before you get in trouble.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” assured a thirtyish woman slumped against the wall. Judging from her black slacks, white polo shirt, and pepper green suspenders, she was Pepper’s bartender.

“I’ll have a beer.”

Vic grabbed a bottle of Graf (which he knew was my favorite premium beer) from behind the counter, but before I could stop him, he opened it for me.

“Where’s your drink?” I asked, staring at the open bottle.

“I’m good,” he said, with a grin that seemed to extend beyond the confines of his face.

After bringing the beer to my lips, but not taking a sip, I excused myself.

On the way to the bathroom, I was puzzled that I couldn’t access Twitter on my phone, even though I had five full bars of reception.

In the stall, I placed my foot on the toilet seat to retrieve my flask. Even before unscrewing its top, I could tell it was empty. In my haste to leave the house to get drunk at the news of my brother’s visit, I had forgotten to refill it.

“Fuck!” I cursed.


I left Vic in that stinky Syn den to get drunk at Max’s. But there were even some damned Synners hanging out there too, sitting on the filthy floor around the pool table.

Too wary to drink from an open container (fearful that the bartender would lace my booze with Syn), I stuck with canned and bottled beers. But frustratingly, I couldn’t get drunk. (“I drink beer to sober up!” had been one of my favorite boasts.) By the time I came up with the idea of buying a pint of whisky from the 24-7 convenience store down the street, it was already 4:47pm. Time to meet my perfect brother, I dejectedly thought, as I slid off the bar stool.

Arriving home, I grimaced as I walked past David’s beat up Chevy Dash (sporting more dents than I remembered) in the driveway. Opening the front door, I consoled myself that I at least had a steak dinner to look forward to.

But there was no sound of sizzling steaks inside. No excited conversations about David taking the bar exam. No TV blaring sports highlights (and no Dad sitting in his living room recliner). I was met with utter quiet.

Mom, Dad, and my brother were sitting serenely at the kitchen table. In unison, they all turned to me and smiled.

“Oh fuck,” I heard myself groan.

“Oh, Durant, you’re home,” spoke my mom, as though she was concentrating on every word. She unsteadily tried to stand, then thinking better of it, sat back down. “Your brother is here.” She deliberately gestured to David.

“Mom, you told me not to take Syn!” I accused, my voice cracking.

“Well, David said all of his professors assured him that Syn was safe. Who are we to argue with the experts?”

I was angry and hurt. Angry because, by taking Syn, I felt my family had betrayed me. And hurt, because I knew Mom and Dad would never have taken Syn if I asked them. But since their favored son asked them…

“You should join us and take it, son.”

I couldn’t remember the last time my dad lovingly called me “son”.

“Uh, maybe later. Listen, I need to check on something in my bedroom.”

I could feel their stares follow me as I ducked into the hallway.

I knew my sleeping bag was on the top shelf in my closet. But I struggled to remember where the rest of the camping gear was.

In my parent’s bedroom, I delicately shut the door behind me. From the dresser, I swiped the keys to their station wagon. I then lifted and moved my mother’s jewelry box, revealing the wad of cash hiding underneath. Shucking off a few bills, I silently promised my mom that this would be the last time I’d ever do this.


A gallon of water. A plastic 1.75 mL jug of Old Timey whisky. (I couldn’t afford Thomas Jackson.) Six days times three meals equals 18 cans of spaghetti and soup, I thought as I tallied the items in my shopping baskets. And I’ll grab a hot dog and a burrito at the counter for today’s meal.

I hefted the baskets up onto the checkout counter.

Noticing the pepper spray display next to the cash register, I swiped one up and dumped it in a basket. Then for good measure, I grabbed another.

The 24-7 clerk mechanically stood up from her stool and greeted me with a grin. “Do you need anything else?” she asked, gesturing to a saucer dotted with tabs of Syn, sitting next to the penny cup.

“Er, no thank you.”

“It’s free.”

“No thanks. Just bag my items and ring me up, please.”

“Vic, Natalie, Paul, and David have tried it. Why won’t you try it?”


“Your best friend, your parents, and your brother—”

I slapped $40 on the counter and grabbed my baskets. “I hope that covers everything. I promise to return the baskets,” I said before fleeing the convenience store.


It used to be a stupid hypothetical question: Where would you retreat to during a Zombie Apocalypse. Vic and I had agreed we would fall back to Max’s. With no windows and only a single door, the bar was easily defendable. It was chock full of makeshift weapons: broken bottles, pool balls and sticks, and probably a gun near the register. And most importantly, we’d toast, there must be at least a year’s supply of booze there.

But Max’s was now probably just as overrun with Synners as Pepper’s.

So I found myself driving down the highway back to the town of Mason. I had lived in Mason for most of my life. I grew up with the same group of friends through elementary, middle, and the beginning of high school. But after my junior year, we moved from Mason to a smaller home in an older neighborhood. Dad claimed we no longer needed such a large house with David, and eventually me, moving out. But I knew the real reason: my parents needed the money for David’s tuition. I was uprooted before my senior year at Mason High (and thus, denied graduating with my lifelong friends) so that David could go to USC.

During my final years at Mason, my friends and I would regularly go to The Pipe to drink and smoke pot. (Actually, my friends smoked. I stuck with drinking; weed made me paranoid.) The Pipe was an actual cement pipe, as big around as a car tire, partially sunk into the earth, which served conveniently as a bench. It was located in a clearing deep in the woods next to Mason. How it got there had been the center of much drunk and stoned debate.

And so I was retreating to The Pipe during the Zombie Apocalypse.

Actually, Synners were not zombies, I had to admit. Synners weren’t violent. Quite the opposite, they were excruciatingly docile. Driving down the traffic-free highway, I had noticed several cars randomly parked on the side of the road, the passengers serenely sitting on the gravel shoulder. And now driving through the Mason suburb, I saw several families lying haphazard on their front lawns.

I parked at the end of a cul-de-sac, grateful that the woods hugging it were still there, that the area hadn’t been developed into more tract homes. The Pipe lay roughly a mile beyond.

Opening the trunk of the station wagon, I slipped on the bulky camping backpack. This is going to be a bitch, I thought as I grabbed hold of the heavy baskets laden with eighteen cans of food and two gallons of water and whisky. The forested trail to The Pipe involved following a winding creek to find a shallow spot to cross, as well as cutting the corner of a bordering tilled field. (Though I never encountered him myself, I heard tales of the farmer sometimes shooting at trespassers. But walking along the field’s perimeter nearly doubled the distance to The Pipe.)

I put the baskets back down, broke open the jug of Old Timey, and took a long swig.

That’ll fractionally lighten the load, I thought.


An hour later, I finally arrived at The Pipe.

I laid the baskets down on the leaves and pine needles carpeting the clearing, my bare arms crisscrossed with scratches from the branches and thicket that lined the trail. Sitting on the concrete pipe, I shimmied out of the backpack, letting it tumble to the ground behind me. I shivered as a light gust of wind cooled the sweat soaking the back of my shirt.

Tired and hungry, I decided to make camp after eating and getting thoroughly drunk. It would be easy enough; all I needed to do was unroll my sleeping bag. On the hike over, I had realized it probably wasn’t a good idea to pitch my bright yellow tent. Tomorrow, I’d go back into town and buy a camouflage-colored tent. And if things really devolved to hell, I might even try to score a gun (though I never fired one in my entire life).

Grabbing the gallon container of water, I was surprised at how much my arms were trembling, still exhausted from lugging the two heavy baskets down the meandering mile-long path. I took three swallows and replaced the cap. I then fetched the jug of whisky and placed it on the earth between my feet, at the ready. I then randomly picked one of the eighteen pop-top cans as my dinner.

Sitting in the basket, under the can of ravioli I just removed, was an unmistakable tablet of Syn.

Shit, I didn’t even see the 24-7 clerk slip that in the basket! I stared at the pill for a long time, before delicately plucking it up and placing it atop my unopened can of pasta. OK, if I’m going to try Syn, this would be the best possible opportunity. I’m alone in the woods, so I can trip without anyone messing with me. Rummaging through the baskets, I found two more tabs. I chucked them deep into the forest. I’ll only take one, trip, and sleep it off. Then tomorrow, when I’m back to normal, I’ll decide if I want to join the Synners back in town or stay holed up in the woods.

I unscrewed the jug of Old Timey at my feet.

I then scooped up the Syn and popped it in my mouth.

Before I could bring the whisky to my lips, the tablet dissolved against the roof of my mouth. Starting at my forehead, the feeling of fingernails raked my scalp. Upon reaching the back of my neck, the fingernails transformed into a slab of ice, sliding down my back, freezing my vertebrae one by one. The plastic jug fell from my hands, hitting the dirt with a splash.

Upon reaching the base of my spine, the sensation of ice melted away. Then I started thinking funny.

The farmer of the nearby field, Sid is his name, isn’t angry that I cut across his land.

Fatima, the 24-7 cashier, is pleased that I tried the Syn she placed in my basket.

Welcome to the New Flesh, buddy, I feel Vic impart.

I topple backward off the pipe, landing next to my backpack. Comfortably splayed on the ground, with one leg still propped up on the pipe, I don’t bother getting back up.

It’s the strangest sensation. None of my senses are affected. Only my thinking is jacked.

Am I imagining all of this? I ask myself.

No, it is real, I feel Fatima, the convenience store clerk, respond. How else could I know your family and friend by name?

My thoughts drift to Mom, Dad, and my bro. They’re all still sitting around the kitchen table back home.

I am shocked to learn that David was an accident, conceived when Dad was a senior and Mom was a sophomore in high school, at a drunken house party. When she announced she was pregnant, both families corralled Dad to do the right thing and marry her. He resented the marriage and having a kid, believing they derailed his chances of playing pro ball. (After taking Syn, Dad finally admitted to himself that he probably wasn’t good enough to even earn a football scholarship.) Feeling he was missing out on a college life of drinking, partying, and fucking, he insisted on an open marriage. For the sake of their newborn son and their marriage, Mom reluctantly agreed. However, to his chagrin, he only managed to bed a couple of women, while she gained several lovers. (We all chuckle at his folly. Even Dad laughs.) It was during this time Mom became pregnant with me.

That’s why Dad treated me like shit all throughout my life. He suspected I wasn’t his.

I feel my dad’s shame. And his love for me.

They all want me to come home.

And I want to go home and be with them.

Getting back on my feet, I’m surprised I’m crying.

I distantly know I should eat, that I’m starving. But I want so badly to get home. Plus, it’s getting late. I check the time on my phone. It’s 7:09. Surprised I’m getting a few bars of reception out here, I decide to check my social networking apps, though I already know what to expect. Sure enough, they’re all down. What’s the point of communicating through clunky words and fleeting photos, when we’re all joined through our thoughts?

I see the steaks thawing in the kitchen sink through my mom’s eyes. I’ll try to cook these by the time you get home.

Thanks, Mom.

I survey my pathetic little camp, to see if I should take anything for the trek back. The jug of Old Timey is laying on its side, a third of the whisky still in the bottle. The notion of drinking, of getting drunk, disgusts me. Dulling this divine experience, this blissful state of connectedness, strikes me as an abomination. So with just the gallon of water, I leave The Pipe.

I can now see why ESPN was one of the first stations to go off the air. I can’t comprehend covering a receiver, dribbling a basketball, or kicking a soccer ball down a field under Syn. Even the simple act of hiking is difficult. I have to concentrate on every step. It’s so easy to get lost in the swirls of other people’s memories, emotions, and hopes. But hike I must: I forgot to pack a flashlight, so I’m racing the setting sun to my car.

How did this miraculous drug come about? I wonder.

I see visions of fist-sized bundles, wrapped in red, green, or blue cellophane, tied shut with black ribbon. The elaborately packaged samples of Syn began appearing a year and a half ago in busses, taxis, and motorized rickshaws all over the world. The first people to try it were the truly desperate: the poor (thinking it was an allotment of rice) and drug addicts.

A young black woman, with a wide yet pleasing face, wearing a garish blonde wig, appears in my mind. (I trip over a trough in the tilled field. Sid laughs.) While Simone wasn’t the first to experience Syn, she was the most prolific in spreading it, first in her native Marseille, then in all of France. In lieu of accepting Euros, she instructed her johns to drop Syn. Ironically, after taking the drug, her clients no longer wanted to have sex with her. Instead of seeing her as a sexual object, they saw her as another human being, having a life just as rich in experiences, meaning, and dreams as their own.

It was from Simone where the drug got its name. At first, it was named after her. Then due to a transcription error, it was briefly known as “Sinon”. Then it was shortened to “Sin”. And finally, to its current stylized “Syn”.

Nobody currently linked through Syn created the drug, nor knows anyone who did.

It’s unlike any drug I’ve ever taken. How is it possible that it connects all of us together?

Concepts that were impossible for me to grasp before taking the drug flood my mind. All thoughts are electrical impulses in the brain, I now know. This electricity produces a faint magnetic field that can be detected outside the body. This magnetic field mirrors one’s thoughts. Scientists discovered that Syn amplifies this magnetic field.


By changing the structure of my brain, I learn. By adapting my spinal column to serve as an antenna, to transmit my thoughts as well as to receive others’. Syn is not a drug. Syn is an army of nanites.

(My Converse sneakers splash into sickly warm water. I’m standing ankle deep in the creek.)

The idea of a swarm of microscopic robots physically altering me should strike me as ludicrous. And it should scare me that these nanites of unknown origin mutilated me for an unknown purpose. This was what I feared most about taking Syn. No, this is well beyond my most horrific imaginings.

But it doesn’t bother me. In fact, I’m actually glad that this state of being will never wear off.

Images of white dinner plates, one half buried in the sand, another obscured under some leaves, an x-ray of one actually embedded in the bricks of a building, flash in my mind. I know there are hundreds of millions of them, scattered all over the world. Even though our spinal cords have been biomechanically redesigned to serve as antennas, they don’t transmit our thoughts strong enough to be picked up over long distances. Hence, these plates serve as amplifiers and repeaters.

And who installed these plates?

No one connected through Syn knows.

I’m back at the station wagon. It’s dusk. I don’t remember where I dropped the gallon jug of water.

I slide inside, fish the keys out of my pocket, and start the car. The dashboard flashes 8:32.

I circle out of the cul-de-sac and start driving through my old neighborhood. More families are sitting out on their lawns. “Syn picnics” are what they’re being called. I feel waves of their thoughts as I pass them. Learning about her husband’s affair through Syn, a woman debates divorcing him. A man wonders how the global stock market will react on Monday to the proliferation of Syn, whether the world’s economies even matter anymore. A girl hopes she no longer has to go to school.

Shit, I’m on the wrong side of the street! I realize, as I swerve to the right. Not that it matters. I’m the only one on the road.

I take the ramp to the highway. The fastest I can drive is 45 MPH. Driving any faster is too overwhelming.

Don’t drive on the freeway, Durant. Drive on back streets. How else do you think I got home from USC in one piece?

Thanks, bro’, I impart. See you—

Oh my god. Everybody everyone knows is now on Syn. All of humanity is one.

I pull off to the side of the highway and hop out of the station wagon. Not able to contain myself, I fall to my knees and begin screaming. When I pause to take a breath, I hear other distant cries all around me. The full moon blurs in my vision as hot tears stream from my eyes. It is the happiest moment of my life!

But still no one knows who created Syn or who installed the millions of repeater plates.

Wait. The moon.

Closing my eyes, I see jagged lines glowing on the displays of scientific instruments, lines I know that represent a sudden avalanche of signals coming from the moon. People all over the world are turning their telescopes to our celestial companion. There! Little black flecks peppering the blindingly bright lunar surface, the source of the signals. The flecks grow bigger, the signals stronger. The flecks are a swarm of spaceships, each the shape of an oval. A computer running a pattern-recognition algorithm at NASA is tallying them all: 5,833. 6,736. 7,893…

Those extraterrestrials must have been the ones who formulated Syn and covertly spread it all over the world. They’re the ones who planted all the repeater plates. They must have been hiding on the far side of the moon, waiting for this exact moment, when all humankind became united.

But why? I mouth silently.

To best communicate with us, is the world’s scientific consensus. That’s the most obvious benefit of Syn. Perhaps all citizens in their galactic community talk to each other through their thoughts.

But there’s so many of them, I think. 8,098,403. 9,487,591. 10,158,093…

I suddenly feel like I’m forgetting things. Big chunks of knowledge I knew moments before are gone. People are winking out of existence! I realize.

This is an invasion! But instead of having to physically hunt each of us down, the aliens are just traversing through the neural network carved out by Syn and extinguishing our consciousnesses.

But they’re not discarding our bodies. Upon their souls being snuffed out, people fall to the ground and begin violently flopping about, like a fishes on the deck of a boat. Then a calm washes over them. They begin scooting on all fours, and then tenuously walking upright. The aliens are possessing our bodies. Bodies that are perfectly designed for this, for this Earthly environment from billions of years of evolution. They’re using us as space suits!

We need to destroy the repeater plates!

I open my tearing eyes. A spaceship, the size of a city block, is hanging over the field of weeds bordering the highway. It’s dark, perhaps black, resembling an egg. The same shape as a tab of Syn. The moonlight traces the outline of the hundreds of holes covering its hull. I try blinking it away, but the nightmare vision remains, absolutely motionless and silent.

From a US Federal Geographical Data Committee drone survey conducted a week ago, I know a repeater plate is buried in the field, directly below the ship. But I’m too terrified to move. It doesn’t matter, I distantly know. The strategically stationed spaceships are now serving as Syn amplifiers and repeaters.

Vic’s freaking out, futilely running through downtown, screaming. My mom, dad, and brother are already gone.

I’m beginning to sense the aliens through Syn. I catch glimpses of them through their thoughts. Their bodies are long silver bendy tubes. They’re living jet engines, sucking air into their mouths, and forcefully ejecting it out of their rears. Three rows of three arms along the length of their bodies serve as rudders, as they soar through the shimmering green sky of their homeworld.

They normally wouldn’t bother invading us. The rest of our solar system is rich enough in resources to sate them. In fact, they’ve already been plundering our sun and her family of planets for centuries: stealing energy from the sun, mining our asteroids, and siphoning planetary atmospheres (Jupiter’s Great Red Spot is the most obvious sign of this).

But the Earth is rare, I feel them covet. It has the right gravity. And it has vast seas of liquid water.

Our invaders don’t fly. They swim. They’re aquatic.

But this planet is too cold, they fret. And its atmosphere is poisonous. Too much oxygen, not enough carbon dioxide.

And so the aliens will patiently change its climate and air while possessing our bodies. And as their fleshy space suits begin failing, passing out from heat stroke, or suffocating from a lack of oxygen, they’ll shuck them off and dive into the oceans of the transformed world with their real bodies.

There are far more of them than us now. I feel them all around me, drawing close. Surprisingly, I sense no malice from them. No aggression. No hate. Such primitive emotions have long since evolved into brutal efficiency—


Leeches and Men

by James Maddox


The vampires took over two days after my eleventh birthday. And between you and me, it was a damn good strategy they had. Families. The nuclear kind with nine-to-five work schedules, house pets, and summer vacations to the beach: they weren’t prepared when the vamps made their move, and before we could say “Family fun night,” the war that really wasn’t a war was lost. Just fuckin’ lost. After all, a parent is much more prone to open that locked window or that bolted door when a son or daughter is on the other side, begging to be let in—and vice versa.

Damn good strategy.

We may act like we came out of that conflict as the holders of the reins, but the truth is, we’re just as scared now as we were during the siege, only we’re too systematic about things to know it. Gained too much false security.

There was a quote I read just before the war was officially ended—but damned if I can remember who said it… Probably a politician. Went like this:

“We approach a new era. Just like the transitions that occurred after Oppenheimer released his great fury, mankind must adjust itself to the coming changes of this new world: new technologies, new religions, new philosophies, and new hates and prejudices. Even in the shadow of this unveiled threat, adaptation will occur, and it will be bloody.”

Now, you ask me just exactly what that means, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you; but back then, it gave me hope that we still had a future to look forward to, you know? Keeping that perspective was just something to get me through the day.

Still is, I guess. Still will be.

Because despite what you may think, I am still and will remain human to my very core. And as a human, I’ll adapt and I’ll survive in a new environment before I roll over and die. That’s just what we do, and maybe that’s what we should really be afraid of.


The vampire scratched at the window, creating a screech that human nails would have found difficult to withstand. Karen pried open her eyes, and as her vision was directed by the sound, she breathed long and slow: a yawn. Appearing to Karen in all its classic horror-movie bravado, the vampire scratched again. The monster fluttered its eyes and hovered just beyond the window frame.

“Steve,” Karen said. She nudged her sleeping husband, and when he simply hugged the covers tighter, Karen shook him by the shoulder. “We’ve got a leech outside. The cleaning service forgot to hang a new wreath of garlic.”

“Wha–?” Steve asked, still half asleep. He wiped at his eyes and slowly came to understand Karen’s complaint. Some grumbled muttering was lost to the gloom of the surrounding walls, but the creature outside the window, its ears didn’t miss a thing. The monster laughed, lewd and low. A vampire’s laugh.

Steve tossed back the covers and stepped out of bed. He stretched and walked out of the room. The house remained silent, save for the occasional attention-getting attempt from the vampire; Let me inside, Karen, its sweet voice called from inside the housewife’s mind. I want to touch you all over. Taste your sweetness. Karen felt a twinge of reaction shiver through her body. It had been a while since she’d had any reaction at all to a vampire’s wiles. This one was good, which made her slightly uncomfortable.

The doorway that led from their bedroom gaped from across the room. What was taking Steve so long?

He’s left you, Karen, the vampire breathed into her thoughts. Let me in. I can take care of you in ways he never would. Ways he never could.

A crash erupted from downstairs, traveling up to Karen’s ears like warning bells. An air raid siren in the dead of night. Karen surged forward, attentive and anticipating. The silence that refilled the room made her flesh tingle.

“Honey?” she called. “You okay?” She waited for a reply, any reply. No need to panic. Everything was fine: the security system was set, locks triple fastened… But there was the fact of the expired garlic wreath. What other precautions could be failing her at that very moment?

It’s over, Karen, the vampire hissed, voice excited, breaths deep and raspy in her head. No more relationship on autopilot. No more lazy, hazy little life. Your husband is dead, and they’re coming for you next. The villains! Terrible wretches! But not me. I’m so tender and caring. Let me in and I’ll be merciful. You’ll even enjoy it.

A gleam of tears began to coat her eyes.

Karen shifted under the covers, reassuring herself that everything was fine. Just fine. The vampire outside the window hissed and raked a single nail down the entire span of the window.

“Just go away,” Karen said, and again heard that low, lewd laugh. It made her want to scream, but before she could, Steve entered the bedroom carrying a new wreath at arm’s length, trying to keep the smell off him. He opened the window.

“I tripped over the coffee table,” he said in his half-sleep, then shooed away the vampire with a dismissive wave. It fled from the new cloves as the old wreath fell to the ground.

“No problem,” Karen said, and it wasn’t. There were no problems.

After closing the window and washing his hands, Steve returned to bed, and the house quieted. It remained silent until the morning’s sunshine filled the master bedroom.


The next day began with familiar steps, but quickly diverged into uncustomary choices. Karen woke, prepared for her day, left the house, and met a friend for brunch. The friend had just been to the nicest gym with the nicest spa, and Karen just had to come drive into the city and see it for herself. Karen had made vague almost-commitments to attend a Chamber of Commerce gathering, but she quickly convinced herself that 1) she had been neglecting this particular friend for far too long, and 2) the Chamber meeting would not greatly miss her presence.

Most of all, although she couldn’t say why, Karen wanted to explore something new, to prove that she could experience something removed from the regular sights, sounds, and motives that frequented her days.

She needed a break, she decided. A break from her lazy, hazy little life—

The words had formed and taken hold before she could shake free of them. Her lazy, hazy little life. The vampire’s taunt hissed like deadly gas in her thoughts.

From that moment, until the onset of evening, Karen couldn’t slip the image of the vampire from her mind, couldn’t drown out the things it had said to her. Things your husband wouldn’t do. Couldn’t do. Somehow, a vile connection had been made with the creature.

Driving home now, she ground her slim fingers on the steering wheel. The leather creaked and groaned under her hold. She gulped at a bottle of water and tried to think about other subjects, but no matter what tangent she moved to, her thoughts always returned to the leech. Its undead eyes formed themselves perfectly in her imagination. Those eyes had stared greedily at her from beyond the windowpane, and now Karen wondered if hunger was the only desire that motivated it, or if there were other emotions: loss, love, jealousy, hate?

A rusted-out truck swerved into Karen’s lane, jarring her thoughts away from vampires and onto the rugged sound that bellowed from her tires as they ventured outside the interstate’s lined boundary. Karen laid on the horn and received an obligatory finger from the truck’s driver. She saw that the truck’s bed was filled with scrap appliances and other random bits of trash.

“And in other news,” a woman’s voice said from the radio speakers. The station she’d been playing to keep her company during her commute had switched to a news break. The voice brought her back inside her car, and back to a topic she had been happy to leave behind. “The vampire count has declined steadily with the setting-in of cooler temperatures. With any luck, vampire numbers will be at an all-time low by mid-winter. Good news, and just in time for the holiday season.”

Karen turned off the radio.

She breathed deep, slowly exhaled. As she tried to do so many times that day, Karen willed the thoughts of vampires from her mind, but that was a losing battle from the start. When she and Steve had first started dating in college, he had won her over with the confession that he couldn’t get Karen out of his mind.

“It’s like trying not to think of a pink elephant,” he’d said to her over the small table of a little outdoor café, his hair outgrown and hanging just above his eyes—hanging much differently from the style he’d fallen into and that had lasted for the past eight years. “You try not to think of a pink elephant, and the only thing you can think about from that moment on is a pink elephant.”

Karen had responded that she wasn’t fond of the comparison, but that she understood the intention. They had laughed. They had loved each other, or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe it was the future she had seen in him that she loved. The future of what the vampire had called her lazy, hazy little life. She became lost in this thought, meditating on it in a way she would never have admitted in public.

At the same time, the pickup truck that had cut off her just moments ago was jostled over a set of breaks in the pavement. The trash-filled truck bed shook and a scatter of debris showered the road, sending a particularly jagged pice of scrap metal to be lodged under Karen’s passenger-side front tire. There was a pop and a reeling moment of unbalance. Karen clenched her eyes and locked her brakes. Skid marks painted the pavement in long arching scribbles that stretched for yards. A cacophony of sound held itself as the only factor in her life for a single moment, and then everything stopped. Only the constant sound of her pulse beating out the passing seconds remained.


Easy listening droned from the radio as the sundown traffic passed Karen and her broken-down car. Though she had reactivated the radio to help pass the time—Karen had a habit of relying on music to pass the time—she was now very close to turning it off again. On the UV-lit highway, no one stopped to help her. The cloud-covered moon peeked out from time to time like a giant headlight behind a passing train. Karen gazed at it while waiting along the highway. Behind her, headlights washed over a large yellow sign that read “Keep Moving: No Stopping for Any Reason!” A smaller sign positioned just underneath this command read “Next Service and Rest Stop 3.5 Mi.”

Damn phone, she thought. It hadn’t had a signal bar pop up since leaving the city. Hell of a lot of good AAA is when you can’t call them. She slapped the phone in her open palm and checked its display again. Nothing.

None of the other cars had stopped to give her assistance, mainly because they were afraid of encountering a loose vampire. Preposterous. Karen saw them all staring out their windows as they passed by her, wide-eyed and unbelieving. As they looked on, she had to remind herself that not everyone had the means to afford the kind of protection she had. Hopefully, one or two of them would at least call a patrolman once they cleared the dead zone.

“Why do these tragedies always happen to me?” Karen wondered aloud.

“Maybe you attract misfortune,” said a voice from behind her, a voice that seemed so close that she spun around expecting to see someone breathing down her neck; however, no one could be seen. A moment passed, and then a large woman appeared from the darkness just beyond the highway’s shoulder. Her ragged black hair hung in slashes and streaks.

“Oh, hello. My tire went out,” Karen explained to the stranger, but the woman didn’t seem to care. She just stood watching, her struggled breath coming out as though every exhale challenged her. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said, talking slowly. Deliberately. Menace filled the stranger’s eyes. “I’m doing just fine.”

Karen took a step back, toward her useless car. If she could get inside and lock the doors, maybe she would be all right. Maybe. She smiled weakly. A trembling lower lip betrayed any false signs of confidence.

“Alright, I’m going to wait in the car then. Have a pleasant night.”

Karen motioned to her car, but when she turned, the dark-haired lady was already standing in front of her, blocking Karen’s way with her stout figure and toothsome smile.

“Oh, thank god,” Karen said, relief washing over her. The monster paused, a questioning expression stuck to it’s face, but Karen felt her newfound ease was simple to understand: This wasn’t a human being. Not a her or a she at all; the vampire was an it. “I thought you were some kind of murderer or something.”

“Isn’t that exactly what I am?” the vampire asked and drew back its lips to reveal elongated incisors, glistening points that aimed at Karen like finely sharpened daggers. Then it sniffed the air and was taken aback by an odor.

“Not tonight,” Karen said. “Unless you care for a taste of the holy. Chanel Trip-Seven. Top of the line.”

The vampire tried to retreat, but was caught by the BMW’s windows. The monster released a scream and punched at the reflective window, but despite the power of the punch, the durable structure of the windows held. The vampire howled, grabbed its arm in pain, and dropped to one knee.

Karen winced at this display, almost felt sorry for it.

“Highly reflective, triple-reinforced windows, standard,” she noted. Passing the monster, she felt a brief urge to pat it on the shoulder as a kind of sympathetic gesture—she quickly pushed this compulsion aside. “I’m sorry that vampires don’t retain intelligence after the change.”

The creature looked up from its anguish.

“Fuck you, lady.”

Karen soured. “This is what I get for talking to a leech.”

“Typical human, thinking you’re more than food,” the vampire said, working and flexing the pain out of its fingers. “That drove us forward all those years ago. The delusions of humans. The world’s dominant species? Laughable. Then you defanged us in fiction, even portrayed us as sympathetic. Sympathetic to our prey!” The vampire scowled. “Insults can only be thrown so far.”

Karen tossed up a halting hand.

“Please, waste your ideology on someone who…” The rebuke tapered as an engine revved and broke the dialogue. Behind the vampire, lights were flashing on and off, high beams to low beams. The police, Karen thought. Now I can finally get out of here. The vampire spun and faced the approaching vehicle, and with one bound, the monster disappeared into the night clouds.

Karen saw then that the approaching car wasn’t the police. Instead of a shiny new cruiser, a brown Chevy station wagon, probably older than Karen herself, screeched to a halt. She winced at the dust cloud the wagon’s tires produced. The door to the vehicle was tossed open and an old man in a beaten Carhartt jacket hopped out. He held a cross over his head, as though a cross alone would prevent the vampire from descending.

The man’s shaggy white hair swayed as he made his way to Karen and then grabbed her, dragging her by the arm toward the rust-spotted car (was she the only person on this road who took care of her car?). The whole time, he kept his eyes to the sky.

“Come on, come on,” he rasped when Karen began putting up a fight. “I hate to pull you along like this, but it’ll back any minute.”

“Let go!”

“I’m sorry, miss. But this has to happen.” The man threw Karen over his shoulder and carried her the rest of the way. Once inside the wagon, his peeling tires put them back on the interstate; several cars had to swerve into the far lane to keep from hitting them.

“Are you insane?” Karen cried. “What are you doing?”

“What’m I doing? What’re you doing on the side of the road? At night?”

“My car blew a tire.”

So? Why were you standing outside?”

“I was trying to get a signal for my phone,” she said. “You don’t happen to have a phone on you, do you?” The old man shot a look at her, and she glanced again at the interior of the car. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

“My name is Richard, by the way, and you’re lucky I was out tonight. That thing could have killed you.”

“Are you serious?” she scoffed. “A leech? Kill me? I’ll have more to worry about with your driving.”

The old man opened his mouth to respond, but whatever was about to emerge was lost forever as Karen’s roadside vampire landed on the hood of the old wagon. Its feet dented the hood down to the engine block, and Karen watched as its skin burned in the UV spotlights that protected the highways from just such an attack. The vampire didn’t seem to notice; instead, it punched the windshield. A standard windshield. As the glass splintered into a web of tiny cracks, the car jutted from side to side; the vampire, however, remained fixed, like a grotesque hood ornament. The vampire’s second punch broke a hole through the windshield. Its fist opened, got a grip on the inside of the window, and tore it off completely, throwing the broken remains to the soft shoulder. A blast of rushing air filled the interior cab.

Through all this, a fear had gripped Karen with more intensity than it had during her earlier blowout. The events of the evening had partly stolen a sense of control that she’d been taking for granted over a span of at least two decades. In that instant, she wanted to scream and flail wildly to protect herself, but another part of her, some deep-seated part that still thought itself untouchable, muttered about trading car travel for bus travel from here on out. Maybe it was the shock talking, but that part of her mind still had hope.

Richard cried out and jerked the wheel left, bashing into the side of another car, and then right, veering onto the shoulder, before steering the station wagon off the road entirely.

Now, that muttering voice was growing dim, not half as sure as it had been seconds ago. Karen dug her fingertips into the vehicle’s armrest. The tires of the old car bounced and rattled, the motions tossing Karen and the old man savagely, to the point that fighting to keep control was no longer an option. The vampire continued riding the hood like a surfboard, until suddenly it jumped away and revealed that the car was on a crash course with the thick trunk of a tree. A last minute thought screamed inside Karen’s mind: That’s too solid to break through.

The world went black.

When Karen came to, she saw Richard on the hood of the car, his neck ripped open, a pool of blood gathered around him. Instinctively, she grasped at her own slender jugular. Nothing. Well, not nothing. The dull yet prevalent pain of whiplash clamped to her like Velcro, but nothing as bad as poor Richard’s wound.

She stumbled out of the car and looked to the distant road, which rested maybe a football field’s length away. The moon was completely covered by clouds now.

“Your protection is fading, Karen,” the vampire sang. She spun around and looked up the tree they’d collided with. In a thick of branches, the monster crouched. “I could have torn you apart already, but I’m a patient gal.”

“Go away,” Karen yelled, but the vamp just smirked, it’s psychotic cat eyes glowing among the shadows.

“I’m excited. Privileged blood is always the tastiest.” Karen glanced again to the road. Crickets counted the seconds with their chirps. “You won’t make it to the road.”

“Watch me,” she countered and turned to start back to the highway. Much to her expectations, the vampire stood in front of her. Good. Karen already had a hand in her now-tattered purse and wrapped around a small cylinder. She pulled the device out and held it to the vampire’s face.

“Mace?” the vampire asked. “Don’t believe I’ve ever had the opportunity to test myself against it.”

Karen pressed the button atop the cylinder. A flash delivered a quick UV blast into the surrounding darkness. The vampire wailed; its skin burned and charred before Karen’s eyes, just as the back label instructions said it would. “Sun Shock: Take Back the Night!”

Karen stepped around the vampire and continued briskly toward the road.

“It’s not that I mean to provoke you,” Karen said at normal volumes, knowing the thing could still hear her. “But we’ve found ways of protecting oursel—”

Before Karen could fully finish the sentence, the vampire again blocked her path, all its previous inflictions had vanished. The creature was disgustingly attractive and unscarred once again.

“What’s the battery’s lifespan?” the monster asked, seeming genuinely curious. “How many flashes does it carry? Ten? Twenty? The sensation’s not pleasant, I’ll give you that, but I can outlast it. I can outlast anything devised by a human.”

Karen’s mouth opened, but her voice was absent.

The vampire broke into laughter. “Amazing how your species gives itself up to technology. Trust me, Karen. When tech is your god, the best you can really hope for is a quick and tidy death. A systematic death.” The vampire studied the points of its nails. “Sadly, I’m of the old ways. Nothing tonight will be quick or tidy.”

Before she had the chance to fight, Karen’s nervous hand loosened and the small black canister of Sun Shock dropped to the ground, settling onto a tuft of grass. She began to cry, and any voices that might have whispered of security or entitlement or even hope were silent. For Karen, the future had dead-ended into the smiling face of a vampire.

“You don’t have to cry,” said the monster, “but I’m really hoping you will.”


Becomin’ alive again was sweet terror. I saw blood spilled across the car’s hood and slowly came to realize that it had belonged to me. The first thought that swiped through my mind: Jesus, I’m too old to live forever.

It was the hunger that opened my eyes—I could feel it instantly and recognized it for what it was—but it was you that got me to my feet again, Karen. I could hear that woman, and I could hear you, but your thoughts simply mirrored hers. “You don’t have to cry,” she said, and you dropped the canister, tore open your blouse, all at her instruction. You bore your neck, and to me that all seemed perfectly acceptable. The only thing that nagged was that it wasn’t voluntary, and you hadn’t done a thing to warrant such an invasion.

Fucked up, isn’t it? I understand taking blood, but not by undue force.

Helluva leech I’m gonna make…


Teeth. Karen couldn’t help but continue to stare at the vampire’s teeth. A great fatigue had weighed down her emotions; she was no longer able to fight the monster’s suggestive will, so she resigned herself to… What? Death? Undeath? Would the monster drain her and leave her to reanimate, or would it take the time to ensure Karen’s life was ended? With so many questions, Karen didn’t have the capacity to consider which fate she would have preferred if given the choice.

The vampire skimmed its teeth along Karen’s exposed neckline. She trembled. She wept. Her legs had gone numb, but wouldn’t collapse. They were stone pillars, holding her in place for the coming slaughter. The vampire would take its time. After all it had been through tonight to have her, it would make Karen’s final grisly moments last. In the distance, cars continued to pass along the freeway; they were too far away. Too far to see this undignified ending.

“Undignified?” the vampire asked as this last thought jumped between the two. “You think natural death would be as courteous? As meaningful? Life’s a dance, sweetie. A dance with no dignity. You end up where you end up, just like everyone else.”

“Natural death might not be as courteous, but it wouldn’t talk quite as much,” said Richard.

That was all the notice he afforded before the attack. Richard tackled the vampire to the ground and wrapped a thick and heavy hand around its neck. Squeezing, Richard imagined that he could pop the monster’s head off its shoulders, but the reality of achieving this goal was easier to visualize than to realize.

The vampire slipped away from Richard’s grasp. The initial surprise had worked to land a sucker punch, but now the vampire—who had presumably lived a very long time and had complete control of its facilities—seized the upper hand.

Three hits—kneecap, abdomen, nose—and Richard was down, his vision blurry. Deep, dark blood soaked into the cotton t-shirt that was already stained by a brighter shade of crusting red. A growing darkness bordered his vision, then his sight focused on a particular object. Life reentered the man’s eyes, an angry vitality that centered all its wrath on the monster. The old man (who was not looking or feeling so old anymore) charged again at the vampire, then quickly dropped to his aching knees before contact could be made. A hand reached out and claimed the fallen canister of Sun Shock.

The vampire was prepared for Richard’s attack, but withered at the sight of the recovered cylinder.

Richard held the bulb near the vampire’s face and placed a finger over the trigger.

“But you’ll—” was all the monster managed before the button was pushed and another blast of light bloomed on the field.

For a moment, Richard was transported to the surface of the sun, but before he could be conquered by the pain, he steeled himself, recovered his senses, and remembered exactly where the vampire had stood. Despite the blindness hiding his target, Richard’s hand surged forward and connected with the bridge of the vampire’s nose, and because the creature’s structure was made malleable by the blast, the charred skin and weakened bones collapsed under Richard’s force and coated his hand in gore. A solid hit made deadly. The vampire dropped lifeless to the ground.

Richard shook blood and bone off his knuckles. He had done it; killed the vampire, saved the damsel. What this victory had cost him would be another topic for another night, but he couldn’t completely shut it out, not with his face burning as it was. Then again, that would fade. Already, the searing heat of his burns were cooling. A hazy vision restored itself.

He turned to Karen, and saw both the flight in her eyes and the curious hope that held her in place. Scenes and still images radiated from her mind, vivid enough to study and dissect, conflicting emotions of victory over the conquered vampire, fear of what Richard had become, a persistent gloom from her loss of faith in securities and protections.

“Don’t worry,” he said. He sensed that the ease of his voice calmed her slightly. “It’s over. Come on, I’ll wait with you as long as I can, but I don’t know how great of company I’ll be.” Richard slid his arm into hers, and began walking her toward the roadside. He could smell her red scent drifting in the misty evening like a pleasant perfume.

“It’s funny,” Richard said as they reached the road and had a seat on the bank. “I’ve lived with the cold hard truth of vampires for the majority of my natural life, but I never thought I’d become one. I guess I should have considered it. After all, the vampires took over two days after my eleventh birthday…”


“I’m sorry,” Karen said.

Richard had given her his Carhartt to help keep her warm. It smelled of spent cigarettes and singed hair, but Karen sank into the lining like it was made from fine silk. Tears had carved paths down her dirty cheeks. She had lost a shoe somewhere between the crash scene and the walk to the highway, but she had calmed down considerably since they’d arrived back at her car.

He was keeping her calm, and she was thankful for that. Still, the only words she could think to say anymore to Richard were “I’m sorry,” so she repeated them until they didn’t resemble meaningful words at all, just sounds that had no real definition.

“She was right, you know?” Richard said. “About the dance. Might have had a different view on it, but she certainly was dead on in the general sense. People do with what they got, dance with the floor and tunes they’re given.” Richard quieted himself, before adding: “The ones that don’t seem to dance toward a particular spot in the room tend to be the most fulfilled. You ever notice that?”

“I’m sorry,” Karen said again in her utterly collapsed voice.

“Yeah.” Richard looked up to the stars. “Me, too.”

He took Karen’s hand in his and lifted it to his lips. She let him kiss it without the slightest hint of unease. This man wasn’t a vampire. He wasn’t a leech. He had swung in, put himself in danger, and rescued her. Twice. Vampires didn’t do that.

She wrapped herself around Richard’s arm.

“I’m so sorry,” Karen repeated. What she really wanted to say was thank you, express her gratitude and offer him some recourse to the state he now found himself in (because of her), but she couldn’t bring the right words to mind. And whenever she reached for them, all that came to mind were variations on the same apology.

Richard half-grinned and gazed at the approaching red and blue flashers. Police sirens wailed into the night. They were coming to help, which meant that they’d kill him the moment they discovered what Richard had become—and for a moment, a briefly enticing moment, Richard considered letting them do their job. He shivered.

“I have to go,” Richard said and pulled his arm away from Karen. “It was nice meeting you, Karen.”

Karen opened her mouth, but closed it when Richard smiled down at her.

“I know: ‘You’re sorry,’” he said. “But as much as you may mean it, that’s not gonna change a thing.”

Then he was gone, and the siren lights were glowing on Karen’s damp cheeks and she was left somewhere new. Somewhere between the world of vampires and men.