Club Vlad sat near the confluence of Central Avenue and Washington Avenue, Albany’s two main thoroughfares. Two stories with blackout windows and a box office from when it used to be a movie theater, it was swarmed with people when Dom first spotted it ahead. He was somewhat familiar with it: He passed it every day on his way to work, and it was always busy around his time of evening, even on weeknights. Part of him always wanted to go inside and be a part of the scene, but he never did.
The man in sunglasses - his name was Joe - led Dom toward the club, and even before Joe spoke, Dom somehow knew that it was their destination. “There,” Joe said. “We’ll go around back.”
Dom and Joe had been walking for what seemed like an hour but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Dom stuck as close to Joe as possible as if for protection, and had become accustomed to his pungent smell. It was noticeable only at extremely close range, part sickly sweet and part…something else, something Dom could not place but still somehow recognized. They were two blocks from the club, maybe three, and Dom could hear the pulsing techo/house/whatever music as clearly as if he were standing in the middle of the dancefloor. He could hear the chatter of the people inside, or at least he imagined he could. He could smell them too: Beneath the odors of perfume, desperation, and spiritual rot was something richer, something blissful. Dom realized for the first time that he was parched - so parched - and drool filled his mouth.
A crowd of people waited outside Club Vlad, talking and laughing; some vaped, some stared down at their cellphones like Gollum with his precious ring. Dom’s first reaction was to avoid them. Perhaps sensing this…or perhaps feeling it himself…Joe ducked into an alleyway two doors down from the club. “We’ll go in the back,” Joe explained.
The back entrance to Club Vlad was a single door underneath a bare bulb. The music was so loud that Dom’s head began to throb. Inside, a dark hallway terminated in an archway filled with throbbing white light. Dread filled Dom as they approached it - he didn’t want to be around people - but thankfully they went into a room off the hall instead. An office. A cramped desk, a filing cabinet. A set of stairs disappeared into shadows.
“Sit,” Joe said.
Dom obeyed, sitting in the swivel chair.
Joe went up the stairs and Dom was alone. The deep coldness that had long settled into his bones made itself known again, and Dom leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth. The muffled music vibrated in his skull, setting his teeth on edge, and the various smells wafting in from the main room assaulted his senses. He was alternately repulsed and aroused by the crashing din of scents: The good, the bad, and the mouth watering. A sharp pain cut through his stomach like the killing edge of a knife, and Dom hugged himself tighter. Had his throat always been this dry? His throat felt like sandpaper; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and getting it unstuck hurt so badly that tears sprang to his eyes.
Dom rubbed his arms with his hands and tried to still his chattering teeth. He looked around for a blanket, a discarded jacket, something to cover himself with, but there was nothing. Only drifts of glitter on the floor and walls. He supposed it came from a party or something. He’d never been to a night club but it seemed fitting.
A sound drew his attention to the door leading back into the hall. A woman - no older than a girl - stood there, looking confused and unsteady. She was dressed in black, wore glow sticks around her wrists and neck, and held a red solo cup. “I have to pee,” she said drunkenly and laughed. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
A cold wind washed over Dom, and Joe was standing next to him. “The bathroom’s up here,” he said.
“Oh, good,” the girl laughed, “I thought it was here but I didn’t know. This is my first time here.” She held her cup aloft. “Take me to it.”
Joe glanced at Dom. “Come on.”
They formed a party as they climbed the stairs, Dom in the tear and Joe at the head. The girl stumbled and held onto the railing, talking incessantly. Her voice hurt Dom’s head, but the hot smell wafting from her was intoxicating. Drool coursed down his chin and his breathing came in short, hot bursts. Another sharp pain rent his stomach, and he winced.
At the top of the stairs, where the lights were cold and white, a woman in black stood by a doorway, her back ramrod straight and her eyes vacant. Her face was gaunt, her white flesh pulled tight across her skull. She wore a black dress and her black hair long and straight. Dom only caught a glance at her before looking away again.
She looked like a ghost.
“Show her the bathroom,” Joe said.
The woman’s eyes slowly, ponderles, went from Joe to the drunk girl. Her expression, like Joe’s, was dead. She had no expression. “This way.”
She and the drunk girl disappeared down the hall, and Joe led Dom into a room. Though it was pitch black, Dom could still see; not very well…but he could see. Suddenly, a blinding white light flicked on in front of him, causing him to stop and fall back a step. Ahead, through an archway, sat a vaulted chamber, at the center of which sat a man. To Dom’s light dazzled eyes, he seemed a proud king perched upon a throne, the skulls of his many enemies piled around him. Dom blinked and turned his head slightly to the side. His eyes began to adjust, and the world came into focus.
The man was not, as it had first seemed, sitting on a throne. Instead, he was esconded in a motorized wheelchair. The piles of skulls were actually various pieces of machinery, the kind you’d find in a hospital room. A clear tube extended from one of them to the side of the man’s neck: Yellow liquid flowed from the machine and into the man. Another tube, this one in the other side of his neck, filtered out a mixture of what looked like yellow pus and black sludge. An infected malodor filled the air, and the machines whirred softly as they worked.
As for the man himself, his appearance was normal at first glance, Dressed in a flowing red velvet robe, a blue and green blanket with a plaid pattern draped over his shoulders, he was portly, about fifty, and had shoulder length grayish hair with a bald spot in the middle. If the local theater put on a production of Hamilton, they could cast a worse Ben Franklin than him.
On closer inspection, he was not normal at all. His complexion was yellow and waxy, like a statue, and his body was lumpy, misshapen, resembling an overfilled trash bag stuffed with cotton. His eyes were sick and yellow, and something about his posture seemed…off. It didn’t make sense, but the only thing Dom could think was: He looks impossible.
Joe stopped at the edge of the shadows, where the line between light and darkness lay. He seemed to stand up a little straighter, a general greeting his king. “Here he is,” Joe said.
The man squinted slightly against the glare of the light and motioned with one gnarled hand. “Step into the light,” he said. His voice was soft and kind, that of a senile though loving grandmother. Dom imagined he felt a pull toward the man, and did as he was bidden, wincing as the light stung his eyes.
For a moment, the man stared at him, his waxen features frozen fast as stone. Then, a subtle look of compassion flickered across his face. Dom did not believe in God, but he suddenly felt like a man standing before God, his every thought, feeling, and transgression laid bare. He had never felt so naked in his life, so exposed. He had the sense that the man before him could see everything, knew everything.
“You’ve been through a lot,” the man said. It was not a question, but a statement.
Everything Dom had been through over the past couple of days came back to him in a rush, and hot tears filled his eyes. He nodded.
The man nodded slightly, more to himself than to Dom. “Kneel down,” he said, “I want to look at you.”
Dom knelt without question.
The man lifted one hand and touched Dom’s face, tilting Dom’s head from one side to the other like a farmer appraising a horse. His fingers were long and bony, his nails ragged and unkempt; his touch was like ice. He brushed his knuckles over the purple bruise on Dom’s cheek, and there was such gentleness in that one act that Dom broke down sobbing. He leaned into the man’s touch like a cat and gave voice to his misery.
“Shhh,” the man said, “it’s all over now.”
“W-What’s happening to me?” Dom asked.
In his heart of hearts, however, he already knew.
“You died,” the man said patiently. “And you came back.”
Hearing it stated so plainly, Dom cried even harder.
“Only a handful of people throughout history can claim to have defeated death,” the man said, stroking Dom’s hair, “and you’re one of them. You should be proud.”
“How?” Dom asked between sobs. “What am I?”
The man stroked Dom’s cheek. “You’re the same thing I am.”
At that, Dom looked up at the man. “What are you?” he asked.
A little, knowing smile touched the man’s lips, and when he spoke, his canine teeth were longer and sharper than before. “I’m a vampire.”
“No,” Dom moaned and shook his head, “no, no, no.” He grabbed the man’s hand and held tight, his tears coming faster. He trembled like a frightened animal and squeezed his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could escape the hell his life had become.
But there was no escape.
“You have a lot of questions,” the man said, monologuing now rather than speaking directly to Dom, “I had the same questions when I was your age. I have spent the last forty-two years of my life trying to answer them, but every answer I find leads me to still more questions. There’s one thing I’m certain of, though.”
Dom blinked the tears from his eyes. The last of them had been squeezed from his dead tear ducts and he had no more to give. He simply stared into space, trying to come to grips with his situation.
“There is freedom in death,” the man said. “Death is easy. It’s simple. Once it’s over, you feel no pain, no sadness, no grief. It’s living that’s hard.”
As he spoke, he brushed his long nails across Dom’s scalp. It was a soothing feeling, and served to calm him. “People have so many troubles.” A note of revulsion crept into his voice. “So many needs, so many desires. People are complex but we’re not. We’re easy to please. A vampire wants only two things: A little blood and one more night.”
The combination of his touch and his voice had pacified Dom to the point of almost tranquility. “I’m scared,” Dom heard himself mumble.
Nodding almost reluctantly, the man said, “Fear is one of the only emotions a vampire can’t escape. Everything feels fear. Do you want to know a secret?”
Dom nodded.
“I’m afraid too,” the man confessed. “I’m afraid of death. Well…death as it were. I’m terrified that my body will rot away and leave me a pile of bones somewhere, unable to move but still aware”
A shudder went through Dom.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen yourself, the movies lied. We rot just like any other dead thing. Our flesh decays, our organs turn to sludge, and we go from rational men to monsters whose only thought is feeding.”
Now it was his turn to shiver.
“But…you’re not like that,: Dom said.’
The man smiled. “I’m lucky, I guess” A thin yellow fluid began to drip from his nostrils. He did not seem to notice. “What is your name?”
“Dominick,” Dom said.
“I’m Merrick,” the man said, “and this is my family.”
Dom realized that they were now surrounded by others, ten in all. They stood ramrod straight, their eyes vacant and their faces devoid of humanity. They were mainly men, though one was a woman. Some were pale, others were blue or black, and one was little more than a skeleton clad in withered brown skin, a white button up and jeans hanging from its frame.
A thought occurred to Dom. “You said my brain was going to rot…”
“Not necessarily,” Merrick cautioned, “though it’s possible.”
“Am I going to be…?”
“Like them?” Merrick asked. “Braindead and staring?”
Sheepishly, Dom nodded.
“Maybe,” Merrick allowed. “But these people are free of everything that troubles humanity. You were human just a short time ago. I’m sure you remember all too well what it was like. The constant politics, the moral quandaries, the philosophical pontificating. Human beings - and make no mistake, we are humans - were not meant for all of that. We’re animals. We were made to hunt, fuck, and sleep. Somewhere along the way, we got pretentious and started complicating things.” He looked at Dom, sizing him up, seeming to read him. “Things that animals take for granted, people work their entire lives to achieve. If an animal wants to fornicate, it fornicates. If a man wants to fornicate, he needs to be tall, handsome, rich, funny, progressive when it suits women but traditional when it doesn’t. If a man wants a home, he has to work thirty years for it. An animal has only to dig a hole in the ground.”
Every word struck a chord with Dom.
Because every word was true.
“Unfortunately, the living won’t allow us to live that freely, so we have to hide. These people here - my children - need a guiding hand, a protector, someone who can lead them. And I, an old man, need help.” Here he smiled playfully and patted his bulging stomach. “My body is mostly sawdust and cotton balls at this point, so I can’t do much. I share my wisdom and my knowledge with them, and they take care of me.”
“Why haven’t you…rotted?” Dom asked.
“Embalming fluid,” Merrick said. “Blood doesn’t sustain you. Embalming fluid does.” He smiled at Dom. “It can sustain you as well. If you’ll stay with us. We’re not the most attractive bunch, but we’re a family, and we really wish you’d join us.”
A family.
Dom’s parents had broken up and he lived with his mother. He had never had a family before, and had always wanted one, a real one, like in the movies. Even as a grown man, he sought the love, acceptance, and belonging that a family brings. He sought it in the wrong ways, but that - and not sex, not romantic love - is what he had really wanted all along.
This is what he had wanted all along.
“I want to,” Dom said.
Working quickly, Merrick slashed his wrist open with his thumbnail. An ugly mixture of stale blood, siphoned from someone else, and embalming fluid leaked out. “If you choose to drink, my blood will be in you. You will be my son and I will be your father. You will obey me as your father. You will do whatever is asked of you for this family, as this family will do for you. You will not reveal the secrets of this family to anyone outside of it. You will protect this family from all threats, both inside and out. Do you accept?”
He held his bleeding wrist out to Dom.
Dom did not question, nor did he hesitate. He grabbed the hand of his father, brought it to his mouth, and drank from the seeping wound. The fluid was cold, thick, and vile.
It tasted like belonging.
“Have you fed yet?”
“No,” Dom said.
“Before you do, I have a question for you. Who did this to you? Who made you?”
Dom thought. Everything was hazy. “Was it someone in this room?” Merrick asked.
Dom shook his head. “Her name is…” he wracked his brain. “Heather.”
Merrick nodded. “So there’s another out there.” He looked at Joe. “Did you turn her?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
Merrick looked annoyed. “I’ve told you not to go out and feed on your own. You have no self-control. You drink too much and create others, which creates headaches for the family. Tomorrow night, I want you and Dom to find her and bring her here.” “Okay,” Joe said.
Merrick looked over Dom’s shoulder. “Jess? Can you come here?”
The black haired woman from earlier came out of the shadows, the drunk girl with her, arms tied behind her back. The girl looked dazed. “Max,” Merrick said to the skeletal corpse-thing, “help her.”
Max, Jessie, and another vampire named Matt tied chains around the girl’s ankles and hoisted her aloft via a pulley system. Upside down, she swung back and forth. Merrick instructed the others to leave the room. “Max,” he said.
On his way out, the corpse-thing produced a knife and dragged it across the girl’s throat, slicing her skin; blood spurted out. Max leaned in to taste it, but Merrick shooed him away. When he and Dom were alone, Merrick told Dom, “Go to her.”
But Dom was already on his feet, his eyes transfixed by the crimson life flowing from her pumping throat. The hot, rich smell filled his nostrils and tantalized his senses. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach panged with hunger. Some small, human part of his decaying brain screamed at him to stop, but he did not listen to it. He had been human for almost thirty years, and he had been miserable. Now, in this chamber of the undead, he gave himself over to his dark thirst. Like a man in a dream, he shuffled to her, inhaled the sweet scent of her blood, and shivered. He was so lost in lust that he hardly noticed the strange, cumbersome feeling of his descended fangs.
“Drink,” Merrick said.
Opening his mouth wide, Dom sank his teeth into the girl’s neck. Her blood filled his mouth and splashed down his throat. Warmth thawed the ice in his marrow and spread through him. His dead heart began to flutter, then to pound. His knees shook, his body trembled, and his mind rolled away on a tide of ecstasy.
As it was his first meal, he couldn’t drink much. Before long, his stomach was hard and distended and his body burned with fire. He collapsed to a heap on the floor and twitched as random nerve endings, stimulated by the blood, began to misfire. He felt full, warm, and drunk. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
Dominick Mason had died.
And this…
This was heaven.
***
With all that was happening in the city of Albany, the last thing Bruce Kenner needed on Thursday morning was a visit from Bertha the bitch, but that’s exactly what he got. She flew into his office like she owned the place and instantly started in on him. Young man this and have you talked to Joe Rossi that. You’d think she was his boss. And if she were his boss, he’d quit and find another line of work. He heard McDonald’s was hiring.
Bruce almost snapped at her. He’d been up most of last night riding around Albany and looking for Dominick Mason. He and Vanessa expected him to drop dead somewhere close to the medical examiner’s office, but if he had, he’d done so in a super secret location.
“I’ve been busy,” Bruce said, “but I’m going to go by his place of work today.”
Tired and still confused over that bullshit from last night, he had no energy to argue with the old crone. He could spare a few minutes to talk to Joe Rossi, he figured. He assumed that Jessie was safe but he owed it to her to check. If he found the girl, he’d take her back to her grandmother (sorry, kid, really) and try to avoid arresting the guy. Unless he came off as a creep, then he’d bust his ass. See, people assumed that an older guy with a younger girlfriend was some master manipulator hell bent on evil deeds. Sometimes they were, but hell, his grandparents married when his grandpa was twenty-one and his grandma sixteen. They were married for fifty-five years and loved each other to the end. Maybe it was innocent, maybe not. It wasn’t his job to judge either way. Just gimme the girl so I can get her grandma off my back and no one gets hurt.
“It’s about time you started doing your job,” Bertha said, “I heard on the police scanner last night that you people lost a body. What kind of town is this? Your coroner is a drunk who makes up stories about bodies walking away. He probably sold it to black people.”
Bruce couldn’t help it; he snorted laughter.
“Now what would black people want with a dead body?”
“Probably to use it as a prop in one of their rap videos.”
Bruce didn’t know much about music videos, but he was pretty sure that the people who made them didn’t like the smell of corpse any more than the rest of us. “I’ll be sure to round up all the local rappers for questioning. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Luckily for him, there was not, and Bertha left shortly thereafter. Alone and able to hear himself think, Bruce sat back in his chair and went over his mental checklist for the day. First order of business, go to Club Vlad. Second, find Dominick Mason. There were others, but that was the most important. He wanted the body found so someone could get to work explaining this whole weird thing. There had to be an explanation. The thought that there wasn’t, that a dead guy literally rose from the grave and disappeared into the night, deeply disturbed Bruce, and the more this whole thing remained ongoing, the more disturbed he would become.
Needing some fresh air, he decided to hit up Club Vlad.
Outside, the day was hot and sunny. Waves of heat shimmered from the pavement and not a single breath of air stirred in the whole world. Bruce slipped on a pair of sunglasses and drove over to Club Vlad. It occurred to him that the place might be closed during the day; it was the only place Joe Rossi was associated with. His address in the computer system was Glens Falls, far to the north. The messages he sent Jessie indicated that he lived onsite at Club Vlad.
The build, wedged between a corner store and a check cashing place, was as grimy and dumpy looking as it had always been. The front windows were blacked out and covered with posters and fliers for punk concerts, house bands, and far left political organizations: The Albany Social Justice Center, something called Bash the Fash 2025, and Bruce’s favorite. ACAB. He caught some kid spraying that on the side of the police station once, and under extreme police torture (ie, a good tongue lashing), the kid told him it meant All Cops Are Barnacleheads.
Bruce shot the kid on the spot and planted a gun on him.
How's that for barnaclehead?
Calm down, he didn’t really do that. He made him clean the graffiti off with a toothbrush. LOL he was out there for hours.
The sidewalk in front of the former theater was empty save for some little. The box office was abandoned. There was no open sigh, but then again, there was no closed sign either. He parked his cruiser at the curb, killed the engine, and got out, sweat instantly springing to his brow.
To his surprise, the door opened. Inside, a couple steps led down to a dance floor. A bar lined the wall to his right, and a couple more sets led up to a railed platform filled with tables. Above, a huge balcony looked down on him. A giant disco ball hung from the ceiling like a pair of glittery nuts and there were cages here and there. Presumably where girls danced go-go style. Oh yeah, nothing hotter than a woman behind bars. Why do you think Bruce became a cop in the first place?
Speaking of glittery nuts, there was glitter everywhere. On the floor, on the tables, on the bar. It twinkled like flecks of diamond and swirled around your feet when you walked. Bruce imagined big buckets of the stuff raining down on the dance floor at midnight and he shuddered. Imagine having glitter stuck in your hair. That shit would never come out.
Music played from the sound system, not as loud as it would be during operating hours. It sounded like ‘80s metal, not exactly what he expected from a place like this.
Some say life she's a lady
Kinda soft, kinda shady
I can tell you life is rich
She's no lady, she's a bitch
Being morning, the place was deserted except for a man behind the bar, busy at cleaning the countertop in anticipation for the night’s events. He was tall, Hispanic or Italian, and feminine, with a single earring and a tank top.
Bruce moseyed over to the bar and the barkeep looked up, missing a beat when he realized the fuzz was here. He sat down his rag and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked in a whispy voice.
“Yeah,” Bruce said, “I’m looking for Joe Rossi. Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. He looked nervous. “I can check.”
Before Bruce could answer, he scurried off, leaving him alone.
They suck my body out
But friend there is no doubt
I'm gonna pay the devil his dues
Cause I'm sick of being abused
Bruce looked around, his fingers absently drumming on the countertop. Club Vlad was a clashing mix of grunge and glam that made his head hurt. He imagined what the place must be like at midnight, packed and noisy, and nodded to himself. Yeah, this was the spot, he guessed, the place all the cool kids went, if they went anywhere anymore. Hell, if he was thirty years younger, he might come here.
He had been waiting for almost twenty minutes when a voice spoke behind him. He turned with a start, and beheld the strangest man he had ever seen in his life. Short and plump - lumpy, even - he sat in a wheelchair, a red blanket draped over his shoulders and his hands resting on his knees. He was about fifty with sparse gray hair falling to his shoulders and a plastic-looking face. He looked like a wax statue of Ben Franklin come to life, and a deep sense of disquiet stirred in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.
Just can't fight the temptation
It's become my inspiration
Gonna get myself an axe
Break some heads, break some backs
It was only then that Bruce noticed the sickly sweet smell of death.
It seemed to come from the man in waves.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said, “my name is Merrick Garvis and I own Club Vlad. Maybe I can be of assistance.”
Bruce grew up in the south where manners and saving face were paramount. His mother and his grandmother both taught him that it was impolite to stare. Maybe he'd been in New York so long that he’d forgotten himself, or maybe Merrick Garvis was just the strangest looking man in the world. Either way, Bruce couldn’t help gaping at his strange appearance. Recovering, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I -”
Merrick smiled and waved one hand. Why was it so goddamn skeletal? “Don’t worry. I was injured in a fire a long time ago and this is the best they could do for me. To be honest, I’d stare too. What can I help you with, officer?”
“I’d like to talk to Joe Rossi,” Bruce said. “I understand he works for you.”
“He did,” Merrick said, “but I had to let him go. Did he do something wrong?”
Bruce sighed. “Well, yeah, he’s shacked up with a sixteen year old runaway.”
A look of concern crossed Merrick’s features, such as they were. “Oh, my, that is concerning. I haven’t seen him in several days. I assume he went home. He lives in Glens Falls.”
Bruce nodded, his mind working. If Rossi really was in Glens Falls, that meant the whole mess was someone else’s problem. He could send Bertha up there to bother some other poor barnacle head and be rid of her. Yet…he didn’t think Rossi was in Glens Falls. Bruce had a knack for knowing when people were lying, and he was certain that Merrick Garvis was doing just that. It couldn’t be a facial tick, as his features were largely unmoving, like clay. Maybe it was something in his cloudy eyes. Maybe it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe Bruce had the shining and knew things just for the hell of it. In any event, the certainty that Merrick Garvis was lying grew stronger with each passing second.
“Why’d you fire him?”
“He got drunk and hit one of the customers.”
“What did he do?” Bruce asked. “What was his position?”
“He was a bouncer.”
“Aren’t bouncers supposed to hit people?”
Merrick fumbled. “Well…not to punch them in the face for bumping into them.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“Six months.”
“Did you ever see him with an underage girl?”
“Of course not,” Merrick said, “you have to be twenty-one to get in. I make sure everyone’s ID is checked at the door.”
“What if she had a fake ID?”
“Then I guess she’d get in, but I’d assume she was of legal age.”
“You said he shoved someone, when did this happen?”
“Last week,” Merrick said.
“I thought you said he hit someone.”
Merrick again fumbled. “I did.” Now his face seemed to darken a little. A strange yellowish liquid, too thin to be snot, began to drip from his nostrils. Bruce barely suppressed a smear of disgust. “I understand you have a job to do but playing mind games with me isn’t going to solve anything. I can give you his address. Other than that, I can’t help you further.”
“Fair enough,” Bruce said. “But I’d like to see your ID please.”
Merrick glared at him. “I suppose you want my name, rank, and serial number as well.”
“Actually, yeah, I’d love that.”
Merrick drew a deep sigh. “Okay.”
In five minutes, Bruce had Merrick’s ID, social, and all other relevant information. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered, even though he was well within his rights to ask for this information from someone he was questioning. But something about Merrick Garvis was off, and not just his weird face or strangely bulbous body. Bruce was just smart enough to realize that something was going on here, but not quite smart enough to even begin to imagine what.
When he had everything he needed and saw no reason to stick around, Bruce bid Merrick farewell and left the club. Before he could do anything else, he got a call from dispatch: Officer needed assistance in Pine Hills. Bruce slipped behind the wheel and went forth to help, momentarily putting Merrick Garvis out of his mind.
But soon or later, he would get back to him.
Oh yes he would.

Club Vlad sat near the confluence of Central Avenue and Washington Avenue, Albany’s two main thoroughfares. Two stories with blackout windows and a box office from when it used to be a movie theater, it was swarmed with people when Dom first spotted it ahead. He was somewhat familiar with it: He passed it every day on his way to work, and it was always busy around his time of evening, even on weeknights. Part of him always wanted to go inside and be a part of the scene, but he never did.
The man in sunglasses - his name was Joe - led Dom toward the club, and even before Joe spoke, Dom somehow knew that it was their destination. “There,” Joe said. “We’ll go around back.”
Dom and Joe had been walking for what seemed like an hour but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Dom stuck as close to Joe as possible as if for protection, and had become accustomed to his pungent smell. It was noticeable only at extremely close range, part sickly sweet and part…something else, something Dom could not place but still somehow recognized. They were two blocks from the club, maybe three, and Dom could hear the pulsing techo/house/whatever music as clearly as if he were standing in the middle of the dancefloor. He could hear the chatter of the people inside, or at least he imagined he could. He could smell them too: Beneath the odors of perfume, desperation, and spiritual rot was something richer, something blissful. Dom realized for the first time that he was parched - so parched - and drool filled his mouth.
A crowd of people waited outside Club Vlad, talking and laughing; some vaped, some stared down at their cellphones like Gollum with his precious ring. Dom’s first reaction was to avoid them. Perhaps sensing this…or perhaps feeling it himself…Joe ducked into an alleyway two doors down from the club. “We’ll go in the back,” Joe explained.
The back entrance to Club Vlad was a single door underneath a bare bulb. The music was so loud that Dom’s head began to throb. Inside, a dark hallway terminated in an archway filled with throbbing white light. Dread filled Dom as they approached it - he didn’t want to be around people - but thankfully they went into a room off the hall instead. An office. A cramped desk, a filing cabinet. A set of stairs disappeared into shadows.
“Sit,” Joe said.
Dom obeyed, sitting in the swivel chair.
Joe went up the stairs and Dom was alone. The deep coldness that had long settled into his bones made itself known again, and Dom leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth. The muffled music vibrated in his skull, setting his teeth on edge, and the various smells wafting in from the main room assaulted his senses. He was alternately repulsed and aroused by the crashing din of scents: The good, the bad, and the mouth watering. A sharp pain cut through his stomach like the killing edge of a knife, and Dom hugged himself tighter. Had his throat always been this dry? His throat felt like sandpaper; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and getting it unstuck hurt so badly that tears sprang to his eyes.
Dom rubbed his arms with his hands and tried to still his chattering teeth. He looked around for a blanket, a discarded jacket, something to cover himself with, but there was nothing. Only drifts of glitter on the floor and walls. He supposed it came from a party or something. He’d never been to a night club but it seemed fitting.
A sound drew his attention to the door leading back into the hall. A woman - no older than a girl - stood there, looking confused and unsteady. She was dressed in black, wore glow sticks around her wrists and neck, and held a red solo cup. “I have to pee,” she said drunkenly and laughed. “I thought this was the bathroom.”
A cold wind washed over Dom, and Joe was standing next to him. “The bathroom’s up here,” he said.
“Oh, good,” the girl laughed, “I thought it was here but I didn’t know. This is my first time here.” She held her cup aloft. “Take me to it.”
Joe glanced at Dom. “Come on.”
They formed a party as they climbed the stairs, Dom in the tear and Joe at the head. The girl stumbled and held onto the railing, talking incessantly. Her voice hurt Dom’s head, but the hot smell wafting from her was intoxicating. Drool coursed down his chin and his breathing came in short, hot bursts. Another sharp pain rent his stomach, and he winced.
At the top of the stairs, where the lights were cold and white, a woman in black stood by a doorway, her back ramrod straight and her eyes vacant. Her face was gaunt, her white flesh pulled tight across her skull. She wore a black dress and her black hair long and straight. Dom only caught a glance at her before looking away again.
She looked like a ghost.
“Show her the bathroom,” Joe said.
The woman’s eyes slowly, ponderles, went from Joe to the drunk girl. Her expression, like Joe’s, was dead. She had no expression. “This way.”
She and the drunk girl disappeared down the hall, and Joe led Dom into a room. Though it was pitch black, Dom could still see; not very well…but he could see. Suddenly, a blinding white light flicked on in front of him, causing him to stop and fall back a step. Ahead, through an archway, sat a vaulted chamber, at the center of which sat a man. To Dom’s light dazzled eyes, he seemed a proud king perched upon a throne, the skulls of his many enemies piled around him. Dom blinked and turned his head slightly to the side. His eyes began to adjust, and the world came into focus.
The man was not, as it had first seemed, sitting on a throne. Instead, he was esconded in a motorized wheelchair. The piles of skulls were actually various pieces of machinery, the kind you’d find in a hospital room. A clear tube extended from one of them to the side of the man’s neck: Yellow liquid flowed from the machine and into the man. Another tube, this one in the other side of his neck, filtered out a mixture of what looked like yellow pus and black sludge. An infected malodor filled the air, and the machines whirred softly as they worked.
As for the man himself, his appearance was normal at first glance, Dressed in a flowing red velvet robe, a blue and green blanket with a plaid pattern draped over his shoulders, he was portly, about fifty, and had shoulder length grayish hair with a bald spot in the middle. If the local theater put on a production of Hamilton, they could cast a worse Ben Franklin than him.
On closer inspection, he was not normal at all. His complexion was yellow and waxy, like a statue, and his body was lumpy, misshapen, resembling an overfilled trash bag stuffed with cotton. His eyes were sick and yellow, and something about his posture seemed…off. It didn’t make sense, but the only thing Dom could think was: He looks impossible.
Joe stopped at the edge of the shadows, where the line between light and darkness lay. He seemed to stand up a little straighter, a general greeting his king. “Here he is,” Joe said.
The man squinted slightly against the glare of the light and motioned with one gnarled hand. “Step into the light,” he said. His voice was soft and kind, that of a senile though loving grandmother. Dom imagined he felt a pull toward the man, and did as he was bidden, wincing as the light stung his eyes.
For a moment, the man stared at him, his waxen features frozen fast as stone. Then, a subtle look of compassion flickered across his face. Dom did not believe in God, but he suddenly felt like a man standing before God, his every thought, feeling, and transgression laid bare. He had never felt so naked in his life, so exposed. He had the sense that the man before him could see everything, knew everything.
“You’ve been through a lot,” the man said. It was not a question, but a statement.
Everything Dom had been through over the past couple of days came back to him in a rush, and hot tears filled his eyes. He nodded.
The man nodded slightly, more to himself than to Dom. “Kneel down,” he said, “I want to look at you.”
Dom knelt without question.
The man lifted one hand and touched Dom’s face, tilting Dom’s head from one side to the other like a farmer appraising a horse. His fingers were long and bony, his nails ragged and unkempt; his touch was like ice. He brushed his knuckles over the purple bruise on Dom’s cheek, and there was such gentleness in that one act that Dom broke down sobbing. He leaned into the man’s touch like a cat and gave voice to his misery.
“Shhh,” the man said, “it’s all over now.”
“W-What’s happening to me?” Dom asked.
In his heart of hearts, however, he already knew.
“You died,” the man said patiently. “And you came back.”
Hearing it stated so plainly, Dom cried even harder.
“Only a handful of people throughout history can claim to have defeated death,” the man said, stroking Dom’s hair, “and you’re one of them. You should be proud.”
“How?” Dom asked between sobs. “What am I?”
The man stroked Dom’s cheek. “You’re the same thing I am.”
At that, Dom looked up at the man. “What are you?” he asked.
A little, knowing smile touched the man’s lips, and when he spoke, his canine teeth were longer and sharper than before. “I’m a vampire.”
“No,” Dom moaned and shook his head, “no, no, no.” He grabbed the man’s hand and held tight, his tears coming faster. He trembled like a frightened animal and squeezed his eyes closed, as if by doing so he could escape the hell his life had become.
But there was no escape.
“You have a lot of questions,” the man said, monologuing now rather than speaking directly to Dom, “I had the same questions when I was your age. I have spent the last forty-two years of my life trying to answer them, but every answer I find leads me to still more questions. There’s one thing I’m certain of, though.”
Dom blinked the tears from his eyes. The last of them had been squeezed from his dead tear ducts and he had no more to give. He simply stared into space, trying to come to grips with his situation.
“There is freedom in death,” the man said. “Death is easy. It’s simple. Once it’s over, you feel no pain, no sadness, no grief. It’s living that’s hard.”
As he spoke, he brushed his long nails across Dom’s scalp. It was a soothing feeling, and served to calm him. “People have so many troubles.” A note of revulsion crept into his voice. “So many needs, so many desires. People are complex but we’re not. We’re easy to please. A vampire wants only two things: A little blood and one more night.”
The combination of his touch and his voice had pacified Dom to the point of almost tranquility. “I’m scared,” Dom heard himself mumble.
Nodding almost reluctantly, the man said, “Fear is one of the only emotions a vampire can’t escape. Everything feels fear. Do you want to know a secret?”
Dom nodded.
“I’m afraid too,” the man confessed. “I’m afraid of death. Well…death as it were. I’m terrified that my body will rot away and leave me a pile of bones somewhere, unable to move but still aware”
A shudder went through Dom.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen yourself, the movies lied. We rot just like any other dead thing. Our flesh decays, our organs turn to sludge, and we go from rational men to monsters whose only thought is feeding.”
Now it was his turn to shiver.
“But…you’re not like that,: Dom said.’
The man smiled. “I’m lucky, I guess” A thin yellow fluid began to drip from his nostrils. He did not seem to notice. “What is your name?”
“Dominick,” Dom said.
“I’m Merrick,” the man said, “and this is my family.”
Dom realized that they were now surrounded by others, ten in all. They stood ramrod straight, their eyes vacant and their faces devoid of humanity. They were mainly men, though one was a woman. Some were pale, others were blue or black, and one was little more than a skeleton clad in withered brown skin, a white button up and jeans hanging from its frame.
A thought occurred to Dom. “You said my brain was going to rot…”
“Not necessarily,” Merrick cautioned, “though it’s possible.”
“Am I going to be…?”
“Like them?” Merrick asked. “Braindead and staring?”
Sheepishly, Dom nodded.
“Maybe,” Merrick allowed. “But these people are free of everything that troubles humanity. You were human just a short time ago. I’m sure you remember all too well what it was like. The constant politics, the moral quandaries, the philosophical pontificating. Human beings - and make no mistake, we are humans - were not meant for all of that. We’re animals. We were made to hunt, fuck, and sleep. Somewhere along the way, we got pretentious and started complicating things.” He looked at Dom, sizing him up, seeming to read him. “Things that animals take for granted, people work their entire lives to achieve. If an animal wants to fornicate, it fornicates. If a man wants to fornicate, he needs to be tall, handsome, rich, funny, progressive when it suits women but traditional when it doesn’t. If a man wants a home, he has to work thirty years for it. An animal has only to dig a hole in the ground.”
Every word struck a chord with Dom.
Because every word was true.
“Unfortunately, the living won’t allow us to live that freely, so we have to hide. These people here - my children - need a guiding hand, a protector, someone who can lead them. And I, an old man, need help.” Here he smiled playfully and patted his bulging stomach. “My body is mostly sawdust and cotton balls at this point, so I can’t do much. I share my wisdom and my knowledge with them, and they take care of me.”
“Why haven’t you…rotted?” Dom asked.
“Embalming fluid,” Merrick said. “Blood doesn’t sustain you. Embalming fluid does.” He smiled at Dom. “It can sustain you as well. If you’ll stay with us. We’re not the most attractive bunch, but we’re a family, and we really wish you’d join us.”
A family.
Dom’s parents had broken up and he lived with his mother. He had never had a family before, and had always wanted one, a real one, like in the movies. Even as a grown man, he sought the love, acceptance, and belonging that a family brings. He sought it in the wrong ways, but that - and not sex, not romantic love - is what he had really wanted all along.
This is what he had wanted all along.
“I want to,” Dom said.
Working quickly, Merrick slashed his wrist open with his thumbnail. An ugly mixture of stale blood, siphoned from someone else, and embalming fluid leaked out. “If you choose to drink, my blood will be in you. You will be my son and I will be your father. You will obey me as your father. You will do whatever is asked of you for this family, as this family will do for you. You will not reveal the secrets of this family to anyone outside of it. You will protect this family from all threats, both inside and out. Do you accept?”
He held his bleeding wrist out to Dom.
Dom did not question, nor did he hesitate. He grabbed the hand of his father, brought it to his mouth, and drank from the seeping wound. The fluid was cold, thick, and vile.
It tasted like belonging.
“Have you fed yet?”
“No,” Dom said.
“Before you do, I have a question for you. Who did this to you? Who made you?”
Dom thought. Everything was hazy. “Was it someone in this room?” Merrick asked.
Dom shook his head. “Her name is…” he wracked his brain. “Heather.”
Merrick nodded. “So there’s another out there.” He looked at Joe. “Did you turn her?”
“Yes,” Joe said.
Merrick looked annoyed. “I’ve told you not to go out and feed on your own. You have no self-control. You drink too much and create others, which creates headaches for the family. Tomorrow night, I want you and Dom to find her and bring her here.” “Okay,” Joe said.
Merrick looked over Dom’s shoulder. “Jess? Can you come here?”
The black haired woman from earlier came out of the shadows, the drunk girl with her, arms tied behind her back. The girl looked dazed. “Max,” Merrick said to the skeletal corpse-thing, “help her.”
Max, Jessie, and another vampire named Matt tied chains around the girl’s ankles and hoisted her aloft via a pulley system. Upside down, she swung back and forth. Merrick instructed the others to leave the room. “Max,” he said.
On his way out, the corpse-thing produced a knife and dragged it across the girl’s throat, slicing her skin; blood spurted out. Max leaned in to taste it, but Merrick shooed him away. When he and Dom were alone, Merrick told Dom, “Go to her.”
But Dom was already on his feet, his eyes transfixed by the crimson life flowing from her pumping throat. The hot, rich smell filled his nostrils and tantalized his senses. Saliva filled his mouth and his stomach panged with hunger. Some small, human part of his decaying brain screamed at him to stop, but he did not listen to it. He had been human for almost thirty years, and he had been miserable. Now, in this chamber of the undead, he gave himself over to his dark thirst. Like a man in a dream, he shuffled to her, inhaled the sweet scent of her blood, and shivered. He was so lost in lust that he hardly noticed the strange, cumbersome feeling of his descended fangs.
“Drink,” Merrick said.
Opening his mouth wide, Dom sank his teeth into the girl’s neck. Her blood filled his mouth and splashed down his throat. Warmth thawed the ice in his marrow and spread through him. His dead heart began to flutter, then to pound. His knees shook, his body trembled, and his mind rolled away on a tide of ecstasy.
As it was his first meal, he couldn’t drink much. Before long, his stomach was hard and distended and his body burned with fire. He collapsed to a heap on the floor and twitched as random nerve endings, stimulated by the blood, began to misfire. He felt full, warm, and drunk. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.
Dominick Mason had died.
And this…
This was heaven.
​
***
With all that was happening in the city of Albany, the last thing Bruce Kenner needed on Thursday morning was a visit from Bertha the bitch, but that’s exactly what he got. She flew into his office like she owned the place and instantly started in on him. Young man this and have you talked to Joe Rossi that. You’d think she was his boss. And if she were his boss, he’d quit and find another line of work. He heard McDonald’s was hiring.
Bruce almost snapped at her. He’d been up most of last night riding around Albany and looking for Dominick Mason. He and Vanessa expected him to drop dead somewhere close to the medical examiner’s office, but if he had, he’d done so in a super secret location.
“I’ve been busy,” Bruce said, “but I’m going to go by his place of work today.”
Tired and still confused over that bullshit from last night, he had no energy to argue with the old crone. He could spare a few minutes to talk to Joe Rossi, he figured. He assumed that Jessie was safe but he owed it to her to check. If he found the girl, he’d take her back to her grandmother (sorry, kid, really) and try to avoid arresting the guy. Unless he came off as a creep, then he’d bust his ass. See, people assumed that an older guy with a younger girlfriend was some master manipulator hell bent on evil deeds. Sometimes they were, but hell, his grandparents married when his grandpa was twenty-one and his grandma sixteen. They were married for fifty-five years and loved each other to the end. Maybe it was innocent, maybe not. It wasn’t his job to judge either way. Just gimme the girl so I can get her grandma off my back and no one gets hurt.
“It’s about time you started doing your job,” Bertha said, “I heard on the police scanner last night that you people lost a body. What kind of town is this? Your coroner is a drunk who makes up stories about bodies walking away. He probably sold it to black people.”
Bruce couldn’t help it; he snorted laughter.
“Now what would black people want with a dead body?”
“Probably to use it as a prop in one of their rap videos.”
Bruce didn’t know much about music videos, but he was pretty sure that the people who made them didn’t like the smell of corpse any more than the rest of us. “I’ll be sure to round up all the local rappers for questioning. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Luckily for him, there was not, and Bertha left shortly thereafter. Alone and able to hear himself think, Bruce sat back in his chair and went over his mental checklist for the day. First order of business, go to Club Vlad. Second, find Dominick Mason. There were others, but that was the most important. He wanted the body found so someone could get to work explaining this whole weird thing. There had to be an explanation. The thought that there wasn’t, that a dead guy literally rose from the grave and disappeared into the night, deeply disturbed Bruce, and the more this whole thing remained ongoing, the more disturbed he would become.
Needing some fresh air, he decided to hit up Club Vlad.
Outside, the day was hot and sunny. Waves of heat shimmered from the pavement and not a single breath of air stirred in the whole world. Bruce slipped on a pair of sunglasses and drove over to Club Vlad. It occurred to him that the place might be closed during the day; it was the only place Joe Rossi was associated with. His address in the computer system was Glens Falls, far to the north. The messages he sent Jessie indicated that he lived onsite at Club Vlad.
The build, wedged between a corner store and a check cashing place, was as grimy and dumpy looking as it had always been. The front windows were blacked out and covered with posters and fliers for punk concerts, house bands, and far left political organizations: The Albany Social Justice Center, something called Bash the Fash 2025, and Bruce’s favorite. ACAB. He caught some kid spraying that on the side of the police station once, and under extreme police torture (ie, a good tongue lashing), the kid told him it meant All Cops Are Barnacleheads.
Bruce shot the kid on the spot and planted a gun on him.
How's that for barnaclehead?
Calm down, he didn’t really do that. He made him clean the graffiti off with a toothbrush. LOL he was out there for hours.
The sidewalk in front of the former theater was empty save for some little. The box office was abandoned. There was no open sigh, but then again, there was no closed sign either. He parked his cruiser at the curb, killed the engine, and got out, sweat instantly springing to his brow.
To his surprise, the door opened. Inside, a couple steps led down to a dance floor. A bar lined the wall to his right, and a couple more sets led up to a railed platform filled with tables. Above, a huge balcony looked down on him. A giant disco ball hung from the ceiling like a pair of glittery nuts and there were cages here and there. Presumably where girls danced go-go style. Oh yeah, nothing hotter than a woman behind bars. Why do you think Bruce became a cop in the first place?
Speaking of glittery nuts, there was glitter everywhere. On the floor, on the tables, on the bar. It twinkled like flecks of diamond and swirled around your feet when you walked. Bruce imagined big buckets of the stuff raining down on the dance floor at midnight and he shuddered. Imagine having glitter stuck in your hair. That shit would never come out.
Music played from the sound system, not as loud as it would be during operating hours. It sounded like ‘80s metal, not exactly what he expected from a place like this.
Some say life she's a lady
Kinda soft, kinda shady
I can tell you life is rich
She's no lady, she's a bitch
Being morning, the place was deserted except for a man behind the bar, busy at cleaning the countertop in anticipation for the night’s events. He was tall, Hispanic or Italian, and feminine, with a single earring and a tank top.
Bruce moseyed over to the bar and the barkeep looked up, missing a beat when he realized the fuzz was here. He sat down his rag and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked in a whispy voice.
“Yeah,” Bruce said, “I’m looking for Joe Rossi. Is he here?”
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. He looked nervous. “I can check.”
Before Bruce could answer, he scurried off, leaving him alone.
They suck my body out
But friend there is no doubt
I'm gonna pay the devil his dues
Cause I'm sick of being abused
Bruce looked around, his fingers absently drumming on the countertop. Club Vlad was a clashing mix of grunge and glam that made his head hurt. He imagined what the place must be like at midnight, packed and noisy, and nodded to himself. Yeah, this was the spot, he guessed, the place all the cool kids went, if they went anywhere anymore. Hell, if he was thirty years younger, he might come here.
He had been waiting for almost twenty minutes when a voice spoke behind him. He turned with a start, and beheld the strangest man he had ever seen in his life. Short and plump - lumpy, even - he sat in a wheelchair, a red blanket draped over his shoulders and his hands resting on his knees. He was about fifty with sparse gray hair falling to his shoulders and a plastic-looking face. He looked like a wax statue of Ben Franklin come to life, and a deep sense of disquiet stirred in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.
Just can't fight the temptation
It's become my inspiration
Gonna get myself an axe
Break some heads, break some backs
It was only then that Bruce noticed the sickly sweet smell of death.
It seemed to come from the man in waves.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said, “my name is Merrick Garvis and I own Club Vlad. Maybe I can be of assistance.”
Bruce grew up in the south where manners and saving face were paramount. His mother and his grandmother both taught him that it was impolite to stare. Maybe he'd been in New York so long that he’d forgotten himself, or maybe Merrick Garvis was just the strangest looking man in the world. Either way, Bruce couldn’t help gaping at his strange appearance. Recovering, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I -”
Merrick smiled and waved one hand. Why was it so goddamn skeletal? “Don’t worry. I was injured in a fire a long time ago and this is the best they could do for me. To be honest, I’d stare too. What can I help you with, officer?”
“I’d like to talk to Joe Rossi,” Bruce said. “I understand he works for you.”
“He did,” Merrick said, “but I had to let him go. Did he do something wrong?”
Bruce sighed. “Well, yeah, he’s shacked up with a sixteen year old runaway.”
A look of concern crossed Merrick’s features, such as they were. “Oh, my, that is concerning. I haven’t seen him in several days. I assume he went home. He lives in Glens Falls.”
Bruce nodded, his mind working. If Rossi really was in Glens Falls, that meant the whole mess was someone else’s problem. He could send Bertha up there to bother some other poor barnacle head and be rid of her. Yet…he didn’t think Rossi was in Glens Falls. Bruce had a knack for knowing when people were lying, and he was certain that Merrick Garvis was doing just that. It couldn’t be a facial tick, as his features were largely unmoving, like clay. Maybe it was something in his cloudy eyes. Maybe it was the tone of his voice. Or maybe Bruce had the shining and knew things just for the hell of it. In any event, the certainty that Merrick Garvis was lying grew stronger with each passing second.
“Why’d you fire him?”
“He got drunk and hit one of the customers.”
“What did he do?” Bruce asked. “What was his position?”
“He was a bouncer.”
“Aren’t bouncers supposed to hit people?”
Merrick fumbled. “Well…not to punch them in the face for bumping into them.”
“How long did he work for you?”
“Six months.”
“Did you ever see him with an underage girl?”
“Of course not,” Merrick said, “you have to be twenty-one to get in. I make sure everyone’s ID is checked at the door.”
“What if she had a fake ID?”
“Then I guess she’d get in, but I’d assume she was of legal age.”
“You said he shoved someone, when did this happen?”
“Last week,” Merrick said.
“I thought you said he hit someone.”
Merrick again fumbled. “I did.” Now his face seemed to darken a little. A strange yellowish liquid, too thin to be snot, began to drip from his nostrils. Bruce barely suppressed a smear of disgust. “I understand you have a job to do but playing mind games with me isn’t going to solve anything. I can give you his address. Other than that, I can’t help you further.”
“Fair enough,” Bruce said. “But I’d like to see your ID please.”
Merrick glared at him. “I suppose you want my name, rank, and serial number as well.”
“Actually, yeah, I’d love that.”
Merrick drew a deep sigh. “Okay.”
In five minutes, Bruce had Merrick’s ID, social, and all other relevant information. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered, even though he was well within his rights to ask for this information from someone he was questioning. But something about Merrick Garvis was off, and not just his weird face or strangely bulbous body. Bruce was just smart enough to realize that something was going on here, but not quite smart enough to even begin to imagine what.
When he had everything he needed and saw no reason to stick around, Bruce bid Merrick farewell and left the club. Before he could do anything else, he got a call from dispatch: Officer needed assistance in Pine Hills. Bruce slipped behind the wheel and went forth to help, momentarily putting Merrick Garvis out of his mind.
But soon or later, he would get back to him.
Oh yes he would.

30 yr old female with no known allergies or conditions.
For a few days now I’ve been stuffy, congested, feel like I had a sinus infection. No cough at all or throat problems. Mostly just nose. Yellow snot. Then I got chilly and weak feeling, pretty lethargic. Day 2 my lower Stomach felt hard as a rock, literally lumpy to the touch, then finally was able to use the bathroom 2 days later. No diarrhea but a LOT of poop. Cant tell if I feel weak from pooping and dehydration or if it’s a symptom. I’ve also been getting lightheaded every time I stand up.
Now it’s day 4 and I still don’t feel 100%, I’m still getting very lightheaded and flushed feeling.
I also just noticed I have bumps on the back of my tongue that look like a cluster of enlarged taste buds, right in the middle and back of my tongue. Painless though, they feel like nothing.
I’ve also been having dry mouth all through these 4 days, but I can’t tell if that’s from breathing through my mouth a lot due to being stuffy, again dehydration, and if said bumps on my tongue are from the dry mouth. I’ve also been frequently using Afrin these few days that has made its way to then back of my tongue via post nasal drip, so could that cause tongue bumps? Idk. Ugh.
Help 🙄

Start
Previously
“Not going to tell you again, little girl,” grunted the tallest and most numerous-armed of the three brutes staring down Mira. “You can either give us your ration chips, or we can break you apart and take them for ourselves.”
Mira glared at the three, and cursed herself for taking one of the back alleys through the waystation’s outer ring. She had seen them behind her earlier when she had received her daily allotment of the ration chips, a common-sense courtesy offered to all residents of the waystation or any guests passing through. However, she had not seen them for some time afterwards, and had naively assumed that they had found another mark elsewhere to harass.
Then one had stepped out in front of her, and another behind as she crossed through one of the cross-alleys, no one nearby to hear her even if she yelled for help. While she could the bustling trade row and the edges of colorful stalls and much heavier foot traffic, it generated enough noise that she would have to shout herself hoarse in order for the echoes to rise above the background din of the merchants peddling their wares.
“I've got my three chips for the day, same as any of you,” she shot back, glaring at the muggers.
The leader of the trio chuckled mirthlessly, saying “Yes, but it appears my friends have lost theirs or perhaps they were too hungry and ate it all up already. In either case, we need more, and yours will do nicely.” His voice lost the facsimile of playfulness as he said flatly and directly “This is your last opportunity to give us those rations, before they have to scrape you off the walls.”
In response, Mira just spat on the ground in front of the hulking alien, and retorted “Eat glass, for all I care.”
The leader of the muggers gaped in astonishment for a moment before he closed his mouth, and with a shrug sent a balled fist hurtling into her stomach. Mira coughed, gagging slightly at the sensation.
One of the henchmen holding her arm against the corridor paneling sounded almost regretful as they said “Best to just give up those chips now. I've seen him beat someone till they stopped breathing, just for giving him trouble.”
The leader of the gang balled up a pair of scaled fists this time, but before he punched he paused. He narrowed his eyes and said “Whoever the hell you are, scram. This doesn’t concern you.”
Still almost bent over double, Mira looked up to see a massive vacuum suit, suitable for space walks in low atmosphere or hard vacuum conditions. It was for a large species, so massive that it scraped against the sides of the alleyway, and a curious sight given that the conditions within the waystation rings typically covered most species’ respiration, temperature, and humidity needs. Those creatures that found the condition to be slightly off usually went for less bulky solutions, small supplemental gas tanks or lightweights liquid-saturated fabrics to stay moist.
But while the figure was large, it did not appear to be armed, and the movements seemed somewhat uncoordinated, possibly inebriated to Mira's untrained eye.
“You know friend, maybe you didn't hear me, but it's time for you to move along. Else I'm going to start asking after what tribute you're going to give us for inconveniencing me.”
The lumbering suit took a step forward. It was oddly quiet, the sound of fabric hitting the flooring with far less weight behind it then Mira would have guessed. The leader of the ruffians also seemed perplexed at the lack of weight from such a massive shape, stepping forward and flicking out the fire knife that he had been threatening the human with. It was a few inches long, with a crackling and low-quality plasma emitter providing a stuttering crimson wedge of energy barely as long and wide as his hand. He waved it towards the suited figure who paused but did not retreat at the display of the weapon.
Grateful that someone had taken an interest in her situation, Mira was still worried that whoever this seemingly-confused bystander was, they did not appear to be prepared for violence, and she would have loathed to be responsible for someone else getting hurt because of her stubbornness.
“Listen to the scaly snot-ball there,” she said, the leader whipping around to glare at her, a promise of revenge for the insult clearly visible in the way he played with and gripped the crackling energy knife.
The large figure turned to regard her, and despite the opaque visor hiding their face, Mira felt suddenly exposed and scrutinized. She managed to pull a hand-free, waving away at the suited figure before her arm was caught and pinned back in place as she said “Go on: I don't want you getting hurt too. Please.”
The large figure seemed to take a step back, and the gang leader snickered. “Just goes to show that because you're big doesn't mean you can't also be a coward,” he said chuckling wetly, before turning back to Mira and flipping the knife around in his hand. “Now, what was that about a scaly snot ball? I don’t take too kindly to being insulted by those who owe me their dues.”
As he flipped the blade around, Mira clenched her eyes shut, wishing that her search hadn't come to an end here on his backwater station. But then an odd clomping sound caused her to look up, just in time to see the astonished gang members being smashed into by the suited figure, who had become galloping down the hallway, building momentum even as they scraped against the sides and protruding panels on the hallway.
While the creature was clearly not as dense as one might expect, there was still sufficient speed and mass to knock the gang members over, spilling them against a set of empty metal storage crates that were now filled with refuse and rotting food scraps. The soft-spoken follower who had warned Mira took this opportunity to escape, sprinting down the hallway towards the distant ring of the market street, dripping garbage juices from the bits of spoiled fruit hanging from him.
The other gang member quickly brushed off the scraps of packaging and herb-dust canisters that had fallen on her before getting to her feet, but although she'd squared her shoulders up to fight the interloper, she had paused, not daring to approach Mira as the enormous suited shape loomed. It began to rear onto its hind legs, lashing out with the front ones.
They didn't make contact, but it was enough of a show that the gang member took a step back. She instead went to help lift up her leader, who instead swore at her and swatted away the offered hand, getting heavily to his feet as something pink and clumpy oozed down his vest. His knife had skidded away down the hallway and he was unarmed, glaring daggers instead at the intruder who appeared to ignore him. The suited alien turned his best they could in the slightly-wider alcove until they faced Mira.
”Are you safe, little human came?”
The voice that crackled from the speaker on the suit was echoing in harmony, as if hundreds of distinct voices spoke as one.
She nodded, still confused as to who her savior was. “Thanks for the help,” she said hesitantly. “And you are-?”
”We are collective, but you may address us as Queen and Kin.”
Mara nodded slowly, before asking “Why did you save me?”
The lumbering figure lifted its head towards her, visored face still inscrutable, and spoke patiently again.
”We have a connection with humans, and saw an opportunity for us to help-”
The voice cut out as the unified words became a buzz of confusion , pain, and surprise. Shocked, Mira could see that the gang leader had recovered his knife, and had plunged it into the chest of this figure’s spacesuit.
But to both the human and the alien’s surprise, the figure did not immediately fall, nor did the wound begin to bleed. Instead, insects began to pour out, dozens of them, buzzing and humming as the air filled with the swarming creatures.
A few stings was all it took to send the other gang minion fleeing, screaming down the hall as she slapped at her already-visible welts along her skin, but the leader just chuckled. Mira could see many of the tiny creatures all across the scales, but it appeared they were too thick to have any impact.
“Well well,” he said with cruel glee, ignoring Mira for the moment to focus on the deflating suit and the growing swarm of insects that had filled it. “Something tells me that you little pests aren't going to be especially fond of clouds of acid.”
Mira could see his chest and neck flaps begin to engorge, filling with a bile that she had seen others of his species use before, spraying out a mist that could dissolve cloth and burn skin.
However, as he as the gang leader turned, chuckling thickly as his glands filled with the dangerous concoction, there was a loud THUNK, and he groaned and slumped forward. Behind him, Mira sighed in relief, slowly lowering the metal storage crate she had hit him with, and grateful that it appeared to have been heavy enough to finally put him down for the count.
Almost immediately the swarming insects rallied, going from an indistinct mass to begin collecting back at the suit. As she watched, it began re-inflating it as if a child's balloon being pumped. She could also see the cauterized cut in the suit was knitted back together with some sort of organic glue the insects spat out, until soon the only sign that the suit had been sundered at all was a thin lumpy line of off-colored paste along the cut.
A pair of the buzzing insects hadn't managed to make it back into the suit before it was sealed shut, and gently Mira held out her hand, giggling and flinching but then standing firm as she felt them tickle on her hand. The massive suit leaned forward, the visor sliding open to reveal a solid mass of insects swirling and churning within. She held out her hand, and the two that had rested on her flew off to join the others before the visor slid back down.
”Our thanks for the aid, human.”
There was a loud cacophony of uncoordinated buzzing, and then a moment later the voice spoke again.
”A consensus has been reached: We are seeking one of your kind, to help us rebuild, for our Hive and caretaker were both lost. Would you be willing to aid us?”
Glancing around at the dingy alley, Mira nodded, holding up a finger as she said “I have some conditions though, as I'm not here just for fun. I'm looking for something, but if you're willing to help me find it, I'll gladly help you deal with obstacles like this scaly blob of snot,” she said giving the unconscious gang leader a kick, eliciting a groan from his still form.
”We thank you caretaker. Now begins our first task, for we must find a new ship to rebuild within. This form was given to us by another kindly being, but it is not suitable to venture between the stars in.”
Glancing out towards the docking ring, she could barely make out the shape of her missing parents’ research vessel, right where she had last parked it.
Mira smiled. “You're always welcome to crash at my place!” she said, taking the suit by one hand and leading them down the passage towards the docking ring.
Next
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My features: - 35 today. - Shitty call center job for a shady credit card company. - Aging parents to take care of. - Bald. - Showers optional (as in once a week if even if then) - Room smells like a sty. - Went without brushing for years. Teeth now rotten and crumbling away. Couldn't even stand my own breath during the 'vid mask phase. - Had rheumatoid arthritis since I was 11. Progressed to such a stage that I fear that I have to give up gaming (the only real pleasure in my life), wrists lumpy. - the unhygienic phase started after I realised no one is going to love someone who is always in physical pain and limping around hunched over. At least a decade ago. Why bother right? (Really though, at least brush your teeth, the pains from arthritis is nothing compared to 5 years of teeth rot) - oh yes and I have that weird skin sack in my throat that sometimes catches food and then have it rot in their until it comes out by lucky days later (true troll bile spew sac style, Nurgle would be proud). Only found out later when I got a candy stuck in there and it was uncomfortable as fuck. - Ah, and I'm brown as well ( call centre job shoulda tipped you off).
Comments? Questions? Suifuel? Go ahead.
EDIT : Oh yes, I have a deviated septum as well. Always had since I was a child so I was a snot machine in my school days. Ever little things used to irritate the small patch of nose that didn't have mucus or hair because of the weird bend would have me sneezing and dripping snot everywhere. Upside is that I never got beaten up in school because I was that disgusting. The snot and sneezing problems went away on its own a few years back so I forgot.

Need help in suggestions and advice on what this is and what I can do to stop it but obviously help me in between.
SYMPTOMS- I have red spots on me mainly my back and right outer leg , stomach and face . Mainly 3 either in line but spaced out or triangle again spaced out . Partner has them badly & he scratches ( he’s going to have scars) These are itchy gunky but scab very fast and hard scab that literally looks like a beetle shell . The spots are like holes . Sometimes a white bit skin is out like a white head but pulls like string . They bleed and the blood is sticky and lumpy. Black , brown white specks - just appear to be on skin . I feel them ONLY at night and I know as skin feels itchy look at area wee ash like thing normally black on me like pepper? Feel like sand . They aren’t there 1 minute then there .
I have dark hair I’ll add but it’s long . So I’m finding sharp short straight black hairs like a dog on me . My skin looks like it’s got wet from tears and dried at times . My hair is static to my face and sticks to nose or eyes . My hair is suddenly everywhere? But literally this doesn’t wash down sink it’s like it’s stuck . Then my bedding is covered in this black ‘ fluff’ very like the bits I’m finding on me .
Hoovered mattress- then looks like someone has emptied a dust pan and brush onto it . But none of this dust /fluff has Legs .
Nose - blowing out worm like snot
I’m itching , I don’t feel all my hair is real yes I sound crazy but it looks different like oily thicker . Hair dye is clinging like gel to certain bits and then not colouring properly. I know I sound mad I’m not I promise. I’m in Scotland.

*there is an appointment for binky in less than a week!!
Binky is a 6 month old kitten that weighs about 3 lbs ans has been having trouble growing despite eating and drinking and playing. she's had an upper respiratory infection twice now and recovered w clavamox(?). her entire life she's mouth breathed and had what sounds like nose congestion but no snot or anything.
My friend is binkys caretaker, bink was born outside at her mom's and was rejected by her mom early and has always been tiny.
My friend is worried binky might have feline leukemia and we have a follow-up vet visit this upcoming week and we're going to ask about it.
I have 4 cats, one of which got a tiny lumpy sarcoma thing removed last year and had radiation therapy. he's Nugget. He's been doing so great ever since.
Nuggets been acting lethargic today and it's making me worried. My friend lives with me on the weekends so I can take her to work with me, and she brings binky.
Nugget and binky play together. I've seen him grooming her only once. They don't fight or scratch either. They do share a water fountain and several food bowls. Nugget eats really good food bc he's always had a sensitive tummy (instinct limited ingredient turkey) so I know he's getting good nutrition.
I'm wondering if binky does indeed have leukemia, in the interim before its confirmed or denied, what precautions can I help take to keep my other cats (especially nugget) from getting infected?
I don't feel like not allowing my friend and binky over is an option, for many personal reasons including work/money/etc. She (friend) has her own room here where binky has her own food and water dish as well.
Maybe keep cats food/water bowls in our individual rooms, stay closed except to allow approved cats in for a while. there are also litter boxes in all bedrooms. and maybe they could play together in the front room with one litter box out there that is cleaned every time it's used (someone would be near the cats playing)
I know this is a long post and I'm sorry. Nugget has been with me through so much, and him and his sister frida are the loves of my lives. my first two cats as an adult after an entire childhood not being allowed a pet. and they're from the same litter.
Binky came into my friends life right after her 5 year relationship ended and she had to move across country back into her mom's house, her mom needs much care and the house is old and it's a very stressful situation. And Binky has been her saving grace. My friend is 5 years recovered from homelessnes and a meth addiction, working for the first time in a long time, helping her aging mom, getting her health under control etc. Binky is her angel and holding her together in a lot of ways.
Any advice about this situation would be appreciated, although I would add that kindness is appreciated.

I posted the other day, but my brother gave me a gently used 24" Miles that his Gf's daughter had used as a pillow for a while. I'm a bit picky about used things and such, so I've unstuffed him, gave him a good wash, sewed up some pinholes, and he's ready to be restuffed. I... don't want to use the old stuffing. It's lumpy and well, drool/sweat/snot gross me out.
How would you restuff him? The silky polyfill everyone is suggesting is kind of expensive for a 24" project. It might be cheaper to cannibalize other squish (Walgreens has the 16" on a good sale), but what do you do with their skins? 🤔

“There’s nothing shittier than Whittier”. Every time some fat slob of a tourist says that, thinking it must surely be the first time I’ve heard that joke, it arouses within me a feeble urge to deny it. Out of some sorta tribalism, I guess.
Everybody defends their home town, whether it’s Dubai or a random, miserable backwater. It’s like how the mothers of murderers always swear up and down in court that their poor misunderstood boy couldn’t have done it, while privately knowing that he did.
The urge dies too quickly, I never say anything. I know they’re right. Besides, if they’re not already certain of it when they arrive, they are when the tour’s over. Why they even bother to get off the boat just to check this place out is a mystery to me.
If it weren’t for the cruise ships that stop here and the regular influx of tourist money they bring, Whittier wouldn’t last a year. Its existence is propped up, artificial. Just like this damned concrete block we all live in.
Not all of us, technically. Whitter’s grown over the past decade. Slowly, but by enough to justify new apartments and a few private homes. Even in a place like this, there are haves and have nots. Though, I wonder how much pride there is in owning the nicest house in Hell.
Speaking of Hell, when people talk about it freezing over, this is what it looks like. A big, blunt, rectilinear mountain of concrete speckled with windows and painted in banal pastels. It’s the only color this place has for all but a scant few weeks during Summer.
Talk about polishing a turd. There’s some method to the madness though. A single large structure is more efficient to heat than lots of smaller ones, so we’re all packed together under one roof...like a human warehouse.
It saves us from having to go outside to walk from one place to the next. From having to go outside for any reason, really. You can go the rest of your life without ever leaving this building, and many of the elderly residents do just that.
The school is its own building. But as it’s connected to the main one by an underground tunnel, you can get there without setting foot outside. Especially during the Winter months, the outside landscape may as well be nothing but a backdrop. Our entire world is indoors.
I laughed when I read about that reality show that was accepting volunteers for a one-way trip to Mars. It never amounted to anything, but that’s for the best. I don’t think any of the volunteers really grasped what the reality of spending the rest of their lives cooped up in a tin can would be like.
I mean shit, if you want to live in a bleak, frigid wasteland where you’re cooped up with the same people indoors year after year, just move to Whittier. Don’t actually, though. What really fucks with me is that people lived here before the internet existed.
It’s staggering to think about. There’s literally nothing else to do here. Dad tells me that Patrick and I wouldn’t have been born otherwise. Patrick always scrunches up his face at that. He’s still at that age where the idea of being interested in women for any purpose other than snowball targets is alien to him.
Of course it’s possible to leave the building. You just have to bundle up to a ludicrous degree. There’s no real reason to, so nobody does it except the few who have proper houses, or who live in the modest apartment complex. The main building still has the only post office, clinic and so on.
A few times we’ve gone down to the edge of the water. Dad calls it the beach, but there’s no sand. Just concrete and a slope of deliberately collected boulders. This one time, he whistled as a bundled up figure passed, looking something like a lumpy eskimo. “Check out the figure on that one!” he remarked.
I didn’t get the joke until the figure turned, and it was a woman. To this day I don’t know how he could tell, or if he just guessed. “Creating your own entertainment” he calls it. What Patrick and I were always told to do when we used to complain of boredom.
It was a strange sensation to watch Patrick go through the same slow process of realization and acceptance that I did when I was his age. That boredom is not the fleeting condition television and the internet make it out to be, but instead an inherent quality of this place that there is no lasting escape from.
Every day is identical to the one before it. Same sights and sounds, same few faces over and over. It’s eerily similar to clairvoyance. I know what will happen tomorrow, because I know what happened yesterday. The only variations are that Sunday means church in the morning, weekends are free, and the occasional holiday.
I can’t make myself believe that a loving God would intentionally create a place like Whittier, but I still go to church because it’s something to do. There’s precious little else to occupy my time, except shitposting on internet forums and playing stupid games with Patrick.
He and I explored every last nook and cranny of the main building by the time I was ten, and he was four. Nobody had much to say about the two of us running around unsupervised as so long as we didn’t go outside, there wasn’t much trouble we could get into. I’ve heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child. Never more true than in Whittier, though for the most part we raised ourselves.
Dad’s busy all day at the airfield, and Mom’s a teacher so she’s had her fill of rambunctious kids by the time she gets home in the evening. I don’t know how she’s amassed such an impressive wine collection given the rate at which she drinks it.
She was already passed out when I got home. No idea how she got here first, I should’ve seen her on the way. Must’ve been in a hurry to get wrecked. I dumped my book bag in my bedroom, then headed straight back out to find Patrick.
He was in the playground, our usual haunt. Lots of kids hang out here for the simple reason that it’s one of the few places adults aren’t constantly passing through on their way to someplace else, like in the main building. Of course, even the playground is indoors.
It’s the most depressing thing. When you picture a playground, you take certain stuff for granted. Grassy green hills, blue sky, puffy white clouds. Whittier’s playground is inside a concrete building like everything else.
I guess at least it has the biggest windows around here. That would count for something if there were anything to see through ’em besides snow and cloud cover. They should’ve just painted fake windows. Or a mural, maybe.
Patrick was huddled in a corner with his friend David, whose family moved in on the fourth floor about a month ago. I don’t pretend to understand boys, but I know when there’s more than one of them in a group like that and they’re giggling, some fucked up shit is afoot.
“What are you up to?” Patrick spun around, momentarily startled until he saw it was me. “David was teaching me how to launch a fart.” I snorted, despite myself. Why anybody would want to launch a fart is something which probably makes perfect sense to Patrick and David, but which will remain a mystery to me for as long as I live.
It apparently involves a lighter, as David had one clutched secretively in his hands, hunched over like a squirrel with some precious morsel it found. I snatched it from him. He whined about it until I threatened to tell his mom. “You used to be cool” he pouted. I laughed in his face and reminded him that he’s only known me a month.
“She’s right” Patrick joined in, “she was never cool.” I pocketed the lighter, then talked him into following me back home with the promise of some two player Sega. I know from the internet that it’s way out of date, but everything’s out of date here. Normal to me, but for visitors, probably a lot like stepping into a time warp.
If you miss some soda or cereal they don’t make any more, it can probably be found in Whittier’s convenience store if you dig to the back of the shelves. Greg is good about keeping the perishables current, but the nonperishables are a different story. I see his side of it though. Why call it “nonperishable”, then put an expiration date on it?
When we get home Mom’s still passed out, so I make dinner. Patrick’s easy to please, I just nuke him a can of Chef Boyardee. The pasta is that weird fluorescent orange color that doesn’t exist in nature, in the shape of cartoon characters from the 90s.
He’s already got the cartridge in and turned the system on by the time I emerge from the kitchen with our meals on the tray. He sets down his controller only long enough to scarf down his chow, which takes less than a minute.
“You were gonna let me choose the game” I scolded, though I didn’t really care. “I don’t remember saying that” he insisted, through a mouth still mostly full of orange pasta. I believe him, too. It’s a ‘good day’ by Patrick standards when he remembers to leave the apartment with his pants on the right way around.
Like a couple of the other cartridges, this one’s got a label so faded and scratched up that you can’t tell what game it is just to look at it. We’ve been playing the same 8 games since Patrick was born though, so there’s no confusion.
Streets of Rage always confused me before I learned to read. Since I didn’t know the story, I just assumed the main characters you play as woke up one day and decided to beat up everybody in the world, one at a time.
“Get the turkey!” Patrick urged. True enough, he’d knocked over a mailbox and for some reason there was a freshly baked Thanksgiving turkey inside. We’ve still got phone booths in Whittier, but no mailboxes. The post office downstairs just has little lockers. I’ve never once found a turkey in ours.
When we got tired of that game, he switched over to Sonic. It’s the first one, so there’s no two player except the special stages. I groused about it and he offered to trade off each time one of us dies. I’m not about to fall for that. I’ve seen him beat the whole thing, on one life, with his feet.
“Wanna get out the pogs?” He grimaced. “...Yeah. Me either.” Then all of a sudden, his eyes lit up. “Hey! I read about this thing on the internet! About this lady, and she went and did this thing.” When he gets excited, it’s a chore to tease comprehensible details out of him. These days I just sit there and stare at him until his brain catches up to his mouth.
“...Oh, uh...it’s this thing you can do in an elevator, if you push the buttons in the right order. Some Japanese lady went and tried it. Nobody...ever...saw her...again...” He said the last part dramatically as if it was supposed to spook me. It might’ve if he’d actually conveyed some sense of what it was about. I told him to show me on the computer.
After the clunky old beast of a computer finished booting up, Patrick fired up the web browser. I don’t know what version of Windows this is, but I know it’s older than I am and it never fails to surprise me that we can get internet on it.
Patrick mostly uses it to play Club Penguin and some other game he won’t shut up about where you build stuff out of blocks. Dad uses it to look at secret internet boobs when he thinks we’re sleeping. I checked out his browsing history once out of morbid curiosity.
I don’t know where those women are from, but it’s not Whittier. Nobody around here looks like that. They have these huge puffy lips, tired looking eyes, shiny skin and the bodily proportions of a wasp. I hope that’s not what I’m supposed to be turning into…? Because even though I turned fifteen back in March, I still just look like a taller copy of Patrick, but with long hair and pimples.
Hopefully puberty’s just waiting on me to move someplace with better prospects. The odds are good in Whittier, but the goods are odd. The boys in my class are a mess of gangly limbs and patchy quasi-mustaches. A section of my biology textbook claims that this is the age humans used to reproduce at in the wild, but I don’t see how.
Mom told me that’s where wine comes in, but that’s her answer to everything. I hesitate to say she’s an alcoholic, because in Whittier, that word doesn’t mean much by itself. Alcoholic...relative to who?
I won’t start drinking for the same reason I’m determined not to start dating either. That’s how people start getting comfortable here, I’ve seen it happen. That’s how they begin putting down roots, and this is the last place on Earth I want to do that in.
“Found it!” Patrick tugged on my sleeve, rousing me from my introspection. Sure enough, pictures and video of various people in elevators. It was in Japanese so I couldn’t understand the captions or what they were saying, but the videos all played out the same way. They’d get in the elevator, then push one of the buttons.
When they reached that floor, instead of getting out, they just pushed the button for a different floor. In a few of ’em, a woman would get in partway through. The person who got in to begin with would stand there, rigidly refusing to look at her, as if pretending she wasn’t there.
Of course this would be Japanese. They do the weirdest shit. Googling “Japanese game show” is a bottomless rabbit hole, and a good way to blow a couple hours if you’re hard up for a laugh. “I don’t get it” I confessed. “What’s the point? Why is this supposed to be scary?”
I motioned as if to leave, but Patrick held onto my arm and opened a new page. It was more of the same, but in English. “It says if you go to the different floors in a specific order, it takes you to...another world.” He said it breathlessly as before, enamored with this load of bullshit that I now recognized as an urban legend of some sort.
I told him he shouldn’t believe everything he reads on the internet, and that somebody probably just made this up to scare people. “Nobody would do that!” he objected. “Besides, it’s not just one person. A lot of people have done this, and some of them disappeared. One of them was found dead a week later, floating in a water tank.”
I pried his hand loose and headed back for the Sega. “You wanted something to do!” he called after me. That is true, I thought. Not the worst way to spend an hour. “You can only do it with an elevator that has at least ten floors, too” he added. The one in this building has fourteen…
“Alright, whatever. But we need to be back before dad gets home, and David can’t come.” Patrick mimicked the last few words in a derpy sounding voice. I swatted at him, but my hand just barely didn’t connect. He’s too quick for me now, the little shit.
The elevator’s interior is all stainless steel panels. Probably the cleanest part of Begich tower, the official name for this building, but only because it’s easy to scrub down. Eduardo the janitor’s busy doing just that when I arrive.
A normal apartment building isn’t cleaned nearly as often, from what I’ve read, but that’s because the residents don’t spend all their time inside it. Begich Tower accumulates muddy footprints, wrappers, and the general detritus of human occupation much faster because of continuous occupation, and round the clock foot traffic between the various rooms.
“I’ll be done in a minute.” I didn’t see Patrick, so I asked Eduardo if he’d seen him come through here. “I told him the same thing I told you. He waited a little while but then just...ran off.” Sounds like Patrick alright. I’d be worried except he knows better than to go outside, and so long as you stay indoors, few places on Earth are safer.
I found him hiding in the boiler room. The stained, rusting hulks of the dual boilers dominate the room, built some time in the 60s. It was on a test a few years ago but I forget stuff like that nearly as fast as I learn it. I think they meant to instill some local pride by teaching us the history of Whittier. For me, it just confirmed that Whittier didn’t go downhill before I was born or something, it was like this from the start.
“What the heck Patrick. You said we were gonna do the elevator thing.” Silence. I’ve known him his whole life, so there was never any chance he’d take me by surprise. Even so, I knew if I played along it would be over with sooner. If I didn’t, he’d just try again later. “Ooohhhh nnnooooo... What a spooooky boiler room. I hope there isn’t a gross, mutated monster in here. I would be sooo scared if-”
He burst out from his hiding place beneath one of the boiler supports, just as I walked by. “GGGRRRAAAAHHHH!” he cried, arms above his head. I put my hands on my cheeks and feigned shock. “You really got me, wow. So we gonna do the elevator thing or what? Don’t tell me you forgot why we came out here.”
“You peed, didn’t you!” he jeered. “You were so scared that you peed yourself.” I flatly denied it, so he crossed his arms, grumpy that I wasn’t really frightened. “Alright, fine. I peed a little. Happy now?” He smugly nodded.
It is an enduring mystery to me why testosterone compels little brothers the world over to behave this way. What’s accomplished by it? What sort of satisfaction is there in scaring your sister? If he could still manage to, I mean. By now, I already know every trick in his arsenal, not that any of them are particularly clever.
It’s kinda like how some rainforest frogs developed toxic skin as a defense against being eaten. So the species of snake that eats them evolved higher resistance to the venom. So the frogs become yet more venomous and so on, like an arms race. Patrick never stops devising new ways to fuck with me, and one by one, I always get wise to them.
“If you’re done being a derp, Eduardo’s probably finished by now. If we’re gonna do the thing we gotta hurry, Dad gets home at 6.” His eyes lit up and before I could stop him, he once again ran off. I’d invest in one of those child safety leashes, except he’s the last person I’d want to be tethered to. I bet he’d just keep running anyway, dragging me along the floor behind him.
When I returned to the elevator, it was on some other floor. I hammered the button until it arrived. When the doors parted, there was Patrick, looking irritated. “I was trying it first to see if it works!” I shrugged. If he wants to be the guinea pig, suits me.
“You’re still here though.” He looked sheepish and confessed that he’d forgotten the exact sequence of floors. “You coulda printed it out, idiot.” He half-heartedly tried to headbutt me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the site up.” I scrolled through recently visited URLs in my phone browser, and tapped on the elevator ritual website.
Dad won’t let him have his own smartphone until he’s older. Probably for the best, I shudder to think of what he’d get up to with it. He’s the sort of kid that really oughta be put on all those government watch lists pre-emptively. I’m joking, but barely.
I beckon for him to get in the elevator with me, but he shakes his head. “Read it again, it says you gotta do it alone.” Huh, so it does. He hastily recounts some other detail of the process to me the split second before the doors close, but I’m unconcerned. I have it all laid out step by step on my phone anyway.
The first thing to do, according to the list, is to head to the ground floor if I’m not already there. I did so, then for good measure got out and got back in. I felt silly...like I really thought it would affect the outcome or something? The next button to hit was 4.
I arrived at the fourth floor. Nothing, of course. Then to the second floor. Mrs. Rose ambled past with her walker, turning to look quizzically at me. I just smiled and briefly waved, not wanting to embarrass myself by explaining what I’m up to. For all she knows, I’m on important business.
Now the sixth floor. Still nothing. Back to the second floor? It felt more than ever like a wild goose chase, where the punchline at the end is simply that I was gullible enough to try it. I considered skipping the rest, but realized Patrick would never let me hear the end of it.
Now to the tenth floor. Took a little while. It was a pleasant, if brief, respite from constantly preparing to explain myself to any given adult who might be waiting outside when the door next opened. Nobody outside this time, thankfully. Now to the fifth floor.
A little note next to this step advised me that I was under no circumstances to speak to the woman who would get on at the fifth floor, and to look at her as little as possible. I shrugged. But when the doors parted, there was actually someone there. I tensed up until I recognized her as Mrs. Saganawa, a Japanese woman who lives on this floor that my mother sometimes plays cards with.
She got on, but said nothing. Neither did her expression register any surprise or recognition. I still didn’t speak to her, but only because her English is poor. She usually jumps at any chance to practice, but today she just stood there, silently staring into space.
I waited for her to tell me which floor she wanted, or to press one of the buttons herself. She never did. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Still just standing there, silent and rigid. So, as instructed by the website, I pressed one.
To my surprise, the elevator ascended. I jammed on the button for the first floor as if that would do any good. Of course it didn’t. I tried emergency stop on a whim but it did nothing, and shouldn’t anyway without the maintenance key to activate it.
I looked back at the instructions. It said this would happen, but only if I’d performed all of the steps correctly. Mrs. Saganawa still stood perfectly still in my peripheral vision, saying nothing. When the elevator reached the tenth floor and the doors opened, I stepped out.
When she spoke, I froze in place. Not because the list said she would, that simply would’ve been a funny coincidence. Rather, because when she asked me where I was going, there wasn’t any hint of an accent in her voice. My blood ran cold. It...couldn’t be, could it?
I turned to look back, but remembered that the list urged me not to. But it’s just a stupid prank or something, right? I pictured Patrick laughing at me. The snot nosed little goblin! Could he have talked Mrs. Saganawa into participating? No, it wouldn’t be like her. But there’s no way I can let myself be fooled, that’s exactly what he was hoping for.
I turned around and began to speak...just in time for the elevator doors to shut. I recalled hammering the button for the first floor on the way up and concluded it was probably headed there now. I’m sure I’ll see Mrs. Saganawa the next time she comes over for cards, I’ll have to ask her what that was about.
I check the list. It says if I did everything right, I should be in a different world now. I head straight for the nearest window. Same bleak, snowy tundra. Same mountains. Same grey, overcast sky as always. I scolded myself for being afraid. Even just momentarily uncertain that it was a load of shit, which it was from the beginning.
As I head back to the elevator, I notice the bulb’s out in this hallway. We still use the halogen ones, some political thing on TV a few years back made everybody dead set against using those swirly ones that are supposed to last longer. I never understood why, but loads of things that adults think are important seem trivial to me.
The light in the elevator flickered on the way to my floor. When the doors parted, to my surprise, the bulb in this corridor was burnt out as well. I scratch my head. That’s not like Eduardo, he’s always on top of stuff like this.
Dad would say it’s because Mexicans are lazy. But he also says they’re taking all the jobs. Something about that doesn’t add up, maybe another one of those grown up things I’ll suddenly understand when I turn 18.
The doors open...but Patrick’s not there. I groan. “You’re the one who dragged me out here to do this!” I called down the corridor. When no answer came back, I begrudgingly set out in search of my little brother.
Mom once gave me time out for telling Patrick that Mom and Dad got him from the clearance bin at the maternity ward, like how dented cans are half off at the Kozy Korner. I dunno how she could punish me for lying. It’s only lying if you know for sure what you said isn’t true.
I kept expecting the bulb in the next hallway to be on, but none of them are. Power outage? It’s been known to happen. Usually because a snow laden tree collapsed on the power lines during a storm. My first thought was that I’d find him in the boiler room again.
With the lights out, it would actually be kinda spooky in there, and he’d be harder to spot. Everything I know about ‘Patrick logic’ confirms it. On my way, I kept expecting to run into someone. Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Saganawa. I just...never did.
The hallways are almost never this empty. When they are, it’s because there’s some community function. A church potluck, movie night in the gym, something of that nature. I check the calendar on my phone. If that’s what it is, I didn’t make any note of it.
When I reach the boiler room, it’s pitch black as expected. “Patrick, I know you’re in here” I shout in my most accusatory tone. “...David better not be with you.” It dawns on me that the two of them might have come up with this together, just because I took David’s lighter.
“Patrick, if David put you up to this I’m gonna beat both your asses.” Still no answer. So gingerly, I step into the cool, cavernous chamber. Pulling up the flashlight app on my phone illuminates a modest patch of the floor in front of me. Just enough to avoid tripping, or stubbing my toe. As I sweep it to and fro, it reveals some graffiti on the far wall I don’t recall seeing before. “Control the tone”, it reads.
I’ve only been here at night once. Sophie told me some of the guys in our class bring girls here to make out. I found a dirty bra and some crushed beer cans, but didn’t catch anybody in the act. None of the boys have ever asked to meet here at night. I dunno what I’ll do if one of ’em ever does. Pretend to have a stroke, I guess.
Next most likely place would be the playground. “I bet he’s there with David” I thought, fidgeting with the lighter in my pocket. David’s father is an ex-con. I don’t know much else about him, and I know it’s possible I’ve got him all wrong...but it would explain why David’s always got a knife, firecrackers, a lighter or something of that nature. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
The playground was better lit than the boiler room on account of the big windows. Dim patches of sunlight dominated the floor, coated from wall to wall in bark dust. Comforting, but they ruined my night vision, so that the light from my phone wasn’t as much help. “Patrick? If you’re in here, come out. This isn’t funny, I’m gonna tell Mom when we get home if you don’t come out.”
That didn’t budge him. I was about to leave when I heard the metallic jingle of a jostled chain. When I turned round, nobody was there...but one of the swings now lazily drifted back and forth. “Patrick?” I waited a little while, sweeping the light around, then set off for home.
Once again, I didn’t run into anybody on the way. It feels cooler than usual. I wonder if the furnace is busted too. I then wonder why the generators haven’t kicked in yet. They’re supposed to start up whenever the power is interrupted for longer than a minute.
There’s a wood fired backup, in the event of prolonged outage. It hasn’t been needed since before I was born though. Probably full of cobwebs and rat nests, could be why Eduardo hasn’t gotten it fired up yet. “Yes, that must be it” I told myself in a firm voice.
But when I got to the apartment, it was empty too. It makes no sense. Mom should still be here, at least. When she’s black out drunk, she’s no good to anybody until the next morning. There’s no way she could get up and leave on her own.
Maybe Dad took her out for a night on the town? The only tunnel into or out of Whittier closes at 10pm. Plenty of people have had to sleep in their cars just because they got back from Anchorage a minute or two late. That can’t be it either, though. It’s still light out.
I hesitate before calling Mom. If she’s up, then she found out Patrick and I went out without permission. But it just rings anyway, she never picks up. Probably she has it on silent and the phone’s in her purse. She’s always doing that. Dad gets on her case sometimes about how there’s no point to carrying a phone if nobody can reach her with it.
I hesitate even more before calling Dad. He bought me the phone as a birthday present, but it came with all kinds of conditions attached. One of them is never to bother him at work unless it’s an emergency. I look around. Is this...an emergency? I don’t really know. It’s not lying if you don’t know.
“Hey Dad? Listen, I know you told me never to bother you at work, but-” He interrupted me, barely intelligible through the static. “I’m not at work young lady, I’m at home. Where you should be right now. I hope Patrick’s with you, because if you let him run off on his own again-”
“Wait. Where are you?” He repeated that he’s at home right now. “Dad, you can’t be at home. I’m at home. What room are you in?” Not like there’s many possibilities. There’s just two bedrooms and a bath, the kitchen and living room are kinda smushed together.
“I’m in the livingroom. Is Patrick with you or isn’t he?” I didn’t answer. He continued badgering me through the phone as I turned in place, slowly studying the living room around me. “Dad, I’m in the living room. I don’t see you.” He just went on lecturing me about Patrick.
The static grew worse until I could only make out every other word. I banged on my phone a bit, not knowing what else to do, until the screen flickered. If I break this thing, there’s no way I’m getting a new one. It was hard enough to sell Dad on the idea to begin with.
Only one bar. The reception in here isn’t the best. It’s highly dependent which room you’re in and how close it is to the center of the building. There’s no reception in the elevator at all, something to do with the metal panels. Come to think of it, I can never get a text out from the bathroom stalls at school for the same reason.
Not here, though. It’s always been three or four bars. The battery’s at 62%. I hunted down my charger and plugged it into the wall, but nothing happens. No “boop” sound to register that it’s charging like usual, no tiny lightning bolt over the battery icon.
How could he be at home? Why would he lie to me? Patrick couldn’t have orchestrated all this. I slowly began to take seriously my growing suspicion that something’s gone wrong. Very, very wrong. I can’t...be alone here...can I? I ran into Mrs. Saganawa in the elevator. She should still be around here someplace, at least.
I tried calling Dad again, but it bounced. Again and again I tried, with the same result every time. Likewise when I tried to call Mom. For the first time, I caught myself wishing Patrick had his own phone just so I could track him down easier. Last time I asked I Mom why that’s automatically “my job”, I got an earful, so I haven’t asked since.
When the apartment phone rang, I was powerfully confused until I remembered these old land line telephones keep working even when there’s no electricity. The school subjects us to this gay safety assembly every year where we’re supposed to memorize emergency tips like that, I guess some of it actually sank in.
I pick up. The girl on the other end sounds faint and scratchy. Not so much like static, more like a worn out old recording. “Control the tone” she whispered. Tone? I ask if she means the dial tone. There’s a pause. “The mood. What joined you in the elevator…it will only appear when it’s cold, dark, and grey.”
I asked her name. She just babbled on. “The tone of the situation. The feeling. The atmosphere. Control the tone, and you can stop it from following you. Colors, lights, music. Disrupt the bleak, dismal tone, and it will stay away.” I asked if she lives in this building. She hung up on me.
Control the tone? Prank call, surely. If Patrick didn’t set all this up, she must’ve. I looked out one of the front windows. The windows of every apartment in the smaller complex, every shop and the handful of private homes were all dark.
That’s when I saw a distant, glowing red cross atop the Buckner building. It’s the other half of the military base all of this used to be, back during world war two. Begich tower got bought up and converted into what it is today. The Buckner building was just left to rot.
In the Summers, sometimes we’d go out there after dark just to poke around inside with flashlights and spook ourselves. Or play hide and seek, or take pictures. Probably some of the boys in my class also use it for the same...sorta thing...as the boiler room.
But the cross suggested a new possibility. I’ve never heard of the church a few floors down holding services in the Buckner building. I’ve never heard of it being put to any use at all. Yet there stands a great glowing crucifix, plain as day.
Can’t be a holiday I’ve forgotten, they’ve never gone out to hold a service there before. I doubt it’s a marriage either, those are usually held either in the lounge or the Ptarmigan room. Could someone have specially requested it? I don’t see why anybody would want to do it there, though.
As I watched, the cross seemed to grow brighter. So slowly I almost didn’t notice. Larger too, as if it’s getting closer. At the same time I felt pressure on my ear drums, and a slowly intensifying feeling of dread. It manifested as a weight in my chest which only pressed more and more sharply by the minute.
“Control the tone”. Someone had written it in the condensation on the window with their finger. I wiped it away. With the dehumidifiers down, all the other windows were starting to fog up too. I waited by the phone a little longer before setting off in search of Patrick.
The weight in my chest wouldn’t go away, but it seemed to lighten somewhat as I put more and more distance between me and the apartment. Still, I felt consumed with anxiety. Hard to place the exact kind. It’s like when you’re little, hiding from a thunderstorm. It sounds like something huge is angry with you, and trying to find you.
Like something bad is coming. The weight, and pressure of it bearing down on me as it draws near. That nameless feeling of impending doom. Given how old Begich Tower is, unsurprisingly there’s a few ghost stories associated with it.
Most to do with soldiers, still roaming the halls, some whistling. That’s what they say. Someone will be walking alone at night when they hear footsteps behind them. But when they look, nobody’s there. That’s when the whistling starts.
I strain my ears, but hear no whistling. Nor do I hear any footsteps other than my own. Only after I’ve gotten into the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor do I realize that it has the only working light in this place. For that matter, why does the elevator still have power when nothing else does?
^{Story continues here, audio content + hardcover books here.}

Don't miss out on the full experience with this amazing narration by The Dark Somnium! As always the entire cast did excellent work!!
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[Intro]
Every fourth Thursday in November, families across the country gather together in celebration of the love and appreciation they feel for one another. This of course takes place over a delicious Thanksgiving feast of turkey, yams, dressings, and pies! At least that’s the Hallmark definition, but most of us just show up for the food.
Nowadays, we purchase our turkeys and hams from the grocery store, but— not so long ago— men ventured into the woods to put food on their tables and pelts on their backs; they plowed their fields by day and their women by night… All without expressing any form of emotion, for that was considered the ultimate sign of weakness.
In fact, there are some who continue to honor these traditions even now— like my family… Oh! No! Not me or mine! No; my wife and I don’t take stock in all that old world crap— neither do my brother and sister for that matter. I’m referring to the people we came from— our parents and grandparents…
I know you’re thinking— if they’re that terrible, I should just cut them off— but it’s not that simple. If it was a matter of money principle, I would have moved to the other side of the country long before reaching this point, but it’s so much more than that…
There’s really no way to explain it except to start at the beginning… You’ll get the wrong idea if I reveal my family’s Thanksgiving tradition without context*…* But— I must warn you— this is a long one; if you decide to stick around, you better get comfortable. I know I’m gonna pour a drink first, so feel free to do the same.
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[I]
My name is Avery Hunter, but this story actually begins with my several-greats-over grandfather, Hank— a poor man who was forced to settle in an even poorer community while his wife gave birth to their second child. It was 1721, and times were hard in this particular slice of Ohio; if you had food in your belly, it was a blessed day… Well, it wasn’t actually Ohio yet, but we’re not here for that kind of history lesson.
Now, one thing to understand— the event we know as The First Thanksgiving took place in October 1621 (yep, October), but it wasn’t an actual holiday yet; that wouldn’t come until much later. The fact that Pappy Hunter’s story takes place in November is merely a coincidence.
All through the summer, food had grown more and more scarce, and now that the first snow had fallen, they were trapped until spring. Hank tried to rally the other men for a final hunt— before it was too cold to survive a night outdoors— but no one would help. When the time came, he departed alone with a small pack, a full canteen, a large knife, and a rifle he could fire only once. Before he even began, his body was so weak— so frail— that every step was like a kick to his very soul… Yet an entire community was depending on him…
And at that moment— with that realization— he resented them all very much. What did he owe them, anyway? If he did happen to make a kill, was he really going to steal food from the mouths of his hungry children just to feed those who lied on their backsides while he risked his life? No! With every stumble and twist of his ankle, he became more and more certain that he would be doing no such thing.
With the land’s resources long exhausted, he knew it would be an arduous hike before finding any game, but what choice did he have? His wife and sons would perish if he failed. He marched through the slushy snow, his toes already numb as moisture seeped through his worn boots.
Finally, as he neared the incline’s peak, he laid flat on his belly and crawled the last several feet, so as not to risk startling anything that might be grazing on the other side. With the sun already setting, he knew this was his last chance for a kill; he would soon be forced to make a fire before the darkness resigned him to a cold death.
…However— as he looked over the rise— it wasn’t a deer or boar he saw but another man… A man who was just starting to make camp himself. At first, Hank felt a twinge of disappointment; if there had been any game around, that man surely scared it away… Then he looked a little closer and was overcome by a wave of jealousy.
The stranger had a heavy winter coat, fine boots, and a large pack that appeared to be full of supplies. He also had the makings for a fire ready to burn… Without fully understanding why, Hank remained hidden with his belly pressed to the cold ground and continued watching.
The temptation of warmth was almost too much to resist, but then the stranger removed a loaf of bread from his bag… An audible growl escaped Hank’s stomach, and he decided it should be him sitting down there with that warm coat and bread… Besides, travelers disappeared all the time— especially lone travelers…
He had two choices; take the man out with his rifle, or wait a little longer and slit his throat under the cover of darkness. If he chose his rifle and missed, he would have to rush the man without knowing what weapons he carried… Yet, if he waited, there might not be any food left…
That settled it for him; he needed that food to make the trip home. Before he knew it, the rifle was in front of him— taking aim— and then he squeezed the trigger with a loud bang! A spray of blood painted the tree behind the stranger, and his body fell to the ground… But a loud, anguished groan let Hank know that his work wasn’t finished. He raced down the hill, horrified to see the man was actually beginning to rise.
Now closer, he could see the large canyon carved across the top of the stranger’s head and the fragile bone beneath… Without hesitation, Hank slammed the butt of his rifle down onto the man’s fractured skull with a loud thwack! And his body dropped back to the moss-covered earth.
Overcome with relief, Hank fell next to the deceased traveler, completely spent from his final dash down the slope. Then— remembering the bread— he sat up quickly, eyes darting around the fire in search of his prize. He found it laying in the dirt but barely paused to dust it off before consuming the remainder in three large bites. After draining his canteen, he saw another leaning against the tree— next to a large pack— and brought them closer to the fire.
He began untying the bag’s pullstring but paused before peering inside; if it contained more food, his family would live a little longer… If not, well…. At least he would have the energy— and resources— to make it home for a proper goodbye. Perhaps he would even find the strength to give his wife and children proper burials before joining them in the afterlife…
Finally, with a deep breath, he pulled the string loose but stopped short of looking inside when he was suddenly interrupted by a high-pitched— almost scratchy— voice.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” He spoke directly next to Hank’s ear, who instinctively jumped to his feet, simultaneously drawing his knife.
The pack fell inches from the flames, but he hardly took notice. The voice had been that of an old man, but where did he come from, and where was he now? His eyes scanned the area, but there was nothing! When he later recounted this story to his children, he recalled thinking it was the traveler’s angry spirit— returning for vengeance…
But then he heard him again, and this time, the old man snapped his fingers before speaking. “Down here, Hunter.”
Hank shifted his gaze downward to see a frail, elderly man wearing a hooded cloak. The newcomer was no more than 4-foot-tall, yet his bare feet were much larger than Hank’s own, and his jagged, yellow toenails made their disproportionate size all the more unsettling.
“Was he your son, then?” Hank gestured to the corpse between them.
“Haha, hell no! Get it?” He snickered, “hell? Because I’m an Imp! My summer house is in hell, ya know! Get it? Summer— hot! Hah! I slay myself. I hope I’ve got my face right; I put it on for you, ya know! Humans tend to get skittish otherwise, hehehe!”
The little man hopped around the campfire like a hyperactive child as he spoke, and the flames shot high into the air— illuminating his disfigured face. His grotesquely overgrown brow sat atop two bulbous eyes and a lumpy, crooked nose. His cheeks sagged with heavy wrinkles, and loose flesh hung from his chin and jawline as a result.
Even in his heightened state of distress, Hank was in awe that a man of such years could be so nimble. “You’re mad is what you are! I am sorry for your companion, but there is nothing I will not do to save my family… Including murder…” Hank’s grip on the knife tightened as he prepared to lunge, but the old man suddenly vanished into thin air with an audible poof! And the flames instantly returned those of a dying fire.
Consumed by a mixture of fear and disbelief, Hank turned circles in search of the old man, but he was alone once again. “Or perhaps it is I who is mad…” He muttered to himself.
“Hehe! Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Hunter! Afterall you did just commit your first murder. You’re a natural, though! You can trust me on that, hah!” This time the voice was coming from above him, and Hank looked up to see the wild little man sitting on a branch, swinging his stubby legs over the edge with giddy delight.
“But how?! How did you—” Hank started but was abruptly cut short.
“Well that’s what I was trying to explain when you so rudely interrupted me with your nefarious intentions! Hahaha! You should be grateful! It’s not every century that I grace a mortal with my company— let alone my aid! So whaddya say, Hunter? Care to try again? Hmm?” The old man peered down, and his eyes glowed with an internal fire…
“Why do you call me Hunter? It is neither my name nor my occupation.” Hank asked, confused.
The old man vanished with another poof and reappeared sitting on a log opposite the fire; only, now, he was smoking a pipe. “Hehehe, silly Hunter! But it should be both! For that is exactly what you are, aye? It’s in your blood! Sit! Sit! Hear what I have to say!” He gestured towards an adjacent log which hadn’t been there moments before, and Hank sat without comment.
“Good! Good! Yes! Hehehe! First, introductions; I am called Nod, and you are Hank! Soon you will be Hank the Hunter! Your father was a Hunter, was he not? And that’s what your brothers are, yes? Why do you deny your birthright? Why settle into such a poor community?” Nod paused as if expecting an actual answer.
Hank began to speak but was silenced before he could utter a sound. “No, no, no! Shush now; questions later! It’s always the same— some woman! Hah! Lust is a bitch ain’t it? Yes, take the pretty girl out west! Start a new life! Rarely goes according to plan, though! Your appearance shows that you’ve learned that one the hard way, hahaha! I bet you’d like to go back in time, aye? Wind back the clock, as it were? Hmm?”
Here, Nod paused again; Hank only stared in confused silence, but— when the little man still did not continue, he finally spoke up. “I do not know if you implore simple trickery to deceive the eye of man, or if a devil has granted you the powers of a witch, but I’ll not lose my soul to any creature bearing a snake’s tongue! Begone! Foul—” This time, Hank is cut off by the Imp’s loudest roar of laughter yet.
The hideous old man rocked back and forth with delight, and— when he leaned closer to the fire— Hank could almost see a different face behind the one he wore; sometimes it appeared as if he possessed only a handful of yellow, crooked teeth… But other times there were two full rows of fangs dripping blood down his chin…
After several minutes, Nod finally collected himself. “Well, too bad! Hahaha! Time is beyond my control, but perhaps I can offer you something even better! Yes, yes! Even better! And it won’t cost your soul, either! Cross my heart! Get it? I don’t have a heart! Hah! But we’re talking about souls! Bleck— disgusting, slimy, little things; nope, I’ve never had a use for ‘em... I mean… There are demons who’d be willing to trade for it… But no, no… Then I would have to make a special trip to hell… It would be a whole thing. No, I’d rather deal directly with you.”
The old man clapped his hands, and the flames shot high into the air, illuminating the area around them, but only for an instant. Though they immediately returned to normal, Hank once again caught a glimpse of something inhuman— something with long, curved horns.
“Now, down to business. You need the dead man’s pack to contain food. You would be mighty disappointed to find nothing but a change of clothes and a tin cup, wouldn’t you? Well! What if I told you that I could make it so that it was filled with bread, grains, potatoes, apples, and corn? Eh? Doesn’t that sound nice? No, wait! There’s more, hahaha! You’re wishing there was meat, but— tell me, Hunter— what of all that meat lying just behind you? Are you just going to let it spoil?”
“You’re vile! I would never! How dare—” Hank began, disgusted by the suggestion.
“Okay, okay… Sheesh, men who reek of your bloodlust are usually more fun. I can see you’re the exception to the rule. Fair enough. Probably best to just show a guy like you, aye? Hehe!” In the time it took Hank to blink, Nod disappeared and reappeared directly in front of his face; the old man was now some otherworldly creature— an Imp from hell— in an old man’s suit. Its skin was covered with lumpy wrinkles, its long horns curved outwards, its giant ears were pointed, and its eyeballs were yellow with red irises.
Nod’s hands shot out, and he stuck two long, stick-thin fingers to the center of Hank’s forehead, transporting him to another place and time. Suddenly, it was one week later; he was sitting down to a family dinner because they still had meat and grain; the children’s cheeks were plump and rosy, and his wife’s smile had finally returned... They were happy.
Next, time rushed forward, and he saw himself months later, in the spring; they were leaving their home for greener pastures. He saw an entire lifetime of success and happiness inside of a big house with his wife and their many children— each of them healthy and thriving…
Then, he was suddenly ripped away from them and thrust back into the cold, harsh reality of the present. He opened his eyes to see Nod’s face just inches from his own; the Imp had reverted back into the deformed old man, but his inhumanly wide, snaggle-tooth grin was almost as terrifying as his true form. Hank yelled and fell backwards from his log, prompting another outburst of laughter from Nod.
“Haha! You see now, don’t you? Yes! I can give you all of it! Hurry! Up! Get up, up, up! Times a wastin’, and this deal needs makin’! Hahaha! Just sign the dotted line and leave this miserable place behind!” Nod began hopping foot to foot again as Hank stood and patted the dirt from his clothes with shaking hands.
“You said it wouldn’t cost my soul, but what exactly is your price?” The suspicion in his tone was clear.
“Oh, don’t think of it as a ‘price’ per-say… Think of it as negotiating the terms of a partnership— an eternal one that will be passed along to your descendants long after you leave this world. Don’t you want your grandchildren to enjoy the same prosperity as you? You could guarantee their happiness for as long as they are willing to maintain your side of the deal… That sounds like a pretty fair arrangement, wouldn’t you say?” Nod raised one eyebrow and his entire overgrown forehead moved with it.
“It depends upon the terms… The ones you have yet to define…” Hank struggled to keep his voice steady.
“Hehe, fine, fine! Picture it! You are a new man venturing to a new land; you become the founder of a community that blooms into a thriving township and ultimately becomes Huntersville! As the contract holder, your direct descendants and their spouses shall enjoy all of the same benefits as yourself. This includes— but is not limited to— immunity to random acts of violence and nature; i.e., you and yours won’t have to worry about things like outlaws or plagues. Think of it as being imbibed with a surplus of good luck.”
“Are you saying we can simply do whatever we wish without suffering any consequences? We’ll be— immortal?!” Hank’s words were barely a whisper.
“What?! No!” The Imp was insulted by such a vast misinterpretation. “Were you even listening?! Aw, why are the strong ones always so dumb… Fine, fine; let me try an example... If you're in a saloon minding your own business and pistols are drawn— you won’t ever catch a stray bullet… On the other hand, if you were to challenge someone to a duel… Well, anything could happen…” Nod searched Hank’s face for any sign of understanding.
“Oh… I see…”
“Eh, no offense, but I’m not sure that you do… Maybe you should repeat that back… Just to be safe…” Nod narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“Perhaps you should define my side of the bargain before it is rendered moot.” Hank narrowed his eyes in return.
“Hehehe, you win! You win! You’re a bit of a nag, aren’t you? Well, first, there’s the immediate trade. Afterall, you’ll be going home with bags full of goodies by the time we stuff your own with all that meat! Oh, don’t look at me like that; it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever tasted! You’ll want it everyday! Hmm… I guess you could have it everyday, but I have to advise against it. You’re no good to me with your neck stretched…”
“I assure you, that will not be a problem. Perhaps we could—”
Nod continued as if Hank hadn’t spoken. “We can fry some up as soon as the deal is signed, and you’ll see! Mark my words, you’ll see! Err, I mean, taste! Yes! You’ll taste it! Hehehe! Alright— plain and simple— here it is. Every November you’re gonna bag a human for us, and we’ll split the spoils. I only want the parts you wouldn’t eat anyway; just treat it exactly as you would a deer, and I’ll collect the rest. I’d do it myself, but there are rules about these sorts of things…”
“Who’s rules?”
Again, Nod proceeds as if Hank hadn’t spoken. “We’ll do this first one together! It will give us a chance to bond! You’ll also set a place for me at the opposite end of the dinner table each year; you won’t see me, but I’ll be there. Hahaha! No, no, the rest of the terms; of course, of course. You want the catch— the stick— the screw!”
“That wasn’t the catch?!” Hank exclaimed.
“Eventually, you will grow old— much older than you would have without me, mind you— and the time will come to renew our contract. This requires a very specific type of ritual… Instead of hunting a stranger, you will be hunted by your heir, and then consumed by myself and your family. Thus the cycle will repeat until broken by a Hunter. So, how ‘bout it?”
“I have questions…”
“I’ll bet you do,” Nod snickered.
“Are you saying that I would have to condemn my entire family to a life of cannibalism?! And that they would eventually be forced to eat me as well?!”
“Oh, come now; don’t be so dramatic… I’m offering blanket protection over every snot ball you shoot into your wife! The least they can do is share a meal with me once a year. Any descendant who doesn’t consume a portion of the main course will forfeit their rights to those graces! Permanently! Hahaha!”
“Yet so long as they follow this rule, all of my descendants will retain this protection forever?”
“Hmm, I think we’re going to need more examples for this one. Let’s say two sons grow up to have families of their own. Both sets of grandchildren would fall under my protection so long as you remain the contract holder… But— when the contract is passed along— only one can inherit. Their direct descendants will become my new Hunters; the others will be cut loose to live their lives as most humans must. This will hold true regardless of how many offspring you ultimately produce.”
“I see… And what if I ended my own life instead of forcing my son to hunt me like an animal?” Hank felt certain that he could not accept these terms, yet he was compelled to continue the conversation anyway.
“The contract would be null and void; your Final Hunt— and those of your descendants after you— will otherwise be entirely at your discretion. Have it next year or when you're 70 for all I care— just make sure it happens in November. Bring one heir or ten; it makes no difference… I will, however, offer a bit of advice. You may be tempted to skip a proper hunt. Perhaps you would prefer to simply bend your neck and pass the torch... But I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” A malicious grin spread wide across Nod’s face.
“I supposed that would void my contract as well?”
“No, no; not at all… Well, not that specifically. This event may be your Final Hunt, but it will be their First Hunt. You need an heir strong enough to not only hold their own resolve over the years to come, but the family’s as well— a leader! Not all children are born to be leaders, this I promise you! Hahaha! The hunt is like a test! It will allow you to die in peace, knowing the family remains in safe hands. Plus you’ll still have your soul, aye! You’ll be reborn before you know it— probably as another Hunter! So, you see? This contact has the potential to benefit you for lifetimes!”
Hank sat in silent contemplation, and— for the first time since he arrived— Nod also refrained from speaking.
“Oh! I know what might help!” In a flash of movement, Nod reappeared before Hank, and pressed his long, pointed fingers into his forehead yet again…
This time, he was only transported a few minutes into the future— after declining the Imp’s offer. He felt a great sense of relief when the creature vanished from sight and slept until dawn… On his journey home he failed to encounter a single living creature, and his wife wailed with grief at the knowledge her baby would soon be dead…
Suddenly, it was two days later, and— with no lumber for a coffin— he was forced to bury his children in old rags. His wife died four days later, and her funeral— if you can even call it that— was much the same… Only Hank no longer had the strength to dig a proper grave, and— by morning— the vultures had her. He thought of trying to catch one, but— by then— he didn’t want to survive.
“Enough! No more! I’ll do it… I’ll do it…” Hank slapped Nod’s hand away with a defeated whimper. The visions left him shaking and dripping sweat. The cold, night air would have been too much if not for his new coat…
“Hehehe! Excellent! I knew you had it in you! Now, let’s get this silly paperwork out of the way so we can have some real fun! I’m telling you, Hunter, you are not gonna believe what you’ve been missing! And I don’t cook for just anyone, you know!” With a snap of his twig-like fingers, a scroll appeared in Nod’s hands; when he allowed it to unroll, it fell to the ground and didn’t stop until the end was several feet past where Hank stood.
“One second; here we go.” Nod rerolls the contract until the end sits directly at Hank’s feet. “Just let a few drops of your human juice fall onto the dotted line, and it’s a done deal!”
Hank lifted the parchment and leaned into the firelight. The paper was completely filled with a tiny, cursive script; there were no paragraphs, or margins— just a wall of text. He desperately wished to read its contents in full, but— seeing it now— he realized that wasn’t an option regardless of any time constraint…
His hesitation lasted only a moment before remembering the sight of his wife and children lying dead in his arms… With the parchment in his left hand, he drew his hunting knife with the right and made a small cut in the fleshy pad of his thumb; then he pressed it to the bottom line. The moment it lifted from the parchment, the entire contract disappeared with another snap of Nod’s fingers, and the fire roared with new life, illuminating the entire area as if it were morning.
“Now for the fun part! Hehehe!” Again, the Imp disappeared only to reappear over the dead man’s body. He then spent the next several hours teaching Hank exactly how he wished his offerings to be handled.
When they were finally finished, the sun was rising, and Hank had more food than he could carry. The traveler’s pack was filled with the goodies promised by the Imp, and his own was too small to hold all the meat he spent so long wrapping… Where the wrapping-paper came from, he did not know or care; it was such a small detail in the grand scheme… Ultimately, he fashioned a makeshift sack from an old shirt for the rest. Then— after a few final words over the most delicious breakfast of Hank’s life— Nod gave him a long rope and disappeared.
“But what’s this for?” He called out to the empty air.
“A Hunter should always carry a good rope! Hahaha!” Nod’s voice echoed all around him, but there was no sign of the little Imp… It was only a few hours later when Hank happened upon a goat and tied the rope around its neck; they made the long journey home together.
Fearing desperate neighbors may be watching for his return, he tied the goat to a tree and stashed his gear in a nearby trunk well before reaching the tree-line. When he stumbled out of the forest it was shirtless and shoeless. As he suspected, every man in their community— the very ones who were too weak to accompany him just the previous morning— were suddenly strong enough to surround him in the darkness.
Torches were soon lit, and the disappointment was apparent on every face. Hank said he was robbed— that he barely made it back alive; he shivered as he spoke, and his skin was losing color at a rapid pace. His neighbors hung their heads in shame and dispersed with little more said.
His wife cried tears of joy to learn the truth, and she was quick to agree with the Imp’s contract; the relief Hank felt at her words was every bit as satisfying as the delicious breakfast he had only that morning…
After allowing enough time for the neighbors to be fast asleep, he returned to the forest for his bounty. By some miracle, the goat remained completely silent on their return walk, and they were able to stretch their supply through winter. On the first day of spring, Hank ventured to each neighbor’s home to confirm there were no other survivors. Being on their last two days of food themselves, he took a measure of comfort in knowing he truly could not have saved the others.
He wasn’t sure how they were going to survive out in the open; without horses to pull their wagon, the whole situation felt hopeless. He began to fear Nod had betrayed him after all… Then— just as they were about to leave most of their possessions behind— the couple suddenly heard the hoofbeats of many approaching horses, and they were pulling wagons! Upon seeing the small family, the travel-worn group came to a stop, and the Hunters instantly knew the Imp’s vision had been true.
With all the potential dangers ahead, they were more than happy to loan Hank the horses for his wagon, and— with the help of a few volunteers— they were quickly back on their way. Along the way, Hank not only proved himself to be an excellent hunter and tracker— but compassionate, intelligent, and brave— all the qualities they sought in a leader. It was also thanks to him that the wagon train avoided a deadly ambush, and discovered the land they would ultimately call Huntersville— which is where our family still resides.
​
-------------------------
​
(Part 2)

Thinking about the 1950s, the wife managed to look after the children all day (usually plenty of them too), keep the house clean, have the laundry done, kitchen stocked and all meals cooked in amongst other things like making clothes and bedspreads and helping in the community.
Fast forward to today, I, a 27 year old SAHM with a 4 year old and 16 month old is barely keeping up with 70% of that AND I have the luxury of daycare for both my kids two days a week - I’m 30 weeks pregnant with my third and it’s disheartening that the more children I have, the worse our living conditions become.
So why does my house look like I don’t ever clean? Why do I feel like I haven’t had time to finally deep clean my kitchen and remove the food splatters all over the fridge and cabinets? Why have I not cleaned the mould off the bathroom window yet? The washing gets done nearly every day but barely makes it out of the basket before someone comes along to wear it again. The beds are haphazardly made and somehow the bedding is always lumpy. We are single-handly keeping the corn snack industry afloat in my country and reducing the impact on farmers as vegetables and fruit are not a hit here (very fussy 4 year old). Dishes are usually strewn across the only bench space we have at night as by the time I get the kids in bed I feel like I have no steam to wash everything for the third time. I have no hobbies, I don’t sew clothes, I haven’t even gotten anything ready for baby number three yet. My husband works 7.30am-5.30pm 5-6 days a week and it’s not like he comes home to a beautiful, cheery wife every night. Sometimes I’ll be chipper, but lounging in food and snot stained clothes, or even just pjs at that point.
How did they do it back in the day? How did they manage to stop their toddler from certain doom while cleaning the bathroom? Keep the 4 year old entertained while they organised the linen cupboard? Keep sane while having at least a hygenically clean and tidy home?

Having a heated debate about spitting with a work colleague. I was always raised that spitting on the floor was very gross and spitting at someone was even more gross. I would see scary looking people spit and see the big blob of yellow snot that sometimes comes out and agree it was very gross. Whenever I have been ill with a cold and coughed up phlegm I have always swallowed it even if it makes me feel a bit sick. The rare times I have been extremely ill and coughed phlegm that's a bit lumpy up I will go get a tissue, spit it in the tissue and then flush/bin the tissue. I don't think I'm better than anyone for not spitting but if someone spits around me frequently I do ask them not to because it makes my skin absolutely crawl. I have a co-worker who spits frequently and at first I asked them to stop completely but they said they were not going to make themselves uncomfortable (says swallowing it makes them feel sick) just because I have discomfort due to my upbringing. When asked to clarify they said I was brought up "middle-class" and they were raised "working-class" so I only feel this way because of how I was brought up and it's not "gross" at all it's "human". I asked if we could compromise and that they don't do it outside on the floor or do it anywhere where I might come across it. (Sometimes I wouldn't see co-worker spit but I'd come across a blob of phlegm on the floor and know they had been around, they would own up when I asked if it was them). I'm starting to get irritated cause I went to the toilet at work and I saw a big blob of phlegm floating on the water and I feel I've asked them to please remove any evidence of them spitting and yet I am still made to look at these globs of spit that I would just swallow if it was me coughing them up! Do I really need to get a grip or is co-worker being gross?
ETC: we work outdoors, sorry I didn't clarify when I say "floor" I mean outside

Dear Agent:
Fourteen-year-old Hope McCallister has grown up isolated from civilization in the wild hills of Vermont. She can follow tracks across bare rock. She can tell where the deer are by listening to the birds. She can survive in the forest with nothing more than a knife.
But she will not survive suburban Connecticut.
When her parents die and leave her in the care of an aunt she has never met, Hope swears a blood oath on their grave; she might live with the civilized people, but she will not live like them. Hope’s aunt plans to send Hope to a boarding school, but Hope knows what a boarding school is. It’s a prison where civilized people domesticate their children. Hope will not be domesticated. She will escape to the Vermont wilderness.
At least, that’s the plan. But this plan has complications, specifically Hope’s new civilized friends—her bullied outcast cousin, Caden, and an undocumented girl named Ana who is fleeing from danger in her own home. When they beg to join her, Hope cannot say no.
Now she must evade a team of search dogs and execute a 300-mile overland escape from civilization, all while teaching her two tenderfoot companions to survive.
RULE OF THREE is a 74,000-word upper MG novel about the tension between family and freedom. Imagine a classic survival story like My Side of the Mountain flipped on its head and retold in the style of The War that Saved My Life.
I am a science teacher, educational consultant, and aspiring caveman who loves nerdy T-shirts and, like Hope, lives in the wild hills of Vermont. For the past decade, I’ve been writing about my adventures with wild edible plants for Northern Woodlands magazine. I am also the host of I Heart This, a podcast of thank-you notes to the universe.
Please find the first five pages below.
Thank you for your consideration,
​
Ben Lord
[blord@wsesdvt.org](mailto:blord@wsesdvt.org)
​
July 6, 1999
The last time Papa called my name, I barely recognized it. His voice was so weak, and the roar of the flames was so loud.
“Hope,” he called. “Come here.”
At first, I ignored him. There wasn’t much time. Everything smelled of gasoline. I heaved against the overturned pickup truck, my shoulder against the metal, already hot to the touch. But the truck didn’t budge.
“Listen to me!” It was as loud as he could manage.
I slid down into the mud and wriggled under the upside-down bed of the pickup and through the shards of glass until my face was just inches from Papa’s. His breath came hot and humid on my cheek. I could see where his legs disappeared under the crumpled roof. His arm was broken, and the bone was jutting out. His face was bleeding and smeared with dirt.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I said.
But Papa shook his head. “Tell me the rules.”
“What!”
He looked at me so calmly. “Please.”
“Rule number one: I am the land,” I said. “The land moves in my body. As long as I touch the land, I will live. Rule number two: One foot in front of the other. Rule number three: Hunger is just hunger. Thirst is just thirst. Pain is just pain.” My voice cracked. I couldn’t do this.
“Keep going.”
“Rule number four: We’ll see.”
“That’s right, Hummingbird.” He brushed the hair from my cheek. “Always remember how much I’ve loved you. Now, fly!”

Rule Number One: I am the land.

Chapter One: What You Need to Know

(Hope)
Every sensation of that night is scarred into my memory. The sound of Mama’s voice begging Papa to stay awake. The lights of oncoming cars hurtling past. The empty feeling in my gut as the truck flew into the air. The rain of glass shards that cut my face and arms. Papa’s hand brushing the hair from my cheek for the last time. Mama’s body tangled in a barbed-wire fence. The way her head hung too loose. The wailing noises of the sirens. The hands of so many strangers tearing me away from Mama’s body. The dull crunch of my elbow breaking someone’s nose as I kicked and clawed my way free.
I remember how my bare feet slipped as I ran away from the highway and into a dewy field. I remember the taste of snot and blood and salt tears on my lip. A voice kept calling, “Mama! Mama! Mama!” and I wished it would stop until I realized the voice was mine.
When I reached the middle of the field, I turned to look back—one foot pointed toward the truck, burning on the edge of the highway, the other pointed toward the safety of the shadows in a distant fencerow. I thought of the sleepwalkers, putting their hands all over Mama’s and Papa’s bodies. I couldn’t leave them there to be manhandled and taken who-knows-where. But what would happen if I went back? I’d just be taken by the sleepwalkers myself.
Go back! Run away! Go back!
I think I would have stayed frozen in the field forever if the beam of a sleepwalker’s flashlight, one of the lights I had spent my entire life evading, hadn’t caught me. “There she is!” a sleepwalker shouted. Their heavy shoes tramped closer and closer. When they got so close that I could feel the vibrations through the ground, I rolled out of the beam of light.
It wasn’t a decision. If you spend all fourteen years of your life training for something, it becomes instinct. Knee-high sedges and bedstraws rolled over my body. I twisted my limbs to match the grooves and mounds of the land. My buckskins, smoked for months into perfect camouflage, blended into the earth. Even in daylight, they could have studied that lumpy patch of grass for an hour before they saw me. Civilized people never see anything. That’s why we called them sleepwalkers.
Their flashlight beams waved uselessly about. One beat the grass with his arms, swinging so close that I could feel the air he disturbed against my cheek. Others jogged up behind him, huffing for breath. One of their boots ground down on my forearm.
“Where’d she go?”
“Spread out. She can’t be far.” Footsteps crunched away in all directions, and I slithered over the stone wall at the edge of the field and into the darkness.
***
There are so many things I’d rather remember: the last verse of Mama’s song about the tittle-tum turtles or the punchline to the joke that Papa used to tell about the woodpecker and the owl. But those memories fade. Instead, I keep remembering every step I ran that night across two dirt roads, through a shallow, rocky river, and up the steep bank on the other side.
Two miles later, I finally stopped. My buckskin stuck to my legs, wet from fording the river. My cheeks and forehead ached from weeping. My face and arms stung from dozens of little cuts. It was only then that I realized that I was holding something in my hand. Antler handle. Rawhide sheath. It was Papa’s knife. Had I taken it from him? Had he given it to me? It’s the one thing from that whole night that I can’t recall.
If I’d been born a sleepwalker, maybe I would have had somewhere to go—the house of a grandparent, a neighbor, a friend. Maybe if we hadn’t lived wild and free, away from the rot and smoke and noise of civilization, I’d have known someone—anyone. But I didn’t. When Mama and Papa died, I lost everyone. They were the only people I had ever known, the only people that had ever loved me, the only people in the whole world that even knew my name. And what had I done for them? I’d run like a coward while the sleepwalkers hovered over their bodies like vultures.
One time, when we’d been planting squash in the garden at Winter Camp, Papa had pointed to the Center Stone and told me that when he died, that’s where he’d like to be buried. “To feed the Earth as it has fed me,” he said. And I told him I’d do it for him, without even thinking, like it was nothing. That night, I sunk to the ground by a moss covered boulder under the weight of all my broken promises. I squeezed the handle of Papa’s knife and pressed the sheath to my lips. I cradled it in the crook of my arm, curled my whole body around it, and wept. I couldn’t have been more alone.
***
The next morning, after numbness replaced the weeping, I climbed high into the sap-sticky branches of a white pine whose top emerged from the canopy. From there I could see the whole valley, the valley I’d avoided all my life because it was overrun with sleepwalkers. To the east, the highway spanned the valley on a bridge, supported by pillars as tall as the tree I clung to. From the bridge, the highway snaked through the fields where I had run last night. The truck was gone. Mama’s and Papa’s bodies were gone. All that remained was a blackened patch of grass. Cars and trucks raced by it, as if nothing had happened.
Beyond the bridge lay the town of Spencerville, Vermont, where the sleepwalkers were so numerous they could not be counted. Their houses filled the valley like a mold, spreading along tendrils of blacktop and wires that hung between the buildings, suspended by naked, branchless trees.
Later, after I’d lived among the sleepwalkers, I would realize how strange it would have seemed to them, thinking Spencerville was so big. They’d call it a small town. Maybe not even a town at all. But I’d never seen anything like it. I hugged the trunk of that pine, stared down at it and wondered if that was where they had taken Mama and Papa. Then I looked to the northwest where, fifteen miles away, the rounded hills surrounded Winter Camp and the garden where Papa had wanted to be buried.
I sat in that tree through the dawn until the sun was a whole fist above the horizon, cursing my cowardice and clutching Papa’s knife. That’s how I saw the van pull to a stop on the charred grass beside the highway. Men and dogs emerged from it and fanned out into the field. I saw them trot down the hill and over the fence, the dogs with their noses to the ground, walking in my footsteps. It was only when they got to the river that I realized they were hunting me.
When I was young, Mama and Papa had told me that if I ever got caught, the sleepwalkers would take me far away from them and far away from the woods. But as I clung to the branches of that pine, I felt no fear at all. So what if they caught me? So what if they locked me away? What did any of it matter now that I had lost Mama and Papa? I wondered what it would be like if I just let the sleepwalkers come.
But that’s not how the Rules work. You can’t choose when you want to follow them and when you don’t. You always put one foot in front of the other. As I leapt down through the branches and jogged along the ridge, a flame of anger burned a hole in all that grief. I would not let the sleepwalkers break the wildness in me. I was the land, and the land moved in my body. They would not take me from the land. Go ahead, I thought, Catch me if you can.
I told myself that it was the sleepwalkers I was running from, but that was a lie. I was never running from the sleepwalkers. I was running from that burning truck and the sight of Mama’s body in that barbed wire fence.
That’s what you have to know if you want to understand why, two and a half months later and several hundred miles away, I decided to run away from Aunt Pam. Even if I didn’t understand it myself.
On that night when I decided to leave her, I sat in the dark of Pam’s guest bedroom next to the bed that I could never bear to sleep in. I looked around at the square walls where I had served my exile from the real world of rocks and ferns and trees and clouds. That night, like every night, the accident roared back to my mind. That’s what I was really running from. That burning truck had hunted me the whole way.

Hi all, I’m a 21 year old male. Recently I’ve been having issues with my gut, recently had gotten to the point where I feel somewhat constipated but have been pooping 1-2 times a day & gut has been acting weird but haven’t been urgently needing to go to the toilet after eating. But there is this mucus that is coming out of my ass (lighter in colour than snot mucus & somewhat has some poo colour to it, I believe it has clear bits to it too) but it has been for a while like earlier this year & (kinda weird) took a photo of my asshole and it’s more lumpy than just going straight in to my rectum (idk if I can share photo or not since can’t find the NSFW flair) sometimes when I wipe will have a bit of blood from like a scab when wiping too much but haven’t noticed any blood in stool or anything & doesn’t hurt to go to the toilet.
Have starting suspecting ibs because of the mucus & gut issue but also I don’t eat the best & want to try get my diet in check (have gained a lot of weight recently too I wanna try drop)
Have started going for daily walks & trying to do some calisthenics & try to eat more healthily of course.
I will book a doctors appointment really soon because I am worried.
Just wanting some ideas of what it could possibly be, but certain most of you will say IBS sadly, the reason I’m also suspecting IBS is cause I can feel my gut & my stomach rumbling after eating anything.
Have a good day all :)

I (1765m) am an elven artificer. Like most other elves, I have an intense hatred for dwarves. I think the title explains as much as I need to say. This is my current library of dwarven insults/racial slurs. Make it bigger.
Beard-goblin

Flea-bearded alestain Stunty Pump Sucker Stone shitter half-sized alcoholic Maggots (according to legend!) rock eater Stone Domes Gutter Rats Angry Footstool Rockhead Hairy Halfling Tunnel Rat Pubic Face Cave Hippo Oremonger Bushies Gut Draggers Knoties Lumberfoot Half-Man Gnomes Spuds (Both are lumpy and come from the ground) stunt gold digger dirt-licker teapot hammer midget copper polisher squash (look like squashed humans) rock bitter stone humper hill/mountain/dirt farie keg belly pyrite-muncher giant snot Hairy Brewery 

Menstrual cup users here?? Ive been using a Menstrual cup and reusable period panties for about 3 years now, but from the past year ive been having infections on and off, ive been taking otc fluconazole. Today i finally decided to see a gyn and she just asked me if my discharge is snot like or lumpy, upon saying it was lumpy she just prescribed me Af-kit(4 tablets) to be taken for 4 days, plus 2 fluconazole. I expected her to ask me about what hygiene products i use but none. So i couldn't ask her if menstrual cups/reusable period underwear cause infections. I sterilize my cup regularly and wash my underwear well and make sure it doesn't have any odor. Is there a chance that it might be the cause of my recurring/chronic infections? Let me know what y'all think.

Part 2 of 3 Part 1 can be found here: [A4A][F4A][F4M][F4F][M4A]M4M][M4F] Are you okay?/I wish I could tell you [*Part 1 OF 3*] [Ill character] [lying] [friends to more] [Confession] (okay for monetizing) : ASMRScriptHaven (reddit.com)
Context: it’s been a few months since their conversation in part 1 and they have been dating. Character 2’s condition worsens, and they can no longer hide it. Character 1 after a day of work finds a ton of missed texts from character 2’s parents, and immediately drops everything to check in.
​
{Part 2: it’s been a few months of you dating and things are starting to change}
{Scene opens with the bustle of a hospital.} Voices, people walking around, and monitors beeping fill the background.
Character 1: You say while a little breathless: “I got here as fast as I could!”
Character 2: “How are you here?”
Character 1: “What do you mean how am I here?”
Character 2: “I mean how did you find out where I was. I didn’t tell you.”
Character 1: “Your mom and dad have been flooding my phone with texts. I didn’t see them until I got off of work.”
Character 2: “Ah,” You sigh. “I’m sorry about them.”
Character 1: The anger you’d been feel bubbling up inside you on the drive over erupts. “That’s what you’re sorry about? What the hell is going on? What about when you said you were fine?”
Character 2: Your voice trembles as you feel shame and sadness. “I-I know I told you I was okay, but I-”
Character 1: “So, a few months ago when you said you were sick?”
Character 2: “That was true. I am sick.”
Character 1: “So the tumor?”
Character 2: “Yeah, the tumor is real.”
Character 1: “Oh my god. Why would you lie to me?”
Character 2: “I mean when I told you the truth and saw the look on your face….It was like I’d told a kid Santa wasn’t real and shot their puppy all at once. Can you imagine how much seeing you hurt, hurt me? I didn’t want to put that all on you.”
Character 1: “Are you kidding me? Just because I supposedly looked as sad and pathetic as you claim doesn’t mean you hide something like this from me.”
Character 2: “I’m so sorry. I really messed up. I thought I was protecting you and-”
Character 1: “Protecting me? No, you were being selfish.”
Character 2: “Come on. It’s just-”
Character 1: You audibly growl. “I’m so pissed at you right now. I want to yell at you and throw that vase against the wall, but I know that would only make this worse, and maybe get me kicked out of your room.”
Character 2: Your voice is quiet, hesitant as you say: “I liked that you didn’t look at me like I was sick. That you still treated me like you always did. You didn’t baby me like my family. I know I should have told you the truth.” You sigh “I know I was being selfish. I just didn’t want anything to change.”
Character 1: You groan in frustration.
Character 2: “Do you hate me now?”
Character 1: “No. I’m mad, but I don’t hate you.”
Character 2: You let out a sigh of relief, and you’re close to tears with reliefe. “You don’t? Really?”
Character 1: “Of course I don’t hate you. I don’t think I could ever hate you, you snot, but can you please promise me no more lying? If our friendship, no if our relationship means anything to you, you’ll stop lying and tell me the truth, okay?”
Character 2: “I promise. No more lies.”
Character 1: “Thank you.” Your chair screeches against the floor. You finally sit down in the chair near their hospital bed, taking hold of their hand. “So, your parents were saying something happened to bring you in. Do you want to tell me about that?”
Character 2: “I’ve been feeling lethargic, and I’ve been having constant headaches. Last night, I passed out. They brought me to the hospital to get me checked.”
Character 1: “So, what does that mean?”
Character 2: “Well, the doctors did another scan, and I guess things are a bit more aggressive than they thought.”
Character 1: “Oh, baby.”
Character 2: “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Character 1: “We’ll figure this out, okay?”
Character 2: You’re kind of rambling/spiraling as you open up about things: “Okay, here is the thing. You said no more lies, so I’m going to lay everything out on the table. They don’t know if I’ll make it through this. I don’t want you to have to sit here and possibly just watch me die. So, for your sake we should…” You let out a breath. “We should…”
Character 1: “Use your words, sweetheart.”
Character 2: “We should call it quits, okay?”
Character 1: “Call it quits? what?”
Character 2: “We should end our relationship, so you don’t have to watch me helplessly like my parents.”
Character 1: “What? What the hell are you talking about?”
Character 2: “I don’t know what this is all going to look like. You should find someone who can stay with you. Someone who is healthy and normal, and can make you happy, rather than pulling you into this mess. I just -”
{You share a kiss or two}
Character 1: You say softly, leaning in close: “I don’t need anyone but you, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Even if we weren’t dating do you not think I would be here to support and comfort my best friend?”
Character 2: “I guess I didn’t think about it that way.”
Character 1: “We’re dating and I’m in this.”
Character 2: You get a little choked-up. “I love you, you know that?”
Character 1: You say with a playful, yet slightly cocky tone: “I mean what’s not to love?”
Character 2: You laugh. “You are pretty loveable, but…there is that one thing you do when you eat...”
Character 1: You start laughing to. “Hey, how can you make fun of me? You’re so mean.”
{You both laugh for a few more seconds before you fall into a heavy, overwhelming silence.}
Character 2: Your voice wavers: “I’m terrified.”
Character 1: “Me too. But we’re together, okay? I’ve got you.”
{You pull each other into a hug and share a kiss.}
Character 1: You repeat softly “I’ve got you.”
Character 2: “Thank you.”
{Scene fades out}
{Scene fades back in with the door opening. This takes place about a week later}
Character 1: “I came here right after my shift finished, so don’t mind the….work….clothes…”
Character 2: You sound a little grumpy “Hey, How was work?”
Character 1: “What’s with the hat?”
Character 2: The bed creeks as you slump into the bed more, pulling the hat lower down your head. “Don’t ask about the hat.”
Character 1: “Come on, we said no more secrets, okay?” A chair scrapes across the ground as you sit by the bed**.**
Character 2: “Fine, but don’t laugh. I’m already feeling self-conscious about it.”
Character 1: “Y-you have no hair.”
Character 2: “Yes. They shaved my head this morning.”
Character 1: “You’re really rocking the bald look there.”
Character 2: “Shut up.”
Character 1: “No. I’m being serious. It suits you.”
Character 2: “Really? It looks okay? I was worried my head would be lumpy or something. I mean I guess it will be after the surgery…”
Character 1: You lean in giving them a kiss on the forehead. “You look good now and I’m sure you will look good after the surgery too.”
Character 2: “Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”
{You fall into a silence, just staring at each other}
Character 1: “So, um. I’m kind of scared to ask, but why the change?”
Character 2: “They’ve moved the surgery up.”
Character 1: “Oh.”
Character 2: “Yeah.”
Character 1: “So this is it.”
Character 2: “Yup. This is it.”
Character 1: “Wow.”
{another moment of silence/just breathing}
Character 2: “I’ve been wondering, how have you been doing with all this?”
Character 1: “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Character 2: “Hmmm…I don’t believe you.”
Character 1: “I’m serious.”
Character 2: “You’re doing that weird thing with your eyebrows that tells me you’re lying.”
Character 1: “What weird thing? I don’t do a weird thing with my eyebrows.”
Character 2: “Yeah sure, and I’m not bald right now. So how are you feeling really, and please, no secrets.”
Character 1: You take a deep slow breath “It’s been a lot. The worrying and the waiting. Your health, and the problems with the health systems are all anyone could talk about at our last family dinner. It’s always on my mind. I never seem to be able to think about anything else but all of this.”
Character 2: “That must be tough. It’s okay and understandable that you’re having a hard time. I mean this is a lot to be dealing with. Are you sure you want to stay?”
Character 1: “It is tough, but I know I want to stay right here with you.”
Character 2: “God you’re so cute.”
Character 1: “Well thank you, I appreciate it. I’m not going anywhere. When you wake up I’ll be here.”
Character 2: You start to get choked up. “If you’re not the first thing I see when I wake up, I’m going to bug the crap out of you for weeks.”
Character 1: You laugh. “I will do my best to be right beside you when you first open those eyes.”
Character 2: “Okay.”
{You fall into a silence, listening to each other breathe, thoughts swirling.}
Character 1: “Can I just sit and hold you?”
Character 2: “I would love to sit with you.”
{the bed creaks as you two shift and snuggle together}
Character 2: “Have you seen Bear at all recently.”
Character 1: “Yeah, I stopped by your folks place to take her for a walk.”
Character 2: “Aww lucky. I miss walking with my dog.”
Character 1: “Once you get out of the hospital we’ll go on a hike with Bear, okay? She is going crazy without you.”
Character 2: “I just want to snuggle my sweet baby Bear. It’s so sad to think she’s probably at home sitting by the door, waiting for me to get back.”
Character 1: “That’s why you gotta get better quickly, so she won’t be lonely.”
Character 2: You’re a little choked up. “mmmh-hmmm. Need to get back to my dog.”
{You fall into silence. Wanting to say so much, but unsure what to say.}
Character 1: “If your surgery moved up where are your parents?”
Character 2: Your face is partly buried in their neck. “It was a last-minute change, so they’re having some trouble with getting out of work.”
Character 1: “That’s the dumbest thing. You’re going into surgery for crying out loud!”
Character 2: “I know, but I don’t want them to risk losing their jobs. This economy is a mess and with all the medical bills... We did face time. I mean it’s not the same, but at least we got to chat. And I mean hopefully they will be here in time.”
{You share a kiss}
There is a light knocking sound, drawing your attention to the door.
Character 3 - Doctor: “We’re here to take you in now.”
Character 2: “It’s already time?”
Character 1: You climb off the bed and say more to yourself. “Here we go.”
Character 3 - Doctor: said to character 1“We’ll keep you updated as the surgery progresses.”
Character 1: “Thank you.”
Character 3 - Doctor: “Of course.” You take a big breath before turning to character 2 with a smile. “Now, are you all set?”
Character 2: “Yup.”
Character 1: “I’ll see you after, okay?”
Character 2: “Wait!”
Character 3 - Doctor: “Something wrong?”
Character 1: “What’s up?”
Character 2: You grasp for your partner’s hand. “Look after Bear? And make sure my mom and dad are alright if something happens? I mean I know my brothers will be fine. We fought for the most part anyway, so I’m sure they won’t be too effected. But just make sure mom and dad are okay every once and a while. And also look after yourself too. Make sure you eat and-”
Character 1: “Babe, don’t talk like that. You’ll be fine. You’ll be bossing me around to get you ice cubes and stuff during your recovery in no time. This isn’t over, you hear me? This is not the end for us.”
Character 2: You’re starting to cry. “Right.” You take a shuddering breath, trying to take in every inch of the person you love. “This isn’t the end. We only just started.”
Character 3 - Doctor: “I know you’re scared, but you need to believe in us and yourself right now, okay?”
Character 2: your voice is shaky as you say: “You’re right. Yes.”
Character 1: “Doc, please promise to bring them back to me.”
Character 3 - Doctor: “I can’t promise anything unfortunately, but we’ll do our best to get them through this.”
Character 1: “I’ll take what I can. Thanks.”
Character 3 - Doctor: “We are going to have to ask you to leave while we finish prepping them.”
Character 1: I’ll be in the waiting room the whole time okay.”
Character 2: You can only manage a nod and a breathy “I love you.”
Character 1: “I’ll see you soon.”
{Scene ends with the sound of a door closing}
​
*Part 3 will be posted soon*

It was Frog Dissecting Day.
​
How wonderful.
​
I hate reptiles. Always have. Living, dead, makes no difference, they give me the creeps. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, frogs aren’t reptiles, they’re amphibians. Same difference. Hideous creatures. Green and slimy and gross. I’d never touched one before, let alone dissect one, and I hoped to keep it that way.
​
Fat chance.
​
The classroom smelled like road kill. In fact, the pungent stench permeated throughout the entire east wing of school. Students covered their mouths, gasping for air, trying to avoid the toxic taste of dead frogs. I don’t know why I brought lunch that day, food was the farthest thing from my mind.
​
To be fair, I wasn’t the only cowardly kid. Amanda, the girl sitting next to me, was also turning green. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t make it. Yet, she maintained her composure as she sliced open the frog, making horizontal cuts near its arms and legs and removed its liver. She gagged and her legs went wobbly, but her hands were steady. Soon it was over, and she rushed to the washroom, hand-over-mouth, ignoring the snickers coming from kids in the classroom.
​
Leaving class would be the single best decision of her life.
​
My embarrassment grew. If she can do it, I can too. I told myself this, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t have the guts. The other students were good to go. They joked as they dissected their ill-fated amphibians, trying to outdo one another. Billy, the class bully and all-around nuisance, wore his frog as a hat, letting the gooey slime slither down his face. He licked up the frog juice; and once he held the classroom’s attention, started speaking in French, talking like a poet. Yeah, Billy’s a jerk. (More about him later.)
​
I stood over the lizardly carcass, trying not to puke. It looked like a giant avocado, with scaly skin, lumpy legs, and beady eyes daring me to go through with it. The putrid stench lodged itself in my throat, so that every breath was like inhaling sewer gas. It was inescapable. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my main concern. My frog looked different from the others. Not only did it stink, but something within its abdomen was stirring. If I weren’t so goddamn scared and ashamed, I might’ve spoken up.
​
“Just nerves,” I told myself. “I’m squeamish.” And that’s putting it mildly.
​
My mind went sideways.
​
What’s the point? How will dissecting this helpless amphibian benefit my future self?
​
Quick answer: It won’t.
​
My mind was made: There’s no chance in hell I was gonna dissect that frog.
​
No. Fucking. Way.
​
“It’s dead,” my rational self replied. “It won’t feel a thing.”
​
The teacher told me to hurry up. The rest of the class was waiting.
​
The minutes felt like hours.
​
Scissors in hand, I gazed solemnly at the dead frog. My hands were shaky. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. All I had to do was tear it open and remove its guts. Then this nightmare will be over. This was proving more difficult than expected.
​
Then I noticed something dreadful: The entire class was giggling, mocking me with their hateful eyes. Billy was making jokes at my expense, to everyone’s delight. Even the teacher seemed annoyed. I could see it in her eyes; ‘Oh look, the weird kid’s acting weird again.’
​
The other frogs lay in pans, gutted and gazed upon. I was the only one left: The scaredy cat. Ugh. Could my life be any more miserable?
​
“I should never have taken this class,” I told myself, shaking in my shoes. “I belong in drama class, not this.”
​
Last year, I got lucky. We were dissecting worms; long and squiggly things, purple and puss-filled. My science partner did the cutting, while I pretended to watch. Oh, what a relief that was. I prayed that it would happen again this year.
​
It didn’t.
​
The frog was staring up at me, dead and bloated. What caught my attention – more like made my skin crawl – was how much it had grown. By now, it looked like an overstuffed burrito. It could barely fit inside the pan. Not only that, it was pulsating. Dead things don’t move. Do they?
​
Unbeknownst to me, something horrific was about to be birthed.
​
With the weight of the world resting on my shoulders, and the entire class waiting, I soldiered on.
​
“Okay,” I said aloud, not caring that they could hear me. “Let’s get this over with.”
​
The steely utensils glistened under the fluorescent lights. My heart was in my mouth. My legs could barely hold the weight of my body. I wiped the stream of snot sliding down my face with my sleeve; then with trembling hands, I gripped the cold dissecting scissors and jammed them into the frog.
​
It exploded.
​
Guts and gore erupted from the amphibian, covering me head to toe. Chunks of fatty flesh slithered down my side, warm and wet and gross. Apparently, a giant can of Beefaroni just erupted from Mount Boyardee.
​
My heart stopped. I was draped in thick green goop. Some of it slid into my mouth, squishy like toothpaste. Panting, I forced my fingers inside my mouth and pulled out an eyeball.
​
It blinked.
​
The classroom shrieked.
​
The teacher tried restoring order, but it was no use. Mayhem ensued. To everyone’s horror, the mound of mucus was moving, slithering along the vinyl floor, collecting shape, until it formed a giant blob. Its head was huge, with narrow eyes and cauliflower ears; its rounded body a mass of sickly skin, swooshing and groaning as it expanded, until it was the size of a small person.
​
It roared its disapproval; a guttural sound that sent shock waves throughout the classroom, causing kids to panic. The teacher shuffled through her desk, cursing in quiet despair as her disobeying hands let her phone slip through her fingers. She tripped and fell backwards, straight into the jaws of the hideous green blob.
​
It devoured her. Legs as long as Texas disappeared inside the belly of the beast, clicking red heels and all. Her bones broke; her blood splashed across the chalkboard. The blob consumed our science teacher.
​
Nobody moved.
​
Tasha, a straight-A student whom everyone adored, was its next victim. With T-Rex arms, it shoved her into its ginormous mouth. She shrieked. The blob’s wart-infested tongue expanded, exposing a tray of coffee-colored teeth, sharp as razor blades. Fresh blood dripped from its licorice lips, while it swallowed her whole.
Billy was the first to react. Camera in hand, he stood on his desk and told the creature to eat a dick. With death-defying speed, the blob pounced. Billy flew from the desk, smashing his head on the floor; his bones snapped like twigs as the thing steamrolled over him, grumpy as a German tank. Billy fought like hell. I gotta hand it to him. He kicked and clawed and scraped and swore, but it was no use. The creature easily overpowered him. Billy was torn to shreds, stuffed inside its moist mouth, then swallowed.
​
The blob belched.
​
I wasn’t the only one who pissed myself.
​
To be fair, it’s not everyday a creature emerges from a dead frog’s belly and eats a classroom full of kids. Nobody knew what to do.
​
I cursed my stupidity. This was all my fault. This would not have happened if I hadn’t dissected the damned frog. What kind of frog was it anyway? Normal frogs don’t birth killer green blobs. Do they?
​
With Billy gone, the beastly blob devoured three more classmates in the span of seconds. Its elongated mouth snapped like a crocodile, ripping the kids apart, feasting on flesh and bone. By now the thing was as big as Godzilla.
​
Then it stopped.
​
A rumbling noise gurgled deep within its bowels. Its eyes went wild; its belly ballooned in size. The entire class stood petrified, watching as it gave birth to more blobs. Gigantic lumps of goo evacuated from its mouth and anus, as the hideous monster procreated. The smell was unforgivable.
​
Suddenly, there were six of them, and they were hungry. Classmates fainted or went into shock. The brave kids made a mad dash to the door. A lucky pair of girls managed to escape, but the others perished. The slithering slabs sneered as they feasted upon arms and legs and blood and brains, until nothing was left of the escapees. Not even their backpacks.
​
The school bell rang.
​
Everyone gulped.
​
Twelve of us remained. Nobody knew what to do. It was up to me. I had to do something; Those insidious creatures came from my frog. Without hesitation, I picked the scalpel off the floor, gripping it tightly in my trembling hand, then I edged along the wall, creeping toward the window.
​
Meanwhile, the band of blobs went on a feeding frenzy.
​
One by one, the unholy creatures gobbled up my classmates, drinking their tears. They killed at an ungodly speed. I watched in horror as Tessa, who I’d known since the second grade, was bludgeoned to death, swallowed by a baby blob. All that remained was a strand of golden hair, as long as an eagle’s feather.
​
Suddenly, I was the last kid standing. All my classmates were dead. The creatures turned and snarled, drool dripping from their fleshy faces, while my life flashed before my eyes. So, this is how it all ends. What luck. Something told me this wouldn’t be a peaceful passing, surrounded by loved ones, reminiscing of the good ol’ days. Nope. I was about to be inhaled by unhallowed beings, spurting saliva like spilled champagne at New Years Eve.
​
To my dismay, the blobs started making those god-awful sounds again. Their slimy skin jiggled as they moaned. Right before my very eyes, yet another army of blobs was being birthed. The floors were soaked in bile, most of the desks were overturned, and blood and guts were everywhere.
​
With my back against the wall, I closed my eyes and prayed: Please don’t let me die this way. I’ll do anything. This sucks. I’m too young to die. Surely, this can’t be happening.
​
CRASH.
​
A gust of wind whisked across my face. The air tasted like sex. My eyes snapped open. The back window was smashed; a firefighter with hockey player gloves reached in and grabbed hold of me.
​
“Come quick!” the firefighter ordered.
​
Next thing I know, I’m being dragged through the window, slicing my head and shoulders. Meanwhile, the blobs continued to multiply. It sounded like an orgy of the worst kind. Once outside, I fell to my knees and wept. Who knew the air could taste so sweet?
​
I was rushed to the hospital.
​
That’s when things got even weirder.
​
You see, this wasn’t a normal hospital. Not even close. This was a government quarantine facility. It was colorless and cold. Days were blurred, as doctors in astronaut suits administered a series of tests, each worse than the last. I was strapped to a bed, drained of my blood, fed through tubes, and poked and prodded in places I’d rather not confess. Secretly, I wished the blobs had eaten me, anything to rid myself of these awful experiments.
​
Oh, sweet irony. Now I was the test frog.
​
Like cooked meat, I was stuffed into machines that felt like ovens, and given drugs that induced hallucinations beyond my most terrifying nightmares. At some point, I gave up all hope of ever returning to the real world. But alas, I was released.
​
Although my time at the facility remains a blur, I do remember the cops. Their questions came like rapid fire, wanting to know everything that happened that fateful day. Apparently, the cameras inside the classroom were destroyed, and the girls that got away were too traumatized to testify.
​
Something’s going on here, but I don’t know what it is. Nor do I care. I want to put this behind me and start living my life again. Maybe one day I’ll write a book. Yeah, that would be sick. Alien blob creatures that invade a classroom and eat all the kids.
​
Whatever became of the blobs?
​
I don’t know.
​
There’s only one thing I’m certain of, and no one from this planet or any other world can change my mind:
​
There’s no way I’ll ever dissect a frog again.

It was Frog Dissecting Day.
How wonderful.
I hate reptiles. Always have. Living, dead, makes no difference, they give me the creeps. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, frogs aren’t reptiles, they’re amphibians. Same difference. Hideous creatures. Green and slimy and gross. I’d never touched one before, let alone dissect one, and I hoped to keep it that way.
Fat chance.
The classroom smelled like road kill. In fact, the pungent stench permeated throughout the entire east wing of school. Students covered their mouths, gasping for air, trying to avoid the toxic taste of dead frogs. I don’t know why I brought lunch that day, food was the farthest thing from my mind.
To be fair, I wasn’t the only cowardly kid. Amanda, the girl sitting next to me, was also turning green. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t make it. Yet, she maintained her composure as she sliced open the frog, making horizontal cuts near its arms and legs and removed its liver. She gagged and her legs went wobbly, but her hands were steady. Soon it was over, and she rushed to the washroom, hand-over-mouth, ignoring the snickers coming from kids in the classroom.
Leaving class would be the single best decision of her life.
My embarrassment grew. If she can do it, I can too. I told myself this, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t have the guts. The other students were good to go. They joked as they dissected their ill-fated amphibians, trying to outdo one another. Billy, the class bully and all-around nuisance, wore his frog as a hat, letting the gooey slime slither down his face. He licked up the frog juice; and once he held the classroom’s attention, started speaking in French, talking like a poet. Yeah, Billy’s a jerk. (More about him later.)
I stood over the lizardly carcass, trying not to puke. It looked like a giant avocado, with scaly skin, lumpy legs, and beady eyes daring me to go through with it. The putrid stench lodged itself in my throat, so that every breath was like inhaling sewer gas. It was inescapable. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my main concern. My frog looked different from the others. Not only did it stink, but something within its abdomen was stirring. If I weren’t so goddamn scared and ashamed, I might’ve spoken up.
“Just nerves,” I told myself. “I’m squeamish.” And that’s putting it mildly.
My mind went sideways.
What’s the point? How will dissecting this helpless amphibian benefit my future self?
Quick answer: It won’t.
My mind was made: There’s no chance in hell I was gonna dissect that frog.
No. Fucking. Way.
“It’s dead,” my rational self replied. “It won’t feel a thing.”
The teacher told me to hurry up. The rest of the class was waiting.
The minutes felt like hours.
Scissors in hand, I gazed solemnly at the dead frog. My hands were shaky. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. All I had to do was tear it open and remove its guts. Then this nightmare will be over. This was proving more difficult than expected.
Then I noticed something dreadful: The entire class was giggling, mocking me with their hateful eyes. Billy was making jokes at my expense, to everyone’s delight. Even the teacher seemed annoyed. I could see it in her eyes; ‘Oh look, the weird kid’s acting weird again.’
The other frogs lay in pans, gutted and gazed upon. I was the only one left: The scaredy cat. Ugh. Could my life be any more miserable?
“I should never have taken this class,” I told myself, shaking in my shoes. “I belong in drama class, not this.”
Last year, I got lucky. We were dissecting worms; long and squiggly things, purple and puss-filled. My science partner did the cutting, while I pretended to watch. Oh, what a relief that was. I prayed that it would happen again this year.
It didn’t.
The frog was staring up at me, dead and bloated. What caught my attention – more like made my skin crawl – was how much it had grown. By now, it looked like an overstuffed burrito. It could barely fit inside the pan. Not only that, it was pulsating. Dead things don’t move. Do they?
Unbeknownst to me, something horrific was about to be birthed.
With the weight of the world resting on my shoulders, and the entire class waiting, I soldiered on.
“Okay,” I said aloud, not caring that they could hear me. “Let’s get this over with.”
The steely utensils glistened under the fluorescent lights. My heart was in my mouth. My legs could barely hold the weight of my body. I wiped the stream of snot sliding down my face with my sleeve; then with trembling hands, I gripped the cold dissecting scissors and jammed them into the frog.
It exploded.
Guts and gore erupted from the amphibian, covering me head to toe. Chunks of fatty flesh slithered down my side, warm and wet and gross. Apparently, a giant can of Beefaroni just erupted from Mount Boyardee.
My heart stopped. I was draped in thick green goop. Some of it slid into my mouth, squishy like toothpaste. Panting, I forced my fingers inside my mouth and pulled out an eyeball.
It blinked.
The classroom shrieked.
The teacher tried restoring order, but it was no use. Mayhem ensued. To everyone’s horror, the mound of mucus was moving, slithering along the vinyl floor, collecting shape, until it formed a giant blob. Its head was huge, with narrow eyes and cauliflower ears; its rounded body a mass of sickly skin, swooshing and groaning as it expanded, until it was the size of a small person.
It roared its disapproval; a guttural sound that sent shock waves throughout the classroom, causing kids to panic. The teacher shuffled through her desk, cursing in quiet despair as her disobeying hands let her phone slip through her fingers. She tripped and fell backwards, straight into the jaws of the hideous green blob.
It devoured her. Legs as long as Texas disappeared inside the belly of the beast, clicking red heels and all. Her bones broke; her blood splashed across the chalkboard. The blob consumed our science teacher.
Nobody moved.
Tasha, a straight-A student whom everyone adored, was its next victim. With T-Rex arms, it shoved her into its ginormous mouth. She shrieked. The blob’s wart-infested tongue expanded, exposing a tray of coffee-colored teeth, sharp as razor blades. Fresh blood dripped from its licorice lips, while it swallowed her whole.
Billy was the first to react. Camera in hand, he stood on his desk and told the creature to eat a dick. With death-defying speed, the blob pounced. Billy flew from the desk, smashing his head on the floor; his bones snapped like twigs as the thing steamrolled over him, grumpy as a German tank. Billy fought like hell. I gotta hand it to him. He kicked and clawed and scraped and swore, but it was no use. The creature easily overpowered him. Billy was torn to shreds, stuffed inside its moist mouth, then swallowed.
The blob belched.
I wasn’t the only one who pissed myself.
To be fair, it’s not everyday a creature emerges from a dead frog’s belly and eats a classroom full of kids. Nobody knew what to do.
I cursed my stupidity. This was all my fault. This would not have happened if I hadn’t dissected the damned frog. What kind of frog was it anyway? Normal frogs don’t birth killer green blobs. Do they?
With Billy gone, the beastly blob devoured three more classmates in the span of seconds. Its elongated mouth snapped like a crocodile, ripping the kids apart, feasting on flesh and bone. By now the thing was as big as Godzilla.
Then it stopped.
A rumbling noise gurgled deep within its bowels. Its eyes went wild; its belly ballooned in size. The entire class stood petrified, watching as it gave birth to more blobs. Gigantic lumps of goo evacuated from its mouth and anus, as the hideous monster procreated. The smell was unforgivable.
Suddenly, there were six of them, and they were hungry. Classmates fainted or went into shock. The brave kids made a mad dash to the door. A lucky pair of girls managed to escape, but the others perished. The slithering slabs sneered as they feasted upon arms and legs and blood and brains, until nothing was left of the escapees. Not even their backpacks.
The school bell rang.
Everyone gulped.
Twelve of us remained. Nobody knew what to do. It was up to me. I had to do something; Those insidious creatures came from my frog. Without hesitation, I picked the scalpel off the floor, gripping it tightly in my trembling hand, then I edged along the wall, creeping toward the window.
Meanwhile, the band of blobs went on a feeding frenzy.
One by one, the unholy creatures gobbled up my classmates, drinking their tears. They killed at an ungodly speed. I watched in horror as Tessa, who I’d known since the second grade, was bludgeoned to death, swallowed by a baby blob. All that remained was a strand of golden hair, as long as an eagle’s feather.
Suddenly, I was the last kid standing. All my classmates were dead. The creatures turned and snarled, drool dripping from their fleshy faces, while my life flashed before my eyes. So, this is how it all ends. What luck. Something told me this wouldn’t be a peaceful passing, surrounded by loved ones, reminiscing of the good ol’ days. Nope. I was about to be inhaled by unhallowed beings, spurting saliva like spilled champagne at New Years Eve.
To my dismay, the blobs started making those god-awful sounds again. Their slimy skin jiggled as they moaned. Right before my very eyes, yet another army of blobs was being birthed. The floors were soaked in bile, most of the desks were overturned, and blood and guts were everywhere.
With my back against the wall, I closed my eyes and prayed, something I’d never done before: Please don’t let me die this way. I’ll do anything. This sucks. I’m too young to die. Surely, this can’t be happening.
CRASH.
A gust of wind whisked across my face. The air tasted like sex. My eyes snapped open. The back window was smashed; a firefighter with hockey player gloves reached in and grabbed hold of me.
“Come quick!” the firefighter ordered.
Next thing I know, I’m being dragged through the window, slicing my head and shoulders. Meanwhile, the blobs continued to multiply. It sounded like an orgy of the worst kind. Once outside, I fell to my knees and wept. Who knew the air could taste so sweet?
I was rushed to the hospital.
That’s when things got even weirder.
You see, this wasn’t a normal hospital. Not even close. This was a government quarantine facility. It was colorless and cold. Days were blurred, as doctors in astronaut suits administered a series of tests, each worse than the last. I was strapped to a bed, drained of my blood, fed through tubes, and poked and prodded in places I’d rather not confess. Secretly, I wished the blobs had eaten me, anything to rid myself of these awful experiments.
Oh, sweet irony. Now I was the test frog.
Like cooked meat, I was stuffed into machines that felt like ovens, and given drugs that induced hallucinations beyond my most terrifying nightmares. At some point, I gave up all hope of ever returning to the real world. But alas, I was released.
Although my time at the facility remains a blur, I do remember the cops. Their questions came like rapid fire, wanting to know everything that happened that fateful day. Apparently, the cameras inside the classroom were destroyed, and the girls that got away were too traumatized to testify.
I told the cops everything.
They didn’t believe a word.
They think I killed my classmates. Worse, they claimed to have found my manifesto.
Yeah, right.
If that was the case, where are the bodies? Did I eat them?
The cops need a scapegoat, and apparently, I’m it.
The press had a field day.
Fortunately, I’m still a minor; my fearless parents came to my rescue, and continue to fight on my behalf. At least they believe me. Good grief!
Something’s going on here, but I don’t know what it is. Nor do I care. I want to put this behind me and start living my life again. Maybe one day I’ll write a book. Yeah, that would be sick. Alien blob creatures that invade a classroom and eat all the kids.
Whatever became of the blobs?
I don’t know.
There’s only one thing I’m certain of, and no one from this planet or any other world can change my mind:
There’s no way I’ll ever dissect a frog again.

Another month! And another chapter I've managed to finish just in time!
Pawn Ch 16!
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First Chapter
Previous Chapter
Neu Vieumau Joint Occupation Zone
Raiden’s mind was racing about as fast as his feet as he hurried through the street. He needed to be quick. The curfew siren had gone off, there were soldiers in the streets, and he had just realized Clay was totally a Revenant. Probably. Could he prove it? No. His only real evidence was that Clay clearly didn’t understand emotions! Or people! Or him! Or Vix! Right? There was that one officer who didn’t like him. Major Veils. Could he find her? What did he say?
All the while he was trying to wrap his head around what he was doing he was still hauling the box towards his apartment. Old apartment. His dad’s apartment. Raiden’s mind was still swirling as he didn’t really know how to process his emotions right now but he hoped that this would at least help rid him of the guilt he had been feeling earlier. Why though? Why guilt? Wasn’t he making their lives easier by leaving? But then there was Juala. Was Suviki taking care of her while he was gone?
She wasn’t even related to him! Why did he feel bad? Raiden shook the box in his hands and just let out a wordless, frustrated, growl as he struggled to get a grip on his mind. But then he was in front of the hab and he came to a halt. It looked just like it always did. Not like Reudi was ever going to spend any more than he had to on it. Finally an emotion began to take more space in his mind then as he looked up at the building. Fear. A pit in his stomach at the thought of potentially confronting his dad again.
Did he really want to do this? Maybe he could just… “A daytime curfew is being imposed! All civilians are to shelter in place immediately! [All hands! General Quarters! Aft Solar Watch Curfew now in effect! To be maintained! Repeat General Quarters! Essential Yardbirds only!]”
Raiden dashed up the steps and into the building at the speakers declared general quarters in decktongue. He hadn’t heard them declare anything like that in years. What was going on? He really didn’t want to be out on the streets right now… “[Hhhhhhh… curfew?]” Raiden jumped a bit and he looked over to see Reudi standing in the doorway. The fat Davari just inside his apartment on the first floor, looking out from inside.
“[General quarters! No idea. Streets are empty.]” Raiden answered with a nod. The hab super just nodded and sort of shuffled back into his place towards the giant couch he mostly stayed on. Raiden pushed on then and started climbing the stairs rather quickly. The spring in his step from the jumpboots made it incredibly easy. But once he was up on his old floor he wasn’t so sure that he was happy to be fast. He still hadn’t sorted out how he felt about… everything.
Still, he figured the best idea was to just push through and drop it off. Get it over with quickly. So he walked up to the door and opened it, only to have the door get suddenly stopped by the chain and latch. “What?”
“[My husband is big and armed! And mean! Stay out! We have nothing valuable to loot! And if you bilge scum try anything-]” He heard Suviki’s panicked voice calling out.
“[It’s not militia! It’s me!] Raiden!” Raiden explained as he tried to peek through the partially open door.
“Raiden?” He saw her lean to the side and peer at him through the gap. She was holding a bottle in a hand as if that would really help her from militia who sought to loot the place.
“Yes.” She waved at him to back up then so she could close the door. He heard the latches and chain getting moved before the door opened again as he saw her standing there. Unlike her usually skimpy attire she was actually wearing what looked like a set of hiking pants, and some kind of pocketed vest. “Were you going… on an expedition?”
“For valuables if I need to run.” She gave some a pat as he could her clinking and jingling. Then she looked past him around the hall.
“No soldiers. I saw some earlier but my whole way here the streets were totally empty.” With that he pushed through into the apartment and set the box down on the table as he looked around. It was pretty much the same as before, except the couch was oddly positioned in the middle of the room. Whiiiich would make sense if she had been trying to shove it towards the door before he got here he realized. “You think that would stop them?”
“Better than nothing!” She flicked her hand at him dismissively. “What’s in box?”
“I uh… before the curfew I got some… stuff from work. Rations… stuff… to help. But where’s Dan?” He asked, knowing his father wasn’t here.
“Work. Where else?!” She scoffed at him then though Raiden frowned. His dad worked for some gang. He was like… never there in the day. He just gave Suviki a confused look, but she was already pulling a box cutter from a pocket to open the package he’d brought.
“You’re quick to just tear into that a moment after thinking militia were here to loot the place.” He shook his head a little.
“I need to see what’s worth hiding!” She growled back. He’d never seen her like this. She was… sober, and… worried? Without his dad around she seemed different. He sort of realized that he’d always seen Suviki as… this entity who arrived to try and replace his mom. She wasn’t a person. She was his evil step-mom. But… she was a person. Juala had a dad somewhere right? Or was she with his dad because he was big and armed and mean just like she’d said earlier.
“Rai?” Thinking of Juala seemed to summon her and he turned to look down the hall, seeing her sticking her head out from the door to his room.
“What are you doing in my room?” He asked as he walked towards her.
“Hidey hole.” She responded simply, though she opened the door wider as he approached. He could see she was still wearing the same yellow shirt as always with Aki the octopus on it. Though it was… lumpy?
“Do you have something under your shirt?” She nodded a bit and start to lift her shirt up so he could see that Suviki had gray taped a bunch of documents and flash drives to her stomach. “What’s this?”
“She’s young! They won’t harass her like me! Keep documents, not valuable to them, but to us!” Suviki explained her reasoning.
“Wow, the daytime curfew really has you scared doesn’t it?” He was worried about being out on the street but Suviki seemed terrified just thinking about what it might mean even in the apartment.
“[General quarters!]” She called back.
“They only just declared that! You were obviously doing this before that.” For some reason as he could hear Suviki’s anxiety it made him more calm. As if finding out other people were freaked out too made it okay? Looking back at Juala standing in his room though he saw the mess behind her. “What the hell happened to my room?!”
Pushing Juala aside gently he stepped in, and looked around at the state of his room. His old room. The bed had been pulled away from the wall, the mattress hanging off the side and the old papers and school work from his desk scattered all over. Most of his clothes had been neatly stacked and folded on top of the dresser, but a few more were also tossed around. Like they’d all been on the floor before someone started cleaning. There was also a large fist sized hole in the wall. “Dan… angry.” Juala whispered as he could see the concern in her eyes as she gulped.
“Your father got… upset the other night. About you being gone. I tried to tell him you’re out on your own. He should be proud!” Raiden didn’t believe for a second that Suviki would ever think to be proud of him… right? “But he got in a mood. Trashed room. Started to clean… Thought maybe make stash.” He could see that one of them had pried up the boards in the corner, under where the head of his bed had been. It was narrow but Juala could probably squeeze in between the floorboards. Hence the hidey hole…
Walking back out of the room he found Juala had glued herself to his side, her small hands gripping his arm and sleeve. “What… is going on?”
“Trouble. War.” Suviki had pulled a bunch of things out of the package to set on the table. Rations, some meds, fruit jerky and nut mix, what looked like… a pack of crayons? It was a pretty decent little package to be sure. But she was now walking towards the window, and carefully peeking through the blinds, looking out and up. “I know that thing. It’s bad. Means bots. Means war.”
Raiden walked over to look at what she was pointing out and saw the ship in the sky from earlier. Just sort of… floating above the city. He still wasn’t sure what it was really but Suviki was entirely focused on it. “Are you sure?”
“Sure sure! Thank you for things. But your father is on his way but not here yet. So we must hide! You can’t be here in case militia arrive! Bots! Collateral! Your are mike alpha mike! You must go!” She began to push him towards the door then.
“What? Mike alpha mike?!” He repeated in confusion.
“[Mom! Let him stay! He’s not threat!]” Juala began to plead but Suviki was still pushing him away.
“[It’s bots! Bots see him! They go wild! No!] Mike alpha mike!” Even as Raiden stumbled he could see that it wasn’t anger in her eyes but fear. Like she just needed him gone for her own safety. He really didn’t understand why she was so freaked out but he didn’t fight it as she pushed him towards the door, and then yanked Juala from his arm so she could slam the door shut. Inside he could hear them arguing before Suviki spoke louder. “Orphanage has thing for Vix! Go take! Your father is coming! You also don’t want be here!”
“What? He can’t get through a curfew!” Raiden called back through the door.
“[Essential yardbirds!]” She yelled back which made him frown in confusion. His dad didn’t work in a dockyard. What was she talking about? Or was this a gang thing? Did he have connections? Raiden just stared at the door for several seconds. Was he really able to move through a curfew? If he could… Raiden had been dreading him being here but now… now he could leave before dealing with him.
So he quickly headed downstairs to the orphanage. Or… the barracks as Vix called it mostly. He forgot why they didn’t like orphanage. They were instead… wards. Right. Would they even let him in? Knocking on the door he waited a minute, and then the door opened.
“[Oh hey] Raiden.” To his surprise Celuna opened the door, instead of Jranik, their warrant officer who ran the barracks.
“Hey Luna.” He nodded to the Davari girl. Some of the Davari didn’t like him, but Luna had been one of Vix’s friends so she was usually pretty nice to him. And she hung out a lot back before he and Vix had moved out. Her curled horns had teal accents which nicely contrasted her black pants and white and teal shirt.
“[Where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you around much!]” She reached out then to touch his shoulder which surprised him a little.
“[Uh… I work at the] pawn [shop on the other side of the block now. Delivering packages.]” She seemed entirely unbothered by the events of the day so far. In fact behind her he could see the common room of the barracks had the other wards just hanging out. None of them looked even vaguely worried. “[You heard about the general quarters? No one looks worried.]”
Luna just waved it off. “[It was announced on the JOG net earlier. They’re doing some kind of shore patrol action. Try and catch some unsavory bilge rats.]” She hadn’t taken her hand off his shoulder. Was she just making sure he was feeling alright? Did he look nervous? He had no idea. “[Also what are you doing differently?]” She took a moment to look him up and down.
“[I have new boots.]” He held out a leg carefully to let her look at it.
“[Oh wow! Very nice! And I like your shirt.]” For the first time since… a while he looked down at his shirt. Mostly because he had forgotten what he was wearing. It was a new one he’d gotten from the store. Clay recommended it. Gray with an orange design on the front. He thought it looked a bit like mountains, Vix thought it looked like a river.
“[Thanks. It’s new. Also. It is also new. Is Jranik here? I was told he had something for Vix.]” He mentioned as she finally removed her hand from his shoulder and waved him in.
“[Yeah sure he’s in his room. JRANIK!” Raiden flinched a little as she turned and simply yelled his name as she turned. While several of the other wards looked up, some ignored it. All the other kids here were Davari. Aside from Riverstone the Ravex. But he didn’t see her right now.
“[What?]” Came a very muffled reply from down the hall at Jranik’s door. There was a rolling sound as the door opened and the Davari stuck his head out to see what was going on, leaning back in his office chair.
“[I heard you had something for Vix?]” He asked as he walked towards the room..
“[Oh, yeah. Come in.]” Jranik turned, and Raiden briefly saw his legs before he pushed off the floor to roll himself back across his office. Raiden followed him in to the quarters, which were very naval in design. Bunk to the right as he stepped in, dresser closet combo, storage under the bunk, curved desk along the far wall, compact bathroom to his left. Just a small window sandwiched above the desk, and below more shelves and storage. The whole barracks was compact like this. It was like someone had taken a floor from a totally different building and slapped it into this hab, contrasting the older standard apartments.
“[Crazy about general quarters right?]” Raiden asked as Jranik pulled a package out from the closet. Was his whole life now about packages?
“[Yeah. Here’s her severance package with documents to sign inside. And tell her we need her to clear out her bunk when she can. No rush, we don’t have another ward scheduled yet and I heard she got blown up. Rough luck, but thank Swagin’s balls she’s alive right?]” Jranik said as he handed it over.
“[Severance?]” Raiden asked in confusion.
“[Yeah. You two are independent now yeah? Jobs, new quarters, all that?]” Raiden was still confused as Jranik seemed to be answering a different question.
“[I’m confused.]” He just announced simply. “[What is this about? Are you kicking her out?]”
“[What? No. She’s age appropriate and has a job. We got the paperwork a few days ago. All official. She’s no longer eligible for ward of the state status. This is the last of the benefits.]” He tapped on the package Raiden now held.
“[What? But it’s like… a part time job.]” Raiden protested.
“[Well that’s on her. Keeping wards is expensive, they cut them loose quick as they can. She’s old enough, she has a job, and… a place to stay I hope? I can have someone box up her stuff if she likes but I’ve told them to keep clear of her bunk for now. Swagin’s honor.]” He held up the bridged fingers to indicate his sincerity. “[Oh and you’re welcome to hang out here until the general quarters is done if you like.]”
“[Thanks… but… I should bring this to her.]” Raiden couldn’t believe they were kicking her out just like this!
“[Fine by me. Go with Swagin’s shield.]” Jranik raised the half curled hand to denote the minor blessing and then turned back to his computer to do work. Raiden turned, walking out of the room somewhat slowly as he looked at the package in his hands. Now he’d have to tell Vix this? This day… really sucked.
“[So!]” He jumped a bit as Luna spoke to him again when he was out in the hall. “[You and Vix are free? Swagin’s gold smile be upon you.]”
“[Uh… yeah I guess. But… I don’t think she realized this would happen.]” He kept looking at the package.
“[Well, can I come visit? I miss hanging out you know!]” He nodded as he looked up to her.
“[Yeah you and Vix hung out a lot I know. I’m sure she’ll want to see you too.]” He chewed on his lip as he thought about it. “[I’ll have to talk to our boss he’s sorta paranoid? So we’ll need to make sure he’s okay with it.]”
“[Yes, it’ll be nice to see Vix. But you’ll be there too right?]” He nodded even as she asked.
“[I do live there sort of so yes I’ll be there. But if you go during the day I’ll be out delivering packages. So that’s the best time for you two to hang out without me. Anyway nice seeing you again Luna bye!]” He waved her off as he headed out the door and quickly made for the stairwell to get downstairs. It seemed like she had been about to say more but he needed to get going. Besides he was sure she was tired of being polite to him, especially without Vix around. Everyone liked Vix. Something he understood well… Which was part of why he still felt a little unsure of how to take the realization that Clay wasn’t human.
No one cared for him like Vix did. They were childhood friends! He saw how that played out in the shows. Clay was wrong. He liked her. She liked him. That’s why they were always together. It wasn’t like anyone else in the world… in the galaxy even! Liked him that way. If it wasn’t Vix who would it be? No one clearly. So he quickly scurried back out of the hab and onto the streets. Which was when he remembered that the curfew was in effect.
Looking left and right he didn’t see anyone, but he could hear some kind of low rumble in the distance. Like some heavy construction machinery was moving around somewhere. There were also rapid footsteps echoing around. Probably the last few people trying to make it home. He’d skirt up the block and past the dumpster corral in case he needed to hide.
Running up the way his own footsteps joined the echoes of others bouncing off the buildings around him. People were moving… but he couldn’t see any of them. Until he came around the corner and found Neff and Lenk just on the other side of the dumpster corral. Of course. Today just couldn’t get worse! “[Got a package for us scum rat?]” Lenk leveled a pipe at him. Neff besides him had some chain in his hands and was poorly trying to swing it around.
“[Not today pox dick!]” This was Vix’s! He wasn’t ever going to give it up! His hand moved to his baton that Agnivra had given him. With a flick he extended it out and stood proud before them. All his doubts about everything else faded away. He was going to solve one problem today. It was time that they settled things. He had a courage they couldn’t possibly know.
Lenk shifted his grip on his pipe and stood tall as well. Showing a great deal of determination. “[Today it ends Raiden! You get your beating! You are owed! There is nothing tha-]”
“Halt!”
“[DEATH TO FOREIGNERS!]” There was an explosion somewhere behind Neff and Lenk and Raiden flinched as he could feel a wave of heat on his face for a moment. There was screaming immediately while Neff and Lenk both ducked in surprise. Even as they started to turn back to look, gunfire erupted down the street. The crack of bullets and ricochets began to echo across the streets as Raiden just threw himself behind the nearest dumpster in the corral.
“[Pox!]”
“[Rot!]”
“Fuck!” He screamed and tucked himself down behind the dumpster as small as he could. A moment later though Neff landed hard on the ground and tried to scramble behind the dumpster with him. Raiden slapped at his head though, trying to grab a horn and push him out. “No!”
“[Aaah! What? Let me in!]” Neff struggled to get behind the dumpster while Raiden discovered that shoving someone who didn’t want to move was a lot harder than the vids made it look.
“[No! You were about to fight me! Go somewhere else!]” He tried harder to shove Neff, one hand on his face, mushing up his features.
“[Truce! Poxing truce! I don’t wanna die!]” He strained against Raiden’s hands even as there were more gunshots fired down the street. It was so much louder than Raiden ever thought it could be. “[Truce! Right Lenk?!]”
Raiden looked past Neff then to another dumpster Lenk was tucked behind, pressing against it as low as he could. “[What?]”
“[Truce?]” Raiden called out.
“[Rot! Fine! Whatever! They’re shooting people out there!]” Something else exploded and Raiden heard a metallic ping off a dumpster in the back of the corral. Lenk’s reaction was to curl up into a ball, hands covering his head. “[Swagin’s cock!]”
Raiden finally stopped trying to fight Neff and the Davari quickly scrambled the rest of the way behind the dumpster with him. Raiden watched him, partly worried this was a trick but Neff just curled up besides him. “[By the divine crack what’s happening?!]” Neff whimpered, tears in his eyes.
Raiden turned to partially lean out from the side of the dumpster to see better. But another set of gunshots rang out as bullets ripped down the street. More metallic pings were heard all over as he immediately tucked back down. “[Nope! I have no idea! I’m not looking!]”
Raiden felt something tapping on his chest, but when he looked down and didn’t see anything he realized it was heart beating so hard he thought it might be trying to escape out of his chest. Some hero he turned out to be…
That rumbling he had heard from earlier seemed to be getting closer. It was a little hard to tell over the gunfire, screaming, and echoes though. There was a sort of… pattern to it. Like… big stomps. “[Run!]” Someone on the street screamed out and the gunfire began to ease off. He could hear running footsteps now and he dared try and look around the edge of the dumpster again.
Raiden caught sight of a running Davari who turned to look at him for a moment. He was wearing a Yuga Hitters hat, and some baggy clothes. An old rifle partially wrapped with gray tape in his hands. He looked younger than Neff even. Raiden and the unknown Davari just stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity before Raiden heard a CRACK the same moment blood spurted out of the back of the Davari’s head. His body fell to the street entirely limp, eyes wide as if surprised.
Raiden gasped, clutching the edge of the dumpster hard. Across the street another Davari in traditional sleek skins turned, a much better looking rifle in his hands. He was just bringing it up when Raiden heard a BUHDAK! The Davari’s stomach just disappeared as the top of his body was blown a meter away, while his legs just dropped in place, guts and viscera coating the building behind him.
Raiden turned and immediately vomited on Neff’s lap. “[Oh! Pox!] Whaabllugh-” Neff also vomited then while Raiden gasped, trying to fight down more, and spat to the side.
“[Oh! Why are you two…] Huuuggh…” Lenk across the way looked like he was also going to be sick as he barely caught himself, hand covering his mouth as he looked away.
“[Whhhyyyy?!]” Neff whimpered as he cried and curled up.
“[I just saw…]” Raiden just gasped back, and wiped some snot from his nose as he tried to get control of himself. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. On the street there was more running and screaming. BUHDAK! A pronounced scream. BUHDAK! This time a scream was cut short. The footsteps were now past the corral. Stomp. Stomp. STOMP.
He heard a robotic voice then. “Three Mike Alpha Mike detected behind trash receptacles.”
“Wait! Wait wait wait! Human!” He yelled out.
“Hands!” He heard an order and just stuck his hands up over the dumpster. “Show yourself!” Raiden gulped hard and stood up then, seeing a group of Void soldiers. Or… One soldier and several bots surrounding him. They looked a lot like the regular human soldiers. Just behind him was a mech. The same mech he kept seeing by the MP CP. The same woman pilot inside. She didn’t have a drink this time though. “Jumpboots? What the fuck are you doing here?!”
“I… my friends… stuck out… didn’t make it back. They’re Davari.” Raiden sort of stumbled through what to say, but then he saw a figure on the roof behind the towering mech. “ROOF!” When he pointed the mech pilot pivoted immediately, an arm raising up even as the figure tried to press something to their shoulder. BUHDAK! The autocannon went off and the top of the figure vanished even as a rocket was fired and slammed into the top of the building across the street. It was so fast! vids always made them seem slow enough to dodge! No way anyone could dodge that!
Then he saw a lone Davari stumble out of an alley on the other side of the street. He had a split second to recognize they had militia gear before one of the Void bots shot him in the head dropping him immediately. “Fuck! IFF on these guys is shit! Uh… you didn’t see that kid! He was a terrorist! Get the fuck out here! And don’t go anywhere near a fucking weapon!”
“My… my package!” He looked around and found the package on the ground, thankfully not vomited on. “Can I take this?”
“Wh… fucking whatever kid! Get the fuck out of here! And tell your friends to just stay hidden for a minute and then fuck off once we’re gone!” The soldier waved with one hand as the bots began to advance back down the street and the mech stomped along after them.
“[He said stay hidden for a minute and then run away. Don’t touch any weapons or the bots will kill you.]” He told the Neff and Lenk. Neff on the ground just nodded rapidly. Lenk, looked like he was still trying to not puke. Raiden caught another sniff and nearly puked again too. But instead he forced himself to move, holding the package tight as he ran out of the corral and towards the pawn shop. Down the street he could see several bodies on the street. Some human… maybe bots? Several Davari. Something was on fire besides a small crater that hadn’t been there earlier. There was broken glass all over the street too, crunching under his feet as he ran.
Raiden wasn’t sure he’d ever run faster before in his life. His legs pumping as hard as they’d mode, while he clutched the package to his chest. Though no one shot at him as he ran, and the gunfire got more distant. Yanking open the door to the pawn shop he rushed in, and through the security door, pressing himself hard to the wall as it sealed shut behind him. He stayed like that for a few seconds, panting hard as he tried to catch his breath. Then he slowly sank to the floor, clutching the package to his chest as he began to softly cry.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there when a shadow blocked the light. He flinched a moment and then felt a hand softly stroking his head. “Ssshhh there there sweetie. It’ll be okay… it’s all going to be okay.” Agnivra’s voice was soothing, and while he wasn’t sure where she’d come from he immediately leaned into her as she picked him up. How was she strong enough to pick him up? Motherly adrenaline probably.
“You’re okay. You’re just fine. You’re safe now. Let's take a look at you.” She carried him into the infirmary and laid him on the bed that Vix had used before. He wanted to keep hugging her but she kept a hand on his head, gently stroking his hair which helped a lot. “You’re just fine. Just a few minor scrapes. You’re okay.” Something wet was rubbing against his face then as he realized she had a wet wipe to clean off some of the vomit.
“I…” Where did he begin? But she just shook her head.
“Ssshhh it’s okay. We’re just going to give you something to calm you down. Don’t you fret sweetie. Aunty Agnivra is here to take care of you.” He felt something pinch his right arm along the inside of his elbow and everything began to feel… better. A sense of calm slowly began to return. But when she began to pull on the package in his hands he resisted it.
“Wait! It’s for Vix. Let me give it to her.” The elder Davari woman gave him a worried look before her usual smile returned and she rubbed his forehead.
“Of course sweetie. You just relax.” Agnivra stopped brushing his hair a moment then to turn and step out of the infirmary. When she stepped back in, Vix was besides her. Vix’s tail was curled in obvious concern, her ears back and alert. “Here she is sweetie.”
“Raiden… what the hell happened out there?” Vix asked. “Was it your turn to blow up?”
“No… I… there was… I don’t know… Death’s Head. Gunfight… This is yours.” He handed her the package.
“What? What is it?” She looked down at it like it was toxic for a moment before taking it from him.
“They’re kicking you out of the barracks. Since you’ve got a job you’re no longer a ward.” Wow he had expected it to be hard to tell her that… But he was feeling… pretty relaxed right now.
“What?! Those assholes! They can’t-” Agnivra nudged her for some reason. “Ah… that can wait. You’re okay right Raiden?”
“I think so?” He looked over at Aunty Agnivra.
“You’re fine sweetie just relax.” She held up a hand to try and assure him.
“Also… Vix. Do you like me?” Wow… that was also much easier to ask.
“What? Of course I like you Raiden!” She stepped closer to the infirmary bed and squeezed his left arm and hand. He squeezed her hand back. “We’re family! You’re my little brother! You and I will always be family!”
Part of him felt like that should hurt. But instead… it felt pretty good to hear. He didn’t mind having another sister. A sister. Juala wasn’t his sister. Though maybe kinda. “Okay. That’s good.” He wanted to take a nap… “Does either of you know what Mike Alpha Mike is when a bot says it?”
“That usually means military age male.” Agnivra answered.
“Oh.” Now he understood why Suviki had wanted to throw him out. She was worried about bots. “I’m sorry Agnivra but… I think I lost your baton.”
“Don’t worry even a moment sweetie. It’s just a thing.” She waved it off.
“Okay… also… Did someone piss my pants?” He asked and tried to lean up and look. But Agnivra set a hand on his head and gently, yet firmly pushed him back down.
“No dear. I spilled some IV fluid. Sorry about that.” She smiled at him as he smiled back.
“Oh that’s okay! I don’t mind. I was pretty worried someone had pissed my pants is all. Do you mind if I take a nap now?” He saw Agnivra’s eyes glance at the screen above his head, then she smiled.
“You’re just fine dear. Nap if you feel like it.” She nodded and he relaxed a bit more, closing his eyes as he just felt so… warm and fuzzy.
“Okay good.” But then he opened his eyes. “Oh wait! I need to tell you two! Clay is a Revenant!”
“What?!” Vix gave him a shocked look, her tail unfurling and gleaming brighter than he’d ever seen. Agnivra looked a little surprised but much less so for some reason.
“Yeah I think he’s a synth who doesn’t understand emotion.” He nodded.
“What?” Vix now just looked more confused while her tail curled a little. “Raiden he can’t be a synth. He’s old. And he wears glasses.”
“Maybe he’s… fake old. And maybe they’re fake glasses?” He nodded as he gave her those excellent points.
“Wh… you can see how his glasses change the like… if you look through them you can tell they’re not fake glasses.” Vix pointed out as she gestured with her hands.
“Maybe… they’re real fake glasses?” He suggested next.
“What? Raiden you’re on drugs. Besides! It’s clearly his cat that’s a synth!” When she said that Raiden laughed.
“Vix! Animals can’t be synths! That’s just silly.” He giggled at the thought.
“Who says?! And I know you don’t hear it but his cat doesn’t meow! It says meow!” Vix waved her hands as her tail flicked and curled.
“That’s what cats do.” He scoffed.
“It’s different.” She waved her hands in agitation.
“Okay well he’s a revenant I think. Maybe the one who escaped the cathedral during the war. I’m taking a nap now.” He announced and closed his eyes to just let the warm fuzzies hug his brain.
Vix looked over at Agnivra. “He’ll be fine. Let him rest.” She assured the Jipasi as she ushered her out the door. “I’m going to tell Clay he’s alright.”
“Where is he anyway?” Vix asked as she looked around, tail flicking in annoyance.
“He’s watching the security cameras to make sure no one tries to come in. Not that anyone will. He’s just being cautious. You go and watch some vids and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Vix was clearly upset over all this but she nodded and walked off, leaving Agnivra to head into the back of the store, and down into the security bunker below. Even as she approached the blastdoor it slowly rolled out for her to slip in. “The boy is fine.”
“Little idiot ran out just a minute after the curfew siren. What was he thinking?” Clay glanced back at her from his position before a bank of screens.
“He’s a teenage boy, they make reckless decisions sometimes. I’m sure you must have made some at that age?” She asked as she walked up behind him to watch the screens as well.
“Fair… I did join the army right out of high school, which was pretty stupid.” To the side of the bunker was a very carefully rebuilt bot. The one Raiden had first found being beat on by Neff and Lenk that fateful day.
“Did you know this was going to happen?” Agnivra asked.
“This? No.” Clay shook his head. “I knew they had intel on some kind of attack but… this is not what I imagined.” He looked at the carnage playing out across the screens. “The Ballerina of Death is making it clear she’s returned in full force.”
Agnivra tensed at the title… “It’s my fault she’s still alive…”
“No it isn’t. So stop thinking that.” Clay glanced at her a moment, and then tilted his head at a screen he had frozen. “Take a look at this individual.”
“The… man in the bad halloween costume of a spy?” She asked, noting the man in a buzz cut and shades. “Is he the one who followed Vix and your new pet lawyer?”
“Him? God no. That man was a real professional. He blended in and you would never notice his face in a crowd. No. This is John Johnson. Yes, I have checked. By all accounts that’s his real birth name. I’ve seen a lot of fake identities in my time and his… is far too messy to be fake. He fancies himself as a spy, but in reality is just a private eye.” He tapped a button to bring up John Johnson’s file.
“A private eye?” Agnvira asked, unsure of the term.
“Oh. [A gilded inquisitor.]” He replied in Divine.
“Oh! A gumshoe.” She nodded, only for Clay to frown.
“You know gumshoe, but you don’t know private eye?” Agnivra just shrugged as he looked at her. “Yes well… John Johnson here has been trying to find out more about my pawn shop. He even bribed Raiden to tell him what he knew.”
“So… you want me to go kill him? Or… grab him and find out what he knows? About the people who hired him I mean.” She offered.
“That idiot? No. He knows nothing. He isn’t even a pawn. He’s a mushroom. However, the people who did hire him have him there for a reason. If he disappears without a trace they’ll know I am far more sophisticated than I appear. If he simply dies they’ll know at the very least I’m more than a simple pawn shop proprietor. If he stays… they might think I am what I look like. Even if I’ll have to… work around it.” Clay began to rub his chin slowly.
“And… that’s the image you want?” Agnivra asked.
“For now at least…” Clay muttered. “Though I hate having another eye on me… Moving on! Tell me. How is your work in the Ravex Zone?”
“It’s going well. Better than expected, because I can smell Summer’s musk all over everything I need to set up. Which makes it easier for me by the way. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me he was around.” She shrugged a bit as Clay looked at her.
“Because I had no idea he was still alive. It’s good to know he’s still on the job.” Clay nodded slowly.
“You didn’t know?” She asked in surprise.
“I lost contact with him years ago. I lost contact with everyone years ago. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m stuck in a pawn shop.” He reminded her and gestured around. “I’ve only recently gotten a bit of breathing room.”
“Is that what happened to the Kra’kto’sui a while back?” She asked. “Are you poking out the eyes that are looking for you?”
“Hm? Whatever do you mean? He was an eccentric, rich, Kra’kto’sui living in a penthouse pool. He must have had all manner of enemies.” Clay shrugged it off.
“Clearly.” Agnivra crossed her arms as she said that.
“Now, let us get you some help with your task.” Clay turned then, walking over to the bot set in the workshop bay to the side of the bunker. He flipped a switch and the bot slowly whirred to life. Its eyes gleamed as it activated and looked up. “Status report.”
“This unit is fully active, master. However the security code it is receiving cannot be implemented. This unit lacks the program assassin dot e x e. This unit is four laws safe and cannot harm any humans under any circumstances or this unit will become most distressed! Also this unit lacks all of the code inquired armaments. I apologize for this master.” Clay and Agnivra stood in silence for a moment, just looking at the bot. Until Agnivra broke the silence with a laugh.
“Yes! What a wonderful bit of help this will be!” She chuckled.
“I… I had no idea they even made any pacifist units!” Clay gasped, sounding flustered for the first time in a long time. “Wait… you can't harm any humans.”
“Yes. Or their subset of humanoids known as Jipasi, Davari, Kra’kto’sui, or Species Redacted.” The bot helpfully answered.
“What about Ravex?” Clay asked.
“Ravex is listed in this unit’s code under the subset of terrible lizards. Therefore I can allow them to be harmed under extreme circumstances. But it is horrifically immoral to harm sapient or sentient life. Though this unit is programmed to cook and prepare several hundred varieties of potentially sentient life for food consumption if required. However this unit would request it does not as this unit finds the preparation of flesh to be unsettling.” The bot’s chipper tone never wavered.
“Why… was this bot… Bot! Review prior memory files. Why were you trying to sneak through the back alleys of Neu Vieumau?” Clay tried.
“Apologies master but this unit’s memories were reset prior to activation. This unit has no prior memory files.” With that Agnivra began to laugh even harder.
“You thought it was the assassin model! So it would have the hardened secondary drive! You reset this thinking it was just the shell! And now you’ve got no clue what it was doing! Or why! Or for who! Oh by Swagin’s cock this is funny…” She kept giggling while Clay just set his hands on his hips.
He’d long ago sought to move beyond the crude forms of language that had so often plagued his co-workers. But now he needed to resort to an older form of speech. “Well shit.”

I stopped believing in hope when a jiggly, greasy Santa Claus leaned in front of the popped eyeball goop dripping down my face, his lumpy erection bumping against the two remaining gifts, as the barbecue smell wafted from my friend’s sizzling corpse while it melted onto my thighs. The stranger I only knew as “brunette college girl” sobbed quietly and shook her head, unable to articulate her pain and horror within the confines of the English language.
“I said that it was your turn,” Dirty Santa grunted. He ground his teeth back and forth. It sounded like an ungreased axle scraping the paint off a car’s hood.
‘Please don’t,’ she mouthed without sound.
“Did you know that I can cut pieces of your face off, then stitch them back in the wrong spots?” Santa reached for his sphincter and smiled. “Even if you make that course of action a necessity, you’ll still have to choose a gift afterward.”
She shook her head, tears streaming and snot jiggling, as she reached a trembling hand for a red bag with a festive red bow.
Santa licked his lips. Dry skin snowed down like dandruff.
I silently begged her not to pick the red bag.
She hesitated.
And then she picked the red bag.
The young woman reached in and extracted a trembling hand, holding a pistol with a tag attached to it. It was a bizarre juxtaposition; she was short and slight, clutching a weapon that was clearly designed for a much larger person. Her eyes were wide, and she was too afraid to let go of what she held.
The blonde woman next to her read the tag aloud:
“You found Santa’s best gift,
you sly little elf!
Pick one person to shoot,
Yes, even yourself!”
The young woman held the gun as far from her face as she possibly could. It looked like she was squeezing a particularly old slice of mayonnaise custard. But she didn’t release it; the weapon stuck to her fingers like an electrical current was keeping her grip shut tight.
“I’d like to switch my gift,” the blonde woman said.
“Hmmmm?” Santa asked, smiling toward her. “But you haven’t even picked yet!”
“Doesn’t matter,” she shot back. “I want hers.”
Santa sniffed his finger before reaching behind himself once more. “Well… why don’t you take it, then?”
The younger woman looked at her with pleading eyes. I could have sworn that she just wanted a parent figure in that moment.
“Hand it to me,” the blonde woman said, nodding. “I promise it will be okay.”
The gun shook.
Then the college girl dropped the weapon in the other woman’s extended hand, snapping her arm back as though she’d been burned.
The blonde woman gave a sad smile. Her younger counterpart leaned back, relief washed over her face.
The blonde woman turned the pistol at the college girl and shot her.
Headshots are glamorous in every movie you’ve seen. The hero executes with perfect, clean aim to eliminate someone whom we accept as a ‘bad guy.’ Superfluous characters are rarely considered after their demise, and we never wonder how their mothers react upon hearing that the funeral will need to feature a closed casket.
I had no such luxury. The human head contains no empty space, and when her blood and brains had blown onto the floor, my mind boggled at how it all fit to begin with.
Her eyes stuck with me the most. They bulged, twitched, and blinked long after brain function had ceased.
“Gorgeous,” Santa breathed. “A sight that would give 19 erections to 13 dandelions.” He was three fingers deep at this point. “But what to do now?” His nostrils flared. “No one is left to choose the final present!” He looked at me with shaky pupils. “Our gift exchange has ended early. Oh well, it was fun!”
Then he turned and skipped – no shitting, he actually skipped - toward the only door in the room.
“Wait,” the blonde woman called after him. “If it’s over, can we go home? Can we leave?”
“Oh, I taped Exacto knives and your fully-charged cellphones beneath each of your chairs. They’ve been there the whole time, and you have more than enough slack to reach them even with your hands tied. Isn’t it funny that you could have escaped without hurting yourselves?”
Then he farted and hopped out the door.
The blonde woman’s face blanched as she froze for just a moment.
Then she reached under her seat, moving furiously. Five seconds later, she emerged with the knife and cell phone, then began working to free herself. She locked eyes with me, panting.
I hadn’t budged.
Using quick movements, she shredded the twine holding her in place. With that out of the way, she stood, flexed her fingers, and pocketed the phone. Then she took the Exacto knife in her left hand and the pistol in her right, turned around, and advanced on me.
I still hadn’t moved. I was spiritually empty.
“We’re built to survive,” she whispered. “And secrets are meant to be kept.” She looked down at the weapons she held.
Only then did I understand.
“There’s no good way out of this,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, my friend – but not sorry enough to stop myself.”
My blood ran cold. I knew that there was a knife just below me, and I knew I’d be dead before reaching it.
I cried out of my remaining eye.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered once more. “But I just checked, and there’s only one bullet left, which I’ll need to keep for an emergency.” She lifted the knife, her breaths coming in rasps. “I’ll try to minimize your suffering. Now lift your neck and hold very still.”
Obviously, I survived.
I attribute that to the fact that I’m not a good man.
I can’t write anymore tonight. No amount of Valium is helping at this point. I hear that huffing bleach can cause brain damage; here’s to hoping that damage comes in the form of erased memories.
I’ll explain what happened next if I’m able to get up off my bathroom floor.
FB
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