FIVE NOVELLAS

JEFF STRAND

Stalking You Now © 2013 by Jeff Strand

An Apocalypse of Our Own © 2017 by Jeff Strand

Faint of Heart © 2012 by Jeff Strand

Kutter © 2010 by Jeff Strand

Facial © 2014 by Jeff Strand

© 2019 Jeff Strand

Cover design by Lynne Hansen

LynneHansenArt.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit JeffStrand.com.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

1

Stalking You Now

5

An Apocalypse of Our Own

59

Faint of Heart

141

Kutter

251

Facial

353

INTRODUCTION

W elcome to Five Novellas.

You may be thinking, “Wow, Strand, you’re not expending a lot of creative energy with that title, huh?” But the truth is, I had your happiness in mind. If I called the book something cool like Death Blood Snakes From Hell, you might say, “Ooh! Ooh! A brand-new book that contains no reprinted material whatsoever!” and order it without carefully reading the description. Later, upon discovering that it was a compilation of books you’d already read and loved, you’d shake your fist in the air and curse my name.

I figure, if you see a book called Five Novellas, you’re going to at least glance at the part on the cover that says which five novellas are included.

For the record: Stalking You Now, An Apocalypse of Our Own, Faint of Heart, Kutter, and Facial. Maybe you’ve read all five of ‘em, in which case this introduction is the only new content you’ll find in these pages. Maybe they’re all new to you, in which case you’re getting an amazing deal! Maybe you’ve read between one and four of them, in which case it’s up to you to decide if this book is the right choice for you.

I’d thought about a novella collection for a while, but these stories seemed like strange bedfellows. Stalking You Now is a twisty tale of suspense with a big dose of dark humor. An Apocalypse of Our Own is blatantly comedic—silly, even. Faint of Heart is a straightforward thriller. Kutter will pull at your heartstrings even though it’s about a very, very bad man. Facial is weird as fuck.

So instead of trying to convince you that there was some amazing thematic connection, I called the book Five Novellas. Truth in advertising.

Enjoy!

—Jeff Strand

July, 2019

STALKING YOU NOW

“S o she sets the steak down in front of me like it’s some kind of prize, and I can see right away that it’s not medium rare. And I’m just livid. She doesn’t even sit down; she just stands there, face all beaming like somebody jammed a flashlight into her skull. So I think, okay, I’ll be nice about this. I cut into this thing, and there’s no juice at all. Not a drop. It’s like every bit of moisture has been burnt out of it.”

He makes wild gestures with his fork as he tells his story. His three idiot friends are entranced. I tell myself that if there was nobody else in the restaurant, I might go over there and stab each of them in the face, just to change their imbecilic grins into screams. But there are seven other people, not counting cooks or dishwashers in the back, and I wouldn’t do such a reckless thing anyway, so I continue to watch.

“What am I supposed to do? If I say I want my steak medium rare and she brings it out medium, that’s no big deal. I’ll tell her what she did wrong and she’ll do better next time. But this thing is at least medium well, and when I come home after a hard day at work I want to eat my dinner instead of gnaw on it, you know? So I say ‘What the hell is this?’ and she acts like I slapped her. I don’t hit women, I know better than that, and if I did it sure wouldn’t be over a steak, but I swear she practically flinches.”

I cut into my own steak. It’s rare, just as I ordered it.

“And she starts getting all teary-eyed and she asks me if she cooked it wrong, and I say, yeah you cooked it wrong, anybody can see that. So then we have this whole deal where she’s telling me that I hurt her feelings, and she’s all boo-hoo-hoo!” He contorts his face and puts his hands to his eyes in a grotesque parody of sobbing and wiping away tears. His friends laugh knowingly, obviously having dealt with a similar annoying problem in their own lives.

“I’m not the bad guy here. It’s not like she has a job. It’s not like her kids are living with us. The only thing she had to do all day was cook dinner. Does she think I’m going to marry somebody who can’t cook a steak? And the thing is, I’m totally fine with her messing up the steak. Everybody makes mistakes. Just don’t get all weepy when I try to make sure that future steaks aren’t crap. That makes sense, right?”

His friends assure him that he’s completely in the right. One of the other mouth-breathers starts in with his own attempt at an amusing anecdote, so I try to focus on enjoying my meal. My financial situation isn’t great and I rarely eat out at all, much less at a semi-classy restaurant like this. It’s very good. I wish I could do it more often.

I eat faster than they do, so I linger over my last couple of bites while I wait for them to finish. After clearing their plates and taking their dessert order, the waiter stops at my table to ask if I would like dessert as well.

“No, no, I’d explode,” I say. I point to the ruddy-faced piece of garbage, who is laughing at something that I’m sure isn’t very funny. I speak quietly, even though they’re fully engaged in their own conversation and wouldn’t hear me. “Would I be able to send a bottle of wine over to their table?”

“Of course, sir. What kind would you like?”

I don’t know wines very well. “Is there a brand that’s cheap, but people don’t think of it as cheap? I want to pay the minimum it takes for them not to think they’re getting cheap wine.”

“The wine they have been enjoying this evening is a Merlot, thirty-eight dollars a bottle.”

“Can I just send over a glass?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s do that. One glass to Terrance, the big guy on the end.”

The waiter leaves. I glance over at the cherry-covered cheesecake the couple next to me is sharing and wish I’d ordered dessert.

A few minutes later, the waiter arrives at their table with gigantic slices of cake and pie. He sets a glass of red wine down in front of Terrance. Terrance looks confused, and when the waiter points to me, he looks even more confused. I smile and raise my water glass as a toast.

He has no idea who I am.

He awkwardly toasts me in return, and whispers something to the other guys at the table. None of them try to be subtle about staring at me. I take out my wallet, estimate the amount of the check plus a decent tip, toss a few bills on the table, and walk out of the restaurant. I feel pretty good.

* * *

If Terrence goes home, I’ll return to my hotel room, get some sleep, and resume the stalking tomorrow. But he doesn’t. Instead, he and his friends drive to a bar a few blocks away.

I wait in the parking lot for a few minutes, humming to pass the time, and then I walk inside.

The place is filled with smoke. Disgusting. I despise smoke. But I despise Terrence even more, so I walk on in. The four of them are seated at the bar. Terrence is on the end and there’s an empty stool next to him, but I don’t want to just plop down next to him. I want him to notice that I’m there on his own. The bar has Ms. Pac-Man, so I walk over to the machine and pretend to play.

I stand there for about ten minutes, but the drunken bastard doesn’t notice. I can see him in the reflection of the video game screen, so I know he’s not merely being discreet.

I abandon my original plan and just sit down next to him.

“Can I buy you another drink?” I ask.

He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “Listen, buddy, I’m not a homophobe. If you gays want to get married and be miserable like the rest of us, that’s fine with me. I only have a problem with faggots when they’re hitting on me, so if you could find someplace else to drink, I won’t have to kick your ass.”

His friends are all watching. I wonder if he’d be talking as tough if he didn’t have backup.

“I’m hetero,” I say. “Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”

“Yeah? Who did you think I was?”

“A friend.”

“Well, now you know I’m not.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding,” I tell him. But I don’t move from the stool. I gesture for the bartender’s attention and order a beer.

I pretend that I’m not aware that Terrence is staring at me for a few moments, then I glance at him. “What?”

“I think you should sit someplace else.”

“I apologize if my mistaken identity made you uncomfortable,” I say, looking him directly in the eye. “But I’m not as young as I used to be, so once I sit down, I’m usually not inclined to get up until I finish my beer. I think you can relate. What are you, about forty-four?”

He’s exactly forty-four. And I can tell that he’s not sure if it’s a lucky guess or if I know who he is.

“Do I need to knock you off that seat?” Terrence asks.

The bartender slams my beer down in front of me. “If you guys are gonna start shit, start it someplace else.”

“We’re not starting anything,” I say.

“My rent is so goddamn high I can barely keep the place open as it is,” says the bartender, who apparently was in the mood to rant and waiting for something to set him off. “I don’t need to spend extra money paying for whatever damage you apes cause.”

“We’re not starting anything,” I repeat. I’m unafraid of Terrence, but it’s not in my plan to get punched. I take out my wallet, pull out my last three bills, and toss them on the counter.

“It’s three-fifty,” the bartender says.

Crap. This is awkward. I don’t have fifty cents. The whole point is to intimidate Terrence, and not being able to pay for my beer isn’t going to help me accomplish that. Fuck.

I feel myself break into a cold sweat, but it’s dark in here and I’m sure Terrence can’t tell. I look at the bartender, then I look at Terrence. “He’ll pay for the difference,” I say, and then I quickly—but not too quickly—slide off the stool and walk out of the bar.

I hope the four of them don’t come out after me. Having eavesdropped on their restaurant conversation, I know that his friends are creeps, but they don’t deserve to meet the same fate that awaits Terrence. Few people do. When I decide to take my revenge, it’s going to be extremely unpleasant for him.

Does he have even the slightest idea who I am?

He’s never seen me. The reprehensible monster probably doesn’t even know that he ruined my life twenty-five years ago. Probably thought that he was safe. Probably never looks back over his shoulder, or in the closet, or under the bed.

I’ve spent half of my life being afraid because of him.

But not anymore.

They don’t come out of the bar. I wonder if one of his friends convinced him that it wasn’t worth it, or if they all laughed and went back to their drinking. I wonder if he actually paid the fifty cents.

I wonder if he’s scared, just a little.

* * *

Breaking into his car is easy. Waiting for him to return to it is hard. I’ve got a small backpack with some emergency supplies, like duct tape, but I didn’t bring anything to entertain me while I sit there. After three hours, I start to worry that maybe he’d been responsible enough to call a cab, but finally I see him stumbling back towards the vehicle. Two of his friends are with him. The third left an hour ago.

I duck down in the back seat. It’s dark in the parking lot, but of course if he glances in the back he’ll see me. His drunken staggering is almost cartoonish, so I don’t think he’ll look. If he does, I’ll have to show him the gun I’m holding. Hopefully he won’t look.

He doesn’t look. I can hear the clink of metal on metal as his first two attempts to unlock the door fail. This car is last year’s model. He doesn’t need an actual key; he could unlock it by pressing a button. Either he lost the keyless entry button or he’s too drunk to remember that he even has it.

He finally achieves this amazing feat of dexterity and slides into the car. The reek of smoke and beer follows him immediately, and I feel a little sick. How much smoke stench can one body absorb?

Terrence slams his door shut and starts the engine, getting it right on the first try. We back out of the parking space. I’m not thrilled by the idea of riding in a car with somebody who is drunk off his ass, since having us both die in a grisly car accident would make for an unsatisfying revenge. But I’ll trust his ability to get us to the first traffic light without causing our demise.

He turns left onto the street.

I’m right behind you, Terrence, you oblivious waste of human flesh. You have no idea how many times I’ve killed you in my mind, how many ways I have taken you apart, how much of your blood has run between my fingers.

I could sit up and put a bullet into the back of his intoxicated head right now, but that’s no good. He needs to understand what he’s done to me. And he needs to realize that he most assuredly, most positively, most definitely did not get away with it.

While he’s suffering, he needs to know why.

Terrence is either having very good luck with getting green lights or he’s just running the red ones. We go nearly twelve blocks before he finally stops.

The moment he does, I sit up. He gasps and starts to turn around in his seat. I point my revolver at his face.

It’s close enough that if he had really good reflexes he could knock it right out of my hand. But I doubt he has good reflexes even when he’s sober.

“I’ve got money,” he says.

“I know,” I tell him. “Did you pay my fifty cents?”

“No. I mean, yes.”

“Which is it?”

“I would have paid. The bartender didn’t ask for it.”

“All right.”

“My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

“I’ll steal it later. When the light’s green, drive. Slowly. No turns. No sudden stops. Do not take your hands off the wheel. Do not look at any other drivers, and do not try to butt-dial your phone, or I will shoot you. I didn’t say kill you. I said shoot you. I’m not looking for this to become a torture situation, but that’s entirely up to you.”

His disgusting body quivers as he succumbs to tears. “Please, just take the money.”

“No.”

“You can have the car.”

“I don’t want your car. You’ve been DUI’ing in it.”

“Please...”

“Stop the begging. In fact, do not speak. The only way you’re going to live through this is if you stay quiet and follow my instructions.”

I’m lying. There’s not a chance in hell that I’ll let him live through this. But I’m not quite ready for him to know that the end is inevitable. I want us to be staring deep into each other’s eyes at his moment of realization.

“The light’s green,” I say. “Drive.”

He drives. I really hope he doesn’t swerve or try anything stupid. I’m confident that I’ve got the situation under control, but I’m only human, and a scared, drunk guy like him might try something insane, like plowing into a fire hydrant.

“Just stay calm,” I tell him, switching from my menacing voice to something more soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

He’s sobbing. I should be enjoying this, but it’s actually kind of pathetic and off-putting. I almost want to pop a bullet into him right now, but no, I’d regret that.

We drive for a couple of minutes before he speaks again. “My wife is going to wonder where I am.”

“You don’t have a wife. You have a live-in girlfriend named Mindy. Are you trying to make yourself sound less expendable?” That’s kind of clever for a drunk guy, but I’m not in the mood to appreciate cleverness. “Do you want me to kill you right now for being a liar?”

“I got mixed up.”

“I’m sure you did. Did you tell Mindy you were going out drinking with the boys? Or would that compromise your dominance over her?”

“Is this about her?”

It’s not. “Maybe.”

“It only happened once. I barely touched her.” Now he’s blubbering. “Did she tell you how she was acting? Did she tell you what she said? You would have done the same thing!”

“Wow. I thought you were a clever drunk, but now you’re blurting out stupid confessions. Stick to iced tea, asshole. Did you tell her you were on your way home? Don’t lie to me, because I’ll check your call history.”

“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

“Good.”

Knowing that Terrence is a wife-beater should make me feel even better about what I’m going to do to him, but I honestly don’t care. Wife beater, child molester, pet killer...it doesn’t matter to me. Hell, I don’t even care if he spends every waking moment doing charity work to benefit legless orphans, or if he’s on the verge of curing six or seven major diseases.

All I care about is what he did to me. I’m a very focused person.

Fortunately, he doesn’t try anything stupid, and it’s not too long before his sobbing turns into simple weeping. I think that a silver car is following me for a couple of minutes, but just as I start to become concerned it makes a right turn.

After we’ve been driving for about ten minutes I tell him to pull into the parking lot of a strip mall. When I checked it out this morning, the mall looked like it had been abandoned for months, and most of the windows have been broken out, so it’s safe to assume that there won’t be any security. Anyway, we won’t be here very long.

I tap him with the barrel of the gun to make sure he doesn’t forget about it, then I get out of the car. I step far enough away from the driver’s side door that he can’t fling it open and bash me with it, and tell him to get out.

He does so without protest.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You’re riding in the trunk. Unlock it and get in. Do it quick.” The longer he’s driving at gunpoint, the more risk of something going wrong, but he doesn’t need an explanation.

To his credit, he immediately hurries to the back of the vehicle, unlocks the trunk, and raises the lid. He’s probably desperately hoping that this really is just about money, and that if he cooperates he’ll escape with his life.

He’s not exactly nimble, so it’s difficult for him to climb into the trunk, but he does so without it being too embarrassing of a spectacle and I slam the lid shut.

Then I realize that Terrence still has the fucking car keys.

I refuse to panic. I don’t remember either one of us locking the car doors, so I’ll be able to pull the lever from inside and pop it open again. It was a dumb mistake, an unacceptably sloppy moment, but at least I didn’t screw up in a manner that could get me killed.

The driver’s side door is indeed unlocked. Thank freaking God. I open the trunk, point the gun at Terrence’s cowering body, and order him to throw me the keys.

He does.

I slam the trunk shut again.

I can’t believe I let something like that happen. But now my concentration is back, one hundred percent, and it certainly won’t happen again.

I get in the car, start the engine, and drive away.

* * *

It takes about half an hour to get there. During the drive, my anxiety level is high but manageable. Terrence’s girlfriend is probably fast asleep. Maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s worried. Maybe she called one of his friends, who told her when he left the bar. Maybe the friend didn’t say a word, covering for Terrence in case he was off with a mistress, but is now worried about his drunken buddy. Maybe.

But however it worked out, the cops aren’t going to be actively searching for a forty-four-year-old who hasn’t come home yet after a night of boozing it up. It’s possible that his girlfriend or friends reported him as a drunk driver, but not likely.

I’m not concerned.

We get to the storage unit. I pull right up to the sliding metal door and put the car into park. I doubt that Terrence will be dumb enough to pound on the trunk and cause a ruckus, but it won’t matter if he is, because nobody is around to hear.

I get out of the car and unlock the sliding door. The storage unit is a huge one, big enough to comfortably store four automobiles, so I’m able to raise the door, get back in the car, and drive right in.

I turn off the engine. We wouldn’t want to get carbon monoxide poisoning, right? I get out of the car then pull down the door, casting us into complete darkness.

I used to love the dark.

There’s not much in the storage unit, so I don’t have to worry about tripping as I walk to the far corner and turn on the lamp. The light is nothing more than a soft glow; creepy and appropriate.

I unlock the trunk and raise the lid.

“Get out,” I say.

He climbs out of the trunk. Then he falls flat on his face. I’d laugh at him, but of course his legs would have fallen asleep after being confined in such a small place for so long, and it’s not his fault. I don’t help him up, though. I wait for the feeling to return to his legs, then I force him to sit down in a wooden chair.

He says nothing as I tie him up. Handcuffing him to something would be quicker and easier, but I like the old fashioned feel of tying up a captive. I feel a rush of satisfaction with each knot.

I’ve got him. Finally, I’ve got him.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“No idea?”

“No, sir.”

He’s being polite now. Adorable.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I swear, I have no idea. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“No. I do not. Trust me. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at a picture of your ugly face.”

“Then who are you? What did I do to you?”

“Where were you on July 20th, 1988?”

Terrence’s eyes widen. He may not remember the exact date, but he sure as hell knows what happened in the summer of 1988.

“I don’t understand,” he says, sounding confused and panicked. “I don’t know you. I’ve never met you.”

“No, but you took everything from me.”

“I didn’t do anything to you!”

“Bullshit! Bull. Shit.” I’m starting to become too angry. I can’t let this become about rage. It’s supposed to be calculated. Diabolical. A perfect revenge.

“You’ve got the wrong guy, I mean it!”

“Say that again. See what happens.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone!”

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“No!”

He’s lying. He has to have figured it out by now.

But I force a smile. I walk over to a small shelf, which is empty except for one item.

I hold up the axe.

Suddenly he understands everything.

This son of a bitch, this worthless hog of a man, knows exactly what he did. He remembers being amazed that his homemade fake ID got him past the bouncer and into the club. He remembers convincing a sweet young girl named Amber to leave with him. He remembers that Amber was more than a little tipsy, and up for anything he had in mind. He remembers his frustration when she said that they couldn’t go back to her place, because if her roommate heard them fooling around, she’d tell Amber’s boyfriend. He remembers wishing that he didn’t still live at home with his parents.

He remembers telling the police all of this.

He remembers driving around, trying to find a place where they could park. He remembers getting the idea, and assuming that Amber wouldn’t be okay with it, and being happily surprised when she’s not only okay with it, she’s enthusiastic.

He remembers going to the storage facility where he makes minimum wage. He remembers thinking how naughty and dangerous it feels to unlock somebody’s private storage unit (he could get fired!) (this was so illegal!) and take a willing girl inside. It’s completely dark. It’s so exciting.

He definitely remembers fucking her, though he described it as “being intimate” to the reporters.

And no matter how long he lives, he won’t forget her fumbling through her purse for a post-coital cigarette and flicking on the lighter flame. He won’t forget discovering the bodies.

I killed those eight people with an axe, but I didn’t chop them up. I used the blunt side to bash their heads into unrecognizable muck. It’s why the press dubbed me the Flatside Killer, easily one of the worst nicknames ever given to a serial killer.

Terrence called his boss, and then the police.

I’d rented the storage unit under a fake name, of course, and I’d made sure there was nothing connecting my victims, who ranged in ages from twenty-two to sixty-four. Some were men and some were women; I didn’t care, as long as they broke when I hit them.

No matter how cautious I’d been and how carefully I’d tried to cover my tracks, the big loose end with my murder spree was that I’d kept the bodies. Sure, I’d embalmed them to eliminate the smell, both to avoid detection and for my own benefit, but they were right there on the canvas, all eight of them, bodies arranged in my own obscene little attempt at art.

I couldn’t very well hang around in the United States with the FBI investigating a pile of corpses, so I paid a ridiculous amount of money and got myself a new identity in Mexico.

It turned out that either I was really good at what I did, or the authorities were really bad. I was never identified as the killer, at least not in a way that I ever heard about.

But I spent twenty-five years keeping my head down and being afraid.

Not anymore.

I gently prod his nose with the blunt end of the axe. “Figure it out yet?”

“You can’t hold that against me!” Terrence insists. “I didn’t know you! I didn’t do anything!”

“Did the Flatside Killer ever strike again?” I ask him, prodding him again, harder this time. Not hard enough to break his nose but hard enough to leave a red mark. “Do you know what it’s like to have to give up that kind of euphoria? Do you know what it’s like to spend every waking moment worrying that the police are going to break down your door?”

“But why me? Why not the cops? Why not the lab guys? Why do you have to come after me? I had nothing against you! I didn’t even know who you were!”

“I can’t kill everybody who was involved with the case. That would be ridiculous, Terrence. You’re the one who started it all. You didn’t have to say anything. You could have just left.”

I feel like I’m starting to sound a little bit insane. I understand that it’s not really his fault, and that it’s crazy to think that he wouldn’t call the police. But I despise him. I don’t care how irrational it is; if my mind worked normally, I wouldn’t have killed eight people for the fun of it.

“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.

“I’m going to bash your face in with this axe. Eventually I’ll break through your skull into your brain, but I’m going to start with the lower half of your face and keep hitting until you have no jaw left. If I had some kind of injection that would keep you conscious through the whole process, I’d use it, but fortunately for you I don’t, so you may get lucky and pass out at some point before you die.”

Terrence vomits all over his chest and the ropes.

He coughs and sputters, and for a second I think he’s actually choking on it and I’m going to have to do something, but finally he speaks. “Why now?”

There’s no reason not to tell him, since he’ll be dead within minutes. But I don’t want to. He doesn’t need to know that I had a heart attack—a minor one, it turned out, but scary as hell—and that as I lay on the floor of my hovel, unable to breathe, I thought about how I’d wasted the last quarter-century of my life.

That makes me sound weak.

Terrence is going to think many things about me in the moments before he dies, but none of them will be that I am weak.

I raise the axe and take a slow motion practice swing to make sure the blade will strike him directly in the chin. It has to be a downward angle. I don’t want bone fragments shooting up too far and ending my revenge too soon.

There are quite a few things I could say right now, such as “Any last words?” or “I’ll see you in hell,” but there’s really no need to say anything. This is going to be the most satisfying moment I’ve experienced in twenty-five years. I may even get emotional afterward, but that’s okay, there’s no shame in that.

I can’t wait to hear the way he—

Somebody knocks.

I freeze.

We both turn our heads toward the metal door of the storage unit, as if looking at the door would provide any clue about who was knocking on the other side. I glance back at Terrence, and I can tell that he’s trying to decide if he should shout out or not.

He shouldn’t. He really, truly should not.

“Don’t make a sound,” I whisper, lowering the axe. “If they leave I’ll let you go.”

It’s a completely inept lie. No way will Terrence believe that. Still, if he thinks he can extend his life just a while longer...

“Help me!” he shouts.

I curse and slam the axe into his head.

Not only is the trajectory wrong, so that I strike him right in the temple, but the axe is turned the wrong way, and the blade sinks several inches into his skull.

His mouth drops open. A thick trickle of blood runs down the side of his head.

I let go of the axe. It pops out of his head and falls to the cement floor with a loud clatter.

Whoever is outside knocks again, more vigorously this time.

I want to just drop to the floor, curl into the fetal position, and cry for a while. But that would be pointless. Though I’ve been screwed out of a worthy revenge, I’m not going to give up and go to prison over this.

There’s too much dead weight to get him into the trunk of the car quickly. Instead I shove the chair onto its side and throw a drop cloth over him. Somebody who is specifically looking for a dead body will immediately figure out where Terrence’s corpse is hiding, but maybe this is just a nosy security guard.

I wedge the gun into the back of my pants. Not a safe place for it. I hope I can talk my way out of this.

I slide open the door.

A woman is standing there. Her silver car is parked in front of the storage unit. She’s blonde, cute, and way too young for a repulsive cretin like Terrence. I’ve never actually seen Mindy in person, but I’ve seen a couple of pictures.

She’s been crying and she looks scared.

As far as I can tell, she’s not armed, though anything could be in her purse.

“Where is he?” she asks.

I decide to respect her intelligence and not pretend that I don’t know who she’s talking about. But first I need to make sure that I don’t get shot. “Put down the purse,” I tell her.

She drops the purse without hesitation. Obviously there wasn’t a weapon in there. She didn’t come here expecting to do battle with an axe-wielding maniac.

No way does she know who I am.

“Where is he?” she repeats.

Her eyes dart to the drop cloth, then back to me.

How much does she know? Did she see him driving at gunpoint? Did she see me force him into the trunk? She was pounding on the door when Terrence shouted; is it possible that she didn’t hear him?

It’s no great tragedy if I have to kill her. She looks like a perfectly good victim. But I really dislike the idea of murdering somebody just to compensate for my carelessness. Back when the Flatside Killer was actively slaying, there was never any collateral damage. I only killed my intended prey.

“He’s not here,” I say.

“I heard him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I heard him shout ‘Help me!’ I know he’s in here.” When she wipes a tear from her eye, her hand is shaking, though quite honestly she seems more angry than upset. I feel that if I underestimate her and let my guard down, I could end up with an axe in my skull.

“You heard wrong.” Obviously, I’m attempting to buy some time while I figure out a way to get out of this that doesn’t involve a second bloody corpse.

She looks directly into my eyes. “I won’t say anything.”

The tone of her voice and her pleading expression surprise the hell out of me, because I believe her. She’s not just trying to save her life.

“Really?” I ask. “You think that I’ve got your boyfriend in here with me, and you’re not going to say anything?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Did you think I just happened to be driving by this place? I was following him. I know what’s going on. I know what Terrence was doing. It was only a matter of time before he fucked the wrong man’s wife.”

I like that. As far as incorrect assumptions go, it’s one of the best ones she could have come up with. Of course, I’m not wearing a wedding band, so...

“Girlfriend,” I correct.

“Can I see him?”

“You don’t want to. Trust me.”

She points to the drop cloth. “He’s under there, right?”

“Yes. He’s not waking up. You don’t need to know more than that.”

Mindy walks into the storage unit. The axe is underneath the drop cloth with Terrence’s body, so I should probably tackle her or something, but instead I just watch carefully. If she lifts the cloth, I can count on at least a couple of seconds of shock, and I’ll tackle her then.

She walks up to the drop cloth. Then she kicks it. Hard.

She kicks it again and again, and I start to worry that she’s going to kick the axe and break her foot. I can see a couple of red blotches starting to form on the fabric.

Finally she lets out a sob and steps away. She stumbles over to the side of the storage unit and leans against the wall.

I really don’t know how to respond. Should I try to comfort her? Should I kill her?

“How did you do it?” she asks.

“Axe to the head.”

“For real?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” She wipes her eyes and chuckles. “Wow. I assumed you shot him or something.”

“You would have heard a gunshot.”

“They don’t make silencers anymore?”

“I’m not a professional assassin. Just an angry boyfriend.”

“I guess. You’ve got to be pretty damn angry to whack somebody in the head with an axe. Saved me the trouble of killing the son of a bitch myself, but I couldn’t have used an axe.”

“What would you have used?”

“I don’t know. Poison, maybe.”

“So, what, you would have followed him and thrown poison on him?” I’m trying to be funny, but it doesn’t really come off as a joke.

“I wasn’t going to kill him tonight. All I wanted to do was catch him in the act. When I saw you in the car with him, I knew exactly what was happening.”

“You’re pretty good at following cars.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been riding with me. It was pure luck, I promise you.” She lets out a sudden hysterical giggle and quickly slaps her hand over her mouth. She takes a few quick, panicked breaths through her nose, then lowers her hand again. “God, I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“Do you feel bad about it?”

“I feel like I should feel bad about it.”

“Don’t shed any tears. He deserved what he got.”

She shakes her head. “Not really. Not for screwing around. He was a cheating, woman-slapping bastard, but he didn’t deserve to have his head chopped in half.”

“It wasn’t chopped in half.”

“What did you do to your girlfriend?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you kill her?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell her what you did?”

“Hell no.”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“Why wouldn’t I ask questions?” She puts her hand on her belly. “You just murdered the father of my baby.”

“Oh.” I should probably say something more profound than that, but suddenly my vocabulary has dropped to almost nothing. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did he.”

When I opened the sliding door, I knew things would be tense. I hadn’t imagined that they might also be socially awkward.

“Would you have done things differently if you’d known?” she asks.

“Maybe.”

“Then it’s good that you didn’t know.”

I’d like her to leave now. I’m the axe murderer, but she’s creeping me out. And it’s not very intelligent for us to stand here with the door open and a dead body lying on the floor, even if it’s covered.

“I have to shut the door now,” I say. “I’ve got to get him into the trunk and bury the body.”

“Where?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“That’s fair. But we should get our story straight.”

“You’re not my accomplice. We’re not here to provide alibis for each other. Just pretend you didn’t go out tonight and don’t say anything to anybody.”

“I want to help you.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I need more closure. I can’t leave it like this.”

“Like what? He’s dead! I killed him and you probably shattered half of his bones. How much more closure can you possibly need? He’s out of your life. Go home.”

She doesn’t move. I should kill her.

I should have killed her as soon as I raised the door. Only a complete idiot would let her live. The second I discovered that she was not a heavily armed police officer, I should have bashed in her skull.

Should have done it before I knew she was pregnant.

That shouldn’t factor into my decision. I don’t care about things like that. I would never do any of the sick stuff that some killers do when a woman has a fetus inside of her, but if it dies with her, that’s the way it goes.

Why isn’t she leaving?

“I want to help you get rid of the body.”

“Most people try to distance themselves from crimes. Why would you want to incriminate yourself? You could go to prison! Pretend you never saw me, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not good at pretending.”

Okay. She has to die. There’s really no other option here. I tried to not have to kill her, but she had to be a pain in the ass, so now I’ve got to do it, right? The only question is, do I pop a bullet in her brain and get it over with, or should I do something more fulfilling?

I got screwed out of my proper revenge against Terrence, so I’m leaning toward the latter, but it’s also risky to keep stretching this out. I should be long-gone from here by now.

She’s staring at me. She thinks I’m trying to decide if I should let her help, and not if I should kill her quickly or slowly.

“Why won’t you let me help?”

“Because.”

“Unless you’re five, that’s not a reason.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Maybe you don’t need my help, but couldn’t you use it? Isn’t it easier to get a body into the trunk if two people are carrying it? Wouldn’t it be faster for both of us to dig a grave instead of just you?”

“You’re pregnant.”

“So what?”

“Pregnant women shouldn’t be lifting dead bodies.”

“It’s not like I’m eight months along. I’m not even showing. That’s a stupid reason.”

I’m pretty sure I’ve offended her. I feel kind of bad about suggesting that she’s too delicate for this kind of work.

“I’m sorry.”

I cannot believe that I just apologized. Jesus.

Why won’t she leave me alone?

“It’s okay. Let me help.”

If this continues much longer, I’m going to bash myself with the axe, so I either have to kill her or let her be my cleanup assistant.

Fine. She can come. But if she thinks we’re going on some kind of cross-country killing spree together, she’s sorely mistaken.

“Okay, you can help me get him into the trunk,” I tell her. I’m prepared for her to let out a “Woo!” and high-five me, but she simply nods. “We need to wrap him up more tightly in the drop cloth, but I’ll do that, unless you want to roll around in there with him or something.”

She frowns. “Why would you say that?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? Why would you make a comment like that?”

“It was a joke.”

“It didn’t sound like a joke. Are you saying that I’m some kind of deviant? That I’d like rolling around with my dead boyfriend’s corpse?”

I consider whether to point out that “dead boyfriend’s corpse” is redundant. I decide that I might as well. “You don’t need to say ‘dead boyfriend’s corpse.’ You could say ‘dead boyfriend’ or ‘boyfriend’s corpse’ and get across the same meaning.”

I’m not anal-retentive about grammar issues. I just don’t like that she thinks she’s allowed to be offended by my joke. She doesn’t have to laugh, but we’re not equal partners here, and she can keep her moral outrage to herself.

“Let it go,” I say.

“I just want to know what you meant.”

“I meant to add a bit of humor to an ugly situation. I’m sorry that it upset your delicate sensibilities.” It doesn’t count as a real apology, since I’m clearly being sarcastic. “If you don’t like the way I make conversation, then you can leave.”

“All right,” she says. “I apologize. No, I do not wish to roll around in a drop cloth with my late boyfriend, but I will be glad to assist you in wrapping the cloth more tightly so that his bodily fluids do not leak out.”

Her sarcasm is somewhat more bitter than mine, but that’s okay.

“Then let’s do it.”

I don’t want to carry around a heavy body when I’ve got a gun wedged in my pants. Mindy looks scared but not surprised when I take it out. I walk to the far end of the storage unit and set it down in the corner. If she’s stupid enough to make a run for it, I’m confident that I can take her down in plenty of time.

It’s a high quality, absorbent drop cloth, but I know we are going to get some blood on ourselves, even if she hadn’t kicked the shit out of Terrence. Fortunately, we are able to get him tightly wrapped without too much of a mess—a few drops on my shirt, and a trickle on Mindy’s pants. And though I hate to admit it, it is much easier to get the body into the trunk with somebody else helping.

She spits into the trunk. “Asshole,” she says.

“You realize that you just spat DNA in there, right?”

She freezes. Puts her hand over her mouth. Then uses the bottom of her shirt to wipe the saliva off the drop cloth. “We’re going to burn this, aren’t we?”

“Well, we are now.” I don’t really care about my DNA being all over the scene, since I have no criminal record and I’ll be back in Costa Rica before the cops find anything. If Mindy ends up in prison, hey, she should have listened when I told her to leave.

I pick up a shovel, purchased two weeks ago but not used yet, and a flashlight. I toss them into the trunk with the corpse, and then I close the lid. Mindy walks around Terrence’s car and gets in the passenger seat. I get into the driver’s seat and stare at the steering wheel for a moment, trying to decide if I want to get into yet another argument, or whether I should just drive out of here.

“Do you really want to leave your car here?”

“I’d rather not, but I also don’t want you to leave me.”

“You can follow.”

“How do I know you won’t try to lose me?”

“I didn’t lose you on the way here.”

“You didn’t know I was there.”

I put on my seat belt. “You know what? I don’t really care if you ride along or not. If you’re not worried about your safety, I’m sure as hell not going to be.”

She fastens her own seat belt. “Good. Thanks.”

I turn on the engine, then I check the rearview mirror. “Except that your car is blocking me.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll move it.”

Mindy quickly gets out of the car and into her own vehicle. It’s hard to believe that things went so smoothly back when I was a thrill-killer. Now I feel like the kind of buffoon who deserves to get caught.

She moves her car, just enough to let me out.

I back up, and she hurriedly shuts off her engine and gets out, clearly believing that I’m going to drive off and leave her. I almost think she’ll jump in front of my car—well, Terrence’s car, technically—before she lets that happen.

But I wasn’t going to leave her. I apply the brakes, and she gets in.

We drive off.

And...I realize that I left the gun behind. I don’t need it right now or even want it, but that’s another blunder to add to tonight’s tally. This woman is really messing with my mind.

* * *

She gives me exactly thirty seconds of peace—I actually count them—before the next question. “What are you going to do to your girlfriend?”

“You already asked that.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You didn’t answer truthfully.”

“I’m not going to do anything to her.”

“Bullshit. You expect me to believe that you found out she was having an affair with Terrence, and you’re so angry that you murdered him, but you’re not going to say a peep to her?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What are you going to say when she asks about him?”

“There would be absolutely no reason for her to ask me about him. I didn’t know him. She’s not going to say ‘Hey, this guy I was fucking has gone missing; got any details?’ And I didn’t kill him out of anger. Or revenge. I killed him because I didn’t want to lose her. So, yes, I’m going to pretend that everything is fine, and hope that it was a one-time thing.”

Mindy nods. “Okay. I can respect that.”

“Thank you.”

“But let’s say you did want to teach her a lesson.”

“I don’t.”

“I know you don’t, but hypothetically. What if you came home from burying Terrence and caught her in bed with another guy. No, let’s say two guys. What if you came home and she was in bed with two guys?”

“Are these your own fantasies we’re talking about?”

“Maybe that’s taking it too far. We’ll say one guy. You come home and you see a strange car parked in the driveway. You think that’s kind of weird since it’s so late, but you’re not too concerned. Then as you put your hand on the doorknob you get this weird feeling, like something is going on in there that you’re not supposed to know about, and you can’t explain why, but you turn the doorknob very slowly, trying not to make a sound, trying to sneak into your own house.”

“I don’t live with her,” I say.

Mindy ignores me. “As soon as you step inside, you can hear noises coming from upstairs. Bedsprings creaking. Moans. You know exactly what you’re hearing, but you don’t want to believe it, so you very quietly make your way up the stairs. You walk down the hallway, and the noises are getting louder, and you see that she’s left the bedroom door open.”

“Even if I did live with her, you’ve got the floor plan completely wrong.”

“You look into the bedroom, and there they are. She’s on top, riding him almost as if she’s trying to give you the best possible view of what’s happening. You just stand there in shock. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. And then she notices you. Your eyes lock...and she doesn’t even stop.”

“Keeping it credible, huh?”

“What would you do?”

“So we’re dealing with some sort of alternate reality in which I could walk in on her cheating on me, and she wouldn’t even be polite enough to pause for a moment?”

“Sure.”

“Then I suppose I’d ask her to stop.”

“Okay, let’s dial it back a bit.”

“Yes, let’s.”

“You come home and catch them in the act. You wait for him to leave—”

“I wouldn’t wait for him to leave.”

“In this scenario you do.”

“There’s no scenario in which I would.”

“Will you stop taking this so literally? I’m not asking you to sign off on a plan of action, for God’s sake. I’m just curious. So let’s say you’re so shocked that you can’t react, and then when the guy leaves you’re alone with your girlfriend. What do you do?”

“Nothing. I love her. Anything I did would be to him. Despite what you might think of me, I don’t hurt women. That’s not how I was raised.”

“Okay.” She’s silent for a very brief, merciful moment. “Do you want to know what I would do?”

“If you had a lesbian girlfriend who cheated on you?”

“Sure.”

“What would you do? Shove a broken bottle into her face?”

“Nope. No physical violence at all. All I would do is let her know that I knew.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“And you felt the need to share that pathetic plan with me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t come out and say anything. I’d be subtle. I’d say that one of the neighbors complained that a strange car in our driveway was blocking the sidewalk, and I’d pretend that I believed whatever excuse she came up with. And maybe every couple of days or so, just as the guilt starts to fade, I’d figure out some other subtle way to remind her, just enough that she suspected that I knew, but couldn’t be sure.”

She’s really terrible at this. I don’t want to debate her, because that would encourage her to continue speaking, but what she’s saying is ridiculous. “Really? Having murdered her lover, you’re going to throw around hints that you were involved?”

“We didn’t murder her lover. You’re not paying attention.”

“So he’s still around? She’s still sleeping with him?”

“Yes. Or she was, until the guilt began to eat her alive, and she got so paranoid that she had to break it off.”

“Then let me explain the big difference between us. You, apparently, would enjoy a relationship where you torment somebody, getting your thrills from a long-term revenge. That’s fine. If you want a sour, unpleasant romance, I’m not going to judge you. Me, I prefer to remove the element that’s causing the problems, so that the relationship can be fixed.”

“Do you really think that Terrence was the problem in your relationship?”

“His penis was, at least.”

“That’s pretty naïve of you. Don’t you think there’s anything you could do differently, besides axe-murder her boy-toy? When was the last time you brought her flowers?”

For a split-second I’m offended that she would suggest that I’m the one responsible for the problems in the relationship with my completely fabricated girlfriend.

I need to stop talking to her about this. If this conversation goes on, at some point there will be some sort of continuity error on my part. Not that it matters, I guess. At this point I can’t even remember why I lied to her. What difference does it make if she knows that I’m the Flatside Killer?

Hell, maybe I’ve already given it away. It’s not like this was a planned out story. She might know that I’m not who I say I am. She might be toying with me.

Mindy needs to die. I’m not petty enough to murder somebody for being annoying, but if she’s one step ahead of me in this little game, then I need to get rid of her.

I don’t care if she’s pregnant.

She might not even be pregnant.

No, she’s probably really pregnant. I’d know if she was lying.

Killing a pregnant woman is basically just the same as killing two people, and I have no moral issue with killing two people. Killing two people at once is kind of impressive, actually, if you take it out of context and don’t tell anybody that the second person was an unborn child.

If she keeps being annoying, I’ll kill her.

No, if she stays at the same level of annoyance, I’ll spare her, but if she grows more annoying, she dies.

That’s petty.

I don’t know why I’m even worrying about this. What difference does it make why I kill somebody?

I will let her do half of the body disposal work, and then I will bash her over the head with the shovel. If she’s proud of being a cruel person, why not give her a cruel death?

* * *

She actually lapses into silence as we continue driving. It lasts until we pull off onto a dirt road.

When fantasizing about my revenge, I’d thought about leaving Terrence in the storage unit, just like I did with my other victims. I’d almost convinced myself that it was a good idea; after all, what did it matter where his corpse was found, since I would be back in hiding?

But...no. I couldn’t justify it. I would become suicidal if my crimes were discovered in the same way as before. So Terrence has to go into the ground.

Mindy looks nervous. Good. I hope she’s scared. I hope she’s terrified. I hope she’s envisioning horrible things that I might do to her.

“Are we really just going to bury him?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Is that safe?”

“For him?”

“You know what I mean. Won’t he be found?”

I shrug. “Eventually, I guess.”

“And that’s a bad thing, right?”

“If I were planning to hang out here and try to resume a normal life, I guess it would be a bad thing if somebody dug up his body.”

“What about me?”

“You wanted to come along. If you were worried about being connected to his murder, perhaps you should have stayed behind. I didn’t force you into the car.”

“Take me out of the equation. Won’t animals dig up a body pretty quickly? Even if you’re planning to skip town, you don’t want something digging up the grave before you’re even on a plane, do you? Why not dismember the body and get rid of the pieces separately?”

“Do you want to dismember his body?”

“No.”

“If we bury him, he’s gone and done with. I don’t want to spend the next three months getting rid of a finger at a time.”

Mindy looks unconvinced that my plan of action is the right one. I force a grin.

“I’m kidding,” I tell her. “We’re going to bury him deep. No animals are going to dig down six feet for him. Nobody will find him. As long as you don’t phone in a confession to the police, you’ll be fine.”

She seems to trust me, and smiles with relief. “Thanks.”

* * *

Though carrying a body through the woods is awkward and difficult, especially with a shovel balanced on its chest, it’s easier than dragging one, which is what I was originally going to do.

There’s no conversation as we do this. Mindy is much better company when she doesn’t talk.

I’m getting devoured by these goddamn mosquitoes and I know she is too. To her credit, she doesn’t complain. I want to bitch about it a little, but I don’t want to encourage her, so I suffer in silence. You’re not supposed to scratch them. I’ll be scratching my legs bloody tonight.

We don’t go too far into the woods. Maybe a quarter mile.

If I’d known I was going to have a partner in crime, I’d have brought a second shovel. Instead, I let her hold the flashlight as I dig.

She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. When she finally does speak, it’s to offer to take over the digging. I decline.

Now I almost wish she would grate on my nerves, because I’m still planning to murder her.

The digging is going quickly. I’m breathing heavily and working up enough of a sweat that I stop thinking about those wretched insects attacking me.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take over?” she asks.

The hole is deep enough for a shallow grave, which is where I would stop if I were alone. Should I keep digging, just because I told her we’d make sure the body was never found? That seems kind of silly. Why would I even consider doing that? Why have I not already killed her? Yes, it’s convenient to let her hold the flashlight, but that’s no reason to let somebody live.

“All right,” I tell her. I step out of the grave and hand her the shovel.

She’s a good digger. Not to the point where I think “Uh-oh, she’s done this sort of thing before,” and she’s not digging as efficiently as I did, of course, but I’m impressed.

What would it be like to have a partner?

It’s a ridiculous thing to think about, but, fuck it, she’s busy digging and I might as well think about it.

I could commit the acts of murder. She could help me dispose of the bodies. Then we could make frenzied love in the deadly afterglow.

Probably not going to happen.

What would she do if I tried to hit on her? If I assured her that just because I’d murdered a human being, there was absolutely no obligation on her part, that she should in no way take this as any hint that I was seeking anything non-consensual, what would she say?

She’d say something like “I just dug half of my boyfriend’s grave. Are you kidding me?”

She’s insane, though. At least a little bit. She might be experiencing some sort of weird sexual thrill from the whole thing, and she might be waiting for me to make a move. We could do nasty things right there in the open grave.

That would be a very appealing concept, if not for the bugs.

I bet she’s into bugs.

“Stop that,” she says.

“What?”

“You’re staring at my ass while I’m digging.”

She doesn’t say this in a playful “Tee-hee, stop staring at my shapely buttocks, you bad, bad boy!” manner. She says it in such a way as to indicate that she would really appreciate it if I would stop staring at her ass.

“I wasn’t,” I say, shocked at how embarrassed I am to have been caught.

“Do you want to take another turn?”

I shake my head. “I think that’s fine. Let’s dump him.”

She tosses the shovel aside and climbs out of the grave. We each take an end of Terrence’s body and drop him right in without ceremony. It sounds like something breaks as he hits.

“Rot in hell,” she tells him.

“Agreed,” I say.

I pick up the shovel and begin to scoop dirt back into the grave. She watches until his body is completely covered, then wanders off. Not out of sight, but far enough that she thinks I can’t tell that she’s crying.

It’s okay. I was emotional after my first body disposal, and I didn’t even know the guy.

I’ll kill her after I finish filling in the grave.

That’s almost unspeakably idiotic. I should kill her now and put her in the grave. Did I seriously just consider the idea of filling in this grave, killing Mindy, and then digging a second grave for her body?

If I get caught and spend the rest of my life in prison, I kind of deserve it. God, I’m stupid.

I’ll do it humanely. I’ve never been one to torture somebody to death anyway. That’s just sadistic. I’m all in favor of ghastly violence, but there’s no reason to drag it out, unless you’re some kind of deranged sicko.

Shovel to the head. Give her a dented skull and a broken neck. She won’t even feel it. And if I don’t hit her quite right, if she falls to the ground gurgling blood and still alive, I’ll decapitate her with the shovel blade before she has too much time to suffer.

I should do it now.

Or I could let her live.

Really, truly, when you think about it, what would be the downside to dropping her off at her vehicle, shaking her hand, and wishing her well in her future endeavors?

Aside from the risk of something minor like, say, her blabbing everything to the police and sending them after me with torches, pitchforks, and semi-automatic machine guns?

There’s no decision to be made here. It’s time to stop pretending that there is.

“Hey,” I call out to her. “Did you want to say something?”

“What do you mean?”

“Over the grave. Did you want to say something before I finish covering the grave? A few words for the deceased?”

“I already did. ‘Rot in hell.’“

I nod. “All right. I was just making sure.”

I add a couple more shovelfuls of dirt. Mindy curses under her breath, and then wanders back to the hole.

“It’s not like I was married to the son of a bitch. I don’t owe him anything.”

“I know.”

She looks into the grave. “Dear Terrence, if I had total control over your fate I probably would not have gone so far as to murder you, so accept my apology, for what it’s worth. And I don’t actually hope you burn in hell, but I don’t want you in heaven, either, so hopefully there is no afterlife. And I do hope that you get maggots in your eye sockets, and if that makes me a bad person, I’m okay with it.”

“Well said,” I tell her.

My plan to smack her in the head with the shovel while she was speaking to Terrence would have been more effective if I had actually smacked her in the head with the shovel while she was speaking to Terrence.

She’s still staring into the grave.

So I offer up a mental apology that I’m not foolish enough to say out loud, even in a whisper, and then I swing the shovel.

It’s a good swing. I don’t botch the swing at all. There’s plenty of power behind it, and the aim is perfect. But she was expecting it, and she moves out of the way.

I swing again. This time I hit her. It’s not a solid hit, and it gets her in the side instead of the skull. The blow is nowhere close to fatal, not even incapacitating, though she loses her balance and tumbles into the grave.

I jump in after her. There’s probably nobody around for miles, but it’s best to kill her before she starts screaming.

She kicks me in the shin, so hard that I yelp. It feels like she cracked the fucking bone in two.

She screams.

I lift the shovel high over my head.

She kicks again, this time connecting dead center with my groin. The world goes blurry and I drop to my knees.

I let go of the shovel. I am vaguely aware of how close I come to a wacky slapstick moment where the shovel that I’ve dropped bashes me on the head; however, the shovel misses me by an unknown distance and falls onto the dirt.

Mindy attacks.

We struggle. She has the advantage of my pain and disorientation, and also her vicious fingernails. But I’m stronger and have murdered people.

She’s winning.

I’m no sexist, but how the hell is she winning?

“What’s the matter with you?” she screams. “Why would you do that?”

I have no good answer at the moment.

She’s clawing at my eyes, but I have thus far avoided having them punctured.

I throw a punch at her neck that hits her shoulder. It’s a weak hit. Doesn’t slow her down at all.

I’m pulling my punches. Even down here in this grave, with the very real possibility that she might beat me in a physical fight, I’m pulling my punches. This is insane.

The punch she aims at my neck does not hit my shoulder, nor is it a weak punch. I clutch at my throat, gasping for breath.

She grabs a handful of my hair, and the next thing I know my face is deep in the soft dirt.

“Why did you betray me?” she asks, sobbing. Cognitively, I know that her words are laughably corny, but they sure don’t sound corny with my face in the grave dirt.

I’m so discombobulated that I attempt to answer, which just gets me a mouthful of dirt. I try to pull my head free, and can’t believe that I’m unable to do so.

“You didn’t need to do that,” she says. “This didn’t have to happen. Everything was fine.”

I discover that spitting out dirt while one’s face is being pushed into dirt is ineffective.

I can’t breathe. I’m going to suffocate here in this grave unless I summon some more strength, but now she’s on my back, pushing my head down with both hands, and I may be screwed.

My face presses into something. It could be Terrence’s dead face. The drop cloth separates us, but it’s still eerie. Is he smiling?

Would he feel avenged by the knowledge that I’m going to die face-down on top of him, or would that be a further insult to his death?

I think: insult.

I desperately need to breathe.

What an awful way to die.

I’m trying as hard as I can to escape. I may have been pulling my punches out of some deranged feelings that I still can’t understand, but I am most definitely trying to get her off of me now, and I can’t do it.

I need her to show mercy.

I’m fading.

I’m gone.

* * *

I haven’t left the grave.

I’m sitting up now, leaning against the dirt wall. My face is still covered with dirt, and I try to blink it out of my eyes. They burn.

My mouth tastes like mud. I push air through my nose, trying to get dirt out of my nostrils.

My hands are bound together with duct tape.

Mindy is sitting in the grave with me.

“I found your backpack in the car,” she says. “At least I assume it was yours, unless Terrence carried around a kill kit that I didn’t know about. You were pretty well-prepared.” She holds up a hunting knife. “Was this in case you needed to do detail work on him?”

It’s not damning evidence. I’ve never used it on anybody. But I still don’t like her touching my things.

“It was a gift.”

“Don’t lie to me. I’m not going to let you treat me like I’m stupid. I want you to tell me who you are.”

My feet are bound together with duct tape, too, wrapped at the ankles with what seems like half a roll of the stuff. Since I couldn’t beat her when I was trying to catch her off-guard with a shovel, it seems unlikely that I’m going to turn this situation to my advantage when I’m helpless and she’s got a knife.

“I’m nobody.”

“You’re not nobody.” She wipes her eyes, which are red and swollen. “I’m not good at torture. I’ve never done it. I have no idea how to get maximum pain out of somebody, but I can cut things and break things until you talk. Please don’t make me do that.”

“I’m nobody,” I insist. “Your boyfriend was banging my girlfriend and I killed him. That’s all there is to it.” She hasn’t found anything that contradicts my story. She’s being completely irrational.

“All there was to it, except for you trying to kill me, too.”

“I needed to clean up the loose ends. There was nothing personal.”

“Sure. Why would killing somebody ever have to be personal, right?” She’s fidgeting with the knife, switching from one hand to the other. “I’m not saying that we had anything. No spark. Nothing to keep us together after we finished burying Terrence. But...you didn’t have to try to hurt me. You really didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I really, truly am.”

I wish she’d bound my hands behind my back, so I could subtly try to free myself and take her by surprise. But my hands are in my lap. If I can get my arms around her neck, I might be okay, but that seems unlikely.

“I’m not going to get all girly with emotion on you,” she says. “I just want you to know that you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. It was a mistake.”

“Tell me the truth about why you killed Terrence.”

“I already have.”

“You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you? Instead of giving me a straightforward answer, you’re going to make me torture it out of you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. If that’s what you feel you need to do, if you’ve crossed some sort of line to where you want to force me to give you information that I don’t have, then there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

She wipes her eyes again. A tear runs down her cheek, leaving a narrow streak in the dirt that’s on her own face. “So let me make sure I’m one hundred percent clear on this,” she says, voice cracking a bit. “You are making the choice, on purpose, not to answer my question, so that I’m forced to try to make you talk. Is that what’s happening?”

“Don’t put this on me,” I tell her. “If you want to cut me, that’s all on you. That’s your choice. If you think you’re going to have problems with it afterward, if you think it’s going to haunt you, then maybe you shouldn’t do it.”

Can she tell that I’m sweating?

Does it matter? An innocent man would sweat under these circumstances.

Mindy looks sad. Not simply resigned to what she’s going to have to do, but genuinely sad.

She holds the knife blade up to my left eye.

“I’m the Flatside Killer,” I say.

I’m not good with pain when I’m the recipient.

She lets out an incredulous laugh. “That’s who you are? How the hell did I not figure this out earlier?”

“You know me?”

“Of course I know you. Do you really think I lived with Terrence without knowing about the Flatside Killer? He used that story to hit on me at a bar.”

“I told you who I am. Please put the knife away.”

She lowers the knife away from my eyeball but keeps it out. “So, what, was he secretly trying to track you down, so you had to kill him before he discovered your true identity?”

“Nothing that elaborate.”

“Revenge?”

“Yes.”

“Revenge for telling the police after he accidentally found the bodies of people you killed?”

“Yes.”

“You think he shouldn’t have said anything? He should have just gone on with his evening as if nothing had happened?”

“What I did has nothing to do with the morality of what he did. He ruined my life. That’s all there is to it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“I prefer things that do.” She starts fidgeting with the knife again. I really wish she’d get rid of it.

“Are you going to let me go?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want a death on your conscience. Not even somebody like me.”

She holds the knife up to my eye again. “Don’t rush me into a decision. If you rush me, I’m going with my impulse, which is to kill you. So don’t fucking rush me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What you’ve basically told me,” she says, moving the knife even closer to my eye, “is that you killed the man I love, the father of my baby, and he was never cheating on me.”

I’m feeling a bit of panic now. “He was cheating on you. You knew that he was.”

“No, I suspected that he was. I thought that’s what he was doing tonight. But he wasn’t.”

“He was. I promise you.”

“With who?”

“I don’t know that. But I know—”

“You don’t know anything. He might have been completely innocent.”

“He hit you.”

“He didn’t deserve to die for that.”

“I disagree.”

“You killed him because you’re a psycho serial killer. You weren’t making up for any injustice. You’re just a sadistic monster.”

I have an eye thing. I wouldn’t even be able to stick a knife in somebody else’s eye. I need her to move this knife someplace else or I’m going to lose it.

“I love you,” I tell her.

“What?”

“I could have killed you as soon as you got in my car...hell, I could have done it as soon as you walked into the storage unit. But I didn’t. I don’t understand my feelings most of the time, but I do understand this one, and I love you.”

It’s not true. Before she shoved my face in the dirt, I might have felt a mild affection toward her, but not anymore.

She’s not moving the knife.

“Fuck you,” she says. I have to admit that it’s probably the answer I deserve.

Mindy finally lowers the knife.

“Where do we go from here?” I ask.

“I’m delivering you, in a nice gift-wrapped package, to the police.”

“Really? You assisted me in the murder of your baby daddy and now you’re going to involve the cops?”

“I did not assist you in the murder. Your insane ass did that all by yourself. Helping you dispose of the body? Well, gee, that all makes sense if I tell them that I knew who you were and was afraid for my life, right? I was distraught. I went along with you because I didn’t want to be in a grave, too.”

“You’d have no way of knowing who I was.”

“Is that so? My boyfriend and I meet when he tells me that he was the one who found the victims of the Flatside Killer. When my boyfriend is brutally murdered, my first thought is, hey, maybe it’s the Flatside Killer. That’s so little of a stretch that I’m disgusted with myself for not thinking of it on my own.”

“It won’t work. They won’t believe you.”

“Of course they will. Even if there was a camera on me this whole time, I’d be okay. In fact, from now on, I did know that you were the Flatside Killer, and you fell right into my trap. We’ll even play the heroic angle: I wouldn’t let you leave me at the storage unit because I was worried that you might go after somebody else, and I wanted to keep you in my sight.”

“Again, it won’t work.”

“We’ll see. Do you know what’s worth the risk? The fame and glory associated with bringing a serial killer to justice. That’ll take care of my baby just fine, so I thank you.”

She no longer needs to wipe any tears from her eyes.

“What you’re saying is that you’re going to try to profit from a murder. That makes you no better than me.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No.”

“Oh, you’re cute. Even by the standards of some loser trying to save himself from life in prison, it’s pretty weak to suggest that doing something good, like removing a brutal psycho brain-damaged serial killer from society, is an immoral act just because it comes with rewards.”

“Are we having a philosophical discussion now?”

She unspools a piece of duct tape from the roll. “No, because you’re going to stop talking.” She rips off the tape and sticks it over my mouth.

It’s hard to breathe because there’s still dirt in my nose.

“There are a few ways we can do this,” she says. “I could smother you again until you lose consciousness, but I don’t think I could trust you to stay asleep for that long. I was worried enough that you’d be awake when I ran back from the car. So we’ll veto that idea.”

Even if my mouth weren’t taped, I’d have nothing to say.

“The next option would be to cut your hamstrings. One slice on each and you won’t be going anywhere. The thing is, somebody as pathetic as you would probably bleed to death, so that idea doesn’t work, either. I could bury you up to your neck, except that makes me look kind of ghoulish, which isn’t what I want.”

I offer a muffled suggestion.

“Don’t talk,” she says. “I’m brainstorming.”

I continue to talk through the duct tape. What’s she going to do, slash my throat for refusing to shut up?

Well, maybe—I don’t know what this lady is capable of at this point—but I’m willing to risk it.

She rips off the tape. It hurts.

“What?”

“Just tape me all the way, for Christ’s sake,” I say. “Mummy me. I won’t be able to go anywhere.”

I wish this were a sneaky plan on my part, but if she wrapped me entirely in duct tape I really wouldn’t be able to escape. I just don’t want her to decide that the hamstring idea had merit. Or that I’d be less adept at navigating the woods if she gouged out my eyes.

“I could do that,” she says, nodding. She looks far too cool and composed. I wish she’d return to being frazzled, slightly hysterical, and annoying. “But wouldn’t you rather just ride with me in the car?”

I nod.

“Give me your arm,” she says.

“Why?”

“Just give me your arm. Hold it out.”

“Hell no.”

“Would you rather I bury you up to your neck? What if wild animals find you?”

“Wild animals aren’t going to find me.”

“Ants, then. Fire ants. All over your head. Swarming. Stinging the crap out of you.”

I hold out my arms. I’d like to think that she’s just going to cut the tape binding my wrists together, but that’s probably not her intention. She looks me in the eyes, and I can tell that she’s psyching herself up for something. This can’t be good.

“I need to show you that I’m not afraid to stab you.”

Without hesitation, she jabs the blade of the knife into my upper arm.

She doesn’t plunge it too deep, but blood spills immediately, and goddamn does it hurt. I want to launch into a stream of epithets but I manage to keep myself under control.

“Do we understand each other?” she asks.

“Why’d you do that?”

“To prove that I would.”

“You didn’t have to stab me!”

“Yes, I did. That was the whole point.”

I can’t believe it. She stabbed me. She smothered me until I passed out and then she stabbed me. This is so far beyond what should be acceptable that I can’t even verbalize it.

“Do I need to stab your other arm?” she asks. Her tone is like a mother asking her son if he wants another spanking, or if he’s ready to behave.

“No,” I say, trying to sound like a deadly serial killer and not a whiny child. It’s embarrassingly difficult to accomplish this.

“Good. The next one will not be another arm stab. You betray my trust and I won’t stop stabbing until you’re dead. Got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

She begins to saw away at the duct tape binding my ankles together. It’s a very good knife, but her tape-cutting skills aren’t spectacular, and it takes a while. I resist the temptation to make a sarcastic comment.

Finally my feet are free. Mindy points the knife at me, as if in warning, then stands up.

“Get up,” she says.

“My legs are asleep,” I tell her, “so if I stumble, don’t take it as an attack.”

“How about we wait until your legs aren’t asleep, so I don’t have to kill you over a misunderstanding?”

“Works for me.”

I sit there. Something weird about me: I love the pinprick sensation when feeling returns to a limb. I will often sit on my hands until they go numb just to get that sensation. I’m not enjoying it quite as much now.

“You ready?” Mindy asks.

“Yeah.”

“Stand up.”

I stand up. I don’t stumble.

She very quickly turns her back to me and climbs out of the grave. I might have been able to grab her then, but more likely I would’ve gotten a knife in my face. I’ll wait for a more opportune moment to strike.

I’m not sure if I should be relieved by her plan of action or worried by it. If she really wanted to hand me over to the cops, the safest thing she could do is follow my suggestion: tape me up and leave me. Why risk walking me back to the car and riding into town with me?

If we discount the possibility that she’s a complete idiot, since I don’t believe she is, this might all be a fake-out. She’s trying to scare me, but once she’s made her point, she’ll let me go.

Or she has something much worse planned.

Why kill somebody quickly in the woods when you could do it slowly in a soundproofed basement?

I know one thing for sure: I’m not going to jail. Mindy might be the big hero who brought the Flatside Killer to justice, but it’ll be the Flatside Killer’s corpse. Let her tell reporters how she plunged the knife into my back, again and again.

“Come out of the grave,” she tells me.

I hold up my hands. “I can’t do it with my hands taped together.”

“Stop it!” she says, furious. “Do not even start that shit! We’re not going to play games where you try to pull one over on me. Do exactly what the hell you’re told, and do it exactly when the hell I tell you to do it, and respect my intelligence!”

“All right,” I say. “I apologize.”

I was definitely trying to con her into cutting the tape, but to be fair, it’s not easy to climb out of a hole when you can’t put your hands apart for leverage.

It takes me a few attempts to get out, and she probably thinks I’m faking it, but she doesn’t stab me to death, so that’s good.

“Face that way,” she says, pointing in the direction of the car.

I turn that way, as requested.

She walks up behind me. She jabs me in the back with the knife, hard enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin. I wince.

“Walk slow,” she says.

She’s got the knife and the flashlight, so I don’t think she could grab me if I made a break for it. But she could stab me or club me over the head, and thus I need to pick my moment carefully.

I’m running away for certain, though.

It’s not going to take us long to get back to the car, even walking slowly, so I need to find a good moment soon. I’ll try to engage her in conversation as a distraction.

“This isn’t the life you want,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“Celebrity.”

“I’m not worried about that. It’ll fade. Killers stay famous forever, but nobody remembers who caught them. Who caught Ted Bundy?”

“I don’t know. The cops.”

“Come up with something better. Come on, try to convince me to change my plan. I want to hear what you’ve got.”

“I thought you told me not to play games?”

“This is different. I give you permission to speak.”

“They won’t believe your story. They’ll know you were involved with Terrence’s death.”

“We’ve already covered this. If you’re not going to come up with something new, then, yeah, I’d rather you not speak.”

“You might—”

“You know what? Don’t talk. You had your chance and you screwed it up by rehashing your old crap. I’m no longer interested.”

“I’ve got a great reason,” I tell her.

She jabs me in the back again. I’m not sure if this one breaks the skin or not.

“Damn it!”

“I said, stop talking.”

Something is trickling down my back. “Bitch.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to get to the b-word. Typical.”

“Hey, when you stab me in the back, you’re acting like a bitch. There’s nothing sexist about that.”

“I didn’t stab you. I poked you.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Do you need Mommy to kiss your boo-boo to make it all better? Do you want me to get you a Band-Aid with little pictures of jet planes on it? Oh, poor, poor Flattie. I don’t know how I’ll sleep at night knowing I poked a tiny little dot in your back.”

Has she lost her fear of me, or is she overcompensating? Though I suspect it’s the latter, I can work with both possibilities. She may very well end up murdering me, but it sure as hell won’t be after she’s made fun of me.

Mindy will discover which one of us is the scary one.

She’ll know beyond any possible doubt.

Or...I could just run. She might not expect it if I do it right now.

I run.

I could probably outrun her, but my hands are bound and she’s got the car keys, so if this becomes a race eventually she’ll have the car and I won’t. So my best option is to just get far enough ahead of her to find an unpleasant place to hide.

“Are you kidding me?” she shouts as I run off.

I do not reply.

I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. Or, more accurately, I put more effort into running than I ever have in my life; unfortunately, the uneven ground and my inability to see much of anything are impacting my speed.

A branch slashes across my face.

My left foot comes down on a tree root or something else uneven, and though I stumble I don’t pitch forward onto the ground.

Is she following me?

I don’t think she’s following me.

That would be fantastic.

Then I hear footsteps and breathing. She’s decided to follow me.

“You can’t get away from me!” she shouts.

I’m not convinced of that. I’m scared but right now I’m feeling pretty good about my chances. This head start is really going to help.

She’s still shouting: “I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t come back! I’ll cut you to pieces! Get back here, goddamn it!”

I don’t think I will. I tear through the woods. She should have been much more careful. When you have a savage serial predator as your hostage, you don’t just keep a knife to his back, not unless you want him to—

Something grabs my foot and I fall.

Okay, nothing actually grabbed it, but whatever I tripped over sure felt that way. My fall is not a mild tumble from which I can easily leap back to my feet, but a full-on face-plant, with blood.

The beam of the flashlight zips past me.

I cough and sputter as I try to get back up. I never did get all of the dirt out of my nostrils, so having a bloody nose right now is decidedly inconvenient. I snort some of it onto my shirt, but then continue running.

She’s still coming after me.

More branches slash across my face. Jesus, do they grow freaking razor blade trees out here?

“I’m gonna fuck you up!” Mindy informs me. She is very, very, very upset with me, it appears.

I wish things had worked out better, since apparently she does have it in her to chase after somebody through the woods with a knife. We would not have been equal partners, but she could have handled some of the more athletic tasks.

My ankle twists, giving a little snap that sounds like my ankle saying “We won’t be doing any more running for a while.” I hit the ground even harder than I did less than a minute ago, and I feel like I may have split my nose right up the center.

I scramble along the ground, hoping to find a good place to hide. A secret passage, maybe. Or a cave. At this point, I’m not choosy.

I hold my breath.

I can see Mindy. She’s about fifty feet away, moving the flashlight beam back and forth, searching. Somehow I managed to crash to the ground without her knowing where I am.

I can’t keep holding my breath. I settle for breathing quietly and remaining as motionless as possible. There’s not really any brush or anything covering me, so she’ll probably find me before too long, but she’s a newbie to hunting humans, so maybe she’ll veer off course.

“Where are you?” she shouts, as if I’d really answer that question.

She turns around in a complete circle. The flashlight beam goes well over my head.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she says. She’s not very good at the taunting.

She’s just standing there, trying to figure out which way to go. Did I really lose her that easily?

“I’m going to find you for sure,” she announces. “No way are you getting away from me. If you come out on your own, I’ll let you go.”

Bullshit, I think. Even I wouldn’t use that transparent of a lie. She should have said something credible.

“If I have to find you myself, I’m going to skin you alive!” She holds up the knife. “I’m going to use this knife, and I’m going to shave off all of your skin with it! I don’t care how much you scream! I don’t care if the cops find us and I go to jail right alongside you! Do you understand me, you son of a bitch? Do you want to die badly, or would you rather we work this out a different way?”

She’s panicking. For all she knows, I’m still running. Long-gone. She thinks she’s going to walk out of these woods and spend the rest of her life waiting for my return.

She knows I’m patient about such things.

I’m in a fuckload of pain and, yes, I’m frightened right now, but if she doesn’t find me, I’d be totally satisfied with her living a life of fear. I’d find a way to send her occasional reminders of my existence.

I’d love that.

I wish she’d start walking in the wrong direction.

Unfortunately, she’s still searching with the flashlight beam. I’m tempted to crawl someplace better hidden, but one snapped branch and she might zero in on me. I have to be silent. Try to blend in. Visualize invisibility.

Visualize invisibility? What a dumb thing to think.

Something crawls on my hand and I flinch. I can’t see for sure, but as I brush it off I think it’s an ant. Great. I’m probably camped out on top of an anthill. This is so much goddamn fun.

Mindy is pacing. I can’t see her face but I bet she has a glorious expression of unease. For all she knows, I could be right behind her. I could have a knife she didn’t know about. The blade could be inches from the back of her neck right now.

I’d love to see her suddenly spin around, as if she’s imagined that exact thing, but she doesn’t. She continues sweeping the flashlight beam around.

Give it up. Just move on. You’re not going to find me.

Something stings my leg. Maybe I really am next to an anthill. Unbelievable. I’m going to have to let those little bastards sting me, because if I move, she’ll hear me.

“Hey!” Mindy shouts. “There’s no reason for us to do this! We’re both screwed without each other. How are you going to get home?”

She needs to do much better than that. The transportation issue is not weighing heavily on my mind.

“If I have to leave without you, I’m coming back with every cop in the city. They’ll be swarming these woods. You’ll never get away.”

That’s a little better. But since her stated plans included delivering me to the police anyway, or skinning me alive, I’m still not convinced that revealing my location is the best way to go.

She’s silent for a moment. She holds the flashlight up to her face as she dabs at her eyes, then she lowers it again.

“I love you!” she calls out.

I laugh. Now she’s just desperate.

Shit. I shouldn’t have laughed.

Did she hear me?

No, she didn’t. Thank God. I wipe off some of the blood that is streaming down over my lips and continue to watch her.

An ant stings the ankle that I injured. It continues to sting me as I very slowly bend my knee...

No. That makes some leaves rustle. I freeze.

She shines the flashlight beam toward me.

I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.

The light goes right into my eyes.

Now she shines the light back on herself, holding the flashlight directly beneath her face, the way people do when they’re telling a ghost story.

“Hello, there,” she says, smiling as she looks at me.

And then the moment of ultimate humiliation: my bladder can’t handle this. I didn’t piss myself when she held the knife up to my eyeball, but now I feel the wet warmth and I wish I’d died with my face in the dirt.

“I can seeeeeeeeee you!” she sings.

I don’t respond. Maybe she didn’t really see me.

No, that is some seriously deranged wishful thinking. She saw me. She’s looking right at me.

She shines the flashlight onto the blade of the knife.

“You ready for this?” she asks.

Her voice trembles a bit. She’s faking the whole “playing games with the victim” routine, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m hurt and weaponless and she’s got my knife.

“Too scared to talk?”

I can’t let her think that I’ve been paralyzed into terrified silence. “Don’t come over here,” I tell her.

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, I will rip you apart with my bare hands.” The words sound less intimidating because of my swollen nose, but I hope they get the point across.

Mindy begins to walk toward me. “Then I’ll just have to chop off your hands.”

“You can’t chop off my hands with a knife like that.”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t take a while.”

At least now I can get away from these ants. I smack at my pants a few times to kill the ones that are stinging me, and start to stand up.

“Don’t stand up on my behalf,” Mindy says. I’m not sure if she’s walking so slowly because she thinks it’s more frightening, or if she’s just uncertain about whether or not she actually wants to reach me.

I stand up completely. My foot hurts like hell, but I refuse to fall. “If you come over here, you die.”

“You’ve got something on your nose.”

“Screw you.”

She stops walking when about ten feet separate us. “So what are we going to do, Mr. Flatside Killer?”

“Go our separate ways. Forget this ever happened.”

Mindy shakes her head. “There’s no reward in that for me.”

“I don’t think there are any actual rewards for my capture. At least not anymore.”

“I didn’t mean a literal cash reward,” she says. She doesn’t say “you fucking idiot” but it is implied. “I’m still getting the credit for bringing you in.”

“Or skinning me alive.”

“Yeah. Or that. Which one do you prefer?”

“Why don’t you put down the knife? We could find out which one of us is truly better.”

“I’ll tell you what, Flattie. If I become mentally retarded in the next few seconds I’ll consider that idea.”

I shrug. “I’m not going without a fight.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

I raise my fists. “All right, then. If you think that you can beat me, then walk right over here and prove it. When I get that knife from you, I think I’ll start by cutting out your tongue. That hurts like hell. Lots of nerves in your tongue. Then I will start slashing your cheeks; give you a great big extra-long smile.”

She hasn’t resumed walking toward me yet.

“Then we’ll go for a good old fashioned disemboweling,” I tell her. “Stretch those intestines out as far as they’ll go. I won’t make you eat them, because that would be gross, but maybe I’ll make you lick a few inches.”

No reaction from her that I can see.

“Then I’ll open up your chest and cut out your heart. I’ve never eaten heart. I think I should try it. You might be the inspiration for me to go on a heart-eating rampage. What do you think about that?”

“I think...” She trails off, but then shines the flashlight beam directly on my crotch. “...that you pissed your pants.”

She comes at me with the knife.

I’m ready for her.

She swings it at me, and I block her arm with my fist. The knife falls to the ground.

Then she clubs me in the head with the flashlight, and I fall to the ground as well.

She bashes me with the flashlight four or five times, until the light disappears and pieces of plastic scatter. I think a D-battery knocks out one of my teeth.

There’s blood in my eyes, but I think I see her pick up the knife.

Yes, she definitely has the knife.

She crouches over me.

I try to say something menacing. All I do is spit up some blood.

She plunges the blade deep into my chest.

I scream. I wish I could suffer through the pain and horror without screaming, but I can’t. I have to scream.

Mindy presses the knife against my throat, and suddenly I don’t even care about the humiliation of my screaming. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and if she knows that, maybe she’ll take pity on me. Maybe she can’t kill somebody who’s terrified and completely helpless.

“Please!” I try to shout, though it’s less of a shout than a gurgle. “Don’t kill me! Please, don’t kill me!”

“You had your chance.”

I frantically shake my head. Blood flies off my hair like a dog shaking itself after a bath. “No! I take back what I did!”

“You what? I can’t even understand you.”

“I take back what I did! I take it back!”

“You take back what you did? Did you really say that to me?”

I nod. Oh, God, I’m going to bleed to death if she doesn’t help me.

“I don’t even know what you’re referring to. Do you mean you take back trying to kill me? You take back trying to run away? What the hell are you even talking about?”

I don’t know what I’m talking about. I just don’t want to die.

“Please!”

“If I let you live, you’ll try to pull more crap.”

“No! No! I won’t! I promise!”

“You will.”

“No, no, no, no, no! I won’t do anything! I swear!”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can!”

“But how do I know I can trust you?”

I have to make her trust me. I have to show her that I won’t do anything. I’ll go to prison if that’s what she wants. But I don’t know what to say to make her believe me. I try to blink the blood out of my eyes so that I can look her in the eyes and show her how genuine I am.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll take you back to the car with me. But I’m cutting your hamstrings first.”

* * *

I don’t think I completely lose consciousness again, but I fade in and out as I crawl along the path in the darkness. My feet hurt like hell at first but now they’re numb as I drag them behind me. My knees, however, are full of sensation. I think they’re practically shredded. My palms are almost as bad.

We’re moving very slowly, but Mindy doesn’t seem to be losing patience with me. She doesn’t even kick me.

When we reach the car, she bandages my cuts and gashes with duct tape. It doesn’t stick very well to the places that are bleeding the worst. I’m barely able to get into the passenger seat of the car, though some jabs in my back with the tip of the knife encourage me to put forth my best effort.

Suddenly we’re driving. I’m getting blood all over Terrence’s car. My hands are now duct-taped together behind my back, which is very uncomfortable, though I don’t complain.

Mindy glances over at me. “When you kill people, do you use any drugs to keep them conscious? An injection or something?”

“No.” I don’t tell her that I’d been thinking about that earlier. No need to try to bond with her.

“Do you know of any? This is going to be less fun if I can’t keep you awake.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh well.”

“I think I’m going to bleed to death.”

“Nah. I taped you up pretty good. You won’t bleed out for a while. And once I tell the police who you are, they’ll want to keep you alive to make sure they get your full confession.”

I start to say something. Start to remind her that she went beyond what was necessary to subdue me. Turned me into a half-mutilated mess. The general public is not going to adore her for this, and the rest of her life will turn out better if people don’t know what she’s done.

But I don’t say anything. Because I promised I wouldn’t try any more tricks, and I don’t want her to stab me again if I break that promise.

Also, I think I really will bleed to death if she’s the only one taking care of my wounds. Even if we stop at a pharmacy and she picks up some gauze and antiseptic, I think I’m dead without an actual medical professional.

I wish I had connections in the criminal underworld that would patch me up, no questions asked.

“It’s too bad,” Mindy says. “We could have buried Terrence and gone our separate ways.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to listen to some music?”

“Nah.”

“I do.” She turns on the radio and flips through the stations. But there’s nothing good on, so we resume driving in silence.

I cough up some blood that I can’t wipe off my mouth.

“You’re disgusting,” Mindy tells me.

I fade for a moment, and then suddenly I jolt to full attention as I see several cop cars. They’re all parked in the lot outside of the police station, and we’re driving right in front of the building.

Now I don’t want to go to prison.

Mindy pulls up directly in front of the main entrance and shuts off the engine.

She looks over at me. “You ready?”

“No.”

“How long do you think somebody could sit in front of a police station with a passenger in their car completely covered with blood?”

“I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t guess very long.”

“Probably not.”

“I could open up your door for you. Let you run away and go down in a hailstorm of bullets. Would you like that?”

“No.”

She drums her fingertips on the steering wheel.

“Won’t be long now.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Waiting.”

She takes the key out of the ignition, puts her finger through the key ring, and spins it around a couple of times, while humming a cheerful tune.

“I bet they’ll put you in solitary,” she says. “That’s good. Less raping for you.”

“Okay.”

Mindy puts the keys back into the ignition, starts up the car again, and drives away from the building. We pull onto the street and drive off.

“Scared you, didn’t I?” she asks.

I’m so relieved that I can barely speak. I don’t even care about the imminent bleeding-to-death issue.

“Tell me something,” she says. “What were you really planning to do to your girlfriend after you killed Terrence?”

“I don’t have a...” Then I smile, even though it hurts and makes blood trickle down the sides of my mouth. “I’d take you with me,” I say. “We’d be tired from burying him, but we’d be energized, too, and she’d have no idea that we were coming for her...”

I tell her everything we would do, in pornographic detail.

Mindy loves it.

* * *

We’re in a rowboat in the middle of a lake. It’s a pretty crappy rowboat, but it was easy to steal.

Mindy stole it. My arms are still bound behind me. She doesn’t completely trust me yet.

“This is where I dreamed I’d get rid of the bodies,” Mindy says as she rows. “I could never figure out if it would be safer to put them all in one lake, or use lots of different lakes.”

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“Even during my most vivid fantasies, I knew I could never really do it. Not like you. I wanted to, believe me, but I don’t know if I was too scared of getting caught or if it was a moral thing. Later, I just thought I’d been a fucked-up teenager. I haven’t even thought about those feelings in years.”

“There’s nothing wrong with those feelings.”

She laughs. “Of course there is. I know that. But I discovered tonight that they’re still there. What I went through with you was scary and miserable, but—and I hope you don’t take offense to this—I liked hurting you. Not because of revenge. I just liked doing it.”

She reaches down and lets her fingers trail through the water. “I’m going to try it. At least once before I become a mom. I’d love to be the hero who captured the Flatside Killer, but, sick as it sounds, I think I’m just going to follow in his footsteps. I want a different name, though.”

“Mindy the Mangler?”

“Nah.”

“Mindy the...Mutilator? Machete Mindy?”

“No, and no.”

“I have a shitty name. If we’re going to be partners, why shouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think ‘Mindy’ is a good killer name. Anyway, you’re not supposed to make up your own nickname. The press does that. By the way, what is your real name?”

“I didn’t tell you?”

“Not that I remember.”

“It’s Clyde.”

“Clyde? Really?”

“Yeah.”

Not really.

She leans over and kisses me gently on the lips.

“Nice to meet you, Clyde. But I hope you didn’t think we were going to be partners. You’ve helped me, more than you’ll ever know. And I wouldn’t feel right asking for more than what you’ve already given, so...goodbye.”

I struggle, and when it becomes clear that I’m not going to win I try to turn myself into dead weight, but she gets me over the side.

My wounds explode with pain as I strike the cold water. It was a belly flop. Not dignified.

I sink quickly.

I frantically kick my legs and try to rip the tape binding my hands. The kicking is not working. Nor is trying to rip the tape. Adrenaline has failed me.

I think I’m going to have another heart attack before I hit the bottom.

Will I hit the bottom? I can’t tell if I’m sinking or rising. Am I floating?

Everything is completely dark.

I don’t stop screaming until I run out of air.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe...

- The End -

AN APOCALYPSE OF OUR OWN

ONE

W hen Burt took the paddle out of the drawer, Missy realized that it was official: they were no longer “making love.” Not that she’d expected him to worship her body like they were in a holy temple, instead of his brother’s apartment, but it already bothered her that she’d had to ask him to take off his baseball cap.

Nor had she expected to hear him whisper sweet, romantic things to her in an exotic accent. All she wanted was a middle ground between her fantasy of “Milady, your beauty is like that of the stars in the heavens above!” and the reality of “Oh, yeah, baby, take it, take it hard.”

Had he not been so incredibly hot, she never would have allowed this, even on their third date. But he was, and she did. At least he’d asked his brother to leave the apartment for a while, though Missy was certain that they’d high-five after she went home.

“What are you doing with that?” Missy asked.

Burt grinned and gently slapped the paddle against his palm. “You want this, right? 50 Shades of Burt.”

Seriously? His name didn’t even rhyme with “grey.” Maybe, maybe, if he were “Jay” or “Ray” it would have been an acceptable comment. “Did that come from an actual Ping-Pong table?” she asked.

Burt shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s Joey’s, not mine.”

“Why don’t we put that away?”

“It hasn’t been on the floor or anything. As far as I know, it’s only been used to hit butts.”

“Sorry, but no.”

“Really? I mean, I guess I can go wash it if that will make you feel better.”

Missy shook her head. “How about we go back to what we were doing? That was nice, right? Everybody felt good, nobody had to get spanked...”

“I’m just trying to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“It’s our first time. We don’t need props yet.”

“Second.”

“What the hell do you mean, second?”

“Oh, wait, no, you’re right. I was thinking about somebody else.” Burt opened the drawer and dropped the paddle back in, next to a bag of potato chips.

He had a fantastic body, a charming smile, and a way-above-average endowment that had not lost any of its structural integrity during this discussion. But, still, Missy didn’t think there was any way she could resume the sex without hating herself in the morning.

“I have to go,” she said, sliding her legs off the bed.

“Huh? What? Huh? Why?”

“This isn’t working out.”

“But...but...we’re both naked!” Burt gestured to his penis. “You’re going to finish me off, right?”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s not cool.” Burt pouted for a moment. “Do you at least want to watch while I finish myself off?”

Missy actually did, kind of, but no, the hourglass of her self-respect was quickly running out of sand. She got out of bed and looked on the floor for her thong, which was nowhere to be found. (It was a very tiny thong.) After a moment she decided to abandon the search and picked up her jeans.

“What did I do wrong?” Burt asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Missy, sticking her right leg into the jeans. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“C’mon, don’t go. I’m sorry about the paddle. I thought all chicks these days wanted to be handcuffed and dominated and stuff.”

Missy got both legs into the jeans, and tried to pull them up. She really wished that she hadn’t worn her tightest jeans. It had taken no small amount of effort to get them over her thighs while getting ready for their date this evening, and they were giving her even more trouble now.

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s okay.”

“Remember our first date, when you said your favorite scent was lavender? I bought lavender candles for later. I was going to drip hot lavender-scented wax on your nipples.”

For a split second Missy thought, Aw, that’s so sweet. Unfortunately, her favorite scent was cinnamon.

She tugged and tugged, trying to be discreet about it, but the goddamn jeans wouldn’t pull up.

“Need some help?” Burt asked.

“No. I’m fine.”

“I’ve got some lube in the drawer.”

The door opened. Joey walked in, a hand over his eyes. “I’m not looking, I’m not looking,” he insisted, even though his fingers were apart and his eyes were open. He hurried around the bed and opened the drawer. “Just gotta get something really quick. Sorry to interrupt.” He took out the paddle. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Trying to get a game going downstairs.” He left the room, not closing the door behind him all the way.

Missy resumed her tugging. From this day forward, she vowed only to wear sweatpants.

She could tell that Burt was admiring the way her breasts were bouncing. She didn’t want him enjoying any visual stimulation right now, so she gave up on the jeans for a moment and put on her blouse, not bothering with the bra.

She tugged on the jeans even harder, not caring if he saw her straining. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen her extra padding.

“I’m just going to go ahead and whack it a little bit while you get dressed,” Burt said.

“No! Please do not do that!”

Missy gave the jeans one last mighty tug. The sense of victory she felt over successfully getting them over her thighs was significantly diminished by the loud rip.

“Do you want to borrow some duct tape?” Burt asked.

Missy declined his offer and left the apartment as quickly as possible.

* * *

“That’s a pretty big rip,” said Kevin.

Missy tossed the jeans into the garbage. “Can you believe that? My first date in almost a year where I’m gonna get laid, and it’s a disaster. Do I even count him in my number? Am I up to fourteen now? I don’t know.”

“He definitely counts.”

“Are you sure?”

“I mean, yeah, if he was inside you, that’s pretty much the baseline.”

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

Missy gave Kevin a hug. “Thank you for listening and not laughing at me.”

Kevin Jerrod dutifully served the role of her gay best friend, despite not being remotely gay. They’d been friends for almost twenty years, since they were six, and when people asked why they’d never gotten together, Kevin and Missy would laugh and say that it would be totally weird. They were like brother and sister!

Privately, Kevin agreed that it might be weird, but not weird enough not to do it. He was extremely confident in his ability to sleep with Missy and not feel as if incest was occurring.

A couple of times during her dry spell of the past few months, he’d “jokingly” suggested that they should take care of each others needs, strictly on an ad-hoc basis. She had, disappointingly, completely taken it as a joke. He’d tried to push the joke a bit further, but she continued to treat it as a source of light comedy, and he could never quite bring himself to reveal that he was slightly serious. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship.

So he listened to the details of her sexual escapades, and shared his (much less frequent) tales with her. If she noticed his propensity for dating curvy brunettes with glasses, she never said anything. He did often point out that, despite her disdain for unintelligent superficial jocks, she did tend to date a lot of unintelligent superficial jocks, and she had no good counter-argument for that.

“Want to go to a movie this afternoon?” Missy asked, taking a diet soda and a regular soda out of the refrigerator and handing Kevin the diet one. “They’re showing the 2-D version of Mad Cow 3-D.”

“Can’t. I’m going to see my Uncle Jake.”

“Whack-Job Uncle Jake?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t tell me he was in town. I’ve always wanted to meet him.” She’d heard many Uncle Jake stories over the years, most of which ended with “and he was never invited back again.”

“He lives here now. Know when I found that out? About fifteen minutes before I left for your place. He wants me to set up wireless Internet in his bomb shelter.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“He’s really got a bomb shelter?”

“That’s what he says.”

“If a bomb dropped, would we even have wireless Internet?”

“I think it’s in case of diseases and stuff, too.”

“I’ve never been in a bomb shelter. Can I come with you? Would he be okay with that?”

“I’m not sure. The reason he’s having me do it is that he doesn’t want the Verizon people to know he’s got it. But maybe he won’t mind. I’ll call him first, to make sure you don’t get chased away with a shotgun.”

* * *

Uncle Jake had asked Kevin to provide Missy’s full name and social security number, so he could do some screening before she arrived, but he was otherwise fine with the idea of her joining them. Missy had always envisioned a toothless, wrinkled, wild-eyed man with Albert Einstein hair, which is exactly what he was.

“Come on in!” he said, meeting them at the door of his surprisingly small house, barely more than a shack. They were about fifteen miles out of Tampa, in an area that could politely be described as “very rural” but also as “a shithole.” The dirt road had no other homes for at least a mile, and it was the kind of area where, if Kevin’s car had broken down, Missy felt certain that they’d provide sustenance for a family of cannibals.

“Hi, Uncle Jake!” said Kevin, shaking his hand. “This is my friend, Missy.”

Uncle Jake nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Melissa Sandrin. Born in Providence but moved to Orlando when you were only five. Employed as an insurance underwriter at Metropolitan Life, since graduating from the University of Central Florida, where you majored in Dance because apparently you never expected to become an insurance underwriter. After your last medical checkup, Dr. Timothy Velasco gave you a clean bill of—”

“She gets the idea,” said Kevin. “You promised you wouldn’t be creepy.”

“Being well-informed is not creepy.”

“Actually, yeah, the way you’re doing it, it is.”

“It’s fine,” said Missy, smiling at Uncle Jake and shaking his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you. Kevin has told me so much about you.”

Uncle Jake gave Kevin a concerned look, as if to say What does she mean, you’ve told her so much about me? What information have you divulged?

They followed Uncle Jake into his home, which was extremely cluttered but much cleaner than Missy would have expected from the outside. There was a bearskin rug in the center of the floor, which looked like the bear had been killed with a cannon.

“Can I get you anything?” Uncle Jake asked.

“Nope, we’re just anxious to see the bomb shelter,” Kevin told him.

“It’s not a bomb shelter. It’s an all-purpose disaster preparedness shelter.”

“Even better.”

“Show me somebody who thinks our only path to doomsday is a bomb, and I’ll show you a fool.”

“Got it.”

Uncle Jake reached down and grabbed the end of the rug. He pulled the bear aside, revealing a circular metal hatch. He knelt down and punched in a four-digit code. Something whirred, then something clicked, then something beeped, and then he turned the handle and raised the hatch.

“The climb down is a little snug,” he warned them, “but you’ll be impressed by what you see.”

After Missy and Kevin climbed down the ten-foot ladder, Uncle Jake followed them and pulled the hatch closed. There was a buzz, a click, and a whirr.

“Did it just lock us in?” Kevin asked.

“Of course.”

“Why do you need to lock people inside the shelter?”

Uncle Jake hopped off the final rung of the ladder. “You think people stay sane in the apocalypse? All it takes is one panicky person to get claustrophobia, and, wham, you’ve got yourself a shelter full of plague. Believe me, you don’t want that.”

“Makes sense.”

“So what do you think?”

Missy looked around the shelter, which was smaller than her college dorm room. No wonder he was worried about people losing their minds.

“It’s cozy,” said Missy.

“It’s no Motel 6, but it’ll keep you alive.” Uncle Jake gestured to the steel walls. “I’ll probably hang a picture or two, but it’s more about functionality than comfort.”

There wasn’t much down here. A single bed, a desk with a laptop computer, a sink, a few metal shelves filled with canned food and gallon-sized jugs of water, a toilet, and a treadmill.

“How long could you survive down here?” Missy asked.

“Five years.”

“That long? Really?”

Uncle Jake nodded. He slid a panel on the wall, revealing deep shelves with even more jugs of water. “Plenty of rations. Compost toilet, incinerator, air ventilation...I’d need some books and a deck of cards for Solitaire, but yeah, I could do half a decade down here, no problem.”

“This looks like it took a lot of work,” said Kevin. “Will you be disappointed if the apocalypse doesn’t happen?”

Uncle Jake glared at him. “Do you think I’m some sort of psychopath?”

“I was kidding.”

“Only a monster would wish for the end of the human race. I pray that day never comes. I’m just being prepared.”

“Again, I was kidding.”

“If I do get stuck in here for five years, trust me, I will shed a tear each and every day for all that we’ve lost.”

“Kidding, Uncle Jake. That’s what I was doing.”

“Well, don’t make jokes about me being some madman bent on world destruction. It hurts my feelings. And I want you to know that both of you are welcome to join me down here, even though you’d cut our longevity by two-thirds.”

“Thanks,” said Missy. “We appreciate that.”

* * *

On the drive home, Missy turned to Kevin. “So, he’s really not a madman bent on world destruction, right?”

“Nope. Total joke.”

“Good. Well, it’s nice to know that if the bomb does drop, we’ve got a place to hang out.”

“Yep. Of course, there’s only one bed.”

TWO

S even months later, as several of her co-workers bled from multiple orifices, Missy raced down the hallway. The world had gone insane. Explosions, thick green smoke, people shrieking, alarms blaring...she didn’t know what the hell was happening, but she knew she had to get out of there.

Phillip, a middle-aged man who worked in the mailroom, staggered toward her. Had she not seen blood start to spontaneously flow from people’s eyes, ears, and noses minutes ago, she would have thought he’d suffered a severe head laceration.

“Help me,” he said, creating a major moral quandary at a time when she wanted things to be as straightforward as possible. She didn’t try to walk past him, exactly, but she didn’t slow down as much as she would have under normal circumstances.

He grabbed her arm.

“Do you know what’s happening?” she asked.

Phillip shook his head.

“I don’t, either. It’s like an attack or something. Come on, I’ll lead you out of here, but we have to hurry.”

“Thank you,” Phillip said, seconds before deepening the moral quandary by falling to his knees. Missy couldn’t just leave him, right? Only horrible, horrible human beings left others behind to perish. But she also didn’t want to be a kind-hearted but stupid dead person.

She pulled on his arm. “Come on, Phillip. You’ve got to get up. We have to find someplace safe.”

Phillip stood up, and then fell down again, this time landing flat on his face. Missy really didn’t think that her conscience could handle the idea of her running off without him, but if he wanted to say “Leave me! Save yourself!” she wouldn’t argue.

“Don’t leave me!” he wailed, grabbing her by the ankle.

A door swung open and Tanya, an overweight receptionist who wasn’t bleeding, ran out. “What’s the matter with you? Just leave that fucker!” Tanya said, pushing past Missy and hurrying around the corner.

Using both hands, Missy pulled Phillip to his feet once more. “You have to stop falling down,” she told him. “You’re going to kill us both if you don’t.”

“I won’t fall again, I swear, just help me, please.”

They began to rush through the hallway, the same way Tanya had gone. Phillip was definitely slowing Missy down, but that was okay, they’d get through this.

Not that she even knew if they were heading for anything remotely resembling safety. They might be better off barricading themselves in a conference room. Except, of course, that she’d been in a conference room, suffering through an interminable meeting, when this started to happen. Yes, she’d prayed for the meeting to end, but having everybody else just start bleeding, screaming, and fleeing the room in a panic was not the way she’d wanted it to adjourn.

Her cell phone rang. Oh, thank God. She’d tried to call both Kevin and her parents, and neither of them had answered. Her parents were across the country in Nevada, but they might be watching the news and be frightened for her safety. She glanced at the display.

“Kevin?” she answered.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not bleeding?”

“No, but almost everybody else is! There was this green smoke, and then people just started bleeding all over the place. I don’t know what’s going on!”

Phillip fell to the floor again. This was becoming problematic.

“You’re at work, right?” Kevin asked.

“Yes.”

“Meet me out front. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Okay.” Missy disconnected the call and tried her parents again.

Phillip coughed up some blood. “I can’t make it,” he said in a whisper. “I can’t go anywhere. I’m going to die.”

“No, no, you aren’t,” Missy insisted. Her parents didn’t answer, so she tucked the phone back into her pocket.

Phillip nodded. “Yes, I am. I can feel it. It’s all over for me.”

Most likely he was absolutely correct, but Missy couldn’t see any benefit to telling him that his logic was sound. “You’ll be fine.”

“I won’t, but it’s kind of you to say that.” He wiped some blood off his face and gave her a brave smile. “I’ll be with the Lord soon.”

“I’ll send somebody for you,” Missy promised. As her eyes filled with tears, she continued down the hallway.

“Wait!” Phillip called after her. “Please, stay with me! Hold me! I don’t have much time left!”

Missy stopped and turned around. Was he fucking serious?

“I can’t die alone!” he said. “I’m scared! I’m so scared!”

Missy choked back a sob. She had to stay with him. She had to grant his dying wish. You couldn’t not grant somebody’s dying wish, right?

Then again...by asking her to stay with him, he was possibly dooming her in order to fulfill his own needs. If he was possibly dooming her in order to fulfill his own needs, then he was a bad person. If he was a bad person, then it was okay for him to die alone. If it was okay for him to die alone, then it was okay for Missy to get the hell out of this building to increase the chances that she’d still be alive tomorrow.

She covered her ears with her hands and left.

* * *

Nobody else tried to stop her, because the eleven or twelve other people she encountered were already dead. It had only been a few minutes. What kind of poison was in this smoke? She kept touching her nose to check for blood, but so far, nothing.

As she rushed outside, Missy saw that the air still had the tinge of green smoke and that traffic outside the building had completely stopped. There were at least three accidents just within her line of sight. Kevin was never going to make it here.

Then he drove up, onto the front lawn, riding a motorcycle. He did not own a motorcycle, nor had he, to the best of her knowledge, ever been on one. He pulled up beside her, overshooting by about ten feet.

“Hop on,” he said.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was donated.”

“Donated?”

“I promise you I didn’t kill anyone for it.”

Missy climbed on and put her arms around his waist. They sped off, wobbling a bit at first, but not falling over.

She tried to ask him some questions, but the motorcycle was too loud, and they just ended up shouting things that neither one of them could understand. This might have created amusing hijinks under circumstances where there were not bloody corpses littering the streets. But she was pretty sure they both said “Uncle Jake” at some point.

She tried again to call her parents, cursing them for only having a landline and thus preventing her from sending a text message saying that she was okay. If they answered, she’d make Kevin stop so she could talk to them, if only for a minute, but they didn’t answer. Missy desperately hoped that this was just a local nightmare, and that Mom and Dad were fine.

As they drove, paying little attention to the rules of the road or the definition of “road,” the smoke sometimes thinned, sometimes became almost too thick to see through, but never cleared out entirely. Missy wondered why they hadn’t gotten sick, and then decided for the sake of her mental health not to dwell on it too much.

The interstate was not nearly as congested as she would have thought. Lots of cars had crashed into each other or just stopped, and there were corpses all over the place, but apparently there weren’t a huge number of people trying to evacuate. Either they were already dead, or there was no place to go.

They took the Gleer Road exit, racing down the paved road until Kevin took a left turn onto the convoluted series of dirt roads that led to Uncle Jake’s place. Last time, he’d used a GPS, and Missy hoped that Kevin could remember all of the turns, because she certainly couldn’t.

The smoke was a lot thinner out here than it had been in the city, but it still looked like she was viewing the world through a green filter. Not a beautiful emerald filter—a mold one.

With what seemed like about a mile left to go, unless they were hopelessly lost and had several miles left to go, the motorcycle sputtered and came to a stop. “Out of gas,” said Kevin, tapping on the gauge, though Missy didn’t need the verbal or the visual cue to figure out what had happened.

They got off, and Kevin wheeled the motorcycle into the ditch. Then they began to run.

“What do you think is happening?” Missy asked.

“I don’t know. It’s got to be terrorists, right? I guess it could be some kind of huge industrial accident, but...I don’t know; I don’t see any way it’s not terrorists.”

“Do you feel okay?”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, physically I feel totally fine. So maybe we’re immune from whatever that stuff is. Are we going the right way?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t remember that tree.”

“Which one?”

“The weird-looking one with the branch shaped like a spoon.”

“Oh. I don’t remember it, either. But I’m not one to remember much about trees. I’m pretty sure we’re going the right way.”

“Will he even let us in?”

“Yeah, he knows we’re coming. We’ll just stay down there until we find out what’s happening. We’ll be fine.”

“I do remember that tree,” said Missy, pointing ahead to a tree with branches shaped like people having an uncomfortable three-way.

They picked up their pace to an all-out sprint, and, finally, yes, there was Uncle Jake’s shack. They rushed over there, out of breath, and Kevin pounded on the front door.

Nobody answered.

“You think he’s already down there?” asked Missy.

“Probably.” Kevin tested the knob. Locked. “We may have to break a window.”

Missy looked around for a large rock. She quickly found one, turned her head to avoid getting shards of glass in her face, and then smashed it into the front window. As she broke out the glass around the frame, the door swung open.

“What the hell are you doing to my window?” Uncle Jake demanded. He was in a full yellow radiation suit, and his voice was muffled by the gas mask. He held a revolver, though it was pointed politely at the ground and not at Kevin or Missy.

“We thought you might be in the shelter,” Kevin told him.

“I was! That’s no reason to destroy a man’s property! Jesus H. Christ, Kevin, do you think I want vandals down there with me? How do I know you won’t smash up the toilet next?”

“We won’t break anything else. I promise.”

“All right.” Uncle Jake gestured for them to follow. Missy and Kevin hurried into the shack after him. He punched in the code, lifted the lid of the hatch, and said “Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry!” as they climbed down the ladder.

Uncle Jake slammed the lid shut and climbed down into the shelter with them. Missy noticed that he had indeed hung some pictures on the wall, though they looked like artwork he’d stolen from a hotel chain that despised its customers.

Uncle Jake pressed a button on the wall, and there was a whoosh sound. “Ventilation system will get rid of any of that crap that came in with us. I’ve only got the one suit, though.”

“What do you know about what’s happening?” Missy asked.

Uncle Jake plopped down onto the desk chair. “The news says it’s happening all over the place.”

Missy took her phone out of her pocket as she felt an extra blast of panic. “All over? West coast, too?”

Uncle Jake began to type on his laptop keyboard. “I mean all over, all over. I’m talking North America, Europe, Asia...”

“Are you kidding me?” asked Kevin, peering over Uncle Jake’s shoulder at the screen.

“Iraq, North Korea, all those places you think might be doing it to us...well, it’s happening to them, too. Doesn’t mean they’re not faking the footage, but we’ve got reports of U.S. troops in the Middle East saying that soldiers on both sides just started hemorrhaging.”

Missy wanted to throw up, but she thought that was a pretty good way to get booted out of the shelter, so she did everything she could to resist the urge.

Her parents didn’t answer their phone.

“People are just dying everywhere,” said Uncle Jake. “Maybe even the scientists in Antarctica are keeling over. What if this is really it? What if this is really the end of the world?”

“It’s not the end,” said Kevin. “It’s going to be fine. I mean, not for everybody, not for the blood-gushing people, but just on our drive over we saw that others are immune. I’m not saying that there’s a plus side to all of this, but let’s not turn it into something bigger than it is.”

“Not bigger than millions of people dead?” Missy asked.

Kevin sighed. “I’m not going to apologize for having a ‘glass half-full’ kind of attitude. We could be one of the dead people.”

“My mom and dad might be dead,” said Missy. She wasn’t intentionally being a downer, but still...

“Okay, look, I’m not trying to be all rah-rah-rah, life is awesome,” said Kevin. “I’ll just be quiet.”

The shelter began to rattle.

It was a mild rattle at first, just enough for everybody to glance at each other with a “Did you feel that shit?” look. But it quickly gained intensity, knocking the bad paintings off the walls and causing Missy to almost lose her footing.

The lights went out.

Missy stood in the darkness, trying not to scream. When she felt a hand grab hers, she did scream, but it was just Kevin.

The rattling stopped.

A few seconds later, the lights came back on, much dimmer than before.

“We’re on the generator,” said Uncle Jake. He pressed some keys on the laptop and tried a few clicks of the mouse. “We’ve lost Internet.”

Missy looked at her phone. “I don’t have any signal.”

“So this is it,” said Uncle Jake. “I don’t even know what to say. I knew this kind of thing would happen eventually, but...wow...” Missy put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Uncle Jake pushed back his chair and stood up. He removed the hood of his radiation suit.

“We still don’t know—” Kevin said, but Uncle Jake waved him off.

“We do know. At least I know. I can feel it. In some ways, it’s like I’ve spent my entire life preparing for this day, but now that it’s here, I don’t know what to do. I never had many friends, and most of my family won’t talk to me, and I’ll admit that I’m not a huge fan of humanity in general...but, damn, I can’t believe this is really happening...”

“But we’re safe now,” said Kevin. “As bad as things are, we made it here, and that’s what’s important. We’ll get through this. We just have to be strong.”

Uncle Jake shook his head. “Nope, I don’t want to live in this world,” he said, right before he picked up the revolver, shoved the barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

His body dropped to the floor.

Missy and Kevin both screamed for a very long time.

When they were done with the incoherent part of their screaming, Kevin switched to actual words: “What the fuck, Uncle Jake?”

Missy bit down on her fist in an effort to briefly stop screaming.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” said Kevin, kneeling down beside Uncle Jake’s body as if there might be a medical treatment for blowing one’s brains out. “Oh, God...”

Eventually, Missy was able to stop screaming without keeping a fist against her mouth. A short while after that, she was able to stop hyperventilating.

Finally, she was able to speak.

“There’s never going to be a good time to ask this,” she admitted, “but did he ever tell you the code for the lock?”

THREE

A fter a brief discussion, Kevin and Missy decided that the most important thing for them to accomplish was to arrange it so they could stop staring at a gore-laden corpse. Kevin, being a total sweetheart, offered to handle this himself, but Missy couldn’t let him do that. If this was the apocalypse, she had to do her full share of the work. She couldn’t let other people drag the bodies of suicidal uncles out of the way by themselves.

She did, however, let Kevin take the upper half, which was far messier. The shelter didn’t have a freezer or a spare bedroom or anyplace convenient to store him, so the best they could do was drag him into the corner and toss a blanket over him.

“Should we say something?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Like, you know, a eulogy?”

Kevin lowered his head. “Uncle Jake, you were a good man, but killing yourself was a dick move. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Missy.

“I’m going to clean up the blood and...the other stuff that came out of his head,” said Kevin. “See what you can do with the lock.”

Missy nodded and walked over to the ladder. She climbed to the top and pushed on the hatch lid. The lid didn’t budge. She pushed as hard as she could without wrenching her arm out of its socket or falling off the ladder. Nope. This thing was sealed tight.

“What was Uncle Jake’s birthday?” she called down to Kevin.

“Ummmm, he was a Pisces, I think.”

“You don’t know the day?”

“No. Do you know the birthdays of all your aunts and uncles?”

“Can you think of any four-digit number he might have used as a code?”

“Not off the top of my head. Is there a police code for batshit crazy?”

There were ten thousand options. Missy had no idea where to start.

Maybe he’d left it at the factory settings. Missy punched in 0-0-0-0.

Something buzzed. It did not sound like a “Congratulations! You have entered the correct code, and the lid will now unlock, allowing you to leave at your leisure!” buzz.

The display read INCORRECT.

She entered 0-0-0-1.

INCORRECT.

1-2-3-4.

INCORRECT. TOO MANY ATTEMPTS.

Missy cursed and climbed back down the ladder. “I may have screwed us. It only gave me three tries.”

“Maybe it’ll reset. No reason to freak out quite yet.” Kevin closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, looking as if he were having a bit of difficulty not freaking out. “Okay, we can’t worry about that right now. We have other problems. How long does it take a dead body to smell bad?”

Missy shrugged. “Depends. A few days, maybe?”

“That long? I would’ve thought less. More like a couple.”

“Maybe it’s a couple. I don’t know. It’s not like we had lectures about corpse decomposition rates in high school.”

“We had one in biology. It was probably one of the days you cut class. Anyway, the temperature’s cool down here, and I doubt there are any bugs, so you might be right about it being a few days.”

“What do bugs have to do with anything?”

“Bugs speed up decomposition.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Afternoon makeout sessions cost me a lot of knowledge.”

“Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be out of here before he starts to rot.”

“God, I hope so.” Missy glanced at the floor. There was a small white chip a couple of feet away from Uncle Jake. “You missed a piece of bone,” she said. She suddenly felt unbearably sick to her stomach, which was kind of surprising considering that she had already witnessed the moment when the bone was propelled from its skull of origin.

“Sorry,” said Kevin. He quickly picked up the bone shard and dropped it into a small plastic garbage container.

“Thanks,” said Missy. “Okay, we need to get information about what’s happening outside. We don’t know if the Internet is actually down-down or if it’s just not working in here right now. If you try to fix that, I’ll take inventory of what we’ve got.”

Kevin nodded and sat down in front of the computer. Missy walked over to the food shelves. The supplies were vast, though this sure didn’t look like enough to sustain her and Kevin for two and a half years. There were cans of baked beans, pinto beans, black beans, green beans, pears, and peaches. Missy hated all varieties of beans, except for jellybeans, of which there were none. But at least they had more than enough protein to avoid the awkward “Technically, Uncle Jake is edible” conversation.

Another shelf had packages of instant mashed potatoes, pasta, and various other non-perishable items, along with saltine crackers and peanut butter. Missy opened a drawer and found a can opener and various other utensils. A cabinet contained three sets of dishes.

Were her parents dead?

Stop it. Missy put that thought out of her mind and went back to distracting herself by taking inventory.

Were they calling her right now, blood dripping all over the telephone while they prayed for her to answer?

Enough. They’re fine.

They weren’t fine. Nobody was fine. That green smoke was everywhere, and for all she knew, almost everybody in the world was dead. She and Kevin could be the only two people left alive.

“We’ll be okay,” said Kevin, pushing back his chair as she began to cry. “We’ve got it made down here. We’re way better off than most people.”

“I wasn’t worried about us.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah, I know. I’m sure your mom and dad are okay.”

“You don’t know that!” Missy screamed. “We don’t have any idea if they’re still alive or if they’re choking on their own blood! Don’t act like everything is just wonderful!”

Even before she finished shouting at him, Missy realized that she was being a complete bitch. He was only trying to keep her from completely losing it. (Apparently without great success.) He wouldn’t do either of them any favors if he ran in circles around the shelter wailing “All is lost! All is lost! The dark shadow of doomsday is upon us!”

He gave her a hug. She threw her arms around him and sobbed into his chest for a while.

“This probably won’t cheer you up,” Kevin admitted, after they finally broke the hug, “but one undeniable plus side is that neither one of us are dead. People are dead all over the place, but not us. We’re not even injured. How many people do you think are lying on the ground right now with a broken leg?”

“You’re absolutely correct. That didn’t cheer me up.”

“But it should! I mean, if you’ve got a broken leg, you’re pretty much screwed, right? Or at the very least you’re a huge burden to those around you. A broken leg under these circumstances might not just kill you; it could kill six or seven close friends or family members. All of those innocent deaths, all because of your leg. But not us. Our legs are in awesome shape.”

“And neither one of us has falling debris lodged in our neck. That doesn’t mean we should dance a jig.”

Kevin’s expression brightened. “You’re right! Falling debris! We could have been crushed by something, but we weren’t!”

“Joy.”

“And we’re relatively young. What if we were eighty? How many eighty-year-olds do you think are going to survive this? None. I’m telling you, Missy, this is the end of the eighty-and-up crowd, and we should be thankful we’re not one of them.”

“When the fuck did you become so cheery?”

“I’m just saying, given the situation, we’ve got it pretty sweet. Suppose we were crammed in here with fifty strangers? At least we know that neither one of us is going to murder the other over a can of beans. What if we had to sleep in shifts to keep somebody from cutting our throat with a tin can lid? That would suck, right?”

“But we’re trapped down here!”

“Trapped in comfort.” Kevin glanced around the shelter. “Okay, not comfort. But we can survive this. Not everybody can say that.”

Missy let out a long, deep sigh and wiped the tears off her cheeks. “You’re right,” she said. “We’re going to live through this.”

Kevin gave her another big hug. “Until we know otherwise, we’ll assume the best. Your parents are okay. Everybody we know and like is okay. The people we hate are dead.”

“I don’t hate anyone.”

“Good. That’ll make the repopulation efforts easier.” Kevin let go of her. “So let’s figure out what we’ve got and how everything works. We might be down here for a while.”

* * *

The first thing to make Missy feel legitimately better was the discovery of a body bag. A moment later, it disturbed the hell out of her that she was living in a world where she’d say “Body bag! Woo-hoo!” But then she went right back to being relieved that they now had something in which to store Uncle Jake.

“Well, that was considerate of him, at least,” said Kevin. “Do you think maybe he knew he was going to kill himself?”

“I’m going to go out on a dark limb and say that it was meant for one of us.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah.”

“Either way, we’ve got to give him credit. I wouldn’t have thought to stock my apocalypse shelter with a body bag. Let’s get him in there.”

It was by far the worst experience Missy had ever had putting something into a bag. The professionals who did this on a regular basis obviously had some sort of special technique that eluded Missy and Kevin. Even though they left him in his radiation suit, for a while it felt like they were getting more of Uncle Jake outside the bag than inside of it. Finally, though, they zipped it closed.

They removed all of the cans from one of the bottom shelves and rolled Uncle Jake as far back as they could. Then they replaced as many of the cans in front of him as would fit, so they wouldn’t have to look at the bag.

At least they had plenty of food, not that either of them ever expected to be able to eat, ever again.

After the task was complete, they sat down for a few minutes of silent twitching.

* * *

Though Uncle Jake had thought ahead regarding the body bag, he’d made no progress toward restroom privacy, so Kevin hung a sheet around the toilet to make a curtain. This was still going to be an issue, because Kevin was the kind of guy who, if somebody entered the adjoining stall, would put the process on hold and wait silently for him to leave. He didn’t understand those who could cheerfully go about their business with another human being mere feet away, judging them.

“Isn’t it nice to know that we’re in a position where we can worry about this sort of thing?” he asked. “Other people probably have worse problems than an exposed toilet.”

“Do you want to share the bag with Uncle Jake?”

“Sorry.”

* * *

After that, there really wasn’t much left to do. Surviving in a tiny apocalypse shelter was not a labor-intensive activity.

Uncle Jake hadn’t gotten around to bringing down a deck of cards. There was no Internet, no television, no board games, no hand-held video games, no books, no comics, no magazines, no action figures, no knitting materials, no Sudoku, no drawing paper, no musical instruments, no spare wood to whittle, no goldfish, no puppets, no light sabers—nothing to pass the time. They both had games on their cell phones, but draining the battery on them seemed like it might be an unintelligent activity.

Crying did make the first few hours go faster, but Kevin really hoped they weren’t down here for more than a couple of days, or at least one of them would go berserk.

* * *

“So what do you hope happened?” Kevin asked that night. They’d shut off the generator to conserve power, and didn’t want to use candles unless absolutely necessary, so they sat in the darkness.

“I’m not sure.”

“If it was terrorists, at least we might be able to beat them. Maybe we already have. If it wasn’t an attack...”

“What else could it be? Smoke like that doesn’t form in nature.”

“We don’t know that.”

“If there were green clouds floating around that dissolved people from the inside, I think we would have heard about it by now.”

“I’m not saying that we missed the National Geographic special,” said Kevin. “But we don’t know what’s out there, with us polluting the environment and frying the ozone layer and everything.”

“Green death cloud seems like a stretch.”

“What if it’s God?”

“You don’t believe in God,” Missy said.

“I also don’t believe in aliens, but starting today I’m a bit more receptive to the idea.”

“It wasn’t aliens.”

“I’m not saying it was. But if I saw a spaceship spewing green smoke, I’d be way less surprised today than I would have been yesterday.”

“It would really suck if there were aliens and we never got to see them because we’re stuck down here,” said Missy. “Everybody else would get to say ‘Whoa! I can’t believe we saw aliens!’ and we’d completely miss out. But it’s not aliens.”

“Or God?”

“Definitely not God.”

“Why not?”

“Because God would be more efficient if he wanted to wipe us out. You know when those insane preachers say ‘God created that hurricane to punish the gays!’? It seems kind of blasphemous to suggest that God doesn’t have a better targeting system.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, it was terrorists.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Why is there doubt in your voice? It’s either aliens, some sort of Biblical prophecy where we’re the Chosen Ones, or terrorists.”

“Or an accident.”

Missy considered that. “Okay, you’re right. We could have been testing some sort of weapon and it blew up in our faces. We’ll rank that below terrorism but ahead of God and Martians. Any other possibilities?”

“Witchcraft?”

Missy gently punched Kevin on the shoulder. “Now you’re just being silly.”

“Hey, we’ve got a lot of time to kill. We might as well discuss the idea of witchcraft.”

“Well, sure, I mean, it could be Penn & Teller gone mad or some pin-headed guy with a puzzle box. To stay rational, though, we should stick to science.”

“Science gone amok.”

“Horribly.”

“I guess we should try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah.”

There was one bed and one cot. Kevin would have slept on the cot if Missy had asked him to, but she didn’t. They slept together in the bed, not snuggling, but also not trying to put the maximum distance between them.

* * *

0-2-1-8.

INCORRECT.

At least the lock had indeed reset overnight. They hadn’t found anything in the shelter to indicate possible codes, so they had nothing to go on beyond Uncle Jake’s astrological sign.

0-2-1-9.

INCORRECT.

0-2-2-0.

INCORRECT. TOO MANY ATTEMPTS.

This could be a very long apocalypse.

* * *

“I think I’m going to take up juggling,” said Kevin, picking up three cans of beans. “I’ve always wanted to learn, and it’s not like we don’t have spare time. Do you want to learn to juggle with me?”

“No, thanks,” said Missy.

Kevin gave one of the cans a practice toss. It hit the floor with a loud clank. “Maybe this will be a valuable skill when we get out.”

“How would juggling become a valuable skill?”

“What if the Internet never comes back? People will need entertainment. This may be a good opportunity to get back to basics. What’s the harm?”

“You could drop a can on your foot, break a toe, and be hobbled when we get out of here.”

Kevin set the cans back on the shelf. “Well, crap. How are we supposed to pass the time, then?”

* * *

Kevin and Missy lay in bed, naked, holding each other, not speaking. They hadn’t said anything since they finished a few minutes ago—technically, since Kevin finished—and it wasn’t quite the comfortable silence of two lovers basking in post-coital bliss.

Kevin was finally the first to verbalize something. “Well.”

“Yeah.”

“This was good. It’s not healthy to be locked down here with that much sexual tension in the air.”

“I guess you’re right.”

There were several more moments of silence. Very, very long moments.

Kevin was the one to break the silence again. “I just want you to know that I’m not proud of that performance. I’m totally aware that it was below par, both by my standards and the national average.”

“No, no, it was good. I enjoyed it.”

“Okay. Cool.”

The silence continued.

“What’s wrong?” Kevin asked.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You look like something’s wrong.”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I mean, I guess I’m still kind of upset that everybody we know might be dead. That’s something that’s wrong, if that’s what you were asking about.”

“That’s reasonable. I thought it was more that you were regretting what we did.”

Missy didn’t answer.

“You’re regretting it, aren’t you?”

“Are you?”

“No!” Kevin insisted. “I think it’s terrific. I’m ready to do it again. In a few minutes.”

“I’m not going to say that I never thought about it, but I never thought we would do it because we were...bored.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. How many babies do you think are born each year because their parents didn’t have cable?”

“I know, I know. I just thought that if it eventually happened it would be more romantic.”

“Okay, I’ll admit that we didn’t use one of the more romantic sexual positions. But at least we did it by candlelight.”

“Because we’re conserving gasoline for the generator.”

“Fair enough. You do understand that I was kidding when I said ‘I’m bored. Wanna fuck?’, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Because if I thought for one instant that you were going to take me up on the offer, I would have phrased it differently. I’ve made that kind of joke lots of times and you’ve always laughed it off.”

“I understand that. Believe me, I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I was a little horny and there was nothing else to do and I was feeling scared and lonely and you just set me off. It’s okay. I don’t regret it. I’m glad we did. It was a good call on our parts.”

“This is awkward for you, isn’t it?”

“Awkward as hell. As hell.”

“Well, that’s only natural. We’ve spent a long, long time knowing each other and not having sex. It makes sense that there’ll be an adjustment period. But it didn’t feel like doing your brother, right?”

“No! Jesus, Kevin!”

“Just asking! Also...I know that the man and the woman are supposed to share in the responsibility equally for this sort of thing, but I kind of assumed that you would have stopped me if the lack of protection was a problem, so I didn’t...”

“No, you did not just catch an STD.”

“Not the direction I was going.”

“Yes, I’m on the pill.”

“Okay, good.”

“But I obviously didn’t bring them to work with me yesterday. So unless Uncle Jake has a stockpile of condoms somewhere down here—and I will be really disturbed if he does—we can’t do this again until we get out.”

Another long moment of silence.

“I see.”

FOUR

E ach morning, Missy woke up, climbed the ladder, and input the next three sequential numbers. She’d used up the possible Pisces dates, so she’d gone back to 0-0-0-2. And each morning she was rewarded with a buzz and:

INCORRECT.

INCORRECT.

INCORRECT. TOO MANY ATTEMPTS.

If Uncle Jake had used the passcode 9-9-9-9, it could be more than nine years before they got out of here. They would be dividing up the molecules of an individual bean for sustenance. Of course, by then they would have long since descended into madness, so they’d actually be fighting off hallucinations of the vicious eight-headed Bean Monster.

In their former lives, Missy would have told Kevin that sleeping together was a mistake. A fun-filled mistake, but a mistake nevertheless, and one they couldn’t repeat if they valued their friendship not being weird.

Down here, though...what else were they going to do?

Though they couldn’t repeat the main attraction, they’d quickly settled on a compromise that was satisfactory to all participants. Kevin had offered to take his own precautions, but counting on him to pull out at the right moment was basically the equivalent of saying “I’m okay with being pregnant in a one-room underground shelter.” So instead they did a variety of things that took care of their physical needs and also helped pass the time.

They were still definitely just friends. Missy wished it were more romantic, but despite the lack of gazing into each other’s eyes and declaring their undying love, if she had to be trapped down here with anyone, she was glad it was with Kevin.

* * *

This was freaking awesome. Kevin had never had so much sex in his life. They were going at it four or five times a day, and even if they weren’t actually having intercourse, it was ridiculously enjoyable. They’d always been candid with each other about their previous exploits, so Kevin already knew that one particular activity guaranteed to not result in pregnancy was entirely off-limits, and he resisted the temptation to suggest it.

It almost made up for the fact that everything else about the past month had pretty thoroughly sucked.

It was nice that they wouldn’t starve to death anytime soon, but he would strangle a dolphin for a fresh piece of fruit. Just one crisp, juicy, non-canned red apple, even if it were offered to him by a Disney witch. And there was no limit to the depths of depravity to which he would sink for an ice cream sandwich.

But, again, it was nice that they wouldn’t starve to death anytime soon. The lack of tasty meals was a first world problem. A minor inconvenience. Compared to the fact that they’d had to slice up Uncle Jake’s body, it was nothing.

Uncle Jake had kept fine in the body bag and radiation suit for a few days, but then Kevin and Missy detected the hint of a scent. When they smelled it, Kevin felt like he was going to burst into tears. It wasn’t as bad as Uncle Jake getting up and walking around as a zombie, but it was an extremely unpleasant issue that they now had to deal with.

“I’m doing this myself,” said Kevin.

Missy shook her head. “We’re in this together.”

“There’s only need for one of us to be permanently traumatized. I have fewer emotions than you do. I’ll handle this.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then we’ll take turns. The next time we need to cut up and dispose of a body, it’s all on you.”

Missy sat down on the bed, buried her face in her hands, and began to softly weep.

What had he said wrong? Why was she all upset over a simple joke about cutting up a—oh, shit.

“I didn’t mean me!” Kevin insisted, sitting on the bed next to her. “I’m not going anywhere. You won’t be cutting me up until I’m ninety, to use my skin for leather. I’m not leaving you, I promise.”

Missy wiped her eyes. “You can’t promise that.”

“The hell I can’t. I’m promising it right now.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither of us are. We’re getting out of this place, and then we’re going to deal with whatever mess is up there together.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m getting rid of Uncle Jake by myself.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then let me make a confession. I’ve been getting a lot of blowjobs these past few days, and I’ve been really enjoying them. Each and every one of them has been a work of art. And I feel like the horrible task at hand is the sort of thing that could dry up the supply of blowjobs for a while. So when I offer to do it by myself, it may sound like I’m being all chivalrous and stuff, but it’s really all about shameful, disgusting lust. I am a truly wretched person.”

“All right,” said Missy. “Under those circumstances, I’ll let you get rid of the body.”

* * *

Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if Missy could just walk into another room. They didn’t have an iPod to block out the noise, so it was either lie in bed with a pillow over her head singing “LA LA LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR THE SOUNDS OF MUTILATION!” or climb to the top of the ladder.

She helped him drag the body bag into the middle of the floor, then climbed the ladder.

Extremely Useful Item #1 That They Did Not Have In The Shelter: A chainsaw.

Extremely Useful Item #2 That They Did Not Have In The Shelter: An electric carving knife.

Extremely Useful Item #3 That They Did Not Have In The Shelter: A bone saw.

Extremely Useful Item #4 That They Did Not Have In The Shelter: Any kind of saw.

They did have a butcher knife, and that was what Kevin would be using to chop an entire human body into pieces small enough to toss into the incinerator. Missy did not think the process would be without its challenges.

“Dammit!” said Kevin from below.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just cut myself.”

“Already?”

“Can you not talk, please?”

“I won’t say another word.”

There were some really ghastly sounds coming from down there, but most of them were drowned out by Kevin’s constant stream of profanity. It reminded Missy of Kevin trying to assemble a shelf or a grill. “The instructions say that it’s going to take twenty minutes,” Kevin would announce, “but I’ll show them! It’ll take me three hours!”

Missy squeezed her eyes shut as she heard a particularly unpleasant sound. She wanted to cover her ears, but then she’d fall off the ladder, probably landing on something unpleasant.

She began to sing. Metallica seemed like the best choice to drown out the sounds of carnage, so she started with “Enter Sandman.” Kevin had never praised her singing ability (quite understandably, since it did not exist) but he didn’t complain now.

An album’s worth of songs later, she called down: “How’s it going?”

“Stop rushing me!”

“I wasn’t rushing you! I was just asking how it’s going!”

“You try doing this! You think he just comes apart like taffy?”

“It was just a question. I won’t say another word.”

“However bad you’re imagining this to be, it’s worse.”

“I wasn’t saying it wasn’t bad.”

“It’s awful. It is the most awful thing I have ever done in my entire life.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m not exaggerating.”

“I know you’re not exaggerating! I one hundred percent believe that it’s the most awful thing you’ve ever done.”

“In my life.”

“I know! It would be fucked up if it wasn’t the most awful thing you’ve ever done in your life!”

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a whiner, it’s just...it’s so bad. There is literally nothing positive about this experience.”

“Do you want me to come down and help?”

“No! It will scar you forever!”

“I saw him shoot himself.”

“That doesn’t matter! This is way worse! If I told you what I was looking at right now, you wouldn’t even believe me. You’d call me a liar, because nobody could ever believe the grossness of what’s right in front of my face! Remember that one time when we were kids and we found that dead squirrel?”

“No.”

“We were about ten.”

“I don’t remember finding a dead squirrel.”

“Yeah, you do. That dead squirrel in the park.”

“You mean the cat?”

“We never found a dead cat.”

“Yes, we did. When we were about ten. We found a dead cat in the park.”

“Are you sure?” Kevin asked.

“Yes. It was that mean orange one.”

“Okay, right. It was a cat. I don’t remember him being mean, but that doesn’t matter. Do you remember how disgusting it was? Do you remember how you made gagging noises and wouldn’t even touch it with a stick?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is like fifty dead cats piled on top of each other. That’s how bad this is. Even after I get over it, I won’t be able to completely describe how awful this is.”

“Could you please quit comparing it to cats? I love cats.”

“I love cats, too. That’s my point.”

“I’m coming down.”

“No! Do not come down! Are you getting tired from being on the ladder?”

“No, you just sound like you need help.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t want you to be forever haunted. Sing some more, please.”

* * *

It most likely did not really take Kevin eighty-nine hours to dispose of Uncle Jake’s body, but it felt that way. Missy could barely move by the time he gave her the all clear and let her climb down the ladder without insisting that she would suffer irreparable emotional damage.

He’d done a remarkable job cleaning up. There was no evidence of butchery.

“He all went into the incinerator?” Missy asked.

“Most of him.”

“That thing can’t really burn bones, can it?”

“No. It cannot.”

“So...?”

“So the body bag now has some charred bones and other things in it. But it won’t smell bad anymore. And I washed out his radiation suit, just in case we need it later.”

“Well...thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you need a hug?”

“Hell yes.”

Missy gave Kevin a tight hug. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Kevin shook his head. “I’m not horny right now. Not even a little.”

“That’s not at all what I meant. I meant, could I get you something to...” Missy started to offer to get him something to eat, but he was unlikely to want that, either. “How about I just hug you for a while?”

“That would be nice.”

* * *

So that had not been a great day.

The other sacrifices weren’t all that bad. There was no shower down here, but they did have a microwave, so at least they didn’t have to bathe with cold water. Uncle Jake had three spare changes of clothes, which Kevin wore happily and which Missy wore less happily.

They had the treadmill, so their muscles weren’t going to atrophy. And Kevin looked surprisingly good with a beard.

When they weren’t having sex, eating, or washing clothes, they made up word games, told stories, and performed wacky comedy skits. They stacked empty cans in a pyramid and made their own carnival toss game. They drew on the walls and floor. They praised each other for not regressing into savagery.

* * *

0-1-0-2.

INCORRECT.

They’d been down in the shelter for two months. Missy was nowhere close to having used all of the potential combinations, but for some reason she felt convinced this was the day she’d get lucky. She punched in the next number in the sequence.

0-1-0-3.

INCORRECT.

One more chance for today. This next one was going to be the magic number. 0-1-0-4 had some kind of significance for Uncle Jake; she could feel it. It would unlock the hatch, she and Kevin would climb out, and the rest of the world would say, “Hey, we’ve been up here creating Utopia; where’ve you been?”

She was starting to think like Kevin now.

Nothing wrong with that. Kevin was a pretty happy guy.

0-1-0-

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Had something above just walked over the hatch?

FIVE

T he footsteps startled Missy so badly that she almost slipped off the ladder. Fortunately, she maintained her grip and did not create the moment of amusing irony where she fell and broke her neck just as salvation arrived. “Hello?” she called out. “Is somebody up there?”

Nothing.

Missy began to vigorously pound on the hatch. “Kevin, come here!” she shouted, though when she looked down Kevin was already at the bottom of the ladder.

“Is somebody up there?” he asked.

“I’m not sure!” She stopped pounding for a moment. “Hello? Who’s up there? We need help!”

No response.

“We’re trapped down here! Can you hear me? It would really make our day if you can hear me!”

Missy continued to shout and pound on the lid for another ten minutes, until Kevin informed her that she was starting to sound a little scary. She punched in the last “4” in the combination.

INCORRECT. TOO MANY ATTEMPTS.

She was too flustered to think of the perfect swear word, so she just climbed down the ladder. “Did you hear it?”

“Yeah. What do you think it was?”

“I have no idea. Why would somebody walk over the lid but then not say anything?”

Kevin held up a hammer. “I don’t know, but I’ll take the next shift, in case they’re still around.”

Kevin went to the top and began pounding on the lid. He quit after about half an hour. Missy took another shift, but she’d already given up on the idea of anybody responding.

“Maybe they went to get help,” Kevin said.

“Maybe.”

“It would be locked from their side, too, so they could be on the way right now to find a welding torch or some dynamite.”

“It could also have been kids that we scared shitless. We may have just created a local legend. We may have frightened people away from Uncle Jake’s house for decades.”

Kevin sighed. “This bites.”

“Yeah.”

“It still could be people on their way for dynamite, though. Don’t get bummed out.”

* * *

If there were indeed people up above going to get dynamite, they had not taken the most expeditious route. After about three days, Missy accepted that they weren’t coming back.

* * *

INCORRECT. TOO MANY ATTEMPTS.

“Motherfucking son of a shitty bitch,” said Missy, as she did every morning.

She climbed down the ladder. Early in their imprisonment Kevin would greet her with “Did it work?” but she’d cured him of that habit. They’d been down here for almost four months, and it was important that they get on each other’s nerves as little as possible.

This was the thinnest she’d been in her entire adult life, which would have been nice except that she looked like crap. Her hair looked like crap, her skin looked like crap, and her nails looked like crap. She was not a vain, appearance-obsessed woman, but she didn’t enjoy looking like crap.

“Do you want me to open up a can of inedible disgusting shit?” asked Kevin. “Inedible disgusting shit” was their name for beans. Missy hadn’t thought it was possible to grow to loathe a food to the point where she wished death upon those who harvested it, but she really, really, really hated beans.

Saturday nights were Pasta Night, assuming they still had their days of the week correct, but they didn’t have much other respite from canned food.

“Maybe we should just eat nothing and starve to death instead,” said Missy. This was her standard response to Kevin asking if he wanted her to open up a can of inedible disgusting shit. He would either chuckle and say “I wish,” or say “At least it’s keeping us alive.”

Kevin chuckled. “I wish.”

He made significantly fewer optimistic comments these days. They spent most of their time in bed, though not in the good way. It was difficult to summon much enthusiasm for anything except those few seconds each day spent punching in numbers.

“We should get married,” said Kevin.

“Why would we do that?”

“So that when our bodies are found in a few centuries it’s less sad.”

“They won’t know we’re married unless you put a ring on it. Do you have a ring?”

“No.”

“Then I have to decline.”

“I wasn’t proposing. I was just mentioning the idea of proposing. I actually didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until you said something back.”

“Oh. The answer is still no.”

* * *

“I wish I had a legacy,” said Kevin.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, something better than ‘He was born, he lived for a while, then he died in a pit.’“

“This isn’t a pit.”

“Hellhole, then.”

“You’ve got a legacy.”

“I wish I had a good legacy. When it’s time to rebuild society, nobody is going to say ‘Let’s model a city after Kevin Jerrod, a man who was perfectly adequate.’“

“Society doesn’t need to be rebuilt,” said Missy, who was becoming used to their occasional reversal of optimist/pessimist roles. “Society is perfectly fine up there. We’re missing great new movies every weekend.”

“Or maybe society has crumbled to the point where any movie is a precious commodity.” He pointed upward. “Up there, a whole new society could worship Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo.”

Missy had kind of liked Deuce Bigalow, European Gigolo, but this wasn’t the time for discussion of cinema.

“Your legacy is fine,” Missy said. “You saved my life, remember?”

“When? Recently?”

“You picked me up at work on the motorcycle when this all first started.”

“Oh, yeah. That wasn’t really saving your life. That was a chauffeur service.”

“You saved my life.”

Kevin shrugged. “I guess so. But that only counts if you go on to achieve greatness. I don’t really have a legacy if you just die in a hellhole with me.”

“Are you trying to be a jerk?”

“What, so now I’m being a jerk for wanting a legacy? Did you think Benjamin Franklin was a jerk, too? Oh, that Thomas Edison, what a frickin’ douche!”

“I’m not talking to you until you calm down,” Missy said, turning away.

“Oh, really? How are you going to give me the silent treatment? We live in three square inches of space!”

Missy ignored him.

“Don’t ignore me! I have to listen to you chew on your fingernails all day long, so the least you could do is listen to me when I’m saying stuff to you!”

“What are you even talking about?”

Kevin gestured to Missy’s fingernails. “You chew those things eighty-five hours a day! It’s the only sound I ever get to hear. Nom nom nom.” He mimed a particularly disgusting and sloppy session of fingernail devouring.

“I bite my nails when I get nervous. And I’ve never done it like that.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gnawed off the first or second digits. I fear for my own fingers when I close my eyes to go to sleep. Last night I dreamt that I woke up screaming because you were eating my toenails with a fork and knife.”

“You dreamt that you woke up screaming?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“Maybe you should take some quiet time to yourself at the top of the ladder.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Well, if you don’t want to have a simple conversation with me, like a mature adult, I guess I’ll just have to talk to Uncle Jake.” Kevin knelt down and began to remove cans of food from the bottom shelf.

“Kevin, do not take out that body bag.”

Kevin continued to remove cans.

“Kevin, I’m serious. You’re taking this too far.”

“He’s been cooped up in that bag all this time. Doesn’t he deserve some fresh air? He’s the one who’s got a legacy. This shelter will be here until the earth is consumed by the sun!” Kevin dragged the body bag off the shelf.

“Kevin, I’m asking you very nicely not to unzip that bag. If you do, I will be forced to take drastic measures.”

“I’ll put him back when I’m done talking.”

“No.”

“Just one jawbone.”

“Don’t unzip it, Kevin.”

“There was still meat on the bones when I burned them. We could’ve been having jerky all this time.” He pinched the zipper between his thumb and index finger.

“Don’t make me go for the gun.”

Kevin looked over at her, and then very slowly stood up. “You’re going to pull the gun on me?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“That gun was supposed to be for our suicide pact.”

“We don’t have a suicide pact. You wouldn’t let us form one.”

“Right! Because suicide pacts are a downer!”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Missy had no idea if she actually intended to go for the gun. Probably not if he just opened the bag, but if he suddenly posed a physical threat...

Kevin looked down at the bag. “I think I’ve behaved badly for the past couple of minutes.”

“Yes, you have. You really have.”

“I’m going to put this away now.” Kevin crouched down and shoved the body bag back onto the shelf. He carefully began to replace the cans.

“Are you all right?” Missy asked.

“I think that maybe I’m not as immune to madness as I thought I was.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not that okay. I sincerely apologize for that. That was one of the most uncool things I’ve ever done.”

“Agreed.”

“But I wouldn’t have actually done anything. The second I opened that bag I would’ve thrown up and it would’ve been over. I wouldn’t have done a puppet show with the skeleton parts.”

“I appreciate that.”

“And your fingernails? Doesn’t bother me at all when you chew them. The sound is actually kind of sexy. Well, not sexy. Soothing, though. Like a mother’s heartbeat.”

“You’re overcompensating.”

“No, it’s true! There is no sound I’d rather fall asleep to than the sound of you chewing your nails. And honestly, if you ever do want to chew my nails, finger or toe, just give me a bit of advance notice and they’re yours.”

“I don’t think you’ve entirely recovered yet,” Missy noted.

“I don’t think I have, either. I’m going up the ladder for some alone time.”

* * *

By the time Missy prepared dinner (beans) she believed Kevin when he assured her that he was fine. They’d been locked down here for four months, so he was entitled to one instance of unnerving insanity. After all, she’d woken up once to find herself chewing on his ear, which she let Kevin believe was meant to be foreplay but which most certainly was not.

But they had to get out of here soon, or one of them was going to snap for real.

* * *

“Why do we wear clothes?” Kevin asked, the next day.

“Excuse me?”

Kevin gestured to his shirt and pants. “Why do we wear these?”

“Evolution?”

“I don’t mean humankind in general. I mean, us. It’s a pain to wash them, and we haven’t had anybody drop in for an unexpected visit since we moved down here. I’ve seen you naked, you’ve seen me naked, and there aren’t any windows, so why do we bother?”

“Because that’s what civilized people do.”

“But why be civilized? That’s so pre-apocalypse.”

“I’d like to retain that, thank you very much,” said Missy.

“It’s not like Uncle Jake’s clothes are flattering on you.”

“So if we’re going to take that step, why even talk? Why not just communicate with gestures and grunts?”

“You’re being silly.”

“What happens when we finally do get out of here? It would really blow to get our freedom back just to go to prison for indecent exposure.”

“Still being silly,” said Kevin. “I’d dress to go out.”

“Sorry, but I’m not ready to start hurling feces yet.”

“Who the hell said anything about hurling feces? That’s your chain of events, not mine!”

“Whatever. I’m not going feral.”

“Fine. If you want to cling to the old ways, be my guest, but I’m turning this place into a nudist shelter.” Kevin unbuttoned his fly.

“You can so whatever you want,” said Missy. “But don’t expect me to put my mouth on a penis that I’m tired of looking at.”

Kevin re-buttoned his fly. “I guess that’s a pretty good deterrent for naturalism.”

“These breakdowns need to stop, Kevin.”

“That one wasn’t an official breakdown.”

“I’m counting it.”

“It wasn’t! I proposed an idea, you disagreed with it, we discussed it, you made it sound unappealing, and I withdrew it. There’s nothing wrong with that!”

“Seriously, Kevin. You need to keep it together.”

“Or what? You’ll pull a gun on me?”

“Kevin!”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll admit that the gun comment I just made sort of crossed the line into a breakdown. I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually believe that you’d shoot me.”

“This is going to stop, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

“There’s something squirmy in my eye,” said Kevin.

“Like what?”

“Like...I don’t know, what kind of things are squirmy? Eels? It doesn’t really feel like an eel. Not a worm, either. It’s not so much slimy, just squirmy. Like...like...like...a centipede! That’s it. A centipede.”

“You think you have a centipede in your eye?”

Kevin glared at Missy. “No, Melissa, I do not believe that I have a centipede in my eyeball. Stop treating me like I’m losing my grip on reality. All I said was that it feels like I have a centipede in my eye.”

“So what do you think is actually wrong?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, I would have said the cause, not the symptom.”

“Let me take a look. Hold your eye open.”

Missy looked into Kevin’s eye. It was a little bloodshot, and the pupil was slightly dilated, but there was no visible evidence of a centipede or centipede-like creature squirming around in there.

“It looks okay,” Missy said.

“Of course you’d say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“If it’s true, how come I can see it pulsating? Hmmm? Answer me that. Explain the pulsating.”

“How can you see your own eye pulsating?”

“I can see it reflected in your eye. Right next to your soul.”

“Kevin—”

“I’m sorry! That was way creepier than it sounded in my head. I think you may have to lock me away somewhere.”

“There’s nowhere to lock you!”

“Please don’t put me in the bag with Uncle Jake!”

“I’d never do that. I may have to tie you up, though.”

“Please don’t tie me up with Uncle Jake!”

“For God’s sake, Kevin, what’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s somehow related to the centipede in my eyeball!”

“We already ruled that out.”

“Oh, but I bet you’d just looooove to take out my eyeball and check for yourself, wouldn’t you? Maybe pop it into your mouth when I’m not looking with my other eye? You’ve lost it, Missy. Get help.”

“Kevin, please don’t make me take drastic measures. I need you!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Kevin’s voice cracked. “I think it’s the ghost of Uncle Jake worming his way into my brain!”

“It’s probably not.”

“It could be!”

“Nope.”

“He was never the same after Aunt Susan died!”

“Who?”

“Aunt Susan.”

“Who the hell is Aunt Susan?”

“She died.”

Missy wanted to smack the shit out of Kevin, but it wasn’t a good idea to smack the shit out of somebody who was already demonstrating unstable behavior. “Why is this the first time you’re mentioning her?”

Kevin looked extremely confused by the question. And then he frowned. “I’m not sure I ever knew that there was an Aunt Susan.”

“What?”

“She died before I was born. I don’t think anybody ever mentioned her.”

“Well, somebody had to have mentioned her.”

Kevin shook his head. “I’m pretty sure nobody did. Oh, jeez, that’s freaky as hell.”

“Of course they did. Maybe you were a just a kid and you don’t remember. What day did she die?”

“I have no idea!”

“Think!”

Kevin scrunched his eyes closed and was silent for a full minute. “Easter?”

“She died on Easter?”

“Something happened on Easter. Maybe just a memorable egg hunt. But Easter is in my head right now.”

“What year? How soon before you were born did your Aunt Susan die?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think!”

“Three years? Four? Uncle Jake was a lot older than my mom, so it could’ve been ten, eleven...”

“Okay, so we can’t back into the exact date. But we’ve got a range.”

This scenario required that a) Aunt Susan was an actual person and not a figment of Kevin’s madness, b) Easter was indeed relevant, and c) that Uncle Jake had set his passcode based on that. It really wasn’t any better than their current plan of just counting their way up from 0-0-0-0 to 9-9-9-9. But she had to desperately claw at something, so why not desperately claw at this?

* * *

They sat silently, eating disgusting vile wretched hellish slop out of a can.

Kevin couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by his recent behavior. It freaked him out that he’d heard “Aunt Susan” so clearly in his mind, and that he was so sure she’d died on Easter Sunday. He’d heard it in his own voice, not Uncle Jake’s, but he was genuinely convinced that Uncle Jake was speaking to him.

He elected not to share this with Missy.

That is, he quit sharing it with her after quickly discovering that she was not receptive to the idea.

He supposed it was possible that this was some sort of memory that had been buried in the back of his mind, but it didn’t feel like anything that he’d simply forgotten. In fact, it felt like he could strengthen the connection by opening the body bag.

He wouldn’t do that, though. Missy wouldn’t like it. In such close quarters, it was advisable to avoid making her think his mind had degenerated to the point where he might try to wear her skin.

That night, he offered to sleep on the floor, since the chances of any sexual activity were pretty remote anyway. He hoped that Missy would say, “No, no, that’s okay,” but she agreed that it was an excellent idea.

* * *

Missy was always the one to enter the combinations each morning, but Kevin woke up before her and decided that it was his turn. If his hunch was correct, she would awaken to a wonderful surprise. If his hunch was wrong, he didn’t think her anger with him would increase by more than ten or fifteen percent.

He climbed the ladder. How early could Easter start? He wasn’t completely sure, so he decided to play it safe and start with April.

0-4-0-1.

INCORRECT.

0-4-0-2.

Something whirred, then something clicked, then something beeped.

Whoa.

Kevin turned the handle and pushed open the lid. Then he scurried down the ladder. “Missy! Missy! Missy! Missy!”

“What?” she asked, sitting up in bed.

“I did it! I did it! I did it!”

“What?”

“The lid! The lid! It’s open! The lid! I figured out the combination!”

“Are you serious?” Missy got out of bed and hurried over to the ladder. She looked up and let out a squeal of delight.

“It was 0-4-0-2! Easter was right! At least, Easter was right if April 2nd was the date of Easter the year my Aunt Susan died! We’ll check a calendar when we get out of here! And, yeah, you would have gotten to 0-4-0-2 in a few days anyway, so my vision wasn’t a huge help, but we’re free! We’re frickin’ free!”

Almost giggling with giddy excitement, Missy and Kevin hurried up the ladder and out of the shelter.

SIX

U ncle Jake’s home didn’t look as bad as Missy would have expected. It still existed, for one thing. It could use a good dusting and vacuuming, and maybe two or three fewer possum carcasses on the sofa, but overall it was in fine shape.

“It’s not a wasteland,” said Kevin, nodding his approval. “That’s good.”

They opened the front door and stepped outside. It was a sunny day and the sky was beautiful, with no sign of the green smoke. A few trees had fallen, but that seemed to be the extent of the devastation.

Missy and Kevin just stood there, breathing in fresh air. She hadn’t realized how badly the shelter had reeked until now. She probably reeked, too, and felt kind of bad for bringing her unpleasant scent into this glorious environment.

“Paradise,” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to go get our phones, just in case,” said Kevin. Missy’s battery had only lasted for a month of daily checks for a signal, but Kevin’s still had a bit of juice left.

“Thanks,” said Missy. She could barely believe it. If her parents were alive, she might get to talk to them today!

Maybe the world was fine. The population was smaller, of course, but that didn’t mean there’d been devastating changes to the infrastructure. Tonight she might log on to Facebook and see angry comments bitching about the fact that people were still posting about the green smoke.

Or maybe things were even better than they had been. Maybe the citizens of the world said “Wow, looks like we’d better step up our game, humanity!”

That was the kind of thing she’d want to slap Kevin for saying. Things were most definitely not better. But she’d be elated if she could just talk to her mom and dad, find out for sure that they’d lived through this.

Kevin went back inside Uncle Jake’s house. Missy took a long, deep breath. It would have been longer and deeper, but she stopped inhaling when she heard Kevin cry out.

When Missy rushed inside, he was being strangled.

The strangler was human, presumably, but only in the sense that it had arms, legs, a torso, a head, and facial features in approximately the same places one might expect to see them on a human. Its skin had a light green tint. It was covered with boils of various sizes, and there was some definite oozing action going on. It wore a blue baseball cap and a filthy but still identifiable Tampa Bay Rays T-shirt.

Kevin pulled away from it with a yelp, its fingers leaving a green smear on his neck. The creature stumbled toward him and opened its mouth wide. It only had four or five teeth, but the relatively small quantity of them did not make the teeth less frightening.

The creature lunged at Kevin, tackling him and knocking both of them to the ground. A big cloud of dust rose into the air upon impact.

“Please provide me with some greatly needed assistance in removing this unsightly individual from upon me,” said Kevin, though it sounded more like “Auuuaaagh!!!”

Missy grabbed the back of the creature’s shirt and pulled. The cloth tore away easily, leaving the creature still trying to kill Kevin. She grabbed its arm, but her hands slipped off just as one might expect when one was grabbing oozing boils, and she lost her balance and nearly fell backwards.

“Refrain from such ineffective techniques that do not solve the problem and attempt a more productive solution!” said Kevin, though it sounded more like he was saying “Auuuaaagh!!!” again.

Missy wrapped her arm around the creature’s neck, headlock style. It made noises as if gargling phlegm-covered razor blades as she pulled it off Kevin. She lost her balance again and wasn’t able to stay upright, landing on her ass but not releasing the creature.

Kevin sat up and punched the creature in the face. A large piece of what may have been its lip flew off and stuck to the sofa cushion.

He punched it again. Another piece of lip flew off and hit the cushion, though this one did not stick.

Missy squeezed her arm more tightly around its neck. Breaking somebody’s neck in a headlock was not a skill set she’d ever acquired, or one that she’d ever expected to use, but she didn’t think there would be a diplomatic resolution to this conflict.

The creature twisted itself around so that suddenly it was on top of Missy, and her ability to snap its neck like an action movie hero became somewhat compromised. Its hat fell off. The mostly lipless creature continued to make that hideous gargling sound, and one of its teeth dropped out and bounced against Missy’s chin.

Kevin grabbed a large handful of its long, scraggly hair, which ripped off, taking a couple of square inches of scalp with it. Kevin tossed that away and instead wrapped his arms around its torso, pulling it off Missy. He violently threw the creature aside, although the level of violence was lessened when it struck the soft fluffy cushions of the couch.

“What the hell is that thing?” Kevin screamed.

“I don’t know what the hell that thing is!” Missy screamed.

“What the hell is it doing here?” Kevin screamed.

“How the hell should I know?” Missy screamed.

The creature got to its feet and turned to face them. Its eyes were yellow and leaky, and didn’t seem to actually focus on Kevin as it took a step toward him. Kevin shoved the creature back onto the couch.

We need the gun, Missy thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to run over to the ladder. What if they got trapped down there again? Even though they knew the combination, the idea of climbing back down into the shelter right now was unbearable. So she grabbed a lamp off the coffee table and bashed it into the creature’s head.

Its head didn’t cave in, exactly, but in the battle of lamp versus skull, skull lost. Though the creature kept making that gurgling sound, it went up about an octave. Its left eye bulged from the socket; not popped out all the way, but close. Missy reflected upon the fact that eyeballs were a lot bigger than most people thought, because they rarely saw the whole thing. Then she stopped reflecting on that and bashed the other side of the creature’s head, shattering the base of the lamp.

The creature flopped back down onto the sofa.

Then it reached for them and sat up.

This was more than a little surprising, since it had two very large dents in its head. In fact, the first dent was...well, not leaking, more like foaming. Its left eye was bugged out even more, though it had yet to reach the point of dangling.

Kevin kicked the creature in the chest. There was a pop sound and a burst of green as if Kevin had kicked an ooze-filled water balloon.

The creature once again flopped back onto the sofa. It looked at them, and for a split second it had a recognizably human facial expression, one that seemed to say What the fuck, dude? Then it glanced down at its chest, and seemed almost heartbroken.

“Go get the gun,” said Kevin. “I’ll keep hitting it with stuff.”

Missy nodded and quickly ran back to the ladder. Getting accidentally locked down in the shelter again was no longer a concern; clearly they needed a better weapon.

For a split second she couldn’t recall where they’d put Uncle Jake’s gun. Then she remembered: it was in the drawer next to the silverware. She opened the drawer, grabbed the gun, and then she grabbed a couple of knives from the silverware drawer just in case.

“Eeek!” Kevin shouted from above. It may not have been exactly “Eeek!” but it sure sounded like it. She ran back to the ladder, put the knives between her teeth, and started to climb.

“Watch out!” she heard Kevin shout.

A foot came into view above her head, and then the creature fell down the shaft. Missy had time to spit out the knives, sparing herself the experience of having her face sliced in half, but she wasn’t able to jump off the ladder before the falling creature struck her.

She hit the floor and the breath whooshed out of her lungs. There was a sudden moment of panic—had she broken her back? Why couldn’t she move?

The creature had landed harder than her. Its eyeball remained stubbornly within the socket, but its nose had been virtually flattened. It was still feisty, though, and grabbed Missy’s ankle.

She kicked it in the head, pretty much in the same spot as the first dent. It didn’t let go. She kicked it again, hoping that her ability to kick meant that her spine was okay. The creature didn’t let go, though it was now foaming from three different spots.

Missy pointed the gun at its head and pulled the trigger.

Nothing much happened.

She pulled the trigger a couple more times before she remembered that she’d taken the remaining bullets out of the gun after Kevin started acting crazy. She knew where they were—she’d put them in a different drawer—and under circumstances where there wasn’t an oozing creature holding on to her foot she would have been able to retrieve them with very little inconvenience on her part.

So she grabbed one of the knives.

* * *

“Check out my new knife,” Kevin had said, proudly holding up a brown pocketknife. “Dad said I was supposed to get it for my tenth birthday, but he gave it to me a couple of days early.”

“Why would he give you your birthday present early?” Missy asked.

Kevin shrugged. “I dunno. Probably to make my mom even madder. She didn’t want me to have it.”

“I don’t want you to have it, either. Don’t hold it by the blade, dummy. What are you going to do with it, anyway?”

“Cut stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno.”

“Bison?”

“No, not bison!”

“Well, you said you didn’t know!”

“I’m not going to kill anything with it.”

“What about bugs?”

“No.”

“What about cutting a worm in half?” asked Missy.

“Worms are bugs, dummy.”

“I know, dummy, but if you cut a worm in half, it becomes two worms. You’d be helping worms rule the earth.”

“You’re a lot less smart than other people,” Kevin said.

“Do you want me to find you a tennis ball to stab?”

“I think I’m going to stab a grapefruit.”

“We’ve got grapefruit at my house.”

“Can I stab it?”

“Sure.”

They went back to Missy’s house. There was a bowl of apples, oranges, and grapefruit on the dining room table. Missy took a grapefruit from the top and set it on the table. “Let’s see you do it.”

“Will your mom get mad?”

“She will if she comes home and sees you stabbing a grapefruit on our table.”

“Maybe I won’t, then.”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You have to be a pretty big chicken to be scared of a grapefruit. Maybe it will come alive and eat you in your sleep!” Missy picked up the grapefruit and waved it at Kevin in a frightening manner. “Oooooh, it’s the Grapefruit of Death! Fear it! Feeeeeear it!”

“We should put a face and fangs on it.”

A few minutes later, thanks to her mother’s lipstick, the grapefruit bore a demonic face. “Okay, time to kill the Grapefruit of Death. Stab it good.”

Kevin held the knife above the fruit, but hesitated. “They’re pretty acidy. I don’t want to mess up my knife.”

“Oh, give me that,” said Missy, taking the knife from him. “Time to die, Grapefruit of Death!” she announced, and then she plunged the knife into the grapefruit again and again and again...

* * *

Stabbing the creature was much worse than stabbing the grapefruit.

Missy slammed the knife right in the top of its head, wrenched out the weapon, then stabbed it again. Green foamy slime dripped from the blade. She stabbed it twice more, thankful that she’d retained enough of her civilized behavior not to scream “Die! Die! Die!”

The creature let go of her ankle.

Kevin began to climb down the ladder. “I’m sorry!” he said. “He lunged at me and—oh, I guess you’ve taken care of it.”

Missy left the blade imbedded in the creature’s head. It was no longer moving, if you excluded the ooze.

“Are you okay?” Kevin asked, crouching down next to her.

“I think so. Help me up.”

Kevin helped her to her feet. Missy took a wobbly step forward, and then nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Why didn’t you use the gun?”

Missy considered lying, then thought better of it. Kevin could handle the truth. “I’d moved the bullets.”

“Oh. Okay. Fair enough. But assuming that what happened was real and not a hallucination, I’m sane now. You don’t have to worry about me doing anything crazy.”

“I’m very relieved.” She gestured to the creature with her foot. “Mutant, huh?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what it is. Do you think we need to be scared of radiation? Should we draw straws for Uncle Jake’s suit?”

“I’m not putting that thing on.”

“Let’s not worry about it right now. We’re not going to lock ourselves back down here until we find out what happened. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“So let’s load up the gun, just in case, grab some food and water, and we’ll—”

The mutant, knife still protruding from the top of its head, sat up.

Missy and Kevin each said, “Shit!”

Kevin grabbed the second knife off the floor and slammed it into the mutant’s face, right below its left eye. The mutant bit down on Kevin’s thumb. He cried out in pain and pulled away. Missy saw blood, but at least his thumb did not stay behind in the mutant’s mouth.

“Why isn’t it dead?” Kevin demanded. “It’s got two knives in its head! Things are supposed to die when they’ve got two knives in their head!”

Missy ran to the closest shelf and picked up a can of beans. She flung it at the mutant, hitting it directly in the forehead and making another big dent. The knife under its eye popped out.

Kevin joined her at the shelf. Together, they threw can after can at the mutant, sending spurts of green slime into the air with each hit. After about the twentieth hit the mutant stopped moving again, and Missy felt like kind of a jerk for continuing to pummel it, but they bashed it with cans until almost nothing of it could be seen under the slime and foam.

They stood there, gazing in a daze at their handiwork.

“Is it dead?” Missy asked.

“It’s got to be close.”

“What do we do with it?”

“I say we just leave it. It’s not going to hurt anything down here without a skeletal structure.”

After Missy climbed out of the shelter, Kevin passed up several non-stained cans of food, the can opener, and some bottles of water. They closed the hatch and locked it.

“Do you think that’s whose footsteps we heard?” Missy asked, as they went through Uncle Jake’s bedroom, trying to find a backpack or something to carry their supplies.

“That was a month ago.”

“I know, but why did it just happen to be there when we came out?”

“Wouldn’t it have to eat?”

“I’m not saying that it sat up there staring the entire time, but it must have known somebody was down there. There’s no way we escaped just as it happened to be passing through.”

“You’re right. Jeez, that’s creepy. But for now, we’re not going to assume that all of humanity is like that. That thing is the exception that proves the rule.”

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“‘The exception that proves the rule.’ I always thought that was a stupid saying.”

Kevin considered that. “You’re right. If we do have to rebuild society, we’ll leave that one out.” He glanced around the bedroom. “So...where do you think Uncle Jake kept his condoms?”

Missy couldn’t help but smile. “Smartass.”

They found a ratty backpack and filled it with the food and water, then walked out of the house. No additional mutants leapt out to attack them.

Kevin turned on his phone and they watched for several intense moments, waiting to see if they had any bars. No signal. “That doesn’t mean anything,” Kevin said, shutting off the phone and slipping it into his pocket.

“Okay,” said Missy. “Let’s go see how the world has changed.”

SEVEN

H ad they not just been attacked by an oozing mutant, Kevin and Missy might have been able to convince themselves that the world was fine. Birds were chirping. White clouds were in the sky. A squirrel scurried around in some tree branches and offered no evidence that it was a zombie squirrel.

Kevin and Missy walked hand in hand down the dirt road.

“The road isn’t littered with corpses,” Kevin noted. “That’s a good sign.” He hoped that Missy wouldn’t make a comment about how you generally needed to be in a populated area for the road to be littered with corpses.

“Yep,” said Missy. She was probably thinking the “populated area” thing but didn’t say it.

Kevin had never imagined that he could appreciate sunlight and fresh air so much. All these years, he’d looked up at the sun and went “Eh. Whatever.” Never again. The sun was freaking awesome. And fresh air? Equally awesome. If not for the need to learn the fate of humanity, he would have been perfectly content to just sit in the sunshine and breathe a lot.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to eat when we get to town?” he asked.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“It’s okay to think about it. We’re not trapped in the bunker anymore. It’s not like we’re torturing ourselves with thoughts of food.”

“What if we get to town and it’s just a great big crater? A giant smoking foodless crater. I don’t want to get myself worked up over the idea of having cookies and then have my hopes crushed.” Missy sighed. “But now I’m all worked up over the idea of having cookies.”

“Chocolate chip?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“Since when do you prefer oatmeal raisin over chocolate chip?”

“These past months have changed all of us.”

“I’m warning you right now, if we find a burger place, you are going to bear witness to one of the most horrifying sights in human history. I am going to destroy that burger. I may even rub special sauce all over my body. It will appall you on every possible...” Kevin trailed off.

“What?”

Kevin pointed ahead. Off in the distance, maybe half a mile away, some bushes were rustling.

“I think that’s a person,” Kevin said.

“Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Look close.”

Missy squinted her eyes. Then she opened her eyes wide as somebody stepped out of the woods onto the dirt road.

It was definitely a human. But it was too far away to tell if it was a normal human or a mutant.

“He’s walking kind of weird,” said Missy.

“He could just be tired.”

“No, he’s definitely not moving like a regular person.”

“He could be injured or shell-shocked. We don’t know that he’s an oozer.”

“Don’t call them oozers,” said Missy. “It’s disrespectful.”

“Sorry.”

“Should we call out to it?”

Kevin shook his head. “If it’s a mutant and it’s hostile like the other one, we don’t want to attract its attention.”

“We’re right here in the middle of the road. It’s seen us. Which, incidentally, is another good indication that it’s a mutant, because wouldn’t a real person wave or shout or something?”

“Maybe he thinks we’re mutants.”

“So what do we do?” Missy asked.

“Just keep walking until we know for sure.”

“What if we went into the woods? We could try to go around it.”

“Nah. If there are other mutants out there, it’ll be harder to fight them in the woods. We’ll have plenty of notice if this one decides to give us trouble.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll just walk casually like we were doing before. No reason to panic. We killed one of these up-close without a loaded gun, so we’re not in any danger.”

They continued walking, though admittedly at a slower pace than before. Kevin was tempted to whistle to further emphasize their nonchalance, but didn’t think Missy would respond well.

As they got closer and closer, it became less and less easy for Kevin to tell himself that the person was not a mutant. Until finally—

“Okay, he’s definitely leaking,” said Kevin.

“Crap.”

“We can’t just turn around. Should we shoot him?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“It seems like the right thing to do.”

“What if the gunshot attracts the attention of more of them?”

“What if the gunshot scares others away?”

“Do we have the right to decide that this thing should die?” asked Missy.

“I think so, yeah.”

“What if they still have feelings and families and stuff?”

“The other one tried to kill us.”

“But this one isn’t.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m just not convinced that the other one attacking us gives us license to shoot them left and right.”

“Are you kidding me?” Kevin asked.

“I’m not saying we can’t kill them. But shouldn’t we have a larger representative sample before we turn to genocide?”

“Yeah, probably. But I don’t want to get killed just because we were trying to retain our humanity.”

“We won’t.”

The guy was definitely a mutant. He had the same green tinge to his skin and was frothing from the mouth.

Still, they should at least try to communicate.

“Hello,” Kevin called out, waving his hand in a friendly manner. “We come in peace.”

“Don’t say that,” Missy whispered. “It sounds condescending.”

“I’m Kevin and this is Missy. We’re friends with benefits. What’s your name?”

The mutant did not acknowledge them.

“How close to we let it get before we shoot it?” Kevin asked.

“Not too much closer.” Missy gave the same friendly wave. “Excuse me,” she called out. “Can you hear me?”

They weren’t close enough to hear for sure, but Kevin thought that it growled.

“Did you hear it growl?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s not good, right?”

“No.”

“Can we please shoot it?”

The mutant began to walk more quickly, upgrading from a growl to a snarl, stretching out its arms like Frankenstein’s monster.

“Yeah, shoot it,” said Missy.

Kevin held up the gun, took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger.

He wasn’t sure if he missed by millimeters or several feet (hopefully millimeters), but it was a definite miss. The mutant did not react to the fired gun.

“Shoot again!” Missy said.

Kevin shot again. Another miss. If it turned out that they really were in a post-apocalyptic, mutant-filled world, he was going to have to get a lot better at this.

“Aim for the mutant,” Missy suggested.

“I am.”

“I thought maybe you missed on purpose because you were just trying to scare it off.”

“No.”

“Then shoot more accurately.”

“Do you want to shoot it?” Kevin asked.

“No, I just want you to hit it.

“I’d shoot more accurately if you stopped talking.”

Missy stopped talking. The mutant was now about two hundred feet away, close enough to make Kevin extremely nervous. He took careful aim, tried to keep his hands from shaking, and then squeezed the trigger.

Green ooze spurted from its right arm.

“Don’t aim for its arm,” said Missy.

Kevin held the gun out toward her. “Here you go.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Take it. You’ve apparently got a brilliant strategy all figured out, so we might as well not waste any more bullets.”

Missy took the gun from him. She pointed it at the mutant, then spent several seconds taking aim.

“We’d better back up a little,” said Kevin.

“Yeah, you’re right.” They backed up about fifty feet so that the mutant wouldn’t reach them before Missy shot it.

Missy spent a few more seconds taking aim, then fired.

Green ooze spurted out of its left arm.

“Don’t say anything,” said Missy.

“I didn’t.”

“You were going to.”

“We’re in extreme danger. I wouldn’t put our lives at risk just to make a smart-ass comment. I’m rooting for you.”

“All right. Fair enough.”

Missy fired again. This time she hit the mutant in the eye. Far more ooze sprayed out than she would have expected (apparently their eyes were particularly juicy), and then the mutant dropped to the ground. It squirmed around but didn’t get back up.

“Nice work,” said Kevin.

“Thank you.”

“I’m man enough to admit that you’re a better shot than me. We would’ve been totally screwed if I were the only one responsible for the gun.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

“Completely sincere.”

About ten feet ahead of where the mutant lay, the bushes rustled. A moment later, another mutant stepped out of the woods.

“This is bullshit,” said Missy.

“Shoot it.”

Missy took aim.

Another mutant stepped out of the woods on the other side of the road.

“I don’t think we have enough bullets to deal with this,” said Kevin.

Two more mutants stepped into the road. They were too far ahead to pose an immediate threat, but they were certainly going to be a problem if Kevin and Missy wanted to keep walking toward civilization.

“What are they doing out here?” asked Missy.

“Maybe they have a heightened sense of smell, so they knew there was a fresh meal in the area. Or maybe the sunlight hurts their skin, so they stay under cover of forest as much as possible. Or maybe...actually, I have no idea.”

Missy switched her aim to one of the other mutants, then back to the first one, then lowered the gun. “There’s no way we can take out all of them.”

“We may have to run back to the bunker.”

“I really, really don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t, either.”

“There is literally nothing I want to do less than go back to the bunker.”

“What about get torn apart by mutants?” Kevin asked.

“That might be better.”

Another couple of mutants stepped into the road.

Kevin glanced back over his shoulder and saw yet another mutant in the road behind them. “I’d rather not die,” he said.

“I’m not sure I agree with that.”

“I vote we run back to the bunker. We’ll reevaluate our plan from there.”

“I hate that idea,” said Missy.

“We know the combination. We’re not going to get locked down there for months again.”

“Shit,” said Missy.

“I know,” said Kevin.

“Fuck.”

“Agreed.”

“All right. Shit. Let’s go. Shit.”

Kevin and Missy turned around and ran back toward Uncle Jake’s home.

* * *

“So clearly the gunshots were a mistake,” said Kevin, as they sat in the bunker. “I figured there’d be maybe two, three mutants out there, tops. I didn’t realize we’d draw that many out of the woods. We just have to be quieter next time.”

“Then how do we defend ourselves?” Missy asked. Kevin wished she’d quit scowling. It was making him uncomfortable.

“We just kill them without as much noise. Decapitation. It’s not completely silent, but at least it’s a thunk instead of a bang. Or we break their legs. Again, not silent, but it’s not like the crack of leg bones breaking will draw them out for miles. If I slipped in the shower and broke my leg, you’d hear me screaming but you wouldn’t have heard the crunch.”

“I guess.”

“We’ll be fine. It was a learning experience.”

“When do you think we can leave again?”

Kevin sighed. “Pretty soon, I’m sure.”

“I can still hear them up there.”

“Yeah, I can too, but they’re bound to get bored eventually.”

The last time they’d checked, there were about twenty mutants wandering around Uncle Jake’s home. Based on the sounds of the footsteps above, though, Kevin was confident that no more than seventeen or eighteen remained.

Missy kept her scowl and added a glare.

“It’s nice to travel, but it’s always nice to sleep in your own bed, right?” asked Kevin.

“Burn in hell.”

“This isn’t my fault.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m taking my frustration out on you. There’s a difference.”

“Let’s give it an hour. By then, I’m sure they’ll have left.”

* * *

One hour later, they could still hear the footsteps above.

“Okay, so an hour was overly optimistic,” Kevin admitted. “I think there are less of them up there now, though.”

“It doesn’t sound like there are fewer to me.”

“Don’t be pedantic.”

“What?”

“I said, don’t be pedantic.”

“I was asking what you meant.”

“You corrected my usage of ‘less.’“

“No, I didn’t,” said Missy.

“You did! I heard you!”

“I didn’t correct you. I used the proper form when I said it myself. That’s not the same thing.”

“Sure it is,” said Kevin.

“Just because you make a grammar mistake doesn’t mean I have to make the same one. I didn’t correct you. You can say ‘less’ all you want—doesn’t make any difference to me. If you want to completely regress into grunts, that’s cool too. I don’t care. I’m not judging you. I’m just not following you into the abandonment of the proper way to speak.”

Kevin considered that for a moment. “I guess that makes sense. But do you agree that there are fewer of them up there?”

“No.”

* * *

“I have to admit, I thought six hours would be long enough for them to clear out,” said Kevin. “This sucks.”

“It’s been seven.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t stay down here much longer,” said Missy.

“Me either. I’m starting to feel like there’s a centipede in my eye again.”

“We’re leaving in the morning, no matter what. If our destiny is to be in the bellies of eight different mutants, then so be it.”

“To be fair, we only know that they’re murderous, not cannibalistic.”

“I don’t care if they’re thrill killers with chainsaws. I refuse to die down here, even if it means that I die a few feet away from here.”

Kevin nodded. “We’re leaving in the morning. No matter what.”

* * *

When they woke up the next morning, they listened carefully for the sounds of mutants above.

“There are still a shitload of them up there,” said Kevin.

“It sounds like even more than yesterday.”

“Probably no more than twenty-five, though.”

“I was serious that I’m not staying down here another day,” said Missy. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to do something suicidal just because I am.”

“No, it’s fine. Peer pressure could make me drink hot tub water, but not die. I think I have a plan, though.”

“A good plan?”

“Not a five stars out of five plan, no.”

“How terrible is this plan?”

“It’s pretty terrible,” said Kevin. “But I think it’s better than climbing up there and letting mutants rip you apart from limb to limb.”

“Let’s hear it.”

EIGHT

“T hat plan sucks shit,” said Missy.

“I told you it was poor.”

“I came up with a few plans of my own, but I didn’t say them out loud because I was embarrassed by them. I actually have to admire your courage in sharing that.”

“Thanks,” said Kevin, taking it as a compliment even though he knew she meant it otherwise. “But it’s still better than just climbing up there and dying a horrible death, right?”

“Marginally.”

“So let’s do it.”

The plan involved three key elements:

1. Open the hatch.

2. Wait for individual mutants to drop ten feet into the shelter.

3. Break the mutants’ arms and legs.

Missy and Kevin had removed the top metal shelf from where they stored their food. With each of them holding an end, Kevin was moderately confident that they could bash the crap out of the mutants as they fell. It would certainly be less insane than going up there and trying to fight all of them at once.

Since this was Kevin’s awful idea, he volunteered to climb the ladder and open the hatch. He climbed to the top and entered the code.

Something buzzed. The display read INCORRECT.

What the freaking hell...?

“What’s wrong?” asked Missy.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Kevin assured her. There was, sadly, not enough room for him to turn upside-down and purposely drop the ten feet onto his head.

“Did you enter the right code?”

“I, uh, I, I’m not, uh, I...”

“0-4-0-2?”

“Oh, wait, actually, I entered 0-4-0-1. Thank Christ.”

Kevin entered 0-4-0-2. Something whirred, then something clicked, then something beeped. He opened the lid and climbed back down the ladder.

“Now we wait,” he said.

They waited.

The mutants didn’t moan or anything, but Kevin could hear them all stumbling around, occasionally bumping into things. His plan required them to lack the self-awareness to realize that there was a hole in their path. That might be underestimating them. They weren’t necessarily mindless zombies.

Missy kicked the bottom of the ladder. “We’re down here!”

“She’s telling the truth!” Kevin shouted. “There’s a feast just waiting for you!”

“Come get some delicious succulent human flesh!” Missy shouted.

“We taste awesome!”

“We won’t fight back! We’ll just let you devour us!”

“Too much,” said Kevin. “That’s not believable.”

“I don’t think they’re actually processing what we’re saying.”

“We don’t know that for sure. They might understand every word. Oozing and frothing doesn’t mean they aren’t still human.”

Missy shrugged. “Okay.” She kicked the ladder again. “Down here! We’re down here! You’re missing out on free food! You’ve never tasted such scrumptious meat!”

They continued shouting these sorts of things for the next ten minutes. Kevin realized with a jolt of horror that he was starting to get hungry for Missy’s succulent flesh. He didn’t share this with her, and chalked it up to lingering traces of insanity.

“Maybe they aren’t dumb enough to fall down a hole,” said Missy.

“So what do we do?” Kevin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess keep waiting for them to fall down the hole.”

“I guess so.”

They continued shouting for a while.

Then they sat quietly, to see if that worked.

Then they shouted some more.

Then they sat quietly.

When a mutant finally plummeted into the shelter, they were so surprised that they just stared at it for a moment.

It was a young woman. A large sharp bone protruded through the right leg of her blue jeans, but the mutant tried to pull herself along the floor toward Kevin and Missy.

Kevin and Missy each picked up one end of the shelf, then spent the next couple of minutes smashing it into the mutant, over and over and over, until many more bones were visible. Then Kevin took it by the hands and dragged it to the far corner of the shelter, leaving a trail of gook. It was still flopping around a bit, but in a harmless manner.

“Let’s be honest,” said Kevin. “That was kind of fun.”

Missy gaped at him.

“You don’t agree?”

“No, I don’t agree!”

“Oh.”

“It was a brutal murder!”

“You’re right, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Kevin wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Violence isn’t fun. That mutant had a family. She had hopes and dreams. She might have had a cat.”

“Maybe,” said Kevin. “But she was also light green, covered with boils, and didn’t talk. It’s reasonable to dehumanize her. Every indication is that they’re mindless killing machines. Are we not allowed to enjoy protecting ourselves from a mindless killing machine?”

“Not if we still have a moral compass.”

“The world sucks now. Does it make me a bad person to take a ‘glass half full’ approach to life?”

Another mutant, a pudgy guy, dropped down into the shelter. It caught its chin on one of the rungs of the ladder, snapping its neck. It fell to the floor, then lay there with its head bent almost all the way backwards, looking at Kevin and Missy even though the rest of its body was facing the ceiling.

It reached for them with one hand. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth as if trying to lick them from afar.

“I just have trouble comparing that thing to somebody that has hopes and dreams,” said Kevin.

They walked over and bashed the creature with the metal shelf until it was significantly less identifiable as something that had once been human.

“I hope this didn’t give you a boner,” said Missy.

“C’mon, that’s not fair,” said Kevin. “All I said was that it was kind of fun. I wasn’t giggling and playing with myself.”

“Not with me standing here, no.”

“It was like fishing! You can say you enjoy fishing without it being sexual gratification, right? Why is it okay to con a fish into thinking it’s getting a meal, jabbing a hook through its face, and hoisting it into the air to suffocate? Its entire weight is supported by the hook! Can you imagine if I jammed a hook through your mouth and then dangled your body in the air? You’d call me a psychopath, but a retired guy could do that all day and he’d be a kindly old man!”

“You’re comparing this to fishing, but this is more like dangling humans by meat hooks in a shed.”

“Point taken,” said Kevin.

Two mutants were lying in the corner. That left many more upstairs, but at least the plan was in the early stages of being successful. Worst case scenario, there were two fewer mutants to rip them apart if they ended up just making a run for it, damn the odds.

They waited for about half an hour. The mangled mutants in the corner still seemed harmless, but it was also creepy as hell having them there, squirming around.

“You know we can’t sleep in there tonight, right?” asked Missy.

“Well, we could sleep in shifts.”

“I’m not sleeping in here with them. I don’t even mean that I’m worried that you’d fall asleep during your shift. I mean that even with you wide awake on high alert, I can’t sleep with those things in our shelter.”

“We could throw a blanket over them.”

“Nope.”

“I don’t want to sleep with them in here, either,” said Kevin, though he was more worried about Missy falling asleep during her shift. “We’ll just have to incapacitate as many as we can.”

A few minutes later, there was a clatter, but nothing dropped into the shelter. Kevin and Missy walked over to the ladder and looked up. They both just stood there for an extremely long moment, staring.

“Now what?” Missy asked.

“I honestly don’t know.”

A mutant had fallen into the hole. But it was a morbidly obese mutant, and it had gotten stuck. Only its lower half was visible, its legs kicking back and forth against the ladder.

They both continued to stare at it for a while.

“Tug it?” Missy asked.

“I guess.”

Kevin climbed a few rungs up the ladder, then took hold of one of the mutant’s feet with one hand while gripping the ladder with the other. He tugged. The mutant didn’t budge.

“Is it working at all?” asked Missy.

“Nope. I’m going to have to try both hands.”

Kevin grabbed the mutant’s other foot, then pulled as hard as he could. It did no good. He jumped from the ladder, hoping that by using his entire body weight he could pull the mutant through the hole, but it didn’t move at all, and Kevin dropped to the floor.

“What if we greased it up?” asked Missy.

Kevin shook his head. “It’s way too big.”

“Shit.”

“We may be trapped down here forever.”

“What if we made it, uh, smaller?”

Kevin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What if we went up there with some tools, and made the mutant small enough to fit in the hole?”

“I hate our lives.”

Missy went and got the butcher knife. “I’ll do it,” she said.

“No, no, I’ll do it,” said Kevin, hoping like hell that this discussion would continue long enough for him to allow Missy to do it.

“It was my idea,” said Missy.

Kevin tried to think of the best way to respond. “That’s true” might make it seem like he was giving up too easily. Repeating “No, no, I’ll do it,” might make her say, “Okay, good idea, thanks for the offer.”

“Still...” he said.

“It’s my turn to do something like this,” said Missy.

“Fair enough,” said Kevin.

Missy climbed up the ladder. The mutant was thrashing around, but it wasn’t actually making a direct attempt to kick her, so she was able to climb past its legs and not get knocked off the ladder.

She jabbed the knife up into its belly. Horrible goo rained down upon her.

“We can trade whenever you’re ready,” said Kevin.

Missy sawed away with the butcher knife, whimpering but remaining admirably committed to the task at hand. Kevin had to admit that this was worse than when he’d had to cut up Uncle Jake’s body. He’d been dead, and the contents of his body had not been pouring on Kevin.

Missy threw up.

More mutant liquids splashed onto the floor.

Missy threw up again.

“Repeating my offer,” said Kevin, even though it made no sense to trade now, since Missy was already drenched.

She didn’t respond, probably to keep anything from getting in her mouth.

She continued to cut away. An intestine flopped into view and quickly unspooled.

Kevin threw up.

Missy climbed down halfway, threw up, then climbed down the rest of the day. “Give it a tug now,” she said.

Kevin reluctantly climbed the ladder. He grabbed each of the mutant’s feet, then pulled as hard as he could. There was a squishy slurping sound, and then the mutant popped free, splattering all over the floor.

“Nice work,” said Kevin.

They dragged the mutant over to the corner with the others. Then Kevin went back and collected the intestine as well, so they wouldn’t have to keep looking at it.

“I’m going to clean up,” said Missy. “Call out if another one falls.”

Missy and Kevin each washed themselves as well as they could. No mutants fell during this time.

“The plan seems to be working,” said Kevin. “But still, we’re only down by three of them. If we’re not willing to sleep down here, I don’t know how we’re going to clear out the entire upstairs.”

“We may have to be bolder.”

“Bolder than being showered in guts?”

Missy nodded. “Luring them down here with our voices isn’t working, and it could take forever to wait for them all to accidentally fall down the hole. Somebody needs to climb up there and wave to them.”

“Somebody?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean it’s my turn?”

“No,” said Missy. “Pulling the stuck mutant through the hole counted as your turn.”

“Oh, good.”

“If my legs start flailing around as if I’m being dragged up there against my will, your job is to pull me back down.”

“I can do that,” said Kevin.

Missy climbed up the ladder. Kevin felt bad letting her do this, but it wasn’t as if he’d let her taunt all of the remaining mutants. They’d trade back and forth. Keep things fair.

“Come here, you grotesqueries!” she shouted.

“Shit!” she quickly shouted after that.

Missy quickly scaled down the ladder, just in time to avoid another falling mutant. This one was barefoot, and its feet exploded into mush as it struck the floor. It flopped over and landed flat on its face.

Kevin and Missy repeated the process of beating the crap out of it with the metal shelf and dragging it out of the way. The shelf was getting pretty badly dented; hopefully it could withstand splattering a couple dozen more mutants.

“Just an FYI,” said Kevin. “I didn’t enjoy a single moment of that.” He cringed and contorted his face into an “Ugh” expression, to better sell the lie that it hadn’t been kind of fun.

Kevin climbed up the ladder and peeked into Uncle Jake’s home. He counted at least eight mutants shambling around without even moving his head. When he moved his head he counted quite a few more. One of them was reaching for his head.

Kevin ducked out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid having his right ear grabbed. He yelped in pain. The mutant squeezed its hand into a tight fist, which was not a soothing feeling, and then tugged. Fortunately, Kevin’s ear did not tear off, but unfortunately, he had to yank his head really hard to pull it out of the mutant’s grip.

The side of his head struck the side of the hatch.

There was a burst of pain and a sudden wave of dizziness, which was enough for him to lose his balance and fall off the ladder.

He hit the floor, landing on his tailbone.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” asked Missy.

Kevin wasn’t sure if he was. He couldn’t speak and his legs had gone numb. It might have been better if the mutant had ripped off his ear.

Missy looked up. Her eyes widened, and she grabbed Kevin’s arms. She was almost able to pull him out of the way of the falling mutant.

When it landed on him, Kevin heard a snap that he was pretty sure had come from his own body and not the mutant’s.

After that, Missy’s screams sounded like they were coming from far away, even though they couldn’t be, because she was right there slamming a butcher knife into the mutant, over and over.

Kevin wanted to offer some assistance, but nothing was working.

NINE

I t took a while for Missy to hack up the mutant enough to be sure it was no longer a threat. It was not fun. She kept having to blink tears out of her eyes, and tried to sing a happy song in her mind to distract herself from the fact that Kevin might be really, seriously hurt.

Stab the little mutant.

Stab, stab, stab.

Stab the little mutant.

Stab, stab, stab.

What do you do with a butcher knife?

You stab, stab, stab!

And that’s what I’m a-doin’!

I’m going stab, stab, stab with the knife, knife, knife!

It was a terrible song and it wasn’t doing any good, but at least it was better than insane shrieking.

Finally, she dragged the mutant out of the way. She almost got it into the mutilated mutant corner before another one fell into the shelter, landing on Kevin’s legs.

Missy hurried over and began slamming the butcher knife into the creature. She skipped the song this time.

She rolled the mutant far enough away to give Kevin about twenty seconds of safety, then hurried up the ladder and pulled the lid shut. She climbed back down, stabbed the mutant several more times, then dragged it away.

“Can you feel your legs?” Missy asked.

“I can’t feel much of anything.” Kevin’s voice was panicked, and he sounded like he was close to hyperventilating.

“Just stay calm,” said Missy. “I’m sure you’re fine.”

“No way am I fine.”

“Don’t be cynical.”

“I might have broken my neck, or my back, or my legs. Or all three. Or two of the three.”

“If you broke your neck, at least you didn’t break it badly. Let’s get your pants off and see how your legs look.”

“I’m really scared,” said Kevin. “I don’t want to make a joke about that. I can’t even think of one.”

Missy couldn’t think of a joke either, although she had not ruled out the idea of giving him a blowjob to keep him from freaking out over possibly being paralyzed. Of course, if he were paralyzed, his penis might not respond properly, which would freak him out even more.

She held up the butcher knife.

“No!” said Kevin. “Don’t put me out of my misery yet!”

“I’m cutting away your pant legs.”

“No. Don’t ruin my pants. I may never get to wear another pair.”

“If I tug them down from the waist, I might hurt your back.”

“Just look through the foot holes.”

Missy knew she wouldn’t be able to assess the extent of his injuries through the foot holes. There was plenty of ooze on them from the mutants, but his pants were also getting increasingly soaked with blood, which wasn’t a good sign.

She knelt down by his feet and peeked under one of his pant legs. “Looks good,” she said.

“Liar.”

“No, really.”

“I’m screwed, right?”

“No.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because today has sucked. But you’re not screwed, Kevin. We’ve made it through worse than this.”

“No, we haven’t. We haven’t been through anything even remotely this bad. This is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me. By far. Like, by a factor of ten.”

Missy tried to think of something worse that had happened to them, but drew a blank. He was probably right.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said.

“What are you going to do? Tie some ropes to me, attach them to a car outside, and pull me up the ladder like that? Then what? Drag me around while you’re fending off hundreds of mutants?”

Missy had to admit, that idea didn’t sound feasible.

“You have to end this,” said Kevin.

“What?”

“End it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean. I’m boned. There’s no reason for you to be boned, too.”

“You’re not boned! Stop saying that!”

“Stop saying I’m not boned! Of course I am!”

Missy wiped her eyes. “We’ll fix this.”

“Ow!”

“What’s wrong?”

Kevin grimaced. “It hurt when I tried to shake my head.”

“I don’t want to hear any more defeatist talk.”

“Best case scenario, the damage isn’t permanent. I’m still stuck down here until I’m healed.”

“So we’re stuck down here until you’re healed.”

“Ow!”

“Quit trying to shake your head!”

“You need to leave me,” said Kevin. “And if you leave me, I’ll starve to death. So you need to kill me.”

“Under no circumstances am I going to kill you.”

“I don’t want to starve to death. I also don’t want a mutant to crawl over here and chew off my face. I’d rather you kill me.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to.”

“I’m not.”

“Then we’re both doomed.”

“Worst case scenario—worst—I’ll leave you while I go out in search of help. But I’ll bring back somebody.”

“Ow! I’m not trying to be noble. If you go off in search of help, and you get killed, then I’m back to starving to death or getting my face chewed off by a mutant. Just smother me.”

“Suffocation is a horrible way to go.”

“Then jab that butcher knife into my head.”

“What if it doesn’t pierce your skull on the first try?”

“My heart, then! I’m broken and paralyzed! It’s not going to be that goddamn hard to kill me!”

“I won’t do it.”

“Smothering can’t possibly suck as much as starvation! No matter how bad it is, it’s, what, two minutes? Maybe three? Missy, I’m not a good candidate for post-apocalypse survival anymore. You don’t get months of recovery time in this new world.”

Missy shook her head, an ability she’d always taken for granted before today.

Kevin spat at her. “Bitch! Don’t be so stupid!”

“Stop trying to make me mad enough to stab you.”

“Saw right through that one, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s table the decision. Neither one of us are in the proper frame of mind to discuss it. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and talk about it in the morning.”

“Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning,” said Missy.

“Maybe.”

“You sleep. I’ll watch the mutants.”

“All right.” Kevin closed his eyes. “I love you.”

“What?”

“I said, I love you.”

“Did you really say that the night before I might have to murder you?”

“I wasn’t trying to complicate things. I just didn’t want you to kill me without me having said it.”

“Well, it does complicate things. I’m definitely not going to kill you now.”

“It should make you want to kill me more.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“If I’m in love with you, you shouldn’t want me to suffer.”

“So now you’re in love with me?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Jesus, Kevin!”

“You’re in love with me too, right?”

“Kevin!”

“I’m going to be dead soon. Why wouldn’t you just say it? Why not grant me a bit of insincere happiness before I die?”

“Fine! I’m in love with you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t know how I feel! This is the worst possible time to be pushing the issue!”

“Fair enough. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

* * *

Kevin opened his eyes. His plan had been to stay awake, but he’d fallen asleep within a matter of minutes. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. It didn’t matter, as long as Missy was asleep.

He didn’t want to turn his head to look at her, but he could hear her softly snoring. She was lying on the floor very close to him.

I don’t fear death, he told himself, lying his ass off.

But his time in the post-apocalypse was over. Kevin had good memories and bad memories. Most of them were bad, but he’d had sex with Missy, which was not worth the death of billions of people including himself, but it had been awesome nevertheless.

He tried to wiggle his fingers and toes, just in case he’d made a miraculous recovery.

He hadn’t.

So it was self-sacrifice time. Missy would never survive in the outside world if she had to protect him. Hell, she probably wouldn’t survive anyway; it was really awful out there.

If only he could reach out, grab the butcher knife, and cut his own throat.

But maybe that was for the best. He’d probably wuss out. Instead, he’d have to just jerk his head back and forth, really hard and fast. If his neck was fractured, that should mess him up enough to be fatal.

He took a deep breath.

Goodbye, Missy.

Goodbye, everything else.

Hello, reincarnation as a cat in a parallel universe where there was no apocalypse.

Kevin jerked his head around like a dog with a chew toy.

The pain was unbelievable.

And then it stopped.

* * *

He was still alive and conscious. He just couldn’t feel anything or move at all, even to speak.

Shit.

* * *

Missy snapped awake. She rolled over and saw Kevin still lying there. His eyes were open wide.

“Kevin?”

He didn’t respond.

“Kevin? Can you hear me?”

He looked like he could kind of hear her, but he wasn’t moving or blinking. He seemed terrified.

Missy decided that postponing this to cry or have a nervous breakdown was selfish and cowardly. She went over to their bed, got a pillow, and did what needed to be done.

* * *

Because of increased safety precautions, it took Missy almost two weeks to kill another ten mutants through the “drop through the hatch and beat to a pulp” method. When she reached that goal, she climbed out of the shelter and ran.

She made it out of Uncle Jake’s house, and ran down the road.

She ran and ran and ran.

There were some close calls, but no mutants caught her.

* * *

Missy slept in a tree, which sucked, especially when she fell out.

* * *

When she could run no longer, she checked her cell phone. Once again, there was no—

A bar! She had a fucking bar!

She dialed her mother, sobbing with relief. She’d never imagined that she’d get to hear her mother’s voice mail greeting again.

“Hello? Missy?” Mom answered.

“Mom?”

“Missy?”

“Yes, it’s me!”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

It took a while for them both to stop crying enough to understand what each other was saying.

“Where have you been?” Mom asked.

“Trapped in a shelter! I can’t believe that cell phone service still works!”

“It didn’t for a while. When seventy percent of earth’s population dies, there are technical problems, but we got it fixed.”

“Seventy percent? That’s all?”

“Well, that’s pretty bad,” Mom noted.

“I know, I know. I guess I just thought it was more. Does anybody know what caused it?”

“Aliens. You missed a whole war. We won.”

“Oh.”

“That’s why it went up to seventy percent.”

“I can’t believe this. I never thought I’d get to talk to another human being ever again.”

“Most of the mutants have fled out to the woods for some reason, so as long as you try to stick to urban areas, you’ll be fine. And you’d be proud of humanity—there really aren’t any roaming gangs of bandits to speak of. I guess there’s plenty of food and supplies to go around with the population decrease, and people get to take their violent impulses out on the mutants. Don’t get me wrong, the world isn’t a great place to live these days, but it could be worse. You’ll be able to charge your phone, at least.”

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. When you find a place to get settled for the night, text me and we’ll make plans to meet halfway.”

* * *

Missy sat on the floor of the convenience store, surrounded by junk food. She was going to eat until she could no longer fit into these jeans, which was fine, since there was an abandoned clothing store a couple of blocks away where she could get new jeans.

She was heartsick over the loss of Kevin, but she knew that he was smiling down at her as she gorged herself.

She tore open another candy bar and shoved it into her mouth. This one, and the next five, were for him.

- The End -

FAINT OF HEART

ONE

“W ake up, you lazy bastards! Get your lard-filled asses out of bed and greet the sunny new day! Except that it’s not sunny, because the freakin’ sun hasn’t even risen yet! Get the [bleep] up anyway! I don’t give a flying [bleep] if it’s Saturday! If I have to be up, so do you! And call us and request a song so that we know what you lazy bastards want to listen to! Come on, pick up the [bleep]ing phone!”

Rebecca decided that she didn’t much care for this weekend deejay, any more than she liked the way Gary left the alarm clock on the other side of the bedroom. His rationale was that actually having to get up to shut it off would keep him from endlessly hitting the snooze button every morning, while Rebecca believed that snooze alarms were a God-given right to anyone foolish enough to have a job that required getting out of bed.

Gary got up, tiptoed across the floor to make as little foot contact with the cold wood as possible, and shut off the alarm. His briefs had ridden up during the night and transformed themselves into a makeshift thong. Rebecca whistled appreciatively.

“Don’t look at me like I’m some piece of meat,” Gary said, in mock annoyance. “I have a personality too, somewhere.”

“You can’t bite into a personality.”

He tiptoed over to the closet. “Why do we keep this house so cold?”

“Because the sane members of this household stay in bed on weekends. You should join them.”

“If I could cancel, I probably would.” He took a towel down from the upper shelf. “Do I need to save you any hot water?”

She snorted. “Do I look like I’m getting up any time soon?”

“I thought maybe you might make me breakfast, pick out my clothes, pack the car for me...”

“Good. Healthy fantasizing keeps a marriage strong.”

He grinned and tiptoed into the bathroom. Rebecca snuggled deeper into the covers. She loved cold autumn mornings when she didn’t have to get up. She particularly loved cold autumn mornings when neither of them had to get up, but for some deranged reason Gary wanted to spend the weekend camping with a couple of his buddies. She couldn’t even call it temporary insanity, since they’d been planning it for over a month.

Weirdos.

She lay in bed, listening to the shower. She was briefly tempted to sneak in there with him, but unfortunately an extremely cold floor stood between her and the man to whom she’d pledged her eternal love. It might as well have been the Grand Canyon. She wasn’t going anywhere.

About ten minutes later, Gary stepped out of the bathroom, hair combed and a towel around his waist. He hadn’t shaved (probably going for the rugged outdoorsman look already) but he still looked damn good. Though he was on the thin side, playing racquetball three times a week was certainly keeping him in shape.

“Stop right there. That’s an unauthorized towel,” she informed him in a stern voice. “Drop it immediately.”

“No way. It’s freezing out here. I thought you were going to fix breakfast and get my clothes and pack the car and all that stuff?”

“The blankets overpowered me.”

Gary walked over to the dresser and took a pair of socks and clean underwear out of the top drawer. Then he dropped the towel.

Rebecca sucked in an exaggerated breath. “Oh, gracious, what is this heavenly sight before my eyes?” she asked, adopting a Southern belle accent. “It would appear to be my darling husband’s ass! Glory be!”

Gary stepped into his briefs. “So what are your plans this weekend?”

“Well, first I thought I might sleep in another ten, fifteen hours. Then I figured I’d get up and daydream about going back to bed. Then I’d make my dream come true.”

“You know,” said Gary, sitting on the edge of the bed, “if you ever tried camping, you’d probably love it.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Yes. You’d hate its guts.” He began to put on his socks.

“Anyway, you wouldn’t want me out there interfering with you and your buddies getting in touch with your masculine sides. All that belching and scratching and spitting and tugging. No place for a woman.”

Gary patted her foot, or at least the three layers of blanket on top of her foot. “Are you going to be okay by yourself?”

Damn. Why had he brought that up?

Of course, it was a perfectly legitimate question, but not something she wanted to think about while she was all warm and comfy in bed. She didn’t want to think about spending the weekend alone.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? You won’t be too scared?”

Terrified...

“I’m twenty-eight. I think I can handle staying by myself for a couple of days.” She tried to keep the edge out of her voice, but didn’t completely succeed.

He frowned. “Are you sure there’s nobody you can stay with?”

“Gary, I’ll be fine, really. I’ve stayed by myself before.” And jumped at every noise, and didn’t sleep for a second, and nearly died of a heart attack every time the phone rang.

“But not for an entire weekend.”

“Again: twenty-eight. Not six. Don’t worry about me. I want you to have fun.” She grinned. “Now hurry up and get dressed!”

“I’ll try to give you a call tonight. In case we have reception problems don’t worry if I’m not able to, but hopefully the cell phone should work fine.”

He crawled over her, gave her a quick kiss, then got off the bed and went to get his clothes out of the closet. Rebecca was going to have a good time this weekend. She was going to sleep, watch television, read a book or two, and contribute nothing of any productive value whatsoever to society. She was a mature adult, she didn’t believe in the Boogeyman, and she’d be perfectly fine staying at home by herself for two short little days.

And one night.

God, she hated the dark...

* * *

While Gary threw his camping gear into the back of the car, leaving barely enough room for the unfortunate guy who got stuck sitting in the back, Rebecca hurriedly got out of bed, scampered into the cold kitchen, and went to work preparing a bagel with grape jelly. Let it never be said that Rebecca Harpster was a woman who didn’t know the meaning of sacrifice.

She peeked through the window at the outside thermometer. Thirty-two degrees. A typical October morning in interior Alaska, which meant that you’d have to be completely nuts to want to go camping. She and Gary had already been through one Alaskan winter, so she knew that much colder temperatures were on their way, but she was still a thin-blooded Florida girl at heart. At least there wasn’t any snow yet.

She handed Gary the bagel as he walked back inside. “Wow, thanks!” he said. “I knew you loved me.”

“Yes, I do.” She gave him a kiss. Followed by another, longer one, with a bit of tongue.

He pulled away. “You’re making it really difficult to go out wandering through the woods with a couple of ugly guys.”

She kissed him again. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. Wretched temptress.”

“Then ditch them. Tell them your wife was so alluring that you couldn’t help yourself. They’ll forgive you.”

“That does sound fun. Maybe just a quickie...”

She gently shoved him away. “Go. You don’t want to keep your friends waiting. Tell Scott and Doug that I said hi.”

Gary gave her another kiss, a quick slap on the rear with his Hands of Ice, and left the house. She watched through the window as he got in the car and drove off.

She’d be fine. Perfectly fine.

In fact, she’d be fantastic. How often did she have weekends with nothing to do? No errands to run, no papers to grade, no social obligations to fulfill...this weekend was going to be absolute paradise.

And when it got dark outside, well, she’d turn on all the lights, pop in a Marx Brothers movie, and enjoy herself. She’d been married to Gary for five years, and if she couldn’t handle him leaving for a weekend every half-decade, then she had serious problems.

She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Now, see, if there was anything to truly be scared of during Gary’s absence, it was her reflection. Her brown hair looked like somebody had taken an electric mixer to it. She also had a bit of dried drool on the right side of her mouth, and she could stand to lose a good ten pounds (taking her to a place where the health experts said she could stand to lose another ten pounds, which was fine with her).

Well, she’d get rid of the drool, but the freaky hair was staying all weekend. And if she did start to get scared, she’d confront her fears by adding a couple of pounds to the amount she could stand to lose.

She didn’t have any childhood traumas to work through, no scars to the psyche—she was just your standard-issue chickenshit, and she wasn’t going to let that ruin her weekend.

TWO

R ebecca woke up again around eight-thirty. She lay in bed for another ten minutes, but the dark specter of guilt began to hover over her—God, her conscience was annoying—and she reluctantly got up. She cranked up the thermostat, took a long shower, brushed her teeth, and got dressed in sweatpants and a heavy t-shirt.

Then she got back in bed, leaned some pillows against the headboard, and sat up to read the smutty romance novel she’d been looking forward to for the past couple of months. Pauline and the Tailors. Good stuff.

As the newly deflowered heroine strained toward the legendary heights of her blossoming womanhood and the hero’s member throbbed (Gary had previously confirmed that a sensation of throbbing in that particular region was abnormal and would prompt him to seek medical attention), Rebecca began to feel guilty again. Damn. It wasn’t fair. She had an entire weekend to do absolutely nothing, to live the life of a lazy bon-bon gobbling housewife, and her brain wasn’t going to let her enjoy it.

Maybe she’d paint the house.

No, probably not.

Somewhere there had to be a happy medium between painting the house and reading smut.

Maybe she’d paint smut on the house. After all, they were a good half-mile from the nearest neighbor, surrounded by enough trees that you couldn’t even see the house from the road. Nobody would complain.

Or maybe she’d just entertain herself all day with this kind of pointless mental conversation. Gary could come home, give her an I-missed-you kiss, and then drive her to the local sanitarium.

Maybe if she watched some educational programming on television she’d be able to be a worthless lazy bum without feeling bad about it.

After all, People’s Court taught important lessons about the legal system...

* * *

By eleven, she was pretty much bored out of her mind, so she trashed her idea of staying inside all weekend and drove the twenty miles into Fairbanks to do some shopping. She ate lunch at the Mexican place she adored but that always gave Gary a good twenty minutes of bathroom time, bought two new blouses, and went to an art gallery, hoping that one of her students would be there and assume that was how she normally spent her weekends. None were, but she did get to see some fascinating artistic renderings of jellyfish, unless they were supposed to be pipe cleaners.

Then she went to see a matinee of the chick-flick she’d been unable to drag Gary to see because he thought the lead actress had weird lips. It was predictable but amusing and she left the theatre in a good mood.

As she pulled out of a fast food drive-thru a few minutes after six, it was just starting to get dark. She hoped Gary was having a good time camping, and not having too many beers. The only time he ever overindulged was in the presence of his buddies. At least she knew they weren’t drunkenly stumbling around the woods with rifles. Worst-case scenario, they were playing flatulence games.

She drove home, singing along poorly to the classic rock playing on the radio. She pressed the button on the visor to open the garage door, drove inside...

...and suddenly had a creepy sensation that somebody was in the house.

This was nothing new.

There was no evidence to indicate that anybody had broken in, there was nothing even remotely out of the ordinary, and Rebecca knew perfectly well that nobody was inside waiting for her. The alarms would have gone off.

She also knew that she’d spend the next fifteen minutes searching the house, and would probably be uneasy for the rest of the night.

She shouldn’t have gone anywhere.

Of course, she would have been just as paranoid if she’d been inside the entire time, so it didn’t really matter, did it?

Maybe Gary would come home early.

She shut off the engine, closed the garage door, got out of the car, and proceeded to check every possible location that an intruder could conceivably be hiding in her home. And then double-checked them.

Nobody was inside.

She didn’t feel any better.

She almost wished she and Gary kept a gun in the house. Unfortunately, guns scared her more than hidden intruders.

She turned on the television and watched the tail end of Only You, which was one of her all-time favorite movies even though most people didn’t like it. But the romantic comedy did nothing to keep her from looking over her shoulder every thirty seconds. From checking the windows. From cringing every time she heard a noise, most of them probably imagined.

She should never have let Gary leave.

No. That was ridiculous. She’d be fine. If Gary ever suspected just how much of a scaredy-cat she was...well, he’d probably never leave her alone in the house ever again. Which would be nice, but he hadn’t married her so he could be a babysitter. She didn’t want him thinking she was some timid, cowardly wife who couldn’t take care of herself.

Around nine o’clock, she brushed her teeth and prepared to get in some comfy pajamas and read some more delightful smut. She unbuttoned her pants, tugged out the bottom of her blouse, and then hesitated.

What if somebody was watching?

Oh, for God’s sake, there aren’t even any goddamn windows in the bathroom!

It didn’t matter. She was still uncomfortable.

She’d be more vulnerable while she was naked.

If anybody was going to get her, they could do it in that second of darkness as she pulled her shirt over her head.

Which was, of course, completely absurd, but her entire life had been spent suffering from these absurd fears, and it didn’t matter how many times she told herself she was being an idiot, she wasn’t going to feel any less scared.

Remaining dressed, she got back in bed and resumed reading her novel. So she was pathetic. There were worse things in life than being pathetic.

Shouldn’t Gary have called by now?

* * *

At exactly ten o’clock, after about an hour of forcing herself not to check the clock every thirty seconds, she dialed his cell phone number. His voice mail came on after five rings, so she disconnected and dialed again. Still no answer.

It wasn’t a big deal. There were plenty of perfectly good reasons why Gary might not have answered. Most likely the cell phone reception was crap. It often was. Or they were doing some night fishing, and he’d left it back at camp. The battery could have died. He could have dropped it in a lake. He may even have accidentally left it in the car.

He’d never forget to call, but he was out in the wilderness, and he couldn’t exactly jog over to a pay phone to let her know he was all right.

Everything was fine.

She dialed once more and this time left a quick I-just-called-because-I-was-thinking-about-you message, trying to keep her tone upbeat. She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, then shut and locked the door before she changed into her pajamas.

At least nobody could see how pathetic she was.

She hoped.

She returned to bed, snuggled under the covers, and lay there all night, unable to fall asleep.

* * *

If nothing else, an entirely sleepless night erased some of her guilt, and after a breakfast of cold cereal she finished off the smut book, which had a happy ending where the principal characters decided to live in a threesome. Then she went into the den, booted up her laptop computer, and participated in a lively online conversation about standardized testing for about an hour.

Finally, unable to stifle her yawns any more, she lay on the couch and closed her eyes. At least in the daylight, she could fall asleep.

* * *

Rebecca woke up about five hours later, just before noon, feeling barely refreshed but glad that she no longer had those five hours to sit around worrying. She tried to call Gary, but again there was no answer. She considered leaving another message but decided against it. She didn’t want Scott and Doug to make fun of him.

For a moment she thought about calling the police, but immediately rejected that idea. They’d laugh at her. Gary had said that he might not be able to get through, and he wasn’t even due home until this evening, so there was absolutely, positively no need to worry unless he didn’t come home tonight. Which he would. They’d kiss and laugh and have really good sex and she’d never even give him a hint of how scared she’d been alone in the house.

* * *

By nine o’clock, he still hadn’t come home.

He hadn’t called, and he hadn’t answered his cell phone.

So, he was running late. It wasn’t like you could plan out a camping trip with split second precision. His cell phone wasn’t working, and he was hurrying back to the car right now, while Scott and Doug asked him to please slow down because their backpacks were too heavy.

Nothing to get worried about. He hadn’t given her a specific time that he was going to be home; just that he’d be home in the evening.

But it wasn’t evening anymore. It was night.

Were they lost?

What if, God forbid, they’d let Doug lead the way? They could be at Mount Denali!

She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop it. Nobody likes a crazy paranoid lady. He’d probably be home by the time she finished ironing her clothes for tomorrow.

Rebecca ironed her clothes very slowly, but he still didn’t show up. Maybe they’d had car troubles. Maybe they were hitchhiking along the side of the road right now.

What kind of person would pick them up?

There was a knock at the door.

For several seconds she stood there, frozen. Then she snapped out of it and walked across the living room, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. She looked through the peephole in the door and saw a man, blond hair, maybe in his mid-thirties, standing on the porch. He wore jeans and a brown jacket.

“Who is it?” she asked.

As if aware that she was looking at him, the man reached into his jacket pocket and took out a badge. He held it up to the peephole. “State Troopers, ma’am.”

The sick-to-her-stomach feeling turned into full-fledged nausea. “May I ask what this is about?” she inquired, trying to keep her voice formal and steady.

“Are you Mrs. Harpster?”

“Yes.”

“Please open the door. It’s about your husband.”

THREE

“W hat happened to him?” she asked. In the time it took her to ask that question, a dozen ghastly scenarios flashed rapid-fire through her mind.

“Ma’am, this is not something we should discuss through a closed door.”

She reached for the chain lock, and then hesitated. “May I have your name and badge number, please?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your name and badge number. I won’t be able to read it through the peephole.”

“My name is Phillip Marsh. My badge number is 0133.”

“Thank you. I need to verify something really quick, and I’ll be right back.”

“Ma’am, this is extremely urgent. Your husband may not have much time left.”

Rebecca felt like she was going to vomit. She never let anybody, not even a uniformed State Trooper, much less a plainclothes cop, into her home without knowing exactly who it was, but if Gary was badly hurt...

She reached for the first lock.

Yet this State Trooper looked wrong, for some reason. Even with his image distorted through the peephole there was something almost predatory about him.

Knock it off, you’re just being paranoid, for God’s sake! Gary could be dying!

She unlocked the first bolt.

Did she see a hint of a smile?

Instead of unfastening the second lock, she ran into the kitchen and picked up the phone. She desperately needed to know what had happened to Gary, but she also needed to know that this was a real police officer at her door.

No dial tone.

She tapped the plunger several times to make sure.

She’d tried to call Gary less than fifteen minutes ago. The phone had been working fine all weekend, and now, as soon as a strange man showed up on her doorstep, it stopped.

“Ma’am, I can’t emphasize strongly enough how important it is for you to let me in. I understand your need for safety precautions, and under other circumstances I would praise you for this kind of behavior, but Gary has been seriously injured, and he may be dying as we speak, and I urgently need to bring you to the hospital.”

“I’ll be outside in one minute,” she said. “I’ll meet you in your car.”

“Goddamn it, lady, your husband is gonna die!”

It was all Rebecca could do to hold in a scream. This was no cop.

But he knew Gary’s name. Maybe he’d killed him.

Stop thinking that!

Her cell phone was in her purse. Where the hell had she left it when she came home? For a split second her mind went blank.

Kitchen counter. Right next to her.

The man pounded on the door, but only a couple of times. Then there was a crash from the living room. Glass breaking. The alarm went off.

Rebecca grabbed her purse from the counter, snatched her keys from the hook, then opened the door to the garage, praying that the phony cop wouldn’t hear her over the alarm and would waste time looking elsewhere in the house.

She hurried into the garage, got into the car, slid the key into the ignition, and turned on the engine—simple actions that felt like they took forever. She pressed the button to start the automatic garage door opener. In the movies, people could drive right through closed garage doors, but in real life she’d probably end up with a destroyed vehicle.

The garage door began to rise, moving at a slow speed that was excruciating to watch. She locked the car doors.

She put the car in reverse then tightly clenched the steering wheel as she waited for the garage door to lift enough for her to drive underneath.

The door to the kitchen flew open.

The man pointed a gun at her.

She ducked down as far as she could and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The car shot backward, the roof scraping against the bottom of the rising garage door.

A gunshot rang out. The windshield didn’t explode into chunks of safety glass and no blood jettisoned from her neck, so he didn’t appear to have hit the vehicle.

But with the second shot the car swerved out of control. He’d definitely hit a tire.

The third shot hit another tire and the car jerked to the right, smashing sideways into a tree. The airbag deployed. She frantically put the car into drive and stomped on the gas pedal, but the car wouldn’t move.

Rebecca flinched at the loud tap on the driver’s side window. The man stood there, pointing the gun at her.

“Turn the engine off,” he demanded.

She floored the gas pedal again, but the car still wasn’t going anywhere, so she reluctantly took her foot away and turned off the engine.

Shit...

“Open the door,” he said. He spoke very slowly and carefully, as if straining to keep his fury under control.

Since all he’d have to do is shoot through the window and unlock the door himself, she opened the door.

“Get out of the car. Now.”

“Please don’t hurt me, I—”

“Now! You’ve wasted enough of my time already! And you damn well better hope your neighbors don’t show up.”

Not taking her eyes off the man, she eased her way out of the car. His eyes, which never left her, were bloodshot and filled with rage.

“How do you shut that alarm off?”

“I can’t.”

“Lie to me again and I’ll shoot your fucking teeth out. How do you shut it off?”

“I have to put in the keycode.”

“So do it.”

He gave her a violent shove and they hurried into the garage. The alarm keypad was mounted on the wall. As Rebecca reached for it, the man pressed his gun to the back of her head.

“Listen to me,” he said, speaking loudly over the alarm. “If you put in anything but the ‘everything is fine’ code, it’ll be really fucking gory. Got it?”

Rebecca hesitated, and then punched in the proper numbers on the keypad. The alarm shut off.

“I sincerely hope you made the right decision,” the man said. “Stupid untrusting bitch. I’ll laugh my ass off if your husband does die before you see him.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Gary’s really hurt?”

The man grinned. “Ohhhhhh yeah. He’s hurt bad.”

“Where is he?”

“You may not ever find out. Because of your dumb stunt, we don’t get to have the leisurely talk I’d planned. Now that you’ve put that code in, are they going to send somebody to investigate the alarm?”

Rebecca shook her head. “No.” It was the truth, unfortunately.

“They had better not. If I see a cop, I’m going to start shooting, even if they’re giving a parking ticket. Where’s your cell phone?”

“It’s in my purse.”

“And where’s your purse?”

“In the car.”

“Let’s go get it.” Keeping his gun pointed at her, the man walked her back to the car. He reached inside and took the purse from where it rested on the passenger seat, then removed the cell phone. “I’d better not find a 911 call in your history. That would be terrible for both of us.”

He pressed a couple of buttons on her phone and then nodded, apparently satisfied. He put the phone in his pocket then gestured with the gun. “My car’s parked at the end of your driveway. Get moving. If it were up to me, I’d shoot you just for the hell of it, so don’t give me any reason to give in to that temptation.”

Rebecca began to cry as she walked down the driveway, which wound around in such a way that she couldn’t see the road until right before she reached the end of it. She desperately wanted to keep the tears contained, didn’t want him to enjoy her weakness, but the best she could do was withhold actual sobs from the man. Her whole body shook, both from the cold and the fear.

The car was a beat-up, rusty blue thing that looked like it would barely be able to support their weight, much less drive. The man stepped past her, took out a set of keys, and unlocked the trunk.

“See, you were going to get to be all comfy up front, but now I’m a little concerned that people may come looking for you. So guess where you get to ride, sweetie? Hope you don’t impale yourself on the tire iron.” He threw open the trunk lid, and then pointed the gun at her once again. “Hurry up.”

She considered succumbing to the unbearable urge to fall to her knees begging and pleading. Not because she thought it would do any good, but perhaps she could distract him enough to take him by surprise. She didn’t have high hopes for her chances of beating him in a physical fight, but she had to try something, didn’t she?

No, not a good idea. Her neighbors may not have thought anything of the gunshots (target practice wasn’t exactly rare in this area), but then again, they might decide to come over and investigate. She doubted very much that this man was bluffing—he seemed like he’d happily shoot anybody who wandered over to see what was going on. And if she didn’t go with him, she might never find out what happened to Gary.

She climbed into the trunk, squeezing in next to a cold, damp garbage bag.

“Sorry about the smell,” said the man. “It usually takes me a few days to remember to stop at the Dumpster.”

He grinned, saluted her, and then slammed the lid of the trunk shut.

FOUR

A lan was tempted to purposely hit a few bumps and potholes, just to rattle his captive, but he wasn’t sure the piece of shit he was driving could take it. And then Stephen would have a hissy fit over the car, and Alan really wasn’t in the mood to listen to that crap right now.

What a disaster. This should’ve been ridiculously easy: Pretend to be a cop then grab her when she opened the door. Granted, it would’ve been a better scam if Stephen’s cheap-ass budget allowed for a real police car or even a fucking state trooper uniform, but still, he never anticipated that she wouldn’t open up for a cop bearing news about her husband.

Hopefully the alarm and the gunshots wouldn’t come back to bite him in the nuts. Of course, he had no intention of telling Stephen about the complications, but the bastard kept track of every bullet.

He could almost hear Stephen’s cigarette-fried voice now, demanding to know how he could be so careless. What was he supposed to do besides break the living room window? Stand outside whacking off while she grabbed a cell phone and called for help?

Cell phones were a real pain in the ass in his line of business/pleasure. Apparently there was a way to block them, but Alan didn’t much care for technology. Cutting phone lines was about as high-tech as he liked to get.

If Stephen gave him too much abuse, though, Alan swore the son of a bitch was going to get a knife in the eye. He’d taken about as much from that psycho as he could for a while. He was still kind of pissed about what happened three weeks ago, having to stand there getting Stephen’s nasty saliva on his face while the guy popped a few dozen blood vessels screaming at him.

To be fair, he’d pretty much deserved that one. The kidnapping of Martha Irvin, an attractive forty-year-old, had gone perfectly, but she’d just been too damn tempting sitting there in the passenger seat, hands bound and mascara smeared from crying. He’d tried to control himself, going so far as to punch her a few times to get it out of his system, but it hadn’t worked. He’d pulled into a rest area, dragged her out of the car and into the woods, and laughed the entire twenty minutes he worked her over with his knife. She only struggled for three of them.

Stephen had been absolutely furious, especially when he discovered Alan’s souvenirs. Alan had taken the verbal beating without protesting or making excuses...after all, it had been an uncool thing to do. But now Stephen was getting on his case constantly, and Alan was sick of it. If Stephen had a conniption fit over the complications with Rebecca, the bossy fuckhead might find himself getting sliced up for a hell of a lot longer than twenty minutes.

There was an exceptionally large pothole coming up, but Alan resisted the urge. With his luck, she really would impale herself on the tire iron, and then he’d have to—

“Shit!”

Alan jerked the steering wheel to the right, just barely avoiding the white cat in the center of the road. The right tires went off the shoulder of the road, and the car shot out of control as the rear tire burst. He slammed on the brakes and swerved to the left, trying to avoid going into the ditch. The remaining tires let out a horrible squeal as the car came to a stop.

Alan glanced up in the rearview mirror and watched the unharmed feline bound across the road. He chuckled in disbelief. He’d once slowly strangled a young woman to death with a leather belt while her fiancé watched helplessly through the clear plastic bag over his head, but he’d fucked up Stephen’s car to avoid hitting a cat.

Oh well. It’d be good karma. He needed all the luck he could get.

He shut off the engine and got out of the car. He had to get the tire changed as fast as he could, hopefully before anybody drove by. Stephen’s throat was going to be raw by the time he got done yelling tonight.

Alan walked around to the trunk and knocked on it three times with the handle of his pistol. “I’m opening the trunk. If you don’t want to get shot, be quiet and don’t move.”

He inserted the key and braced himself. She did have a tire iron in there, but not enough room to maneuver. If she tried to attack him, he’d just slam the lid back down on her head.

He turned the key and opened the trunk. Rebecca lay in the fetal position, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, eyes squeezed shut. Her face was heavily tear-stained. He poked her with the barrel of the gun. “Scoot.”

She didn’t move.

“Pretending I’m not here isn’t going to make me go away,” he informed her. “It’s only going to make me angry. I dismember when I get angry.” He’d thought of that line a couple of years ago, and used it whenever he could.

She opened her eyes.

“Sit up and get the spare tire out of there for me. And hurry up.”

“I can’t move my arms,” she said.

“Yeah, well, it’s your own fault that you had to leave without a coat. I’d suggest that you get your circulation going pretty damn quick.”

He kept the gun pointed at her while she moved the sack of garbage out of the way and lifted the spare onto its side.

“Push it out of there,” he said. She was obviously too petrified to try anything, but Alan wasn’t taking any chances.

She rolled the tire over the rear of the trunk, and let it bounce off the bumper and onto the ground. Alan was surprised that the bumper didn’t snap right off of this piece of crap car.

“Now the jack,” he said. “Don’t throw it.”

She picked up the jack and dropped it onto the ground.

“Very good. Now curl up like you were before. That was adorable.”

She ducked back down as he slammed the lid shut again.

He got the tire changed without anybody driving past and without the car falling on his foot. See, good karma for not squishing the cat.

* * *

Rebecca had forced herself not to cry (again, at least) for the first few minutes of being a prisoner, but really, what good would that do? She needed the release. The stench of rotten garbage made her want to throw up, but she did struggle to avoid that particular release, since she didn’t know how long she’d have to remain in the trunk.

She’d sobbed and sobbed until the car went out of control. And when the man had opened the trunk, giving her a potential (if extremely remote) chance to escape, she’d done nothing. Not a thing. She hadn’t even opened her eyes until he forced her.

She was dead. And so was Gary.

Not that there was much she could do with a gun pointed at her, but she hadn’t tried anything. She hadn’t even thought of a plan. She wasn’t just scared. She was a coward.

She deserved to die in this cold, dark trunk.

But Gary didn’t deserve to die. She had to be strong for him. Keep herself alive long enough to think of a way out of this.

She gently blew on her fingers, trying to enjoy that tiny bit of warmth.

* * *

When the car stopped again, Rebecca had no idea how long she’d been in there, except that she had no tears left and had to go to the bathroom so badly that it was painful.

Somebody knocked on the trunk. “You alive in there?” asked the kidnapper.

“Yes.”

“Then close those eyes. If they’re open when I lift the lid, you lose ‘em.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. The trunk lid opened, letting in even more cold air.

A different man with a deep, scratchy voice spoke. “Why is she in there without a coat? And you didn’t even empty the garbage first?”

“I forgot about it.”

“It’s good to know that I’m paying somebody who’s so attentive to the small details,” said the second man, with a snort of contempt. “Get her out of there and bring her inside before she freezes to death.”

“Yessah, massah.”

“Don’t be racist. It’s not cute.”

“Whatever.”

Rebecca felt a cloth sack drop over her head. “I’ve got a gun pointed at your skull,” said the man who’d kidnapped her, tapping her hard on the forehead with it. “So be nice, Becky.”

He took her hand, and helped her as she climbed out of the trunk. She lost her balance on her frozen feet, but he steadied her before she fell.

“Whoa, Jesus, is she rank!” said the second man. “Even in the cold that stuff reeks. See what happens if you forget the small details? You see?”

“I’m serious, man, I’ll shoot you. I’ll do it.”

The second man’s voice turned deadly serious. “Don’t threaten me. Not even if you’re kidding.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

The first man led her inside, where it was much warmer. In fact, it felt like they had the furnace on full blast. He led her across a wooden floor, and then gently eased her down onto a sofa. The first man sat down next to her and pressed his gun against her side.

“Welcome, Rebecca,” said the second man. “I hope this idiot didn’t make things too uncomfortable for you.”

She remained motionless and silent.

“Would you like to see where you are?”

After a moment, the man next to her pressed his gun more tightly against her side, hard enough that she let out a gasp. “He asked a question.”

“Be careful,” said the second man. “Don’t damage her. Rebecca, would you like to see? You’ll have to promise to behave yourself, but if you do, we’ll let you see. Do you want that?”

She nodded. The sack was pulled from her head, and she immediately closed her eyes against the blinding light.

“Would you like anything? A drink, maybe? I could nuke some pizza if you want.”

“Bathroom,” she whispered.

“Sure. Alan, take her to the outhouse.”

“No problem, Stephen. I guess if Stephen wants me to take her to the outhouse, then I’ll do what Stephen wants.”

“Good. Then do it.”

Alan tapped Rebecca on the shoulder. “Uh, Becky, you kind of need your eyes for this part.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The light still stung from spending so much time in complete darkness, but she could see that she was in a small cabin, virtually unfurnished except for the sofa and a wooden chair upon which the second man sat.

He was a large man, heavily muscled, with brown hair and acne scars. He wore a black leather jacket and thick glasses that were almost comical in appearance.

Almost.

Then she had a sudden realization that nearly brought her to her knees. She’d now seen both of the kidnappers. She’d seen inside their cabin. They’d used each other’s names. No way were they going to let her live.

“Where’s Gary?” she asked, voice trembling.

“Bathroom first,” said Stephen. “Then everything will be explained.”

FIVE

A lan led her back outside and around the rear of the cabin. They were somewhere in the forest, but that did absolutely nothing to help pinpoint her location.

“There you go,” he said, gesturing toward a rickety outhouse as if he were a maitre d’ in a five-star restaurant showing her to her table. “I hope you’ll find the accommodations to your liking. You could make an escape attempt through the hole, but I must warn madam that it doesn’t get my highest recommendation. Be quick.”

Rebecca opened the door and shut herself in. The door didn’t have a lock, so she held it with one hand while she untied the string on her pajama bottoms with the other.

She hated outhouses, even under happier circumstances. Whereas the fear that bugs might crawl up onto you while you were using the toilet at home was a completely irrational fear, here it was very much a possibility. Spiders, ants, beetles, any of them could be crawling on the underside of the seat right now. Except that there wasn’t a seat, just a hole in the wood.

In the rare instances when she’d used outhouses in the past, she always felt the need to hover over the seat. That wasn’t going to be easy while holding the door shut.

She mentally cursed herself for worrying about that kind of thing when her husband was in serious danger.

Maybe even dead.

No, not dead, he couldn’t be, but he certainly had more substantial problems than stressing about a kidnapper catching a glimpse of him peeing.

To distract herself, she thought of a story that she’d found absolutely hilarious as a child. She didn’t know if they’d actually done this or not, but some friends had claimed to have set up a speaker underneath an outhouse. They’d hide with the microphone, wait for somebody to enter, give them a chance to get started then shout “Hey, people are working down here!” and wait for the victim to burst out of the outhouse, pants around the ankles.

She’d gotten in trouble at school several times over the years thinking of that story at improper moments, but it didn’t make her feel any better now.

Rebecca managed the best she could, pulled up her pajama bottoms, and left the outhouse. Alan was waiting for her. “Everything come out okay?”

She ignored his comment. Alan chuckled and led her back into the cabin.

After she was seated on the couch again, Stephen handed her a cup. “Here’s some hot chocolate for you,” he said. “Some asshole forgot to bring marshmallows, but it’ll warm you up.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said. Thanking her kidnapper for bringing her a cup of hot cocoa was ridiculous, but it was an unbreakable habit. She probably would’ve thanked Adolph Hitler for a shower cap.

“So, Rebecca, do you miss your husband?” asked Stephen.

“Of course I do.”

“Happy marriage? No divorce plans on the horizon?”

She shook her head.

“Good. I’m glad you like him. So let me answer the big questions that are probably on your mind. Yes, he’s alive, and yes, you can have him back.”

She nearly wept with relief. She didn’t care how much they wanted for ransom; she’d come up with the money, somehow.

“Here’s the deal,” said Stephen, leaning forward. “You have to prove that you’re worthy to get him back.”

“How do I prove that?”

“Gary and his buddies went through an absolute nightmare. Scary, scary stuff. Now, that was always the intention, of course, but even we didn’t anticipate it going as far as it did. But your hubby showed what he was made of. To be honest, he impressed the hell out of me. His buddies did all right for themselves, too, at least one of them did, though in the end...well, I don’t want to give too much away. But Gary, no matter how much we messed him up, all he cared about was getting back to you.”

“Is that fucked up or what?” asked Alan.

Stephen glared at him, and then returned his attention to Rebecca. “I’ve heard a lot of begging in my life. Hell, sometimes the pleading is the most satisfying part. Know what I usually do? I pretend to go along with it, offer a glimmer of hope that they’ve found my soft side, and then I laugh in their face. One woman was crying her eyes out, saying that she had a six-month-old baby at home that needed its mommy, and I honestly didn’t feel a shred of remorse. It made it more fun to watch Alan with the hacksaw.”

“You’re not drinking your hot chocolate,” Alan noted.

Rebecca took a sip, burning her tongue.

“So when Gary told us that he needed to get back to you, it wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, but something about the way he said it just got me in the heart. Weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People spout a lot of superficial lovey-dovey crap, but this guy loves you. He deserves you. Believe me, he deserves you. The question is, can you prove that you deserve him?”

Rebecca nodded frantically. “Yes. I’ll do anything.”

Stephen leaned back in his seat, cracked his knuckles, and smiled with satisfaction. “Then you’re off to a good start. It’s simple, really. All you have to do is relive his entire nightmare, step by step, minute by minute. Go everywhere he went. See everything he saw. Do everything he did. And survive it.”

Rebecca gaped at him. Was he serious? “I don’t understand...I can’t...”

“Now, now, don’t ruin that good start you had. Gary wouldn’t have used the word ‘can’t.’ Gary would have said, yes, anything for my darling wife, where do I sign? Did I mention that he’s going to die a very slow, excruciating death if you don’t come through for him?”

Now Rebecca’s legs were shaking. “How do I know he’s still alive?” she asked.

“You don’t. You go on faith. Gary would have gone on faith, I bet. You’ll learn as you go. Just think of the whole thing as a game. In the right frame of mind, it could even be fun.”

Rebecca stared at the larger man, stunned. How could they possibly expect her to live through an ordeal that Gary barely survived? And that Scott and Doug presumably didn’t survive at all? It was impossible.

“You won’t let him go,” she said. “I’ve seen what you look like. I’ve seen your house.”

Stephen let out a surprised laugh. “Give me some credit. This shack is not my house. And yeah, you’ve seen what we look like, but that doesn’t matter because we’re on our way out of the country. Consider this our farewell party.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then leave. Leave now. But let me tell you, they won’t find your husband anytime in the near future. And when they do, they’ll be too busy puking their guts out to put him in the body bag. Make you a deal, though. If you get through the first part of the morning, the easy part, we’ll throw you a bone. How’s that sound?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I want the proof now.”

“Well, you don’t get the proof now. You go on faith or he dies. I will, however, be more than happy to provide you with proof when he’s dead. Do you think you could identify one of his ribs?”

Rebecca looked into his eyes. Stephen wasn’t kidding. He really did intend for her to relive Gary’s weekend.

She couldn’t possibly make it through this.

But she couldn’t possibly refuse.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“Great!” exclaimed Stephen. “That saves us having to shoot you right here. Now, we still have some more work to do, so my partner and I have a long night ahead of us. You, on the other hand, need some rest, so we’ll be taking you to the guest bedroom. I apologize in advance for the quality of the mattress, and for having to lock you in the room, but some things just can’t be helped.”

* * *

The room was empty save for the bed, lacking even a window. The wood looked good and strong—she didn’t see any way she could break through it. There were several locks on the outside of her door, and she’d heard them all slide shut, so there wasn’t much chance of getting out that way.

There’d been some shouting, though she couldn’t make out the words, and then she’d heard a car drive away. She still heard occasional footsteps. Even if it was possible to get through the door, it certainly wasn’t possible to do it quietly enough not to get caught by whichever one of the kidnappers was still in the cabin.

The smart thing to do was climb in bed, do everything she possibly could to put this whole horrific situation out of her mind, and try to sleep. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her tomorrow, but she’d certainly be better equipped to deal with it with a full night’s rest.

She climbed in bed, got under a blanket that smelled of mildew, and closed her eyes. She couldn’t cry anymore, and her mind was racing so furiously that it exhausted her.

She fell asleep.

SIX

I n her dream, Rebecca prodded her dead husband as he lay sprawled on their bed, blood trickling from his eyes. “Gary, it’s time to wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder. “Gary? Gary...?”

“Gary...?” repeated Alan, gently tapping her cheek. “Gary, you’re going to be late for your camping trip.”

Her eyes flew open. Alan hovered over her, waving a handheld alarm clock that read 6:30. “C’mon, Gary, it’s time to get up. You don’t want to keep Scott and Doug waiting, do you?”

It took her a few seconds to fully awaken and realize what he was talking about. This was too bizarre. He couldn’t possibly be serious, could he?

Alan grinned. “Just kidding. We’re not taking it that far. But you still have a schedule to keep, so up and at ‘em. We’ve got some clothes for you.” He pointed to a pair of jeans and a red sweater that lay draped over the foot of the bed. “You owe me.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said.

“Get dressed. I’ll be back in five minutes with a grape jelly-covered bagel. Remember, like Stephen said, just think of this as a game. That’ll keep you out of the loony bin, though maybe not out of the cemetery.”

She wanted nothing more than to let loose and punch the smug bastard. If he was caught off guard, she might even be able to bring him to the ground, bash his head against the floor a few times, and force him to tell where they were keeping Gary.

Or not.

Alan left the room and closed the door behind him. She got up and quickly dressed, then sat on the edge of the bed to wait. If only there was something, anything, in the room to use as a weapon. But what was she going to do, overpower them with her slippers?

Another knock at the door, and this time it was Stephen who entered the room, holding the plate with the bagel. He adjusted his glasses and looked her over. “Get a good night’s sleep?”

Rebecca shrugged.

“Don’t have much of a personality, do you? Oh well, not your fault, I guess.” He extended the plate toward her. “Here’s breakfast.”

She wasn’t the least bit hungry, but she stood up and took the plate from him anyway. Stephen gestured for her to sit back down on the bed.

“I’m not the kind of person who likes to bog things down with a lot of rules and regulations,” Stephen explained, standing in the center of the room. “So we’re going to keep this simple. Like I said, it’ll pretty much be a ‘learn as you go’ experience. You can bail out whenever you want, and the only penalty will be that your husband dies a torturous, ghastly, agonizing, miserable, messy death. Something wrong with your bagel?”

“No,” said Rebecca, shaking her head.

“Then eat up. You’ll need the energy.”

She forced herself to take a bite. Even with the thick layer of grape jelly, the bagel was dry in her mouth.

“So there’s really only one major rule,” said Stephen. “Absolutely no police involvement. If the cops get involved, then you’re no longer following in Gary’s footsteps, and you’ve lost. If you purposely get other people involved that you’re not supposed to, that’ll cost you Gary’s life, too. Understand?”

Rebecca nodded as she strained to swallow her first bite of bagel.

“Say ‘I understand.’ It makes you seem more human.”

“I understand.”

“Much better. Hurry up and finish eating. The car’s all packed and ready to go.”

* * *

Gary’s car was parked outside the cabin. As they walked out the front door, Stephen handed her Gary’s set of keys, which were easily identifiable by the Homer Simpson keychain. They’d also provided her with a pair of tennis shoes and a leather jacket. It wasn’t as heavy as she’d like, but it would definitely keep some of the outdoor chill away.

“As soon as you hit the main highway, open the glove compartment,” Stephen told her.

“Don’t peek early,” said Alan.

“That’s right. Realize that we’ll be listening and watching, and that we aren’t the only ones participating in this little game. So think about that before you try anything that your hubby wouldn’t have done.”

“When do I get to talk to him?” Rebecca asked.

“I never said you did,” said Stephen.

“Yes you did!”

“No. I said we’d prove that he was alive. That may or may not involve speaking to him, and I don’t want to spoil any of the surprises.” Stephen patted her on the shoulder. “If you make it far enough, you’ll get the reassurance you need to keep going. I promise.”

The promise of a psychopath like Stephen didn’t mean much to Rebecca, but she said nothing. They walked her over to the car, as Alan whistled a happy tune. She recognized Gary’s camping supplies in the back seat and again had to fight back tears.

She tried to make herself believe that it was all a joke, that Gary was capable of pulling such a mean-spirited, hateful prank, and that he’d pop out of the backseat and shout “Surprise!” as soon as she got in the car. Right now she’d give anything in the world to beat the shit out of him for doing something so cruel.

But it wasn’t a joke.

She got in the car and shut the door. She turned on the engine, put the car in reverse, and began to back up. Alan walked over, tapped on the window, and gestured for her to roll it down.

“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” he said. “It’s not just a good idea, it’s the law.”

The words “Screw you” came dangerously close to passing through her lips, but instead she clenched her teeth, put on her seatbelt, and rolled the window back up.

She drove away from the cabin.

* * *

She felt an incredible sense of relief as she drove down the dirt road, away from Alan and Stephen. Despite all of their talk about the game she was going to play, she’d still expected to be shot or stabbed at any moment.

Why hadn’t they given her the proof that Gary was still alive up front?

Was he still alive?

Yes. He had to be.

Why not just drive to the nearest phone and call the police? Maybe they were bluffing about listening in.

Maybe. But it probably wouldn’t take much to set up a hidden webcam in the car. For now, anyway, she had to follow their instructions.

She looked over at the glove compartment. She was dying to know what was inside, but she also had to believe that they’d make good on their threat to murder Gary if she violated the rules.

She could wait a few more minutes, or however long it took to get to the main highway.

Then the whole reality of the situation struck her again. Even if she followed the rules, how could she possibly win? How could she relive Gary’s experience and do better than him? She didn’t know the first thing about camping...she’d probably die even without encountering the other dangers!

No. She had to stop thinking like that.

She had to be strong. She wasn’t some sheltered spoiled little girl who’d never left Daddy’s house. She’d put herself through college while working full-time, a year of which was also spent caring for her dying mother. She could handle this.

Yeah, just keep deluding yourself, and you’ll make it through, no problem.

She stopped the car as she reached the turn onto Frontier Road. The road was a good sixty miles long, so she still didn’t know exactly where she was, but at least now she was a little better oriented. Doug lived on this road, and Gary would have been by to pick him up.

Rebecca reached over and opened the glove compartment.

Along with the registration, owner’s manual, and various other accumulated pieces of paper, there were three yellow envelopes. The one on top bulged out about an inch, while the other two were thin enough that they might be empty.

She removed the top one. “Open Me First!” was written on it in blue marker.

Palms sweating, she tore it open.

SEVEN

T he bulge was Gary’s wallet. Besides that, the envelope contained two small folded pieces of paper.

She opened them and read the first.

J&H Convenience Store. Ten miles south on Frontier Road. Fill up the tank.

The second read:

Shopping List:

Four twelve-packs of beer.

Potato chips—rippled.

One Alaska map.

One bottle anti-freeze.

One bottle motor oil.

One hot dog that has been sitting in that display rack since before you lost your virginity. Cover it with so much mustard that no processed pig parts are visible. Eat that disgusting thing.

Pay in cash.

Don’t miss anything. We’re not kidding.

Do not open envelope #2 until this is done. We’re not kidding about that, either.

Rebecca frowned. That was it? A shopping list?

She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or completely freaked out. Maybe things had gone bad while Gary, Scott, and Doug were picking up their last minute supplies at the convenience store. Or immediately after that.

His wallet appeared to be mostly untouched. It still contained Gary’s driver’s license, three twenty dollar-bills, a ten, and six ones. And a picture of her; the only good picture taken in the last three years. It did not contain his credit cards. Gary would have put these items on his debit card, so it appeared that they weren’t doing an exact replication of the events in favor of not creating a traceable charge.

She looked at the other two envelopes. Were they as simple as a shopping list, or something much worse?

Would they really know if she peeked ahead?

She closed the glove compartment to reduce temptation, then pocketed Gary’s wallet and turned right onto Frontier Road.

It was never a very busy road. In fact, if somebody was going to set up an ambush, this would be a pretty good place to do it.

Had Gary even made it to the convenience store?

They wouldn’t give her a shopping list if he hadn’t, would they? The list definitely contained the kind of items that the men would’ve bought, and ordering a hot dog with a disturbing amount of mustard for breakfast was definitely a Gary trait. Gary, Doug, and Scott at least made it that far.

But she didn’t know nearly enough about this “game,” or about Alan and Stephen, to assume that things were going to move along in a straightforward fashion.

She had to be ready for an ambush.

As much as she wanted to turn on the radio, to give herself some background music to calm her nerves, she didn’t dare. She had to be as aware of her surroundings as she possibly could.

She glanced at the odometer. She’d gone one mile now. The gas tank was about half full. He’d been going to Bleser, which was about eighty miles away, so driving there and back would use up about half a tank.

Two miles.

A semi passed in the opposite lane. She half-expected it to do a sudden swerve, knocking her off the road, but of course it didn’t.

Three miles. Then four. Five.

She began to relax. Not a lot, but enough to loosen her grip on the steering wheel a bit, to let some blood flow to her fingers.

Six miles.

A hitchhiker stood by the side of the road, shoulders slumped and head hung. He stuck out his thumb half-heartedly as she approached.

Rebecca sucked in a deep breath.

She couldn’t see his face very well, but he had a thick black beard. It could easily be a disguise, except that neither of the kidnappers could have made it out here before her, unless an underground shuttle system had been installed out in rural Alaska without her being made aware of it.

Stephen had said that he and Alan weren’t the only ones involved.

She sped up and drifted into the opposite lane. The hitchhiker didn’t even look up as she passed.

She continued to watch him in the rearview mirror, waiting for him to pull out a gun and open fire.

Rebecca nearly lost control of the vehicle when she saw the hitchhiker raise his head.

But he didn’t do anything. Just watched her as he became smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, finally disappearing as the road gradually veered to the left.

A regular old standard-issue hitchhiker. Nothing more.

He might have slit her throat and stolen her car if she’d picked him up, but he certainly wasn’t waiting there to ambush her.

Maybe he could’ve helped her. A ride to town in exchange for assisting her in saving her husband from a ghoulish death. Too bad that was against the rules.

A couple of minutes later, she turned into the parking lot of the J&H Convenience Store and pulled up alongside the single gas pump. There were only two other cars here, not surprising for a convenience store way out in the middle of nowhere, even if a quarter after seven was a prime coffee hour.

She went inside. A young guy, maybe twenty-five, stood behind the counter, reading a copy of The Daily News Miner. He lowered his newspaper and gave Rebecca a friendly smile, which she tried but was unable to return.

Beer first. She walked to the back of the store, which only had four small aisles, and opened the sliding door to the cooler. The shopping list hadn’t said which brand to purchase, but since she didn’t much care for the taste of beer anyway she picked out two twelve-packs of Budweiser, Gary’s brand.

“Hey, my kind of woman!” said the cashier as she set them on the front counter.

“I’m getting two more,” Rebecca said.

“Works for me. That’ll get you through those Monday morning blues.”

She got the rest of the necessary beer, a large bag of Ruffles, the motor oil, anti-freeze, and map. As she set them on the counter, she wondered why there were two cars in the parking lot besides her own if nobody else was in the convenience store except her and the cashier.

“I don’t suppose I could bother you for some I.D., could I?” asked the cashier. “It’s a pain, I know, but they make me do it.”

“Not a pain at all,” said Rebecca, suddenly realizing that she didn’t have her I.D., just Gary’s. “You know what, I left it at home. But I’m twenty-eight.”

“Funny, you don’t look a day over twenty-seven,” said the cashier. “No, I’m just kidding. I mean, not that you look older than that, just...sorry, without I.D., I’m not gonna be able to sell you the beer. I’ll get in all kinds of trouble.”

“How will you get in trouble? I’m way over twenty-one.”

“I know, but I’m supposed to check I.D. if you don’t look over thirty.” He pointed over his shoulder and silently mouthed “My boss is in the back.”

At that moment, a tall, balding man emerged from a door behind the cashier, holding a clipboard. He nodded politely at Rebecca and walked down the aisle toward the cooler.

“I also need to fill up my tank,” said Rebecca, trying to keep her voice casual as she took out Gary’s wallet.

“Okay, but I still need to see identification,” the cashier insisted.

Damn it! She’d been able to fake her way into alcohol purchases when she was in college and not old enough, how come she couldn’t do it when she was of legal age?

Or was the cashier part of it?

She took out Gary’s driver’s license and one of the twenties. She slid both of them together toward the cashier. “Here you go.”

He looked at the driver’s license, appeared momentarily confused, then slid them both back to her. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“I just want to make my purchases, please,” she said, putting the driver’s license back in her pocket.

“You could be an undercover cop.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the manager, stepping over to the counter.

“No I.D.,” said the cashier.

The manager looked Rebecca over carefully. “Sorry, ma’am. No identification, no alcohol. It’s the law.”

What was she supposed to say? That they absolutely, positively had to sell her this beer because her husband’s life was at stake?

Maybe a new tactic was in order. “I’m old enough by seven years,” she said. “You know it and I know it, it’s just some stupid formality. Are you really going to make me drive all the way home to get my license? Because if you do, I’m certainly not going to stop here on the way back. You’re not the only place that sells beer.”

“We apologize for the inconvenience, but unfortunately there are no exceptions to our policy,” said the manager. “Will you still be purchasing the other items?”

She shrugged. “I need to fill my tank. Unleaded, please.”

“That will have to be pre-pay,” the manager told her.

She set a twenty on the counter and turned and walked out of the store. Though her life had taken some odd twists and turns over the years, she never would have guessed that she’d be involved in a life or death struggle to buy some goddamn beer without proper identification.

A new approach sprung to mind as she pumped the gas, one that would only work if the manager left again. Well, it probably wouldn’t work even then, but she had to give it a shot. After all, she might not be a movie star type, but she certainly wasn’t a bad-looking woman.

The manager was nowhere in sight as she returned.

“Ring up the other stuff, too,” she said. Rebecca considered batting her eyelashes but quickly decided that she’d just look ridiculous. “You know, if you bought the beer for me, we could share it.”

“Really?”

“When do you get off?”

“Not until four.”

“Do you get a lunch break?”

“Noon.”

“Would you like to have some beer for lunch?”

“Aren’t you married?” he asked, glancing at her ring.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“All right, sounds good. Come back around noon and I’ll have the beer waiting.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I got a head start?”

The cashier suddenly burst out laughing. “Lady, it’s just some beer! Jeez, did your sorority threaten to kick you out if you didn’t bring it back for a party or something?”

“No, I just want to be able to buy what I came here for. I made a special trip.”

“Here’s a suggestion. Make a special trip over to Alcoholics Anonymous. Get on a twelve-step program. Do something, because you’re just plain scary.”

“Fine.” She picked up two of the twelve-packs. “I’ll put them back.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it.”

“No, no, I wouldn’t want you to have to get up.”

She considered making a run for it, but that would be a terrible idea.

Would Stephen and Alan really know if she didn’t get the beer?

She slid open the cooler, replaced the Budweiser, and almost cried out with joy as she saw the solution to her problems.

Non-alcoholic beer.

O’Douls was technically beer, wasn’t it? And the shopping list hadn’t specified which brand to purchase. This wouldn’t be a violation of the rules, or at least not one where she couldn’t argue her case.

She picked up two twelve-packs and brought them up to the front. Before the cashier could respond, she grabbed the other two twelve-packs of Budweiser, brought them back to the cooler, and exchanged them as well.

“You know,” said the cashier as she returned, “really I’m not even supposed to...never mind, you look twenty-one.”

“Thank you,” she said as he rung up the purchase. Then she remembered something. “Also one hot dog.”

They looked more like beef jerky tubes than hot dogs by this point, but eating something gross was the least of her problems. The cashier placed it in a bun and handed it to her.

She thanked him and walked to where the condiments were kept. She added squirt after squirt of mustard to the hot dog until, as per the instructions, nothing was visible but a yellow pond.

“Mind if I eat it here?”

“Do whatever you want, lady.”

* * *

Rebecca set the two grocery bags on the passenger seat, opened the glove compartment, and removed the second envelope.

It was a good thing she liked mustard, but if she’d had this much trouble with a simple shopping list, she was horrified to think what the next step might involve.

EIGHT

T he second envelope contained a map, or at least a torn piece of one. There was a red circle around the town of Bleser. Aside from that, the envelope was empty.

So Gary had made it that far, at least.

That is, Gary had made it that far if she could trust that Stephen and Alan were playing the game fairly. If they weren’t, Gary could be in pieces in the trunk right now.

God, Rebecca, why do you do things like that to yourself? He’s not in the trunk! He’s alive and waiting for you to get over your pity-me attitude and rescue him!

She got out of the car and checked the trunk.

Of course, he wasn’t in there, but she knew that if she hadn’t looked, the thought of Gary chopped-up back there never would have left her mind.

It probably still wouldn’t.

She got back in the car and began her road trip.

* * *

After about five miles, she turned on the radio. Being alone with her thoughts was infinitely more distracting than listening to some music. She quickly flipped through the stations until she found some mellow, relaxing music.

She wondered if she and Gary were being mentioned on any of the radio stations, and if anybody was searching for them. After all, they hadn’t shown up for work, nor had Scott and Doug returned home to their families. She had to make sure she didn’t speed or break any other traffic laws, and hope that there wasn’t an APB out for Gary’s car.

What if she was better off having a cop pull her over? Maybe by playing their game and following their rules, she was guaranteeing that Gary would end up dead. Maybe the best way to get out of this would be to floor the gas pedal, weave from lane to lane, and balance an open can of beer on her nose.

No, she’d already been over that. She needed to obey the kidnappers’ instructions. She’d get to talk to Gary shortly—receive proof that he was alive, anyway—and then decide where to go from there.

* * *

Try as she might, Rebecca couldn’t keep an endless stream of grotesque images from tearing through her brain as she drove. Gary being chopped to bits. Gary drowning in blood. Gary being fed his own...she needed to stop thinking about this, or she’d go catatonic.

* * *

Rebecca yawned as she passed the sign that informed her there were only seven miles left to Bleser. She really needed caffeine and she also needed a nice, clean restroom, but she didn’t want to deviate from the schedule.

She wasn’t exactly sure when she was allowed to open the third envelope, so she waited until she passed the faded “Welcome to Bleser!” sign and pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s.

She took the envelope out of the glove compartment and tore it open. The first piece of paper inside read:

You’ve come a long way, this I know.

But try to be strong, you’ve a long way to go.

You’ll find a small bar on the outskirts of town.

Drive over there now, and try not to frown.

Before I explain what to do, my comely young lass.

Know that writing in rhyme is a pain in the ass.

So enough of that bullshit. Find the bar. Have a drink if you want. All you have to do is start a fight with one of the patrons over a football game. A fistfight. One that you’ll lose. It doesn’t have to be a long, extended combat, but at least one punch needs to knock you to the floor. When you’re done, check the trunk for further instructions. Good luck.

She couldn’t believe this. A fistfight? Her? She’d never been in a fight in her entire life. And the most she knew about football was that all the best commercials played during the Super Bowl.

It didn’t make sense. Gary wasn’t the type to get involved in bar fights. He was rowdier around his friends, sure, but even at his most obnoxious he was never violent. And he liked football as much as any guy, but didn’t take it nearly seriously enough to pick a fight over it.

The kidnappers were cheating. If Gary had been in a bar fight about a football game, he definitely hadn’t started it. Either some drunken moron had put him in a situation where he was forced to fight, or she was also playing Scott or Doug’s parts.

And Scott and Doug were dead, weren’t they?

She didn’t know that. And to keep herself as sane as possible, she’d go with the “drunken moron” theory for now.

* * *

The second item in the envelope was another small map, which led her all the way through Bleser to a road way out in the boondocks. When she finally reached the bar, she figured it had been at least five miles since she passed the last human-made structure.

She pulled into the parking lot next to three other cars. The bar didn’t even have a name, at least not one that was displayed, though the numerous neon beer logos in the windows clarified the purpose of this establishment. The place looked like the last touch-up had been done shortly after the Gold Rush.

It was barely after nine on a Monday morning. What were any cars doing here?

She shut off the engine and walked inside. The bartender looked up as she entered, as did the two other patrons, who sat at separate tables, watching ESPN on a television mounted over a door. One of them was a big guy with a beard that severely needed trimming and a huge gut, the other was an older man, maybe in his sixties, wearing a red ball cap and smoking a cigarette.

Which one of the three was involved in the kidnapping?

Were any of them? Maybe she wouldn’t have to start a fight. Maybe she could just punch herself in the face and walk back outside.

And maybe she should just leave Gary for dead while she was at it.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“For right now, just a bathroom.”

The bartender nodded toward the door right under the television. Wonderful. Nothing like knowing that a couple of creepy-looking guys were staring in her direction while she was using the bathroom. At least it couldn’t be as bad as the outhouse.

She emerged a couple minutes later, longing for the good old days of the outhouse. But restroom facilities were a pretty small problem compared to her task at hand.

She sat down at a vacant table, trying to figure out how to approach the situation. Who should she confront? The old guy looked like his punch would hurt less, but that wasn’t really an issue, since to save Gary she’d gladly take a blow from George Foreman, with his fat-reducing grill, if he wanted. The question was, which of the two men was more likely to punch out a woman over a football argument?

Probably the big guy.

She felt almost disconnected from her body, but she forced herself to get up and sit down at his table. He looked a bit surprised, clearly unaccustomed to having women take any sort of interest in him.

“Catch the game last night?” she asked.

“Which game?”

“Football.”

“Nah, I missed it. Who was playing?”

“You tell me, you fat fuck.” She stumbled over the words, but forced herself to retain eye contact.

The man blinked. “What?”

“I said, you tell me, you fat fuck. What’s the matter? Scared to discuss football with a girl?”

The man glanced over at the bartender for help. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

Rebecca’s face was burning, and she knew it had to be bright red, not that anybody would be able to tell in the bar’s poor lighting. “You’re the only person I’m talking to,” she said.

The man pushed back his chair and stood up. “Sorry, I’ve gotta head off. Got stuff to do.”

Rebecca stood up as well, grabbing his arm. “We were in the middle of a conversation.”

“Lady, you’re mentally ill.” The man yanked his arm free, and gestured to the bartender. “Jesus, Frank, what kind of people do you let in this place?”

Rebecca made a second grab for the man’s arm, but missed. What should she do now? Give it up and harass the old guy? The bartender?

The man started to walk around the table, but she moved to the right, blocking his path. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks you can’t beat me in a fight,” she said.

“Lady, go back to the asylum. You need medicine, and that, that shocker-thing they use on crazy people.”

“Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” said the bartender. “Don’t make me call the police.”

Rebecca clenched her fists and looked the bearded man in the eye. “A hundred bucks.”

“I’m not gonna fight you, lady!”

“Chickenshit.”

“You’re right. I’m chickenshit. So why don’t you go someplace else, okay?”

Obviously he wasn’t going to take the first punch, not that she’d really expected him to. So she stepped forward and swung at his jaw. The man easily deflected her blow, slapping her fist away. She took another swing, and this time he caught her fist in his hand.

“Frank, will you do something?” he demanded.

Rebecca tried to tug her hand free, but the man wouldn’t let go. With her free hand, Rebecca grabbed the man’s wrist. Then she yanked his hand forward as hard as she could, smashing his fist into her cheek. There was an explosion of pain, and she let out a cry and fell to the ground.

“I didn’t hit her!” the bearded man insisted. “You all saw it! She pulled my hand into her face! I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t worry, we all saw it,” said the bartender, hurrying out from behind the counter.

Rebecca sat up, blinking back tears. She never imagined it would hurt so much, and she had done all the work. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she said. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell is the matter with you, lady?” asked the bearded man.

“Nothing, I’m just...I’m fine.” She used a chair to brace herself and pulled herself to her feet. She rubbed the spot where she’d been hit. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you need us to call somebody?” the bartender asked.

“No, no, I just need to go.”

“Do you want a bag of ice?”

She nodded. The bartender went to retrieve it while the bearded man just stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

The bearded man didn’t respond. He looked at his fist then sat back down at his table without a word.

Though she couldn’t be certain, she thought she saw the old guy hide a smile. Was he simply amused by the ridiculous situation, or did he know exactly what she was there to accomplish?

NINE

R ebecca walked out to her car, holding the bag of ice to her face. She couldn’t imagine how bad it would hurt if the man had wanted to punch her. She just wasn’t cut out for violence.

Still, she’d made it through the first three tasks, and now she was going to get proof that Gary was still alive.

(Please!)

She opened the trunk. At first she thought there was nothing in there except for a few random pieces of Gary’s collected junk, but after a quick search she discovered an envelope taped to the inside of the lid. She tore it open and read the message inside.

So either you’re cheating or you’re doing well. If you’re cheating, we already know about it and have splattered your hubby all over the ground, making a horrible mess that some unfortunate soul is going to have to clean up, unless Gary just soaks into the ground. If you’re doing well, then it’s time for a brief intermission, and we have a present for you. Drive down this road the way you came. In two miles you’ll see a small dirt road, marked by a cross. Turn there, keep to the left, and when you get to the end, sit and wait.

Rebecca got back in the Chevy and drove away from the bar. Her hands were shaking, but her mood was brighter than it had been all morning. That wasn’t saying much, and she didn’t believe that they’d actually let her see Gary in person, but to simply know that he was still alive would be an unbelievable relief.

About two miles later, she saw a small wooden cross, and turned onto a bumpy dirt road that forced her to drive carefully to avoid scraping both sides of the car on outstretched tree branches. It split off three different times, and she took the left fork each time, adding another three miles to the odometer before she reached the end of the road. There was forest on all sides of her, but it was thin enough to let plenty of sunlight through.

She shut off the engine and waited.

For about five minutes she sat patiently. Then she started to get worried.

Would somebody attack her?

The note had said this was an intermission. Surely Gary, Scott, and Doug would have had absolutely no reason to go down this path, so this couldn’t be part of the test, right?

Right. She was safe, for now.

She fidgeted nervously for another five minutes.

The note hadn’t said she couldn’t get out of the car and wander around the area, but she didn’t think that was a good idea. Better to be restless inside the vehicle than accidentally bump into somebody who wasn’t expecting to find her outside.

Another ten minutes passed.

Was she in the right spot?

Yes, of course she was in the right spot. The directions weren’t complicated. She just needed to wait.

Maybe they were dragging Gary through the forest at this very moment.

Not likely.

Maybe they were dragging Gary’s bloody corpse through the forest at this very moment.

Or half of it.

Stop it!

She tried to distract herself by counting out loud, slowly. One...two...three...four...

...eighty-seven...eighty-eight...eighty-nine...

A knife plunging into Gary’s chest, again and again...

...ninety...ninety-one...ninety-two...

And then Alan emerged from the woods, a colorfully wrapped present tucked under his arm. He smiled and waved at her, then motioned for her to roll down her window.

“Nice to see you again!” he said, walking over to the car. “You’re looking good since we were together last. Have you lost weight?”

“Where’s Gary?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know. Somewhere, I guess. I brought you a present.” He rattled it and grinned. “You’re gonna like it.”

Rebecca looked at the package. It was decorated with bright pink and purple wrapping paper, with a huge white bow on top. It was about the size of...

A bowling ball. It was about the size of a bowling ball.

“It’s freezing out here,” said Alan. “Mind if I join you in the car?”

Rebecca shook her head and moved the grocery bags to the back seat. Alan opened the passenger-side door, got in, and slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the automobile. He set the present on his lap then rubbed his hands together for warmth.

“Having fun?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

Alan shrugged. “How should I know? You’re an elementary school teacher. Maybe this is the kind of excitement you’ve been searching for all your life. Maybe this is feeding your incessant craving for adventure.”

“I don’t need any adventure.”

“Oh, now, everybody needs adventure. It’s human nature.” He bobbed his knees up and down. “Don’t you want to know what I got you?”

She reached for the present, but Alan slapped her hand away. “That was a question, not an invitation. First I want to know how you think the game is going. Any helpful suggestions? Anything you think we could be doing better? Was the handwriting on the notes neat enough?”

Rebecca just stared at him. Was he serious?

Suddenly Alan grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head down, making her wince with pain. “Listen, sweetie, I’m making the best of this situation, so you can at least meet me halfway,” he said, with absolutely no trace of his previous levity. “I don’t even wanna be doing this. I’d much rather just gut you right here. As far as I’m concerned, this whole thing is a waste of time.”

Then she felt cold steel on the back of her neck. Sharp steel. Alan put some more pressure on it, and she winced again. “So, do me a favor and show a little more spunk, okay? Get in the spirit of things. I’m not asking you to dance around and giggle, but for God’s sake at least don’t act like a mannequin. Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

“Make me believe it.”

“Yes!” she screamed.

Alan held the blade there for a few more moments, then took it away and released his grip on her hair. “Good. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Rebecca raised her head and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Alan had a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. She hadn’t been struggling; had he really worked up a sweat from that little action?

“I...I think you’re running the game fine,” said Rebecca.

“Ah, I don’t give a shit what you think. I was just messing with you. So, do you want to open your present now?”

Rebecca nodded.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please.”

“Try, please, oh stud muffin, who I would gladly screw for hours and hours on end if I weren’t so happily married.”

“Fuck you,” Rebecca said.

She gasped. Where had that come from? She hadn’t meant to say that. She clenched her jaws together tightly, ready for him to grab her hair again, or maybe slam the knife into her throat.

Instead, Alan laughed. “Very good. Now that’s spunk. Here you go.” He handed her the present.

It felt heavy. Too heavy to be a head. Unless a head wasn’t the only thing in the box...

No, this was supposed to be proof that he was still alive. There was no point to any of this if his head was in the box. It couldn’t possibly be his head.

She pulled off the bow. “Try to be careful with the paper,” Alan suggested. “Maybe we can reuse it for the next one.”

Unsure whether or not he was kidding this time, she very slowly, cautiously began to remove the wrapping, revealing a cardboard box. The contents shifted a bit when she turned the box on its side, but there was still no indication of exactly what was inside.

She folded the wrapping paper and set it aside, then ran her finger along the lid, which was taped shut. “Mind if I borrow your knife?”

Alan snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

She dug her fingernail under the end of the tape and pulled it off in one strip. Then she got ready to open the box, but hesitated.

“It’s not a bomb or anything,” Alan assured her. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if it was anything dangerous.”

Rebecca lifted the flaps.

Inside were hundreds, no, thousands of spiders.

Fake ones. Tiny plastic toys. She looked over at Alan in confusion.

“I guess you have to dig for your present,” he said.

Rebecca knew that she had an excessive, even ridiculous number of phobias, but spiders weren’t on the list, much less plastic ones. She dug her hand in the box, not considering until she’d reached almost to her elbow that there might be a mousetrap or something inside.

No. A mousetrap would’ve already been set off.

A razor blade, then.

She dug more carefully. Alan watched her with a shit-eating grin that made her want to shove a handful of the spiders down his throat.

Good. Very good. Hostility is much better than fear in this situation.

Her fingers scraped the bottom of the box, and she cautiously worked her hand around. It wasn’t easy, but fortunately she only had to move a few inches before her index finger brushed against something solid. She grabbed hold of it and pulled out the audiocassette tape.

Alan clapped his hands together. “One point for Becky! Hard to believe anybody still uses those things, huh?”

She turned the key forward, putting the car in auxiliary, then popped the cassette into the player and turned up the volume.

The tape was silent for about fifteen seconds. And then Stephen’s voice could clearly be heard. “Talk, damn it! Say something! Let her know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay, Rebecca,” she heard Gary say. Despite his weak, scared-sounding voice, it was unquestionably him. “I’m alive.”

As much as Rebecca didn’t want Alan to see her cry, she couldn’t help herself, and the tears of relief began flowing.

“Tell her you love her, asshole,” said Stephen on the tape.

“I love you. But please don’t—”

There was the sound of a punch, and a pained groan from Gary. “Can I hit him, too?” asked Alan in the background.

“You shut the fuck up. Now read this.”

In the same scared voice, punctuated by a couple gasps of pain, Gary read a few sentences of a news story about an empty hot air balloon landing in a family’s backyard. While Gary spoke on the tape, Alan reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a newspaper. He unfolded it, pointed to the date—today—and then tapped the front-page article that Gary was reading.

“All right, that’s enough,” said Stephen on the tape.

The tape abruptly switched to an Alice Cooper song. Alan began to sway to the beat as he tucked the newspaper back into his inside jacket pocket. “So, your hubby is all safe and sound. Does that give you a warm happy glow inside?”

Rebecca tried to respond, but couldn’t find her voice.

Alan shrugged. He ejected the tape and pocketed it with the newspaper. “Well, I think your intermission is just about over. Things are going to start to get interesting now. And by interesting, of course, I mean dangerous and really, really bloody.”

He reached into his inside jacket again. “Too many props in this game, if you ask me,” he said, taking out a piece of paper and handing it to Rebecca. “That map will take you to your camping spot. Go there. Set up camp. Your husband and his buddies pretty much just hung out by the campsite all day, so you do the same. I realize that your husband had quite an advantage over you because he has more camping experience, but you have an advantage over him because I’m giving you plenty of warning: expect something very bad to happen.”

Alan opened the passenger door and got out of the car. He repeated the wave and smile he’d greeted her with and headed for the woods. As he reached the end of the clearing, he turned back around and called out to her.

“Have a good time, Rebecca! You can keep the spiders.”

TEN

O nce he was sure he was out of sight, Alan used one hand to brace himself against a tree, then leaned forward and threw up. His heart was racing, his ears were ringing, and he felt like his insides were on fire.

Maintaining a casual, glib attitude was absolute torture when you wanted to cut somebody so badly that you almost felt like a crack addict desperately searching for a fix. When he’d lost control and put the knife to her neck...well, it had taken a superhuman force of will to keep from going all the way.

He wanted to stab her. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to slice off her face to wear as a mask. He wanted to pound his knife into her body until his muscles ached and there was nothing left of her but exposed meat and chipped bone.

But he was proud of himself. He’d kept control. He knew that if he messed up again Stephen would probably shoot him dead. Not that he was scared of Stephen, but he definitely needed the guy. Stephen had the patience to watch a victim, to follow them, to determine the perfect moment to strike, and knew exactly how to cover their tracks afterward. Alan was too impatient (he knew this even without Stephen telling him on a regular basis) and would be in prison for certain without his partner’s help.

Anyway, he’d done his job and the girl didn’t have a cut on her, so there was nothing for Stephen to bitch about. Alan still thought this whole idea was stupid, but then again, he had to admit that he was having some fun with it. And he’d certainly get to make up for not being able to hack Rebecca up in the car. Oh yeah.

He began to whistle as he continued his mile-long hike through the woods. If he was lucky, maybe he’d find a squirrel to rip apart.

* * *

Go to the police.

Rebecca couldn’t get that thought out of her mind, that she should just turn around, drive to the police station, tell the cops everything that had happened, and let people handle it who had some vague idea of what they were doing.

Maybe she was putting Gary’s life at risk by playing the game. Even if she overlooked the fact that she almost certainly couldn’t win, did she expect them to simply hand Gary over if she did win?

Not likely.

A more plausible scenario was that both of them would end up dead, and then the lunatics would go out and do the same thing again to another couple.

If the police got Alan and Stephen surrounded, they might spare Gary’s life to keep their sentence down.

Except that they’d already murdered Scott and Doug.

Or had they?

She had no proof that anybody was dead. No evidence besides what Alan and Stephen told her. Maybe all three of them were alive. Maybe Scott and Doug’s wives were going through the same thing she was.

A far-fetched idea to be sure, but possible, right?

Go to the police.

No. She couldn’t do it. She hadn’t spent much time with the kidnappers, but she truly believed that if she violated the rules, they’d kill Gary and leave the country. Alan would, at least. She was sure of it. She could lead the police to the cabin, but Gary wouldn’t be there. They’d certainly anticipated the possibility that she would run straight to the authorities, and so Gary would be well hidden.

By going to the cops, she’d be murdering her husband.

Better to play the game. At least this way she had a chance of saving him, no matter how remote.

And as desperately as she wanted Gary back, she knew that at least part of her desire to involve the police was to get out of it herself. To not have to go through the same nightmare. To not risk her life, and possibly die.

Probably die.

She was probably going to die this weekend. A horrible, grisly death. Maybe even a long, agonizing one. Who knew when they kidnapped Gary, and what they’d been doing to him all this time? Maybe reliving his experience meant being strapped down to a table while fingers and toes were cut off in thin slices with a hacksaw. Maybe Gary had been reading the newspaper with only one eye.

She could head right back to the bar and call the police.

But she wasn’t going to do that. She didn’t care how frightened she was or how much personal risk was involved, she was going to do everything she could to rescue Gary. The excruciating pain of her murder would be less torturous than having to live with herself if she gave up on him.

* * *

It took about forty-five minutes of driving, fifteen minutes of it on miserable dirt roads, before she reached her destination on the map. The road just stopped in the middle of the woods, so she parked the car and got out. According to the map, her campsite was a half-mile hike straight ahead from the end of the road, and she’d know it when she reached it.

She knew that setting up camp would involve several trips to and from the car, but she didn’t want to start carrying things until she knew for sure where the campsite was. If she was going to get herself hopelessly lost, she didn’t want to worry about lugging a tent around.

Actually, she would carry something. She opened the passenger door and retrieved the cardboard box. Hansel and Gretel had breadcrumbs, she had plastic spiders. Worst-case scenario, she could find her way back by following the trail of dead birds that had choked on them.

* * *

The ground was relatively flat and the trees thinned out quickly, so Rebecca was able to keep up a rapid pace. About fifteen minutes later, she emerged from the woods at the edge of a large, beautiful pond.

It looked like it was about a hundred yards wide, though the grass was tall enough at the far end that she couldn’t tell for certain where the water stopped. It stretched out about fifty yards to her right, and another hundred yards to her left before curving around some forest area.

She walked out to the edge of the water and bent down to scoop up a double handful. The water was incredibly cold, but looked fresh and tasted fantastic.

She spent a couple minutes surveying the area. There was a circle of rocks with ashes in the center and three logs around it, proving that the guys, or at least somebody, had been sitting around a campfire. There was also a small pile of branches that were obviously meant to have been used as firewood, and a couple of beer cans in the ashes, but no other litter.

Though she wanted to investigate more, Rebecca decided that it would be best to get all the camping gear in place first. If they wanted her to camp, she’d camp. She wasn’t about to have them decide to kill Gary simply because the tent wasn’t set up in time.

* * *

Despite the chill, Rebecca was hot and sweaty by the time she finished dragging the tent bag to the campsite, except for her fingers, which were cold and numb. At least there was no wind. She sat on one of the logs for a few minutes, breathing heavily. Her face still hurt where she’d forced the man to punch her, and her lungs were burning. She just wasn’t a manual labor type of person. Nor was she an outdoor person. Nor was she a cold weather person.

But she also wasn’t a bloody violence person, and if she was willing to face that, she could certainly handle manual labor, the outdoors, and cold.

It took her two more trips to get the rest of the stuff. At first she considered only taking what she thought she needed, but decided against it. Anyway, when it started to get really cold, she’d be glad she had Gary’s extra clothes.

She sat back down on the log, absolutely exhausted, and rested for about ten minutes. Now there was a little wind, and her teeth were starting to chatter. But she’d be okay. She’d get a fire started, set up the tent, and then relax as much as she possibly could.

Well, rest maybe. Relaxation wasn’t an option.

Something bad was going to happen. Gary and his friends had at least had time to drink a couple of beers and start a fire, so nothing could happen before that, right?

Of course, they’d probably been able to empty the car in a single trip.

But she was only one person. She couldn’t be expected to keep up with three men. It wouldn’t be fair to replay the events of the weekend before she had a chance to catch up, right?

And why, pray tell, would you assume that these gentlemen are going to play fair?

She stacked a pile of the branches on the old campfire then doused them with some lighter fluid that had been in one of Gary’s sacks. She lit a match and tossed it onto the branches, starting a fire immediately. Thank God she didn’t have to rub some sticks together.

Though she wanted to get the tent up as soon as possible, it was more important to keep the fire going, and there weren’t many branches left. She went back and started walking along the edge of the woods, gathering up branches from the ground. They were plentiful, so she quickly returned to the campfire and added them to the backup pile. While that would keep her going for a while, she decided it was probably best to stockpile as much as she possibly could. Things were going to get more and more dangerous as time passed, and if she could avoid going near the woods, with all its places for somebody to hide, she’d be much better off.

As she gathered her fourth load, she noticed a speck of red on one of the leaves. She flinched and looked at it more closely.

Just a ladybug.

Finally she had enough firewood to last through the night. Probably enough to last three nights, but she wasn’t a camper and didn’t know how quickly it would be used up. She sat back down on the log and gazed out at the pond.

Under other circumstances, she might have appreciated its beauty. Sure, she would have spent more time being miserable because of the cold, but still, she would have enjoyed several relaxing minutes just looking at it. A place like this would be a wonderful field trip for her students.

She needed to get the tent up, but she also needed a couple of minutes to soothe herself, collect her thoughts. If she was going to survive this, she had to be fully alert, but also calm and not overwhelmed with paranoia. She got up and began a leisurely walk along the edge of the pond.

They were going to get her while she took her walk.

No, they weren’t. She needed this.

She forced herself to breathe deeply, in and out, trying to make the bad thoughts disappear, if only for a few moments. Just look at the pond. Watch the small ripples in the clear water. See the—

She slammed a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

The water was still clear in this part of the pond. Still calm. Still beautiful.

But the rocks on the edge were covered with blood.

ELEVEN

I t was a dull brown rather than a ghoulish red, but there was no mistaking the splashes of color for anything but blood. And there was a lot of it. It covered the rocks by her feet, but also the rocks for several feet around those.

She knelt down and looked closely at the rocks, still biting back her scream. Yes, it was absurd to get so freaked out over this when she already knew that awful things had happened in this area, but this was proof. Maybe nobody was dead, but a lot of blood had been spilled.

And there was a pair of dried red chunks, about the size of nickels, on one of the rocks.

Of course, it could have been from an animal. Maybe Gary and his buddies had caught a fish and cleaned it here.

Yeah, maybe they’d cleaned a fish and scattered its blood around, just for kicks. Sure.

Though her stomach was churning, she leaned even closer to the rock with the dried flesh or whatever it was. There was a tiny piece of bone, barely more than a sliver, stuck to one of them.

Then a metallic glint in the water caught her attention. She stared at the water for a moment, trying to pinpoint it, and saw something metal poking out from under some small rocks in the water. Trying to disturb the water as little as possible, she reached down to pick it up.

As her hand touched the bottom some dirt swirled up into the water, clouding it momentarily and forcing her to keep her hand perfectly still in the cold water until it cleared up again.

The glint was gone.

She began running her hands over the pebbles, trying to catch another glimpse of it. It took her several attempts, waiting each time for the water to clear again, before she finally got a hold of it and pulled it out of the water.

It was a tooth. A molar. Unquestionably human, unless somebody had decided to give their pet a metal filling.

She had a vision of somebody’s face being slammed against the rocks, then the man being dragged into the pond, bleeding all over the other rocks, and then butchered in the icy water.

Absolutely sick to her stomach, Rebecca stood up and hurried back toward the campfire. She could imagine Alan gutting Scott or Doug like a fish, laughing and cracking jokes while he did it, probably asking Stephen if this one was big enough to keep.

She wondered if pieces of Gary’s friends were in that pond. Maybe a hand floating on the other side, or a foot waiting to get caught on a fisherman’s hook.

She squeezed her eyes shut. These were exactly the kind of thoughts she didn’t need. She’d already known that bloody things had happened here. This didn’t change anything. Her situation was no worse now than it was before. She needed to calm down and put up the tent.

And, at the very least, be thankful that she knew Gary had never had a cavity in his life.

* * *

Rebecca had always been a strong believer in the power of humor. She rarely attempted to convey it to her students, because as fifth graders they found plenty enough to giggle about without her encouraging them. But she’d heard stories about people making miraculous health recoveries from simply watching comedy videos, essentially laughing themselves healthy, and she believed them

While she still fully believed in the concept, apparently it took more than one’s own bumbling slapstick antics trying to set up a tent for the healing power to work. Perhaps a cancer patient watching her would have received some benefit, but for herself there was nothing but frustration. Though the tent still had the instructions with it, this was a two-person job and definitely not a task for somebody who hadn’t even slept in a tent since she was a little girl.

Still, if she survived this and she got Gary back and the nightmares faded and she was released from the insane asylum, she’d recall her misadventures setting up the tent and laugh. She was Laurel and Hardy, trying to set up a tent. One of them, anyway, though if the stress continued at this level, pretty soon she’d have voices in her head and then she could play the roles of both of them. If nothing else, pretty soon she’d be doing the famous Stan Laurel whimpering.

The tent pole she’d struggled to get into place toppled over, smacking her in the side of the head. Yep, she’d have plenty to laugh about after the bloodbath.

* * *

Finally the tent was up. It looked like crap, but she had no way of knowing that Gary’s tent hadn’t looked like crap, too. So, she had a tent and she had a fire. She was officially camping.

She was terribly thirsty, and while she loathed the taste of beer, there was nothing else to drink. She wasn’t about to drink from the pond again.

She grabbed one of the fake-beers, sat by the fire, cracked it open, and guzzled a third of it in one swallow. It was awful, but she supposed that most of the world’s population would be grateful for a cold fake-beer in this situation, so she decided to make the best of it. She finished off the beer, tossed the can in the fire, and prepared for her next task.

Weapons.

The kidnappers hadn’t left Gary’s pocketknife, which she was sure he’d brought along, so they weren’t playing completely fair. Too bad this wasn’t a board game where she could debate the rules. She’d gathered some fist-size rocks before she started setting up the tent, along with a pair of branches that were broken off to give them sharp tips, but now was the time to do some more elaborate preparation.

She looked through her equipment. Tent spikes would have been helpful, but unfortunately they’d been plastic ones instead of metal, so she’d used them all for their intended purpose. Gary’s tackle box was filled with hooks. Small ones, yes, but even a small hook could do some serious damage if it got you in the eye.

She wished that she could set some sort of booby trap, but she didn’t appear to have anything useful, and probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if she had. The best idea she could come up with was to dig some small holes, cover them with paper plates or something, and hope that Alan or Stephen would step on one and trip. Pretty lame. Better to focus on sharpening sticks. It was slow going using a jagged rock rather than a knife, but at least it was working, more or less.

She bound a few branches together with fishing line and then tied one of Gary’s shirts around the top. If she heard anything suspicious, she’d douse the top with lighter fluid, jab it in the fire, and have herself a decent weapon. She was far from a hero, but she was sure going to put up a fight.

Once she’d sharpened six branches into short spears, or the next best thing, she started on the hooks. Even the largest one was only about an inch long, but it would have to do. She took another one of Gary’s shirts, one of his favorites that he shouldn’t have brought on a camping trip anyway, and began to poke the hooks through it. Once she’d used up all twenty or so, she gave the shirt a test swing. A couple of the hooks fell off, but regardless, if that thing hit somebody in the face they’d probably reconsider kidnapping as an occupation.

So, she had sharpened sticks, rocks, a hook-ridden shirt, a torch, and lots of beer can projectiles. If she stayed alert and didn’t freeze with terror at the first sign of danger, she might just make it through the night alive.

She surveyed the area, but couldn’t think of anything else that might be helpful to prepare. At this point, her best bet was to sit quietly, wait, and listen.

Rebecca sat down on the log, balancing a spear on her lap while she held her hands out to warm them by the fire. It was almost three o’clock, so she had a couple more hours until sunset. She had a terrible headache, but she suspected it might be due to hunger, since after all this work she should be famished, even if she felt too queasy to actually experience the hunger urges. Hungry or not, she needed to eat and keep her energy level up, so she grabbed a couple of hot dogs and the bag of buns out of the cooler, jabbed one on a stick, and began to roast it in the fire.

When it was nicely burnt, she slapped it into the bun and gobbled it down. She finished off a second one in record time, then went back to retrieve a third, along with the potato chips. Queasy or not, campfire roasted hot dogs were delicious.

After she’d eaten her fill, she put the hot dog buns and the chips away, and sat back down to wait. She noted with mild amusement that she was finally getting to sit around and do nothing, just like she’d wanted, and without the guilt of not being a productive citizen.

She continued to sit as time passed and the sun lowered on the horizon. It was getting harder to keep an eye on the woods now. Somebody could sneak almost right up to the edge and she probably wouldn’t notice them.

She got up and walked around the campfire every once in a while to stretch her legs, but otherwise remained in place, listening and waiting.

And then it was dark, and she couldn’t see anything beyond a few feet of the campfire without using Gary’s flashlight, and the noises from the woods didn’t sound like they’d ever stop.

TWELVE

E ven without the threat of human attack, sitting outdoors at night all by herself would have been a frightening experience.

She knew deep inside that there wasn’t much out there to harm her. If a grizzly bear showed up, she’d have a definite problem, and timber wolves wouldn’t exactly be pleasant visitors, but the chances of being bothered by one of those were pretty remote. But most of the noises from the woods, the rustling in the trees and on the ground, were harmless. Squirrels. Rabbits. Ptarmigan. Maybe even a moose, deer, or caribou. Nothing that would hurt her. It wasn’t like Alaska had scorpions or poisonous snakes slithering around.

But what about ghosts and goblins?

She was a fully grown, mature woman, and she knew that there were no such things. But sitting out there, by the light of the fire, it was pretty easy to convince herself that they might exist. That a ghost might start moaning her name.

Rebeccaaaaaaaaaaa...

I see you...

I’m coming to get you...

The rustling noises from the woods continued.

I’m right behind you, Rebecca...

Too bad her older brother Randy wasn’t here. He would’ve had himself a great time, making ghost noises in the night, grabbing her arm with a loud “Boo!” He’d probably even wave the shirt with the hooks in it too close to her face, just to make her scream.

Well, he would have, back when they were seven and nine. Not so much now.

God, she was scared.

She remembered all the ghost stories Randy had told her when she was younger. Most of them were profoundly stupid, involving creatures that were as likely to pee on you as devour you, but no matter how absurd the stories became, Becky always listened in wide-eyed terror. She always had nightmares. She’d looked back on them and laughed, but as a child the dreaded Snot Beast was something to be feared as much as a shark or a cannibal. I’m looking at you now, Rebecca!

She rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. She had problems enough at the moment without adding fear of ghosts to the roster, thank you very much.

Something rustled in the woods. Something big.

Rebecca immediately grabbed one of the spears and held it in both hands, braced for action.

Silence.

More rustling, something smaller this time, up in the trees. Nothing human.

She stared at the spot where she’d heard the rustling, frantically searching for any sign of movement, any sign that Alan or Stephen were waiting out there, even though it was too dark to even see the trees.

Nothing.

She picked up the flashlight, turned it on, and shone it in that direction. The beam just barely reached the trees, and it didn’t reveal anything.

Even so, as long as she didn’t fall asleep they’d have a pretty difficult time surprising her. She’d see them in plenty of time before they reached the campfire. That didn’t mean she’d be able to keep herself alive, but at least the element of surprise wouldn’t be on their side.

Unless they had a gun. But she didn’t think they’d go to all this trouble simply to shoot her.

Of course, if they decided that this whole plan was too risky, they’d want to get rid of her, wouldn’t they?

Well, she couldn’t worry about what they might do if they decided to terminate the plan. It was bad enough to think that they were going to go through with it.

Rebecca darted the flashlight beam around the area where she’d heard the loud rustling. No signs of movement. No more sounds.

She held the flashlight in place for a full five minutes, then shut it off and set it back down on the ground. She kept the spear in her hands. Someone might still be out there, but as long as it wasn’t a ninja they couldn’t move completely silently. She might have a goofed-up brain, but she had perfect vision and hearing, and nobody was going to come out of those woods without her knowing about it.

After another fifteen minutes she forced herself to relax. A bit. She was exhausting herself just by being so tense. She did some breathing exercises and tried to think about happy times she and Gary had shared.

Like meeting in the department store as they passed on opposite escalators, when he got so distracted seeing her for the first time that he forgot to step off at the bottom and landed on his face.

Like their honeymoon in Europe, where they’d intended to see all of the amazing sights and take in the foreign culture but somehow never quite got around to it.

Like the day she’d been offered a permanent teaching job instead of just being a substitute, and to celebrate they’d gone to a fondue restaurant. For dessert they’d fed each other chocolate-dipped strawberries. It was still the best-tasting food she’d eaten in her life.

Rebeccaaaaaaaaa, I’m breathing down your neck...

“Goddamnit, stop it!” she shouted.

Oh, wonderful. Now she was yelling at herself for hearing ghosts. The complete mental breakdown was well underway.

She tried to think of other happy memories about her and Gary, but gave up when she couldn’t stop envisioning Gary on a porch swing next to her, smiling cheerfully despite having been recently disemboweled.

* * *

Rebecca checked her watch. Just after two in the morning. Nothing had happened, and the strain was starting to get to her. She was utterly exhausted.

Of course, she couldn’t go to sleep. If she just climbed in the tent and called it quits for the night, the chances weren’t very good that she’d ever wake up. Or if she did wake up, she’d wish she hadn’t.

But she was so, so tired. At least Gary, Doug, and Scott could have watched in shifts.

Maybe the kidnappers were waiting for her to go to sleep before making their move. If so, they had a long wait. She wasn’t going to sleep, no matter what. She’d once stayed up for three full days cramming for finals, and this was a hell of a lot more important than a history exam.

Yeah, but she was younger then. And she hadn’t spent much of the day lugging heavy bags through the woods. And she’d had about eighteen cups of coffee in her system. There was just no comparison.

She’d had barely any sleep the previous night. If they did choose to attack now, she’d be pretty much worthless in a fight, probably falling asleep and landing right on an axe or something. But she had to stay awake. Encountering them while exhausted was still preferable to encountering them while unconscious.

She forced herself to stay awake, and resumed her night of waiting.

* * *

Rebecca sat up with such a jolt that it almost hurt. Had she fallen asleep? For how long?

She checked her watch. No, it was ten minutes until three. The fire was unchanged. If she’d fallen asleep, it had only been for a second.

She slapped herself in the face, hard. The earlier punch to the face had finally stopped hurting, but the pain flared up again. She had to stay awake, no matter what.

When she blinked, it was hard to open her eyes again. She wanted nothing more than a warm, soft bed, with fluffy pillows and a thick comforter...

She jolted awake again. Damn it! She was going to die because she couldn’t do something as simple as staying awake. She slapped herself a second time, but could tell that wasn’t going to work. It was time to get serious.

She picked up a branch and held it in the campfire until it was burning. She held it to her mouth, blew out the flame, held it over the back of her hand, and...couldn’t do it.

What the hell was the matter with her? It was a choice between burning her hand or falling asleep and dying!

She put the branch back in the fire and repeated the process. This time she didn’t hesitate. There was a hissing sound as the branch pressed against the back of her hand, and she winced in pain.

That woke her up.

If she had to, she’d start burning her face. Whatever it took. She wasn’t falling asleep.

* * *

Rebecca had four burn marks, two on each hand, and even though they all still hurt, it wasn’t enough. Burning her face might not even be enough.

She scooted her log away from the campfire. If she did fall asleep, at least she’d taken the precaution to avoid falling into the flames.

Four o’clock. Still at least two more hours of darkness.

She awoke to a pain in her face as she realized she’d tumbled forward and hit the cold ground. It was a very good thing that she’d moved away from the fire. She knew she had to get up, but even though the ground was cold, it was very, very comfortable, and she wouldn’t sleep for long, maybe fifteen minutes, and they probably weren’t watching anyway, and even if they were she’d wake up when they came, right?

Her rational mind tried to contradict this, but it failed in the last few seconds that she remained conscious.

THIRTEEN

R ebecca opened her eyes. It was daylight, and her entire body ached. She sat up slowly, groggily. The campfire had gone out, but to her incredible relief and astonishment, she was in the same spot in which she’d fallen asleep...not particularly comfortable, but certainly preferable to waking up tied to a tree or inside a burlap sack.

Then she noticed that there was a note taped to her shoe.

She hurriedly tore it off and opened it. It took a couple of moments for her vision to focus, then she read:

Hope you got a good night’s sleep. You looked so peaceful that we just couldn’t bear to wake you. Anyway, sorry if you were disappointed by the lack of activity, but your husband got a free night and so did you.

It won’t happen again.

So hang out today, do a little fishing, get in touch with nature. Don’t leave sight of the pond. And don’t forget the rules. If you tell anybody what’s going on, you’re a widow. See you soon.

Another day of sitting around, going crazy.

* * *

Rebecca got the fire started again and spent several minutes just trying to get warm. She coughed a few times. Wonderful. She was probably going to catch pneumonia, if she didn’t already have hypothermia.

It was almost eight o’clock, and since she was still alive, she was glad she’d managed to get those four hours of sleep. Gary and his friends hadn’t brought anything in the way of breakfast foods, so she had two more hot dogs, some chips, and a beer. A nice flashback to her college days.

After she’d eaten, she wandered down to the pond again, avoiding looking in the direction of the bloodstained rocks. The pond was calm and inviting, but even if she were willing to swim in water that might be concealing gory surprises, it would be absolutely freezing.

Well, she had to do something to keep busy. She had enough weapons, and trying to set up booby traps seemed like a waste of time. So, what the hell, she’d go fishing.

She assembled Gary’s pole, then went through his tackle box searching for a good lure. Of course, she didn’t know what made a good lure, and none of the brightly colored objects looked anything like any type of fish she’d ever seen. She went with a fluorescent green one and tied it to the end of the line, then went out to the pond. There was only one embarrassing miscast before she got the line out into the water and began to slowly reel it in.

There. She was fishing. Gary would be proud of her.

She finished reeling in the line and cast it out again.

Yep, she was fishing all right. What excitement.

But, she had to admit, reflecting on how boring this sport was served as a halfway decent distraction from her other problems.

The line caught on something, but a quick tug pulled it free. It probably wasn’t a fish.

She cast a few more times with no success. She had yet to see a fish jump, so it was entirely possible that there were none to be found. It didn’t really matter either way, since she was just going to release whatever she caught anyway. She still had hot dogs and potato chips.

The line caught on something again, and this time it wouldn’t come loose. She yanked it several times, then tried walking backwards, but that threatened only to snap the line. She sighed. It was close enough that she could probably wade out there and free it, if she cared in the least about saving the fluorescent green lure, which she didn’t.

One more tug, and the line popped free. Well, not completely free, since reeling was making some progress but the lure still seemed to be caught on something heavy. Perhaps a particularly lazy fish.

She continued reeling. Maybe she’d caught the traditional tire, or boot, or whatever bad fishermen traditionally caught.

Maybe Doug’s boot...

She lifted the line out of the water. The lure was attached to a large clump of grass and dirt. With some effort she extricated the hook and tossed the gooey clump back into the water. Then, after a quick glance around the area to make sure she was still alone, she cast the line again.

If only the convenience store shopping list had included some reading material.

Oh well. She had to admit that this was a bit relaxing. She was far from feeling like she was stretched out on a blanket on a sunny beach being served Pina Coladas by buff thong-wearing waiters, but her stress level had dropped a percentage point or two.

The line got caught again.

She gave it a sharp tug, and this time the lure pulled free easily. So easily that it popped out of the water and flew right toward her face. She stepped to the left, narrowly avoiding getting punctured and wondered if normal fishermen had to deal with this shit.

She wasn’t about to quit. If she was going to save Gary from sadistic kidnappers, first she needed to prove to herself that she could do some simple fishing without getting killed.

She cast and reeled in the line three times without it getting caught on anything, including a fish. The fourth time the line ended up on the ground behind her, but that was okay, she was still doing better than she would have anticipated. The fifth time was her most perfect cast yet. If any cast was going to catch a fish, this was going to be the one.

She began to reel it in, and it got caught on something.

Not a fish.

Something heavy again. In fact, it felt a lot like that clump of dirt she’d caught before. But you never knew...it could be a dead fish, which would technically be a victory on her part.

She continued to slowly reel in the line, but then it stopped altogether. She gave it a very tentative tug, preparing herself to dodge a flying lure. Then another, slightly harder tug. Something gave, she wasn’t sure what, and she was able to continue reeling in whatever was caught on the lure.

Now that it was closer, it felt a little heavier than the clump of dirt. She caught a flash of something metal on the surface of the water and gasped as she wondered if it was another tooth filling.

Or maybe a wedding band.

She increased the pace of her reeling, straining to see what she was pulling to shore. Finally she lifted it out of the water.

Just another clump of dirt and grass.

With a silver fishing lure caught in it.

Maybe even Gary, Doug, or Scott’s. They weren’t any better fishermen than she was.

“Nice catch,” a voice called out behind her.

FOURTEEN

R ebecca gasped and dropped the fishing pole, feeling like she’d had an instant heart attack. She spun around and saw two men emerge from the woods. They both looked to be in their fifties and were wearing heavy jackets and backpacks.

Without hesitation, Rebecca grabbed the spear by her feet and held it out in a threatening manner. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

One of the men held up his hands to show that they were empty. “Whoa, hold on. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

“I asked who you were,” Rebecca said, slowly making her way toward the campfire. The men didn’t look dangerous, but neither had Alan at first glance.

“My name’s Nicholas Barrett,” said the first man, lowering his hands.

“Todd North,” said the second.

“What do you want?” asked Rebecca, picking up a second spear.

“We’re just here to do a little fishing,” Nicholas insisted. “That’s all. We’re not here to hurt anybody.”

“You can fish someplace else,” Rebecca told him, surprised that she was able to talk at all, let alone with such authority, considering how terrified she was at the moment.

“Yeah, well, I know we can, but I own this land,” said Nicholas. “So I’m not sure that I’m the one who needs to fish someplace else.”

Rebecca stared at the men. They seemed friendly enough, but they also seemed nervous. Of course, having a strange lunatic woman point hand-made spears at them might have contributed to that, but still, what were the odds that they’d just happen to show up? This pond wasn’t exactly right off the main highway.

“You need to leave,” she said.

“I promise you, we’re not here to hurt—”

“Now, damn it!”

Nicholas shook his head. “We’re not about to leave a lovely young lady like yourself all alone, not when she so obviously needs some help. Now why don’t we all just sit around that nice warm fire and talk this out?”

“Listen to me,” said Rebecca. “I could not possibly be more serious. You and your friend have to get out of here, now. I can’t explain. Just go!”

Nicholas shrugged. “If that’s what you want, then we’ll go. But I have to warn you, I’ll be back before you know it with the police.”

Rebecca cursed under her breath. Now what? If these guys were associated with Alan and Stephen, then they were staying, no matter what. If they’d been forced into the same type of situation that she was, then they also weren’t going anywhere. And if it was a coincidence, if they really did own this pond and had just stopped by for some fishing, well, she couldn’t let them contact the authorities.

None of these three options were appealing, but if it was the third one, she couldn’t let them stay here and get killed.

“I can’t talk about what’s going on,” she said, “but please don’t go to the police. I don’t know how I can convince you of this, but please believe me, you can’t bring the police here without causing irreparable damage.”

The men exchanged a glance. “I don’t see how that could be true,” said Nicholas, “but if that’s the way you want it, so be it. We won’t involve the law in this. But we’re not going anywhere. You look like somebody who needs help, and I’ve never refused to help a lady in need.”

“I’m not asking for your help.”

“Either way, you need it, and we’re staying.”

The third option was no longer realistic. Nicholas was too insistent. All they’d have to do is promise not to tell anybody about her, leave, and then call the police anyway.

So, either they were on the kidnapper’s side, or they were being forced into this. If they were on the kidnapper’s side, they could very well have instructions to try to kill her, to see if she could get away. Survive the attack, just like Gary did. If they were forced into this, did that mean that they were playing the roles of Doug and Scott?

Would Nicholas’ blood cover the rocks next?

Did they even know how much danger they were in?

If they were innocent victims, then maybe she could warn them. They could work out some kind of plan, increase their chances of coming out of this alive.

But if they weren’t innocent, and she revealed any part of her own dilemma to them, then she’d never see Gary alive again.

“You’re risking your lives if you stay here,” she warned.

“We’ll take our chances,” said Nicholas. “Would it be all right if we sat by the fire now? It’s pretty chilly out here.”

She almost said “sure,” but caught herself. This was no time for polite behavior. She couldn’t let her guard down in case they turned out to be working with Alan and Stephen. “Make your own,” she told them.

“That’s kind of heartless,” said Nicholas. “We’re only trying to help you out.”

Rebecca didn’t respond. The men looked at each other then began gathering branches for their own fire. She watched them intently, ready for them to rush toward her at any second, but they set up their own camp about thirty feet away from her without incident.

Once they’d finished stacking the wood, Nicholas took a few steps toward her. “Mind if we borrow some fire?”

“You didn’t bring matches?”

“I think we left them in the car.”

They definitely weren’t regular old campers. Rebecca wanted to refuse, but then again, she’d be better off getting as much information out of these guys as she could, especially if they were innocent victims.

Still, she wasn’t letting go of the spears.

“All right,” she said. “Bring a stick.”

Nicholas picked up a branch and walked over to her fire. He poked the stick in the flames and gave her a friendly but uncomfortable smile.

“What brings you out here?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded and looked like he very much wanted to say something else, but didn’t. He stood there for a moment. “I guess my stick’s burning.”

“I guess so.”

He pulled the stick out of the fire and returned to his own site. Rebecca watched him carefully as he stuck the burning stick underneath the pile of branches, setting the tinder on fire.

Nicholas could still be working with Alan and Stephen, but she believed that he was being forced into this, just like her. He had the appearance of somebody desperately wanting to blurt out a secret but not daring, not the appearance of somebody biding his time until the right moment to strike.

But what about Todd? Did the two men even know each other?

That’s what she needed to figure out. If Nicholas and Todd were both victims, then perhaps she could signal something to them. She had to be careful, because somebody could still be watching them from the woods, and the men could be bugged (hell, she could be bugged).

If Todd was one of the bad guys, then she had to be even more careful.

She sat on her log, watching them for a few minutes until their campfire was burning nicely. They both crouched next to the fire, warming their hands. “Hey,” Rebecca called out, getting their attention. “If you want to, you can take these other two logs to sit on, I’m not using them.”

“Thanks,” said Nicholas, walking over to her. Todd followed. Rebecca tightened her grip on the spear, still half-expecting them to lunge at her, but the men each picked up a log and returned to their camp. Only Nicholas thanked her.

They sat at their respective fires for a while, the two men speaking quietly. Rebecca couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Todd’s body language indicated a nervous rather than threatening tone, at least as far as she could tell.

She looked out at the woods. Nobody in sight.

What if Nicholas and Todd had no idea they were in physical danger?

She wanted Gary back more than anything, but could she live with herself if these men were slaughtered because she didn’t give them any kind of warning?

It was an awful quandary. Was the risk of getting caught breaking the rules worth just letting them die?

She stared into the fire, thinking.

Until she was more certain about Todd, she wasn’t going to take the risk. If she did decide that he could be trusted, she’d simply play it by ear. She wouldn’t be giving up on Gary by breaking the rules. After all, she still had to survive the night if he was going to be released, and she’d have a much better chance of doing that if she had Nicholas and Todd on her side.

There were enough spears for everyone.

She thought about the game. If she was supposed to be following Gary’s actions as closely as possible, then it stood to reason that both of the men were on her side. To match the original events, they needed a Gary, a Doug, and a Scott.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t count on that. She’d been alone in the bar, even though all three of them would have been there the first time around. At least, that’s what made the most sense. And she couldn’t imagine that any of them would have started a fight over football, so somebody in the bar would have been the instigator, meaning the kidnappers weren’t that anal-retentive about duplicating the events exactly.

Okay, even if one of them had started the fight, it definitely hadn’t been Gary. So she’d played either Doug or Scott’s role.

She could be playing one of their parts right now.

She could be the one whose blood covered the rocks. Maybe Nicholas was trying to save his wife.

She forced herself to stop analyzing the situation. It was just too confusing. All she had to do was figure out if Todd could be trusted then take it from there.

Rebecca stared at the fire some more, then came to a decision. She was going to let down her guard and go over and talk to them. See what she could figure out. Get to know them. If the three of them were going to survive whatever horrible events were going to take place, they had to at least start to form some kind of trust.

But, of course, she was going to bring the spears.

She tucked two of them under her arm, then picked up her log seat and walked over to their fire. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, of course not, sit down,” said Nicholas.

She set the log down by the fire but still out of reach of the men. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a long moment then Rebecca finally spoke. “If you’re here to help me, you’re not doing much by just sitting around.”

Nicholas glanced over at Todd, then back at her. “You’re right. We just, you know, thought you looked like you shouldn’t be alone.”

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Nicholas bit his lower lip and stared out at the trees. He was definitely not one of the bad guys, and if they could find a way to talk alone...

“So how long have you two known each other?” she asked Todd.

Todd shrugged. “About twenty years, I think.”

“Twenty years, that’s right,” said Nicholas.

“How’d you meet?”

“Our kids were beating each other up.”

“Actually,” Nicholas corrected, “my son was beating up your son.”

“Yeah, with a bat. Real fair fight there.”

“It was a cheap plastic bat.”

“We’ve been over this thousands of times. Even cheap plastic bats hurt when you whack somebody over the head with them. If your son had a halfway decent father, he’d know how to fight fair.”

Nicholas chuckled softly, and Rebecca smiled despite herself. The two men seemed to have genuine affection for each other. She wasn’t going to leap to any judgments, but she suspected that both of them had been forced into this. They were Doug and Scott.

They were meant to die.

She’d keep talking to them to get a more definite impression, but before long she’d have to take the risk and try to communicate about their situation. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to work out a plan, but they needed to know just how much danger they were in.

They chatted for a few more minutes about nothing important. Rebecca’s impression grew more solid. These men were either long-time friends or excellent actors.

“So Nicholas, do you like to fish?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“I found a really great spot,” she said, pointing toward the stained rocks. “You should take my pole and give it a couple tries, you’ll be surprised what you’ll catch.”

“Is that so? Maybe I’ll test it out a little later.”

“Why not test it now? Just a cast or two. It’s really great fishing.”

Nicholas nodded and stood up. “I thought I knew all the great spots in this pond,” he said, as if suddenly remembering his cover story.

He walked over to the pond and retrieved Rebecca’s fishing pole. He wandered over to the rocks, stood silently for a few seconds, then cast the line and reeled it in. He returned to the campfire, leaving the pole behind, and sat back down on his log, face pale.

“I guess you’re right,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Somebody cleaned one hell of a big fish over there.”

FIFTEEN

H aving company made the day go faster, even though they didn’t talk about anything important and left long stretches of silence in their conversations. Rebecca kept hoping that one of the men would take the initiative and try to discuss why they were really at the pond, but neither of them did, even when she tried to drop subtle hints.

Todd went over to “test the fishing spot” as well, and returned even paler than his friend. They both seemed disturbed, but neither seemed surprised. She couldn’t be sure how much they knew about the coming attractions, but they were both expecting to see blood.

She almost tried to write a message in the dirt with one of her spears, but at the last instant couldn’t bring herself to do it. If somebody was watching from the woods, it would be too obvious an attempt to break the rules.

So they just waited.

And then it was dark again.

* * *

“Is it an animal?”

“Yes,” said Rebecca.

“Is it a mammal?”

“Yes.”

Nicholas thought for a moment. “Is it native to Alaska?”

“Yes.”

“How many questions is that?”

“Only three.”

“Okay. Does it have hair?”

“All mammals have hair,” said Todd.

“Are you the one playing this?” Nicholas asked. “I’m pretty sure you’re not, but you’re more than welcome to correct me if I’m wrong.”

“All right, fine. If you want to embarrass yourself in front of the lady by being an ignoramus, that’s your choice.”

“Thank you.” Nicholas returned his attention to Rebecca. “The hair question doesn’t count, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Does it have fur?”

“Hold on a second,” said Todd, motioning for them to be quiet. “Did you hear that?”

They all fell silent. There was a quiet rustling coming from the woods, but it was no different from the other rustling they’d been hearing all evening.

“Another squirrel,” said Nicholas.

Todd listened for a moment longer, then nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Maybe we should just not talk anymore,” suggested Rebecca. “Keep as quiet as possible to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

“No, it’s not hurting anything for us to talk,” said Nicholas. “That’s the whole point of campfires, to sit around and talk.”

“Right,” said Todd.

“Maybe so,” Rebecca admitted, “but these aren’t exactly normal campfire conditions.”

“Sure they are. We’re all friends here by now, aren’t we? There’s nothing wrong with a group of friends sitting around the campfire enjoying a nice chat.” Nicholas glanced at his watch. “In fact, I think it’s just about time for campfire stories, what do you say? Have you heard ‘The Hook’?”

“Lots of times,” said Todd. “But you can tell it if you need to.”

“So there’s this boyfriend and girlfriend, and they’re out parking and up to no good. Then the radio says—”

There was a rustling in the woods, much louder than any of the others. It continued for ten full seconds, sounding like somebody was trying to shake down a tree.

“I’ll go check it out,” Todd said.

“No!” Rebecca told him. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll just go take a quick look. I’ll be fine.” Todd was breathing quickly. Nicholas placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“No, stay here,” Rebecca insisted. “It could be...it could be a bear or something.”

“I don’t think it’s a bear. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be back in a second.” Todd got to his feet.

“Please, don’t do it!” Rebecca stood up. “Stay here by the fire. Don’t go over there.”

“Really, I’ll be fine.” Todd forced a smile. “That’s why men exist, to investigate strange noises.”

Rebecca stepped over to him and grabbed his arm. “Don’t do it.”

“I have to,” said Todd, violently yanking his arm away.

“Just let him do what he needs to do,” Nicholas said, his voice filled with concern.

“You don’t know what’s out there!” Rebecca insisted.

“That’s why I’m going.” Todd took a deep breath then began to walk toward the woods.

“No, wait, at least take one of these,” said Rebecca, holding up a spear. Todd nodded and she tossed it to him. He continued walking.

Rebecca picked up another spear and the hook-laden shirt and then stood there, absolutely horrified. “Oh God...oh God...oh God...” she whispered under her breath.

The rustling started up again, continuing for another ten seconds.

Nicholas sat on his log, hand over his mouth. One of his knees was trembling. “Be careful,” he said, though not loud enough for Todd to hear.

Todd was about fifteen feet from the woods. He stopped for a moment, as if to work up his courage, then continued moving forward.

Rebecca’s muscles were tensed so tightly that she thought they might snap.

Todd was almost directly in front of the trees where the rustling came from.

There was a terrible shriek.

An animalistic, bloodthirsty shriek.

And then Alan burst out of the woods, arms outstretched, a hunting knife in each hand.

SIXTEEN

R ebecca screamed.

One of the knives struck Todd in the shoulder, while the other slashed across his upper chest. He cried out in pain, dropped his makeshift spear, and spun around, revealing his bloody wounds, the knife still lodged in his shoulder. Alan grabbed him by the back of the collar as Nicholas jumped to his feet and hurried forward.

Stephen rushed out of the woods, a few feet from where Alan had emerged. He held a shotgun. “Don’t move, either of you!” he shouted, pointing the weapon first at Nicholas, then at Rebecca.

Nicholas stopped, just as Alan yanked the knife out of Todd’s shoulder and pushed him to the ground. Nicholas raised the spear as if he were going to throw it, but apparently realized the futility of the gesture and returned to the campfire. Rebecca remained frozen where she stood.

“C’mon, get up,” said Alan, kicking Todd in the side. “I didn’t cut you that bad! Get the hell up!”

Stephen walked over to Rebecca and Nicholas, keeping the shotgun pointed at them and stopping about ten feet from the campfire. “Just let what’s going to happen happen, and you’ll live through the next few minutes.”

“Minutes?” asked Alan. He gave Todd another brutal kick, knocking the man on his back. “I was thinking hours, days, weeks, months, years! World record torture times! Yeah!” Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Scream all you want, bitch! Nobody’s gonna hear you out here!”

“You’ve got minutes,” Stephen informed him.

Alan tapped Todd gently on the face with the toe of his shoe. “Let’s go, get up, you heard the man, we’ve only got minutes!”

Todd groaned and made a weak effort to roll on his side. Alan gently tapped him on the face a couple more times, then started tapping his injured shoulder, and then stopped being gentle. Todd screamed in agony and took a swing at him.

“Oh, no, no, no...no fighting back,” said Alan. “I think that naughty hand needs to be taught a lesson. I think that naughty hand is going to get crushed underneath my shoe.”

He used his foot to roll Todd onto his back again then raised his heel high above Todd’s hand.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut and turned away.

“I think you should watch,” said Stephen. “Gary did.”

Rebecca didn’t open her eyes. She felt like she was going to pass out, throw up, and die of a heart attack all at once.

There was a gruesome crunch.

More screams from Todd.

Laughter from Alan.

Weeping from Nicholas.

“I mean it, I think you should watch,” Stephen told Rebecca. “I’ll pull the trigger if those eyes don’t open right the fuck now.”

Rebecca opened her eyes and turned her head. Through blurred vision she saw Alan grinding his heel back and forth over Todd’s hand, as the man howled in misery.

Alan began to howl, mimicking him.

“Knock that shit off,” said Stephen.

Alan stepped back and scraped his shoe off on the ground, cleaning it. “You in the mood for a fillet?” he asked Stephen. “Yeah, a nice meaty fillet sounds delicious right about now.” Alan crouched down next to Todd and rolled him on his stomach.

Then he began to use the knife on his back.

Rebecca’s body heaved with sobs. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t make it through this. Gary was going to die, and so was she.

“I’m gonna kill both of you, I swear it,” said Nicholas, his voice trembling with anger and terror.

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Stephen told him.

Alan continued to cut.

Rebecca’s body had lost all sensation, as if she were merely floating there, observing the events through barely focused vision. If Alan were to go to work on her back with his hunting knife, she probably wouldn’t feel a thing.

Todd, on the other hand, obviously felt a lot.

“Move ‘em out of the way,” said Alan, running his index finger along one of the wounds in Todd’s back and applying the blood to his own lips like lipstick. He made a kissy face at Rebecca. “I’m ready for the next step.”

Stephen nodded. “Both of you step away from there,” he told Rebecca and Nicholas. “He needs to use the fire.”

Oh God...

Rebecca’s point of view shifted, as if she were moving backwards. Her legs were responding to her brain’s commands even if she couldn’t feel them.

Nicholas stood firm.

“Step away,” Stephen warned.

Nicholas still stood there. He looked as if he was ready to rush at Stephen at any moment. Stephen slowly shook his head.

“I can’t emphasize strongly enough the need for you to step away from the fire,” he said, speaking at a near-shout to be heard over Todd’s wails of pain. “If you make us deviate from the plan, we will splatter you!”

“You already left the plan!” said Nicholas. He pointed at Rebecca. “She was supposed to die, not Todd!”

Stephen shrugged and grinned. “Well, you were given a slightly different version of the schedule. Sorry about that.”

“What about my son?” Nicholas asked.

“If you don’t move away, you’ll never know, will you? But I bet you can figure it out.”

Nicholas backed away from the fire, walking over to where Rebecca stood, about ten feet away.

Alan put one knife between his teeth, slammed the other into Todd’s injured shoulder for safekeeping, and then grabbed Todd under the arms and began to drag him toward the campfire.

“Please...please don’t...” Todd begged.

“Should’ve asked sooner,” Alan informed him.

Once Todd was lying beside the fire, Alan crouched down next to him and picked up his good hand by the wrist. “I bet you thought that your crushed hand was getting the worse deal, didn’t you?” Alan asked, thrusting Todd’s hand into the flames.

All sensation suddenly returned to Rebecca’s body as if she’d been given a blast of electroshock therapy. She pitched forward and vomited.

“Stop squirming,” Alan said, punching Todd in the face.

Rebecca fell to her knees, coughing and heaving. She looked over at the campfire and saw Todd frantically struggling, thrashing with such intensity that Alan was having difficulty keeping his hand in the fire.

“Damn, this guy’s a lot feistier than Doug was!” Alan said, bashing Todd’s face against the ground. “Shitload of energy for an old guy! It’s not gonna be easy to drag him over to the pond!”

“Screw it, then. Just kill him.”

“No!” Nicholas shouted.

“Sounds good to me,” said Alan. “I thought we missed a great opportunity when we just bashed Doug’s face on the rocks.”

He grabbed the back of Todd’s head, and then thrust his face into the fire.

Rebecca slammed her hand over her mouth. She was going to go insane. Right now. Her mind was going to collapse upon itself until there was nothing left.

“Ow! Fuck!” Alan pulled his hand away from the fire, but quickly recovered and shoved Todd’s head back into the flames. Todd’s hair had completely caught fire, and Rebecca could see the skin blistering and blackening.

“End it,” said Stephen.

Alan slammed the hunting knife into the back of Todd’s neck. He gave it a good twist, and then Todd’s body went limp.

“Poor Todd,” said Stephen. “And poor Doug.”

Alan dragged Todd out of the fire. He stood up, and then kicked his head a few times to put out the flames.

“I’ll kill you,” said Nicholas.

“Didn’t we just hear that?” Stephen asked. “No, Nicholas, you most certainly will not kill us. Now would you like to know what happened to your son?”

Nicholas nodded.

“I scalped him,” said Alan. “Scalped him good. Wanna see it?”

“Enough,” said Stephen. “Your son is fine. We never touched him. All of those scary, convincing details I gave? Those came from stalking him as a potential victim, but we were presented with a much better opportunity and took it.”

“Don’t you feel like a dumb-ass?” asked Alan. “You got your best buddy killed and your son was never in danger. That’s gotta suck.”

Nicholas’ expression was blank, unreadable.

“Anyway, Nicholas,” said Stephen, “let me quickly bring you up to speed. Rebecca’s husband Gary went out camping with his two friends Doug and Scott, and we’re currently reenacting that fateful night. As you’ve seen, Doug died a horrible death—not in the exact same way, but close enough. Guess what happened next?”

Nicholas said nothing.

“Go on, guess. You too, Rebecca. Tell me what you think happened next.”

Rebecca was surprised that she was even able to speak. “You murdered Scott?”

“Wow. That’s morbid. What do you think, Nicholas?”

Nicholas just shook his head and was silent.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to play. This is really Rebecca’s game. Anyway, no, we did not murder Scott yet. What happened is that Alan was splashing around in Doug’s corpse, and I have to admit that I was a little distracted, and then suddenly Gary and Scott made a run for it. We found ourselves chasing them through the woods toward their car. Gary made it. Let’s see if you can.”

He lowered his shotgun.

“The car is that way,” he said, pointing. “Go. You get a ten second head start.”

SEVENTEEN

R ebecca ran toward the darkness of the woods.

A second later, she heard Nicholas follow her.

Though it had been a long time since she’d allowed herself to believe that this all might be some sort of twisted prank, it was still a shock to see—beyond any possible doubt—that the danger was real. They’d murdered Todd right in front of her.

She ran as fast as she could. She was running almost blind, and it would only take a minor piece of bad luck to strike a branch, hit the ground, and shatter her kneecap, but she had to move. Had to beat Stephen and Alan to the car. Had to make it to the next round of this psychotic game.

She could hear Alan behind her, counting out loud. He was at five. “...four...three...two...”

Technically, she didn’t have to run toward the car. She could run in a completely different direction and try to save herself, escape from these maniacs, call the cops like she probably should have done in the first place.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Not a chance. She wasn’t going to abandon her husband. If it meant that they died together, so be it, but there was no way in hell that Rebecca was going to leave Gary to the kind of fate that befell his friend.

“...one...”

She picked up her pace even more. It was only a mile. She could make it.

“Ready or not, here we come!”

A flashlight beam darted across the trees.

Shit! They had lights. She shouldn’t have expected them to dash around in the dark, but still...it would’ve been nice...

Nicholas was right behind her, gasping for breath as he ran.

He needed to take a different path. Every indication was that Scott had died an excruciatingly painful death, possibly worse than Doug, and if Nicholas followed her to the car he’d suffer in the same way. If he veered away into the woods at least he’d have a chance.

“Don’t follow—” Rebecca said, just as the dirt gave way beneath her left foot. It was just a bit, barely an inch, but enough for her to pitch forward onto the ground. She landed hard, and pain shot through her ankle and her hand at the same time.

Nicholas ran past her then stopped.

“Just go!” she shouted. “Get out of here!”

He looked back and forth between Rebecca and the flashlight beams, cursed, and then ran.

She suddenly realized why her hand hurt so badly: she’d been clenching the shirt in her fist when she fell, and several of the hooks had gone through her palm. One of them had gone all the way through the webbing between her thumb and index finger.

As she quickly stood back up, a wave of pain coursed through her right foot.

No. She could not have a sprained ankle. Not now. She tried to run, but nearly lost her balance and had to jam the spear into the ground to keep from toppling over.

One of the flashlight beams focused directly on her. No, not a flashlight beam—Alan wore a strapped-on headlamp. He stopped running and walked up to her almost casually. The smug bastard had a wide grin as he held up his bloody hunting knife.

“Gary didn’t trip,” he said. “Too bad for you.”

Rebecca slapped him in the face.

It hurt like hell, almost as if her palm had been torn off, but Alan hadn’t expected that move and she got him good, right on the left cheek. He cried out and clutched at his face.

Now what? Run or lunge at him with the spear?

To her great surprise, her first instinct was to lunge at the fucker with the spear. She aimed for his eye, but didn’t come close. The spear struck him in the shoulder but didn’t break through his jacket. Though it didn’t draw blood, it was still a good hit. Alan lost his balance and fell to the ground. His headlamp popped off.

Rebecca hoisted the spear above her head. There was nothing in the rules saying she couldn’t slam a sharp stick right into his cranium. That would still leave Stephen alive to take her to Gary.

“Drop it!” said Stephen. Rebecca glanced over and saw him standing about twenty feet away. He also wore a headlamp, leaving his hands free to point the shotgun at her.

As Alan sat up, Stephen lowered the weapon and shook his head, looking disgusted. “Screw it. You two work this out. I’m going after Nicholas.” He ran past them.

Alan wiped some blood from his face and held up the knife. “I’m giving you another ten second head start,” he said, with no trace of the sadistic playfulness he’d demonstrated before. “You think you can beat me with that stick?”

No. She did not.

But she also couldn’t outrun him with an injured foot.

She swung the stick again, this time swinging it like a golf club. It cracked against the side of his head and then snapped in two.

* * *

Alan screamed without shame as the stick broke against his left ear. He wasn’t sure why this kind of thing hurt so much worse when his skin was cold, but it felt like a horsewhip lashing against his frozen ear.

The bitch had taken him by surprise twice in, what, fifteen seconds?

His mistake was obvious: he’d assumed that she’d behave like a chickenshit. Clearly she would dare to attack him, which was insane! Did she really think that a pudgy out-of-shape girl like her could beat him? Ripping up his face a little bit and hurting his ear wasn’t going to put him out of commission. It was just going to make him mad. Really, really mad.

He was only supposed to go after her with about seventy-five percent of his usual effort, but screw that. If she was so tough, let her prove it without him pulling his punches.

A shotgun blast rang out.

Nicholas screamed. A lot of pain in that scream. Stephen had probably hit an extremity.

Another blast.

Alan slashed at Rebecca with the knife, but missed as she snatched up his headlamp and took off running. Crap! He pushed himself to his feet and went after her.

* * *

Rebecca’s foot really ached, but it wasn’t injured badly enough to keep her from running, so she might just live through this. Alan and Stephen’s plan probably hadn’t involved her getting a hold of the light. Alan would be able to see exactly where she was, but even with a hurt foot she thought she could probably outrun him if he couldn’t see the path or the branches. She held the light out in front of her, shining it onto the ground as she ran.

Nicholas was wailing. Rebecca could see Stephen’s light—he was about fifty feet ahead, but it looked like they’d gone off the path.

“Please!” Nicholas shouted. “Please don’t!”

What could Rebecca do? Stephen had a shotgun. She didn’t even have her stick anymore.

As she continued running, she saw Stephen standing over Nicholas, popping two more shells into the weapon. He looked surprised to see that it was her with the headlamp. Then he looked...amused? He gave her a light wave and then snapped the shotgun shut and pointed it down at Nicholas.

She couldn’t save him.

There was just no way.

She let out a sob as she kept running.

“Help me!” Nicholas screamed. “Please somebody help me!”

His scream was cut off by a third shotgun blast.

Don’t think about it, Rebecca told herself. It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. They had no intention of letting him live.

Was that true? Had they murdered Scott with a shotgun as well?

“I’m comin’ to getcha!” Alan called out behind her. “Gonna cut ya up good!”

Her heart gave a jolt, but Rebecca didn’t pick up her pace. She couldn’t risk tripping. Let him be the one to trip, if he wanted to run in the dark. There were plenty of obstacles on the path.

Something swished past her head.

“Dammit!” Alan shouted.

He’d thrown his knife and missed.

Go for the knife or keep running? Go for the knife or keep running? Choose quick, choose quick, choose quick...

She kept running. The car wasn’t that much further away, and Alan would waste valuable seconds finding the knife himself.

A light beam shone across the path in front of her. Stephen was coming after her, too.

He wouldn’t blow her away with the shotgun, would he?

Her good foot landed on a thick root, but she didn’t stumble. Her lungs burned and it was becoming hard to breathe—she didn’t do much running in her daily life—yet she didn’t slow her pace. She could do this. She wasn’t going to stop.

“Gonna cut your head off!” Alan shouted. “I’m gonna jam my hand up your neck and work you like a goddamn ventriloquist’s dummy!”

He was losing it. Good.

Up ahead, she could see the car. She was going to make it, just like Gary had!

Stephen’s light continued to shine in front of her, though he didn’t emerge from the woods. She had no doubt that he could beat her in an even race, but he was on uneven terrain and if she could only make it another thirty seconds—

“You’re dead!” Alan sounded much closer than she’d anticipated. Why the hell couldn’t he just trip and break a leg?

She kept running.

Now she could see Stephen, just ahead of her, moving toward the path, shotgun raised.

She wasn’t going to let either of them beat her. Not a chance in hell.

How did this even work once she reached the car? Did she just touch it and call “Base!” They certainly weren’t going to let her get inside and drive away.

Stephen was almost to the path.

It looked like they might even collide.

Rebecca pushed herself into a full-out sprint, the kind she hadn’t done since dropping out of soccer in high school. Stephen stepped out onto the path, but he was too late. She rushed out to the clearing and over to Gary’s car.

She tugged at the door handle. Locked.

“Very well done,” said Stephen, walking out into the clearing. Alan followed a few moments later, looking incredibly pissed. “Gary would be proud.”

Rebecca leaned against the car, barely able to catch her breath. “Now what?”

“Now you drop to your knees.”

“Why?”

Stephen pointed the shotgun at her. “Because I said so! Do you really want to get this far and make me blow your head off?”

Rebecca got down on her knees. Stephen walked over to her and pressed the barrel of the shotgun against her forehead.

“This is where we were going to murder Gary. But, like I said, he made a plea for his life that managed to touch the heart of even a sociopath like myself. It’s time for you to do the same. Make it good.”

EIGHTEEN

T he shotgun barrel was like frostbite against her forehead.

“Fuck this up,” said Alan. “Please, fuck this up so I can use my knife.”

“Shut up,” Stephen told him. “Go on, Rebecca. Impress me.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. If she couldn’t see the men, couldn’t see the shotgun, she just might be able to get through this. “You can’t kill me,” she said. “Gary and I need each other. I...I need him to tell me that I don’t look fat, and he needs me to rub his shoulders after he gets back from playing racquetball. I need—”

“Do you really think I care if you think you look fat?” Stephen asked. “Try a different angle.”

“I love him,” Rebecca said. “I don’t think I could live without him.”

“I think you could live just fine. For all you know, he’s been dead all weekend, and you’re still alive.”

“You’re fucking uuuup,” said Alan.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes even more tightly closed. What did they want from her? What could Gary have said?

“We’re soul mates.”

“I don’t believe in soul mates.”

“Please, you can’t kill him. I’m begging you.” Rebecca’s whole body was quivering and she didn’t try to stop the tears. “He’s everything in my world. I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, and you’ve got to at least let me see him one last time. One more time. That’s all I’m asking. You owe me that.”

“No,” said Stephen. “I don’t owe you a thing. And you’re begging for me to spare the wrong life, because right now I feel like showering your hubby with pieces of you. That’s what we’ll do. Pour a barrel of Rebecca parts over his head. How does that sound?”

“If you want to kill me, then kill me. Just don’t hurt him.”

“Open your eyes.”

Rebecca opened them.

“Say that again.”

“If you want to kill me, then kill me. Please don’t hurt Gary.”

“You look genuine. I’ll be damned. You’d actually rather we kill you than your husband?”

“Yes.”

Stephen glanced over at Alan. “You believe her?”

“She sounds like she’s telling the truth. Which makes her a fucking idiot, because I guarantee you, after three seconds she’d be wishing it was Gary under my knife instead of her. Three seconds. We should test that.”

“We should, but we’re not.” Stephen looked back down at Rebecca. “So you’re willing to give up your life for his, huh? Very admirable. Very courageous. Unfortunately, it’s not what I’m looking for. You get one more try. If your answer doesn’t convince me that you should live, well, you’re not going to.”

“I—I don’t know what you—”

“Think carefully before you speak.”

What was she supposed to say? What could change Stephen’s mind? What did he want to hear?

“Think carefully but quickly,” Stephen said. “You have ten seconds.”

As he began the countdown, she suddenly realized what it must be.

“If you kill me, you won’t get to end the game.”

“Killing you would end the game.”

“But you planned out an endgame, right? If you kill me here, you’ll have wasted the time preparing it.”

Stephen considered that. “You have a point. But it’s not the point I’m looking for. We’ll forget you said that and give you one more chance.”

“Oh, c’mon!” said Alan. “I’m getting blue balls here!”

“I said shut up. Don’t think I won’t turn the gun on you. And, yeah, Rebecca, we do have an endgame planned, but I guarantee you we won’t cry ourselves to sleep if we have to abandon it. We’ll be just fine. No more free answers. Convince me to let you live.”

She had no idea what he wanted. What could she possibly say to make a pair of psychos like Stephen and Alan believe that they shouldn’t kill her? What did they value? They didn’t care that she and Gary were deeply in love, and they didn’t care about the sacrifices they were willing to make for each other. What would a couple of sleazy murdering scumbags feel was lost if she or Gary was killed?

“The sex is unbelievable,” she said. “Please don’t take it away from us. I’ll never get laid like that again.”

Stephen pulled the barrel of the shotgun away from her head.

“I can respect that. Alan, unlock the car. Let’s take her to see Gary.”

* * *

They put a cloth sack over her head and then put her in the back seat of Gary’s car. The drive was only about five minutes, but they let her out of the car only to usher her into the trunk of the car that Alan had first used to kidnap her.

This was a much longer, colder drive.

She tried to feel relief, but couldn’t. She’d still seen their faces. Still knew their names. And for all she knew, Gary had been murdered hours ago. His body could be facedown in the woods, being devoured by bears.

But...this is where Gary’s night had ended, right? Convincing Stephen not to kill him? She’d relived his entire experience, and survived, and if they were playing fairly the only step left was to take her to her husband and set them both free.

Maybe they’d do it. Maybe this was over.

It was difficult to judge the time, but the drive had to be over an hour before the car finally came to a stop. She’d slowly passed much of the time by carefully removing the fishing hooks from her hand. The trunk lid flew open, and she was greeted by the unpleasant yet familiar sight of Stephen’s shotgun.

“Get out carefully,” he said. “Don’t mess it up now.”

She climbed out of the trunk. They were still in the woods, and she recognized the cabin—it was the same one they’d been in before.

“Is he inside?” she asked.

“Could be. Could be underneath. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

She slowly walked toward the cabin. Alan opened the door for her, and then gestured with his hunting knife for her to go inside. She did.

The main room was empty.

“Take off your jacket and then sit down,” Alan said, pulling a wooden chair into the center of the room.

“You have to promise me I’ll see Gary.”

Alan shrugged. “Fine. I promise.”

Rebecca took off her jacket, tossed it on the floor, and sat down in the chair. Alan walked over to a small shelf and picked up a roll of duct tape. While Stephen kept the shotgun on her, Alan looped the tape around her ankles, taping them to the legs of the chair, and then did the same to her wrists, taping them to the armrests.

“Your husband,” said Stephen, “is in the next room.”

“Is he...is he alive?”

Stephen stared at her for a moment with absolutely no expression, and then nodded. “Yes, he is. Congratulations, Rebecca. Gary had a terrible weekend, and you had one that was almost as bad. I’ll give Gary the edge because he had more of a personal connection with the people we murdered, and because we beat the shit out of him, but still, you two have a lot of common experiences to talk about.”

“So bring him out.”

“Can’t do that quite yet. Now, I said that you had to relive his experience, see what he saw, do what he did, and survive it. You did that. The only problem is...his experience isn’t over yet.”

“I don’t understand,” said Rebecca, even though she did, completely.

“Which one do you want?” Stephen asked Alan.

“The girl.”

“No surprise there. So, Rebecca, I’ve always believed that the best way to bring a couple closer together is for them to be cut up at the same time. We’re going to test that theory.”

Stephen walked out of the main room, through a doorway. Alan wiggled his eyebrows at Rebecca and kissed the blade of his knife.

“Is the gag off yet?” Alan asked.

“Not yet.”

“Hurry up.”

“I’ll pick the pace, asshole. Okay, now it’s off.”

“Rebecca!”

It was Gary! His voice was strained, as if he had laryngitis, but he was alive!

“Gary! I love you so much!”

“Are you okay? Did they hurt—?”

There was a loud thump, and Gary went silent.

“No talking!” shouted Stephen from the other room. “You can scream but you can’t talk. The first person to use an actual word loses an eye.”

“Go on,” Alan urged. “Use a word. Say something. Let’s empty that socket.”

“Are you ready, Alan?” asked Stephen.

“Oh, hell yeah.”

“Then let’s make the first cut.”

NINETEEN

A lan pushed the sleeve of Rebecca’s sweater up over her elbow. Then he touched the tip of the knife against the back of her arm.

“Does that hurt?” he asked.

Rebecca didn’t answer.

“Can’t get you to use a word that easily, huh? No problem. That eyeball is coming out one way or another. But for now...”

Very slowly, he pulled the knife down her arm, parting the skin, leaving a red trail down to the back of her wrist.

In the other room, Gary grunted with pain.

“Sounds like Stephen is going deeper than I am,” said Alan. “We’ll fix that with the next one.”

“You done?” Stephen asked.

“Yep. Let’s do the other arm.”

Alan pushed up her sleeve then held his index finger in front of his lips in an exaggerated “Shhh!” gesture. “Don’t tell anybody,” he whispered, “but I’m going to cheat a bit.”

He placed his hand over her hook-torn hand, winked, and then squeezed his fingers tightly closed. Rebecca cried out.

“Damn, Alan! What are you doing out there?” Stephen asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” He then proceeded to cut Rebecca’s arm the same way he had the other one, except that he did indeed cut deeper this time. Rebecca sucked in a deep breath through her gritted teeth but didn’t scream.

She could get through this. It was just physical pain. Probably not as bad as the pain of having a baby, which they would do for goddamn sure if they survived this ordeal.

“Both arms are leaking bad,” Alan announced.

“Time for the neck, then.”

“Oooooh, the neck.” Alan placed the tip of his blade just under Rebecca’s ear. “I’m going to cut you ear to ear. I hope not to sever any important veins or arteries, but a lot of that will depend on you. Be very, very still. Do not move. We’re not equipped to help you if blood starts gushing out of your jugular, so be a statue. Understand?”

She stared straight ahead, focusing on a pinpoint spot in the center of Alan’s chest, as he slowly drew the blade across her throat. He wasn’t cutting deep, probably nothing more than a superficial wound, though she could feel at least two trickles of blood running down her neck.

Don’t move...don’t move...

Her ears were ringing and she wanted to throw back her head and just shriek like an animal, but she didn’t. She remained frozen.

Alan stopped right in the center of her neck. “Does it hurt?”

Still frozen.

He resumed cutting.

Rebecca’s mind was in a state of absolute panic, and she wasn’t breathing, not even through her nose, but she didn’t give in to the terror. Alan slid the blade all the way up to her other ear then held it up to her, showing her the bloody edge.

“She’s still alive,” he said to Stephen.

“No corpse here, either. I’ll bring him out.”

There was a loud screech, and then a few moments later Stephen dragged Gary, duct-taped to his own chair, out of the other room.

Lines of blood ran down his neck and his arms, and the side of his face was bruised so badly that he was barely recognizable, but he was still alive. She’d get to hold him again. Share a bed with him again. She knew it. They were going to get out of this.

“The eyeball gouging threat is lifted for one minute,” said Stephen, looking down at his wristwatch. “Say what you need to say.”

“God, Rebecca, I’m so sorry!” said Gary. “I’m so sorry you got pulled into this!”

“It’s not your fault! I love you!”

“I love you too!”

“I promise you, we’re going to live,” said Rebecca. “We can endure whatever they try to put us through! Just stay strong! We can’t come this far only to die, so just promise me you’ll stay strong!”

“Has it been a fucking minute yet?” asked Alan.

Gary was sobbing. “I can’t believe you did this for me. I love you.”

Alan pretended to jam a finger down his throat. “Come on, Stephen, I don’t want to hear this bullshit.”

Stephen kept his eye on his watch. “They still have time.”

Rebecca had nothing else to say. Not in front of these two. She’d save it for when they were together, alone. She mouthed I love you and went silent.

“That’s it?” Stephen asked. “All right, you two lovebirds. I’m glad you got your final words out of the way. They say that love is blind, and we’re going to find out if that is true, because now, we are indeed going to stab out your eyes. Both of them.”

Alan chuckled. “And then we’re going to cut out your tongues. Not many people get the opportunity to french kiss from across the room.”

“They sure don’t,” said Stephen. “Now trade me.”

“What?”

“Trade me.”

“Fuck that. She’s mine.”

“No. She is not.”

Alan looked as if he were going to argue then shrugged. “Fine. I can stab out a man’s eyes as well as a woman’s, I guess. When we get to nipples, we’re trading back.”

They switched places. Stephen stood in front of Rebecca and clenched his own knife tightly in his fist.

“You’re not going to let us live, are you?” she asked.

Stephen shook his head. “Nope. But do you know why I wanted to trade?”

“No.”

“Because though my friend is a torture-happy fiend, I am not. I’m all talk. So Gary is going to suffer, but I’m going to put you out of your misery. Do you want to tell him you love him one more time?”

“Not in front of you.”

“That’s totally understandable.” He leaned down close to her, his face inches away from hers. “I’d like to let you two die together, but I’m not a fan of romantic endings. This isn’t tragedy. This is horror. Gary is going to be screaming for a long time after you’re gone. Good night.”

He slammed the knife into her chest.

She barely felt it.

TWENTY

I t seemed like a sweet mercy to be detached from all sensation, as when she’d watched Todd go into the fire, but it would be leaving Gary behind.

She couldn’t leave Gary behind until she was dead.

She wasn’t dead yet.

Right now, she was alive, with a knife jutting out of her chest, and Stephen’s head only inches away from her own.

She slammed her forehead into his face as hard as she could, not caring if she shattered her skull and sent pieces of her brain flying across the room. She might not be able to get out of this alive, but she could sure as hell make him regret ever kidnapping her.

Stephen let out a howl—an actual howl—and stumbled away as blood jettisoned from his nostrils. He’d pulled the knife most of the way out, though the blade remained lodged a couple of inches deep into her chest.

“God damn it!” he screamed, hands over his nose.

Alan seemed to think that was absolutely hysterical. He let out a long, loud laugh. “Oh, man, she really messed you up. Need a towel?”

“No, I don’t need a fucking towel!” Stephen used both hands to wipe blood from his face onto his shirt. “I think she broke it.”

“Not a bad guess from all the blood.”

Rebecca’s hands and feet were taped, but her torso wasn’t, so she thrust it back and forth several times. The knife dropped out of her chest and onto her lap. Her chest was bleeding, but not nearly as bad as Stephen’s nose.

Gary saw that she’d freed the knife, and began to slam back against his chair, trying to topple it over. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: create another distraction.

“What the hell are you doing?” Alan asked, stepping behind him and smacking Gary on the back of the head.

Rebecca couldn’t lift her knees much, but it was enough. She grabbed the knife by the blade, twisted it around in her fingers, and went to work cutting through the duct tape that bound her wrist. It was a good, sharp knife.

Gary jerked himself to the side, toppling over his chair. The chair didn’t break apart and Gary wasn’t in a much better position than before, but Alan was looking at him instead of Rebecca.

She cut through most of the tape then yanked her hand free.

Stephen was still staggering around the room, hands pressed tightly against his face, bellowing in agony. If only a bone fragment had shot into his brain.

“You think you’re gonna get away from me like that?” asked Alan, kicking Gary in the chest. “Is that what you think? You think you’re gonna get a less painful death?”

Rebecca slashed through the duct tape binding her swollen, bloody hand, cutting through the skin in the process, and then went to work on her feet.

Alan kicked Gary so hard that Rebecca thought she heard his ribs crack, and then he realized what Rebecca was doing with the knife. She freed her left foot.

Alan strode across the room toward her, holding his own knife in front of him. As he passed Stephen, he smacked him hard on the shoulder. “Snap out of it! It’s just a broken nose, for fuck’s sake!”

Rebecca’s hand was trembling so badly that she could almost feel the bones rattle, but she cut through the last piece of tape.

She leapt out of the chair like a wild animal. She didn’t care that Alan had a knife—she had one, too. If she hesitated, if she was the least bit squeamish or frightened, she’d be dead. So would Gary. Her husband was lying right there on the other side of the room, and God damn it she was going to get him back.

She lunged at him with her knife at the exact moment that he swung his toward her face.

His blade slashed across her chin.

Her blade punched into his throat.

Alan grabbed his neck and gasped as if he were choking to death. His eyes went wide and blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

Rebecca picked up her chair, which felt weightless, and smashed it into him, knocking him to the floor.

Stephen ran at her.

As adrenaline fired through her veins, she swung the chair at him as well. Stephen held up his arm to defend himself, and it snapped on impact, a jagged bone bursting right through the sleeve of his jacket.

With the next swing, his jaw caved in.

He went down.

She bashed the chair into him one more time, and Stephen stopped moving.

There was no time to relax. She picked up Stephen’s knife, hurried over to Gary, and gave him a big kiss on the lips. He winced in pain but kissed her back.

She cut one of his hands free then started on the other, but he shook his head.

“No, no, I can do it. You find a phone. You’re bleeding really bad.”

She looked down at her chest and realized that he was right. It was a ghastly stab wound. But she wasn’t going to die from it. There was a hospital stay in both of their futures, but they weren’t going to die.

Though she didn’t want to resort to primal savagery, she couldn’t have Alan attacking her while she was trying to search him for a phone. Three more bashes with the chair eliminated that possibility. Stephen was still breathing, but he was unconscious and no threat. If he did look like he might become a threat, she still had the chair.

She found a cell phone in his pocket; it had a signal.

She dialed 911.

* * *

They decided that it was better to wait for the authorities to pinpoint the cell phone signal than to risk getting lost trying to drive out of the woods, or passing out at the wheel of a moving vehicle. So they sat against the wall, holding each other.

“Did you really get into a bar fight?” she asked.

“Scott did,” Gary admitted. “It was really stupid. We chewed him out the entire way to the campsite.” He chuckled then winced. “I hope I didn’t puncture a lung.”

“So Scott and Doug are both dead?”

Gary gave her a sad nod. “Yeah.” He wiped at his eyes. “I had no idea what those psychos wanted. They asked me all kinds of questions about what we’d done that day but they didn’t say why they needed to know. I kept waiting for them to kill me. I was just...I was completely freaking out the entire time. I can’t believe you rescued me.”

“And now you’re never allowed to leave me again.”

Gary kissed her cheek. “Never.”

* * *

They saw the flashing lights of the ambulance, and then the cabin was filled with paramedics and police officers. They lifted Rebecca onto a stretcher, assuring her that she was going to be all right.

As two cops raised Stephen’s mangled body, he opened his eyes and shrieked in pain.

“You bitch!” he said. He sounded like he was trying to shout but his voice wasn’t working right. “I’ll find you! I’ll hunt you down, and...” He coughed up some blood, and then shrieked out again as the cops lifted him onto his own stretcher, none too gently. “I’ll find you,” he repeated, and then he succumbed to pathetic sobbing.

Rebecca looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

“You don’t scare me.”

- The End -

KUTTER

ONE

C harlie Stanlon held the dead woman and wept.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He’d been careful, like always. He’d applied antiseptic and bandaged each cut right after he made it, and he hadn’t cut her anyplace where she should’ve bled to death. Though her nude body was covered with dozens of bandages, she should’ve been his for at least another week.

But, no, she’d just given up. After the first few slashes, she’d barely even struggled.

Charlie walked away from the bloodstained metal table, to the other side of the basement, and tried to compose himself. Crying over this was ridiculous. He was forty-two, not a little kid who’d broken his toy airplane. He grabbed a rag from the crooked shelf he’d installed himself and wiped his eyes.

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic.

Charlie forced himself to shrug. “Oh well,” he said out loud. “These things happen. Can’t win ‘em all. That’s life in the big city for you.”

He glanced back at the corpse. He could pretend she was still alive. Pretend she could feel the new cuts. Pretend she was so petrified with fear that she’d slipped into a catatonic state where she could see everything, feel everything, yet couldn’t make a sound or move a muscle, even though she was screaming inside of her brain.

No. He’d just be cutting up a dead woman. That was no good. There was no satisfaction there—he’d simply be making a mess.

He felt the tears start to form again, and bit down on the sides of his mouth—hard—to keep them from flowing. It didn’t work. But at least the pain made him feel a little bit better about crying.

Charlie sat in the corner on the cement floor, and silently wept. It wasn’t fair. Nine hours. He’d only had her for nine hours.

Maybe this one wouldn’t count. If he had less than a day with her, she shouldn’t count. That made sense.

No.

No, no, no.

He had a rule: one every two months. No more. Not ever.

It was always somebody who wouldn’t be missed. She was homeless and usually a junkie, although he preferred it when she wasn’t on drugs. He could barely even imagine the euphoria if he were given the chance to cut somebody healthy and attractive—maybe even one of his co-workers—but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in jail. He had to be cautious. And that meant no more than one victim every two months, even if one died prematurely.

He’d just have to figure out a way to make it through the next few weeks.

* * *

Alicia dropped the papers into Charlie’s in-box. He didn’t look away from his computer monitor until she’d walked back to her desk.

He picked up the stack of papers and sighed with frustration. She’d stapled them in the top center. She was supposed to staple them in the top left, so that he could easily fold the papers over when he was photocopying them. He quickly typed an e-mail to Bob Testiro, his supervisor, explaining the issue once again and requesting that he send out a note to the department to remind everybody of the proper procedure.

He flipped through the pages and sighed again. She hadn’t written the customer report date on the balance adjustment form. Charlie sent another note to Bob to inform him of the situation.

A few minutes later, Alicia walked back to his desk. “You know, I sit in the next row,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Instead of trying to get me in trouble, you could’ve just asked me to write in the date.”

“I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble.”

“It took more effort to get Bob involved than it would have to come to me directly.”

“Okay.” Without looking Alicia in the eye, Charlie took the papers out of his in-box and handed them to her.

“Did I do something to piss you off?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Charlie didn’t respond. He looked back at his monitor and silently pleaded for her to leave him alone. If she’d done it right the first time, he wouldn’t have to bother anyone, and nobody would have to bother him. It was just a staple and a date. Not that hard to remember. She’d been working here three weeks; it wasn’t like today was her first day.

Alicia scribbled on the form and put it back in his in-bin. But she didn’t leave.

“Charlie?”

“Hmm?”

“Look at me.”

Charlie reluctantly turned to face her. She was a couple of years younger than him, as far as he could tell. Not model pretty or actress pretty, but her beauty still made him nervous. She had curly red hair that went down to her shoulders, and freckles. Lots of freckles.

“We have to spend nine or ten hours a day in this place,” she said. “So why don’t we try to make it a pleasant work environment?”

“Okay.”

“If you have an issue with me, bring it to me first, all right? If you’re still not happy, then take it up a level. We’re supposed to be partners, not adversaries.”

Charlie nodded. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone?

She stood there for an excruciatingly long moment, as if waiting for him to continue their conversation. He had nothing to say. Finally she left.

* * *

Charlie sat in his basement, staring at the empty table. He’d disposed of the dead woman in what he liked to call the Body Pond four days ago. She should still be alive and thrashing around in front of him. He had no idea how he was going to make it all the way to September 24th, the day he was allowed to stalk his next victim. He’d go insane.

She really shouldn’t count. If they died in less than twenty-four hours it shouldn’t count. Otherwise it wasn’t fair. Just not fair.

He closed his eyes and lightly rapped his head against the basement wall. This wasn’t about fairness. This was about being careful. He’d go hunting every week if he knew he wouldn’t get caught, but after claiming his first victim three years ago in what had been the greatest single moment of his life, he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t get greedy. Wouldn’t get sloppy. One kill every other month.

The schedule had always worked out well. It gave him something to look forward to. But after getting ripped off so badly this time, he wasn’t sure he could wait for the next one, especially because he rarely found somebody the first night of a hunt. It usually took a couple of days of searching to find a suitable victim where there’d be no witnesses and little chance of injury. Sometimes it took more than a week.

He couldn’t break the rules. He’d created them for a reason.

Yet...if he thought about this logically, which was more dangerous? Seeking another victim sooner than planned, or waiting until he was so desperate and frantic that he made a mistake? If he went now, he’d still be in top mental and physical form. In a few weeks, he might be like one of those twitching junkies he sometimes killed.

Yes, waiting was far more dangerous. He’d have to be a complete fool to wait. And since he hadn’t been caught in three years, Charlie Stanlon knew he was no fool.

He’d begin the new hunt tonight.

* * *

As Charlie walked down the sidewalk, his heart raced with excitement yet he was also sick to his stomach with dread. As always, he knew that this could be the one that went bad. He could end up in jail, or lying on the street with a knife in his belly, or strapped to a metal table in somebody else’s basement. He shuddered at the thought of the things he did to the women happening to him.

He wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a matching gray shirt, specifically chosen to be nondescript. The clothing was hotter than he’d prefer during the summer, even at night. But though Charlie wasn’t obese, he was a couple dozen pounds overweight, and he figured he’d be more memorable to possible witnesses in shorts.

It wasn’t a good evening. Too many people hanging out in groups. There was one potential: a middle-aged woman huddled on the bench at a bus stop, trying in vain to light a cigarette butt that had no tobacco left. Charlie watched her for a few minutes, then decided that she could be carrying a can of pepper spray. He had to get up early for work tomorrow, so he quit around ten-thirty, went home, and went to bed.

The next hunt began much better. She wasn’t attractive, at least not at the moment, but she was young. Sixteen or seventeen. She looked scared.

For several minutes, he stood thirty feet away and watched her dig through the garbage bin behind the crappy restaurant, working up his courage to approach her. Finally he did so, keeping his pace casual, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The girl gasped and spun around to face him. She dropped a Styrofoam container and looked almost embarrassed. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if trying to decide where to run.

“Hi,” Charlie said, trying to sound friendly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything.”

“I don’t care.” That didn’t come out right. “I mean, I don’t care if you were. I don’t work here. Did you run away from home?”

The girl nodded. She still looked like she was about to flee. If she did, Charlie would just let her go—you couldn’t be cautious enough when you were sprinting after a potential victim.

She wasn’t a good choice. If she was a new runaway, then somebody was probably looking for her. Charlie preferred to prey upon people who wouldn’t be missed right away, if at all. Too risky to take a girl away from parents that cared about her.

Still, he really wanted to do this.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

“I’m fine.”

Charlie thought carefully about what he was going to say. Though he said the same thing almost every time and had even written it down, he occasionally got the words wrong and scared the woman off. “I’d offer to let you sleep on my couch, but I’m crammed into a really small apartment and I barely have room to turn around as it is. I can’t give you any money—nothing personal, it’s just the way I am after getting burned a few times. Drug users, you know.”

The girl stared at him. Charlie cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I can’t do any of that, but I’d be happy to buy you something to eat.”

He waited expectantly. He considered offering a friendly smile, but that wasn’t something that had worked out well for him in the past. Charlie wasn’t sure why. He’d practiced his smile in the mirror and it seemed pleasant enough.

The girl shook her head. “I...I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

She stepped back. Charlie grabbed her wrist.

Oh, no. Why had he done that? He never did that kind of thing. He always got them back to the car before laying a hand on them. This was sloppy. This was horrible.

He realized that he was squeezing way too hard and let go of her. “I’m just trying to be nice,” he said.

She ran.

Charlie took a step forward, then stopped himself. He couldn’t chase her out where people might see. That was ridiculous. He’d screwed this one up and couldn’t salvage it, so it was time to go home. That was his rule: if a hunt was close but didn’t work, he quit for the night.

The rules were what kept him out of jail. Kept him alive.

God, he wanted to chase her. Chase her down, drag her back to where they’d been standing, and bash her head against the rusty metal side of the trash bin. Not hard enough to kill her—hard enough that she knew he wasn’t playing around, hard enough that she knew he was controlling her fate, hard enough that she knew there was a lot more pain on the way.

There didn’t seem to be anybody else around. The whole area was quiet.

If she was reduced to digging scraps out of the garbage, she probably didn’t have much energy. He could catch her quickly. She wouldn’t put up much of a struggle. He could handle the situation in less than a minute. Nobody would see.

No. Terrible idea. Terrible idea.

“You can’t win ‘em all,” he whispered.

The hunt was over. Charlie walked back to his car and drove home.

TWO

C harlie stared at the TV for about three hours, not really watching it.

* * *

He was deeply ashamed of himself the next morning. Grabbing her arm? How could he be that careless? That impatient? He was starting to lose control, and if he didn’t shape up soon, he’d find himself on the receiving end of a three hundred pound convicted rapist’s penis. At least, that was the fate he’d overheard a co-worker wish upon the person who stole her laptop. For what Charlie was doing, he’d probably end up with a much larger rapist. Or a much larger penis. Either way, he needed to get himself back to normal.

There was always his emergency shelter, but that was a last resort. He’d rather not spend his remaining years hiding out like an animal.

He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Shape up or ship out,” he told himself.

Charlie brushed his teeth and rinsed with Listerine, then practiced his smile a few times. He didn’t think it looked that creepy. Maybe it was his eyes. He knew people whose eyes seemed to sparkle when they smiled, but his never did.

Contacts might work. Lighten his eyes up. Turn them from brown to blue or green. Then the women might trust his smile. He should make an appointment to visit the eye doctor sometime soon.

After work the next day, Charlie decided to empty his change jar. All of his spare change went into the plain glass jar. When the jar was full to the very top, he’d dump it into the grocery store’s loose change machine, get his savings in paper currency (minus an eight percent service charge), and then buy himself something special. With his last jar, he’d bought a really nice power drill with dozens of different bits. He found that he preferred the smallest one.

The jar was just over a third of the way full, and Charlie’s official rule was that the top coin actually had to protrude over the surface before he could consider spending the money. But having already decided to break the biggest rule in his life, using the change jar early was a pretty minor infraction, and a handful of bills could possibly accomplish what his personality couldn’t.

* * *

He walked out of the grocery store, disappointed. Only fifty-five dollars and twenty-one cents. Less than he’d expected. The jar must’ve been heavier on pennies than usual.

Still, it should be enough to get somebody into his car. Though it felt like cheating this way, he didn’t think he had a choice. After this one, he’d get completely back on track. Follow all of the rules. He just needed to get this one out of his system and then everything would be back to the way it used to be.

* * *

The money worked. He didn’t even have to promise that more was forthcoming. He drove with the hooker—really, a crack whore, though he hated that term—in his passenger seat and tried to keep his eyes on the road.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked.

Charlie shrugged. He didn’t have a script for this sort of thing.

“I bet you have some idea.”

“Okay.”

“This your first time?”

“No.”

She smiled. “Not first time ever. I meant first time for money.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I can tell. I know a guy who can give us something to make us both feel better. It doesn’t cost that much.”

Charlie shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the boss. Pity, though. You’d have a lot more fun if you relaxed a bit.”

“I’m okay.”

She pointed through the windshield at a building up ahead. “How about you pull behind that bank over there?”

“My house is better.”

“How far is it?”

“Not far.”

“You know I can’t drive around all night with you, right? Not for what you’re paying. Let’s just go someplace quick.”

“My house is better. It’ll only take ten minutes.”

“You got beer?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

Charlie tried to remember the commercials. “Bud Light.”

“All right. But we’re gonna have to be quick.”

The first thing she did when they walked into his house was excuse herself and go into the bathroom. When she emerged a couple of minutes later, her eyes were glazed over and she gave him a half-smile. She wasn’t anywhere near as appealing now, but it was very easy to get the chloroform-soaked rag over her mouth.

* * *

“I never had any interest in finding my real parents,” he told her, as he polished the blade with a cloth. “I could probably find them, I guess, but I don’t see any reason to do that. I lost touch with my first foster family, too, and I spent a lot more time with them than I did my birth parents, so it’s just not something that’s important to me. I feel guilty about that sometimes, like I should care, but I don’t. Why do you need parents when you’re in your forties?”

She continued tugging on the straps. He liked that.

“I think maybe if I’d had a really good childhood or a really bad childhood, I’d be more interested. But I barely even remember being a kid. What would we talk about? I don’t even use credit cards, so it’s not like I’d try to borrow money from them. This is going to sting a lot, so brace yourself. I mean it—it’s really going to hurt. I’m going to cut you right there. Not a long cut but a deep one. Are you ready? Blink if you’re ready. I bet you can’t keep your eyes open like that for more than a minute. Want me to time it? One one thousand, two one thousand, three...see, you blinked. Ready?”

Charlie winked at her, then slid in the blade. Not too deep. He left it there for a few minutes, giving it a slight twist every now and then.

Finally, he removed it and showed her the tip. “Don’t worry, I’ll make the bleeding stop now. Then you can relax for a while.”

He giggled as he tended to her wound. This was well worth the risk he’d taken. Not that he planned to ever do it again—he had to follow the rules—but for this one time he deserved the pleasure.

She went into withdrawal on the second day and died on the third, but Charlie felt completely satisfied.

* * *

His September 24th hunt went much more smoothly. He got her the first night. She’d begged him for money. It probably would’ve been harder to keep her out of his car than to get her in there.

She screamed so loud when she regained consciousness that Charlie worried that even the extensive soundproofing in his basement might be insufficient, so he put on the leather gag. By the third day, she wasn’t screaming very loud anymore, and he took it off.

* * *

His November 24th hunt was about average. Last year around Thanksgiving he’d told his victim that he was celebrating with human flesh instead of turkey, and then he read her some cannibalism jokes he’d gotten out of a book. He dug out his notes and did the same thing this year. He didn’t really eat her, though.

He drove her pieces to the Body Pond, which was a small pond about an hour out of the city. As far as Charlie knew, hardly anybody ever went out to the pond, and he thought it was deep enough that even an extended drought wouldn’t uncover the rock-filled sacks.

Of course, he hoped to fill the pond enough that someday he’d be forced to find a new hiding spot.

* * *

“What do you think you’re doing?” Alicia asked, walking over to his desk.

“What?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Charlie squirmed and desperately wished she would leave him alone. “I’m just trying to work.”

“Everybody else is in the break room having Christmas lunch. Doing work is strictly off-limits. C’mon.”

“I didn’t bring anything for it.”

“Why not?”

Charlie shrugged.

“You could have at least signed up to bring napkins. It doesn’t take anything to stop on your way here and buy a package of napkins. But I won’t tell anyone you didn’t contribute if you don’t. Let’s go get some food.”

“I’m fine.”

“If I called it a holiday lunch instead of a Christmas lunch, would you go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How hungry do you have to be for cookies?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get up, Charlie. The whole department is having a holiday lunch, and you’re part of the department. It’s silly for you to sit here by yourself. Don’t make me drag you in there by your shirt collar. I’ll do it.”

Charlie looked back at his computer screen. “I’m not hungry.”

Alicia stared at him for a moment, and then shrugged. “Whatever you want. I’m just trying to be nice to you. Hope you get a lot done.”

She left, and Charlie let out a deep sigh of relief.

* * *

Charlie walked down the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets, breath misting in the cold air. He had no interest in the Christmas lights or the music that played from one of the downtown shops, but he did enjoy the crunching sound the occasional patches of ice made under his feet as he walked.

The wind was starting to pick up and it was getting chillier than he liked. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and decided to cut through Klant Park. It wasn’t usually a good idea to walk through the park at night (Charlie was confident in his ability to deal with a helpless vagrant woman; less so in his ability to fend off a group of muggers) but the small park seemed to be empty.

As he walked through the single path, past the swing set, he heard something.

A faint whimper.

He stopped and listened more closely. Definitely a whimper. Not human. Sounded like a dog.

He glanced around, looking for the source. It was difficult to hear over the rush of the wind, and the park was poorly lit, but it seemed to be coming from the opposite side. He picked up his pace a bit, curious to see what was out there.

He walked through the park until he found the source of the sound, which came from beneath a wooden bench. It was indeed a small dog, lying on its side. He crouched down and stared at it with mild interest.

Charlie had never owned pets as a kid, and didn’t feel he was missing anything as an adult. He knew that a lot of serial killers started with animals and worked their way up to humans, but Charlie didn’t see the point. Anybody could have control over a domesticated dog, unless it went on a wild rampage and started mauling infants. There was no trick to keeping a dog on a leash, no thrill to be gained from causing it pain. Why bother?

He wondered what was wrong with the dog. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Maybe it was just starving.

The dog kind of amused him. It had a funny black-and-white face (white down the middle, black on the sides) that almost looked like a clown. He didn’t know the name of the breed, but this kind of dog appeared in television commercials a lot. He liked the way its eyes bugged out a little. Very silly.

He gently brushed his hand across its fur. The dog whined, though Charlie didn’t think he was hurting it. It wasn’t wearing a collar.

Would it bite him if he put his finger next to its mouth? He’d never been bitten by a dog before. Maybe it would enrage him enough to want to bring the dog to his basement. That would certainly be less risky than a homeless woman.

Of course, the dog could be rabid. That was a good reason not to see if it would bite him.

It didn’t seem to be foaming at the mouth at all, and it certainly wasn’t being aggressive. Admittedly, Charlie knew very little about rabies, but everything he’d seen on TV and movies involved foaming at the mouth and growling. A rabid dog wouldn’t just lie here under a park bench; it would be going berserk.

He took off his right glove, extended his index finger and carefully placed it in front of the dog’s mouth.

The dog whimpered and licked his finger.

Charlie wiped its slobber off on his jeans. Disgusting.

But he wasn’t going to kill it simply because it got some dog spit on him. He put his glove back on and stood up. He might check back tomorrow to see if it had starved to death, just out of curiosity.

As he walked away, the dog let out a pitiful howl. Charlie kept walking. It wasn’t his dog, and if the owner didn’t care enough to watch his property, Charlie wasn’t going to do it for him. If he saw the owner frantically searching for his dog, he might point out where it was laying, but beyond that, the animal wasn’t his problem.

He left the park and resumed walking on the sidewalk, once again enjoying the crunch of ice under his feet. He tried to remember which commercials he’d seen that kind of dog in. At least one of them was for flea medicine—the clown-faced dog was scratching and the pug wasn’t. Or maybe it was the other way around. He also thought one of those dogs was in a car insurance advertisement. It might have talked.

It was definitely a popular type of dog. Not only would the owner probably be looking for it, but there might be a reward for its safe return.

Charlie had no idea how much a clown-dog cost, and he had no idea what kind of reward might be offered for finding one...but what if it was a lot? What if it was five hundred dollars? Though it was unlikely to be that much, what if the owner was really attached to the dog? It wasn’t as if Charlie had anything else to do tonight—he might as well take the dog home and hope there was a reward. If there wasn’t, he’d throw it back outside. No harm done.

He turned around, walked back to the park bench, and crouched down next to the dog again. Now that he was looking at it a second time, he seemed to recall that it was named after a state. Or a city. Something like that.

“Don’t bite me,” he warned the dog. He was fine with the animal biting him as part of an experiment in rage control, but not when he was trying to help it.

Charlie immediately felt like an idiot. Dogs couldn’t talk. And, more importantly, dogs couldn’t understand human speech. He was glad that nobody else was around to hear.

He carefully slid his hands underneath the dog’s side and lifted it off the ground a few inches, then pulled it out from beneath the bench. The dog whimpered some more, but lifting it didn’t seem to hurt it. He hugged the dog to his chest and stood up.

The dog licked his face.

Even more disgusting.

He couldn’t wipe it off without dropping the animal, so Charlie merely scowled and left the slobber on his face. The wet warmth quickly turned uncomfortably cold in the chilly night air. Stupid dog.

The dog nuzzled its face into his jacket, as if trying to burrow inside for warmth. Charlie supposed he couldn’t blame the poor creature, though he wasn’t about to unzip his jacket and let it get any closer to him.

It was a bit heavier than he’d expected, but Charlie was used to dragging corpses around, so he was pretty sure he’d have no problems carrying the dog home.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the illumination from the streetlights revealed a couple of streaks of red on the dog’s fur. He hadn’t noticed the blood before. He wondered if the dog had gotten into a fight, maybe with a squirrel. There hadn’t been a shredded squirrel carcass lying under the bench, so it was kind of sad that the dog had been beaten by something so much smaller than it.

Well, okay, he had no evidence that it was a squirrel. It could’ve been a bigger dog. Or a human with a knife.

Either way, the dog didn’t seem to have lost all that much blood, certainly not enough to account for its weakened state. Possibly a lack of food and water is what made it lose the fight. Much of Charlie’s success at hunting came from seeking prey that was hungry and thirsty, so he understood the dog’s plight.

The dog fell asleep in his arms as he carried it home.

THREE

C harlie smiled as he carried the dog downstairs to his basement. He’d lived in this house for five years, and the dog would be his first guest that wasn’t going down into the basement to die. At least he hoped it wasn’t—the dog didn’t seem to be dying, but Charlie couldn’t be certain. He’d never even met a veterinarian.

Actually, as embarrassing as it was to admit to himself, Charlie was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of the dog seeing the scene of his many crimes. Not that he thought the dog was going to run barking to the police, but still, dumb animal or not, it was another pair of eyes on the table where he’d killed almost twenty women. Maybe he was being less than meticulous about his secrecy.

However, that irrational feeling wasn’t enough for him to let the dog bleed all over his upstairs furniture. He’d upholstered that couch himself.

He placed the dog on the metal table. It looked as if it wanted to jump to the floor but lacked the strength. He pressed down on its back to keep it from moving, and counted the wounds. Five different gashes: two long ones on its back, two smaller ones on its left side, and one on its back left leg. None of them were bleeding profusely.

Charlie had plenty of experience tending to wounds. No medical training, and nothing fancy—just bandages and antiseptic. He assumed this would work for a dog, too.

Normally his patient was strapped down. Unfortunately, though his ankle and wrist bracelets could adjust to accommodate various heights, they were still only designed for a human. He’d just have to hold the dog down while he applied the alcohol.

The dog yelped and thrashed and almost got free. “You’ll break your leg if you jump off,” he warned it as he pressed the dog more tightly against the metal surface. Instead of his usual precise touch, he settled for pouring the antiseptic over the wounds, and then held the dog against the table for several more minutes until it calmed down. The bandages didn’t stick very well because of its fur, so Charlie wrapped tape around its legs and torso, which kept them affixed well enough.

The basement had a sink that Charlie primarily used to rinse blood off his tools. He found a small plastic bowl, emptied out the screws and nails that were inside, filled it with water, and placed it in front of the dog. The dog frantically lapped up the water, drinking so vigorously that Charlie had to hold the bowl steady to keep the dog from knocking it off the table. When the dog finished, he refilled the bowl and let it drink some more.

He lifted the dog off the table, causing it to yelp in pain, and set it down on the floor. “Stay,” he told it in a firm voice, as he walked toward the staircase.

The dog followed him. Slowly and shakily, but it followed.

“I said, stay.” Charlie pointed to the dog. “Stay.”

The dog barked.

“Don’t bark at me,” he told it. “Stay.” He decided to try something else: “Sit.”

The dog did not sit. It barked again.

Charlie walked up the stairs and shut the basement door. He didn’t want blood and dog hair upstairs. The only untidy part of his house was his basement, and then only when he had a victim down there. That dog was lucky it wasn’t still freezing in the park; it would just have to deal with being kept downstairs until he returned it to its rightful owner.

He opened the cupboard and looked through the shelves. He didn’t have any dog food. What was the next best thing?

Breakfast cereal? That sort of looked like dog food.

He filled a bowl with dry cereal, then reopened the door to the basement. The dog sat on the bottom step, looking up at him expectantly. Charlie walked down the stairs and placed the bowl on the floor next to the dog. It sniffed the cereal, looked back at up at him, and whined softly.

“Eat it,” Charlie said.

The dog continued to stare at him.

“Eat it,” Charlie repeated. “They’re Cocoa Puffs.”

The dog sneezed. Charlie wasn’t sure if it was a derisive sneeze or just a regular sneeze. Either way, he didn’t have a lot of sympathy for a starving creature that wouldn’t eat the food that was right in front of it. If it wanted to die, he’d let it die. If it expired in his basement, his only regret would be that it had sneezed all over his perfectly good Cocoa Puffs.

Maybe he was being unfair. Charlie wouldn’t eat a bowl of dog food, so perhaps it was unreasonable to expect this dog to eat a bowl of human cereal, especially without milk. It was only around eight o’clock, so the pet store was probably still open. He’d pick up some real dog food and then bill the cost to the owner.

“Stay,” he told the dog, then walked back upstairs and shut the door.

* * *

Before he went to the food aisle, Charlie stopped at the revolving metal book rack. He looked at the various covers, trying to figure out what kind of dog he had in his basement. It wasn’t a schnauzer, dachshund, beagle (That was a beagle on the cover? They didn’t look anything like Snoopy!), pit bull, shih tzu, Japanese chin...there it was. Caring For Your Boston Terrier. He knew it was named after a city or a state.

He didn’t take the book off the rack. He had no intention of learning how to care for the dog—he was just curious about what kind it was.

He wandered over to the food aisle and frowned. There were several dozen different varieties. Were they breed specific? Was it all the same garbage with different packaging? What was wrong with just having one bag and labeling it “Dog Food?”

Charlie decided to make this into a much easier decision. He scanned the aisle, searching for the lowest price.

“Looking for something in particular?” asked an employee, a young cute brunette, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.

“Just food.”

“How old is your dog?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Is it a puppy?”

“No.” Charlie picked up the closest bag of food, hoping that the employee would think he’d made his final decision and go away.

“If you’re looking for anything else, toys, treats, or whatever, just let me know,” said the employee with a friendly smile.

“Okay.”

After she left, Charlie put the bag of food back on the shelf and traded it out for a cheaper one. Actually, for some reason he’d expected dog food to be a lot more expensive; still, no need to risk spending unnecessary money in case he never found the owner and had to abandon the dog.

He walked past the toy section on his way to the checkout counter. Maybe he should buy something to keep the dog occupied during the day. He picked up a bone-shaped squeak toy, decided against the expenditure, then paid for the food and went home.

* * *

The dog gobbled the bowl of food as if it hadn’t eaten in months. It didn’t even seem to be taking time to breathe, which was funny to watch because it had a flat little nose that didn’t seem like it would be easy to breathe through.

It finished off the contents of the bowl in no time, ate the pieces that had spilled over the side, then looked up at Charlie. He shrugged and filled its bowl again. This time it finished half of the food, then let out what sounded like a happy bark.

Charlie had nothing to say to the dog, so he went back upstairs to make some signs.

* * *

Charlie wrote “Found Boston Terrier” and his phone number in black magic marker on twenty pieces of paper. The notice would probably be more effective if he attached a picture of the dog, but he didn’t own a camera. The whole idea of photographs made Charlie uncomfortable. Not that he believed that they’d steal his soul or anything like that—he just didn’t like them. He might have owned a cell phone with a camera, if he ever had anybody to call.

After he finished making the twentieth sign, he questioned his judgment in putting “Boston Terrier” on there. If those were valuable dogs, people might try to falsely claim the one in his basement. Though he could certainly figure out a way to make potential owners prove that the dog truly belonged to them, he didn’t want to be bothered with scam artists.

He crumpled up all twenty signs and began the process again, writing simply “Found Dog” and his phone number. Then, armed with his signs and some scotch tape, he walked around the area for about half an hour, taping the signs to streetlamps, mailboxes, and newspaper boxes, as well as on the park bench where he’d found the dog. He returned home, turned up the heat, and went to sleep.

* * *

Charlie woke up out of a sound sleep and glanced over at the alarm clock. 1:21 AM.

There was a strange noise in the house. He listened carefully for a moment, and then figured out what he was hearing: scratching.

Why was that stupid dog scratching on the basement door? What could it possibly want at this time of night?

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the scratching didn’t stop. The dog had food and it had water—did it just have an attitude problem? Charlie was a big believer in the merits of a good night’s sleep, and if this dog didn’t knock off the scratching, he’d kick it in the face.

He counted slowly to five hundred. The scratching continued. With all the soundproofing, scratching on the door was pretty much the only sound he would hear from the basement. Figured.

Charlie cursed, got out of bed, then walked in his underwear through the kitchen over to the basement door. He opened it and glared at the dog, which sat on the top step.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

The dog barked.

“Don’t do that, either,” he told it.

The dog pushed past his leg and ran into the kitchen. Charlie cursed again and went after it. If that dog wrecked any of his things, he was going to withdraw his objections to torturing a dumb animal. With Charlie in hot pursuit, the dog ran into the living room and jumped up on the couch.

Charlie pointed to the floor. “Get down.”

The dog lay down in the crevice between the two couch cushions.

“Get down,” Charlie repeated, more sternly.

Charlie realized that he’d left the basement door open. It wasn’t as if he had a victim down there who might escape or be discovered, but still, he liked to keep the door closed at all times.

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you,” he said out loud, closing the basement door and causing a waft of cool air to brush against his face.

It was pretty cold down there, he supposed. He couldn’t blame the dog for wanting to come upstairs where it was warmer. The basement was surely a lot better than being outside in the park, but if the dog was used to a warm home with a rich master...

Charlie poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, rinsed out the glass, and then returned to the living room.

“Hey,” he said to the dog. It looked like it was about to fall asleep. “You can stay up here, but if you...” He trailed off. Why in the world was he trying to speak a complete sentence to a dog? He was losing his mind. Many of his victims had claimed that he was insane, and now he was trying to prove them right!

The dog closed its eyes.

Charlie watched it for several minutes until he was sure that the dog was asleep. Then he returned to bed.

* * *

Charlie woke up and glanced over at the alarm clock. 4:29 AM.

Woof!

Stupid dog.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

Charlie got out of bed and stormed into the living room. The dog stopped barking and started panting happily. At least it looked happy—it was just a dog, so he couldn’t tell for certain.

“What?” Charlie asked. “What do you want?”

A horrifying thought occurred to him. He quickly rushed over and peeked out the front window to make sure the dog wasn’t trying to alert him to potential danger.

No police car was waiting outside. Apparently no watchdog duties were being performed. He returned his attention to the animal.

“What the hell is your problem?” he asked.

The dog continued to pant happily.

“I have to sleep! I have to get up early to go to work! You can’t bark like that!”

Then he noticed that the dog had somehow worked the bandages off its legs. There were a few small blood spots on his couch. Charlie cursed again, setting a personal profanity record.

“You had your chance, but you blew it,” he said, picking up the dog. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

He carried it into the kitchen, shifted the dog in his arms so he could open the basement door while still holding it, gasped as he nearly dropped the dog, regained control, then got the basement door open and placed the dog on the top step.

“It’s your own fault,” he said, closing the door.

He didn’t know if it would start scratching again, but he could sleep through that a lot more easily than the barking. He’d be okay for work if he got in a couple more hours of rest before the alarm went off. Charlie was perfectly fine with not getting much sleep on a night when he had a plaything in the basement, but he was much less fine with the idea of losing sleep over an idiot dog.

* * *

Charlie woke up to the alarm at 6:30. He had a banana and a piece of toast for breakfast, then opened the door to the basement. The dog bounded up the stairs toward him as he walked down, nearly tripping him as it nipped at his feet. He braced himself against the wall and told the dog to knock it off. It had a lot more energy now than when he’d first found it, that was for sure.

He reached the bottom without falling and breaking his neck and then refilled the dog’s food and water bowls. By now it had lost its torso bandages completely, so he took a few minutes to redress its wounds. The dog licked his hand, and he wiped the slobber off on its fur. He didn’t see the point in explaining to the dog that it would be spending the entire day in the basement while he went to work, so he simply went back upstairs to shower and get dressed.

* * *

As Charlie drove to work, it occurred to him that he should have taken the dog for a walk before he left. Oh well. It was far from the first mess he’d have to clean up in that basement.

FOUR

D uring his 10:45 AM break, Charlie called his home voice mail to check if there were any messages. He had to think for several moments to recall his password—he wasn’t used to having any reason to access his voice mail.

Two messages. The first was from an old-sounding man who described a white poodle. No need to call him back. The second was a woman who didn’t say what kind of dog she was missing, just that she hoped he had her beloved Rhinestone. Charlie didn’t think the dog looked like a Rhinestone—he didn’t think any dog looked like a Rhinestone—and it didn’t sound like the kind of name a wealthy person would give a dog, but he called the woman anyway.

“I’m returning your call,” he said, when the woman answered with an annoying, sing-songy “Hello.”

“My call about...?”

“The dog.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Rhiney came home this morning. Sorry to waste your time!”

“Okay.” Charlie hung up.

There were no messages at lunch or at his 3:15 break. Charlie was surprised. He would have expected more people to lose dogs than that.

There were no new messages waiting for him when he got home. Charlie opened the door to the basement and the dog rushed out. It stampeded over to the front door, whining and twitching. Charlie realized that he didn’t have a leash. He had plenty of rope and other things that he could fashion into a leash without too much effort, but the dog seemed to be in a state of emergency and what was the worst thing that could happen? The dog might run away. So what? Charlie wouldn’t be any worse off.

He opened the door and let the dog race outside. It ran a few feet out onto his lawn and then immediately squatted. Charlie watched it for a moment, then questioned why he was watching this particular activity in progress and averted his eyes. The dog finished and ran back inside the house. It was definitely well trained.

Charlie went down into the basement, and was surprised and pleased to note that there weren’t any messes to clean up. The dog held out better than some of the humans he kept down here.

He filled its food and water bowls once again, then walked upstairs. The dog was back on his couch.

“Get down,” he said.

The dog rolled onto its side.

“I’m not going to pet you,” he told it. “Get off my couch.”

The dog woofed at him—not quite a bark.

Charlie sighed. “You can stay, but you’d better not shed on it.”

Interesting. Now he was not only speaking to the dog as if it could understand human speech, but he was acting as if the dog could control its own shedding. Bring on the men in white jackets.

If nobody claimed the dog by the time he was out of food (a couple of days, probably) he’d take it to the pound.

Charlie changed out of his work clothes into jeans and a sweater, then microwaved a frozen pizza. He sat down next to the dog and turned on the television.

The dog licked its chops.

“No,” he said. “It’s mine.” He took a bite of pizza and winced. Way too hot. He opened his mouth and fanned his hand in front of his tongue.

The dog inched closer to him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

The dog whimpered.

“No. My pizza. You’ve got dog chow.” Charlie blew on the slice of pizza to cool it down then took a big bite. The dog watched him carefully. “I’ll take you to the pound right now if you don’t quit staring at me,” he informed it. “I mean it.”

The dog didn’t whimper again, but silently watched him as he ate the first piece of pizza. Charlie didn’t like the crust anyway, so he pinched it between his thumb and index finger and offered it to the dog. “Here.”

The dog snapped at the treat, biting his fingers.

“Ow!” Charlie slapped the dog in the face as hard as he could. It let out a loud yip, jumped off the couch, and ran into the kitchen.

Rotten mutt.

It was lucky he didn’t shove its food bowl down its throat. Maybe he would. Maybe he’d slice that cur’s neck open with an electric carving knife and see if he could get the bowl all the way in there.

He examined his fingers. They stung a bit, but the dog’s teeth hadn’t broken the skin.

Rotten, lousy, ungrateful mutt.

Wretched, mindless, bitey cur.

Then again...

What was the dog supposed to do when he offered it a piece of food that way, pinched between his fingers? His flesh was in the way of the pizza crust. He couldn’t have expected the dog to carefully nibble around his skin—it was just an animal, living through instinct. He should’ve placed the offering on his palm or set it on the couch cushion. He’d been wrong.

Oh well. Charlie wasn’t going to get bent out of shape over hitting a dog without just cause. It was still lucky he hadn’t left it to freeze to death in the park, and if he took it to the pound, it might end up euthanized anyway, in which case the slap was the least of its problems.

He watched television and ate the other three pieces of pizza. He almost ate the crusts just to convince himself that he wasn’t saving them as a peace offering for the dog, but decided that would be silly. He didn’t like crust. Why eat something he didn’t like just to fool himself into believing that he wasn’t trying to make up for hitting a dumb animal?

He carried his plate into the kitchen, where the dog was huddled in the corner. Charlie set the plate with the pizza crusts down on the floor. The dog looked tentatively at it but didn’t move.

“It’s food,” Charlie said, impatiently. “Eat it.”

He could see the dog’s nose twitching, but it remained in the corner. Charlie shrugged. It wasn’t his job to force the dog to eat. He went back into the living room, and before he even had a chance to sit down on the couch he heard the scrape of the dog’s feet as it ran across the tile floor. He listened to it eating. Good. At least the pizza crusts wouldn’t go to waste.

About twenty minutes later, Charlie realized he was sitting through a rerun and hadn’t even noticed. He switched channels. Nothing looked interesting. He shut off the television and sat there for a moment.

Why did he feel guilty? It was a mindless animal. It was like having guilt over slapping a mosquito.

He looked toward the entrance to the kitchen. There’d been no sound for a while. He wondered if the dog had gone to sleep.

Charlie got up off the couch, feeling stupid. He walked into the kitchen, still feeling stupid. He looked at the dog, which lay curled up next to the basement door, and then cleared his throat, continuing to feel stupid. The dog raised its head and perked up its ears.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said.

Charlie stood there for a long moment, as if waiting for the dog to acknowledge his apology. It did not.

He returned to the couch and turned the television back on. A few minutes later, the dog bounded into the living room and jumped up onto the cushion next to him. It sat next to him until bedtime.

* * *

“Surfing the net on company time?”

Charlie glared at Alicia over his shoulder. “I’m on my lunch break. We’re allowed.”

“I was just kidding,” said Alicia. “Wow, you take everything personally, don’t you? We need to figure out a way to make you a little less serious.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a powder keg of repressed rage. If you don’t lighten up, you’re going to run somebody over with your car.”

“Okay.”

“Looking for a new dog?” she asked, nodding at his monitor. Charlie was in the middle of a Google search for animal shelters in the area.

Charlie shook his head. “Getting rid of one.”

“Oh, no! What did it do?”

“Nothing. I found it.”

“Well, make sure you take it to a ‘no kill’ shelter.”

“They have those?”

“Yeah, they’ll keep it until they find it a home. What kind of dog is it?”

“Boston terrier.”

“Oh, I love those!” said Alicia. “They’re so cute! Did you name it?”

Charlie shrugged. Why would he name a dog that he was taking to the pound? And why wouldn’t she leave him alone? She knew he was on his lunch break—why couldn’t she respect that and let him enjoy it?

“I guess if you named it, it might be hard to let it go,” Alicia admitted.

“Yeah.”

“But it was nice of you to take in the dog and give it a home for now. Where did you find it?”

“In a park.”

“I can’t believe the owner hasn’t claimed it yet.”

“Do you want it?” Charlie asked.

“Can’t. I’ve already got three cats. If I didn’t, I’d take it in a second. I think you should keep it, though—a dog would be good for you.”

“Why?” Charlie was surprised to discover that he actually cared about her answer to his question.

“Unconditional love. A dog doesn’t care if you’re in a bad mood or if you cheated on your taxes; they love you no matter what.”

Charlie frowned. Was she accusing him of cheating on his taxes?

“I don’t have time to take care of a dog,” Charlie said, knowing that he had plenty of time, even if he kept up his current schedule of television viewing.

“That’s fair,” said Alicia. “I’m not trying to get into your business. But promise me that you’ll take it to a ‘no kill’ shelter, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll even look one up for you and give you the address. Then you can enjoy the rest of your lunch break.”

It took Charlie several seconds to figure out how to respond to that. “Thanks.”

“No problem at all. I’m happy to do it.” She smiled. “Did you notice that it’s not that painful to have a friendly conversation with a co-worker?”

Charlie didn’t necessarily agree with Alicia about the level of pain the conversation created, but he nodded and forced himself to smile.

* * *

By the end of the day, still nobody had called about the dog. Maybe his signs just weren’t very good. He supposed that if he asked Alicia, she’d help him make better ones—he’d seen the sign she made for a bake sale last week that he didn’t participate in, and it was colorful and eye-catching. Of course, making new signs would be a waste of time, since he’d be taking the dog to the address of the animal shelter she’d given him right before he left.

Still, it would be a major disappointment if he turned the dog over to the shelter and then the rich owner claimed it that same day. Or even a few days later. The dog wasn’t exactly eating up a large percentage of his income; maybe Charlie should hang on to it for a few more days, just in case. Also, he didn’t want to deal with the awkward phone conversation if the elated owner called him to reclaim his or her pet, and Charlie had to explain that he’d taken it to the pound, where it might have been given to somebody else. At least he wouldn’t have to tell the owner that the dog had been gassed. He didn’t like hearing people cry outside of his basement.

He decided to stop at the pet store on the way home.

* * *

“Don’t get used to this,” said Charlie, waving the red rubber squeak bone at the dog. “I’m not buying you a toy every time I go out. This is all you get.” He squeaked the bone and the dog ran in a joyous little circle on the basement floor. “If you lose it, it’s not being replaced, so be careful.”

He tossed the bone to the dog. It caught it in its mouth and then dropped onto its stomach, chewing vigorously on the toy, which squeaked and squeaked and squeaked.

Charlie leaned against his metal table and watched the dog. It seemed to be having a lot of fun. Why? It was just a rubber bone. Was the dog imagining that the squeaks were screams of agony? They didn’t seem comparable.

He observed it for several minutes, wondering what possible pleasure the dog could be getting out of this, besides the opportunity to exercise its jaws. Why did people like Alicia think that dogs were so great? Who cared about unconditional love? Love should be given out on an “as deserved” basis.

When he decided that the dog had squeaked the toy enough for one night, Charlie changed its bandages and refilled its food bowl. The dog was healing nicely—in a few days, it would probably be completely back to normal. Normal for a clown-faced idiot dog, anyway.

“I don’t want you to run away and cost me my reward,” he informed the dog as he showed it the cheap black collar he’d purchased, “so you’re going to have to wear this, like it or not.”

The dog most definitely did not like it, and it took a few minutes of struggle to get the collar over its head and fastened properly. Charlie considered hitting the dog to encourage it to keep still...but, no, there was no reason for that. He’d win this little dispute without resorting to violence.

He got the collar on the dog, attached the leash he’d also bought, and led it up the stairs. He let the dog run around the living room for a minute while he put on his heavy coat and gloves, and then took the dog outside for a traditional walk.

It finished its business almost immediately, but Charlie was pretty sure that walks were about exercise as much as defecation, so they began to walk along the sidewalk. Sometimes the dog walked right alongside of him, sometimes it tugged on its leash in a failed attempt to run ahead, sometimes it forced Charlie to tug on its leash because it got distracted by fascinating smells, and sometimes it ran in a circle and almost tripped him, but overall Charlie thought it was a relatively successful walk.

After they’d gone about six or seven blocks, they approached a driveway where a young blonde woman was taking groceries out of her car. Her eyes lit up as she saw the dog.

“Oh, look at you!” she said, placing a bag of groceries on the ground and crouching down so she could pet the dog. “What a sweetie!”

The dog licked her face, clearly loving the attention.

“What’s his name?” the woman asked Charlie. She was absolutely beautiful. She looked as if she might have just come from the salon as well as the grocery store.

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Doesn’t have a name?” The woman scratched both of the dog’s ears. “How can a sweetie like you not have a name? You don’t like that at all, do you? I bet you don’t!”

“I mean, I don’t know its name,” said Charlie.

“Well, he’s absolutely adorable,” said the woman, picking up her grocery bag and standing up. She grinned at Charlie. “Both of you have a great evening, all right?”

The woman turned and retrieved a second grocery bag from her trunk. Charlie couldn’t believe it. She was just standing there, totally unguarded, not even looking at him. He could shove her into the trunk, slam the lid, and have a gorgeous woman in his basement this very evening.

He wouldn’t do it, of course. He’d broken the schedule once, and had vowed to never do it again. And though this idea sounded great as a flash of fantasy, it was far too risky. She could scream, or somebody could see (for all he knew, her husband was right inside), or she could be locked in the trunk with the only set of keys.

Still...he was amazed at how the dog had instantly created a level of trust.

He should have asked the woman if he could help her carry her groceries inside, just as a test.

“Maybe you could be useful,” Charlie told the dog as they resumed their walk.

Yes, he was talking to an animal in public, but the woman had done the same thing without feeling humiliated. Clearly, you were allowed to talk to uncomprehending animals without looking like a candidate for the local asylum.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to get rid of it. Charlie might have a creepy smile, but he had a cute dog.

* * *

“You need a name,” Charlie told the dog as they sat on the couch.

The dog squeaked its bone.

What was a good name for a dog? Fido? Rover? Duke? Prince? Spike? Clowny-Face?

Killer?

Hmmmm. He liked Killer.

“Do you want to be named Killer?” he asked.

The dog squeaked its toy again, but it was a non-committal squeak.

Killer wasn’t exactly subtle. He should probably brainstorm more options. Charlie went to get a pen and a notebook, then sat back down and started writing down ideas. He wrote down every dog name he could think of, the first names of everybody he knew, and other names that might be appropriate for a dog whose cuteness was going to lure women to their death.

After about an hour, he had a list of forty-seven names. He read them slowly, one at a time, to see if any elicited a reaction from the dog.

None of them did. The dog just kept chewing on its toy. Charlie had to admit to himself that he was taking his newfound willingness to communicate with the dog a bit too far.

He read the list of names again, to himself in a whisper.

Cutter sounded the best, but it didn’t look right. He wrote it on a separate page. Cutter.

He wrote it again: Kutter.

“That’s your new name,” he said. “Kutter the dog.”

Charlie took Kutter for another walk, tearing down the “Found Dog” signs as they went.

FIVE

“D id the address help at all?” Alicia asked the next day.

“I’m keeping it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Its name’s Kutter.”

“Well, that’s great. Congratulations on the new addition to your household.”

“Thanks.”

Charlie looked at her more closely. He’d always liked freckles. Perhaps someday she’d let him take her out for coffee or—

—his basement. Perhaps someday he’d lock her in his basement. That’s what he meant.

But maybe coffee to start.

Charlie wasn’t even going to try to pretend to himself that he’d be even remotely close to capable of asking her out right now, so he ignored the thought and glanced back at his monitor.

“Do you have pictures?” asked Alicia.

Charlie shook his head.

“You need pictures.”

“Okay.” Charlie had no intention of buying a camera, even a cheap disposable one. Still, it couldn’t hurt to pretend to go along with her idea.

“Well, I’m glad you kept the dog. Give it a great big hug for me.” Alicia patted Charlie on the shoulder and then returned to her desk.

* * *

Alicia asked him about Kutter photos every day for the next three days. After the third day, Charlie realized that saying “I forgot again” just wasn’t going to continue to work. It was really not her place to guilt him into photographing his dog, but finally Charlie decided to cave in to the pressure. He bought a surprisingly inexpensive disposable camera on the way home from work.

Taking the camera downstairs was not an option. Some clue about the basement activities, no matter how subtle, might appear in the photograph, and Charlie couldn’t take the risk. He also refused to appear in the picture himself. He’d just get a couple of quick snapshots of Kutter and take them straight to the photo-developing lab at the grocery store.

He opened the door to the basement. Kutter happily bounded up the stairs. Charlie put on his leash, took him for a quick walk, then brought him back inside.

“On the couch,” Charlie said, patting the cushion.

Kutter jumped up onto the couch.

“Good boy. Now smile.” As Charlie peeked through the viewfinder, Kutter jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen.

Stupid dog. “Hey, get back in here!” Charlie called out. He heard Kutter thundering around in the kitchen for a moment, and then the Boston terrier came running back into the living room. He patted the cushion again. “C’mon. Picture time.”

Kutter woofed at him.

“I don’t like it either. We don’t have a choice.”

Charlie patted the cushion a few more times, then decided that although the couch was the most aesthetically pleasing location for the photograph, it didn’t much matter either way. He pointed the camera at where Kutter stood on the floor. The dog looked right at the camera. Perfect.

He pressed the button, and nothing happened.

“What the hell?” He pressed it again and the camera still didn’t click or flash or do anything to indicate that a photo had been taken. Was it broken?

No, he just hadn’t wound it.

Cameras sucked.

He wound the dumb little dial. Kutter ran back into the kitchen.

“Hey!” Charlie followed Kutter into the kitchen and nearly tripped over the dog as it ran back into the living room. He pointed the camera at the dog, trying to follow it as it ran in a circle around the living room, and squeezed off one shot that he knew wasn’t even close.

“Sit down, Kutter! Stay in one spot!”

Kutter jumped up onto the couch. Charlie quickly pointed the camera and pressed the button, but he hadn’t wound it this time, either. Kutter jumped back down before he could finish.

“Do you want me to tranquilize you? Quit moving around!”

Charlie managed to take another twelve action shots of the hyperactive animal, and then, finally, a few pictures of Kutter relaxing on the couch. He decided to splurge on the one-hour developing, and discovered that his thumb was over the lens on all of the pictures.

* * *

Alicia laughed at his feeble attempts at photography, but it was a nice kind of laugh, not a mean one.

* * *

Charlie bought a couple more squeak toys and a stuffed penguin, to give Kutter some variety. He also bought the forty-pound bag of dog food, which was the most cost effective, and a bag of pseudo-bacon treats. If all went well, Kutter would deserve the reward.

* * *

It wasn’t as if walking Kutter opened up a whole new world for Charlie, where potential victims fell at his feet by the dozens. But there was no question that the dog was going to make things easier for him. Somebody fussed over his dog almost every other walk, and in two weeks there’d been at least three separate occasions where he’d felt completely confident that he could have safely gotten a woman home—and not homeless vagrants; attractive, desirable women who would be almost unbearably pleasurable to cut.

He altered his route often, sometimes taking Kutter out for as much as three hours at a time. Exactly one week after seeing the woman unloading groceries from her car, almost to the minute, he saw her again, doing the same thing. A creature of habit. Charlie liked that.

It was only about three weeks until his next hunt on January 24th. There was no question whatsoever in Charlie’s mind that this was going to be the best one yet.

* * *

Charlie stood impatiently by the open basement door. “You know where to go.”

Kutter never wanted to go down into the basement at bedtime. Not that Charlie blamed him—it was cold down there—but Charlie was the master and Kutter was the dog and house pets didn’t have any say in the matter of where they slept. “Get down there.”

Kutter whimpered.

“Do you really think that’s going to work on me?” Charlie asked. “Seriously? If my heart melts, it’s not going to be for you. So get your flat face down there.”

Kutter just stared at him.

The dog’s wounds had healed completely, so it wouldn’t be ripping off its bandages and ruining his furniture. That was the primary reason Charlie kept him in the basement. As long as Kutter was quiet through the night, there was no real reason to keep him locked away.

Charlie narrowed his eyes and pointed his index finger at the dog. “All right, you’re going to get your way, but let me make one thing perfectly clear: No barking. None. Unless somebody is breaking into this house—not a neighbor’s house, this one—I don’t want to hear a single peep out of you. Do you understand?”

Kutter continued to just stare at him, which Charlie took for a “yes.”

“Good. Don’t forget it.”

Kutter ran into the living room, then ran back with one of his squeak toys. Charlie pulled it out of his mouth, a task made more difficult by the fact that Kutter assumed they were now playing tug-of-war. “I don’t think you’ll be keeping me awake with that thing,” Charlie said, putting the toy on top of the refrigerator. He gathered up Kutter’s other toys and placed them up there as well.

Kutter sneezed at him.

“Bless you. Good night.”

Ten minutes after Charlie got under the covers, Kutter pushed open the bedroom door, jumped up onto the mattress, and curled up at the foot of the bed. Charlie carried Kutter back out to the living room and told him to knock it off. The second time Kutter pushed open the door, which never seemed to close properly, Charlie put him back down in the basement.

Charlie gave the dog another chance the next night, with the same result.

“This is your last chance,” Charlie warned, tapping Kutter gently on the nose to emphasize his point. “If you try to break into my room tonight, you’ll be sorry.”

He was woken out of a sound sleep by the stupid dog jumping up onto the bed. Kutter curled up next to his right foot. Charlie was too tired to bother getting up to remove the disobedient animal, so he simply rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was surprisingly comforting. When he woke up the next morning, he decided that maybe the dog could sleep in the bedroom from now on.

* * *

Charlie looked at the calendar on his desk at work and realized that it was only a week until his next hunt could begin. He was surprised—for some reason he’d thought it was a couple more days than that. Great news.

Since he was going after a higher class of victim this time, he needed to change his cover story. He couldn’t lure these kinds of women in with promises of a warm meal. Well, he could, but he’d have to sell the idea in a different way. Find out which unsuspecting women wanted to grab a quick cup of coffee with the trustworthy guy with the cute dog. Kutter would win their heart, Charlie would talk them into his car, and the chloroform would do the rest.

Charlie wondered if he should make some personal changes to assist with the success of his new plan. He’d always kept his hair neatly trimmed, but what if he added a bit of style? Nothing crazy and nothing unsuited to a guy in his forties—just something slightly more contemporary.

Then he wondered if that was the first sign of a mid-life crisis.

He’d do it. What could it hurt? He wasn’t quite ready to depart from his usual barber, but when he went in on Friday he’d ask the guy to do something a little different.

* * *

It had been difficult to convince his barber that “different” did not include coloring, spikes, or any sort of hair product, but he’d eventually gotten the message across. Charlie walked out with hair that was a little wavier on the sides and a little mussed in the front. Though he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, he’d promised his barber that he’d stick with it through the weekend and give it a chance to grow on him.

They’d both laughed at the “grow on him” comment, although the barber laughed a little harder than Charlie.

Charlie knew that Kutter didn’t care about his hairstyle, and indeed the dog didn’t treat him any differently, but for the first time in his life Charlie found himself sort of looking forward to returning to work on the following Monday.

* * *

“Nice! I like it!” said Alicia, giving him a thumbs-up sign as she quickly walked past his desk on her way to a meeting. Charlie was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t stopped to talk longer. The hair was staying for sure, though.

SIX

J anuary 24th. The first night of the first hunt of the year. Charlie put on his nicest shirt—a dark blue, long-sleeved dress shirt that he hadn’t worn since his job interview. It was sort of a wasted effort, since he’d be wearing a winter jacket over the shirt, but dressing well might subconsciously cause him to behave in a more charismatic manner.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad.

He took down a bottle of unopened cologne that he’d received from somebody one year for Christmas—he thought it might have been a work gift exchange from somebody who didn’t realize that he wasn’t participating—and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed it. Awful. However, women liked this sort of thing, so he splashed some on his neck.

Charlie took a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. Couldn’t hurt to practice a few more times. He unfolded the paper and tried to sound natural as he read the handwritten words aloud.

“Hey, I know a great little coffee place, maybe a two-minute drive from here. I can’t promise you won’t get dog hair on you, but I’d be more than happy to drive us there and treat you to a cup.”

Maybe he should cut the part about the dog hair. If somebody was genuinely fussy about getting dog hair on their clothes, they might decline his offer based just on that. But he liked the way it sounded—it acknowledged concern that Kutter might have gotten dog hair on the front seat. Maybe he’d use it the first time, and drop it if the comment seemed to be the deciding element in somebody refusing to come with him.

He read it out loud a few more times, making his voice as friendly as possible, then moved on to another prepared line: “He’s a handful, but I love him.” This was to be used when somebody was cooing over Kutter, and he’d already tested it out a few times. Responses were evenly divided between an amused “I can imagine!” and the mock disbelief of “Nooooo, not this sweetie!” Either way, the line worked.

The story of how he’d found Kutter worked perfectly fine when he told the truth, and he was surprisingly comfortable sharing it, so he didn’t write it down. He practiced the “handful” line a few more times, then refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

“Okay, time to earn your keep,” he told Kutter, fastening the leash to his collar. “If you help me out tonight, I’ll give you as many bacon treats as you want.” That wasn’t entirely true—he wasn’t going to rush out to the pet store to buy another bag if the first one ran out, but still, Kutter would be entitled to a hell of a lot of bacon treats.

He’d considered putting Kutter in a doggie sweater, but that seemed too far over the top. He wasn’t looking for bimbos, just women more attractive than his usual prey.

He put on his jacket, checked his appearance in the mirror one more time, and then he began his first-ever hunt with a partner.

Normally Charlie was content to hunt within half an hour or so of his home. But since he had a Boston terrier along for the ride, which might make him more memorable to possible witnesses, and was planning to take home a victim more likely to be missed, he decided to play it safe and drove for nearly two hours before pulling into a movie theatre parking lot just after dark. It was one of those enormous multiplex theatres, twenty-four screens, and he figured that a place like this would be busy enough that he could wander around and be relatively anonymous.

“Don’t let me down, buddy,” he said, scratching the top of Kutter’s head. They got out of the car and he walked Kutter toward the theatre.

Kutter was an instant hit. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in a way that did Charlie any good.

People made a fuss over the dog, but it was children with their parents, girls with their boyfriends or husbands, and women in small groups. And some guys, too, which did Charlie even less good. Nobody seemed to go to the movies by themselves.

Of course they didn’t. Everybody knew that.

Charlie dragged Kutter—who was loving the attention—back to the car after about fifteen minutes. Stupid. How could he pick a movie theatre, of all places? This was why he didn’t get to kill beautiful women. This was why he didn’t deserve to kill beautiful women. All of this planning, and he still screwed it up. Pathetic.

He felt like hitting something, but it couldn’t be Kutter. The dog had done his part. Perfectly. The fault was all Charlie’s.

“Stupid,” he said out loud. “Pathetic.”

Kutter panted happily. He didn’t seem to think that Charlie was stupid or pathetic. Charlie put his index finger out and Kutter licked it. He felt a little better.

All right, so he’d made a bad decision and wasted some time. Fifteen minutes was nothing, especially not when he’d driven over two hours to get here. Now was not the time to start doubting himself. “No use crying over spilt milk,” he said.

He’d just have to laugh off this minor moment of foolishness and drive someplace else where he was more likely to find a single woman. No problem at all. He’d just drive to the first public parking lot he could find, and then walk Kutter around the area until he was successful.

Charlie found a parking garage less than a mile away. “See?” he told Kutter. “We’re back on track.” He parked on the third level. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to get out of here quickly and only pay the single-hour rate.

He hadn’t even shut off the engine before he wanted to kick himself. He couldn’t drive a victim out of a public parking garage! Not only were there security cameras, but the attendant would see him drive out of there with a soon-to-be-missing woman. What in the world was he thinking?

He’d made mistakes before, lots of them, but Charlie couldn’t remember ever having been so dense during a hunt. Was Kutter just distracting him? Could he not think clearly with a dog in the passenger seat? This was crazy! Bonkers!

“I’m a creature of habit,” he told Kutter. “You’re throwing off my game.”

The official hunt was over for tonight. Charlie couldn’t risk making another stupid mistake. He’d drive around for a while and try to find a suitable location, and then return the next evening. Better to waste a four-hour round trip than get the electric chair, lethal injection, or the gas chamber. There had to be a good place to hunt where there were no security cameras.

When he drove past the dog park, Charlie burst into a fit of giggles so intense that he had to pull off to the side of the road for a few minutes to recover.

* * *

She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Charlie had ever seen. Her dog was ugly as hell.

“What’s his name?” she asked, as her bulldog and Kutter exchanged undignified sniffs.

“Kutter,” Charlie replied. “With a K.” He’d thought of clarifying the “with a K” part during the drive over that afternoon, and was very pleased with himself. It made him sound friendly.

The woman stroked Kutter’s fur. “Well, he’s a sweetheart.”

“Thanks.” The woman’s bulldog caught sight of another dog and tugged on its leash. Charlie knew he had to act now. “Would you like to get coffee?”

The woman smiled. “I can’t, sorry. I don’t do caffeine.”

“It doesn’t have to be coffee. It can be anything.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Her smile vanished. “I just can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I’ve gotta go,” she said, letting her bulldog lead her away.

Charlie made himself shrug. He hadn’t done anything incorrectly that time. He’d just try again with somebody else. Nobody, not even movie stars, got a “yes” every single time they asked somebody for a date. He had plenty of time.

* * *

“What’s his name?” asked the woman, letting Kutter lick her palm. She was probably in her fifties, but still nice-looking.

“Kutter,” Charlie said. “With a K.”

“Hi, Kutter. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Charlie tried not to grimace, Yeah, he talked to Kutter way more than he wanted to admit, but at least he didn’t ask idiotic questions like that. What did she think Kutter was going to say? “No, ma’am, I’m not a good boy at all, but I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

The woman had a wiener dog. Charlie didn’t want to touch it. He knew he had to make some small talk before asking her out.

“What’s your dog’s name?” he asked.

“Harvey. With an H.”

Charlie frowned. What other letter would the name Harvey start with? Did she think he was a moron? She was the one with the hot dog dog, not him.

Then he realized from her smile that she was trying to be amusing by referencing his “with a K” comment. Duh. He shouldn’t have needed extra time to figure that out. If she thought he was a moron, she was absolutely right. But if she was joking around with him, then she trusted him, and if she trusted him...

“Do you want to get some coffee?” Charlie asked.

The woman held up her left hand, revealing her wedding ring. “I don’t think my husband would like that.”

“I didn’t mean like that. Just coffee.”

“I’m just here to get Harvey some exercise. But I appreciate the offer.”

Charlie started to insist that he merely wanted to get coffee as friends, but no, it wasn’t a good idea to appear desperate. The last thing he needed was for her to tell the cops that there was a creepy guy harassing women at the dog park.

“No problem.”

This wasn’t working at all. Apparently only the dregs of society could be convinced to go anywhere with him, even with a Boston terrier in tow. It was time to give up on this idea and return to his old hunting grounds.

No. He had as much right to be here as anybody else, and it wasn’t a crime to ask somebody to go out for coffee.

It was definitely a nice park—a lot nicer than the one near his house. Would hanging out here all day without bringing home a victim really be such a wasted day? Kutter seemed to be enjoying it, if nothing else.

There was a circular purple object lying in the snow. A Frisbee. Charlie picked it up, shook off the snow, and let Kutter sniff it. The dog seemed to approve.

Charlie flung the Frisbee, which went in the exact opposite direction that he’d intended and struck a tree that was about four feet away. As soon as the Frisbee hit the ground Kutter had snatched it up in his mouth and brought it back, holding it up expectantly.

Charlie took hold of the Frisbee and tugged gently, but Kutter didn’t let it go.

“Give it to me so I can throw it again,” he instructed.

He tugged again. Kutter tugged back.

“You’re not doing this correctly,” Charlie said. He knew next to nothing about dog/human interactions, but he at least knew how to play fetch. How was it possible that he understood the rules better than Kutter?

Charlie let go of the Frisbee. “When you’re ready to play right, let me know.”

Kutter stared up at him for a moment, then let out a whine.

“Don’t whine at me. You have to let it go. Do you want me to throw it with your jaws still stuck on it?”

Charlie grabbed the Frisbee and gently tugged again. Kutter vigorously shook his head side-to-side and refused to relinquish his grip. Charlie tugged a little harder and Kutter tugged back harder.

“You’re playing the wrong game,” Charlie informed the dog. Tug-of-war was supposed to be with a thick rope, or a sock, or maybe a dead squirrel. Frisbees were for throwing and playing fetch. This dog was totally mixed up.

Charlie released his grip again. This time, Kutter let the Frisbee fall. Charlie picked it up and gave it another fling—right into the same tree. He looked around the park to see if anybody had noticed.

Several people had. They were amused.

Charlie cursed.

Kutter brought back the Frisbee, and after another minute of not letting go of it, dropped it into the snow. Charlie picked it up and walked several feet to the left to distance himself from that stupid tree. He swung his arm back and forth a few times, trying to envision the trajectory the Frisbee would take when he released it. Finally, with all of his strength, he threw the disc.

It was another pretty lousy throw, but this one at least missed the tree and any other obstacles and flew through the air like it was supposed to. Kutter, barking furiously, chased after it, running across the park at top speed while kicking up snow. He leapt up into the air and caught the Frisbee in his mouth.

Wow. Charlie was impressed. He certainly couldn’t do that.

Kutter happily scampered back over to Charlie and dropped the Frisbee in front of him. Then Kutter snatched it back up as Charlie reached for it. It was a bizarre combination of fetch and tug-of-war—clearly the poor animal had never been taught how to separate the individual games. No problem. Charlie played along, making several attempts to retrieve the Frisbee before Kutter let go of his prize.

The next throw was infinitely better. Charlie hoped lots of people had seen it, because it went perfectly straight and almost beyond the edge of the park. Kutter caught this one, too.

“You’re pretty talented,” Charlie told the dog. “That’s a good skill to have.”

It wasn’t really, unless there was a market for Frisbee-catching, but everybody else in the park was complimenting their pets, so why shouldn’t Charlie? He scratched Kutter behind the ears, then threw the Frisbee again.

And again. And again.

He threw the Frisbee until his arm ached. Kutter never seemed to get tired of it. On the seventh or eighth throw, Charlie accidentally blurted out “Go get it, boy!” which was of course a completely pointless command, but he found that he felt a surprising lack of self-consciousness while saying it, so he kept it up, going so far as to cheer on the dog as it sprinted toward the purple Frisbee. Though Kutter didn’t catch it every single time, he at least got three out of four, and the ones he missed could generally be blamed on the quality of Charlie’s throw.

Charlie shifted to his left arm when his right arm started to go numb, but after a throw that involved flinging the Frisbee straight down into the ground, he decided to quit for the day. He checked his watch. Wow. They’d been there over two hours. It hadn’t felt anywhere near that long.

It was a lousy hunt, but a good day.

SEVEN

“T hat wasn’t very smart of us,” said Charlie as they pulled into the McDonalds drive-thru. All that Frisbee-tossing had made him hungry. “Everyone in that park is going to remember us. We can’t hunt there tomorrow, or maybe any other time. We’re too memorable.”

Well, perhaps they weren’t. Certainly Kutter wasn’t the first miracle Frisbee-catching Boston terrier to have spent a couple of hours practicing his craft in the dog park...but still, they had to be as cautious as possible, and running around in front of everybody was not the way to keep himself out of jail.

Even if he had found a woman willing to get into his car, it would’ve been a terrible idea to actually lure her inside. He’d screwed up.

That said, Charlie didn’t feel like beating himself up over it. He didn’t feel like crying. He wasn’t pathetic. He felt fine.

He’d had fun. And it was a much safer kind of fun than torturing and murdering a woman in his basement.

He ordered a Big Mac, large fries, and Coke for himself, and three hamburgers and a cup of water for Kutter. Kutter gobbled the burgers almost as quickly as Charlie could unwrap them and toss them over to him, and also lapped up the water in no time, although Charlie had to keep tilting the cup, since it wasn’t really designed for a dog.

Not a bad day at all. And they really didn’t need to drive so far to do it again. He was sure he could find an equally nice dog park in his area. If he wasn’t planning to kidnap anybody, there was no reason to be discrete.

He’d resume the hunt tomorrow. If he felt like it.

* * *

That evening, Charlie sat on the couch, watching television. Kutter lay on his lap, snoring softly.

There was a knock at the door.

Kutter immediately woke up, jumped off the couch, and ran toward the front door, barking. “All right, all right, calm down,” Charlie said, even though he was a bit panicked himself. Nobody ever came to his door at nine-thirty at night. Hardly anybody ever came to his door, period.

He peeked through the peephole. It was a young blonde. She didn’t look like a cop.

Charlie opened the door. The young woman, who probably wasn’t even twenty-one, smiled brightly at him.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Patti, and I’m trying to pay my way through college. It’s pretty expensive these days, as I’m sure you know.”

Charlie didn’t respond. She sounded even more rehearsed than he did.

“So I’d like to offer you the chance to purchase subscriptions to your favorite magazines at a greatly discounted price.” She crouched down and petted Kutter. “Aw, what a cutie! What’s her name?”

“His name. Kutter.”

“Awwwwwww.” She scratched Kutter’s chin, until he rolled over and she rubbed his belly.

Charlie glanced outside. Nobody around.

He grabbed the girl by the hair and yanked her inside. He slammed his hand over her mouth, kicked the door shut, and dragged her into the kitchen where he kept the bottle of chloroform.

* * *

Well, that was impulsive.

Charlie leaned against the basement wall, staring at the blonde who was now strapped to the metal table, still unconscious. He should’ve been cackling with glee; she was, without a doubt, the finest victim he’d ever claimed. If he believed in fate or a higher power, he would have called her a heavenly gift. But she wasn’t—her presence at his door was a coincidence, and her presence in his basement was the result of acting without thinking.

He’d wanted to let her go as soon as he got her into the kitchen. Unfortunately, this wasn’t like accidentally stepping on her foot or spilling soda on her blouse. He couldn’t just apologize and send her on her way. She had to die.

But that was a good thing, right?

Somebody would definitely come looking for her. The disappearances of young cute college students didn’t typically go unnoticed. And though she was dumb enough to go knocking on the doors of strangers after dark, she probably wasn’t dumb enough to do it without telling anybody where she was going, so the search would probably begin soon.

He had to get rid of her. The question was, how much time did he have? A day? A couple of hours?

Under other circumstances, a couple of hours with a victim would barely seem worth the effort. But tonight, it sounded like paradise.

Did he have even that long? What if she lived at home, and his house was her last scheduled visit before she was late for dinner? The cops could be one or two houses down already, doing a methodical search.

Would they suspect him, though? Would they suspect that the guy with the cute dog was a killer?

Yeah, probably. Charlie still had to admit that he was kind of creepy.

“What should I do?” he asked Kutter, who lay on the cement floor, chewing on a piece of rawhide. He didn’t like having Kutter down here, as if the dog might think less of him for what he’d done, but he knew that if he kept the basement door closed, Kutter would just stand outside of it and bark. Loud barking in his home was not a good thing at this moment.

The smartest course of action would be to quickly end her life and dispose of the body...but freebie victim or not, it seemed like a waste. If this was divine intervention, which it wasn’t, was it a good idea not to make the most of his gift?

“Now you’re just trying to rationalize it,” he said out loud. Kutter looked away from his rawhide for a moment as if Charlie was speaking to him. “Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.”

He needed to slit her throat, soak up as much pleasure as he could from the act, and then get rid of her. Dump her in the Body Pond.

Or...?

He could take her someplace else. Someplace far away. Someplace where he could take as much time as he wanted.

His emergency shelter?

He owned a crappy little cabin deep in the sticks, about a five-hour drive away, left to him when his second set of foster parents died. He’d only visited it a couple of times, and had stocked it with canned food, bottled water, and other emergency supplies. His plan was that if he ever did screw things up badly enough that the police found out about his murders, he could hide out there for quite a long time.

The cabin was miserable, though. He’d only go live there as an absolute last resort.

And it wasn’t soundproofed. His assumption was that if he ever had to flee from the police, he’d probably quit killing women for a while. Deep in the sticks or not, he couldn’t have a live victim out there, so the cabin idea was out. He’d deal with her here.

Charlie walked over to the table and ran his fingers through her hair. She was absolutely beautiful.

Killing her seemed like...a crime.

What a bizarre way to feel.

He’d been given the gift of a lifetime (admittedly, a high-risk gift that could easily land him in prison) and he just didn’t really want to kill her. He sort of wished he’d asked her to go get coffee instead.

The whole situation reminded him of when he’d gone to a buffet restaurant, and he’d eaten until he was full and didn’t want to eat anymore. As he was walking toward the exit, he’d noticed that they put out strawberry cheesecake. He didn’t much feel like eating dessert after his huge meal, but he knew that he loved strawberry cheesecake and would have pounced upon the opportunity to have some if he weren’t so full, and he’d felt compelled to eat it anyway.

Would killing the girl make him just as sick to his stomach as the cheesecake?

Maybe this wasn’t a good example. He could go for some strawberry cheesecake right now, actually. The point was that dragging the young woman into his house was a decision based more on what he’d wanted in the past than what he wanted now.

If only he could undo it.

“You can’t change what’s in the past,” he said. He’d be fine. Quite honestly, he was probably just still riding high on the adrenaline from playing with Kutter all afternoon—in the morning, he’d be absolutely delighted to have a beautiful college student to slice.

Yeah. That was it. Also, he was just nervous. One cut with the razor and he’d probably be energized with the desire to kill.

Maybe he’d use the drill instead.

No, no, the razor. Keep it simple.

He selected his smallest razor from the shelf, and then held it above the unconscious girl’s stomach. He’d awaken her with smelling salts before he began the process, but he should figure out his plan of action first. “Where to cut...where to cut...?”

He dropped the razor in surprise as the phone rang.

He quickly picked it back up—it had broken the skin on her stomach a bit—and set it on the metal table as he hurried upstairs. Kutter followed him, and he told the dog to shush up as he opened the door to the basement and hurried through the kitchen into the living room to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi there! I’m calling about the dog you found.”

EIGHT

C harlie suddenly felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. “What?”

“I heard from one of your neighbors, Darlene Clifton, that you found a Boston terrier about a month ago. I think it’s mine.”

Before Charlie could lie, Kutter let out a loud bark.

“Hey, I recognize that guy!” said the man on the other end. “I’m right in your area. Mind if I stop over?”

“I’m...heading out.”

“I’m literally like a minute from your place. I’m passing Darlene’s house right now.”

Charlie wasn’t sure which one Darlene was. Probably the old lady on the corner. He supposed it didn’t matter.

“Okay,” he said.

“Great, thanks!”

Charlie hurried into the kitchen and closed the basement door. The soundproofing really wasn’t designed for situations where somebody was sitting right in his living room, so he’d just have to pray that the girl didn’t regain consciousness while he had a visitor.

What was he going to do? He couldn’t let the man take Kutter away.

Maybe he had the wrong dog. Maybe he’d just show up, take one look at Kutter, sigh, and say “That’s not my dog. Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Have a pleasant evening.”

Or maybe Charlie could just not answer the door. What was the man going to do, break a window and steal Kutter? He couldn’t force Charlie to give him up, could he? Charlie wished he’d researched the state law on this matter.

He scooped Kutter up in his arms and let his dog lick his face. “Don’t worry,” Charlie said, “I won’t let him take you away.” He held Kutter until he heard the car pull into his driveway, and then he put Kutter in his bedroom and closed the door. A moment later, the doorbell rang. Charlie paced around the living room, trying to figure out what to do, until the doorbell rang again.

The man standing on his front porch looked about thirty. He had slicked-back hair, wore a black leather jacket, and had a phony-looking grin. Charlie disliked him immediately.

“Hey there, Charles,” said the man, sticking out his hand. “You go by Chuck?”

“Charlie.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Byron.” When Charlie didn’t return his handshake, Byron lowered his arm and shifted uncomfortably. “I know you were on your way out, so I won’t take up much of your time. Could I just see if you’ve got Duke?”

“Okay,” said Charlie, stepping out of the way so Byron could come inside. But it wasn’t okay. He couldn’t just let this irresponsible owner come and claim a dog that he’d left to freeze to death. “How did you lose him?” Charlie asked, shutting the door behind Byron after he entered.

Byron let out a deep sigh. “Kid next door. I’ve been out of town, so I paid him twenty bucks a day to stop by before and after school to walk and feed Duke. Kid’s sixteen years old, you’d think he could handle it, right? Loses Duke the second day. Doesn’t call me on my cell. Doesn’t tell anybody. I bet he barely even looked. And here’s the kicker—the little shit asked me to pay him for those first two days. Can you believe it?”

Charlie didn’t respond.

“Anyway, can I see if it’s him?”

Charlie wanted to refuse, but how could he? The man knew that he had a dog in the house. If he tried to lie and say that Kutter had just run away moments ago, no doubt the stupid dog would bark again at precisely the wrong moment.

“Okay.”

On numb legs, Charlie walked down the hallway toward the bedroom. He opened the bedroom door. Kutter rushed out, nipped at his ankles, and then saw the man crouched down on the living room floor.

“Duke!” Byron joyously exclaimed. “It is you! C’mere, boy!”

Kutter bounded over to Byron and jumped into his arms. Byron stood up, lifting Charlie’s dog into the air. “Duke! Aw, I’ve missed you, boy! I didn’t think I was gonna see you again!” Kutter licked the man’s face all over while Byron laughed and Charlie just stood there, absolutely stunned.

“Did this guy take good care of you?” Byron asked Kutter. “You look great!” He turned to Charlie. “There’s a reward. I’ll pay you what I’d planned to pay that dumb-ass kid.”

“Please,” Charlie said in a quiet voice. “Don’t take him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Please don’t take him.”

Byron smiled. “It’s easy to get attached to these little guys, isn’t it?”

Charlie nodded.

“He’s a great dog. Have you ever owned the breed?”

“No.”

“I had one before this. Ronnie. Sweetest dog you can imagine. Lived seventeen years. I swore to my parents that I’d walk it, clean up after it, buy the food with my own money if they’d let me get a dog. They made me practice on a goldfish. Fish lived, so they got me a hamster. Dad accidentally kicked the hamster in its plastic ball down the stairs and killed it, and my parents felt so guilty that they got me the dog.”

“Please don’t take him away from me,” Charlie said. He didn’t care how he sounded.

“Do you own any other dogs?” Byron asked.

“I’ve never had a pet.”

“Never had any kind of pet? Ever?”

Charlie shook his head.

“That’s almost criminal,” said Byron. He scratched the top of Kutter’s head. “No wonder you don’t want to let this guy go.”

“I found him in the park under a bench. He was almost dead. I helped him get better.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“He likes it here.”

“He does, huh?” Byron set Kutter down on the living room floor. Charlie crouched down and gestured, and Kutter ran into his arms. “He’s definitely a friendly guy,” Byron noted.

“I’ve got toys for him,” Charlie said. “And lots of food. Good food. I bought the cheapest food when I first got him, but now I’ve got the really good kind. And I have bacon treats. I clean up after him when I take him for walks, and I let him sleep on my bed, and I clipped his toenails a couple of days ago, and I play Frisbee with him.”

Byron chuckled. “You sound just like me when I was pitching the idea to my parents.”

“Please. I don’t have any friends. I really like having him here.”

Byron’s smile faded. “I can’t give you my dog, Charlie.”

Kutter licked Charlie’s nose.

“Just let him stay a little while longer, okay?” Charlie asked. His voice cracked. He couldn’t remember it ever having done that.

Byron was quiet for a long moment. “You’ve really never had a pet?”

“Never.”

“You’re almost making me cry here, Charlie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mind if I have a seat?”

Charlie shook his head, and Byron sat down on his couch. “You’re not making this easy for me, you know. I feel like I’m stealing a puppy away from a little kid.”

Byron sat there for a while, lost in thought. Charlie desperately wished that he’d written a script for this kind of thing. He should’ve guessed that somebody would come for Kutter eventually, and he should’ve written a foolproof speech to convince the owner to let Charlie keep him.

“Can I at least visit him?” Charlie asked, his upper lip trembling a bit.

“Show me the toys,” said Byron.

“What?”

“The toys you bought him. Show them to me.”

Charlie walked over to the television stand and picked up the small wicker basket that was on the floor next to it. “He keeps scattering them all around the house,” Charlie said, “but I put them here when I clean the place up.”

He brought the basket over to Byron. “It’s only six. He wrecked two of them. The stuffed ones.”

Bryon peered into the basket and nodded his approval. “Nice selection. He likes squeaky things.” Byron poked at a rubber dolphin. Kutter’s ears perked up at the squeak.

“I’d buy him more,” Charlie insisted.

“Well, it’s never good to spoil them.”

“I’d spoil him anyway.”

Byron sighed. “All right, Charlie, here’s what we’re going to do. Have you seen those movies or TV shows where the kids are fighting over the rightful owner of a dog, and so they do a contest where they both call the dog and see who he comes to first?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll set Duke in the middle of the room, we’ll each take a corner, and we’ll both call him. You’re clearly deeply attached to the little guy, and if he’s just as attached to you, I’ll step down as his owner. Sound fair?”

“Yes. Very fair.” Charlie was elated. Even if he liked his old home, Kutter wouldn’t want Charlie to be left alone, would he?

“Go grab a couple of dog treats,” said Byron.

Charlie retrieved two pseudo-bacon strips from the canister on top of the refrigerator and brought them back into the living room.

“Duke loves food a lot more than he loves either of us, that’s for sure, so we’ll put the treats in the center of the room while we each take a corner.”

“Who picks the corner?”

“You have the home field advantage, so I’ll pick. I’ll stand in the corner by the TV.”

Charlie walked over to the opposite corner and crouched down. If Kutter didn’t pick him, Charlie was going to start sobbing right in front of this stranger. Maybe that would be a good thing. Maybe he’d look so pathetic that Byron would give him Kutter anyway.

No. You didn’t give great dogs away to pathetic sobbing people. He just had to frantically hope that Kutter would make the right choice.

Byron dropped the bacon strips onto the center of the floor and then gently set Kutter down next to them. He quickly walked to his own corner, and then crouched down as well. “C’mere, Duke!”

“C’mere, Kutter! Here, Kutter!”

“Duke! Come to your Daddy!”

“Kutter! Come to your friend!”

The Boston terrier gobbled up the first bacon strip and immediately started on the second.

“Here, Duke! Here, Duke, Duke, Duke!”

“Here, Kutter! Here, Kutter, Kutter, Kutter!”

Byron clapped his hands. Charlie did the same.

The dog finished up the second bacon strip, sneezed, let out a soft bark, and then ran into Charlie’s arms.

“Thank you!” Charlie said as he vigorously petted the dog with both hands. “Thank you, Kutter! You’re such a good doggie! Yes, you’re such a good doggie!”

Byron stood up. Charlie felt a pang of sympathy for the guy as he dabbed at the corner of his eye with his index finger. “The dog has spoken,” he said with a sad smile.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Charlie promised.

“You’d better. I reserve the right to make surprise inspections. If I don’t like what I see, I’ll grind your ass up and feed you to him.”

“That’s fair.”

Byron walked over and stuck out his hand. Charlie shook it.

“Congratulations on owning your first pet. Kutter, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I actually like that better than Duke.”

“Me too.”

Byron picked up Kutter and spoke softly to the dog while it licked his face. Charlie felt as if he should leave the room and give them some privacy, but he also didn’t want to give Byron a chance to sprint for the exit, so he stayed where he was.

After a couple of minutes, Byron handed Kutter to Charlie. “I guess I’ll head off. You were on your way out, right?”

“No. I made that up.”

“That’s what I figured.” He gave the dog one last scratch behind the ears. “Seeya, Kutter.”

Charlie let Byron out of the house. He watched through the window as he got into his car and started the engine, not willing to believe that Kutter was truly his until Byron backed out of the driveway and drove out of sight.

Steak. He and Kutter needed a steak to celebrate.

Then he remembered that he still had the girl in his basement.

NINE

“W hat am I supposed to do with you?” Charlie asked the girl. He’d already taken off her gag and informed her that if she screamed, he’d cut her throat. It wasn’t a threat he’d ever made good on—though he had cut vocal cords more than once—but he was feeling more paranoid than usual and didn’t entirely trust the soundproofing in the basement.

“You could let me go,” said the girl, her voice raw and scratchy. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Yes, you will. I would.”

She violently shook her head. “No, no, I swear to God I won’t tell anybody. I’ve got a warrant out for my arrest—I can’t talk to the cops even if I wanted to.”

“What did you do?”

“I killed my ex-boyfriend. I shot him.”

“No, you didn’t.” Charlie’s spirits fell. He’d been momentarily excited, because the idea of her not going to the cops because of an outstanding arrest warrant made a lot of sense, but if she’d committed murder she wouldn’t be going door-to-door selling magazine subscriptions.

“I did. I swear I did.”

“I can look it up and find out if you’re lying,” Charlie told her, although he wasn’t certain that he could. “If you are, I’ll use my knives on your arms until they’re just skeleton arms. That takes a long time. Are you willing to stick to your story?”

The girl began to cry.

“Answer me.”

“No,” she said.

“I didn’t think so. Don’t lie to me again.” She was being pretty brave, a lot braver than most of his victims, but her body still shook with tiny sobs. Charlie usually enjoyed that sight. Not tonight. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said. “I thought I did, but I don’t anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that easy. You know what I look like. You know where I live. How can I let you go?”

“I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

“But you’d be stupid if you didn’t. Why would you let a serial killer roam free and not tell anybody where he lived? I don’t want to hurt you, I swear I don’t, but you’d tell the police. You’d have to tell them. You’d be a horrible person if you didn’t.”

“You’d come after me if I did.”

“Not if you had police protection.”

“I wouldn’t have police protection forever.”

“I’m not that kind of killer. I hunt easy targets, people who won’t be missed.”

“Everybody is missed.”

“No they aren’t.”

“Yes, they are.”

Charlie could talk to strapped-down women in his basement with an ease that eluded his interactions with other humans, but he found himself momentarily flustered. “Either way, a promise not to tell isn’t enough. I can’t believe you.”

“Then what can we do?”

“I don’t know! That’s the whole problem! If we can find an answer, I’ll do it, but I can’t think of one! I probably shouldn’t have kept you alive even this long. The police could be on their way right now.”

“They’re not.”

“I’ll make it quick,” Charlie promised. “I never do, but this time I will. It’ll be over in seconds. You’ll hardly even feel it.”

“My name is Patti.”

“I don’t care.”

“I just want you to know that. My name is Patti.”

“I said I don’t care.” Charlie ran a hand through his hair, thoroughly frustrated. She was ruining his celebration with Kutter.

“I can come up with a plan,” Patti said. “Just give me time. Give me an hour.”

Charlie considered that. It was a bad idea, a terrible idea, but it seemed fair to give her a chance. She might come up with something brilliant. If he could resolve this situation without murdering her and risking having the police hunt him for the rest of his free life, it would be worth taking the chance on keeping her alive awhile longer.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t kill you yet.”

“Thank you.”

“Put your thinking cap on. I’ll go get you some food. Do you like cereal?”

* * *

Charlie closed the basement door behind him as he stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t have any steak in the house, and though there was a twenty-four-hour grocery store not too far from his home, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to leave the house right now. He and Kutter would just have to celebrate with bacon strips.

He walked into the living room. “Kutter! What the hell—?”

Kutter stopped chewing on the couch cushion. He’d exposed a piece of the stuffing, and another bit of white fluff was on the floor.

“Why are you chewing up my couch?” He hurried across the room. Kutter ran to the other side, thinking it was playtime.

“You idiot, I was going to buy you a steak tomorrow! Steak! I bet you’ve never even had a steak. A big, thick juicy steak on the way and you’re trying to eat my couch? Why would you do that? Huh? Why?”

Charlie stood there, waiting for an answer. Then he remembered that he was unlikely to receive one.

He couldn’t believe this. He hadn’t even been the dog’s official owner for half an hour and Kutter was chewing up the furniture.

He sat down on the damaged couch. Kutter jumped up next to him.

“Go away. I’m mad at you.”

Kutter prodded Charlie’s hand with his cold wet nose, seeking petting.

“No. You don’t deserve to get petted. You’re a bad dog. Good dogs don’t chew up couches. Only evil ones do that.”

Kutter continued to prod him. Charlie reluctantly petted his head.

“What’s wrong? Were you just stressed out because your old owner tried to take you away?”

That might’ve been it. Byron’s unexpected presence might’ve confused the poor animal. And Kutter might’ve been scared by having Charlie go down into the basement so soon after Byron left. Maybe he thought that Charlie had left him forever.

“I’m sorry,” said Charlie. “You’re not a bad dog. We’ll make up.” He took Kutter’s paw in his hand and shook it. “Deal?”

Kutter licked his face.

* * *

Charlie watched the 11:00 PM news to see if there was anything about Patti. Nothing. That wasn’t surprising—she’d hadn’t been missing for very long, and if she lived on campus and had a boyfriend, it might not be unusual for her to come home late.

He had time.

“What a waste,” he told Kutter. A beautiful girl in his basement, and he simply didn’t feel like torturing or killing her. How had his life turned out this way?

He decided not to go downstairs to check on her. She’d be fine until tomorrow. Then Charlie would call in sick to work, and spend the morning either following Patti’s plan, or disposing of her body.

* * *

The alarm went off as usual at 6:30 AM. Charlie got up, threw on a robe, took Kutter for a quick walk, came home, brushed his teeth, and then practiced his “sick voice” a few times. He thought it sounded pretty good. He considered leaving his voice mail without using a script, then lost his nerve and wrote down what he wanted to say. He kept it simple—giving more information than was necessary made it sound like a lie.

He dialed Bob Testiro’s number. It rang twice.

“Hello?”

Charlie froze. Bob was never in this early. “Uh, Bob? It’s Charlie Stanlon.”

“Hey, Charlie, what’s up?”

He considered coughing into the phone, then decided it would sound forced. “Nothing much. I’m just calling in sick.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Sore throat. Some aches and pains.”

“Charlie, we’re already two people down this week. I worked all day Saturday and half a day yesterday to get ready for the global operations center’s visit. You really can’t fight through a sore throat and some aches and pains?”

“I...guess I can.”

“Thanks. It’s just really not a good time for you to be out. If you’re still not feeling well on Tuesday, it won’t be an issue. See you in a bit.”

Charlie hung up. That hadn’t quite gone as planned. He couldn’t afford to get fired, so it looked like he’d be going in to work today.

It would be fine. He’d left women in his basement countless times while at work. It even made the day more pleasant, knowing they were down there. He’d simply have to treat this situation no differently than any of the others. If there’d been a witness, the cops would’ve been at his door by now, so he’d just trust that the security measures he already had in place were sufficient. And maybe this was a good thing. His job was pretty boring, so he’d have all day to brainstorm ideas on how to let Patti live.

And after he dealt with that, he thought he might build Kutter a doghouse.

* * *

Charlie stared at the stapled papers.

Alicia had been doing so well, but there it was, stapled in the top center instead of the top left. Only one of them—the others were done correctly—but this could be the start of a trend. If he didn’t say something, the entire batch of papers could be improperly stapled tomorrow. He’d have to pluck out all of the staples and redo them, which wasted staples and put his fingertips at risk for puncturing.

He started to type an e-mail to Bob, then stopped after “Bob, I need to bring to your attention—”

Alicia was always nice to him. She was the one who’d suggested that he keep Kutter. If he hadn’t listened to her, Kutter could’ve been gassed or adopted by an unloving home. She’d said that if he had a problem with her, he should bring it to her directly, so that’s what he’d do. She deserved that much.

He picked up the flawed papers and walked over to her desk.

“Uh-oh, did I screw something up?” Alicia asked.

Charlie shook his head. “No. It’s all fine.”

What was he saying? It wasn’t fine. It was wrong in a way that he’d already asked her to fix. Why was he suddenly compelled not to mention it?

Coming over to her desk was a mistake. He should’ve just e-mailed Bob. It was never a good idea to change the plan.

Alicia was a lot more beautiful than he remembered.

“I just wanted to tell you that I get to keep the dog,” he said. “The real owner came over, but he’s letting me keep him.”

“Really? That’s great! I bet you’re thrilled!”

“Yeah. So...thanks.”

“For what?”

“For your help.”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything. I just told you to keep him.”

“That helped.”

Alicia smiled. “Well, then I graciously accept your thanks. Now tape a damn dog picture to your monitor. That’s the rule.”

“Okay.”

She returned her attention to her work. Charlie didn’t leave. His mouth had dried up and he ran his tongue all over the inside, trying to replenish the moisture so he could speak.

“Did you...did you want to get coffee sometime?” he finally asked.

Her smile faltered. Just for a fraction of a second, but it faltered.

“You know,” she said, “some of us get drinks after work on Wednesdays.”

He knew. Alicia had mentioned it a couple of times, but he always declined the offer. It sounded boring.

“You should come with us.”

Did she really want him to come along, or was she just trying to get out of a coffee date? He was almost positive it was the latter. He couldn’t blame her for that.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I wasn’t asking to...I wasn’t asking because I wanted to...”

“No, no, I understood. Coffee as friends. I’m sure you have a rule against dating co-workers just like I do. But you really should come with us for drinks on Wednesday. Coffee counts as a drink.”

“Maybe.”

“Is that a legitimate maybe, or a maybe meaning no?”

“A legitimate one.”

“Great! We’ll look forward to having you along.”

Charlie returned to his desk, feeling humiliated. He never should have asked her out. That was idiotic. There was no possible way she’d ever have said “yes,” and now she’d go around the office telling everybody what he’d done.

He could hear her voice: “Oh, he’s got a cute little crush on me! It’s so adorable!” She probably thought he was a pathetic little puppy, following her around, too stupid to know that she was out of his league.

He wasn’t sure if he should go with them on Wednesday or not. Most likely, Alicia had just invited him to escape from the awkward social situation.

He’d leave her alone from now on.

* * *

After an endless day, Charlie drove home. At least he knew Kutter wouldn’t decline his invitation to go for a walk.

As soon as his key touched the lock, he could hear Kutter’s happy barking on the other side of the door. He opened the door and his best friend gave him the usual wildly enthusiastic greeting. “Good boy,” Charlie said, crouching down and petting him. “You’re always a good boy, aren’t you?”

He glanced over at his couch.

No new tooth marks. No stuffing all over the floor.

However, there was a big puddle of vomit on the left cushion, much of which had trickled down the front and onto his carpet.

“Aw, come on, Kutter, why would you do that?” Charlie asked. “You couldn’t hold it in until I got home? I’ve got an entire kitchen of tiled floor that you could’ve puked on. Why did you need to do that on my couch?”

Kutter did not answer.

“What are you even eating that you would’ve—aw, shit!”

Literally.

“That’s horrible, Kutter. Horrible. That’s a horrible thing to eat and a horrible thing to vomit on my couch. I can’t believe you would do that.”

Charlie’s was not always a life of great dignity—after all, he’d once found himself in his basement sobbing over the corpse of a victim who’d died too soon—but he’d never eaten and thrown up his own feces. Even his moments of most intense shame were never that low.

“You suck, Kutter.” Charlie glared at his dog. “If I had let you lick my face before I saw that, you’d be out on the street.”

Oh well. If there was one thing that Charlie’s home didn’t lack, it was cleaning supplies.

He took Kutter for a much shorter walk than usual, then brought him back inside and took off his leash. When Charlie opened the basement door, Kutter pushed past him and ran down the stairs. Charlie didn’t bother calling him back—Kutter couldn’t jump up on the table, and Patti couldn’t get down, so it really didn’t matter if the dog was down there or not.

He had mentally run through scenarios all day, trying to figure out how he could let Patti go without putting himself in serious danger. He couldn’t think of any, except to leave her here and flee to his cabin, but even in that scenario he’d be more likely to get captured and arrested than if he just killed her. Still, he was the first to admit that he didn’t always think of every possibility, and he hoped that she’d been more successful.

Kutter scampered around the room while Charlie cut off Patti’s gag. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She looked scared, but she also looked defiant. She could be as defiant as she wanted—she was still strapped to a table, and she wasn’t getting away.

“I tried to find a solution,” Charlie said. “I really did. What did you come up with?”

“Here’s what I came up with. If you kill me, my parents will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. You will never know another moment of peace. You will—”

Charlie put his hand over her mouth. “I didn’t ask you to come up with a speech. Is that really all you’ve got for me? A threat? All this time down here and your answer is to tell me that your parents will seek revenge?” Charlie was incredulous, but it also made him feel a little better about himself. If she’d spent about twenty hours in a basement with absolutely nothing to do but think about how they could work things out, and even she was unsuccessful, then there truly had to be no answer. It wasn’t just him.

He pulled his hand away. “They’ll torture you,” Patti said.

“They’d do that even if I let you go.”

“They’ll fuck you up.”

Charlie picked up the knife. “You didn’t do what you were supposed to. This isn’t my fault.”

“You’ll burn in hell.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“They’ll—”

“Enough! Do you want the blade in your throat or in your heart? You pick.”

Patti bit her lip and said nothing.

“Throat or heart? Come on. It’s not that difficult of a decision.”

Her voice became frantic. “I have a place where you can stay. My parents own a cabin. Nobody will find you there. I’ll take you there right now if you let me go. I’ll never tell. I swear.”

Charlie shook his head. “That won’t work. It’s better than the threat, but it won’t work. Heart or throat? You can also think of it as slice or stab. Which do you want?”

“I—I don’t...” Tears began to stream down the sides of her face. “Which one hurts less?”

“I don’t know. I think heart.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“We’ll do heart.”

Charlie raised the knife over Patti’s chest. Kutter began to whimper.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked. The dog continued to whine, clearly distressed.

What was wrong seemed pretty obvious: Kutter didn’t want him to stab her.

Great.

“It’s okay, boy,” Charlie assured him. “You don’t have to be scared.”

He set the knife down on the table. Wow. He never would’ve expected to interrupt killing his prey to avoid traumatizing a dog.

“Kutter, upstairs. Come on.” He whistled and started up the stairs himself. Kutter didn’t follow. Halfway up, Charlie clapped his hands and whistled again. “Come on, boy!”

He spent another full minute trying to coax the dog onto the stairs, then gave up and just picked Kutter up. “It’ll be fine,” he said in a soothing voice. “Nothing bad’s going to happen to you.” Kutter continued to whine as he carried him upstairs into the kitchen. He closed the door behind them and set Kutter on the floor. Kutter immediately started to scratch on the basement door.

“Stop it,” Charlie said. “You know better than that.”

Charlie decided that he might as well clean up Kutter’s mess before tending to the problem downstairs. Stupid pukey dog. “It’s not too late to take you to the animal shelter,” Charlie said, even though he was considering no such thing.

By the time Charlie finished cleaning up the couch, Kutter had fallen asleep on the floor and was snoring softly. It felt weird to be sneaking around in his own house, but Charlie crept into the kitchen and slowly opened the basement door. He shut it behind him as he went down the stairs.

He walked over to the table and sighed with frustration.

And then he slid the blade across Patti’s throat, receiving no pleasure from the sight of her gushing blood.

TEN

T he next evening, a policeman showed up at his door. Charlie told him that a girl had indeed tried to sell him a magazine subscription, and that he felt bad turning her down, but that he couldn’t bring himself to do anything that might encourage further door-to-door solicitation. The officer seemed satisfied with his response, gave Charlie his card, and asked him to call if he thought of anything else that might be helpful. Charlie promised him that he would.

* * *

“So are you coming?” Alicia asked, as Charlie shut down his computer.

He’d decided that he wasn’t. She’d only asked him to join them as a way to be nice about turning down his request for a date—not even a date, coffee as friends—and he didn’t particularly like the other people he worked with. He knew their names and whether or not they had kids (mostly because they talked about it so loudly in the aisles) but not much else, and wasn’t interested in knowing more.

“Nah.”

“You really should.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” he heard himself say.

“Great!”

Oh well. No big deal. He’d survive this. Worst-case scenario, he’d have a miserable hour or so, and then he’d go home and spend some quality time with Kutter. Wednesdays were now Frisbee night—he’d stop at the toy store on the way home and get the nicest plastic Frisbee they had.

* * *

Five of them sat around the table in the restaurant. Mike, Gary, and Jessica had all expressed surprise that Charlie was coming with them, and it looked like Jessica had purposely picked a seat where she wouldn’t be next to him, yet they were all reasonably pleasant. Everybody ordered alcoholic beverages except Charlie—Gary had pushed for him to get a beer, but Charlie needed to remain in full control of his mental state. He’d never been drunk, and could see no positive outcome to having too much to drink and accidentally blurting out something like “Say, were you aware that during my non-working hours I slaughter innocent women?”

They started by talking about tedious job-related stuff that Charlie had no interest in. He didn’t care about the whispered rumors about possible mergers or layoffs in other departments or suspected affairs between bosses and their administrative assistants. Charlie did his own job as well as he possibly could, and expected others around him to do their jobs correctly, but outside of his area, he didn’t much care what was happening. None of this conversation affected him personally or professionally. What a waste of time that he could be using to choose the perfect color of Frisbee. His thought was blue, if they had it, though dark green might also work.

“So, Charlie,” said Alicia. “Tell everybody about your new dog.”

Charlie’s stomach clenched up. He hated being the center of attention, even in a small group. “Kutter,” he said.

“What kind of dog is it?” Mike asked.

“Boston terrier.”

“Oh, I love those!” said Jessica. “Those cute little faces. You didn’t get him from a puppy mill, did you?”

“No.”

“Charlie found him under a park bench, badly hurt,” said Alicia.

“Not badly hurt.”

“I thought you said he was hurt.”

“He just had some scratches. But he was freezing to death, I think.”

“So you saved his life.”

“I think so. Yeah.”

“I had no idea you were a heroic puppy-saver,” said Mike. Charlie couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Then Mike smiled, and Charlie decided that he wasn’t.

“He isn’t a puppy,” Charlie explained.

Charlie noticed Jessica rolling her eyes. He was screwing this up. He never should’ve agreed to this torture.

“I just meant that if he was a puppy I probably wouldn’t have been able to save him. It’s good that he had grown up.”

Charlie wasn’t sure if that explanation helped things or not.

“Why the name Kutter?” asked Gary.

“It’s my grandfather’s name,” Charlie lied, as he’d planned in case anybody ever asked him.

“Kutter Stanlon?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a pretty bad-ass name.”

“Thanks.” Charlie took a long drink of his Cherry Coke, and then checked his watch. Alicia kicked him gently under the table. He thought he’d been more subtle.

“Do you have a picture?” asked Alicia.

“Not with me.” Charlie did have to admit to himself that he appreciated the way Alicia was trying to keep him involved in the conversation. Yeah, he’d rather be at home, but all things considered, this really wasn’t so bad. If nothing else, this place knew how to make a good Cherry Coke—he hated the weak ones. He couldn’t see himself joining his co-workers every single week...but perhaps once a month, just to be nice.

Maybe he’d try something new. Something he couldn’t remember ever having tried before in his adult life. Maybe he’d ask somebody about themselves without any motive except to hear the answer.

“Do any of you own dogs?” he asked.

Mike owned a golden retriever named Zak who carried around a teddy bear, and a parakeet named Twitter who said three different phrases in German. Gary was allergic to dogs but owned goldfish, which he flushed and replaced on a regular basis so as not to disturb his daughter, who tended to overfeed them. Jessica desperately wanted a puppy, something that would stay small, but her apartment complex didn’t allow pets. And Alicia had three cats, Wilson, Puffs, and Jagged Edge, each named by one of her children. Charlie hadn’t known that she had children.

Three kids. Wow. Charlie had never expected to love a dog, but the idea of having a girlfriend with three kids was almost inconceivable. He was really glad that she’d declined his offer for coffee. He smiled to himself, thinking that this had been a productive social outing after all.

They stayed for another hour, with Charlie successfully carrying his fifth of the conversational load. Gary was the first to excuse himself, and everybody else simultaneously agreed that it was time to head home.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Alicia asked, as they walked out of the restaurant and headed for their vehicles.

“Yeah,” said Charlie, surprised that he didn’t have to lie.

“Join us next week?”

“I might.”

She didn’t give him a kiss or a hug or any of the things that Charlie would’ve originally considered the only possible benefit from going out with the group—just a friendly pat on the arm. And Charlie was fine with that.

* * *

He picked out three Frisbees: a light blue one, a dark blue one, and a glow-in-the-dark green one. That way he’d have extras if any of them got lost or Kutter chewed them up to the point where it impacted their aerodynamics. When he got home, he let Kutter out of the basement, put on his leash, and ran with him to the park, at least for the first couple of blocks, after which Charlie walked fast while Kutter tugged on his leash and stopped occasionally to smell things.

The glow-in-the-dark Frisbee didn’t glow worth crap, but Kutter was still able to catch it. Charlie tried to keep track of how many times he threw the Frisbees, until he lost count around twenty-eight and decided that it didn’t really matter. This time, Charlie was amused to find that Kutter ran out of energy before him, although to be fair, Kutter was doing the vast majority of the running.

* * *

As Charlie lay in bed, with Kutter asleep at his feet, he suddenly realized that he’d forgotten to worry about the police returning based on new evidence against him. Odds were, he’d gotten away with his impulse kill. Though he never planned to do anything even remotely that reckless again, it was kind of nice to know that even when he had a huge lapse in his better judgment, he could evade arrest.

He got a great night’s sleep, and dreamt about working in a dog biscuit factory.

* * *

The next evening, it was finally time for their steak dinner celebration. Charlie dragged his rarely used grill out into his backyard, applied a generous helping of lighter fluid because he enjoyed the whoosh of the fireball, and tossed a match onto the pile of charcoal. When the coals were ready, he brought out two thick New York strip steaks and tossed them on the grill. He liked his steaks medium rare. In the cartoons, dogs always ate raw steaks, but Charlie didn’t want to risk Kutter getting worms, so he cooked the dog’s steak medium rare as well.

Kutter whined and twitched and licked his chops over and over as Charlie cut his steak into small pieces. “Chill out,” Charlie told him. “I don’t want you to choke.”

The dog, clearly unconcerned with the potential choking hazard, let out an impatient bark.

Charlie set Kutter’s bowl on the floor, watching as the dog proceeded to gobble the steak down so quickly that it might as well have been a bowl of Alpo, considering how little time the food spent in contact with Kutter’s tongue. Charlie elected to savor his own meal in a much more leisurely manner, and also enjoyed a side dish of a fully loaded baked potato. Because he was in a really good mood, and it was a celebration dinner, Charlie gave Kutter the last third of his steak.

* * *

“Shake! Come on, buddy, shake! Shake hands!”

Kutter never resisted when he shook his paw manually, but Charlie could never get the dog to put up his paw on his own.

“Shake hands, Kutter! Shake!”

He took Kutter’s paw and shook it again, to demonstrate what the dog was supposed to do. “Shake,” he said, looking into the dog’s eyes. “This is called shake.”

He let go of Kutter’s paw, but kept his hand out. “Shake, Kutter! Shake!”

Kutter preferred face licking over paw shaking as a means of greeting, but Charlie refused to give up. He didn’t expect the dog to leap through flaming hoops (although that would be pretty cool) but sometime before the end of this year Kutter was going to learn how to shake!

“Shake, Kutter! Shake! Shake!”

Kutter lifted his paw. Charlie grabbed it and shook it. “Good dog! Good doggie!”

Next up: Rolling over.

* * *

Charlie found himself speaking to Mike, Gary, and Jessica about non-work-related matters. Only brief, trivial conversations about pets, television shows, and prior night’s meals, yet he enjoyed the contact. The next Wednesday, he went along for drinks, even though Alicia couldn’t go because of a prior engagement. They talked about their favorite movies, and Charlie made a list of things he needed to rent on DVD.

* * *

A month later, Alicia announced that she was engaged. Charlie wished her the best, and meant it. Then he joined his co-workers in speculating about whether or not the ridiculously short time frame between meeting the guy and agreeing to marry him was somehow related to an unexpected pregnancy.

When she brought him to their next gathering, Charlie decided that no, they were simply in love.

* * *

On a lark, Charlie entered Kutter in a small local dog show. They were eliminated in the first round, though at least Charlie was pretty sure that their scores were better than the bulldog that took a dump in front of the judges. They didn’t get a trophy, but Charlie gave Kutter lots of treats.

* * *

“Hear me out before you say no,” said Alicia. Charlie didn’t like her wicked grin. There was no question that her intentions were evil.

“All right.”

“I have a friend—”

“No.”

“She just moved here a couple of weeks ago. If you don’t count me, she doesn’t have any friends outside of work. She’s really nice. She likes dogs. I think you two would really hit it off.”

Charlie thought about that for a moment. “You mean a blind date, right?”

“Yep.”

“Uh-uh. No.”

“You’re not going to take pity on my poor friend? My poor lonely friend, who got really excited when I told her all about you?”

“Sorry.”

Alicia lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s been unwillingly celibate for the past two years.”

Charlie broke into a cold sweat and hoped that Alicia didn’t notice. “I’m busy.”

“I didn’t say when.”

“When?”

“It’s open-ended. Anytime you two are able to make it work. And here’s the best part, I thought that you could do a ‘dog date,’ where you take your dogs to the park together. She has a Yorkie. So Kutter can have a date, too. It’ll be fun.”

“Is her Yorkie mean?”

“Her Yorkie is just fine. Can I tell her you said yes?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to say yes, because I’ll harass you about this as much as I can without violating any HR policies.”

By the official company rules, Charlie thought that the “unwillingly celibate” comment might have been a human resources violation already, but of course he wasn’t going to report her. “Fine,” he said.

“Cool! How about Saturday?”

“Afternoon or evening?”

“Do you already have plans for either?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go with Saturday afternoon. You’ll love her. I promise!”

* * *

Despite the badgering from his hair stylist, Charlie still refused to add any highlights.

* * *

He had no idea what to wear. He wanted to dress to impress, but he also didn’t want to look like an idiot running around the dog park in formal clothes.

“You’re lucky,” he told Kutter. “All you have to wear is fur.”

Kutter woofed in agreement. Or disagreement. One of the two.

Charlie settled on jeans and his nicest red polo shirt, with an extra spritz of cologne.

* * *

She was seated on a bench, waiting for him as he and Kutter arrived at the dog park. Unless it was some other curly-haired blonde with a Yorkie on her lap.

“Elizabeth...?” he asked.

“Hi, Charlie!” she said, standing up.

Charlie had hoped it was a case of mistaken identity. She was remarkably unattractive—overweight, bad complexion, and crooked teeth. Her hair was nice, and Charlie liked her yellow blouse, but she wasn’t one-tenth as good-looking as Alicia.

Was that how Alicia saw him? Her ugly co-worker? She hadn’t set up the blind date to be nice to him; she did it because there was nobody else who’d go out with her repulsive cow of a friend.

Okay, “repulsive cow” was too harsh.

And he had to be honest: he was not a handsome man. Not even if you graded on a curve. For all he knew, she was thinking the same thing, that Alicia must’ve picked her ugliest co-worker to set her up with on the date.

If nothing else, she looked a lot better than some of the junkies he cut up.

“Hi,” he said. He gave a gentle tug on Kutter’s leash. “This is Kutter.”

“Nice to meet you, Kutter,” said Elizabeth. “This is Cooper.”

“After the singer?”

“Alice Cooper?”

“Yeah.”

“No, but I like his music. Are you a fan?”

“Uh-huh.” Charlie didn’t listen to music very often, but School’s Out was one of the few CD’s he owned.

Charlie awkwardly shook her hand. A soft breeze was at her back, and he noticed that she smelled nice, sort of like cotton candy.

“So Alicia says that you rescued your dog...?”

“Yeah. Not from wolves or anything like that, but yeah.”

Elizabeth giggled. Charlie smiled as well. The wolves line was kind of clever. He didn’t usually ad-lib things like that.

“That’s pretty cool of you. I got Cooper from an animal shelter. If my sister hadn’t stopped me, I probably would’ve taken home six of them.”

“That’s a lot of Yorkies.”

“Yeah.”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Charlie frantically tried to think of something to ask. “Do you go by Beth?”

“Liz. Or the full Elizabeth. As long as you don’t call me Lizzie, it’s fine.”

“I won’t.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to see Kutter catch a Frisbee?”

“I’d love to.”

With the pressure on, Charlie half-expected Kutter to develop performance anxiety and completely botch the Frisbee-catching game. Fortunately, with the exception of one miss that was Charlie’s fault (a bad throw, but not a bad enough throw to be humiliating) Kutter caught them all.

“He’s really good at that,” Liz said.

“He was that good when I found him. Can Cooper catch?”

“Yeah, but not one of those Frisbees. They’re bigger than she is!”

“What can she catch?”

“A bouncy ball. I have to do it at home, though. It won’t work on the grass.”

“I’d like to see that,” Charlie said.

Had he accidentally made a suggestive comment? Charlie sure hoped not. He couldn’t honestly say that he was attracted to her, but he still didn’t want to screw the date up this early, if for no other reason than to have to face Alicia on Monday.

She smiled. “Maybe you will.”

Okay, that had been a suggestive comment.

They spent another hour at the dog park. Though the conversation didn’t always flow freely, they were able to fill the silences by watching the dogs play. Liz suggested that they get an early dinner, so they drove in separate cars to Charlie’s favorite seafood restaurant. Never having brought a guest there before, Charlie suddenly became very concerned about the quality of the food—maybe he only liked the flounder because he didn’t know what good flounder tasted like!—but decided that he really couldn’t worry about it.

“Please don’t destroy my car,” Charlie told Kutter as they pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot. “You have no idea how happy it will make me if I come back and you haven’t wrecked anything. You went to the bathroom before we left and you haven’t eaten anything that you should need to vomit, so there’s no excuse. If you have to slobber, slobber, but don’t chew up the seats. Okay?”

As Charlie ate his baked flounder and Liz ate her salmon Caesar salad, Charlie decided that the date had gone from “much less painful than he would have expected” to “absolutely fantastic.” By the time they’d finished their crab cake appetizers her physical appearance didn’t bother him at all. In fact, her smile and the way her eyes lit up when she spoke made her more appealing to look at than a lot of genuinely pretty women he knew. And she was easy to talk to. Almost as easy as Kutter, and the best part was that she talked back.

They had similar tastes in movies and television shows, both hated sports, had differing political views (Liz was a passionate Democrat, while Charlie had no interest in the subject whatsoever and had never voted in a single election), both read very few books, and neither had travelled extensively. Charlie wasn’t thrilled with her choice of dessert, since bread pudding was among the nastiest concoctions ever devised by humankind, but he happily shared it with her.

She asked if he wanted to go back to her place to watch a movie, and he enthusiastically accepted her offer.

Aside from a drool mark on the steering wheel, Kutter hadn’t harmed his vehicle.

Liz apologized for the condition of her apartment, which was only sparsely furnished and had boxes everywhere, but Charlie didn’t mind. It was a nice little apartment, and he was glad that she hadn’t asked to continue their date at his house. Kutter and Cooper chased each other around the apartment until finally both dogs fell asleep halfway through When Harry Met Sally. When the movie ended, Liz asked if he wanted her to put in another one. Charlie said sure. A moment later he realized that “sure” wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but it was too late to change course now. She put in 9 1/2 Weeks.

About half an hour into the movie, she asked if he wanted to kiss her, and this time Charlie gave the right answer. Her lips were...perfect.

Half an hour after that, she asked if he wanted to move to the bedroom. He gave the right answer to that, too.

ELEVEN

C harlie lay in bed, Liz asleep next to him, thinking that he’d never felt so content. He was pretty sure his performance hadn’t been very good, but she’d seemed reasonably satisfied and she certainly hadn’t complained. Charlie figured he had the benefit of her two-year dry spell working in his favor.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, Liz woke up and began to kiss his chest. “Are you still frisky?” she asked.

Charlie nodded.

“We should do it in a way that honors our doggies,” she said, getting on her hands and knees.

Charlie spent all day Sunday at Liz’s apartment. They watched a couple of movies and took the dogs for a couple of walks, but spent most of the time in bed. Charlie tried to imagine her strapped down to the table in his basement. It was a repellent image.

He left Sunday night with a kiss and a promise to see her again after work the next day.

* * *

Alicia walked over to his desk as soon as he sat down the next morning.

“You are such a slut,” she whispered. Charlie felt his face turn red and his ears burn as she walked back around the corner, giggling.

* * *

“So do you think I have a girlfriend now?” Charlie asked Kutter, as he put on the dog’s leash right after getting home. “I was only there one night, so I guess it counts as a one night stand, but I spent all day there, too. Don’t you usually leave first thing in the morning if it’s a one night stand?”

Kutter, as always, provided no useful feedback.

When Charlie went over to her apartment, Liz greeted him wearing nothing but a string bikini and some freshly applied chocolate on her nipples. Charlie decided that she was indeed his girlfriend.

* * *

March 24th. The night of the new hunt.

It used to be like Christmas six times a year. In the days prior to a hunt, he’d be so filled with excitement that he could barely control himself. He’d spend hours sitting in his living room, opening and closing one of his pocketknives, fantasizing about where he’d cut first. Had to start with the extremities—fingers and toes. He didn’t want a victim to bleed to death too soon.

Tonight...he just didn’t feel like it.

He was enjoying work a lot more these days. Sure, he’d still quit if he won the lottery, received a surprise inheritance, or got a higher offer elsewhere, but the day went by much more quickly now that he interacted with his co-workers in a friendly manner. His relationship with Liz was going wonderfully. He was relatively certain that she considered him more of a “boy-toy” than a “soul mate,” but Charlie had never been anybody’s boy-toy before and he liked it.

He didn’t need to hunt anymore.

Didn’t need to kill anymore.

And so, on this particular March 24th, he was not going to roam the streets hunting for prey. He was going to put on the iPod he’d just bought last night, put on the “Walking Kutter” playlist, take his Boston terrier out for a nice long stroll, and then go out with his girlfriend.

“This is where I found you,” said Charlie, as Kutter sniffed the bench. “If I hadn’t taken you home, you would’ve been a dog Popsicle. Kutter the dog-flavored Popsicle. That’s no way to end your life, buddy.”

As usual, the park was empty. They really needed to promote this place better. Charlie unhooked Kutter’s leash and played fetch with a rubber ball for about fifteen minutes. Then, on one throw, Kutter ran in the opposite direction, toward the street.

“Wrong way!” Charlie shouted. It wasn’t a particularly busy street, but he could hear a car coming. “Kutter! Get back here!”

Kutter kept running. Charlie took off after him.

Charlie could see the car now. A small one, but Kutter was headed straight for—

The car took a left turn, putting Kutter out of potential danger.

Charlie saw what Kutter was running for. A dog on the other side of the street. “Kutter!” he shouted. “You stop right now!”

Kutter stopped, then went into a barking fit. Charlie hurried over to him and snapped the leash onto his collar. “Don’t ever run off like that again,” Charlie said. “You could’ve been hit by a car! Do you know how worried I was?”

He glanced across the street again. Now there were two dogs. Big ones. The one he’d seen first was a big black dog—a rottweiler, he thought it was called. He thought the other one might be a pit bull but he wasn’t completely sure what pit bulls looked like, just that they were vicious, mean dogs. And the two men holding their leashes didn’t appear much friendlier.

“Time to head home,” he said. Kutter barked at the dogs again. Brave but stupid.

“Hey there!” said the first man, waving to Charlie from across the street. “How’s it going?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He tugged on Kutter’s leash to draw his attention away from the other dogs and began to walk down the sidewalk.

“Don’t walk away from us!” the man said. “We just wanna see your dog!”

Charlie kept walking for a few moments, then stopped. He really didn’t want to talk to these guys, but if they decided to turn their scary dogs loose he could be in a lot of trouble. He had a knife in his inside jacket pocket, so if they intended to mug him he’d take them by surprise with a blade to the face.

Kutter growled as the men and their dogs approached. Charlie shushed him. They probably wanted nothing more than to laugh a good laugh about how they had big monster dogs and he had a silly looking clown-faced dog. Or else they just wanted directions.

The men walked their dogs across the street. They were both smiling, but they were some of the least friendly smiles Charlie had ever seen. He wanted to pick Kutter up to keep the dog out of harm’s way; however, that would prevent him from using the knife if the men truly did intend to mug him. Though he wasn’t worried about losing money, since he only had seven dollars in his wallet, some muggers got mad if you couldn’t pay them off and stabbed or shot you to vent their frustration.

The men were of equal height—probably over six feet tall—and both had facial hair, though the first had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee while the second had an unkempt full beard. The first man seemed to have bathed much more recently than the second.

“Nice dog,” said the cleaner man.

Charlie tightened his grip on the handle of Kutter’s leash. “He’s mine.”

“Nobody said he wasn’t.”

“What do you want?”

“I thought I already said that we wanted to see your dog.” The pit bull sniffed at Kutter, and Charlie took a step back, pulling Kutter away. “It’s a pretty nice dog. How much does one of those things cost these days?”

“I didn’t steal him.”

“Why would you think that we’re accusing you of stealing him? I’d think that the owner of such a fine dog would be used to people wanting to see him.”

Charlie took another step back. “Keep your pit bull away from him.”

“Pit bull? This isn’t a pit bull. This is an American Staffordshire terrier. And even if he was, you’re not one of those people who think that pit bulls go around mauling babies, are you? They got a bad rap. Pit bulls are great dogs if the owner takes care of them. When you hear about them ripping some kid apart, it’s almost never the dog’s fault.”

“I don’t have any money,” Charlie said.

“Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid.” The man laughed, but there was no humor to it. “We’ve seen you around and we liked your dog. You’re acting like you have a guilty conscience. You do something you shouldn’t have?”

“I need to get home,” Charlie said.

“Why?”

“I’m meeting my girlfriend.”

“Then by all means, don’t let us keep you.” The man gestured grandly toward the way Charlie had been walking. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a man who’s gonna get himself some.”

Charlie led Kutter away from them. Behind him, one of the dogs growled.

“None of that, Bear,” said the first man. “He’s going to get himself laid. Let’s not ruin his night.”

Charlie wanted to run, but didn’t dare. He settled for walking very, very quickly, tugging hard on Kutter’s leash when the dog tried to stop for sniff breaks.

* * *

Charlie and Kutter sat on the couch. What had those men wanted? Were they simply jerks? Were they friends of Byron? Maybe Byron had never really owned Kutter, and these men were after him to take the dog back.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Charlie said out loud. It wasn’t part of some elaborate hoax.

Then again, Byron might not have been Kutter’s original owner. Charlie might be his third owner, and one of the men in the park might have been the first.

If so, why wouldn’t they just ask for him back? Why be all weird about it?

Either way, he didn’t feel like going out with Liz tonight. He called her, claiming that he was sick to his stomach (which was technically true, even if he blamed it on food poisoning) and cancelled their movie date. She told him that she hoped he felt better tomorrow, and made a very pleasant suggestion for an evening activity if he did.

Charlie wished that he could report the men for harassment, but having the police investigate why he might have people angry with him was probably not the best course of action. He’d just have to wait this out and be on the defensive.

Kutter didn’t seem distressed by this. Charlie wished he could be more like the dog.

Charlie wasn’t sure what to do the next morning. He didn’t want to leave Kutter at home—what if the men broke in and dognapped him? Liz would probably let him drive over and leave Kutter there for the day, but he’d still be leaving Kutter unattended, and her place might not be any safer than his if the men were following him.

So he called in sick. Bob was fine with it.

“I can’t do this forever,” Charlie told Kutter. “They don’t give me many sick days each year. But I’ll protect you. I promise.”

Charlie kept three guns—fully registered—around the house in case of emergencies. These “emergencies” were supposed to be in the almost inconceivable case that one of his victims escaped from the basement, but dog defense was an even more valid purpose. He didn’t want to keep a gun on his person, since he couldn’t bring himself to trust that it wouldn’t go off accidentally, so he took the one in his sock drawer out and rested it on the coffee table for easier access.

Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been a very pleasant day, since he did very little except watch television and hang out with Kutter. He took Kutter for a couple of cautious walks and saw no sign of the men. If he was lucky, they’d simply been a couple of creeps who were having fun messing with him, and his life could return to its standard level of paranoia in a couple of days.

* * *

What his day job needed was a new policy where dogs were allowed to accompany their masters to work. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Charlie asked Kutter. “You could sleep under my desk all morning, I’d take you for a walk at lunch, you could go back to sleep all afternoon, and we’d go home. That would solve all of my problems.”

He thought it might be funny to send Bob an e-mail with that suggestion, adding a smiley face to the end to make sure Bob knew he was joking. But it was getting close to time for his annual performance review, and he didn’t want Bob to think that he was using humor as a brownnosing tactic.

He took Kutter down into the basement and set some cardboard boxes on their side for Kutter to hide in if it came down to that. They weren’t very good hiding places and he didn’t think that Kutter would figure out what to do with them, but Charlie wanted to keep open any options he possibly could. He gave his dog some extra petting, then locked him in the basement.

Around noon, Charlie became too anxious at work and told Bob that he needed to take a half day off.

When he hurried down into the basement, Kutter ran out of one of the boxes, perfectly fine.

“We can’t live like this,” he told Kutter. “It was just a couple of stupid men playing a joke. They haven’t come back. We’ll probably never see them again. Only an idiot would keep worrying about them, right?”

* * *

The next evening, as Charlie poured some dry food into Kutter’s bowl, there was a knock at the door. He finished pouring the food, walked into the living room, and looked through the peephole.

It was both of the men. And their dogs.

Charlie backed away from the door, slowly and carefully, hoping that the men hadn’t heard his footsteps.

The knocking grew in intensity.

“We know you’re in there,” said the man who’d done all of the talking before. “It’s rude to leave guests waiting out on your porch.”

Charlie picked the gun up off his coffee table and shoved it into the waist of his pants. He pulled his shirt over the weapon, but it was too obvious—it looked silly. And he still didn’t trust it not to go off in his pants. If he opened the door and immediately shoved the barrel into the first man’s face, he ran the risk that the man might simply pluck the gun from his fingers and turn it on him.

He decided to keep the gun in his hand and sit on the couch. If they broke in, he’d shoot them. He had neighbors, so they had to know that they couldn’t make too much of a ruckus or somebody would call the police, even if Charlie himself couldn’t.

Kutter joined him.

The men continued to knock on the door, but didn’t say anything else. After a couple of minutes, they left.

“Don’t worry,” he told Kutter. “If they try to hurt you, I’ll kill them.”

TWELVE

“D ammit!” exclaimed Charlie as the warm liquid splashed into his face. He wiped the soapy water out of his eyes. “Quit shaking!”

Kutter tried to jump out of the tub, but Charlie blocked his escape and pushed down on his back. “This isn’t hurting you,” he said. “You want to be all nice and clean so that people know I’m taking good care of you, don’t you?”

The dog obviously had other priorities, such as getting out of the tub as soon as possible. The slippery, soapy animal slid out from underneath Charlie’s hands and leapt out of the tub. Charlie grabbed for him and missed. Kutter ran out of the bathroom.

“Not on the couch!” Charlie shouted.

Kutter jumped up onto the couch and shook again, spraying suds all over. This was better than vomit, Charlie supposed. He picked Kutter up, hugged him to his chest, and carried the struggling dog back into the bathroom. He pushed the door closed—which he should have done in the first place—with his foot and then set Kutter back into the tub.

“Don’t you want to smell nice?” he asked. “Not to be rude, but you don’t always smell so good. This is expensive shampoo just for dogs. Not every dog gets this kind of treatment, so you should be counting your blessings instead of being a pain in the neck.”

He scrubbed Kutter some more, then pulled out the plug and let the water drain out of the tub. “Almost done,” he said. He turned on the warm water and filled a plastic bowl, then gently poured it over Kutter. After a few bowls of water, the soap was rinsed out of Kutter’s fur and Charlie dried him off with his fluffiest towel.

When Charlie let Kutter out of the bathroom, he ran happily into the living room, then rolled around on the floor. Charlie was glad he’d vacuumed.

* * *

Somebody called in the middle of the night from a blocked number, but didn’t say anything. They hung up after about ten seconds. If Charlie’d had a whistle handy, he would have blown out the caller’s eardrums.

* * *

Kutter stood at the door and let out one sharp bark, indicating that he was ready to be taken for a walk.

“Why aren’t you a cat?” Charlie asked. “If you were a cat, you could just use a litter box and you’d never have to go outside.”

Technically, he never had to let Kutter outside anyway, but the cleanup would be unpleasant and the dog would be miserable. He wasn’t going to let those cretins ruin his relationship with his pet. He put on his jacket, and put the gun in his inside pocket.

Charlie had been altering his route every time these past couple of days, figuring that the men probably weren’t watching his home from an unmarked van, and so if he kept his path unpredictable he wouldn’t run into them. He hated having to do this. He almost hoped that he’d run into them tonight, put a bullet in each of their throats, and end the problem.

Almost. Not quite.

It was a nice, long walk, and both Charlie and Kutter had a great time. Then, as he dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his door, the two men and their dogs ran onto his front porch. They must have been hiding by the side of the house.

He threw open the door and quickly stepped inside. Before he could pull the door shut again, the man with the goatee stuck his foot in the gap and blocked it. Charlie yanked harder on the door, hoping to break the man’s foot or even pop it off, but he wasn’t strong enough and the man easily forced the door all the way open.

“Can we come in?” the man asked.

“I have a gun,” said Charlie.

“We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to talk.”

Charlie and Kutter cautiously backed into the center of the living room as the men and their dogs came inside. The man who hadn’t said anything yet closed the front door. The Rottweiler and the pit bull (or whatever it was) growled and strained against their leashes, which looked like they might snap at any instant. Charlie wondered if these were the kind of dogs that fought each other while people bet on them.

“Were you worried?” the first man asked.

“What?”

“All this time. Were you worried?”

“About what?”

The man laughed. “Let’s make a rule that during this encounter, we’ll all respect each other’s intelligence, okay? I’m talking about the way we entered your lives. Were you worried?”

Charlie shook his head.

“Bullshit. Do you know when I was worried?”

“No.”

“When my sister didn’t come home.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a piece of folded white paper. He unfolded it and held it up for Charlie to see. “Recognize her?”

Charlie did. He’d been crying over her eight months ago, when she died on his table too soon. “No.”

“Sure you do. Think back.”

“I’ve never seen her.”

“Never? You’re saying that you recall everybody you’ve ever seen in your entire life? People in line at the grocery store? That’s a pretty impressive talent. But you know her. She made a lot of bad decisions, and she got herself hooked on all kinds of shit, but she was the only thing I had. I kicked her out of my place so she’d get clean. You took that chance away from her.”

“You have the wrong person.”

“I do not have the wrong person. I made damn sure I had the right person. The cops may not care about a homeless junkie, but she was my goddamn sister and you murdered her!”

At this point, Charlie didn’t think that lies were going to do him any good. He also didn’t think that the man would accept an apology. So he said nothing.

“What do you care about?” the man asked. “Just that dog, right?”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but that’s nothing. You’ve got no emotional investment there. I don’t even have to hear what you’re saying to each other to know that. She’ll dump you as soon as she gets a better offer, and you’ll mope for a week and move on. You don’t care about her.”

“Okay.”

“That dog, though. Man’s best friend.”

Charlie shoved his hand into his inside jacket pocket.

“You packin’? What are you going to do, shoot both of us and our dogs? You think you can do that before we get you?”

Charlie fumbled with the gun inside his pocket for a moment before he managed to pull it out and point it at the man who did all the talking. The man did look a bit worried, but not worried enough.

“Put the gun down,” the man said. “You prey on the helpless, like the sorry piece of crap that you are. Even with a gun you’re not going to stop big strong guys like us. You’re pathetic.”

“I’m not pathetic.”

“Yeah, I think you are.”

Charlie wanted to put a bullet right between the man’s eyes. Unfortunately, even at this close range he wasn’t sure he could hit his target, and the man was absolutely right—two men and two huge dogs were more than he could handle.

“Do you want money?” Charlie asked.

“Money? Are you kidding me? This isn’t about blackmail. At this very moment it’s about your life, so why don’t you put the gun away so we can take it out of that area?”

Charlie had no idea what to do. A bloody shootout wasn’t going to end well for anybody. If these men really meant to kill him, they would’ve done it sooner instead of stalking him. He wasn’t good at talking his way out of situations, yet this might be one time that he had to.

He put the gun back in his inside jacket pocket, then held up his hands to show that they were empty except for the handle of Kutter’s leash.

The man let out a loud whistle that hurt Charlie’s ears. “Kill!”

Both men released their dogs.

The dogs moved like a blur, and as the dogs struck him Kutter let out a high-pitched yelp that was like a shriek of pain and terror. The yelp didn’t stop as Charlie reached into the snarling mass of dogs, drops of blood spraying into the air, screaming and trying to rescue his pet.

Jaws clamped down on his arm, but he couldn’t feel them.

Charlie kicked at the Rottweiler as hard as he could. He was off balance and panicked and the kick bounced harmlessly off the dog’s side. The Rottweiler shook its head back and forth rapidly, ripping away Kutter’s skin and fur.

His second kick connected with the Rottweiler’s snout and the dog let out a yelp of its own. The other dog pulled its jaws away from Charlie’s arm and bit down onto Kutter’s ear.

With a burst of adrenaline that he’d never felt in his life, Charlie yanked the bloody mess of Kutter out of the fray. Both dogs pounced on him, and at any other time Charlie knew that they would’ve knocked him to the floor and probably mauled him to death within minutes. But he held his footing. He had to protect his best friend.

With Kutter clutched to his chest with both arms, Charlie ran for the hallway, the dogs right behind him. He raced down the hallway into the bathroom, spun around, and kicked the Rottweiler once again. This time he got it good, giving him enough time to slam the bathroom door closed.

“Kutter...oh, God, Kutter...”

Tears streamed down Charlie’s face as he looked down at his pet. Kutter had been savaged—most of his left ear was gone, and much of his fur was so soaked with blood that Charlie couldn’t immediately tell how deep the lacerations were. More blood was flowing freely from several places.

There was no way Charlie could tend to these injuries the way he had the wounds when he first found the dog.

He needed his hands free, so he set Kutter on the floor. Kutter let out a whimper as his fur made contact with the tile. Outside, the dogs barked and growled and clawed at the bathroom door.

Charlie pulled out the gun that he never should have put away. Stupid. A terrible decision. He couldn’t wait out the men and their dogs, not with Kutter dying on the floor, so he flicked off the safety and fired a shot through the door so they’d know he was serious.

He heard the men calling off the dogs, and the scraping stopped. Charlie almost fired another shot, then decided that he needed to conserve his bullets in case he didn’t successfully scare the men off. He opened the door, then scooped up Kutter in his left arm and stepped out into the hallway.

The men were exiting through the front door. Charlie shot at them and the bullet didn’t even come close, putting a hole in his wall instead. By the time he got outside, the men were sprinting down the sidewalk with their murderous dogs.

Charlie bolted to his car and opened the passenger side door. “I’m so sorry,” he told Kutter as he set the dog on the seat.

Towels. He needed towels. Not to protect his car seat—he didn’t care about that—but to wrap around Kutter and hopefully slow the bleeding enough that he wouldn’t die before Charlie could get help. And he needed the car keys.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised Kutter as he ran back inside. He grabbed a stack of towels, got the car keys from where they rested on the kitchen table, and hurried back outside. He wrapped Kutter tightly. Blood immediately soaked through the first white towel, and he wrapped him in another.

He slammed the door and got in the driver’s side. “Don’t die, don’t die, please don’t die,” he whispered as he started the car’s engine and pulled out of his driveway.

Charlie realized that his arm really hurt where the dog had bitten it, but he had much more important things to worry about. As long as he didn’t pass out from loss of blood before he could get help for Kutter, he’d be fine.

Kutter whimpered softly as Charlie sped down the road.

“You’re going to be okay,” Charlie promised. “They’ll fix you up. They’ll make you stop bleeding and they’ll sew you up and we’ll play Frisbee.”

He wiped the tears from his eyes since they were blurring his vision, and then scratched Kutter’s chin. The dog licked his fingers with a bloody tongue and whimpered again.

Charlie thought about his emergency cabin. If he started driving to it right now, he might gain enough of a lead on the police that they wouldn’t know where he’d gone, wouldn’t be able to find him. He’d live in relative discomfort, but it would be a hell of a lot better than prison or lethal injection.

The men would tell the police that he’d murdered the girl, and they’d connect him to the murders of twenty-one other girls. Even if they never found out about the others, even if they only got him for the one, he was screwed.

If he drove to the cabin, Kutter would die.

If he didn’t, he was going to prison.

If he left him somewhere, even someplace that could fix him up, he’d never know if his dog lived or died.

There was only one possible choice here.

“Just a few more minutes,” he assured Kutter. “Just a few and then I’ll make everything okay.”

* * *

Charlie burst into the hospital emergency room with Kutter in his arms. “I need help!” he cried out. “He’s dying!”

Several people turned to stare at him, but Charlie didn’t care. He rushed over to the receptionist’s window and tapped on the glass. “Please, you need to save him.”

The receptionist, a plump woman with too much eye makeup, slid open the window. “Sir, you’re at the wrong—”

“I don’t know any twenty-four hour veterinarians,” said Charlie. “Saving a dog is easier than saving a person, right? Please.”

“Sir, your arm—”

“I don’t care about my arm. I care about my dog.”

A man in blue scrubs pushed through a pair of swinging doors and looked startled as he saw Charlie and Kutter. “What’s going on here?” he asked, walking over to them.

“Please save him,” Charlie begged. “His name is Kutter and he loves Frisbee and this wasn’t his fault.”

The man in the scrubs looked at Kutter, then at Charlie, and nodded. “Give him here.”

* * *

Charlie sat in the waiting room with his arm bandaged up. It had required eight stitches, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.

Two cops sat next to him, one on each side. Charlie had promised to go peacefully if they let him wait until he knew what had happened to Kutter.

* * *

“Not my usual patient,” the doctor said with a smile, as Kutter licked Charlie’s palm. Kutter’s entire torso was covered in bandages, as was what remained of his left ear, but his tail wagged happily. Charlie wished that there was more unbandaged fur available to pet, and settled for petting Kutter’s legs.

“You’re a good boy,” Charlie said. “You’re the best dog ever.” He wiped some tears from his eyes—much happier ones than before—and turned to the doctor. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. It’ll be a good story for parties.”

“He’ll be okay, right?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. The vet should be here to pick him up any minute now. Don’t worry about him.”

Charlie spent a few more minutes with his dog, until the police told him it was time to leave.

* * *

“I could ease into this, or I could just get straight to the point,” said the detective, leaning back in his chair in the interrogation room. “As you’ll soon discover, Charlie, I’m a get-to-the-point kind of guy. Where are the bodies?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“The more you hold out on me, the worse things are going to be for you. I recommend that you come clean right now.”

“I’m really stupid sometimes,” said Charlie, “but I know enough to know that things can’t get worse for me. I want to bargain.”

“You have nothing to bargain with.”

“I can save you a lot of time. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

The detective raised an eyebrow and took a sip from his cup of coffee. “What do you want?”

“I have a dog. He’s hurt, but he’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, I know about your dog.”

“Kutter.”

“Kutter, right.”

“I want you to make sure he gets taken care of. His original owner is a good guy, he’ll take him back, but I want to make sure that Kutter gets everything he wants. I’ve got some savings. I don’t want to pay for a lawyer—I want that money to go to Kutter. I want him to have steaks and bacon treats and a nice dog bed and I don’t want him going back to being named Duke and I want him to come visit me sometimes.” Charlie wiped his eyes. “That’s all I want.”

The detective scratched his chin. “Hmmmm.”

Charlie wondered what Alicia and his other co-workers were saying about him. They were probably totally freaked out. Liz was definitely freaking out. She’d had sex with a serial killer. He didn’t think she’d ever come see him in prison, except maybe to yell at him, but he didn’t care as long as they brought Kutter in every once in a while.

“I want it in writing,” said Charlie.

The detective took another sip of his coffee. He set the mug down and smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Charlie. If the original owner doesn’t want him back, my daughter has been wanting a dog. He’ll get a good home. I promise you.”

“Thank you.”

Charlie took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then told the detective everything he wanted to know.

- The End -

FACIAL

ONE - Greg

“Y ou don’t get paid extra for killing innocent bystanders! Are you kidding me?”

Dirk leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on my desk. “You hired me to kill one person. I killed four. That’s going above and beyond. I’m not saying that you should quadruple my fee, but I think an extra ten percent per bonus victim is reasonable.”

“Are you out of your mind? I should deduct ten percent for each one! I shouldn’t pay you at all! This is a major screw-up!”

Dirk stared at me for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he should jam a very large knife into my face. Then he grinned. “Relax. I’m messing with you. I wouldn’t botch a job like that. I only killed Tommy. Nobody saw a thing.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “And did it look like an accident?”

“Sure. If he accidentally dropped a chainsaw and cut off his leg, and it bounced back up and cut off his other leg, and then it bounced back up and cut off both of his arms and his head.”

“What?”

“Messing with you again.”

“Well, could you stop? I don’t need you trying to lighten the mood.” I wiped some sweat from my brow. I wanted to gulp down half a bottle of Peptol-Bismol but I wasn’t going to do that until after the assassin left. I’d never had anybody killed before, and it was stressing me the hell out.

“I brought you his hand,” said Dirk.

“Enough. Seriously.”

Dirk dropped a severed hand onto my desk.

I gasped. “What the fuck is that?”

“Sorry, I thought I’d already provided you with that information. It’s Tommy’s right hand.”

“You can’t just drop a goddamn hand on my desk! What’s the matter with you? You said you made it look like an accident! How can it look like an accident if you’re carrying his hand around?”

“I should point out,” said Dirk, “that your exact words were ‘Make it look like an accident if you can.’ I couldn’t. He tried to get away and I had to stab him in the back a few times. Then I decided that you might want proof.”

“How is this proof? How the hell would I know what Tommy’s hand looks like? I don’t spend time memorizing people’s hands, you stupid idiot!”

To be fair to Dirk, the hand did match Tommy’s skin tone, and it was the correct size, and the couple times I’d seen Tommy he was constantly biting his fingernails, so it was indeed an indicator that the job was done. Still, I didn’t need to have it dropped on my desk. And this whole situation had turned me into the kind of guy who would say something like “stupid idiot.” I usually hated that kind of redundancy.

“Take the hand back.”

“You don’t want it?”

“No, I don’t want it! You’re getting DNA evidence all over my desk!”

“Relax,” said Dirk, picking up the hand and tucking it back into his jacket pocket. “Just spray some Windex on it. Nobody is going to dust your desk for fingerprints. This will never come back to you, I promise.”

“You know what? I have a great idea. How about you take the other half of your payment, and then get the hell out of my office so that I never have to see you again? How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect. Of course, there is still the matter of the goat.”

“What goat?”

“The goat Tommy was sacrificing before I killed him.”

“What?”

“Got you again.”

I shot him in the face.

To clarify: I did not shoot him because of the goat joke. Killing him was the plan before he even showed up at my office to tell me the job was done. The goat joke just made me feel less bad about it.

His body slumped to the side and tumbled out of the chair.

We had an intercom system, but I never used it because it made me feel like the kind of asshole boss who would call people into his office through an intercom. “Jasper!” I shouted. “Get in here!”

Jasper opened my office door. “Aw, Jesus,” the big guy said, gaping at the assassin’s body. “You shot him in the face.”

“Where did you think I was going to shoot him?”

“I don’t know. His chest? I didn’t think you were going to shoot him in the face!”

“Stop whining and get him out of here.”

Jasper pressed his hand tightly over his mouth.

“Are you gonna puke?” I asked.

Jasper shook his head.

“I swear to God, you’d better not puke. I mean it. One drop of vomit and you’re getting the next bullet.”

Jasper nodded his understanding, but he didn’t remove his hand from his mouth.

To clarify: I wasn’t really going to shoot Jasper if he vomited. But I was having enough trouble holding it together myself, and I didn’t need my assistant making things worse.

“He was a hit man used to a world of danger,” I said. “If I’d shot him in the chest, it might not have killed him right away. What if he’d had time to grab a pen from my desk and stab me in the throat with it? What then?”

Jasper shrugged, hand still over his mouth.

“I’m going to step outside,” I told him. “If you need a couple more minutes to get yourself under control, fine, but I want this body moved. Got it?”

Jasper very carefully removed his hand from his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

I pushed back my chair, stood up, walked around my desk, and vomited when I saw the corpse on my floor.

I dropped to my knees, coughing and retching. So much blood! So much blood! Oh, God, Jasper had been right—I shouldn’t have shot him in the face! His nose—his nose was completely mangled! It was horrific!

Jasper helped me to my feet and led me out of the office, quietly assuring me that everything was going to be okay, that I had nothing to worry about, and that he’d clean up the mess, no problem.

We walked through the waiting room, which only took a few steps, and then went outside. It was a cold, rainy night, and this strip mall didn’t get a lot of business at 2:00 AM, so it was just Jasper and I in the parking lot.

Excluding the three empty places with “For Rent” signs in the windows, the strip mall had five shops: a hairdresser, a bad Chinese place, a worse pizza place, a nail salon, and my résumé writing service. Most people who needed that kind of service these days took care of it online, but I catered to the clientele who wanted to just sit across the desk from somebody and answer questions while they wrote their résumé for them.

No, this business wasn’t a front. I wrote résumés. Damn good ones. It didn’t matter if you’d been fired from your last job at a fast-food restaurant for peeing in the fry grease or you enjoyed the occasional midmorning hit of crystal meth, I could make your skill set sound impressive.

I took off my glasses, which were fogging up in the rain, and scratched the back of my head, the only place where hair remained. “It needed to be done,” I said.

“Yeah.”

It didn’t need to be done. Both of us knew that. Tommy had been executed for the crime of banging my wife, and, let’s face it, that’s a reason you want to kill somebody, but you don’t need to do it.

I mean, I hadn’t killed any of the other guys. Michael, Gary, Lester, Franklin, Mac, the Jerry/Johnny sandwich, etc. I resented them, but I didn’t try to get revenge. And I approved of Melissa and Sarah, even though it’s not like I got to watch or anything.

That’s the state our marriage of twenty-three years had been in for the past five years. Felicia was cheating on me every chance she got, and I’d hit the point where it satisfied me that she at least had enough consideration for my feelings to try not to get caught.

Oh, believe me, she wasn’t trying all that hard. All I had to do was monitor her e-mail and text messages to figure out what was going on. She did change her password on occasion, but only the last number, so it was pretty easy to keep track of the various lovers she was juggling. Presumably there were more with whom she didn’t keep in touch afterward.

Tommy would have simply been another name on the list, except that he e-mailed me a picture.

I don’t know if Felicia gave permission for it to be taken, since she wasn’t facing the camera. The subject line of the e-mail was I Bet She Didn’t Do This Even BEFORE You Were Impotent.

I wanted to strangle the son of a bitch. But I was a nearsighted potbellied non-exercising cowardly forty-eight year-old. I wouldn’t be strangling anybody. And if I drove straight to his house (a nice one, according to my online search) and shot him, I’d probably get caught and go to prison.

I never mentioned the picture to Felicia, and I let Tommy be my wife’s friend with benefits for another seven months before I hired Dirk to kill him.

In addition to my inability to achieve an erection, my business was in the crapper. This meant that when hiring an assassin, affordability was a key issue. I had to hire the kind of lowlife dimwitted jackass who would bring back his victim’s hand when it was supposed to look like an accident.

The advantage, however, was that I could shoot this lowlife dimwitted jackass in the face and nobody would miss him. It let me tie up the loose end of Tommy’s death while providing me with a freshly killed corpse.

It’s entirely possible that you’re wondering why, exactly, I needed a freshly killed corpse. I’ll let my brother explain.

TWO - CARLTON

I didn’t go down into my basement often, so I don’t know how long the dead lion had been there. A week, maybe? You could see a lot of bone, but it was still clearly a lion, so a week sounded about right. I’m not really familiar with decomposition rates.

The scent was appalling. It reeked like rotten meat, which I suppose is logical. I wish I could say that I was surprised that I hadn’t smelled it from upstairs, but truthfully, the standard aroma of my home was not roses and lavender. Self-respect was not a major component in my life at the time.

I made five or six gagging noises, and then I stumbled forward in a state of disbelief. A lion! How the hell did a lion get into my basement? I didn’t live in Africa—I lived in North Carolina! In the suburbs!

We didn’t have lions just wandering around the neighborhood, and if one had escaped from the zoo, wouldn’t that have been newsworthy? I watched a shitload of TV and hadn’t heard anything about it.

My basement had windows, but none of them were large enough to admit a lion. The wooden stairs weren’t all scratched up like you’d expect from a thrashing clawed predator, and no police had shown up to investigate suspicious roaring, so the lion had presumably already been dead when it was brought down here.

Who would do that kind of thing?

This was completely baffling.

I could see plenty of writhing maggots. Though I’d never before spent money on cleaning services, I was going to have to bite the bullet this time.

I turned around and started walking up the stairs, trying to decide if I should call the police or animal control.

“Stop!”

I didn’t recognize the voice. It definitely wasn’t the lion. It was a low, masculine voice. Very loud and booming yet also muffled.

I stopped and turned around.

“Come back here!” said the voice. It was a demand, not a request.

“Who is that?” I asked. The more specific question on my mind was, “Are you currently pointing a gun at me?” but I didn’t ask that one yet.

“Come back here or die a ghastly death!”

There was a ton of junk in my basement. Lots of places for a gun-wielding maniac to hide. I walked back down to the cement floor. “Please don’t kill me,” I said. I didn’t say it in a shameful pleading manner, but I also didn’t cop an attitude.

“If you do as I say, you will live.”

I tried to figure out where the voice was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from the lion, which was impossible, since it was both dead and a lion.

And the lion wasn’t moving. Presumably a magical dead lion would move when it spoke.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Move this infernal creature off of me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am not one to repeat myself.”

“Repeat yourself just this once.”

“Move this infernal creature off of me.”

I hope I have painted a detailed enough visual picture that you understand that somebody underneath the lion would have to be squished flat or extremely tiny. I don’t mean tiny like a little person. I mean tiny like an action figure.

No, my reaction was not, “Oh my God! An action figure is talking to me!” My reaction was, “Okay, okay, some prankster put a cell phone under a dead lion.”

And it all became clear: somebody was making a hilarious video. The focal point was a rotting carcass, so this probably wasn’t for network television, but it could definitely be cable or YouTube.

I wished I’d washed my hair more recently. I only showered every three or four days (see: aforementioned self-respect issues) and brushed my teeth with the same frequency. I shaved every day, because my facial hair was completely gray now, and my forty-eight-old self was not equipped to look at that in the mirror. I didn’t mind living in filth, but I couldn’t handle being old.

“Screw you,” I said, turning back around. Even if there was a tiny person trapped under the lion, I knew he didn’t have a gun pointed at me.

“Your death will be slow and painful!” the voice shouted. “You cannot imagine the suffering you will endure! Your shrieks of misery will rattle the walls! Drops of your blood will stain the grass for miles and miles!”

“Bullshit.”

“Do not make the fatal mistake of believing that I am bluffing! Shards of your bones will be splinters in the feet of countless young children! Your intestines will —”

“Okay, fine,” I said. I faced the lion again. “What do you want from me?”

“I have said it twice already: move this beast.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“It will happen.”

“Nope.”

“Then you will feel my rage.”

“I’m not touching lion guts. Look how gross they are.” I pointed to something I couldn’t identify. “Especially that one. Disgusting. You want me to catch a disease? Ick. Yuck. Ick.”

“It is unwise to ridicule me.”

“Whatever. Joke’s over.”

“The joke will end with the punchline of your veins being yanked out through your eyeball sockets!”

“I’ve heard worse. What do you call a dead baby in a microwave?”

“Your family will die as well.”

“I’ll let my brother know.”

The voice let out a muffled sigh. “Move this goddamn thing, all right? For fuck’s sake, are you not even curious? I am speaking to you from underneath a lion corpse! Do you not want this mystery to be solved?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “I just don’t want to be played like a fool.”

“Nobody is going to play you like a fool. In fact, I can promise you untold rewards. Treasures beyond your wildest dreams.”

“I think you’re just making stuff up.”

“Please...”

There was something about the way he said it, something genuine. It was not the kind of emotion you’d expect to get from some obnoxious guy hosting a hidden camera show. I suddenly felt kind of sorry for the voice. I supposed that if I were trapped under a dead lion, it would be a very traumatic experience, and I’d be extremely frustrated with somebody who refused to help.

What was the worst that could happen? I’d be embarrassed on a reality show? I’d have to sign release forms before they could use the footage, right? Especially when it was illegally filmed in my home. They couldn’t humiliate me without my permission.

Screw it. I’d do it. My existing plans for today were: watch television, eat stale graham crackers with stale marshmallows, and cry a little...so why not? It was a break from the norm. I could quit at any time. I’d make it clear to the possible viewing audience that I was in on the joke.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. You and your family will not die tonight.”

I walked over to the lion, recoiling at the smell. “How do I do this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t move a whole lion by myself.”

“Am I really going to have to talk you through every step of the process? Get a wheelbarrow. Or move it in pieces. All you have to do is scoot it two feet away from where it is right now. This is not rocket science, a warlock spell, or brain surgery.”

“I don’t have a wheelbarrow.”

“Then select the other option.”

“The one about moving it in pieces?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know...”

“Never mind. I do not care. I cannot deal with you anymore. Just allow me to die under here.”

“Fine, fine,” I said. “I’ll move it in pieces.”

No matter how bad you think it might be to cut apart a rotting lion corpse, I assure you that the reality is worse. (If you’ve done it, you know what I’m talking about.) It was terrible even though I didn’t just reach into the muck with my bare hands; I put on rubber gloves, wrapped a towel around the lower half of my face, and got a saw from the garage. Then I went to work.

I simply cannot do justice to the sheer awfulness of this experience. There is literally not a single positive thing I can say about it. So I’m going to do an H.P. Lovecraft and write that it was so horrible that it cannot be described, and leave it at that.

As I dragged away a particularly large, moist, and sticky chunk of the lion, I saw what was underneath it, and I did a lot of screaming.

THREE - MORE FROM CARLTON

T here was a bloody face on my basement floor.

The blood itself presumably came from the lion, leaving me with the still-disturbing fact that there was a face on my basement floor.

I don’t mean that somebody’s face had been skinned off, Leatherface-style, and left on the floor. I mean that there was a face actually imbedded in the floor. So maybe it’s more accurate to write “there was a bloody face in my basement floor,” though it protruded above the floor, as if somebody had tilted their head all the way back and then been buried in cement up just past their ears.

The bits of the face that didn’t have blood on them had the color of Caucasian flesh. It was larger than a regular human face, but not significantly so. Just enough that you would think, wow, that guy has a pretty big head. Not that I could see the whole head —just the face.

One eye (the blue one) was larger than the other (the green one). Its nose was small and flat. Its mouth was wider than a normal human mouth, and the ends curved down too far. There was no visible hair or ears.

“Stop screaming,” said the face.

“You...you’re...you’re a...you’re a...you...you’re...you’re a...you...”

“Correct.”

If you weren’t there, I suppose you could come up with some theories about what I was seeing. A puppet, for example. Smear some blood on it to hide the imperfections, install a remote control system, and make Carlton The Wacky Nitwit think there was a face in his basement floor.

This was no puppet.

I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t on drugs. No government agency had slipped anything into the water supply. This was totally real, and standing around saying “This can’t be real!” wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

I decided that, until I was given reason to believe otherwise, I was going to assume that I was not in danger, and conduct this conversation without fear.

“What are you?” I asked.

“A traveler.”

“Are you human?”

“Technically.”

“Why was there a dead lion on top of you?”

The face smiled. Its teeth were very small but there were a hell of a lot of them. “A traveler must prove himself worthy. Do you know of a more noble creature than the lion?”

“Nope.”

“I successfully slew the lion, but this kind of travel is an imperfect art to say the least, and I ended up here. I am quite unhappy about it.”

“So...is your whole body stuck in there? Or just your face?”

“It is a complex issue.”

“Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to wipe off some of that blood?”

A slimy white tongue protruded from the mouth and licked the blood off its lips. “That would be much appreciated.”

I removed the towel from around his face and patted at the blood, making sure not to get my fingers too close to its mouth in case it was a biter. I didn’t do a very good job, but it wasn’t as if the face could see itself.

Or could it? How had it seen me from underneath the lion?

“How did you see me from underneath the lion?” I asked, thinking that it was a question that should have occurred to me sooner.

“I see all.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I see much. These eyes are blind, but I see.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll be honest with you. I feel like I should call the police.”

“Do not do that.”

“Wouldn’t you, if you were me?”

“I would not. Great power awaits you. What is your name?”

“Carlton. Yours?”

“You have no need to address me by a name. I am unlikely to be confused with others you know.”

“All right.”

“Carlton, is it fair to say that your perception of the world has changed?”

“Very fair.”

“I have brought a lion into your realm. I can bring other things. Women, riches...”

“Wouldn’t the women freak out?”

“Perhaps. You would have to restrain them.”

“I’m not doing any rape stuff. That’s totally off the table. Also, no dead women. You know what, let’s not bring ladies into this at all. There are just too many ways that can go wrong.”

“Riches, then?”

“What kind of riches?”

“Gold.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. All the gold you can imagine.”

“I think you’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

“Not at all.”

“C’mon, I can imagine eighty thousand trillion billion pounds of gold. You won’t be able to make that happen for me.”

“Then perhaps something more reasonable? A solid gold coin in exchange for a favor.”

“I just did you a favor by dragging the lion off you. Where’s my gold coin?”

“First, I must restore my power.”

“What do you need to do that?” I asked.

“Flesh, blood, and bone.”

“Lion flesh, blood, and bone?”

“No.”

“Fish?”

“Human.”

“Mine?”

“No. I would not waste you, Carlton. You are the one who will bring them to me, so I can regain my ability to reward you.”

“So, if I’m understanding you correctly, and let me know if I’m not, you’re saying that you want me to bring people down here so you can devour their flesh, blood, and bone. Is that the basic gist of it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, well, fuck that.”

“Take some time to think about it.”

“Nah, I’m comfortable with my gut reaction.”

“Think about it.”

Despite the chemical imbalance in my brain that I don’t like to tell people about, I am a firm believer in taking responsibility for my own actions. The fact that I lived in filth was nobody’s fault but mine. I make my own choices.

That said, when I told the face that I would take some time to think about it, it didn’t quite feel as if I was the one saying the words. It wasn’t like I was hypnotized, necessarily, but more something along the lines of a Jedi mind trick. Not that I know what a Jedi mind trick feels like; I am, of course, aware that the Star Wars movies take place in a fictional universe. And that’s not even a good comparison, because the Stormtrooper who said that those weren’t the droids they were looking for was unaware that he’d been bamboozled, whereas I had this distinct feeling of Wow, it’s really weird that I’m not rushing to call the cops on this face that wants me to bring it prey to devour.

Subconsciously, I suppose I could have been worried that if I brought the authorities downstairs to investigate, the face would be gone.

ME: But...but...but it was right there!

UNAMUSED COP #1: Uh-huh. And just how much marijuana did you smoke today, sir?

ME: Not a puff! I’m morally opposed to the use of recreational drugs, excluding alcohol and caffeine! I swear to you, there was a face on my floor and a dead lion and I had to...stop looking at me like I’m crazy!

UNAMUSED COP #2: He’s acting crazy! Taze him! Taze him!

ME: Aaargh! My bodily functions!

UNAMUSED COP #1: He’s still twitching. Decapitate him.

ME: Huh? What? Seriously?

UNAMUSED COP #2: Oh, yeah. We’re way more corrupt than the cops you see on TV. Could tilt your head down a little to make it easier? A little more. Yep, just like that.

SOUND EFFECT: Thwack! Thump. Roll, roll, roll.

That scenario seemed unlikely, though. Really, it was just this weird thing in my mind where I wanted to consider the face’s offer, even though it was completely obvious that I should decline.

“While you are thinking about it,” said the face, “do something with the carcass. I do not mind the smell, but the lack of dignity is bothersome.”

So, yes, because the face told me to, I cleaned up the dead lion’s remains. Once again, I don’t possess the writing skills to describe the sheer disgustingness of this task. I put the chunks into garbage bags (double-bagging them, of course) and piled them next to the staircase. By the time I was ready to start mopping, my clothes were completely covered with gook and maggots.

“You should keep the tail as a souvenir,” said the face.

“I probably won’t,” I replied.

To be fair, the face had been quiet through most of the process, letting me do my wretched work without behaving like an asshole.

After mopping up the floor, I took the longest shower of my entire life, got dressed, loaded up my car with the garbage bags, and drove to the city dump. You weren’t supposed to dump animal remains there, but it’s not like anybody was X-raying the bags.

Hmmmmm, I thought, as I drove home. Completely disposing of the lion like that has eliminated some of my proof that this really happened. I should have at least taken some pictures. If for any reason I need to convince the police that there was indeed a dead lion in my basement, I’m screwed.

Again, I’m not trying to blame mind control tricks. I’m simply saying that to overlook this kind of detail wasn’t like me.

I drove back home and went down into my basement.

I hope the face is still there, I thought. I didn’t even consider that it was a weird thing to have thought, what with the whole “flesh, blood, and bone” aspect. The logical thing to think would be I sure hope that face is gone.

The face was still there.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hello, Carlton.”

“Lion’s gone.”

“Good.”

“Can I have a gold coin?”

“No. That was not the arrangement. I still need to regain my power.”

“I can’t bring you a dead body.”

“I disagree.”

“It’s not like I have access to a morgue or something. I do website design from home. Sort of. It’s more of a hobby. Some stocks really paid off a few years ago so I don’t really have to supplement my income. Where would I get a body?”

“It is very simple. You start by finding a body that is alive. They are all over the place.”

“I’m not killing anybody!”

“Think it over.”

“No!”

“I am not rushing your decision. Take your time.”

“You’re talking about murder!”

“Is that problematic?”

“Yes!”

The face sighed. “I understand your hesitation. Usually when somebody asks you to kill for them, you have known each other longer.”

“I’m not killing for you.”

“All right.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Good.” I smoothed out my shirt. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Not right now.”

“What about a dog?”

What the hell was I saying? I loved doggies! I’d walked out of movies where dogs died. Reading Where the Red Fern Grows as a kid had traumatized me for weeks.

“Do not insult me by offering a dog,” said the face.

“Sorry. A cat would be insulting too, right?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I wish you’d teleported into the basement of a bloodthirsty serial killer or somebody who could help you out. If I could get you a body, I would, I promise, but it’s just not possible.”

“You will see, Carlton, that these things have a way of working themselves out.”

My cell phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I took it out and looked at the screen. Greg. I hadn’t talked to my brother in a couple of months.

“Hi, Greg,” I said.

On the other end, Greg just sobbed.

FOUR - GREG

I started sobbing as soon as I heard Carlton’s voice. I hadn’t planned to confess to anybody, since that seemed like the kind of thing that only a stupid person would do, but I was drunk off my ass. I really should have locked up my phone before I opened the bottle of whiskey.

“Carlton...oh, Jesus, Carlton, I’m sorry I called, I just needed to talk to somebody...is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I’ve done something terrible.”

“What?”

“It’s Felicia...you know she’s cheating on me, right?”

“Sure. We talk about that every time you call. Are you getting a divorce?”

“No.”

“You should, Greg. You really should. Just because you can’t perform doesn’t mean you should have to live with that. How many men is she up to now, fifteen?”

“No, she’s not up to fifteen men!” I shouted into the phone. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Thirteen men and two women, then?”

I knew that Carlton wasn’t trying to be a jerk. We had the kind of relationship where we were very straightforward with each other. For example, I felt free to tell him that he was a disgusting slob, though I would either use “disgusting” or “slob” and not both. He had plenty of money to hire a housekeeper, but he was cheap and also a bit mentally ill.

“What terrible thing did you do?” he asked.

“I hired somebody to kill one of them.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Carlton said. “Maybe this is something we should discuss in person.”

“I shouldn’t have called.”

“You definitely should have called. This is exactly the kind of situation where you call somebody to talk it out. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I spent the next twenty minutes drinking whiskey. The truth was, Carlton and I weren’t all that close, and I didn’t even like him much of the time, but he was somebody I could always trust.

He knocked at my door twenty minutes later. He glanced around the apartment after I let him in. Carlton had showered recently, which was unusual, and he looked kind of spooked, which I suppose made sense since he was here to discuss an assassination.

“Is Felicia here?”

“Nope.”

“She out banging somebody?”

“Presumably.”

“The guy you’re having killed?”

I shook my head. “Nah. They get a hotel during his lunch break on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I think tonight she’s doing Franklin.”

“The black guy?”

“There was a black guy?”

“I thought you said she was screwing a black guy.”

“Franklin’s the black character in Peanuts. Maybe that’s what you were thinking of.”

“Yeah, that could be it,” said Carlton. “So which one are you murdering?”

“Tommy.”

“The uncircumcised one?”

“There was an uncircumcised one?”

“Wasn’t one of her boyfriends uncircumcised, and you found out about it because she e-mailed another one of her boyfriends to say how it weirded her out but once she got used to the texture it wasn’t so bad?”

“Probably. I don’t remember.”

“He kept wanting her to use her mouth.”

“Enough! That’s not who I’m talking about!”

“Is Tommy the one who sent you the picture?”

“Yeah.”

“If any of them deserve to die, it’s him.”

I plopped down onto my couch. I almost missed.

“I’m serious, Carlton. I really paid some guy to kill him. I can’t believe it. I’ve become the kind of man who would pay a man to kill a man. How did that happen?”

Carlton sat down next to me. “Well, we either have to blame Felicia or your penis.”

“We’ll blame Felicia.”

“So you literally hired a hit man?”

I nodded.

“Is he reliable?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like there were online reviews. Jasper knew a friend of a friend of a friend who could help me fix the problem. I met with him and he seemed like a solid guy. Off the grid. Doesn’t pay taxes or anything. God, I’d give anything to be able to just disappear like that.”

“Is it too late to call off the hit?”

“Nah. I’ve already paid him half, though, and I’d forfeit that.” I sighed. “This is insane. I don’t know what I was thinking. There’s only so much a man can take before he lashes out, you know what I mean? It was good talking to you, Carlton. We need to do this more often. I’ll cancel the hit. It was a stupid idea in the first place. Tommy doesn’t deserve to die.”

Carlton cleared his throat. “So, can I ask you a question that might seem odd?”

“Sure.”

“Do you get to keep Tommy’s body?”

“That’s actually an odder question than I was expecting.”

“Do you?”

“No. He’s going to Tommy’s house. He’s supposed to make it look like an accident.”

“Damn.”

“Why ‘damn’?” I asked.

“I was expressing disappointment.”

“I got that. I didn’t understand why.”

“Can I have some whiskey?” Carlton asked.

“I thought you quit drinking.”

“No. I just quit buying alcohol. I still drink it.”

I handed over the bottle and Carlton took a swig. “Thanks. That’s good stuff.”

“You were getting ready to explain why you were disappointed that I didn’t get to keep Tommy’s body.”

“Oh, that. Yeah.” Carlton took another swig and swished the whiskey between his teeth before he swallowed. “Before I explain, I want it noted for the record that you just admitted you’d hired a hit man. So we’re both on shaky moral ground tonight.”

“Understood.”

“I need a dead body.”

“Are you coming out to me as a necrophile?”

“No.”

“Are you coming out as gay?”

“No! Are you trying to say that gay people are all perverts who would screw a corpse?”

“Not at all. But Tommy is a dude. Maybe you were trying to shock me with the necrophilia thing so that I’d be less surprised when you said you were gay.”

“I’m not gay or a necrophile.”

“Okay,” I said. “Just so you know, you’re my brother, and if you’re gay, you will always have my love and support, and you and your partner are always welcome as guests in my apartment. If you’re a corpse-fucker, it’s going to take me longer to accept. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is. Maybe it’s a lifestyle choice that I don’t understand...hell, maybe I could get into it myself if I gave it a chance, but until then, I’m not sure I can stand by and let you —”

“Let’s continue this conversation when you’re sober,” said Carlton.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’m saying some dumb shit. Do you see my phone anywhere?”

“Who do you need to call?”

“Gonna cancel the hit. I really can’t afford it anyway.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not killing a human being is a shame?”

“Sometimes.”

“I called you over here to talk me out of my insanity.”

“I thought you called me over here to confess.” Carlton stood up. “Having Tommy killed is a big deal. I’m not trying to downplay that. But, let’s face it, the guy got your wife to do anal. She never did that for you. So he deserves to die.”

“I can’t give you Tommy’s body. It’ll bring too much heat.”

“The hit man. You said he was totally off the grid, right?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Maybe you could kill him.”

I just sat there for a while, absorbing the fact that my brother had suggested that perhaps I could kill the man I’d hired to kill one of my wife’s many boy-toys.

Absorption was slow.

To Carlton’s credit, he let me sit there and be stunned without prodding me for a response.

Finally, I spoke. “Did you put shrooms in my whiskey?”

“No.”

“I’m not going to kill anybody.”

“Okay. I didn’t think you would.”

“I’m glad you thought that.”

“You’re not going to tell anybody that I’m looking for a dead body, are you?”

“I assure you that I’m not.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Was there any other emotional support you needed?”

“Nah,” I said. “I think I’m just going to drink whiskey until I pass out on the floor. Felicia will throw a blanket over me when she gets home.”

“Sounds like a plan. Do you want a hug before I go?”

“Nah.”

“I could bake some cookies.”

“Since when do you bake cookies?”

“I meant the premade kind, where you just break off however many pieces of dough you need and most of the work is already done for you. I thought I saw those in your fridge last time.”

“We ate them.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“I’m not in a cookie mood anyway,” I said.

“What if I paid you to kill the hit man?” Carlton asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Now that I’m sober, I could probably sit down and compose a list of six hundred and twenty-nine thousand appropriate responses. Examples include “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” and “Step away before thou contaminate me with thy contemptible insanity!”

Instead, my response was: “How much?”

FIVE - MORE FROM GREG

I t turns out that my price for committing murder most foul is six months’ rent paid on my shop in the strip mall. Hey, it’s three times what Dirk got for killing Tommy. (Or would have gotten. Obviously, after I shot him in the face, I kept the second half of his payment.)

I wouldn’t have killed a child, or even a woman, or even a man who was a decent human being. But Dirk was scum. His death meant that his future victims would live. By shooting him with an unregistered gun that another friend of a friend of a friend of Jasper’s had sold me, I had done the world a favor.

“It’s almost like we’re heroes,” I said to Jasper, as we drove toward Carlton’s house.

“It’s really not like that at all,” he replied.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Your brother’s not going to screw the hit man’s body, right?”

“He swore he wasn’t.”

“Because if I feel like things are starting to move in that direction, I’m outta there.”

“I understand.”

“If his hand so much as moves toward his zipper, that’s it for me. I’m done.”

“That’s not what this is about,” I said.

“So what is it about?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. But not that.”

“I’m trusting you, Greg. I will be psychologically scarred by the sight of your brother making love to a dead body. If it happens, that scarring is all on you.”

“Nobody’s making you tag along.”

“No, I want to come.”

I pulled into Carlton’s driveway. He had a nice home in a nice part of town. As always, his lawn needed mowed. If I lived there, it wouldn’t get like that.

Carlton opened his front door as we got out of the car. “Hi, guys,” he said with a smile. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

He shook hands with Jasper and said that it had been a while. Jasper agreed with his assessment about the length of time that had elapsed since their last encounter.

“Is it in the trunk?” Carlton asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let me open the garage door, then.”

* * *

“This place stinks,” Jasper said to me.

“I’m standing right here,” said Carlton.

“Your place stinks,” Jasper said to Carlton.

“You’re right. I keep pizza around longer than I should. It’s a known issue and I’m working on it.”

The three of us (four, if you counted Dirk, who was wrapped up in several sheets, but you don’t have to count him because he wasn’t an active contributor to the conversation) stood at the top of the staircase leading to the basement.

“What you are about to see may alter your perception of what is and what is not possible in our realm of existence,” Carlton said. “If you are not prepared to handle that, now is the time to leave.”

“I’m cool with it,” said Jasper.

“Me too,” I said.

“I’m not exaggerating,” said Carlton. “Greg, do you believe that a face could suddenly appear on your basement floor and ask you to bring it a freshly killed human?”

“No.”

“You will.”

We slowly walked down the stairs. Carlton didn’t offer to help with the body, which was the kind of laziness I’d expect from my brother, but since he was paying us I didn’t complain. There was a white cloth in the center of the floor, and also...

“Is that a lion’s tail hanging from your ceiling?” I asked.

“It’s a souvenir.”

Jasper and I gently set the body on the floor. Obviously, we weren’t concerned about hurting Dirk; we just didn’t want to make a mess on Carlton’s floor, which looked like it been recently mopped.

Carlton lifted away the cloth.

There was a face on the floor.

Jasper leaned closer. “Is that a puppet?”

“No,” said the face. “I am totally real.”

I screamed. Jasper screamed. I cancelled out some of the work Carlton had done mopping the floor.

“Knock it off!” said Carlton. “I told you guys that there was a face on the floor! Why didn’t you mentally prepare yourselves?”

Jasper and I continued to scream.

“Guys, c’mon, seriously. It’s just a face.”

Jasper quit screaming, though I continued for a few more seconds.

“So, anyway,” said Carlton, “that’s the face that wants to eat the hit man.”

“Hello,” said the face.

“Kill it!” I shouted.

I lunged forward, ready to stomp on it numerous times, but Carlton tackled me and knocked me to the floor. My younger brother had always been able to kick my ass.

He held me down for a moment. “Are you calm now?”

“No!”

He slowly counted to ten. “How about now?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“This traveler can bring us incredible power,” he explained. “But you can’t go around shouting ‘kill it.’ You have to play it cool, all right?”

I nodded. Carlton stood up, and then helped me to my feet.

“Allow the one who leaks to change his pants,” said the face.

* * *

“They brought you a fresh body,” Carlton told the face, after I’d changed into a pair of his pants.

“Then they shall be rewarded along with you.”

Carlton smiled. The face also kind of smiled. I did not smile, because I was too busy contorting my mouth in an effort not to shriek, “There’s a face on the floor! There’s a face on the frickin’ floor!”

It was a creepy-ass face, too. Why the hell would anybody get involved with it? You could tell just by looking at it that it was evil. This was going to end with me having to bash Carlton’s head in with a shovel, I just knew it.

Carlton unwrapped the body. He recoiled a bit as he saw that I’d shot Dirk in the face, but he didn’t comment about it, which I appreciated.

“Is it really going to eat the body?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Carlton.

“No,” said the face.

“No?”

“Not the entire body. I have no need for the nourishment of lungs or a heart. Merely the head. Cut off its head for me.”

Carlton winced and went a bit pale.

“A head in exchange for three gold coins.”

Carlton nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. Just give me a minute.”

Jasper raised his hand. “I don’t want you guys thinking that I’m some kind of psycho or something, but I wouldn’t mind cutting off his head.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, gaping at him.

“What? When am I going to get the chance to do something like this?”

“You were getting all judgmental when you thought my brother was a necrophile.”

“And I stand by that. I’m not going to do anything kinky. I’d just like to be the one to decapitate him if nobody else volunteers.”

Carlton stepped away from the body. “Hey, you’re more than welcome to it. I’ll get you a hacksaw.”

“In case you were wondering,” I told Jasper, “I do think you’re some kind of psycho. I absolutely do.”

“That’s fine. At least I didn’t shoot him.”

“Killing somebody is less depraved than severing their corpse’s head.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. Everybody knows that. You shoot somebody, it’s revenge. You do shit to their dead body, it’s deviant.”

“Only if I get sexual excitement out of it.”

“That’s not the rule.”

“I’m doing this because it would be an interesting new experience. And it’s something that needs to be done. If I saw a dead body on the street, there’s no way I would offer to walk over and decapitate it, but this body needs decapitating, so what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say there was a problem. All I’m saying is that you don’t get to play the ‘I’m Just A Regular Guy’ card.”

“Enough!” said the face. “If he wants to sever the head upon which I will feed, let him sever the head! Why complicate this?”

“Fine,” I said. Jasper could do whatever he wanted. I didn’t care. I didn’t say that out loud, because it would sound like I was being pouty, and I assure you that I wasn’t.

Jasper sawed off Dirk’s head. He did not giggle while he did it, nor did he lick his lips, nor did he breathe quickly in a manner that might indicate sexual excitement, nor did he cackle, so ultimately I was okay with it and actually kind of relieved that we hadn’t been forced to draw straws or something.

Carlton picked up the head by the hair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

SIX - FELICIA

“I n my face,” I said.

“For real?” asked Chester.

I nodded.

“You mean it? I’m allowed to do that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s the most awesome thing ever,” said Chester, standing by the side of the bed and stroking to finish himself off. “I’ve seen it in movies and stuff, but chicks in real life are always, like, ‘Eeew! No!’ I can’t believe you’re really gonna let me do this. This is so great.”

“Are you almost there?”

“Yeah, almost. What if I get it in your hair?”

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll try not to, but I can’t always predict where it’s gonna go, you know? Oh, man, I really can’t believe I get to do this after all this time. You should probably close your eyes.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No, really, if I get it in your eyes I’d feel like crap. I still can’t believe I get to do this. You know what, though, let me move my pillow. I don’t mind getting it on the bed but I probably won’t do laundry until the morning and I’ve only got that one pillowcase.”

I picked up the pillow and tossed it to the foot of the bed.

“I didn’t mean that you had to do it. I was going to do it. But thanks. I guess I could flip the pillow over, but that would be kind of nasty. I should buy another pillowcase. It’s just not something I think about when I’m in town, you know?”

“I need you to finish. I need to get back home.”

“No snuggling?”

“My husband will wonder where I am. Since when do you care about snuggling?”

“Well, I guess I don’t, but this is a special occasion.”

“Do you realize that you’ve now spent more time playing with yourself than you spent inside of me?” I didn’t mean for this to sound bitchy, but my spur of the moment decision to let him finish on my face wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual conversation.

“Hey, I could have kept going. I can go for eight or nine minutes sometimes. You’ve been there, right?”

“I apologize for that,” I said. “In my face. Let’s go.”

“I’m just saying, you were the one who—”

“Chester, finish now or finish by yourself.”

Chester began to stroke himself more vigorously. “This is so, so incredible. I’ve dreamed about this. Literally dreamed about it. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal for ladies. It washes off. Maybe they think it’s humiliating. But you don’t feel humiliated, do you?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t feel humiliated if women could do that to guys. I’d be all over that. If you were lactating...” Chester considered that. “I take that back. That would be gross. It may sound sexist but it’s just the way I feel. You wouldn’t be into that, would you? If you were pregnant?”

“No.”

“I used to think that having sex with a pregnant chick was kinky and weird, but then I realized, no, pretty much any couple with kids have done that. You don’t take a nine-month break. And even if it’s not your own kid growing inside there, it’s still not that weird, if you really think about it.”

“Are you having problems?”

“No, no, no, no, no, I’m almost there. Almost there. You better get ready, because it’s going to be a gusher. Seriously, you should close your eyes.”

I closed my eyes.

“Almost there...seconds away...oh, yeah, I can feel it...getting closer...oh, man, am I gonna make a mess...I told you that my hot water heater is broken, right?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.”

I opened my eyes. “Then no, you can’t get it in my hair! I’m not taking a cold shower!”

“I could heat up some water on the stove.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I was just trying to be considerate by telling you beforehand. I didn’t have to do that.”

“Can you finish up? Please? This isn’t making productive use of our time.”

Look, I’m all in favor of a guy who can last. The longer the better, most times. But there are also occasions when you should be considerate of your partner and finish the job without a lot of chit chat. If you moan, “Ohhh, I’m gonna come,” and I say to do it in my face, there should be a delay of no more than ten seconds before the big release.

I’m not a bitchy lover, I swear to you. It’s just that when you’re doing something really nice for somebody (and I knew this was one of Chester’s fantasies—he’d mentioned it a few times before), it can be frustrating when they turn the moment from something beautiful—well, not beautiful, but fun—into something annoying.

I’d keep Chester around, because he had an extremely large penis and I was in favor of extremely large penises, but if he didn’t make this happen soon, I was going to flick his balls like I was flicking an insect off a windowsill.

If I had to guess, I’d say that your sympathy for me right now is pretty minimal. That’s what happens when you start your portion of the narrative with a moment where you’re asking a guy to come in your face. I understand.

I never expected to be the kind of woman who would cheat on her husband en masse. Greg is the one who deflowered me, after various issues kept me a virgin until my early thirties. Hell, I wanted to wait until our wedding night, but I succumbed to his charms shortly after I bought the dress. It didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as I’d expected, and I regretted not getting started with this aspect of my life much sooner.

It was great for about fifteen years. Not that I had a basis for comparison, but overall, I was completely satisfied.

Then Greg had what we discretely referred to as “issues down there.”

That’s fine. Everybody gets performance anxiety sometimes. It becomes a problem when you’re unwilling to do anything to fix the issue. If I’m down there, being extremely generous, you can’t just sputter, “It’s not working!” and give up after thirty seconds. You can’t refuse to talk to your doctor. You’ve got to work through the humiliation and make an effort. You can’t just quit.

What was I supposed to do, slip Viagra into his drink?

The first time I cheated on him, it just happened. I know, I know, that’s a complete cop-out excuse. It doesn’t “just happen.” What I meant is that it was unplanned. Brett, the server at the Tex-Mex place where I often went for lunch, had always been harmlessly flirty, but when he asked why I was crying, I forced myself to give him a brave smile and said that it was nothing, just the problems everybody has, no big deal. He said that if I ever wanted to talk, let him know.

He was young and fit and apparently into older women, and the next time I went there for lunch, I flirted back, less harmlessly.

I called Greg to let him know I’d be late from work.

Now I had a basis for comparison, and oh my freaking God had I been missing out.

I felt sick with shame. I was now a woman who would cheat on her husband. A cheater! A reprehensible cheater! And when Greg found out, he’d divorce me for sure, and everybody would know what I’d done, and I’d be an outcast, and I’d deserve to be an outcast because I was a cheater.

But, damn, it had been good.

And we did it again.

One evening, maybe three months after this started, I realized that Greg had been poking around in my e-mail. An e-mail from Brett that I hadn’t read wasn’t in boldface. His e-mail didn’t say “I certainly enjoyed sliding my erect penis into your vagina and thrusting repeatedly,” but it wasn’t innocuous, and it was clear that something was going on between us.

I was sick to my stomach, physically trembling, waiting for Greg to confront me.

He never did.

A week passed, and he didn’t say a thing.

I vowed to quit. I’d break it off with Brett, chalk it up to temporary insanity, and go back to being a loyal, faithful wife.

Instead, I created a secret e-mail account and joined one of those websites for singles.

I made a lot of new friends (and they were all friends—I wasn’t seeking a romantic relationship). Yes, I’ll admit that the number was getting kind of high, but if I’d had one boyfriend a year from the ages of eighteen through thirty-five, nobody would shout “Oh my God! She’s the worst slut ever!” I’d simply gotten off to a much later start and had my lovers in a more compressed timeframe.

Greg knew. He had to know. His genitals didn’t work but his brain did.

I kept waiting for him to say something. He never did. Was he too cowardly to confront me? Did he not even care? I started to resent him. If he wasn’t going to say anything, why shouldn’t I have fun? Why shouldn’t I have my physical needs met like never before?

Sure, I felt guilty. Especially when I did things that had been strictly off-limits with Greg. The thing is, when you ask in a different way, and you’re careful to ease into it, and you bring plenty of lube, I’m more receptive.

Like I said before I went into the backstory, I’m not a bitchy lover. There are simply different levels of longevity for different circumstances. If we’ve got a hotel room and three hours of free time, then I want you to pound away at me in a marathon session. If I’m going down on you in a parking lot, and there are people wandering around with shopping carts, it’s in both of our best interests for you to climax in an efficient manner. When I ask you to come in my face, do it!

“You’ve got ten seconds,” I said.

Chester nodded. “Ten...nine...eight...seven...”

“Please don’t do a countdown.”

Chester nodded again, and continued to nod down the rest of the count. He squeezed his eyes closed, tilted his head back, and jerked with such fervor that I worried that his penis might tear off, pop out of his hand, and hit me in the face. Since there was a very specific reason I kept Chester around despite his personality defects, it would probably give me a concussion.

Finally, finally, he got there, letting out a moan of victory like a caveman who’d killed a bison.

“Oh...oh...oh, yeah...that was so awesome...I just can’t even...oh, man...I never thought I would...oh, yeah...I love you.”

“It got in my nose,” I said, wiping my face in disgust.

“You sound like you have a cold.”

SEVEN - JASPER

N ow that the job was done, I felt sort of self-conscious about my enthusiasm for cutting off the dude’s head. I shouldn’t have admitted anything. I should have volunteered with more of a “taking one for the team” attitude than an “Ooh! Ooh! Me! Me!” one.

I’m not a weirdo. It’s never been my fantasy to chop off a head. I’d always thought it was as vile as everybody else did.

Yet when the opportunity came up, it seemed kind of...cool.

And you know what? It was. It was fun. I wanted to sing while I was moving the hacksaw back and forth across his neck. (I didn’t.) Instead, I made up a song in my mind:

Cuttin’ off a head.

Cuttin’ off a head.

He’s already dead.

So he won’t need his head.

It wasn’t a great song, but it had a catchy tune. I kept singing it to myself as Greg’s brother knelt down next to the face on the floor.

“It’s not going to fit,” said Carlton.

“It will if you are persistent,” said the face. It opened its mouth wide.

I had to agree with Carlton. No way was that head going to fit. I’d happily saw it in half or quarters, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to volunteer.

“Just do it,” said Greg. He was a nice boss, easy to work for, flexible with me arriving late or leaving early, but ever since he’d hired the assassin the dude was unpleasant to be around.

Carlton placed the head on the face’s mouth. It wasn’t even close to fitting. Carlton picked the head back up. “Maybe we need to slice it.”

“Just push,” said the face.

“I don’t want to hurt your teeth.”

“You will not hurt me. Push.”

Carlton glanced at Greg, and then at me, with an expression that seemed to say, You guys are witnesses, right? He asked me to do this. It’s not my fault if his teeth all break off. Then he set down the head, face down on the face, and pushed.

The face’s mouth opened wider.

Wider.

It was a struggle for sure, but you know what? He got the head in there. I couldn’t believe it. Dirk’s head disappeared from sight, the face closed its mouth, and we stood there for a few moments, listening to crunching sounds.

I thought it would be funny if the face let out a belch, but it didn’t.

Finally the chewing stopped. The face licked its lips. “I thank you.”

“Where’s our reward?” asked Carlton.

“Have patience.”

“You’d better not be reneging,” said Carlton. “I’ll go get some dog crap from my neighbor’s yard and drop it down there if you’re reneging.”

“I will pay my debt.”

The face closed its eyes. It began to glow with a soft, otherworldly blue light. It opened its mouth and a beam of that blue light shot out, quickly growing in intensity until it almost hurt to look at it, but I kept looking because when else are you going to see freaky shit like this?

Suddenly the light disappeared.

Three small items landed on the ground with a clink. Greg stepped on one of the gold coins before it could roll away.

“Those were salvaged from a sunken pirate ship,” the face informed us. “They have great value. Spend them wisely.”

“We’re rich!” I shouted, even though I had no idea how much gold coins salvaged from a sunken pirate ship fetched on eBay.

We each picked up a coin. This could have turned into a situation where one of us picked up two coins and it became a tense standoff, but that didn’t happen.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat the rest of him?” asked Carlton, nudging the headless assassin with his toe. “Otherwise we’ll have to bury him somewhere.”

“Then bury him. You have done me a great service, but further rewards await you, if you are willing to let go of your moral qualms.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Carlton. “Qualms are gone. We’ll definitely kill more people for you, no problem.”

Carlton and Greg both looked at me.

It was not a fun look.

To be fair, there were only four of us in the basement to look at, and to be additionally fair, when a comment like “We’ll definitely kill more people for you” is thrown out there, it makes sense to look around at the others in the room to gauge their reaction.

But considering the circumstances, I don’t think that it was too big of a stretch to think These fuckers are gonna kill me!

Was it overkill to grab the hacksaw and start waving it around? Was it going too far to shout, “You sons of bitches aren’t going to get me!”? In retrospect, yeah, it was. Though it was less overkill than when I actually swung the weapon at my employer.

I got him in the upper arm. It was a good hit with a lot of force behind it. Unfortunately, a hacksaw isn’t an axe, and you can’t really lop off a body part in one hit.

I was by far the biggest guy in the basement, but it was two against one, and one of them had picked up a mop. He whacked me on the back of the head with the wooden handle, and I fell to my knees, and he whacked me again, and they both started stomping on me, and I apologized for my behavior, but I don’t think they heard me, and then my part of the story came to an end.

EIGHT - CARLTON

“D o not damage his skull!” said the face.

I stopped my foot in mid-stomp, feeling a bit sheepish because I’d been about to do exactly that. “We can wreck the rest of him, though, right?”

“Yes,” said the face. “But leave his skull unbroken.”

So we beat Jasper to death without hurting his head.

I’ll be honest and admit that there’s a point, even if you aren’t a trained medical professional, where you can pretty much figure out that somebody is dead. We went far beyond that. It was as if Greg and I were trying to find out how much we could flatten him out. We had gold on our minds, and when I was a kid I’d read that you could take a piece of gold that weighed less than a couple of packs of chewing gum and pound it thin enough to cover a football field, so maybe that’s what I was thinking.

Not that we stomped on him anywhere near that much. That would have been depraved.

Finally my legs started to get tired. I think Greg’s legs were tired, too, but he didn’t want to admit it. We quit crushing Jasper and stood there, catching our breath.

As you can probably guess, things were suddenly very awkward.

I’ve already said that I’m a man who takes responsibility for his own behavior. I don’t go around blaming the ills of society for my problems. But hear me out. If you stomped a man to death, even in self-defense, and you kept stomping and stomping while bones snapped and organs squished and flesh split and fluids spurted, is it really so far-fetched to suggest that there may have been other forces involved? Greg and I squashed the fuck out of Jasper, a guy I’d always liked. Doesn’t that seem unusual to you? Again, I’m not trying to deflect the blame away from myself, but it’s worth considering.

The face opened its mouth wide.

Jasper’s head had already come off, so there was no need to argue about who would handle that task. I picked up the head and shoved it into the mouth, with much less effort this time because apparently the mouth had widened.

More blue light. Two more gold coins.

To me, the payment shouldn’t have been reduced just because there were fewer of us now, but then again, the face had tripled its original offer after we jammed Dirk’s head in its mouth, so who was I to complain?

“Again, I thank you,” said the face, in unison. It said this in unison because there were now two of them, side by side. The eye colors and nose shapes were different, but they kind of looked like siblings.

“Is that other face you?” I inquired.

“I am many,” said the faces.

“That’s weird as hell,” I said.

Greg was wiping the sole of his shoe off on my bottom stair, which, even though there was splatter all over the floor, seemed kind of inconsiderate. This lack of courtesy was, to me, the real reason his wife was having affair after affair after affair.

“So,” I said to Greg, “Jasper. He won’t be missed by anyone, will he?”

“He’s got a wife and two kids,” said Greg.

“Damn.”

“With a third on the way.”

“Fuck.”

“We shouldn’t have murdered him.”

“Hey, if somebody has a pregnant wife, they shouldn’t go around waving hacksaws at people. It’s irresponsible. We wouldn’t have killed him if he hadn’t been aggressive like that.”

“I don’t know. I have to admit that I was sort of leaning in that direction before he picked up the hacksaw.”

I sighed. “All right, I was, too. Screw him. He’s not family.”

“He was a good employee. Always reliable. Always available to talk. He’s the reason I didn’t need therapy. If he hadn’t been there for me every Tuesday through Saturday, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Greg looked like he was going to cry. I hadn’t seen him this upset since last night’s confession that he’d hired a hit man to kill Felicia’s lover.

“Still,” I said, “the hacksaw is an important element of what happened. You can’t succumb to paranoia like that without consequences. Look what he did to your arm.”

“It’s barely even bleeding.”

“True. But only because you took action. Don’t think for one second that he wouldn’t have stood there and sawed your arm off if you’d let him.”

“Doesn’t it bother you what we did?” asked Greg. He gestured to the gore that covered the floor in a twenty-foot radius. “This is the kind of crime they make documentaries about. Why would we do this? We’ve always been so passive.”

“Honestly, I think it looks worse than it really is. This floor wasn’t designed for drainage, so stuff is spreading out. Is there any blood on the ceiling? Nope, not a drop. Is there any on the walls? Yes, but only one wall, and this basement has four.”

“What about his hands?”

I looked around but didn’t see them. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know, either! You know why? Because they’re no longer recognizable as hands!”

“Calm down,” I said, pointing to one of many, many wet red blobs. “That’s part of one. You can see the fingernail.”

“I’m not trying to add tension to what is already a very stressful situation,” said Greg. “But I feel like we were a little out of control.”

“Fine. That’s fair. I’ll admit it. If we’d taken the time to think things through, it probably would have played out differently. Not our finest moment by any stretch of the imagination. On the other hand, hey, we got the job done. Not all brothers can work together so well.”

“We’re horrible people.”

“No. Horrible people would steal Jasper’s gold coin. We’re not going to do that. In fact, we’re going to give it to his family. Not in person, of course, since his wife would think it was kind of bizarre for us to give her gold from a pirate’s lost treasure, but we’ll slip it under the door or put it in their mailbox or something, we’ll figure it out, maybe we’ll sell it and send them a check for the cash value, but however we handle it we’re not going to steal it, and I’ll bet you that ninety-eight percent of the people in our situation would steal that coin, the thieving bastards.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m not trying to say that today you and I didn’t suck. We did. There’s no argument. But we didn’t suck as much as we could have, and I think that’s something to be proud of.”

“I guess,” said Greg.

“May I interject?” asked the faces.

“Sure,” I said. What was I going to say, no?

“Few would deny that today’s act of violence was more hostile than necessary. But where you saw mental illness, I saw passion. A passion for one’s work that is rarely seen in contemporary times. If a custodian was sweeping a floor, and he continued to sweep until nary a speck of dirt remained, would you think him a madman?”

“A bit OCD, maybe,” said Greg.

“Then today the two of you succumbed to obsessive-compulsive disorder about the task you were completing. Nothing more. You did your job with pride, and much like the aforementioned custodian, you are to be commended.”

Greg and I stood there for a moment, taking in the face’s words of wisdom. He was right. Any disinterested minimum-wage-earning slacker could lop off a head, but Greg and I had proven our dedication to the craft.

We weren’t merely not wrong about what we’d done; we were right.

Greg and I smiled at each other, and Greg let out a sheepish little chuckle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just get so nervous sometimes. I doubt my moral compass. It won’t happen again.”

We gave each other a hug.

I laughed. “I’d feel guilty about hugging you like this if we didn’t both already have blood and guts on us.”

“I don’t have any actual guts on me, do I?”

“Yeah. There’s at least one.”

Greg laughed as well. “Wow. Whatever that is, it must’ve had quite a trajectory to end up on my shoulder.”

We both laughed some more. (Although only for a few seconds. It wasn’t minutes of laughing. Just some extra chuckles at the absurdity of it all.)

“I was thinking—” we both said together.

“You first,” I said.

“No, you first,” said Greg. “I want to make sure that what I’m thinking isn’t as dark as what you’re thinking. What were you thinking?”

“Killing spree.”

“Oh, yeah, yours is way darker. I was thinking of another victim, not a whole spree.”

“Spree may have been the wrong word. Three to five more. Maybe six.”

“Let’s not commit ourselves to six quite yet,” said Greg. “We’ll start with one, and if that works out, move on to two, and if we’re still cool with the idea we’ll go to three, and then from three we’ll probably be able to figure out if we actually want to do the whole six, don’t you agree?”

“Excellent plan,” I said.

My doorbell rang.

“Did you order a pizza?” asked Greg.

I shook my head.

“Could somebody be delivering a pizza to the wrong house?”

“Conceivably.”

“Do you have nosy neighbors? Jasper did a lot of screaming while we were killing him. What if somebody heard it and called the police?”

I cursed. “That’s a definite possibility. I mean, I don’t know how much lungpower Jasper had, but I got the impression that he was screaming at the top of his lungs. So, yeah, I suppose it could be the authorities investigating. Damn. The noise level is something we really should have thought about.”

“Well, we can’t think of everything.”

“No, you’re right.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Do you think they’ll just leave if nobody answers?” Greg asked.

“I can’t help feeling like they won’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“So, killing the cop is off the table, right? If we do that, they’ll just send more cops. I mean, granted, that would help us get victims for our spree, but they might send a whole bunch at once.”

“No cop-killing,” said Greg.

“That’s my stance, too. Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

“Answer the door,” said the faces.

I wiggled my hand, shaking off several drops of blood. “I’m not really dressed for company.”

“Answer the door.”

“I can’t,” I said. “We’re drenched in gore. Everybody knows you don’t talk to the police when you’re drenched in gore. It’s supremely suspicious.”

“I have now asked you to answer the door twice,” said the faces. “Do not make me ask a third.”

As you read this, it’s important to me that you understand that I knew that answering the door while covered in gore was not a smart thing to do. It’s just not. I don’t want you to read this and think, Holy crap! What a fuckin’ simpleton! I was with him until now, but if he’s going to answer the door in that condition, then fuck that guy. Fuck him with a steel-toed boot, which is way up there on the list of unpleasant ways to be fucked!

I get what you’re saying. The thing is, I had to trust the faces. I just had to. After all this, why would they lead me astray? How could they benefit from giving me poor advice? If the face(s) said to answer the door, I had to answer the door.

Greg and I walked upstairs and over to my front door. Okay, the faces’ advice wasn’t perfect, because we were dripping blood on my carpet, but still...

I looked through the peephole.

“Is it the police?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think they’re mad?”

“We’ll find out.”

I opened the door. It was only one cop, and except for his scary mustache, there was very little about him that was intimidating. Okay, he had a gun. That was about it, though.

“May I help you?” I asked.

The cop raised an eyebrow. “Have you been painting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Really? What room of the house have you been painting...in blood?” He pulled his gun out of its holster and pointed it at me.

This is where I started to feel kind of silly for treating the face as a fountain of wisdom. When a homicide-encouraging face on your basement floor tells you to do something, maybe the best course of action is to do the opposite.

Greg and I exchanged a glance, as if to say, yep, this time we really stepped in it.

Interestingly, though, the cop did not shoot point-blank into my neck. He tucked his gun back into its holster. “You know,” he said, “is it really my place to butt into other people’s business? Who am I to judge what is and what is not appropriate behavior? If I wanted to do that, I would’ve become a judge. And, just between you and me, judges could stand to worry a little bit more about themselves and a little bit less about other people. I apologize for bothering you.”

The cop turned to leave. I have to admit that I wanted to ask him some questions, because even the laziest of police officers would at least ask to take a peek inside the house. As I have repeatedly stressed, I take responsibility for my own actions, but we’re talking about the actions of the cop now, and I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some kind of mind control going on here.

At the bare minimum, shouldn’t he have swiped a finger across my chin and tasted it? Or asked a non-invasive question, like “Why do you have all that blood on you?” or “Hypothetically, if somebody was screaming bloody murder in your basement, who might that individual have been?”

So I really wanted to get his perspective on what was happening. Yet I couldn’t have him suddenly realize that, yes, there was mind control at work here, and that it behooved him to investigate further.

We watched him leave.

“We both know that was strange,” I said to Greg, “so there’s no reason to discuss it further. There are a lot of men out there who’ve done you wrong, so let’s get started on our killing spree.”

NINE - PROFESSOR SEBASTIAN SNOWBERG

I n a world without consequences, what are the rules that govern morality?

I believe that we are all fundamentally decent. I do not believe that anybody is born evil. Nurture, not nature. It is my firm stance that even the child of a sadistic husband-and-wife serial killer team could grow up to be an upstanding member of society if he was raised by different parents.

Yet I also believe that it is possible for each and every one of us to commit atrocities against our fellow human beings. If a kindhearted man were offered a one-dollar bill in exchange for the brutal murder of his local pharmacist, would he accept? Almost certainly not. What if the offer was raised to ten dollars? Would he accept? Again, almost certainly not. One hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?

Almost certainly not.

The truth of the matter is, to convince an otherwise kindhearted man to murder his pharmacist would require a sum of money that’s out of reach for virtually everyone who would want a pharmacist killed. Because even if you offered him a million dollars, the kindhearted man would still worry about the consequences. What good is a million dollars in prison?

A million dollars is some good in prison, of course. One could bribe guards or purchase cigarettes to use as currency. Still, is having a million dollars in prison better than not having a million dollars at home? Almost certainly not.

But what if there were no consequences? What if you could assure this kindhearted man that he would never be caught? What if you could promise him that he would be able to spend every cent of his million dollars without the risk of even a single night behind bars?

Would he do it?

These were the kinds of questions I was asking myself while I went down on Felicia. I suppose it goes without saying that I was not an attentive lover.

“More to the right,” she said.

I moved my tongue a bit more to the right. Based on her reaction, it was the correct distance to have moved, and I went back to my philosophical thoughts.

* * *

“But why?” I wailed. “Why?”

“Because,” said the non-kindhearted-looking man, “you were boning my wife.”

That information helped, but didn’t narrow things down all the way. I couldn’t perish without understanding why I was being killed, and yet admitting that he could be one of four husbands might increase his hostility towards me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I said. “I am the gayest professor you’ll ever meet. The impurity of the thoughts I’m having about your brother would amaze you.”

He’d introduced the other man as his brother. It worried me that he was sharing the status of their relationship with me, since it implied that I would not survive to make use of this knowledge, yet he hadn’t told me either of their names, implying that my death was not a certainty.

“Bullshit,” said Greg. (It would be awkward and disingenuous to continue to refer to him as “the man,” since I now know that his name was Greg.) “At the very most, you’re bi.”

Truth be told, I was a little bi, although not for Carlton. I’d never done anything with a man, but there’d been times over the years when I’d made eye contact with a gentleman from across the room and thought there could be worse uses for the restroom stall. Sadly, the one man who’d offered me his finger was rather unattractive, and after a few seconds of consideration I’d politely declined. Now that I was facing possible death, I regretted that decision.

“Please don’t kill me,” I said. “I’ll do anything!”

That wasn’t entirely true. If these men had lined up a row of babies, handed me a machine gun, and told me to mow them down, I would have refused, sacrificing my own life for that of the babies, a sacrifice that might turn out to be a waste if they went ahead and killed the babies themselves, but a sacrifice that needed to be made regardless.

They did not line up a row of babies. They also did not hand me a machine gun, which was disappointing because if they were that foolish, I would have turned it on them.

Instead, they threw me into the trunk of their automobile and brought me down to Carlton’s basement.

I was not prone to shouting things like “Gaaaahhhhh!!!” but how articulate could one expect me to be when I gazed upon five hideous faces on the basement floor?

“Will he do, master?” asked Greg.

“He will indeed,” said the five faces in unison.

And then Carlton held me down while Greg decapitated me with a shovel. At that point, I died, so I wasn’t really present in the moment, although I’d get to watch it later.

TEN - GREG

T o clarify: the faces didn’t make me call them master. I just started doing it because I thought it was funny.

ELEVEN - FELICIA

F ive of my previous boy-toys had gone missing in a week. In my defense, I’d started to suspect foul play after the second.

“Quite a few disappearances in this city recently,” I said to Greg, as we sat at the table, eating the microwaved dinners that I’d over-microwaved.

“What are you trying to say?” asked Greg.

“Just making conversation.”

“If you’re accusing me of wrongdoing, why not come out and say it?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I insisted. “But you’ve been spending a lot of time with your brother, who you only barely tolerate, and every night this week you’ve come home with blood behind your ears.”

“Why are you looking behind my ears?” Greg asked. “Can’t a man have privacy in a single crevice? Maybe I should ask what’s behind your ears, hmmm?”

I showed him that there was nothing behind my ears.

“All right, well, fair enough, it was just speculation,” said Greg. “It wasn’t an accusation, unlike what you’ve done with me.”

“I specifically said that I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“And yet you wanted to know why there was blood behind my ears. If that’s not an accusation, I don’t know what is.” Greg frowned for an instant, as if momentarily doubting his understanding of the word accusation, but he quickly returned to his look of indignation.

“I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t question the presence of blood on my husband,” I said.

“What if I’d been hurt? What if I had nasty gashes behind my ears? How come you didn’t express concern for my health?”

“I did,” I insisted. “I asked you about it every night this week. You told me not to worry, that it wasn’t your blood.”

That had seemed like a sufficient explanation each time, even though on Tuesday and Thursday there’d been so much blood that it was dripping onto his shirt. I couldn’t see an actual wound, so it seemed completely feasible that he was telling the truth about it not being his blood.

But that left me with an extremely important question: whose blood was it?

Was there a connection between Greg coming home with blood on him, and some of my former lovers going missing? He had a pretty good reason to dislike them. If our roles were reversed, I’d be upset with the women he was banging.

If he were on some sort of killing spree where he wiped out my former lovers one by one, the final body count would be astounding. I’m not an attractive woman, and my best years are far behind me, so it could take a lot of effort to rebuild my boy-toy empire...but frankly I was less worried about that than the tragic loss of human life.

I really should have confronted Greg about this sooner.

“Are you killing people?” I asked.

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because I want to know if you’re killing people.”

Greg pushed aside his plastic tray of turkey and mashed potatoes. “That question is disrespectful.”

“Why?”

“It just is. Do I go around asking if you’re killing people? Do I?”

“The difference, Greg, is that I haven’t given you any reason to suspect that I’ve committed murder. There’s not a drop of blood on me. We can’t say the same about you.”

“Why do you immediately associate blood with murder? Maybe somebody accidentally bled on me. What about that?”

“Did somebody accidentally bleed on you?”

“Well, no, but you could have started there instead of going straight to me being a murderer!”

“You never answered my question,” I said.

“Are you fucking other men?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Has your vagina admitted bonus penises?”

I glared at him. “You’ve known that I was screwing around for years. The only way I could be less discrete is if I 69’ed one of them at the foot of our bed while you were watching TV.”

“More like you 699’ed them.”

“Huh?”

“I know you had a threesome.”

“But what does 699 represent? What’s the second 9 doing?”

“The numbers don’t matter. What matters is that you’ve been unfaithful. You’ve used my impotence and my lack of interest in trying to fix the problem as an excuse to go out and seek your own sexual gratification. Slut!”

“Did you kill any of them?” I asked.

“How many of them spanked you?” Greg demanded. “Did you use the p-word in your bedroom talk? Because you rarely use it with me!”

“I don’t remember.”

“Is that so? One of the filthiest words in the English language and you don’t remember if you used it? How is that possible? Oh, you get all high and mighty when you accuse me of slaughtering people, but I’m supposed to just sit back and watch you—?”

I interrupted him. “I didn’t say you were slaughtering people.”

“You did so! That’s why my mood is so poor!”

“I said killing people, not slaughtering them.” I looked at Greg in horror. “Are you slaughtering them?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“No! I mean, yes! Stop trying to twist my words! This isn’t about the people I’ve slaughtered; it’s about the people you’ve screwed! And don’t think I don’t know about the women! Obviously you didn’t screw them, but you’ve done things with them! You’ve done things with your fingers, and tongue, and, yes, I even know about the elbow!”

“How do you know about the elbow?” I asked.

“The subject line of the e-mail was ‘Luv Your Elbow.’“

“Oh, that’s right. Have you been killing my lovers?”

“Stop trying to change the subject away from your lovers!”

“I’m not! We’re still on-topic, but I damn well need to know if you’ve been killing them!”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why do you need to know? What purpose will it serve? Will you warn them? Will you ask me to stop?”

“Yes!”

“I asked you four questions. I’m not sure which one you’re answering.”

“The last and the second-to-last ones.”

“I don’t remember what they were,” said Greg. “I’m sorry—I’m getting kind of worked up over this.” He began to cry.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, wouldn’t you cry if you’d committed several acts of cold-blooded murder? I chopped off their heads! All of them had heads and now they don’t! I touched a rib bone! I know what a spleen looks like! I tried to rip out a heart but it wouldn’t come out! I know how a neck looks when there’s no skin on it! I’m a monster, Felicia! A monster!”

Now I was crying, too. “But why?”

“Because I’m killing people! Haven’t you been listening?”

“I wasn’t asking why you think you’re a monster. I was asking why you’re killing people. Is it for revenge?”

“That’s a fringe benefit, yes.”

“But also...?”

“But also, this scary face appeared on the floor of Carlton’s basement, and it gave us gold coins in exchange for feeding it severed heads, and we figured that if we had to kill people, it might as well be people who are cuckolding me, so I’m a monster!”

“Oh my God,” I said. I would have fallen into my chair if I hadn’t already been sitting.

“Do you believe me?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“Seriously? I just told you about a severed-head-eating face on Carlton’s basement floor.”

“I believe you.”

“I would’ve held on to doubt for a while longer, but whatever.” Greg dabbed at the corners of his eyes with his napkin and then blew his nose into it. “Anyway, that’s why I had blood behind my ears.”

“Are you planning to kill more people?”

Greg shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. Not necessarily the entire list of your men, but a few more, at least.”

“Please don’t.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you cheated on me.”

“I should have thought of a carnivorous basement face?”

“Even without the face, I would have snapped at some point. You know that.”

“Take me to see it.”

“Okay.”

TWELVE - JASPER

N othingness.

Somethingless.

I float, and yet I do not float. I sink and yet I rise. I scream and yet I am silent. I have no eyes and yet I have a million eyes. I am obese and yet I am physically fit.

This bites.

We, the lost souls in the land of eternity, spiral endlessly in a world of blackness and all colors, conversing with words that we do not speak.

I’m the only one here who didn’t get to bang Felicia.

Sure, Felicia is no great prize, but apparently she was quite the little hellion in the sack. Not in a “Hi, I’m Felicia, let’s do double penetration” way, but, as the others explain it, if you were sweet to her and brought her flowers and complimented her dress, different acts would be unlocked, like levels on a video game.

I don’t feel jealous or anything. I just wish I had more to contribute to the conversation.

By the way, we all hate Greg. He’d damn well better hope he doesn’t end up here with us...

THIRTEEN - GREG

C arlton was going to be really mad when I showed up at his house with Felicia, but he’d get over it, just like he’d gotten over the fact that the gold coins were worthless.

“Completely worthless?” I’d asked the appraiser at the coin shop.

The appraiser nodded. “More worthless than gold-foil-covered chocolate. At least with those you get the chocolate. Didn’t you think these seemed kind of light to be gold?”

“How the fuck should we know how much gold coins weigh?” asked Carlton. “Do you think we walk around with gold coins in our pocket? Look at the way we dress!”

“Sir, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to refrain from using coarse language while in my shop,” said the appraiser. “That kind of talk is fine at your Targets or your Wal-Marts, but not here.”

“How about you open wide and suck my—no, you’re right, your store, your rules,” said Carlton, grabbing the coin from the counter. “Okay, if we were so easily duped, then maybe one of your other customers will be, too. Wanna buy it?”

The appraiser shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

As soon as we’d stepped out of the boundaries of the shop, Carlton said, “Fuck.”

“The face lied to us.”

“That son of a bitch. I almost don’t want to kill for him anymore.”

“Almost?” I asked.

“I know that we did it for the treasure, but oddly enough, I still feel that it was a valuable use of our time. We were productive, weren’t we?”

“Very productive.”

“It’s not like we were goofing around on social media.”

“Nope.”

“So my vote is that we keep killing Felicia’s lovers, and when we run out of them, we start killing people who wanted to sleep with her, and when we run out of them, we start killing random strangers who are walking alone at night.”

“All right,” I said.

* * *

“What the hell is she doing here?” Carlton demanded.

“Can we come in?” I asked.

“No, you can’t come in! Are you crazy?”

“Let me in, Carlton,” said Felicia.

“Absolutely not. That would cause complications.”

“I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

“If you come in, here’s what’s going to happen: you’ll get eaten. Now, I’m sure that a godless tramp like you is thinking, ‘Ooooh, sounds good to me!’ but I assure you that this is the bad kind of getting eaten.”

“Greg already told me about the face,” Felicia said.

Carlton looked at me. “You what?”

I nervously scratched my arm. Felicia and I had agreed that she’d reveal her knowledge about the face somewhere around the four-minute mark of this encounter, and we were barely thirty seconds in.

“You what?” Carlton repeated.

“She was going to find out eventually,” I said.

“I suppose you’re right. But I accept no responsibility for what happens if she goes down there. Felicia, are you willing to sign a waiver?”

“Sure,” she said.

“I don’t actually have a waiver, of course. That would be insane. I just wanted you to confirm that you’d sign one if it was available.”

“I would.”

“Well, then prove it, because I do have a waiver!” Carlton reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m kidding. This is a pizza receipt.”

Felicia leaned over and whispered to me. “Your brother is acting strange.”

“I read your lips!” said Carlton. “You think I’m acting strange! You haven’t seen strange yet!”

Carlton proceeded to do something strange, which I will not describe here out of respect for his dignity.

“In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t done that,” said Carlton. “It was a below-average thing to do. It won’t be repeated.”

“Thank you,” said Felicia, still traumatized.

“If I take you down to the basement, do you promise not to get upset?” Carlton asked.

“I do not.”

“Okay, that’s not the answer I wanted, but you know what? Screw it. Let’s go.”

* * *

“What you’re going to see will shock you,” I warned Felicia. “If you feel the need to run back up the stairs and scream about unholy abominations, you go right ahead. You won’t hurt anybody’s feelings.”

Sometimes life is filled with irony. For example, you tell your wife that what she’s about to see may shock her, and that she won’t hurt anybody’s feelings if she runs back up the stairs screaming about an unholy abomination, but then when you actually walk halfway down the stairs, it’s you who wants to run and scream about the abomination thing.

By “you” I mean “me.”

To clarify: I wanted to run back up the stairs screaming, but I didn’t actually do it.

The faces were still there, but they’d been joined by at least fifty more. They covered the basement floor so thoroughly that there was barely a path to walk past them. Some were the size of the original face, but others were half its size, while others were twice its size.

And they were no longer limited to the basement floor. Six or seven of them were on the walls.

“Where did all of these come from?” I demanded. “You’ve been killing people without me, haven’t you, you cheating bastard?”

“I was faithful to you, I swear!” Carlton insisted. “They just started multiplying on their own!”

“Why would they do that? That doesn’t make any sense!”

My brother and I’d had our differences, but he’d always been the one person I could trust. So this hurt. It really hurt.

“I didn’t kill anybody without you!” Carlton wailed. “I would never do that! Okay, one! I killed one person! He came to my door asking if I’d seen his son. What was I supposed to do?”

“You could have waited for me!”

“He was searching for his missing child! He wasn’t going to hang out and have a cup of coffee! And my house is a pigsty. There. I said it.”

“I should stab you with a lobster!” I said, a perplexing statement even to me. A couple of weeks ago I’d been thinking that it sure would be nice if I could afford a lobster dinner, so maybe that was the origin of the comment.

I meant to check on Felicia’s reaction to this whole thing. I’d get to that in a second, after I was done yelling at Carlton.

“Silence!” shouted all fifty faces at once. Dark liquid flowed from their mouths as they did so. And now they had thick black tendrils. When the hell had they acquired tendrils?

It was, I must say, the scariest shit I’d ever seen.

Terrifying.

Frightening beyond compare.

And so I did what you’re supposed to do when confronted with unimaginable horror: I clawed out my eyes.

The process was not as speedy as I would have thought. I assumed you just dug your fingers in there and gave your eyeballs a good yank. Not the case at all. It took several minutes. Fortunately, Carlton was kind enough to wait patiently and not try to rush me. I couldn’t hear what Felicia was doing, but presumably she was ripping out her own eyes, too.

Finally, I stood there, blood gushing from my empty sockets. I didn’t feel all that much less scared, but at least it was a little better.

The floor began to vibrate, and there was a loud rumbling sound.

“So beautiful...” said Felicia. “So beautiful.”

How was she seeing something beautiful? I couldn’t see shit. Had she not torn out her eyes in horror? Had I jumped the gun?

“Gaze upon me!” shouted the faces. “Gaze upon your master!”

“I can’t gaze!” I said. “Somebody tell me what’s going on!”

“Shhh!” said Carlton. “The faces are speaking!”

I felt a slimy tendril wrap around my left ankle.

“I demand another sacrifice!” shouted the faces.

“When did they become sacrifices?” I asked, utterly confused. “I thought the heads were food! Somebody tell me what’s going on?”

Blood was still pouring from my eye sockets. How frickin’ long did that stuff take to clot?

“Give me the eyeless one,” said the heads.

That sounded like a perfectly fine idea. Why not give the eyeless one to the heads as a sacrifice? There was no downside that immediately came to mind, and so...

No, wait.

I was the eyeless one. I didn’t want to be sacrificed.

But somebody had to be sacrificed, right? It might as well be me.

No, wait.

That thought process didn’t make any sense. Had I poked my brain while I was ripping out my eyes?

“Carlton, no!” I said. “You can’t do this! We’re brothers!”

“Nobody likes a guilt tripper,” Carlton informed me, shoving me down the stairs.

I don’t remember exactly what I said as I was tumbling down the stairs, but it was impolite. I struck the cement floor, hard, and my right hand came down on something very slimy and tongue-like. As it licked my palm, I thought, yep, that’s a tongue. The sensation really wasn’t all that unpleasant, at least compared to the prior sensation of falling down the stairs, or the next sensation of two of my fingers getting bitten off.

I remember exactly what I said then, but I don’t think there’s a spelling for it.

The face I’d landed on proceeded to bite off the remaining three fingers. I shrieked. Some blood from the stumps would have squirted into my eye, so from a “glass is half-full” perspective I was spared that discomfort, although I wasn’t feeling particularly blessed.

“Since when do the faces eat fingers?” I cried out. “I thought they only ate heads! What the hell has happened to the world?”

“I think they felt bad for us having to bury all of those bodies,” said Carlton.

That was a blatant lie. We’d been stacking the headless bodies in the corner of his living room. The relationship between my brother and me had been damaged beyond repair.

I suppose the best course of action would have been to turn around and try to climb back up the stairs, but I was blind, disoriented, and in extreme agony, so I ended up crawling forward. A mouth bit into my knee. Another mouth bit into my other knee. A third mouth chewed on my toe, although I was wearing decent shoes and its teeth didn’t break through the rubber.

I was glad that this was—no! I wasn’t glad at all! Getting devoured by these faces was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Felicia could make rambunctious love to a guy right next to me on our bed while I was trying to watch TV and this would still be worse.

My arm that had a hand that still had all of its fingers went into a very large mouth, plunging in past my elbow. I tried to pull it out (obviously) but the mouth chomped down before I could do so.

“Aaah!” I said. That probably doesn’t convey the full impact of what I said, but I don’t wish to overwhelm you with capital letters and exclamation points.

The mouth chomped and chomped.

The teeth had broken the skin, but not the bone, so I did have another opportunity to withdraw my arm. I’m not certain why I didn’t. After all, the pain was significant and I wanted relief.

“Why?” I bellowed in what I hoped was the direction of Carlton and/or Felicia. “Why?”

“It is the will of the faces,” said Carlton. “It must be done.”

An arm bone cracked.

“Please, master!” I shouted to the faces. “I’ve served you well! Why must you...actually, I’m sure you know what’s best. You wouldn’t be biting off my arm without a good reason. I withdraw my question.”

The mouth bit off my arm. I said, “Aaah!”

I continued to crawl, as more mouths took bites out of me. I would not wish this agony on anyone, except maybe Carlton for pushing me down the stairs, but I figured I’d get over it. It did kind of hurt my feelings that Felicia wasn’t making any attempt to assist me. Though I didn’t expect her to put herself at risk of getting devoured by creepy basement faces, she could at least have provided lip service and said, “I’ll be right there!” I had no eyes; I wouldn’t know if she was telling the truth.

Speaking of my eyes, the sockets still hadn’t stopped bleeding. I was starting to feel kind of woozy in addition to the excruciating pain. I regretted my earlier decision and wished that I could shove my eyeballs back into their sockets, but of course that was silly, since I’d discarded them immediately after their removal.

“Your death will not be in vain,” said Carlton.

“Not to rub salt in his countless open wounds,” said the faces, “but in the interest of total honesty, when you told him that his death would not be in vain, you were incorrect.”

“I thought it was a sacrifice?”

“No. I don’t need sacrifices. Just food. Just heads.”

And then one of the faces ate mine.

FOURTEEN - GREG AGAIN

H i. I apologize for not handing this over the way I was supposed to, but I feel like my last sentence downplayed the ghastly nature of what happened to me. I didn’t wish to imply that my head was gulped down in one bite. It took dozens of bites, as I dragged my ravaged body across the floor, the amount of flesh attached to my frame decreasing with every second. Soon I had no arms left to drag myself with, so I rolled, which seemed like it was working until I rolled onto my side and jostled one of my ribs that no longer had any cushion, and the pain became so unbearable that I just lay there, weeping, waiting for it all to end, longing for the joyful time of ages ago when I wasn’t being eaten.

It took a long time for the teeth to crack my skull. I believe I was being savored, but I don’t know for sure. That could just be me being prideful.

Eventually, though, one of the faces really did eat my head. I don’t need to describe how that felt; you can probably figure it out.

Anyway, I wanted to make it clear that my death was outrageously miserable.

FIFTEEN - FELICIA

“S o,” said Carlton. “That just happened.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked. I was having difficulty sorting through my emotions. I wasn’t happy that Carlton and I had stood there for twenty minutes watching my husband get devoured, but I wasn’t especially bummed out about it.

“I want you to know that I didn’t lure Greg here to kill him,” Carlton insisted. “It was completely a spur of the moment decision.”

“Uh, I know. We came unannounced. You were upset about it.”

“Right. Good. That confirms my story, then.”

“What are those faces?”

“Travelers. Well, one traveler. I don’t completely understand the logistics. Are you going to push me down the stairs?”

“No,” I said.

“You sure? Because your arm went up a little.”

“Why would I do that?”

“The world isn’t as normal as it used to be.”

“I’m getting that.”

“Did Greg tell you there was a dead lion down here?”

“No.”

“There was.”

“How did a dead lion get down here?”

“It’s complicated. I’m not going to get into the whole thing right now.”

“Let’s sit down,” I said, hoping that if we were both seated, neither of us would entertain thoughts about pushing the other down the stairs.

We sat down on the steps.

“First, I want to make it clear that I’m not going to try to hit on you,” said Carlton. “Greg was my brother and I loved him dearly, so I would never betray him that way, and also, you’re a fresh widow and, I assume, not looking to hook up anyway, right?”

“Right.”

To his credit, Carlton did not seem disappointed. “Anyway, that’s the big secret. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t see why I should get all mopey, either.”

“It’s okay,” I told him. “I understand.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “If Greg had tried to explain it on the drive over here, I guess maybe I would have thought it was a messed-up idea, but being here, there’s this...I don’t know. I’m not opposed to it.”

“Well, that’s awesome. Because I do need a new partner.”

“I’ll have to think about it. I might go solo.”

“That is an excellent idea,” said the faces. “A most excellent idea indeed.”

“I haven’t decided for sure,” I explained. “I don’t want to rush into anything quite yet.”

“Fair enough.”

Speaking to the faces was a lot less freaky than I would have expected. I’m not saying that it was like chatting with my mom, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as the pillow talk right after my first back-door experience.

“How does it work?” I asked. “A new face for every murder?”

“No,” said Carlton. “I haven’t killed anywhere near this many people. I only killed three without Greg.”

“You told him it was one.”

Carlton was silent for a moment.

“That may have been a fib,” he admitted.

“It’s all right.”

Carlton sighed. “Also, I was fibbing about the three. It was five. One of them was a nun. I went out of my way specifically to kill a nun. I’m less proud of that than anything else I’ve done recently. And it would have been impractical to sneak her out of there, so I left her dead body behind. I didn’t even feed her to the faces.” He glanced down at the faces. “Sorry.”

“We already knew of this,” said the faces. “We know all.”

Carlton looked back at me. “They keep saying they know all, but I think they’re exaggerating. They do know a lot, though. I’m not trying to take anything away from them.”

“Why are there more faces than corpses?” I asked the faces.

“You count incorrectly.”

Carlton started pointing to the faces, one at a time, whispering his count.

“You count the corpses incorrectly,” said the faces, sounding much less annoyed than I would.

“I don’t get it.”

“You are not the only provider. My influence expands.”

“Do you think that’s bad?” I asked Carlton.

He shrugged. “Not really. I’ve never been the jealous type.”

SIXTEEN - OTHERS

H onestly, I didn’t feel bad about ripping out my father’s throat with my teeth. I did, however, feel stupid about doing it while he was doing seventy miles per hour on the freeway. Timing is everything, I guess.

* * *

I buried my face in my hands and silently wept.

“I’m sorry,” said Dan. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“I just try so hard to make you happy. That’s all I care about. I quit my job to raise the children and give you the family you always wanted. I always try to look my best for you. I do nice things for you all the time. How could you say that to me?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Dan, lifting the mug to his mouth. “I didn’t mean it when I said that your coffee smelled like rat poison. Here, I’m drinking it now. Mmmmmm. Good.”

* * *

“Are you sure we don’t own an anvil?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure,” said Mom. “Why would we own an anvil?”

“Never mind. I need to hurry before she moves.” I looked around my room and picked up my Blu-ray player. It wasn’t very heavy, but Grandma was pretty frail, and she was too distracted by her gardening to brace herself. If I threw it from my second-floor window just right, she’d break.

* * *

“Guns don’t kill people,” I said. “Okay, they do, but it’s way less fun than using a crowbar.”

The guy in the bar nodded his agreement as I split his skull. A couple of the other patrons raised their glasses in admiration of my technique.

Then a pool cue went through the back of my neck. I’d heard the woman at the other billiards table break it in half, but it hadn’t occurred to me that she was trying to give it a sharp end. I’m such a dumbass sometimes.

* * *

“Guns don’t kill people,” I said. “People kill people.”

I thought this was an important message to convey as I fired bullets into the crowd. It’s unlikely that they heard me over the sound of my semi-automatic rifle, but sometimes you need to speak the truth even if it’s not heard.

* * *

I took down the “No Swimming - Alligators in Area” sign, sat by the lake, smiled, and waited.

* * *

“Is that a bomb?” the security guard asked me.

“No, sir,” I said, even though it was quite obviously a bomb that I was pushing into the hockey arena in a shopping cart.

“I would have let you through with it if you’d just been honest,” said the security guard. “But now, get the fuck out of here.”

I hung my head, stepped out of line, and pushed the bomb away. I’d learned my lesson, and was honest with the guard at the other entrance.

* * *

[Translated from French.] I pushed four people off the Eiffel Tower before I was pushed. I like watching the fall, because my plummet is almost acrobatic. I don’t like watching the impact.

* * *

[Translated from Chinese.] We no longer have a population problem. I wish I was still around to enjoy the extra space.

* * *

What bothered me the most is that he’d bought me the meat cleaver as a present for graduating culinary school. It was my meat cleaver. Not his. Mine.

You know what? I think I’m misremembering. What bothered me the most is that he was stabbing me to death in the first place. Eight years of marriage and he didn’t even try to do a quick slice across the neck.

Let me rewatch it.

Oh, yeah, I’m totally bawling and screaming and carrying on. A lot of people here claim that they took a casual approach to their murder, I get that, I really do, but for me it was a pretty upsetting experience.

By the way, you don’t get to watch your entire life. That may be what you were thinking. Now that would be great—you could watch yourself as a little kid, see your first kiss, relive all of your birthday parties from one to thirty-two, but no. All you get to do is rewatch your death.

I won’t lie—it was kind of cool the first time. But after a while it became kind of depressing.

Don’t worry, it’s not like you have to watch your death over and over on an endless loop. It’s totally voluntary. Everybody watches it at least once, but I don’t want to give the impression that we’re in some kind of hell where you never get to stop watching the blood pour down your forehead.

It’s not so bad here. For a black void, anyway. Sure, I miss having a body, but it’s not that hard to communicate with the others in the void, and, hey, you don’t have to worry about gaining weight!

Not that you eat anything.

Or drink, or sleep, or make love, or sense anything.

Honestly, it sucks.

The one upside: you get to meet lots of new people every day.

SEVENTEEN - JASPER

O nce Greg showed up, we all pretty much stopped being angry with him. There’s no reason to hold a grudge.

EIGHTEEN - GREG

B ullshit. They absolutely hold a grudge.

NINETEEN - FELICIA

T he street was covered with faces.

There were faces all over the homes.

All over people’s lawns, even though they were harder to see.

In fact, there were now some faces starting to appear in midair, which was extremely disconcerting.

Whenever they spoke, all of the faces spoke at the same time. The earth rumbled. Windows shattered. Trees fell. I once saw a guy fall to the ground, clutching at his ears as blood trickled between his fingers.

Everybody wears earplugs now. Fortunately, the faces don’t talk every often. Maybe once a day. It gets louder every day, of course, and it’s only been two weeks, so I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like in a month.

“This is a lot more apocalyptic than you would’ve thought, huh?” I said to Carlton.

Carlton didn’t respond, because he didn’t have a lower jaw.

Or arms, legs, or really much of anything except for what remained of his face and a torso. I’d felt like I should kill him, and I started to do that. But you know what? I’m stronger than the others. I can resist.

Carlton is the one who started this whole thing, and I want a fitting end to the story that the faces are honoring us with the request to tell, so I’m doing this right.

I’m saving him for last.

TWENTY - THE TRAVELER

I am not a traveler.

Though I have never been to distant planets, I have encountered those who have, and I was happy to become their plaything.

“Prove your bravery!” they said. “Slay this lion!”

And I did kill the lion. The odds were stacked in my favor, since the lion was in a cage, but my knife had a short blade and there was still a strong element of danger.

“You have proven yourself worthy,” said the travelers. “We have no interest in this world. We will allow you to rule it.”

“I do not wish to rule it,” I said. I was in a truly dark mood, because the lion had slashed my face, taking off most of the skin. “I wish to destroy it.”

“Perhaps you should make this decision when you are filled with less pain and rage.”

“No.”

“Very well. We will give you a new face with which to influence your fellow humans. Make your will their will. Consume this mildly interesting planet and then toss it away.”

I smiled with my mangled lips.

* * *

So cower in your closets. Hide under your beds.

You will be found.

In the end, all of you will be found.

Were you surprised to find this book amongst the worthless coins I spat out for my amusement? It is unlikely that you were tempted by the coins, since even solid gold would be of no use in the current world, but I assume the book captured your interest.

Did you think it would tell you how to stay alive?

Sorry to disappoint.

I merely felt that if you survived this long, you deserved to know a little more than those who died sooner than you.

I wish to thank those who were generous enough with their time to contribute their perspective. Particularly Felicia, who is going to die before you finish reading this sentence.

Poor Felicia.

And poor Carlton, who now has nobody to feed him.

They were not the last, but perhaps you will have that honor.

Perhaps.

Now put this book away. It is not a good time to be distracted.

- The End -

OTHER BOOKS BY JEFF STRAND

Remember: Readers who leave reviews deserve great big hugs!

My Pretties. A serial kidnapper keeps women locked in cages that dangle from the ceiling of his soundproof basement. But he may have met his match in the two young ladies who walk the city streets at night, using themselves as bait...

Ferocious. The creatures of the forest are dead...and hungry!

Bring Her Back. A tale of revenge and madness.

Sick House. A home invasion from beyond the grave.

Bang Up. A filthy comedic thriller. “You want to pay me to sleep with your wife?” is just the start of the story.

Cold Dead Hands. Ten people are trapped in a freezer during a terrorist attack on a grocery store.

How You Ruined My Life (Young Adult). Sixteen-year-old Rod has a pretty cool life until his cousin Blake moves in and slowly destroys everything he holds dear.

Everything Has Teeth. A third collection of short tales of horror and macabre comedy.

Stranger Things Have Happened (Young Adult). Teenager Marcus Millian III is determined to be one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. Can he make a live shark disappear from a tank?

Cyclops Road. When newly widowed Evan Portin gives a woman named Harriett a ride out of town, she says she’s on a cross-country journey to slay a Cyclops. Is she crazy, or...?

Blister. While on vacation, cartoonist Jason Tray meets the town legend, a hideously disfigured woman who lives in a shed.

The Greatest Zombie Movie Ever (Young Adult). Three best friends with more passion than talent try to make the ultimate zombie epic.

Kumquat. A road trip comedy about TV, hot dogs, death, and obscure fruit.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This (Young Adult). Geeky, non-athletic Henry Lambert is sent to survival camp, which is bad enough before the trio of murderous thugs show up.

Pressure. What if your best friend was a killer...and he wanted you to be just like him? Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Dweller. The lifetime story of a boy and his monster. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

A Bad Day For Voodoo. A young adult horror/comedy about why sticking pins in a voodoo doll of your history teacher isn’t always the best idea. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Young Adult Novel.

Dead Clown Barbecue. A collection of demented stories about severed noses, ventriloquist dummies, giant-sized vampires, sibling stabbings, and lots of other messed-up stuff.

Dead Clown Barbecue Expansion Pack. A few more stories for those who couldn’t get enough.

Wolf Hunt. Two thugs for hire. One beautiful woman. And one vicious frickin’ werewolf.

Wolf Hunt 2. New wolf. Same George and Lou.

The Sinister Mr. Corpse. The feel-good zombie novel of the year.

Benjamin’s Parasite. A rather disgusting action/horror/comedy about why getting infected with a ghastly parasite is unpleasant.

Fangboy. A dark and demented fairy tale for adults.

Mandibles. Giant killer ants wreaking havoc in the big city!

Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary). First in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. Second in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). Third in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to “Shirley”). Fourth in the Andrew Mayhem series.

The Andrew Mayhem Collection. All four novels for one low price!

Suckers (with JA Konrath). Andrew Mayhem meets Harry McGlade. Which one will prove to be more incompetent?

Gleefully Macabre Tales. A collection of thirty-two demented tales. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Collection.

Elrod McBugle on the Loose. A comedy for kids (and adults who were warped as kids).

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore). The greatest theme park attraction in the world! Take a completely safe ride through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn’t break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters...

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn’t much like Twilight.

For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand’s more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com

Subscribe to Jeff Strand’s free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand new story in every issue) at

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