Townsend, Jack - Tales from the Gas Station Volume 04
Author: Townsend, Jack
Date: 2022-03-21 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Horror; Humour; Paranormal; Supernatural; Thriller
Description: As the new owner of the worst business in history, Jack has a lot on his plate. His self-appointed “biggest fan” wants to finally meet, and won’t take no for an answer. The annoying cultists are back and cultier than ever. Plus, there’s a creature living under the building's crawlspace that must be fed regularly (or else). To top it all off, the entire town’s collective memories have been haphazardly rewritten, and Jack's placement in these recollections are decidedly unflattering. Fortunately, he has help. There’s Jerry - who’s always willing to lend a hand (or a sword-bat, if the situation c

Tales from the Gas Station: Volume Four

Jack Townsend

Townsend Writing Company

Table of Contents

- Copyright
- Prologue
- Editors Note
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Pre - Epilogue
- Epilogue

Copyright © 2022 Townsend Writing Company

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and, frankly, pretty weird.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. If you’re still reading this, have you had any water today? You should go drink some water. Stay hydrated. Love you.

“Tales from the Gas Station: Part Four” is part of the “Tales from the Gas Station” Continuum.

Cover design by Corbin Covher, 2022.

This book is for everyone who needs a little escape from reality every now and then.

Volume Four

Prologue

I received my settlement check by certified mail, along with a thick stack of paper covered in dense legalese. The lawyers and riddle-masters who crafted the document had clearly gone to great lengths to discourage anyone from actually reading it, but context made the message crystal clear: “So sorry for your loss; here’s some hush money.”

According to the Official Story™, there was an explosion at the chemical plant on the outskirts of town (something to do with faulty machinery from China). This devastating accident shook our community to its rotten core and left a dozen people dead—their bodies never to be recovered. Anyone who went looking for further details would find the specifics to be murky, inconsistent, and at times directly contradictory. But one thing was certain: the scope of this disaster went well beyond the blast radius.

First came the exodus. When the higher-ups decided it would be too costly to rebuild, the plant shut its doors for good. Any workers lucky enough to have not been blown up found themselves suddenly and indefinitely out of a job. Those who could afford to move away put in for transfers. Entire families disappeared seemingly overnight.

Then came the fallout. News broke that our town’s well water had been contaminated by chemicals the average person couldn’t pronounce. Shortly thereafter, reports trickled in of locals experiencing a slew of mysterious symptoms: headaches, memory loss, hallucinations, abnormal bleeding, eyeballs feeling “looser than normal,” failure to maintain an erection for more than thirty seconds… you know, the usual.

At last came the reckoning. People were already righteously angry (heck, half of the population of our town has “righteously angry” as a default setting), but once the crops and cattle started to die off in droves, folks took it one step further and got organized angry—which, around here, involves a lot less bureaucracy and a lot more pitchforks with firecrackers taped to the prongs.

Someone had to be held accountable. It only took a few death threats before the mayor accepted his role as sacrificial lamb. He resigned in disgrace and left town in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. There was a big kegger at the Baptist church to celebrate his exile, with cake and piñatas and even a flaming mayoral effigy.

Really, if you could look past the horrendous loss of human life, it was quite the exciting time around these parts. After all, nobody loves drama more than a bunch of bored townies. But once all the dust and lawsuits had settled, people lost interest, moved on, and found other things to be righteously angry about. There was some talk about building a memorial, but that project ended up on the backburner where it was promptly and ironically forgotten about.

In fact, if you didn’t know any better, it was almost like nothing ever happened. A few more empty trailers. A slightly smaller crowd at the tavern on weekends. Life recalibrated. The chemical plant explosion turned out to be just the latest in a series of what I’ve begun to call “Goldilocks Catastrophes”—tragic enough to temporarily disrupt the status quo, but not quite enough to draw any unwanted attention from the outside.

Like everyone else three months after the fact, I had more pressing concerns than some dumb old plant explosion. I had inherited a new business, and with it more problems than I could keep track of. It took every ounce of my focus to keep the doors open and the lights on. Sure, my misdiagnosed sleep disorder was a continuous source of mild-to-moderate anxiety. As was the fact that the new sheriff thought I was crazier than a kids’ cereal mascot. Also, there was that murder cult that had recently returned from the great beyond. And the two or three stalkers who were actively trying to kill me (unless, of course, those clown monsters got to me first). And let’s not forget the all-powerful outer god on its way to usher in a never-ending era of hell on earth…

But all those problems would need to take a number and get in line, because the gas station had a grocery order due, and nobody had taken inventory in weeks.

***EDITOR’S NOTE***

Hey y’all! Jerry here.

I’m super excited to announce that Jack is finally letting me help out with one of his books! My official title is “editor” but my tee shirt says “Security” and my fake ID says “Organ Donor.” The point is (~‾▿‾)~ I cannot be contained by labels!!!

Anyway, Jack told me he needed someone who was “slightly more detached from the situation” (guilty as charged, friendo!) to “fill in some of the narrative blanks” (whatever the hell that means). Ergo, you may see some notes from me sprinkled into the story here and there.[1]

That is all. Now back to the story!

XOXO

-Jerry

But don’t worry. Just like sorting laundry or paying taxes, reading these notes is 100% optional! [«]

Chapter One

I was standing in the center aisle with a clipboard and vendor sheet—literally minding my own business—when a fresh new problem demanded my attention from the doorway.

“Yo, Jackhammer! How’s it hangin’?!”

I looked up from the clipboard to see the source of the voice—a young man dressed in all camo—leaning into the building. With one hand he held onto the door frame, careful never to step across the actual threshold. With his free arm he gestured for me to come hither. I left the vendor sheet on our clearance pile of “gently expired” Los Poco Debitas cakes and approached him with the level of wariness often reserved for a ticking time bomb or a wet cat. As I got closer, the aggressive one-two smell combo of light beer and doe urine smacked me across the face.

“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” I said as simply and clearly as possible.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Banned.’ Whatever. Obviously, that’s why I’m standin’ right here.” He pointed at his feet. “Can’t get in trouble if you never step foot inside the building.”

While he wasn’t necessarily comporting with the spirit of the rule, I had to commend him for finally trying.

With an involuntary sigh, I asked, “What can I do for you this time, Travis[2]?”

“I just need my Skoal.” He handed me a slightly damp twenty-dollar bill. “Oh, and while you’re back there, get me a three-bucker, wouldja?”

A big part of me resented the idea of serving someone who would have gleefully dragged me to death behind his truck if circumstances had worked out differently. But it was the need-to-eat part of my brain making the executive decisions today, and I couldn’t afford to turn down any sales out of principle.

Once I reached the counter, he yelled, “Oh, and while you’re back there, pick out your finest porno mag!”

“Finest” is subjective, so I simply grabbed the closest one (“Furries Gone Wild: Yiff-mageddon”), made his change, and threw everything into a plastic bag. He grinned as I returned.

“Jackie-boy, if I didn’t already know you had a bum leg, I’d never guess it from watchin’ you walk.”[3]

“Thanks.”

“Also, you look like you’re getting’ taller. You been workin’ out?”

“Nope.”

I’d known Travis since grade school. While we were never exactly friends, we did grow up together, and around here that’s almost the same thing. Still, I could tell was laying the flattery on pretty thick. This was either the groundwork for another apology attempt, or a way to make me drop my guard before he tried to kill me again.

“Hey why don’t you come outside for a sec so I can show you somethin’ in the parkin’ lot?”

So far, I was leaning towards the latter theory.

“You know, I would, but Oprah says to never follow a guy to a second location, and she seems to have life figured out.”

“Don’t say it like that! God! You make it sound like I want to hurt you or somethin’.”

“Do you?”

His cheeks turned red. He pulled himself out of the doorway, stood up straight, and waved his hands in the air. “What is your problem?!” The words exploded out of him, along with a fair amount of spittle. “What? Just because I made one teeny tiny mistake almost forever ago, that means you can’t follow me into an empty parkin’ lot? I’m tellin’ you, I’m reformed! Hell, I’d be willin’ to bet I’m one of your closest friends now!”

It was a bold move, playing the friendship card. But even if his proclamation were true, I didn’t put as much faith in “closest friend” status as he thought. In fact, if I had a nickel for every time one of my closest friends tried to kill me, I’d have ten cents.

“C’mon, dude.” His voice was calmer now. Pleading. “It’ll take just a second.”

Maybe it was boredom. Or curiosity. Maybe I just didn’t feel like putting the effort into arguing over “just a second.” Besides, we both knew if he wanted me dead, he could get the job done whether I left the building or not.

“Alright, fine.”

He clapped his hands, turned, and marched away, saying, “Come on and check this out!”

I stepped outside into the chilly, humid air. The sunset sky looked battered and bruised over the treetops. A heavy wind carried the strong smell of honeysuckle and seasonal allergies.

“Tada!” Travis cheered, waving his arms at the camo truck parked in front of us.

“It’s… a truck,” I said, trying to figure out what I was missing.

“It ain’t just ‘a truck,’ Jack.” He sounded like I’d genuinely hurt his feelings. “It’s a Ram 2500! With a 6.7-liter turbodiesel! And you know what that means.”

“It should be obvious that I do not.”

“Bought her with my settlement check from the plant. Still had enough left over to get myself a treat down at Miller’s guns. But this is the part I really wanted you to see.” He circled around to the tailgate. When I didn’t immediately follow, he patted his leg and dog-called, “C’mon, now!”

I cautiously joined Travis by the back of the truck and immediately saw what he was so eagerly trying to show me. There was a full window decal in the back of his cab displaying the name “Brylock” with angel wings on either side. Printed below that were the birth and death date of Brian Locke—one of the twelve victims of the plant explosion.

Travis removed his camo hat and said solemnly, “My boy Brylock is huntin’ deers with Jesus now.”

I didn’t know what to say, but “I’m sorry for your loss” felt like a safe enough option.

“Thanks, Jay. It’s been a hard few months. I’m man enough to admit that I cried. Yeah, I cried just like a woman after everything went down. I wept. Right in front of my dogs. They didn’t even care. Dogs are strong like that. What about you? Did you cry?”

I knew I had to be careful with my answer.

“Not in the literal sense, no.”

“Damn, that’s cold. You know, you are one emotionally-constipated son of a bitch.”

“Alright.”

“Anyway, I been thinkin’, Brylock wouldn’t have wanted us to go the rest of our lives bein’ mad at each other. He’d’a wanted us to figure this thing out. And I’m willin’ to bury the hatchet right here and now if you are.” He put his hat back on his head, extended his hand in my direction, and asked, “Whadaya say?”

My initial reaction was a strong urge to smack his hand away and remind him that we were not in some kind of perfectly balanced yin-yang of blame here. He tried to kill me. All I did was maybe bleed on his shoes a little. But then I remembered something important that changed my outlook completely.

What I remembered—what he never would—was that I had already given Travis my forgiveness. I forgave Travis (the real Travis) shortly before watching him get torn to bloody ribbons in a hail of gunfire. The man standing before me now, offering me his hand and begging for absolution, wasn’t the original Travis. He wasn’t even a human at all. He was a monster. A doppelgänger. A mimic, implanted with the memories and personality of my old classmate. Which led to an interesting philosophical quandary: if I could transfer blame to this duplicate, shouldn’t I transfer forgiveness as well? The answer seemed obvious. Stupid, but obvious.

“Alright,” I said with a shrug. “You’ve got a deal.”

His grin disappeared, replaced by a look of bewilderment as I took his hand and shook.

“What? Why? Shut up. Really? Why?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trick?”

“No, I’m serious. You earned your pardon.”

“How?”

“Believe me when I say you don’t want to know.”

He showed off his tobacco-teeth and let out a high-pitched noise that was somewhere between a cackle and a “Yee-haw!” Then, he asked, “This mean I’m not banned no more?”

“I mean, you never really followed the ban anyway.”

“Sooo…?”

“So sure, consider the ban lifted.”

“Hot damn! You’re not gonna regret this decision.” He immediately followed that up with something to make me regret that decision: “I’m gonna be your best customer from here on out!”

“Wonderful.”

“But right now I gotta run. Me and the boys are gonna pour one out at Brylock’s grave and get shit-faced in his honor. You know, outta respect.”

“Of course.”

“Hey! You wanna join us?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the audacity of inviting me to this graveyard smash. “Just for clarification, how many of the ‘boys’ came here with you to kill me a few months ago?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll vouch for ya.”

“Hard pass. I still have to work tonight.”

“Alright, maybe next time.”

He stepped towards me and extended his arm, a gesture I recognized as the start of a goodbye hug. I never really thought of him as the hugging type, but oh well. Let’s just get this over with. I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a good, solid pat on the back. Fist closed. As casual as a hug between two former enemies can get. There. Not so bad.

“Uh. Thanks?” he said, before reaching out again and taking the plastic bag out of my hand. That’s when I remembered I’d been holding his purchases this entire time. He wasn’t going for a hug after all; he just wanted his stuff. God, I hope I didn’t just set a precedent here.

Travis reached inside the bag and pulled out the furry porn. “Here,” he said, handing the magazine back. “This was for you. I wanted you to treat yourself. On me.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s very thoughtful?”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Happy to not.”

With that, he turned and climbed into his truck. I stood there and watched as he drove away, wondering if I should have said something different—if I should have told him the truth about what happened three months ago. But this version of Travis was happy with his ignorance and his borrowed life and his Ram 2500. Who was I to burst his bubble?

As he gunned his engine and pulled the truck around, I clocked the orange bumper sticker on his tailgate standing out in stark contrast against the camo—the words “Vote for Kieffer” printed on it in Comic Sans. I knew I’d probably need to figure out what that was all about. But that was a job for future-Jack. For now, I had a business to run, inventory to count, and a grocery order due.

I checked my phone before going back inside. I had another half-hour to myself before Jerry showed up for his shift. If everything went according to plan, the rest of the night would be smooth sailing.

Not surprisingly, everything did not go according to plan.

I missed the order deadline, Jerry picked up a hole in his favorite sneaker, and a very expensive piece of store property needed to be replaced.

We had just finished putting the gas station back in order after chasing a rat king[4] out the front door when I noticed the cash register had been damaged in the scuffle. (Probably around the time Jerry yanked it off the counter and threw it full-force at the poor creature while screaming, “Parry this, you fucking casual!”) I could forgive the claw and teeth marks on the side, but when I discovered that the drawer wouldn’t close all the way anymore, I knew what had to be done.

“Jerry,” I said, getting his attention as he vacuumed up the last of the fur and feces with the off-brand Dust Diablo. “We need to go shopping again.”

A big, stupid smile spread across his face.

“Now?” he asked, hopefully.

I pressed a few buttons on the register, testing the extent of the damage. The nine key immediately popped out and rolled underneath the cigarette case. As far as number keys go, that was a pretty important one.

“Well, we can’t run a store without a functioning cash register. So, yeah. Now.”

“Sweet,” he said, tossing the handheld vacuum into the garbage.

I grabbed the store phone and dialed Rosa’s number. She answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Rosa.”

“Jack? It’s… two o’clock in the morning!”

“It is? Oh, crap! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. What are you doing up?”

“My phone rang.”

“Oh.”

“Well? What is it?”

“I was wondering if you might be able to come in and cover the gas station for a bit. Something came up, and I need to step away for…” I did some quick math in my head. “...a couple of hours.”

“I’d love to, but I have to get ready for my big job interview in the morning.”

“Oh? Does it look promising?”

“It’s a low-paying entry-level position with zero chance for promotion. But they give their employees an entire hour for lunch, and there’s a separate girls’ bathroom, so I’d call it a big step up.”

“Well, best of luck. I know you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

“Yeah, you guys never deserved me anyway. Oh, hey, is it cool if I put you down as a reference?”

“I’ll be sure to mention your raging alcoholism when they call.”

“Great! I’m going back to sleep now. Good luck with your mysterious thing.”

“Goodnight, Rosa.”

I never could tell exactly how much of our conversations were sincere. But I did know she was right about one thing: we didn’t deserve her. If the business weren’t hemorrhaging money on a daily basis, she would be the first person to get a long-overdue raise.

“Was that Rosa?” Jerry asked, pulling a nicotine patch out of his back pocket. I watched as he removed the backing, lifted his shirt sleeve, and slapped it on next to the other two square stickers.

“You know, you’re supposed to take those off every twenty-four hours, right?”

“Yeah, I know. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet.”

At least he wasn’t smoking anymore.

“Yes, it was Rosa.”

“Is—”

“No, she’s not coming.”

“So—”

“Yes. We need to ask... the new guy...”

We looked at the back door with a shared understanding. Three months in and we still thought of him as “the new guy.” He’d been with us longer than most of the part-timers who’d come and gone, and he showed no signs of leaving any time soon.

“Are you sure?” Jerry asked. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever said this about anyone or anything before, but... that dude scares me.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But... you broke the cash register.”

As gas station manager/owner/guy-most-responsible-for-the-recent-reset-of-reality, it was only right that I would do all the talking. Jerry stayed close and held the flashlight. As soon as we stepped through the back door, he flicked on the beam and swept the area. Despite the fact that we knew exactly where to look, it took us a full minute to locate the tent in the dark. It was bivy-style, roughly the size and shape of a large coffin, and covered in a DIY camouflage net of carefully braided grass and leaves. At a glance, there wouldn’t be any reason to think this wasn’t just another innocent clump of dirt that sprouted vegetation amidst the suspiciously fertile earth behind the gas station.

We approached with all the caution we could muster. When we were a couple of yards away, I called out his name.

“Benji?”

No immediate response.

“Maybe he’s not in there?” Jerry offered.

I ignored the suggestion. If Benji weren’t in his tent, where else could he possibly be? The man abhorred townies. And town. And society, for that matter. The gas station was about as close to civilization as he was ever willing to get. And he only hunted in the daylight, in an effort to make it “more fair” to the animals.

“Benji?” I repeated, slightly louder. “You awake, man?”

The ground rumbled. The light beam fell as Jerry released a high-pitched “Yip!” A shockwave ran up from the earth through my good leg. I spun around to see the shadowy silhouette of a monster pulling Jerry away into the night. I snatched up the flashlight from where it was drowning in the overgrown grass, then pointed it at my friend.

There was a nervous smile on Jerry’s face. “Found him,” he said carefully as leaves fluttered down between us like green snowflakes. Brown eyes glared at me from above Jerry’s head. The man had a python grip around Jerry’s neck and an oversized knife pressed to his cheek.

“Oh, hey Benji!” I said. “Where did you come from?”

His voice was almost a growl. “I was resting.”

Jerry exclaimed, “He fell out of the tree like a freakin’ jaguar! It was—”

Benji flexed his arm, cutting off Jerry’s words and oxygen. His face went red as he struggled to speak.

“H-H-Ha… Har… Harderrr, Daddy…”

Benji grunted, “Oh that’s gross!” He released his chokehold, lowered the knife, and let Jerry slink away.

“You sleep in trees now?” I observed.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he corrected. “I was resting.”

I nodded. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need to run an errand, and I was wondering if you could do us a favor.”

He perked up. “You need a bone-breaker? Need me to make someone talk? Someone threatening our house? Say the word, boss.”

“I just need you to watch the front counter until we get back. The register is broken, so you’ll have to do math on paper.”

He put his knife away and said, “Can do, boss. Just let me gear up.”

Before I could say, “That won’t be necessary,” he had already crawled into his tent. When he reemerged, it was with a slightly larger knife sheathed on his hip and two more knives in either hand, which he offered to us. “We’re good,” I said. Benji shrugged and stuffed the extra blades into hidden tactical sheaths strapped beneath his sleeves. “Just, uh, try not to kill anyone before we get back. Okay?”

He answered without looking at me, “I can’t promise anything.”

A few minutes later, we were speeding through the old forest trail as fast as Jerry’s four-wheeler could carry us.

2 In case you’re trying to remember who Travis is: he’s one of the overzealous vigilantes who swarmed the gas station a while back in an effort to “bring justice” to me and Jack for something we didn’t even do. Which is to say, they tried to lynch us. [«]

3 Oh yeah, back in Volume Two, Jack got a papercut on his foot and wouldn’t quit picking at the scab, so it became infected and the doctors had to amputate his right leg. [«]

4 If you don’t know what a rat king is, for the love of God do not Google it! Cherish your sweet innocence! [«]

Chapter Two

Jerry had first come across it a couple months earlier during one of his psychedelic hiking adventures. The next day, he begged me to come with him so he could show me his “incredible discovery.” Normally, I would have passed on this sort of adventure, but the gas station was still undergoing repairs, and I had nothing better to do with my time. Besides, based on his description, I suspected he might have just hallucinated the whole thing. Still, if we were going to check it out, we needed to be prepared for any eventuality. We brought flashlights, bug and bear spray, swim trunks, a flare gun, a bag of mixed nuts, a magnifying glass, a couple of fake passports, and Jerry’s lucky harmonica (just in case). Then, we set off into the woods. Much to my surprise, we found it right where he said it would be.

It was several miles from the nearest path. Way off the grid. Not a road, home, or powerline anywhere in sight. And yet, there it stood—a weathered, derelict building. Windows boarded up. Decade’s worth of nature cradling it in place. All evidence suggesting that it was built out here, in the middle of the forest, on purpose.

We called it “The Shop.”

The first thing I noticed when we stepped inside was the strong “abandoned ship” vibe. The shelves were all stocked. Tee shirts riddled with moth holes were suspended on rusted display racks. A headless mannequin lay on its side next to a pile of rodent bones. The light fixtures had been swallowed by a brown substance that resembled petrified hornets’ nests. The whole building felt like it was a sneeze away from crumbling under the weight of time. But something else was throwing me off balance. Some kind of uncomfortable familiarity, like when you have a section of a song stuck in your head but you have no idea what it is or where you heard it or if it’s even a real song at all. Then, in a moment of intense anti-satisfaction, it clicked. The Shop was the exact same size, shape, and general layout as the gas station. I would have found this to be the strangest detail of all, if not for the name of the store, painted into a faded mural spanning the entire back wall:

“Tasty Vapes - Your One Stop Shop for E-Cigs and Flavor Pods!”

Jerry karate-chopped his way through a century’s worth of cobwebs until he reached a glass display case by the front counter. The products inside were slightly better preserved than the rest. Vaping cartridges and smoking accessories, the labels still legible. Cotton Candy. Funky Grape. Strawberry Sherbet.

I picked up a hat. The fabric was dried into a brittle material like mummy skin, but the Tasty Vapes logo was still there, faded, barely legible.

Jerry shattered my concentration along with the glass of the display case. He took a bottle opener keychain, a deck of cards, and a glass pipe shaped like a dragon before the batteries in our flashlights went out completely, forcing us to leave.

We were only in The Shop for about two minutes. When we got back outside, three hours had passed.

If we were smarter, we would have forgotten all about the place. Instead, we decided to conduct some experiments. Unfortunately, trial-and-error was a shitty teacher, and we were terrible students. It took a few weeks and plenty more visits before we finally ironed out all of the rules:

Time passes normally inside the shop, as long as we leave everything exactly as we found it. If we remove (or break) something, the amount of time lost is directly proportional to the value of the item. A box of matches will cost us a couple of minutes. A three-foot tall crystal bong will set us back four hours each. Most importantly, The Shop does not accept returns. All sales are final.

The blog had a lot of theories about this one. My readership had greatly declined ever since that reality-warping deity rewrote the memories of everyone in the world[5], but I still had a few die-hard followers among the Elm Street Irregulars.

Meowzlebub13 took an annoyingly reasonable approach to explaining it all away: “There are countless mundane possibilities. No reason to jump to the supernatural. This ‘shop’ might just be an illegal dumping ground for some kind of drug manufacturer’s byproducts. Fumes could be messing with your minds. I recommend you stay away from that place.”

What happened, Meowzlebub13? I wondered to myself. What did they do to you?

SavageCardigan was nothing if not consistent: “Guys. Are you serious? Missing time? Middle of the woods? They were taken and then had their memories erased? Do I really need to spell it out? A-L-I-E-N-S!”

PoopVandal69 derailed the conversation for a bit with some stupid Nazi stuff before being permanently banned from my blog. Then, EyeHaveSexxx_2000 weighed in with a new theory:

“i think the truth is as usual more complex than u smoothbrains r making it. this shop is like that candy house from hansel and gretel. they clearly designed to lure u inside. who has that kind of power? i’ll tell u who! big brother! they get u inside, dope u up, and use u 2 carry out missions for them! ur doing their work assassinations drug running prostitution and if u get caught they just say oh well he’s a crazy person and they get to keep their hands clean eazy peezy. WAKE UP SHEEPLE!”

Eventually, ScaredMoose showed up to the message board and weighed in with a surprisingly succinct argument. “You idiots found a gift shop in the middle of the woods and actually took items from it?! This is some classic textbook fae shit right here! They deal in a more precious form of currency. Consider yourselves lucky their prices are so reasonable!”

◆◆◆

Before I hopped off the four-wheeler, I put my phone into airplane mode and reminded Jerry to do the same. We made the mistake once of answering a call from a blocked number inside The Shop. Never again.

“Five minutes, tops,” Jerry announced, like I needed the reminder. That was the longest we could go before the brand-new flashlight batteries gave up the ghost. “You ready?”

I took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He kicked in the brittle, wooden front door—a completely pointless thing to do, considering it was always unlocked. (It would cost us an extra ten minutes and be completely repaired the next time we returned.)

“Go!” he called, charging inside.

We moved quickly through the stagnant, dead air. Jerry’s flashlight flickered as he swept the room and karate-chopped at the space in front of him. The cobwebs were back (the cobwebs were always back). The light fell upon the front counter of The Shop, and I spotted exactly what we came here for. Just as I expected, it was the same model of cash register we had at our gas station. I theorized that if we came looking for a different kind of cash register, we would have found it instead. The Shop knew its customers.

Of course, this register was at least eighty years older than the one back home and covered in rust and dead vines. Upon brief inspection, I noted that all of the buttons were in place. Good enough. I tried lifting it off the counter, managed to raise it a few inches, then surrendered to the fact that I’m a pathetic weakling.

“Jerry?” I said, motioning to the machine.

“Trade ya,” he responded, handing me the flashlight. It flickered and dimmed, signaling that our time was running out faster than normal.

He effortlessly hoisted the machine off the counter and rested it on his shoulder. This would be the bulk of tonight’s purchase. (Split between the two of us, it would cost an hour and a half, maybe two.)

“Wait!” I called out. He waited. “I forgot to check the inside!”

Jerry lowered it to the ground, took out a pocket knife, and proceeded to pry the cash drawer open. When it finally gave, he pulled it out and my heart nearly skipped a beat. The thing was full of money. I didn’t bother counting because it would only make me sad; I just started pulling out bills and coins. The stack of twenties alone was a couple inches thick. Jesus. That was a close one! I walked back to the counter and left the money in a neat pile, relieved to have dodged another bullet.

CRASH! BANG! SHATTER.

The noises came from the back of the store. I pointed the light towards the sound and held my breath.

Silence.

The light flickered and weakened. We were running out of time.

“Hello?” I said softly. Jerry stepped over the register and tiptoed to my side. I tried raising my volume a couple notches, but my voice cracked. “Is… is someone there?”

I was hoping for anything but a response.

My light flickered off and on as a figure emerged from the darkness. It rose from the shadows with its back to us. It stretched out its arms to either side. It snorted loudly and began to turn. Jerry snatched the light from my hand and shoved me to the ground, but I’d already seen enough to know we were in big trouble. The thing standing at the other end of the building was big, buff, naked from the waist up, with skin the color of boiled lobster.

He towered at least seven-feet-tall from head to toe. And that would have been plenty tall enough, but his height didn’t stop from head to toe. Twin buffalo horns curving upwards from either side of his head reached all the way to the ceiling.

As we crawled in darkness to safety behind the counter, I whispered, “What the fuck was that?”

“Maybe it’s just another customer?” Jerry offered. “I mean, what are the odds we’re the only ones who know about this place?”

“We need to get out of here!”

“What about the register?”

“Forget the register. There’s a demon!”

“Now, now. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

The demon roared in a smoker’s baritone, “I COMMAND THEE, POWERS OF HELL! IGNITE THIS SITE WITH THE UNHOLY RADIANCE OF THE DAMNED!”

Instantly, the floor beneath us began to vibrate. Rust fell from the ceiling. Clouds of dust poured out of the walls in every direction. And the room started to glow. Tiny dots of light swarmed into existence from seemingly nowhere, swirling all around me like waves, burning bright. Some landed on us, only briefly, before launching back off and joining the rest of the flying beetles.

Lightning bugs. There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands, filling the open air. I could not believe my eyes. And then, the swarm flew upwards en masse, as if pulled by an unseen force, turning the roof of the building into a solid plane of glowing light as bright as the sun on a cloudless summer day.

“Okay, fine,” Jerry said. “It’s probably a demon. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s here to hurt anyone.”

“JACK!” the demon roared. “I CAN SMELL YOUR FEAR. COME OUT AND FACE ME, COWARD!”

Jerry continued without the slightest sign of discouragement, “That doesn’t mean anything. There are lots of people named Jack. Could be a coincidence.”

“I appreciate your optimism,” I said as I searched our surroundings for any kind of weapon.

The sound of the creature’s growls grew louder, morphing into words as he approached our hiding spot. “Fee... Fi... Fo... Fidiot...” He was on the other side of the counter now, and my search for weaponry had come up dry. “I smell the body odor of a tiny, stupid-”

Two enormous hands grabbed hold of the counter. Black talons sprouted from the fingertips, digging into the fixture before lifting it free of the foundation. The creature snarled, threw the entire counter off to the side, and looked down its nose at the two of us sitting there like exposed worms beneath an upturned log.

“-idiot!”

There was so much information to take in that it caused a traffic jam somewhere between my eyes and brain. I had to blink several times before everything got through. This big red demon man had a severe underbite, with two elongated fangs poking out of his mouth from the lower jaw like boar tusks. He squinted at us through a pair of extremely thick glasses. There was a shiny black beard on his face, spun into a braid at his chin that fell halfway down his bare chest. He protected his modesty with a pair of furry brown short shorts, and on his feet he wore socks and sandals (five tiny holes in each where his pointy black toenails poked through the fabric). By the time I put it all together, I realized that I’d been steadily vocalizing the word, “Uhhhh…”

I closed my mouth as Jerry got to his feet, put his hands on his hips, and shouted, “Hey!” Then, more softly, he asked, “Are these your fireflies?”

The demon’s glasses slipped a couple of inches down his nose. He pushed them back into place with his pinky claw and answered, “They are the souls of the damned under my control.”

“Well,” Jerry responded. “They’re pretty fucking neat.”

“Thank you.” The demon crossed his arms. “Now, which one of you is the mortal they call ‘Jack Townsend’?”

I stood up and dusted myself off. In my most innocent voice, I responded, “Oh! You’re looking for Jack? What a relief! We thought you were here for us.” I smacked Jerry and laughed. He laughed back a little too hard. Through a forced smile, I explained, “You just missed him.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “That dude ran away right before you got here.”

“He was probably scared of us,” I said.

Jerry chuckled, “Yeah, he’s scared of most things.”

“To be fair, though,” I added, “he is a pretty scary guy, in his own right.”

“Sure, but scary in the way a cockroach is scary, you know?”

The demon finally interrupted, “If he’s not here, then that makes you two collateral damage. I cannot allow Jack to know he’s being hunted.” He uncrossed his arms, braided his fingers, and cracked all of his knuckles at once.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I said. “We’re not gonna warn him. We hate that guy.”

“Yeah!” Jerry said. “Fuck Jack! He stole my girlfriend and murdered my parents.”

The demon lowered his hands to his side and tilted his head. He hadn’t killed us yet, so there was still a chance this gambit might actually work. He just needed a little bit more convincing. He snarled at me, “What do they call you, mortal?”

I blurted out the first name I could think of. “Jerry.”

The demon turned to Jerry. “And you?”

Jerry looked at me. For a split second, I thought he was going to slip up and say “Jack,” but instead he went with the even stupider answer, “Demon.”

“Jerry and Demon, you say Jack was in this wretched place moments ago?”

“Uh huh,” I answered.

“And you’re certain he is no longer present?”

“That’s what we’re saying,” Jerry responded.

His hideous red face was surprisingly easy to read. The demon was confused. Now he was thinking, trying to understand what we were telling him. I wasn’t about to leave him room to figure out we were full of shit. I needed to keep talking. “Like I always say, the enemy of my enemy…”

“Yes?” he asked, quizzically.

I looked at Jerry. Then back at the demon. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Frrriennnnddd?” He made a face like that word was a foreign concept. Then, his lips twisted into a smile. “‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Ha! I like that a lot. Did you make it up?”

“Yeah, I did.”

He leaned his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Then he bent way down until his face was on the same level as ours. “Well, friends, let me assure you, I shall return soon! When Jack Townsend least expects it! And when I do, I will DESTROY HIM in the name of justice.”

“Cool,” Jerry said.

“Awesome,” I added.

The socks-and-sandals demon stood upright, casually scratched his testicles, then turned and began walking towards the back of The Shop. His horns scraped against the ceiling as he went, leaving parallel trails in the blanket of fireflies. The light continued to dim as more bugs burned out and fell to the ground all around us. Some individually. Some in clumps. Once the demon had reached the wall, the very fabric of reality split open, forming a hole about six feet in diameter. The interior was a color that never existed and hurt my eyes to look at[6].

“Wait!” Jerry called out. (I wanted to punch him so hard.) The demon did as he was asked, turning around to see why he’d been stopped. “Before you go, I have to ask you something.”

“What is it, friend?”

“Where’d you get your glasses?” Admittedly, I’d been wondering the exact same thing but didn’t have the nerve to ask.

The demon answered, “I ordered them... from a website.”

Well that just raises further questions, I thought. But Jerry left it at that, and the demon turned and disappeared into the void. The Shop filled with darkness once again as the remaining glow bugs scattered into a chaotic swarm. Jerry snatched up the register as I grabbed the flashlight from under a pile of dead bugs. On his way out the door, Jerry snagged a metal lighter from a broken display case and stuffed it into his pocket. I tried to tell him to put it back, but before I could form the words, he was already outside. I cursed under my breath, knowing that it was going to cost us at least another ten minutes. That’s when another thought hit me hard enough to stop me dead in my tracks. I looked around The Shop, at all the havoc the socks-and-sandals demon had wrought. Oh God... I hope we’re not expected to pay for all of this.

5  We’ve taken to calling this event the “Big Lazy Retcon,” or BLaRc for short. [«]

6
Jack’s just being dramatic. It was obviously blurple, mixed with a little bit of porange. [«]

Chapter Three

As soon as I was outside, the flashlight snapped back to full power. Apparently, there was quite a bit of juice left in those batteries after all. In fact, it was really bright. Absurdly bright. This was a really, really good flashlight.

“Aw, double-dog-dammit!” Jerry exclaimed.

I looked at Jerry, and aimed the light in his direction. A second later, my brain lag wore off, and I realized with growing trepidation exactly what he was aw-double-dog-damning. I could already see my friend before I pointed the flashlight at him. I could see the cash register on his shoulder. I could see the four-wheeler a few yards away. I could see the leaves in the trees. I could see everything, because it was daytime. We’d lost the entire night to The Shop.

I grabbed my stomach as the pain of hunger hit me all at once. It took my breath away and nearly knocked me off my balance, but I powered through. We were alive, and sometimes that’s got to be good enough to call a win. As Jerry bungeed the cash register to the four-wheeler, I took my phone off airplane mode to see what the damage was. I watched as it reconnected and updated my time zone. 2:30 in the morning quickly changed into 12:12 in the afternoon.

“How bad?” Jerry asked.

“It cost us about ten hours this time. We need to get back and feed the dog, otherwise there’s going to be trouble.”

“Hey, dude,” Jerry said, completely unaffected by my answer. “I’ve got a weird question for ya. Did one of us leave a goose out here on the four-wheeler?”

I tensed up, dropped my phone, and clutched my only weapon—the flashlight—with both hands. Demons were one thing, but anyone who’s ever been attacked by a goose can tell you that they’re aggressive apex predators descended from dinosaurs. And unlike demons, geese can’t be tricked, befriended, or reasoned with. If one of those honking bastards was sitting here waiting for us like a drug dealer we owed money, then a fight wasn’t just likely, it was inevitable.

“Where?!” I jumped back and prepared to throw the flashlight.

“Right here,” he answered, pointing at the neatly folded origami figurine resting on the front seat of the four-wheeler.

I let myself relax. “Jerry, that’s not a goose. It’s a swan. Hell, it’s not even a swan, it’s a piece of paper.” I unrelaxed as soon as the next realization dawned on me. Someone else was here recently. I approached with caution, ready to smash the paper bird into oblivion if it tried anything funny.

It was made from white cardstock, bits of ink contorted with the shape where someone had written something on the paper.

“Looks like a message,” Jerry said.

“So, someone came around here, saw our ride, decided to leave us a note, and then folded it up like a swan. Why?”

“Maybe it has something to do with why a socks-and-sandals demon wants you dead.”

I reached for the paper bird, but stopped once an alternate explanation occurred to me. “Or maybe,” I said. “It’s another message from you-know-who.”

“Voldemort?” Jerry guessed.

“No. Roger.”

My self-described “biggest fan.” He’d been trying really hard to get in touch with me ever since the BLaRc, but I knew better. Whoever—whatever—Roger was, I didn’t want any part of it. He had sent me letters. He had sent me gifts. He had steered my story like a sailboat into a hurricane, and I had let him. But not anymore. Since my latest brush with death, any time one of Roger’s little gifts or packages or messages showed up, I’d get Benji or Jerry destroy them before they could cause any harm.

“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “Has he ever goosified a gift before? Doesn’t seem like a very Roger thing to do.”

“It’s a swan.”

“Why don’t I read it for you? Just to be sure it’s from him? If it is, then we can destroy it.”

“But by then, you’ll have already absorbed whatever forbidden knowledge he wants us to have. And let’s face it; you’ve got a pretty bad track record with forbidden knowledge.”

He made a face like a sour gummy worm just crawled up his nose. My comment had struck a raw nerve. “Okay,” he said. “How about this: I only read enough to make sure it’s from him. I promise I won’t read the entire thing.”

I thought for a second. It wasn’t the worst plan Jerry had come up with today. “Fine. But whatever you do, don’t read the entire thing.”

He picked up the swan and unfolded it—slowly, carefully, like he was performing open heart surgery on a bomb. Then, as soon as it was completely open, he cursed, “Double-dog-fuck!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I accidentally read the entire thing.”

“I’m not gonna lie, that’s exactly what I was expecting to happen. So, who’s it from? Is it about the demon?”

“I don’t know. The whole message is just two words. See?”

“NO DON’T SHOW ME!”

But it was too late. He flashed the page, and my eyes and brain did the rest. Fancy handwriting. No signature or return address. Two words: “You’re welcome.”

I shook my head and said, “We suck at this not-reading thing. If that note really was from Roger, we should pretend we never saw it.”

“Never saw what?” he asked with a sly smile.

“The note, Jerry. Jeez, were you even listening?”

“Oh, uh, right.”

“We should destroy it. Just to be safe.”

“Well, I do love destroying stuff.” Without wasting any more time, he pulled the antique Tasty Vapes lighter out of his pocket and gave it a few flicks. When that failed to conjure a flame (or even a spark for that matter), he shrugged, repocketed it, and stuffed the entire piece of paper into his mouth. He took two bites, winced, and swallowed.

“Holy shit,” he coughed. “Why the hell did I do that?”

I let him beat his chest and hack with regret while I went back to where my phone had fallen into an anthill. I brushed off the dirt and insects, checked to make sure the screen wasn’t broken, then saw the notification:

EIGHTEEN NEW VOICE MESSAGES.

I dialed my voicemail while Jerry sped us back to the gas station. The first one was from Rosa: “Hey, Jack. I wanted to let you know that I totally aced that job interview, so you should probably start looking for a replacement. Oh, also, Benji is here sharpening his knives behind the counter. I told him I was going to take over the safe, but he said he can’t leave until you get back, sooo… that’s going to be fun. Also, what did you do to the cash register? Anyway, call me back. Bye!”

The next was also Rosa: “Hey, Jack. Not a big deal, but, uh… Where are you guys? There’s a bunch of cops here asking ominous questions, and they won’t say what’s up. Maybe you should give me a call? Just to let us know you’re safe? It’s kinda freaking me out a little bit.”

The next message was from a man whose voice I didn’t recognize. “Mr. Townsend, this is Detective Bailey with the-” mumble mumble “-Police Department. If you would be so kind, I’d like to have a few words with you. Call me back at your earliest convenience. My personal number is…”

Rosa again: “Are you okay?! I haven’t heard a word from you or Jerry and I overheard the cops talking and it sounds serious and I was just kidding about the other job thing! Please call me back and let me know you’re alive!”

The next three messages were from the same person.

“Jack, it’s Sheriff O’Brien. We need to talk. Call me.”

“Jack. It’s O’Brien. Call me. Now.”

“Jack, this is Sheriff O’Brien. You’d better be dead in a ditch somewhere. I’ve got all my people out looking for you. Call me as soon as you get this.”

The next one was, presumably, a wrong number. An old woman’s voice saying, “Reginald, can you hear me? Pick up the phone! I know you’re there! You’re eighty years old, and you’re not allowed to drive! Are you ignoring me?! Reginald, pick up! It’s Peggy! I still have your tarantulas! Call me back or I’m going to flush them. Reginald!” At that point, the signal to my phone cut out. The rest of my messages would have to wait until later.

When we got back to the gas station, Jerry parked us in the usual spot behind the dumpster. He killed the engine and asked, “Anything important?”

“Cops are looking for me.”

Jerry blew a raspberry into the air and said, “Let me know if you need a new identity. I’ve got a guy.”

“Of course you do.”

I inspected the register. Most of the rust was gone now, but it still looked to be at least twenty years older than the one it was meant to replace. There was a white sticker peeling off the side that I didn’t remember seeing earlier.

“Oh yeah,” I added, “and somebody named Peggy is the world’s worst pet sitter.”

“Fuckin’ Peggy!” Jerry exclaimed, pulling out the stolen lighter. He gave it a few flicks. It sparked this time, but the fuel must have evaporated decades ago. Still, the spark was a good sign.

I offered to help carry in the register, but Jerry insisted on showing off, so I propped open the backdoor and went inside first. As soon as she saw me, Rosa jumped over the counter, ran up, threw her arms around me, and screamed, “I thought you were dead!”

I took in the situation. Benji was behind the counter, leaning against the cigarette case with his arms crossed. He gave me a stoic nod and said, “Boss.”

Deputy Love[7] laboriously climbed out from his nest at the booth table. There were burrito wrappers, empty Styrofoam cups, a magazine, and a flask in front of where he’d been sitting. I almost respected how much he wasn’t even trying anymore.

“What’s going on?” I asked the room.

Rosa released me from the hug, took a short step back, and punched me hard in the chest. I was surprised by just how much it hurt, on par with a severely stubbed toe or a diss from a small child. I almost said something before I realized that she was actively crying.

“Why didn’t you call me back?! Where’s Jerry?! Is he okay?!”

“Yolo!” Jerry exclaimed, walking into the room with the cash register balanced on his shoulder. Rosa ran up and threw a surprise hug around his chest so fast he dropped the register. It would have probably crashed to the ground and rendered our entire trip to The Shop pointless, but Benji swooped in and caught the machine with one hand at the last second. He silently returned to the counter and placed the registers side by side. They were nearly identical. Of course, the one from The Shop was a few years older, with a bit of weathering here and there. Some dirt and cobwebs. Nothing a good scrub-down couldn’t fix. The sticker on the side showed signs of color—a faded blue and red.

Deputy Love wiped his mouth off on his sleeve and said, “Sheriff’s looking for you, Jack.”

I waited for a moment just to make sure I was the only one who noticed how Benji practically teleported across the room to catch the falling register. Nobody said anything about it, so I tucked it away in the try-and-forget department of my brain and responded to the deputy, “Why?”

“I’m not supposed to say,” he answered.

“Oh, okay.”

But he said it anyway. “They found a body. Looks like foul play. O’Brien thinks you may know something about it.”

Rosa, still clinging to Jerry like he was going to float off if she let go, added, “All I knew was that someone died and they wouldn’t tell me who it was and nobody could find either of you guys and I thought maybe something bad happened to you and DON’T EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We weren’t expecting to be gone so long. We ran into some traffic.”

“Traffic?” Rosa exclaimed. “Jack, you guys have been gone for two days!”

It took a second for the words to make sense.

Two? Days? I suddenly felt very dizzy.

Deputy Love radioed dispatch to let O’Brien know he’d found me. Meanwhile, Jerry got to work fixing us a power breakfast of microwaved burritos and jerky smothered in chili and nacho cheese (you can feel free to judge us as soon as you’ve gone two whole days without eating).

Rosa had been running the gas station in our stead. I told her I owed her one, to which she corrected, “Seventeen.”

“What?”

“You owe me seventeen.”

“Are we really up to that many?”

She pulled the favor scorecard out from the drawer and showed me the running tallies. It was true. Before today, I owed Rosa sixteen favors. Jerry owed her three. I owed Jerry four[8] and Benji seven.

“Wow,” I said. “I’m in a very serious favor deficit.”

Rosa marked the latest tally, put the scorecard away and said, “You’re lucky I’m not charging interest.”

“Anything I can do to help you out?”

“Yeah. You can start by telling me where the heck you guys have been for the last two days!”

I explained to her in somewhat vague terms that we’d gotten lost in the woods (which is barely a lie when you think about it). Still, the disappointed look on her face told me she knew I wasn’t being completely truthful and I’d be receiving a proper grilling for it later.

We had just finished shoveling down the last of the nachobomination when the sheriff’s cruiser came careening into the parking lot so fast I expected to see it go up on two wheels. Benji made eye contact with me as he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his belt knife. I quickly shook my head no as O’Brien walked into the store.

She removed her sunglasses and carefully inspected each one of us individually, finally settling on me before saying, “Jack. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Here I am.”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“Not so fast!” Benji’s voice collided with our conversation like a Mack truck T-bone. “You got an arrest warrant?” O’Brien shot a glare up at him. For an instant, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition before her expression turned stolid again.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Jack’s lawyer, and he’s not going nowhere without me. If you have questions, you can ask ‘em here.”

She was not amused. But she didn’t push back. “Where’ve you been?” she asked me.

“I went for a four-wheeler ride with Jerry,” I said technically truthfully.

“You don’t need to answer anything!” Benji circled the counter and walked up behind me. Maybe it was all in my head, but I swear I could literally feel the weight of his shadow as it fell over me. “What’s this about?” he asked.

The sheriff looked over my head at my newest lawyer, no doubt running the math on what kind of fight would or wouldn’t be worth the effort. I did not like standing directly in the crossfire of these two titans of badassery. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to have someone like Benji in my corner. Eventually, she snapped her eyes down to meet mine. “Have you heard from Spencer Middleton[9] lately?”

“No, not since-” Benji clamped a hand onto my shoulder, stopping me mid-sentence. Probably for the best.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he reminded me.

O’Brien agreed, “He’s right. You don’t have to say anything. But you should do yourself a favor and listen.” She gave Deputy Love a nod, his cue to toddle out the door to his cruiser. Once he was gone, she continued. “We found the body a couple days ago. There’s reason to believe that whoever did this might have known the victim personally.”

“Okay?” I said. “What’s this got to do with me?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Benji jumped in again. “My client has had a difficult couple of days. Look at him. He’s exhausted, delirious, and small.”

“Hey!”

He tightened his grip and carried on. “The last thing he needs is your unfounded harassment. If there is any justifiable reason to arrest him, do it. Elsewise, you can buy something or get out.”

I held my breath and waited for the sheriff’s reaction. She offered both of us a polite but fake smile, donned her sunglasses, and said, “Don’t leave town. Understand?”

As she turned to face the door, I shouted. “Wait!” Benji’s hand clenched hard enough to bruise my shoulder. I shimmied out of his grasp. “You didn’t tell me who died.”

She turned back and studied me like there might have been a case-breaking clue dancing on my face. Then she said, “Yes I did.”

“Who?”

“Middleton.”

“Oh my God!” Rosa exclaimed from her spot behind the counter.

I’m sure it didn’t paint me as the model of innocence, but I couldn’t help myself from literally laughing out loud. “No. Come on. We’ve done this before.” She didn’t budge. “Middleton? Really?” Still nothing from her. “Spencer isn’t dead.” Blank stare. “He can’t be.”

That finally elicited a reaction. “And how would you know that?”

“Because… Because he’s Spencer Fucking Middleton.”

“This may be hard for you to believe, but that doesn’t change the facts. I know his history, and I know what he’s capable of. But I saw the body myself. He’s really dead this time.”

I wanted to believe her. She sounded so confident. And yet, I knew better.

O’Brien didn’t stick around. I stood at the door and watched as she sped off. Now that the coast was clear, I turned my attention to my new lawyer.

“Thanks for that,” I said.

Benji grunted. I took that as his way of saying “You’re welcome, boss.”

My stomach growled in pain. Gas station food probably wasn’t the best foundation to break our two-day fast, but it was convenient and free, and we weren’t in a position to be picky. After all, hunger and desperation go hand in hand... Wait a second…

I tried not to panic as a sudden and very important thought made an emergency crash landing inside my brain.

I threw a quick look in Rosa’s direction. She was busy transferring cash from the older, broken register into the shiny, brand-new one; the vibrant neon sticker on the side now read “Tasty Vapes” as clear as day. I lowered my voice and asked Benji, “You’ve been here the whole time?”

He nodded. “You said not to leave until you got back.”

“By any chance, did you remember to-”

He stopped me halfway through the question. “Don’t worry, boss. I fed the dog while you were gone. Nearly lost a finger in the process.”

I took a deep breath as the panic subsided. “Thanks. You’re a really good worker.” He let out another grunt. “Well, besides the murder, did we miss anything important?”

Benji produced an envelope from his back pocket. The letter was addressed to me. I noticed right away that it had already been cut open. Presumably by a comically oversized knife.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Someone from your high school planning committee is trying to reach you about your upcoming ten-year reunion this Friday.”

Jesus Christ! I’ve been out of high school for ten whole years? Losing two days in the blink of an eye suddenly didn’t seem so bad by comparison. At least this distraction would be easy enough to avoid.

“Hey, Jerry,” I said, catching his attention as I pointed at the letter. “Do you mind?”

With no further instruction, he snatched the paper away from Benji, flicked the Tasty Vapes lighter and held the tall flame under the invitation. It burned up faster than a Christmas tree in March. By the time it hit the floor, there was barely more than ash left to stomp out.

“Hey!” Rosa yelled in her grade-school-teacher voice. We all stood at attention as she said, “I am not cleaning that up!”

7
Our old frenemy, Deputy Love. He’s a sentient bag of mashed potatoes who turned not-giving-a-fuck into an art form. I once saw him eat an entire raw onion on accident. [«]

8
One for when I covered a shift so Jack could go to a midnight book release. One for chasing the raccoons out of the bathroom. One for taking a bullet while heroically saving Jack’s life. And one for letting him borrow my phone charger. [«]

9
AKA “Spencer Fucking Middleton,” resident psychopath and fan-favorite tormentor of Jack. [«]

Chapter Four

The gravel-raspy sound of Louis Armstrong’s singing voice playing at max volume wasn’t enough to drown out that worrisome clicking noise coming from my car’s engine. Thankfully, Jerry’s harmonizing rendition of “What a Wonderful World” from the driver’s seat served as a more-than-adequate distraction.

“I see skies so blue…” (Deep breath.) “And clouds so white!” We turned into our neighborhood. Almost home. “The bright blessed day…” (Deep breath.) “The dark sacred night!” I could finally relax. Take a shower. Wash off all the dried stress sweat that clung to my skin like a film. “And I think to myself...
What the fuck?!”

In case you aren’t familiar with Mr. Armstrong’s work, Jerry had deviated from the original lyric. Something else had caught his attention. I leaned forward and turned off the radio. Jerry killed the engine with enough momentum to coast to a stop in the front yard. We were home now, but something was wrong.

There was another car in the driveway.

We sat there for a while, staring at it in silence, trying to decide on the best course of action. It took a minute for boredom to surpass caution, and I made a suggestion just to get things moving again. “Maybe we should call Benji.”

“You really think we need that much firepower? Nah, I know what’s going on here. You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“No, that’s what the goose note said. ‘You’re welcome.’ Get it? Your biggest fan wanted to give us a new car—one that doesn’t smell like gasoline every time we turn on the AC.”

This explanation made about as much sense as anything else I could think of, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. It was too much. Jerry opened the glove compartment, took out a gun I had no idea was tucked away in there, and said, “Stay here. I’ll go check it out.”

He left the car before I could form the words “No,” “Don’t,” or “Trap.” Sometimes, being Jerry’s friend felt like keeping a suicidal houseplant alive. Without thinking, I opened my door and followed. When I caught up to him, he was peering inside the window of the mystery car.

It was a red Toyota Camry. A few years old, but practically brand new compared to the mobile deathtrap I was accustomed to. It was a comparatively modest choice from my mysterious benefactor, who must have realized I’d be much more accepting of a practical, fuel-efficient gift.

“Can we keep it?” Jerry asked, tucking the handgun carelessly into his waistband.

“You know it’s probably bugged, right?”

“What in this town isn’t bugged?”

He had a good bad point.

“This doesn’t feel right. I mean, it’s not like all those guns he sent me through the mail; you actually have to register and insure a car.” I checked the tires. Plenty of tread left. The paint had a few scratches here and there. A little rust on the undercarriage. It would need some work. But I was getting way ahead of myself. I tried the door handle to find it locked.

“Where are the keys?”

“Pish posh. Minor issue. I can totes hotwire a Camry.”

I started for the front door. “I’m way too tired to make any important decisions right now.”

Jerry followed, saying, “I’m gonna call her Vesta[10].”

I went to turn my key, but noticed something else unusual.

“Jerry, did you forget to lock the door again before you left?” I asked.

“Probably. My bad.”

I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened. Before I even took a step inside, I smelled it. I kept my voice at a whisper as I asked, “Did you also cook bacon earlier?”

Jerry’s gun was already in his hand. “Nope.”

There was only one explanation. Someone else was in our house. And they were eating our bacon. That seemed to me like the sort of thing a near-sighted assassin demon might do to pass the time until we showed up. He probably also drove the Camry here. And although the mechanics of fitting his horns into the car were admittedly hilarious, all signs indicated that this was a serious situation we needed to extricate ourselves from immediately.

I silently motioned for us to get out of there—pointing at Jerry, then pointing at me, then pointing at the Nissan, then making the driving gesture. Jerry nodded and tapped his nose, then marched past me into the house. I still don’t know how he misinterpreted my signal to mean “let’s charge ahead!” But I couldn’t let him go alone, so I snuck in quietly after him.

He followed the delicious smell of bacon to the kitchen, stepped in, and raised his gun at the person standing by the stove. I got to him in time to grab his weapon hand and point it down at the floor. He took his eyes off of her and saw me shaking my head. The same gesture I gave Benji when O’Brien showed up. No. This time, he understood what I was trying to say, and quickly tucked the gun under his shirt.

She had no idea what was happening. With her back to us and her headphones blaring pop music loud enough for the whole room to hear, her attention was on the frying pan—my nonstick frying pan, where she flipped pieces of meat with a metal fork even though she knew that was going to scratch it up. Her long, black hair was tied up in a bun, showing off those twin star tattoos behind her ears that she got back in ninth grade.

I stepped forward, poked her on the shoulder, then jumped back in case she overreacted and tried to throw hot bacon grease in our direction. Thankfully, she was way less jumpy than me. She just turned around and pulled down her headphones.

“Jack!” she said with a smile. “I thought you were at work.”

“I just got off. What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you get my voicemail? I’m in town for a few days.”

“When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago.” She turned her attention to Jerry. The look on her face turned predatory. “And who is this?”

He tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Lucius Danger McGillicutty. And you must be… Caspar Van Dien?[11]”

I forgot that I’d left him in attack mode. “Relax, Jerry. This is just Wendy.” She bent her knee and offered a playful curtsy as I finished her introduction. “She’s my sister.”

◆◆◆

I spent most of my high school years as the middle child of seven, my older sister Wendy being the closest to me in age. Although she was a year and six months my elder, we were in the same graduating class. We’d always looked enough alike that we could have passed for biological siblings if we ever wanted to. Like me, she had dark hair and a slender frame—the kind of skinny that normally comes from a childhood of malnourishment. We’d both bounced around the foster care system for a while before ending up with Sid and Dianna—our final set of parents. You might think with all we had in common, that we’d be a little closer. But you’d be wrong. In fact, if it weren’t for the house, we probably wouldn’t have bothered speaking to one another ever again.

“You aged terribly, little brother.”

“Thanks. So did you.”

Jerry, now in a huff, interjected, “My celebratory bacon! I was saving that for when Pluto got readmitted into the council of planets! Now it’s never gonna happen!”

Her smile faded. She looked to Jerry, then to me, then back at Jerry. “You know the lawyers said you’re not allowed to sublease.” The implication hung in the air. She was fishing for something.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He doesn’t pay rent here.”

“Oh?” Her eyes went wide with excitement. “Then what exactly is the arrangement?”

I was quick to speak, lest Jerry try to answer and make things worse. “Since when do you care about what the lawyers say? You didn’t seem to mind when you were stripping the copper wire from the walls.”

She played my own move back at me, pretending not to hear the question. With an innocent glance to Jerry she said, “Well, whatever you are, I’m just glad someone is taking care of poor Jack. We were all so worried about him.”

I swallowed my annoyance while Jerry sprung to my defense. “Hey, Jack doesn’t need someone to take care of him. He owns his own business, runs a moderately successful blog, and once killed the literal devil with a baseball bat.”

She took the plate of celebration bacon and cut past us on her way to the living room, calling over her shoulder as she went, “The lawyers also said you have to stop doing that weird thing with the locks. It took me five minutes to get inside.”

I knew it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to leave the two of them together unmonitored, but it had been a long couple of days and I needed to let my patience meter recharge. As the hot shower water washed over my face, I worked out something that was nagging at the back of my mind. That red Toyota was definitely Wendy’s. So what else could the note in Jerry’s stomach have possibly meant? You’re welcome. What other notable event occurred recently? The answer was staring me in the face, but I refused to buy it.

“You’re cracking up again.” The voice was right in my ear. In my attempt to spin around, I nearly fell off my shower stool. (Yeah, that’s right. I sit on a stool to take my showers. So what? Get over it.) But there was nobody there except for me. Still… I recognized his voice…

The sound of a blender from the kitchen told me that trouble was brewing. It was time to get back to the others and begin damage control.

Wendy and Jerry were both at the early stages of day drunk when I found them in the living room. Jerry was sitting in my usual reading spot, the recliner. Our new visitor had her bare feet propped up on the coffee table next to Jerry’s hookah. Her socks were laid out on either side of her on the sofa like she was marking her territory.

They both had mason jars in their hands, drinking a vibrant green concoction that I recognized as Jerry’s infamous “bug juice” (jolly ranchers, ice, and whatever alcohol he finds laying around).

When she saw me, Wendy’s glazed eyes went wide. “Oh my God! What happened to your leg?!”

I’d come back into the room with a crutch and a very obviously missing limb—my usual setup for a lazy day wallowing around the house. “Cut myself shaving,” I said.

“How long have you been gimpy?” And just like that, my patience meter was already depleted.

“I’m not ‘gimpy.’”

Jerry interjected, “You should see the other guy.”

She shook her head. “You mean somebody did this to you? Fuck, Jack. You’ve always had a gift for pissing people off.” She let out an annoying laugh and added, “Hey! Remember Deacon?”

God I hate this story.

“Who’s Deacon?” Jerry asked.

Wendy practically jumped at the opportunity to humiliate me. “Okay, so, back in high school, there was this teacher named Mrs. Harris, and she had this marble statue of a turtle she always kept on her desk-”

I cut her off. “Maybe we don’t need to revisit the most embarrassing moments from my past.”

“Oh, lighten up!” she protested. “It’s a funny story. So, this was back when Jack was still mid-growth spurt. He was always wearing hand-me-downs because his clothes never fit right-”

As she spoke, I walked over to the couch, flicked her sock onto the floor with my crutch, then fell into the seat beside her. The moment she took a breath, I asked, “What brings you back to this hell-mouth, anyway? I sorta thought you and the others had escaped its gravity.”

“I got a letter saying our ten-year reunion was coming up. I thought I’d make a working vacay out of it.” My plan worked. She stopped telling that stupid story.

Jerry grabbed the pitcher of bug juice off the table and topped himself off. “And what line of work are you in, Wendy?”

“Pyramid schemes, mostly. This town is a goldmine of dumb suckers, and I’m not above seeking out a little petty revenge against people who deserve to get scammed.”

Jerry threw a stupid idea in my direction. “You should get some business cards printed so you can hand them out at the reunion and show off the fact that you own your own business now.”

“I wasn’t planning on going.”

“Why not?” he asked.

I couldn’t find the right way to answer, so Wendy filled in the silence. “Jack didn’t have very many school friends. But he definitely had a few enemies.” She took another big sip of her drink and leaned forward. “Oh yeah! That reminds me. So, Mrs. Harris had this marble statue of a turtle that she kept on her desk, right?”

“I really hate this stupid story.”

She smacked me on the knee, right above my stump. “Come on! Don’t be so sensitive about it.”

“I’m not sensitive, I just don’t like remembering it.”

“Well, you kinda sound like a little bitch right now.”

Jerry interrupted us with a loud fake yawn, got to his feet, and stretched. “Actually guys, you know what? I’m feeling pretty worn out. Probably time to hit the sack. Why don’t we rain check the story for another time?”

“It was a clay statue,” I explained.

She gave me a surprised look. “Huh?”

“The turtle was made of clay. If you’re going to tell the story, at least tell it right.”

Wendy waved a hand in front of her and said, “Go ahead then. Take over. I’d love to hear it from your perspective.”

Jerry made an uncomfortable face, then took his seat.

Let’s just get this over with.

◆◆◆

The statue on Mrs. Harris’s desk was a life-size clay box turtle that her kids gave her as a Mothers’ Day present when they were much younger. That’s not important, though. These were minor details. Details that, despite my best efforts, remain surprisingly crisp. The smell of disinfectant that pervaded every square foot of that school. The feel of the cold, smooth, clay turtle in my hand. The sound of everybody around me laughing jubilantly at my misfortune. I could even picture the clothes I wore that day—an oversized Scooby-Doo tee shirt and a pair of jeans clinging to my slim body, barely held in place by a cheap leather belt from the dollar store.

I tried to keep a low profile in school. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I avoided eye contact. For certain people, these were simply unforgivable crimes. People like Deacon White.

He’d never spoken to me in a conversational manner, but on several occasions, he’d yell a few nasty words in my direction. Sometimes, these words were accompanied by actions. He might push me into a wall or throw a carton of milk at my head or punch me in the stomach—standard bully stuff. I did my best to avoid him, but on that particular day, he caught me while I was distracted.

I was at my locker trading out textbooks when he attacked from behind. I didn’t even know what happened until after I heard the collective gasps and looked down to see my pants around my ankles.

Deacon yelled out, “Hey poor kid, nice undies!”

I didn’t find it nearly as funny as the rest of the kids in the hallway, but judging from the absurd amount of laughter, I’d say some people find cruelty to be a viable substitute for cleverness.

By the time I pulled my pants back up, Vice Principal Mattherne was nearly upon me, coming to see what all the ruckus was about.

More details I wish I could forget. Starting with those feelings: annoyance, humiliation, shame. There were physical components, too. My heart was beating in my chest like a stampede. My breath was out of my control. At the time, I didn’t know what a panic attack felt like, but I knew the feeling of powerlessness all too well. There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. And worse, nothing I could do to stop it from happening again. The vice principal left me with a stern warning. If he ever caught me with my pants down again, I’d be suspended for a week. No excuses.

I thought the worst was over, but then I saw her... standing at the other side of the hallway, watching me. Her eyes full of concern. Full of sadness. Not pity, though. Sabine[12]—the only person in the world whose opinion of me I really cared about—was watching, and she had seen the whole thing.

And then, all of those feelings went away, replaced by something else.

I knew which classroom Deacon had snuck off to because I’d already committed his schedule to memory, just as I’d done for all the major bullies so I could plot my daily course with minimal interactions. On any other day, I’d take this opportunity to run off and lick my wounds. But not this time. This time, I walked into the classroom after him. I spotted him right away, talking to Mrs. Harris. Something else was powering me now. Someone else was in the driver’s seat. Except, that’s not exactly right. It didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. It merely guided me. It led me up to the teacher’s desk. It showed me my options. And then, I took action.

I waited until I had Deacon’s attention. I wanted him to see me. He looked so surprised.

“What do you want, retard?”

The turtle statue was a fine weapon for exactly one blow. Like a glass cannon, it did all the damage I needed before shattering into countless pieces.

Deacon kept his big mouth shut for most of the remaining two years of high school. I guess it’s a lot harder to talk shit when you’re missing your two front teeth. As for me, I ended up suspended for one week for destroying Mrs. Harris’s personal property. They told me she cried trying to glue it back together, and the school made me write her a lengthy apology note and buy her a new turtle statue. But as she put it, “It ain’t the same.”

I understood. Some things can never be unbroken.

◆◆◆

Wendy practically cackled with delight. She wasn’t just laughing at the story, though. She was laughing at my awkwardness. At the confusion on Jerry’s face. At the throwback to the good ol’ days when we were still minors and could get away with pretty much anything. The bug juice was probably also having a greater-than-negligible effect on her mood.

“Can you believe that? Deacon was twice his size and little Jack made him swallow his teeth! We were all very impressed.”

I waited to see what kind of pithy quip Jerry would pull out of his hat for this one. How was he going to turn my embarrassing memory into a punchline? To my surprise, he didn’t even make an effort. He just got to his feet, excused himself, and went to his room.

We sat in silence until Wendy had finished her drink. Then, she turned to me and teased in a sing-song voice, “He thinks you’re crazy now.”

10
Goddess of Fire. Look it up. It makes sense. [«]

11
“Caspar Van Dien” is a code word phrase we use to let each other know when something’s up. It’s a secret, though, known only to me, Jack, Rosa, and everyone who’s read these books. [«]

12
Jack’s childhood girlfriend and BFF… There’s not really a lot to say on this subject, except that sometimes fate is a stone-cold bitch. A hit-and-run left her in a coma two years before I got to town and Jack’s never really been the same ever since.
[«]

Chapter Five

I had no accurate way to measure the quality of my so-called “rest.” After all, I could convincingly sleepwalk my way through lengthy customer interactions without anyone ever being the wiser. Or, I might pass out without warning for an hour or two in the walk-in cooler. And on more than one occasion, I snapped back to reality with a deadly weapon in my hands. My consciousness is a lot like a lion tamer at a low-budget circus: most of the time, everything is perfectly fine, but when things do go wrong, they go very wrong in a hurry[13].

I spent the first few hours in bed staring at the spider web in the corner of my ceiling. A plump orange and green arachnid clung to the edge, motionless as a statue. Maybe it’s asleep, I thought. Do spiders even sleep? What a life! Build your home, go to bed, wait for breakfast to wake you up.

The spider show may have been relaxing, but I was ever aware of the importance of logging some old-fashioned sleep before starting another shift. Even an hour could make all the difference. I closed my eyes and tried to will it into being. Relax. Empty your mind. Focus on nothing but the sound of your own breathing…

Why is my breathing so shallow anyway? Is this normal? Or is it, like, too shallow? Great, now my breathing has switched over to manual mode. Why do our bodies even let us switch over to manual mode for things like breathing and blinking and- Oh shit! I forgot to turn in that grocery order!

Here I was, in the most restful spot of my house, in the most relaxing position my body could form, but my brain was not having any of it. Every time I pushed a thought away, another took its place. Trying to get myself to rest was fucking exhausting! I needed a different approach.

I pulled up YouTube on my phone and did a quick search for some white noise. About half an hour later, while watching videos of capybaras, I remembered what I was supposed to be doing in the first place and started over. My next search for white noise brought me to a channel that specialized in something called “guided meditation.” I’d never tried anything like that before, but it couldn’t possibly be any less effective than what I was doing, so opened their most popular video, turned up the volume, and relaxed into bed with my eyes shut.

Raindrops on water faded into a slow blend of stringed instruments playing something that would fit in at a dinner party for hobbits. The woman’s voice was soft and gentle. “Welcome to this moment.” A little hokey so far, but whatever. “I will be your guide. Before we begin, take a deep breath and hold it in...

“...focus on the thing you can’t forget. See it in your mind.” Oh, hello there, Spencer. “As you exhale, picture the thing fading away, crumbling into fine dust…” You can’t get rid of me that easy, Jack. “...Another deep breath. See the object weaken. Now exhale, and blow it away…” Goodbye Spencer. “Another breath in. Hold it. See where you are now…

“...It’s somewhere safe… exhale, each breath brings you closer to this world. Each inhale anchors you to this new spot. Each exhale pushes away the dangers. You’re safe now. You can relax. Let yourself sink. It’s okay. Go deep. Find the memory. The place you want to be.” I fell into the first best memory I could think of. “You’re not in your body any more. Where are you now? Picture the place. See it in your mind. Feel the air on your face. The smell in your nose.” It was just like I was there all over again.

I was with her.

“You remember this place, don’t you, Jack?”

It was a warm summer day somewhere between fifth and sixth grade of elementary school. The sky was full of black clouds. This was the day we finally finished that treehouse we started building the previous summer when we found a pallet of warped timber and plywood beneath a tarp by the one-lane bridge. Evidently, the contractors who built the bridge couldn’t be bothered to return for it, so we helped ourselves. We saw it as our moral responsibility to make sure the wood didn’t go to waste. So, with the presumptive blessing of the forest, we lugged the building material to a great oak tree near the edge of the creek and made something incredible.

We were inside our treehouse. I held up the final wall while Sabine secured it into place with a power drill she’d borrowed from home. She was wearing a pair of blue-jean overalls and a striped blue and white t-shirt. Her red hair was a curly mess.

“You ever wonder what your brothers do all day?” she asked, drilling the final screw into place.

My newest foster family lived in the Goose Creek Mobile Home Community about a mile away. Back then, I shared a room with two older brothers, Seth and Bryce. Our mom needed her eight hours a day of “private time,” so on non-school days she’d send us outside to play. I always went to hang out with Sabine by the creek while Seth and Bryce met up with some teenagers who gave them cigarettes.

“Not really. I figure they’re just doing whatever it is older kids do. I guess we’ll find out when we reach that age.”

“Do you think we’re missing out?” she asked, holding a leveler to the newest wall like it wasn’t already obvious that every surface in our treehouse was laughably crooked.

“On what?” I asked.

“On older-people stuff?”

“Nah. It’s not like they’re voting or playing putt-putt on a cruise ship. They’re probably just drinking cheap beer and doing drugs. They might be driving cars, I guess. But if you ask me, the whole driving thing is just a big scam pushed on us by society. People have somehow convinced themselves that driving is supposed to be cool. But really, it’s just work disguised as fun.”

At some point while I was rambling, Sabine had caught a lizard. Our first visitor in the new treehouse. She had it cupped in one hand, using the other to pet the top of its head. “I’ve never driven a car before,” she said. “Never played putt-putt either.”

“I did, once. Putt-putt, I mean. Didn’t care for it.”

She bent down and let the lizard scurry out of her hands and through the hole in the floor. It skipped our carefully constructed branch-and-trunk ladder and instead flung itself the entire six feet to the ground below. “I’ve also never kissed anyone, either,” she added.

“You think my brothers are kissing people?” This was an interesting thought. It had never occurred to me before, but it made sense that they would be interested in that sort of thing. They had posters of supermodels on our bedroom walls, and Seth kept a bunch of magazines of naked women under his mattress. Plus, Bryce once stated that a teacher at their high school had DSL, which Seth explained to me meant dick-sucking lips. So, if they were that far along in their sexual maturity then it only made sense that they’d be interested in kissing. Maybe even French-kissing. “Yeah,” I nodded. “You’re probably right.”

Sabine walked up to me. From this close, the smell of her sunscreen would have been overwhelming if it weren’t so pleasant. She always smelled like sunscreen. I assumed her parents bathed her in it every day before sending her out to play in the woods, like a sunburn was somehow the worst thing that could happen to her way out here. It wouldn’t be of much use in this treehouse, though. The only sunlight breaking through came from the tiny tears in our tarp roof and the entrance hole by our feet. It would be two more months before we installed the first window using a pane of glass from a discarded coffee table by the side of the road. It would be one whole year before we hooked up a car battery to power the lamp lighting, and then a gas generator a few months later. In two years’ time, we would have an operational TV and VCR set up in the corner across from pillows and blankets we’d huddle under on cold days. But for now, everything was still new and empty and the room was as dark as a cave.

She grabbed both of my hands in hers, then asked point-blank. “Do you want to kiss?”

“What? You mean like, us kiss each other?”

“Why not?”

I looked at her lips, then answered honestly. “I hadn’t really ever considered it.”

“Well, do you want to try and see what all the fuss is about?”

When she put it like that, it just seemed so scientific. It was hard to find any good argument against it. Not that I wanted to argue.

“Okay. Sure. Do you?”

She grinned. “Yeah, stupid. That’s why I brought it up.”

“What are the parameters here? Do we keep our eyes open or closed? What do we do with our tongues? Also—and I’m sure it’s probably just a myth but I feel like I should mention it—I did hear from someone at school that if you open-mouth kiss before you’re married, you can get HIV and die.”

She tightened her grip and shook my hands in hers. “Jack. Don’t think that hard. We’ll keep our mouths closed and our tongues to ourselves. You can do whatever you want with your eyes. And we can’t get HIV because neither of us have any tattoos.”

“Is that the rule?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Oh. Okay then. Let’s do it.”

She closed her eyes and leaned in. I kept my eyes open, but moved my head forward, watching her lips. We’d meet in the middle, and then-

She pulled away before we made contact. Her eyes shot open. Her grip tightened around my hands to the point that it actually hurt. I tried to pull them away, but she was stronger than I realized.

“Jack,” she said, loudly and sternly.

“What?”

“Listen to me.”

“Okay.”

“This part never happened.”

It took me a second to understand. “Okay,” I said. “If anyone ever asks, we never did this. It’ll be our secret. I mean, it’s not likely that anyone would ask.”

She shook her head and cut me off. “No, no, listen to the words I’m saying and commit them to memory. This. Never. Happened. Do you understand?” Her voice was weird.

“Actually, I do not.”

“This was the only way I could reach you to tell you the truth.”

“I am so confused right now.”

“You’re being lied to.”

“By who?”

“It’s ‘by whom?’ actually. But I understand that we’re still in elementary school at this point so I’ll let it slide. Anyway, listen and remember: it’s not safe for you here anymore. You need to get out of town while you still can.”

“How? I can’t drive.”

“No, not you. Well, not the you living this. I’m talking to the you remembering it.”

Her eyes shut and she pulled me forward. Our lips connected. It was softer than I expected. Warmer, too. I felt silly keeping my own eyes open, staring at her freckled face from this close. I closed my eyes and decided the kiss was a lot more enjoyable this way. From now on, all of my kisses would be with closed eyes, I decided. Our kiss, which we were only doing for science, went on longer than I expected it to, and ended abruptly when we both started laughing at the same time.

“That was cool,” I said. “Do you want to try it again?”

But then she saw another lizard, and we both went to catch it.

“IT’S BALL-CRUSHING TIME!” My eyes shot open. “FROM THE MAKERS OF BUBBLE POP, CANDY BALLS, AND CANDY BALLS 2!” I sat up in bed… The world spun, then came back into place. I looked over and saw that my meditation had been misguided by a loud and obnoxious video ad. “CHALLENGE YOUR FRIENDS! CRUSH THE BALLS! EARN THE NEW HIGH SCORE! IT’S TOTAL BALL-CRUSHING MAYHEM!” I grabbed the phone and silenced it.

13
We in the recreational pharmaceutical community call this “taking a bummer trip.”  [«]

Chapter Six

I didn’t get any sleep after that. Instead, I sent a link to the “Guided Meditation” video to the Elm Street Irregulars for inspection, then spent the rest of my time reading one of the graphic novels Brother Riley gifted me back when he was still pretending to be my friend. This one was a modern retelling of the Greek legend of Orpheus, except the main character was a gun-toting white Pomeranian whose owner was murdered by a mugger after leaving the opera. The dog builds a portal and travels to the underworld to rescue his late master from the minions of death. “Snowball’s Chance in Hell” was a fascinating exploration of the depths of grief and emotional suffering surrounding the loss of a loved one, even though it took quite a bit of inspiration from the video game Doom (with a generous dose of Air Bud thrown into the mix).

I didn’t leave my room again until it was almost time to go back to work that evening. I shaved my three-day stubble, brushed my teeth, then went to the kitchen to grab a quick bite to eat. I was annoyed to find Wendy already there, sitting cross-legged on a stool at the bar. She had a headset over her ears and a laptop in front of her with several chat windows open over a flashy website about miracle diet pills.

When she noticed me walk in, she perked up and removed her headset.

“Hey, little brother. You making dinner?”

“Grabbing breakfast. Got work soon.”

“Already? But you just got back from work.”

“I know. My job sucks. And if you’re about to steer this conversation into one of those be-your-own-boss speeches, I can save us both the trouble. I’m already my own boss, and I’m terrible at it.”

“I wasn’t trying to recruit you into my downsales team. I was trying to sympathize. I know exactly how miserable it is to be different in this fuckhole of a town. It never made any sense why you of all people stayed.”

I went to the refrigerator to retrieve my leftover mac and cheese, popped the Tupperware container into the microwave, and said, “You know, I tried to get out of town once. It didn’t work out.”

“Why don’t you try again?”

I turned to look at her. She sounded serious. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you come stay with me sometime? At least take a break from this place for a while.”

“Nah, the gas station would fall apart without me.”

“Oh, no! The shittiest business in the shittiest town in the world might go under? Perish the thought! So what? You could literally get a job at any gas station and get paid minimum wage—which, I assume, is more than you’re bringing home now. I know you’re not happy here. So, what gives?”

I tried to think of an answer that made any sense at all. The timer on the microwave went off before I could come up with anything.

“Sorry, I have to eat and run.”

I started for the hallway.

“Where ya goin’?” she asked.

“Gotta wake Jerry so he can give me a ride. It normally takes him a few minutes to boot up.”

“I’ll drive you,” she said.

I studied her face. This wasn’t a joke. She was being serious. She was being nice, even.

“Why are you being nice?” I asked.

“I’ve always been nice to you.”

That wasn’t exactly how I remembered it, but okay, whatever.

◆◆◆

Wendy took the long way through town, slowing the vehicle to stare out at every little shitty landmark. We passed the local bank, with its memorial statue out front of former local celebrity Moomoo, the two-headed cow. We took a left at Señor Frisky’s—the adult toy store that had moved into an empty Taco Bell and adopted the design. We slowed to a crawl in front of the high school, where someone had defaced the “Stay in school, don’t do drugs” sign to read: “Stay in school? Don’t! Do drugs!” (It had actually been that way for a couple years now, but no one could be bothered to fix it.)

“I can’t believe how little has changed,” she said. “And yet, everything feels uglier than I remember.”

This is usually where I try to say something deep about how a community is nothing more than a projection of the people who make it up, but my mind was still lingering somewhere behind the moment. Part of me was still stuck in that treehouse. Wishing that time could stop, go back to the way it was, because for a single moment... life was perfect. When the lag wore off, I realized that Wendy was inviting a response, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “If it makes you feel any better, I have it on good authority that the world will be ending soon.”

“It’s about goddamned time.”

We passed a yellow yard sign. At first, I thought I’d misread what was printed on it, but then we passed another. And another. They all said the same thing. “Vote for Kieffer.” No details. No office he was running for. Just those three words and a period. Short and sweet. Hard to argue with that.

We left the strip of businesses and started downhill, into the forest, away from town. Out here, it was easy to forget that we were still attached to the real world. Nothing but nature and… What the hell? Is that another “Vote for Kieffer” sign tacked to the trees? And another? And another? This guy was going all out.

“What’s the deal with the chemical plant closing anyway?” Wendy asked. Back when we still lived together, our conversations were rarely more than a word or two. She’d come and say “lunch” when it was time to eat or bang on the bathroom door when I went over my allotted three minutes in the shower. It was strange that she was suddenly so talkative.

“Not much to speak of,” I said, shaking the treehouse the rest of the way out of my mind.

“Seems to me like the closure would have killed whatever was left of this place. But rent’s actually up. How is it that our home still hasn’t become a ghost town? Is it pure spite that’s keeping it clinging to life?”

“Your base assumption is wrong. This town isn’t ‘clinging to life.’ No, it died a long time ago. But not every dead place turns into a ghost town. The plant paid out a lot of extremely generous settlement checks. It was this place’s greatest collective wealth increase since that time the armored cash truck got picked up by a twister.”

Wendy laughed. “Oh yeah, I remember Dianna kept us home from school so we could search the gutters for loose bills.”

“People around here are too dumb to save money. Reckless spending leads to a boosted economy. It doesn’t matter if the crops are failing and nobody’s working and we don’t produce anything of value to the outside world. We’re richer than we’ve ever been!”

“I thought you said the town was dead.”

“No, I said the town ‘died.’ But it’s been artificially reanimated, in active decay, yet—against all logic and reason—still kicking. It’s not a ghost town. It’s a zombie town.”

“You’re really smart. You know that?” It almost sounded like a compliment.

“Thanks?” I said, carefully.

“What about you? You’re a business owner, right? You were probably affected by the explosion. Did you get a payout, too?”

“No,” I answered immediately. I didn’t even have to consider whether or not I was going to tell her the truth.

A couple miles down the road, something hit me. “Wait a second, how do you know the rent is up?” She didn’t answer. I watched her try and hide that sneaky grin. What was she planning? Surely, she didn’t want to move back. Right?

Wendy quickly changed the subject. “So, I know you don’t feel like going to the reunion, but maybe we could do something else instead to commemorate the event. I was thinking about throwing the afterparty at our place. You don’t mind, do you?”

With that, a big part of the mystery solved itself. I should have known the only reason Wendy was suddenly being so nice was because she wanted a favor.

“Actually, yeah, I do mind. That sounds like a nightmare come true.”

“Well, too bad! Because I’ve already sent out the invites.”

“Wendy!” I lost my cool. “Why the hell would you do that without checking with me first!?”

Her voice immediately matched and raised. “HEY! It’s my house, too, Jack!”

She had me there. Although, technically, the house still belonged to Sid and Dianna. The situation was complicated. More specifically, the will that Dianna’s parents (our grandparents) left behind was complicated.

Maybe they thought they were being generous, leaving the house to their grandchildren. Or maybe they were just major trolls who hated their own daughter. Without going too far into the details, let’s just say that things got messy, a bunch of lawyers had to step in to sort it out, and some words were used that should never be spoken to children. And now Sid and Dianna reside somewhere far away, all by themselves, living out their golden years and waiting for their chance to sell the house and be rid of the last thing tethering them to this town.

Per the will’s specific intent, any of Sid and Dianna’s children were allowed to stay in the house, rent-free, for as long as we wanted. Sid and Dianna maintained ownership, but couldn’t evict us for any reason. However, if there ever came a time that none of us lived there, Sid and Dianna would be free to cash in.

It was a great deal for me, the last of the children. And probably a royal pain in the neck for my parents. And now Wendy was exploiting the same advantage I’d been using for years. If she wanted to throw a party, if she wanted to move back in, if she wanted to turn one of the rooms into a giant hive filled with murder hornets, I was in no legal or moral position to stop her (just as long as she didn’t try to sublease).

“Fine,” I relented. “We can have the afterparty at the house. I guess I could probably bring some snacks and sodas from the gas station. How many people from our graduating class did you invite, exactly?”

She couldn’t hide her grin anymore. I could feel my stomach sink before I even heard the answer.

“All of them.”

A buzz of adrenaline hummed up my spine.

“You mean, ‘all of them’ all of them?”

She nodded.

“All of them.”

The sun had already set by the time we drove up to the gas station. Wendy didn’t wait to make sure I got inside safely. As soon as the car door was closed behind me, she took off. I didn’t mind. At least this way I wouldn’t have to explain her presence to Rosa, who would undoubtedly have a million and a half questions that would almost certainly delve into my high school years—a section of my life that made up the bulk of my “try-and-forget” memories.

When I walked inside, Rosa was checking out a customer and wearing a yellow hat and a big yellow button over her heart. Both of them read, “Vote for Kieffer.”

Okay, this is getting ridiculous.

“Thanks for stopping by, Mister Crandon. Oh, and please take a button with you!”

Crandon was an older man who I’d seen countless times before. I’d never bothered learning his name. In my head, he was simply “light beer and Tic Tacs guy.” He fished a yellow button out of the box in Rosa’s hands, thanked her, pinned it to his jacket, then took his wares and left. Rosa looked up at me and smiled.

“Oh good!” she said. “You haven’t been arrested or killed.”

“Yeah, but my day is just getting started.” I pointed to the Kieffer swag. “What’s all this?”

“It’s exactly what it looks like. Kieffer[14] came by earlier and asked if we’d be willing to sponsor his campaign. I told him we don’t do sponsoring. But then we got to talking, and you know what? The man is full of really good ideas.”

I didn’t say anything. The look on my face probably said more than enough. “I know!” she continued. “I couldn’t believe it either! But one thing led to another and, well, what can I say? He won me over. Care for a button?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing... “Kieffer”? “Charming”? “Button”?

“No, that’s okay. I don’t think I’ll be getting involved in this one. Kief and I have... history.”

“Yeah, so he said. Maybe you should give him another chance. People change, you know. He’s a lot smarter than I realized. I think he’s going to make a great mayor.”

Ah, so that’s what he’s running for.

I gave Rosa an honest smile. I could see that she genuinely believed what she was saying, and as far as I could tell, there wasn’t any good reason to let her know the truth about Kieffer. I hated the growing mountain of dishonesty between us, but this little secret would rank among the least consequential I was keeping from her.

“Do you know where Benji is?” I asked.

“Out back. Probably in a tree. He does that now.”

“Great. You should go ahead and count down your till. I’ll be right back.”

On my way out the back door, I stopped by the supply closet to grab a ten-pound bag of dog kibble off the dwindling stack. About a month earlier, one of our supply truck drivers was ordered to destroy a pallet of expired Hound-Chow™ brand dog food. I offered him twenty bucks to let me destroy it for him. The pile was getting pretty low, though, and I didn’t know what I was going to do when the food finally ran out.

The back door scraped against concrete as I pushed it open. A quick scan of the perimeter showed no signs of Benji, which I’d learned a long time ago meant absolutely nothing. A few pairs of red dots moved at the tree line. The eyes of curious and angry raccoons, watching from a safe distance. They were no doubt still upset about their sudden and unceremonious eviction from the crawl space beneath the gas station.

I dropped the sack of kibble next to the wall and called out, “Benji? You around here, buddy?” My question was met with silence. “Come on, I need to talk to you about something security-related.”

“What is it, boss?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Benji was right next to me. As soon as my heart left my throat to settle back into my chest, I explained, “I think it might be starting again.”

SHENK!

“Go on,” he said calmly, now holding a knife in either hand.

“I wanted to say something earlier but couldn’t risk Rosa overhearing. Jerry and I encountered something in the woods. Looked like a big red demon monster. Normally I wouldn’t be too worried, but he knew my name and vowed to kill me when I least expected it.”

“How big?”

“Big. Real big. Bigger than you.”

He grunted.

“We managed to talk our way out of it, but I doubt that’s going to work twice.”

“You remember what I taught you about how to fight?”

“I think so.”

Benji had spent weeks trying to teach me how to hold my own against anything I might encounter. He taught me the basics of self-defense (and even a little self-offense to boot). I knew the technical aspects of throwing a punch, and I knew from personal experience how to take one, too. I recited the principles from memory: “Aim past the target, use the whole body, keep one foot forward, lock the wrist.”

“Good, good, now forget all of that. You’re not ready, and if we got demons looking for you, then you ain’t getting’ there in time. From now on, you fight dirty, understand? And nothin’s dirtier than dirt. Pick it up, throw it in your opponent’s eyes. Go for the hair and the squishy bits. And for God’s sake, don’t be afraid to grab another man’s balls. Casual homophobia has killed a lot of otherwise competent fighters.”

The back door scraped open. We turned to see Rosa standing there.

“What are you boys talking about?” she asked in a voice that sounded like a lot more than curiosity. I needed to think of a good lie that she wouldn’t want to follow up on.

Cars? No, she’d never believe that. Anime? No, she’d probably quiz us on our favorites and we’d be busted. Sports? What the hell do I know about sports? I was running out of time. In a split-second decision, I blurted out the next answer that came to mind.

“Boobs.” Dammit brain! Why do you hate me?

She blinked several times. “Did you say, ‘Boobs’?”

“No, I said… ‘Dudes.’ We’re talking about all the dudes we know.”

She took a step forward and said, “Benji, would you go inside and watch the front counter for me?”

He started to move, but I stopped him. “That’s okay. He’s not actually on the clock, and I wouldn’t want to-”

She interrupted with a voice that could have halted a charging rhino. “Benji. Now.”

He looked down at me, gave a shrug, and said, “Sorry, boss. You sign the checks, but she scares me.”

I couldn’t do anything but watch as he walked away. I thought you were supposed to protect me, dude! Rosa stood in silence until the door scraped closed, leaving us all alone together.

“What’s up?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“You tell me.” She closed the distance between us.

“What do you mean?”

“Where were you?”

“When?”

She punched me in the arm, just below the fresh shoulder bruise Benji left. The pain registered somewhere between a paintball bullet and a real bullet.

“OUCH!”

“You’re not the only one Benji’s been giving fighting lessons, you know. Now, you’re going to tell me what’s really going on, because you and Jerry are my friends and I’m tired of getting left behind every time you two go off on some awesome adventure.”

“Listen, it wasn’t some ‘awesome adventure,’ okay? You would have hated it. We got lost in the woods for two days and had to eat bugs to survive.”

She inched closer to me. And closer. We were so close to one another the toes of our shoes were touching. She was looking for something. Evidently, she found it, because she took a half step back and punched me in the exact same spot. This one registered a notch closer to real bullet.

“OUCH! What the hell?!”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“I do!”

She waited a moment, then said, “You wanna know how I know you’re full of it?”

It felt like a trick, but I went through the surprisingly painful motion of a shrug and said, “Sure.”

“You hold your breath when you lie.”

“I do?”

I had no idea. Rosa could have used this information against me for the rest of my life, and I would have just assumed she was a mind-reader. Instead, she gave it away for free so I could figure out a better way to lie. Classic Rosa.

She balled up her fist. I reflexively flinched.

“Let’s try this one more time. Where were you guys?”

I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to show her what fantastic horrors lurked behind the fragile facade she thought of as reality. I did. I really did! But something deep inside started whispering imaginary what-ifs that felt way worse than the what-was, and instead of giving her what she wanted, I doubled down on being a shitty friend.

“Jerry had a relapse.”

She lowered her fist. “A what?”

“Haven’t you noticed how irritable he’s been lately? It’s because he’s been trying to get clean, but he fell off the wagon or whatever the expression is and it wasn’t pretty. That was our mysterious emergency. I checked him into the hospital under a fake name. He’s been on an IV for the last two days. It’s something he’s extremely embarrassed about, so I swore I wouldn’t tell a soul.” (I made sure not to hold my breath.)

Rosa’s eyes got wider than I’d ever seen them. She covered her mouth and blurted out, “Oh my God I’m so sorry I had no idea oh my God I thought he was just acting that way because he was quitting smoking please forgive me is he okay?”

“He’s fine, but like I said, he’s embarrassed, so please don’t mention it to him or anyone else.”

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you. Now, do you mind if I have some time by myself before I clock in? It’s been a crazy couple of days and I just need a few seconds of quiet before I go back into work mode.”

“Of course!” I could see she was confused, but she didn’t make a big deal out of it. She just gave me a hug I absolutely did not deserve, apologized one last time, and went back into the store.

At the edge of the forest, an enormous racoon covered in scars stepped forward and stared at the bag of dog food. Then he looked at me and growled.

“Shut up,” I said.

Rocco darted back into the forest as I took the bell from my back pocket. Tiny and round, it was made to fit on a keychain. A Google search revealed it was a “bear deterrent” for hikers. Someone had left it in our lost-and-found box a few months back, which was about the time I started using it for an alternate purpose. I removed the magnet that was keeping the inner mechanism from bouncing around, then gave the device a vigorous shake.

Jingalingalingaling… (Come and get it.)

An arm reached out from the crawlspace beneath the gas station. Clawed fingers stabbed into the bag of dog food and dragged the sack beneath the building.

14
Kieffer was the mustachioed politician who used to come by the gas station periodically to die a tragic death. In fact, he died so many times that we all got used to it. Turns out, he was a plant-person being regrown in a crop out back by an ancient dark god.
[«]

Chapter Seven

I told Benji to take some time off. He’d been on the clock for way too long, and I was a little worried about what would happen if he didn’t take a break. He tried to fight it, but surrendered once Rosa insisted. After giving the perimeter one last check, he headed out for a restorative hunting session equipped with nothing but his trusty knives.

I counted down Rosa’s till while she put together a sack lunch for Benji. She was, as usual, accurate to the penny. She saw him off, then came back inside to join me.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” she asked, circling behind the counter to grab her purse.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I have a full pot of coffee and the newest instalment in the Velocirampire series (they just revived Draculasaurus Rex). Honestly, as much as I love having Benji around, sometimes he gets a little too paranoid. We went years before he ever showed up. Now he acts like the minute he leaves us alone we’re going to somehow CASPAR VAN DIEN!”

Rosa blinked in confusion as I stepped between her and the register, blocking her from those two gargantuan figures that had somehow appeared on the other side of the counter without making any sound. They were each as tall wide as a fully grown grizzly, with arms like tree trunks and fists like Christmas hams. They kept their faces hidden below cheap rubber clown masks—one happy, one sad. Before I could properly panic, Rosa stepped out from behind me and took the spot by my side. With a friendly smile, she greeted the clown monsters. “Hello! Spooky masks. Can we help you find anything?”

They stood there, stoic and still, wearing their oversized jumpsuits and skin-tight rubber faces, chests heaving with every breath. At least they weren’t armed, I noticed. Not that it would be hard for them to tear someone like me to pieces bare-handed.

After a few blank seconds, Rosa’s cheerfulness gave way to mild annoyance. “Is the circus in town or something?” Still no reaction from either of them.

Rosa crossed her arms, loudly tapped her foot, and asked, “Are you trying to scare us? Because it’s not working.”

The door opened. Someone stepped inside and cleared his throat. I couldn’t see who it was behind the wall of clown, but once he started speaking, the monsters parted like the Red Sea and turned to face him.

“Now, gentlemen, I thought we had an understanding.” The voice was cool, confident, and in control. I couldn’t believe whose mouth it was coming out of. “You can’t go around bothering people. Not in that get-up. If you want to be part of our society, you’ll have to play by the same rules as everyone else.” He walked up to the two giants. “Consider this a friendly reminder, but remember: my patience, like everything else in this world, has its limits. Do not test it.” The clowns looked at one another. The man reached up and patted them each on the shoulder. “That’s your cue to leave.”

Much to my surprise, they did exactly as he said. Each lumbering step felt like a tremor in the foundation. They squeezed through the front door one at a time. But Kieffer didn’t watch them go. He kept his eyes on me. His suit was perfectly tailored to his surprisingly broad frame. There was no tie; his top two shirt buttons were undone, showing off exactly too much of his chest for my comfort. His do was freshly cut and styled like the CEO of a dot com empire. His thick moustache didn’t contain a single hair out of place. My focus hopped back and forth between the inside and outside of the building. The monsters had climbed into that white moving van parked by the pumps. They were leaving without a fight. And Kieffer was standing here looking like Burt Reynolds by way of James Bond. As soon as the clowns had driven away, Kieffer said, “Sorry you had to see that.”

Rosa asked, “Who were they?”

“Nobody you need to concern yourself with, my dear. Just a couple of jokers who thought they were being funny. I’ll have a talk with their father to make sure they know what is and isn’t appropriate behavior. I hope they didn’t give either of you too much grief.”

Rosa answered “Not at all.”

A dimple appeared in Kieffer’s cheek as he flashed Rosa a mouth full of perfect teeth. For a moment, I thought I sensed her swoon. I gave the older man my what the actual fuckiest look and said, “Kieffer.”

“Mr. Townsend.” I don’t even know how my hand ended up in his, but a moment later he was giving it two solid shakes, maintaining a firm grasp, and shooting power eye contact in my direction.

“You’re hired,” I said automatically.

He laughed in a way that invited instant trust. The kind of laugh that could make a hardened criminal confess by accident. I saw right through it, of course. I was a long-time student in the art of faking normalcy, but this guy… this guy was a maestro.

“I wanted to stop by and speak with you, man to man.”

“Oh, is that what we are?” I asked.

He ignored the not-so-subtle jab. “I wanted to invite you to a dinner I’m hosting tomorrow night in the grand hall of Taco de Casa. It’s a gathering for young business owners and entrepreneurs from the community. Given recent events, I believe it’s important that all of the town leaders come together in solidarity and form an action plan for how best to move forward.”

Taco de Casa was the town’s busiest restaurant, the closest thing we had to “fine dining” since the Huddle House burned down, and our town’s default indoor convention center. There had been plenty of fundraisers held there, as well as a handful of gun shows and a couple of weddings. Kieffer no doubt planned this special event to coincide with the ever-popular Taco Tuesday, where you can get three tacos for the price of two, four tacos for the price of three, five tacos for the price of four, and so on (we’re not big on math around here).

Rosa excused herself with a polite, “I’ll let you two talk alone.” She clocked out, then came and whispered into my ear, “We should finish our conversation later.”

On her way out the door, Kieffer said, “By the way, Ms. Vasquez, I looked into that issue we spoke about. I’m happy to report that as soon as I’m mayor, we will be reopening the old library.”

“Oh that’s wonderful news! Did you hear that, Jack? We’re finally going to get a real library! And please, call me Rosa.”

“As you wish, my dear Rosa.”

I didn’t appreciate the way he was being so polite and considerate. At least when people are rude, angry, or belligerent, I know it’s coming from a place of honesty. It’s much harder to know what kindness is supposed to mean.

Rosa bid us goodnight and left. It was just the two of us in the store now. I waited for him to make the first move.

“What a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in.” He paused. I understood it to mean that this was my turn to speak. But I didn’t. If he wanted a conversation, he would need to put in the work. “You can relax, now. The twins aren’t coming back. They never should have come here in the first place. I’ve negotiated a truce with their newest master. We’ve put a stop to our petty feuds because, as you know, an unnamed evil is threatening to destroy us all.”

“Oh, so we’re doing this? Dispelling with the formalities and talking out and open and unprotected? Just raw-dogging the truth for a change?”

“I can only assume from your graphic line of questioning that you’re concerned about third-party listening devices? Let me put your mind at ease.” He took his phone out of his pocket and showed me the screen. A cartoon eyeball was dancing beneath the word “Disrupting.” I don’t know why he thought this visual aid would be of any help. “Oh, are you not familiar with ‘Disrupter’? It’s a marvelous app, developed by individuals much smarter than us. You can speak freely knowing that any attempted voyeurs will hear nothing but the two of us arguing about whether or not Ann from Señor Frisky’s should be allowed at Saturday’s soirée.”

“Am I for or against?”

“You’re taking the stance that women shouldn’t be allowed to own businesses at all.”

“First, that’s messed up. Second, you have to know this isn’t going to work, Kieffer. You can’t just pretend everything’s okay and get everybody to trust you. Someone’s going to figure out what you really are.”

The sound of his joyous laughter bounced off the walls. “Who, Jack? Who’s going to figure out anything? People are dumb! In the five years I’ve been active in politics, not one person—yourself included—has ever stopped to wonder why I don’t have a last name!” I had to hand it to him, he had a good point there. “Given our history, you’re no doubt wondering why I’m not exhibiting the same...” he took a deep breath as he found the word he was looking for, “...behaviors as those who came before me. There is a perfectly logical reason for this. You see, the gestation process of a plantoid creates a massive dose of methyl-”

“Oh my God I don’t care! All I want to know is what you’re doing here now. This is like the beach where Kieffer dolphins come to kill themselves. Why wouldn’t you stay far away?”

“Trust me, Jack. I’d love nothing more than to avoid this skid mark of a building. I still contain every memory from all the proto-Kieffers who came before me. All the Kieffers you and your friends have killed. I’m only here because someone needed to check in and protect the safety of the single most important human being in all of existence.”

I laughed it off. “Come on. I’m not that big of a deal. I mean, sure, I am the guardian of the gas station and all, but it’s not like I’m some kind of chosen one or-”

He recoiled, then interrupted, “No, not you! Jesus, fuck. Of course I’m not talking about you! You idiot.”

“Oh.”

“I was referring to Rosa Vasquez. That woman contains the only spark left of my father, the dark god—the only chance we have of stopping the timeless evil on its way to devour this reality.” He made a face that was somewhere between a smirk and the who-farted look. “Did you really think I was talking about you? God, I’m embarrassed for both of us right now.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’m being honest with you because I need all the help I can get. No harm can befall Rosa. And under no circumstances may she know what power lurks inside of her. The dark god has been lying dormant since the reset, but he has not been idle. He rests now. But with each passing day, his energy grows stronger.”

“Ah. Yeah. Of course,” I said, averting my eyes. I soon noticed that I was, indeed, holding my breath. Rosa was right. My deception game could use a lot of work.

“What?” Kieffer asked.

“Huh? What, what?”

“You’re acting stranger than normal.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Jack, I just negotiated a temporary peace treaty between demigods because the fate of all humanity is at stake. I’m pretty good at reading the room. If there’s something you’re not telling me, perhaps you should reconsider.”

I took a second to weigh the pros and cons of complete honesty. The possibility of the world being destroyed by a pain-feasting super devil was enough to make me crack.

“Okay, so, what would it mean if the dark god wasn’t resting this entire time?”

Kieffer grimaced, then folded his arms. “Are you saying the dark god has awoken?”

“Maybe he woke up for, like, a few minutes once. And then went right back to sleep.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. I knew that gesture. He had a stress headache coming on. Poor guy had no idea how much worse it was about to be.

“Well,” he said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

◆◆◆

It was a couple weeks after the BLaRc. Times were tough for everybody. Jobs were lost. People were missing. Lives were destroyed. We weren’t the only ones facing economic anxiety. I wasn’t even all that surprised when the guy ran into our store with a gun in his hand and a ski mask over his face. Rosa and I were behind the counter. I stepped in front of her, trying to calm the man down. His gun hand was shaking. He stumbled over his words. “Put the bag in the money now!” Clearly, he was new at this.

Soon, his panic took over and made things worse. When it looked like I wasn’t filling the bag quickly enough, he jumped over the counter to help out. But his boot hooked the edge and his body slammed into mine. I fell back, accidentally shoving Rosa into the cigarette case. The next thing I knew, Rosa was hovering in the air and the mugger was screaming, scratching at the floor as a pair of viny tentacles dragged him out the back door.

“Puny mortal! YOU DARE ATTACK ME! Suffer the fury of a dark god, biatch!”

“What the heck are you doing!” I screamed. “It’s only a robber. He’s probably just desperate like everyone else around here. This is why we have insurance! You don’t have to kill the poor bastard.”

“I’m not going to kill him, I’m just going to take off his arms and legs so he can’t hurt us again.”

I could hear the sickening wet thwack of bones and muscles ripping apart from the open door at the end of the hallway, along with the desperate, blood-chilling screams of a man in agony.

“That kills humans!”

“It does? Oh. How long does it normally take to die from something like… Oops. Never mind.”

“‘Oops’? Are you serious, right now?”

“Hang on, hang on. I can still fix this. Just give me a sec.”

A second later, the unconscious naked body of the ski mask mugger slid back into the center of the store, pulled across the floor by a jumble of twisted green vines shaped like arms. Large raised scars formed four matching circles around his limbs like he’d been Elmer-glued back together at the ball-and-socket joints. He jolted awake, looked at me, then at the girl floating next to me with solid white eyes. Next, he looked down at his own naked body, covered in impossible wounds.

“What happened?!” he bellowed. “Oh my God. Is this hell? Am I in hell?!”

“Oh, hey,” I said, trying to sound like this was no reason for him to freak out. “No, you just did a bunch of bath salts and now you’re coming down.”

He jumped up and ran outside to his car and drove away wearing nothing but a ski mask. We never saw him again. I threw his gun into the box with the others.

◆◆◆

“Did he say anything before he left?” Kieffer asked.

“No, I think he was just happy to be alive and desperate to find some clothes.”

“No, not the robber. The dark god! Did he say anything? Did he tell you his plan to stop what’s coming? Did he mention me?”

“No, sorry,” I said. Kieffer suddenly looked like a kicked puppy. “Hey, but I’m sure he had a lot on his mind. He wasn’t able to hang around for long before Rosa woke up with a migraine and no memory of the mugger ever showing up in the first place.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. That was an extreme use of his powers. Earth bending. Memory displacement. Necromancy. He needed to get back to the void and recharge his batteries. As long as that’s the only time this happened, I’m sure-”

“Ohhh,” I interrupted. “You’re going to hate me, but that wasn’t the only time he came back.”

◆◆◆

“Scare it this way!” Jerry yelled. He was wrapped in a suit of armor made out of duct tape and bags of potato chips.[15] Rosa stood at the front of the store, holding the door open. I was crouched at the back with my ear to the dirty ground, looking into the wet eyes of something furry that had pushed itself against the wall below the hot dog roller and made a new home.

According to Rosa, there was an “abnormally huge mouse” trapped down there. She’d seen it only briefly at the start of her shift and called me and Jerry to help her catch it when her trail-of-cookies-out-the-door idea didn’t pan out. It was hard to tell exactly what kind of animal I was looking at. My worst fear was that it might be another stubborn racoon trying to claim squatter’s rights. Jerry theorized it was a baby Chupacabra. Turns out, all three of us were wrong. It was something much worse.

My first idea of banging the hotdog roller with a baseball bat proved insufficient to drive the creature out. My second strategy was a bit more extreme. I took Jerry’s super soaker, emptied out the orange soda and refilled it with water, then blasted a high-pressure stream into the animal’s hiding space. The skunk came barreling out teeth first, squealing with anger and hate.

Jerry exclaimed, “Oh shit it’s a fart squirrel run!”

We all went in different directions, yet somehow still collided into each other and fell into a heap on the floor. The skunk found us, flipped over onto its front two legs, and aimed its own super soaker at our faces. We screamed.

Suddenly, the skunk was hovering in midair. Rosa lifted off the ground and floated into the air next to it. The animal chittered and kicked and tried to get away, but after a few seconds it relaxed and accepted what was happening. Rosa drifted closer. She reached out and took the animal into her arms. She ran her fingers through its fur, then grabbed its head tightly and snapped its neck.

“Ta da! Look who saved the day again!”

Jerry got to his feet, pointed at the dark god, and yelled, “Hey! Bring it back!”

“What?”

“He’s right,” I said. “Rosa’s gonna be pissed that you killed the skunk.”

“Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to reverse the forces of death?”

“I don’t care!” Jerry exclaimed. “Fix it!”

“Look, why don’t I just erase her memory? She’ll never even have to know.”

“We’ll know,” I said solemnly. “We’ll. Know.”

“Fine. I’ll bring it back. But before I do, we need to talk.”

“Oh shit,” said Jerry. “Are you breaking up with us?”

“Waking up in the middle of battle isn’t working for me. I have no idea what’s going on. A little head start can go a long way, you know.”

“I’m not sure what you expect us to do,” I said. “We can’t just knock Rosa out when we think a fight is coming.”

“How about we work out a summoning ritual so you can let me know when to tag in before things go nuts, huh?  It can be as simple as a word or phrase.”

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“My safe word is spaghetti,” explained Jerry. “So, that’s right out.” He put on his thinking face, rubbed his chin, and asked, “What’s ‘catch these hands’ in Latin?”

We checked with Google. And thus, “Manus Capere” became the new trigger phrase to turn off Rosa and turn on the dark god, should the occasion ever warrant it.

“Let it be so!” In an instant, the skunk regained consciousness and began spraying a stream of hot stink-liquid all over the place before the dark god telekinetically hurled it out the front door.

“Thanks,” I said. “Hey, one more thing before you go. Would you mind using your Disney princess powers to help us clean this up?”

“I’m not your personal genie.”

“Please?”

He sighed. Moments later, the room was filled with flowery vines scrubbing the walls and floors. It was the cleanest the building had been in recent memory. When the dark god finally left, he took his vines and the last thirty minutes of Rosa’s memory with him.

◆◆◆

Kieffer didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at me, like he was secretly hoping I was going to follow up the story with “April Fools!” I offered him a supportive smile. He turned, walked over to the coffee station, poured himself a cup, then took a seat at the booth table. I left my post and took the seat opposite him.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“He used his powers to bring a rodent back to life? And then again to…” He took a deep breath, like he was willing himself to finish the thought. “...clean?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.” I’m sure it was all in my head, but as he spoke, it looked like his moustache was drooping into the top half of a double-decker frown. “And he didn’t say anything about me? This doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

“I woke up three months ago, lost, scared, alone in the woods. I called out, but I couldn’t hear him. I had no one to tell me where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do. I wandered naked for three days, eating grubs and mushrooms and drinking rainwater until I stumbled into the Mathmetist compound. That’s where I found the others. Like me, they were on the wrong side of the veil when the reset started. That’s when I realized what must have happened. It was so easy for the dark god to add a few extra cards to the deck while it was being reshuffled. But why? Why would he bring me back? Why did he raise the Mathmetists if he’s just going to ignore us completely? What is his plan?”

“Maybe there is no plan. Maybe he’s White Fanging you. Maybe he wants you to just live your own lives without him.” Another theory struck me. One so good I had to lean forward for dramatic effect. If I wore sunglasses, this is where I would have pulled them off. “Hell, maybe he doesn’t even know you’re alive because he’s not the one who brought you back!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Kieffer shouted. “Of course he’s the one who brought us back to life! Who else could do something like that?”

“I don’t know. How about the guardian? You know, the one who rewrote reality?”

He let out a joyless snicker. “You don’t get how it works, do you? The only thing the reset did was change people’s memories. Everything else stayed exactly the way it was before.”

I thought about this for a moment. If what he said was true, then that meant there were a lot of people at Rosa’s apartment complex with extremely incriminating cell phone footage of me and Jerry carrying an unconscious, bloody woman to our car. I sure hope that never comes back to bite me in the ass.

“Hey, if it’s really bothering you,” I said, “we could just give you a call the next time we have to Manus Capere Rosa.”

“Are you insane?! You shouldn’t even be saying those words out loud! The ritual should be forbidden from your language! Do you not realize that every time you summon the dark lord, it drains him of the magic we’re going to need to stop the unnamed evil?!”

“Obviously, I did not.”

He sighed. “It’s okay. We can still make this work. As long as that’s the last time you-” He stopped speaking, cocked his head, and studied my face. I had to give him credit. He was very good at reading the room. “Dammit, Jack! Tell me what else happened.”

◆◆◆

It was a few weeks after the skunkening when Jerry and I showed up at the gas station to find Rosa in tears.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Who do we have to kill?” Jerry added.

She pulled herself together enough to tell us it was no big deal and she was really embarrassed and we should just forget about the whole thing. But we pushed it until she broke and told us the truth. She had accidentally stepped on a lizard on her way back from taking out the garbage and despite her best efforts to resuscitate it, the little guy didn’t make it.

There was silence for a few seconds. And then-

“Manos Despacito!” Jerry screamed.

We both looked at him the way one would normally look at somebody who had just screamed pure gibberish. I asked, “Are you trying to say ‘Manus Capere’?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, Rosa’s eyes rolled back in her head. She lifted into the air several feet, spread out her arms, and boomed, “Behold and tremble before the might of a dark god!”

“Hey, Shushers,” Jerry said.

“Why hast thou summoned me?”

“Can you revive a lizard and erase the last two minutes of Rosa’s memories, please?”

◆◆◆

After Jerry’s Despacito faux pas, he wrote the words “Manus Capere” on a yellow post-it and stuffed it under the cash register in case he ever forgot the trigger phrase. Thankfully, I was still in the building a few weeks later when Rosa decided to do a little deep-cleaning.

“Hey Jack,” she said, holding the post-it in front of her. “Is this the Wi-Fi password or something? What is, ‘Manus Caper-’-Who dares wake me from my slumber?!”

This was already awkward. The fact that Old Bob was in the store at the time made it even more awkward. As I rang up his boiled peanuts, I explained that this was just part of a magic act routine that Rosa and I were putting together, but I could tell he didn’t really care.

◆◆◆

Kieffer sipped his coffee, then took a very deep breath. “Is that it?”

“Well, that’s all that I’m aware of. There’s a decent chance Jerry may have summoned him once or twice without my knowledge.”

He pushed his empty coffee cup to the edge of the table, took a napkin from the dispenser, and dabbed his moustache dry. “Have you noticed, by chance, the sudden decrease in ‘visitors’ around here? This place has always been where the membrane separating our world from the others is the thinnest. But now, doors are slamming shut. Bridges are burning. Walls are being reinforced. Every entity with a modicum of intelligence is putting distance between their universe and ours, and do you know why? Because they know what’s coming. A war that, right now, we have very little hope of winning. This is bad. But it is what it is. The dark god will need to fight, whether he has his rest or not.”

“Do you think that maybe you’re worrying too much? I mean, the Big Bad isn’t here yet. There’s still time to come up with another plan.”

“Oh! I didn’t tell you the best part. I’ve been working with an old associate of yours. An individual who goes by the name of Roger. Together, we’ve been able to decipher the prophecies. We now know the exact date of the evil’s unholy arrival. When the blood harvest moon eclipses the constellation of Coyolxauhqui, the god of pain and suffering will begin the harvest.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain that I have no idea what that means, right?”

“There’s no point in sugar-coating a shit sandwich,” he said. “The world is destined to end this Friday, and we have no idea how to stop it.”

15
It totally made sense at the time.
[«]

Chapter Eight

The fact that the world was scheduled to end the night of my high-school reunion did not escape my notice. Sure, it may have been nothing but a huge coincidence, but there was a small chance it meant that the god of unfathomable pain was part of my graduating class. Very little surprises me these days.

I had no reason to doubt Kieffer’s words. After all, he was right about one thing: I hadn’t had any special guests wander into the gas station since the BLaRc. No fortunetelling monsters, shapeshifting salesmen, Fox Ladies, or killer snowmen. Even my encounter with the socks-and-sandals demon felt like a fluke incident, one that could have been avoided if I hadn’t gone looking for supernatural assistance at The Shop.

Of course, the argument could be made that everything I’d seen up until now was merely a trick of the mind, and the slump in other-than-natural visitors was a direct result of my new semi-regular sleep schedule. But I was neither naive nor optimistic enough to believe that.

The rest of my night was quiet. Before the sun rose on another day, Benji showed up for the start of his shift wearing a brand-new deerskin coat.

“Hey, bud,” I said.

“Morning, boss.”

Now that we had the mandatory pleasantries out of the way, I handed over the keys to the safe, fixed myself a coffee, and took a seat at the booth table to wait for Jerry to show up and give me a ride home. I wasn’t there long before Benji slammed down into the spot across from me. He didn’t say anything. He just stared and waited.

When the discomfort of the silence finally outweighed the potential discomfort of a real conversation, I broke and said, “That sure is a lot of blood on your shirt.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

“I am so glad you and I are on the same side.”

He grunted. I took that to mean something along the lines of, “Me, too.”

“Things sure are quiet around here.”

He grunted again. Probably something like, “Yep. A little too quiet.”

I stared out the window. The haze of dawn was filling the air. Another night down the drain. Another step closer to Friday.

“What would you do if you knew the world was coming to an end in a matter of days?”

His answer was immediate and straightforward. “Same thing I’m doing now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty satisfied. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m thirsty, I drink. When I’m bored, I hunt. I call this a life well spent, and when it’s my turn to go, I’ll accept that I had it better than most people in history.”

“There’s not anything more you wanted out of this life?”

“No. Why would I?” As he spoke, he pulled out one of his knives, placed the point onto the booth table, and casually scratched a small hole into the wood. “The way I see it, humanity evolved to exist as a society or not all. And society evolved to encourage the never-ending pursuit of something better. Humans are programmed from birth to push themselves way beyond what’s necessary. Self-care is demonized, except where utterly necessary for the survival of the working stock. Everyone is struggling to make it to the next step, looking forward to that moment when life is going to finally get a little better, and only then will we be allowed to relax. But there is no plateau. It’s a steady incline until death. There’s more than enough food to feed everyone, but the system is designed to keep us hungry. When was the last time you heard of a billionaire retiring? They don’t do it. They work until they die, just like everyone else. Society demands we overproduce. Without that, society crumbles. Without society, humanity crumbles. And then, we’re just a bunch of animals foraging by ourselves in the wild. I saw the bullshit of the big picture and opted to skip straight to the end... Did you know lions sleep for twenty hours a day?”

“I did not. Lazy bastards.”

“If you were to tell a lion that the world was ending, what do you think it would say? Do you think it would feel inspired to finally chase its dreams? Or would it just eat you and go right back to sleep?” He pulled his blade tip out of the table and blew the shavings away.

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too jaded. “That was very insightful.”

Benji pulled his hand back and quickly swung it down like he was dropping a hammer. The blade left his fingers and whizzed past my face. Just like that, I didn’t need my coffee anymore. I heard three sounds all at the same time. The thwump of the knife landing in something. A squee like a chew toy being crushed by a steamroller. And a short but victorious cry of laughter from Benji.

“What the hell was that?!”

Benji took to his feet and went to retrieve his weapon. After checking to make sure my ear was still attached, I turned in my seat to find that the knife had punctured a large rat and pinned it to the wall below the drink case. Benji pulled the skewered rodent free and crushed its skull beneath his boot.

“Don’t tell Rosa,” he said, wiping the blade clean on his pants. “She gets mad when I do that.”

“You know, Benji, you are one scary motherfucker.”

I could see that Jerry was squirming. We were halfway home and he’d barely said a word. He didn’t even try singing along to Louis. He hadn’t been himself since I told him about what I did to Deacon.

“You didn’t buy into Wendy’s pyramid scheme, did you?”

“No, not yet. But let’s face it. It’s only a matter of time. Hey, I know you hate lazy segues, but… can we talk about something?”

Here it comes.

“Is this about the turtle story?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to hide my embarrassment behind a sigh. “Look, it was a one-time thing, and I’ve replayed the scenario in my head over and over. I’m not sorry for what I did to that jerk. He was a bully, and he got what he deserved.”

“Yeah, totally. That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh. What’s up?”

“You said something weird last night when you were telling the story. You said…” He paused, like he wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. That wasn’t like him. He had my complete and undivided attention now. “...Sabine was there.”

The reminder sent a fresh chill down my spine. “So?” I asked. “What does that matter to you? Why is that significant?”

“Well, I’m only bringing it up now because you don’t normally talk about her. And whenever you do, I take note. I’m a little confused because you told me Sabine was homeschooled.”

“She was. What’s your point?”

He took both hands off the steering wheel to flip his palms up into the universal gesture of begging. He steered with his knee while elaborating, “Well, if she was homeschooled, then what was she doing there at the high school to see you get pantsed?”

I couldn’t believe he needed me to explain it to him. I mean, it’s not like it was complicated. “Sabine was at the school because-”

I suddenly felt like I’d stumbled into an open grave. The footing I expected was not there. And who the hell put this void in its place? I may have been a hair too cavalier heading into this sentence, and Jerry was still waiting for me to finish it, but there were no words here because there were no thoughts here because I genuinely didn’t know what I was going to say because why was Sabine at my high school that day?

“Because… ?” he prodded.

“Hey, watch the road, would ya?”

He put his hands back on the steering wheel. My mind raced. What was Sabine doing at my high school? That wasn’t even the weirdest part. I said it myself; I’d replayed the scenario in my head over and over again, yet the fact that Sabine was in a place she shouldn’t have been had never struck me as odd before now. How was that even possible?

“Is everything okay, dude?”

There was only one explanation. I was remembering it wrong. Sabine was not there when I got pantsed. She didn’t see me rage out on a bully. I must have told her about it after the fact, then retroactively transferred her reaction—the look in her eyes, that sadness—into the old location. Sure. That made sense. No big deal.

But the details were all there. I remembered, Sabine was wearing her green Daria-inspired jacket, which she never wore outside because it got dirty too easily. And she was going through her black-hair-purple-eyeliner phase. The memory was so crisp. So specific. How could I have made all of that up?

“Yeah. I need to get home and get into bed. I just need some sleep.”

I didn’t want to acknowledge the elephant in the room, because on some level I’d already worked out what it could have meant. But I wouldn’t be able to avoid it forever... This was the second time in less than a day when a memory of Sabine felt... corrupted.

I just needed some sleep.

“This part never happened.”

I just needed some goddamned sleep.

I opened my eyes. The spiderweb in the corner had a few more webby lumps in it now. My pet arachnid had been busy. Good for him. I checked my phone. Two whole hours. Jesus. I must have been exhausted. Maybe I can try for a third? My cell phone went off. I checked the caller ID, but it was a number I didn’t recognize. If it was important, they’d leave a message. Now, where was I? The doorbell rang. Dammit! That was all, folks. The sleep train had reached its final destination for the evening.

I had just reached my crutch when Wendy opened the bedroom door (without knocking) and leaned inside. “Hey,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“Did you do something?”

“You need to be more specific.”

“Did you do something illegal?”

“You need to be more specific.”

“Did you do something illegal recently that would get you in trouble with the police?”

“Wendy, read my lips: you need to be a lot more specific.”

She shoved the door open the rest of the way and said, “Cops are here for you. I told them they can’t come inside without a warrant, then I invoked the fifth.”

“Great. Thank you.”

I slipped on my comfiest house shoe, then made my way to the front door. Not surprisingly, Wendy had exaggerated the severity of the situation. There weren’t plural officers standing at my doorstep. Just the one. Although she did look annoyed enough for several.

“Hey, O’Brien.”

“It’s ‘Sheriff’ O’Brien.”

That actually hurt. I could understand backsliding so far that we were no longer on a first name basis, but now we weren’t even on a last name basis? I put on a friendly voice and said, “What can I do for you, S.O.B.? Oh, actually, you know what? Now that I said it out loud, I hear how it sounds. I’m just gonna call you ‘Sheriff.’”

“I wanted us to have a conversation. In private. Off the record. I think there’s something you want to tell me, but every time I show up, you’re surrounded by this crack team of legal experts. Grizzly Adams at the gas station wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise. Now your girlfriend is pulling the right to remain silent. All I want to do is talk.”

I pointed behind me with my thumb. “Oh, that’s not my girlfriend. That’s just Wendy.”

“If you’d cruised past my point any closer, it might have hit you in the face.”

“I just didn’t want you to think there was anything going on between me and her.”

“Let me be completely crystal clear: I don’t care.”

“Great. I don’t care who you’re dating either.”

“Fantastic.”

“Well, I’m glad we had this talk, Sheriff.”

“Can we go for a ride? There’s something I want to show you.” She gestured at the cruiser parked behind Wendy’s Toyota.

A few months ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Even accounting for her speeding like a lunatic and blowing through redlights, the inside of O’Brien’s car used to be the safest place in town. But things had changed. This wasn’t necessarily the same person who helped me dispose of a dead body once upon a time. This was the sheriff of a town where nothing made sense. Was there even anything left of my old friend in there? I didn’t know.

But I intended to find out.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me go put on my leg.”

Ten minutes later, I was back on the road, headed to destination unknown. My experience led me to think our car ride would be a quiet one. I wasn’t prepared for how talkative O’Brien was. On some level, I understood that this was just a low-key interrogation disguised as friendly banter, but I didn’t really care. I had my own ulterior motive. I was going to make her remember what it was like before all this. Before the showdown at the old school. Before a cosmic deity rewrote reality as we knew it. If Jerry’s memories could come back, maybe hers could too.

“How’s business down there at the gas station?”

“It’s riding that perfect balance of too many customers and not enough sales. How’s sheriffing?”

“Never a dull day.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“No, not really. How long have you known Spencer Middleton?”

“Since grade school, I guess.”

“Were you two close?”

“Not when I could avoid it.”

“You sounded pretty certain he was still alive. Why is that?”

“Well, he survived everything else we threw at him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, cutting open his throat, shooting him in the stomach, beating him in the face with a shovel.” I could tell she was trying to keep her cool. After all, this probably sounded an awful lot like a prelude to a confession. Probably because I planned it that way. I needed to be careful, though. Knowing her, there was a very good chance she was recording our whole conversation.

“You and he have quite a history, I gather.”

“You should know. You were there. You’re the one who shot him in the back with a taser the night he killed Vanessa.” And just like that, any recording of this confession became useless.

“I’m not in the mood for make-believe, smart-ass. There’s a murderer on the loose. If you know anything, you’d better start talking before I get pissed off.”

“Okay, sure. Here’s what I know: I know you haven’t been back to the plant since the explosion. I know you’re secretly as big of a nerd as I am. I know that you know that something’s not quite right in our town.”

This was really happening. I was engaged in a game of wits with Amelia O’Brien. Would she take the bait? Would I be found as a worthy adversary? Was I going to be the Hannibal to her Clarice (or, let’s face it, the Clarice to her Hannibal)?

“How did you know I haven’t been back to the plant?”

Hurray! She’s playing along! And for now, I have the upper hand.

“It’s simple. Nobody’s been to the plant because there is no plant. There never was.”

We drove along in silence for a few more seconds. I waited for her to ask her follow-up question. But it never came. She just stared forward. Whatever she was thinking, she was keeping it to herself. I decided to push on. “Do you remember in the Deathly Hallows when Hermione cast obliviate on her parents?”

“I’ve never read Harry Potter.”

“Sure you have, nerd.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Brother Riley?”

Just when I felt like I was getting somewhere, she threw me a curveball. I tried to get us back on the right track. “I guess it was shortly after he knocked you out and confessed to being an evil demigod.”

“Uh huh. Can you explain why security footage from the ATM at New Pages shows you at the scene the day Brother Riley was killed?”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. I know because you hold your breath when you’re lying.”

I didn’t know if that was actually true or not, but it tripped me up when Rosa tried it. Maybe it would work on O’Brien too. Unless she called my bluff about calling her bluff. Or what if she bluffed about that, too? Damn. Maybe I’m not smart enough for this.

She clenched her teeth. “So, to be clear, the reason you know there isn’t any ATM footage of you at the scene of a murder is because I’m holding my breath, and not because you weren’t at the scene of the murder?”

The game of wits was going poorly for both of us, but I had one last trick up my sleeve. If this didn’t work, I was all out of ideas.

“Are you still having those nightmares about Sagoth[16]?”

It wasn’t much, but that flash of surprise on her face was enough to answer my question. She had seen the demon’s true form, and no amount of memory cleansing could get that stain off her subconscious. I knew, because I’d seen it, too.

She hit the lights and siren as we blew through a redlight. When she turned them off again a moment later, she didn’t say another word. It appeared that we were done talking for now.

I turned and looked out my window, trying to figure out where we were going. I soon realized I had no idea where we even were. Most of the backroads of our town look practically identical—trees, ditches, litter, roadkill. But this area was different, in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. And somehow, I knew I’d never taken this exact path before.

The cruiser slowed into a four-way stop. By an incredibly inconvenient coincidence, we got there at the same time as two others. The vehicle to our right wasn’t anything remarkable, some flashy sports-car from yesteryear. An old-timey gas guzzler built for style over comfort. The vehicle to our left, though, caused me to lean forward and stare.

It was a hearse.

Could this be the fox lady, that reaper of souls who used to frequent the gas station? I thought we’d seen the last of her, but why else would a funeral car be idling at an intersection way out here? Maybe the BLaRc got to her, too. Maybe she forgot what she was supposed to be doing, and now she roams the forest, looking for purpose. As I speculated, my attention drifted back to the right, where something was moving in my peripheral vision.

The back window of the sports-car rolled down. I looked, and made eye contact with the man sitting in the back seat. My blood went cold.

He had two black eyes, a bruise over his cheek, a fresh cut over his brow, and generally looked like he’d been thrown down a couple of cliffs. But still, there was no possible way for me to miss the fact that I was looking at myself… The surprise on his face… on my face… was real, and coming from both directions. He was a perfect clone of me, except he looked at least ten years older, dressed like he’d just come off the set of Happy Days—a collared shirt below an ugly sweater vest and dinner jacket. The sports-car rolled forward. As the double passed in front of us, he raised his right hand, as if to wave goodbye. The palm was bright red, like it had been recently burned on an iron.

I waved back at myself. Thoughts racing through my head. What does this mean? Are the mimics back? Does that mimic think he’s me? Oh shit, what if that is me, and I’m actually the mimic?!

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, I saw the other vehicle. Hearse and sports-car passed in front of us at the same time. Once the hearse reached the other side of the intersection, it came to a stop. The back door swung open to reveal a man crouched in the back, dressed in all black, with a bandage taped over his nose and another wrapped around his right hand. The look in his eyes was the same, though—utter confusion as he stared into his own eyes.

I waved at this second doppelganger. He waved back. We drove forward, through the crossroads, and continued on our way like nothing ever happened. Three Jacks in one place at the same time. One an old man. One hanging out in the back of a death cab. If that’s not an omen, I don’t know what is.

“Hey, Nyquil!”

I sat up straight fast enough to pull a muscle in my neck.

“What?” I asked.

O’Brien looked at me from the driver’s seat.

“You okay?”

I looked out the window and saw some familiar buildings. Now that I had my bearings, I didn’t feel so lost.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You dozed off for a second there.”

“Really? Oh, thank God!”

It didn’t take much longer before we reached our destination. We parked in front of the spooky old three-story Victorian next to the cemetery at the center of town.

“You know where we are?” she asked.

I nodded my affirmation. Everybody knew this place. Nearly everyone in town had been inside at some point. It was a
staple of the community—the town’s one and only funeral home.

16
Sagoth was a torture demon who harassed us all one snowy night. I eventually killed him all by myself when nobody was watching.
[«]

Chapter Nine

She stepped out of the car. I followed. “Why are we here?” I asked.

“Like I said, I need to show you something.”

“Not to be pedantic, but I’m pretty sure you only said you ‘want’ to show me something.”

“In this case, both are true.”

What could O’Brien possibly need to show me here? My imagination was shooting blanks. Is she planning to kill me and this is the easiest place to hide my body? Doubtful, but not impossible. Is this building secretly the base of operations for a covert anti-supernatural task force that I was finally being inducted into? Also doubtful, but also not impossible. The truth would probably fall somewhere between those guesses. I tried not to get my hopes up.

Not surprisingly, she reached the front door before me. What was surprising, though, was how it didn’t open when she pulled the handle. Also surprising: how she looked around, then tried a window by the rose bushes. I have to wonder what her next plan would have been if the windows were all locked—if she would have smashed the glass or shot the locks off the door—but fortunately it didn’t come to that. She pushed the window open and climbed through without a moment’s hesitation. A few seconds later, she opened the door from the inside.

“Coming in?” she asked (like I had any choice).

It was uncomfortably warm. The lobby smelled like cinnamon candy and mothballs. The muffled sound of recorded organ music wafted in from the other side of the doors to the chapel.

O’Brien went for the corner, pulled open an inconspicuous door labeled “off limits,” and started down a steep staircase. She forgot to tell me to follow her, but the command was implied.

I found her at the bottom, standing in an enormous industrial basement. The place looked like a cross between a hospital storage facility and a torture dungeon (although admittedly, I only had first-hand experience with one of those things). Shelves full of medical supplies. Tiled floors sloped ever so slightly towards drain holes. Various bladed instruments set on a drying rack by a large sink. A tall metal table on wheels—slightly too big to be a cutting board, slightly too small to be a beer-pong table. On the wall to my right were six small doors (two rows of three) that, at first glance, appeared to be ovens. But who could possibly need that many ovens? How many people were they trying to feed at a funeral home?

OH! The realization hit me all at once. This is a morgue! And those doors lead to where they keep all the…

O’Brien walked up to the wall of doors and reached for the one on the lower center. As her fingers grasped the handle, I shouted, “Wait!”

She looked back at me and raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Lionheart? Haven’t you ever seen a dead body before?”

“I don’t think we should be down here. We might get into trouble for this.”

“I’m the sheriff. Remember?”

She pulled the handle and opened the door wide. With her eyes locked on me, she rolled out the rack. It didn’t take a genius to know whose body was underneath the sheet.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“You made it out like there was no possible way he was dead. I want to believe you, but if you’re correct, that means we’ve got a different victim on our hands. Can’t properly conduct a murder investigation when we don’t even know who’s been murdered. So, why don’t you clear one thing up for us? Is this, or is this not, the body of Spencer Middleton?”

She pulled the sheet back further than necessary. More than enough to show his face. I assume she wanted to make sure I saw the graphic hole right there over his heart. A bright red slash ran up the center of his torso, bisected above the bullet wound, and stretched towards his collar bones—a fresh Y incision that hadn’t yet been stitched back up. Two things were immediately certain. This was definitely Spencer, and he was definitely dead. Still, I couldn’t help but reach out and poke him on the forehead to see if we would react. (He didn’t.)

“That’s enough.” O’Brien threw the cover back over his face. “Preliminary autopsy report suggests that Middleton died instantly. Gunshot. Point blank range. No defensive wounds.”

I finished her thought. “So, either he knew his killer, or they got the jump on him.”

“We were able to calculate the approximate height of the shooter. Looks like he was quite a bit smaller than Spencer. Maybe he knew a gun was the only way he could win in a fight. The lab is looking at the bullet to determine if there’s a match.”

“A match for what?”

“For the one that killed Brother Riley.”

I spoke without thinking. “Don’t bother. It’s not.”

She pounced before I noticed my mistake. “How exactly do you know that?” Whoops.

This was all starting to make sense. She brought me here to test me, to see my reaction, and right now my reaction looked suspicious as hell. I tried to keep it together. But O’Brien was smart, and my heart was beating in my chest so hard she could probably hear it over the sound of that insane laughter.

Wait, who the hell is laughing?

I looked at the body under the sheet. It was silent. Everything was silent. Until-

RING RING RING!

I jumped. O’Brien took out her phone, checked the caller ID, and sighed with disgust. She let it ring in her hand a couple more times before finally answering. She turned away from me and lowered her voice to say, “Now’s a bad time. I’m in the middle of something.”

I tried to give her some privacy, but in this tiny room, there wasn’t much I could do. I looked around. On the wall opposite the bodies, there were two doors. One read, “Crem. Auth Pers Only!” The other simply read, “KEEP OUT.” The first was obviously the crematorium. So, what was behind door number two?

“Now?!” O’Brien spat. “You’re serious?”

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Hang on a sec,” she said into the phone. Then she turned her attention to Spencer. As she pushed his body back into storage, she said, “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

She put the phone back to her ear and turned away to finish her conversation. “Fine. I’ll do it. But after this, we’re even.” She pocketed the phone, turned back to me, and apologized. “Sorry, Looney Tunes. But I’ve got to run and do something for work. It should only take a few minutes.”

“I understand,” I said with a nod. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“You’re not coming.”

She was already halfway up the steps by the time I got out the word “What?”

“Why don’t you go hang out in the chapel until I get back? Say some prayers or take a nap or something.”

“But I don’t do either of those things!” She stepped into the lobby. I was practically chasing after her. “Can’t I just come with you? It could be like that time we did the ride along!”

She stopped at the front door, then turned and looked at me. “Ride along?”

“Yeah, you remember, right? We ate at Marilyn’s? There was a mutilated glow-in-the-dark cow? The sheriff cried? And there were those guys from the government-”

Her eyes narrowed, then widened. She was looking in my direction, but focusing on something else far away. Finally, the words escaped her lips, “Agent Brick Roscoe?”

If I could have jumped for joy, I would have. “So you do remember?”

She shook her head, reapplied her scowl, and said, “Stay here until I get back. And for God’s sake, don’t touch anything!”

I waited until the door closed behind her, then went straight back to the morgue.

I needed to know what kind of trick Spencer was really pulling here. I rolled the corpse out of storage and folded back the sheet enough to look him in his stupid face. His eyes were closed. His body was completely motionless. If this was a fake, it was a damned good one. But I knew better than most people how easy it was for certain powers in town to produce replications of humans when necessary. I ran my finger across the raised strip of scar tissue that formed a jagged line across his throat. It felt hard to the touch. Hard and warm. Wait. Why is it warm? My generous experience with dead bodies told me that this was wrong. Nothing about him should be warm. I put my open palm against his forehead. Either this corpse had a fever, or…

I threw the blanket back over his face and took a step away. Time to go call O’Brien and give her the world’s most satisfying “I told you so.” I should have known he’d be willing to go this far, to fake his own death (again), to hang out inside of a refrigerator butt-naked for hours on end, to actually let someone cut open his chest and perform an autopsy. Hang on. That’s not right. No, no... I literally saw inside of this guy’s bullet hole. There was no way he was faking.

“You’re still cracking up.” The voice was coming from under the sheet.

“No, I’m not.” I don’t think I was fooling anyone, but hey, worth a shot.

“Why don’t you just embrace it already?”

I took another step back and watched in horror as the body under the sheet sat up. The cover fell off of Spencer’s upper half. He turned his head slowly. A wicked grin spread across his face as his milky-white eyes landed on me. “Hey Jack. Ya miss me?” He lowered his gaze towards his chest, pushed a finger inside the hole over his heart, and pulled it out. “No. I guess you didn’t. Good shooting, champ. Proud of you.”

He jumped off the slab, letting the sheet fall to the floor, then took a step towards me. The folds of skin around his autopsy wound began to peel away like a wet sticker, showing a red, meaty slit full of organs and seeping viscera. I stepped back again. He stepped forward. I stepped back.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” I asked. He stepped forward. I stepped back.

“How can I be dead-” I stepped back. “-if you won’t let me die?” He stepped forward. Our all-too-familiar dance.

“Look dude, I’m sorry you got shot, but I didn’t have anything to do with it this time around.” He stepped forward. My back collided with a counter. I turned and searched my immediate surroundings for something, anything, to defend myself with. A glass jar full of what looked like Q-tips was within my immediate reach. Lucky for me, Spencer was completely naked. (Yes, I know how that sounds. It was lucky because it meant he wasn’t wearing any protective footwear.) I grabbed and smashed the jar onto the tile floor between us. He looked down at his feet, then took another step, right on top of the shards of glass without a hint of pain.

Well, that didn’t work. Time for a new plan. What else is here?

I grabbed a drawer and yanked it open. EUREKA! Inside were various instruments of the stabbing and cutting variety. Scissors? Nah. Bone saw? Nah. I picked out something that looked like an oversized scalpel and aimed it at the reanimated corpse. “Stay back!” I commanded. “I know how to use this!”

Spencer laughed, then snatched the weapon out of my hand like a seagull stealing a hotdog. “Thanks,” he said. “Now let me show you what it feels like.”

I put up my hands in a flawed defensive pose. “Wait, you don’t have to-”

He struck like a scorpion. It was too fast for me to react. By the time I saw it coming, he’d already sliced open my right palm. The blade went deep. Blood sprayed. I yelped and fell to the ground, hugging my balled-up fist to my chest, trying to keep my fingers pressed tightly over the wound, but blood poured out all the same. I one-arm-army-crawled for the stairs while Spencer laughed and walked along next to me.

“It isn’t like sleeping at all. That’s the big lie they tell you about being dead. No, the truth is that you experience everything. The cold table on your back. The knife cutting you open. The jokes they tell each other when they think you can’t hear. It’s humiliating. It’s painful. And all you can do is lie there and take it.” He bent down, wrapped his fingers in my hair, and jerked my head back. The metal of the blade touched my throat. He whispered into my ear, “You’ll see.” Suddenly, I felt like I was falling. And then, just as suddenly-

“What the hell are you doing in here?!”

I rolled over onto my back and punched at the empty air where Spencer had been standing just a moment ago. But he wasn’t there anymore. Something must have scared him off. I sat up and scanned the room.

I didn’t see her at first. My attention automatically went back to the figure on the slab, underneath the white sheet. Only once I was certain that Spencer hadn’t really gone anywhere did I notice the other person in the room with us, standing at the base of the stairs. The young woman walked over to the body and shoved him back into storage. She slammed the door shut, turned to look down at me, and crossed her arms. “This party is invite-only. And you, sir, are not on the list.” She licked her lips and added, “Yet.”

She was close to my age, perhaps a year or two younger, and dressed like a Victorian-era vampire. Her low-cut black dress was at once too formal and too casual for a funeral home. She had curly black hair, heavy dark eyeshadow, black lipstick, and a lace choker. A beauty mark under her left eye looked like it may have been somehow intentional. The obvious corset under her long-sleeve, floor-length dress accentuated her curvy physique. Our town didn’t have much of a goth scene, but this lady was here representing.

I jumped to my feet and tried to explain. “Sorry, I-”

Blood spurted out of my hand wound, practically drenching my shirt and cutting our introduction short.

“Oh, beans! What happened?!”

Her boots crunched through the glass on the floor as she swooped over to me. She pulled my hand into hers, pried open my fingers to take a look, then slapped my palms together. “Keep pressure on it,” she instructed as she glided over to a locker. In a matter of seconds, she’d donned a white coat and latex gloves. “Sit,” she instructed, pointing at the metal table next to me.

“I’d rather not.”

“I wasn’t asking,” she said in a voice that brokered no argument. I took my spot on the cold slab. She walked over to meet me, wheeling a cart of supplies. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

She pulled my hands apart and squirted something brown from a bottle directly onto my wound. I yipped. Next, she pressed a ball of gauze into it and began wiping vigorously. “Quit crying,” she ordered.

“I’m not.” It’s true that tears were welling up in my eyes. But I definitely wasn’t crying.

Next came the hook. She stabbed the needle end into my flesh and tugged it under to the other side of the wound. With a short laugh, she said, “Most of my patients don’t bitch nearly as much as you.” She pulled the hook through, feeding the metallic thread below my skin, then went in for another pass. The second stab was only about half as painful, which was still pretty fucking painful. “Just yesterday I stitched up a grandmother. Didn’t hear a peep out of her.” She tugged, went in for the next stitch.

“Maybe they don’t complain, but tell me this: how many of your patients survive?”

“I’ll have you know, almost nobody has died in this room.”

“What a difference the word ‘almost’ makes. For example, I ‘almost’ thought it was a good idea to let you use dead-guy tools to fix me up.” She flicked my wound with her free hand. “Owwwie! What the hell?!”

“Well, you can either suck it up, Buttercup, or you can roll the dice with the emergency room and get the same thing done six hours later and for the price of a used car.” She smiled as she pulled the thread tight. From this close, it was hard not to notice how her canines had been sharpened into fangs. “What were you doing down here, anyway? Are you some kind of pervert? Amateur cannibal? Necro-curious? God, please tell me you’re not a ghost hunter.”

“None of those things. Trust me, I am no thrill seeker.”

“Then explain why I’m sewing you up right now.”

I tried to think of what to say. I knew the truth wasn’t an option, so I kept it simple. “I came to pay my respects. Somehow, I accidentally knocked over your jar and cut my hand open trying to clean up the broken glass.”

“Don’t even think for one second I’m not going to make you pay for those DNA swabs.”

“Yeah, about that… I don’t have any money per se. But would you be interested in a generous line of credit at the gas station at the edge of town?”

She snipped the wire, looked up at me, and said excitedly, “SHUT UP!”

“Should I take that as a ‘maybe’?”

“You’re Jack freakin’ Townsend!”

“I am? I mean, I am. But how did you-”

“I’m a huge fan!” she said as she gave me the most painful handshake of my entire life.

“Oh. You read my blog?”

She scrunched up her face and laughed. “’Blog’? I didn’t know you had a blog. I do, too! Although mine is on the dark web and you might get in trouble if you… You know what? Never mind that. I’m just so excited to finally meet you in person!”

“Ah. Cool. How do you know who I am?”

She removed her bloody gloves and tossed them into the waste bin under the cart. “Oh, you’re very popular in my circles. We all have bets on when you’ll be coming to us for good. You know,” she bent down, putting her hands onto the table on either side of me. She was uncomfortably close now. “I called dibs on your body a long time ago. I can’t wait to get inside of you and see what’s really going on in there. Pity you’ve made me wait this long.”

“I’m…” What’s the word? Terrified? “...flattered.”

She stood up straight. The next thing I knew, she was wrapping gauze around my hand.

“That weirdo, Dr. X, must have called here a hundred times insisting we do everything precisely by the book when the time comes. We’re supposed to call him. He wants first crack at your brain. Do you know there’s a lot of money on the line for it?”

“You must mean Dr. V, right? Well, I hope he paid in advance because the deal’s off. He’s dead.”

She giggled at the news, turned away from me, and said, “Oh well,” as she walked back to the locker. She removed the coat and surgical gown and threw them into a basket on the ground. Next, she opened the locker, positioning the door so that she could look at me from the reflection in the small mirror attached to it. Then, she took out a tube of black lipstick and started applying it while I sat there watching, wondering what I was supposed to say. I had a few go-to small-talk phrases for when the situation demanded it. Most of them involved weather. None seemed quite appropriate here.

“So, uh, thanks for stitching me back up. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know who you are.”

She turned back to me with a fresh coat of shiny black lipstick. “My name is Tristessa, but you can call me Triss.”

Her name sounded awfully familiar, but I couldn’t draw any specific memory to explain why. “So, would that be Doctor Triss?”

“I can’t write you a prescription, if that’s what you’re asking, but I know my way around the human body. I’m a fully licensed mortician and coroner’s assistant. And because our hospital doesn’t have room for a morgue, and because this town doesn’t have the budget for a forensic examiner, everyone who sheds their mortal coil around these parts comes to me, in one way or another.”

I chose not to correct her, but I had to wonder, what with all the bodies in unmarked graves behind the gas station, which of the two of us really had more corpse experience…

I looked at the storage wall and asked, “What happens if this town ever has more than six dead bodies at a time?”

She gave an indecorous smile and said, “It’s come up before. We do exactly what you think we do.”

“Well, this has been fun and educational, but I should probably be going.” I hopped off the slab. The world spun, and I nearly lost my balance. I looked down at the floor and noticed with some embarrassment how much blood I’d actually lost in such a short time. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “You couldn’t have possibly picked a better place to bleed. If I were so inclined, this room is exactly where I’d carry out the perfect murder.”

She opened the blade drawer and removed a large pair of metallic scissors, held them to the light, and gave them a couple test snips before approaching me.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“We regularly sanitize the place top to bottom and dispose of organic material, plus we have our own crematorium. Nobody would notice an extra scoop of dust mixed into their loved one’s urn.” She was now standing inside my personal space, again.

“Sounds pretty clever,” I said. I felt something cold touch the skin of my stomach and looked down just in time to see the scissors snipping through my shirt. “Hey! What the hell?!”

In three quick snips, the blades had eaten through the fabric up to my collar. Triss narrowed her eyes and explained, “I’ve seen more than enough bloodstains to know that was never coming out. You don’t want to pull a bloody shirt over your head and get it all in your beautiful hair, do you?” One of her hands went behind my ear. Her fingers ran through my hair. Her sharp fingernails grazed my scalp.

“No, but a warning would have been nice.” She took my dangling sleeve and started to pull. “I got it,” I said, removing the remains of my ruined tee. She took it from me and walked it over to the basket by the locker while I stood in place.

“I must say, those are some gorgeous keloid scars. Animal attack?”

I looked down at my bare chest and said, “Something like that.”

It’s not like me to feel self-conscious about my body, but it’s also not like me to be half-naked in a room with a complete stranger, either. She must have sensed my uneasiness.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Jack. I’ve seen more naked bodies in here than you can imagine. Eventually, they all start to look like raw meat.”

“That does not make me feel any better.”

“Would it make you feel better to know that, no matter what you say or do, I’m going to eventually see you naked anyway?”

“Not in the least.”

“How about I loan you one of the dress shirts we give the stiffs? We buy them in bulk, so we have plenty in all sizes.”

“Sounds great.”

“Wait here.”

She walked past me, over to the door marked “KEEP OUT.” There’s my answer, I thought. It’s the dead body supply closet. Probably full of spare clothes and flesh-colored spray paint and that glue they use to reattach heads and limbs when they get cut off.

She opened the door, stepped inside, and disappeared around a corner. I waited patiently, keeping one eye on the closet and the other on Spencer’s corpse drawer. The reality was finally beginning to settle in. Middleton was dead. Someone must have taken care of him while I was in The Shop. But who? And why? Surely, he had a long list of enemies other than me, right? He worked for the Collector. The Collector lost. There’s bound to be consequences for picking the wrong side in a war. So why did I feel all of this… what was the word for it? Fear? No. Sadness? Hell no… Guilt?

I tried to shake the thought out of my mind, but his words lingered. You experience everything. Would he feel his body burning away around him? Would that be better or worse than the prolonged sensation of rotting in the ground? I had to remind myself that he was only a hallucination and hallucinations can’t hurt you. But my hand sure as heck had other opinions.

“I’m ready,” Triss’s voice beckoned from inside the room. “You can come in now.”

Ready? For what? What the hell is she talking about? I thought she was looking for a shirt. I walked across the room, stepped into the closet with her, and instantly regretted it.

Tristessa was sitting on a red velvet futon, undressed down to her black bra and matching underwear. This wasn’t actually a supply closet at all. I’m not sure there is a word for what this room was. There were at least half a dozen black candles burning on the shelves around us. A few band posters on the walls. Fake skulls and crows used as decorations. A pair of furry black handcuffs complete with a set of keys dangling from a hook on the wall. And a camcorder on a tripod in one corner. She patted an area on the seat next to her.

“Well,” she said. “Are we doing this, or what?”

“Oh,” I said. “There’s been a miscommunication.”

“Don’t be coy. You’ve been eye-fucking me like a horny rabbit since I got here.”

I’ll admit, that was my bad. She must have been confused by how I kept trying to figure out if that beauty mark was real or drawn on. I attempted to let her down easily.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“What?!” Triss didn’t waste any time reaching for her dress where it had been carefully folded over the back of a stone gargoyle. “Then what the hell are you doing trying to seduce me?”

I backed out of the goth cave so she could get dressed in private. As soon as I was a couple steps away, the door at the top of the stairs swung open. O’Brien walked halfway down the steps and froze. She didn’t say anything, but I could see the gears turning. She looked at me, standing there without my shirt on. She looked at the messy trail of blood on the tile floor. She unsnapped the service pistol on her belt. Before I could explain, Tris walked out of the goth room wearing nothing but underwear and combat boots.

“Hey Jack, will you help me get this corset back on?”

O’Brien cleared her throat loudly. The two women locked eyes.

“Sheriff,” said the assistant coroner.

“Triss,” said the sheriff.

“Jack,” said I. I tried to fill the silence with the only thing that came to mind. “Well this is awk-”

“Put a damn shirt on,” O’Brien ordered. “It’s time to go.”

Chapter Ten

“Dude, where are you?” Jerry asked, his voice brimming with legitimate fear.

“Sorry Jerry. I’m taking some time off.”

“Is everything okay? I stopped by the gas station and the doors were locked and there’s nobody around anywhere. Rosa and I have been driving around town looking for you! I even tried The Shop, but you weren’t there! We’ve been calling all day! You weren’t answering and your voicemail box is full.”

I laughed, but I don’t know why; it wasn’t funny. A moment later, I dropped my cell phone and blared the horn.

“Jack? Jaaack? Hellooo?” Jerry’s voice sounded distant for more than just the obvious reason. Eventually, I picked up the phone again.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Are you driving right now?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Whose car are you in? Did you… did you steal a car? Who are you with?”

“No one. It’s just me. Listen, Jerry, I’m probably going to be out of town for a while. Tell Rosa not to worry. Make something up.”

“Okay, this is getting all kinds of fucked, dude. Benji’s searching the woods for your body as we speak. Listen, your behavior is starting to scare me. Let that sink in for a second. Your behavior is scaring me.”

“I have to go.”

“No! Wait! Don’t hang up! Please! You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Please talk to me. Wendy said you got picked up by the sheriff this morning. I called O’Brien, and she told me she dropped you off at the gas station at noon. That was three hours ago and nobody’s seen you since. What happened? You can talk to me. I swear I won’t make fun. This is serious Jerry now. This is Jeremy.”

“I talked to Kieffer,” I said.

“Okay?”

“I talked to Kieffer last night and he said… He said the world was going to end in three days.”

My voice cracked on the last word. A wave of emotion surged through my body. I took a deep breath. Then another. Then, the deep breaths stopped being voluntary. My eyes stung. The muscles in my face began to seize. I clenched my teeth together and bit down hard. I needed to focus.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “The world is coming to an end. No big deal. Three days? That’s like two weeks! You know we both work better under pressure anyway.”

“No, Jerry. He was wrong.” I couldn’t hold it together any longer. Tears were pouring down my face now. I know he heard it in my voice. I couldn’t hide it. “The world ended today.”

“What?”

It took me a couple tries before I could finally say, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“No, don’t hang up!”

◆◆◆

“You sure you’re okay?” O’Brien asked as we pulled into the gas station parking lot.

“Yeah,” I said. “Mostly, I mean. It was a little intense back there after you left me alone with the dead body and the gothic coroner and everything. My brain is still trying to filter out the trauma, but it’s probably nothing I can’t repress after a shit ton of coffee and a good book. How about you?”

“I meant your hand, stupid. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you by the emergency room?”

“What in our experience together would make you think I have emergency room money?”

“There you go again, acting like we have some kind of history. You can quit it now. It was creepy enough the first time around.”

I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her today. She was as stubborn as they come. But I knew I’d planted a few seeds, and that had to count for something. “If you’re not busy, you might want to go check out the chemical plant.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Let’s just say if I wanted to hide all of the incriminating evidence, that’s where I’d put it.”

“Is this a confession?”

“Sure, if that’s what it takes for you to get a warrant.”

I opened the door and thanked her for the ride to work, then went inside to relieve Benji of duty. I wasn’t supposed to clock in for another few hours, but I didn’t feel like going back home and playing the “avoid Wendy” or “try to sleep” games. At least here at the gas station I knew things would be quiet.

It was about an hour later. I’d just started reading a new book. I can’t remember what it was called or what it was about, and I don’t know what happened to the book after the phone call. In fact, most of the details surrounding this moment remain out of focus. But the call itself will be forever etched in stone.

I answered like I always do. “Hello?” No name and no mention of the gas station. As a rule, I leave the burden of introductions to the one initiating the conversation.

She sounded slightly disoriented. “Hello? Hi. Um, I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Mary Martingale. I’m trying to get in touch with Jack Townsend.”

“Well, you’ve reached his place of employment. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be sure he gets it.”

“This is a sensitive matter. I’d much rather speak to him directly.”

“Is this a bill collector? You know you’re legally obligated to tell me if I ask.” There was a pause long enough for me to mark my book and put it away. “Hello? Did I lose you?”

“Is this Jack?”

“That entirely depends on what you’re calling about.” Another pause. Just like before. I was starting to consider beginning to think about getting a little nervous maybe.

“If this is not Jack, can you please have him call me back right away at New York Presbyterian Hospital? My phone number is…”

“Wait, no, it’s me! This is Jack.” My internal alarm went haywire. I didn’t even know what I was freaking out about yet, but my subconscious was already in meltdown mode. “What happened, Mary?”

Silence. The start of another pause. My body wouldn’t allow me to wait for it to end. My heart pounded. My fingers were shaking. “Please tell me it’s not…” Oh my God… No, nononono please no.

“Jack, I’m so sorry to tell you...”

I am not ready for this. No, please GOD no! I am not ready for this. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS. I lost my sense of balance. I felt like I wasn’t even tethered to this world anymore. I was outside, looking in, watching myself fall apart. My head hit the counter and I sobbed. She passed away peacefully in her sleep. When? Day before yesterday. And you’re just now calling? We’ve been trying to reach you. We’ve been calling nonstop. Your phone never rings and your voicemail is full. We couldn’t reach her parents either. That’s because they’re both dead. I am so sorry, I didn’t know. How could you? We have a program to provide assistance with the next steps. What next steps? Funeral arrangements. But we don’t have to discuss this right now. Good. Once again, I am so sorry for your loss.

I continued to watch from outside my body, where it was cold and quiet and numbing. I watched as my body made decisions for itself. I wasn’t there when Sabine died. I mean, I wasn’t there… I need to be there now. Call Travis. He owes me a favor right? He tried to kill me. The least he can do is loan me his truck for a few days. Alright man, you can borrow it. But this here’s my baby. Try not to hurt her, okay? Thanks, I’ll be back in a couple days. You sure you can drive with just one leg? I think I can handle it. What should I tell people? I don’t really care. Are you alright, man? No. You wanna talk about it? No. Where are the keys?

The phone started ringing when I reached the interstate. Power line down. Linemen blocking the road. If I want to get out of town, I have to go around the long way. Fuck, this place really doesn’t want to let me go, does it? The phone rang again a few miles later. I better turn this thing off. How many miles is it to New York? Jerry’s blowing me up with text messages. I really can’t deal with this right now. I better just answer. Figure out what I’m going to say. Dude, where are you? It’s a good question. I don’t even know how to respond.

We talk for a few seconds, but I wasn’t really listening. He told me my voicemail box was full. I laughed, but I don’t know why; It wasn’t funny. Of course my voicemail box is full! I never bothered deleting all those messages. I never even listened to the messages. If I had, I would have already known... How could I have been so stupid?! It was like fate planned it this way, delaying the big reveal, and I fell for it like I fall for everything.

A man on a black motorcycle sped up the road behind me, whipped into the left lane, and passed. He was dressed in all black, with a matching helmet hiding his face. When he cut back into my lane, he hit his brakes like he wanted me to turn him into roadkill. I dropped my cell phone and slammed the brakes and the horn in equal measure. The motorcycle man flipped me the bird but didn’t speed up. What the hell is this dude’s problem?

“Jack? Jaaack? Hellooo?” Jerry’s voice sounded distant for more than just the obvious reason. The motorcyclist continued to slow. He was road raging, being a real asshole, playing a dangerous game, and I was not in the mood to play along. I had places to be and people to see. Eventually, I picked up the phone again.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Are you driving right now?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Whose car are you in? Did you… did you steal a car? Who are you with?”

“No one. It’s just me. Listen, Jerry, I’m probably going to be out of town for a while. Tell Rosa not to worry. Make something up.”

“Okay, this is getting all kinds of fucked, dude. Benji’s searching the woods for your body as we speak. Listen, your behavior is starting to scare me. Let that sink in for a second. Your behavior is scaring me.”

“I have to go.”

“No! Wait! Don’t hang up! Please!” The guy on the motorcycle slowed down again. I checked the speedometer. We were twenty below the speed limit now. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Please talk to me. Wendy said…” He kept talking, but my focus was on the motorcyclist. I steered into the left lane, but he did the same. He was purposely blocking me from passing now. What a jerk. “…This is Jeremy.”

“I talked to Kieffer,” I said, shifting back into the right lane. The motorcyclist matched my movement.

“Okay?”

“I talked to Kieffer last night and he said… He said the world was going to end in three days.”

My voice cracked on the last word. I needed to focus. There was a long road ahead of me, and if I couldn’t even maintain my composure for the first ten miles, I was never going to make it.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “The world is coming to an end. No big deal. Three days? That’s like two weeks. You know we both work better under pressure anyway.”

“No, Jerry. He was wrong. The world ended today.”

“What?”

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“No, don’t hang up!”

I hit the horn again. This time, I leaned on it. Okay fuckhead, you want to start a fight? You want to annoy me? Well, I’ll annoy you right back! This truck has a much louder horn than necessary and you’re about to piss me off enough that I might just see what happens when a Ram lives up to its namesake.

I was so focused on the motorcycle that I didn’t even notice the caravan closing in on us from behind. A black SUV sped past, followed by a black van. The SUV merged in front of the motorcycle and slowed to match its speed. The van copied the slowdown maneuver, blocking the left lane. The motorcycle swooped into the space between them. All together, the vehicles slowed to a stop. I slammed my brakes, checked my mirror, and saw three more vehicles behind me. Two SUV’s. One truck. All black and shiny and new. I didn’t see where the man in sunglasses came from, but a few seconds later, he was knocking on my window. I knew there must have been a gun around here somewhere. Probably in the center console or the glove compartment. But it probably wouldn’t be enough to scare away the guy standing there with his tactical gear and his machine gun strapped over his shoulder with his finger on the trigger.

I rolled the window down and said, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Come with me,” the soldier commanded.

“Make me.”

He made a gesture to the other men who I hadn’t even noticed until now. The air filled with explosions. POP POP POP. The truck rocked back and forth as they shot out the tires and riddled the engine with bullets. My ears were ringing, but I could still hear the command as he said it again:

“Come with me.”

“Suck my balls.”

The soldier reached through the open window, disconnected my seatbelt, and pulled me out by my neck. A bag made of thick, abrasive fabric went over my head. I couldn’t see anything. Breathing was a labor. I didn’t put up much of a fight, and I feel like those kicks to my ribs and kidneys were completely gratuitous.

“That’s enough.” A voice I recognized. I’d never heard it in person before. It felt both familiar and alien, like an image from a bad dream. I knew he was persistent. I knew he was connected. But I didn’t realize until now just how far he was willing to go to seize control of my story.

Roger.

“Please forgive my associate for his zealousness. An overclocked fight-or-flight instinct is necessary in our line of business. Oh, Jack, how I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long! I never imagined our first encounter would be under such tragic circumstances. For that, you have my deepest sympathies and sincerest apologies.”

Soldier boy spoke up. “We need to move.”

His boss tsk-tsked and said, “Let’s take this conversation someplace private. And do be gentle with him, won’t you? He’s more precious to me than you know.”

These guys had better kill me, I thought. They’re going to be so fucking sorry if they don’t.

Chapter Eleven

We drove in silence, save for the hum of an engine, the occasional clearing of a throat, and that endless ringing in both of my ears. I’d read about it somewhere. It’s a side effect of permanent hearing damage. That particular frequency will never work again, so I should enjoy it while it lasts. I wonder how many of these men I could take out if I were able to steal a gun.

The car stopped. The engine shut off. The bag ripped away from my face. I looked out the window and saw that we were back at the gas station. I knew exactly where we were. I knew exactly where we’d been. So, what was even the point of blinding me? I looked at the three heavily-armed soldiers in the van with me and tried to determine which one of them matched the voice from before. Which one of these guys was Roger, my biggest fan?

The one closest to the door opened it. The others pushed me out into the lot. None of them, I decided, had the charisma of Roger. He must have ridden in another vehicle. More trucks and SUVs pulled up around us. The last two parked together along the road, blocking off traffic to and from the outside world. A hand shoved me forward, towards the gas station. One of the soldiers held the door open for me. What a gentleman.

More guys with guns followed us inside. This was a regular militia. They posted themselves in positions that seemed random but were probably strategic. I instinctively took my regular seat behind the counter. A second later, one of the soldiers approached me and said, “Hello again.”

I didn’t recognize him right away, not until I saw his hands—a blend of metal and ceramic state-of-the-art prosthetics. This was the same commando who came out to the gas station months ago with a message from Roger and a vest made of plastic explosives.

“Not-Guillermo[17],” I said.

He nodded. “This will only take a second.”

With his surprisingly dexterous robot hands, Not-Guillermo pulled a small electronic device from his coat. He extended a telescopic antenna and started waving it in the air. At a glance, it could have been an off-brand MP3 player or a Geiger counter. Neither scenario would have surprised me, and either would explain the tick-tick-tick noise emanating from it as he I watched as he paced the room, following the sound, collecting bugs and secret listening devices and even a few miniature cameras until finally—after what felt like forever—the ticking stopped. Not-Guillermo took his finds, bundled them all together inside a small sack, and handed them off to another soldier to take outside. Then, at long last, he pulled out a walkie-talkie and said, “The place is clean.”

There was movement outside. One of the SUVs pulled around the pumps right up to the entrance to the building. The back door opened, and a man stepped out. He wasn’t like any of the others. He was, to put it mildly, interesting.

This must be him, I thought. The eccentric stalker himself. Roger, in the flesh.

For no particular reason, my mind took in his details from the bottom up. The first thing I noticed was the shoes. Black and shimmery with scales, not unlike alligator skin. His pants were pinstriped and tailored to fit his long, thin legs. The bottoms matched his vest. He wore no jacket, just a beige dress shirt with sleeves folded back to the elbows. The man was built like Abraham Lincoln—stretched out but with an air of serious intimidation. There were no weapons visible, but he had big fists and an arm span long enough to make any troublemakers think twice. The bottom half of his face contained a bit of scruff, but above the lip was a different story—his moustache was short, wide, and neatly trimmed, with little curls on the tips. Gold earrings adorned either side of his head. His eyes were bright blue. His hair was the color of pumpkins, short on the sides, full on top, wavy, and combed to the edge in a swoop.

But he didn’t come inside, even after the SUV pulled away and drove off. Another SUV took its place, and Mr. Fancy-Moustache did something I wouldn’t expect a boss man to do. He opened the door for whoever was in this vehicle. I recalibrated my expectations. This orange-haired tall man must have just been a second-in-command or something—a miniboss, if you will. The new vehicle shook in place as the occupant stepped out.

For no particular reason, my mind took in his details from the top down (and for him, the top started pretty far up). Although he was quite tall in the literal sense, to leave the description of his height there would be misleading. He wasn’t the traditional version of tall like a basketball player or Dutchman, nor was he a giant mountain of muscle like Benji or the twins. His body looked like an average human body, only bigger, like he had been filmed in front of a green screen and superimposed poorly into this reality at the wrong scale. If I saw a picture of him holding a banana with nothing else, my first thought would probably be, what a tiny banana!

He had no hair on his head. His face was gray and ashen like a Vesuvian corpse, with a pair of oversized shades giving the impression he’d just come from eye surgery. There was something strange about those glasses. They weren’t mirrored like the other soldiers’. In fact, they seemed blacker than black, like all the light around him was being vacuumed into the blackhole lenses.

He wore a strange suit—the color approximated black, yet there was an oily shimmer to the fibers, like the iridescent sheen of a grackle’s feathers. I can’t say much about his shoes because his feet were bare. Technically, that would be enough to deny him entry, but something told me not to bother trying.

Okay, I thought. This is it. This is the one who has been pulling all the strings all along. Mr. Big himself.

Mr. Big and Mr. Moustache nodded to each other, then walked together behind the vehicle, opened the liftgate, and pulled out a dumpy little man who’d been riding back there like cargo. Their efforts were mostly in vain, as this person almost immediately spilled through their fingers and plopped onto the concrete. They both grabbed an arm and righted him. He looked confused, but happy to finally be out of the vehicle.

Annnddd… Who is this supposed to be?

He looked like God got drunk and decided to make a person but realized halfway through that He didn’t have all the ingredients and tried to wing it with spare parts. He was a portly little guy with a Hawaiian shirt, beer belly, and bad comb-over. I didn’t know what to think anymore.

“This is dumb,” I said to Not-Guillermo. “Can’t we just skip to the end? Which one of them is supposed to be Roger?”

He didn’t answer. He just smiled and shook his head.

A few seconds later, Mr. Moustache held open the door. The dumpy guy walked in first with mouth open wide, eyes full of wonder, like this was some place he’d only dreamed of getting to see. In his right hand, he carried a case that looked like it might hold a musical instrument—too big for trumpet, too small for trombone. From here, I could see that the handle was handcuffed to his wrist. Mr. Big was right behind him, followed closely by Mr. Moustache.

It made so much sense now. This was my mysterious benefactor. He didn’t want me to know what he looked like because… well… there you have it. My imagination had done him a lot of favors, but reality always catches up in the end, doesn’t it? The round little man, Roger, turned to me and smiled. “You must be Jack!” he said in a voice that sounded like a surfer bro with terrible congestion. “How do you do?”

That… was not Roger’s voice.

“DON’T TALK TO HIM!”

Everyone in the room reacted. That voice. That was the one! That was him. Roger. But where the hell did it come from?

The man in the Hawaiian shirt bowed his head and groveled, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I just got so excited!”

Roger’s voice responded from seemingly nowhere, “Everyone else leave. I want to speak with him in private.”

The minions didn’t wait to head for the door. Not-Guillermo was the first one out, but before he left, he locked eyes with me and gave a knowing smirk. In a matter of seconds, Mr. Big and Mr. Moustache were the only ones left, standing guard over Mr. Hawaiian shirt.

“Archimedes. Kyle. When I say ‘Everyone,’ that includes the two of you.” Where was this voice coming from? “Take your leave, gentlemen. I’ll be fine.”

Hawaiian shirt trembled as he asked, “Should I go, too?” It sounded like he wanted to say “can” instead of “should.”

“No, Sebastian. Not you. You stay.”

Archimedes and Kyle left the building. Now it was just me, Sebastian, and the disembodied voice of the man who’d been watching me since my childhood. Sebastian chewed at the fingernails of his free hand as sweat beads formed across his brow. Once again, I weighed my chances. I could easily get to the baseball bat under the counter, crack open Sebastian, and disappear out the back door into the forest. In that moment, the consequences were not what stopped me. I held off because it simply didn’t feel worth the effort. At least in this state of mind I was able to make the right decisions, even if it was for the wrong reasons.

“I’m ready now, Sebastian!” The words were laced with a tinge of venom. Sebastian cowered at the voice, went down to his knees, and turned the combination lock on the case chained to his hand. The locks snapped, and he pulled the lid open with great care. His eyes went wide with something akin to worship as he beheld the object inside. I bent down and reached for the baseball bat.

Sebastian, with a tear running down his face, pulled out the contents of the case. I froze. My fingers were an inch from the bat. But now, all my attention was on that thing in Sebastian’s hand. It stretched its arms into the sky, leaned up to the ceiling, and cried out, “Finally! Air!” Its mouth opened and closed a few times, as if it were taking deep breaths. Then, the head spun around to face me. The eyes, pointed straight ahead like an owl’s, aimed into mine. The eyebrows shifted, an undeniable expression of mischief on its face. “And there it is! The face reveal at long last! I’m sure this isn’t what you were expecting.”

That voice. It was his voice. Roger’s voice. It sure sounded like it was coming from the thing in Sebastian’s hand, but I knew better. Didn’t I?

“This got weird,” I said. “I mean, it started out weird. But now it’s really weird.”

“You can relax. And trust me when I tell you that your little bat isn’t going to do either of us any good.”

I remembered my hand was still extended, reaching for the weapon. I let my arm drop to my side, then stood up and leaned over the counter for a better look. Sebastian was on his knees. The open case rested on the ground next to him, still attached to his wrist. In his hands, he held an old-fashioned ventriloquist dummy.

It appeared to be carved out of wood, with a tuxedo and face painted on. The hair on its head looked real—human, even. Neatly combed and styled in a standard 50s coif. The color of its clothes and skin had worn over time. Chips of wood were missing all over. This dummy had seen a lot of years and a lot of action.

I looked at the man on his knees in front of me, unsure of what emotion I should be feeling—pity, annoyance, fear—yet acutely aware that in this moment I felt absolutely nothing. I knew that wasn’t right, but couldn’t summon the give-a-fucks.

“Let me see if I understand,” I said. “Roger is your puppet-persona?”

The hand of the Roger dummy extended, waving itself in front of Sebastian’s face as if the puppet itself were trying to break our eye contact. The voice of “Roger” lined up with the movement of its “lips” as Sebastian nervously looked on.

“Don’t talk to that watch battery, Jack. Pretend he isn’t here. He’s just a means to an end. I am the one you should be speaking to. I am Roger.”

Sebastian was doing an excellent job maintaining the illusion. It was hard to tell which joints on the doll worked and which were immobile. I thought the eyes were carved into place until they shifted in their sockets, looking back at Sebastian. Roger then blinked and fixed his eyes on me. The longer I looked at this puppet, the more alive he appeared to be. I didn’t care enough to humor him, but I also didn’t care enough to point out that this was obviously just a manifestation of some kind of deeply ingrained psychological trauma. In the end, I realized the path of least resistance was playing along.

“You picked a really bad time,” I explained to whatever part of Roger or Sebastian was listening.

“I’ll confess, this was an extreme reaction, but desperate times call for equal measures. You don’t answer when I call. You burn all my letters. How else was I supposed to stop you from leaving?”

“You weren’t.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Or did you forget that the world is coming to a violent, painful end in a matter of days?”

“I don’t care.”

“You need to start caring. You feel that hurt burning inside of you and think it couldn’t possibly get any worse, and you’re wrong again. This isn’t rock bottom; it isn’t even close. Think of everyone you still care about. Rosa. Jerry. Etcetera. Is your pain really so great that you want to spread it to them? To everyone? These are the stakes. You cannot leave town until the job is done.”

I could feel the tug of two enormous forces pulling me in opposite directions. An unwanted responsibility. A mountain of grief. I knew I hadn’t even begun to experience the worst of it yet, and the more I comprehended, the more I was going to hurt. All I wanted to do was stop feeling altogether, but this stupid asshole wouldn’t let me!

“Sabine-” I said. A bright flash of pain accompanied her name. A brief memory. A moment when we were both still happy and dumb. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He didn’t wait for me to finish the thought. “I know. We’re taking care of it for you. My men are making all the preparations to bring her home.”

“No they are not! I don’t want your ‘men’ anywhere near her.”

“As you wish. I only ask that you remember to breathe. I promise, you will get your chance to say goodbye. But we need you here for what’s coming next.”

“What’s coming next?”

“The ending. Of your story. Of everything.”

“Why me?”

“I can’t tell you that part yet. But you’ll see in due time. I promise. See, this has been a long time coming. I’ve been watching you. You don’t even realize this, but I’ve been keeping you safe. Protecting you. There are things in this universe you don’t even realize want to cause you harm. Things like the new player in town—the Grim One-”

There was a knock at the door. The three of us turned our heads to see Mr. Big push it open and lean inside.

“Sorry to interrupt.” His voice was deep. I expected it to be deep, but it was even deeper than that. He sounded like a depressed tuba. He sounded the way I imagine the color black to sound. “We got company in five.”

Roger responded, “Thank you, Kyle.”

Mr. Big (or Kyle, I guess) left us, and Roger turned his head back to me. “I’m afraid this is where I must depart. I understand you’re staring into a crucible. Go ahead and feel your feelings. Do what you need to do, but please don’t do anything... permanent. I’ll see you again on the other side.”

“Hey, Roger, fuck you.”

It might have been a trick of the mind, but it looked to me like, somehow, a smile formed on the dummy’s wooden face. Sebastian stuffed it back into the case, locked it up, gave me a salute, and left. In a matter of seconds, all of the vehicles were gone. The lot was empty. A few minutes later, just as Kyle (what a stupid name) had predicted, another car drove into the lot. A shitty little Nissan on its very last legs. My car. Jerry parked and jumped out within the same second. He opened the door of the gas station, somersaulted across the disgusting floor, and popped up on the other side of the counter.

“Why?” I asked.

His voice was frantic. “I JUST HAVE A SHIT TON OF ENERGY RIGHT NOW AND GOT SO EXCITED I FOUND YOU! HOLY SHIT, BRO! YOU CAN’T JUST DROP CRYPTIC HINTS ABOUT HOW YOU’RE NOT OKAY AND YOU CAN’T TALK ABOUT IT AND THEN LEAVE TOWN INDEFINITELY! HAVE I TAUGHT YOU NOTHING ABOUT DISAPPEARING?!”

“Yes. You’ve taught me exactly nothing about disappearing.”

“Okay, I forgive you.”

“I didn’t ask-”

“WAIT RIGHT HERE!”

“Goddammit Jerry, I’m not in the mood-”

He was gone already, outside, running to the Nissan. I wanted to scream. I was forced to be in this moment against my will, and it wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t the universe just leave me alone? Why couldn’t I just have my breakdown in peace? Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated?

The door opened and Jerry rushed inside holding a tan ball of fur and wrinkles.

He set it on the counter, next to my head. I wasn’t even aware that my head was on the counter until now, when I looked at the mottled-brown doughball of a puppy staring back at me. I sat up. The dog followed me with its enormous wet puppy eyes, sunken below a face full of wrinkles.

“What is this?”

“I DON’T KNOW, JACK! I did a lot of uppers[18] trying to figure out HOW TO HELP YOU, and MAYBE my critical-thinking skills jump-skipped a few tracks! I’ve been running around town stocking up on weapons and anything else that might be of assistance BUT YOU DIDN’T REALLY GIVE ME A LOT TO WORK WITH SO I ENDED UP ADOPTING GASTON HERE. Is it helping? PLEASE TELL ME IF IT’S HELPING!”

Gaston must have only been a couple months old. The dogling mutt looked like a cross between a deflated football and a soggy burrito, with nubs for legs, a slightly longer nub for a tail, and a comparatively oversized head that, by the looks of it, probably contained more pudding than brain. I couldn’t guess how much higher-function was going on inside that massive skull, but the way it excitedly wiggled its back end whenever I made eye contact told me that he was just happy to be here.

“WAIT! I also got you this!” Jerry reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled ball of bubble wrap and shoved it into my hands. “For the stress!” he added.

“You can’t just come in here and drop a dog-”

Gaston made a loud Arp as soon as I raised my voice. I gave the animal a how-dare-you look. He took that as a cue to stagger across the counter towards me. I grabbed him the moment before he would have fallen off and learned how gravity worked.

Jerry leaned over the counter and grabbed the store phone. “I know this was stupid. I can’t give you a dog and expect you to take care of it. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I’ll just give it to Rosa. Do you mind helping me watch it until she gets here, though? I CLEARLY HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING.”

17
We used to have a coworker named Guillermo. As you can probably tell from the name, this guy is not him. [«]

18
I am a trained professional. Do not try this at home. Or anywhere else, for that matter. [«]

Chapter Twelve

There were only three days left until the end of the world, and I was lying in bed doing absolutely nothing to stop it. I didn’t read. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t do anything. I just stayed there, staring at the ceiling in an unfamiliar room. I couldn’t remember how I got here, but I must have been at least somewhat cognizant when they brought me in, because even though every ceiling looks pretty much the same, I knew exactly where I was. Or maybe it was the atmosphere that gave it away. The smell of home. The aura of kind things that Rosa couldn’t help but build into every little space she came into lasting contact with. Whatever the reason, I was aware that I’d been camped out in Rosa’s guestroom. It was truly a step up from her previous residence.

According to the Official Story™, the roof of Rosa’s old apartment building collapsed after a particularly nasty rainstorm. As luck would have it, a three bedroom in a quiet part of town became available right when she started looking for a new place. What serendipity that circumstances aligned the way they did! How not-at-all suspicious that her settlement check from the chemical plant showed up just in time! It provided Rosa with enough money to cover the first month, last month, and plenty of months in between. Hers was on the more generous end of an already generous scale. But that was to be expected considering her former roommate, Leland Cruz, was one of the twelve to lose their lives in the plant explosion. They held a closed-casket funeral for the guy and buried the parts of him that were left after a piece of machinery tore through him like a lunatic with a chainsaw.[19]

I thought about Leland’s final moments. I thought about all the effort that went into covering up my many crimes. I thought about the moment just before my death, when I was certain it was all worth it to fall onto a dagger if that meant stopping a monster from gaining the power to rule the world. I thought about all the moments of violence that led me here, all the portals to other worlds, all the enemies I’d faced and lives I’d taken. I had been beaten and tortured before, but I’d never experienced pain quite like this. I tried to remember how I used to feel in those moments, but for some reason, every memory, every event, seemed so incredibly inconsequential now. Like nothing mattered. Like nothing had ever mattered. Like I could remove myself from the grand equation without any consequential difference. For everything I’d seen and done, I couldn’t save her...

My thoughts were trapped in a whirlpool. There was a clear boundary, and whenever I drifted too close to that reality, I’d recoil back into a place of emptiness. I built this defense mechanism to keep me sane, but these thoughts were a force of their own, and they wanted me to feel them. An impression at the edge of my mind managed to translate itself into words despite my pleading. The thought marked the boundary between what I could endure. Anything past this point and I would turn back into a pumpkin and become insensate until the pain was absorbed by merciful numbness. The thought was a simple, undeniable message:

I always held out hope that she might wake up.

I was in that bed for two hours before Jerry came in to check on me. He brought a cup of soup and told me he wouldn’t leave until I ate it. I told him I didn’t care if he stayed or left, but then he started getting annoying on purpose. When he began burping the alphabet backwards for the second time, I gave in and ate the damn soup so he’d go and leave me alone with my memories. It tasted like nothing.

◆◆◆

I was seven years old, walking through the woods behind the apartment complex where I lived. This was something I did most evenings. My mother was rarely around when I got home from school. I didn’t know what she did all day, but sometimes she wouldn’t get back until after dark. She didn’t trust me with a key, so my options were limited. Sitting in front of my apartment wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for all the biting insects eager to take a piece of me whenever I was still for too long. Some days, I’d wander the complex until I found an open door or window to ask if anyone had any extra food. With the exception of the creepy old couple with all the taxidermized squirrels, most of my neighbors were very good at ignoring me altogether. With nothing better to do, forest exploration became my go-to pastime.

I followed a walking trail from the road to Goose Creek. In summer, this was a popular path worn down to the dirt by locals looking for a good fishing spot. During the winter months, it was all mine. Until that day when, suddenly, it wasn’t.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Her voice came from above me. I wasn’t nearly afraid enough for an unarmed seven-year-old.

I spotted her almost instantly, standing high on the branch of an oak near the side of the trail. She was barefoot, wearing a tie-dye shirt and blue jeans full of holes. Seeing no reason to lie, I answered, “Jack. Who are you?”

She grabbed hold of a knotted rope that had been tied to a branch so high in the tree I couldn’t see where it started. With a short leap, she let herself sail forward in a manner that would put Tarzan to shame. At the point where the rope had reached the end of its forward trajectory, she released and let herself land gracefully on the trail directly in front of me. It was, without any doubt or exaggeration, the coolest thing I’d ever seen in my entire seven years of life.

“You, Jack, have just entered the sacred kingdom of Queen Lisica the Beautiful! Do you know the punishment for trespassing?”

Her long red hair was tied back in pigtails. She had a mischievous smile and smelled like summer. She looked to be about my age, but I’d never seen her before. Finding a person my age who wasn’t already a member of my school or church was the seven-year-old Jack equivalent of finding life on Mars. I was excited, yet cautious.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass. Hey, can I try your rope swing thing?”

“I can see that you are not here looking for a fight. How fortunate! But you must wear the mark of the queendom to identify yourself as an ally, lest you be targeted by her warrior elves.”

Then, way too fast for me to react, she branded me. As far as brandings go, it was rather straightforward and painless. She pulled a marker out of her back pocket, grabbed me by the arm, pushed up my sleeve, bit the cap off, and drew a spiral onto my wrist that would stay there for a whole week. All the while, I was processing the new word that I had just learned. Queendom. Context clues made the definition pretty clear.

“Where’s your cell phone, Jack?”

“I don’t own a cell phone. Do I look rich enough to own my own phone? Are you Queen Lisica?”

“Nay. I am her first in command, President Esmerelda Powerpuff.”

“Your queendom has a president?”

“Well, duh! It’s my job to train the warrior elves. You’re lucky I found you before they did. I taught them to attack any trespassers on sight.”

I looked at the spiral below my wrist and wondered if I’d need to keep my sleeve up at all times or if the elves would know it was there automatically. Not that it really mattered. Seven-year-old Jack was reasonably certain he could take on an army of warrior elves by himself.

“I’m not afraid of elves.”

She gasped. “Lower your voice! If the elves hear you, they might get mad.”

“Elves aren’t scary.”

She put her fists on her hips and said, “What do you know of elves?!”

“They make shoes and toys and cookies.”

President Esmerelda Powerpuff ordered me to stay exactly where I was. She grabbed the rope, gave herself a running head start (completely barefoot like a crazy person), and launched herself off the path and into the forest. I tried to watch where she was going, but she’d given me a pretty specific order to stay put, and I couldn’t do that and watch her at the same time. This was definitely the most interesting thing to happen to me in these woods since the day I found that fully intact deer skeleton.

She returned a few minutes later with a fantasy paperback book about elven rogues, then spent an hour gushing over the story without ruining any of the plot points. It was clear from the thickness of the novel that it was well beyond my reading level, but Esmerelda had read it, so why couldn’t I? Besides, I’d already been forced to read the Bible (my mother’s favorite punishment). Something like this should be a piece of cake by comparison. She made me take it home and promise to read the first chapter. I ended up reading the whole thing before school was out the next day.

As soon as the bus dropped me off, I went back to the woods in search of President Powerpuff, but she wasn’t there. Instead, I ran into her identical twin, Lady Swashbuckle. Coincidentally, I found her in the same place, at the same tree, and she performed the same rope swinging maneuver as her presidential sister. The two girls were nearly identical, except Lady Swashbuckle had an eyepatch, a red bandana, and no respect for the politics of her twin’s favorite queendom. I gave her back the book, and she showed me the raft she had been building.

There’s a series of interconnected streams, brooks, springs, and drainage ditches all over town, feeding into a watercourse that winds a path towards the Mississippi. At one point, it grows wide enough to be considered a river. Locals inexplicably refer to the entire collective as Goose Creek. Lady Swashbuckle’s plan, once the log raft had been completed, was to set sail down Goose Creek and follow it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. It seemed rather sturdy. Her knotwork was every bit as good as any adult’s. She asked if I wanted to be her first mate.

“What responsibilities would that entail?”

“You keep me company and watch out for sharks.”

“I can do both of those things.”

“Good. You’re hired. Where’s your cell phone?”

“I don’t have a cell phone. I’m seven.”

“You need to find it, or you’re going to get in trouble.”

“You’re so weird, Lady Swashbuckle.”

“You too, Jack!”

At the end of that week, I committed my first genuine act of piracy and stole a book from the library to give to my new friend as a present. That same day, she brought all of her Jules Verne hardbacks. A note on the inside front cover of each contained the words, “Property of Sabine,” with a spiral symbol underneath. We ended up spending most of our time together that year reading silently, sharing the occasional crazy, weird, or fun bits from our books without any context. I blame this distraction for keeping us from ever finishing that log raft and setting sail for a better life. I had no idea at the time, but this was as good as childhood was ever going to get…

◆◆◆

A knock at the bedroom door forced me to step away from the memories. The past wasn’t going anywhere, but the near future required my immediate attention. According to that clock on the bedside table, it had been an hour, almost to the minute, since Jerry forced me to eat soup. Someone must have set a timer to check on me. How clever. The door opened and Rosa peeked inside. When she saw that I was awake, she entered with a tray full of cookies, brownies, muffins, and other assorted sugar-breads.

“Heyyy. I wanted to bring you a snack in case you were hungry.” From the look of things, she’d been stress-baking since I arrived. I sat up in the bed and tried to shift gears into communication mode. I needed to talk to her. To let her know not to worry about me. I owed her that, at the very least.

I mustered enough composure to say, “You don’t have to do all of this.”

“You and Jerry would do the same thing for me. Just... way less effectively. And you would probably start a fire in my kitchen.”

“I… I got a phone call at the gas station… It was... the hospital in New York...”

“You don’t have to do that! Jerry already told me everything.”

“Oh. Good. Good. That’s… good.”

She walked over and set the tray of desserts on the bed next to me. Then she stepped back, looked at me for a second like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. I guess, in a way, she was. After a moment, she sat down on the other side of me. I waited for her to speak. I think she was doing the same thing. God knows how long we would have sat in silence if it weren’t for the puppy zooming into the room. It literally bounced off a wall, then stopped to stare up at us like we were the ones being weird.

“Did Jerry really buy a dog for this?”

“Yeah, he did not handle this situation as elegantly as I would have hoped. But he was worried about you. We all were.” Gaston ran up to Rosa and jumped up onto two feet, letting out a pathetic squeak. (Me too, Gaston. Me too.) Rosa bent forward and scooped him up into her arms. He wasted no time batting at his newfound mortal enemy, her hair. It dangled near his face, and he simply could not let that go without a fight. “I already called the shelter. They said we can bring him back tomorrow, no questions asked. But that’s only going to work if we don’t fall completely in love with him first. I’m putting our odds at about fifty-fifty.”

My brain energy was chugging along in disconnected spurts. But Gaston’s battle with Rosa’s locks finally helped me to notice an obvious abnormality to this situation. Her pink highlights were gone.

“Your hair,” I said. “It’s… all black.”

She tsked and said, “Well it was supposed to be russet espresso, but I guess I have to wash it a few hundred times first.”

“You dyed it?”

“You like it?”

“Um, yeah. I guess. I mean, it looked fine before.”

“Oh, just ‘fine,’ huh?”

“I mean, better than fine. It was like, your thing. You know? Like Jerry’s silly shirts and Benji’s killing knives.”

“You don’t have to explain. I was just messing with you.” She took Gaston, turned him so his furry little Edvard Munch-painting of a face was pointed at me, then let his back feet touch the mattress as she danced him along to the song she sang, “No one uplifts like Gaston, eats kibbles and bits like Gaston! No other mutt cheers you up from a rut like Gaston!”

I nodded. From here, I could see what she was doing. It was appreciated. I just couldn’t quite muster the mental energy to form that thought into words. All I could say was, “Your syllable count is off.”

“I know, It’s called ‘being transformative enough to not get sued.’ Didney Studios is quite litigious.”

“‘Didney’?”

“I said what I said.”

Gaston squeaked, held the noise for a couple seconds, then morphed it into an impressive Arf. I apologized to the dog. Then to Rosa. She let Gaston run free on the mattress. He charged at me, headbutting my hip before falling over onto his side. That was all it took to tucker the little thing out, because he went to sleep against me almost instantly. What a show-off.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling,” Rosa said. “I know you loved her. And I know this is hard. If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I’ll do it. If you just need to stay here and work through the stages of grief, the rest of us can run the gas station for you. Assuming Benji ever comes back, that is.”

The stages of grief. That was but one example of psychology that always felt bizarre to me. The idea that something so personal—like mourning—is also so universal that we’ve created a roadmap for the emotions we experience. What were they all again? God, it’s like trying to name the seven dwarfs. I always forget one… let’s see, there’s denial. I didn’t really get to experience that one. Maybe they’re just out of order and that’s coming up soon. And anger. My anger muscle is almost atrophied. May as well use that, if I can just figure out who to be angry at. Bargaining. Doesn’t really apply here. Who could I possibly bargain with?

And that’s when the idea hit me. The terrible idea. I didn’t realize it was terrible. Not yet, anyway. At that moment, I could have overlooked a hippopotamus on a unicycle, because my mind was so laser-focused on one specific point. An idea. A terrible awesome terrible terrible idea. The relief felt like waking up from a nightmare and realizing that none of the bad stuff was real. I was giddy with excitement. Grief was a human constant. But wasn’t I, of all people, uniquely situated to ignore the rules that applied to everyone else? I was special! I’d seen gods and devils and all manner of reality rule-breakers. And you know what? I could take advantage of it! Just this once! Why shouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I?

“Are you okay?” Rosa asked.

I realized I was laughing. I’d have to make sure she forgot that part.

“You really mean it? You’ll do ‘anything’ if it will help?”

There was a look on her face. I was too distracted to realize that this look was fear. “Yes?” she whispered.

“Where’s Jerry right now?”

“He’s… uh… went to get a dog bed. Should be back any minute.”

“Good. Good.”

“Why?”

“Manus Capere.”

19
And his handsome friend with a katana. [«]

Chapter Thirteen

“After thousands of years, I live again!” The dark god floated his vessel, Rosa’s body, into the air. With arms stretched out wide and eyes rolled back into pure white, he cackled with delight. Gaston lost his mind, yipping and baying at the floating deity.

“Actually,” I said. “It’s only been a couple weeks.”

“Seriously, Jack?! This had better be good. I was in the middle of a dream about Jason Momoa! What happened? Did you summon me by accident again? Come on, man! Get it together!”

“No, no accident. Now shut up for a second; we don’t have a lot of time before Jerry gets back. I summoned you because I need a favor.”

“Ooh, are we being clandestine?” The dark god pushed Rosa’s hands together and steepled her fingers. “How exciting! What’s the plan? Murder? Surprise party? Surprise murder party?!”

“I need you to bring my girlfriend back from the dead.”

“‘Girlfriend’? I thought you, Jerry, Rosa, and the sheriff were all part of a pansexual polyamorous relationship.”

“What would make you think that?”

“I might be bad at picking up on social cues, but you four were laying down some pretty strong vibes. Just saying.”

“Are you going to help or not?”

“Oh, I do so wish I could, but no.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer!”

“It’s simply not possible in my current state. When we first met, I was at the apex of my powers, much like a Kentaco-Hut. Now, I’m a shell of my former self, capable of only the slightest of miracles, much like a Taco Bell Express.”

“You’re lying! I watched you revive that robber after ripping his arms and legs off!”

“He was a freshy! Bringing back freshies is easy. Even human doctors have figured out how to bring back freshies. But death is like quicksand; the further you sink, the harder it is to pull you back out.”

“What about the Mathmetists? They were dead for like a year, and you still brought them back! You even revived Kieffer, who by the way has some serious abandonment issues.”

“Kieffer? When did you see Kieffer?”

“I don’t want to talk about Kieffer! The only thing that matters to me right now is bringing Sabine back. And if you won’t do it, I’m going to have to find someone who will!”

The dark god slowly sank to the bed, crossed Rosa’s legs, and caught Gaston as he jumped into her arms. Gaston proceeded to bite at her locks of hair, which were now floating weightlessly in the air around her.

“Oh Jack, you sweet summer sausage, listen to me.” He shook Rosa’s head. “I didn’t bring Kieffer back. I couldn’t do that. And the last time I checked, the Mathmetists were rotting in a hole pushing up daisies. It would take a great deal of magic to resuscitate them again. Magic that I simply do not possess in my current state.”

“If it wasn’t you, then who? Who else would even want Kieffer and the cultists to be alive?”

“You’re asking the wrong question. The real mystery is this: who brought you back?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hate to break it to you, but you were killed three months ago. Hosts like Rosa are the rarest of beings. A mortal like yourself would have been utterly destroyed by the process of possessing the guardian’s powers. So, who brought you back from the dead? And more importantly, why?”

Great. Another mystery, and another reveal that should have probably shaken me to the core. In my current mental state, this awareness of my temporary demise seemed barely trivial. I took hope in the knowledge that I was on the right track. Someone or something was handing out get-out-of-death-free cards, and I was determined to figure out who.

“Thanks for the information.” I got out of bed, snagged a couple muffins, and stuffed them into my pockets. I was going to need fuel for the road and whatever nonsense awaited. “And by the way, Kieffer figured out when the evil pain god you warned me about is supposed to arrive.”

“He did? Well, I’ll be! I’m so proud of him.”

“It’s in three days.”

“WHAT?! THREE DAYS ARE YOU SERIOUS?! HOW ARE YOU SO CALM RIGHT NOW?! Do you not remember what I showed you?! Does ‘The screams of unfathomable torment so loud they echo backwards across time’ not ring any bells? How are you going to stop it?!”

“I think Kieffer expected you to have some kind of plan.”

“Yeah, but I thought we had, like, a century or so left to prepare! What are we supposed to do in only THREE days?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. I believe in you.”

“Your faith is misplaced, you unbelievable idiot! We’re all going to die horribly! Why didn’t you lead with this? Oh Jesus Christ, this is bad! This is real bad! I’m… I’m… Freaking out right now! I’m… tired… I’m so tired all of a sudden… I’m just going to… rest for a second...”

Rosa’s eyes fluttered. Her pupils returned, and she fell over onto her side. Gaston whimpered and jumped on top of her. It was interesting to see that panic-induced exhaustion before a looming deadline wasn’t a strictly human phenomenon. The dark god was out. So too was Rosa.

I put the tray of baked sweets on the kitchen counter. Gaston was curled up next to Rosa when I returned to the guest bedroom with the throw blanket from her couch. She was going to be confused when she woke up, but by then I’d be long gone.

“And just where the hell are you going to go?”

I turned to see Spencer Middleton standing there in the doorway, smiling at me.

“I’ll start at the Mathmetist compound.” I kept my voice at a whisper. “Someone brought them back for a reason. If there’s a clue or a trail, I’ll find it there.”

Gaston jumped off the bed and started growling at Spencer as he stepped closer to me and asked, “Do you really think you’re smart enough to figure this out on your own?” Gaston yipped and charged at the dead man. He feinted a step away, then lunged forward and swatted at the pup. His hand missed Gaston by an inch. The dog fell over itself in an attempt to run away and hide below the bed.

“For Sabine?” I tossed the blanket over Rosa. “I’ll get smart enough.”

“Think about this, Jackie boy. How are you going to get there? Walk? Hitchhike?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call a cab or something.” I patted my pockets. My phone and wallet were nowhere to be found.

“When was the last time you remember seeing a cab in this town? There’s only one option. You need to take her car.” Spencer brushed past me, grabbed the blanket that I had just draped over Rosa, and pulled it off. “She should have the keys in her pocket, don’t you think?”

I looked down at her. Poor Rosa. Would she ever trust me again when this was all over? I turned to Spencer and asked, “Why are you helping me?”

He raised his eyebrows and answered with a grin, “Because I hate you.”

That made about as much sense as everything else going on.

He was right. The keys to Rosa’s car were in her pocket. Removing them without waking her was like the highest-stakes game of Operation I’d ever played. Having Spencer breathing down my neck the whole time sure didn’t help. What luck that, after retrieving the keychain, Spencer went back to wherever it was he came from. I locked the front door behind me. I don’t even remember the drive to the Mathmetist compound.

The cultist lair was way more active than the last time I visited. The school bus was now parked out front. It had been spraypainted top to bottom with muddled hues of pink and blue, all but the tires and windows. A cloth banner stuck to the side, suspended on all four corners by bungee cord, with the words “Voet For keefer!” painted across it.

I parked in a patch of grass nearby and watched as young men and women walked back and forth from the building to the bus carrying cardboard boxes, yard signs, balloons, and more. This was the moment when, under normal circumstances, I’d be overthinking things. What am I going to say? Who am I going to talk to? What if things go bad? What if things go really bad? What if, what if, what if. I was so used to these thoughts that their absence was hard to miss. My brain, which had so often taken the role of annoyingly loud upstairs neighbor, was now conspicuously quiet. The laser focus that replaced all the noise might have scared me if I were able to overthink it.

I opened the car and started for the compound, but immediately stopped once I noticed some unexpected motion on the ground nearby. I paused and gave it my attention. Something at the base of the overgrown tree line moved—slowly, steadily, almost mechanically. I tuned out the Mathmetists and approached the mysterious thing.

It was a turtle, turned over onto its back. The head and limbs were extended from the shell, slowly rotating in the air to no effect. There was no telling how long it had been here, doing this completely futile mild cardio routine in an attempt to right itself. But it would take so little effort to kick the turtle back over. And who doesn’t like kicking things?

I put the toe of my good foot under the reptile’s shell and gave him a gentle shove, just enough to get him back onto his feet. He was still at first, but not for long. He extended his neck and turned to look at me, his unlikely savior, then he said in a squeaky voice, “Thanks, Jack.”

“Don’t mention it,” I responded.

I started walking towards the compound, made it a few steps, then froze. Wait a second. I backtracked and caught up with the turtle, now a couple feet into the overgrowth.

“Hey!” I shouted. The turtle stopped and looked back at me.

“Yes?” he asked.

“How did you know my name?”

The turtle gave me a cold, blank, reptilian stare. Then, he answered, “It’s written on your chest.”

I looked down. Sure enough, I was still wearing my nametag from work. Sometimes the answer really is as simple as that.

“Sorry,” I said. “For a second there, I thought something weird was going on.”

The turtle repeated my words from earlier. “Don’t mention it.”

“Hey, as long as I have you here, do you know anything about the Mathmetists coming back from the dead?”

“No,” he squeaked. “I don’t know anything. I’m just a turtle.”

Alright, I thought to myself. I guess I’m going to have to do this the hard way.

I walked up to the line of workers and grabbed one at random. He was blonde, with blue eyes and longer-than-average hair, wearing a neon yellow tee, “Voat for Keefre!” spelled out across his chest like it had been written haphazardly with permanent marker. Like everyone else here, he wore a white bathrobe over his clothing. He turned to face me with a huge smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You, cultist!”

“It’s not a cult, bro.”

“Who’s in charge here?”

“Nobody’s in charge. We’re an autonomous collective of like-minded individuals.”

“Well then who told you to load all this stuff into the bus?”

“It was a group decision, based upon our mutual goal to help Father Kieffer win the mayoral election.”

Two of the other cultists were close enough to hear him. They stopped, turned in my direction, and said in unison, “Praise Kieffer!” This set off a bizarre chain reaction, where everyone close enough to hear them then stopped whatever they were doing to turn and repeat, “Praise Kieffer!” This caused more repetition and more Kieffer praising until everyone in the compound had done so. Only then was I able to continue my line of questioning.

“In that case, who decided it was your goal to help Kieffer win the election?”

“Oh, let me think.” He looked down at the ground, maintaining that pained smile as he worked the question over in his mind. After a moment that went on for much too long, he looked back up and said, “That must have been Kieffer.”

“Great. Can you tell me where he is right now?”

“No!” I couldn’t tell what the smile on his face meant. Was he giving me sass because he knew he didn’t have to answer my question? Was he happy that he didn’t know the answer? Or did he just have no other choice but to smile, like his mind had no room left for anything but cheerful obedience? He turned and rejoined the work line with the other drones. I let him go. I’d already exhausted his usefulness. Maybe someone inside could tell me more.

I walked right through the front doors without any trouble. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but a low-tech call center was definitely not it. Five folding tables were arranged together in a circle, each set up with a cultist on a headset, a laptop, and a stack of papers. In the space between each table was a metal tripod containing a hub of wires—electrical, telephone, internet—which were braided together with red yarn and stretched around the circle, connecting each table together in a pattern that almost certainly wasn’t a coincidence.

The five callers faced towards the center of the pentagram, where a life-size statue of Kieffer made entirely out of Legos stood triumphantly holding a Lego sword into the air. The level of detail—from the multicolored saber giving the effect of the sun glistening off the faux metal, to the thick brown moustache—was, in a word, disconcerting. Although, the Lego artist did take certain liberties. This block Kieffer seemed a bit healthier than the real deal. His shoulders a little broader. His arm muscles somewhat rounder. And the whole figure was maybe an inch or two too tall. Oh, and he was wearing a golden crown.

I walked up to the call-center cultist closest to me and overheard a line from her pitch. “That’s right, Agatha. Once Kieffer is mayor, he will send all of the racoons back to where they came from...” Typical political promises. I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and gave me the same dead-eyed, empty smile all the other workers had glued to their faces. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, a tiny nose, and high cheekbones. In another life, she would have been considered pretty (in a first-one-to-die-in-the-slasher-film kind of way). Her yellow shirt was a size too small and had the words “A vote for Kieffer is…” That was all I could read. The rest of the sentence was hidden under her ample bosom.

“...Well thank you for your commitment to vote. Please don’t forget to tell your friends and family. All hail Father Kieffer!” With that, she removed her headset and asked cheerfully, “What can I help you with, you filthy intruder?”

“I’m looking for Kieffer.”

Her smile never faltered as she responded, “You are not worthy to lick the filth from Father Kieffer’s boots, pedestrian.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not planning to do that.”

She pursed her lips and said, “Hmm.”

“What happened to you people? I mean, I know you were always a little gullible, but it was never like this.”

“We found glorious purpose. Serving our father is a pleasure you can never hope to experience. Doing his bidding is positively orgasmic. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have calls to make.” She pulled a “Vote for Kief!” sticker out of her pants pocket, unpeeled the back, stuck it to my shirt, and said, “Hail Kieffer!” Then, she went right back to work.

There’s a strange, almost indescribable force that lives inside of me, holding me back from all of the proverbial ledges. It keeps me from doing stupid things, like punching customers when they’re rude. But it also keeps me from doing smart things, like scheduling doctor’s appointments when I get sick or complaining when the fast-food place gets my order wrong. It’s a constant, like gravity and time, that coexists with the rest of my reality so completely that I rarely give it any thought.

That force was absent now. With the guardrails out of the way, there was nothing to stop me from pulling the woman’s phone lines free from the outlet. She looked at me with horror and surprise. But I wasn’t done yet. I climbed up onto her table and gave the building block Kieffer a shove hard enough to knock it free from its pedestal. It landed on the table on the other side, shattering into tens of thousands of bits and pieces. Every eye in that place was locked on me now. There was no denying it: I was on a rampage. I owed them a speech.

“Listen up, idiots! This man, Kieffer, is not your god! He’s just a schmuck like the rest of us. Stop working for free. Go find something better to do with your lives! Go home! Hug somebody. Stop wasting your time and do something actually worth doing!”

The silence that followed was palpable. I didn’t regret what I said. At least, not until… Clap, clap, clap… the applause started slowly, like rain on a tin roof, then others joined in, until it became a room full of cheerful ovation.

“Stop that!” I shouted.

“Praise Jack!” Where did that come from? “All hail Jack!” Seriously? “Listen to Father Jack! He is wise beyond his years!”

“NOOO!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The clapping ceased immediately. “Do not worship me, or so help me, I will line each and every one of you up and punch you in the throats!”

I climbed down from the table as the crowd mumbled amongst itself. I overheard some discouraging phrases like, “He’s just testing us,” and “Faith overcomes,” and “Pain is love.” This wasn’t the image I formed in my mind when Jerry told me that the cultists were back. Nobody prepared me for the fact that they weren’t all the way back. Important pieces were missing. This was unacceptable. For my Sabine, I wanted nothing short of the deluxe package like the one Spencer and neo-Kieffer got. My next step was obvious. I needed to pay the mustachioed soon-to-be mayor a little visit. Good thing I knew exactly where he was going to be tonight.

The sun was beginning to set when I arrived at Taco De Casa. Security was tighter than I’d ever seen it, even for a Tuesday. I walked up to the bouncer guarding the back entrance and said, “Yo.”

His name was Nader, a big guy built like a brick wall with limbs. Like too many other people around here, I knew him from high school. He was a senior when I was a freshman. He was also a senior when I was a junior. We were even in the same grade at one point, but his parents kept holding him back. The official excuse—that he was too immature to receive a diploma—was a big pile of bull chonk, as was any other reason that didn’t mention his major contribution to our school’s football team and its multiple championship victories. He was finally forced to graduate after a rival school district sued to kick the twenty-two-year-old man out of high school athletics. All things considered, Nader had turned out pretty well, transitioning from professional concussion-sponge into private security without any significant difficulties. He looked me up and down and said, “Nobody’s allowed inside until the dinner starts.”

Fortunately, I still had that rampage confidence.

“I work here.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, then go right ahead.”

The event room was set up with a tiny stage and podium on one side of the room and a serve-yourself taco bar on the other. Each of the tables was adorned with white tablecloths and dinner candles. A man in a chef’s robe spotted me from behind a tray of refried beans. He pointed at me with a metal serving spoon and said, “Hey, are you here to help with catering?”

“No, I’m here to kidnap Kieffer. Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah, he went to the employee bathroom like twenty minutes ago. Down the hall, through the kitchen on the left.”

“Thanks.”

It was astounding how easy this rampage was turning out to be. Not a single person bothered to stop and ask what I was doing as I walked through the restaurant, into the kitchen, past the cooks and servers, and up to the bathroom door. I tried the handle. It turned, but the door only opened about half an inch. It was locked from the inside, probably a simple barrel bolt screwed into place.

“Ocupado!”

That voice was definitely Kieffer’s. I checked to make sure nobody was looking, took a half-step back, and slammed my shoulder into the door as hard as I could. It flung open. Kieffer turned away from the mirror and dropped a stack of index cards.

“Hey, whoa! Calm down! Take whatever you want!”

I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. Kieffer leaned forward, squinted, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Jack?! Oh, man, I thought it was someone here to kill me again. What do you want? Were you trying to give me a heart attack? I’m already nervous enough about giving a speech in public.”

“I have some questions.”

“Okay, hold your horses.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket, tapped at the screen for a moment, then set it face up on the sink behind him. A cartoon eyeball danced on the screen below the bathroom mirror as the Disrupter app did its thing. “There. If anyone tries eavesdropping, the only thing they’ll hear is you asking for drug money in exchange for sex and me turning you down and encouraging you to get your life together. It’s a thirty-minute conversation on loop. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I went to the Mathmetist compound.”

Kieffer lowered his head and groaned. “Please tell me they didn’t rebuild the Lego statue.”

“There was a Lego statue. It’s not there anymore.”

“Talented buggers, aren’t they? Hard workers. But so easily confused. I noticed they weren’t a hundred percent when I found them three months ago.”

“What happened to them?”

“It’s simple. When the dark god brought them back, he neglected to revive their leader—the “prophet,” the founder of Mathmetism himself. I was confused at first, but over time I began to understand. This was intentional. The man who brought them all together in the first place had done his job, but he was old, with old ideas. Without his crazy philosophies holding back the flock, the Mathmetists were finally able to evolve, but a piece was still missing. When I stumbled into camp, I found them worshipping a squirrel. They’re built to follow the strongest personality they encounter, without question. You see, they aren’t cultists anymore. Now, they’re acolytes, in search of a master.”

“Sounds to me like they’re your slaves.”

“How about we split the difference and call them my ‘thralls’?”

“How about you kiss my ass?”

He cocked his head. “Oh my... You’re on a rampage right now, aren’t you? While I respect the zeal, I don’t see how my kissing your bottom would benefit either of us. Is it a sexual thing?”

“No, it’s an expression. I don’t literally want you to… dammit Kieffer, shut up and listen to me! I’m trying to figure out who brought you back from the dead and how.”

“I told you already: it was my father, the dark god. Rampaging Jack sure does swear a lot more than Jack Original, doesn’t he?”

“Who else could have done it? Who else is strong enough?”

“Dear boy, I don’t know what you expected to learn from me. I’m just as much in the weeds as you are.”

“What about the twins?! That’s what you called those two monsters with the jump suits and clown masks, right?”

He chuckled. “Those attack dogs? Between the two of them, they’ve barely got a couple brain cells to rub together. They’re certainly not capable of dark magic.”

“No, but they must work for someone who is. I watched them drown, back when they were working for the Collector. Someone brought them back. And you know who their new boss is, don’t you? Tell me!”

“And what, pray tell, are you going to do with that information?”

“Whatever I have to.”

Kieffer carefully stroked his moustache with two fingers as he pondered his next move. He was bravely testing my patience. Finally, he bent down, gathered up his notecards, and said, “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but first, would you be willing to listen to my speech? I’ve been practicing in the mirror, but I’ve heard the words so many times they’ve lost all meaning. I need a fresh pair of eyes and ears, and because you’re feeling so gratuitously honest right now, I know your criticism will be genuine. It won’t take long.”

Any other day of my life, I would have given in and let him do his stupid speech. Regular Jack would sacrifice a lot to avoid making a scene or causing a fuss. But Rampage Jack didn’t suffer the same obstacle. My mouth started running, and I let it.

“Will it take less time for me to simply beat the information out of you? Bear in mind I have an intimate familiarity with exactly how much force is necessary to break bones and exactly how much blood a person can lose before dying.”

Damn, mouth, I thought after having time to hear and dissect the words. Good job!

I couldn’t read Kieffer’s expression. He might have been impressed. Or maybe scared. He put his note cards into his jacket pocket and said, “You know, politics is nothing but pretending. With all of your experience, you’d make an excellent politician.”

“Fuck you and your moustache,” I said. “Now cough up the information before I make you cough up something else. Who do the twins work for?”

Kieffer folded his arms and rested his weight on the sink. “You need to know before you start this crazy quest, the powers involved are far greater than your comprehension. You’re like a bumblebee trying to get the attention of a fighter jet.”

“I got your attention, didn’t I?”

“So you did. So. You. Did.” He chuckled. “There is a new player in town. As luck would have it, we all share a common goal: stopping the nameless evil from burning us alive.”

“What can you tell me about this new player?”

“Not much. He’s strong. Organized. Secretive. He goes by the name of…” Kieffer sat up from the sink, looked around, bent down to check under the stall, then stepped closer to me and whispered, “Grimorea.”

“Grimorea?” I repeated.

He frantically shushed me. “Don’t say it so loudly! The Grim One-” he quickly made the sign of the cross- “is always listening. The Disrupter app can only protect from electronic eavesdroppers, but The Grim One-” again, the sign of the cross- “has spies everywhere.”

The bathroom door swung open and banged against the wall. I turned to see Nader cracking his knuckles.

“Finally!” exclaimed Kieffer.

“Sorry, Kief. I just got your message.”

“What’s going on?” I asked. The answer came to me instantly. Kieffer’s secret maneuver. When I allowed him a moment to turn on the app, he took the time to fire off a quick SOS to security. That’s why he was being so annoyingly verbose, why he wanted me to listen to his speech, why he offered me compliments. He was stalling! How embarrassing. I’d just been played by Kieffer.

The crafty old politician pointed at me and yelled, “This man is trying to kill me!”

Nader wound up for a punch. Considering he was such an experienced brawler, he really did telegraph his moves. Any idiot could see the attack coming ahead of time and easily duck, block, or get out of the way. A good opponent might even have the wherewithal to prepare a proper counter attack. I must be a special kind of idiot, though, because I saw the punch from a mile away and still couldn’t manage to move before his fist collided with my face.

Chapter Fourteen

[20]

I woke up feeling tired. I rolled over and reached out. The empty space on the mattress next to me wasn’t what I was hoping to find.

I sat up and looked around the room, wondering where she’d gone. So strange that she would wake up before me. That hadn’t happened in quite some time.

My bedroom door opened. She walked in wearing a bath towel around her body and another on top of her head. She went to the dresser, took off her top towel and vigorously rubbed it through her dark purple hair until it was a voluminous, frizzy mess. She dropped both towels onto the floor, opened the drawer where I kept my tee shirts, and threw one on.

“Good morning, Beautiful,” I said.

She flicked off the white noise machine on the dresser, then jumped onto the bed, crawled over me, and shut off the other noise machine on the bedside table. The room was suddenly, eerily, quiet. She curled up in the space next to me and said, “Happy birthday, Sleepy-head!”

“Oh yeah. I totally forgot that it was today. Must be my weathered old-man brain.”

She rolled on top of me. The locks of her cold wet hair tickled my face. She smelled like coconut and jasmine. And beneath that, the ever-present aroma of sunscreen.

“Don’t forget,” she said excitedly. “You can legally buy booze now. It’s a brave new world!”

“I suppose that makes it official. I’m a real adult.”

“Hurray!” she cheered.

“Hurray!” I echoed.

Our cheerfulness was mostly in jest. The ability to legally buy alcohol was moot. The two of us basically ran the gas station at the edge of town, where all manner of drink was constantly available, and it wasn’t like we were going to card ourselves.

“How did you sleep?” The cheer was gone. Serious question now.

“Not bad.”

“Uh huh.” She sounded doubtful. “I woke up at four in the morning and saw you reading in your chair in the corner like a vampire. This isn’t normal, you know.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“Don’t worry about me; I went right back to sleep. What time did you finally come to bed?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check the clock. Not that much later, though.” I neglected to tell her that the sun was up before I crawled into bed with her. She was concerned enough already. I didn’t want to make it any worse.

The stereo noise machine setup was only one part of my evolving sleep-hygiene routine, along with the weighted blanket, the vitamins, the permanent blue light filters on our phones, and—most notably—the caffeine fast. I was going on one whole month without coffee, and honestly wondering if it was even worth it.

She planted a kiss on my lips, then rolled off of me and played like she was dying. “Ugh, your breath is kicking!” She made mock coughing and gagging sounds. “I’m dying! Cannot breathe! Send an ambulance! Tell them to bring gum!” She rolled all the way off the bed and hit the floor. “What a world! What a world!”

“Okay,” I said. “I can take a hint.”

She jumped to her feet and said, “Come to the kitchen. I have a surprise waiting for you!”

She left the door open as she raced out of the room. I got to my feet and stretched, but noticed that something didn’t feel right. My right leg was tingling. So was my left pinky finger. I must have slept wrong or something. Ah well. Minor inconveniences. Hardly enough to ruin this moment. It was my twenty-first birthday. We both had the day off. There was a new bookstore opening on Main Street. The air in the house smelled like butter and sugar, and Sabine was waiting for me in the kitchen with a surprise. Today was going to be a good day.

I got dressed as quickly as possible, brushed my teeth, then walked into the kitchen to see a giant, swollen monster with yellow skin and six arms sitting at the bar.

“Hey Jack! Happy birthday or whatever.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled.

He spoke with his mouth full. “Not exactly.” His bottom row of hands dug into the freshly baked banana cake, then passed each smooshed handful to the row of hands immediately above it, which then passed the wads of food to the top pair of hands, which then shoved the clumps of cake matter down his gullet. The action was continuous, and in a matter of seconds, the cake plate was empty, save for a few crumbs and banana detritus. The dark god’s spiky red mohawk scraped the ceiling as he threw his head back and moaned with delight.

“That was my birthday cake, you asshole!”

“Oh, sorry. I just saw it sitting here and thought it was for everyone. Hang on.” He held one of his top hands in front of his face and let out a loud hack, expelling a yellow predigested glob into his palm. He held it over the plate and let it slide out of his grip. It landed, half on the plate and half on the bar, with a loud plop. “Here. I saved you some. I already chewed it for you, too.”

“Chewing is the best part!”

“It is?”

“Dammit, D.G.! What the hell are you doing here?! And where’s Sabine?”

“Who?”

“Pretty girl. Purple hair. She was here a second ago.”

“Sorry, Jack. It’s only you and me in this place. You’re dreaming.”

“No, I saw her. She was in the bedroom. This is… we’re going to visit New Pages later. It’s… Who the hell do you think you are coming in here and ruining this?!”

With his two bottom hands, the dark god rubbed his swollen stomach. He sat on an enormous slugular tail not dissimilar to Jabba the Hutt’s, save for the neon green slime oozing from its pores and puddling onto the floor around him. “Sigmund Freud used to say that you’re everybody in your dreams.” He laughed. “Sometimes I’d pop in on one of his nightmares just to screw with him. But he was mostly right. Outside of the occasional cameo from a god like myself, your mind is the loneliest place you can ever go.”

“Okay.”

“On to business! Now that you’ve finally fallen asleep, we can game plan. Three days until the nameless ancient evil reaches your world.”

“I don’t really care about that right now.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re still hung up on your dead girlfriend.”

“Damn right I am.”

“Well pump the brakes and use your top head, Romeo. Do you really want to submit her to the horrendous torture carnival that’s coming? Think, Jack! If you bring her back with no plan to stop the Big Bad, then she’ll just become another victim. Is that really what you want?”

Reason was finally penetrating the armor I’d built around myself. The dark god was absolutely right. If I wanted to bring Sabine back, I needed to make sure there was a safe place to bring her back to.

“Fine,” I relented. “But I don’t know how I’m supposed to help. Do we just brainstorm until we figure out a solution? Because I’m not exactly the smartest guy in the world.”

I heard a noise behind me that sounded like bone snapping in half. I turned around to see something that had never been there before. Against the wall, behind the kitchen table, there was a white door with a sign posted at eye level. The words printed across spelled out a baffling message. “Employees Only.” Not this again.

“I came to you for a reason, Jack. For better or worse, you’re different. You stand out among the others, and I do not know why that is. What makes you special? Why were you brought back? Why do so many strange things happen around you? It’s time we go through your memories and see what’s hidden there. Buckle up, because this won’t be pleasant. Would you like me to summon the emotional support bunny?”

“Yes, please.”

Suddenly, there came a heavy pounding on the front door of my house. It seemed a little too loud to be Mr. Carrots, but I was pretty much ready to accept whatever happened at face value. When I looked to the dark god, though, I could see that something was off, even by dream-logic standards. He looked perplexed. Concerned. Nervous, even.

“Are you doing that?” he asked.

“No. Obviously.”

“It’s only supposed to be the two of us in here.” He pulled up all six hands into fists. “It’s impossible for someone to be knocking at the door. Go look out the window and tell me what you see.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s probably going to be some unspeakable horror that drives me insane just from seeing it. You go look.”

“Jack, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m hardly the most ambulatory individual. It would take me thirty minutes and five thousand calories to crawl over to that window. Quit being a scaredy-fuck and go look!”

He had a winning argument and good points, but none of that mattered a second later once all the windows in my house suddenly disappeared. The walls were now bare. The only way to see who was knocking was to go and open the front door. The dark god let out a squeal like a pig in distress before clasping two of his hands over his mouth.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

He pulled his hands away and said softly, “Somehow this subreality is breaking down. How?! How are you doing this, Jack?”

Three things happened at the exact same time: The front door flew open, every bit of light in the house disappeared, and the dark god screamed.

His screaming turned into a high-pitched electronic whine, then became softer and softer until it was barely a hum. I still couldn’t see anything, but I felt the world spinning below my feet. I cried out, “Hello?” and heard the words echo across the universe. I wasn’t in my home anymore. I was someplace else.

And then I heard his voice. “How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start…”

All at once, the light came back. I crashed into place, there in my kitchen, in my dream. The change was so sudden I couldn’t help but fall to my knees. A red puddle formed on the kitchen floor in front of my eyes. I raised a hand to my face and felt the warm liquid pouring from my nostrils. I was bleeding again.

“...when memory plays an old tune on the heart.”

I pinched my nose and looked up to where the dark god had been. He was gone now, and in his place stood Spencer Fucking Middleton. Or so my eyes would have me believe, but he couldn’t be. I knew that now. The real Spencer was a lot of things, but a fan of nineteenth-century English poet Eliza Cook was not one of them.

“What?” He said, as though he were listening to my thoughts. “You didn’t think soldiers were allowed to read poetry? Get fucked.”

He held out his hands, showing off the pickle jar he was holding—inside, a chubby little creature with six arms, six rows of sagging breasts, and a tiny red mohawk. Spencer gave the jar a violent shake.

“Stop that!” I commanded. “You’re going to hurt him!” I knew the moment I heard the words come out of my mouth that hurting him was the entire point. But he did stop—long enough to walk to the other side of the kitchen. He reached up over the stove and opened the door of the microwave. I started charging. I reached him as soon as the microwave was closed, before he had a chance to turn it on, and slammed into him with all of my strength. I expected it to feel like hitting a brick wall, but to my surprise, he moved. I wrapped my arms around him, squeezed, and continued to push until we both hit the wall.

“Finally!” he cried out with a victorious laugh. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

He hooked his hands below my arms, separated us, and delivered a series of blows to my chest and neck that looked like a blur and felt like a bomb. I didn’t feel myself fall down, but the next thing I knew, I was on the ground by his feet. He stood over me, gloating. “Well, that was fun-” I wrapped my arms around his legs. “Seriously, Jack?”

With all my strength, I pulled his feet while pushing his knees with my shoulder. I’m almost certain that the maneuver hurt me more than it did him, but it was unexpected, and for the first time in a fair fight, I took Spencer down to the ground. I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. Once he hit the floor, I pounced on top of him, swinging punch after punch into his face, screaming “Fuck! You! Fuck! You!” over and over until my hands were bloodied and I couldn’t stand the pain any more. I stopped to catch my breath and then… finally… when my heartbeat slowed to only twice its usual pace and I could breathe somewhat normally… I looked down and saw that I had been breaking my knuckles punching into the floor. Spencer wasn’t there anymore. If he were ever there at all.

“Do you know,” he said in that taunting voice, “you have some serious anger issues?” My eyes snapped up to see him sitting at the table by the white door. My hand trembled uncontrollably as I held up a bloody middle finger. “Well, if you’ve got that out of your system, I think we should get to work. We don’t have very much time here.”

He made his point. He was writing the rules of this world. I couldn’t hurt him, but he could hurt me.

“What now?” I asked. “We go through the door? You act as my spirit guide as we navigate a sea of troubled memories?”

He shook his head. The smile disappeared from his face. When he spoke, the words no longer held any of his trademark sadistic joy. “No. You’re not ready for that. Not yet.”

“Then what?”

“I want to show you something else. Let’s play a game. Call it a thought experiment.”

The room disappeared. I hated how little something like an entire world vanishing before my eyes impacted me now. That’s the sort of thing most people would never even need to fathom, yet my first thought was, “Not this again.” The weightless nothingness that took its place lasted for a brief moment before a new world flashed into existence.

I sat upright. My immediate surroundings slowly came into focus alongside the pounding headache behind my eyes. My throat was itchy and dry. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a fuzzy bowling ball. My peripheral vision filled with explosive static that vanished upon focus. This was migraine territory. Something about that last jump between realities had not landed well. Where exactly had I landed, anyway?

The smells should have been a dead giveaway. A century’s worth of funk had already accumulated since last month’s ambitious “deep cleaning.” Now the gas station was in its natural state. I looked down at the counter at the hardback biography I’d been reading about Ironicus, the Greek philosopher who was famously beaten to death with olive branches. It was open to a page in the middle marked by a large puddle of drool. I must have nodded off at work again. But, does that mean…? Could it possibly mean… all of that was just a dream?

My vision trailed as I looked up to see that Spencer was standing on the customer side of the counter. Something warm and wet ran down my chin. I didn’t even have to look to know I had a real gusher of a nosebleed.

I fought the pain of my headache into the background and said, “If you’re not planning on buying anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store, please.”

I knew it probably wasn’t going to work, but I’ve been saved by plans with worse odds in the past. Spencer smiled wide with delight, then proceeded to turn and walk towards the aisles. That’s when I noticed we weren’t alone. There was another man here with us, seated in one of the old wooden chairs from our storage room. Well, “seated” may not be the right word. He was secured to the spot, bound by rope around his waist and feet. His hands were tied behind him where I couldn’t see, with a cloth gag cutting into his mouth. He looked young—a little older than me. Shaved head. Thin. Eyes spread open wide with fear like he dared not blink lest something get him before he could see it coming. I’d never seen him before in my life, but I’d seen that look in his eyes plenty of times.

Spencer crossed to the front door and turned the locks (why he felt the need to lock the doors in my dreamworld was beyond me). With our privacy ensured, he walked back to where the man waited bound and gagged, then he produced a knife. As he twirled it around in his fingers, he circled the chair like a vulture.

“Before we begin, let me introduce you to our volunteer: Chester Melnyk. Ten years ago, Chester began experiencing a handful of unusual symptoms: headaches, hallucinations. suicidal ideations. He thought little of it until the moment he collapsed in the middle of a grocery store and was rushed to a hospital. Brain scans revealed a tumor the size of a grape growing on his temporal lobe. Surgery to remove the mass was a success... depending on how you define that word, anyway. When he awoke, he’d lost all of his experiential memories. Everything, from his name to how to tie his shoes, gone in an instant. He had to relearn how to drive, how to use the internet, how to cook mac and cheese. He didn’t even recognize his family. He was broke, scared, and alone, with cravings he didn’t understand, starting over with nothing.

A tear ran down Chester’s face. Spencer laughed.

“Don’t feel too sorry for him! I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet! See, Chester had a secret. All those years ago, before the surgery, before the headaches, before the grocery store… Chester had a bit of a temper. You know a little about tempers, don’t you Jack? Chester here, he dealt with his rage in a very interesting way. There was a young lady in his senior English Lit class. She was pretty. Too pretty to talk to him. He planned his attack for months. Stalking her. Learning her daily routine. And then one moonless night, he took a knife just like this one, and he ended her life. Police gave up after a few months, and the case remains unsolved to this day. Here’s the kicker: Chester has no idea what he did.”

The pain in my head continued to grow more and more intense. I was losing patience faster than nose blood. I pressed a wad of paper towels against my face to slow the bleeding. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m trying to get you to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“What is and isn’t fair! What is owed! What justice looks like in the real world! This man is a murderer and he got away with it! This is the game: tell me what he deserves.” Spencer placed the edge of the blade under Chester’s chin. The man struggled to speak, loudly, emphatically, but with the gag in his mouth it all came out a muffled mess. Spencer looked at me with madness in his eyes and said, “You hear that? I think he’s begging for his life. Tell me, Jack. Do we let him go? Do we let another killer walk free?”

“What the fuck is your problem? Stop doing that! If he killed someone, he should go to prison.”

Spencer stood up tall and looked down his nose at me. “You don’t agree with the eye-for-an-eye rule? You’d settle for prison time for this murderer. Yet, given the chance, you would execute me on the spot.”

I shrugged. “You’ve done worse than murder.”

“Too bad your decision isn’t going to be that easy. You don’t get to deflect responsibility forever. There’s a reason I brought you both here.”

The pounding behind my eyes felt like a herd of tap-dancing elephants.

“What are you talking about? Where are we, anyway?”

“This is the moral dilemma. It’s either him or you. Someone has to die here. Who’s it going to be?”

“What?”

“The world—the real world—demands sacrifices. Now, answer!” He put the blade to Chester’s cheek. This time he pressed hard enough to summon a drop of blood to the surface. It ran down his face like a red tear. “Who do I kill? Whose life is worth more? Don’t overthink it, Jack. This isn’t a hard question.”

As if we weren’t already up to our eyeballs in the unexpected, right about then, the gag in Chester’s mouth came loose from all his struggling, and he began to scream.

“Please! I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got the wrong guy! My name is Shiloh Watkins; I’m a business consultant from Fort Wayne, Indiana. I have a family! Please, God, call my wife! She’ll tell you this is all a big misunderstanding! I’ve never even had surgery before!”

Spencer casually shushed the panicked man and shoved the fabric back into his mouth, cutting his pleas short before tying a double knot around the man’s head.

“Wait,” I said, feeling a truly uncomfortable sense of doubt creeping in. “Is that guy real?”

Chester (or… Shiloh?) thrashed in his seat as Spencer threw up his hands and said, “No, no, of course not!” His words were less than convincing. “He’s just a philosophical concept. Nothing here is real. Now, shall we kill him?”

“You made your point,” I said.

“Did I?” He sounded surprised. Surprised, and hopeful. “Explain it to me.”

“Punishments are wasted on those without the capacity to improve.”

“JESUS CHRIST, JACK! NO! That’s not my point! That’s not it at all!” Spencer marched up to the counter, looked down at me, and shook his head like a disappointed father. “God! It’s so infuriating that you still don’t understand!”

“Then why don’t you do the explaining for me?”

I felt a shiver run up my spine. Spencer narrowed his eyes. He looked like he was about to say something important, but at that moment someone reached around from behind him and plunged a boxcutter blade into the soft tissue of his neck. His eyes went wide. The blade shifted. In one quick motion, his neck opened up wide, spilling blood all over the counter. He reached up, instinctively applying pressure on the wound, but it was too much. The slash was all the way across. Blood seeped out from between his fingers. He locked eyes with me and fell to the ground, gurgling out a meaningless threat with absent words. And then, he was no more.

With him out of the way, I finally saw her.

Sabine gave him a solid kick for good measure, then turned to me. Her hand was covered in Spencer blood all the way up her arm. She let the box cutter clack onto the counter between us and smiled. I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

“I’m sorry we keep getting interrupted,” she said.

“Me too.”

I stood up. She leaned across the counter. We met in a kiss halfway.

That’s where the dream ended.

◆◆◆

I coughed. The taste of copper filled my mouth. Nader continued gently smacking me on either side of my face until I sat forward and pushed him away. Blood was still steadily flowing from either nostril. I raised my hand and pinched the sides of my nose to stop the bleeding—big mistake. The sharp pain jolted me the rest of the way into the conscious plane.

Nader’s voice was the kind of apologetic that comes alongside the fear of almost killing someone. “Hey, man. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. It was easier than the truth.

“Aw man, look, I didn’t expect you to just stand there and get hit like that. I mean, dang dude! You took it like a champ. But you probably definitely have a concussion.”

“Serves him right,” Kieffer sniffed. “Spying on me in the bathroom like that. It’s like I always say, play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

I was back at Taco de Casa. I was on the floor, mostly. I deduced that Nader had dragged me over to where I currently sat with my back propped up against the wall. The kitchen workers went about their tasks, ignoring us.

Kieffer patted Nader on the back. The hired muscle took his cue and gave us some space. As Kieffer crouched down, Nader paced the kitchen, wringing his hands.

The politician spoke softly. “For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about your injury. To be fair, though, I didn’t know what you were after when you barged in on me. I had to assume, based on your history, that I was in some kind of danger.”

“Oh, come on! You used to be a death magnet. That was never on purpose.”

“No, Jack. That isn’t the history I’m referring to. You… you really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

Nader didn’t let him finish the thought. He popped up behind Kieffer and said with urgency, “We should get going. Press is already outside. I’ll take care of this mess for you.”

Kieffer stood and faced his goon. “Thanks, son,” he said. With one hand, he gave Nader a firm handshake. With the other, he patted him on the shoulder. “You did real good here today.”

“Hey Jack, listen,” Nader said, “I know a lot about concussions, and they’re no joke. You’re gonna wanna go see a doctor or something. I know a guy. He does concussions real cheap. I mean, you can’t be unconscious that long without some lasting damage. Do you know how long you were out for?”

“How long?” I asked.

“I counted. You were out for at least thirty seconds.”

Kieffer stood behind Nader. He straightened his tie, looked down at me with an obnoxious smirk, and emphasized, “At least.”

20
Hey Jack, how come you never name your chapters? For example, you could call this one “Chapter 14: Banana Cake.” Or, I don’t know, just spitballing here: “Chapter 14: That time Jerry and Rosa realized Jack ran away again and had to go to extreme and annoying measures to find him and Jerry started working on a plan to hide a tracking device in Jack’s fake leg.”
[«]

Chapter Fifteen

As far as rampages go, mine had come to a spectacularly anticlimactic end. Now that I was no longer being propelled forward by an irrational certainty that I could somehow reverse the course of death itself, I felt the pull of another force. The next stage of the grieving process was standing at the door, tapping his foot, waiting for me to let him in. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t strong enough to feel that kind of exquisite pain again. But then I noticed something. I was, more or less, okay. And I could stay that way as long as I didn’t think about…

…

…

She’s really gone. Isn’t she?

HEY! Snap out of it, Jack!

...Sure, the bad thoughts were still there, but I could ignore them, turn that part of my mind off, shut it down before the idea ever got to the surface. Maybe Nader’s punch had given me just the right amount of brain damage, but this plan actually felt like it might work. I didn’t feel the need to focus on the why, I was just grateful to be able to move forward. And any time my mind tried to backstep to Sabine…

Not now. Focus! We need to get out of here.

Time was a dwindling luxury, and my argument with Nader had been an extravagant waste. To recap: I wasn’t going to sit here and wait for an ambulance to come by. He wasn’t going to let me leave. It was a liability thing. He wasn’t a cop and couldn’t hold me here. But he was strong enough to put me in a headlock if I refused to cooperate. I compromised and told him I’d hang out in the kitchen, away from Kieffer and the other guests, until the bleeding stopped.

I sat on a milk crate next to the walk-in cooler. One of the line cooks brought me a bag of ice wrapped in a shop towel. I held it against my face until the pain had numbed over. My rampage was all out of steam, and my brain was out of ideas. The only lead I had left was a name. “Grimorea.” The Grim One.

“Thanks a lot for helping out.”

I heard Nader’s voice before he stepped into the kitchen. I looked up from my bloody ice towel to see the woman following him into the room. She walked with the confidence of a queen, her long black dress flowing behind her. When she saw me, she smiled.

“Hey, Jack.” Nader said. “I asked around to see if there were any doctors in the house, and whaddaya know? This here is Triss.”

As she removed her black formal gloves, Triss said wryly, “We’ve met.”

Nader needed no explanation. He left with a quick, “A’ight. Cool.”

She opened her purse, a shiny black bag with a silver skull on the side, and stuffed her gloves inside. She cleaned her hands in the sink next to the alarmingly disinterested dishwasher, then crouched next to me. Without a word, she reopened the skull purse and retrieved a pair of plastic gloves. I looked inside and spotted a pair of scissors, some medicine bottles, a syringe… She’d brought an entire makeshift med kit to dinner. This woman was full of surprises, and once again, I was in her debt.

I tried some small talk to lighten the mood. “Wow. Small world, isn’t it?”

“Just so you know,” she said, “I consider myself to be a fairly approachable individual. If you wanted to get my attention, all you had to do was come up and say hello. There’s no need to keep injuring yourself.”

She had the wrong idea.

“It’s not like that. I’m just really unlucky.”

“Uh-huh.” She took out a pack of gauze and a travel-size bottle of disinfectant, then yawned loudly. “Pardon me. I haven’t been sleeping so well. Someone was sneaking around my place last night. Whoever it was kept setting off the security lights and scaring my dogs. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

It took me a second to recognize the accusation. She really had the wrong idea.

“What? No!”

Triss took advantage of my mental distraction and pressed a piece of gauze against the split skin over my nose. My eyes stung from the fumes of disinfectant. Before I could form the word “Ouch,” she had already taped the bandage into place.

“Look, I’m flattered,” she said. “But this needs to stop.”

“I promise, these run-ins are pure coincidence. And whoever was bothering you last night, it wasn’t me. I work nights. Also, I’m not a creep.”

“Really? Because Nader says he caught you perving on Kieffer in the men’s room.”

She really really had the wrong idea. But what could I say in my defense?

“I wasn’t perving on anyone. I just… I needed to ask him some questions in private, and he’s a very hard man to get alone.”

I could see now that Triss was holding back laughter. Well, thank God somebody is having a good time.

“Relax,” she said, pulling a pen flashlight from her bag. “I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a few things I want to ask him about, too. Issues of a sensitive nature. That’s the whole reason I agreed to be part of this meeting for young entrepreneurs. That, and I needed a reason to wear my sweet dinner dress.”

“It’s a very nice dress.”

“Thank you.” Without warning, she aimed the light into my eyes and blinded me. “Your pupils are even and responsive. As far as breaks go, yours looks pretty minor. If you notice problems breathing after the swelling goes down, you can see someone about setting your nose. Are you in any pain?”

“No,” I lied.

“Good,” she said. “Because legally, I can’t give you anything stronger than Tylenol for it. Something like this.” She showed me a yellow bottle, then took my non-bandaged hand and poured a couple of small white and green pills into it.

“What are these?” I asked.

“Something you should definitely not take, because they’re for pain.”

“What are you-”

“Hold these for me. But do not take them, Jack. Understand?”

“No, I-”

She made a gesture, pantomiming throwing back pills. Then she said, “Don’t take these pills for the pain.”

“I don’t-”

She put her hand under mine, then gently lifted it up and pushed it towards my mouth. I raised an eyebrow. She cocked her head. I popped the pills in my mouth and let them sit on my tongue. They tasted like battery acid.

“Okay,” she said, snapping her purse shut. She stood, removed her plastic gloves, and tossed them into a nearby garbage can. “This has been fun, but I’d like to actually get out there and catch Kieffer’s speech. Let’s not do this again soon.”

My response was automatic and involuntary. “It’s a not date.”

Tristessa left, heading back in for Kieffer’s special event. I decided it was about time I left, too. I went out the back door. Ten seconds later, I was on the ground with two deputies sitting on top of me.

“YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT ANYTHING YOU SAY MAY BE USED AGAINST YOU IN THE COURT OF LAW!”

Sometimes, life comes at you fast.

“Grab his hands!”

“You grab his hands! I’m busy reading him his rights!”

“Gimme your handcuffs, would ya?”

“Why do you need mine? What did you do with your own cuffs?”

“Don’t worry about it. Point is, I need to borrow yours.”

They pulled me off the ground and slammed me onto the warm hood of the cruiser. Now that I had time to process the situation, I realized how bad it really was. Deputies Franklin and Williams—two of our town’s finest officers of the law (and I use that word the way Taco Casa’s sign uses it to describe “fine” dining)—were arguing with one another. Franklin was a small guy, although he probably wouldn’t look so small if he weren’t always hanging out with Williams. He had pasty skin, a long neck with an overly pronounced Adam’s apple and a bad case of perpetual baby-face. Williams was on the bigger side, although he probably wouldn’t look so big if he weren’t always hanging out with Franklin. He was African-American, with football-player shoulders, blue eyes, a standard cop moustache and a not-so-standard goatee.

We had some history together, although I doubt they remembered it the same way I did.[21] I also watched them get torn to pieces along with most of the other members of the sheriff’s department. The miracle of their resurrection might have been a bigger cause for celebration if they weren’t actively arresting me. Eventually, Franklin gave in and loaned Williams his handcuffs.

“You have the right to… Dammit. Where was I?”

“Attorney,” I said.

“Right. Thanks, Jack. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…” (blah blah blah, etc.)

They stuffed me into the back of the cruiser. I still had no idea what I was under arrest for, but let’s face it: there was no shortage of possibilities. All that mattered was that I was on my way to jail, and whatever medicine Triss had given me had just started to kick in. Or at least, I hoped it was her medicine; otherwise, there was a flood of spiders—thousands of them, with orange bodies and green, pointy legs—crawling out of Franklin’s and Williams’s mouths as they laughed and called it in to dispatch. “We got him! We’re bringing him in now.”

As far as jail cells go, I guess mine wasn’t too bad. It was attached to the back of the sheriff’s department, which meant I had to get perp-walked through the crowd of local law folk. It might not have been so humiliating if everyone there hadn’t stood and clapped as I passed through on my way to holding. I just told myself they probably do that for everyone.

The cells were located behind a big steel door at the end of a hallway behind another big steel door. We had to get buzzed past the first. Franklin used a key for the second. I must have been quite the VIP prisoner, considering how Franklin and Williams stayed together in lock-step until they’d delivered me to my cage (it was quite the inadvertent compliment if you think about it). The holding area was split into four sections, each with two walls made of concrete, two walls of steel bars, two cots, and a steel toilet/sink combo unit. There was only one other person in here, a sauced-up sot sleeping one off in the cell furthest from the door. Hey, at least I’ll have my own cell.

But then they opened the cage door and shoved me inside with the snoring drunk. Once I was safely confined, they instructed me to turn around and back up to the bars so they could remove the cuffs. This was my first experience with incarceration up close, and it probably wouldn’t have been too bad if it weren’t for all those damned spiders covering the entire ceiling, pulsing like a wave of spindly legs and bulbous abdomens. Trillions of eyes staring down at me with dark amusement. Triss’s painkillers were starting to get on top of me.

“When do I get my phone call?” I asked.

The deputies were already at the first door. Franklin fumbled with the key as Williams looked back and answered, “When we feel like it.” Something told me not to hold my breath.

They left. And I was all alone. Well, not entirely alone. There was my new roommate. I took a look at the unconscious man and recognized him. Like most of the degenerates from around here, we had a bit of history together. This was Stan Brown, son of Farmer Brown and brother of Farmer Brown Jr. (Locals called him “Farmer Stan,” but I don’t really know why.) This was bad news for me. While I wasn’t directly responsible for either of the aforementioned Brown’s untimely (and heretofore unsolved) deaths, I was still considered a person of interest. The Brown clan knew this, and they weren’t the forgiving or forgetting type. More like the bide-your-time-and-calculate-revenge type. Let’s just say things were going to get messy once he woke up.

Until then, though, there was nothing left to do except sit here on the cold floor and count down the minutes until the world came to an end. Friday was bootleg Ragnarök, and I was stuck here feeling helpless. Without any windows, it was difficult to tell how quickly time was marching forward. Farmer Stan didn’t offer much help. He just continued to snore like a warthog with a deviated septum. I stared at the ceiling and watched as the spiders faded away, little by little. At first, there were too many to count. Then, the skittering crowd began to shrink, or more accurately, merge. The spiders were eating one another. Soon, there were only a few hundred left, fat and swollen and never satisfied. Then, a few dozen, biting, eating, ripping into one another like vicious gladiators. As the number of spiders dwindled, the pain in my broken nose grew. My hand was throbbing, too. The stitches had opened up at some point. Blood seeped through the gauze on my palm. There were just three spiders now, the size of dogs. They fought. Two teamed up on one and tore it in half. They munched away, then attacked one another. Finally, a victor emerged. She was six feet long when she ripped the legs from her foe and consumed them in front of her crippled, round, limbless opponent. The second-place arachnid shivered and cried as Queen Spider pulled the remainder of his body into her mouth. The crunches that followed sounded like she was eating potato chips, and despite myself, I started to feel the early pangs of a hunger headache.

The monster spiders became a shallow memory, replaced by the growing swell of alarms from my body. The pain in my palm stitches surged down to my fingertips. My nose felt like a tiny invisible Nader was inside of it, punching me over and over with each beat of my heart. As kind as Tristessa’s intentions may have been, I might need to let a real doctor take a look at me. I have been prone to life-threatening infections, after all.

The spider queen had disappeared. The ceiling was empty, save for a series of cracks that ran jagged across it like an image of lightning. With the drugs worn off, I needed something else to take my mind off the pain. I pulled myself off the floor and paced the ten-by-ten holding cell. It didn’t take long before I found exactly what I was looking for—a distraction.

It was another hallucination, just as vivid as the spiders, but stuck in place against the wall opposite the drunkard’s cot. Slimy black mold had bubbled forth from the concrete, forming a shape that looked almost like an archway, nearly eight feet tall, perfectly symmetrical. It smelled sweet, like freshly cut cedar. A draft tickled my skin as I stared into the shiny black surface. The longer I focused on it, the more I suspected it might not actually be another hallucination at all. I reached out to touch its surface.

Another hand snapped around my bloody wrist, cinching it in place inches shy of contact. His words were slow and clear. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

I looked at the fingers and followed them, up the arm, to the shoulder, to the face of the man who had just stopped me. How long has he been here?

“Spencer.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What do you want?”

He released his death grip. “I want you to be smarter, but I’ll settle for you staying alive.”

“Well that’s new,” I said.

“No it isn’t. Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

I sighed. “What?”

“There has never been a single moment in our history together where I couldn’t have killed you if I wanted, but I always let you live.”

“Because you hate me. Right?”

“This isn’t about you!” He was visibly upset now. Good.

“Then what-”

The muffled sound of a buzz stole my attention. I looked towards the door on the opposite side of the room. A mechanical click clack revealed that someone on the other side was turning the lock. Was it breakfast time already?

The door scraped open. We made eye contact. Jerry smiled wide and battle cried, “IT’S A MADHOUSE!” He had the same two escorts I’d had. Deputies Williams and Franklin stood behind him, trying to hold him still, but he lunged to the side, put a foot against the bars of the closest cell, and kicked off in the opposite direction. “A MAAADHOUSE!” Williams and Franklin bumped into one another, then lost their grip altogether before the bigger of the two finally resorted to an old-fashioned tackle to take Jerry to the ground.

The deputies yelled commands. To Jerry. To one another. All the while, Jerry screamed Charlton Heston movie quotes and remained as generally uncooperative as possible. “LET MY PEOPLE GO!” “You get his legs.” “IT’S PEOPLE!” “Calm down!” “Where are the keys?” “SOYLENT GREEN IS PEEEOPLE!” “Which one are we putting him in?” “I don’t care.” “Knock it off!” “ROME IS AN AFFRONT TO GOD!”

Franklin banged the bars of my cell with a nightstick and ordered me to take a step back. They opened the door, yeeted Jerry inside, then slammed it shut and locked it again. Jerry bounced to his feet and faced them. “Well, that was fun. Jolly good work, boys. We should do this again sometime.”

They both muttered under their breaths as they turned to leave.

“Hey!” I yelled. They looked at me. “Aren’t you going to remove his handcuffs?”

They looked as if they were actually considering it, but then gave their answer in the form of can-you-even-believe laughter before turning their backs to us and leaving the room. As soon as the door clanged shut, Jerry said calmly, “That’s okay. I got a plan to get out of these cuffs, but I’m gonna need your help.”

“You’re not going to make me kick your thumbs out of their sockets or something gross like that, are you?”

“Did you know most police handcuffs in North America use a universal key shape?”

“I did not.”

“All I had to do was buy a handcuff key from the pawn shop and swallow it. Now quick, help me barf it up so I can get these things off. All you gotta do is stick your fingers wayyy down my throat.”

“Seriously? That’s worse than breaking your thumbs.” I sighed. “Okay, fine. But I should probably wash my hands first.”

Jerry laughed, “I’m just kidding.”

“About which part?”

“I wore my going-to-jail shirt today, so we’re golden.” I finally registered the slogan emblazoned across his shirt: “World’s Greatest Grandpa.”

“What makes this your going-to-jail shirt?”

“I sewed a shim under the back hem like a year ago.”

“How prescient. Now, what the frick are you doing here?!”

“It’s not a big deal. I offered to sell the deputies a bit of gravel.” (For those who don’t know, ‘gravel’ is cocaine. I wish I didn’t know that, but Jerry is a walking urban dictionary and I can’t help but pick these things up.[22])

“Why would you do something like that?”

“I needed to find a way inside this place so I could make sure you were okay, and it was either get arrested or break in Mission-Impossible-style, and getting arrested takes a lot less planning. Actually, funny story: I tried selling to Deputy Love first, and he straight up bought half my supply. Had to come all the way down here to the station before I found someone willing to arrest me.”

“I’m fine,” I said, answering a question he didn’t even ask as blood trickled out my palm stitches and down my wrist.

“You’re fine?” he repeated doubtfully. “Was it the bubble wrap? Did it actually help?”

“No, I’m just not thinking about it. I’ve decided to put my grief on hold until later.”

“And that’s… working?”

“It has to, doesn’t it? I’m sorry you got yourself arrested for this.”

“Well, someone had to warn you about what’s going on out there!”

“What’s going on out there?”

“When was the last time you saw Travis?”

“Travis?” An image of the story was already beginning to form. “What happened to him?”

Jerry looked at the floor solemnly. “Rumor says Travis was the serial killer’s latest victim.”

“What serial killer?”

“The guy who gacked Brother Riley and Spencer Middleton.”

“Jerry, there is no serial killer. Spencer is just... Spencering. And Brother Riley died when OW FUCK!”

A quick kick to my only shin shut me up before I spilled the beans. “Dude, zip it! We have to assume they’re listening to us right now. And I don’t want to know what happened to Brother Riley in case I get shot up with truth serum again.”

“Back up a second. What exactly happened to Travis?”

“I don’t know the details, only what I’ve gleaned from the rumor mill, but his neighbors saw the coroner taking a body out of his house. And, apparently, they found his truck a few miles up Forest Road riddled with bullets.”

“Ah,” I said. So, after all of that, Travis was dead. Again. Strangely, that fact really upset me this time around.

“Here’s what’s important,” Jerry continued, shifting his eyes around the cell before lowering his voice into conspiracy-mode. “Deputies jumped the gun by arresting you when they did, because now the clock is ticking. They’re only allowed to hold us for forty-eight hours without charging us with a crime. As long as you don’t say anything, they should have no way to tie you to Travis, and you’ll be out in two days. That should leave us enough time to deal with the omnipotent anime-villain-caliber super devil before it ends the world.”

“Oh Jeez, I keep forgetting about that nameless, ageless, god-tier pain deity.”

“Yeah, you’d think the supreme divine torture numen would have taken a higher priority.”

I sighed. “Describing this thing is exhausting. Can’t we just, you know, give it a shorthand? At least until we figure out how to stop it? Might save us some time.”

“Sure, how about…” Jerry stared at the ceiling for a second, then smiled wide and nodded. “Karen?”

“Okay, the supreme paradigm of all evil, Karen, will destroy everything that is good in two and a half days. That gives us two days to plan before they let me out, then a few hours to enact the plan. But what about you? I mean, they busted you with drugs, right?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to? An amateur? Trust me, I know how to get arrested. It was just powdered sugar.” With a soft chuckle, he added, “Deputy Love is gonna be piiissed.”

I tried to convince myself that this wasn’t too bad. Two days in jail was almost a vacation compared to some of the other crazy shit I’d endured. And like Jerry said, as long as there wasn’t any random stray piece of evidence out there to tie me to Travis’s death, then they’d have to let me go. I tried to remember if there was anything I’d overlooked. Anything I’d have to explain. I’d made a phone call to Travis from the gas station, but that was way earlier, and it’s not like I ever called him from my personal cell phone-

HOLY SHIT
MY PERSONAL CELL PHONE! It had been missing all day, right? When was the last time I remembered having it? That stupid conversation with Jerry, when I was still driving the truck. What did I do after the motorcyclist stopped in front of me? I dropped the phone. Did I ever pick it up again before they dragged me out of the window and put a bag over my head? No. So... that would mean my phone was still there… in Travis’s truck… which they have already found…

Of course O’Brien didn’t drop the ball. She’s way too smart for that. They knew what they were doing, issuing a warrant for my arrest. They already had my phone, and all the evidence they needed to charge me and keep me here indefinitely under the Patriot Act or whatever.

“I think I might have screwed up,” I said softly. Before I’d even had enough time to properly explore my panic, a new thought bumped its way to the front of the line. Someone had tried to warn me that this was going to happen, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t understand. I still didn’t understand. I accidentally spoke the thought out loud, “This is what Sabine was talking about.”

“Come again?” Jerry asked.

I tried to explain, knowing full well how crazy it was going to sound. “Sabine. When I first met her, way back when we were still children all those years ago, she kept asking me where my cell phone was. She kept saying that if I didn’t find it, I was going to get in trouble. But how is that even possible? How did she know I was going to lose it?”

Jerry squinted one of his eyes and raised the opposite brow. This was the look I’ve come to know as his “this doesn’t make any sense” look. It was the same face he made anytime we watched a superhero film with time travel, or a Star Wars film with romance, or a Michael Bay film.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Dude, correct me if I’m wrong, but… You’ve told me before that you don’t remember the first time you and Sabine met. Right? You had that whole bit about how you’d ‘known her your whole life’ and ‘couldn’t remember a time before.’”

“Well yes, but-”

My words stopped short. Jerry was right. I had told him exactly that. And it was true. In fact, I couldn’t remember remembering this memory before the very recent remembering… Was I uncovering old memories? Or simply making up new ones? I shook my head.

“Ooh, hold that thought. What is this?” Jerry asked, brushing past me towards the archway made of black mold.

“Oh,” I said. “You can see it, too?”

“It looks kinda like a door, doesn’t it?”

He was getting really close. If his hands weren’t still bound behind his back, I’m sure he would have reached out and poked it without a second thought.

“Stay away from it!” I shouted.

“Why?”

The truth was, as usual, a little too complicated. “Let’s just say I have a feeling something bad is going to happen if you touch it.”

Jerry took a few steps backwards, balanced on one foot and pried off his opposite shoe, then kicked it at the wall. I guess I should have been clearer in my warning. To his credit, he didn’t touch it. But something bad still happened.

The shoe hit the wall and stuck to it like a fly hitting a glue ribbon. It stayed there, frozen in place for several seconds before the smoke began.

I kept my eyes on the shoe as I asked, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“I see my favorite shoe huff-n-puffin’ up on the wall. Why? What are you seeing?”

FWOOM!

Flames erupted around the shoe. Before I could finish screaming “Jesus,” the fire had already engulfed the entirety of the black mold archway. Jerry ran to the edge of our cage and started screaming for help. Somehow, I knew nobody was going to come rushing to our aid, even if they could hear us.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the fire burned out completely. In its place was a glowing red aura shaped like a doorway, the edges blurred into the concrete, and the center pulsating with thousands of colliding ripples. It was almost hypnotic, like a 90’s screensaver or a lava lamp. But then a face emerged, ruining the moment and reigniting our panic. My first thought was, OH MY GOD IT’S KAREN!

The face was large, monstrous, with the exposed teeth of a predator animal and magnificent horns and a pair of extremely thick glasses… Oh, it’s just the socks-and-sandals demon again.

He stepped the rest of the way through the portal, sniffed the air, and stood up straight, or at least he would have, but his horns bumped into the ceiling overhead, stopping him before he could fully extend. To say we were cramped in here would be an understatement, and now we had to make room for this giant demon.

He looked about the same as the last time we saw him. Same sandals. A new pair of socks. Also, he had a sky-blue fanny pack around his waist (which makes sense; there definitely weren’t any pockets on those furry underpants).

He glared at me, then at Jerry, then he shouted, “LIAR!” He pointed a clawed finger at my face. “LIAR!” Then at Jerry’s. “LIAR!”

“Hey,” Jerry said. “Not cool.”

“Yeah,” I added. “What did we do?”

“You told me that Jack had left. But he didn’t really leave at all, did he? You just sent me on a wild goose chase. I wasted hours looking for Jack, and guess what? He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Every single road led me back to you two. I couldn’t figure out why that was. And then it hit me!”

It was quickly becoming apparent that we were sitting ducks, and our conversation would almost certainly end in a physical altercation. This was a bad time to remember that Jerry still had his hands cuffed behind his back. Benji’s fighting advice came back to me. Squishy bits. Fight dirty. Don’t be afraid to go for the testicles.

The demon balled his hands into enormous fists and cried, “You two are trying to kill him first, AREN’T YOU?!”

Jerry and I shared a look.

“Yep,” he said. “You got us.”

The demon’s scowl curled into a devious grin.  Dust fell from the new horn-holes in the ceiling as he lowered himself to the floor and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. Remarkably, even in the seated position, he and I were on the same eye level. “I admire that,” he said. “Your cunning is almost a match for my own. But I am obligated by a blood oath with the Akyak high council. It is my sole purpose to see that Jack Townsend is destroyed, no matter how!”

I blurted out more than I should have. “Oh! You were hired by the Akyaks[23]?”

The demon grin switched right back to a scowl. “Is that not who hired you?”

“Oh, yes, of course. The Akyak council. See, I got confused because I didn’t realize you were using that particular dialect. I’ve always called them the Ock-yoaks. It just took me a second to realize you were using a more basic pronunciation.”

Jerry muttered, “I totally knew what he was talking about.”

The demon licked his lips with a terrifyingly long forked tongue and asked, “So, we’re all bound by the same sacred blood oath?”

I nodded. “That sure appears to be the case.”

“Then let us join forces so we may end this mortal’s cursed stain upon reality! The sooner he is dead, the sooner we may return victoriously to the Fire Realm!”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure, sure, sure, yeah, cool. Cool. Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

Jerry tried to help me out. “Why don’t we split up to cover more ground? We’ll both stay here. You go check Asia. I heard he was spotted somewhere in the middle of that continent recently.”

“Nonsense!” the demon boomed. “I’ll just use my gossamer crystal to find his exact location right now and we can destroy him together, as brothers in battle!”

“What?” I said, fumbling. “No, don’t waste your gossamer crystal for that.”

He unzipped his fanny pack with two long finger talons, then pulled out a white luminescent gemstone the size of a field mouse.

Jerry made one last attempt at spinning the situation in our favor. “Hey, maybe you should break down the doors or walls or something first before you-”

The demon grunted as he clenched his hand shut around the stone. With the sound of a pop, he relaxed and opened his hand. A thin shimmering beam of light shined forth, from the point in his palm, straight into the center of my chest. The demon had the same “this doesn’t make sense” look on his face that Jerry had earlier. He lowered the gem. The angle of the light changed, but it continued to shine an uninterrupted line from his hand to my heart.

“Take a step to the side,” he instructed. I took a small step away from the demon. The line between the gossamer crystal and me stretched in length but remained unbroken. “Is… Jack standing behind you... friend?”

“I… uh… he… Okay, listen. I know this looks bad, but-”

“JACK!” the demon roared. “TRICKSTER! LIAR! DECEIVER!” He jumped to his feet and stood straight up-

PONK!

-and planted his demon horns right into the ceiling. More dust rained down onto us as Jerry backed towards me. “Quick! The shim is under the fabric at the bottom of my shirt! You’ve got to help me get it out and put it between the gears of the handcuffs!”

“The what? What gears?”

“I’LL GRIND YOUR BONES TO MAKE MY BREAD!”

The demon tried to step forward, but the horns had him pinned in place.

“Just get the shim first.”

“What does the shim look like?”

“I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR ARMS AND PUT THEM IN YOUR BUTT!”

He swung his arms at us, but we were barely out of reach.

“It’s a thin piece of metal! Hurry up! He’s already threatening butt stuff!”

I ripped the back of his shirt tail off. In the process, a jagged piece of steel sliced my thumb wide open. I yipped as the shim fell onto the ground. We both went for it at the same time, slammed our heads together in the process, and fell over.

In a truly desperate final effort, I yelled, “Time out! Time out! I hurt my head!”

“THERE ARE NO TIME OUTS IN BLOOD OATH ASSASSINATION!”

He growled, wrapped his hands around his horns, and jerked his entire body forward in an exaggerated sneezing motion. The ceiling scraped open, freeing his horns. At the same time, his glasses launched off of his face and hit the ground. I had my thumb bleeding in my mouth when I saw the opportunity.

“ARGLE BLARG!” the demon shouted. “MY GLASSES! I CAN’T SEE A THING WITHOUT MY GLASSES!” He dropped to his hands and knees and started feeling around on the floor. The giant protruding horns came dangerously close, but we managed to crawl away without making contact. “HEY!” he screamed. “WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?”

We stayed perfectly quiet.

“I CAN SMELL YOUR FEAR, YOU KNOW!”

We stayed perfectly quiet.

“TELL ME WHERE MY GLASSES ARE, OR ELSE I’M GONNA…” he trailed off. I suspect he knew that after threatening to shove my own limbs up my butt, there wasn’t any room left for escalation. He growled like a wild animal. When that didn’t work, he mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “This is bullshit” before dropping back onto all fours and feeling around. A moment later, when he still hadn’t located his spectacles, he sighed and said, “Come on guys, this isn’t funny. Just tell me where my glasses are.”

We stayed perfectly quiet.

“Please?”

We stayed perfectly quiet.

“Marco?”

Nope.

He faked a sneeze.

Still nothing.

“Okay… Time out?”

Now he was the one showing desperation. How long could we keep this up? How long did we need to? I got the answer to the latter question right away once Farmer Stan, to my horror, sat up straight on his cot. With his eyes opened wide, he observed the bizarre scene: Jerry and I stood on either side of him, sharing the cot and avoiding the danger from below like it was the world’s worst game of “the floor is lava.” I made the shush gesture, but Stan didn’t seem to register it. Maybe that was because of the enormous demon clawing at the floor right next to us. I couldn’t blame him for his reaction.

“Oh my sweet bippy!” he screamed.

“GOTCHA!” The demon pounced at the noise. His claws wrapped around Stan’s legs. As he pulled him off the tiny bed, the burning archway began to glow bright orange. The demon laughed as he dragged his victim across the floor and across the flaming threshold. Farmer Stan reached out for anything to hold onto, but in this empty cell his hands found no purchase. His final words before leaving our world altogether were hurried and hopeless and fierce and… really confusing.

“Nooo!” he screamed. “No, no, NO, NOT AGAIN! AGHHH!”

Once Stan’s body was wholly swallowed by the burning archway, the light vanished, leaving behind no trace that it had ever existed in the first place.

A moment passed before I stepped down from the cot.

“Are you okay?” Jerry asked.

I looked at my hands. In one, the palm and thumb were bleeding in a manner that some doctors might call “profusely.” In my other, I held a pair of thick glasses. I dropped them onto the floor and smashed them under my good foot.

“I’ll be fine.”

Right then, we heard a muffled buzz, followed by the sound of keys turning a deadbolt, then the metal door scraping open. Williams and Franklin walked into the room and I realized I might have spoken a little too soon.

“Hey,” said Williams. “Wasn’t there another guy in here?”

21
The way I remember it, Jack and I helped them stage a crime scene with a couple of 69ing corpses before we burned a trailer to the ground. Or in other words — we made art together. [«]

22
Yup. See also: rail, sniff, flake, and toot. [«]

23
For those who don’t know, the Akyaks are a race of interdimensional imp creatures who declared war against Jack after he slept with their princess and never called her back.
[«]

Chapter Sixteen

If I thought I was making any kind of progress by leaving my cell, those illusions were corrected the moment they locked the door of the interrogation room behind me. This cage was darker, gloomier, and smaller than my previous confinement. The only furniture to speak of were the metal table that had apparently been welded into place and two plastic yard chairs on either side. They left me alone, as if the extra time would somehow prime me for a confession. But all I could do with this solitude was watch the dark corners of the room and hope the socks-and-sandals demon wasn’t about to recognize his mistake and return. I tried to take comfort in the fact that he would probably need to order a new pair of glasses before mounting another attack, and who knows how fast mail service was in the Fire Realm?

I had almost managed to relax when the door finally opened. Sheriff Amelia O’Brien strolled into the room with a folder full of papers. She closed the door behind her with her boot, pulled out the other seat, and sat down.

“Mr. Townsend,” she started.

“Ugh, come on O’Brien. Can’t you go back to the mean nicknames already?”

She ignored me, instead asking, “Do you want to tell me where you went yesterday?”

“Remind me. What was yesterday?”

“Tuesday.”

“Ah yes. Taco Tuesday. I visited Kieffer and got arrested for no reason. Quite the violation of my civil rights, probably.”

“Before that.”

“You drove me to the funeral home so we could break in together and see a dead body.”

“Getting warmer. Think real hard and tell me what happened between those two events.”

“Well, shucks Sheriff. For the life of me, I just can’t remember anything of importance. How about you? What have you been up to? ‘Cause I know you still haven’t been to the chemical plant, so you must have been busy.”

Again she ignored what I said. She was annoyingly good at that. “Why don’t we talk about your pal, Richard Stump?”

It took me a second to process what she was asking. The question was inherently flawed. Richard was one of the three Stump brothers, all of whom were permanently banned from the gas station alongside Travis. By no definition of the word was he my “friend.”

“You mean Dickory?” I asked.

“That’s right. ‘Dickory.’ When was the last time you two saw one another?”

“I suppose it must have been the whole vigilante kerfuffle.”

She grimaced. “The what?”

“Oh, come on! They took that memory too?” I was devastated by this revelation. “It was one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen! You faced down a crowd of armed douchebags and saved mine and Jerry’s lives! How do you not remember? It was the same night I went to the hospital to get my leg removed.”

She let out a muffled laugh. “I’ve done my homework on you, Jack. I know all about your medical episodes. I understand you suffer from occasional bouts of amnesia. Delusion. Confusion.” Technically, she wasn’t wrong. “I sympathize with you. I know that sometimes your brain makes you think things are true when they aren’t.” She was picking up speed. Laying the trap. Going for the kill. “Deep down, you don’t want to hurt anyone, right? Mental illness isn’t your fault.”

She opened the folder and started unloading letter-sized photographs, placing each of the pictures face up in front of me as she added, “But it is your responsibility. Help me help you. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

With each grisly photo, I pieced together a little more of the story. The first was Dickory, or what was left of him anyway. His head had been smashed in like a watermelon. His deflated face sat on top of the gore, perfectly intact. It almost looked like he was smiling. The second picture showed the same macabre scene from another angle. This one revealed bloody boot prints leading away on a dirty carpeted floor. Another picture showed the prints more clearly, in focus next to evidence tags, and I noticed that each step of red had one thing in common: they were all from a left foot. The rest of the photos were just more of the same, reinforcing what I’d already deduced: someone had stomped Dickory’s brains out with a single blow from their left heel, then leisurely walked away.

I looked up from the morbid images and asked, “What on Earth makes you think I could do something like this?”

“People are capable of dark things when they’re not in their right minds.”

“No, I meant physically. How am I supposed to have done this? Think about it, O’Brien! There are hunting dogs in this town that weigh more than me, and I wasn’t exactly the most coordinated or balanced individual before I lost my leg. About ten percent of the time when I open a door and walk through, I end up falling over. Do you really think I could squish a dude’s head in? I couldn’t have pulled this off if Dickory wanted me to.”

“Then why were you there when it happened?”

“I don’t even know where there is.”

“Stump’s brothers both put you at the scene of the crime.”

“You’re listening to those potatoes? They just hate me because I won’t sell them porn and jerky anymore. The Stumps regularly get drunk and see Bigfoot. Dock has grown-up fetal alcohol syndrome and told everybody he was dating Hannah Montana. And everyone knows Hickory as the guy who used to eat glue in high school, in the parking lot, when he was in his twenties. Wait, hang on… this is what you arrested me for?”

She leaned forward in her seat ever-so-slightly and asked, “Why? What did you think I had arrested you for?”

My eyes drifted away from hers. “Nothing…” I said, making a conscious point to not hold my breath.

She sounded mad now. “Listen to me, Jack. I can’t help you-”

Right then, the door swung open, interrupting her. I wanted to assume she was going to end her sentence with something like, “-unless you let me,” but the fact that she never finished her thought sure felt like a bad omen. I looked up at Franklin. His face betrayed his inner monologue. He knew he was about to end up on O’Brien’s shit list.

She shot him a glare. “What.” It wasn’t a question. It felt like an entire conversation wrapped into a single syllable.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” he said. “Jack’s lawyer is here, and, uh, well…”

My newest “lawyer” shoved his way past the deputy and immediately filled the tiny room with his presence.

“Jack, shut the fuck up and don’t say another word.”

I looked up at the man with the bright blue eyes and the wavy pumpkin hair and the amazing moustache. For some reason, Roger had loaned me one of his minibosses.

“Okay,” I said.

“What the fuck did I just say?!” demanded Archimedes.

“You said for me not to say another-”

“Shut up!”

I closed my lips and hummed out another “okay” as he slammed his briefcase onto the table.

O’Brien looked past the distraction, to me, and remarked, “You sure do have a lot of lawyers.”

I shrugged and said, “What can I say?”

Archimedes interrupted, “NOTHING! You can say nothing, you fucking idiot! How are you this bad at following basic instructions?”

O’Brien finally turned her attention to the man standing over the table.

“Alright King Hipster, you can calm all the way down.”

Archimedes opened the briefcase, removed a laptop computer, and held it at waist level so O’Brien and I could both see the screen. There was a video file loaded up already, an image of me in frame. He spoke quickly and concisely. “Sheriff O’Brien, I demand to know what crime you’re accusing my client of committing.”

She answered immediately. “Murder, with a capital M.”

She blinked hard, like there was a bug in her eyes.

“And what evidence do you have to justify his imprisonment?”

“Circumstantial testimony. But I was about to squeeze a confession out of him before you barged in.” She immediately bit her lip and leaned her head down. I couldn’t believe she gave away the game like that. From the look on her face, I’d say she couldn’t either.

“What time did this ‘Murder’ take place?”

She shook her head, looked at me, and said with a frown, “Our best guess is approximately six PM.”

“And where were was the body found?”

“At the home of Travis Guidry.” She slammed a fist on the table. “Now wait a minute! Who the hell do you-”

“I would like to now show you a recording that should be of interest to all parties present.” He pressed a button, and the video began. I recognized the moment. I was seeing myself charge into the Mathmetist compound. I approached one of the braindead worker drones to ask who was in charge. They all stopped to chant their hail Kieffers before returning to their pathetic lives. Archimedes spoke over the footage. “As you will notice from the time stamp on this security footage from the Mathmetist Collective, Jack Townsend was on site and in full view of dozens of witnesses at precisely 6:05 PM yesterday. If there was anything else happening at that exact point in time, especially something on the opposite side of town, Jack could not have possibly been present to witness or take part in it.”

She folded her arms and asked, “So you just had that alibi up and ready to show me. How did you know when the murder took place?”

Archimedes answered very carefully, “I am simply sharing a video, the veracity of which can be easily corroborated. Now-” He closed the computer, put it back into the briefcase, and continued. “-is there any other evidence that my client has committed a crime?”

O’Brien stared at him. Behind me, I heard Franklin audibly gulp.

After another one of those annoying moments that felt like an hour but was probably only a couple seconds, she answered, “I suppose there is not.”

“Terrific,” he said joylessly. “In that case, we are leaving. Jack, get your shit.”

“I don’t have any-” I clasped my hand over my mouth before he had the chance to swear at me again.

He looked at Franklin and asked, “Do you have anything to add, Deputy?”

Franklin muttered, “I popped an edible before work today and I think it just kicked in.”

Archimedes nodded and said, “That wasn’t what I meant, but thank you for your pointless contribution.”

Leaving the interrogation room felt like the movie moment of walking away from an explosion without looking back. I kept my mouth shut as we left the hall, as we walked through the front office where every eye was pointed at us, as we headed across the parking lot to where the shiny vintage convertible Pontiac Firebird sat waiting with its engine running.

I’d never ridden in a convertible before, a fact I took no disappointment in. They always struck me as a casual dare for the universe to throw something on top of us. No roll cage. No weather protection. No theft guards. Barely a step up from a motorcycle, really.

Archimedes hopped over the driver side door and fell into his seat, gesturing for me to take the other side. That was when I finally spoke.

“What about Jerry?”

“He’s safest right where he is. You, on the other hand, not so much. Demon bounty hunter’s got your scent.”

“You know,” I said, reflecting on all the choices that led up to this moment, “there once was a time when that sentence would have surprised me.”

“Get in the car.”

“Wait!” He let out a long, loud groan. I ignored it. “What about Rosa’s car?”

“It’s taken care of. Kyle returned the vehicle for you.”

“Is that really the other guy’s name? ‘Kyle’?”

“No. That’s his nickname. It’s short for ‘Kyle Bob.’ Now get in the fucking car!”

I tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Archimedes stared at me like I was an idiot. With a sigh, I clumsily climbed over and fell into my seat. He didn’t wait for me to right myself before gunning the engine. By the time I had my seatbelt on, we were already on Main Street going at least thirty over the speed limit.

I couldn’t look at the road for long without getting sick, so I watched the driver instead. His glorious moustache waved against the sides of his cheeks with the force of wind.

“So,” I said.

He turned to face me, but didn’t bother slowing down. “You still don’t know how to shut up? Frankly, it’s remarkable you’re still alive. And just so we’re clear, that wasn’t a compliment.”

I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask. Where were we going? What did he know about the socks-and-sandals demon? Why was he dressed like a steampunk saloon owner? Instead, another question bubbled up to the surface. “Why are you so angry?”

He sighed. Without ever taking his eyes off of me, he piloted the car as it swerved into the wrong lane to overtake a slow-moving truck and sped through a red light.

“You would be, too, if you were me. Powers of a god, forced to do the bidding of a wooden doll.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Hey, I get that you’re annoyed, but would it kill you to do like the rest of us and hold all that general scorn for humanity inside for a few minutes?”

Archimedes turned his attention back to the road and whipped a near perfect ninety degree turn without losing any speed. “No. But I’d rather not.”

“Well… do you want to talk about it?”

He didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure he even heard me. As I considered asking the question again, a black bird collided with my face. I screamed. It screamed. It flapped around in front of me, claws forward. I swatted at it until it took flight and disappeared overhead. My nose was, once again, bleeding. Archimedes finally let go of the serious scowl and let out a brief but unmistakable laugh. So far, my first experience with a convertible was panning out exactly how I expected.

When I looked back up, I realized to my surprise that the car was stopped, parked under a tree at the edge of the cemetery in the center of town, nowhere near where we were the last time I looked.

“Do you really care, or are you just being nice?” he asked.

I thought carefully about my answer. How best to summarize my feelings in a manner that was both correct and not patronizing? For some strange reason, the obvious solution—to lie—never even crossed my mind.

“I care only in the sense that maintaining a good relationship with you coincides with both of our best interests. Were it a matter of little or no effort, I’d prefer you be happy because it will undoubtedly make our interactions more pleasant. However, while I do feel the essence of a sensation of camaraderie based solely on our mutual disdain of recent life events, your continued existence outside of my immediate vicinity barely registers on the importance scale. I’d say you’re somewhere between that hungry raccoon I saw yesterday and the main character of the latest book I’m reading.”

“Ah,” he said with a slight nod. “So you were just being nice. Good. I don’t know what I would have done if someone like you actually felt the need to try and help me. How humiliating would that have been?”

“I feel the need to apologize,” I said without thinking. “However, I’m not actually sorry per se, only aware that I’ve violated some social norms with my brutal honesty.”

“Yes, that’s to be expected. That’s a talent of mine—the ability to cultivate an atmosphere of complete, raw honesty. The tragic side effect is that the atmosphere affects me as well.”

“So, you have to tell the truth?”

“It’s a little more complex than that, but essentially, yes.”

“Why are you working for Roger when you don’t like him?”

“I have no choice. He did a favor for me a long time ago. To pay off my debt, I took a blood oath to serve him. To violate such an oath would be to forfeit one’s life.”

“Oh, like an unbreakable vow from Harry Potter?”

“NO IT’S NOT LIKE AN UNBREAKABLE VOW IT’S DIFFERENT!”

“Okay, okay, sorry I asked. Hey wait, does this mean Kyle Bob is also a god?”

“Kyle Bob is a powerful being—for all intents and purposes a god by your standards. He, too, is trapped in servitude to Roger.”

He returned his attention forward. Before I could get my next question out, Archimedes had already put the car back in gear and lurched forward, knocking over a couple of tombstones on our way back to the street.

While I never lost the awareness that he might have been feeding me strategic lies this whole time, I’d never been in a position to get so many answers so quickly outside of the occasional villain monologue, and I felt the need to take advantage of it.

“What does Roger want with me?”

“I don’t know, but I assume he wants to make you like us. A keeper of a blood oath, forced to obey his every command, no matter how piffling or degrading. With no free will and no autonomy outside of the rare moments when he isn’t watching.”

“Yeah, there’s actually a word for that.”

I didn’t even ask the question. He volunteered this next part all on his own.

“I may have taken an oath, but it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. I know you’ve been warned already, that there’s a big battle coming soon. I hope we lose.” He took his eyes off the road and looked back at me. There was determination in his look, with a hint of mischief. I didn’t like it. “And I know I’m not the only one who feels that way.”

I was scared to ask, but knew I had to. “Why?”

“Because we deserve to lose.” He looked back at the road and quickly changed his tone from one of nihilistic pessimism to one of simple confusion. “Isn’t that your house?”

I finally turned my eyes back to the road just in time to see my home. As Archimedes slowed the vehicle, the confusing image came more clearly into view. And yet, I remained confused. It looked like someone was throwing a yard sale, but they were using my yard for it. And, by the looks of it, my stuff for it. I saw boxes, furniture, piles of clothes… my old beanbag chair… stacks and stacks of books, normally a welcome sight, now converted into a vision of horror as I realized those were my books dumped onto the wet morning grass. I was so distracted I almost missed the U-Haul parked in the driveway.

As soon as Archimedes had stopped the car at the edge of the yard, I climbed over and inelegantly flopped onto the grass. With no time to feel pain, I popped back up and hurried through the maze of mine and Jerry’s belongings to the front door. As I reached for it, it opened. Wendy went to take a step out and froze when she saw me. Her cheeks went red. The rest of her face went pale. She was holding Jerry’s samurai sword over her shoulder and a mason jar full of pink and purple powder in her arm cradle.[24]

“Wendy! What the fuck?!”

“Oh. Hi, Jack.”

“This isn’t your stuff! Put that back! What, are you robbing me?”

“No, uh, erm… I thought you got arrested?”

“You can’t take my things! Are you serious?!”

“This isn’t me. I was just helping.”

“‘Helping’? Who the hell are you helping?”

I got my answer right away. The voices inside my home grew louder as the two folks came walking up behind Wendy. I don’t know how they hadn’t heard me bellowing. When I spotted them over her shoulder, they were carrying a cardboard box each, bickering between one another.

“You were supposed to call the plumber,” he said. “I had to get the painter.”

“I don’t want to use your brother,” she said. “He’s flakey and he always takes too long to do the work. I want it done right, not cheap!”

They came up behind Wendy, turned their attention forward to see what the blockage was all about, and froze at the sight of me standing just outside the doorway.

It was my old foster parents, Sid and Dianna.

“Heyyy,” Sid said in the worst failed attempt at cool I’d ever heard. “Jack! What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” I said in a tone that couldn’t hide my contempt. “What are you doing here?”

The four of us stood in silence.

Eventually, Dianna placed her box on the floor by her feet. I saw that she’d written “kitchen” on the side.

“Oh Jack, let me take a good look at you!” With an out-of-place smile and hands extended in front of her like Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein’s monster, she squeezed past Wendy onto the front porch with me and rested her hands on my shoulders. “You finally hit that growth spurt! Oh, we were so worried about that.” She turned to Sid and said, “Weren’t we, Sid? Weren’t we just talking about how worried we were that he’d never hit his growth spurt?”

Sid shrugged. Dianna turned back to me. I couldn’t help but clock the complete indifference they had to Wendy’s presence.

“Honestly, this isn’t how we wanted you to find out,” she said. She pulled her hands away and put them onto her hips. Her voice went from faux motherly to faux tough-guy. “But frankly, you left us no choice, did you? I hate that you’ve made us do this!” I looked over her to Wendy, then to Sid. They were perfectly content to sit back and silently watch the show, to let Dianna play good and bad cop all by herself.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “And why is all my shit in the front yard?”

“We had to take it out for the painters,” she explained.

“Oh, of course!” I said. “For the painters. Silly me. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?”

Dianna smacked me across the face. “Watch your language in front of me!” she snapped.

It had been a long time since I’d been hit like that, and I must say I really didn’t miss that part of living with her. She was a lot older and weaker than the last time she gave me a smack, but it still hurt in more ways than one.

Sid finally saw it fit to wade into the conversation. He shoved his way past Wendy, tossed his cardboard box down to the sound of glass shattering, and said, “Listen, son, this ain’t easy on any of us. We don’t want to make things any more difficult than they already are. But this is not your house. It never was. You took advantage of Di’s parents’ confusion and hospitality, and then you went and violated the terms and conditions of you staying here, and now the time has come for you to spread your wings and leave the nest. Understand?”

“No. What terms? What are you two doing here?”

Dianna jumped in like she’d been dying for a chance to talk again. “Jack, the papers you signed said that you had to stay out of trouble. But you haven’t done that, have you?”

“What?”

She continued, “You have to stay in good standing with the law. The moment you were arrested, you lost your claim to my parents’ home.”

“I wasn’t arrested, you despicable old raisins! I was brought in for questioning. It was a misunderstanding.”

At this point, everyone’s eyes were on me. At the next point, everyone’s eyes were looking over my shoulder. I followed their collective gaze, turned, and saw that Archimedes had finally decided to join us. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” he said.

Dianna looked him up and down. It seemed this frumpy cliché of a retired southern housewife had judged the neo-hipster and found him wanting. With an unusual amount of disdain in her voice, she asked, “What are you?”

“For the purposes of this interaction, you can consider me Jack’s lawyer.”

Sid tagged in, addressing me directly. “Well, if you want to get lawyers involved, we can do that, too. We can drag it back out through the courts all over again, or we can make a deal. See, I already sunk a lot of money into this. We didn’t have to do it, but I paid for all your belongings to go to a storage unit for the next month. And, and, we had talked about floating you a little cash, too, so you could find a place of your own and land on your feet. But certain revelations have led us to, uh, how do I say this, alter the plan.”

“What?”

Wendy finally spoke up. “They found Jerry’s stash.”

Sid continued, “There is a wooden chest in the guest bedroom that I’m sure the local authorities would be very interested in. If you make a stink, we’re gonna call and get you put away for a while. Long enough for us to fix the place up and move it.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, knowing they couldn’t weasel out of honesty if they wanted to.

Sid went first. “Property values around here just went up for the first time in our lives. Something about a chemical plant paying everyone off so now it’s a seller’s market.”

Dianna went next. “Also, we just don’t really like you. We were hoping you’d just die soon, preferably somewhere outside the house, but we couldn’t keep waiting. And when we heard you went missing, well, we knew Wendy was desperate for work.”

I looked at my thieving sister. “You didn’t come back for the reunion, did you?”

She shrugged. “What do you expect from me? Times are tough. I really thought they were going to pay you to move out. I’m sorry.”

I studied her eyes. “You’re sorry?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I looked up at Archimedes. “Why is she saying she’s sorry?”

“I’d take her at her word,” he answered.

This was weird. If I understood the Archimedes charm correctly, it meant she really was sorry.

“What about the sword and the glitter?” I asked.

“I was totally stealing these. I thought they were cool.”

Dianna’s face lit up. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Get him to sign the thing!”

Sid muttered aloud, “God I hate your voice” as he turned and shuffled back into the house. It was hard to tell if that was the truth spell in effect, or if that was just Sid being Sid. A minute later, he returned to the doorway with a stack of wrinkled pages held together with a paperclip. He explained in terms that were slightly less sophisticated than Laymen that this was a contract that relinquished any legal claims I had to occupancy of the home. Once I signed it, he would send everything to the shitty storage unit on the other side of town. He shoved the papers into my hand and showed me where to make my mark. Right next to that fresh droplet of blood. That’s when we both realized my broken nose had started bleeding again. He offered me a crumpled sweat napkin from his back pocket.

Archimedes put a hand on my shoulder and said, “As your de facto lawyer, I recommend you take the deal.”

“But this is my home.”

“No it isn’t,” he said. “Deep down, you know that.”

He was right. With a heavy sigh, I went to sign the house away. Until I realized-

“I don’t have a pen.” Archimedes already had one extended towards me. I took it and scrawled my ugly signature. “Okay. There. The stupid house is yours. And just for the record, I never hit any growth spurt. You two just shrank a lot.”

Sid took the papers and walked back into the house without another word. Dianna handed me a copy of the storage unit key, then followed her husband into their house. They had what they wanted. From the moment I put pen to paper, they never so much as made eye contact with me ever again. Good riddance for all involved. Wendy, at least, had the “decency” to try and check on me.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“Almost certainly not.”

“I meant it. If you needed a place to stay, I could probably put you on the pull-out couch or something for a few days.”

“How much did they pay you?”

“Five.”

“Five what?”

“Five percent of whatever they make off the sale of the house. They made a deal with all of the kids, except for you. We signed the papers back when it looked like you’d gone off and died in the woods. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not canceling the afterparty. Our old classmates are probably going to destroy this place.”

“Strangely, yes. That does make me feel better. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, we were back on the road, with Archimedes behind the wheel and a samurai sword and a jar of illegal glitter in my lap.

“Where to?” he asked.

I looked up. The road and trees blurred past in a mosaic of sickening speed, green and gray mixed with morning reds under a blooming purple storm sky. It was all so surreal yet familiar. If sleep were an option, I would almost let myself drift away.

“Take me home,” I said.

24
That would be my batch of Glitterstruction (the world’s finest glitter, illegal in forty-nine states). [«]

Chapter Seventeen

The convertible pulled into the gas station parking lot a few minutes later. There was a small part of me that wondered how the hell it was possible for us to make this trip so quickly. But experience had already shown me—time and time again—that things don’t necessarily need to be possible; they just needed to happen.

I climbed awkwardly over the door, hit the ground, then pulled myself back to standing. I didn’t even need to check to know my hand wound was bleeding again (these minor injuries were really starting to pile up). Archimedes waited until I’d grabbed my things before tossing a smartphone at me. Miraculously, I caught it without dropping either the sword or the glass jar of glitter.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“This is how we keep in touch. If the phone rings, you answer. Business only. Do not use it for anything else. No outgoing calls. No games. Don’t even look at the clock. Understand?”

“Barely.”

“Good enough.”

I knew I was about to see my opportunity for honest answers drive away, possibly forever. If I was smarter, if I’d had more time or mental energy, I would have asked better questions. But in the moment, the best I could do was:

“What happened to my phone?”

“Crime lab has it. Don’t worry, Roger’s team is running interference. But if you become a problem, if you try to leave town, or if you don’t answer when he calls, that protection goes away. O’Brien finds out you were at the scene of a crime, and you’ll be arrested without the benefit of a lawyer to save you from yourself.”

I looked at the new phone in my hands. I had seen this exact model recently, when O’Brien took a call at the funeral home before Spencer’s ghost (or whatever it was) attacked me. The reach of the puppet man’s influence went deeper and wider than I originally assumed.

“How do I charge this thing?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll die long before the battery does.” I checked the charge. 74%. That did not bode so well for me. “One last piece of advice for you, whatever you do… Don’t ever make the mistake of touching Roger.”

Before I could ask any more questions, Archimedes slammed the gas. The car spun a 180 in the lot, barely missing me in the process. Before I knew it, he was gone, and I was all alone again.

A noise that sounded like a sped-up version of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake filled my ears. Well this is an interesting hallucination, I thought. If only they could all be so benign. A moment later, I realized that the noise I was hearing was real. I looked down at the phone in my hand and saw it was ringing. Two words filled the screen: “ANSWER NOW.”

I sent the call to voicemail, turned, and went into the gas station. First things first. Rosa would be waiting for me, and I owed her an explanation. I owed her a lot more than that, actually. But an explanation was a good place to start.

As soon as I walked inside, I realized something was wrong. The place was filthy. There was garbage all over the floor. Mud and boot prints on the walls. A smell lingering in the air, forming a less-than-subtle recommendation that we open a window. Admittedly, these facts in and of themselves weren’t unusual. Filthy was the natural state of the gas station. But I wouldn’t have expected to see the place look like this while Rosa had anything to say about it. Come to think of it… the parking lot was empty when Archimedes dropped me off. The combined distractions of the past few days had dulled my already dull sense of awareness. I needed sleep. Or maybe coffee.

“Hello?” I called out. “Rosa?”

I listened for an answer, but all I heard was a rapid tempo Swan Lake. I pulled out the phone and looked at the screen. The caller ID was different. “ANSWER NOW OR ELSE.” Interestingly, the battery life had already fallen to 70%.

I sent it to voicemail, turned off the sound, and put the phone back into my pocket as I searched the gas station. The bathroom was empty. The coffee pot was full. The register had a small amount of cash in it. I now knew three things: we hadn’t been robbed, someone had been here recently, and nobody was here now. I went to the store phone to give Rosa a call, but when I picked it up, there was nothing. Not even a dial tone.

Swan Lake started again, this time even faster than before. Strange, I thought. I could have sworn I turned the volume off. I let the song play as I made myself a cup of coffee. I let it play, and play, and play. Meanwhile, I found my trusty baseball bat, snagged a roll of duct tape from the aisle, and got to work consolidating my weapons. When I was done, I had combined the bludgeoning power of a standard baseball bat with the stabby/slashy properties of Jerry’s sword, with the sharp edge and pointy end still exposed. By the time I finished my cup of coffee, Swan Lake was nothing more than background noise. I relaxed into my seat and finished off that sheet of bubble wrap Jerry had left behind. He was right. It was actually quite cathartic.

It wasn’t until the ringing abruptly stopped that I remembered it was ever even happening. When the shrill call of the store’s landline phone suddenly took its place, I had more than a sneaking suspicion who would be on the other end. And yet, I answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Jack.” Roger sure sounded annoyed. Oh well.

“Speaking.”

“I admire your strength of character. Henry Ward Beecher once said the difference between perseverance and obstinacy is that-”

“Oh my God I don’t need you to quote Beecher to me!”

“I need a favor. And frankly, you owe me.”

“I was in the process of breaking out of jail all on my own, thank you very much.”

“The world-ender is drawing ever closer, and we all have to carry our own weight if there’s to be any hope. I’m working on a plan, but there are certain interested third parties who keep mucking things up. You’re going to help pull these thorns out of my side. I need you to go undercover. Find out where they’re hiding. This won’t be easy, but it is necessary. Can I count on you?”

“No, of course you can’t.”

There was a lengthy pause. And then, “I know I posed it as a question, but it wasn’t. You’re doing it, whether you want to or not.”

“It sounds like you’ve got everything figured out. Now if you don’t mind, I need to find Rosa. You seem to know everything. Any ideas where she went?”

“No.”

“Come on. This is important.”

“‘Important’?! There are billions of people on this wretched planet. Every single one of them will be dead soon if we don’t focus. Can you please try and fathom the insignificance of your personal drama?”

“Well, if you’re not gonna help, I guess this conversation is over.”

“No, wait! You can’t-”

I put the receiver onto the cradle and pulled the phone line free of the wall.

A second later, Swan Lake began playing, only this time it felt louder, deeper, and slowed way down. I took out the cell phone and looked first at the battery (51% remaining), then the caller ID: “ANSWER NOW OR LOSE YOUR PROTECTION.” I turned the phone off. And yet the phone rang again before I even had time to put it away. “LAST CHANCE.”

I put the phone on the counter, raised the sword-bat above my head, and smashed it with all the force I could muster. It finally stopped ringing. I rested the weapon against the wall and took a look at the damage. I wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that the amount of damage was virtually, if not exactly, none. The glass wasn’t even cracked. A text message bubble popped up on the screen with four words. “HAVE IT YOUR WAY.”

Well, at least it wasn’t ringing anymore. I put the phone back into my pants pocket, intent to keep it there only until I found a better way to permanently destroy it.

Guess that’s the end of Roger’s protection, I thought. I wonder how long until-

The back door scraped open. I snatched up the sword-bat, raised it into a defensive position, and looked down the hall to see a massive figure standing in the doorway. A tower of muscle, with fresh blood staining his cheeks, the look on his face of solid determination, the air of a stone-cold killer. He made eye contact with me and nodded. I lowered the weapon.

“Hey Benji!” I said, relieved to see a friendly face.

He shut the door behind himself and walked up to the counter. “Hey boss. I was doing my perimeter check. Nice sword-bat.”

“Thanks. Have you seen Rosa? She’s supposed to be working right now.”

“She asked me to cover her shift. She needed the day off to go to her grandma’s funeral.”

“Wait, Rosa’s grandmother passed away? How did I not know this?”

“She said you were, quote, ‘really sad,’ and she didn’t want to, quote, ‘burden’ you with it.” It was strange watching Benji do the air quotes. Rosa’s influence was definitely rubbing off on him.

“Is she okay?”

He gave me a confused look. “No, she’s dead.”

“I meant Rosa.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I think she’ll be alright. I got the impression they weren’t all that close. But she says she has to go because ‘family.’” (Again with the air quotes.) “I don’t subscribe to that philosophy myself, but she’s a strong woman. She knows what she’s doing.”

“I had no idea her grandmother died. That sucks out loud. She spent the whole day taking care of me and baking stuff and I never even bothered to ask how she was doing.”

“That’s what friends do, boss. They loan one another emotional strength. Sometimes in our lives, we all have pain and sorrow. We all need somebody to lean on.”

He must have read the look of surprise on my face. With a nonchalant shrug, he continued, “What? Just because I’m good at killing, I’m not allowed to understand the power of friendship? You think I’m some kinda one-dimensional character who’s only good for when the going gets tough? The fuck outta here with that! I write poetry, too. I bet you didn’t know that.”

This was somehow still not the weirdest thing Benji had ever said to me. I made a note to circle back to this conversation if we both survived the impending Armageddon. For now, all I could say was, “Sorry.”

He pulled a blade out of his sleeve and hucked it across the room. I didn’t even need to look. The sound of the sharp squeak told me he successfully punctured his intended target. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Listen, Benji, there have been developments over the last few days that you need to be aware of. Evidently, the gas station has had an umbrella of protection over it. I might have just… done something that cost us that umbrella.”

He stared at me, not bothering to hide the flicker of a grin. After a moment to deliberate, he said, “I knew this day would come.”

“I think you should leave.”

I’m not sure which of us was more surprised to hear me say that.

“What do you mean, boss?”

“I mean, this place is about to get stupid dangerous, and I don’t want you getting caught up in it.”

“That’s adorable, but I’m not-”

The grumble of a large and poorly-maintained diesel truck engine washed into the room. We both turned and looked out the front doors at the rusty old pickup pulling into the closest parking spot. The man behind the wheel looked back at us with bloodshot eyes, and I understood. It was beginning. The man put a half-empty shoulder of whiskey to his lips, turned the bottom up, and finished it off in one pull.

As the man climbed out of his truck, I registered how rough he looked compared to the last time I saw him. His bushy white beard wasn’t quite as bushy or white anymore. Nicotine stains had recolored the portion around his mouth into a buttery yellow, and the longer locks were matted and twisted into knots. He’d also lost quite a bit of weight. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks sharp, his camo uniform a size too big with pants only held up by the grace of those overworked suspenders.

And then I noticed the gun. A red, white, and blue SMG that he pulled out from behind the driver’s seat. He left the truck door open and the engine running—sure signs that he expected this to be a quick visit. The moment he stepped through our front door, Whitebeard[25] started braying orders. “Hands up where I can see them! Do it or I will fucking execute you!” He backed his words up with the weapon, pointing it at my face, then Benji’s face. We both complied.

“What’s going on, Leon?” I asked. He swung the gun back at me.

“This don’t concern you, boy.” He swung the gun back to Benji. “You’re gonna get on your knees, understand? You’re going to answer me some questions, and if I don’t like what I hear, if I even think you’re fucking with me... I’ll kill you and your short bus window-licker friend.”

Benji gave me a look from the other side of the counter. For a brief second, his eyes flickered down at the sword-bat I’d absent-mindedly leaned against the cigarette case. Then, he slowly lowered himself to his knees.

In a voice that relayed no fear or emotion of any kind, Benji asked, “What’s the problem?”

Whitebeard circled behind him and pressed the America-themed Uzi into the back of his head. He was within striking distance of me now, with all his attention on Benji.

“You think I’m fuckin’ retarded, dipshit? There’s a serial killer on the loose. And that fucker don’t realize who he started a war with. Ever since the bitch took over as sheriff, the law around here can’t do shit right. They’re worse than worthless, so good ol’ boys gotta pick up the slack. We watch out for one another ‘round here.”

I looked at the sword-bat. It would be simple enough to get to it, but Whitebeard’s finger was already hugging that trigger, and I’ve seen enough fresh death to know how twitchy a dead body can be.

Benji looked straight ahead and asked, “What’s this got to do with me?”

He dug the barrel of the gun into Benji’s scalp. “Sheriff may be too stupid to see it, but I ain’t. This town never had any problems before. Then a foreigner shows up out of nowhere, begging for money, scaring our women. Now we got crime everywhere we go. Someone shot Brother Riley, stomped on Dickory’s face, did God-knows-what to Travis. It’s time for someone to take a stand and say ‘Enough is enough.’”

“Let’s get one thing straight. I’ve never begged for anything in my life.”

“You’re about to.”

Well, I thought to myself, Whitebeard may be a shitty psychopathic racist garbage person monster, but at least he’s consistent.

“Please,” I said, calmly. “Please. I’m begging you. Do not kill him.”

Whitebeard chuckled nastily. “That’s gonna depend on what he tells-”

“Excuse me.” My patience for this shithead had worn out the moment he opened his mouth. “I wasn’t talking to you.” I turned my focus back to Benji. “Please, Benji. Don’t kill him. The last thing you need is a police investigation. Even if it was obviously self-defense, they’re going to be major pains in the ass about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Benji said calmly. “I’m not going to kill him. I’m just gonna mess him up real bad.”

I wasn’t even going to pretend I didn’t want to see that. “Okay,” I said. “That is acceptable.”

Whiskey-spittle flew from his lips as Whitebeard screamed, “What the fuck?! You think this is a game?” He pulled back the gun, winding up for a pistol-whip—a maneuver I’ve been on the receiving end of too many times. But before he could bring his arm back down, Benji was already standing, facing him. One hand clamped over the weapon, the other with a vice grip on Whitebeard’s crotch. It took me a second to realize the crack noise I heard was the sound of Whitebeard’s trigger finger snapping backwards.

Benji leaned in closely and growled these words into Whitebeard’s ear: “Now you listen to me, you sad little man. If you keep playing make-believe, pretending you’re a big boy...” With a high-pitched squeak, Whitebeard suddenly went up onto his tip toes. I almost felt his pain from here, watching as Benji literally lifted the man by his balls before finishing his threat. “...I’ll rip them off. Understand?”

Tears flowed down Whitebeard’s cheeks as he struggled to say the word, “Y- y- ye- yes.”

“Good.”

FWOK!

Whitebeard screamed like a wounded animal and collapsed to the ground like… I guess also a wounded animal. In a single move, Benji had torn away one metaphorical symbol of Whitebeard’s manhood while releasing another. Whitebeard curled up in the fetal position as his shrieks morphed into pathetic sobs. I couldn’t believe how much the old guy was overreacting. But then Benji placed the Uzi onto the counter and I noticed the tubular wad of bloody flesh that had been stripped off with the trigger guard, including an overgrown nicotine-yellow fingernail. It seemed that Whitebeard’s shooting digit had been completely degloved.

The only thing I could think to say was, “Yuck.”

While Whitebeard writhed on the floor muttering a slew of obscenities, Benji went to the back of the store to retrieve the knife he’d thrown through a rat earlier. “As I was saying, I ain’t going nowhere. You’re going to need all the help you can get, and I’m gonna be there every step of the way.”

Just when I dared to think he might actually be right, the window over the booth table shattered and a metal canister bounced against the floor. With a loud hiss, it cracked open, expelling a thick green gas. Within a matter of seconds, the building was completely filled with the mysterious smoke. Once again, like it was becoming a new bad habit, I lost consciousness.

25
Whitebeard was the guy leading the vigilante militia that night they tried to kill us. He looks like what would happen if you left Santa Claus out in the sun for too long. [«]

Chapter Eighteen

I came to several times. First, dangling uncomfortably over someone’s bony shoulder as he carried me away from the building. Behind us, I heard another voice complaining, “How come you always get the skinny ones?” I craned my neck to see the man who asked the question. Maybe it was the delusion of a waking dream, but what I thought I saw was just bizarre enough to be real. He wore a gas mask on his head and a black suit on his everything else. He had Whitebeard thrown over one shoulder like a sack of corn. With his free hand, he effortlessly dragged the unconscious form of Benji by the ankle out of the building and across the parking lot. I couldn’t tell where we were going, and I passed out before the man carrying me had a chance to answer.

Sometime later I awoke to the feeling of a flat metal surface beneath my back, vibrating with movement. Maybe a van? No, there was vertical movement. An elevator, perhaps? I couldn’t see anything, but I heard voices. The same one from before: “I would have tried to put the fire out, but my water jug and canteen were both full of beer at the time.”

A different voice now: “That still would have worked. Beer isn’t flammable.”

“It’s not? Damn. I’ll have to remember that for the next time I’m on fire.”

The voices were muffled, but under that obfuscation there was something I recognized. I knew these people. But how?

The next time I grasped consciousness, I was propped in a velvet lounge chair in an opulent ballroom. Men and women wore tuxedos, dresses, and masquerade masks, dancing all around me as a piano played a delicate and eerie waltz. I looked around at the revelers as they clinked champagne flutes and danced their troubles away. In one corner, a shirtless man snorted a line of cocaine off a woman’s breast. I shook the grogginess out of my head. “Okay, this has got to be a dream.”

A man in a suit and gasmask stepped into my field of view and looked down at me. “Is he supposed to be awake?” he asked. I knew that voice… From a long time ago…

Another man in a suit and gasmask stepped up to his side and said, “Oh, it’s him again?! Dammit, Jack-”

I woke up for the last time sitting in front of a table. A cross-stitched sign on the concrete wall opposite me read in large lettering, “No Touching! XOXO.” There was no mistaking my surroundings. I was back in an interrogation room for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Wait, has it been twenty-four hours yet? I really need to get a grip on the passage of time. There are some very important deadlines coming up.

I could smell the man to my left before even turning to confirm that yes, I was confined alongside Whitebeard. He was slumped into his metal chair, busily snoring and filling our room with heinous whiskey farts. Someone had done him the favor of bandaging up his trigger finger in several rounds of gauze, although it was almost certainly not enough considering the steady tap-tap-tap of blood drops forming a neat little slipping hazard below his seat.

Our hands were shackled to a bolt beneath the table, chains giving us enough slack to sit comfortably, but not quite enough to stand up.

I took the wallet out of my pocket to inspect. Black leather. The words “Bad Ass Mother Fucker” embroidered across the front. The fact that I had this wallet in my possession proved that at least one of those brief moments of consciousness had been real. Or at least, real enough for me to pick the pocket of whoever was carrying me away from the gas station. I opened it and thumbed through the contents. There was a great deal of cash inside. Most of it wasn’t American. Some of the currency depicted faces that I’m not sure were even human. But the money wasn’t what I was interested in. I pulled a plastic card out of the inner sleeve. Bingo—a Blockbuster card from Washington D.C. with a name I knew: Roscoe, Brick.

I had been assured on more than one occasion that this was a terribly common name, and yet I felt confident that I knew exactly which Brick Roscoes I was dealing with.

“Leon,” I said, trying to wake him. When it didn’t work, I tried again, louder. No change. Finally, I reached out and gave his beard a good tug. It felt oily and gritty, like an old sponge that someone forgot at the bottom of a sink of dirty dishes. His head rolled over to the side, but his snoring remained uninterrupted. I wiped my hand on my pants and contemplated my escape. Maybe Jerry was on to something with the whole sew-a-lockpick-into-your-shirt thing.[26]

Right then, the heavy metal door next to the “No Touching” sign creaked open. A man walked in, whistling to himself, with two large syringes in his hand. He stopped for a moment when he saw me. The man behind him walked right into his back.

“What the fuck?” demanded Blind Brick.

“Jack,” said Sighted Brick. “You’re awake already?”

“What the hell took you guys so long?” I asked.

Blind Brick shut the door behind them. Considering the way their faces contorted upon entering the room, I had to assume they were regretting losing the gas masks before entering Whitebeard’s stink cloud.

Sighted Brick looked at the two syringes in his hand. “I guess that means we don’t need both of these anymore.” With a shrug, he called out “Three pointer!” and tossed one of the hypodermics through the air towards a metal garbage bin in the opposite corner. It hit the rim, ricocheted, bounced off the wall, and rolled under the table. “Close enough,” he declared as he circled behind the man snoring next to me. With all the delicacy of a sugar-high child smashing a pinata, he plunged the needle into Whitebeard’s shoulder and squeezed the plunger, pumping the man’s bloodstream full of God-knows-what. Sighted Brick had just enough time to get back to Blind Brick on the other side of the table before Whitebeard jolted to consciousness.

“What the fuck?!” he screamed.

“This the fuck!” Blind Brick screamed back as he punched the table. Something told me there weren’t going to be any good cops in whatever routine they were about to pull. For his next trick, Blind Brick pulled a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. As he handed the container over to Sighted Brick, he continued, “I’m two weeks away from retirement, my boner pills cost more than my mortgage payment, the chief wants me to give him notes on his slam poetry set by this afternoon, and on top of all of that, I got you two degenerates out there fucking cows. How am I supposed to sleep at night, knowing there’s a cabal of cow fuckers running crazy in my town?”

I noticed a tremble in Whitebeard’s face. There was a lot of pent-up emotion buried in there, trying to break free. Rage was always an easy pressure valve, but what happens when that doesn’t work? Judging from the way he clenched his teeth and flexed his eyelids, he was fighting valiantly to make sure it wouldn’t manifest itself in the form of tears, because if he started crying… well, you know.

“What do you have to say for yourselves, cow fuckers?!”

“Knock it off,” I said. “This isn’t going to work on me. You tried it already. Remember?”

“What the fuck’s going on?” This time, Whitebeard’s question was aimed at me. Sighted Brick took a swig from the flask and handed it back to Blind Brick.

“It’s a credibility firewall. They’re doing a bit to make sure if we try and tell anyone what happened to us, we won’t be believed. We’ll just sound like raving lunatics. If anything, it should make you feel better. It means they’re planning on releasing us.”

Whitebeard shook his head and stared at the men with his mouth hanging wide open. It didn’t appear that my words were actually making him feel any better.

Sighted Brick lowered himself into the seat across from me and adjusted his shades. I looked into my own reflection in his glasses as he spoke. “Don’t get too excited. We’d love to kill you both. But, as I’m sure you know, your town is way over quota for mysterious deaths. Another cover-up would take so much work, and our resources are stretched pretty thin right now, what with the impending apocalypse.”

“Oh good!” I said. “You already know about the end of the world.”

“Of course we do!” Blind Brick screamed, punching the table again. Whitebeard jumped. He was the only one to flinch. “That’s why we’re so goddamned overworked! There’s nobody else around! As soon as they heard the end of the world was imminent, everyone got worried they were going to lose their vacation days if they didn’t take them immediately. Now Brick and I are left covering everybody’s shifts.”

Sighted Brick continued without missing a beat. “Friday night. Supreme evil being. Torture god. Hell will rise. It all sounds very exciting.”

“If it helps, we’ve been calling it Karen.”

The Bricks both nodded. “Karen,” repeated the Brick across from me. “I like it. It’s catchy. Why didn’t we ever think to give the entity a name? Oh right, because it’s a terrible fucking idea! Do you really not understand that names are a type of magic?”

Blind Brick elaborated, “Naming something gives you a certain power over it. That’s great for chronic illnesses or relationship statuses. It’s not so good when it comes to supernatural big bads. Every time you speak its name, you conjure it. Like a prayer.”

Sighted Brick added, “More like a beacon, actually.”

Blind Brick went on. “I guess that explains how it knows exactly where to find us.”

Sighted Brick took over. “I wonder if the name will still sound as charming when every man, woman, and child on earth becomes a conduit of inconceivable agony and misery.”

“Okay, I get it,” I said. “I fucked up. It’s what I do. Now, do you guys have any ideas?”

“Honestly, no. We’re all doomed unless someone can figure out a way to stop an unstoppable evil in the next two days.”

Oh good. It’s still Wednesday.

Blind Brick softly echoed the word “Doomed” over and over behind his partner.

He didn’t sound like he was kidding, but then again, Brick never sounded like he was kidding.

“Well I’m sure you guys will figure something out.”

Whitebeard interjected, “What the fuck are you clowns talking about?”

Blind Brick took another swig from the flask and handed it over to his partner. That was the moment I finally figured out the rule to their drinking game. Just to be sure, I tested it out.

“What the fuck,” I said. Sighted Brick took another drink and gave the flask back. “What the fuck.” Blind Brick drank again. “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!”

“Alright stop already!” Sighted Brick yelled. “I have to drive home at some point today.”

“Where are we?” I asked.

Blind Brick answered. “We’re at the Liskov Institute for Societal Advancement, and you’re in a spaceship. Docked in a hanger. In Area 51. In the year 1970.” Honestly, I don’t know why I even asked.

“What was up with that whole Eyes Wide Shut masquerade?”

Sighted Brick scratched his chin and said, “That was a shortcut. You weren’t supposed to see any of that. Did you, uh, notice anyone… famous?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“Good. Then I guess we can let you live.”

“Excuse me!” Whitebeard sounded like he’d just got his groove back. He leaned forward and shouted, “I demand a lawyer right now! And a doctor! That savage nearly killed me and I want him arrested and prosecuted! You can’t treat me like this! I’m an American, got-dammit! I know my rights!”

You could measure the distance between when he stopped speaking and when the Bricks simultaneously burst into laughter in milliseconds. When they finished, Blind Brick wiped the tears from below his darkened glasses and said, “Describe his face to me. Is he frowning? I bet it’s glorious.”

“As soon as I get out of here, I’m gonna sue you all to hell.”

Once again, the conversation had to be put on hold as we waited for the agents to finish laughing.

“Okay, you ready to do this now?” Sighted Brick asked his partner.

“Go ahead,” he responded. “It’s your turn.”

“No it’s not. It’s yours.”

“No, I distinctly remember… You always do this when it’s your turn!”

“Alright calm down. Tell you what. We play for it.”

With a sigh, Blind Brick relented. “Fine!”

Then, the two agents proceeded to play a game of paper/scissor/rock. Sighted Brick threw paper. Blind Brick played scissors.

“Did I win?” asked Blind Brick.

“Sorry, bud,” Sighted Brick lied, “Rock smashes scissors.”

Blind Brick’s voice rose an octave. “You know, I’ve been losing an awful lot of games with you ever since I plucked out my eyes. Ping pong and golf, I can understand, but every time we Rochambeau? Really?!”

“I don’t know what to tell you. If you think I’m cheating, just ask Jack.”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m not getting involved.”

Blind Brick threw up his hands in exasperation. “Whatever!” he said. “I just think it’s really suspicious. That’s all.”

And then he took the gun out of its holster and blew his brains out right in front of us.

The only remaining Brick Roscoe drained the flask as Whitebeard screamed “What the fuck?!” over and over until his hyperventilation made it impossible to continue making words. When he finally gave in and began bawling, Brick stood up and circled to our side of the table. Whitebeard tried to scramble away from the agent, but the chains held him down, so instead he squeezed his eyes shut and began rocking back and forth, retreating to the only shelter left for him.

Brick produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the shackles around my wrists.

“Let’s go for a walk n’ talk,” he said. “This place smells like bitch.”

We started the “talk” part of our “walk n’ talk” the moment the door to the interrogation room had shut behind us. The exterior of the door had the number 555 printed on the front in yellow.

“What’s gonna happen to him?” I asked.

Brick started down the long, nondescript corridor. I hurried to keep up. “We’ll drop him off on the side of the road with no pants and a BAC of zero point three percent—standard procedure for a catch and release.”

I noticed pretty quickly that there weren’t any breaks in the hallway. Just a solid steel wall on one side and a series of evenly spaced doors identical to the one we’d just left on the other. No windows. No bathrooms or vending machines. Most interestingly, no other people. Dead Brick must have been telling the truth about everyone taking their vacation days. I wondered what else he was telling the truth about.

As we passed, I clocked the labels on each door. 555, this time printed in blue. 555, this time printed in purple. 555, this time in green.

“Sorry about your partner,” I said.

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right. I’m not. I was just trying to be nice.” Again, 555, this time in red.

“It’s fine. To be honest, he was starting to get a little clingy. Kept insisting I describe everything to him or give him one of my eyes because I had an extra. Plus, he wanted me to meet his parents. Uh, no thank you.”

The next door we passed was labeled 555b. This time, back in yellow.

“How long is this hallway supposed to be?”

“That depends. How long is this conversation going to last?”

I took that as my cue to get to the point. I had a lot of questions for him. Most importantly, “Where’s Benji?”

“The mimic? Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried. He’s my friend and you guys knocked him out.”

“We’re not going to hurt it. The whole reason we came to your sweat stain of a town was so that we could apprehend the specimen and bring it here for safe keeping. You and crack-pipe Gandalf were just incidental.”

“Benji’s a ‘him,’ not an it.”

“Whatever.”

“Wait, so this is just a regular mission for you guys? I thought this had something to do with the apocalypse.”

“What can I say? It’s on our radar, but we’re at a standstill. Despite all our best efforts, there’s literally nothing we can do at this point. No reason to spend all of our time worrying about something out of our control. Still gotta do the maintenance. Still gotta eat and shit and everything in between. Which, at long last, brings me to my point: the Institute has been monitoring the situation in your town.”

“Situation?”

“The serial killer. At first, it didn’t look like one of our cases. Whoever we’re looking for is quite the subtle devil. But they couldn’t hide from us forever. The bigger the sample size, the easier it is to spot a pattern.”

“Okay, I give up. What’s the pattern?”

“Someone is hunting mimics.”

“Who would even be capable of something like that?”

“Besides you?” he said with a sneer. “Our sources indicate that the murderer is a new player, a merciless killer of untold power who stepped in to fill the vacuum left by the Collector. Goes by the name ‘Grimorea.’ AKA The Grim One. AKA pain in the Institute’s ass. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the name once or twice.”

“It seems he’s taken control of the Collector’s leftovers, and now he’s systematically wiping out anyone who challenges his power, including the Institute. And also, a bunch of mimics for some reason. We’re going to keep Benji here with us for a while. Work with… him until we have a plan.”

I stopped. Brick took two steps before joining me at a standstill.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re just going to use him as bait. I’m not stupid. You’re trying to lure out a supernatural serial killer by dangling my friend on a string.”

He snapped his fingers loudly, sending the sound echoing down the endless hall. “Use your friend as bait!” he exclaimed, like the idea had never even occurred to him. “What a great idea! It had never even occurred to me!”

“It won’t work. If The Grim One knows your plan-”

“That’s the trick. He won’t know...” Brick squinted his eyes at me. He must have been squinting really hard considering I could tell he was squinting even through those standard-issue Brick Roscoe sunglasses. He finished his thought with a healthy dose of suspicion in his voice. “...unless you tell him.”

“You don’t think he’s going to notice how you goons abducted three people, including a mimic, from the most overly-bugged locale in the whole town?”

Brick blew a wet raspberry. I sidestepped the cloud of spit as it wafted past. “Jack, what kind of circus do you think we’re running here? We know what we’re doing! We have employed state-of-the-art magic to make sure no mortal or god can observe us unless we allow it. You’re standing in the single most secure location in the universe. You can say anything you want here and nobody will ever know. Watch! I don’t brush my teeth, ever! There. Now you try.”

“It’s not that secure. I mean, you didn’t even notice when I stole this.”

I held out his wallet. He snatched it out of my hand and said, “That’s where that went! Thanks a lot, jerk. You’re the reason I couldn’t find my condom earlier. Cost me a huge opportunity at the Queen of England’s masquerade. Oops, I mean… the… Queen of somewhere else. God, I’ve gotten so used to speaking without a filter.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you end up telling this story later, do not mention the Queen of England.”

“Who would I tell this story to?”

“Your blog?”

“Nobody reads my blog anymore.”

“Okay, and you promise not to mention it down the road in like, a book or anything, right?”

Suddenly, my subconscious sent up a flare. There was an idea on the outskirts of my attention, just behind the curtain, forming slowly… I had all the pieces of an image. I could almost make it out... I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to grasp it. Like an indecisive sneeze, I knew if I didn’t achieve it now, it would be lost forever. And then, it came to me in stages like a mental Rube Goldberg machine.

How did Brick not realize I had his wallet?

“Did you search us before bringing us here?”

“No need. Most secure location in all of existence, remember?”

They weren’t after me. They came for Benji. Whitebeard and I were just incidental. They must have been on their way before Roger’s protection was revoked. It all meant something. But what?

Roger wanted me to help him find the home base of an interested third party. He told me I was going to do it whether I wanted to or not.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the phone Archimedes gave me.

“You didn’t even take our phones?”

“Phones don’t work here. What part of ‘most secure location in all of existence’ don’t you understand?”

The phone started to ring. Just an ordinary, old-fashioned ring, ring, ring…

“Well,” Brick said. “Aren’t you gonna answer it?”

I noticed the battery life was at one percent. I would need to pick up soon or not at all. Under Brick’s watchful eyes, I chose the former, switching on speakerphone as I said, “Hello?”

Roger’s voice filled the hallway, “Splendid work, child! You did exactly what I needed you to do!”

“I didn’t-”

“Oh, but you did! Of course, I had to let you think you were in control. But I’ve studied you for years. I expected you to throw your tantrum. I knew you’d keep the phone in your pocket instead of getting rid of it because deep down you were afraid you might need my help. There is nothing you can do that I wouldn’t have already predicted.”

“Bazooka. I bet you didn’t know I was about to say that.”

“The illusion of free will is a powerful one. That’s why I’m always ten steps ahead of everyone else. Tell the Roscoes they never should have stuck their noses into my business.”

Before I could respond again, the battery died.

“Grimorea,” I said, ready to kick myself that it took this long to figure out. “It’s an anagram for ‘I am Roger.’”

I’ve reached a point in my life where few things surprise me, but when Brick frantically grabbed the phone out of my hand, snapped it in half, and proceeded to eat it in front of me… let’s just say I was not expecting it.

“You okay there?” I asked.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and said, “Fuck. There was definitely a tracking device inside the device. Looks like our location has been compromised. Just what I needed.”

He stepped towards the wall and smashed the glass over a big red button that I was positive had not been there a second before. A sign over the button read: “In case of OH SHIT, break glass.”

He gently tapped the button. Immediately, a blaring siren filled the air. The lights began flashing red and yellow, and countless air masks dropped from overhead containers. As I reached for one to put it on, Brick smacked my hand away. “No time for that,” he said. “We gotta get you out of here before the entire building implodes in exactly thirty seconds.”

“What about Benji?”

“He’s being evacuated as we speak. Oh, and I’ll be fine, too. Thanks for asking.”

He pushed me towards an intersecting hallway that, not surprisingly, wasn’t there the last time I looked in that direction. A wooden door was situated below a big neon sign that read “EXIT.” Brick pushed it open and gestured towards the black void inside.

“Now go! We’ve got less than twenty seconds.”

“But I have so many questions.”

He let out a short, angry howl, even louder than the blaring alarm. Then he said, “Fine! We have enough time for me to answer one question for you, and precisely one question. Don’t get creative. Don’t try to ask any compound questions.”

One question. Only one question? How do I pick? I imagined what was most important to me, opened my mouth, and started speaking. “So, what’s going on with Sabine?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Give me some context.”

“Sabine! My girlfriend. She passed away.”

“Sorry for your loss.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“She passed away and I keep remembering her.”

“That’s normal.”

“Are you going to keep interrupting?”

“Jeez, what’s with the attitude?”

“I swear to God. It’s already been thirty seconds.”

“No it hasn’t.”

“Yes it has.”

“Okay fine. You’re right. I was lying when I said thirty seconds because I wanted you to hurry. The truth is, the whole place was going to implode in exactly one minute and thirty seconds, but now we’ve been talking for-”

“OKAY! I keep remembering things that didn’t happen. And she’s always there in my memories. Saying things she couldn’t have possibly said. What’s going on?”

“Ah, it sounds like you’ve got yourself a memory worm.”

“A what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he yawned loudly and stretched his arms out wide. He was being absurdly calm considering the building was allegedly about to implode. When he pulled his arms back together, there was suddenly a book in his hands. “Memory worm,” he said in a voice like he was trying to explain quantum physics to a duck. “It’s a type of mind parasite. My old pal Doctor Berenstain wrote the book on them.” He held the book like he wanted me to take it. The title was a mouthful: “Of Minds and Reality: Paradigm Paralysis in the Field of Psychology and What Answers May Lie Within Metaphysics, Philosophy-” I’ve read plenty of bad books in my life, and most of the time I’ll see things through to the end, no matter what. This was the first time I didn’t even bother finishing the title.

“You’re saying I have a brain parasite?”

When I didn’t take the book from him, Brick carelessly tossed it through the doorway behind me. I didn’t hear it land.

“Not a ‘brain’ parasite. A mind parasite. Probably picked it up during one of your little extradimensional excursions. I always tell people, if you’re gonna go astral projecting into netherrealms, you gotta wear protection.”

“I understood about half of what you just said.”

“There’s something inside of you, feeding off your memories.”

“That sounds bad.”

He yawned again, louder than before, showing off teeth in the process. When he was finally done, he shrugged and said, “It’s not that big of a deal, really. Mind parasites are like HPV. Most people are infected and don’t even know. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if I were you.”

“Oh har har. Very funny.”

“Actually, that’s a good way to test if someone’s really a human! Just check for mankind-specific mind parasites. Humans are absolutely lousy with them, but imposters are generally incompatible.”

“Fascinating and all, and would have probably been useful information earlier, but it’s been like two minutes since you said thirty-seconds, and I’m starting to think-”

He continued like he couldn’t even hear me. “In fact, the best example is the highly contagious non-carbon-based alien species called the Yohans.” Brick casually leaned against the doorframe and stared at the wall across from us as he rattled on. “Colonies of Yohans sprouted up on Earth millennia ago, and they’ve been evolving alongside humanity ever since. Now nearly 100% of all people are infected. It’s even mutated to spread to other animals. Their extremely simple makeup allows them to gestate inside their host, breed, and replicate virally without ever even making physical contact. All it takes is an image of a Yohan. Hell, even the simple thought of one is enough to allow them to reproduce. But don’t worry. It’s a mostly benign infection… mostly.”

By this point, I was yawning, too (which was strange considering I wasn’t even tired for once).

The floor quaked beneath us. The overhead lights began to sizzle and spark. Behind the agent, a wall split in half, spilling a cloud of dust into the narrow hallway.

“Oh fuck! We spent too much time talking!” Brick screamed. The next thing I knew, he had planted his boot in the center of my chest, kicking me through the exit. I landed on my back in a darkened room, the only light source being the doorway. I saw rubble fall from the ceiling and bury Brick Roscoe, and then I saw absolutely nothing.

I caught my breath and sat up in complete darkness.

“Hello?”

The way my voice bounced off the walls told me I was in a tiny room with a low ceiling. The smell told me I was in a place that hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. I pulled myself up and felt my way through the surroundings. I took a few steps towards the door Brick had kicked me through, but my hands felt something else where the door should have been. Boxes stacked upon shelves. I shoved them aside and felt the wall behind. There was no sign of a door. Without the benefit of sight, I kept my hands out in front of me and felt along the remainder of the wall, following the corner as I turned around and walked towards the opposite side of this room. As I expected, there wasn’t much to it. Barely a room at all. About the size of the supply closet at the gas station. When I finally found the door, I took a small moment to brace myself. There was no telling what would be waiting for me on the other side.

Before the small moment could become a medium moment, I turned the handle and opened the door.

“Jesus Christ on a Segway,” I said to nobody in particular.

I was back at the gas station, standing inside the supply closet.

26
I’ve also designed several other emergency shirts. The blue one with the image of Chibi Shrek is in case of fire. The red one with photo-negative Nic Cage is for blind dates. The shirt with the word “Shirt” on it is a decoy. The shirt with the word “Hat” on it is for poison ivy. (I will not be elaborating.) [«]

Chapter Nineteen

I couldn’t even begin to calculate how much time had actually passed. Luckily, the front door opened and a friendly body stepped inside.

“You there, Old-Bob!”

Old-Bob looked at me with surprise. “Huh?”

“What’s today?”

“Pardon?”

“What’s today, my fine fellow?”

“It’s, uh, Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? I haven’t missed it! What time?”

He glanced at the gold pocket watch he always kept in the front pocket of his overalls. “Just past noon?”

That would mean I’d only lost a few minutes since Whitebeard came into the store looking for trouble. At a glance, everything seemed to be in order. The broken window was inexplicably fixed again. The glass and blood were all cleaned up. The only proof that I hadn’t completely imagined it all was that hardback book sitting on the counter by the register. “Of Minds and Reality…” There literally wasn’t enough time left in the world for me to read that thing even if I wanted to.

Roger’s plan to keep me in town long enough to find the location of the Brick Roscoe headquarters was elaborate, to say the least. But it had run its course. Now I was nothing more than a loose end, and it was only a matter of time before someone or something came around to snip me off. The smart move was obvious: I needed to get the hell out of Dodge. The only thing physically preventing my brave retreat was the fact that I had no car.

I looked outside, half expecting to see the twins. What I saw, though, was a gift from the universe so perfectly convenient it would have been absurd not to assume it was a trap: Whitebeard’s truck was still right where he left it. The door wide open. The engine running. An angry animal staring at me from the front seat with a mouth full of seat cushioning. Trap or no trap, I didn’t have time to overthink it. This place wasn’t safe anymore. I tossed some supplies into my spare backpack and hung our “Closed for Repairs” sign on the door.

“Hey wait,” said Old-Bob with a cup of boiled peanuts in each hand. “What about me?”

I tossed him the store keys. He dropped both cups of peanuts to catch them. “You know how to work the register, right? Just lock up after yourself once you’re done. Bye!”

I managed to chase Rocco out of Whitebeard’s truck without resorting to the use of the sword bat. I had everything I needed to leave town for good. But I couldn’t do that. Not yet. If the world really was coming to an end, there was one thing I needed to make right first.

Rosa opened her front door with a canister of mace in her hand, ready to unleash liquid hell upon whoever it was that drove up in the ratty old pickup truck with the defective muffler. She wore a long black dress. Nothing fancy. Appropriately solemn. No pockets. When she saw me standing there, I sensed a moment of contemplation before she lowered her weapon. It was only a second, but that second felt like an eon, confirming my suspicion. I’d broken something precious, and she wasn’t handing out forgiveness cheap.

I took a deep breath. I was going to need it. If I didn’t explain everything right here and now in a single breath, I might fall into that overthinking trap again and never say anything at all. Talking is the purest form of improvisation, and I’ve always sucked at improv. How was Rampage Jack so good at this? How was everybody so good at this compared to me? Even the people in my own dreams seem to know what to say while I over analyze and overthink every little thing. Oh shit, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Okay, enough pontificating. Here goes. She stared at me and waited patiently. I was starting to get dizzy. This one-breath idea might not have been so smart.

“Yes?” she said at long last.

“Um… hi.” Pathetic. Well, at least it can’t get any worse. Maybe I should prime the conversation by saying something nice. “You look…” I waved at her black dress. “...really pretty.” NO, not like that you idiot!

“Thanks. I’m on my way to a funeral. You look terrible. What happened to your nose and why do you have black eyes?”

“Somebody punched me. And somebody punched me.”

“Where?”

“In the face.”

The next words out of her mouth were sing-song, teasing. “You wouldn’t have gotten punched if you’d stayed heeere like I tooold yooouuu.”

“I know.”

Her voice turned serious. “I swear to God, if you only came back because you needed cheap medical attention, I’m going to Kevorkian you right in the face!”

“No, I’m here because there’s something I needed to tell you. Something I’ve been trying to tell you for a long time, but it keeps getting screwed up. So, no more excuses. You deserve to hear the truth.”

She put the canister of mace into her purse. “Oh my,” she said softly. “This sounds serious.” Her tone was anything but. I was having a really hard time getting a read from her. Was she mad at me? Messing with me? Had the grief of her lost grandmother pushed her over the edge?

ARP ARP ARP. Gaston darted between Rosa’s legs and jumped at me. The little guy had gotten much better at barking since I last saw him. I picked him up. His tiny tail went full helicopter-mode as he licked my disgusting face.

“Not now, Gaston,” I said. “I’m trying to have a moment with Rosa. Do you mind?”

She huffed. “Oh? Is that what this is? A ‘moment’? I just assumed you were waiting for me to look away so you could run off again. Why not, right? You paid your dues, put in a few seconds of Rosa time. Now you’re free to go have another super-secret lone-wolf adventure. Unless, of course, you need company. In which case Jerry will surely be your go-to partner in crime. Don’t mind me, I’ll just stay here at the bottom of your list of confidants where I belong. It’s not like I have any agency outside of cleaning and mending wounds. It’s not like I could use my extensive experience to help guide you through an emotional breakthrough. Hey, don’t forget to be mysterious and brooding while you’re at it. That’s way better than having a personality.”

Gaston farted softly in my hands. I gingerly set the dog back on the ground.

“Wow,” I said. “That was-”

“Honesty. You should try it sometime.”

“Look, I’m really sorry for freaking out earlier. I had a lot going on. But surely you can see that I am trying. Right?”

With a stern, straight face, she answered. “I can see that, yes.” She took a deep breath, then added, “And don’t call me Shirley.”

Okay. That settles it. I thought. She’s messing with me. What a relief!

Rosa broke, let out a chuckle, then took a step back and gestured inside. “I have to leave in ten minutes. Hurry up and go shower. Your smell is distracting.”

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me?”

“No. It does not mean that.”

Most of my wardrobe is second hand. This was true growing up in foster care, where hand-me-downs were standard. It remained true when I started supporting myself on a meager gas station clerk salary. My clothes come almost exclusively from thrift stores, garage sales, or the lost and found box. Statistically speaking, it’s a near certainty that I’ve worn a dead man’s clothes before. But there was something extra unnerving about wearing an outfit that once belonged to the man I’d cut into pieces with a chainsaw.

Before his “passing,” Leland had gotten into a bad habit of throwing his dirty clothes into the washing machine with Rosa’s, which was why she had a spare outfit ready to loan. Lucky me, the black “Tapout” tee shirt, cargo pants, and UFC-brand boxers all fit closely enough that I had something clean to change into after my shower. I found some bandage tape in her medicine cabinet and redressed the wounds on my hand and nose.  I didn’t have time to feel as ridiculous as I looked. As soon as I was reclothed and patched up, I joined Rosa in the kitchen. She took one look at me and burst out laughing. I took that as a good sign.

“Okay,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got to hit the road. Now what was it you were dying to tell me?”

This was round two. Surely, I couldn’t do any worse than last time. I knew what I wanted to say. Rosa, I’ve been less than honest with you, and only now that the world is coming to an end—the world’s coming to an end by the way—do I finally have the guts to tell you the truth. And maybe it’s because I was scared of how you’d react. I liked the status quo with us. I liked our friendship. I didn’t want to risk going back to the way things were before the big reset... when you didn’t trust me... when you were scared of me. Yeah, some version of that would probably do the trick. Maybe don’t mention the time before the BLaRc. We can probably work our way up to the end of the world thing- Oh crap! She’s looking at her watch again. How long have I been standing here internal monologuing?

“I’ve got something important to tell you…” I blurted it out, hoping to find the words in real time. “…and I would understand if it upsets you. Actually, you might want to sit down first.”

“I can’t sit down! I have to go to my grandmother’s funeral, remember? Just spit it out. I promise I’ll get mad.”

“You mean you promise you won’t get mad, right?”

“No, I’m going to get mad at you no matter what. So, you don’t have to worry about whether or not I’ll be upset, because it’s a given.”

“Okay. Well, in that case-” Gaston zoomed around the corner, dragging my dirty hoodie with him by the sleeve. As soon as he saw me, he spat it out and divebombed my left foot. He kept barking and barking until I finally picked him up. He was a needy little guy. (I have to assume this is exactly what having children is like.)

“You know what? It can probably wait.”

“Are you serious?!” Rosa demanded. “You’re going to give me the verbal equivalent of a ‘We need to talk’ text, then leave me in suspense for the rest of the day?”

“It’s not the sort of thing you just blurt out.”

“What isn’t?!”

“The thing I have to tell you.”

“This is ridiculous!” She turned towards the door. “Come on. It’s a twenty-minute drive. Is that enough time for us to suss it out?”

“Um. Yeah. It should be.”

It was not.

There were a couple of major factors. First, Gaston kept fighting for my attention. We’d planned to leave him at Rosa’s place, but he kept screaming like a car alarm every time I tried to put him down. In the end, we realized it was easier to just bring him with us. He spent the second half of the trip curled up inside my hoodie on the floorboard next to my backpack.

Second, and more importantly, I knew Rosa had a bad habit of spontaneously losing consciousness when faced with the actuality of reality, and I didn’t want to risk it while she was behind the wheel of a car.

So, I didn’t tell her the truth. I just dug the hole deeper. One more lie to get her through the funeral. (Like she said, she was going to be mad anyway, right?) And then after, when she had time to breathe, I would come clean and tell her everything. And she would either understand... or she wouldn’t. In the meantime, though, I needed to come up with something that would excuse my behavior up to this point.

“Well,” she said. “What is it?”

“It’s about Travis.”

“Travis? You mean the pee-phone guy?”

“Yes. I have to tell you something about Travis, the pee-phone guy.”

I could almost see the question mark forming over her head. “Okay?”

“He’s… missing. Presumed dead.”

“Oh.” She kept her eyes on the road. “Alright. What happened to him?”

“Nobody knows.”

“But I assume you know?”

“Nope. I just found out about it this morning.”

“Okayyy. Why are you telling me this?”

“Well, I knew how close you and Travis were. It was important that you hear the news from a friend. I wanted to make sure you didn’t find out through the grapevine.”

“Oh.” She blinked a few times in rapid succession. “The guy who’s banned but keeps trying to come into the store anyway to buy Skoal and porn? That Travis?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

I think she bought it.

She left me and Gaston in the car with the engine running. The funeral home parking lot was almost at capacity, and we were lucky to nab the last parking spot. The elder Vasquez matriarch must have been very popular to pull a crowd like this. Good for her I thought to myself before realizing why that wasn’t actually true.

With Rosa gone, the small car suddenly felt uncomfortably quiet. Just the sound of a plump puppy softly snoring. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t scared for my life. I wasn’t being actively chased by any monsters. I was just waiting. This was the moment in between rounds, and I was… dare I say it? Bored? Yes, this is what bored feels like. Oh, how I missed this feeling!

I took a deep breath and tapped the center console. A weird song was stuck in my head. I couldn’t quite remember the words. Just the syllable count. Da-da-da, da-da-da, oh, da da da da dadada daaa... How long has Rosa been in there? I checked my watch. It had only been one minute. This was going to be a long wait.

Gaston grumbled as he kicked his stubby little legs in full doggy-dream mode. I envied him. This would have been the ideal time to catch some rest of my own, but with everything going on, falling asleep here and now would be about as easy as treading water with a suit of armor, and would very possibly end the same way.

I carefully unzipped the bookbag next to where the sleeping dog lay, hoping to find a snack or something to pass the time. I was mildly surprised to see Dr. Berenstain’s book staring back at me: “Of Minds and Reality…” In my hurry to leave the gas station, I must have accidentally grabbed the most boring book I owned. At least, it looked like the most boring book. Without giving it a try, I’d never know for sure. But I had time to kill and a brain that wouldn’t shut off. May as well find out.

I opened the book and did something I never do: I flipped to a random page in the middle and started reading.

In 1985, I was contracted with a multinational think tank to research a theoretical nonmaterial lifeform - one that uses human RNA encoding as part of the replication stage of its lifecycle. The Institute wanted to know if these organisms, which we came to call Memory Worms, existed, and if so, whether or not they were capable of being weaponized. On the former question, early experiments were conclusive. Memory Worms were not only real, they were prevalent across all countries, cultures, and ethnicities. Nobody was immune. Before we were able to answer the latter, the experiments came to a premature conclusion after the head researcher destroyed all of our data and took his own life with a metal spoon.

Lobotomies have proven wildly successful in the removal of memory worms, with complete eradication in nearly eighty percent of cases and a fatality rate of less than five percent.

That line about the metal spoon had been highlighted, and someone had written the word “Nice” in the margin next to it. Okay, I thought to myself as I dropped the book back into the bag. Maybe this is one of those situations where the less I know, the better.

The song in my head, the noise without lyrics, was beginning to give me a headache. At least that was one problem I knew how to fix. When a song is stuck in your head, the only way to knock it loose is by getting another song stuck in its place. Fortunately, I was in a position to let technology do the heavy lifting.

I leaned forward and turned on the radio, which triggered the CD player to blare an intense K-Pop song at a higher volume than I ever would have expected Rosa to be comfortable with. Rosa’s a K-Pop fan. Interesting. I wonder what else I don’t know about her. Gaston immediately hopped into my lap and howled until I shut the music off. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. A couple of mourners in dark suits stared at me from the side of the building as they smoked their cigarettes. I mouthed the word “sorry” and shrank into my seat.

With the volume turned down and the CD ejected, I tried again to fill the silence before the beating of the mystery tune drove me crazy. The radio gave me nothing but static, so I started to search. I passed a country song about trucks and the Fourth of July, an angry man screaming about immigrants, a Slavic voice speaking nonsense in monotone, a sad bible study program about Deuteronomy… Wait- I scrolled back through the airwaves. Surely that wasn’t what I thought I’d heard. Surely. SURELY...

“...has found transmission… Purdue farm will lose three cows in attack tonight… The end is nigh… Lickskillet massacre has been covered up… No one will ever find bodies… The end is nigh… A mimic waits outside funeral home… The end is nigh… The twins are completing master’s list… They collect black blood from bodies of dead... They will arrive at funeral home in sixty-four seconds… They come for Rosa Vasquez… Soon they come for Travis Guidry… The end is nigh… Karen is avatar of pain… Karen is greatest and purest form of evil… Karen will enter world on Friday at twenty hundred hours, six minutes, and four seconds local time… The end is nigh… This concludes broadcast… Good luck.”

Several seconds of silence followed. Then, the radio went back to broadcasting static. I snapped out of my daze and went into action, digging out the pen at the bottom of my bag. There was a lot to digest here. The fact that the Russian Radio was not only back, but broadcasting on a public frequency that anyone with a car radio could intercept, was concerning. The fact that it just info-dumped a ton of stuff on me in a short period of time was bewildering. The fact that this supernatural source of forbidden knowledge had reconfirmed the prophecy of an ancient evil—AND adopted our stupid name for it—was terrifying.

I quickly wrote the information on my hand before I had the chance to forget, starting with the most important: “20:06 Friday. Armageddon. Black blood? Lickskillet massacre. Travis alive? Cows.” What else did the broadcast say? Come on brain. Rewind. Rewind!

STOP! The twins are waiting outside of the funeral home to take away Rosa? I’m AT the funeral home! And Rosa’s INSIDE the funeral home! And the twins want to take away Rosa! And I’m at the funeral home where the twins are going to try and take away Rosa from and-

I smacked myself across the face. Get it together, Jack. You need a plan. First, why don’t you check and make sure that this is even real. How do you know you didn’t just imagine the whole thing? Please, God, let me have imagined the whole thing!

I grabbed the hoodie from its spot on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a mourner’s robe, but it was black. Well, blackish. It had been black a few hundred washes ago. Now it was black-adjacent, with a snowstorm of dog hair and crumbs. Still, less conspicuous than my graphic Tapout tee. I threw it on and left the car. As soon as the door was shut behind me, Gaston began an unnatural bawling. The smokers looked my way and gave me a judgmental stare, the same one Rosa used any time I screamed at the raccoons. I guess that look was a hereditary gift. I wanted to yell back at them that Gaston was fine, that the air conditioning was on and he was just being dramatic. But time was of the essence, plus I really hate talking to strangers almost as much as I hate yelling, so I just opened the door, plucked out the dog, and stuffed him inside my hoodie. Gaston quickly settled inside the inner pocket and fell asleep while I threw up my hood and went for a totally not conspicuous stroll around the building.

I took a shortcut through a set of overgrown bushes and a white picket fence short enough for me to climb over before I reached the cemetery side of the funeral home. A service entrance was set up back here, out of view of the family, with a forklift parked by a large sliding door where supplies and/or bodies could be loaded in.

I ducked behind a bush as soon as I saw the vehicle pulling up next to the dumpster. The nondescript moving van with tinted windows. The Twins… Fuck. The Russian Radio was right!

I retraced my steps twice as fast. When I got back to the front of the funeral home, the smokers were gone. Presumably, the service had officially started. Theoretically, the Twins wouldn’t make their move until after the crowd had dispersed, which gave me some time. All I had to do was sneak inside, grab Rosa, and get out of there with a free head start. Great plan! I pushed open the front door and stepped inside the building. What could possibly go wrong?

The lobby was empty. A framed photograph of Rosa’s grandmother rested upon a wooden easel next to a podium with an open guestbook. The doorway to the morgue room stairs had been curtained off. I took it all in, the sound of muffled organ music, the smell of cinnamon candy and mothballs, the artificially cold air. I studied my surroundings with great care, hoping to avoid any surprises, which is why it was so alarming when a hand reached up and tugged at the sleeve of my hoodie. I jumped and made a noise that sounded like, “OHMYGOD!”

The man sitting next to me in his wheelchair gave me the Vasquez family glare. His was much more mature. Stronger. Refined over years into a weapon that could burn through stone. Even scarier than the one Rosa gave me when she found out I don’t use dustpans (I just sweep everything under the cold drink case). After two seconds of his glare, I was willing to confess to killing Kennedy if he’d asked.

The man was thin and old, with age spots all over. No hair, save for a dignified moustache of black and gray. He looked like he would have been quite physically intimidating in his prime. Now, he was just intimidating in other ways. He didn’t respond with words, but a slight tilt of his head said enough.

I covered my mouth and said, “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

When he spoke, it was with a smoker’s rasp. “You’re Rosa’s friend.” It sounded like an accusation. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know. Sorry. Have you seen her?”

He shook his head. “You should stay away from the girl. She isn’t what she seems. Everywhere she goes, she brings trouble.” He shifted his eyes to the chapel doors. “There’s a devil in her.”

I could see from the way he spoke that this kookie old weirdo believed what he was saying. My gut reaction was to defend Rosa, to tell the man he was senile and wrong, that Rosa deserved a little more respect... But then I realized that our short-term interests actually aligned.

“How about you tell me where she is and I get her—and her devil—out of here so she can’t cause any problems? How’s that sound? Good? Yeah?”

The old man’s glare softened. With a slow nod, he extended a boney finger and pointed towards the chapel. The sound of organ music ended. A new song penetrated the room. A soft, somber rendition of Amazing Grace reached my ears.

“Great. One more thing.” I unzipped my hoodie and removed the big handful of sleeping dog. “Do you mind holding this for me? I don’t want to risk causing a scene if he wakes up when I go in there. He can be a real yapper and he does not like loud music. Thanks a million.”

I plopped the dog into the man’s lap and left before he could protest. The mourners on the other side of that door would all be busy singing. Focused. Distracted. This might be the only chance I’d get. Quick in. Snag Rosa. Escape. Pick Gaston back up on the way out. Great plan. I kept telling myself. Great plan.

The door was annoyingly creaky. I pushed it open just enough to squeeze through. My eyes went right to work, searching the back row of pews. ...Was Grace that taught my heart to fear. And Grace, my fears relieved... Mostly men. A couple women much older than Rosa. A few children. ...How precious did that Grace appear. The hour I first believed...  Of course she wouldn’t be in the back row. Even if she were late, she would have had a reserved seat. This was Rosa we were talking about. Back rows were reserved for people like me. ...Through many dangers, toils and snares. We have already come... I crept along the side wall and scanned the packed crowd. So many faces, staring down at their hymnals or up towards the front, singing along with the woman leading the music. ...T’was Grace that brought us safe thus far. And Grace will lead us home… A few faces instinctively turned at the sight of movement, to cast a bewildered stare at the disheveled stranger in their midst, but it didn’t interrupt their sacred song. …And Grace will lead us home… My eyes passed over every face in the crowd until I saw the other outsider. The tall man standing against the opposite wall. The funeral director himself. He gave me a glare that, while not nearly as impressive as the Vasquez family’s, still stood on its own merit. I knew he knew I didn’t belong here. ...The Lord hath promised good to me... I continued to search the faces of the collective dearly beloved, by the time I reached the front of the room, I hadn’t found her. ...His word my hope secures... Was she even here? Did I miss her? Did she go to the bathroom? ...He will my shield and portion be… The funeral director was circling the crowd as fast as a lit fuse. …As long as life endures... I was out of time. The only way I was going to find Rosa now was if I did something desperate. I wondered to myself, What would Jerry do in this situation? Well, he’d probably snatch the microphone away from the poor woman leading the song and make up some kind of ridiculous eulogy with a hidden message. But I don’t know if I have the mental temperament to pull off something like that. As I imagined how such a clusterfuck would unfold, I turned my attention to the woman with the microphone. How hard would it be for me to- Oh, there she is!

Rosa stood at the edge of the stage, staring right at me and singing the song from memory. ...When we’ve been there ten thousand years… Behind her, a casket sat atop a stand. Behind that, a slideshow of pictures projected onto the back wall. Of course Rosa would be part of the funeral service. Of course she would be asked to sing. And of course, she would oblige. ...Bright shining as the sun… Her mouth continued to sing. Beautifully, I might add. Never missing a beat. ...We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise... Meanwhile, her eyes were conveying a whole other message. “What the fuck are you doing in here?! I told you to stay in the car!” ...than when we first begun...

I tried to mouth the words, “Caspar Van Dien!”

She gave a small, subtle shake of her head. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me!”

I pointed at her, then at me, then back towards the doors, then made a driving gesture, then I felt the hand clamp down onto my shoulder. With an iron grip, the funeral director pulled me towards him. He leaned in so close I could feel his mustache hair tickle my ear as he growled, “This is a private affair. You need to come with me.”

I shook out of his grip and started to explain, “It’s okay, I just needed to tell my friend-”

He reached his hand around me and grabbed the scruff of my neck. With his other hand, he opened his suit jacket enough to show me the gun holstered at his side. “Now.”

I cast one final look back up at Rosa, and for the first time I heard an imperfection in her singing voice. She quivered at the next line. ...I once was lost, but now am found… Then, she corrected herself, and continued to sing beautifully as the director marched me back out of the chapel. ...Was blind, but now I-

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, I was downstairs, at gunpoint, watching powerlessly as the funeral director handcuffed me to the railing of an autopsy table. He said a lot of words and made a lot of threats, but they all pretty much blurred together: He’d been waiting for me to show my face around here. I was lucky he was in such a generous mood. He'd called the cops instead of taking matters into his own hands. I was going to pay for what I did.

“Hang on,” I said. “What exactly did I do?”

“Don’t play dumb! Triss told me all about you—her crazy stalker.”

“I’m not a stalker! It’s a small town! We’re bound to run into one another. It’s called coincidence.”

“Is it coincidence that she hasn’t shown up to work or answered her phone even though I’ve been calling all day? Just tell me what you did with her you… you… freak!”

“What?”

He lunged forward and smacked me in the nose with the butt of his pistol. Blinding white pain shot through my skull. I didn’t even realize I’d fallen until I felt the metal cuff at my wrist yanking me upward so hard I thought I’d pulled the arm free from the socket. Getting hit in the face hurts. Getting hit right in the same place you just broke your nose less than a day before is a multiplier bonus I wouldn’t recommend to my worst enemies.

Blood poured down my face. “You butthole! I just got that damned wound to clot!”

“Holler all you want. Down here, nobody can hear you scream. One way or another, I’m gonna find out what you did to Triss.”

I weighed my options and decided that the best thing I could say at this moment was absolutely nothing. So, I sat and waited. It didn’t take long for the funeral director to remember that he was still working and needed elsewhere. He holstered his weapon, washed his hands, made a few more threats, then walked up the stairs, leaving me to wonder how the hell I was going to get myself out of this situation before the Radio’s prophecy came true.

I stood up and took a better look at the handcuff job. I was stuck, that much was certain, attached to the metal guard rail on the table with bracelets and chains of pure steel. I tried not to dwell too hard on the question of why a funeral director would have a pair of handcuffs on his person during a funeral. I mean, a gun I understood. This was the south after all. But cuffs? Maybe he had a side gig as a magician or something[27].

At least I had one thing going for me. When we were still in the chapel, when the director leaned in to show me his gun, he kept his attention focused on my eyes, making sure I saw. He wasn’t paying any attention to my hand, or my fingers in his pocket. It was the easiest cell phone swipe I’d ever pulled. I took it out and hoped as hard as I could that there wasn’t a passcode.

The screen turned on. The background picture was a couple of large-breasted anime girls hugging an anthropomorphic carrot. (Dude! Get a passcode for this thing!) Luckily, I’d called Rosa so many times for so many gas station emergencies that I had her number burned into my memory. I dialed, fully expecting to reach her voicemail. But she answered on the first ring. In a hushed tone and with voices murmuring in the background, she said, “Hello?”

“You actually picked up during a funeral? Wow, you must really care about me.”

“Jack!? I want you to know I am going to kill you.”

“You’d better hurry, then. You might miss your chance.”

“Whose phone are you using? And where the heck did you go?”

“I’m downstairs.”

“Well come upstairs so we can talk.”

“I’m afraid the situation is a little more complicated than that.”

“Never mind. I’m on my way. Stay put. For real this time—don’t go anywhere!”

“I literally couldn’t if I tried.”

Nearly half an hour later, the door at the top of the steps opened. Rosa walked in carrying the plump dogling under one arm. She shut the door behind her and rushed down the stairs as Gaston smiled and made the dog language equivalent of “Wheee!”

“Oh good,” I said. “You found each other.”

She walked up to me slowly, her eyes ever distrustful, and said, “While I’m glad you didn’t leave him in the car, what possessed you to give him to Uncle Aldo?”

“Is that the guy in the wheelchair? He didn’t seem to mind. At least, he didn’t say it was a problem.”

“He couldn’t. Uncle Aldo hasn’t spoken a word in years. He’s practically catatonic. Aunt Liezel must have left him in the lobby while she went to the bathroom.” Gaston arped. Rosa bounced him gently and said in a baby voice, “That’s right, Gaston. Good observation!” She looked at me and translated, “Gaston is wondering how you ended up in this situation covered in blood yet again.”

“Tell Gaston it’s a long story.”

She held the puppy in both hands and extended him towards me, stopping inches from my face. “Tell him yourself,” she said. Gaston licked the tip of my bloody nose bandage.

“It’s a long story, Gaston. And we are very quickly running out of time. But if you must know, a pair of monster psycho killers are on their way here to kidnap Rosa, and we only have until the end of the funeral to escape, regroup, and figure out a way to stop the world from coming to a violent and gruesome end in two days.”

Rosa moved the dog up and down and spoke in a voice that sounded a lot like Elmo. “But why would the monster killers be targeting Rosa? She’s so boring!”

“It must have something to do with the fact that she’s possessed by an ancient dark god who has the power to raise the dead.” Rosa lowered Gaston. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “I mean, uh, that is to say, I, uh-” I tried to walk it back, but at this point it was like trying to put out a forest fire by spitting on it. Too little. Too late.

Her lips pulled back like she was about to scream or cry. Oh God, please don’t faint again. She placed Gaston on the floor, cracked her knuckles, and wound up to punch me. I was beginning to sense a new pattern—one I didn’t like at all. “Wait!” Thankfully, she did. I tried to pass off a fake laugh. “You don’t actually believe me, do you?”

She held her fist in ready-to-strike mode. “That depends. Are you telling me the truth this time? Think carefully before you answer. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I stared at her fist as invaluable seconds ticked away. What was this game? What was I supposed to say? What was the right answer? Well, I started this whole side quest because I wanted to tell Rosa the truth. Why back out now?

“Yes. It’s all true. There are monsters on their way here. The world is about to end. Magic and demons are real. And you’re secretly a vessel for a powerful entity who probably can’t help us.”

The edges of her mouth curled into a smile. “AHA!” she cried. “I finally got you to admit it!” Maybe it was all the blood loss, but my brain was playing catch up and losing. She continued, “Granted, you had to tell the truth to a dog before you could tell me, which is pretty lame, but at least we finally got here! And that’s what matters.”

Gaston was sniffing the drops of blood I’d accidentally spilled on the floor. I bent down and scooped him up before he could do something disgusting. “Sorry,” I said. “What is happening right now?”

“Honesty, Jack. Honesty is happening. And it feels good. Now it’s my turn.”

My heart skipped several beats. My first thought was, Oh fuck! Rosa’s a mimic and I’m a sitting duck! My second, slightly more shameful thought was, I wonder how effective it would be if I threw this dog at her face. Rosa elaborated before I had the chance.

“I’ve known about the dark god this whole time!”

“What?!”

“Well, I’ve known since the start of the BLaRc anyway. He communicates in dreams, remember? It was really scary at first, but he explained everything to me. We’ve actually got a good system going on here. He gets a corporeal host for his disassociated essence, and I have a way to make sure you and Jerry stay protected. Yeah, I know all about the tears in the fabric of reality and all the strange things that happen at the gas station because of it. I know about every time you’ve summoned the dark god, even though I pretended not to. We’ve just been waiting for you to stop being a coward and start being honest with me.”

Gaston arped again. I think he was trying to remind us to get a move on.

“This is a lot to unpack,” I said. “But the thing about the monsters coming for you was true.”

With a genuine grin, she said, “One deus ex machina coming right up.” She cleared her throat, extended her hands to her sides, and said, “Manus Capere.”

Rosa’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her hair began to float as she lifted several inches off the ground. A low voice came forth from her throat, asking, “Why have you summoned me?”

“Hey bud. It’s me, Jack.”

“What is it, Jack? I- I’m so- so- sleepy right now. How long have I been under?”

“I don’t know. A day or so, I guess.”

“Five more minutes.”

“What?”

“Snooze.”

“What are you talking about? I need you to break this chain real quick.”

Rosa fell to the floor on her knees. After a few seconds, she looked up at me.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She blinked a few times, shook her head, and said, “I think so. What the heck just happened?”

“Looks like the dark god is all out of juice. We’re on our own. You have to help break me out of here the old-fashioned way.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t know where to find a spare handcuff key in a morgue.”

“I do.”

I looked across the room. Rosa followed my eyes to the door of the Goth cave.

27
Yeah, or “something.”  ( ͡¬ ͜ʖ ͡¬) [«]

Chapter Twenty

I let out a sigh of relief as the metal shackles released.

“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

Rosa snapped, “Eighteen.”

“Seriously? We’re already up to eighteen now?”

“How did you know I’d find a key next to a pair of furry handcuffs in the closet?”

“Long story?”

“You’re gonna tell it.”

“Okay, fine. But first, let’s get to the car. We don’t have time to-”

We didn’t have time to anything. I didn’t even have time to finish the sentence. The door at the top of the stairs swung open. Without thinking, I grabbed Rosa by the arm and pulled her with me to the only adequate hiding place—the Goth cave. We fell inside and hit the floor awkwardly, me on my back, her on top, with the puppy squished between us. Thankfully, Rosa seemed to understand what was happening. Instead of putting up a fuss, she grabbed the door and pulled it shut, all but a thin crack. Barely enough for us to spy through. The entire process took less than three seconds and was over before we heard the first footstep.

Thump. The stairs creaked under the weight of an enormous boot. Thump. Thump. Thump. Through the tiny crack in the door, I could start to make out a figure. Only a shadow at first. The magnificent size of the creature temporarily blocked out all light as it passed the ceiling bulb by inches. Thump. Thump. Thump. The towering beast finally came into view. It was, in no uncertain terms, a monster. The body was covered in a jumpsuit, the head covered in a tightly fitted rubber mask—the perverse image of a clown’s smiling face. Did it see us run away? What was it doing here? Thump. Thump. Thump. The other twin was descending right behind, testing the limits of what these stairs could support. This one was wearing a nearly identical getup, only his clown face was frowning. Sad clown carried something in his left hand that resembled a shop vac. A coil of clear tubing wrapped atop the bucket fixture. Gaston whimpered.

Rosa and I both reacted instantaneously. Our hands clasped over Gaston’s muzzle together so fast our fingers intertwined. There wasn’t enough light for me to see her face, but I could hear her breathing speed up. Gaston, thankfully, stopped whimpering and instead took to nibbling at our fingertips.

I turned my attention back to the clowns. Fortunately, they were too preoccupied to notice the sounds coming from the closet only a few feet away. They approached the wall of body drawers. Happy clown grabbed the door to the one on the bottom left and opened it. I watched in growing horror as they pulled the body of the young woman from its unit. I could feel Rosa’s heart as it began to beat faster, harder. She held her breath. She knew something was wrong, even if she didn’t know who the body on the table belonged to. She knew because the woman lying there was fully clothed in a long, elegant, black dress. Rosa didn’t know her, but I did.

Tristessa.

Without any feeling or ceremony, like this was a job they’d done a million times, Happy pulled Triss’s head forward, lifting it off the table while Sad unwrapped the coil attached to the strange machine. At the tip was a large needle. We were powerless to do anything but watch as Sad stabbed the needle into the base of the young woman’s skull. Sad flicked a switch on the machine, bringing it to life. It made a grinding noise like a vacuum rolling over corn chips. Soon, we witnessed the purpose of the machine as a stream of thick black goo began suctioning out of the body, running through the clear hose and accumulating inside the bucket. They collect black blood from bodies of dead… Suddenly, I felt nauseous. And not just because of what I was seeing. My bloody nose was still running like a leaky faucet. Liquid poured up my nostrils and down my nasal canal and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. There was no stopping the loud and wet cough that followed.

Rosa instantly slapped her free hand over my face, covering my mouth and nose right as the noise of the machine cut out completely. Sad’s finger was on the switch, but there was still black goo in the tube. He’d turned the device off early. Why? Was it possible that they’d heard me? My throat and lungs were sending emergency signals to my brain, urgently reminding me to finish coughing and take a breath before I passed out, but the clowns were standing right there, staring at one another. They tilted their heads at odd angles, like birds of prey searching for a mouse. We stayed perfectly still, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if this was even a good idea. How hidden were we, really? Over here, in the dark. If they looked in our direction, would they be able to see us through the tiny crack in the door? I started to see sparkles at the edges of my vision. My body spasmed as the pain in my chest fought against everything else, demanding I cough and breathe and take my chances with the monsters because the alternative was suffocation.

“What in God’s glorious name is going on in here?!”

The clowns turned towards the stairs, to the man racing down them. The funeral director pulled out his weapon and started screaming orders and threats. “This is a private area! How did you get down here? Stay where you are!” The moment he noticed who was on the slab, he went ballistic. “Don’t you dare fucking move! Oh, God, Triss! What have they done to you?! You monsters!”

The twins were not impressed by his threats or his weapon. Sad flicked the machine back on. Happy released Triss’s head and started lumbering towards the man. I couldn’t hear them over the sound of the machine, but that might be because Rosa finally took her hand off my mouth and I was coughing up blood and gasping down air. As soon as I had some wits about me, I tried to sit up. I guess it wasn’t enough wits, because I forgot about the dog and human on top of me, and my head bonked into Rosa’s. She rolled off of me. I got up, reached for the door, then froze.

What am I doing? Even if I do go out there, I won’t be able to save him. The best I could do is yell for the man to run, but that would be a death sentence for me and, more importantly, Rosa, and somewhat also importantly, Gaston. Actually, that’s a good question. Would they hurt the dog? They certainly wouldn’t need to, unless they were being petty. These were monsters after all, and-

BANG! I waited too long to make a decision and the funeral director took a shot. I knew for a fact that there was nothing I could do for him anymore but hope for a quick death.

Suddenly, the crack in the door got wider. Much wider. The door was opening all on its own! What the fuck? By a miracle of luck, the twins both had their backs to us, completely distracted by the funeral director. They moved fast. Happy took another bullet to the chest before removing the gun from the man’s hand. Sad grabbed the director by the neck and lifted him into the air. I reached out for the handle to pull it closed again before we were made. That’s when I saw what was really happening. Gaston the hero dog, having pushed the door open with his snout, was waddling away from the closet towards the violent situation unfolding across the room.

This time, I didn’t overthink it. I rushed out after him. It took two big steps to catch up with the animal. I quickly crouched down, scooped the dog up, and covered his tiny mouth. When I looked up to make sure the monsters hadn’t noticed, I accidentally made eye contact with the funeral director. His eyes were furious. Accusing. He raised a hand and pointed at me right as—CRACK! His head flopped to one side and the life left his eyes. I reversed course, backed up slowly. Sad dropped the body onto the floor. I continued backwards, fast but quiet, right past Rosa. As soon as I was inside the Goth cave, she closed the door behind us, all but a crack. I shoved Gaston inside my hoodie and zipped it up. That was way too close.

Rosa and I leaned close to the door, spying through the crack together. They hadn’t seen us. Happy threw the dead man over his shoulder. Sad turned off the machine and yanked the needle out of Triss’s skull. With that done, Sad lifted her body and carried her in his arms, following the other clown. At first, it looked like they were coming straight for us, but at the last moment, they diverted course. I couldn’t see where they’d gone, but I heard another door open, then close. It took me a second to understand: they’d taken the bodies to the crematorium. They were getting rid of the evidence.

The Lickskillet massacre has been covered up… No one will ever find bodies…

How long have they been using this place to dispose of their victims? No time to dwell on it. This was our only chance. I pushed open the door and rushed towards the stairs with Rosa right behind me. I took the steps two at a time, reached the door, then realized that Rosa was no longer right behind me.

“Rosa!” I whisper-yelled. “We gotta go!”

She was standing next to the shop vac device, holding the tube just below the needle. “What is this thing?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“What were they doing to her?”

“Rosa! Come on!”

She set the tube down, wiped her hand on her dress, then ran up the stairs behind me. Out in the lobby, I looked around for something to barricade the door. I quickly knocked the portrait of Rosa’s grandmother off the easel. The frame cracked upon impact. I pulled the easel over and wedged it under the knob to the death locker-room below. Knowing the twins, that might have bought us half a second.

I heard a loud gasp, then turned back to see a woman who looked a lot like Rosa staring at me from the other side of the room. A moment later, a couple of young dark-haired men stepped through the open doorway to the chapel.

“What’s wrong?” One of the men asked. The woman pointed at the broken portrait of the deceased.

“What did you do that for?” she asked, casting that way-too-familiar stare right into my soul.

“Oh,” I said. “That picture frame was already broken when we got here.”

I thought I’d done pretty well smoothing the situation over. I was ready to make a break for it while they pieced the story together in our absence, but then Rosa stepped between us and made the situation way worse by doing the last thing I wanted her to do. She introduced us.

“Mom, hey, this is Jack. Jack, this is my mother, Anna.” The two men on either side of her began to snicker. “And these are my brothers, Isaac and Gabriel.”

Rosa’s mother tilted her head back and looked down her nose at me. “This is your ex-boyfriend?”

Really? That’s how they know me? Not, “This is your good friend?” Or even “This is your boss?” I couldn’t help but notice the nastiness in the question. Almost like she couldn’t believe Rosa would have stooped so low. I mean, I get it, but she didn’t have to be so obvious about it. (Also, for the record, her voice didn’t sound anything like mine.)

I could see where Rosa got her inquisitive nature. Her mother squeezed in a bunch of other questions while I was still processing the first. “Where did you run off to in such a hurry? And why on earth is he dressed like that? What was that noise we heard? Where did Mr. Shusterman go?”

I looked back at the door behind me. I wasn’t sure exactly how much of a hurry we were in. I’d never had cause to research what went into cremating bodies. Was it a fast and straightforward process, like tossing a couple logs onto a fire? Or was it a slow and meticulous one, like stirring a roux? Either way, I wasn’t going to take a chance and linger.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said quickly. “I gave my suit to an orphan who was bleeding to death. Rosa came to find me. Mr. Shusterman quit. Also, we need to get everyone out of this building right away.”

“Why?” (I knew she was going to say that.)

“There’s a fire. Downstairs.”

“I don’t believe you.” (I also knew she was going to say that.)

“That noise you heard was the gas line leading to the retorts beneath us. One of them became overloaded and blew. This whole building is going to erupt in a few minutes.”

Rosa’s mom turned to her daughter. “Rosa, you never lie. Is this man telling the truth?”

Rosa looked at me, then back at her family and said, “Yes.”

“OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR LET’S GET OUT OF HERE ROSA NEVER LIES GET EVERYONE OUT OF HERE LET’S GO!” The brothers raced back into the chapel and screamed at the few remaining visitors. Together, we followed the small crowd outside. And then, I abruptly stopped.

I saw Franklin and Williams before they saw me. Franklin was sitting on the bumper of Rosa’s car. Their cruiser was parked nearby with its lights flashing. I quickly spun on my heels and raced back inside. Rosa stayed glued to me like an old-school RPG companion.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Full honesty mode.”

“The cops are looking for me.”

“For what?”

“Oh man, it could be any number of things. They think I killed Spencer Middleton.”

“Did you? Remember: full honesty mode!”

“No. Well, actually, yes. But not this time.”

“What?”

“Look, full honesty mode is going to take too long. Here’s the abridged version: I’m innocent, but an evil godfather puppet sicced the police on me. Those guys are probably waiting to talk to you to find out if you know where I am. If you can throw them off my trail, I can probably escape out the back-”

“Hell no!”

I could count the number of times Rosa used a swear word on one hand, and not even the hand with all the fingers. I knew she was being seriously serious right now.

“Excuse me?”

“If you need to escape the police, you know what you need.” She held out her hands and did a small curtsy.

“A hostage! Of course!”

She frogged me in my shoulder bruise. “A partner. Now follow me. I know where there’s a car we can steal.”

I’m not sure if I would have categorized it as a “car,” but she was undeniably correct about the “we can steal” part. After all, who would ever think to lock up a hearse? It was parked behind the building in the same loading area as the moving van. I jumped into the driver seat. The engine was running, and the AC was blowing at full blast—two sure signs that the intended driver wasn’t very far away. I studied the layout as Rosa circled around to the opposite side. By the time she sat down, but before she had a chance to buckle her seatbelt, we heard the shrill “HEY!” of a man who saw his job being stolen by a couple of amateurs.

I managed to find and press the lock-all-doors button in time before the driver—a heavyset man in a suit and tie—could yank it open and pull me out. He rapped his knuckles on the window and started making some loud and perfectly reasonable arguments for why we needed to get out of the vehicle right this very instant. I tried yelling back that it was okay, we knew what we were doing, and he could take the rest of the day off. No need to thank us. Against all odds, it looked like the bluff actually worked. He turned and stormed away towards the back door of the funeral home.

“That was easy,” I said, looking to Rosa. “This next part might not be, though.”

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Do you know how to drive a stick shift?”

We changed positions in what must have been the most awkward maneuver possible. I crawled backwards over the seat and fell into the back next to Rosa’s grandmother’s coffin, awakening Gaston, who woofed and crawled around inside the inner pocket slack of my jacket. Meanwhile, Rosa climbed over the center console and took her spot behind the wheel.

I sat up on my knees and looked over the coffin, out the back window, to make sure the coast was clear. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t. The hearse driver had just exited the back door. He’d removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He carried a tire iron in his hands and a look of pissed-off determination on his face. There wasn’t much space between him and us, and what little remained was shrinking quickly.

“He’s coming back!” I exclaimed.

Rosa turned in her seat. “What do we do?”

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. That moving van was parked right next to us, out in the open. It would have been very difficult for this hearse driver not to notice the clowns when they snuck inside. They must have walked right past him. There’s no way they were that sneaky, unless…

A mimic waits outside funeral home...

“He’s a mimic!” Of course! The Russian Radio tried to warn me, but there was so much else packed into that little prophecy that this detail almost escaped my notice.

“What?” Rosa asked.

I tried to explain fast. “The driver! He’s secretly a monster! He must have been the one to unlock the back door and let the twins inside! And now he’s-”

“Say no more!” she said, kicking the vehicle into gear, gunning it in reverse.

The man’s face went white. His eyes met mine. He put out both hands and managed to form the words “Oh shit!” before Rosa slammed the vehicle into him with enough force to launch him several feet backwards. In the brief moment that he was flying through the air, I noticed both of his legs bending at an angle where there shouldn’t have been a bend to bend at. He landed with an audible thud. That’s when a new, smarter, worse thought occurred to me… Wait, Rosa and I both snuck past the driver without him noticing. Maybe the driver just went to the bathroom or something when the twins snuck past. He could have left the back door unlocked for simplicity’s sake. I mean, there was a funeral going on… Actually, the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that this is what probably happened. That guy was probably not a mimic after all. Gaston clawed his way up through the neck of my hoodie, climbing out to see what the heck was going on.

“Should I back over him a couple times?” Rosa asked, ready to commit murder upon my say-so.

“No, no, not necessary,” I said, pulling Gaston free. “That’ll just make him angry. And we don’t have time.”

“It’ll only take a sec-”

“We don’t have time! Now let’s get out of here before he regenerates or whatever.”

“Okay!” she said, facing the front again. “This is exciting!”

“Yep.”

The puppy yipped and licked my chin. He may not have known what was happening, but he sure seemed thrilled to be included. We made our escape, leaving the hearse driver on his back, moaning in pain with a pair of severely broken legs.

There were three paths to choose from. Path one led down the service road around the cemetery, the same one the twins had taken to get here. They probably chose it for the privacy. No reason to take this road if you weren’t actively transporting a body. Path two led into the cemetery itself. It was effectively a dead end, unless we wanted to get creative and rearrange a few tombstones with the car. Path three took us around to the front of the funeral home, where the police and (more importantly) Rosa’s entire extended family were waiting. The choice could not have possibly been easier. Rosa went down path one for about thirty yards before we saw the sheriff’s deputy cruiser speeding towards us, kicking up dust on the service road as it sped down the middle of the path, taking up too much room for us to pass if we wanted to. Rosa stopped the hearse.

“What do I do?” she asked.

I ran through a bunch of ideas. Charge the car? No. Find a weapon? No. Get out and run? Maybe. Put a pin in that idea and come back to it if nothing else is better. I was just about to start taking suggestions when I realized we might not be as screwed as I thought. The cruiser was now close enough for me to see who was driving—the one and only Deputy Love. This could be bad, but probably half as bad as it would have been if it were anyone else. I let out a half-sigh of half-relief, then curled up on the ground behind Rosa’s seat and tried to keep out of sight.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re going to have to talk your way out of this.”

“I can’t do that! I’m a terrible liar.”

“Good thing it’s Love you’re lying to. He’s a terrible cop.”

I pulled my knees to my chest and tried to make myself as small as possible. I couldn’t see anything anymore save for the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the ceiling of the vehicle. All I could do was listen. I heard a car door open, then close.

“He’s going to know something’s up.”

“Maybe. But odds are he won’t care. You can do this!”

I could hear the heavy footsteps crunching through the dirt as Rosa rolled down the window. Come on, Rosa. You got this.

“Hello there, officer. What seems to be the problem?”

“Hey there, young lady. You’re coming from the funeral home, right?”

I could smell the alcohol from where I was hiding (and it wasn’t fresh).

“That’s right. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, probably. Someone called in a report about a fire.”

“Fire? Really?”

“Yeah, it’s probably nothing. Nothing exciting ever happens around here.” His voice cracked as he added, “…not anymore...”

Suddenly, the sound of the driver’s lingering moans filled the air. It doesn’t get much more suspicious than that.

“What the heck?” Love asked, looking down the road towards the funeral home. “Is that guy alright?”

Rosa answered fast. “Yeah, that’s just Bubba. Friend of the family of the deceased. He got really drunk at the funeral so the family took him out back to let him sleep it off.”

“Great,” Love responded. “I guess that means I’m gonna have to go do some work. Fucking Bubba.”

“Fudging Bubba,” Rosa echoed (kinda).

The man’s moans got quieter and then, worryingly, stopped altogether.

“Hey,” Love said abruptly. “Don’t I know you?”

“Me? No, I don’t think so. I’m not from around here.”

“What, do you commute or something?”

“No, I’m just filling in for the other driver. He’s taking a break.”

“Ah, first day, huh?”

“Yeah. First day.”

“Oh, I know who you remind me of! You look just like that girl who works at the shitty gas station at the edge of town. You know the one I’m talking about? I swear you two could be sisters.”

This was going about as well as I could have expected, but right then, Gaston came into view, circling the coffin and sniffing the carpeted floor with great interest. He looked up at me, smiled wide, and peed on the corner of Rosa’s grandmother’s coffin. I didn’t dare move or say anything, but I made a face as hard as I could. It must have been more effective than I realized, because Gaston stopped smiling and let out a long, shrill whine.

“What was that?” Love asked.

“Oh, that was just the body in the back. I was taking this old woman to her final resting place.”

“The body made that noise? Is that normal?”

“Oh, yeah. Bodies make all kinds of noises for, like, days after they die. I once transported a guy who kept singing, up until the point they buried him. He was an opera instructor. Really big fella. His body kept releasing gasses and they escaped over the vocal cords. It’s all very technical, but perfectly natural.”

There was a long gap in the conversation where Love said nothing. I was convinced Rosa had overdone it, but then he said, “You’re going the wrong way then.”

“What?”

“Yeah, this path leads to the strip mall. Cemetery is back the way you came.”

“Oh. There’s a shortcut up this way.”

“No there ain’t. Trust me. I should know. I come up here to take a nap almost every day.” He leaned back, like he was looking at something else as he said, “The stars out here at night are beautiful. Like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You can look all the way out to the edge of reality. It’s almost like you’re one with the universe. It’s… breathtaking, really.”

“Okay then.”

“Good thing I showed up when I did! Otherwise, you would have gotten lost on your first day.”

“Yep, good thing.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and turn around right here? I’ll follow you back to the funeral home in case Bubba turns into a problem.”

“Thanks. You’re so helpful. So… very helpful.”

We needed to thread this needle of opportunity carefully but quickly. We wouldn’t have long before Love figured out that the unconscious man on the ground was not simply drunk. I mean, we probably had longer than one might assume if a reasonably competent person were in charge, but still not that long. By the time he put two and two together, we needed to be as far away as possible.

Path number two—through the cemetery—would make a quick getaway impossible. So we took path number three—around the front of the funeral home. Franklin and Williams were on the lookout for me and probably wouldn’t recognize Rosa driving past them, but her family was, in theory, a very different story. Before we turned the corner, we paused long enough to cobble together a disguise. She covered herself in my hoodie and put on a pair of sunglasses we’d found in the glove box. Everything was too big on her. She was, in a word, suspicious. Hopefully, nobody would be looking too closely.

I grabbed the dog and returned to my hiding space next to the coffin, then Rosa began driving slowly, coasting through the parking lot.

“Okay, okay, everything’s going fine,” she announced in a calm voice. A moment later, she offered an update. “The cops aren’t even paying attention. We’re just gonna cruise right past.” Another moment. Then another update. “My cousin just pointed at the hearse.” The next update was in a slightly less calm voice. “Wait… What are they doing? Why are they doing that? Oh. Oh no.” Way less calm. “Oh nooo, you idiots. Don’t!”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re running to their cars. And now, no, no, no, fudge!” Way less calm. “I’m turning onto the main road… And... they’re pulling out behind me!” Downright panicked. “And they have their flashers on! They’re forming a funeral procession! When did my family suddenly become so organized?!”

“It’s gonna be okay,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

“We weren’t supposed to do a procession! We were just supposed to meet the hearse in the cemetery. They were very clear! What do I do now? Should I gun it? I can gun it. I can outrun these people. Uncle Ned’s in the front car and I’ve seen him drive. I can probably lose him if I, oh double fudge! Gabriel just passed him up. My mom and brothers are right behind us now. Gabriel’s driving and he’s a professional amateur street racer! I’ll never be able to lose them! The speedometer on this stupid thing only goes up to seventy! What are we gonna do?”

“It’s okay,” I said, trying to be the center of calm for both of us. Obviously, I wasn’t calm. I was anything but calm. The family was going to figure out something was wrong sooner than later. The police wouldn’t be far behind, and the monsters wouldn’t be far behind them. And, not that it really mattered in the grand scheme, but no matter how this ended, it was probably going to be really, really embarrassing.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what we need to do. Go a few blocks, take a bunch of left turns. Don’t give them any reason to suspect anything is wrong. Buy us some time while we figure something out.”

“Yeah,” Rosa said. “That could work.” A very short moment later, she asked, “Any ideas?”

“Not yet.”

“What were they doing to that girl’s body?”

“What?”

“The girl downstairs. What was that machine supposed to be?”

I tried to figure out a way to explain it in simple terms, but the truth was that I didn’t fully understand myself. “Her name was Triss,” I said.

“Did you know her?”

“No, not really.” Right then, a memory fell into place—the reason why I recognized Tristessa’s name when we first met. How could I have ever forgotten? She was one of the names the Russian Radio revealed to be a mimic. “The twins were extracting something called black blood. That must be the stuff that gives mimics their regenerative powers.”

“She was a mimic? Then why didn’t the blood regenerate her?”

“I don’t know.”

We sat in silence for a moment longer. I rolled the question around in my head. Before I could even form an operating theory, Rosa asked another:

“What’s a mimic?”

“They’re monsters that perfectly imitate humans in every way. Someone was replacing people all over town with these things. Most of them don’t even realize they’re mimics.”

Another silence followed, not short enough for me to miss, not long enough for me to ponder the issue at hand. Then:

“You don’t think Nana was a mimic, do you?”

“Who?”

“My grandmother. You know—the woman whose funeral you’re crashing right now.”

“I don’t know. But someone gave me a list of the names of a whole bunch of mimics a while back. What was your grandmother’s name? Maybe I’ll recognize it.”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No?”

“It’s the same as mine. I was named after Nana Rosa.”

Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. The twins weren’t after Rosa the younger at all! They were waiting for the funeral to end so they could come in and steal Rosa’s grandmother! They were collecting black blood from deceased mimics. Like Travis. Like Dickory. Like Triss. And, it would seem, like Nana Rosa—the one right here inside the vehicle with us.

“Yeahhh…” I said, staring at the coffin like it contained a ticking time bomb. “She’s definitely a mimic.”

It would be hard to fathom a worse request than what came out of Rosa’s mouth next.

“I need you to check.”

I assumed I’d misheard, or at the very least, misunderstood.

“Come again?”

“I need you to make sure she’s really a mimic.”

“Why?”

“Well, I can’t do it! I’m driving! Remember?”

“I mean, what does it matter? I’m pretty sure she’s a mimic.”

“So you’re saying she might still be alive?!”

“No, of course not.”

“But you said these things had regenerative powers!”

“I don’t know how it works. Nobody gave me an instruction manual. But I do know whatever was left of your nana is gone now. It’s hard to hear this, but you can’t bring her back.” Something grabbed me from way down deep and for a moment, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. A cloud came out of nowhere and chilled me to my core. In that moment I tasted something dark and bitter. A magnificent despair. A reminder that something was waiting for me. Something I wouldn’t be able to outrun. An inescapable force like time itself, and as soon as I was done with this little adventure, it would return to destroy me. Nope! Just gonna push those feelings back down deep and ignore them. I still got shit to do.

Rosa let out an angry breath. “It’s not a matter of sentimentality, Jack. Nana was always really mean to me, and it was definitely her time to go. I’m not trying to bring her back. I just… I need to know for certain that she was what you say she was.”

“Why?”

“Because you just told me that ‘Rosa Vasquez’ was on a list of mimics’ names. So either Nana was secretly a monster, or…” Wow. She put that together really quickly.

“Okay. I see what you’re getting at, but trust me: you’re not a mimic.”

“How can you be sure?” I spent too long trying to come up with an answer and Rosa extrapolated the truth without me ever saying a word. “You’re not sure. Not really.”

“It’s not like there’s a test we can administer[28]. Short of her metamorphosing into a monster and trying to kill us, we can’t know for certain, and I, for one, hope she stays a corpse.” Hearing my insensitive words out loud, I quickly added, “No offense and sorry for your loss.”

“What about the black blood stuff?” Rosa’s inquisitive mind hardly seemed deterred. “Maybe those clown guys already sucked it out of her.”

“Okay? So what exactly-”

“You can check and see if there’s a giant hole on the back of her neck from the machine!”

I sat up and looked at Rosa. “Seriously?”

She aimed the rearview mirror down to lock eyes with me. “Please.”

I turned and looked at the coffin. “Will this make you feel better?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But it might.”

I took a long, deep breath. “Okay. Fine.” Then, I crawled over to the coffin and reached for the lid. What happened next was not my proudest moment.

With her attention focused on me, Rosa failed to notice that we were rapidly approaching a railroad crossing. At the exact moment I went to push the heavy lid of the coffin open, we hit the sudden slope of the road a little too fast. That’s when it became shockingly clear that the original hearse driver had failed to engage any kind of stops or locking mechanisms to hold the coffin in place. I lost my balance and fell forward, accidentally launching the unsecured coffin over the embedded rollers on the floor. It crashed into the back door with the power of a three-hundred-pound battering ram, which was enough to break the lock open. The door swung out, and time slowed to an agonizing crawl. The coffin started to slide out the back. The end close to me inched off the floor. I grabbed it from the top, but my fingers found no purchase, only slick wood that quickly escaped my sweaty palms. All I could do was watch as the whole box fell away from me. Suddenly, I had an unobstructed view of the train of vehicles behind us. I saw the face of Rosa’s brother as he drove his car way too closely. His mouth opened wide, forming the distinct shape of a huge OMG smile. His eyes screamed, “There’s no way something this hilarious is really happening!” Meanwhile, his mother looked on from the passenger seat with a decidedly more serious outlook on the unfolding events. Her lips formed the unmistakable words, “What the f-”

Gabriel tried to swerve, but it was too late. Car collided with box. The car behind collided with them. A rapid succession of sounds. BANG BANG HONK BANG SCREECH BANG CRASH!

Rosa instinctively hit the brakes, bringing us to an abrupt stop. The back door slammed shut. I flew backwards, carried by momentum, and landed on the center console with Gaston happily yipping with excitement on my chest.

“OHMYGOD!” Rosa screamed, turning in her seat to see the mayhem behind us. “Is anyone hurt?!”

Gabriel was already out of the car, draping his suit jacket over the crumpled corpse of their nana. Rosa’s mom climbed out next, her phone in her hand. She pointed at us and screamed something I was grateful not to be able to hear.

“Nah,” I said, readjusting my body into the passenger seat. “They’re fine.”

“What do we do now?” Rosa asked. Her voice was shaky.

“Now,” I said with a shrug. “Now, we consider ourselves lucky for the distraction and we get the fudge out of here!”

28
I had a theory about foreskins, but nobody wanted to test it out. Although, I can see why that might not apply here. [«]

Chapter Twenty-One

Where do you go when you can’t go anywhere? When the police are looking for you? When monsters want to kill you? When you’ve accidentally chucked your friend’s dead grandma at a caravan of her still-grieving relatives and that’s barely fucked up enough to register on your radar because the world is ending in a couple of days and you’re driving around in the most attention-drawing vehicle ever stolen and to top it all off, you can’t even remember the last time you ate anything?

“Don’t look now,” Rosa said. “I think we might be busted.”

I looked now anyway. The hearse stopped at a four-way intersection at the same time as a sheriff’s cruiser. I waited for the inevitable—flashing lights, siren, maybe a high-speed chase if Rosa panicked. But instead, nothing. The cruiser just sat there, waiting.

A moment passed before I realized there was another car at the intersection directly across from us—an old sports-car. The driver pulled into the intersection. Rosa did the same. We passed one another, right in front of the sheriff’s cruiser. I looked out my window and saw…

Holy shit, no way!

“Stop the hearse!” I yelled. Rosa hit the brakes. I climbed over the seats into the back, pushed open the door, and looked out right as the cruiser drove past. I locked eyes with the guy in the passenger seat… Me… He… I… looked back. I held up my bandaged hand and waved. They drove away, and we returned to the task at hand—figuring out how to disappear.

Turns out, disappearing was surprisingly easy. There were countless muddy paths off the main road leading to hunting camps in the woods around town, each clearly marked with a classic triple-P sign. While the exact wording stated “Posted: Private Property,” I read the message as “cops can’t follow you this way without a warrant.” We picked one at random and parked the hearse inside an overgrown nest of trees deep enough in the woods to avoid being seen by any passersby.

“What now?” Rosa asked, like she was narrating my thoughts.

My instinct was telling me to get as far away from the stolen hearse as possible, but that didn’t narrow things down much. We didn’t have an alternate vehicle, and even if we did, the authorities would be patrolling the roads and staking out any place we might think to hide. We really only had one option left.

“How would you feel about taking a walk in the woods?”

Rosa eyed the thinning dirt trail that snaked further into the wild forest. With its irregular terrain, encroaching flora, and hearty collection of nature’s favorite obstacles, the path was—by design—only accessible beyond this point by off-road vehicles and the most desperate of foot traffic.

“To where?”

“We need to stay off the grid for a little bit longer. This path goes north. If we keep going in that direction, eventually we’ll run into the abandoned railroad tracks to nowhere.”

“And then what?”

I shrugged. “Hopefully, by then I’ll have figured out the second half of this plan.”

Rosa let out an annoyed sigh, then took off her heels. “I knew something like this would happen today.” She pulled a pair of flat-bottom shoes out of her purse and put them on. “Good thing I came prepared.”

For the next hour, we walked and talked. We took turns carrying the blissfully stupid pup while I brought Rosa up to speed. For the sake of time, I painted the story with broad strokes, giving her the abridged version of events. The whole story, everything that had happened from the day I started working at the gas station to the moment I showed up at her doorstep that morning, would have taken at least thirty-two hours and some change to tell properly. Still, I managed to tell her all about the Bathroom Cowboy, the raccoon monsters, the mayfly queen, the Russian Radio, the mutant snowmen, the demons and mimics and portals and the anachronistic vape shop. I told her about all the times we almost died and all the times she’d lost her memories. I told her about the war between the Collector and the Puppeteer. And finally, I told her about Karen, well on her way to plunge the world into infinite suffering. To her credit, Rosa held all her questions until the very end.

“So… let me get this straight… Calvin Ambrose turned into a feral old man?”

“Interesting point to get hung up on.”

“No, it’s important. Seems to me, based on what you’ve said so far, that the gas station has some weird effects on people who are exposed to it for extended periods, and I happen to spend an awful lot of time there. Oh my God! Do we need to get checked for cancer?”

I stopped walking. “You know, I never considered that.”

She handed Gaston to me and continued her questions.

“Also, am I to understand that there’s an actual portal between worlds located somewhere at the gas station? Where is it? Is it in the basement? Do we have a basement?”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s not exactly like a door, although sometimes doors do appear out of nowhere. From what I’ve gathered, the membrane between realities is especially thin in this town, and it gets thinner the closer you get to the gas station. Sometimes, we feel the other worlds. We get their weather. Or their gravity. And sometimes, something else sneaks through.”

“O’Brien actually helped you bury a body?”

“Yeah. She used to be a lot more trusting before she became Sheriff. The BLaRc really screwed up our friendship. It screwed up a lot of things.”

“And Jerry was a decapitated head in a box for a while?”

“Actually, I’m still not sure what that was about. But he’s better now, so-”

“What’s the deal with the gnomes, anyway?”

“I think you’re getting caught up in the details. I gotta say, though, you’re taking all of this way better than I was expecting.”

“It probably helps that I’m still in shock from watching you fling Nana’s corpse into traffic.”

“Me, too. But I’m glad I did it.”

“What?”

“I’ve been so afraid that telling you the truth would somehow change the dynamic between the two of us that I kept putting it off, avoiding it, adding more and more to the lie pile until I had no idea how I was ever going to be able to come clean. If I’d known that this was all it took, I’d have tossed your grandmother into traffic a long time ago.”

“Thanks, that’s kinda sweet. But also really messed up so please don’t ever say anything like that ever again.”

“I hear you loud and clear.”

“I guess it’s my turn now. Huh?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know Rosa was waiting for a turn, or that she even had any other secrets. She started walking as she spoke, leading the way and letting me follow. “I’ve always known there was something different about me. The same way I’ve always known there was something wrong with this town. With the gas station. Now it’s all starting to make sense. It’s all connected.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gas station is a traffic hub between worlds and realities, right? Drifters and locals and part-timers disappear at an alarming rate. You had an order of protection around you by a supernatural kingpin, keeping you safe. But I didn’t, and I’ve never had any problems. You said so yourself: the weird stuff tends to stay away when I’m around. You don’t think that’s just a coincidence, do you?”

“What are you saying?”

A sudden sound enveloped us, like a gentle hiss that rapidly grew into a steady roar. The bottom of the sky fell out, drenching us in an instant. Before we knew it, a muddy current of sticky brown sludge had replaced the dirt road.

“Oh come on!” Rosa shouted. “Are you kidding me?! There weren’t even any clouds!”

Gaston howled up at the sky, got distracted when some water went up his nose, then sneezed in my face. I was about to suggest we turn around and head back to the hearse when Rosa pointed at something up ahead and excitedly yelled, “Deer stand!”

It was right off the path, colored green and black to imitate the surroundings. I probably would have walked right past it without noticing if she hadn’t pointed it out, which I guess is the whole point of camouflage. By the time I reached the base of the ladder with Gaston, Rosa was already halfway up.

For those unfamiliar with the architecture of a deer stand, here’s a quick rundown: deer stands are basic wooden boxes suspended ten to twenty feet in the air, with four tiny windows offering a 360-degree sniping perch in the everlasting war between man and deer. A stand is typically big enough to accommodate a couple average people (or one extra-large person) at a time. Depending on the hunter’s preferred comfort level, they may be equipped with nothing but a single folding chair and a bucket, or they may contain all the accoutrements of a miniature bachelor pad, including a mini fridge, television, and Wi-Fi.

This deer stand fell somewhere between the two extremes. It had an empty ice chest, a pile of magazines in one corner, a lawn chair with a camo jacket draped over it, and an unopened bottle of cheap amaretto liqueur. Rosa dried her hair with the jacket, then put it over her shoulders, rolled up the sleeves enough to expose her wrists, and fell into the seat. I dropped Gaston onto the ground and took the cooler. The dog waited until we both looked somewhat comfortable, then did the wet dog shake dance, spraying us in the process.

“Alright!” Rosa said at long last. “We made it. Now what?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.”

It didn’t take long before we opened the bottle of amaretto (just to warm our bones and take a bit of the edge off). The stuff tasted like liquid candy mixed with undiluted stank. We were hoping it might help us relax, but instead it gave us something else terrible to focus on for a moment. In a way, that was a small success.

We spent a few minutes brainstorming, but the best we could come up with were a bunch of bad ideas of varying degrees of badness:

We could seek out Kieffer and ask for his help (3 out of 10; Kieffer seemed to know about as much as we did). We could turn ourselves in (1 out of 10, even if O’Brien felt generous, the department was full of sleeper-cell mimics). We could stay here and pray for a miracle (0 out of 10; the last time I met God he seemed kinda busy and super distracted). We could attempt to break Jerry out of jail (? out of 10, assuming Jerry hadn’t already broken himself out). We could load up on weapons and bring the war to Roger (-3 out of 10; Roger had an army, we didn’t know where he was, and even if we survived, it would do nothing to stop Karen’s upcoming misery harvest).

I had just about swallowed enough amaretto to consider drunk-dialing random contacts on the coroner’s phone when Rosa asked, “What is that?”

“What?” I looked around the tiny, dark room.

“That song you’re humming?”

I didn’t even realize I was humming. As far as subconscious involuntary physical impulses go, it was a step up from digging. I handed the bottle back to Rosa. She took another small sip and set it on the ground.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s this thing that’s been stuck in my head all day.”

“What is it?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Hum it for me again.”

“Hmm hmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmmm, hm hm hm hm hm hm hm hmm hmm hmmm.”

She laughed. “That was wonderfully terrible.”

“Well, we can’t all have beautiful singing voices. I had no idea you could sing, by the way. Any other hidden talents you have that we might be able to use to get out of this situation?”

“You mean other than the really obvious one? No.”

The really obvious one. Her ability to briefly channel the essence of a deific being. Too bad we’d run down the battery before we needed it most.

“By the way,” I said, “That was a great rendition of Amazing Grace. Probably the best I’ve ever heard.”

“God, I hate that song so much!” She was unexpectedly animated all of a sudden, clenching and shaking both fists. “It’s lazy rhyming, boring chords, and it was written by the captain of a slave ship. Not enough people talk about that.”

“Well, at least he’s dead now.”

“And yet his stupid song lives on.” I had a response loaded up—something about consequences and karma—but before I could say it, she added, “You’re never really all the way dead if people still remember you. Right?”

I lost my point and looked at the ground. Gaston was sleeping on top of the magazine pile. His legs twitched like he was chasing something in his dreams. Then Rosa asked a different kind of question. “What’s on your mind right now?”

“Huh?” I looked up to see her giving me an awkward expression. I’d only seen that expression on her face once before—when Jerry brought me to her place when I was still numb from the news about-nope. Not ready to go there again. I shook the thought out of my head. “What do you mean?” I asked. “We just spent the last hour talking about everything that was on my mind. Now I’m focused on figuring out a way out of this.”

“That’s the thing,” she said, scooting her seat just a little bit closer to mine. I could smell the sweet Italian liqueur on her breath. “We’ve been talking for a while. And yeah, you’ve told me almost everything.”

“What do you mean, ‘almost’?”

“I mean, you’ve basically shared your whole life story, but you didn’t say anything about… her.”

I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. Indeed, this random bottle of forest alcohol might not have been such a great idea.

“There’s nothing to say, really.”

“Well, tell me a little bit about her. What was she like? What were her favorite-”

“Can we not do this?!” The words jumped out of me unexpectedly. I didn’t mean for them to sound so abrasive. Or maybe I did. It’s hard to say.

“My father was a lot like you,” she said softly. “He had a lot of hurt inside of him, and he didn’t know what to do with it. So, he bottled it up until the pressure got so big it exploded. Whenever that happened, he’d turn into a monster until he got it back under control. But it didn’t go away. It didn’t get better. It just started over. He kept doing that, trying to live with this poison inside his heart until one day the monster destroyed him. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’ve seen what happens when you push that stuff down too far.”

I took a deep breath, then said calmly, “I’m so sorry about your dad. But I can assure you, I’m not a monster. I’m not going to explode. Yeah, we’ve all got our issues, but I’ve got mine sorted into nice, neat, little boxes. Everything is fine as long as we don’t go looking inside of the boxes.”

“Everything is fine?” she asked incredulously.

“Yep.”

“And these proverbial boxes of yours… they’re airtight?”

“Totally. Airtight, made of adamantium, protected by lasers and guard-pumas…” Suddenly, a few memories trickled down like an unexpected nosebleed. “...although...” I winced. Shouldn’t have said that last word.

She followed up immediately. “Although?”

I ran my thumb over the stitches in my hand. “It’s probably not related... but sometimes I have… let’s call them ‘visions...’ of dead people.”

“Anyone specific?”

“It runs the gamut. But lately, yeah, there’s been one person in particular.” I could almost hear him laughing as I stumbled through the explanation.

“Don’t you think it would help to actually talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Rosa had managed to peel off the outermost layer, and that was enough to leave me feeling exposed down to the quick. I could sense that any more digging might result in permanent damage.

“Okay. Then you leave me no choice.” She leaned down and pulled a somewhat damp sheet of paper out of her purse. With a sly grin, she handed it over to me. She had brought the favor scorecard with her to her grandmother’s funeral. She really was prepared. “I’m calling in my favors.”

“What? You can’t-”

“All eighteen of them.”

“That’s not how it works. You can’t just-”

“I’m calling them all in right now.”

“Seriously?”

“I want you to talk about the stuff that’s really bothering you.” She folded her arms across her chest and waited. Outside, the rain continued to fall. In the distance, thunder roared. I could only delay for so long, but we weren’t going anywhere. She had me right where she wanted me.

“Okay,” I said, handing the scorecard back. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about her.”

“Her name is Sabine. Was? Is. I don’t even know how to talk about... Do you really want to do this for your favors? Can’t I just give you a raise or buy you a car or something?”

“Keep going. You’re doing great.”

“Sabine was one of the smartest people I ever knew. She was my best friend, and-” I searched my mind for the words to describe her, to describe our life together before things went to hell. It was hard to even acknowledge that there was any life before now. It had been so long ago that the time felt almost alien to me. But there was a time when we were young and carefree. She and I had moments just like this one. I remembered patching holes in the roof of the tree house together, listening to the storm outside. Sometimes she would bring her ukulele with her, and I would read a book and listen to her play music. There was a song she used to sing...

♪ Memory worm! Memory worm! Oh, I am nooot a memory worm! ♪

A cold chill ran down my spine. “What the fuck!?”

“What?” Rosa shouted back.

ARP! Gaston arped, having just been awakened.

“The song! The song that’s been stuck in my head all day! It’s a song that Sabine used to sing all the time.”

“Okay?”

“But that’s not possible! I don’t remember her ever singing it before.”

Rosa shook her head. “You lost me.”

“I have a memory that feels like an old memory but it can’t be. Someone’s implanting memories in my head!”

“Oh.” Rosa let that sit for a second. Then, “No. Sorry. What?”

I tried explaining it. How I remembered Sabine at my high school when she couldn’t have been there. How Sabine tried to tell me I’d lost my cell phone when we were children. And how, ever since Brick told me about memory worms, I’d had a song stuck in my head—a song that I remembered Sabine singing plenty of times.

“What do you think it means?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“At the risk of stating the super obvious, do you think it might be your subconscious trying to tell you something?”

“Why would my subconscious make me jump through these weird hoops? Why can’t it just tell me what it wants to tell me?”

“Your brain is weird, remember?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Sing the song for me.”

“Rosa-”

She held up the favor scorecard. “Think about every time you asked me to stay late or come in early or lie to bill collectors and tell them I hadn’t seen you in the past year. Now think about all the times you ended your shift without cleaning up the bathroom so I had to be the one to do it. You owe me a lot more than eighteen favors!”

I couldn’t argue. She was right.

In a terribly off-key singing voice, I did my best rendition of the song from memory:

♪ Memory worm! Memory worm! Oh, I am nooot a memory worm!

I’m here to say, it’s not insane-

To wanna take a trip down memory lane.

And see the things that make you squirm.

Memory worm! Makes you squirm! It isn’t real. I can confirm.

If you wanna move forward, you have to look back.

Before you get killed by a Karen attack! ♪

“...and then after that, the lines just sorta repeat themselves.”

Rosa had her serious thinking face on.

“Those lyrics don’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But it’s a start! Someone or something is trying to get you to remember. We just have to figure out what it is you’re supposed to remember.”

“How is that going to help us?”

“We’re sitting in a deer stand in the middle of nowhere, Jack. We’ve run out of places to look for clues. If there’s any information we can use locked away inside your brain, I say we take advantage of the only resource at our disposal.”

“How do we do that?”

“Do you have any memories you’d rather forget?”

“You don’t want to know how many answers that question has.”

“Sabine is the unifying factor in all of this. Were there ever any moments between the two of you that-”

I interrupted with an assertive, “No.” A moment passed before I remembered I was holding my breath. Another moment before I realized my eyes were feeling heavy. I tried to think of something, anything, else. But it was too late to stop the tears from forming.

“Okay,” Rosa said softly. “Why don’t we start there?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The ugly truth was that there were plenty of memories between me and Sabine that I’d rather not remember. To say I wasn’t always the perfect boyfriend would be deceptively incomplete. I was never the perfect boyfriend. Nothing was ever really perfect. Time can be quite forgiving, but my mistakes will always be there, preserved like mosquitoes in amber. I didn’t want to pull the thread because I knew the whole sweater might fall apart, and the sweater was the only thing I had left of her.

The last fight we had was over something completely trivial. To be fair, from this distance, every fight looked trivial. Everything always felt so much more important in the moment. Every battle was cumulative. The stakes inflated. Any disagreement was permission to yell, to bring up prior slights, to turn our love into a different kind of passion. And, to be honest, we both eventually got used to it.

It was my birthday. A year after the grand opening of New Pages. We fought about work. Her parents called me that morning. One of the part-timers had fallen into a hole and they needed someone to cover until the fire department could get him out. Sabine wanted me to stand up to them, to tell them I’d requested that day off months in advance. But we were so poor. I’d wasted all of my money on inconclusive sleep studies. I needed the hours if we were ever going to get out of this place. Besides, we could always celebrate at the gas station.

She hated it. She hated how much time I spent at work. She hated that she had to sleep alone every night while I covered the graveyard shift. She hated that her own parents were taking advantage of the fact that I had nothing better to do with my life.

“I’m just trying to make a living!” I explained, maybe a little too loudly, grabbing my hoodie on the way to the front door. “I’m doing this for both of us! I’d expect you to be grateful!” Jesus. Did I really say that?

“I planned out our whole day already! This was supposed to be our special day together.”

“Our special day? Don’t tell me; let me guess. Banana cake and a trip to the bookstore, right? Oh, when will we ever have another opportunity to go all the way to the bookstore? It’s probably too late to cancel our tickets now, isn’t it? Wake up. We’re stuck here, doing the same thing forever, and it’s starting to feel like I’m the only one working on getting us out.”

I was mad. Mad at her parents. Mad at my job. Mad at the system for forcing me to choose between what I wanted—a day with Sabine—and what I thought I needed to stay alive—a few more hours on my paycheck. I was frustrated that work was coming between us again. And deep down, I was scared. Scared about what it meant that none of the doctors could tell me why I was having all of these issues. And pissed that I still had to pay them. More than anything, I was stupid, and I let myself take it out on the one person who deserved it the least.

Her long hair, now back to its natural red, seemed to amplify the anger in her flushed cheeks. “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it! Before you start acting like I’m holding you back, let me remind you that we can get out of town whenever you decide to! We can pack our bags and leave now! Or do you secretly enjoy being miserable because it gives you an excuse to complain?”

“I’d love to leave now! I’d love to start a new life somewhere else, but with what money? How exactly do you expect us to pay for it?”

“We have a car and gas. Who cares about money?!”

“That must be so easy for you to say. You’re not the one drowning in medical debt. You know, maybe if you told your parents to stop being so cheap and actually pay their workers decently, they’d have a lot less turnover-”

“Jack, be quiet!”

“-and then maybe I could actually afford to take some time off-”

“Shut up! They’re going to hear you!”

“-instead of having to work every single day just to be able to afford the minimum payments on half of our credit cards-”

“I’m serious! Stop talking!”

“-like I give a flying frig if your parents hear me! What are they going to do? Fire me? They wouldn’t dare!”

“No, you don’t understand, please! Don’t go!”

“We can celebrate later. Bring the banana cake to the gas station. Or don’t. I don’t care. I have to go.”

Was that really what we fought over? Why? Why didn’t I just stay home?!

Gaston jumped up and ran the length of the deer stand floor (two steps for a human, about twelve steps for puppy feet). With a low growl, he braced himself against the wall by the cooler with his front paws.

“What’s wrong?” Rosa asked.

I stepped over to the window above the pup to see what he was growling at. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it.

“There’s a horse down there.”

“What?” Rosa joined me at the window hole, peering down at the large, solid black animal standing in the middle of the trail. “Where did that come from? Do you think he’s wild?”

Judging from the saddle on its back, I could confidently say that it was not wild. The horse lowered its head and huffed into the muddy earth.

“Must belong to a farm near here,” I surmised. “It’s still got a bridle and headstall on. Maybe it escaped?”

An idea jumped into my head. If I weren’t so eager to end an uncomfortable moment, I probably would have seen the million giant red flags waving in my face. But it felt so nice to turn off those parts of my brain that challenged the comfortable illusion of my preferred reality. It was turning into my new favorite drug, and I desperately needed another hit quick. The horse wandered away from its farm. Case closed.

“I’ve got it!” I said. “This is how we get out of here! Horses are basically off-road vehicles with GPS programmed in, right? We tell it to go home, and then we can ride it out of the woods. Wherever it takes us is bound to have a car or something we can use.”

“I don’t think-”

And I didn’t think. I opened the door and stepped into the rain, calling behind me, “Stay here while I make sure it’s friendly.”

By the time I reached the bottom of the ladder, I’d locked away the memory of Sabine all over again, before it had time to cause any more pain. Before I had the chance to realize why that memory didn’t make any sense at all.

I used a calm voice. “Hey there, you.”

The horse didn’t acknowledge my presence at all as I walked up to it.

“Aren’t you pretty?”

It didn’t answer. It just continued to sniff the ground, fearless and unbothered. I closed the distance slowly, non-threateningly. I was within an arm’s reach as the majestic creature took a bite out of an orange flower and chomped it down.

“Who do you belong to?” I asked.

It finally raised its head, looked at me, then turned as if to walk away.

“Hey wait!”

I followed behind the black steed as it trotted slowly, further down the path.

“Are you going to your home?”

It briefly paused to look back and flick its ears.

“Do you know that word? ‘Home’? Is that where you’re going? Because I have a friend, and if we could hitch a ride, I’d repay you in… I don’t know… What’s horse currency? Apples? Carrots? Bugs? What do you guys eat, anyway?”

It turned its head forward.

“Hang on,” I said, reaching out. I put my right hand against the horse—on the side just above its back leg. I was intending to offer a gentle pet to show that I was a friend. But the moment I made contact with the hide, my hopeful illusions were shattered, and three truths became evident: this plan was ridiculous, this horse was not our savior, and I was going to die.

Confusion took over as I wrestled with the impossible. My hand, the one touching the animal, was stuck in place—like I’d just put my palm flat against a glue trap, only the skin was burning like the entire surface area had been injected with fire ant venom. The pain was enormous, breathtaking, so painful my eyes watered and I completely forgot how to scream. And then, the horse took a step forward, pulling me along with it.

My knees hit the ground. The horse, ever so calmly, continued to walk, dragging me behind. I yanked my hand—the pain surging down to the bone and deeper, sending wave after wave of excruciating electricity crackling through my arm and into my spine and through every inch of my skeletal system, burning me up from the inside out. But it was no use. Our bodies had melted together. The horse continued to walk, and I continued to drag along beside it. The path left us. The horse diverged. And we were leaving the familiar, traversing into the green and overgrown. It felt like my insides were being liquified, and I was no longer a human, but a sack of nutrients for something bigger and stronger than my feeble mind could comprehend. There was almost comfort in it, something respectable about dying like this. And then I saw Spencer leaning against a tree, watching with a smile as the horse dragged me limply past, snagging every root and thorn along the way.

“You know,” he said smugly. “This wouldn’t be happening if you’d cut off your hand when I told you to.”

The horse knew where we were going. It knew a lot of things. And, somehow, I knew some of them, too. Bonding with this animal gave me a kind of connection beyond the physical. I could sense the unspoken. The images of the creature’s thoughts, but only barely, like watching a show on a neighbor’s television through a telescope. But there were some things too loud to miss. The creature was sorry I had to die. But it was grateful. No, it was happy. If I had to put words to the feeling it kept repeating, they would be: “Hurray! I got one! I actually got one!”

We passed Spencer on our way to the meeting place… the place where I wouldn’t be able to fight back anymore. Even though, as my captor couldn’t help but notice, I didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as it was expecting. If I had to put it into words, the thing’s current suspicion was: “There’s probably something wrong with this one. Oh well. It’s still good eating.”

I fell onto my back and put my foot against the creature, hoping to leverage my leg strength, but that experiment ended in failure once I realized my shoe had also fused onto the creature’s side. Rocks and sticks scraped holes through my hoodie, through my shirt, and then through my skin as I stared at the branches overhead. It was getting darker. I could barely see where the sky poked through. I extended my free hand… my only hand… and found a tree. I tried to wrap my arm around it, but the horse effortlessly pulled me away with nothing but a handful of bark to show for my effort. I threw it at the horse’s head to no effect.

“Come on now,” said Spencer, now walking beside us. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

I quickly untied my laces and freed my foot, but the shoe remained where it was, now part of the horse, just like my hand, just like the rest of me. The rules were becoming quite clear. Anything that touched this animal had the potential to become part of the animal. I couldn’t let my foot contact its feet. I couldn’t let any other part of our bodies connect. And I needed to figure out a way to remove my hand from the horse’s side before it reached its destination.

The horse was excited. His thoughts expanded. I felt a network of shining pathways pierce through my consciousness like glass splinters. Signals from every direction collided. Frequencies overlapped. I felt emotions, sensations, perceptions that didn’t belong to me. My own identity began to sink beneath a rapid current as the feelings translated into meaning. There were multiple voices in the cloud now, congratulating the thing carrying me into the woods. They were proud. They were impressed. If I had to put it into words, well… I can’t do it justice. But here’s my closest approximation:

“Good job! You caught a real, live human?”

“Is that okay? Aren’t we going to get into trouble?”

“The old rules be damned! Soon, Karen will be here to end everything.”

“We must feed if we are to have the strength to escape.”

“Think, Jack, think,” Spencer taunted. “You’re running out of time.”

“What are you even doing here?!” I yelled.

“Who is he talking to?” the voices in the cloud wondered.

“I think there’s something wrong with this one. His brain is clearly damaged.”

“Well then don’t eat the brain.”

The voices went quiet as Spencer smacked me across the face. “I’m keeping you from losing yourself. You gotta stay in the moment. If you go under, if you go into shock, you lose the chance to use the one tool you have left.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Your voice. All you need to do is scream for help.”

“You just want me to scream so Rosa will come and get stuck to the horse too, don’t you? I’m not falling for your tricks!”

“Then die out of spite.”

“Maybe I will!”

I saw my chance as the horse pulled me past a low-hanging branch. I grabbed it and held on like my life depended on it (which it very clearly did). For the first time since it started this ominous journey into the darkness of the forest, the horse’s pace slowed. I was actually holding it back, but only for a second. The branch bent, my body stretched, I tightened my grip and dug in my fingernails. It felt like my arm was about to be removed from the socket. I almost couldn’t stand it any longer. And then, I heard something rip.

Oh fuck oh god oh tater tots oh shit… oh… oh wait… it was just the branch. The horse returned to its regular strolling speed, dragging me as I dragged the broken tree limb. The size and feel of the branch was nearly familiar. I lifted it and quickly remembered all the times I’d used a baseball bat just like this to kill monsters. I managed to get my legs underneath my body. I stood, twisted around, and swung the makeshift club as hard as I could. It connected with the horse directly on the ear and broke immediately into two pieces. Physically, the horse didn’t react. It just plodded along, yanking me down and dragging me straight through a prickly bush. But there was a change in the cloud. I could hear the voices. The feeling was not dissimilar to laughter. If I had to translate it, it would sound something like, “Wow, this sure is a feisty one!”

“You have to scream, Jack.” There was a sudden urgency in Spencer’s voice.

“Shut up!”

The voices in the cloud were louder now. Coming together. Greeting one another. The horse dragged me through a bramble of thorns and stopped abruptly. I didn’t even take the time to catch my breath before pulling myself up to look at why we weren’t still moving. Oh shit, I thought as I realized the situation had suddenly gotten much, much worse.

We were standing in a clearing at the top of a short embankment. A few feet down, water rushed past, strengthened by the recent rain. The stream, at least fifteen feet wide, was all that separated us from the other two black horses. They were waiting, I understood. They didn’t want to start without us.

The horse to the left was covered in animals. Black birds—crows and vultures—blanketed its back and face like thick scales. Some still attempted to flap their wings, but most were flattened out like two-dimensional representations of their former selves, completely absorbed into the creature’s skin. Its back leg contained a massive growth like a gray tumor that I slowly came to recognize as a coyote. The jaw and mouth of the long-deceased creature had melted into the area below the knee. Flies buzzed in and out of the former canine’s eye sockets.

The horse on the right carried but one trophy—a black bear. An adolescent, from the looks of it. Draped over the horse’s back like a nightmarish fur poncho. I couldn’t tell if the animal was frozen in the middle of attempting a bear hug or if it was making a valiant attempt at hunting a bigger animal, but now they were glued together. A long trail of slobber ran down the side of the horse from the bear’s mouth as it breathed heavily and growled. When the bear noticed us, it kicked its back leg—the only appendage still free, and made an attempt to get away. Amazingly, I knew what it was thinking. The bear was part of that horse now. Its mind had joined the cloud. If I had to transfer it into words, it would be, “Hey, bald house-bear! Do something! Get us out of here!”

The other thoughts overtook it. The thing that was about to happen was about to happen, and what was about to happen was not something I wanted to happen. They were going in turns, in the order they arrived. First, the horse covered in birds. It dragged the lump of rotting coyote behind it and walked towards the stream. The few birds left alive fluttered and fought against the cold, but their screams ended in merciful silence as the animal submerged.

“They died quickly.” I couldn’t tell whose thought that was. They all began to feel the same. Perhaps it was my own?

The bear horse went next. The bear fought every way it could. It tried to swing its weight. It tried to kick. But by the time the horse’s first hoof touched water, the bear had completely entangled itself. There was nothing left of the bear that wasn’t horse except for its mind, and even that was beginning to fade into the cloud. The last independent thought to come from it felt a lot like, “Help!” The bear’s eyes went under. Then the horse went under. And then there was nothing left but those voices, calling to the only ones left. “Your turn.” “Join us.” “The water is fine.”

“Enough fucking around,” Spencer said. “It’s time to scream.”

I over-thought it in a hurry. Spencer wants me to scream, so it’s probably a bad idea. And if I do, what then? Rosa hears? Rosa comes running? She wouldn’t understand what’s happening, and she wouldn’t be able to help. No, if I scream, Rosa will be the next victim. The only way to keep her safe is to figure this out on my own.

The horse began moving forward, pulling me towards the water, and that first step was a doozy. We fell several feet down the embankment, but the horse caught itself. My added weight was trivial. These things could pull bears without breaking a sweat. I was nothing. I couldn’t get away. It was too late to cut off my hand. And inside, I could feel my mind falling, hurtling towards something dark and comfortable. The cloud was inviting me to become like them, free of this world, free of the pain. It wouldn’t take any effort. All I had to do was relax.

“Scream!” Spencer commanded.

“No!” I said through gritted teeth. “They’ll hurt Rosa!”

“You should be more worried about yourself.”

The horse continued to drag. The ground below me felt different. No more grass and vegetation. Now it was wet sand and mud. Nothing for my hand to grab anymore. The cold permeated my tattered clothes and stung my skin. The horse continued straight ahead. It knew what it was doing. It tried to calm me. “It’s so beautiful down there. The water is much deeper than you think. You’ll see.”

I thought it would be impossible for this moment to get any worse. I thought it was impossible for my heart to beat any harder. But then-

“JACK!”

I heard her scream my name. She was close. Very close. I told her to stay put. Why wouldn’t she stay put?

The horse dragged me into the water. Cold swallowed me. We were only a few steps in, but I could feel the steep decline coming. I could still fight. I could pull myself up, keep my head above water, but not for much longer.

“JACK! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

Spencer stood at the water’s edge. He shook his head and said, “Last chance.”

The voices in the cloud were becoming irritated. “Stop fighting!” “What’s wrong with him?”

I was losing my focus. Losing my mind. Drunk on insanity. I took a deep breath and screamed at the top of my lungs. “ROSA STAY AWAY!”

Then we plunged into the water. My head went under. Water surged past, colder and colder. We were flying. Pressure rapidly built up inside my skull so intensely I thought I was going to pop. My eyes couldn’t see anything but blackness. My aching ears heard nothing but the deep rumble of a current all around. And then, I heard the voices in the cloud. They were not happy...

“What is that?!”

“Oh shit! It’s coming straight for us!”

...Actually, they seemed worse than just unhappy...

“How does it know we’re here?”

“Did it see us?”

...They seemed afraid...

“That thing will kill us all!”

“WHAT DOES IT WANT!”

...I felt their fear and understood it to be true. Something was out there. Something dangerous. Something that would kill them all if it didn’t get what it wanted...

“IT’S AFTER THE HUMAN! IT MUST BE!”

The next thing I knew, I was being pulled out of the water. Rosa’s voice was in my ear, screaming something I couldn’t hear. My legs were wobbly, but eventually they hit mud, and I started to walk. The world settled into place around us. Rosa was waist deep in the creek, her arms around me, pulling me to the edge where Gaston waited and arped angrily.

As soon as we were free of the water, I hit the ground and started sucking sweet, sweet air back into my lungs. I thought I was a goner for sure there. I was lucky Rosa didn’t listen to me when I told her to stay away.

She collapsed onto the ground next to me.

“Those things,” she said. “Were those… mimics?”

I took another round of deep breaths, then looked at my hand. “No,” I answered. “I’m pretty sure that was… some… unrelated otherworldly bullshit[29].”

The palm where I’d been fused to the horse was bright red and tender as hell, but the stitches were completely gone and my slice wound had magically healed into a gnarly scar. Silver linings.

I turned to Rosa. “Those things, they let me go… Why would they do that?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier,” she said, climbing to her feet. She offered me a hand and helped me up, then went to retrieve the camo jacket she’d discarded by the water’s edge. “The reason I’m never around when the weird stuff happens… It’s simple. The weird stuff stays away because it’s afraid of me.”

29
We have a saying where I grew up. “Never trust a horse.” [«]

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sometimes, I wonder if luck really is the chaotic, unpredictable force of nature we assume it to be. Maybe there’s something more to it. Maybe the randomness has a pattern we’re simply too close to see. After all, I’d just been through quite a bit of extraordinary bad luck. Was it a coincidence then—or was it the universe trying to correct an imbalance—that I would suddenly find myself in such extraordinary fortune? What were the odds that a monstrous creature would drag me so far off the only established trail, only to throw me up in a random spot in the middle of untold acres of forest, and somehow, I would recognize exactly where we were standing? What were the chances that we would now be somewhere I actually wanted us to be?

“You have more practical experience with monsters than I do, but shouldn’t we, I dunno, get as far away from the nightmare aquatic horse monsters as possible?” Rosa was standing near the bank of the water, bent over and wringing out her hair. She’d taken a second to catch her breath, but refused to turn her eyes away from the water.

“It’s hard to explain,” I answered. “But… For a moment there, I was connected to those things. I could feel what they felt, and trust me, they’re more afraid of us than we are of them.”

She made a doubtful high-pitched humming noise, crinkled her nose, and asked, “Are they though?”

“They think they are, at least. And that’ll be enough to keep them away.”

“What’s the plan, then?”

“We follow the water’s edge. I know this place. This is part of Goose Creek, about a mile upstream from the old bridge. Sabine and I used to come here all the time as kids to make paper boats and race them.”

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, but it is astounding that you are still alive.”

“I know, right?”

Rosa finally looked away from the water and turned to me. There was a sadness in her eyes as the weight of the moment started to take its toll. I felt it, too. I almost died...

“Rosa, I told you to stay where you were because I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thank God it wasn’t your decision. Huh? Otherwise, you’d be underwater horse food.”

“Yeah, I owe you one.”

With a sly smile, she said, “I’ll put it on the scorecard.”

We found my shoe a few yards downstream. I led the way, not that it required a guide. It was a direct path. This close to the water’s edge, the worst obstacles we had to contend with were a few logs and the occasional snake. I offered to carry Gaston, partially because I needed the portable heat source. My clothes were wet and full of holes, and every breeze reignited the stinging of my thorn-scraped skin underneath. It was all I could do to keep from shivering, lest Rosa insist I take the camo jacket for myself. But I already owed her too many favors as it was.

“You were right,” I said, halfway to the bridge. Rosa hadn’t brought it up, but I knew she was thinking it.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

I stopped. “The memory thing. You were right.”

She stopped as well, gave me the is-this-some-kind-of-trick look, and said, “Go onnn…”

“The last fight I ever had with Sabine, it was over me going to work on my birthday. I said some stuff about her parents and she told me to shut up or they might hear me.”

Rosa shook her head. “Okay?”

“We were at my house. Her parents weren’t there. How were they supposed to hear me?”

“Okay?”

“I remember it clearly. She said the words, ‘Be quiet.’ She said, ‘They’re going to hear you.’ She said, ‘Don’t go.’”

“I don’t follow.”

“She wasn’t talking to me back then. She was talking to me just now. From my memory. She was warning me about the water horses! Sabine knew there was danger and she tried to tell me to shut up and stay put. And if I’d listened to her, we could have completely avoided the last round of monsters.”

“Hang on. That memory was from a long time ago, right?”

“I don’t completely understand it myself, but I think, somehow, Sabine is actively trying to help us.”

The rain continued to fall until we reached the old bridge. From here, it was a familiar hike to my old apartment complex. By the time we emerged behind civilization, the two of us were looking pretty rough. Drenched. Ragged. I was scratched up and covered in dirt. Rosa was wearing a giant camo jacket over a funeral dress with sneakers. It looked like we were taking our walk of shame after a wild night at a murder mystery themed frat party. Any normal person who saw us would be right to be suspicious. Possibly even suspicious enough to call the authorities. We needed to get out of sight, and there was only one place for us to do that.

“And who exactly are the Cromwells?” Rosa asked as we made our way through backyards to the unit by the communal dumpsters.

In a complex populated by drug addicts, religious fanatics, and junior-high dropouts, the Cromwells, I explained, were considered “the weird ones.” Mr. Cromwell was the self-appointed “neighborhood watch.” When he wasn’t crawling around inside the dumpster, he was either locked away in his room or patrolling the grounds, usually wearing nothing but work boots, tighty-whiteys, and a tank top. No matter what he was up to, he always carried an oversized stogie in his mouth and a revolver on his hip. To my knowledge, he’d never shot any people, but several cars that parked too close to his pride and joy—a jet black ‘68 Plymouth Roadrunner—ended up with unapologetic bullet holes in the middle of the night.

Mrs. Cromwell made taxidermy squirrel art, which would have been creepy enough if she were actually good at it. The fact that she was self-trained, combined with the fact that most of her starting models were tire-flattened and scraped off the road, meant that the “decorations” nailed all around their door frame took the word “art” all the way up to the logical breaking point.

I had no idea what the Cromwells did for money, but they couldn’t have been too bad off, considering that one time they actually bought a pet tiger “for protection.” It took up residence for a couple of weeks and made the entire complex smell like tiger pee before some suits came along to sedate the animal and take it away. It was quite the scene. There was a news van and everything.

The couple mostly kept to themselves, but every now and then they’d open their home to the weird little kid who didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go while his parents were away for most of the day. Thinking back, it’s obvious that the Cromwells weren’t playing with a full deck of cards. And if I’d had better role models, they probably would have warned me to stay away from the less-than-sane family living by the dumpster. But I didn’t have better role models. I had the Cromwells. And the first time I knocked on their door, Mrs. Cromwell took pity and invited me in for cabbage soup.

Whenever I stopped by, which was once or twice a week, Mrs. Cromwell would make sure I had a full belly before I left. I paid them back with any squirrels I found. At no point did Mr. Cromwell ever acknowledge my presence, which I think was the closest thing he could give to acceptance. The Cromwells may have been crazy, but they were a lifeline until that fateful day I had to leave… the day they came for me. That stupid day.

The worst part of that day was how insultingly ordinary it was. I mean, when they came to take away the tiger all of the residents left their homes to watch. There were people out there I’d never seen before. There was even a firetruck on standby just in case, I don’t know, the tiger exploded or something. The crowd of onlookers was so dense I couldn’t see the action. But when they came for me—a real-life human—it was a completely different story. A couple of people in ordinary clothes found me sleeping outside my front door. They asked me a few questions about my mother, then they explained that I was going to have to come with them. And that was that. No crowds. No onlookers. No spectacle. I was nine years old, and I never saw the Cromwells again. What were the odds they were even still alive?

One look at the doorway to the Cromwell’s apartment gave me my answer. When she saw it, Rosa made a nervous sound somewhere between “Uhhh” and “Nooo.” Mrs. Cromwell had been busy. Her squirrel army had grown by an uncomfortable degree. There were squirrels dressed in dolls’ clothes. Squirrels holding plastic swords. Flattened squirrels all around the walls like the thick layers of a paper collage. And standing a couple feet tall, right next to the doorbell, the pièce de résistance: something I can only describe as the squirreltipede. Multiple squirrel bodies stitched together (or, upon closer inspection, hot-glued together) from neck to torso to neck to torso. Sixteen arms, sixteen legs, eight rigid tails, and one head. In its topmost left hand, it held a sunflower.

Gaston let out a high-pitched whine as I knocked on the front door. Rosa put her hand on my arm and whispered, “Is this a good idea?”

I answered, “Most definitely not. But it’s the least bad idea. We ran out of good ideas when we left the deer stand. I thought you knew.”

The door opened in front of us. I looked at the old woman standing there. She looked up at me. She was much shorter than I remembered. Her wild, dark hair had turned into even wilder gray. She was wrapped in a blue robe with a thin, half-spent cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth. It took me a second to realize everybody here was waiting for me to start the conversation. I broke the silence with an awkward “Hi, Mrs. Cromwell.”

A few more seconds passed before she finally spoke.

“Well come on in, then.” She took a step back and called out loudly towards the stairs, “Husband! Stray child is back!” Then, she turned and walked inside, gesturing for us to follow. Cigarette smoke escaped her lips as she called over her shoulder. “First, take off shoes.”

A moment later, Rosa and I were sitting on a red corduroy sofa in a dimly lit living room. Mrs. Cromwell sat across from us on a loveseat and puffed away at her smoke, studying us as the grandfather clock in the corner loudly ticked away the seconds. She didn’t seem to mind that we were getting her furniture wet. Judging from the look of things, there were enough layers of protective filth to keep the water from doing any further damage. Rosa, bastion of honesty that she was, told an obvious lie to break the silence.

“This is a lovely place you have here.”

Mrs. Cromwell responded, “Pretty girl, why you dress like this?” Rosa looked at me. Mrs. Cromwell reacted with a loud snap of her fingers. “Do not look at Jack for permission to speak.”

“Oh,” Rosa answered. “We, uh, just came from a funeral. And then we got lost in the woods. And then we were attacked by a horse that tried to pull us to the bottom of the creek.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Cromwell said with a nod. “I knew this would happen.”

“You did?” Rosa asked.

Mrs. Cromwell had mastered the art of smoke-talking. She didn’t miss a beat as she removed one cigarette, stuffed a new one between her teeth, and lit it. “There are things that live in woods. They come from all over. There has always been order. Rules. But not anymore. Now, there’s panic. A great exodus. Everything wants to go home. They wait until last minute. Traffic bad. Suddenly, everyone breaking rules. They all need food for long journey. They don’t care where food come from. No more order. Nowhere safe.”

As she spoke, she extended her hand and snuffed out her used smoke in a clay pot containing a plastic fern and a few hundred yellow cigarette butts. “You stay here. We protect each other. Yes?”

Rosa and I shared a look. I could see it in her eyes. She couldn’t tell if Mrs. Cromwell was right or crazy, and she couldn’t decide which was worse. When I looked back, Mrs. Cromwell was on the move. When she passed the stairs, she yelled up for Mr. Cromwell to put on pants because they had company. Mr. Cromwell didn’t respond. And then, Rosa and I were alone.

She bounced Gaston in her lap and whispered, “Is this jogging anything?”

“What?”

“Any memories of Sabine?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. Sabine only ever came here one time, and she didn’t stay very long. She, uh… she didn’t like it here.”

Rosa raised an eyebrow. “Why? Did something weird happen?”

“No. We just sat at the table in the kitchen and played Mancala with Mrs. Cromwell.” God, I was so tired of wading through traumatic memories. The closer I got, the harder it was to keep this wall up, and I needed to keep it up, just a little bit longer. I needed to focus on the now. I needed to forget. I needed to ignore. I needed to-

“Who won?” Rosa’s question broke into my thoughts.

“How am I supposed to remember? I was like eight or nine at the time!”

My answer came out a little louder than I expected. She backed off. For a moment, we sat in silence. Then, Rosa looked around at the yellow wallpaper and reclaimed furniture and remarked, “This place smells really, really-”

“I know,” I said. “It’s the tiger pee. It never comes out[30]. You get used to it after a couple weeks.”

Right then, Mrs. Cromwell returned with her arms full of clothes. She gave Rosa a yellow dress, some clean socks and shoes, and some other garments that aren’t anyone else’s business. She gave me a stack of Mr. Cromwell’s old-manniest old man clothes and instructed me to show Rosa where to find the shower.

When I came back a second later, I found Mrs. Cromwell in the kitchen, rubbing Gaston’s belly as he lay on his back on the wooden picnic table they’d set up in the corner decades ago. I’d changed into Mr. Cromwell’s old duds: A pair of khaki slacks. White dress shirt. Wool sweater vest. Tweed jacket. My new look was about 50% distinguished college arts professor and 50% weird library pervert.

Mrs. Cromwell looked at me and asked, “You no shower?”

“Nah. I’ve already showered one and a half times today. And to be honest, the thought of water freaks me out now.”

“You have the rabies?”

“No, although it would explain a lot.” I tried to think back to all the times I’d been attacked by raccoons in the past year. Holy shit, do I have rabies? Eventually, I concluded that I almost definitely didn’t, and I lumped that possibility behind the wall protecting me from all those don’t-think-about-it thoughts.

I took my spot across from Mrs. Cromwell. Gaston rolled onto his side to look at me, his long tongue falling out of his smiling face onto the wooden table. I rubbed his belly as Mrs. Cromwell lit herself another cigarette. After a quick puff, she pointed a finger at me and said, “You look well.”

“Really?” I asked, doubtfully.

“You don’t remember what you looked like when they took you away, but I do. Husband and me, we weren’t sure you were going to make it. Crazy sick kid. Husband thought maybe he should shoot you, put you out of misery. I told him, ‘No, we feed this one. He has fighting chance.’ And now look at you! I was right! Yes?”

“Mr. Cromwell wanted to shoot me?”

She shrugged. “The past is past.”

“Yeah, but-”

“My turn to go first. Yes?”

“Huh?”

She stood, walked over to the pantry, and returned with a Mancala board and a jug of wine.

“I appreciate all the help,” I said as she sorted the small stones into their respective positions. “I know I didn’t say that enough when I was younger, but it was true back then, too.”

“We don’t do kindness for that reason. We would have been kind whether you appreciated or not.” She made her first move. I responded. She took a sip directly from her jug.

I leaned forward and asked, “You seem to know what’s going to happen. What about you and Mr. Cromwell?” At this point, I felt safe in my assumption that these two weren’t from around here. “Why haven’t you evacuated alongside the others?”

She let out a shrill laugh like a hungry seagull.

“This is home! We stay!”

Fair enough.

She took her turn. I took mine. We played in silence save for the occasional audible puff or swig coming from her side of the table. The game was beginning to take shape, with the old lady coming out in an early and substantial lead.

“Are you really not worried? It feels like everyone else who knows what’s coming is certain that there’s no way to stop it.”

She took her move. No points this time. “The future, not written in stone. No such thing as certainty. Nothing guaranteed. Nothing cannot be changed.”

I took mine. No points. “What about the past? The past can’t be changed.”

Again, she laughed like a seagull, her teeth were already stained purple from the drink. “Past? Past is changed every day! It is defining characteristic of humans. If you don’t like past, you change it. Now, you just need to change future. Much easier!” She took a move and captured a small handful of my pebbles. Big victory, but it left her nowhere else to score.

“We can’t alter something after it’s already happened.”

She didn’t say anything. At least, not with her words. But her smirk sure said a lot. I took my turn. Small score. I saw an easy move that could net me another substantial stack of pebbles, but that would set her up for a blitz on her next go. Instead, I played conservatively. No more points this round. The board was thinning out.

“Okay,” I said. “I get it. I see the point you’re trying to make.” She took her turn. I had already ensured she would have nowhere to score. “You’re trying to help me, and I appreciate that. I do. But it’s more complicated than I think you realize.” I took my turn. She took hers. She expanded her lead, but shot herself in the foot by setting me up. “I get it, okay? You’re trying to make me aware of how memories aren’t reality, right?” I made my move. Scored a couple of points. Made another. Another small victory. I had full control of the board. I stopped focusing on winning and simply looked for ways to block her from ever scoring again. “About how self-deception is not the same thing as altering the absoluteness of truth, no matter how hard we want it to be, and there are consequences for those of us who try to ignore that fact?” I had to admit (not out loud of course), that there was a period of time when I did what I had to do to survive. And yes, I may have killed a lot of people, but they weren’t real, and they surely weren’t innocent. They were all monsters. Monsters pretending to be human. It didn’t matter anyway because the BLaRc made it to where nobody remembered. So, why would Mrs. Cromwell even bring that up? Was she keeping tabs on me or something? I tried to look into her eyes for any kind of hint about how much she really knew, but she just furrowed her brow, drank more wine, and gestured at the board impatiently. I finished my turn with a series of captures. Tiny victory after tiny victory. “You’re trying to make me realize that I can’t run from my mistakes, and sooner or later I have to face facts, right? That I was a bad friend? A terrible boyfriend? That I don’t deserve happiness? That I should have stayed dead? Is that it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Or maybe,” she said with a nod and a knowing smile, “not everything is about you.” She took another swig of jug wine, and made her last move. “Game!” she announced.

I looked down at the empty board. It was a close one, but in the end, I’d squeezed out a victory by a single point.

Gaston rolled onto his feet and let out an excited ARP as Rosa walked into the room wearing Mrs. Cromwell’s yellow dress. While my own outfit was a size or two too big, Mrs. Cromwell’s clothing fit Rosa surprisingly well. Gaston excitedly ran to the edge of the table and nearly dove off before I caught him.

“Who won?” she asked.

“I did!” Mrs. Cromwell stated with a proud, purple smile. “I always win.” I didn’t correct her. It wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway.

Despite Rosa’s half-hearted protests, Mrs. Cromwell got to work preparing us dinner. Rosa might have put up more of a fight if not for the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything since before the funeral. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten anything substantial and realized the only things in my stomach were mystery drugs, forest alcohol, and creek water.

Mrs. Cromwell handed me a sandwich on a paper plate and said, “You bring to husband. He take dinner in office. Be quick. Pretty girl and me talk about you until you get back.”

“You can actually just call me ‘Rosa,’” said Rosa as she pulled Gaston away from the Mancala board and fished pebbles out of his mouth. “Maybe you can teach me the rules and when Jack gets back we can all play a game together.”

Mrs. Cromwell shook her head. “No. Two-player game only.”

“Oh, but I thought…”

I was already gone before she finished the thought. Now that I remembered how hungry I was, I was eager to do whatever necessary to get dinner started.

I carried the plate up the stairs into the noticeably warmer air. My first thought was that the AC unit up here must have been broken. By the time I reached the top step, the temperature had risen at least ten degrees and the air was positively tropical. I knew Mr. Cromwell was a tough cookie, but the fact that he worked under these conditions was truly impressive. I was already sweating, and I hadn’t even made it to his office yet. I started down the hallway towards the room at the end. The door was cracked open. The light inside was off. I didn’t want to bother him if he was asleep, but I really didn’t want to startle him if he was awake. Even when I was a child, Mr. Cromwell exhibited classic symptoms of old-man brain. That, combined with the fact that he was often accompanied by a lethal weapon, told me it would be a good idea to announce my presence in advance.

“Mr. Cromwell,” I said softly. By the time I reached the door, there had been no response. I knocked a couple times. “Mr. Cromwell, it’s Jack. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’ve got some food for you.” No response, still. I pushed the door the rest of the way open and was met with a heavy wave of heat and putrid stench that stung my eyes and made me gag. I took a second to compose myself, then stepped into the room and flicked on the lights.

The first thing I saw was the living garbage, all over the floor and cabinets. Anywhere there was space. Hundreds, no, thousands of paper plates, stacked on top of one another. Each with a complete meal scooped on top, wriggling with maggot larvae. Sandwiches. Eggs. Half-decomposed remnants of what might have been sushi or lasagna; it was impossible to tell at this point.

The second thing I saw was Mr. Cromwell, slumped over his writing desk, cheek to table, very much dead. The empty sockets that once contained eyes were now hollow voids staring emptily in my direction, seeing nothing. Mr. Cromwell had been dead for a long, long time. The organs and wet tissue were dried up. His skin was barely more than a memory. His hair and nails were stuck in place, but little remained outside the skeleton. If I had to guess, I’d put his death somewhere around the time I graduated high school.

The story revealed itself to me in the form of unmistakable clues. I dropped the sandwich onto a pile of garbage by the door, sending up a small swarm of black flies that quickly resettled on rotting foods in other corners. Then, I approached the remains of the old man. He was still wearing his usual garb: boots, underwear, tank top. His right hand rested on the table next to his head, the finger bones wrapped around his old revolver. I brushed a few paper plates out of the way to see what he’d been working on at his time of expiration.

Below the plates and food debris, there were disorganized stacks of papers spread from one edge of the desk to the other. A large portion of the pages were completely stained by long-dried blood. Wherever there wasn’t blood, there was the maniacal scribbling of a diseased mind. The strangest thing was that I recognized his work. He’d drawn countless eyes. All of them looking up from the pages. Some ink. Some pencil. Some humanoid. Some insect. Some others. He’d seen something on the other side of the void, and it compelled him to fill every page with this message, the message that mortals couldn’t understand, the message that drove him mad. I checked, just to be sure. The gun still had five bullets left. And Mrs. Cromwell, poor Mrs. Cromwell… Suddenly, our conversation over the Mancala board took on a whole new meaning.

Wait a second.

Against all odds, a new thought cut to the front of the line. What was that Rosa said about Mancala? She wanted to play a game with the three of us. But, as Mrs. Cromwell pointed out, Mancala was a two-player game. Why would Rosa think otherwise?

Because I told her about my memory with Sabine! But I didn’t tell her the details. The details that I only now realized made no sense. Sabine played Mancala with us, but she couldn’t have played with us because it’s not a three-player game. She didn’t even want to be here. But why? I closed my eyes and urged my brain to focus one more time, and I tried to remember the details of that day.

“We need to get out of here,” she kept saying. Whenever I asked why, she would say the same thing. It made no sense. I kept telling her it was okay for us to be here, that the Cromwells were fine with it, that my mother didn’t care where I was, but she kept saying, over and over, “We need to leave. The cops are coming. The cops are going to be here any second. We need to leave, Jack!”

I was down the stairs and in the kitchen five seconds later.

“We need to leave,” I said.

Rosa, ever the inquisitor, asked, “What do you mean?”

“The cops are on their way. No time to explain.”

Mrs. Cromwell walked calmly over to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and pulled out a set of car keys. “Here,” she said, tossing them to me. “Take car. Be careful.”

I caught them in the air and started for the front door.

“Wait!” Rosa said, inhaling her sandwich while trying to catch up to me. Through a completely full mouth, she managed to ask the question, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. But we can’t stay here.” I reached for the door but the knock from the other side stopped me inches away. I held my breath.

A few seconds passed. I turned to look at Rosa standing frozen right behind me, cheeks full of sandwich that she dared not chew. Mrs. Cromwell stood next to her, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

Another knock at the door, followed by the doorbell.

I held still and hoped that whoever it was would go away, but I guess I didn’t hope hard enough. As soon as I heard her voice, I knew this escape wouldn’t be an easy one.

“Sheriff’s department!” This was bad. We weren’t just dealing with another bumbling deputy. We were dealing with Amelia O’Brien herself. She knocked again and announced, “I can hear you moving around in there. Are you in trouble? Do you require assistance?”

Was she about to kick the door in? That was absolutely a possibility. I looked at Mrs. Cromwell and tried, without using words, to ask if there was a back door we could use. Mrs. Cromwell must have misinterpreted my gestures to mean, “Start talking to the sheriff.”

“Go away!” she exclaimed. “I am legally naked!”

“Mrs. Cromwell, please open the door. I need to ask you a few questions about a dangerous fugitive. This is a matter of life and death.”

“Okay,” she responded. “Give me ten seconds to put on clothes.”

Really? “Ten seconds”? Why would she put such a short timer on something this important? Ten seconds to find a hiding spot. Ten seconds to figure out a plan. Okay, I got this. At least ten seconds is better than nine seconds, right? Although at this point, I’ve probably been thinking about it for a couple of seconds, so that means I’m down to at least eight seconds. Oh shit, they’re all looking at me! What am I going to do? I need something. I need a PAPER BAG!

Mrs. Cromwell opened the door and put on her sweetest, most innocent voice.

“Yes?”

O’Brien kept her tone cool and direct, “Good evening Mrs. Cromwell. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Are you alone right now?”

“Yes.”

“My office received a tip that there’s a dangerous criminal in the area.”

“Oh no.”

“It was reported that he was seen heading towards your home.”

“I not see either of them.”

“How did you know there were two people?”

“I don’t know.”

O’Brien’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you in some kind of trouble right now, Mrs. Cromwell? You can give me a sign. Blink to let me know.”

“No, no, there is nobody here. Have good day.”

She tried to close the door, but O’Brien stopped her. “One more question.”

“Yes?”

“If there’s nobody else here, whose shoes are these?”

The best Mrs. Cromwell could come up with was, “Oh, shoes? Strange. How long have shoes been there? Must have been grandchildren visiting last week.”

“Last week, huh? And they, what, left without their shoes?”

“Children. They are stupid. You know this.”

“Uh huh. So, why are these shoes still wet?”

There was a long, awkward pause. When it became obvious that the old woman didn’t have a response, O’Brien took charge. “I think there’s someone in your house, Mrs. Cromwell. Of course, they probably snuck right past you. Otherwise, you’d be aiding and abetting, and I know you don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you let me come inside and check to make sure you’re safe?”

“I can protect self.”

“And I can stay here until the warrant arrives, if you’d prefer. But if we don’t find anything, then that would be a huge waste of everyone’s time while a killer runs free. And if we do find anything else during our search…”

“Okay. You can come in. But first, take off shoes.”

O’Brien closed the door behind her, keeping her eyes everywhere. How do I know this? It’s not because I was watching her. It’s because I know O’Brien. I know she would never fall for a simple ambush. I’d never catch her by jumping out from the shadows. It would take something drastic to make her slip up. Something like Rosa, in the kitchen, screaming at the top of her lungs.

I told her to give me until the count of twenty to get into position. Right on cue, Rosa let loose. If I thought her singing voice was impressive, it was nothing compared to her screaming voice. I mean, she really committed. Just as I’d hoped, O’Brien came running to the rescue, focused on nothing but helping the helpless, rushing right past the pantry door where I was waiting. Into the kitchen where Rosa, who had no idea what the next step in this plan was supposed to be, stood waiting for her.

“Hi, Sheriff,” she said.

O’Brien had one hand on her radio, the other on the gun holstered to her side, when she heard me say, “Freeze!”

Slowly, very slowly, she turned around to see me standing there, arm extended, pointing at her. The paper bag covered whatever was in my hand.

“Damn, Jack,” she said with a smile. “I have to confess; I wasn’t expecting you to draw on me. What kind of piece are you packing?”

I kept the paper bag hand steady. “Telling you that would completely negate the purpose of the bag, wouldn’t it? Now, if you don’t mind putting your hands in the air, I think we’d all feel a lot more comfortable.”

“You first.”

“Come on, Amy, don’t make me do something crazy.”

“Crazy? Like what you did to Tristessa? Or Leon? Or the Stump brothers? Farmer? Brother Riley? Middleton? I could go on.”

“The Stump brothers? What do you mean?”

“We found Dock and Hickory right where you left them, in the back of the abandoned hearse you stole after you kidnapped Ms. Vasquez.”

“Oh my God!” Rosa said, covering her mouth. “I promise they weren’t in there when we abandoned it! Maybe they… crawled in there after we left and died of natural causes?”

“If there’s any part of you that remembers the truth,” I said, “then you know I would never have killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. But if you really don’t believe me, if you really think I killed all those people, then you should take the threat of me pointing a gun at you very seriously, and put up your hands.”

Slowly, she lifted her hands into the air.

That’s what I thought.

“Rosa, do you mind grabbing her radio and gun, please?”

Rosa begrudgingly complied, whispering a soft “sorry” to the sheriff as she unbuttoned the holster.

Thankfully, O’Brien didn’t try anything funny. She just returned my stare and said, “This is your show, Jack. You’re the one with the gun. However you want to play it, that’s how it’s gonna be. But I’m the only hostage you need. You should let the others go.”

“Rosa and Mrs. Cromwell aren’t prisoners.”

“Then what are they? Accomplices?”

Rosa, carrying the weapon and radio to me, stopped and turned. “How do you know I’m not the mastermind and Jack’s not just my accomplice?”

“Rosa,” I started.

“What? How come I can’t be the serial killer? Did nobody even consider that possibility?”

O’Brien answered. “Of course we did. But you checked out. Phone records and eyewitnesses gave you a clear alibi during the murders.”

Rosa seemed to light up. “You really thought I might have been the killer?”

“Yes.”

“Aww, thank you.”

Rosa walked up to my side and held out the gun. I took it in my left hand, never breaking eye contact with the sheriff. With one hand, I pressed the magazine release. The ammo fell to the ground with a loud clack.

“You really know your way around a pistol,” O’Brien remarked. Even now, she was fishing for a confession.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” I said, putting her empty gun on the counter next to me. “We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you would just go out to the old chemical plant and see for yourself!”

“See what, exactly?”

“That there isn’t any chemical plant! There never was! Your memories aren’t real.”

“You know how you sound right now?”

Sadly, I did. O’Brien was always the best kind of stubborn—a great virtue when we were on the same side, but right now it was infuriating. She wasn’t going to change her tune without cold, hard evidence. With a sigh, I said, “Fine. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh? This ought to be good.” Her hands lowered a few inches. She thought she was being subtle, but I knew what she was capable of.

“Hey!” I said, “Keep those hands up.” She raised them again and smiled as I continued. “Fair warning: I’m about to show you something that will completely change how you see the real world. It might be a little intense. I want you to prepare yourself. Once you know the truth, there’s no going back. Are you ready?”

“I can barely contain my excitement,” she said dryly.

“Okay. I’m sorry about this, Rosa.”

Rosa looked up at me and asked, “Huh?”

“Behold! The dark god himself! Manus Capere!”

I watched O’Brien’s face, fully expecting to see the smile twist into a look of shock and horror. But instead, there was nothing. A few dreadfully long seconds passed, then she asked, “Is that it?”

For the first time since the start of our standoff, I turned away from O’Brien. I looked at Rosa, who was giving me her best shame stare. Oh fuck. It didn’t work. By the time I snapped my attention back to O’Brien, her hands were almost down at her sides.

“This is awkward,” I said.

“Is the dark god... here in the room with us now?” she joked.

“I mean, technically yes, but I guess he must still be resting. I mean, it takes a lot of power to possess someone.”

O’Brien didn’t try to hide the mocking tone. “Maybe he’s shy.”

“You don’t have to rub it in.”

ARP ARP ARP!

Suddenly, Gaston the hyperactive attack puppy rounded the corner out of nowhere, ran past Rosa and me, and dive bombed onto O’Brien’s shoe before plopping over onto his back, exposing his stomach for tummy rubs. This moment had really gotten away from me. I lowered the bag and said, “Sorry about that. Gaston! Get away from-”

O’Brien’s hands moved faster than I could process. I don’t know where the taser gun came from, but before I could say “Oh shit”, she had lined up her shot and pulled the trigger. This time, Rosa’s scream was real.

I don’t know which scenario was less likely: that O’Brien missed her only shot, or that I managed to dodge the electrified prongs of death flying through the air in my direction. Regardless, I got stupid lucky. The prongs landed somewhere behind me, sending 50,000 volts of electricity harmlessly into the wall. There was no time to celebrate, though, as O’Brien immediately rebounded from the situation and threw her leg into the air. Her foot connected with the paper bag, hitting my hand hard enough to send me off balance and falling to the floor. I instinctively pulled my wounded appendage towards me, but she caught it by the wrist, flipped me onto my stomach, and planted her knee into the center of my back, pinning me onto the ground. I could hear her yank the empty paper bag away from me, revealing my secret… that I never actually had a weapon.

“Seriously?” she said, leaning her weight into the back of my ribs. “Do you have any idea how many times I could have put you down if I wanted?”

“I’d say probably in the low double digits?” Gaston happily hopped over to where I was trapped and started licking my face. “Not now, Gaston!”

“You don’t even realize what I had to do to find you this time. You’re coming with me to answer some questions, and I recommend you tell the truth. Otherwise, we’re going to-”

Cha-Chuk!

I didn’t have to see it to recognize that sound.

Mrs. Cromwell spoke loudly and clearly, “Get off child.”

O’Brien did as she was told. Once she had backed away, Rosa helped me to my feet. I wiggled my fingers to make sure they still worked. That was one hell of a spinning kick from O’Brien. Good thing she left her work boots at the door or that might have completely shattered my hand. I looked up to see Mrs. Cromwell pointing a shotgun at O’Brien. Without thinking, I stepped between them.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Mrs. Cromwell, listen to me, you don’t want to do anything crazy. Here, give me the gun.”

She shook her head. “No. I no give you gun.” Seriously? The first time in my life I actually want someone to give me a gun, and suddenly the generosity runs out? “You probably blow balls off,” she added.

“Hey, that’s not cool.”

O’Brien—never one to waste a distraction—threw an arm around my neck from behind, squeezing me into a chokehold and shoving me forward far enough for her to grab her own gun off the counter. Rosa sprang into action next, diving down to where the magazine had landed and snatching up the pistol ammo. As O’Brien pressed the barrel of the gun against my temple, Gaston happily danced around the kitchen, arping excitedly.

O’Brien spoke first, “Put the shotgun down or I’ll shoot.”

Mrs. Cromwell didn’t flinch. “No. You put gun down, or I shoot through Jack and kill you both.”

“She’s bluffing!” I yelled.

The three women asked in unison, “Who?”

“Everyone! We’re all liars, okay? Mrs. Cromwell would never hurt me. And O’Brien’s gun is empty. I released the clip.”

“Not true,” O’Brien said. “I always keep one in the chamber, just in case of something like this.”

Mrs. Cromwell sucked her cigarette down to ash, then let the smoke out as she spoke, “You shoot Jack. You no have bullets. I shoot you. Zugzwang! Nobody wins.”

O’Brien tried a different tactic. “Rosa, give me the bullets. Now.”

Mrs. Cromwell was on top of that instantly. “No. You no give her bullets, or I shoot you, then Jack.”

“Well then,” I said. “It looks like we’re at an impasse.”

Gaston dramatically flopped onto his back in the center of us, kicking his feet into the air. For the next minute, nobody said a word. O’Brien was being smart. All she had to do was nothing. Run down the clock. Eventually, someone would come looking for her. If there was going to be any positive outcome for us, I needed to come up with a plan. And fast.

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Yes?” asked Mrs. Cromwell.

“Let’s be honest, none of us knows for sure who’s bluffing and who’s really capable of pulling that trigger. But what if there was a way to take the uncertainty out of the equation while still leaving everyone leverage?”

A second passed before O’Brien loosened her grip on my throat and said, “I’m listening.”

“What you propose?” asked Mrs. Cromwell.

“A compromise. I say we all give our weapons to Rosa.”

“What?!” Rosa exclaimed.

O’Brien tightened her arm around my neck just a little and laughed, “How’s that supposed to work?”

“It’s simple! Rosa gets the weapons. Nobody gets shot. We leave the radio. You give us a five-minute head start. Everyone lives to see another battle. Right? Sound good?”

The dangling ash column fell from the end of the yellow butt Mrs. Cromwell had clenched between her teeth. She didn’t move a muscle. I could feel O’Brien’s pulse through her arm. It was alarmingly steady. Rosa bounced her eyes between the three of us.

“Should we put it to a vote?” I asked.

Mrs. Cromwell gave her answer in the form of the slightest nod possible. O’Brien loosened her grip again. “Sure,” she said.

“Okay, cool. Majority wins. And we all promise to follow the outcome of the vote, no matter what it is, right? Nobody’s going to back out and say the results were unfair or something. Right?”

Silence. I realized I was overcomplicating things. I plowed ahead.

“Okay, everyone who thinks I should be the one to get the guns, say, ‘Aye.’”

Nobody spoke up.

“Fair enough. I had to try, though. Now, everyone who thinks we should give all the guns to Rosa, say ‘Aye.’”

Rosa was the first. “Aye.”

I was next. “Aye.”

A second passed before Mrs. Cromwell went. “Aye.”

I put my hand onto O’Brien’s arm and gently pulled it away from my neck, saying, “Well, that’s a majority.” I put my finger against the pistol and slowly pushed it away from my head. “And you agreed to the rules.” I took a step away and turned to face her. She looked uncertain.

“Well then,” she said. “Let’s make it unanimous then. Aye. Cromwell, you go first.”

Mrs. Cromwell spat back, “No, you first!”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Rosa exclaimed, walking over and taking O’Brien’s gun, then Mrs. Cromwell’s.

“Watch that trigger,” I warned.

“Make sure the safety’s on,” O’Brien added.

Rosa swung the guns around in a way that made everyone else jump as she yelled, “I know what I’m doing!”

I left O’Brien’s radio on the picnic table and grabbed Gaston, then our shoes. On the way out the door, I shouted, “Now remember, you agreed to a five-minute head start. Don’t get any bright ideas like calling for backup the moment we close the door.”

“I would never even dream of that,” she lied.

Before the door closed behind us, Rosa yelled, “Bye, Mrs. Cromwell. It was nice meeting you! Thank you so much for dinner! And if anyone tries to follow me, I’ll kill us all.” She pointed both guns at the sky and imitated shooting, “Pew, pew, pew!”

Gaston let out a parting arp.

The door closed.

And we ran for the parking lot.[31]

30
Can confirm. [«]

31
Man, that all sounds wild. Meanwhile, back in lockup, I was busy organizing a lovely wedding ceremony for the dolls I made out of toilet paper. So, I guess we were both having exciting evenings. [«]

Chapter Twenty-Four

As far as getaway vehicles go, the Cromwells’ 1968 Roadrunner was less conspicuous than a stolen hearse, but not by much. Rosa, being the only one of the three of us who could operate a manual transmission, was behind the steering wheel while I sat in the passenger seat and Gaston stood in my lap with his head out the window. The sun set and night took over as we drove in giant circles, trying to figure out our next move.

I couldn’t know for sure if O’Brien really had a bullet in that gun she was holding against my head. I would have checked, but somewhere between getting Gaston to stay put and dividing up our shoes, somebody forgot the pistol on the roof of the car. By the time we realized our mistake a couple miles down the road, it was too late.

“What if we left town?” Rosa offered.

“O’Brien’s too smart for that. She’ll have people watching all of the roads out of here.”

“What if we went back to my place?”

“That’s the first place O’Brien would look.”

“I’d say we could call my brothers for help, but I’m pretty sure my whole family wants to kick your ass.”

“Understandable. Regardless, O’Brien’s probably going to be keeping tabs on them, too.”

“Then we’re out of ideas. Unless you can think of some place O’Brien won’t expect.” A moment passed before Rosa asked, “Do you have any family around here?”

I did. But we weren’t that desperate.

“I do have one idea,” I said. “I know a place guaranteed to be empty. There may even be more weapons for us to use. And best of all, O’Brien would never think to look for us there.”

We parked on the side of the road up the street and walked the rest of the way to our destination. So as to not look out of place, I let Rosa carry the dog while I carried the shotgun. The house was blocked off by a single line of police tape. We ducked it and walked up the driveway to Travis’s house. Technically, it wasn’t breaking and entering because somebody else had already kicked the door in long before we arrived.

We searched the house, room by room, to make sure it was empty. In the span of two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen, I counted six deer heads, ten water bottles half-filled with tobacco spit, and a dozen different guns. But no signs of people—or anything else that might want to kill us. We were alone.

It didn’t take long for Rosa to fall asleep on the couch. Given all she’d been through, I couldn’t blame her. If it were an option, I would have slept, too. Instead, I went into the kitchen to find something to eat. I’d missed my chance for a sandwich earlier, and I’d reached that dangerous point of literal starvation where I wasn’t even hungry anymore.

I searched the pantry first, but found nothing but sugar, flour, hot sauce, a couple of rifles, and a jar of peanut butter that smelled like it had gone bad. The refrigerator wasn’t much better: ketchup, beer, ranch dressing, a couple of pistols, and a ton of raw ground venison. With a heavy heart, I dug a plastic spoon out of the drawer by the sink and settled into the seat below the kitchen deer to eat an entire jar of peanut butter. It was pretty gross. But calories are calories. And that weird, burnt aftertaste was probably nothing. I was halfway through the jar when Gaston waddled over to me and whimpered. I spread a small amount of peanut butter onto my finger and let the pup lick it off. That’s when I began to wonder if this food wasn’t meant for human consumption. Travis did have a couple of dogs, didn’t he? Hang on, where are Travis’s dogs?

Thump, thump, thump… I looked down to see what Gaston was banging into, but he wasn’t moving. He’d somehow already fallen asleep in a donut shape next to my foot. That noise was coming from somewhere else. I thought I might have been imagining it until a voice next to me asked, “You hear that, too?”

I looked up to see Spencer Fucking Middleton leaning against the wall.

“Oh, come on! You really can’t let me have one minute of peace and quiet?”

Spencer snatched the jar of peanut butter out of my hand. “What did you do to deserve either?”

“Dammit, Spencer. I’m in no mood for your riddles. Why are you here?”

“I go where you take me. Where else would I be?”

“In hell, I’d imagine.”

Spencer straightened up, tossed the jar onto the carpeted floor of the adjacent living room, and said, “We’re wasting time. Come on.”

“Come on where?”

“Don’t you want to know what that noise is? Knowledge is power. Ignorance will kill you.”

“It’s probably just a neighbor playing their music too loudly.”

“Maybe. I know you’re willing to risk your life on that gamble. Are you willing to risk hers, too?” Spencer looked towards the living room where Rosa slumbered.

“Alright, fine. Let’s go check it out. Nothing bad ever came from splitting the party to investigate the source of a mysterious noise.” I grabbed the shotgun and stood up. “Which way?” That’s when I realized that Spencer was nowhere to be found.

I went looking for him in Travis’s bedroom. There was an unmade twin mattress on a DIY milk crate bed stand in the corner. A chest of drawers against the wall. A couple of disembodied deer heads keeping watch. Nowhere for anyone to hide. Except, maybe, the closet. I crossed the room, stepping over the yellow evidence markers and avoiding the brown splotches on the carpet. As I got closer, I couldn’t help but notice that the rhythmic thumping was growing louder. It didn’t sound like anything, but it almost felt like music. I raised the gun, put my finger against the trigger, and pulled the closet door open.

It was a decent-sized walk-in that doubled as a storage room. Travis’s wardrobe was almost completely camo-based. There was another deer head in here—smaller than the others—sitting on the ground. Stuffed into storage next to the hunting boots like he’d been removed from some place of prominence once a bigger deer came along. There was also a compound bow, a crate of ammo, and another hunting rifle, but nothing else of interest in here. I would have walked away assuming I’d seen everything if Spencer weren’t suddenly standing behind me, blocking the path.

I reacted with a jump and a “Jesus!”

“You missed something.”

“I almost shot you.”

“Go back and look again.”

“I don’t work for you.”

Spencer grabbed my shoulder and forcibly turned me around, then pushed me back into the closet. “What is it?” I asked, scanning the room for clues. “What am I supposed to find in here?”

Then, I noticed it. Behind the small deer head. An electrical outlet. Not too strange. A thick, orange cable plugged into it. A little strange. The cable running to the base of the wall, and then into what looked like a hole for a cartoon mouse. Strange. Very strange.

“What exactly am I looking at?”

I wasn’t expecting the voice that responded. “Who are you talking to?”

I spun around to see Rosa standing there in the doorway. Spencer had, once again, vanished just in time to make me look like a crazy person. Rosa yawned and wiped the sleep out of her eyes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just looking around.”

“Why?”

“I honestly don’t know.” I let out a yawn of my own. (Those things really are contagious.)

Rosa cocked her head to the side once she saw what I was looking at. “What’s that?”

“Mysterious extension cord fed through a hole in the wall.”

Rosa snickered and jokingly suggested, “It probably leads to his secret doomsday bunker or something.” A second later, the smile left her face. We both had the same idea at the same time. “Oh my God,” she said.

I finished her thought:

“This cable totally leads to Travis’s secret doomsday bunker.”

Tracking down Travis’s secret doomsday bunker was much easier than one might expect. I found a hammer in a box under the bathroom sink, then smashed a bunch of holes into his walls, following the bright orange extension cable where it spanned throughout the house. We lost it for a while when it went into the attic, but a few more random holes later, we found it again, running through the kitchen. Eventually, we discovered the point where it left the house near the back patio before snaking into an exposed PVC pipe protruding a few inches from the ground.

At a glance, the pipe could have passed for some kind of drainage tube, but the illusion wasn’t strong enough to cover the sound of country music or the stench of bad weed rising out from it. Standing a few feet away was Travis’s above-ground pool, a blue tarp thrown over the top. Below the tarp, we found no water—just rusty corrugated metal that hummed with every twangy beat of the latest country-pop ballad being played somewhere below ground. Whoever put up the police tape must have been in a hurry, because this secret bunker entrance was so obvious, I was embarrassed on Travis’s behalf.

I left Rosa with the gun and instructions to shoot anything that looked like a monster, then I climbed over the edge of the pool. The metal sagged beneath every step, the sounds reverberating underfoot as I walked over to where the music was loudest, then pulled up the strip of metal below me, releasing a wave of warm air and skunk aroma that blasted me in the face. There was a steep slope of earth leading downwards in the direction of the house. A dirt tunnel wide enough to walk down. And at the end of it, laying there on a cot with his eyes closed, was Travis.

The hole he’d dug under his yard was surprisingly spacious. He’d carved out a literal man-cave down here, roomier than the jail cell I’d shared with two other people. I saw a table and chair, a stereo system, a bucket, and a stack of canned goods and bottled waters taking up an entire wall from floor to ceiling. He had decorated, too: a fancy shag carpet in need of a good vacuuming, a mannequin dressed in a polka-dot bikini, and a deer head mounted above his sleeping cot between a dirty American flag and a poster of a scantily clad model with ‘80s hair. On the floor by his side, Travis’s two hunting dogs—a beagle and chihuahua—were curled up in sleep mode.

I cleared my throat. Travis’s eyes popped open. He pulled his hand out from below his pillow. By the time I saw the gun pointed at my head, he’d already fired.

Even over the ringing in my ears, I could hear his dogs going wild. I jumped right into action. I turned. I ran. I hit the side of the pool and forgot to climb over, but it was okay because the force of my weight in retreat was enough to collapse the wall. I tumbled onto the ground, spun onto my back, and began frantically crab-crawling away.

Rosa was waving the shotgun in the air and yelling, “What?! What is it?! What’s happening?! Is it a monster?! Are we fighting a monster?!”

The beagle and chihuahua launched out of the bunker hole, jumped over the crumpled piece of pool wall, and came at me teeth first. Gaston, as brave as he was stupid, zoomed at them, arping like a maniac. The attack dogs altered their course like pinballs, running away from us at full speed and disappearing through a hole in the fence. Gaston wagged his tail triumphantly, then waddled back to us with a smug look on his face.

A moment later, Travis emerged from his hiding place. He now had two guns, one for each hand. Two guns too many for me to feel okay. He looked around, took in the situation, then stared down at me.

“Jack?” he asked, like it was some kind of question.

“Hey, Travis.”

“Shit. Did I get you?”

I gave myself a once over, ran my hand through my hair and wiggled my fingers. When I’d determined that there weren’t any fresh bullet wounds to worry about, I said, “No. I think I’m good.”

Rosa announced her presence impatiently. “Hi, Travis.”

He turned to her. “Damn, Rosa! That twelve gauge is bigger ‘n you are! Better hand it over ‘fore you Dick Cheney one of us.”

He stepped towards her. She lifted the gun. He stopped.

“Jack?” she asked.

“It’s okay,” I answered. “It’s not a monster. It’s just Travis.” While neither of those statements were technically true, it was hardly worth getting caught up in the minutiae with so many other things to worry about.

Rosa lowered the barrel of her weapon towards the ground. Travis responded in kind by stuffing his own guns into his pants. “Y’all here alone?” he asked.

“For now,” I said, standing up and dusting myself off. “And we’d kinda like to keep it that way.”

Travis stepped over the collapsed side of the pool, looked around, and asked, “Where’d my hounds go?”

Rosa answered, “They ran away.”

Travis kicked the dirt. “They always act like this when they smoke too much. I tell you what. Makes ‘em paranoid. They’ll be back once they sober up. Meantime, I suggest we get inside the house ‘fore one of y’all gets Skeeter-bit.”

I stood up, but the world around me felt weird. There was a noticeable lag between my consciousness and body. And that beating in my ears wasn’t coming from the music underground. Was that my heartbeat? Something felt wrong… How much blood did I lose, anyway?

I’d barely gotten the door shut behind us before Travis began screaming, “AWW SHIT! LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY WALLS! Why would they do this? What were they lookin’ for?”

“Who do you think did this?” I asked. “Why were you underground? Who were you hiding from?”

Travis, now worked up, began talking at a million miles an hour, “A’ight, so here’s what happened. There we was down there at the jay-dubby tar far on Lickskillet shootin’ shoes and suckin’ booze when outta nowhere we hear a V-10 and whatcha know ‘bout them clowns comin’ out lookin’ sketchier’n a straight crawfish? Yeah, we’ve tied off two or three by that point so I don’t think nothin’ ‘bout it ‘till the skull poppin’ starts. ‘Fore I know it, they got Oroboro on the ground and Pip’s hittin’ off twenty-twos and me and ol’ Dickory went ass up to his Camino.” He stopped for a breath and a beer, twisted the top off a cold one, and drained it in one go.

Rosa took the opportunity to say, “I didn’t understand any of that.”

Travis was excited. In the same way some people revert to their native tongue during moments of extreme emotional distress, Travis had gone full redneck. Fortunately, I’d been immersed in the language long enough to be able to translate.

“He’s saying he and Dickory et al. were at the annual Jehovah’s Witness tire fire on Lickskillet Road, drinking alcohol and playing horseshoes, when an unfamiliar truck pulled up and the clown monsters started attacking people.”

Travis put the empty beer bottle on the counter next to him and exclaimed, “That’s exactly what I said!”

I continued, “Someone named Oroboro-”

Travis interjected, “(We call him that ‘cause he’s always chasing tail.)”

“-got knocked down by the clowns. Someone by the name of Pip-”

“(We call him that ‘cause he’s always on the ball.)”

“-started shooting. Then, Travis and Dickory ran away.”

Travis didn’t seem too keen on my final interpretation. “What!? Hell naw! We didn’t ‘run away’! We ain’t no cowards! Pip’s twenty-twos weren’t doin’ shit, so we went to Dickory’s El Camino cause that’s where he keeps his good guns. I tell you what, we unloaded about a hundred rounds into those things point blank. They didn’t give a fuck—not a single fuck. I ran out of ammo. I’ve never run out of ammo before in my life! Do you know this?! All I could do was watch those things rip poor Pip apart.” Travis pulled a second beer out of the fridge, opened it, toasted to the sky and said, “This’n’s for you, Pip.” He poured the first sip onto the ground, then swallowed the rest.

Rosa still seemed confused. “How did you end up in a hole in the backyard?”

“Well, Dickory and me drove back to my place on account of how I got better guns.” (Pointless flex, but okay Travis.) “Then, while we’re getting’ loaded up, them sumbitches kick in my door. Now, I’m a red-blooded American. I don’t have to tell you what happened next.”

I ventured a guess. “I imagine you and Dickory shot the intruders a lot.”

“Shit yeah we did,” he said with a big grin and a high-pitched giggle. “A whole lot!”

“Then what happened?” Rosa asked.

His smile faded. “Well… It didn’t work. I don’t get it. They didn’t act bothered at all. I tried to stop Dickory, but he went running into the back of the house. Them clowns followed him. And I got responsibilities ‘cause—as you know—I’m a dog dad. So I grab Skeeter and Skooter and the three of us went into the backyard where I’d been workin’ on a prepper hole for when the liberals come for our guns.”

“And you’ve just been hiding out down there ever since?” I asked.

“Well, I got enough rations to last a year. I figured, better safe than sorry. Oh, shit, where are my manners? Did either of y’all want a beer?”

We both shook our heads. When I did it, though, the world continued to shake after I stopped. I was unusually dizzy. There was sound building up inside my ears. My focus went inward. What the heck is going on? I needed to sit down for a second.

“Suit yourselves.” Travis went back into the refrigerator for drink number three.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” I started, “but things have gotten crazier since you were attacked. It would appear as if the clowns are going around killing anyone who might be-” I stopped. How much did Travis already know?

He popped the top of his beer and finished the thought. “-a mutant?”

“Huh?” I asked.

“We figured it out. I know what’s really going on.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. See, some of us were granted super-powers by the government as part of an experiment to alter our genes. But they weren’t expecting us to realize it. Now we’re too strong, so they’re sending super-soldier assassins to try and kill us before we go public with what we know. I think the French are involved. I don’t know why. I just got a feeling.”

I was truly impressed by how close he got to the truth while simultaneously being wrong about every single thing.

Rosa handed me the shotgun so she could grab Gaston, who was having some issues. He walked towards the puddle of beer, but somehow tripped over his own face, which was something I’d never thought possible before now.

“What the hell’s wrong with your boy?” Travis asked.

“I don’t know,” Rosa said. “He’s a bit dopey, but this is different.”

Travis rushed past me. Something in the living room had caught his attention. While Rosa gently rocked the pup, Travis picked the jar up off the floor and said, “Oh SHIT! Your dog got into my weenut butter!”

I fell down.

“What’s weenut butter?” Rosa asked.

Suddenly, I felt very relaxed. Very tired. Like I could probably sleep all the way until Karen got here and killed us all.

Chapter Twenty-Five

This isn’t for me. I’m not supposed to hear this.

I wake up with a cold pain in the pit of my stomach as loud wind and rain rattle the windows. Shadows of tree branches dance across the bedroom wall. I feel sick. Something is wrong here. I know that something is very wrong - inside of me - but I don’t understand. There are voices in the dark room, whispering loudly. I try to focus, but I can’t make them out. I can’t understand what they are saying. The words are shapeless and messy. The harder I try to focus, the more distant the voices become. In my heart I know the truth-

This isn’t for me. I’m not supposed to hear this.

I call out to my brothers. Their bunk bed is on the other side of the room, but they don’t answer. Are they playing a trick on me? Is it their voices I’m hearing? No, it can’t be that-

The words-

The less I pay attention-

The louder they become-

Closer. Louder. Closer. They’re right upon me now.

I fall out of bed.

“Zac! Gabe!” I’m nearly shouting now. “Can you hear me?”

The voices form into something tangible, a cloud of static that pricks my skin like sand in a windstorm. They’re in my ears now. In my head. Those alien words aren’t from any of the languages I know. Why can’t my brothers hear me? How are they sleeping through this?

I run out of the room.

The hallway. It’s cold here, but the voices don’t follow. I’ve escaped. My stomach lurches and I run to the bathroom. I fall to my knees just in time to heave into the toilet. It hurts, and I forget to pull back my hair. Locks hang in front of me, wet from the dirty water of the toilet bowl. It’s too much. I can’t help but cry. I flush the toilet and try to clean my hair in the sink.

I see my reflection, and it makes me jump.

Those aren’t my eyes. There’s someone else’s face on top of mine. There’s black smoke hovering over me, and I can hear the voices coming from inside. Their whispers are frantic, sinister, and chaotic.

I leave the bathroom and run up the hallway to my parents’ room. They’ll know what to do. They always know what to do.

Daddy? - What is it, Pumpkin? - I threw up. - Oh, Sweetheart, that’s terrible.

What is it? - It’s your daughter. She’s sick. - Turn on the lights. Honey, what’s wrong?

WHAT IS THAT! - WHAT’S HAPPENING?! - ROSA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! HOW ARE YOU…? - OH MY GOD! SHE’S FLOATING!

The looks on my parents’ faces for that brief moment teach me a lesson I’ll never forget. Adults don’t always have all the answers.

I wake up, and the world spins. I’m in my living room, on the couch, my head in my mother’s lap. My father is in the kitchen nearby, talking to Father Dave from church. My brothers are awake in their pajamas, sitting at the bar. There are others, too. Strangers in our house, talking to one another, taking pictures. They’re looking for something - or someone. It’s nighttime, and I am very, very cold.

I try to move, but my mother puts her hand on my shoulder and instructs me to stay still. If she hadn’t stopped me, the pain certainly would have. My hands hurt. A hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. There are bandages on me, from wrists to fingers.

Moments pass, and then my parents are on either side of me. We walk to the front door. They tell me that everything is going to be okay. Just keep walking. And whatever you do, don’t look up.

Keep your head facing forward.

Keep your eyes straight ahead.

Don’t look up. Do you understand? Don’t look up.

I spend a whole day in the hospital. I get my own room. It’s quiet. Not like the place we went when Zak broke his arm. They say it’s a ministry hospital. When it’s time to leave, they tell me we can’t go back home. The church sets us up with a new place to live until the adults can figure something out. They tell me that if anyone asks, I got these scars when I was attacked by a dog. They tell me there’s nothing to worry about now. They tell me I’m special. They tell me a lot of things, but they’ll never tell me the truth.

But I’m a smart girl. And I listen when they talk about me. I hear voices I’m not supposed to hear. From other rooms. From further away. In brazen moments, even in my presence, like they think I won’t pick up on what they’re saying. I’m just a child, after all. This isn’t for me. I’m not supposed to hear this.

I hold my tongue, but I want to say to them that they’re wrong. I want to tell them that this isn’t what they think it is. It isn’t stigmata. It isn’t grace. What happened to me that night didn’t choose me as an honor. It was cold. It was destructive. It was evil. And they’d been deceived because, like me, they didn’t understand the language it was speaking. They couldn’t read the message that I had somehow written on the ceiling in my own blood.

By the time it happens again, I’ve nearly forgotten that night entirely. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a young woman now, about to start my first year of high school.

Dad has a new job at the company. He’s making a lot more money as a boss. He and Mom have discussed it. They want to send me to Sheckley Academy, the best private school in the area. I’ve got the grades. I’ve got the work ethic. They say if I get the right education, it will open doors. I can go to college. I can get a great job. I won’t have to live poor and struggle the way they did. I don’t want to move schools, but I can’t disappoint them.

I make friends. I get along well. I study hard. Weeks pass. There’s a big test coming up and I want to do well. While the other students are eating lunch, I take my books to the school library to study in silence. But I’m not alone. I hear voices.

Hello?

There’s two of them talking to one another. The girl sounds irritated. I sense trouble. I leave my books at the table and follow the sounds, zeroing in on the corner where two older students, upperclassmen, are secreted away.

My dealer just doubled his prices. Supply is limited. I’m going to have to start charging you. - Oh come on, Chad. How about I just let you squeeze my tits? - For the whole bag? I’m gonna need a lot more than boob play. - Ugh. Whatever. Let’s make it quick.

It’s Chad and Angelica. He’s a senior, the kind of guy destined to become a senator or a dirty cop. She’s a cheerleader, the kind of girl who already has her Live Love Laugh wall decorations picked out for her Target wedding registry. My instincts say stay away. This isn’t for me. I’m not supposed to hear this.

When I turn to sneak back to my table, my elbow catches a book on the edge of a shelf. I try to catch it before it slams onto the floor, but I’m too slow.

Hey! Who’s there?

I try to hide.

Ugh! That little perv was spying on us!
Chad, do something! - Don’t worry Babe, I’ll take care of it. Hey Frosh, come over here.

They’re on top of me now. He makes a fist.

What are you doing in the library? – Nothing. I mean, library things. What did you hear? – I didn’t hear anything… - If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you know who my dad is? If you try to say anything, I’ll have you kicked out! Comprendo?

He’s so close, I can smell his aftershave. What kind of high schooler wears aftershave? I tell him I have to go. He grabs me. Hard. I push him away and scream:

Let go of me, asshole!

I can’t believe I said that. I’ve never cursed before. It just came out of nowhere. And now he’s screaming back at me, and I don’t know what to say. A librarian shows up to see what the commotion is all about. The air is sucked out of the room once she sees the bag on the floor between us. Is that what I think it is? I have no idea what it is, but the way Chad goes white in the face tells me he does, and it isn’t good. The next thing I know, I’m sitting in the principal’s office with Chad and Angelica. He tells us to explain what happened. Chad goes first. His story is very different from mine.

Me and Angie were studying when this Frosh comes up and starts flirting. She says she wants to be the meat in a Chadgelica sandwich.

What?! No I didn’t! I’d never-

The principal tells me to be quiet and wait my turn. Chad goes on.

Frosh tells me she’ll give me some drugs she got from her dad. I told her I’m not into that stuff, but then she goes hysterical. Starts hitting me in the face. I want that in her record.

Oh, the principal says. She’s one of those types, huh?

He asks Angelica if this is true. She lies. I don’t know why I would have ever expected anything different.

It’s my turn to tell what happened, but the principal won’t let me talk. He tells me not to interrupt him. He tells me that Chad is a good kid. What I did to him is inexcusable. It’s called sexual harassment. He won’t have me bringing my public-school antics into his building.

Wait, but that’s not what happened! I didn’t-

Don’t interrupt me, young lady. You should know you’re in deep trouble. Chad has a sneering grin. I hate him so much! I have a responsibility to keep my students safe. I hear something far away. Like whispers calling from a dream. The whispers grow louder. I feel dizzy. I’m afraid you’ve left me with no choice.

What are you saying?

You are no longer a student at Sheckley Academy.

This isn’t right! It’s not fair! Angelica, please, tell him what happened! I can’t leave. Mom and Dad did so much so I could go here.

Angelica narrows her eyes. You should have thought of that before you brought drugs into our school.

I’m shaking so hard! I’m so angry! I can’t breathe. The voices are loud now, screaming in my ears. They want to be let in…

…I wake up with a flashlight in my eye. Voices all around me. I try to stand, but they stop me. Who are they? What happened? Where am I? Everything comes into focus. The room looks like a bomb went off. Broken glass and blood all around me. Cops and EMT’s. Someone asks me what my name is. I can see a man’s shoe sticking out from beneath one of the sheets covering the two figures on the floor. Angelica is on the other side of the room. There’s a bandage wrapped around her head, a deep crimson stain covering the spot where her left eye would be.

The EMT turns and says something to his partner. That’s when I notice her. Beautiful. With long, red hair. She crosses the room, but nobody else seems to notice her. She crouches down next to my side and takes my hand in hers.

“Rosa,” she says. “I am so sorry this happened to you. It’s not your fault.”

I ask who she is, but she doesn’t say. She only says, “I need you to find someone for me. He’ll be able to help.” I can’t exactly remember what she says next, but it does make me feel better.

Angelica and I make eye contact. When she sees that I’m awake, she screams and runs for the door.

I’m seventeen years old now, and I don’t bother making friends anymore. It’s a waste of time and emotional energy. I know that getting close only makes the inevitable goodbye that much harder. We used to move around a lot, but all that changed after Dad’s accident. Now we’re staying in his old hometown. His family has been very generous. But I’m not doing so great. The nightmares and blackouts have been happening way more frequently ever since the funeral.

Dad’s brother says he can help. Like the rest of Dad’s family, he’s superstitious. He says there are evil spirits in me that need to be cast out, and that’s the source of all my problems. Really? I thought my problems were coming from losing my father and being forced to change cities all over again. But yeah, sure, evil spirits.

At first, I think he’s joking about the exorcism. But Uncle Aldo is dead serious. When I tell Mom what he said, she tells me I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. But Nana says if I don’t go along with it, then I’m turning my back on the family. I’m annoyed, but I say yes.

I know it’s total bull crap. There’s no such thing as demons. I have fits. They should be talking to doctors about it. Instead, they’ve rented out a church and hired a professional devil-buster off Craigslist - the only website with an actual serial killer named in its honor. Real smart, Uncle Aldo. Whatever. Once this is over with, maybe everyone will stop bringing it up. Heck, if I’m lucky it might even be cathartic. Gabriel and Isaac offer to come along for moral support, but I tell them to stay away. I’ll be fine, and I don’t want to risk one of them filming it. I can’t think of anything more humiliating.

Dad’s brothers and cousins are all here, like this is some kind of grotesque reunion. But no one will talk to me. Nobody even wants to make eye contact. Maybe we’ll all go out to eat together after this. If they’d asked me, I’d have said to make it a potluck exorcism. It’s too good of an idea, really. There could be theme-food. Deviled eggs. Deviled ham. Maybe devil’s food cake? Considering how superstitious this lot is, I doubt they would have found it funny. Probably for the best they didn’t ask my opinion.

The man arrives. I guess we’re about to get things started. Should I take a seat? Do you guys mind if I do a little reading while you’re exorcising my demons?

Suddenly, Uncle Aldo grabs me. I’m thrown hard onto the ground and bang my head.

HEY! What are you doing?!

One of the cousins grabs my wrists and pins them in place. I try to yell that they’re hurting me, but Uncle Aldo puts his hand over my mouth. His knee is on my stomach. I want to throw up. Why is this happening? They’re hurting me! They’re actually hurting me! I came here voluntarily! What the frick! Ropes are being tied around my wrists. I struggle to move. To see if the others will do something. Why aren’t they helping me? How can they just stand there and watch?! The exorcist is screaming at me. He’s calling me nasty names, commanding me to be silent. I AM silent, jackass! There’s a grown man on top of me with his hand over my mouth, how much more silent do you need?!

He’s screaming at the ceiling. At my family. Oh, he’s really working the crowd now! These gullible idiots are practically frothing at the mouths. I guess he’s giving them their money’s worth, but when I get out of this, I’m going to sue. I don’t give a damn if they’re family! I’m done with each and every one of them!

And then he hits me. He’s pummeling me in the torso with a bible. Oh my God, this lunatic is going to kill me if I don’t get out of here! I struggle. I squirm. I manage to crane my neck until Uncle Aldo’s finger slips past my teeth. I don’t even think - I bite as hard as I can. I bite until my mouth is full of blood. The exorcist drops to his knees and punches me in the face.

I see red.

I catch a glimpse of something.

I hear the screams.

Do not worry, little girl. We will take over from here.

I feel the soothing warmth as blood washes over me. The pieces of the exorcist fall down on everyone like rain. Uncle Aldo is making a run for the door, but he won’t make it. Something gets to him first, picks him up by the ankle, and flings him through a wall. He’ll never walk, never speak, never hurt me ever again. He’s not dead, but he’s going to wish he were.

I close my eyes and fall asleep to screams. To voices.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I opened my eyes and waited for my bearings to come back to me. The room was quiet, save for Travis and Rosa, sitting on the couch nearby. Somehow, I made it into the recliner. I tuned into their conversation just in time to hear Rosa ask, “What do you know about the end of the world?”

“Only what it says in the good book. We ain’t gonna be around for it.”

“Actually,” I said. They both turned to face me. “I think some of the details of Revelations might have gotten lost in translation.”

“Are you alright?” Rosa asked.

“Yeah, I just had a weird dream.”

Travis leaned forward and said, “I’m not surprised. I’m just impressed you ain’t fucked out of your mind right now. Do you know how much THC oil you ate? The fact that you ain’t a drooling zombie right now is nothing short of a medical marvel.”

I stretched and wiggled my fingers. “And yet, I feel fine.” That wasn’t entirely true. That bizarre Rosa dream had left me gutted on the inside. I still felt the lingering pain of powerlessness, anger, and other emotions that probably don’t have a corresponding word.

“Damn,” Travis said to Rosa. “This boy can handle his weenut butter. Now what was that you were saying about the end of the world?”

“It’s supposed to happen on Friday,” she said.

“Aw, fuck!” Travis exclaimed. “Are y’all sure?”

“Pretty sure,” I answered.

“Well, what’s it gonna be? Asteroid? Solar flare? Demon?”

“Demon,” I said.

“Well shoot, that ain’t no biggie. We can kill a demon. All you need is some holy water and the word of God. My cousin Peewee killed a demon last summer in Cocoa Beach, and that dude’s an idiot.”

“This isn’t your standard demon. It’s a super mega otherworldly demon capable of burning the entire planet from space.”

Rosa added, “We’re calling it ‘Karen.’”

Travis drank his beer and mulled it over. “Well, if what you say is true, we’re going to need a lot more guns.”

“I do not think that’s accurate,” I added. He didn’t seem to notice.

“We’ve only got a couple days left. That means there’s no more time to wake up the sheep. Now it’s time to wake the other lions.”

Rosa tried to hide her laugh with a fake cough. Again, Travis didn’t seem to notice.

“First things first. We’re putting together a crew of fighters. We’ll start with Dickory.”

“Ohhh,” I said.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Dickory died. The clowns smashed his head in. In your bedroom.”

“Aw, dammit! That’s where I sleep! Did the cops at least clean it up?”

“Not really.”

Rosa quickly interjected, “Sorry for your loss.”

“Arp!” Gaston arped.

“Okay then, we’ll bring out the big guns. Where’s Jerry[32]?”

“Ohhh,” I said.

“What?”

“He’s still in jail for pretending to sell drugs.”

“Shit! Okay, what about that new guy at the gas station? He’s an absolute unit. I bet we could train him how to fight.”

“Benji? He’s, uh, whereabouts unknown.”

“Damn. Well, I know you and he have some history, but now we’re facing a common enemy, so I need y’all to work through it. We need a soldier. We need Leon.”

It took me a second to realize he was referring to old Whitebeard. I shook my head. “He’s also out of commission.”

Travis released a primal grunt.

“Farmer Stan?”

“Dragged into the Fire Realm by a demon.”

“Oroboro?”

“Didn’t survive the massacre on Lickskillet Road.”

“Hickory? Dock?”

“Both very dead.”

“How about Miller?”

“I would rather die.”

Another annoyed grunt. Then, he started for the front door. “Alright then,” he said unpleasantly. “Come on, sheep. You’ll have to do.”

Rosa beat me to the question. “Have to do what?”

“We’re going to be a three-man army. Oh, excuse me, three-people army.”

“Thank you,” said Rosa.

“First, we figure out who’s in charge of the supersoldiers. Then, we kill him. Oh, excuse me. Him-or her.” He pointedly looked at Rosa.

“Thank you?” she said, a little less enthusiastically.

“Next, we focus on how we’re going to kill Karen and save the world. Any questions?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Lots.”

“I’m gonna make it real simple. All we need to do-” He froze mid-sentence and made a face like a doctor just unexpectedly put a finger inside him.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Y’all don’t hear that?”

The only thing I could hear was a loud ringing in my ears. I shook my head. Rosa did the same. Travis lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’d know that sound anywhere. That there’s a V-10 idling... They’re back!” He pulled out one of his pants guns and pointed it at the door as he backed away. Outside, a vehicle door slammed shut. “Y’all get ready. They found us again.”

I tried to take control of the situation before Travis went all guns-a-blazing. “Calm down. It could be anything. For all we know, it’s just the mailman.”

Travis corrected me. “You mean the mail-person. Right, Rosa?”

She scrunched up her face. “You don’t have to keep doing that.”

“What?” he asked defensively. “I’m just trying to be an ally.” He threw up a fist, and said, “Girl power!”

I doubt we would have had the time to unpack that even if the door hadn’t immediately slammed open hard enough to disconnect at the hinges and clatter loudly onto the floor. The massive hulking figures of the twins, now wielding axes, filled the open frame. Happy—the one closer to us—stepped through first, twisting the axe menacingly until the blade was facing me. Sad—right behind him—entered next. The floor creaked below their combined weight.

“WAIT!” I shouted. Amazingly, they stopped. (Truly polite monsters.) But I didn’t actually have anything ready because I didn’t expect them to give me a chance to say something. Now that I had the floor, I was going to need to improv my ass off. “Guys. Stop just a second and think about what you’re doing. You want to kill Travis, right? I get it.”

“Hey,” Travis interjected.

“But we all need to consider what’s about to happen. The end of the world is less than two days away! And all our petty squabbling isn’t helping. This is exactly what Karen wants! Why are we wasting our time fighting when we should be working together?”

Sad quickly lifted his axe over his head, but it snagged the antlers of the deer mounted over the door behind him. Rosa shoved past me and shouted, “Manus Capere!”

A gust of wind washed over us. Rosa threw her head back, extended her arms to either side, and began to float. The twins both stepped back as Travis cried out behind her, “Oh Shit Oh Holy Shit What The Shit Rosa What The Holy Shit Girl You Flyin’ You Doing Some David Blaine Criss Angel Shit Up In Here Holy Shit Jack You Seein’ This Shit?!”

A booming voice escaped her mouth. “FIIIVE MOOORE MIIINUTES!”

“What!?” I yelled back. “We need you right now.”

“But I’m sooo sleepy.”

“Well then power through it, you frog butt! We’re about to be attacked.”

“I believe in you. Good luck!”

I barely managed to drop my gun in time to catch Rosa as she fell to the ground, and by “catch Rosa,” I mean “break Rosa’s fall somewhat as she landed on top of me and knocked us both down.”

The clowns shared a brief glance at one another. Then, Travis stepped up to the plate. “My turn,” he said, pulling out his second gun. I wanted to remind him that shooting these guys was a waste of time and ammo, but he started firing first, guns akimbo, screaming something I couldn’t quite make out over the shots but sounded a lot like, “Taste my pain, bitches!”

The clowns stood there patiently, soaking up bullets until there weren’t any left. By then, Rosa had regained consciousness. “What… What happened?” she asked.

“Heck. It didn’t work,” Travis said, pointlessly.

Happy stepped forward and lifted his axe. From this distance, he could kill any one of us he wanted. Or any two of us, really. A well-executed swing might even earn him a three-for-one. We would have been completely screwed if not for Travis’s stoner dogs, who chose the most dramatic moment possible to come rocketing through the door to our rescue. The beagle leapt up and snagged a mouthful of skin around Happy’s ass. But that didn’t seem to bother him nearly as much as the tiny chihuahua nipping at his feet. Happy jumped back. The chihuahua darted maniacally between his shoes. Happy tried to stomp the little canine into oblivion but missed and left a boot hole in the floor tile.

“Get him, Skeeter!” Travis cheered. “Attagirl! Duck and weave, baby! Duck and weave!”

Rosa popped to her feet and pulled me up behind her. We ran for the back door, yanked it open, and ran outside. I froze once I realized what we were forgetting, reversed course, then ran back in to grab Travis.

Sad was trying to help and doing an amazing job failing at it. He swung his axe at Skeeter, missed by a mile, and planted the blade firmly into the bone over Happy’s ankle. The sickening wet chunk it made was almost as gross as the sound that immediately followed—an even wetter shuck as he yanked the blade free. I grabbed Travis by the arm and pulled.

“But my gals!” he yelled.

“The dogs have got this. You’re not going to help them by cheerleading. Let’s go!”

Travis turned away slowly, then ran with me into the backyard.

Rosa’s voice caught my ear. “LOOK OUT!”

As soon as I heard the warning, I dove for the ground. An axe flew over my head and crashed into the fence. Behind me, Happy stomped out of the house, Skooter the beagle violently tugging at his ass and Skeeter the chihuahua running AT-AT takedown maneuvers around his ankles. Sad caught up to his partner right as Happy stepped into the grass…

...and sank… straight down to his knee. The dogs both knew what was coming before any of the rest of us. They gave up the attack and rocketed away from the scene, zooming once again through the hole in the fence.

Happy looked down at the ground. His new stance had left him with a precarious balance, but he refused to fall over. He arched his back and moved his other foot closer for stability, but it also went straight down. The lawn swelled around them, then deflated like a popped blister. Happy started sinking further and faster as a crater formed in the earth around his body. The doomsday bunker—Travis’s mancave—was mancaving in under the weight of the monsters. Happy reached out and grabbed the only thing close enough to grab—his partner. He caught Sad by the wrist as he went down, yanking him so suddenly and unexpectedly the other clown dropped headfirst into the collapsing yard.

And then I felt the earth beneath me moving, pulling me towards the action, but panic propelled me in the opposite direction. If crawl-sprinting were an Olympic sport, I might have been a contender for the gold. It wasn’t until I finally got to my feet and turned around that I realized how close I was to being swallowed up. Half of Travis’s yard, including his entire pool, was now inside the sinkhole. The only parts of the clowns still superterranean were the bottoms of Sad’s twitching feet and the top of Happy’s head.

“Oh my God!” Rosa shouted. “Where’s Gaston?!”

Arp! Arp! Arp! The doughy little ball of wrinkles and fur ran out the back door and stopped at the edge of the circle, spinning his tail and staring right at us, as if we were the most interesting thing in the backyard, and not the thrashing clown head and boots at the bottom of the hole. Gaston hiked a leg, peed into the collapsed hollow, then pranced over to Rosa. By the time she scooped him up, the clown had already managed to free an arm. We didn’t stick around to see how long it would take for them to regroup. We just ran for the car.

Rosa pulled open the Roadrunner’s front door. Travis slipped right past into the driver’s seat. “Hang on a second,” he said, scratching the side of his head with the nose of his pistol. “Why would y’all steal a sports-car when there was a perfectly good 6.7 liter turbo-diesel available?”

I was in the backseat trying to get Gaston to stop licking my face.

“It was too obvious. The cops were looking for it.”

“But it is somewhere safe, right?”

Instead of answering, I pretended to have a coughing fit until he forgot he’d asked the question.

32
New nickname! Jerry “Big Guns” Pascal. [«]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

A hearse, a sheriff’s cruiser, and a sports-car pull up to a four-way stop at the same time. I know, it’s not exactly a funny joke, especially because there isn’t a punchline. Nobody else in the car even noticed the sheriff’s cruiser idling to our left. I rolled down my window and looked into the face of the much younger Jack from only one day earlier. He had the eyes of someone who’d seen a lot, yet he had no idea how much was left to come. I gave him a friendly wave as Travis pulled forward. The hearse passed us, and I rolled up my window. I relaxed back into my seat and thought to myself, I guess that’s finally over.

The shrill sound of Alan Jackson’s “Gone Country” jolted me awake. Gaston jumped onto my lap and began to howl in tune. Once the song stopped, Travis’s voice took its place from the driver’s seat. “Good mornin’, Jack.”

Thankfully it was not, in fact, morning yet.

“Sorry,” I said. “I think I fell asleep or something. Had another weird dream.”

Travis perked up. “You better pay attention to what your body’s tellin’ you! Dreams are important, just like pain.”

Rosa asked, “How exactly?”

“‘Cause you’d be a fool to ignore it. Dreams and pain are the languages your insides use to talk to your outsides.”

I had to give him credit. “That’s surprisingly deep.”

“Nah, you’re just high still. Everything sounds deep when you’re high.”

Mr. Jackson’s “Gone Country” filled the car again.

“What is that?” Rosa took the words out of my mouth. “Is it the radio or something?”

Travis answered, “Aw shit. Sorry, that’s me.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and inspected the caller ID. “Huh. I don’t recognize the number.”

“You have a phone?!” I yelled.

“Yeah man. Everyone has a phone. It’s the future.”

“I meant, you have a phone on you right now?”

“I haven’t used it for anything yet. Started charging it while you was passed out the first time. I got a lot of people worried about me, you know. I haven’t updated my Facebook in- Hey!”

I snatched the phone out of his hand and fell back into my seat. I was just about to chuck it out the window when I noticed the number on the screen. Travis may not have recognized it, but I did. A quick assessment of our situation led me to the conclusion that I couldn’t possibly make things any worse by answering.

“Hello?” I said.

“Jack,” O’Brien answered. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

“Well this is quite the lucky coincidence, huh?”

“Coincidence? Give me some credit. We have your cell in the crime lab, so I knew you’d have to take someone else’s to keep in touch with your accomplices. Tech alerted us once Travis’s missing phone suddenly reconnected to the network.”

“Don’t you think you might be giving away a little too much?”

“I’m doing you a favor. I’m not even supposed to be looking for you anymore. See, we found the other victims. And now the feds are involved. They’ve got a big-time criminal profiler—Doctor Berenstain. Wanna know what his theory is? He thinks the news of Sabine’s passing broke you clean from reality, and now you’re getting ready to shoot up your entire graduating class.”

“Come on. You know that I would never, ever, in a million years, go to my high school reunion.”

“This is serious, smartass. The FBI isn’t playing around. SWAT teams are posting snipers around town as we speak. They want you stopped one way or another. You need to surrender yourself. I can keep you safe, but you have to trust me.”

“I want to trust you. I really do.”

“Great. Let’s meet up.”

“First, let me ask you a question. Are you tracking my location right now using cell tower data from Travis’s phone?”

She didn’t even take a breath. “No, of course not.”

“Well, that’s the thing. Either you’re lying to me, or you’re not doing everything that needs to be done to stop an insane killer. Either way, I don’t think I’ll be turning myself in any time soon. If this is the last time I talk to you, I want you to know I’m really sorry we aren’t friends anymore.”

“Jack wait-”

I turned it off, popped off the back cover, and removed the battery. A second later, Travis asked, “Who was it?”

“Wrong number,” I said as I rolled down the window and tossed out the phone. It bounced against the road like a rock on water before skidding off into a ditch.

Travis slammed the brakes. “Hey! I’m still makin’ payments on that thing!”

Rosa calmed him down immediately, explaining the situation using her not-mad-just-disappointed voice. “The people trying to kill us tracked you down somehow. It’s obvious they have access to the cell network. Once you turned your phone back on, they came straight for us. Jack probably just saved your life.”

“Oh,” he said. He brought the car back up to speed and apologized, but I couldn’t help but feel the nagging suspicion that things weren’t as simple as we were making them. Sure, the twins might have been alerted by Travis’s phone, but someone else sent O’Brien out to the Cromwells. Someone knew where we were, even before we discovered the underground bunker. Ah well, I thought to myself. Whatever it is, I’m probably not going to figure it out until it’s too late.

Rosa unbuckled her seatbelt and turned around in her seat to face me. She still had that not-mad-but-disappointed voice. “Is this how things typically go with you? We just pick a place, wait until we get attacked, then pick another place and repeat the process over and over?”

“Generally speaking, yeah. That’s about right.”

“This is insane! We have to break the cycle!”

“Hell yeah!” cheered Travis. “One more vote for takin’ a final stand! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” He punched the roof.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” Rosa clarified, “I’m not saying we take a final stand. I’m saying we do something different. Hiding out and hoping for the best is not a valid strategy.”

“Whatchu thinkin’?” Travis asked.

She looked into my eyes. “We have a secret weapon. Why aren’t we using it?”

“What?” I asked. “You mean Gaston the hero dog?”

She crawled out of her seat, over the center console, and fell into the spot next to me. “We can drive around town until the cows come home, but somehow trouble always finds us before too long. We need to go to the one place you don’t want to go. You have to. Because that’s where the answers are.”

“Where?”

She tapped my forehead. “What’s going on? How do we fight it? How do we stop it? The answers are all in there. In the try-and-forget part of your brain you like to talk so much about. I know it’s hard, but you have to confront it.”

Travis took a turn, and all at once I realized where he was bringing us. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s the only play we have left.”

“No, it most certainly is not!”

“What?” Rosa had fallen out of the loop and was trying desperately to climb back in. “What is it?”

“Turn us around,” I commanded as we drove deeper into the green tunnel. The street went from gravel to dirt. The car bounced and bottomed out against the uneven surface of the road.

“Sorry, Jay. But you already know, if there’s anyone who can help us, it’s Miller. His place is a fortress, and he’s got all the guns we’ll ever need.”

Rosa kept trying. “Who’s Miller?”

I ignored her. “We don’t need more guns! We need to get away from here!”

Rosa, still trying, “Where is here?”

Travis ignored her. “Y’all said it yourselves. You gotta go deep and unlock the hurt memories, right? Where better to go than back where it all started?”

“I’m not bringing Rosa into that!”

Rosa let out a loud, shrill, incredible scream that hurt my ears worse than the gunshots. Travis slammed the brakes. We waited for her to finish, but the lung capacity on Angry Rosa was mind-blowing. The silence that followed was deafening. And then, like nothing ever happened, Rosa said, “Perhaps you’d like to fill me in on who this guy is that you’re so gung-ho about protecting me from?”

Travis beat me to the punch. “Miller Townsend. He’s Jack’s pappy.”

“My biological father,” I specified.

Rosa sounded confused. “But I thought your dad was dead?”

“He’s not my ‘dad,’ or my ‘pappy.’ He’s my biological father. And I’d much rather we take our chances with the clowns. Travis, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about winning. Sometimes in life, you gotta put up with a few storms in order to see the sunrise. That’s the thing about us water signs. We know that-”

“Aquarius isn’t even a water sign, dumbass!”

He adjusted the rearview mirror to look my reflection in the eyes and said, “Yeah it is. It’s got ‘aqua’ right there in the name, don’t it? I thought you was supposed to be smart.”

“Turn the car around, now!”

The Roadrunner sputtered, then went alarmingly silent.

There was a moment of silence, then Travis said, “It seems we have a poetically ironic problem.”

Rosa asked, “Did we-”

“Yup,” Travis answered. “She’s all out of gas. Looks like we only got one option left.”

It was all I could do to keep from shouting. “Going to Miller’s place is not an option!”

Rosa took my hand and squeezed—a much gentler way of getting my attention than her previous trick. “Listen,” she said softly. “As crazy as it sounds, Travis may be right. Right for the wrong reasons, but right.”

“What?” I asked.

“If there’s any truth to my theory, you’ve got answers buried inside your bad memories. Trust me, I can sympathize with traumatic events involving family members. I know what it feels like to be betrayed and hurt by someone who’s supposed to protect you.”

Travis added, “The thing is, Miller’s like your kryptonite. You gotta stand up to him. I wouldn’t whistle you no Dixie on this.”

“But,” Rosa responded, “kryptonite kills Superman.”

“Hey, it’s not a perfect metaphor.” He leaned back and held something out to me. “Clearly, you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state right now. Here, take this gun.”

I ignored the proffered weapon until Travis got the hint and turned back around in his seat. I let another moment pass while I decided whether or not to ask this next question. Surely, I was making something out of nothing. But just to be certain, “What happened to your Uncle Aldo?”

Rosa flinched. “What?”

“How did he end up in that wheelchair?”

“It’s…” She looked away. “It’s hard to talk about.”

Holy shit! Was that dream real? I shook the absurd idea out of my head.

Travis opened his door and stepped out. “Time to move,” he said. “I see eyes moving in the trees. We stay put, we may as well kill ourselves and save them the trouble.”

“Rosa,” I said, trying to hurry along my point. “You don’t know Miller. He’s not a nice guy. Whatever you think is going to happen, forget it. The only decent thing he ever taught me was how to take a punch, and I’m pretty sure that was entirely accidental.”

“It’s going to be okay,” she assured me.

“How do you know that?”

“Because if he lays one finger on you, I’ll hulk out and rip his arms off.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl.”

We pushed the car into a ditch and walked the rest of the way, Rosa carrying Gaston as he slept. The path was dark, but the stars and moon were brighter than average. Two more nights until the blood harvest moon. As we walked, Rosa went full investigative journalist. She wanted to know everything about Miller. “What did he do to make you hate him so much?”

“My earliest childhood memories are all about finding hiding places. On the days he came over to visit my mom, Miller would drink until he passed out. I’d say the booze brought out the monster, but that’s not true. If anything, the alcohol made it harder for him to find me. When I was seven, my mother handed me over to him for a weekend. I didn’t want to go, but seven-year-olds don’t get a say in these matters.

“He took me to a deer camp with his buddies. They drank like it was going out of style. Made me drink, too. Forced me to hold plates over my head while they shot them with pistols. That night, they went mud-hogging and brought me along. It took them ten minutes to realize I’d been thrown off the four-wheeler.

“When they came back around, I had a broken arm and a concussion. But Miller just laughed and told me to walk it off. When one of his friends pointed out how bad my injuries really were, Miller sat me down and told me he’d been drinking so he couldn’t bring me to a hospital. I was on my own.

“One of his friends felt sorry for me and dropped me off at the ER. Miller told me before I left that if the cops asked what happened, I had to tell them I ‘ran away from home,’ and got ‘attacked by a black guy.’ He said if I mentioned him at all, he’d kill my mom, and it would be all my fault.

“I never doubted that he might actually do it. My mother was really sick back then. He called her gross names. Said she was getting uglier every time he came to see her. A couple years passed, then my mom had to go away and get help. Around that same time, Miller packed up and joined the army as part of a deal to stay out of jail. And I went to my first foster family.

“To answer your question: I don’t hate him. I hate people. Miller’s more like a hurricane. I hate what he does. I hate the destruction he leaves in his wake. I’ve seen what he’s capable of up close, and so I take precautions to avoid him.”

Travis’s pace slowed a bit. I slowed to match him. “Shit, Jay,” he said. “I didn’t know all that.”

We came upon the driveway. Posted signs on either side warned, “Miller’s Guns - By Appointment Only” and “Trespassers will be shot.” I stopped and looked past the threats, at the end of the driveway, at the double-wide trailer. It was way smaller than I remembered.

Rosa knocked me out of my trance. “You haven’t seen your father since you were nine?”

If only that were true.

Things didn’t work out so great with the foster families. There were problems everywhere I went. I tried hard to make them like me, but one way or another, I kept ending up returned to sender. Then, at thirteen, I learned I’d found a forever home with a nice couple from out of state. They were rich, bored, and looking for someone who could pass as a biological child so they could parade him around at fundraisers. They promised a life of luxury, far away from here. But I knew I wouldn’t be happy. I knew I couldn’t leave this town. I couldn’t leave without Sabine.

And so, I called Miller. I asked him to adopt me. I promised I’d be good. I’d work for him. I’d do whatever he asked and never complain. But he told me he didn’t have the time to “take care of someone else’s kid.” So, I made another offer. I’d help him sue the state. Tell them he had no idea his boy was in state custody while he was off fighting for his country. With my deposition on record, Miller was able to take home a huge settlement check. The only hitch was that he also had to take me.

For two years, I lived in that trailer. I put up with daily abuses. A nightmare of quotidian horrors. I suffered it all because Miller’s place is only three miles from Goose Creek, and I could go and see Sabine whenever I wanted. When I turned fifteen, Miller shot a guy in a bar fight. He did a couple years upstate, I was taken in by Sid and Dianna, and the rest is pretty much history…

The only version of this I was able to come up with to answer Rosa’s question was a halfhearted, “Not exactly.”

She asked, “Is this jogging anything?”

“Nothing useful.”

Travis gave me a look that I took to mean he was finally starting to regret this plan. But then he turned away and started up the path. We followed behind. This place hadn’t changed much since the last time I was here. The giant Confederate flag hanging in the front lawn was a bit more tattered and faded. There were a few new bumper stickers on the already bumper stickerful tailgate of his truck. Miller was always a man of very loud opinions.

Travis climbed the wooden steps to the front porch and gave the door a special knock. Three fast, two slow, three fast. A second later, I heard movement inside. Travis turned to face the security camera in the tree behind us and put up three fingers.

I tried to prepare myself for seeing him again. He was always a big guy—a genetic trait that must have skipped a generation—but word around town was that he’d picked up a lot of mass in prison. I never came back here after his early release for “good behavior.” And he never came to see me at the gas station. I received the occasional drunk call or text once or twice a year. He’d act like we were always best friends, and he wondered when I was going to come by to do some hunting with him… I treated him the same way I’d treat any other stranger asking for my time. I was polite, but quick to get away. And now, after all these years, I didn’t know what to expect.

The door opened, and Miller pointed an automatic rifle at Travis.

“You boys need glasses? Or can’t you read the signs out front?”

Travis did the talking for us. “Hey, Miller. I know we ain’t supposed to drop in like this, but we got a real-life code red here. We’re putting together an army, and I figured-”

Miller stepped outside, shoved Travis out of the way, and looked at me. An unexpected grin spread across his face. “Hey there, baby-boy!”

I was too stunned to say anything. The rumors that he had put on “a lot of mass” in prison were not untrue, but they were a bit misleading. I still remembered him with his army physique, but the man in front of me had the shape and stature of a half-melted snowman. I took a look at the top of his head and wondered if that kind of baldness was hereditary.

“Miller.”

He let out a good-natured chuckle that smelled strongly of alcohol and said, “Obstinate little shit, ain’t he?”

“Hi,” Rosa said. “I’m Rosa. And this is Gaston.”

He eyed her distrustfully until Travis got his attention. “Miller, we need some weapons and a place to lay low from five-oh. You know I’m good for the money, but-”

“Who’s this?”

“Aw, this here is Rosa. She’s with me.”

The smile crept back onto his face. “I don’t know her daddy. But I know yours, Travis. You’re good people. If you say we can trust her, that’s on you.”

Miller stared at me… Time passed agonizingly … And then… “Come over here and give your daddy a hug.” The next thing I knew, he had me in his grip, an automatic rifle on my back, cheap alcohol fumes daring me to throw up all over him. “I missed you,” he whispered.

We had to leave Gaston tied up on the front porch. The three of us sat on the couch as Travis tried to explain the situation. I don’t know if he wasn’t paying attention or if the gunshot-related hearing loss had progressed, but Miller didn’t exactly register the urgency of our situation. He walked over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and interrupted Travis’s story to ask if any of us wanted a beer. “It’s a dollar a can, or two dollars for a bottle. That’s cheaper than you’re gonna find at any bar around here.”

“Nah, we’re good,” Travis said before returning to more pressing topics.

Miller returned to the living room with two bottles. He handed one to Rosa and said with a wink, “Ladies drink free here.” Then, he fell into a recliner. “So, what brings y’all out here in the middle of the night? Y’all in some kind of trouble?”

Travis sounded flummoxed. “Are you serious right now?! That’s… that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

“So is this your girlfriend?” Miller asked, pointing to Rosa and looking at me. “I’m just glad she’s a girl. We were worried for a while there. You coulda gone either way.”

“Wow,” I said. “You really are, like, the fucking worst.”

He sat forward. “What the fuck did you just say to me? You ain’t gonna come into my home and talk to me like that. You better show some respect before I teach you some respect.”

Rosa tried to put out the fire. “He didn’t mean it! He’s just tired. We’ve had a long day. People are trying to kill us, and it’s got us all on edge.”

Miller relaxed back into his seat. “No, he meant it alright. He’s had a stick up his ass ever since high school. He’s got a real attitude. Gets that from his psycho mom. You ever go visit her?”

“No. She asked that I stay away.”

He laughed. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t.”

He turned his attention back to Rosa. “You. How’d you meet little Miller Lite here?”

I’d completely forgotten how much I hated that nickname.

“We met at work.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” he said doubtfully. I honestly had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but it pissed me off anyway.

Travis tried once again to take control of the conversation. “We’re in a real situation here. We need to borrow the AA12, the .50 Cal, and the Saint Victor B5. We also need a place to crash until sunup.”

“Y’all can stay here,” he said. “You and Junior take the couches. But I wanna keep my eye on Ms. Señorita. I got some extra room in my bed.”

“She’s not interested,” I said.

“Why don’t you let her speak for herself?”

“Why don’t you ever take no for an answer?”

“Because I’m a got-damned winner, son!”

“Don’t call me that.”

He laughed and said in a teasing voice, “Oh, he’s still mad at me for what happened to his mama. But it ain’t my fault she was an addict. Did he tell y’all that? She couldn’t keep a job. Couldn’t take care of him. Couldn’t do nothin’ but beg me for money. Best thing that ever happened to Junior was when she got shipped away. I took good care of all my kids, raised ‘em right, but this one never wanted anything to do with me. He was always soft. Always a mama’s boy.”

Travis slapped his knees and stood up, saying, “Whelp. You know what, this is a bad time. We should just go, huh Jack?”

“Sit down,” Miller said, pointing the gun at Travis. He did as he was told, but Miller kept the weapon trained on him. “Y’all can stay here if you want to, but I gotta know I can trust you.”

“Okay?” I said, keeping one eye on the gun.

“Junior, why don’t you go get us a bottle and four shot glasses? You remember where the stuff is, right?”

I looked to Rosa. She was staring at the gun. “What’s your poison?” I asked.

“Let’s make it tequila in honor of our pretty little lady here. Little taste of home, eh muchacha?”

“You gotta stop it with that racist stuff,” I said.

He exploded, “Don’t you bring that social justice bullshit into my home! Explain to me how I’m racist when ninety-nine percent of the porn I watch is the Asian stuff!”

“You have a confederate flag in the front yard!”

“That’s your heritage, son! Show some respect.”

“You named your rottweiler the n-word.”

“And? How come they can say it but I can’t?”

“You’re literally a member of the KKK!”

“How is that racist?” He shook his head and repeated it for emphasis. “How is that racist?”

Rosa grabbed my hand and squeezed. Through gritted teeth, she said, “It’s okay, Jack. Why don’t you go get us something to drink?”

Miller lowered the gun and laughed. “See? Even the girl knows you’re being too sensitive. You always were eager to get your feelings hurt.”

“And yet, you seem to be the one getting upset.” I don’t know why, but I couldn’t stop talking even if I wanted to.

He stopped laughing and took to his feet, leaving the gun beside the recliner. As he rolled up his sleeves, he said, “Alright, boy. You’ve been itching for a fight since you laid eyes on me.” He took a fighting stance that could have come straight from an arcade game, gave Rosa a wink, and explained, “He’s always been like this. Always wanted to impress me.” With that, his self-delighted laughter returned in full force.

As he stood there, waving his dukes in my direction, something changed inside of me. I looked at him and saw the whole picture. This man, if you want to call him that, was cracking jokes at my expense, but nobody else was enjoying his company. He was threatening his own biological son, but was it out of anger? Spite? Fear of losing my respect? The house felt cold and empty, just the same as it did when I was last here. The only difference now was that I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I’d seen too much to worry about what a sad old man might do to me. And when the words finally formed in my mind, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud myself.

I’m not afraid of this guy. I feel sorry for him.

He lowered his fists partway and asked, “What’re you laughing for?”

“Nothing,” I said. “But I don’t want to fight you.”

“You know I’d kick your ass.”

“That’s right. I know you’d kick my ass.”

He pointed at me and said to Travis, “You see this? This is what they do to us. This is the pussification of America right here. They knew real men would never let what’s happened to our country happen. That’s why they waged a war on masculinity.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Travis asked. The smile left Miller’s face, like he couldn’t believe he was being challenged by one of his own.

In his most serious voice, Miller said, “You know who.” Travis offered up a weak smile. Miller fell into his recliner and looked back at me. “Now, about that tequila.”

I brought out the four cleanest shot glasses I could find, along with a bottle of fluorescent-yellow “tequila.” I lined up and poured out the shots, then held mine up for a toast.

“To family,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I threw back the shot. At the same time, I snatched the one out of Rosa’s hand. While Miller coughed and beat at his chest, he failed to notice me tossing the contents of her glass onto the wall behind the couch where it would probably eat away at the wallpaper and never be noticed.

Travis doubled over, put one hand on top of his head, and gagged out the question. “Why is it so warm?”

There were tears in Miller’s eyes. “That’s just the way this stuff is. Es muy caliente. Sure to put hair on your balls. Traded it for my shoes off a gypsy in Reno.” He gave me a strange smirk, then said, “Well, I’m fucking off to bed. Junior knows where the clean sheets are. If you need anything before morning, figure it out on your own.”

Wait, that’s it? He’s going to bed? I couldn’t believe it. But then he turned around, picked up his rifle, walked into his room, and shut the door behind him. We all waited in collective silence to be sure this wasn’t some kind of trick. But he didn’t come back. That was, it would seem, the end of it. As far as traumatizing events go, this was hardly the worst I’d experienced at that man’s hands.

“Alright, Jackie-boy, I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I’m man enough to admit it when I’m wrong. Your pappy is the worst.”[33]

I gathered the old blankets and pillows from the hall closet and set up the couches for the night. Travis recommended we sleep in shifts so that someone could stand guard at all times. I volunteered to go first and promised I’d wake him up as soon as I felt tired. At least they’d get some rest, and I could use the time to work on my plan to stop the Omega-Karen from destroying the world. So far, all I had was step one: stay alive for a couple more days.

As they slept, I crept around my former home, baiting the old memories to see if there was anything to this theory, wondering exactly how it was supposed to work. Do I just put myself into a place of trauma in order to talk to Sabine’s ghost? Holy crap, this is way too similar to a scene from the Twilight saga. If this were a story in one of my books and not real life, I’d feel embarrassed for the author.

I walked to the room at the back of the house, past the open laundry room, where a cold draft carried in air from outside. For all of his upgraded security, he never bothered repairing that hole in the floor next to the washing machine that squirrels used to crawl through. At a glance, it appeared to have taken Miller’s lead and grown quite a bit over the years. A large raccoon or determined human could probably squeeze through if they so desired. Some fortress.

His walls were decorated with old photographs of his other kids. One of my half-sisters at her wedding. One of my half-brothers posing with a dead deer. I learned from these photos that I was evidently a half-uncle several times over. But these people were all strangers to me. There were no memories here.

I looked at the door to my old bedroom. Miller told us to sleep on the couch, which could only mean he’d turned this room into something new. If I had to guess, I’d say he was using it for storage. May as well check it out and see if there’s anything useful.

I turned the knob and pushed it open, expecting anything other than what I found inside. The room was just how I’d left it. My bookshelf in the corner. My twin bed against the wall. My old desk under the window. The shelf of special things by the closet. If there were any memories, that’s where they’d be hiding. I walked up to the shelf and, one at a time, touched the items I’d collected here. A small trophy from a math tournament. An arrowhead Sabine and I discovered on one of our walks. A cat skull from under the old bridge. Ticket stubs to that shitty zombie movie we went to at the local theater before health inspectors shut it down over a black mold problem. These were all good memory totems, and I remembered the moments as they were. It wasn’t until I looked back at my desk that I noticed something out of place.

There was a framed picture I didn’t remember being there, propped up next to my pencil cup. I went in for a closer look and saw that it was a picture of me wearing a blue robe, shaking hands with the principal. Neither of us looked particularly thrilled to be there. We were just going through the motions. I barely remembered the moment, but context gave me plenty to go on. This picture was from ten years ago—my high-school graduation.

As part of a fundraiser, the school hired a professional photographer to take photographs of the special moment when we officially made the transition from uneducated to unemployed. The school sent order forms to all of the students’ addresses on record. The pictures were dumb and the prices were gouged, but can you really put a price on priceless memories? I remembered seeing one show up for Wendy, but never got one for myself. I assumed it was lost in the mail, but now I knew what really happened. They never updated my address on record, so Miller got the order form instead. And he actually… bought one? Miller paid money for a picture of me at graduation? An event he didn’t even attend? Or did he attend? No, of course not. Why would I even think that?

There was something else strange about this photo. The frame looked familiar. Letters etched into wood around the picture spelled out the words “Dad and Me. Best Friends For Life.” This one actually took me back. I’d just moved in with Miller. The regional Boy Scout unit committee was hosting an open-to-all summer camp in an attempt to encourage our town to create its own local troop. I asked Miller if we could go, and he said yes.

“Are you okay?”

Rosa almost gave me a heart attack. I really need to get better about watching my back.

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’m a little annoyed, but I’m fine. Are you?”

She responded with a lighthearted, “Guys like him aren’t special or complicated. I’m used to it.” She looked around for a second, then asked, “Is this your room?”

“It was.”

She walked the perimeter, slowly, taking it all in, like a detective investigating a crime scene. She paused briefly in front of the shelf with the cat skull, then continued silently until she was standing next to me, looking down at the picture in my hands. “What’s that?” she asked.

I flipped the frame over and opened the back. Just as I expected, the original photo was still inside, tucked behind the one of my graduation. I pulled it out and turned it for us to see.

An image from my long-lost past. A time when I wasn’t just happy, I was hopeful. Scout week was the first time I got to see a sober Miller. We spent three days camping with strangers. Two nights sleeping in a tent. This picture was from day two, me standing with a catfish in my hands, Miller behind me, beaming with pride.

“We won a fishing contest at a scout camp thing. They took our picture and gave us this frame as part of our prize. It was something I’d never experienced before. I felt like I’d found something I didn’t know was missing. For that one day, I felt like I had a real father.”

“You look happy there,” Rosa noted.

“I was. Or, I thought I was. When we got back from the trip, we didn’t even have the truck unpacked before he started drinking again. The next time I brought up the idea of doing something with the scouts, Miller told me he’d never allow his son to be part of the deep state’s plan to turn children into—and I’m quoting him directly here—‘limp-wristed socialists.’

“The thing I can’t understand,” Rosa said, “—and stop me if I’m out of line—but if he’s as bad as all that, why did he keep these pictures? Why did he leave your room the way it was? Like he expected you to come back one day or something?”

“You said it yourself: Miller isn’t complicated. Let’s not make him something he isn’t. This room is the only place in the house with any evidence I existed, and he keeps the door closed and ignores it altogether. How much lazier can the metaphor get?”

I thought I was done. I thought I’d said my piece. But I found myself staring at the picture, at my younger eyes, and wondering… Things weren’t always so bad, were they?

“Honestly, I’m not okay right now. Miller was—and is—terrible. But there were a thousand times when he wasn’t. There were days when we played video games together. Or watched TV. Or cooked out on the grill. And, I don’t know why, but that somehow makes everything so much worse.”

Rosa didn’t even have to mull it over. She already knew what to say. “It’s because you know he always had the capacity to be better, so what he is instead must be a conscious decision.”

“Yeah. Hating him would be a lot easier if he were 100% garbage instead of 99% garbage.”

“I thought you said you didn’t hate him.”

I ignored her and put the frame back on the desk, then pulled out the drawer underneath and saw a book I’d nearly forgotten about. Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth. I took it and opened it to the front cover, where the words “Property of Sabine” were scrawled above an artistic spiral. I closed my eyes and let out an annoyed groan once I saw it. Someone had carved a hiding hole into the pages in the shape of a pistol, completely destroying one of my most sentimental possessions to form a concealed gun-tote that wasn’t even being used.  “Never mind. I don’t feel so bad about hating him anymore.”

“I have to ask, do you remember seeing anyone else at the fishing competition?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like maybe, someone who shouldn’t have been there?”

I’d already forgotten what we were doing here. “No, Sabine was not at the scouts weekend. And if she were, I would definitely remember. I’m sorry, but I think your theory about the try-and-forget memories is busted...” I wasn’t thinking straight. I was still reeling from the day. The security guard at the checkpoint between my brain and mouth had walked off the job in protest of the ludicrous working conditions, which is why I finished my thought with, “...Unless, of course, you threw your uncle through a wall during an exorcism gone wrong.”

Her eyes betrayed her. What I’d said had hit her like raw electricity. She looked at the ground, gathered her words, and muttered, “How… uh… did you know about that?”

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “That was real?!”

“What was real?”

“Rosa! I saw it happen! I felt it. I was there. I was… inside of you?”

She used her angry nanny voice to say, “Excuse me?”

“No, what I meant was, I saw your memories while I was under.”

“I’m not okay with that!” she said sternly.

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I promise.”

“Then how did you do it?”

“I don’t know!”

“What all did you see?”

“Nothing bad. Well, I mean, I saw the first possession… and that couple from your high school... And the exorcism with your family. But nothing bad bad.”

Rosa was saying something in response. The way she looked, I could tell it was really important, but my brain shut her words out completely as an urgent detail came into focus: Sabine was there, in her memory, at the high school where the thing inside of her killed two people.

“You met her!” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Do you remember? At the high school, when the EMT’s were treating you. Before Angelica ran off. She had red hair, and she came and talked to you.”

Rosa shook her head. “No, I was… that happened all the way back in…” She looked to the side. Another jolt of raw electricity. “Oh my gosh, I do remember her now!”

“What did she say to you?”

“She said sorry, and it wasn’t my fault.”

“After that.”

“She said there was someone who might be able to help.”

“After that.”

“She said…” Rosa let out a confused laugh. “She told me I was going to work at the gas station. How did she know that?”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, she said… Oh my God, how did I never realize this before?”

“What? What did she say to you?”

“She said, ‘I’ll be seeing you in your dreams, Jack.’ She called me ‘Jack’! Why would she-”

“Because she wasn’t talking to you. She was talking to me.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track. I’m sorry for doubting you. This was a great plan. Sabine is trying to communicate through old memories. But why?”

We stood there in silence for a moment before she came up with the answer.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? ‘I’ll see you in your dreams.’ But you don’t sleep, so she has to find other ways to reach you, just like the dark god used to do. Maybe, in order to remember her, you have to be in an altered mental state. Something close to dreaming.”

Of course! The guided meditation. The forest alcohol. The copious amounts of weenut butter. “But what about back at the Cromwells’? I was hella sober for all of that.”

“But didn’t you just come off of being logged into the water-horse Wi-Fi? Surely that had some effect on your mental state.”

It all checked out. “I think you’re right,” I said. “And don’t call me Shirley.” With that, I left my old bedroom, went back into the kitchen, and grabbed the bottle of fluorescent tequila.

It was almost refreshing to be altering my mental state on purpose for a change. Turns out, getting drunk is really easy. In fact, it’s a little too easy, and I totally overshot the goal. It didn’t take long before I was on the ground in the guest bathroom throwing up. Meanwhile, Rosa sat on the edge of the tub keeping the plan on track, undeterred by the truly horrendous sight and smell of what was coming out of me (and if you’ve never seen regurgitated weenut butter mixed with fluorescent yellow bile before, consider yourself blessed).[34]

“Anything yet?” she asked.

I spit and moaned, “Sooo much sufferrr…”

She was relentless. My whining meant nothing. “What about your mother? Why didn’t she ever do anything to help you?”

I rested my head on the toilet seat and looked Rosa in the eyes as I answered, “My mother’s been battling depression as long as I’ve known her. When I was really young, but old enough to be forming perma-memories, she started taking this medicine called Aripiprazole. It helped with her demons, but you know in commercials where they say ‘rare but serious side-effects’?”

Rosa nodded.

“She was one of those cases. When my mom was on the medicine, she had compulsion control issues. She started gambling. Got really bad into it. The weekend I broke my arm at Miller’s camp, she was sitting in front of a truck stop slot machine. A couple years in, it was the only thing she could do. My mother sold everything she could and spent every penny we had on scratch-offs. I never had any toys growing up. Hell, we didn’t even have any food in the apartment. I got to eat a couple times a day at school, but she couldn’t stop to save herself. The only silver lining to the whole thing was how Miller stopped coming around as often. When things got so bad that CPS got involved, I—”

My stomach seized, and I aimed my head back into the toilet, but there wasn’t any alcohol left to barf up. So why was I still drunk? It didn’t seem fair.

Rosa finally offered me a break. “Do you need some water or something?”

“Miller keeps seltzer above the microwave.”

“I’ll go get you some. Stay here, alright?”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but I tried to laugh anyway. Once she had gone, I crawled over to the cabinet and opened the door, hoping to find a towel to put beneath my knees. Anything to make the gut-purging a little less unpleasant. Instead, I found the bathroom gun, duct-taped into place below the sink. Small enough to fit into the carved-out shape inside of Journey to the Center of the Earth. I pulled the tape free and took the gun in my hand. It was heavier than I was expecting, or maybe I was just weaker now…

Right then, a memory hit me like a falling boulder.

◆◆◆

I was twelve years old and already on my third set of parents. Harriet, my first foster mother, was barely a memory—one I didn’t fully understand. And somewhere behind that memory was the first person I ever called “Mom.” It had been a full quarter of my life since I last saw her. A few letters trickled in on birthdays and such, just to remind me she was alive and doing much better. Always “doing much better.” Good for her.

My foster brothers were getting old fast, embracing the teenager lifestyle and all it entailed. They had no reservations in expressing their annoyance with me—the weird little kid they had to share a room with. The microaggressions were easy enough to ignore. It was the macroaggressions that really bugged me. Bryce farting in my face whenever I fell asleep first (you know, as a joke). Seth forcing me at knifepoint to smoke a cigarette (you know, as a joke). Generally, just being assholes in the hopes that I would, I don’t know, run away so they’d have the room all to themselves? To be fair, I wasn’t particularly fond of their company either. Which is why I didn’t feel guilty borrowing Seth’s gun without permission.

It didn’t start off as his gun. The original owner remains a mystery. The day he brought it home and showed it to me and Bryce, he explained that he’d found it in a trashcan at the school, still loaded with five bullets. Why someone would throw away a perfectly good revolver was anyone’s guess, but by the sacred right of finders keepers, it now belonged to him. He pointed the gun at me and swore I’d regret it if I ever narced him out. Around here, there weren’t many worse things to be than a narc, and I had no desire to test him.

But a few days passed, and something began nagging away at me. Sabine had just found the arrowhead. She discovered so many cool things. Everything about her was cool, and I wanted to impress her, too. I wanted to look cool. To feel cool. And I knew just the thing. The thing that made teenagers quiver in excitement and envy… Seth kept the loaded weapon in the hiding space below his bottom shelf along with a few drugs, some porn, and a My Little Pony figurine. I remember the moment I picked the gun up and held it in my hand. It was so much heavier than I imagined it would be, but my arms were skinny and weak, and this was a machine invented for death. It should be heavy. I stuffed it into my backpack and left for the tree house.

“Guess what I have,” I said, unzipping my bag.

“Is it a puppy?” she asked.

“Something way better.”

“Not possible.”

When I pulled out the weapon, the smile left her face. Suddenly, the entire forest went ghostly silent.

“What?” I asked.

“That’s really stupid,” she said. I felt the blood draining from my face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. “Why would you bring a deadly weapon like that into our home?”

“For protection!”

“That’s ridiculous! We’re a thousand times more likely to accidentally shoot one another.”

“Yeah, but what if I needed to protect you? How am I supposed to do that without a gun?”

“Do you hear yourself? Do you know how ridiculous you are? You sound just like them.”

“Like who?”

“Like all of them. Is that who you want to be? I thought you were better than that.” She was starting to tear up now. As she stood, she added, “I’m going home.”

“Wait!” She stopped moving and gave me a hard look. “I’ll get rid of it. I promise.”

“How?”

A few minutes later, we were on the old bridge, looking out at Goose Creek. The water was high that day, speeding past, churning loudly beneath us. A fall from the bridge on a day like this would certainly be fatal. I asked if she wanted to do the honors, but she didn’t even want to touch it, so I set my sights on the water and threw the gun as hard as I could.

“Are you still mad at me?” I asked, fearing the answer.

Her answer didn’t make any sense. “Your fake dad is selling you out right now. It’s time to wake up.”

“What?”

She took my hand and guided me away.

◆◆◆

Rosa knocked loudly on the door, and I stirred back to something resembling lucidity. My insides were still acting like they wanted to escape by any means possible, but I forced them to stay put a little longer, flushed the toilet, and pulled myself up to look in the mirror over the sink. Sabine’s words from all those years ago were bouncing around in my pounding head. Your fake dad is selling you out right now.

“Jack?” Rosa knocked again. “Are you still alive?”

I looked over to see that the cabinet door I opened had wedged against the bathroom door, barricading me in here all alone. I bent down to close the cabinet at the same moment Rosa chose to throw all of her weight into opening the door. It hit me in the forehead and knocked me on my ass all over again.

“OHMYGODIMSOSORRY!”

“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing the newest bruise on my head. “You missed my broken nose.”

She was about to help me up when the realization beat her to the punch. I shot to my feet and said, “Miller sold us out!”

“What?”

“He didn’t really go to bed. He must have gone to call the police. Holy crap, he narced on us!”

I ran to the living room but was already too late. Miller and Travis were both awake now, waiting for me. The former holding a machine gun against the back of the latter’s head.

Miller looked absurd. He’d changed into his GI Joe costume, with knee and elbow pads, knives and pistols holstered all over his body, and even an American flag bandanna to hide his bald top. “Hey there, baby-boy,” he crowed.

“What is this?”

“This is your lucky day. Legally, I’m allowed to shoot all of you if I want. You’re in my home. Fugitives from the law. But as fortune has it, you’re worth more alive. Not that I won’t pull this trigger if I have to.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, pulling the bathroom gun from my waistband and aiming it at his face. “Prove it!”

Travis quickly shook his head no and said, “Jay… Whatcha doin’, man?”

Miller responded with a smug look of satisfaction. “I always knew this moment would come. When the little mama’s boy finally grew a pair and came for me. I don’t know what took you so long.”

“I would have gotten here sooner, but the very idea of seeing you again gives me a low-key panic attack and forces me into an emotional shutdown that many people might confuse with sociopathy.”

“Jack!” Rosa said from behind me. There was a lot of meaning packed into that one syllable. Don’t do it. Calm down. You’re scaring us.

“Let the boy do his thing,” Miller ordered. “He’s finally bein’ honest with himself. Truth is, you were always a selfish, ungrateful brat. I sacrificed so much just for you to go off and tell all your friends I’m a bad man. I’m the big villain of the story? No. You just needed someone else to blame ‘cause you were always lazy and weak.”

I pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

Rosa screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK, JUNIOR!” he hollered. “THAT WAS MY GODDAMNED TELEVISION!” Behind him, the TV rested on the ground by its stand. Strands of thin metal and plastic bent outwards from the otherwise clean exit hole in its back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I thought I raised you better than that! But you came out crazy, just like your mama. You needed a lot more discipline.”

“WHAT I NEEDED WAS A FATHER!” Miller shut up, finally. “Or at least, I thought I did. But you know what? I turned out okay without you.”

The moment Rosa stepped between us, I dropped my arm and pointed the weapon at the floor. Miller seemed to relax a bit, too, pulling his weapon away from Travis, who looked equal parts confused and freaked out. It felt like we’d reached some kind of unspoken truce until we heard the frantic Arp! Arp! Arp! coming from the front porch.

“Is someone here?” Travis asked.

Miller patted him on the shoulder and said, “That’s the po-lice coming to get y’all. And I got a nice reward check coming my way. That black woman from the sheriff’s office told me you’d probably try to contact me.”

“You mean,” I asked slowly, “the sheriff?”

“I wasn’t gonna hand you over to her. I got principles. But when the feds told me how much the bounty was, well, I may be an old fool, but I ain’t a damned old fool. That’s retirement-island money right there. I don’t know what you did to piss them-”

“WAIT!” Travis yelled.

Miller sounded annoyed. “Interrupt me one more time, and I’ll-”

Travis interrupted him one more time. “Jack, listen to that engine. You hear it, right?”

I focused on the sound growing louder and closer. The sound that triggered Gaston to throw a fit. The sound that was currently making Travis sweat.

“That’s the sound of a V-10 engine,” I said.

I started for the front door.

“Hey!” Miller yelled, aiming his gun at me.

“If you’re gonna shoot me, then do it already. Otherwise, shut up and pay attention. That’s not the cavalry coming up your driveway. It’s a couple of extremely well-armored assassins.”

“Yeah right.”

“No, really,” Rosa said. “They’ve been chasing us all day.”

Travis added, “They killed the Stumps! And Pip and Oroboro. And they even tried to kill my dogs, Scooter and Skeeter!”

“Shut up!” Miller shouted. “If they ain’t got a badge, they ain’t leaving here in one piece. I guarantee you that.” He kept his eyes on me as he walked back to his bedroom and pushed open the door. “Come on now,” he ordered. “Y’all first.”

We walked into a bedroom that reeked of body odor and corn chips. On a table by his bed, beneath the watchful eyes of a dead twenty-point buck head that he bought from an estate sale, there was a computer monitor with a live feed to the camera on the tree outside. Miller followed us in just in time to see the video of the moving van as it pulled up. We all watched as the two enormous figures stepped out. From this angle, it was impossible to miss their hideous clown faces, even below all the caked-on dirt.

“What the fuck?” Miller muttered under his breath.

“How’d they find us this time?” Travis asked.

“Miller called the FBI. How much do you want to bet they’re all working for Roger?” When the clowns opened the back of the truck and retrieved a couple of brand-new axes, Miller turned around and started for the door. “Hey!” I yelled, stopping him. “Where are you going?”

He held up his gun like he was posing for a photo op and said, “Listen here, boy. It’s about time I taught you the most valuable lesson you never learned. In moments like these, real men run towards the danger.”

Knowing that the opportunity was quickly fleeting, I felt the urge to say so many things. If you die right now, I will not mourn you. But I will mourn the father you could have been, the father I never had. I will grieve for the relationship that never was, same as I have every day of my life. Sadly, the only response I could muster was a half-hearted thumbs-up paired with the words, “Go get ‘em, Dad!”

Miller marched out the front door with way too much confidence. He knew he was putting on a show for us, even if he didn’t know what kind it was going to be. We crowded around the barred-up window to watch whatever was about to happen.

“Don’t you think you should have warned him a little more?” Rosa asked as Miller stepped out into the front yard to intercept the clowns.

“Yeah, probably,” I said. “Oh well.”

Miller started yelling in a voice that was a couple tones deeper than his natural one, “That’s far enough. You boys stop right there.”

The twins were about ten feet away. They froze and gave the man with the gun their undivided attention. This might have been a good time for us to sneak out the back, but none of us could look away from the oncoming train wreck.

“Jack,” Rosa said, sternly. Once again, she packed a lot of meaning into that short syllable.

I sighed and said, “Okay, fine. I’ll go and stop him.”

By the time I opened the front door, the twins had started walking again, slowly, straight towards Miller. He racked his gun, ejecting an unspent round into the yard. All part of the show, but the monsters weren’t impressed.

“I’m warning you,” Miller yelled. “One more step, and I’ll open fire. It’s legally my right!”

“Miller!” I yelled.

He didn’t even look at me to scream, “GET BACK IN THE HOUSE, SON!”

They were closing in. His smile and cocky attitude were long gone. The realization was dawning on him. This was about to get real. He raised the gun and took aim. The clowns continued their steady walk towards their target. And then, he let loose.

PAPAPAPAPAPAPAPAPAPA!

Gunfire all but drowned out Miller’s primal screams as he emptied the magazine. Most of the bullets went wide of the mark and landed somewhere in the trees, but about a third of them hit their designated targets. Under normal circumstances that would have been enough. But these, Miller was about to learn, were not normal circumstances.

When the ammo was all spent, Miller dropped the gun onto the ground and stammered, “Wha- what- what the-”

The twins were still standing. They’d stopped their progression momentarily to give Miller the opportunity to waste his bullets, but now they were on the move again. Miller pulled a two-hander pistol from the holster on his hip, pointed it at the bulletproof goliaths, and fired until there was nothing left to fire.

That’s when I yelled to him, “You can’t kill them with bullets.”

Miller stepped backwards. The look on his face told me everything. He was flabbergasted. This was the moment he’d trained for—no, that he’d hoped for his entire life. He did everything he was supposed to do. Society made him a promise, and now he was owed. He was supposed to be the hero, dammit! This wasn’t fair! A dark stain appeared in the inseam of his pants and spread down the inner side of his leg. Happy raised his ax, preparing to chop the man down, but then-

Thonk!

The gun I’d thrown hit him right upside the head. Happy turned to see me standing on the front porch. Miller took the distraction and ran with it, quite literally, into the forest on the other side of the road. I’d saved his life. Rosa would be so proud.

I expected the clowns to come straight for me next. It would have been terrifying, but at least there’s some comfort in familiarity. But instead, Happy just stood there, staring at me while Sad went back to the moving van. This was much worse. They were being unpredictable.

I unchained Gaston and gathered him into my arms. He licked my face and spun his tail as I backed away, towards the door. What are they planning? I didn’t have to wonder for long. Sad opened the back of the moving van, then pulled out what appeared—to my uneducated eyes—to be a rocket launcher.

I slammed the door shut and yelled to the others, “RUN AWAY!” Gaston bayed in excitement as we rushed through the house to the back door. Travis got there first, tried the handle, and cursed loudly. I soon saw why; on the other side of the sliding glass door, there was a giant wall of metal, evidently welded into place. Miller’s paranoia had led him to permanently seal all exits and entries but one.

Well, one and a half.

“Follow me!” I said, rushing through the house to the laundry room.

From behind me, Travis yelled, “Of course! We can hide in the washing machine!”

I tossed Gaston through the rotting hole in the floor. He landed with a squeak. Rosa didn’t even think before jumping through after him. (“OhNoYouPoorThingAreYouOkay?!”) Once they’d cleared the way, I hopped through and crawled to freedom. But before I could race off into the forest, I realized Travis wasn’t behind me.

I crawled to the edge of the building, crouched down, and yelled up through the hole, “Travis, let’s go!”

“Sorry man,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I’m claustrophobic. And there might be centipedes down there. I fucking hate centipedes!”

“Travis, you need to come before-”

I didn’t even hear the explosion. All I knew was that the building had lifted off the ground. The back of my head hit dirt, and I saw bright white. When the world came back into view, I sat up and saw the rotting hole in the floor—now big enough to drive a car through. But the hole wasn’t on the floor anymore, it was right in front of me, on the wall, and the wall was on the ground, and the ground was on fire. And Travis was…

I pulled myself up and waited for my lungs to reinflate before taking a big gulp of smokey air. And then, I ran inside the burning building.

“Travis!”

I heard a groan before I saw him face down in rubble with the dryer on top of him. I rushed over and mustered the strength to the machine off and push it to the side.

“Travis!” I said, shaking him. “You okay?”

He grumbled and rolled over. When I saw his face, I dry heaved. His skin had been ripped away, from his top lip to his hairline. The flap of epidermis hung down. Blood drained into his eyes and poured out of his mouth. He pushed himself up and let out another, louder, pained groan.

“Travis, stay calm. I don’t want to freak you out, but-” Turns out, it wasn’t him who was about to be freaked out. A black, gelatinous blob swelled up from his nasal cavity, then splintered into dozens of tiny strands. They stretched and spiraled and wiggled in and out of the chunky red wound, taking hold of dangling flesh and pulling it back into place. The flap of skin rolled back up his face. His lip, nose, eyelids, and finally forehead stretched back into place over the skull.

“Is it bad?” Travis asked. “Come on, Jay, you can tell me. I can take it. How bad is it?”

“It’s… fine. You look fine.”

“Well, you like shit.”

Together, we climbed back through the hole in the wall and found Rosa holding Gaston and standing at the tree line in the backyard. As soon as we reached her, I turned around to assess the damage.

The assessment was not good. Miller’s double-wide was now a half-long, broken into two pieces, collapsed down the middle, and steadily burning. Considering how many combustibles were probably in storage, I recommended we add some distance, and fast.

We were deep into the forest when we heard the explosions start.

33
I don’t want to be the “if I were there” guy, but this would have been a great time to gather up all of Miller’s open bottles of alcohol and pee in them. [«]

34
God knows I have. [«]

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I kicked out both of my feet and felt the swing carry me forward. Gravity fought the momentum down to a stop, and I fell backwards. I bent my knees at the apex, waited until I had come to the bottom, and kicked them out again. I swung higher than before, but as always, I fell back again, over and over. The sky was the color of blood oranges, peppered with black patches of dense rain clouds far away.

Sabine was sitting still on the swing next to me. I put my feet to the ground and skidded to a stop. She gave me a mischievous grin. Her eyes peeked out from behind her overgrown locks of cookie monster blue hair. She looked so silly, and so beautiful. I never could understand why she wanted to hang out with me.

This moment was a good one. It was safe. It was happy. And like all moments, it was temporary. The unstoppable, unfeeling beast comes for us all, destroying everything that is precious and good. Time… Best not to think about it.

“What do you think is gonna happen with us?” I asked.

“You already know that, though.”

“Yeah, but… do you think we’ll ever get out of here? Think we’ll get married one day?”

“Did we ever get married?”

She started to swing again, slowly at first. I tried to match her.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m not really the marrying type. I mean, if there was ever anyone in the world I’d want to marry, it would be you, but-”

“But you’re not the marrying type. I get it. Good thing it never came up then.” A moment passed, and then, “I’m sorry Miller disappointed you.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It was worth it just to see him piss his pants.”

I felt a tingling sensation on my left hand. When I looked at it, the pinky finger wasn’t there anymore. I should have been concerned, or at the very least surprised, but then I remembered how I’d lost it—Spencer hacked it off during that snowstorm.

“Wait,” I said, looking back at Sabine. “How old are we right now? Why is your hair still blue? I thought you decided you hated blue when we were nineteen.”

She shushed me and said, “After all you’ve seen, all you’ve been through, you still think time only goes in one direction?”

“Where are we?”

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be. And I’m here with you. I’ve been waiting here, in the memories you hide behind the wall. I tried tuning your antennae a little to get your attention, but your wall is so thick I could hardly get anything through. I may have turned up the volume a bit too much, because you started hearing frequencies from other minds. Very impressive, I might add.”

“Sabine?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you?”

She launched herself and landed gracefully on the gravel in front of the swing set. Slowly, she turned and walked up to me. She put her hands on my cheeks and said, “I’m sorry I never told you this, but I’m the same as my parents. I’m a keeper of that which is but shouldn’t be.”

“Like the gas station?”

“No, like you, silly.” She looked at the litigious copyrighted rodent watch on her wrist and said, “Oh, look at that! It’s almost morning.”

“Does that mean I have to go?”

“It means you’re about to wake up, which means you’re most likely to remember what I say to you if I say it now. I love you with all of my soul. There’s something very wrong with your dog. And I’m worried for you, because we’re not alone in here.

I woke up on Armageddon Eve to the arrhythmic mechanical sound of chuchock, chuchock, chuchock! My eyes adjusted to the morning sun, as I slowly put the world back together in my head. I sat up and looked around. I’d been sleeping on the top floor of a hard plastic children’s playset. A yellow slide to my left, a covered tube to my right leading to the monkey bars. Inside the tube, Rosa was sound asleep using my balled-up jacket as a pillow. Gaston was curled into a ball on her chest, snoozing away and kicking his feet to the tune of unknown puppy dreams. I stared at the animal. There’s something very wrong with your dog. What horrors may lie in such unassuming places?

Chuchook!

I stood up to try and see where that noise was coming from. Travis was asleep nearby on the rusty merry-go-round. We’d come out of the woods near the elementary school playground the night before. The others were exhausted. I promised I’d stay up and keep watch while they got some rest. Something about all the trauma, starvation, and getting blown up must have really tired me out because I fell asleep without even trying.

Chuchook!

I turned my head and saw the blonde twenty-something guy at the other edge of the playground. He had a stack of colorful posters and a heavy-duty deluxe staple gun. A trail of posters adorned the trees to his left, leading to a Prius parked by a dirt trail from the forest. He continued on his merry way to the next tree, stuck a poster against the trunk, and- Chuchook!

I adjusted my wool sweater vest and wiped the dried blood off my face as I walked up to the gentleman with the stapler. “Excuse me.” He turned to face me with an alarmingly friendly smile on his face. “What are you doing?”

He gleefully explained, “We’re spreading the word about our glorious master, the great and merciless Karen, annihilator of eternity.”

I read the poster: “The end is Nigh! Are You ready to be Flayed down to the Nerves? Come Find Out! The Universal Fellowship of Mathmetists.” Next, I read his custom tee shirt: “Karen is bae!”

“You’re one of the cultists?”

“It’s not a cult, bro.”

Another voice unexpectedly entered the chat. “Brother, have you found a nonbeliever?”

I turned around to see the blonde twenty-something woman wearing a custom tee that read, “Be purified in Karen’s pain gravy!”

“This is what you guys are doing now?”

She smiled as she said, “His agony will make an excellent meal for our precious lord Karen.”

“Indeed, Sister. This heifer’s suffering will be utterly sublime.”

She giggled, “I see what you did there, Brother.”

An all-too-familiar sound pulled my attention away from the doomsdayers—the rumbling V-10 engine of a moving van. I turned and spotted the clowns’ vehicle as it pulled into the elementary school parking lot and disappeared around the side of the building. They must not have seen us yet. How did they find us again?! It was time for me to make a bold move.

“Well, you know what? Count me in! The idea of dying horrifically sounds swell to me.”

“Praise Karen!” they said in eerie unison.

“Sure, sure. Praise Karen. I’d love to check out your whole operation, but unfortunately my car ran away. Is there any chance you could let me bum a ride out to the compound? Like, right now?”

“It’s not a compound,” he said.

“But you may absolutely join us,” she said. “In fact, new Brother, soon you won’t have any choice. The end of days is nigh!”

“Nigh!” he echoed.

“Is it cool if my friends and dog come along, too?”

After a very brief explanation of the very brief plan, we loaded up in the very tiny Prius and started our journey to the Mathmetist camp. She drove. He took shotgun. “So this is like a hunting camp?” Travis asked from his spot in the middle seat.

“It’s more like an emotional evacuation point for the human soul, a place to discard individuality and give yourself over to something greater than mortal minds can conceive.”

“Oh, okay,” Travis responded. “Are y’all gonna kill us?”

She answered gleefully, “We wouldn’t dare steal that from Karen!”

Her compatriot asked wistfully, “Do you think our pain will drive us mad before death takes us?”

“Not likely! Karen will maximize our torture to extremes heretofore undreamt of. It won’t be any fun if we can escape into insanity.”

They both laughed in unison. Travis turned to me and whispered, “You sure about this?”

I’m pretty much never sure of anything, but the plan was neat and simple: Go hide out among the cultists. Needles in a stupid haystack. There’s strength in numbers, after all.

The car jerked to one side. Tires screeched against the road. “Damn!” the driver said. “I missed him!”

“Missed who?” asked Rosa.

“There was a baby woodchuck in the road,” she explained. “Do you mind if we go back and try again?”

“Leave it be, Sister. More souls for Karen’s harvest. The lucky sacrifices have already been accepted.”

I was totally prepared to let that go, but Rosa couldn’t help herself. “Sacrifices?”

She answered, halfway singing, “Last night, three farms were chosen to receive the omen of unholy slaughter. Cows torn in half and exsanguinated. A beautiful miracle, heralding the approach of sacred Karen.”

Travis blurted out, “Y’all are fucking weird.”

The car pulled into the winding forest path leading to the compound. I stayed silent, but my mind wasn’t in the mood to follow.

What killed the cows? I closed my eyes and grit my teeth as the answer hit me. I did. I killed those cows. I killed them when I forgot to go back to the gas station to feed the dog. The last time I forgot to feed, the dog killed six goats in one night. And now… Sabine was right. There’s something very wrong with your dog. I had to get back there before things got any worse.

“Hello, Brother. Hello, Sister. What have you brought us?”

“These are our new recruits.”

“Welcome to Mathmetism. Hail Karen!”

“Hi, my name is Rosa, and this is Gaston.”

“Not anymore. Henceforth, you shall be Sister and Dog. We are so glad to have you with us at this most pivotal time, Sister. There is much work to be done before the great harvest of agony. We can use your assistance in the abattoir tent. Do any of you have experience with butchering animals?”

Travis snorted, hocked a loogie into the grass, and said, “Sure, I can give it a try.”

Rosa rocked Gaston nervously and asked, “Do you have anything less… horrible?”

“We need help making the team breakfast.”

“Yeah, that’s much more my speed.” She lifted the drooling animal in her hands and said in a puppy voice, “Gaston, would you like to help us scramble some eggs?”

“Oh, terribly sorry, but you’ll need to leave Dog outside. It’s, you know, a health and sanitation issue. We wouldn’t want anyone to get sick before Karen’s arrival, now would we?”

Rosa gave them a look of pity and confusion and asked, “What?”

“Don’t worry, I got him,” Travis said, taking the pup out of her arms. “We’ll see you at brekkie. And remember, I like my bacon medium rare.”

One cultist showed Rosa into the building, another walked Travis to the giant tent erected on the other side of the lot. Despite appearances, I knew they’d be safe here. And with that knowledge, I could focus on the current emergency. I looked at the remaining cultists standing watch outside the compound and said, “I need to borrow a car for a little while.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” I asked. “I don’t have to sign it out or anything? No questions? No follow-up? Just, ‘Okay’?”

“Just pick out a car from the lot. They all have keys in the ignition and full tanks of gas. If you try to leave, you won’t make it far. Never forget, we all burn the same under the watchful eyes of Karen.”

“Hail Karen!”

Under the watchful eyes of Karen, I walked over to where the Mathmetists’ fleet of vehicles were parked at the ready. I picked out a modest-looking Toyota and found the door to be open, just as advertised. I was just beginning to marvel at how things were going a little too easily until I heard, “Arp! Arp!”

I turned around to see Travis holding Gaston and giving me a you’re-busted look. “Where ya going?” he asked.

“It’s not a big deal. But there’s something I need to take care of back at the gas station. It’ll only take a second. I’ll be back before breakfast is ready.”

“Only take a second, huh?” He walked up to me and plopped the dog into my arms. Gaston started licking my face while Travis slipped past me into the driver’s seat. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get in.”

The parking lot was empty when we arrived. I instructed Travis to stay in the car and keep the engine running. I told him to keep an eye on Gaston, then told Gaston to keep an eye on him, then I left and hurried into the building, noting the vibrant orange sign taped to the front door that read, “WARNING! By Order Of the County Board of Health, This Property is CONDEMNED.”

Took them long enough.

Once inside, I gave the place a quick scan to make sure there weren’t any active fires, then made a beeline for the storage room where we kept the remaining bags of dog food. I opened the door, then screamed.

Jerry screamed back. I screamed again. So did he.

“What are you doing here?!” I shouted.

“I was trying to take a nap! Do you have any idea how hard it is to fall asleep on one of those jail cell cots? Oh, wait, never mind. Pretend I didn’t ask that. What’s up, dude? Did you kill Karen yet?”

“No, I didn’t kill-” I took a second to catch my breath and center myself. “I thought you were still in prison.”

“Technically, I was never in prison. I was in ‘jail.’”

“How is this helping?”

“Never mind,” he said, climbing out of his hammock. “Here’s what happened: This morning, Sheriff O’Brien released me from holding. She told me to keep my nose clean and not to leave town.”

“Why would she do that?”

“If I had to guess—which I did because I’m not a mind reader—it was because she’s still trying to find you and ran out of leads, so she decided to use me to get to you. She put a tracking device on the Nissan and a couple of plain-clothes deputies on my tail, just in case.”

“But doesn’t that mean we’re about to get caught?”

He laughed and said, “C’mon, dude. I know how to lose a tail. All you need is a baby car seat, ninety-nine cents worth of crazy glue, and a bit of good timing.”

“I’ll try to remember that. What about the tracker?”

“Oh, I gave your car to a homeless gentleman and walked the rest of the way here. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind? Did you by any chance feed the dog since you got back?”

A look of serious understanding washed over his face. “No. I’ve been busy being incarcerated. I thought you did.”

“No, I’ve been busy running for my life from clown monsters.”

All he had to say was, “Oh.”

All I could respond was, “Yeah.”

I walked over and grabbed a fresh sack of dog food. Better late than never, right? As soon as I left the closet, I heard Gaston’s excited, “Arp! Arp!”

“Hey bro,” Travis said. “We got bored waiting in the car.”

Jerry stepped out of the closet and said, “Travis! I thought you were dead again!”

“Again?”

“Arp! Arp!”

Jerry laughed in surprise. “Seriously? You went back for Gaston? Let me guess, Rosa guilt-tripped you into it, right?”

“Arp! Arp! Arp!”

I set the back of dog food onto the floor and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Arp! Arp! Arp!”

Travis tried to calm Gaston down, but he was so excited to see Jerry, he could barely contain himself.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Jerry said. “It wasn’t anything personal, you know.”

“What wasn’t anything personal?”

“ARP! ARP! ARP! ARP!” He was going positively crazy.

“You know, when I took him back to the pet shelter.”

“When exactly did you take him back to the pet shelter?”

He jumped out of Travis’s hands and sprinted across the floor to leap into Jerry’s waiting arms. As Jerry picked him up and gave him a thorough petting, he answered, “You know, when you were still at the can’t-get-out-of-bed part of the grieving process. Is Rosa mad at me? I knew she wouldn’t let me do it if she knew what I was doing, so I told her I was going to the pet store for supplies.”

I was starting to get that tingling feeling on the back of my neck—the one I usually get right before something horrifying and/or calamitous happens. “But,” I said. “You didn’t really go to the pet store for supplies. You actually went to return Gaston.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said as the puppy went to town licking him in the face. “What did they say when you went back to get him? Were they annoyed? Did they make you pay the adoption fee again?”

“We never went back to the shelter.”

“Do huh what now?”

“I mean, Gaston never left.”

The pup let out an annoyed whine as Jerry slowly lowered him to the ground. He spoke slowly, “Are you telling me… that this dog… this one right here… is not the same dog that I returned to the shelter two days ago?”

Travis was a few seconds behind us, but he eventually pieced together what we were already sweating about. “Oh shit!” he yelled. “It’s a trojan horse dog!”

“Or,” I said, slowly making my way to the counter, “it’s a mimic.”

Jerry took a step back as “Gaston” sat in place, tongue out, panting and enjoying all of this sudden attention. “Are we sure mimics can even mimic dogs?”

Travis was never very good at reading the room, but I still didn’t expect him to walk right up to the dog, point a finger at him, and start interrogating. “Alright you little sumbitch, who do you work for? What are you hiding? Why are y’all tryin’ to kill me?”

“Travis,” I said urgently. “Step away from him.”

Travis didn’t listen to me. He kept escalating the situation. “He knows what’s going on! Think about it. How else did the clown bros know where to find us? You thought they were trackin’ my phone, but really, it’s been him all along. These bastards killed my friends and forced me to shit in a bucket for days. I’m done playin’ around! It’s high time we squeeze their little spy for information.”

Gaston arped innocently. Travis sneered at him and said, “I ain’t fallin’ for it. Maybe a boot to your little head’ll jog your memory.”

“TRAVIS NO!”

He pulled back his leg and leaned his entire body into a powerful kick that would have sent any normal dog soaring through the air. Travis screamed in agony. It took me a second before I saw why. A bony protuberance of interconnected joints had erupted from Gaston’s back—an elongated spinal cord, curved forward like a scorpion tail. The unguis—a solid black stinger—had pierced through Travis’s foot, staking him into the ground an inch from the dog’s face.

“Arp.” Four more pointed talons sprouted from each of the dog’s dewclaws, lifting the animal several inches, its new legs resembling shimmery wet bones. “Arp.” It leaned its head back and opened its mouth wide, wider than should have been possible. The jaw snapped and skin stretched away until there was nothing left of Gaston’s face but a meaty red skull that sizzled and crunched and morphed into a new shape. A new mandible and carapace formed together from slithering black and morphed into a wide smile. The dog eyes stretched into vertical ovals, and finally, a new layer of skin wrapped itself across the monstrous face. It looked like an artistically challenged child’s crayon drawing of a human. “Arp,” it said in a deep, guttural voice.

Travis screamed, “What the hecking fuck is that thing!?”

The inside-out scorpion dog with its bone-stilt legs and Glasgow smile craned its neck to look towards me and speak the words, “Be not afraid.”

“Oh fuck me it talks!” Travis exclaimed. “It talks human words! Holy heck y’all! Holy fucking heck!”

I snapped back into action and jumped over the counter to find the right tool to dispatch this newest nightmare creature, but the sword-bat was nowhere to be found. Driven by desperation, I opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet and pulled out the secret weapon hidden therein.

I stood up in time to see Jerry’s valiant attempt to save the day. “Hey, Uggo!” he shouted, brandishing the sword-bat. The grotesque canine twisted its neck to face its attacker. “My name is Jerry,” he said, lifting the sword bat over his head. “Knife to meet you!” The weapon came down with a thwack-crunch, severing the link between the animal and its scorpion tail. Runny black liquid sprayed forth from both points of separation. The creature squealed and skittered towards the wall, leaving a black slime trail in its wake. “Aw, come on! Don’t be a sword loser!”

The mutant dog turned around again. Its back legs grew longer, then cracked and bent into a shape that I might have noticed resembled the legs of a giant flea, if I had more time to process the situation before- Snap! The animal launched itself at missile speed and landed on Travis, planting its boney claws around his head and torso and sinking its teeth into the back of his neck. Travis screamed, loudly at first, but his volume quickly ran out as the creature siphoned out the black goo. With each heaving gulp, Travis’s face turned another shade paler, and the creature’s body swelled larger and larger, ballooning in size like an inflated tick. Jerry ran and swung, but the creature saw it coming. It smacked the weapon out of Jerry’s hand, sending it flying across the room. I’d seen more than enough. It was now or never.

I took the bear bell, flicked off the magnet, and gave it a vigorous shaking. The jingle, jingle, jingle was almost lost below the sickening sounds of Travis’s life being slurped away, but the dog heard and understood the message from where it slumbered below the building: Dinner time. Come and get it.[35]

The entire room shook. Display racks toppled over. Canned goods fell from their shelves. Two gigantic green claws broke through the floor a few feet in front of me. They gripped the tile and tore them away, ripping open a hole about six feet across. And then, she emerged in all of her glowing green glory. She’d grown considerably since the last time I saw her complete form. Now she looked like a Clydesdale that ate a Mario mushroom. Her wings—fully healed since her last molting—were covered in black and green striped scales and tucked behind her back. Her snout sniffed the air curiously.

“Rita, you big beautiful dragon!” Jerry yelled. “Eat the monster!”

She followed Jerry’s pointing finger to see the black beach-ball-sized creature attached to Travis’s quivering body. The was-dog looked up at the was-racoon and stopped slurping. For a tense moment, nobody breathed. And then, the two beasts jumped into battle. Claws ripped into fur. Black goo sprayed walls. Bones cracked and clattered against the tile. By the time I reached the spot next to where Travis had collapsed onto the ground, Rita already had the faux-Gaston pinned under her front paws. It wriggled and squealed until the dragon leaned forward and bit its entire head off. As she consumed her well-earned meal, I took Travis’s hand. The blood spill under his head told me there wasn’t much time left.

He focused his eyes on mine and said, “I guess your hallucinagirlfriend didn’t notice we’ve been travelin’ with a monster this whole time.”

“Actually, she did.” The memory of her words was like a cruel tease. There’s something very wrong with your dog. She practically spelled it out for me, and I still missed the point.

“Damn, dude! You couldn’t warn a brother?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright. I deserve this.” He squeezed my hand as he confessed, “That night we came here lookin’ to string Jerry up, I was ready to kill you. I’d already made peace with God. Hell, I was lookin’ forward to it. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I hope you can forgive me.” His grip weakened. “I want you to have the Ram 2500 turbodiesel. Promise me you’ll take good care of her.”

“Hey, come on. Don’t talk like that. It doesn’t look so bad. Honestly, I think you might pull through.”

He smiled weakly and said, “Really?”

The focus left his eyes. The smile relaxed into a look of confusion. And his hand fell out of mine. A moment passed before Jerry walked over, crouched next to me, and closed Travis’s eyes. Rita read the room and crawled away into her hole beneath the gas station, dragging the remaining bits of her meal with her.

“I’m sorry, dude,” Jerry said solemnly. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”

I closed my eyes and forced the emotions back, not to where they belonged, but to where they would be contained. I pushed them behind the wall, into the try-and-forget vault… the place where Sabine was watching and waiting with secrets and advice I was too dumb to understand. What I needed was a chance to see her again, to talk to her, to really listen. I needed…

I opened my eyes and looked at Jerry.

“I need drugs. Lots of drugs.”

Jerry nodded understandingly. “I’ve only got one question for you,” he said. “What happened to my stash?”

We took the cultist car along the backroads until we reached the only storage unit facility in town. I couldn’t find my key or remember the number to my unit, so Jerry broke into the front office and grabbed a master key. We checked sixteen different units before we found where all of our stuff had been shoved into place with little-to-no care. We had to dig through broken furniture and piles of clothes and way too many books to find the wooden chest. It would have gone faster if Jerry didn’t keep getting distracted by every little discovery of forgotten junk.[36]

“There,” I said, once I’d finally pulled the drug box free. “Now, let’s get this show on the road.”

Jerry flicked on the battery-powered work lamps, then pulled the rolling storage unit door down to a close. The shadows from the dim lighting felt unnatural and otherworldly. Perfect for what we were about to do. With a dramatic removal of his aviators, he said, “Let’s do it. Also, what are we doing?”

“I need help digging up old buried memories.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” He gestured at the bean bags. “Have a seat while I change into something more appropriate.” (“Something more appropriate” turned out to be his custom “Hold my Bear” tee shirt.)

Once I’d made myself as comfortable as possible, he dragged over the chest and took his spot in the bean bag on the opposite side. Then, he cracked his knuckles, leaned forward, and opened the lid. He proceeded to remove items with enormous caution. Baggies. Jars. Bottles. Each one he took out individually, with two hands, like they were babies that he finally got down for their afternoon nap. Finally, he pulled out an envelope, held it to the light, and smiled. There were two words on the side that made me a little uneasy: “Shaman Boogers.”

“What’s that?” I asked nervously.

“It’s a drug derived from the mucus of a Peruvian medicine man after binging on psychedelics. The shaman’s body naturally filters out the toxins and secretes an alternative without any of the violent side effects. This isn’t the strongest stuff, but it will help you tune your brain to a different frequency for a couple of hours.”

“Gross.”

“How far back do you want to go?”

“I need to go all the way back to childhood.”

He made a noise not dissimilar to a grunt and placed the envelope onto the floor next to him. “Oh, that might be a little beyond the potency range of Shaman Boogers.” The next thing to come out of the chest was a small combination lock fire safe. He placed it on his lap, entered his ultra-secret code that I couldn’t help but notice was 6969, and popped it open. “I can take you to the darker recesses of your psyche, but I must warn you, it’s going to get a little messy.” He removed a Ziploc bag with six brightly colored gelatinous globs.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Mushroom gummies,” he answered. “One of these can split your consciousness right open and show you the secrets of the universe.”

“I’m sure the universe has its own juicy gossip, but I’m trying to focus a little more narrowly. Don’t you have something that can help me switch off the part of my brain that keeps me from remembering traumatic stuff?”

He stroked his chin, let out a loud “Hmm,” then snapped his finger. “I think I have just the thing!”

He felt along the side of the chest until something clicked and a section of wood gave way. He opened a secret compartment, revealing a small drawer which he pulled out with utmost care. Considering the apparent nature of the items he’d already shown me, I couldn’t imagine what would be so special that it needed to be hidden. Jerry treated this item with all the same reverence as the others. Slowly, he retrieved the folded handkerchief from inside the drawer. He unwrapped it in wide, deliberate motions. I didn’t know if this showmanship was meant for me or for him or for the item in the handkerchief, but as long as he was doing me a favor, I wasn’t about to tell him to hurry it up. Finally, I saw what he had uncovered. A tiny glass vial filled with a reddish-brown liquid.

“What is that?” I asked.

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“It can’t be any worse than boogers.”

“It’s toad milk, from the Bufo Alvarius. A hundred times stronger than DMT. One drop of this and you’ll be able to read God’s mind. You’ll be remembering things from your past lives.”

“I just need help remembering things from this life. I’m not looking for another out-of-body experience; I just want to jog my psyche a bit. I’m starting to think maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”

He put the vial back into its secret compartment. “Yeah, you’re definitely not ready for the toad milk. You wanna just smoke some weed and see what happens?”

Turns out, I really cannot handle my weed.

It didn’t take long for Mr. T to start making fun of me for how badly I was reacting to just a wee bit of grass. Jerry declared himself an “advanced smoker,” which is why he didn’t get ultra-paranoid the way I did. No, he just got over-confident, which led him to smoke a lot more in order to “catch up” to me. In his slightly altered state, he probably forgot that contact high was a thing, and this room was small and poorly ventilated. By the time he got to my level, I think we’d both forgotten what we were even doing in the first place—that I was seeking answers and that he was supposed to be babysitting me during my trip. But then things got a bit more confusing. I mostly just remember fragments. Me telling Jerry that I was hungry. Jerry going off to see if he could find a vending machine, then returning with a bunch of candy and snack food. Me eating more than I should have, even though it didn’t make me any less hungry. Me suddenly realizing that none of that actually happened, did it? Because Jerry never actually left the room, so what the hell was I eating anyway? Me telling Jerry that I was freaking out. Jerry asking why the chest was open. Did we just eat all those gummies? Wait, is that why my mouth tastes like forbidden colors? Hang on, how many drugs did we just do? Oh shit! We’re going to get into so much trouble! Hey, do you think O’Brien is trying to kill us? I mean, think about it! Oh man, that makes so much sense, doesn’t it? Oh fuck! We gotta get rid of this stuff before the cops show up! What cops? Shit, dude, I don’t know! Did you call the cops? Maybe. I can’t be certain. Do you hear sirens? FLUSH THE TOAD MILK! Don’t you fucking dare flush that toad milk. That shit was expensive as fuck! Oh my God, they’re banging on the door! Or is that just my heart? Quick, Jack, swallow the toad milk! It’s the only way! It’s the only way to what? I don’t know, dude. Fuck! What? It tastes like dill pickles and toothpaste.

The loud sound of a metallic clang brought me back down to Earth. I turned to see that the door to the storage unit rolling open. Oh God! Here they come! We’re screwed! On the other side of the door stood... Jerry? Wait. What? He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, then turned to me and said, “Okay dude, I didn’t know what kinda munchies you had, so I grabbed a little of everything from the vending machine. We got cookies, pretzels, Skittles. I would have put together a charcuterie board, but I wanted to get back before you started feeling any of the effects of-” He froze. His eyes went cartoonishly wide. “Heyyy, silly question, but, uh… why is the drug chest wide open?”

I was suddenly feeling very sober, which is pretty ironic considering all of the drugs I’d just panic-eaten.

The next thing I knew, I was on my knees in front of a toilet, barfing up everything inside of me until the only thing coming out was air. When I finished, Jerry handed me a bottle of water and a banana, which I ate and then threw up. This, he explained, had been going on for almost an hour, and we were now out of bananas.

I asked where he got the bananas. He told me it would be best for me not to worry about it. I apologized for eating all of the drugs. He assured me it was okay. “That’s what they’re there for.”

“Well, now that I’m sobered up, I guess it’s safe to-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so fast cowboy. You’re sober-ish. But that stuff doesn’t take long to get into your bloodstream. This is actually just the eye-tip of the storm-berg. By my calculations, you’re not even halfway through your trip.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re probably about to lose your grip again. Once the Lucies in the gummies metabolize, it’s going to synergize with the toad milk in your blood stream. And then you’re going to see some things. I recommend you try really hard to focus on the positive. Think happy thoughts. Squirrels eating cupcakes. Bonfires in October. Pluto’s readmittance into the League of Planets.[37]”

“Am I going to die?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh no!”

“But not from this. Probably old age or a demon or monster or something.”

“Oh yay!”

I watched as Jerry began to melt in front of me. That can’t be good, I thought. That’s when the film over this scene began to bubble and peel away at the edges. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to help it along, so I started to tug. Soon, the whole thing dissolved in my hands, showing what had been hiding beneath this thin membrane all along. There was another reality, layered beneath ours, and in this reality, things were similar, but so, so different.

35
Oh, heck! I just remembered; I never told y’all about Rita! So, Rita was this coworker of ours a long time ago who had a big crush on Jack and was super into the furry community. One day, she met a genie who offered her three wishes, and… Actually, you know what? Never mind. Forget about Rita. [«]

36
Junk? You calling my gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses and the life-size Mr. T. cardboard cutout “junk”? Well, I feel sorry for you, sir. [«]

37
It’s gonna happen. NASA can’t ignore my letters forever! [«]

Chapter Thirty

I come up from a world-record bong rip with lungs full of spicy air. Tonight isn’t just about relaxing before school starts back. Tonight is about experimentation. Specifically, seeing just how wasted I can get. The pills are dancing with the alcohol. The alcohol is swimming with the Redbull. All the chemicals are fighting and fucking in my brain. I hold in the smoke until my lungs ache, then let it all out in one quick burst of laughter. Simon hits it next. Then Evie. That may be the last of the good weed. But at this point, who even needs seconds? I stand up and feel the world spinning below my feet.

Where’s Naomi? I ask. But Simon and Evie aren’t listening to me. They’re making out on the couch now. I guess it’s time for me to get another beer.

I find Naomi standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but her underwear. Nice.

You wanna join me for a ciggie? she asks with a wink.

Don’t mind if I do.

Suddenly, I’m twelve years old. Today is the day I get punched in the face for the first time in my life. Today, I get suspended for wearing a Spiderman costume to school. My parents are understandably upset, especially considering how my father dropped five figures a semester for the best private educational program in the state. He has a lot of questions for me. Where did you even get a Spiderman costume? What happened to the clothes you were wearing when you got on the bus? Why can’t you just be normal?

It’s that last question that really bugs me. Why can’t you just be normal? What a stupid question. I try to explain to him how normal is an artificial construct perpetuated by the ruling class as a means of societal control.

I never see the right hook coming.

I’m going to stay out of school until after my shiner has fully healed. I forgot something important before mouthing off to my father, and he had to remind me. Don’t speak ill of the ruling class. We are the ruling class. And we are meant to lead by example.

Why can’t you just be normal?

I’m standing outside, on the second-story patio next to Naomi. From here, we can see the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the lake. She smokes and asks if I plan on going into politics like my old man. Nah, shaking hands and kissing babies? Sounds like a shitty way to live. She asks if I want to go skinny-dipping. Now there’s an idea I can get behind. She takes off what’s left of her clothes. I do the same. Time jumps backwards.

I’m sixteen years old, and I just got busted for stealing clothes from Walmart.

I was always so careful. Never hit the same store twice. Spent hours putting together my disguise - the best makeup and wigs money could buy. I’d fill up a buggy with clothes, start a small fire as a distraction, then wheel my spoils right out the front door.

I got away with it for months, too, until someone noticed how all the homeless people in the city were wearing clean, new clothes. I don’t blame the guy they got to rat me out. He was a vet with PTSD and demons. Nice guy, actually. He didn’t deserve what they did to him, threatening him with all kinds of scary sounding charges to make him give me up. They say the judge signed my arrest warrant with a smiley face.

They pick me up on my way to fencing lessons. I’m pretty good with a sword, you know. Dad’s not around. He’s on the campaign trail when he finds out what happened. He makes a call to the police captain. The two of them work out some kind of deal - the sort of deal that only VIPs can negotiate - and suddenly, I’m a free man again. That is, until my father gets back home.

Since when is stealing from the rich to give to the poor a crime? I ask him.

I spend the next eight weeks with my jaw wired shut, drinking my meals through a straw. In that time, I can’t talk. All I can do is listen. He screams a lot of stuff. The only thing I really remember is that question.

Why can’t you just be normal?

I’m in bed with Naomi wrapped around me. But something isn’t right. I can feel it. She stirs, nibbles my ear, whispers, What’s wrong, baby?

You ever feel like an ant? Like, what if we’re just tiny pieces of some bigger cosmic identity? What if our minds are like brain cells, and the more humanity comes together, connecting, through technology and cultural distillation, the closer this identity comes to achieving self-awareness? And what happens then? When the hive is in control? And we’re no longer people, but tiny pieces of a bigger thing?

She jumps on top of me. It wasn’t my intention, but I’ll take it.

I fucking love it when you get all philosophical, she says.

It’s day three of the retreat. I’ve been micro-dosing for nearly forty-eight hours and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve built up a tolerance or if Chad just sold me some weak shit. Deep down, I assume the reason it isn’t hitting me that hard is because I’m such a fucking boss.

It’s a great time. I’m loving life.

Twenty-four hours later, things take an unexpected turn for the worse.

I’m seventeen years old. Tonight’s the night I meet Carmen. I’m a high school senior, drinking at the hotel bar with my top-notch fake ID when the stranger approaches and asks if we know each other. Not likely, I say.

Didn’t I see you playing football last night? Yeah, quarterback for the Gryphons, right? Got an amazing arm. There’s a future for you.

No, I say. You’ve got me confused for my little brother, Simon. I did try out for the team, though. Even got accepted, but my father said I had to turn it down.

What position? the guy asks.

Mascot, I tell him. He laughs, like he doesn’t know I’m being serious. It’s adorable.

His name is Carmen. He’s a recruiter for one of those fancy colleges that’s always coming to our town at the end of the year, trying to enroll new freshmen from the high school where all the kids’ parents have way too much money. He buys me a drink, but I explain to him that he’s wasting his time. My future is already set. My brother and I are going to attend our father’s alma mater. Carmen doesn’t seem to care, though. He asks why I’m drinking at a hotel bar. I explain to him that I’m waiting for my drug dealer, who prefers public places.

We end up talking about a lot of things. By the time last call comes around, we’re both feeling pretty good. Neither of us are even tired. Carmen asks if I want to come up to his room for one more drink.

We’re at the cabin. Everyone’s having a good time. We’re playing never-have-I-ever.

Never have I ever, I say, been skydiving. Simon drinks. So do I. I’ve totally been skydiving.

Never have I ever, says Evie, been in love. Naomi looks at me. I know I’d better drink.

Naomi goes next. Never have I ever wrecked a car. I’m the only one to drink.

Simon thinks he’s being clever. Never have I ever had sex with a dude before.

When I take a drink, everybody laughs. Simon says some stupid shit. He thinks he’s making fun of me. The drugs and alcohol are making me way more honest than I probably would have been otherwise, but Simon’s being a dick, and I want to set the record straight. I explain that I’m not joking. It totally happened. Not recently, I assure Naomi. I am totally committed to her. Everyone gets quiet. Party foul. Ah well, no big deal.

Except then it turns into a big deal. Naomi and Evie act like I just killed their dog. Simon gets angry and demands that I take it back.

Take what back?

What you said. It’s not fucking funny.

Time for a smoke break. I ask if Naomi wants to join me but she doesn’t. Whatever. I grab a beer and have a cigarette and when I get back to the others, they’re acting like something’s changed. They don’t want to play drinking games anymore. We don’t talk about it again for the rest of the night. We just watch “Scrubs” on DVD and then Naomi says she wants to go to bed early. She cries herself to sleep that night. I’m not sure what I did wrong.

I’m eighteen years old, at a club in my new college town. My fake ID gets me in the door. My charming personality gets me plenty of dances. My dad’s credit card gets me, and my new friends, all the drinks. The night’s just getting started when I see Carmen across the room.

I go up to him to say hi. He’s talking to a girl. When he sees me, he gets nervous. I try starting a conversation. He pretends he doesn’t know who I am. Whatever, dude. Your loss. I go back to the dance floor. There’s plenty of people here.

Naomi stays in bed. She’s still not talking to me. Simon’s already awake when I get downstairs. He tells me I’m going to hell. He says I was drunk last night and confessed to being gay. He says people like me are making the world a worse place. He says he spent the whole night looking up programs for de-gaying me. They’ll take me immediately, and he’ll just tell our friends I’m taking a semester off for rehab.

Nah, I’m not really interested.

I’m kinda over this whole trip, really.

Naomi’s acting like a jerk. She’s mad at me for sleeping with a dude? Hypocrite, much? Evie wants to go home early. I wait until they’re all distracted by “Scrubs: Season Three,” then I fill up my bag with everything I’ll need for a real vacation. A nature retreat, which I’ll be taking solo. I steal some uppers, some downers, a couple bottles of fruity vodka, the last disk of “Scrubs: Season Three,” and the hard drive my fraternity entrusted to me with a small fortune in bitcoin. Then I jet.

I’m twenty years old. This is the last time I ever speak to my father.

He wants to know how Simon is doing in school. He doesn’t ask how I’m doing. If he did, I wouldn’t tell him the truth. That I’ve got a perfect 4.0, and that I’m on track to graduate a year early. If he asked, I’d lie and say I’m barely hanging in there. I don’t know why, but I like to make the old man nervous.

I tell him I want to take Simon to the cabin for spring break. We might bring a couple girls we’ve been talking to.

My dad’s only question is, Are they white? Yeah, Dad. They’re white. Go ahead, then. Just keep out of trouble.

Before I go, I give my dad a flier. What’s this? It’s my acapella group. We’re performing tomorrow night. I’ve saved two tickets for him and mom. The look of disappointment on his face is delicious.

Why can’t you just be normal?

The first couple days in the woods by myself are the hardest, but that’s probably because I’m only in the woods for a couple days. I eat a pinecone. Not as good as I was expecting. When I find a road, I stick out my thumb until a dude named Isaiah stops and asks where I’m headed. I tell him nowhere special. He tells me to hop into the back of his rust-red pickup. Just like that, I’ve made a new friend.

Isaiah takes me to a camp where I meet the other “Rocky Mountain Armed Patriots.” They’re pretty cool, I guess. They feed me deer stew and let me crash in their spare trailer for a while. At night, around the fire, we drink moonshine and they listen to me talk about my big ideas. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About what my brother said. About how people like me make the world worse. I try not to let it bother me. I work it out with logic. I can make up for all the bad I put into this world. I can cancel out its effects, and then some. I think about what it really means to be good or bad.

I get a job. On weekends, I’m a bouncer at a bar in walking distance of the camp. They pay me in cash, and I tell anyone who asks that my name is John Dalton. But the Patriots have another name for me. They’ve started calling me “Prophet,” which I think is pretty rad. I guess they like what I have to say. I guess I do, too. I start organizing these thoughts because I know there’s something more to it. My words have meaning. Pure and sublime. I almost can’t believe they came from my own brain.

I grow a beard. It’s not just the Patriots coming around to hear me speak by the campfire anymore. Now they’re bringing others. Friends, neighbors, strangers. It’s not long before I’m a staple of the community. I actually have a following.

But then one night after a few too many wine coolers I have a threesome with Isaiah and his girlfriend, and Isaiah ends up confessing that he enjoyed it a little too much and he thinks it would be best for everyone if I took my message on the road.

I want to go to India, but then I remember I don’t have a passport. Isaiah finds a three-foot-wide map of the United States. I spin around until I’m off kilter and throw a dart, secretly hoping for Las Vegas, but it lands in a section of the United States far away from any place that matters. I look it up on Google Earth, but all I can find are woods surrounding a small town in the middle of nowhere. I call a mulligan. We take the map outside and hang it from the side of a barn. Isaiah loans me his crossbow. I take a shot from twenty feet. I’ve never fired a crossbow before, plus I’m a little drunk, but somehow I still hit my target. Except the arrow seems to have landed on the exact same area in the southern United States. The only explanation I’m willing to accept is that this is a sign from the universe.

A realtor from that small town in the middle of nowhere is so excited that I called. Business has been so bad that I was just about to kill myself, he says. This is great! My philosophy is already saving lives. I describe what I’m looking for. Something in the heart of the forest, close to nature. Preferably with the capacity for twenty to a hundred people at a time. He says he has just the thing! There’s a listing for an old laborers’ barracks that was converted into a Y2K shelter by a local madman who ended up dying from an infected hangnail on December 30, 1999. It’s been sitting empty ever since. Once again, I assume providence is at play. How else would things be working out so perfectly?

I tell the Patriots to spread my word. I drop into a few message boards and subreddits. I tell people that I’m building something big, and all who seek enlightenment will find it if they follow me.

I need a new name for my (dare I call it this?) religion. It’s based around logic. Science. Simple math. For now, I call it Mathmetism, but that’s just a place-holder until I can think of something better. I cash out the bitcoin, buy a truck, and start driving.

My followers show up in no time, each one of them young, dumb, and full of unbridled optimism. But one of them stands out from the others. Her hair is long and red, and she smells like the beach. She’s very pretty. Are you here to seek the wisdom of the prophet? I ask.

“No,” she says. “I’m here for you.”

What do you mean? I ask.

“There’s something you need to know...”

The others ignore her. They’re excited to meet the prophet. So excited. I want to be just like them. And really, there’s no reason I can’t be. Right? Nobody knows who the prophet is. He can be anyone. Or no one. I shave my beard. I try to blend in. We’re all just worker ants, building the nest together. And the nest is beautiful.

Except things don’t stay that way for long. Some of the others come forth to say they’ve met the prophet. Some begin to speak on his behalf. On my behalf. I know they’re full of crap, but what can I do but go along with it? After all, their ideas sound fun and harmless. But eventually, there’s a shift in the tide. The suggestions are starting to feel a little too extreme. I sense that I’m losing my place in this new family. But maybe it’s all in my head. I shouldn’t worry too much. I built a solid-ass foundation. It’s time to let the students become the teachers. What’s the worst that can happen?

And then the worst possible thing happens.

They did it. They really fucking did it.

I thought they were joking. I didn’t think they were serious. Oh God. What the fuck have I done?

I hear my father’s words from way back.

Why can’t you just be normal?

Well, Jerry, why can’t you just be normal?!

Chapter Thirty-One

I sat up and tried to speak, but my mouth felt like sandpaper. Jerry noticed me moving and handed me a bottle of water. He drove while I dreamt, slumped over and buckled into the passenger’s seat. Trees whipped past at sixty miles an hour. After guzzling the entire bottle, I found my voice again. “Where are we?”

“On the road again. I figured it was a good idea to get you away from people for a while. How was your psychotomimetic journey? Did you meet Jesus? Was he cool? I bet he was cool.”

“It was you? All along?!”

“Huh?”

“You’re the prophet?!”

Jerry kept his eyes on the road as he let out a long, “Ummmmmm…” It was actually pretty impressive how long he was able to keep that sound going without taking a breath, but eventually he couldn’t delay any longer and said, “You’re really high right now. You’re not making any sense. Go back to sleep.”

“I saw everything, Jerry. I saw your shitty father and your disappointing brother. I saw it. I lived it. And I know why you ran away.”

Jerry let out a sigh. A long moment passed. “I guess this means you finally know my deep, dark secret.”

“That you’re bi?”

He reacted like he’d just been slapped in the face. “What? No, not that! I have always been explicitly try-sexual, and anyone who didn’t already know that clearly hasn’t been paying attention.” He blew a raspberry in the air for emphasis. “I’m talking about the cult.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t have to say anything else. I’d been in his head. I felt the emotion. The overwhelming guilt. The burden of responsibility that he carried over what happened to those people. He took all the blame, but it was too much. It was killing him, so he pushed it away into his own vault where he tried to bury it beneath drugs and alcohol. But now, much like the Mathmetists themselves, it had inexplicably risen from the grave.

“I know this is hard, but I need you to do something for me. I need you to try and remember. When you first came to town, there was a girl at the compound.”

“There were lots of girls at the compound, Jack.”

“This one wasn’t a cultist. She had red hair, and-”

“Oh my God!” Jerry exclaimed. “Yeah, yeah, I do remember her now! Freckle face, right? What the heck was she doing there?”

“Can you remember what she said to you?”

“Yeah, she said…” he trailed off. Then, a second later, he hit the gas. The car accelerated way past uncomfortably fast and into alarmingly fast, rapidly approaching we’re about to die fast.

“Jerry,” I said carefully, tugging at my seatbelt to make sure it was tight. “What’s up?”

“She told me I needed to get back to the compound because the cultists were in danger.”

The car skidded to a stop in front of the black SUV parked haphazardly by the front doors of the compound. The Mathmetists were nowhere to be seen. Jerry asked, “Any idea who that belongs to?”

“I’ve got a few ideas. None of them good. You should make sure your gun is loaded.”

“I don’t have a gun. Do you?”

I patted my empty pockets. “Holy crap. I actually don’t.”

“I thought you were like a gun magnet.”

“Well, let’s hope we don’t need one.”

We stepped out of the car just in time to see Kieffer, his bodyguard Nader, and Rosa run out of the tent on the other side of the lot. We met Rosa halfway; the others were a bit slower.

“WHERE DID YOU GO!” she screamed.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t punch me.”

“Where are Travis and Gaston?!”

“Technically, Gaston is perfectly fine and waiting at the pet shelter.”

“And Travis?”

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Oh my God,” she said. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Rosa closed her eyes and let out a loud, angry, “Fuuuck!”

Okay, I was wrong. That was much easier than I expected.

Kieffer and Nader finally caught up to us. “Mr. Townsend!” he said in a voice like he was about to fire me. “What did you do to my thralls?!”

“Huh?”

Nader was ghostly white. “I’ve never seen nothing like that before,” he muttered softly. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Take a look for yourself,” Kieffer said, gesturing to the tent.

I hurried ahead of the others and rushed inside to see that every Mathmetist was here, gathered together in their white bathrobes, queuing around something. It was hot in here. The silence of the crowd was uncanny. Hushed breaths. A sizzle within the crowd, and the sound of a thwack, like a meat cleaver cutting through bone. I pushed my way through the cultists, squeezing past the bodies towards the noise, finally emerging in the center of the tent where I saw what everyone was lining up for.

One cultist stood behind a raised wooden table holding a dirty machete. His robe—once white—was now drenched in dark red. Piled in a laundry basket below the table were half a dozen human hands. I watched as one of the female cultists stepped away from the table. Her left arm ended at the wrist, where a steady flow of blood gushed forth. She approached a second table, where another cultist was at the ready with an iron. There was no expression other than mild satisfaction on any of their faces as she cauterized the open wound. The smell of cooked flesh invaded my nostrils, daring me to throw up.

The machete man pointed at the next person in line. The cultist took his spot and put his arm on the wooden table wrist up. I jumped forward and yelled, “Hey! Stop that right now!”

The machete man gave me an empty look and said, “It is our sacrifice, demanded by the almighty Karen.”

“I don’t care. I said quit doing that or else I-”

Arms grabbed me from behind. They wrapped around my torso, my neck, my arms. The cultists had me trapped.

“You cannot stop what is coming. The sacrifice will continue. And you, nonbeliever, will participate. You will be next. Karen demands it. Karen demands your hands!”

The entire crowd chanted in unison, “Praise Karen!”

I felt myself being carried forward by the crowd. The cultists lifted me off the ground. The more I struggled, the harder they squeezed. “No, that’s okay!” I said. “Heck, I don’t want to cut in line. That would be rude.” Three cultists held me in place as two more pulled my right arm down and pushed it onto the wet, sticky, warm table. “Wait!” I screamed desperately. “Think about this for just a second! Your plan doesn’t make any sense! If you all cut off your hands, then who’s going to be left to cut off the last person’s hands? Huh?”

The machete man blinked a few times before saying, “We’ll figure that out later.”

Another cultist walked up behind the machete man and tapped him on the shoulder. Machete man turned to face him. This new cultist’s robe was perfectly clean; the hood drooped down over his eyes. “Hey, Karen said you’re not supposed to cut off hands with a dirty robe.”

“What? When did Karen say that?”

“Just a minute ago. She told me to come and take over hand duty for a while.”

The new cultist took the bloody weapon away from the machete man, then gently pushed him out of the way and took his place.

“Wait!” I shouted. “You don’t have to do this!”

The new cultist swung the blade around, making lightsaber noises in the process, then said, “I know I don’t have to. I want to. But before we do this, did you want to jerk off one last time?”

“Wait a second,” I said, stretching to look beneath the cultist’s hood. “Jerry?”

“Oh come on, guys!” Jerry exclaimed, raising the machete blade to his face. “Look how dull this blade is! What is this, amateur hour? You know we have to sharpen it after every five hands! That’s Amputation 101! Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Before anyone knew what was going on, Jerry had already squeezed through the crowd and skipped out the front entrance. I waited to see if anything was going to happen, or if the cultists were planning on keeping me here indefinitely. But then the dominoes started to fall. Someone in the crowd yelled, “Nonbeliever!” The others started shouting. People ran in every direction. They hit the walls of the tent and pushed the fabric and supports and soon, it all began to collapse. The cultists released me as the fabric ceiling fell onto our heads. I crawled over bloody dirt and severed hands, pushed my way past panicked cult members, and eventually reached the edge of the tent. I emerged, grateful to still have half of my limbs fully intact, but then I saw my friends.

They were standing a few feet away. A semicircle of cultists blocked off any chance of escape. Jerry, Rosa, Kieffer, and Nader were stuck in place. Right behind them, the tall man with the hipster hair—Archimedes—gripped his shotgun in both hands.

I slowly stood up and asked, “What’s going on?”

“WHAT’S GOING ON, INDEED!” That voice—Roger’s voice—came from the other side of the wall of cultists. They parted for him like the Red Sea. “You see what’s happening here, Jack? This is the final act of a petty god. The infinitely malevolent K’Rohn has corrupted their feeble minds. It’s lashing out at me, because it knows I’m the only one with the power to stop it.”

Roger’s human carried him over to join us, but something wasn’t right here. (I mean, besides the everything else.) Roger still looked and sounded the same, but this was definitely not the same Hawaiian-shirted Sebastian operating him anymore. No, the man currently controlling this wooden doll was none other than my old high school PE teacher.

“Coach Maroni?”

“What’s up, Jack?” The old man’s gravelly voice conjured memories of all the abuse he piled onto the children under his care. “I see you’re still causing trouble.”

Roger spun his head and snapped at him, “Shut up, Maroni!”

Maroni made a face like he’d just found a turd in his oatmeal. “Sorry, sir.”

Roger turned back to me. “Forgive the adaptation. Good vessels are hard to come by, and Sebastian burned a little too bright.”

I looked all around and realized what was happening. The cultists—the thralls—were built to follow the strongest personality they encountered, without question. And right now, the strongest personality was the one who just told Maroni to shut up. Suddenly, I felt very dizzy.

“Sooo,” I said. “We’re pretty much fucked right now, huh?” I looked up at the sky and noticed it was a lot greener than it normally was… Those waves of butterflies battling dinosaurs were a nice touch. Whoever painted it did a very good job.

“Jack, listen to me,” Kieffer said as his elephant trunk unfurled to offer me a rose. I took the flower. “This is very important! Whatever you do-”

I started laughing as the world turned to music around me.

“What… what’s he doing?”

“I think he’s high.”

“Oh yeah, totally. Dude’s tripping balls right now.”

That’s about the point where I accidentally dove off the face of reality.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I exist, and it’s really confusing. How do I know I exist? I don’t know how I know. But I do know that I didn’t exist a moment ago. Between the two, I think I prefer not existing. It was so much less work.

What is this feeling now? I’m compelled by forces I don’t understand. I want. I used to didn’t want. I wish I could go back to that. But I sense there is a way to make the want disappear. All I need to do is have. I’m driven to satisfy that need. It feels correct. The want diminishes. I sense warmth. I soak it up. And now I sense something else. Water. It feels divine. And now I’m conscious of something else entirely: time. It separates the wants and haves into categories. It’s so neat and orderly. Whoever came up with this system is a genius.

I exist, and it’s still really confusing. I’m aware now of my physical self, bound by limitations I couldn’t have ever conceived of before. Gravity. Pain. Hunger. I’m beginning to understand that life is nothing more than reacting to those three things. I don’t like it.

Someone comes to me and puts thoughts inside my head, pumping me full of information I didn’t ask for. Your name is Kieffer. You are my child. This dumpy little rock is called Earth. Soon you will be ready to harvest, and you will help me. This is your purpose.

The time comes. I have fingers and toes and other things. My roots disconnect and fall away, but I’m still connected to the source by less corporeal tethers. A handsome creature stands before me. He tells me to get up. He wraps me in dead plants that he calls clothes. He asks me if I’m drunk. I don’t know what that means, but my legs have to keep moving or I’m going to go back to the dirt, which doesn’t sound all too bad. The handsome man grabs me. I feel pain and something else I don’t know the word for. He tells me his name is Spencer, and I have to do what he says, or he’ll make me not alive again.

We’re in the big box. I’m tied into my chair. The box moves very fast. Spencer says it’s a car. This is a road. I’m in my seatbelt. It’s all very fascinating. I find a button that makes the seatbelt go away. Spencer yells like I did something wrong. I find a lever on the door and pull it. Now I’m falling. But it’s not dirt that finds me. It’s something much harder. I hear the crushing sound of my very self breaking into pieces as the world bounces and twists and goes black entirely.

I no longer exist. And then, I do. And this time Spencer seems angry. He tells me not to jump out of a moving vehicle. I understand. Lesson learned.

I exist, as I have for several days. I’m older and wiser now. There were some growing pains towards the beginning, that’s for sure. The brain fog, as I understand it, is a ketosic reaction to the rapid growth process. Who knew photosynthesis had the same effect on the human mind as 200 proof grain alcohol? Regardless, those hiccups are behind us. The campaign trail lays ahead. Spencer has been keeping a watchful eye, but every now and then, the plan slips up. Or I slip up. Like right now, as I’ve just slipped in front of an active combine harvester while visiting the Brown farm. The mechanical teeth come down to tear me into confetti, and I see Spencer shake his head in annoyance.

I exist. My mind is gooier than I remember. What was it I used to call this feeling? Plane forg? No, that’s not it. Pain plog? Hedgehog? Hot dog? Oh! There’s my friend Spencer. Maybe he can help. He looks happy to see me. I’m happy to see him, too. Maybe I can exist a little longer this time around.

I’ve lived and died a hundred times, and neither of those acts ever gets easier. I’m almost nervous. I know it’s only a matter of time until the agents find me again. When they do, it’s never pretty. They’ll capture me. Dissect me. Keep me alive as long as possible before I die and go back to Spencer. When I’m alive, he follows me everywhere. He’s very good at killing the agents. But somehow, there are always more of them, and it always ends the same way. Eventually, one of the agents will kill me. Some do it a lot faster than others. When it happens, the looks on their faces make me wonder if they were even trying to kill me. But it couldn’t be an accident. Nobody’s that stupid. Wait, what is this thing sticking out of my chest? Am I dead again already?! This is ridiculous! I see an agent crawling out of a grave nearby and I give him the two-fingered salute that Spencer taught me before everything goes black again.

I open my eyes. But Spencer isn’t waiting for me this time. Instead, it’s the agent who killed me. The brain frog is back. I wonder how that frog got inside my brain in the first place. What’s he doing in there? Eating up all my thoughts and memories? I chuckle. Hey there fella, I say, hoping the agent who just stabbed me to death will turn out to be friendly. Kieffer, he responds. You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a pickle here. We talk and talk for what feels like ages. And then he goes and gets a can of gasoline, pours it all over my body, and sets me on fire. Hey. Not cool.

I don’t know how long I didn’t exist, but I do know there’s something that isn’t right inside of me, and it’s not just the frog nibbling at my brain. My connection to the one who created me is gone. Thankfully, I still have Mr. Spencer, but something is different about him, too. He has new scars, and he doesn’t try to make me sound like a normal person anymore. He lets me stay here, in our cabin, away from the world. I thought my mind was supposed to get better. I can’t remember so good, but I do remember being smarter. I know Mr. Spencer will protect me.

He visits every day. He brings me clothes to wear. He brings me food and, when I’m good, he gives me candy. He teaches me a game called Tic Tac Toe. I’m starting to get pretty good at it. When the sky is loud at night, Mr. Spencer reads me bedtime stories. I really like the one about green ham, even though I don’t understand it. I try to be good for Mr. Spencer, but I know he gets mad when I fall too fast, or when I get tangled up in shoestrings, or when I touch the hot side of pointy metal.

He goes to leave and drops his favorite toy on the ground. I try to pick it up for him, but he starts yelling. Kief! Drop the gun! I don’t know what that means. What’s a gun? Is it inside the tube part of this toy I’m holding? I look inside. And now Mr. Spencer is running at me. I hold the toy out for him, but my clumsy fingers somehow cause it to make a loud noise. Mr. Spencer looks surprised. Did I do something wrong? Wait, why did he fall down? Are we playing a game? Where did this red water come from? Mr. Spencer, what’s going on? He won’t answer me.

Mr. Spencer still isn’t talking. There are three other men and a baby in our cabin now. The short man carries the baby. The baby is screaming like an old man. Well this is just great! How the fuck did mixed veggies over here get the jump on Spencer Fucking Middleton? The tall one with the funny mustache says, I think it might have been an accident. The other one, the one whose skin looks like clouds before they turn mean, doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me through his eye decorations. Search the place, the baby says. It’s got to be around here somewhere. If we don’t find it, the entire plan is ruined. They break everything. They knock over my bed. They pour out my food. They punch holes in the walls. I ask if any of them want to play Tic Tac Toe, but they ignore me.

When there’s nothing left of my home but crumbs, the short man carries the baby over to me. The baby asks, Kieffer, I know you’re indefinitely stupid, but I need to ask you a question about your friend Spencer. He was keeping an item safe for me, understand? I asked him to protect something very important, and now I need it back. Have you seen a knife, about yay big, with shiny colored jewels all across the blade and handle?

Why ask me? Spencer’s right there.

The baby laughs like a woodpecker and says, He’s right! We can bring him back and ask him ourselves.

But I thought dopplers don’t work on Middleton.

Oh, Sebastian, you simple little man. Why don’t you leave the planning to the adults? We aren’t going to dopple him. We’re going to revive him. We’ll need a lot of black blood to make it work. Archimedes, find out who won’t be missed and start collecting. Kyle Bob, deliver the body to our friends at the sheriff station. Do we have eyes on the boys?

I ask them again if they want to play Tic Tac Toe. I’ll even let them go first if they want. But it’s like they can’t even hear me.

Tracker in the four-wheeler puts them outside the Tasty Vapes anomaly. Do you want us to assemble a team to go in after them?

No. I’ve got a better idea. Never waste an opportunity to make someone think they owe you a favor. My dear Sebastian, how’s your origami?

“I’ll play with you,” says the girl with pretty red hair. I don’t remember her coming in, but I like her smile. She tells me not to worry, that everything will be fine. I ask what she’s doing here. “My boyfriend tore the front door of his mind off the hinges, and now strays are wandering in. I know you’re in there somewhere, Jack. I love you. Check your pockets when you get a chance.” I tell the nice lady that I love her, too. We ignore the others and play a bunch of games. I’m really getting the hang of it.

Chapter Thirty-Three

I still wasn’t used to the confusion of going from dream to waking. It took me a few seconds before I remembered where I was supposed to be.

Rosa, Jerry, Kieffer, and Nader were here with me. “Here” being the sleeping quarters of the Mathmetist compound. We were each in a separate bunk bed, with hands tied behind our backs and metal shackles connecting one leg to the metal frames.

I put the question out there for whoever wanted to answer: “How bad is it?”

A second later, Nader spoke. “Hey Jack. Did you ever give my concussion guy a call? Because I think you might have a touch of brain damage. You were talking a lot in your sleep.”

Rosa added, “You kept calling out for ‘Mr. Spencer.’”

“And you were snoring,” said Keiffer.

“Can someone please tell me why we aren’t dead yet?”

Kieffer explained, “Roger doesn’t want us dead. But there are fates worse than death, as I’m sure you’ll learn soon. We’re all useful to him in some way.”

“Even me?” asked Nader.

“No,” Kieffer answered. “I don’t imagine you’ll be included. He’ll probably let you off easy with a quick death.”

“Oh.”

I tested the strength of the rope behind my back. Every movement stung my wrists. Whoever tied these knots was not playing around. I turned to Rosa and asked, “Have we tried summoning the big guy?” She shook her head and gave me a look that said, no dice. I looked over at Jerry and said, “Tell me you have a hidden knife or something sewn into your shirt that you can use to get us out of this mess.”

“I did, but they found the lockpick in my belt and I forgot to wear underwear today, so the razorblade I keep in there is useless. But don’t worry, I do have a plan. All I have to do is muster the willpower to break my thumbs so I can get the ropes off, then I’ll be able to shatter my foot and squeeze out of these shackles. After that, I’ll hop on one leg until I find a cultist, snap his neck, and take his robes. Then, I-”

“Never mind. I got it.” As much as I wanted to see where he was eventually going with his plan, I had to interrupt. Sabine’s advice this time around was so extremely clear, even I couldn’t screw it up. I reached into my back pocket and retrieved the small folding pocketknife Mr. Cromwell must have left there. It was surprising that they didn’t bother patting me down before tying us up. Even more surprising was how the henchman that secured our legs to the bed frames had wrapped my shackle around the ankle of my prosthetic leg… My detachable prosthetic leg. It took less than a minute for me to cut through the rope, and a matter of seconds to disconnect the prosthetic. I pulled myself up. I didn’t have a crutch, but at least I was free. Things could be a lot worse.

“Hey!”

The voice came from the entryway. One of the cultists had just walked in to see me leaning against the bed, rubbing my sore wrists. “What?” I asked.

“You’re supposed to be tied up!”

“No, I’m not. I talked to Roger. He said it’s okay for me to be untied.”

“But I just spoke with Father Roger, blessed be his name. He told me to make sure you didn’t try to escape.”

I gestured at my missing leg. “Do I look like I’m trying to escape?”

Nader whisper-yelled at me from his bed, “Jack! Quick! Kill the cultist! Jump over there and stab him! It’s self-defense!”

“What did he say?” asked the cultist.

“Nothing. Hey, you don’t have the keys to the shackles by any chance, do you?”

“FIRE!” screamed Kieffer at the top of his lungs with a degree of passionate alarm that those of us who’d never been burned to death might find to be an overreaction. Still, fire is fire, and fire demands immediate attention. I looked over to see what was burning, as did the cultist. We saw it at the same time—the archway forming against the wall, a glowing red portal that smelled of sulfur. I’d seen this same archway once before, and I knew what was about to happen.

“Hey, cultist,” I said.

“It’s not a cult.”

“Something’s about to come through this portal and kill us all. I assume Roger told you that he wants us to stay alive, right? Well, then you should go and get help. Lots of it.”

The cultist ran for the nearest exit, and I awkwardly made my way over to Rosa to begin cutting her ropes. “Jack,” she said, a little annoyed. “What’s the flaming portal thing?”

“It’s probably just that interdimensional assassin demon hunting me.”

“Uh huh. And why is he hunting you?”

“He was hired by a race of imp creatures who think I had something to do with a bunch of their ancestors being brutally murdered in our world.”

“Did you?”

“It’s complicated.”

I hopped over to Jerry next, doing my best to ignore the immature giggles coming from Nader’s side of the room.

“Dude,” Jerry said. “Don’t waste your time. Get the frick outta here. Socks-and-sandals doesn’t want to kill us. He only wants you. Go, and we’ll buy you some time.”

I sawed through his rope and said, “I can’t leave you all here. And I mean, literally, I can barely move right now. But even if I could, I wouldn’t.” The rope gave way, and I turned my attention to the chain on his leg. “Now, help me pull. Maybe with our combined strength we can break it free.”

He didn’t even bother trying. He just said, “It’s adorable that you think that’s how steel works.”

A powerful explosion filled the building with heat and light. A fireball scorched the ceiling, and a swarm of glowing insects burst forth from the portal. I didn’t have time to run (not that I would have) before the creature stepped through, horns first. As soon as his face came into our world, he began to chant menacingly, “Fee, Fie, Foh, Feadman… I’m about to turn you into a dead man!”

He emerged fully from the portal and turned to face me head on. The look of pure rage on his face was the same as the last time I saw him, but there were a few other elements to the monster this time around. His new glasses had a red plastic Hello Kitty bow on the corner of the frame. Around his neck, he wore a puka shell necklace. And somehow, he found a pineapple-themed Hawaiian shirt that fit his massive frame.

“JACK!” he barked.

“Wait!” I said, trying to buy enough time for help to arrive. “Listen! You can’t kill me!”

“Why not?!” He said, taking a step closer.

“Because I’m… well… tell him, Jerry.”

Jerry answered right away, “A bomb!”

“What?!” the demon howled. “What does that even mean?!”

I really need to take some improv lessons if I survive.

“It means, if you try to hurt me, I’ll explode and kill us all.”

“What if I just stand over here and kill you? I can shoot fireballs from twenty feet away.”

“That won’t work either.”

“Why not?”

“Because the explosion will blow up the entire planet.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Come on. Would I lie to you?”

“YES! You have! Repeatedly and consistently!”

“Just ask these guys. As you can plainly see, they are my prisoners. They would have no reason to lie for me.”

Kieffer seized the opportunity. “He’s telling the truth! Don’t hurt him or we’ll all die!”

Jerry added, “Actually, this whole thing is a trap. That’s just a decoy Jack. The real Jack is hiding out somewhere in Asia.”

Nader, whose mouth had been hanging open this entire time, finally snapped out of it and said, “Is that the devil?”

The demon sniffed the air loudly, then turned to face Rosa. “What about you? Do you care to weigh in?”

“This is clearly between you two. Leave me out of it.”

Nader whisper-yelled his next bad idea at her. “Rosa! Quick! Use your feminine wiles and seduce him!”

“What? Ew, gross, no!”

“Hey,” said Socks-and-Sandals, sounding a little offended. “I’m standing right here, you know. I can hear you.”

“Sorry,” Rosa apologized.

I was so glad to hear the doors slam open when they did, because I’d completely run out of things to say at this point. The cultists raced into the compound brandishing what may generously be considered weapons—brooms, rakes, sticks. I even saw at least one rolling pin. Then I heard Roger’s voice at the back of the crowd.

“What on Earth have you done this time?”

It took me a second to realize he was accusing me. “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” I explained. “He just showed up here trying to kill me.”

Coach Maroni and Roger pushed to the front of the Mathmetists. Archimedes was right by their side. Roger looked at me, then back to Archimedes, and said, “I thought I told you to tie and chain him up.”

“I did exactly what I was tasked to do,” Archimedes stated.

“And you,” Roger spun his head back to face the demon. “What do you think you’re doing in my world?”

“My fight is not with you, Roger. I came for the Akyak-slayer.”

“You opened a portal and endangered the entire Fire Realm!”

“The time of K’Rohn the Devastator has yet to arrive. I still have one cycle to fulfill my blood oath and destroy the one they call ‘Jack.’”

“You’ve accepted a blood oath, have you? Then I suppose there’s no use negotiating.”

“No, I suppose there is not.”

Roger raised his voice and called out so everyone could hear him clearly. (A neat trick, if it was really coming from Maroni; a terrifying feat if it wasn’t.) “Mathmetists, it’s time to take up arms.”

“Thralls,” the demon said with a toothy grin. “How presumptuous of you.”

“Kill him. I command you!”

“No, children. Do not listen to this paper god. Cast off your loyalties and follow a true master. I—Korgin of the Fire Realm, slayer of Vostoff the Terrible, son of Tim the Punctual—will give you the purpose you truly deserve. Follow me and become soldiers in the most noble and puissant army of the damned.”

The Mathmetists looked at one another but otherwise didn’t move.

“What’s happening?” Nader asked.

Kieffer explained, “The Mathmetists are programmed to follow the strongest personality in the room. It looks like Roger just lost the crown.”

“Minions!” boomed Korgin of the Fire Realm (formerly Socks-and-Sandals), “Kill them! Show no mercy.”

The last thing Coach Maroni managed to growl out was a quick “Fuck!” before the crowd descended upon him. Archimedes put up a fight, punching and kicking, before the sheer number of hypnotized cultists overpowered him like a sand castle under a tsunami. Screams turned to squelches that turned to silence as the mass of people converged into a tight ball of murder and violence.

I turned to Jerry and shouted, “You know what to do.”

He smiled and put two fingers to his mouth, then whistled loud enough to turn the crowd, now painted in blood, in our direction.

“LISTEN UP!” he shouted, standing next to the bed. “For those of you who don’t remember me, my name is Jerry. Although you probably know me by another name—Prophet. That’s right! I was the one who called you all together so long ago. Me! You are my flock, and I am your shepherd.”

“Minions,” said Korgin. “Kill the unimportant one.”

They immediately descended upon Nader in an unfeeling, unflinching death trance. Nader managed to get out a few last words that sounded like, “I’m the main character in my own story!” before the cultists reduced him to nothing but a pile of broken bones and scattered organs. Jerry continued his attempts to stop them, but they had no interest in listening to the “prophet” ever again.

A scream broke the air wide open, bouncing off the ridiculously acoustic round walls and forcing everyone to stop what they were doing. Even with my hands over my ears, it sounded like a fire alarm inside my head. When the scream went away, all eyes were on Rosa. Now I realized that she had been holding back when she screamed at us in the car.

She cleared her throat, put on her shamiest shame face, then said, “What is wrong with all of you? No, I’m serious. You there!” She pointed at the closest cultist, a young blonde guy with Nader’s blood smeared all over his lips and cheeks. “What’s your name?”

He looked shocked at the notion of being addressed individually. “We don’t have names here. We’ve shed our-”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s the name you went by before the so-called prophet convinced you to give it up?” He looked around at the cultists next to him. Rosa called him out. “Don’t look at them for an answer. They won’t know. Look at me. What was your name?”

He answered hesitantly, “Edmond.”

“Edmond. What are you doing? Are you eating that man? Are you literally chewing up another human being right now?” Edmond looked at the floor, then opened his mouth and let a half-masticated wad of bloody flesh fall out. Rosa continued, “Do you want to get prions? Because that’s how you get prions! I know your parents probably raised you better than that. What’s your mother’s name?”

“What?”

“What’s not a name I’ve ever heard of.”

“Scarlet.”

“And what would Scarlet say if she saw you right now, huh?” Edmond frowned and shrugged. “You!” She pointed at the young woman currently wiping blood out of her blonde hair.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. What’s your name?”

“Skylar?”

“Skylar, do you think Korgin’s pulling off that look? With his greasy goatee and his open Hawaiian shirt? Or do you think he needs to grow up and quit trying to look cool?”

Skylar smiled and let out a soft laugh. Others in the crowd took her lead and did the same. Korgin frowned and narrowed his eyes. He knew he was losing them.

“And the rest of you, are you really going to take orders from someone wearing a puka shell necklace? You’re better than that!”

Skylar wiped her bloody hands off on her robe, then dared to speak out of turn. “What would you have us do?”

“You all need to give this up. It’s been a fun experiment, sure, but it’s time to call it quits. Look at what it cost you! Some of you chopped off your hands! That was so dumb! Go home to your friends and families. If you don’t already have any, be friends with each other. It’s easy. Go do what makes you happy within the confines of the law and basic human decency.”

Murmurs of general affirmation rose from the crowd. I couldn’t believe it was working. Rosa had successfully diverted one of the pending threats to our lives. But we still had to do something about that-

“BUT FIRST!” Rosa added, turning back to point a finger at Korgin. “I want you to kill this motherfucker!”

The cultists shifted back into murder mode immediately. They rushed past me and jumped on top of the demon. He screamed and begged as the Mathmetists bit and stabbed and pulled his limbs from the sockets. I averted my eyes, looking away from one horrifying sight to another—the body of Archimedes. It moved. And not just a twitch like dead bodies are wont to do. He turned his whole head to look at me and coughed up blood. I bounced over to his side.

“Are you okay?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question, considering he’d been torn in half at the torso and his intestines were uncoiled around us on the floor.

“Jack,” he said. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I tried to reassure him, but his honesty spell was still in effect. “To be perfectly honest, I can’t believe you’re even alive right now.”

“I tried to help you. I tried to stop him.”

“Who? Roger?” I looked over at the lifeless doll sitting next to the pieces of Coach Maroni. “Mission accomplished, dude.”

He coughed, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me closer. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I have no reason to lie. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” He coughed up blood and spat it onto the floor. “Roger was the one who ordered us to drive you off the road.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that out. He wasn’t exactly subtle, remember?”

“No.” He coughed again. His breathing was getting shallower. “That’s not what I meant.”

His eyes glazed over.

“Wait,” I said. “What exactly do you mean?” He stayed quiet. I shook him. No response. “Did Roger have something to do with Sabine’s coma?” I shook him harder. Still dead. “HEY! ANSWER ME!” I tried everything I could think off to revive him. I gave him mouth to mouth, but all that did was get blood on my face. I tried chest compressions next, but that just squeezed out more blood and guts. Dude was dead. Very dead.

That’s when I felt the hands on my shoulders, pulling me to my foot. I finally heard the sirens blaring. Flashing red and blue lights spilled in from the open door. Police surrounded us with weapons drawn. I looked at the woman standing in front of me and wiped the blood off my face before saying, “Sheriff O’Brien. What seems to be the problem?”

I honestly don’t remember what happened next in the real world, because that’s when the remaining drugs hit my system all at once.

Chapter Thirty-Four

It’s a strangely cold summer night when my past finally catches up to me. The bartender’s been keeping my glass full for free, like he always does. He’s just happy to have me here. My presence keeps the peace. The locals know it when they see me. The out-of-towners, well, they find out when they find out.

Bartender sees my glass getting low, tops off my ginger ale. I’m not here to tie one off. That ain’t my drug of choice. Bartender ain’t complaining. It’s our little secret. Nobody needs to know why I’m always keeping my mind sharp. Why I constantly count the number of threats around me - six of the barflies are packing heat; a dozen have knives. Why I always sit in the same spot - the only place where I can keep an eye on every entry point. These are old habits I don’t feel like breaking.

I see Ramirez coming from a mile away. I have time. I can get out before he finds me, but it won’t make much difference. He’ll get to me eventually. He always locates his targets. The only thing that’ll change it is a bullet in the back of his head. I weigh this option as I sip my ginger ale.

The door opens, and I give the signal to the bartender. He passes my message on to the bouncer. Look alive, but don’t interfere. Leave it all to Casey. Casey will handle it.

Ramirez sidles up to the empty spot next to me. A few heads turn our way. Curiosity. Anticipation. Who’s this joker in a suit and tie? What’s Casey going to do to him? A couple patrons make their way to the door, just to be safe.

He greets me in a way I don’t care much for these days. Soldier. I give him a nod. What do you want, Ramirez? - You know what I want. Your country needs you again. - Oh yeah? They didn’t need me much when they left me eight kilometers behind enemy lines. – Pack it away. You’re not even supposed to be talking about that. - Yeah, yeah. As far as Uncle Sam’s concerned, it never happened. - That’s right. And don’t you forget.

He gives me the pitch, and it ain’t about patriotism. It’s about the almighty dollar. I’ve heard this routine so many times I’ve almost got it memorized. When he’s done, I tell him where to find the door. But Ramirez ain’t taking no for an answer. They paid him good money to bring me back in, by any means necessary. And they ain’t the corps. No, it’s someone else. Someone with deeper pockets. Private security, perhaps? Mercs? Warlord? Royalty - or more likely soon-to-be royalty, just as soon as I help nudge along a coup in some shit-hole far away from home? Ramirez ain’t saying. And I don’t really care. I like my life now. It’s simple.

Is there a problem here?

Holden shows up in the nick of time. Our conversation was about to turn into something more than a conversation. Ramirez gives Holden a look. The uniform and badge wouldn’t faze a man like Ramirez, but the iron on the deputy’s hip sure makes him recalculate his odds.

No, officer. No problem. Just saying goodbye to an old friend.

He gives me a card and tells me to call when I’ve changed my mind. I wait until he’s gone before I toss it on the floor. Holden takes his seat. I buy him a beer.

Who was that guy? - Just a ghost. - Good thing he’s leaving. This town’s got enough of those already.

Holden wants to know what’s really going on. I tell him enough. I tell him I like where I am now. I came here for a reason. Small town. Middle of nowhere. I’ve lived enough excitement to last ten lifetimes. It’s time I get a taste of boring.

I’ve been here for a year now. I like boring, for the most part. But every now and then, I need to break something. Knuckleheads at the bar let me blow off steam. It’s a forty-minute drive to the closest town with a half-decent dojo, but the sparring partners there leave a lot to be desired. I think my days are numbered after Aggie’s husband gives her a shiner and I put him in critical care. But Holden knows me, and instead of locking me up, he offers me a job. He wants me to come work with him.

Time passes. I clean things up, but I do it my own way. Holden’s a good partner. He pretends to be one of those by-the-book types, but he’s got enough wiggle room to look the other way when I do what has to be done. And as long as everyone feels safe, where’s the harm?

The months go by. We bust a few heads at a high-school party that gets out of control. I’m forced to take anger-management classes. It’s a crock of shit, but I get paid for it. I learn the words to say to make them think I’ve got it all under control.

It’s been a long couple of years. I’ve fallen into a new routine that suits me. Life is good. Clyde calls us into his office. He tells me to lock the door behind us. He tells Holden to close the blinds. What’s this all about? He needs a favor. He wants to know if he can trust us. I’m hesitant, but Holden bites. Sheriff’s got a job he wants handled discreetly. Group of kids went camping last week. Nobody’s heard from them since. We know where they went. We just have to go check on them. I ask why we don’t send S&R. Sheriff says they did. He won’t elaborate. I got alarm bells ringing. Sheriff’s sweating. Something about this don’t add up. Holden says we’ll take care of it.

Outside, we run into Mr. Perfect himself. Tom, the golden boy. The deputy Clyde didn’t trust enough to give this job to. He’s leaning against my cruiser. What the hell do you want, I ask. - I know what you’re about to do. I want you to reconsider. You don’t know what’s out there. - How about you mind your own damn business, Tom?

He talks a bit about sacrificial offerings and shit. He tells me we’re in trouble. I know he’s a good guy. Good at his job. But right now, he sounds crazy. I don’t give him a second thought before Holden and I take off.

All hell breaks loose.

We find the remains of the campers. They’re dead. Search and rescue, too. They’re all fucking dead. Those things nearly got us, too. Fifteen rounds to the chest wasn’t enough to drop one of them. The fucker barely bled. We’re trapped out here now. They destroyed the car. Our radios are useless. Holden’s hurt, but I’ve got him bandaged up. At least he can walk. We need to move. Night’s gonna be here soon.

By the grace of God, we find a building. It looks like an old army barracks. Empty. Fortified. Holden says it’s a Y2K bunker, whatever the hell that means. I lock the doors, but we can hear them outside, pacing, snarling, scratching, looking for a way in. Holden tells me he knows what we’re up against. He’s feverish. He ain’t making any sense. He says it’s werewolves...

...I heard the stories, but never believed them. Werewolves. Unkillable, unstoppable animals. Every year, they come out of hibernation for one week to feed. They used to wreak havoc on the town, but a group of people - the connected ones - put together an offering. The wolves stay in the woods. They eat strangers - no one anybody’s going to miss. And when they’ve had enough, they go back to sleep.

I put Holden in one of the beds and go to find some water. What I find instead are guns. Lots of them. Someone’s been stockpiling. What the holy hell is this place? I don’t know what Y2K is, but there’s enough firepower here to kill God.

I hear the scream. When I get back to Holden, it’s too late. One of those things is standing over him, lips bloody, eating the heart of my best friend. I see red. Unkillable? Unstoppable? I’m about to put that theory to the test. I rack the AK-103 in my arms and aim the weapon. The wolf creature steps towards me. He gets one warning:

You best give your heart to Jesus, cause your ass is mine!

He roars. So do I. I light up the room. Fur and blood and shit and organs turn into a hurricane storm around us. I guess these fuckers ain’t so unkillable after all. I open the front door and whistle. Who’s next?

It’s a long, drawn-out, bloody fight. The last one is smart. He makes a run for it. He almost gets away, too, but I’m determined. I hunt him down all night. By the time the sun comes up, I’m out of ammo and wearing their ears on a necklace. They fucked with the wrong guy tonight. But they weren’t the only ones.

When I get back to town, I go straight to the sheriff’s home. I’m still covered in blood. I’m still seeing red. I put a knife to Clyde’s throat and tell him if he ever tries something like that again, I’ll rip his fucking heart out and eat it myself. If he was scared of werewolves, he sure as hell better be scared of the one that made them extinct.

◆◆◆

I stirred awake in the backseat of a car, my head propped against a door. Gentle rain pattered against the roof. I sat up, much against the insistence of every one of my muscles. I was a few breaths in before I noticed the metal partition separating me from the front seat. I looked through my cage wall and saw the deputy sitting in the driver’s seat. He put a flask to his lips, burped, then played with the radio.

Outside, it was carnage in clean-up mode. White sheets. EMTs. People no doubt trying to understand what the hell happened and why the coroner hadn’t yet arrived.

On the floor next to me, I found my prosthetic leg. As I sat up and started to reattach my limb, I heard Love’s voice from the front seat.

“You really did it this time, huh Jack?”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re saying you went crazy and killed a whole mess of them cultists.”

“Love, you gotta let me out of here.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because this isn’t what it looks like.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“No listen, it’s…” It was a long shot. I almost didn’t say it. “...the werewolves.”

Love turned in his seat. His eyes locked onto mine. I saw something there I’d never seen in him before. His lip trembled. “What did you say?”

“The werewolves, Casey. They’re back.”

He shook his head and stammered, “No, no, no, that can’t be. I- I killed them all. It’s over!”

“There was one you missed.”

“Oh God…”

The door next to me unlocked with a clunk. I checked to see if anyone was looking our way. They were distracted, for now. I wasn’t going to get a better shot. I opened my door, stepped out, and-

“Wait!”

I turned to see Love’s car door was also open. He extended a gun towards me, with the friendly side out and business end down. It was an offering. “Take this,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

What a surprise. Another person offering me a useless gun. I took the weapon, then ran for the trees.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I woke up early on the day of my ten-year high school reunion out of necessity. There was a lot left to do before we were ready. I checked the list I’d written the night before and went to make myself a big cup of coffee while the rest of the house was still asleep.

I’d already left a key under the doormat so our neighbor could come in and check on the dogs while we were out. We needed to leave by ten so we’d have plenty of time to drop the kid off at his grandparents’ place. Mammaw and Pops insisted we stay for lunch. After that, Brother Riley wanted me to stop by New Pages and sign some copies of my book for him. Sabine suggested—time permitting, of course—a visit to the old gas station at the edge of town. It had been shut down for years. A condemned shell of a building stood in its place like a sacred monument to things that were but shouldn’t be.

I started making breakfast, hopeful that today was going to be a good day.

“This is where you grew up?” Our son’s surprised tone from the back seat of the minivan carried with it an implication of pity.

“Well, to be fair,” Sabine answered, “I don’t think either of us ever really ‘grew up.’ But yeah, when we were your age, this is where we lived.”

It was the first time we’d been back here since our son was born. I made a point to drive through the center of town. Most of the buildings were just the way I remembered them, if not a little nicer.

“It smells weird,” he said.

We spent the daylight on nostalgia. Before we knew it, the sun was setting. Time to make an appearance at the reunion. After all these years, I still knew my way around like I’d never left. It was supposed to be a straight shot, but somehow the roads looked different. I’d never noticed this particular crossroads before. Must be new, I thought, pulling the minivan to a stop just as three other drivers did the same—each of us on a different path. No one had a blinker on. We all got here at the same time, but nobody looked like they had any idea who was supposed to go first.

Normally, I’d just go for it, but one of the other vehicles was a sheriff’s cruiser, so I felt the need to exercise a bit of patience. I’d never had any trouble with the law in this town, but I’d always heard they could be a real pain in the butt if you get the attention of the wrong person. Eventually, the sporty sedan to our left pulled ahead. The hearse to our right went next. Finally, the cruiser across from us took their turn. Then, we crossed.

Sabine snickered and said, “Deja vu.”

We checked in with the woman stationed at the table in front of the gym. Her name tag said, “Vanessa,” but I didn’t recognize her. She read the look on my face and explained she wasn’t from our class; she was just the president of the alumni association and asked if I wanted to join. For a small annual fee, we could support the Fighting Half-Pigs in perpetuity. I told her I’d think about it. She told me I could pick up my nametag from the table. “They’re all in alphabetical order.”

I found my tag—someone had printed our senior yearbook photos next to our names—then searched to see if my sister was already here.

“You guys made it!” I looked up to see that she had. Wendy rushed over and gave Sabine a hug.

She gave me a slightly less enthusiastic half-hug and said, “I saved you guys a seat at my table. Please, come rescue me from all these wannabe pick-up artists. It’s embarrassing.”

The gym was set up with seating around the perimeter, a cash bar at the far side, and a dance floor in the middle, complete with a disco ball. My old classmates saw me and offered smiles, handshakes, congratulations, and whatnot. We sat with Wendy and caught up for a while, waiting for the right song. I’d promised Sabine one dance, and we didn’t want to waste it on Achy Breaky Heart. While Mr. Cyrus’s anti-love ballad played over the speakers, my old classmates took to the floor embracing the “dance like nobody’s watching” way of life. While my wife and sister talked and laughed, I looked out at all the people and felt a strange sense of disconnect. A humming noise in the back of my mind. A whisper from the furthest recesses telling me something was wrong. And then I saw him—sitting on the other side of the gym, staring right back at me. Someone I didn’t recognize at first. He looked out of place. He looked angry. A scar across his neck told a story I didn’t want to hear.

“This is the one,” Sabine said, pulling me away from the deep end. A new song had just begun to play. A slow, sweet song about love and longing—the kind they play at weddings, funerals, and animal shelter fundraisers. Perfectly emotional and sappy. Enough to conjure whatever kind of tears you need.

“Really?” I asked. “Are you sure? Because I could always bribe the DJ to play the Chicken Dance. Just saying.”

She was already on her feet, tugging my arm. “Oh, darling,” she said with a playful smile. “What a romantic!”

I’ve always found dancing to be extremely awkward and weird. Fortunately, Sabine was the only person whose opinion I truly cared about, and she seemed to be enjoying the moment. Until she abruptly stopped dancing. Her hands tensed on either side of my neck.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She didn’t answer. Her eyes had found something on the other end of the room. I followed her gaze and saw that she was staring at the man with the scar on his neck. “Somebody you know?” I asked.

She snapped out of it and looked back at me. Her lips formed a smile, but there was sadness in her eyes. “Jack, my love, I’m so sorry. I thought we were going to have more time.”

“More time? For what?”

“I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it. This, this moment, it never happened. We never got a chance to happen.” The music stopped. Suddenly, we were all alone. Every chair was empty. All the other students had disappeared. She didn’t react. She just kept talking. “I mean, to be honest, it may never have happened anyway. We may have been only one bad fight away from breaking up. And you, you always said you weren’t really the marrying type. This… this was more for me.”

“What is this?” I asked. The world, so carefully crafted, began to melt away. My memories fell out of place. My life. My job. My home… Even the name of my child… And then, unexpectedly, I realized I didn’t have a child… I didn’t have a wife… I didn’t even have a home… So where was I? Where did all of this come from?

“This is where I’ve been for the last five years,” she said. “In my preferred version of reality.”

“None of this was real?”

“It was all real to me! And, at times, for you, too. Whether you remember or not. We may not ever get another chance to talk, and if that’s true, I want you to know that this has been enough for me.” She took my hands in hers. “And you need to know that I love you.”

“I love you too, but… why are you telling me this?”

“Please don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

The man with the scar was there, next to us. “It’s time,” he said.

Sabine snapped back, “No it the fuck isn’t.”

We weren’t even in the gym anymore. We were nowhere, in a place outside of space, beyond matter and time. The only things here were the three of us, and a white door with the words “Employees Only” written across the front. Sabine and Spencer argued.

“We need him to understand.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Jack, you’re going to have to see what’s on the other side of that door sooner or later.”

“No, he doesn’t! Jack, don’t open the door.”

“We’re wasting time.”

“Enough!” Everything went black. All that was left was Sabine’s voice in my ear, saying, “Wake up!”

◆◆◆

Today was the day the world was meant to come to an end, and I’d completely overslept. The sound of nature surrounding me was a gentle reminder that I wasn’t dead yet, and if I wanted to keep it that way, I’d best get a move on. I sat up, stretched, then took in the scene. I’d fallen asleep in the only remaining hiding spot I could think of—the old treehouse. Now that the sun had come out, I could see that the place had taken on new residents in our absence. The corners and wall were coated in webbing, packed with hundreds and hundreds of shiny, round, black spiders. One was actively rolling a yellow butterfly into a wad by the window.

“Good morning,” I said to them. “Lovely day to kill some monsters, huh?” They didn’t respond. (Thank God.) “Well, I’ll be off then. Thanks for the hospitality.”

With that, I crawled to the ladder and began my descent. As soon as I’d brushed all the extra spiders off my clothes and out of my hair, I started walking. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized where I was going. I was heading in the direction of the cabin from my borrowed memory. Spencer’s cabin. I found the hidden dirt road behind the hunting blind beyond the abandoned railroad tracks. That Kieffer flashback had put a map inside my head, and my gut told me if there were answers to be had, I’d find them there.

The path tightened and came to an end at the base of a hill between two artificial knolls—manmade structures to control flooding and provide a more defensible high ground. There was a thin set of stone steps leading up to the secret cabin where the two mounds came together like a giant’s butt crack. I was so relieved to finally be done walking that I didn’t even notice I had company until he was right behind me.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he asked.

I turned around, gave him a look, and said, “Oh, hello Spencer. Fancy meeting you here.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m not supposed to be anywhere. By the way, you’ve got something on your shirt.” I gestured at the steady stream of blood seeping out of the open wound on his neck. “You’re gonna want to hit that with cold water before it sets. Maybe a little hydrogen peroxide. You’re welcome.”

I turned back to the path and started for the steps, but somehow Spencer was already there first, blocking the way.

“Do you mind?” I asked, trying to step around him.

He blocked every attempt for me to pass, then said, “Think about this for a second. You’ve got my cabin beyond this hill. My fortress. The only route to get there is a single, narrow pass. It’s almost like the road was designed to funnel any would-be visitors to this very point. No locked gates. No security cameras. Just an innocuous set of stairs. Think about it.”

“Do I have to?” He crossed his arms over his bloody, wet chest. I sighed. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Before I knew it, Spencer was gone. I was alone again, left to try and figure out how I was going to get to the cabin without killing myself. I considered trying to figure out a way to disable the booby-traps, but it took me ten minutes studying the steps before I even found the third set of trip wires. Better not to risk it. I’d have to hike back up the driveway and circumvent the traps through the woods. A little more patience wouldn’t kill me. I mean, it’s not like the world’s supposed to end in a matter of hours.

When I finally got back around to the cabin, I had once again changed my opinion on showers to be very much in the pro category. I wiped the sweat off my brow and studied the shelter for anything out of the ordinary. It didn’t take long to notice the boards on the exterior of the windows, or the two by four across the front door—a makeshift bar lock, keeping the door barricaded shut from the outside. It was an interesting choice for home defense, unless the point wasn’t to keep people out.

Knowing that any mistake could be my last, I rolled the dice with the best plan I could come up with. I crept to the front door keeping one eye out for any laser grids or snake pits that might be waiting to surprise me. But the most surprising thing of all was the complete lack of any lethal measures whatsoever. I was about to pull the wooden bar from its place across the front door, but then I remembered my manners and gave a quick knock just to be sure the place was abandoned.

I nearly pissed myself when a voice from the other side called out, “Who is it?”

I thought fast, then answered in my gruffest voice, “It’s Spencer Middleton.”

“You’re supposed to say the secret password or I’m not allowed to let you in.”

“I… forgot the secret password.”

“That’s okay. So did I.”

“Wait a second… Kieffer? Is that you?”

“Of course, silly! Who else would it be?”

I pulled the bar off the door and tried the knob. “Kief, unlock the door.”

“But you said I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Let me in, and I’ll play you in a game of Tic Tac Toe.”

A second later, the door opened. Kieffer, or some version of Kieffer, stepped outside and began staring directly at the sun. He wore pajamas with teddy-bear house shoes. His hair was a wild, unkempt mess. And there was a bib around his neck.

“Uh, Kief? You okay there?”

He looked away from the sun and blinked at me a few times, then asked, “Where did Mister Spencer go? Hey, I know you! You’re one of those agents that keeps killing me. Well, you’re about to be disappointed, because I’m safely locked away inside this cabin where you’ll never find me.”

“Drat,” I said. “Looks like you foiled my devious plan. Do you mind if I come in and take a look around?”

“Okay!” Kieffer said. “Do you want to see my room? I decorated it myself!”

I followed him inside, shutting the door behind us. As we headed for the room at the back of the cabin, I took in my surroundings. There was no microwave. No refrigerator. All of the electrical outlets had wooden covers drilled over them. The only table in the dining area had been modified to sit only two feet off the ground, each of the four corners sanded off to form an oval shape. From the pile of empty cereal boxes and bottled waters, I’d say Kieffer had consumed a couple hundred meals since the last time garbage had been taken out.

“How long have you been living out here like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“When is Spencer supposed to be back?”

“I don’t know.”

“What exactly do you know?”

Kieffer stopped and stared at the ceiling for a moment, as if he were pondering the question, then he looked back at me and said, “I don’t know.”

He opened the door to his bedroom and squealed as a furry black rat darted out between his legs. He did a maneuver that looked like he was trying to spin around and jump at the same time. The result was nothing short of catastrophic. He somehow managed to smack the back of his head against the door frame before sliding into a fall that was prematurely broken by the bib around his neck which had somehow looped around the door handle. By the time the rat darted across my foot, Kieffer was already asphyxiating on his bib-noose. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms while his face turned red.

I raced over to try and help, only to get a direct windmill punch to the face for my trouble. I fell down and held my broken nose as it bled through the bandage all over again. “Dammit, Kieffer. I’m trying to help you!” His face was going from red to purple. “Oh, come on! Just stop swinging your arms for a second. Okay?” He tried to speak, but there were no sounds left to come out. The purple of his face got deeper. I’d never seen someone strangle themselves to death this quickly. I mean, I’ve never seen someone strangle themselves to death at all, but I was pretty sure this was going faster than normal. If I waited for Kieffer to become less combative, it would probably be too late. I closed my eyes and leapt on top of the man.

The bib snapped and we both hit the ground. Kieffer began alternating between screaming and reverse-screaming (screaming while inhaling—it’s quite awful). When the color finally came back to his face, he went silent, licked his lips, then sat up and asked, “Did you see which way Zazu went?”

I pulled myself up, then asked, “What?”

“Zazu—my pet mouse.”

“The rat? Those things carry diseases, you know.”

“You think Zazu might be sick? Is that why he bit me?”

He climbed awkwardly to his feet, then pulled up his shirt to reveal a gnarly wound taking up most of his torso. It was the color of Christmas and smelled like old bread. At the very center was a wet, oozing lesion.

“That looks really infected,” I said. I didn’t mean to understate the issue, but I feared anything more complicated would be lost on him.

“Really?” he asked. “I tried rubbing broken glass on it, but that didn’t work. Then I tried eating some broken glass. I think it helped a little.” He lowered his shirt, then clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh! You brought a toy! Mr. Spencer has a toy just like that. I’m not allowed to play with it, though.”

“What?” I followed his eyes to the ground, where Deputy Love’s gun had fallen out of my waistband during our scuffle. Time, Kieffer, and I stood perfectly still. There’s no way he can get to that thing before me. “Kieffer,” I said slowly. “Whatever you do, do not pick up that gun, understand?”

He casually scratched his head with the tip of the pistol, his finger resting on the trigger. “What’s a gun?” he asked, innocently. WHAT?! How the hell did he-?! Oh, never mind! Gotta get that thing back.

“Kieffer, let’s play a game, okay?”

“I like games.”

“Great. This one’s called, ‘let’s put everything in our hands onto the floor.’ Are you ready?”

Kieffer pointed the gun at me.

BANG!

I hit the floor and waited for the pain to reveal itself. Have I been shot? I don’t feel like I’ve been shot. What would that even feel like? Probably pretty bad. I do have a stomachache. Was I shot in the stomach? Surely it would hurt worse than this. Okay, I definitely wasn’t shot. Was Kieffer shot?

Kieffer blinked and stared at his hand. The gun was on the floor nearby. The barrel was twisted out of shape. The only logical explanation was that he had somehow figured out a way to use the gun to shoot the gun out of his own hand. Well, that sure was lucky.

Then, I heard the front door slam shut. I turned and saw the last person I wanted to see standing a few feet away. Spencer Fucking Middleton. He put his own gun into the holster inside his coat, then scowled at me. He looked different. He had shaved his head and started growing a beard. And his suit didn’t quite fit anymore. Spencer had lost a lot of weight since his most recent death.

“Any chance you’re just a hallucination?” I asked. Zazu raced across the room. Spencer stomped it into Zazu-goo without ever breaking eye contact with me. “Well, okay then.”

I dove for the mangled gun nearby, picked it up, and hucked it across the cabin as hard as I could. It bounced off of Spencer’s face, leaving a gash over his cheek that quickly began to stitch itself closed with dozens of tiny black worms. Once the wound had healed, Spencer cracked his neck and took a step towards me.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I tried crawling away as fast as possible, not that there was anywhere for me to crawl to.

“Spencer, wait, I know what you’re thinking, but-”

He walked right past me and put a hand on Kieffer’s shoulder. “You okay, bud?” he asked. “What did I tell you about touching those kinds of toys?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer. I forgot.”

“What happened to your neck?”

“I fell.”

“Why don’t you go to your room for a minute and let the grown-ups talk?”

“Then we can play Tic Tac Toe? I’ve been practicing!”

“Sure. Then we can play.” Kieffer trotted off to his room and shut the door. Spencer looked down at me and sneered, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Before you kill me, let me say one thing. There’s a megademon on its way to destroy the world, and if we don’t-”

“Please, Jack. If I wanted you dead, I’d have killed you any one of the thousand other opportunities I’ve had to make it so. Think about it.”

“Do I have to?”

“You’re part of Roger’s big, sneaky plan. Just like the rest of us.”

“What plan?”

Spencer bent over, grabbed me, and pulled me up. “How about I make us some coffee? We have a lot to discuss.”

I’ve had a lot of coffee in my lifetime, but this cup was, hands down, the worst I’d ever tasted. Instant powder partially dissolved in lukewarm water because the cabin didn’t have a stove or microwave or any sources of fire whatsoever. But as they say, it did the trick. The caffeine withdrawal headache was beginning to subside.

“This is a great cup of joe,” I lied. “Not to tempt fate or anything, but, uh… why am I not dead right now?”

Spencer opened a box of Frosted Flakes with a knife and answered, “It’s not because of your finely tuned survival instinct, that’s for sure. Between you and Kief, I don’t know who’s harder to keep alive.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks for helping me out with that water-horse thing, I guess.”

Spencer’s eye twitched as he repeated, “‘Water-horse thing’?”

“Was that not you?” He shook his head. “Well now I’m even more confused.”

“Who do you think summoned the Bricks when your friend Tony was on the warpath? Who do you think deprogrammed Benji? Or turned on the Russian radio right when you needed to hear it? Or hired Lucy to keep an eye on you during the Mayfly incident? Did you like that mimic detector[38] I sent you in the mail? It was custom made, just for you. The truth is, I’ve been running interference on the manifold monsters trying to take you out for years now.”

“Wha-what? No, that doesn’t make any sense. You- You’re the monster! You killed Vanessa! You executed my friend right in front of me!”

“It’s true, I killed something that looked like Vanessa. But that wasn’t your friend. That was a doppler. A mimic. She was programmed to slit your throat. And she would have done it, too, if I hadn’t gotten to her first.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. Why do you care? Why would you ever help me? Because Roger told you to?”

“‘Roger’?! Let me make one thing clear: that pompous egomaniac doesn’t care about you or anyone else. He’s more concerned with seizing power than stopping the literal avatar of doom before it kills us all tonight. There is no line he won’t cross. No rule too sacred. He’s been directly or indirectly responsible for every bad thing that’s happened in this town since its inception. But the worst thing he ever did… was make you forget about us.”

“Huh?”

“Try to remember, Jack. You and me, we used to be best friends. It was the two of us against the world.”

“Shut up.”

“We always had each other’s backs. Through thick and thin. But Roger, in his infinite evil, decided our friendship was too great a threat, so he erased all of your memories. All those times you cried on my shoulder. When we braided each other’s hair. When you got your first period, and I had to teach you how to use a tampon.”

“Goddammit, Spencer!” He threw his head back and cackled with psychopathic delight. I’m not going to pretend he didn’t have me going for a second there.

“Calm down, wouldja? I’m just fucking with you.”

“Is any part of what you just said true?”

He scooped a handful of cereal into his mouth and chewed. “Maybe. I guess you’ll never know.”

“Well, that’s going to take space in my brain for as long as I live. The good news at least is that Roger is dead.” Spencer stopped chewing. I realized a statement like that required some elaboration. “He got zombie-swarmed. You should have seen it. It was insane.”

He swallowed his mouthful of cereal and said the most badass thing I’ve ever heard anyone say in my entire life: “If it were that easy to kill a god, I’d be out of work.”

The door to Kieffer’s bedroom opened. “Is everything okay?” he asked, peeking his head out. “I heard shouting.”

“Everything’s fine,” Spencer said.

“Can I come out now?”

Spencer sighed. “Okay, but you have to play the quiet game. Got it?”

Kieffer emerged from his room, nodded his head, then came and sat with us by the table. Spencer pulled a carrot out of his coat and handed it over. Kieffer took it and started nibbling away.

“Okay, I have to ask,” I said. “What’s- uh… How do I- um… so… Kieffer… ?”

“Why am I protecting a proto-Kieffer? It’s really simple. Leverage. Assuming the world doesn’t end tonight, the Kieffer currently running for mayor will become president of the United States of America in the next decade. It’s already been plotted out by the ones who decide these things. And this guy is my ticket to the top.”

“Why are you telling me your entire plan if you’re not going to kill me?”

“Because I want you to know. I want you to go and let Mayor Kieffer know. If he doesn’t want his fresh DNA and fingerprints showing up at every crime scene from here till the end of time, then he and I need to make a deal.”

Kieffer pulled the carrot away from his lips and showed us his handiwork. He’d managed to chew the vegetable down into a sharpened point like a stake. Spencer snatched the lethal veggie-shiv out of Kieffer’s hand and snapped off the pointed end. “Are you serious? What is that? Don’t do that! You’ll put your eye out.”

Kieffer lowered his chin and whimpered softly. Spencer changed his tone to something gentler and asked, “Have you brushed your teeth today?” Kieffer shook his head. “You have to remember to do that. Go brush them now.” As Kieffer trotted off to the bathroom, Spencer gave me a smile and said the least badass thing I’ve ever heard anyone say in my entire life: “Kids. Am I right?”

“He has an infected rat bite.”

“Dammit! Again?!”

The house rocked on its foundation as the blast from the explosion outside filled the room with sound. Windows shattered and darkness covered the sun. I smelled smoke. Spencer was next to the window in an instant, gun drawn in one hand and mirror in the other, holding it up to see the reflection of whatever tripped his stair trap. He threw the mirror onto the ground and exclaimed, “Fuck!”

“What is it?” I asked, hoping he was going to tell me it was just a squirrel or something.

Spencer darted across the room, then kicked a hole into the wall. He bent over and began manually pulling away drywall, exposing a metal safe in front of a copper pipe. As he twisted the combination into place, he spit out the explanation. “It’s the twins. I knew this was going to happen as soon as I handed over the king’s blade.”

“What’s happening?”

“Roger must think I’ve outlived my usefulness. He sent his goons to repo the doppler blood inside of me.”

Kieffer wandered into the hallway. With toothpaste froth all over his mouth, he asked, “Hey, did you guys hear something?”

Spencer pulled open the safe and retrieved a stack of polaroid photos. He stuffed them into his coat before I had a chance to see what was so important at a moment like this. Then, he leaned onto his back and gave the metal pipe a swift kick with enough force to break it in half. I noticed the smell of natural gas immediately.

“What are they?” I asked.

Spencer raced over to the couch and pulled it away from the wall. “Two of the Collector’s early experiments from before he got his recipe right. Roger’s been using them as doppler blood retrieval drones.” He grabbed the rug and yanked it aside to reveal the metal hatch in the floor underneath, roughly the size and shape of a manhole cover. “Kief! Get over here!”

Kieffer unenthusiastically wandered over as the front door came splintering out of its frame. The twins shoved their way into the cabin with sledgehammers at the ready. It was hard to tell them apart now. That blast from the trap outside had taken off a few layers. There was little left besides meaty skeletons covered in thousands of fibrous black slugs twisting muscles and sinew back into a humanoid shape. The one in front looked at me with hollow eye sockets. It took a step forward and-

The manhole cover whizzed past me and hit the monster just below the chin with enough force to shear the head off clean. The decapitated body took two more steps, then toppled over. The remaining twin approached his fallen brother and dropped to his knees next to the body. It looked like he was trying to help, or possibly even mourning the loss of a friend. But then it bit down onto the bleeding neck stump and began ingesting the black slugs, tapping the supernatural healing straight at the source. The creature’s body began to swell as it fed on the lifeless form of his once-brother. Bones cracked and reformed. Skin bubbled to the surface and hair sprouted from its arms and legs. Black drops formed at every pore. And when it stood, its head reached the ceiling. White spikes erupted from its elbows and knees. The eyes expanded in its skull, dark red with vertical slits like that of a snake.

Behind me, Spencer spoke to Kieffer. “I need you to be brave for me, okay? You have to go in the hole. Remember what I told you about jumping?”

“Always go head first!”

“No, it’s ‘never.’ Never go head first.”

“Oh, right.”

In front of me, the monster continued to expand. Muscles slithered across the sledgehammer, enveloping the weapon into its form until the only thing left exposed was the metallic peen[39].

“Hey guys,” I said. “You might want to hurry.”

They didn’t respond. I turned around to see that they weren’t there anymore. The two of them had already jumped in and left me to the guts monster. I made a move for the hole and barely dodged the cylindrical canister flying out of it. It bounced off the ceiling, hit the wall, then finally settled onto the floor between me and the creature. We both looked at it with curiosity—a footlong piece of PVC pipe with wires coming from the caps leading to a circuit board with a blinking LED- OH IT’S A BOMB!

I didn’t look before jumping into the hole. Landings were never my strongest skill, and I probably would have broken my other leg if Spencer hadn’t caught me. “RUN,” he commanded as he tossed me onto the wet ground.

The place where we were was dark and smelly, with sludgy water up to our ankles. The further we ran from the entrance, the darker it got, until we couldn’t see anything anymore. I continued to run until I heard the explosion. That’s when Spencer turned on his flashlight and revealed that we had been running through a sewer system.

“So,” I said. “Do you have a plan to get out of here?”

“I always have a plan,” Spencer responded, pulling Kieffer away from a suspicious-looking mushroom on the wall. “But it’s going to require a lot of walking.”

Great.

When we finally emerged from the sewer grate on the side of the road, I took a few long, joyous breaths. The stink of human excrement would take a while to get off my skin, but a lot longer to get out of my brain. I’ll never understand how it was possible, but Spencer didn’t look dirty at all. He’d taken off his jacket and given it to Kieffer when he complained about feeling cold. His undershirt and pants were dry. Even his shoes looked clean. Meanwhile, I looked almost as bad as I felt.

“Car’s over here,” Spencer said. Kieffer and I began following him across the road towards a dirt path through the trees. Spencer quickly reversed course when he saw me moving. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you guys?”

“Think again, bitch. I may have saved your life, but that doesn’t make us friends.”

“Well, could you at least give me a ride back to town? I don’t think my body will allow me to do much more walking. I keep forgetting to eat, and I’ve been low-key starving to death for a couple of days now.”

“Not my problem. Kief, let’s go.”

Kieffer, who now looked like he’d rolled around in liquid turds (which actually wasn’t far off from the truth) came up to me and gave me a big, gross, wet hug goodbye. Then, he and Spencer walked away.

“If you can’t trust your worst enemy, who the hell can you trust?”

I looked over to see Spencer standing there, smiling at me. Not the same Spencer that killed the twins and left me alone. The other Spencer. The one with longer hair and a freshly shaven face. The one that had been haunting me this whole time.

“Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” I asked. “Because you sure as hell aren’t Spencer Middleton.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

He looked past me and said:

“I’m you…”

I followed his gaze and saw the door, standing out of place amongst the trees.

“...the part of you that remembers what you’ve done…”

The sign across the front warned, “Employees Only.”

“...and hates you for it.”

I heard the Ford Mustang’s engine rev, then turned and watched as shaved-head Spencer drove past, hand extended out the window, middle finger to the sky. They didn’t even slow down as they drove off without me. Now I didn’t feel guilty at all for picking his jacket pocket when Kieffer gave me that turd hug.

I took the phone out and dialed the number from memory. She picked up after the fifth ring and asked in a distrusting voice, “Who is this?”

“Sheriff,” I said. “It’s Jack. I’m ready to turn myself in. But first, I need you to bring me a clean change of clothes.”

38
Excellent bone structure. Very aerodynamic. [«]

39
Lol. “Peen.” [«]

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The smoke clouds overhead had plunged the forest into a ghostly darkness before she arrived. I saw a pair of headlights in the smoke and put out my thumb. This was the moment of truth. Would she arrest me on the spot? Or would she just run me over and be on her way?

She pulled over onto the shoulder, stepped out, and sized me up.

“Why are you covered in shit?”

“Because I’ve lost all control of my life.”

“We’ve got firefighters from every neighboring county trying to stop us from turning into the next California. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Define ‘anything.’”

She didn’t take her eyes off of me as she went to the trunk and pulled out a pile of clothes and a towel. “Here, get yourself cleaned up. I don’t want you stinking up the back of my car.”

“The ‘back’ of your car?”

“Yes, that’s generally how I transport people once they’ve been arrested. Do you need me to read you your Mirandas again?”

“I have it memorized. But come on! You must have seen the body of a red-skinned horned demon back at the compound. How is that not enough to convince you I’m telling the truth?”

“Are you saying you killed someone at the compound who you thought was a demon?”

“No. Remarkably, I didn’t kill anyone this time.”

“‘This time’?”

“What is happening right now?”

She walked up to me and dropped the pile of clothes onto the grass, then rested her hand on the holster of her service piece. It wouldn’t take her but a second to draw and fire if she needed to. “Even if I believed your fantasy, the feds took over the compound as soon as I got you into custody. That was quite the disappearing act you pulled. Love says you vanished into thin air.”

“So… you never saw the demon?”

“I’ve seen plenty of demons and devils before. It’s inevitable in this line of work. But they don’t have horns or red skin. They look like the rest of us. And they always pretend they didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes, I think they even believe it themselves. I didn’t see what you described, but I saw enough. I saw the blood. I saw the pile of human hands.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about the severed hands thing. Wait, is that illegal?” She glared by way of response. I could read the writing on the wall. O’Brien didn’t see the monsters. She couldn’t remember what we’d been through. And (most annoyingly) she never visited the so-called chemical plant. But there was one last card for me to play. I took the Polaroid photos out of my back pocket and offered them up. “Can you keep these safe for me?”

“What are they?”

“When I picked Spencer’s pocket earlier, I nabbed a few of the blackmail photos he took of Kieffer.”

Based on these three, I could only imagine what the rest of Spencer’s pictures contained. There were enough embarrassing moments in these images to derail the political aspirations of even the smoothest of smooth talkers. In one, Kieffer wore blackface while posing with a machine gun. In another, he had on an “I love abortions!” tee as he set fire to an American flag. In the last, he was drinking New Coke and watching what appeared to be the 2019 disasterpiece Cats with an approving smile.

O’Brien inspected them, then gave me a scowl.

I shrugged. “What? I didn’t take the pictures. I just stole them.”

“Will you please stop confessing to crimes long enough to put on these clothes? Reefer Madness told me where to find your storage unit. You two sure did keep a lot of evidence in plain sight.” I picked up the shirt. It was one of Jerry’s custom tees. “He insisted I bring you this one to wear today. I figured it was the least I could do before putting you both away.”

I unfolded it and read the message written across the chest: “This whole apocalypse could have been an email.”

How appropriate.

O’Brien watched as I changed wardrobe, then she put me in handcuffs and loaded me into the back of the cruiser. As we drove through the darkened, smoke-filled forest, she caught me up to speed. Six bodies in total were recovered from the Mathmetist compound. Jerry and Rosa were in custody, singing[40], and if I wanted to cut a deal, I’d better do it soon. Kieffer gave a statement accusing me of kidnapping before he was transported to the hospital where he promptly checked himself out and disappeared. Meanwhile, the gun used to kill Spencer Middleton had conveniently shown up in my old bedroom; Sid and Dianna were happy to hand it over in exchange for the promised reward money. Also, Miller Townsend’s whereabouts were currently unknown.

She finished her recap with a sobering observation. “It all paints a rather damning picture.”

“I suppose there’s no point in trying to tell you that the world is supposed to come to an end tonight?”

“I certainly don’t see any point in it. But if it makes you feel better, go for it.”

I leaned my head against the window and saw that we were approaching the main road back to town. In a matter of minutes, I’d be locked up again with little chance to escape before the grand finale.

O’Brien rolled down her window and tossed out Spencer’s phone. Then, she tossed out her own. I sat up straight once I realized the car had turned in the wrong direction.

“Hey, not to be a backseat driver, but isn’t the sheriff station that way?”

She caught my eyes in the rearview mirror and said, “Yeah. It is.” Then, she hit the gas.

We pulled up outside of an enormous concrete building. It looked abandoned, desolate—the kind of place you take someone to murder them. An ominous rusting metal sign nearby declared, “Danger: Respirator required in this area.” O’Brien opened my door and took the keys off her belt.

“Where are we?” I asked as she released my cuffs.

“You don’t know?” she said. “This is the chemical plant at the edge of town.”

“The what?” I saw the remains of a collapsed smoke tower. The rubble surrounding the lot. The blackened walls and melted tarmac. Enormous evidence that shouldn’t have existed because this place was a made-up excuse… wasn’t it?

O’Brien started walking towards the building. I kept close.

“I was a little insulted when you thought I didn’t do my homework.” She reached the front door to the satellite office building and opened it. Inside, she flicked the switch on a battery-powered generator. A string of shop lights illuminated the space, running down a long hallway. She followed the lights as she spoke. “I looked into the story. This is my town. When there’s a disaster, when people die, I can’t just accept the word ‘accident’ and move on. I need to know who was responsible and be sure it will never happen again.”

“So, what did you find?” I asked.

“A lot of documentation. Reports of unsafe working conditions. All of it kept here on site, in the only section of the plant that didn’t receive any damage. Neat, organized, may as well have had a bow in it.”

“But you knew something was wrong.”

“It didn’t pass the smell test. I couldn’t figure out why until you told me the chemical plant never existed. Something that absurd, I had to investigate.”

“And?”

She stopped at a door halfway down the hall, pulled another key from her pocket, and unlocked it. She stepped inside and flicked on another battery-powered lamp. I took one look and realized how much I’d underestimated her investigative skills.

An entire wall was covered in printouts, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes with dates and details. I spotted several faces I recognized among the dozens of makeshift dossiers. Strings connected pins, spanning across the images, creating an interconnected web of relationships, labels scribbled in the margins like “works for,” “works with,” “killed,” “controls,” alongside arrows. At the top of all of it, a page with nothing but a question mark and the name: “Roger.” O’Brien had built her own conspiracy board.

“What do you think?” she asked.

There were a few inaccuracies, of course. For one, her picture of Spencer had the word “deceased” written over his face. I won’t even go into all the problems with the section involving me, or who she suspected I was working for (or dating). She pulled a paperclip from the desk in the corner with the new laptop and printer, then clipped the Polaroids together before hanging them from a pin next to Kieffer’s file.

“You should have used red twine,” I said.” “It’s easier to follow.”

“This building, the chemical plant, has been here for decades. Building permits confirm it. Tax records confirm it. Even Google Maps confirms it.”

“But there’s a twist, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have set up a secret headquarters to investigate.”

She returned to the desk and opened a drawer. The inside was filled with prepackaged snack foods. “You hungry?” she asked.

“Literally starving.”

She pulled out a bag of something called “Croco sesame sticks” and offered them to me with a cryptic warning, “Well, you may want to hold off a little bit longer before you eat these.”

I tore the bag open and shoveled the contents into my mouth before her words registered. I looked back up with cheeks full and muffled out the word, “Why?”

“Because they expired ten years ago.”

I hesitated for a moment, then finished chewing and swallowed anyway. We sell worse things at the gas station.

O’Brien explained, “These came out of the vending machine. In case you were wondering, they’re all Romanian snack foods. I pulled a few pieces with serial numbers and traced them back to the manufacturers. Everything in here with any form of registration points back to a plant that blew up in Romania over a decade ago. I looked it up. The blueprints are identical. Even the Google satellite images are perfect matches. Almost like someone did a rough copy and paste job of reality, then threw in some set dressing for anyone who went poking around.”

“When you get some free time,” I said, “maybe you could look into who killed JFK.”

“I know my deputies are reporting to someone else. I even exchanged a few favors with this enigmatic Roger person in order to find out what he knows. I’ve been digging into this town’s secrets for longer than I care to admit. Do you know what I found to be the one unifying factor in all the weirdness?”

I brushed the sesame crumbs off my lips. “No, what?”

“You.”

She took my hands, pulled them up to chest level, and twisted them so my palms were aimed up. Then, she wrapped her fingers around my wrists and pressed her thumbs into my skin.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Relax. Your pulse is insane.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying. Keep your answers to a yes or no. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Is your name Jack Townsend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work at the gas station at the edge of town?”

“Well, ‘work’ is a pretty strong word-”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill Spencer Middleton?”

“As it relates to the current context, no, I was not the one who shot him.”

She looked surprised by whatever my pulse was doing.

“Do you know anything about a vast conspiracy network secretly running this town?”

“Yes, and I’m so glad you finally asked!” She tightened her grip.

“Have you recently taken any mind-altering drugs?”

I didn’t say anything. There was no point. My pulse had already answered for me.

“Do you know who killed Brother Riley?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I thought these were yes or no questions only.”

“I think we’re past that part, Jack.” She let go of my hands. “What did you do?”

And so, with no reason to lie, I finally unburdened myself of the secret of Brother Riley’s death.

It happened a few days after the BLaRc, right when things seemed to be going back to normal. I was alive. My friends were, too. But something about this altered reality didn’t sit right with me. This man—this fallen god—pretended to be my friend, then tortured me for months. And in the end, his only punishment was forgetting all of it. I knew I should have stayed away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He may not remember hurting me, but the pain was still there.

Is this justice?

I found him right where he was supposed to be, sitting behind the counter at his bookstore. When he saw me, he smiled and gave me a friendly welcome. He told me he was so happy to see me again, that he had a few books he was going to donate to the library that I could dig through for first dibs. We talked for a while. He made me some terrible coffee. And in the end, I decided that the man I was really mad at, the one who’d hurt me, was gone. It was an unceremonious end to my abuser, but it was certainly an end. And I would have to make peace with that.

I stopped to pet Gunther—the bookstore cat—on my way out the door, but as soon as I touched him, he transformed into a five-foot tall humanoid cat person who explained to me that he was Brother Riley’s familiar. He couldn’t stand what had befallen his master. And he begged me to mercy-kill the old man. When I refused, Gunther said, “FINE! I’ll do it myself!”

I tried to stop it, but the cat took the gun from my waistband and shot Brother Riley dead before disappearing into a shimmery purple vortex. I panicked, grabbed the gun, and ran away.

O’Brien’s face was perfectly blank. Eventually, she asked, “What kind of drugs have you taken, exactly?”

“I don’t know, you’d have to ask Jerry.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“I know this is a long shot—but I have most of a plan to take down an evil god tonight. And this plan requires a huge favor from you.”

She didn’t seem too impressed. “What’s the favor?”

“I need you to distract the feds and drop me off at my high school reunion.”

40
For the record, I was literally singing. I have a beautiful tenor voice, but you’ll never hear me snitch. [«]

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I checked in with the woman stationed at the table in front of the gym. I had to clear my throat to get her attention, as she was busy playing Ball Crushers on her cell phone when I approached. She didn’t even look up, she just recited the words like she was bored with them already. “Please find your nametag. They’re in alphabetical order. Do you want to sign up for the alumni association today?”

They were not in alphabetical order. There were just two unorganized piles of cheap stickers. I found mine in the smaller pile. The name Jack Townsend was printed next to an image box that read “Photo Not Available.” The table attendant paused her game and shifted her eyes up towards me. “That’s the pile for people who haven’t paid yet.”

“Paid for what?”

“Ticket to the reunion.”

“I have to pay to go to this thing?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Do you enforce them?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I peeled off the back of the sticker, slapped it on my shirt, and walked into the gym. This reunion was already off to a great start.

The gym was set up with seating around the perimeter, kegs in the corner, and a section in the middle dedicated to ladder toss and cornhole. Littered about the floor were dozens of red Solo cups and cigarette butts. I clocked a few nasty looks being shot in my direction. There were maybe twenty to thirty people here already. Enough to feel overwhelming, but not enough for me to get lost in the crowd. Judging from the “paid” pile of name tags, there were plenty of others still on their way. I scanned the room to see if Kieffer was here—assuming, of course, that he had gotten my message.

A man stepped in front of me and thrust out his chest so aggressively I nearly fell over backwards trying to get out of his way. “Hey Townshit! Remember me?” I looked up to see a tall guy with bloodshot eyes and a cowboy hat. He had spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth and reeked of hard liquor. I did not, in fact, remember him. He could have been any of one of the countless jerks from my graduating class, but his nametag gave him away.

“Oh, hey Tex. Good to see you.”

I only knew him as the tall kid from the back of class. We never spoke or hung out, and until now I didn’t even realize he knew who I was. He bowed up on me again, flexing his pecs and holding his balled-up fists firmly at his sides. He looked aggressively drunk.

“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted- I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to say- I’m not afraid of you no more.”

“What?”

A short woman with bleached-blonde hair came and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away. “Come on, Tex. Let it go. Just let it go, okay? He can’t hurt you anymore unless you let him.”

He gave me a trembling glower, like he was holding back rage or tears (or both), and said, “You have no control over me. Got it?! I cast you out.”

They turned and walked away, leaving me baffled. I must have missed something, I thought. But whatever it was, it would have to wait.

“Who is that?” I heard a woman whisper. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tiff and Meg—a couple of mean girls I hadn’t seen or thought of in ten years. They were both visibly pregnant and both holding red Solo cups. Tiff was currently pointing at me.

Meg answered, “You remember that kid who used to torture bugs at recess?”

I turned to them and said, “You’re thinking of someone else.”

They both physically recoiled at my voice. I gave the room another, closer look and noticed the tension growing. More faces pointed at me, averting their eyes the moment I caught them staring. The cornhole games had been suspended, the players waiting for something bad to happen.

An old man in a tie snuck up behind me and said the ugliest version of my name: “Mr. Townsend.” I turned to see Vice Principal Mattherne. He’d put on a few pounds and a lot of wrinkles, but I’d recognize that scarred-up face anywhere. When asked about it by the braver or dumber kids, he would blame “the war” and refuse to elaborate. He leaned in and said, “Why don’t you and I step outside for a little chat?”

“Opt out,” I answered. “But thanks for the offer.”

He let out a low growl. I sensed a physical confrontation, but then I heard a female voice. “Hey Mattherne, fuck off for a second, would ya?”

It was Wendy. Not the last person I expected to come to my rescue, but pretty close to the bottom of the list.

Vice Principal Mattherne gave her a nod and said, “Alright, I’ll let you take care of this.”

As he walked away, I asked, “Take care of what?”

“He thinks you’re going to make a scene.”

“I wasn’t planning on making a scene,” I lied.

“Learn how to read the room. You’re making a scene just by being here.” She started walking towards the gym doors leading into the school building. “Come on,” she said.

One last look around showed no signs of Kieffer. I didn’t know where Wendy was luring me, but anywhere away from these people felt like an improvement. As I followed her across the gym, I felt something smack me in the back of the head. I heard a crowd of cornhole players laughing, then I saw the beanbag on the ground by my shoe. Someone in the group called out, “Watch out, Townshit!” sparking another round of drunken laughter. Well, I thought to myself. If I miscalculated and Karen ends up destroying the world, at least they’ll burn along with the rest of us. I hurried to catch up to Wendy.

A paper sign reading “School premises closed” was posted onto a wet-floor cone beneath a line of yellow tape spanning the hall from locker to locker. Wendy was already on the other side of the tape when I reached her.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“It’s our ten-year, remember? County legislation requires that school records be kept for at least ten years. They didn’t go digital until five years ago. Trashers come tomorrow to pick up the file boxes and shred ‘em, which means tonight is our last chance to see what’s in our permanent records.”

“Are you serious?”

“You can stay here if you want, but I’ve been looking forward to this.”

She turned and left in the direction of the principal’s office. Wendy had done a lot of homework before coming here. And for what? To learn what teachers really thought about her all those years ago? That was one of many topics where I felt ignorance was the best policy. My pending concern was what VP Mattherne thought of me right now, and if I’d even be safe going back to the reunion.

“You got it all wrong,” came the voice from over my shoulder. I turned to see the Spencer specter leaning against a locker, cleaning a fingernail with a pocketknife.

“And what exactly do you know that I don’t?”

“I could tell you, but it wouldn’t have the same effect. You need to be shown.” He pointed with his chin at something on the other side of the hall. I looked and saw the anomalous white door, situated between rows of lockers, the word “Employees Only” printed across the front in bold, ominous lettering. “This won’t be easy. But you’re going to do it.”

“Really? You know that for a fact, do you?”

“I do. Because this will be the last chance you ever get to see her.”

“What?” I faced him. “You’re lying.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Jack. It’s a miracle she held on as long as she did, but death wins every time.”

“And then what? I’m left with you in my head forever?”

“Once you go through that door, I won’t have any reason to be here anymore. You’ll be all alone with your thoughts, just like everyone else.”

What choice did I have? I walked up to the door, turned the handle, and stepped through.

◆◆◆

I was wrong. I had no expectations, no guesses, and no idea what the door was, yet I was still wrong. It wasn’t the kind of door that separated liminal spaces. It wasn’t a door at all. Doors are meant to be opened, but this one I had built specifically for one purpose: to stay closed forever.

The other side was where I kept the monsters. The uglies. The try-and-forget stories. And now that the door was open, they were all pouring out at once, a tidal wave of the worst things imaginable: all the pain and fear, all the embarrassment, all the moments I’d managed to hide from. It was overwhelming. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. Instincts took over. I stepped backwards and slammed the door shut.

I closed my eyes and leaned my face against the door until my mind had enough time to reboot. The sound of my breathing—very close to hyperventilation—was a staid reminder that I was still alive.

“You made it.”

I opened my eyes. Where am I? I turned around to see Wendy looking up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor inside a circle of papers. How did I get here? With a hint of excitement, she said, “Decided to join me after all, huh?”

I struggled to get my breath under control until I tired out and realized my body was breathing automatically. The taste 03
of something bitter and burnt filled my mouth. A sensation welled up in my stomach, like I was on a roller coaster in an earthquake. And strangest of all, I could sense myself existing in two places at once—here with Wendy in the school records room, and somewhere else—somewhere indescribable, inconceivable, like the place where we were before we were born—the cosmic loading screen. Somehow, I knew what was happening. When I stepped through that door, I became untethered from the space-time continuum. Now, suddenly, I was everywhere and everything all at once.

I looked around the room and tried to make a connection to this point on the infinite spectrum between being and nothingness. We were inside the school’s multipurpose records room/ cleaning supplies storage/Vice Principal Mattherne’s office/ spiderweb congregation area. The walls were hidden behind filing cabinets and clutter. There was a cheap wooden desk under the air vent containing the only touches of personal furnishing in the entire room: a signed baseball in a glass case and a small, framed photograph of two men. They had such a strong family resemblance that I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be an old photo of Mattherne and his father, or a recent picture of Mattherne with his son. I could feel my balance returning somewhat and felt safe interacting with this reality again.

I looked at the piles of pages surrounding Wendy and asked, “Are all of those for you?”

“Nope. I had to dig up the dirt on all the girls who ever teased me. Did you know Valerie was caught giving a guy a blowie in the library? And Rachele—who used to say I was going to grow up fat? They found out she was hiding jars of her own vomit in the girl’s locker room. Oh, and you’ll never guess who was trading her birth control for cigarettes-”

“Stop!” I cried. As she mentioned each event, I could see them like they were happening right in front of me. I could hear the girls’ thoughts. I could see the cigarettes. I could taste the vomit and… other things. The cosmic loading screen had gone from nothing to everything, and it was giving me metaphysical whiplash.

“TMI, huh?” she asked with an immature chuckle.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“I already read my own file. Nothing juicy. There were some notes in there about my different foster families. They knew when I was cutting myself, but never said anything—thank God. Counselor wrote that I was ‘at risk of Satanism.’ And there was a warning about how I lived with you. The rest of the files are over there. Go nuts!”

As I stood there in the record room, there was another me standing in another room at another point along the boundless concatenation of points. The signals crossed at the destination. My eyes saw two vastly different images. My ears heard two different scenes unfolding. In this one, Wendy was pointing at a couple of boxes by the door labeled “To Burn.” In the other, I saw three people sitting around a dimly lit table. Two I recognized—my old English teacher Mrs. Harris and the man who held the vice principal title before Mattherne. The third was a man in a suit and tie. I’d never seen him before, and yet I knew his name was Berenstain. He smoked a cigarette and aired his professional concerns surrounding a certain student. “Considering his history, as well as his lack of foundational social skills at such a formative age, he may never be able to integrate with proper society. He’s an ideal candidate.”

Vice Principal Grayson sounded uncertain. “I don’t know about this. Ethics aside, is this program even legal?”

“I assure you; we will assume any legal repercussions. And ethics do not apply here. If we were to-” He suddenly stopped speaking, then lifted his nose and sniffed the air like a hunting dog catching a scent. When he found me in that conceptually nebulous place, he looked straight into my soul and smiled. “I think we may have some company.”

I tried to clear my mind, to ignore the sounds and voices of this bygone moment, to return to where I was meant to be. It felt like forcing myself out of sleep paralysis. At first, I thought I was stuck here forever, but then, abruptly, I snapped out of it, and the universe centered upon a singular reality once again. It was remarkably quiet now, save for the noisy tappity-tap of Wendy typing away on her phone’s screen. She took a break to look up at me and ask, “Well? Aren’t you going to find your own?”

In that moment, I felt a compulsion I hadn’t felt in a long time—the urge to dig. I dumped the first box over and started shuffling through the files. It looked like everything was more or less contained in alphabetical order. S, R, P, O, N, M… Going in the wrong direction. My file must be in the other box. I ripped open the top and knew right away which file belonged to me. Where most of the records were a single manila folder with a handful of pages, there was one that had to be held together with rubber bands. A single student’s permanent record, thicker than most of the pulp novels I read for fun. I used two hands to pull it out. The name on the front was the same as mine.

“Whoa,” said Wendy as she started to crawl over in my direction. “Is that all for one person?!”

I got to my knees and opened it. A red sheet on page one contained a great deal of information about me, and not just name, age, and weight. There were things in there even I didn’t know about myself. Things that were almost certainly not the school’s business: a list of fears, recurring dreams, “words read per minute.” This was way beyond just a standard psychological profile. There was an illegible signature at the bottom below the printed name I already knew—Berenstain. A stamp across the top read, “Approved for RK.”

“What the hell is RK?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

Wendy surprised me. “It was a remedial program for problem children that never actually got off the ground. You’ll see that stamp in every file where the students got into lots of trouble. There’s even one in mine.”

“Wendy, how do you know all this?” I’d been wading through massive distractions since Wendy’s arrival, otherwise I might have clocked the peculiarity of her behavior earlier. But it had become too much to overlook. The location of our permanent records? The file-retention policy of our county school system? The details of defunct remedial programs? As she reached for my file, I closed it and pulled it away. She gave me the aww, shucks look, but I wasn’t buying it.

“We’re all fucked up,” she said defensively. “We all do what we have to do to get by. I found a living in morally ambiguous endeavors.”

It was starting to make sense. “You’re not here for your own file.” I looked at the stacks of papers. The mean girls. The bullies. “You’re looking for blackmail material. You’re—what? —A professional extortionist?”

“I prefer the term ‘research consultant.’ I find information that clients don’t know they want hidden, and then for a fee, I hide it. I pay my taxes. It’s all perfectly legal.”

“And the pyramid scheme thing is just a cover?”

“No, it’s a slightly less ethical side-gig.”

“So you researched the town, found a source of dirt, and came back looking to score a payday. That’s how you knew about the permanent records and RK. What is RK, anyway?”

“Someone with money to burn dumped it into the school in exchange for progress reports and personal information. All very sketchy under-the-table stuff. They called it ‘Roger’s Kids.’”

“Listen, Wendy, I know what you’re probably thinking, but you do not want to go this route. The person behind this program is not someone you want to screw with. They’d just as soon make you disappear as pay you off. If you-” I stopped once I noticed the bright glow of her eyes. Oh. It’s like that, huh? “How long have you been working for him?”

“Off and on… Since tenth grade. He wanted to know what kinds of foods you liked. What time you went to bed. All that stuff. I assumed he was just an old pervert with too much money.”

I was so confused and furious (confurious?), I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s just ironic. We took wildly different paths in life, yet here we are in the same boat, working dubious jobs, resorting to blackmail.”

“Wait!” That excited her a little too much. “Who are you blackmailing?”

“Kieffer. The guy running for mayor.”

“Oooh, what did he do?” I shook my head. Nope. She laughed. “Can’t blame a girl for taking her shot.”

“It’s kinda weird, isn’t it? That you and I were never really friends.”

Her demeanor went from bemusement to sudden seriousness. “Not really. I was always terrified of you.” Then, like she was embarrassed by her confession, she went back to her stacks of blackmail. I looked down at my own records and began flipping through the pages. There was a lot here. A lot I didn’t remember. A lot I couldn’t understand. And once again, my mind splintered into the expanse. My physical body stayed here, reading and absorbing words written long ago. My ethereal existence emerged in those places, summoned by the words they described. This time, I didn’t fight it. This time, I let myself go.

A version of me stood in the middle of a crowd of third graders, covered in scratches, over the boy who tried to steal my cake wedge at lunch. That was the only meal I was going to get that day, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to let any of it go without a fight.

A different version of me sat at the back of a school bus, reading a book about ghosts. A tall girl sat down next to me and, without saying a word, tried to put her hand in my pants. I broke a freshly sharpened pencil inside her ear.

Another version of me observed a room where I had never been, a room where my future was being decided. Berenstain smoked his cigarette and slid his evaluation across the table to Vice Principal Grayson. “Based on what we know about the child, this may be the only way to help him have a normal life. He’s not a monster. Not yet. But he has an amazing propensity to rewrite his own memories. When I spoke to him about his mother, he had concocted an elaborate story of how she went to rehab for a gambling addiction. He fabricates a more bearable version of the truth.”

I was at the middle of my file when I found a medical report for a John Doe, dated a week after they took me away from my mother’s house. According to the doctor’s notes, the unnamed minor was suffering from psychosis, seizures, and PTSD resulting from a severe addiction to and withdrawal from methamphetamines. I’m not sure how this report got mixed in with the rest of my files, but it didn’t really matter, now did it?

By the time I came across the details of my second foster family, I had so many streams of consciousness I could barely contain them. The teacher who pulled me away from the lunchroom fight took a fork to the neck for her trouble. They told me she needed thirteen stitches, like I was supposed to care. She should have minded her own business.

Berenstain lamented, “These acts of violence are indicative of a larger problem.” I saw myself lighting matches in the school auditorium. I felt all the times I went into a blind rage, biting and scratching anyone who got too close. I heard the gurgling sound of Spencer’s life leaving his body as I stood there with a bloody box-cutter. “And let us not forget that unfortunate business with the sheriff’s department.” I saw the old deputy sheriff, Tom, before his hair had turned gray, telling me to calm down and give him the knife.

As the scenes played out concurrently, yet another voice joined the chorus. It was almost too much to endure. All of the different Jacks spread across time, pulling, stretching. If my mind had been contained to my brain it would be cooking itself inside my skull. I couldn’t turn it off. I couldn’t stop the additions. I watched as my foster brother Seth confronted me, demanding to know what I did with his gun. I lied and told him I didn’t know where it went. He shoved me. He showed me the knife. Bryce joined in. They told me they were going to kill me. I could have gotten away. I could have run. But I didn’t want to.

When our foster mother came into the room, Seth and Bryce were crying on the ground—Seth, huddled in a pile of his own vomit, Bryce screaming, his nose cut off. I told her the truth, that they started it. A day later, I was back in the system looking for a new family.

The moments kept coming. The door was open now. There was nothing to protect me from the worst of it.

The rats found the stash of food hidden under my bed. I killed them all with a hammer.

Miller forced me to shoot his rottweiler. He said I had to be a man and put it out of its misery.

I watched as the bully’s house burned to the ground. I couldn’t believe how loud the flames were.

The information kept coming way too fast. I was observing—no, controlling—countless Jacks across the timeline, witnessing each of their mistakes and faults and living through them as if for the first time. The force of it was almost enough to tear me apart at the dark-matter equivalent of the subatomic level. I closed my eyes. All of them. Across every version of myself. I tried to push it all away, to lock it back up, to find whatever Jack was doing all of this, the one that was still in the present. The one that was real. But there were so many scenes, so many voices, I couldn’t remember which one I was supposed to return to. I was lost in infinity. Every color mixed together to form an ultimate blackness. The boundaries of my mind shattered and fell away. The bindings ripped apart like Velcro, and I was completely adrift. It felt like dying…

…but another force pulled me back. The source wasn’t done with me yet. It summoned me into the place where space and time still existed, and it rearranged my matter until I was whole. I looked up and beheld the power source in all its glory: a stone building, stretching hundreds of feet into the red and black sunsetting sky, shaped like a pyramid with brick steps straight up the middle. A figure at the top looked down the stairs at me. A young man, with the eyes of an old man. He held a staff in one hand and a mug in the other. I knew instantly what he was. The guardian of this building. The keeper of the source of energy that plucked me from the void.

“Jesus cock-fighting Christ on a carousel! Jack?! Is that you?”

I turned to see another (very different) man wearing a suit, tie, and sunglasses.

“Agent Brick Roscoe?”

“No, no, I’m the other one. Agent Brick Roscoe.”

“Okay.”

“What are you doing here, kid?”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“The gas station, circa thirteen-hundred B.C.E. Currently serving as the temple to K’Rohn, the Devastator. I tell ya, things were a lot simpler here back when. No sales tax. No cell service. No elaborate cover ups. Nobody got their panties in a twist over the monthly blood sacrifices to keep the voidgate closed.”

“Actually, we still don’t have cell service.”

“Let me guess. You fell into the rift and got flushed down to the nearest open voidvent, right?”

“I didn’t understand any of that. But I’m actually glad I ran into you. I’m going to kill Roger. Wanna help?”

Brick scoffed. “Why? He won. Let him enjoy his victory for the few hours he has left before K’Rohn fucks the world to death. Why would you even bother?”

“Because he stole something very valuable to me. He took the last five years I was supposed to spend with Sabine. He robbed me of a chance at a happy future. And end of world or not, I can’t let him win.”

Brick removed his sunglasses and gazed up to where the young man at the top of the pyramid was cutting open an enormous animal that resembled an anaconda with feathers. He watched the blood run down the steps and said, “I think your priorities are way off, kid. But I love your spunk. If you’re actually crazy enough to take a swing at the man on the throne, we’ll back you up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but we need to know we’re not throwing good life after bad. Prove it’s a fight worth dying for. If you can draw blood from a god, that’ll be our signal to come in guns-a-blastin’.”

“Great. Just one more thing. How do I get out of here?”

“Well, you’ve got two options: you could stand right there and wait for three millennia and change, or you can have a complete existential crisis strong enough to rebind you to your original location on the time axis.”

“Neither of those sound fun, but the latter sounds faster. Except, I don’t know how to-”

Brick interrupted, “How did you know they were sunsets?”

“What?”

“Back when you first started going to therapy, you saw a series of paintings on the walls. Sunsets over oceans. Remember? How did you know they were sunsets?”

“What are you talking about?”

“They were paintings, Jack. You looked at them and instantly knew the sun was setting. How do you know, without any frame of reference? A sunset is identical to a sunrise.”

“Huh?”

“They could have just as easily been new beginnings, couldn’t they?”

“I… uh…” I tried to defend my position, but he was shockingly correct. I looked back up at the sky and said, “Whoa.”

◆◆◆

I reopened my eyes to see Wendy staring at me. “You okay?” she asked. “You looked a bit catatonic for a second.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just a little bit gassy.”

The door to the record room swung open. I took a defensive stance as a man walked in. He was tall and glowering, his hairline receding around a crewcut. He wore a letterman jacket with both hands in the pockets (which, I guess, meant he opened the door with his feet). He looked at Wendy first, then at me. “Townsend,” he said, menacingly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Do I know you?”

He stepped inside, pulled his hands out of his pockets, and showed off the brass knuckles looped around fist-fingers. “The name’s Deacon. You ruined my life. Now I’m going to ruin something of yours.”

“Oh right,” I said. “Now I remember. I knocked out your teeth because you were being an asshole. I see you haven’t changed any.”

“I had to force myself to throw up so I could get my teeth back, but by then it was too late to put them back in my head. My parents couldn’t afford to fix what you broke. I didn’t get implants ‘til last year. Do you know what it does to a man, going through life with a constant reminder of the worst day of his life and knowing the person responsible got off scot-free?”

I could see Wendy cleverly recording the whole thing on her phone. When she saw me watching, she shut it off and put it away.

“Listen,” I said. “Whatever your beef with me, it’s with me. Leave my sister out of it.”

Before I realized what was happening, Wendy had walked right up to the man. I prepared myself to jump into action to save her, but then I saw what was really going on. Deacon, still wearing his brass knuckles, had pulled a folded wad of cash from his back pocket and handed it over, saying, “Here’s the other half.”

Wendy stood at his side and counted the money.

“Are you serious?” I asked, rhetorically.

She kept her eyes on the money as she said, “I told you. We’re all fucked up. We do what we gotta do to get by. Sometimes it’s pyramid schemes and blackmail. Sometimes it’s taking elaborate revenge gigs.” She finally looked up and said, “I’m sorry.” It was the last thing she ever said to me.

Yeah, I thought. So am I.

Once the door shut behind her, Deacon took a step forward. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”

“Funny,” I said. “I’ve barely thought about you at all before now.” He took another step. “We don’t have to do this, Deacon. We can both walk away right now.”

“One of us will walk away. And it’s not going to be you.”

Oh well. I tried.

I grabbed the glass case off of Mattherne’s desk and smashed it against the corner. The signed baseball bounced off the desk. I caught it. And I threw it as hard as I could.

I wasn’t expecting it to be quite as effective as it was at incapacitating my attacker. When the ball collided with his face, Deacon dropped. The back of his head smashed against the floor, and he sputtered out a mouthful of blood. He wasn’t down for long before he tried sitting up, but I knew better than to give him a chance to recover. My permanent record made for a surprisingly effective bludgeoning weapon. When I smashed him across the face, he went down and stayed down, curling up into a fetal position and crying out, “Please! Stop! No more!”

I granted his wish and headed for the door. So this was the big secret? They called me a monster because I had a history of violence. They were all so eager to blame the person—the kid—for making someone bleed that they never asked why I was lashing out.

Before I left, I looked back at the man sobbing on the ground and said, “See you at the twenty-year, Deacon.”

I stepped through the doorway and found myself, once again, stuck in the cosmic loading screen.

There was nothing here but me.

“Okay!” I shouted. “I get it! I had a temper. Big deal.”

The eidolon of Spencer Middleton appeared before me. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. Miller had a temper. What you had was something entirely different. You hurt a lot of people, Jack. And not all of them deserved it.” Suddenly, I understood the lesson his thought experiment was supposed to teach me. He saw the realization. He knew what I was thinking. He always knew what I was thinking, because he and I were the same person. “Say it.”

I put it into words. “Forgotten does not mean forgiven.”

Spencer returned, “And acceptance doesn’t mean absolution.”

“But that angry kid is not who I am anymore.”

Spencer was waiting for that excuse. “It's who you were. It's what you're capable of. And it always will be.”

I could feel the weight of my memories now, and it physically hurt. I could see all the pain I’d intentionally inflicted in my rage. All the fear I’d put into the world before Roger swept me up into his social engineering program. He kept my record clean, but that didn’t address the damage I’d inflicted—or endured. Instead, I had to find a way to live with my demons. I buried them deep and forgotten.

I closed my eyes and tried to do it all over again. I tried to push the thoughts, the memories, the emotions back into the place where they belonged, but to my growing horror I realized that I couldn’t. The vault door on the try-and-forget part of my mind had been blown open, and now I was feeling everything all at once. There was no escape.

“Hurts, don’t it?” said Spencer. “That’s good. It’s supposed to hurt. Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all.”

“How do I make this feeling go away?”

“You’re not supposed to, Jack. You know what you are, and what you’ve done, and now you have to own that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good. That’s a start.”

I tried to breathe through it. “I guess I can see why you hate me.”

“You really think that’s why I hate you? Come on.”

“It’s not?”

I opened my eyes to see him shaking his head.

“No, Jack. That’s why everyone else hates you.”

“Oh. Then why do you hate me so much?”

“You’re about to see.” He gestured to where the white door had suddenly reappeared. “After you.”

Another voice stopped everything. “Wait.”

It was her.

Sabine was here with us.

She looked as beautiful as the day I lost her.

“It’s time,” Spencer argued. “You can’t keep him from this forever.”

“I’m not going to keep him from it. But I won’t let you be the one to show him.”

As simple as that, Spencer was no more. Now just the two of us, Sabine took my hand, and together we approached the door.

Considering we were in a nonmaterial plane of being, my heart sure was beating fast. “What’s left to see?” I asked. “I mean, it can’t be that bad. Can it?”

She didn’t say anything. She only reached out and opened the door.

◆◆◆

We were driving now. The car was packed with everything we needed. We had road snacks for days and enough money to get us all the way to Canada if we so desired. This was it. Our happily ever after started today. And we were… fighting?

What the hell were we fighting about? Speed limits. That’s how it started. She thought I was driving too slowly. You always do this, I said. Whenever things start to look up, you find a reason to complain! She’s angry at me now. And rightfully so. She says some things that don’t even matter. And I respond, Are you really going to act like this right now? Hey, I’m the one who may be dying, and this whole stupid road trip was your idea, not mine! If you want to call it off, we can. She says some things. I’m shouting now. Why can’t we have just one goddamned day where we don’t freak out and fight over every little thing?

By the time I saw the black SUV speeding up behind us, it was too late. Our car went off the road. Sabine reached for my hand and yelled my name, and then-

Silence.

We were in the middle of an argument, and I was being an asshole, the last time Sabine and I were together.

Two weeks passed, and nothing was better.

I was sitting behind the counter at the gas station. I’d just received the latest report from the latest doctor. It was all but certain that she would never wake up. We weren’t married or anything like that, so the hard decisions weren’t going to fall on my shoulders. But the grief, the pain, the guilt, it was all mine. Whatever, I thought. I’m a dead man anyway. In the lowest moment of my life, I put a loaded revolver to my head and pulled the trigger.

I immediately regretted it. And when I pointed it away from me, I couldn’t believe I’d really done it. WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING?!

The front door opened.

“Pick out one drink each, and one snack to share.”

A couple of my regulars, Susan and Paul, were ushering in their two young children. Paul gave me a smile and a salute before following the rest of his family to the drink case.

My heart was about to explode.

WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?! I looked at the weapon and saw that the cylinder had locked up, preventing the hammer from making contact. A piece of wedged pocket lint had been my unlikely savior.

In all the times I fired a weapon before or since, never once had a weapon jammed on me. The odds of it happening the only time I needed it to were astronomical. And yet, here I was, shaking in my seat, drowning in grief, and feeling guilty for feeling happy for being alive.

“Sabine… I’m sorry.”

◆◆◆

As I stood there in the hallway, I became aware of the sound of music vibrating the walls. The gymnasium’s meager structure wasn’t enough to contain that honky-tonk remix blaring at ear-splitting volume. Evidently, the cornhole games had come to an end and the boot-scootin’ part of the night’s festivities had started. I was back in the real world, and I had a job to do. But I was paralyzed. Spencer told me I’d have to live with this from now on. Grief, sadness, guilt… So much guilt… How the fuck am I supposed to do anything with these weighing me down? How do regular people do this?

Sabine’s words came to me. Don’t give up. It wasn’t only a kindness. It was a command. It was my penance. And that was enough to make me put one foot forward. I took a step. I took a breath. Then another step. Then another breath. I was walking.

I pushed open the gym doors and stepped inside the darkened room. The sound of music took over everything, the space between the beats was filled in with shouts and laughs of drunken revelry. I scanned the room until I spotted him lingering by the front door—Kieffer, arms crossed and foot tapping. I squeezed through my graduating class until I reached the old man. He tried to say something to me. It was pointless. I pointed to my ear, then the door. He continued yelling. I shook my head and pointed at the door even harder. Kieffer yelled until his face was red. Then, the music cut out and everyone heard him shout, “-TO KILL THEM ALL!”

They all turned to look at us. I smiled, gave a wave, then grabbed Kieffer by the sleeve and ushered him out the front door while a man with a microphone tried to get everyone’s attention for the gun raffle drawing.

The only sound out here in the chilled dusk air was the wind kicking up leaves and the steady trickle of a couple of alumni relieving themselves on the side of the building nearby. We could finally talk in peace.

“Alright, Jack, I got your message, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t send those kinds of pictures over the cellular telephone network.” Kieffer sounded annoyed. “Now, where are the originals?”

“Someplace safe.”

“You really want to do this? You want to threaten me? ME? Do you have any idea what kind of enemy you’re making right now?”

“An extraordinarily easy to kill one, I’d reckon.”

He growled before saying, “Name your price. But I need to be assured that the proto-Kieffer from these photos is deceased. I’ll require some time to get you your money, but-”

“I need your phone,” I said.

“What?”

“I just need to borrow your phone for a minute.”

“That’s it? THAT’S ALL YOU WANTED? You brought me all the way out here to borrow my phone?!”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You can leave now if you want. Or, you can stick around and watch the show. But if you don’t already have plans, I could really use a ride back to the gas station once I’m done here.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Considering Kieffer’s penchant for Final Destination-esque deaths, I probably should have been more concerned about how many times his BMW veered into the wrong lane or skipped off the shoulder. But I had more important things to worry about than death. When we finally reached the turn-in for the gas station parking lot, Kieffer offered a prickly defense: “What did you expect? I just learned how to drive a couple weeks ago.”

The car wasn’t even in park before we heard the knocking on my window. A man with a machine gun—one of Roger’s storm troopers—was standing outside the car waiting. I rolled the window down.

“You. Out. Now.”

Kieffer opened his door, but another one of Roger’s lackies appeared out of nowhere and shut it before he had a chance to move. I didn’t realize that Roger had employed a bunch of ninjas. This was going to be trickier than I thought.

“Not you, Kieffer. You’re free to go.”

Kieffer looked at me with a knowing smirk and said, “Good luck, kid.”

Yeah. Thanks. I’m going to need it.

I stepped out of the car and allowed the man to pat me down. He took the only thing on me—Kieffer’s phone—out of my pocket and tossed it back into the car.

“He’s clean.”

Kieffer put the vehicle in reverse, gunned the engine, then lost control in the turn when his front wheels hit an oil puddle. Instead of braking, he slammed the gas and skidded off the pavement, eventually slamming into one of the old oak trees off the side of the parking lot. A second passed before he figured out how to shift gears again. Then he waved at us and pulled forward.

Cricricricrick—CRASH! The oak fell over and landed on top of the BMW, crunching it down to half size and sending glass and debris all over the pavement. The soldiers made no effort to help, or even check and see if the old politician was still alive. The one closer to me just shook his head and said, “God really has it out for that guy.”

Right then, the back passenger side door creaked open. Kieffer crawled out of the wreckage, dusted himself off, then yelled, “I’m okay!” before sprinting at full speed into the forest.

The soldier closer to me jammed his gun into my side while the other held open the door to the gas station. I walked in the same way I always did—annoyed, uncertain, and expecting the worst the universe could throw at me.

The first thing to greet me was that voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the guest of honor has arrived!”

Roger.

He stepped out of the shadows (which is to say he was carried out of the shadows), and I began to understand the enormity of the stakes at play here. The person carrying him forward, the one operating his every taunting movement, was none other than Rosa.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. As I looked around, I counted twelve armed men, not counting the gray skinned Mr. Big himself—Kyle Bob—standing in the corner holding a device that resembled a cardboard wrapping paper tube with a trigger on it. We weren’t completely without backup, though. Jerry was here, albeit on his knees, tied and gagged by the cold drinks case, a couple of Roger’s foot soldiers standing on either side of him with guns at the ready. He gave me a smile and a wink, then proceeded to try and say something that sounded like “Hrr! Hr drr drp hr br drr hr!”[41]

I had no idea what he was trying to say, but I assumed it was important. I gave him a nod, then spoke to Rosa. “Are you okay?”

“Thank you for asking. No, I’m not. My hand is stuck up the bad guy’s butt.”

As gross as it sounded, that was one thing we actually had going in our favor. We may have been grossly outnumbered at fourteen to three, but Roger was two simple words away from being attached to the most powerful weapon at our disposal. As soon as the moment was right, I’d summon the dark god and let him clean house.

Roger teased, “Rosa, be a good girl and hold your tongue while the adults talk.” His eyes widened as he focused on me. “The man of the hour… Jack Townsend.”

“In the flesh,” I said.

“Oh ho ho!” he laughed annoyingly. “You’re so good at the subtle insults, I can barely stand it!”

“You don’t think my delivery was too wooden?”

“Not at all. But as you can see, I’ve got a leg up on you now.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Rog. I’m no dummy.”

“Even you have to admit that joke was pretty lame.”

I totally would have won our pun battle if Rosa hadn’t interrupted us with a devastatingly honest observation: “This is stupid. You’re both being stupid.”

Roger spun his head around to face her and snapped, “Be quiet, you!”

Rosa, defiant as ever, responded, “Make me.”

Her free hand began to rise, seemingly of its own volition. It slowly approached her face. Her index finger connected with her thumb, and she flicked herself in the eye.

“Owuh!” she said, annoyed.

Roger spun his head back to me and (somehow) smiled. “Only a few minutes left before the arrival of K’Rohn the Devastator, Beast of a Million Eyes, Supreme Avator of Agony. I’ll be honest, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to join us!”

I approached the front counter, noticing the sheet of lumber someone had laid over the Rita hole. OSHA would be so proud. “Well, I couldn’t miss the pain-pocalypse,” I said casually. “I hear it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

“And yet,” Roger observed, “you hardly seem all that worried.”

“That’s because I figured it all out.” I kept my pace slow. No sudden movements. I just needed to get behind the counter where my weapons were stashed. “The master plan.”

“Oh, please, Jack! Please share your wild theory! I’m certain it will be a delightful way to spend the last delicate moments of this world’s innocence.”

“Let me tell you a story. A story about an individual who craved power. Who waited in the shadows for untold years, accumulating favors, building an army, wiping out his competition, enacting plans that were decades in the making. This individual is so clever, so calculating, so conniving, he’s able to use unwitting pawns to do all of his bidding: infiltrate secret bases, kill gods, even reset the entire world’s memory. Would this individual really stick around if the empire he worked so hard to build were threatened with destruction? Or would he be ten steps ahead of everyone else?”

Roger sounded like he adored this praise. “You think I’m going to save you all from the Big Bad?”

“No. I think there was never any Big Bad at all. The doors to other worlds are slamming shut. Immortals are dying left and right. And then there’s you, the last god standing. Big fish in a small pond, with no challengers to speak of. You made your own enemies secure the borders of your kingdom for you! Karen wasn’t real. You made up the story to scare everyone away so you could have the world all to yourself. It’s the classic Scooby-Doo villain strategy!”

Roger briefly lifted his arm to look at the tiny watch painted onto his doll wrist. “My, my, my,” he said patronizingly. “I can’t believe you figured it out all by yourself. You’re so much smarter than you look.”

“Go eat a rock.”

“Allow me to fill in your holes.” (Jerry giggled. Roger ignored it.) “You’ve no doubt discovered the link between us by now. But do you have any idea what kind of power the voidrift gives off? It’s infinitely more potent than radiation. Before you came along, there was no way to harness it. It spread wild, uncontrollable, lighting up the ether for all to see. We tried so many times to contain it.”

“We?” I asked, stalling for time, hoping I was the only one who noticed that Jerry was actively chewing through the gag in his mouth.

“Yes, those of us who understood the potential danger of a rift leak: Mammaw and Pops, the Liskov Institute, your precious friends at the sheriff station. There was a time when we were all partners, working together for a common goal.”

Jerry spat out the tattered cloth and shouted, “JACK! Don’t listen to anything he says! He’s a lying fart-weasel!”

One of the guards behind him slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Jerry’s head, knocking him flat onto the floor. I took a step towards him, but every gun in the building instantly swiveled to point at me.

Jerry moaned from his spot on the floor, “I’m okay… Dude, when was the last time we mopped? We’re totally growing fur down here.”

Roger (somehow) snapped his fingers, commanding everyone’s attention. “As I was saying, we studied many other humans, trying to understand what would happen after prolonged exposure to the rift. So many failed experiments. And whenever those part-timers died, which they all inevitably did, every time, we cut them open to examine their brains.”

“Ew!” said Rosa.

Roger gave her the side eye, but then continued. “There was nothing in there but holes, like Swiss Cheese. The rift eats minds from the inside out.”

Jerry, having somehow slipped the ropes tying his hands together, pushed himself up, and said, “Oh my God! Did I hear that right? Did you just say, ‘There was nothing in their buttholes like Swiss Cheese’?” The aggressive guard hit him in the back with the butt of his rifle. Jerry went down again, exclaiming, “Sure, hit me with a gun! HOW ORIGINAL!”

Roger glanced at his watch again, then continued to monologue. “The reason so many gods live in this town is because the rift energy is the only thing sustaining us. The further we stray, the faster we die. We’re trapped here, without the resources we need to thrive, forced to live with these backwoods miscreants, growing old and dying alongside the very ones responsible for gleefully killing the planet.”

“Dude, welcome to the struggle. You just described, like, ninety percent of the people my age.”

Roger, still in rant mode, pushed on. “And then we found you—the child with the broken brain. The one insanity couldn’t touch. The poisoning may not have been completely without side effects, but you’d barely know it from looking at you. Rift energy is like an ink stain, and you… are an ink-colored pair of pants.”

“You’ve had all this time, and that’s the best metaphor you could come up with?”

“You have no idea the resources that went into keeping you alive. There were certain regrettable but necessary actions that had to be taken to maintain the course, but here we are at last! You, filled with more than enough rift energy to last a thousand lifetimes, and the rift itself, all but closed to the outside. All my enemies decimated. With a fresh new world for us to explore… together.”

“So let me get this straight: you want to use me as a mobile rift-energy hotspot so you can, what, travel the world?”

“It sounds simple when you word it like that.”

“It’s an interesting plan, with one problem: you need to keep me alive to make it work. Right?”

“Please, child, this is hardly the time for another heroic self-sacrifice. There will be a moment for that later on. Besides, you’ve seen enough to know by now that we can just bring you back if we need to.”

“Sure, sure, you could do that.” I started walking behind the counter. Guns pointed at me, but I knew they couldn’t shoot without Roger’s permission. “But it would require you to have more of the mimic goo. What was it called? Doppler blood? Black blood? Regardless, I’m pretty sure your entire stock was destroyed this morning.”

I could have sworn I saw Roger sweat. His head turned to Not-Guillermo and barked out the command, “Go summon the twins. Now!”

As Not-Guillermo ran outside, I opened the drawer below the register and pulled out the bear ball. All I needed to do was flick the magnet out of place, and the weapon would be ready to go. “You’re wasting your time,” I said. “The twins are dead.”

Roger checked his watch again. “The secret to bluffing, dear boy, is to never do it.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

Roger looked back up at me and let out a long, slow, maniacal laugh—the kind that sends an icy shiver down your spine and makes the hair on your skin stand at attention. When the laughter ended, Rosa carried him forward, all the way to the other side of the counter. Then, he said, “I wasn’t talking about you.”

I heard a rumbling noise growing under my foot. At first, it sounded like a malfunctioning generator, but it quickly grew louder and LOUDER AND LOUDER. UNTIL…

All went silent. And then Roger spoke again. “There was one thing you got wrong. I didn’t make up K’Rohn. The Devastator is quite real. In fact, you were the one to summon the beast. I simply aimed your beacon in the right direction to speed the process along.”

A vertical sliver of light as bright as the sun cut the world in half. I instinctively tried to focus on the phantasm, but found it impossible. Every time I moved my eyes to catch it, the image moved. I only became aware that I was involuntarily crying when I felt warm liquid flowing down my cheeks. Roger cried out, “For anyone here not imbued with the powers of a god, now might be a great time to avert your mortal eyes.”

I tried to look away, but found that act to be just as impossible. I focused on Jerry, who sprang up and yelled “Yoink!” as he grabbed the sunglasses off the man who’d twice hit him with a gun. He quickly donned them and fell down into the fetal position. The guard raised his weapon as if to hurt Jerry once more, but then he saw what I was seeing. Except, he was able to look directly at it, into the countless eyes of Karen. In a matter of seconds, his hair grew from a buzzcut down past his shoulders, going gray, then white before falling out completely. His skin expanded, darkened with spots, and filled with wrinkles. He let out a gasp as he shrank several inches. When he finally managed to close his eyes and fall over, he looked like he had aged more than a hundred years.

And then I heard its voice. “JAAACK…” (Its ugly, ugly voice.) “I SEEEEEE YYYOOOUUU…”

I had no control. It took my eyes and forced me to look into its unholy form. Nothing else existed anymore. It was all K’Rohn. It was only K’Rohn. K’Rohn the Devastator. Paradigm of Pain. President of Uncomfortableness (my translation). I was surrounded by its maleficent glory and knew I would be the first to experience the torture sworn upon the rest of the world. It was so hungry from untold eons of starvation, and now swollen fat with hate and darkness. It stared at me with all of its eyes—some humanoid, some insect, some others—and it told me without words that it was planning on savoring this breakfast.

“ROGER!” I screamed, “You freakin’ idiot! You’ve doomed us all! I thought you were smarter than this!”

Roger’s voice cut across dimensions to reach my ears. His response was simple. “I am smarter than this.”

A second sliver of light, infinitely brighter than the first, cut the world in half horizontally. At the intersection of the two lights, another voice emerged. Louder, darker (dare I say eviler?) than K’Rohn’s. It only spoke one word, but that word had a very clear meaning across every language. “Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom.”

“Heeeyyy… Whaaatttt the fuuuck???”

Roger whispered in my ear, “You see, I needed K’Rohn to come to Earth, so all who could see would see. And I needed screams of agony great enough to reverberate backwards in time, so people would believe.”

“What is that?!” I asked.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Jack, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. K’Rohn is not the ultimate evil. Evil has no limit. All I had to do was summon a bigger monster to kill K’Rohn.”

“You mean…”

“That’s right. This is MEGA KAREN.”

“Nom Nom Nom,” said MEGA KAREN as it began to eat, feasting on Karen’s flesh and being and essence. For every eye Karen had to gaze upon me with disgust and hatred, MEGA KAREN had ten times as many mouths. In a plane of existence far above that of regular human comprehension, an elder god was being devoured by an even elderer god.

“Wait,” I said, looking on with detached fascination. “What happens when MEGA KAREN is done? Surely we’ll be next.”

“Oh Jack. Sometimes you’re so simple I feel sorry for you. Do you really think I wouldn’t have a plan for defeating MEGA KAREN?”

Just as the god-squared finished slurping up the remnants of Karen, another sliver of light—this one so intensely bright it looped the spectrum, turned black, then went back to white again—opened up, bisecting both the horizontal and vertical lines along the z-axis, interconnecting at the same point of convergence.

“Nom Nom Nom?” said MEGA KAREN, nervously.

Roger giggled. “Know this, Jack. There will always be a bigger fish. Say hello to UBER KAREN!”

A single tentacle, with suckers larger than the Milky Way, reached down from an even higher plane and wrapped around MEGA KAREN.

UBER KAREN began to speak in an ancient, beautiful language—one that preceded time itself and contained exactly two words: “Ooooohhh, yeeeaaahhh!” (Actually, now that I think about it, UBER KAREN sounded an awful lot like Macho Man Randy Savage.)

“Nom Nom Nom!” screamed the obsolete MEGA KAREN.

“Ooooohhh, yeeeaaahhh!” squealed UBER KAREN. MEGA KAREN tried to run, but the tentacle wrapped around the lesser being and pulled it into its destructive maw.

And then, all was silent.

Suddenly, I was able to open my eyes again. Here I was at the gas station, feeling almost as if I’d never left. I tried to wipe the tears off on my sleeve, only to realize the warm liquid running down my face was, in fact, blood. I made a note to ask a doctor about that if I survived this ordeal, then remembered who was standing across the counter from me. I blinked the red out of my eyes and asked him, “What’s next? Mecha Karen? Bizarro Karen? Karen premium deluxe?[42]”

He spoke to me like I was an idiot. “The ants fear the anteater. The anteater fears the jackals. The jackals fear the lion. But the ants have no reason to fear the lion.”

“What?”

“We are so far down the food chain that we’re not worth UBER KAREN’s time. Rejoice, you simple child. We are still alive.”

He was so close to me now. All I needed to do was draw a little blood. And I wasn’t going to get a better opportunity than this. Time to use the big gun. I went to shake the bear bell only to realize it wasn’t in my hand anymore. Oh no!
Did I accidentally lose it in another plane of existence?

Jerry took to his feet and said, “Hey, Jack!”

Roger and I turned to see him holding the bell between his fingers. “Easy, Jeremy.” Roger said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Me? ‘Stupid’? Well I may not be a doctor, but I do have a PHD…”

I braced for impact. Right then, Not-Guillermo ran back into the building and shouted, “Boss! We’ve got a problem!”

Jerry finished his joke: “...A Pretty Huge Dragon!” Then, he started vigorously shaking the bell. The result was almost instantaneous. Rita burst through the repaired floor like it was made of tissue paper. She unfurled her wings, knocking two of the nameless goons over in the process.

Roger shouted, “Kyle Bob! Now!”

Mr. Big (Kyle Bob) raised his paper tube-looking gun and fired at Rita, who saw it coming and dodged the projectile by an inch. Whatever it was being fired from that weapon found a new mark—Not-Guilermo. As soon as it hit, the man transformed and flopped to the ground. Rita whipped her tail into another one of the guards, sending him crashing into the cold drink case. Kyle Bob stepped forward and took aim once again. This time, Rita pounced at him, going for the kill.

The gun went off. The shot hit Rita square in the chest. A boom accompanied the bright flash of light and shockwave that expanded from the direct hit. The aisles toppled over like dominos. And when the dust settled, Rita was no longer the Rita I knew…

Where she once stood, there were now two things: a chonky (and extremely confused) racoon, and a glowing green caterpillar. Rita the racoon looked around for all of two seconds before bolting away and diving into the hole in the floor. The caterpillar stood its ground with quiet dignity, accepting the inevitable as Mr. Big walked over, raised his giant bare foot, and crushed it under his heel.

A high-pitched shriek let loose from the part of the room where Not-Guillermo had been shot. “What the fuck?! What the fucking fuck is this?!” The swears were coming from the squeaky-voiced child, maybe five years old, in the same clothes Not-Guillermo had been wearing moments earlier. “What did you do to me!?” he screamed. “Undo it! Now!”

Roger let out a soulless cackle and said, “Looks like someone needs a nappy-nap.”

The child raced across the room to Kyle Bob, losing all of his clothing in the process save for the shirt, with its hem almost dragging the ground. Next to the giant Kyle Bob, the miniature Not-Guillermo looked like a lap dog on its hind legs, yet he somehow managed to snatch the gun away. As he pointed the weapon at his own face, Roger said without the slightest modicum of urgency, “It doesn’t work that way.”

Mini-Not-Guillermo ignored the warning, put his big toe on the trigger, and shot himself. The gun fell to the ground as the man-boy disappeared, all but an empty shirt and a small glob of something gross.

“Well,” Roger said with a bemused smirk. “That was exciting. Does anyone know what he was trying to warn us about?”

“I do,” I said

Right then, the front door opened. A man whose name I never bothered learning stepped inside, pointed at me, and shouted, “Jack! My man! Did you know there’s a tree on top of a car in the parking lot?”

“Yes, I was aware.”

“Excuse me!” Roger called out sternly. “Buddy. Can’t you read? We’re closed.”

“Oh shit! What’s with the puppet?”

“Rosa’s auditioning for next season’s ‘America’s Got Talent.’ Anyway, beer’s in the walk-in cooler. Help yourself. Mind the hole.”

Roger waited until the guy stepped into the cooler, then spun his head around to face me. “What are you playing at? Who is he? What’s to stop us from killing him right now? Don’t you understand that whatever you’re doing, it’s only wasting time?” He was getting louder, angrier. Attempting to project control, but giving away the fact that he was completely lost. “I know you! I studied you for years! Any plan you could possibly come up with, I would have already anticipated and developed a counter-plan!”

“Exactly,” I said calmly. “Which is why I did something that I would never do.”

“You wouldn’t! And I mean that literally; you wouldn’t do something that you’d never do. That’s how words work.”

“Oh really? Tell me, then. Would I ever go to my high school reunion?”

For the first time since I met him. I watched Roger frown.

“No,” he said with uncertainty. “Of course not.”

◆◆◆

“So that’s it?” Kieffer said once I asked to borrow his cell phone. “That’s the favor you called me all the way out to the school for? You know I had to pay for a ticket to get in here.”

“Actually, would you mind showing me how this ‘Disruptor’ app works.”

Kieffer opened the app and pressed a button. The word “Disrupting” appeared below a dancing cartoon eyeball.

“There,” he said. “Now anyone who isn’t physically present who tries to listen to what you’re saying will only hear you arguing the benefits of forced sterilization among the poor.”

“Why is it always something fucked up like that?!”

“That’s how it was programmed. What do you want me to say?”

I sighed. “Fine. This will have to do.”

I took his phone with me as I approached the man in the center of the gym, the one with the microphone, running the gun lottery. I snatched the mic out of his hand and did something else that I would never ever do—not in a million years. I began impromptu public-speaking.

“Hello everyone!” My words were met with grumbles and murmurs, but everyone in the building was watching me and listening. “For those of you who don’t know me-”

A heckler shouted out, “We all know you, Townshit!”

I waited for the laughter to die down, then continued, “That’s fair. I get it. Most of you remember me as a violent monster. Back in high school, I was the worst. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I’m not asking you for it. I only want to offer something to all the people who I’ve wronged.” I looked out at the crowd and saw Wendy staring back with a look of shock on her face.

Kieffer was right when he said I’d make a good politician. But he was wrong when he said the secret was pretending to be normal. The real trick is simply telling people what they want to hear. With Deacon’s blood still fresh on my shoe, I put on a humble face and continued, “You see, I recently gave my life over to our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. And through him, I have found forgiveness and peace. In His holy name, I wanted to extend an offer of humility to you, my graduating class.”

I stopped speaking long enough to build anticipation. Finally, someone yelled, “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m hosting the afterparty at the location of my business. You all know the shitty gas station at the edge of town? Come by after the last dance. There will be free beer, liquor, and lottery scratchers for everyone who shows up.” I waited for the audible gasps and drunken cheers to die down, then finished with a bang. “God bless us, everyone.”

The room filled with cries of Amen! and Fuck yeah! as I walked away, hoping that I’d calculated correctly.

◆◆◆

Two more cars pulled into the parking lot.

I made a point not to hold my breath when I spoke. “You gotta think fast. You worked so hard to stay under the radar. You can’t afford any more attention, can you? Another massacre at the gas station is completely out of the question.”

Roger’s men looked to him for instructions. He pointed to two of them and said, “Take Jeremy out back until I call for you.”

“Aww,” Jerry whined as they dragged him down the hall. “I never get to do anything fun. Save some of the bad guys for me, Jack!”[43]

The front door opened, and four more members of my graduating class spilled inside. “Born again!” one guy yelled with a red face.

“Mind the hole,” I said.

Roger turned to look at them. This was it. The moment of truth. Had I oversold it? Did he know what I was really planning? Would he see through the ruse? Was he going to kill us all anyway purely out of spite?!

“Beer’s in the walk-in,” he said in a friendly voice.

41
What I was trying to say was, “Yay! You wore the shirt I made you!” [«]

42
Goku Karen. Karen con carne. Double ply Karen. [«]

43
Hey, you’re the writer, Jack. But is “whined” really the word we want to use here? [«]

Chapter Forty

The parking lot was steadily filling with cars and trucks. When they wouldn’t all fit, they parked in the grass or among the trees. The building was packed with my old classmates, their families, and quite a few locals who heard about the free beer and came to partake. The hole in the middle of the floor turned out to be very popular, and not just because it had become the de facto garbage-receptacle for empty cans and losing scratch-offs. Several people took to sitting around it with their feet dangling into the abyss.

Rosa walked up next to me behind the counter. “How are you doing?”

Before I could answer, Roger rose up between the two of us and said in an exasperated tone, “Yes, Jack, how are you doing?! Because I’m doing just fine! I’ve waited longer than you would believe for this moment. I don’t mind waiting a few more minutes. Soon, the beer will run out and the locusts will flock to the after-after party. All you’ve achieved for your efforts is a minor inconvenience.”

I looked past the puppet to Rosa and said, “I’m good. Thanks for checking in. How about you?”

“Meh. I’ve been possessed by a lot worse. But I do hope you have an actual plan for whenever this party ends, otherwise I think we might be totally borked.”

“Knowing our town, they’ll be here until there’s nothing left to eat or drink.” As if on cue, a man walked through the door with two suitcase packs of Natty Lite. He held them up triumphantly as the crowd cheered like they’d never seen such a prize before in their lives. “Huh, would you look at that? They’re actually bringing in their own booze. Nothing draws a community together quite like-”

Roger couldn’t contain himself any longer. “ENOUGH! I will not be made to wait for what is mine! Men, clear this place out now!”

One of his soldier-bros pointed his rifle up and fired three rapid shots into the ceiling.

POW!POW!POW!

The singing stopped. Everyone in the room went deathly quiet. Half the room was looking at the shooter. The other half looked at me. I pumped a fist into the air and shouted, “America!”

Patriotic cheers rang out from every direction. Several revelers drew their own guns and pointed them in the air. More shots into the ceiling. POW! BANG! POW! POW!

“I don’t know why I expected anything different,” Roger muttered. Then, with a sigh, he turned to Rosa and commanded her, “Call speed dial number one.”

“Listen, creepy doll boy, I’m not your maid or your personal life coach-” As she spoke, her free hand moved into her dress pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed a number. She seemed genuinely surprised when her own hand put the phone against her ear. “-and another thing- Oh! Oops. Hello? It’s ringing.”

“Silence,” Roger barked. “This isn’t for you.”

She narrowed her eyes. Roger stared right at me as he spoke, through Rosa, to the person on the other end of the phone call, “It’s me. Time for that favor. We’ve got some company at the gas station who’ve outworn their welcome. Make them go away.”

As Rosa put the phone away, I asked her, “Who was that?”

“No,” Roger interrupted. “Don’t ruin the surprise. I want to see the look on his face when-”

“It was Sheriff O’Brien.”

“Dammit,” I said. “That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

“The sheriff is working with the bad guys now? What are we gonna do?”

“I think it’s more of an unwilling participant kind of thing. O’Brien is still on our team, but she has to do what they say for some reason.”

Roger, now very clearly annoyed at being left out of the conversation, explained. “That’s correct. You see, the sheriff entered into a contract of sorts. For every favor I performed, she-”

Rosa cut him off. “We get it dude.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You don’t have to keep explaining every little plot point to us. We know how stories work.”

“Yes, but-”

Rosa cut him off again. “It’s a favor scorecard. We have the same thing here at the gas station—only, you know, ours isn’t magically enforced by the power of douchebaggery or whatever.”

Roger pouted, “You lot are the worst captives I’ve ever taken.”

I responded with, “Really? I’d put you at, like, a five out of ten as far as captors go. Honestly, if you’ve been paying attention, you’d have known how famously noncompliant we are as prisoners.”

“Bide your time, child. You may have proven yourself to be a worthy adversary, but there is only one way tonight will end: with me inside of you.”

Rosa reacted with a loud and sharp, “Gross!”

“That’s the endgame? All of this is because you wanted a human vessel and you chose me? Do you have any idea how many issues my body has? I’m way past my prime. Falling apart. A quarter of my limbs aren’t even OEM. Ohhh… I just realized why I could never bring myself to get rid of that shitty Nissan.”

“Who’s over-explaining now?” Roger inquired acidly.

A man sucking Natty Lite through the beer-can helmet on his head staggered up to the counter. He spit out his straw long enough to scream, “It’s a fucking Muppet!”

Roger pointed at the man and spoke in an unnaturally deep voice, “IGNIS.”

The front of the man’s shirt burst into flames. He looked at it the way a parent might look at their child throwing a tantrum at the supermarket, then calmly pulled the beer cans off his cap and poured them out on his shirt, extinguishing the flames. He tossed the empties into the hole in the floor, looked back at us, then said, “Pardon me,” before walking off to find another drink.

Rosa offered a temporary truce: “How about we all agree to not say anything else until the sheriff gets here?”

“Oh shit!” someone screamed. “It’s the police!”

“Run!” someone else shouted.

“Cheese it!” yelled another.

Most of the partiers bolted for the front door. Those that remained waited until O’Brien had walked in and shouted, “You’re all under arrest!” before making their own daring escapes. She watched and waited as the building cleared out and people fled to their cars and trucks to speed away into the night. And then it was just us—the men with their guns, Kyle Bob with his weird cardboard tube weapon, Rosa with Roger, O’Brien, and me… It definitely felt like someone was missing. I looked closer, searching for someone who wasn’t there, and started to worry that my plan had gone awry. Rosa carried the puppet around the counter and approached O’Brien.

“At last,” he said. “We finally meet in person.”

O’Brien looked at Rosa and said, “Cute.” Then she turned to me and asked, “Where is he?”

“You mean Roger?” I totally forgot that they hadn’t been formally introduced yet. “Oh, this is going to be really weird. How open-minded would you say you are right now?”

“You’re looking at him!” Roger exclaimed.

O’Brien gave him a good, long, stare before asking, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Yeah,” I explained. “He’s a sentient puppet.”

She looked at all of the other men silently watching us. “And all of you know this and accept it? That your boss is actually an inanimate object? Are you all proud of what you do for a living?”

Roger tried desperately to wrestle back control of the conversation. “Oh, I am very much animated, as you will soon see.” He turned to face the gunman closest to the back door. “You, go fetch Jeremy and bring him here. It’s time for Jack to make a choice. His life, or the lives of all of his friends?”

The soldier obediently took his orders while Kyle Bob stepped up front and center. The goliath man reached into his coat pocket, removed a jewel-encrusted dagger, and gave it to Rosa. With her free hand, she involuntarily traced her cheek with tip of the blade as Roger continued his taunting.

“You’re no doubt familiar with this weapon. With it, I will take control of your body. With a blood oath, I will take control of your mind. Here is my offer: grant me your undying loyalty, become my vessel, free me from this cursed form, and in exchange I will allow your friends to live. My word is my bond. No harm will come to them.”

Rosa’s eyes squeezed shut as the blade traced the line of her nose. “What happens to Jack?” she asked, carefully.

“He isn’t like you, Sweetie. There’s only enough room in his head for one of us.”

O’Brien inched forward. “Rosa, look at me. Put down the knife.”

“You’re going to want to stay back,” Roger said as Rosa pointed the weapon at the sheriff. O’Brien froze. He turned back to me and said, “You’ve tested my patience long enough. It’s time to make a decision. Do you, Jack Miller Townsend, Jr., accept me as your new master?”

A few days earlier, it would have been an obvious choice. My life for theirs. No question. But there was something else tipping the scales now. The message from Sabine. The plea from beyond the void to never give up.

I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

There had to be another option. I just needed to figure it out.

Rosa pulled the knife back to her own throat and held it there while Roger continued, “I suppose he needs a little bit more convincing. Maybe his old friend, the dark god, will help him make up his mind. Sheriff, I’ve decided what your last favor will be.”

O’Brien kept her voice steady. She was the very image of cool under pressure. “Hate to break it to you, Woody, but we’re even now. I just did you a solid by breaking up drunkapalooza.”

“So confident, so certain, yet so careless with her words. Do you not remember our phone conversation when you asked me to ‘give you a second’? I didn’t have to, but I accepted your request. I granted you several seconds, in fact.”

“Wait,” her calm was starting to show some cracks. “That wasn’t a favor. That’s just an expression.”

“Words have power. Contracts are built on the letter of the law. If you didn’t want to play by the rules, you never should have started in the first place. But now you owe me, and I’m ready to cash in. Here is your charge: Take out your gun. If Jack does not conjure the dark god in the next thirty seconds, I want you to shoot yourself in the head.”

“What?!” Rosa and I said in unison.

“Tick tock,” said Roger.

O’Brien’s right hand began to tremble. She grabbed the wrist and tried to steady it, but it moved with a force unseen, down to the weapon on her holster. She unbuttoned the strap and drew the firearm. As she struggled to make it stop, she pleaded, “Whatever he’s talking about, don’t do it! If he wants it, it’s got to be bad!”

I tried to think fast, but Roger’s distracting voice was more stressful than the Jeopardy theme played in a minor key. “See how easily self-sacrifice comes to you noble creatures? Time waits for no man, Jack. The fuse is lit. Make a decision.”

O’Brien fought for control, but her body wasn’t her own anymore. The gun was lifting up. The barrel pointed at her skull. Her finger curled over the trigger.

I panicked.

“I’m sorry, Rosa! Manus Capere!”

Nothing happened.

Roger snickered. “We already knew that phrase, Jack. We need the new summoning spell.”

“The what?”

“The phrase you changed it to.”

O’Brien closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. The gun was touching her temple.

“But I didn’t-”

Rosa cut me off. “I did! The dark god and I agreed to change it when we spoke in my dreams last night. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Jack!”

Roger looked at his watch. “There’s still time.”

O’Brien mustered the strength to shout, “Rosa, don’t!” But it was too late.

Rosa exclaimed, “Man, this vegan bacon tastes awesome!”

A gust of hot air blew a cyclone of garbage around the room. Rosa’s eyes rolled back, showing nothing but the whites. She floated into the air, carrying the evil puppet with her. Roger let out another sinister cackle as twisted roots burst through the windows and walls of the gas station, growing and intertwining into thick appendages, then transforming, hardening, sprouting barbed spikes and thorns the size of pencils. Roger’s cackling abruptly stopped once Jerry said, “Hey y’all!”

Wait, why is Jerry all alone and covered in blood?

He’d just come waltzing in through the back door, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. “Holy cannoli! The dark god is back? When did that happen? And O’Brien’s here?! We’re totally unstoppable now!”

“Jerry!” I yelled. “What happened?”

“Oh, this?” He gestured at the blood on his clothes. “No biggie. I used my hardcore kung-fu skills to subdue my captors. It was totally rad as fuck.” A series of thin vines snaked across the floor from where Rosa hovered, sprouting black leaves that withered and died instantly. As they curled around Jerry’s legs and torso, he changed his tune. “Oh wait. Is Roger still in control of Rosa? Allow me to make a correction: He is unstoppable. We’re fucked.”

The vines lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the ceiling. “Yuck!” he said. “When was the last time we mopped the ceiling? It’s even grosser than the floor. Hey, how long has my frisbee been on top of the Slurpee machine?”

O’Brien, seemingly oblivious to everything else happening, fell to her knees. “Jack,” she said through labored breathing. “I can’t- I can’t make it stop!”

I jumped over the counter. Her hands were shaking. The gun was still there, in front of her face.

Roger spoke, “The letter of the law. I told her to shoot herself if you didn’t conjure the dark god, and guess what? You didn’t. Rosa did.”

I turned to Roger and demanded, “Stop that! You got what you wanted! Let her go!”

His voice was pure venom. “That time has passed. You had your chance. And now, their blood will be on your hands.”

More vines broke through the ceiling, strangling Jerry in a spiderweb of living branches. O’Brien stopped struggling. She looked at me and said, “Jack.”

“Amy?”

“Kick that puppet’s ass for me.”

With that, she raised the gun to her head and fired.[44]

44
Dagnabbit Jack! You can’t keep ending chapters on cliff hangers like this! [«]

Chapter Forty-One

I trudged through the sewer water a few steps behind Spencer Middleton and Baby Kieffer. “Admit it,” I said. “You know I’m right. If Roger isn’t dealt with, there’s nowhere you can go where you won’t be hunted down.”

He didn’t answer right away. I’d shared my entire plan, and it was a pretty good one, but the ball was in his court. Frankly, I was amazed at how much effort it was taking to convince Spencer to help me kill a bunch of people. Raising a newborn proto-Kieffer had really changed him.

“Oh, frog!” Kieffer said, running towards the shape slithering through the waters ahead of us. Spencer nabbed him by the scruff of the neck and put him back on the right path.

“Fine,” he said at long last. “I’ll be there. You sure this Karen thing isn’t going to be a problem?”

“Trust me, there’s no way Roger’s stupid enough to let a bear near his beehive.”

“I’ll need some time to find a good babysitter. Be ready. When I make things happen, I make them happen fast.”

◆◆◆

“AMY!”

I ran over to where she had fallen and dropped to my knees by her side. She was groaning. That was a good sign. Right? People can only groan if they’re still alive, right? RIGHT?

I had completely lost all faith in Spencer Middleton’s word to help me take down Roger. But he was right. What happened next happened very fast. Something round and metallic flew into the room through the hole in the floor. I heard someone scream, “Flash bang!”

When the ringing in my ears finally reached bearable levels and my balance mostly returned, I was surprised to find that I was somehow standing, but not of my own power. A hand gripped the back of my shirt, holding me in place. I felt the gun pressed under my jaw, then turned my eyes to see the man holding it there. Spencer, Frickin, Frackin, Fuckin, Middleton. In a matter of seconds, every other weapon in the place was pointed our way, including O’Brien’s service pistol that was now being held by a hand made entirely of leaves sprouted from the tip of a branch.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Spencer sang. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to Mr. Chosen One, would ya?” With a twist of his gun hand, he revealed a small mechanical device resembling a key fob, pinched between his pinky and palm. “I’m sure you all recognize a deadman’s switch when you see one.”

Clack. The vine dropped the gun onto the floor. Rosa descended to the ground, still carrying Roger. (Or maybe I had that backwards.) Next to fall was Jerry, who let out a short “Wheee” before slamming onto the tile. I was impressed by how quickly the puppet had surrendered, until I realized what was actually going on. The vines were shriveling and dying, then crumbling into dust. The dark god’s powers had run out again. I almost hate to say it, but good thing we ran down the dark god’s batteries! Otherwise, Roger may have ended things a lot sooner.

Rosa’s eyes went back to normal. She wobbled and nearly lost her balance, but Roger snapped his fingers and she straightened back up again. “What happened?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes like she’d just finished a two-day bender.

Roger had no such signs of discomfort. “Hold your fire, boys,” he said. “A very clever gambit, Mr. Middleton. But I’m afraid it’s meaningless if we don’t know what the switch is meant to detonate.”

“How silly of me,” Spencer replied with a tinge of maniacal sadism in his voice that I did not care for one bit. “Allow me to explain. During the afterparty, while you and your platoon of extras were busy watching Jack, waiting for him to make his next move, I was free to move around unnoticed. Nobody even saw me planting the breaching explosives.”

“Explosives?” I repeated nervously. “That wasn’t part of the plan. Come to think of it, you holding me at gunpoint was also not part of the plan. The plan was I cause a distraction and you kill the bad guys. The beauty of the plan was in its simplicity. When did explosives enter the equation?”

“Don’t worry, Jack,” he whispered in my ear. “They’re small charges. The kind used to blow holes in doors.”

Roger raised both hands up and asked, “Well? Where are they?”

Spencer continued his quest to out-crazy the mad puppet. “I’m so glad you asked! I clipped one onto each of your men.”

I noticed a few heads turning. Roger started, “The secret to bluff-”

Spencer dropped the detonator. The sound and light that filled the gas station made the flash bang look like a wet smoke bomb. Hot liquid splashed across my face as all the oxygen was sucked out of my lungs. An unnatural light emanated from somewhere unseen, illuminating a haze of smoke. Paper garbage fluttered in the thick air while all manner of human debris dripped from the ceiling. Through it all, I could hear the distinct sounds of four people as they coughed and struggled to reinflate their lungs. And he called these the small charges?

I braced myself against the counter (which was now covered in a warm, gunky film) and tried to piece it all together. The coughing was coming from Jerry, Rosa, me… and O’Brien.

I dropped down next to her. “Amy, talk to me!”

She finally managed to get out the word, “Fuck!”

That all but confirmed she was still alive. I looked for where she was bleeding, but couldn’t find anything.

“What happened?”

“Powder burn is a mother fucker.”

That’s when it clicked. Her ponytail was missing. She had shot herself in the head, but Roger never said where in the head. Evidently, shooting off a hank of hair was enough to satisfy the letter of the law. O’Brien was alive. GOOD! Now I could focus on the rest of the fight:

The light was coming from scattered fires burning all around us. BAD! The bodies of Roger’s henchmen were barely even bodies anymore—mangled carcasses with guts dripping out. GOOD! All except for Kyle Bob, who—other than losing his glasses—didn’t look to have a scratch on him. VERY BAD! He bent down to pick up one of the many discarded guns—in this case, O’Brien’s pistol. When he straightened back up, I saw his eyes for the first time. The pupils were reptilian slits surrounded by bright green irises. No wonder he always kept them covered.

Without waiting for an order, he pointed the gun and fired a single shot over my head, hitting Spencer in the face. But he didn’t go down. He just shook his head while the slimy black tendrils crawled out of the wound and rapidly stitched him back together.

Roger emerged from the smokey haze, clapping his tiny wooden hands. Tock, tock, tock, tock. “Wonderful!” he screamed madly. “Marvelous! Fantastic! You managed to blow us up! How terribly clever of you!”

“It’s over, Roger!” Spencer shouted. “Tell your attack dog to stand down.”

“Over? Oh no, no, no, Mr. Middleton. With all of my resources, did you really think I’d come here tonight with nothing but a single bodyguard and a dozen humans with guns?”

O’Brien sat up and tried to peer through the haze. “What’s that noise?” she asked, almost nervously.

You know you’ve become way too familiar with the sound of bones cracking when you can recognize it from across the room. It might not have been so horrifying if the sound wasn’t accompanied by the sudden rigid movements of recently exploded corpses. Black goo bubbled out of their skin and pores, sizzling and melting the flesh before reforming the unfortunate bastards into shapes that almost (but not quite) resembled humans. They rose and stretched and did something that no monster before them had ever done… They picked up guns.

It was now our side (with one unkillable supersoldier) against their side (with eight unkillable supersoldiers). I didn’t love these odds. But it could have been worse, as proven once the back door scraped open and three more monsterfied commandos walked in to join the ranks. Spencer did the Spencerist thing imaginable and threw an arm around my neck from behind. With the hammer of his gun drawn, he shouted, “Stay back or I swear to Christ I’ll blow his fuckin’ brains out.”

O’Brien was on her feet again. “Take it easy, Spencer.”

“Yeah,” echoed Roger. “Take it easy. If you hurt him, I might have to hurt someone you care about much, much worse. And that sounds like a lot of work. But you’ve proven yourself to be quite capable, and I’m feeling magnanimous. Here’s an offer you can’t refuse: Come back to work for me, and I’ll forgive everything. But first, you need to show me where your loyalty lies.”

“My loyalty never changed,” Spencer said. “I’m always on the winning side.” From the sound of his voice, his control was unravelling.

From the sound of Roger’s voice, he knew it and loved it. “Good. Prove it. Kill Jeremy.”

Jerry, who had just managed to finish untangling himself from dead vines, looked up like a deer in headlights and said, “Do what now?”

Spencer said, “Okay,” and pointed the gun at Jerry.

I like to think that if I’d known judo, this would have been the part where I flipped Spencer across my shoulder onto the floor, shattering his hip and breaking his arm in the process. If I’d known Brazilian jiu jitsu, I may have caught him in an unbreakable head lock and tossed him against a wall. If I’d been a well-trained MMA fighter, I maybe could have bent down, grabbed his leg, and pulled him off balance before I climbed onto the counter and delivered an epic diving elbow drop…

…but I didn’t know any of that. The only fight training I’d received was from Benji.

Spencer’s body was pushed right up against me. I reached my hand behind my back, then went low and grabbed a big handful of his crotch.

He flinched. “HEY! WHAT THE-” I squeezed as hard as I could. But that’s not all. I twisted and yanked with all the tensile strength I could muster. It worked like a charm. Spencer dropped his gun onto the ground, released his chokehold, and tried to back away, but I spun around and kept the clamp hard on his family jewels. “LET GO! GOD! SHIT! FUCK!”

He finally managed to get enough space between us to punch me in the face. I hit the ground, landing on top of something metallic and uncomfortable. While Spencer continued to scream down at me, I pushed myself up enough to see what it was I’d landed on—Spencer’s gun. With no time to overthink it, I picked it up, rolled over, and aimed it right at Roger. Then, I did something that surprised even me: I fired the gun.

The bullet hit the puppet in the forehead.

“Ack!” he said, shutting his eyes tight and pushing his puppet palms over the wound. A trickle of green oozed out of the hole, through his wooden fingers, down his face. “You IDIOT!” he screamed. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just drew blood from a god.”

“MEN!” Roger commanded. “SHOOT HIM! Just leave his brain intact. That’s the only part we need. As for the rest, KILL THEM ALL!”

At that moment, time slowed down. Good thing, too, because if it hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to notice the truck barreling at full speed into the gas station lot. I managed to shout, “Look out!” in time for O’Brien to dive out of the way as the truck ramped over the fallen tree, gaining air before crashing straight through the front wall of the gas station.

The wreck put out some fires, somehow caused a few more, and generally redistributed the chaos while we all tried to figure out what the damage was, where we stood in this new dynamic, and who the fuck was driving the vehicle.

Not one to take chances, Roger ordered whichever men were still standing to “Light it up!” - which meant emptying their clips on the mystery visitor. The storm of bullets did nothing but bounce off the metal and black-tinted windows. Before I knew it, Spencer had completely vanished. O’Brien and Jerry crawled over to my side, but we were powerless below the maelstrom. When the shooting finally stopped, there was a brief calm. Empty magazines hit the floor next to the hundreds of spent shell casings. Nobody said a word. But the eye of the storm wasn’t long for this world. The driver’s door of the truck creaked open. A man in shiny black dress shoes stepped out. He adjusted his tie, straightened his mirror-black sunglasses, then announced himself. “Hi there, idiots. The name’s Roscoe. Brick Roscoe. Now… say hello to my little friend.”

The passenger door opened and closed in an instant. Somewhere between those two events, a dark shape spilled out, moving too fast to comprehend. I picked up the glimmer of metal reflecting the light of fires as whatever it was began striking at the mimic soldiers, hacking them to bits, lopping off heads and limbs before any of them had the chance to reload.

Brick let it do the killing for him as he calmly strolled over to where the three of us were huddled on the floor and said, “Hiya Jack. We got your signal.”

“We?”

The shape stopped killing long enough to turn to me and wave. “Hey boss!” Benji said. Or at least, it looked like Benji, only with four extra arms, each holding knives big enough to cut a car tire in half with one strike. He went right back to his Tasmanian Devil storm cloud of death while Brick helped me to my feet.

“We’ve been experimenting with his mimic-related regenerative and transformative powers. It’s quite interesting. Through the power of science-”

He jerked forward at the same moment we heard the gunshot. Across the room, Kyle Bob stood holding O’Brien’s weapon. Brick touched the bleeding spot on the back of his shoulder, then said, “Nuts.”

Benji went in for the attack, but Mr. Big—without even looking—caught him by the throat, lifted him off his feet, and threw him like a wrecking ball through the cold drink cases.

Kyle Bob squared off against Brick Roscoe, then lowered the weapon, dropped it onto the floor, and pulled out the cardboard tube gun.

Brick snorted loudly and asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

Kyle responded with nothing but the subtlest nod. Yes.

“Well then,” he took a deep breath. “Fffffffff-”

I could see where this was going and decided to make myself useful. I turned, threw myself over the counter, and grabbed the glass jar of Glitterstruction from below the register. Mustering the strength to open the jar might not sound that impressive considering everything else that was going on, but believe me when I say I nearly burst a blood vessel getting that thing open. I spun around and lobbed it into the air, spilling a rainbow-colored cloud of the world’s finest confetti in its wake. A powder ball collapsed onto the big guy’s head. He grunted and covered his unprotected snake eyes.

“-uck!” finished Brick Roscoe.

Kyle, with one hand viciously rubbing the glitter further into his eyes, continued to howl in pain until Roger screamed, “What are you waiting for! SHOOT HIM!”

Still blinded, the goon pointed the gun and let loose a purple bolt. It went wide of its mark, hit the only remaining glass in the gas station yet to be shattered—the front door—and with the sound of a pop, transformed it into a pile of sand. Mr. Big tried again, shooting a red bolt that barely missed Brick, instead hitting the Tasty Vapes cash register with a sharp ding. It immediately returned to its original form—a hundred-year-old piece of rusted metal. The next shot was a green bolt that came way too close for comfort, missing me by inches and striking the counter. With a loud crunch, it was replaced by a solid piece of petrified wood of roughly the same shape and size. Brick grabbed Jerry by the neck and pulled him behind the newly formed protective barrier just as O’Brien dove over the counter to join us. Wide shots kept hitting things in our vicinity. The cigarette case exploded into fully grown tobacco plants. The ceiling over us caught a bolt and began showering us with panic-stricken butterflies.

“Oh, hey there, O’Brien,” Brick said. “I didn’t know you were still alive. Damn, your group has so much plot armor it’s insane.”

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“Oh, did somebody erase your memories again?”

“‘Again’?”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small cookie in a plastic bag. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “Eat this, and you’ll remember every single thing you ever forgot.”

“What?!” I couldn’t believe it. “It’s that easy?”

Jerry leaned over and whispered, “Hey, uh, do you have any more of those, ‘cause I’ve got a lot of Wattpad accounts out there with lost passwords.”

Brick ignored him, saying, “I guess it’s my turn for the hero’s death. I always thought it would be something a little less mundane than this, but oh well. Beggars. Choosers.” He pulled a grenade out of his jacket pocket and said, “Goodbye, Jack. It’s been mediocre knowing you.”

“I don’t think a grenade is going to do much damage against that guy.”

“Oh, sweet simple Jack. You should know me well enough to know I’m carrying a lot more than one grenade.” He reached his free hand back into his jacket pocket, then pulled it back out with a pin wrapped around each of his fingers.

“Wait,” I said. “That’s not a good idea.”

But he didn’t wait. He leapt back over the petrified counter and shouted, “Hold on tight, spider-monkey!”

I jumped up to see him racing towards the final mini-boss. Brick grabbed him around the torso, lifted him up, and charged with him up to the truck, then dove inside.

“Crap!” I shouted, jumping over the block of wood after them. A burning piece of the ceiling fell onto my head, but I played through. I reached the truck just in time to slam the door shut. The interior went bright enough to light the tinted windows aglow, but no sound escaped… And just like that… Big died.

I looked around and realized that the fire was getting a bit out of control. It wasn’t yet “run away from the explosion” bad, but it was definitely not the ideal amount of gas station fire either. A figure crawled out from the hole in the wall and said, “Hey, boss. Did we get ‘em all?” Benji had returned to his human form. Two arms. A bit of blood. But not any worse for the wear.

“I think so,” I said.

O’Brien and Jerry emerged from behind the block. But Rosa (and Roger) were nowhere to be seen. I called her name as another section of the ceiling buckled and fell onto the burning pile.

“Jack!” O’Brien called. I turned to see her pointing at the trail of glitter footprints leading down the hallway towards the back door.

We left the fires roaring and went outside. I led the way, not because I’m some kind of badass—no, we just figured if Roger really needed my brainmeats this badly, he wouldn’t risk throwing a fireball at us if I were the human shield. I carried the pistol. O’Brien had upgraded to one of the dead goons’ assault rifles. Benji had a knife in either hand, and Jerry dragged along the sword-bat.

“You really think that’s gonna come in handy?” Benji asked.

“Probably not,” Jerry answered. “But you gotta admit, it looks cool.”

“Cool as fuck,” Benji affirmed.

“Stop!” Roger stepped out from behind the dumpster. Rosa was holding the jewel-encrusted dagger to her throat. “Not another step or I’ll end her pathetic life!”

“And then what?” I asked. “You gonna run away on your own two feet?”

“You all have no idea what I’m capable of! I’ve been here far longer than any of you, and I’ll still be here long after you’re gone! I’ll kill her just to see the looks on your faces! Just like I killed your stupid girlfriend!”

“Go on, then,” Rosa said. “Do it. I dare you.”

Roger spun his head to face her, then spun it back to face us. “You remember what I said was the trick to bluffing?”

Spencer stepped out from behind the dumpster, grabbed Roger by the neck, and yanked him off Rosa’s hand. She dropped to the ground with a trail of green, slimy mucus on her newly liberated arm and said, “Ewww, yuck!”

Roger’s limbs flailed wildly as he screamed, “Unhand me! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

“That’s enough out of you,” Spencer taunted as he carried the doll to the back door. We couldn’t help but watch in shock and awe as Spencer flipped Roger over, jammed a breaching charge inside his puppet hole, then chucked him into the building before slamming the door shut.

“So, you’re on our side again?” I asked.

KA-BOOM!!!

“I told you already. I’m always on the winning side.” He approached me, gave a quick look to O’Brien, then offered me his hand. “All’s fair in war, right? No hard feelings?”

I was ready to be done. I extended my hand, but Spencer pulled his back and doubled over, like he’d just touched a red-hot poker. He cursed and gritted his teeth and then, finally, let out a pained scream.

Rosa was wiping her own hand off in the grass. “What’s happening?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I just remembered Archimedes warning me not to ever touch Roger.”

“Oooohhh,” Jerry pondered out loud. “I bet that’s got something to do with this.”

Benji raised his knife. “Hold out your hand. I’ll cut it off for you. It’ll be real fast. You won’t feel a thing. Except, you know, pain.”

“Get away from me!” Spencer screamed. Except, it wasn’t his voice coming out of his throat. It was, somehow, Roger’s.

O’Brien was the next to speak. “You all, I am so tired of this weird freaky shit. Is he dead, or what?”

“I…” Spencer fell to the ground, curled up, hugging himself, fighting against the words.

“Maybe we should pee on him,” Jerry offered. “It works for jellyfish stings.”

“...Never…”

“That’s just an urban legend,” I said.

“...DIE…”

O’Brien went practical: “He says he never dies. I believe him. Good thing he’s stuck inside a fugitive. Let’s arrest him. He can spend eternity inside a jail cell.”

Spencer seized, jerking back and forth in an unnatural fashion, flopping around on the ground like a fish out of water. Then, his movements took form: he ripped off his boot, peeled off his sock, draped it over his left hand, and finally went still.

“I’m still new to all this magic stuff,” said O’Brien. “Can anyone tell me what the hell that was?”

Spencer sat up. His eyes were completely blank. He stuck out his covered hand and began operating the jankiest sock puppet in history. Spencer’s lips didn’t move, but a voice appeared, seemingly from the sock puppet itself.

“Fools! You underestimate my power! I am the one who remains! I will be the one who writes the ending of this story! You will not-”

Jerry swung the sword bat, severing the sock puppet at the wrist. Spencer rolled over and howled wildly as blood pumped out of his fresh arm stump.

We all stood back and watched as the sock monster tried to crawl away, but it only made it a couple feet before going still.

“Alright,” I said loudly. “Nobody touch that!”

Spencer screamed and cursed as he pulled his belt off and used it to tie a tourniquet.

“Should we be helping him?” asked Rosa.

“Nah, he can just regenerate, right?”

Jerry said, “Doesn’t look like it. Maybe Roger did something while possessing him?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Could be. Definitely could be.”

“FUCK YOU ALL TO HELL!” Spencer screamed as he ran past us into the woods[45].

“So,” I started, looking around. Black smoke billowed out of the many holes of the gas station. It would take a lot of time and money to get it back to ground zero, but we’d rebuilt plenty of times before. Jerry was covered in blood (someone else’s). Rosa was shaken up, to say the least. O’Brien was suffering from a nasty powder burn, some singed hair, and almost certainly a bit of hearing loss, but at least now she knew who her friends were. And Benji was… still Benji. “Is that it? Did we win?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Benji said.

“God!” Jerry exclaimed. “That final showdown was like a marathon! I thought it was never going to end! What a slog!”

Rosa cheered, “We defeated him with the power of friendship!”

A wild battle cry turned our attention to the side of the building where a man wielding a shotgun, dressed neck-to-boot in hockey armor, and wearing a football helmet had come running into the action. He stopped once he saw us standing there.

“Love?” O’Brien asked, unable to hide the surprise in her voice.

“Yeah,” he called back. “I’m here to save you!”

We all went silent for a second. Then, I said, “You did it!”

He pulled his helmet off and let it drop. “I did?”

“Yeah!” I said. “They all killed themselves when they heard you were coming.”

“Great job!” cheered Rosa.

Love began to smile.

And then, the gas station exploded.

45
Never to be seen again! (◠‿◠) [«]

Chapter Forty-Two

I don’t know if this memory is real or not, or even what “real” would mean in this context. But I choose to accept that it’s as real as anything else that ever happened.

I was eighteen years old, lying on the couch. Sabine was sitting on the floor next to me, reading one of our cheap, campy paperbacks. Out of the blue, she put the book down and asked, “If anything were to happen to me, what would you do?”

“I’d travel the earth, killing everyone I needed to until I found you again.”

“No, I’m serious. If I died, what would you do?”

“If you died, and I didn’t? Well, I guess I’d probably be gutted. I’d sink into an eternal depression and lose the will to continue in a world without my best friend.”

She turned around, took my face in her hands, and said, “Promise me that you’d move on. Keep me in your memories, but don’t give up just because I’m not there. Have a life. Make new friends. Do whatever you need to do to be happy.”

“You’re not about to tell me you have some kind of rare fatal disease, are you?”

She laughed. “No. I just want you to promise me.”

“Okay,” I said. “I promise.”

Pre - Epilogue

One thing that always bugged me about my book club was how Rosa reads any new book. She likes to skip to the end first just to see what the last page says.

I mean, I understand why she does it. I really do. It cuts down on the anxiety. No need to constantly fret over how it all turns out. And while I strongly believe that there is no wrong way to read a book, I have to disagree with her on this one. To really appreciate the journey, you need a little bit of anxiety constantly running in the background.

Plus, as the guy writing the story, there’s a lot of pressure to make sure there’s just the right amount of spoilers on the last page to keep the reader interested but not enough to ruin any of the big surprises.

So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to let Jerry write a fake last page for all the Rosas out there and tack in onto the end after the epilogue.

Feel free to ignore it. It’s probably going to be insane anyway.

-Jack

Epilogue

At the edge of our town, on the opposite side of the ruins of the old chemical plant, beyond the twisted trees of dubious origin, just past the newly formed Goose Creek Tributary, there’s a magnificent crater in the earth where there once stood a shitty little gas station.

We pulled up on the outskirts of what used to be the parking lot. Jerry was driving the van he’d bought at the police impound auction. There was a graffiti-art dragon painted along one side and a bikini-clad Lady Liberty on the other. Rosa called it “the Freedom-wagon,” but none of us were married to that name.

We got out and walked around the perimeter of the hole. Once we got to the other side, Benji dropped out of a tree in front of the three of us and said solemnly, “Today’s the big goodbye, huh?”

“We’ll miss ya,” I said with full sincerity.

Rosa gave him a hug, then the gift basket we’d spent the last week filling up. It contained (among other things) an infinity scarf Rosa knitted, a Ziploc bag full of brownies from Jerry, a few of my favorite spy-thrillers, and a shit-ton of knives.

Gaston ran through my legs and jumped up against Benji’s ankle. He bent over and picked him up in one hand. “Dang,” Benji said. “That sucker’s getting big.”

While Gaston nibbled at Benji’s beard, Rosa asked, “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll be good as long as y’all promise to come back and visit every now and then. The log cabin is almost finished, I just gotta install the upstairs bathtub.”

“We’ll be back,” I said before adding the delayed qualifier: “...maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Well, I mean, it would be nice to return at some point down the line, but for now… I think we deserve a break from this town.”

“I understand, boss. You think those people from your blog will, too?”

“My readers? Of course they will. They’re all very smart, reasonable, awesome, good-looking, smart, cool people. I’m sure they’ll be happy for me, and satisfied with the journey we’ve taken together.”

Benji extended the pup to Rosa, who needed two hands to take him back (he really had grown a lot in such a short time, probably from all the snacks Jerry kept feeding him), then asked, “What ever happened to that sock puppet, anyway?”

“We couldn’t kill him, so we used a pair of salad tongs to put him inside a fire safe.” (Phenomenal cosmic powers! Itty bitty living space.)

“And you fellas don’t think there’s any possible chance that he’ll somehow find a way to escape when you least expect it?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “That definitely probably won’t happen.”

“Works for me. You better get going, though. There’s a territorial Chupacabra somewhere in the area that keeps throwing rocks at me.”

“Say no more,” I said. “It’s been great knowing you.”

Despite Benji’s warning, we lingered for a moment longer at the edge of the crater, looking at the emptiness that was left behind. Our old job… our old home… was nothing more than a memory. But somehow, that felt right. Some things are only meant to exist as memories.

The sound of violin music snapped me out of my daze. I looked over my shoulder to see a small wooden structure, barely larger than a phone booth (people remember phone booths, right?), with a small crescent moon carved into the door. The music, it would appear, was coming from inside.

“What is that?” asked Rosa.

“It looks like an outhouse,” answered Jerry.

We should have felt nervous. We should have sensed the inherent suspicious nature of another surprise anomaly. But for whatever reason, we all felt calm and relaxed. Like this building, and the music, were old friends playing us a farewell lullaby. With a shrug, Jerry suggested, “One last mystery for the road?”

“I’ll check it out,” I volunteered. “If I’m not back in five minutes, you know what to do.”

The music got louder as I approached the building. Without any fear, I opened the door and stepped inside.

I was met with fluorescent lighting and the aroma of chemical cleaning agents. The floor under my feet was tile, recently scrubbed clean. Mirrors and sinks to my left. Urinals and stalls to my right. And in front of me: the Bathroom Cowboy, playing a slow but emotionally charged melody on his violin. He finished, smashed the instrument on the ground, and said, “Words.”

“I’m glad you’re still alive, or whatever the equivalent you use is. Excellent use of space in here, by the way.”

The cowboy walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “We’re all real grateful for what you did for us. It ain’t every eon when gods end up in a mortal’s debt. As a token of our collective gratitude, we wanted to offer you this gift, from all of us.”

He removed his hand from my shoulder, pulled something out of his hat, and held it out for me.

A small paper envelope.

I took it and asked, “Should I open it now, or…?”

“Now would be appropriate.”

I carefully ripped it open and let the item inside slide out into my palm. I then turned it over in my hand, inspected it from several angles, and finally concluded it was exactly what it appeared to be: A rock with a smiley face drawn onto it.

“You like it?” the cowboy asked. “We made it ourselves! Well, we found the rock and thought it was a cool rock, but it was my idea to draw the face on it.”

“It’s awesome,” I said. “I’ll cherish it forever.”

He tipped his hat. “See you around, buckaroo.”

I responded, “I appreciate it.”

When we got back to the van, there was a sheriff’s cruiser parked behind it. Amelia O’Brien was leaning against the hood with her arms crossed, looking like her typical badass self. The new extra-short hairstyle suited her.

“You three weren’t about to leave town without saying goodbye, were you?”

Rosa excitedly yelled, “Oh! Amy! Stay right there!” She set Gaston on the ground and ran to the van to fetch the gift basket for O’Brien, which contained a few items for her to remember us by: a bunch of custom tees from Jerry, Rosa’s scrapbook of memories from our last few weeks together, and at the very bottom… some Polaroids of the town’s newly elected mayor.

“I just want to say,” Jerry spoke. “Even though fate cast us in the roles of mortal enemies—you a cop, me a rebel—you were one of the coolest peeps I’ve ever had the pleasure of battling evil gods alongside.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

“No, but we can fist-bump if you want.”

“Even better!”

He gave her a two-handed fist bump, picked up the dog, and went to the van to wait. Now that we were alone again, I made her one last offer:

“It’s not too late. You can still come with us if you want. The van is remarkably spacious, and if we’re going to go with Jerry’s idea of cruising the country solving mysteries, we could probably use someone with your talent.”

“Sounds like a blast, but the rift is still here. Even if the doors are all closed, someone’s gotta stick around in case one of them re-opens. You’ve got my number though. Call me if you need me?”

“I might call you even if I don’t.”

“That would be a first.”

She gave me a hug and told me to be careful. Then Rosa walked up with the gift basket. It was a bittersweet goodbye, but necessary. We’d been hanging around here for way too long, and it was time for a change.

◆◆◆

We were only a few hours out of town when things got weird again. Jerry had taken a “scenic detour.” I would say we were lost, but that wouldn’t exactly be accurate considering we didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Fortunately, I was holding Gaston when Jerry slammed the brakes and asked, “What the h-e-double-hockey-fucks is that?!”

We all stepped out of the vehicle to look at the apparition blocking our path out here in the middle of nowhere. It was positioned in the center of the road, wearing golden robes and hovering several feet in the air (just not enough feet for us to safely drive under), with arms extended to either side and giving off a beautiful radiance that one might describe as “celestial.”

“Is that an angel?” Rosa asked.

“No,” I said. “Angels are way scarier.”

As he slowly lowered himself to the ground, Jerry reached back into the van and hit the horn, yelling, “Hey pal! Share the road!”

The being spoke in a voice like melted butter. “Bear witness and rejoice, for it is I, Arcanumus, God of Mystery! Here to grant you a blessing for your many sacrifices.”

“No thanks!” Jerry yelled.

Arcanumus (God of Mystery) didn’t look like he was going to take No thanks for an answer. “You have done this universe a great service. But your minds are still plagued by the unknown. I have come here to resolve all of your lingering questions.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “Any question at all.”

“Okay, what happened to Mr. Carrots, the emotional support bunny?”

“He escaped the explosion and has been living his best life in the woods with his wife and kids ever since.”

“Good,” I said. “Good for him.”

Rosa went next. “What happened to the Mathmetists?”

“They all went home. They formed a Discord channel with the remaining Elm Street Irregulars where they support one another and discuss mental health issues.”

“What’s the deal with the lawn gnomes?” Jerry asked.

“Any question at all. Whatever your mind aches to understand.”

“Hang on,” I said. “What about that prophecy that I was destined to watch everyone I love die before my very eyes?”

“Prophecies aren’t a hard science. More like very strong suggestions.”

“The gnomes,” Jerry reiterated.

“Absolutely any question. No matter how mundane.”

“Whose head was in the box in Volume Three, Chapter twenty-eight?” Rosa asked.

“Just some clone of Jerry.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding a little disappointed. “I thought it was going to be a something a bit more complicated than that.”

I tried another question. “What was that weapon Kyle Bob was using?”

“’Twas an imaginary toy gun built by a first-grader who nobody would play with. Don’t worry, he was quite well compensated.”

I continued, “And who wrote the Disruptor app?”

“Elon Musk.”

“Wait, you mean the Elon Musk?”

“No, of course not. A different person named Elon Musk.”

Rosa asked, “Was there really a bullet in that gun O’Brien put against Jack’s head at the Cromwell’s place?”

I think we all knew what he was going to say even before he answered, but it was nice to get confirmation on that detail. Rosa followed up with another quick question. “Is the real Benjamin still alive?”

“Sure,” Arcanumus said like he didn’t even care anymore. “Why not?”

Jerry started to ask, “What about-”

Arcanumus spoke over him. “The answer to every single one of your remaining questions is…” He took a deep breath. “...are you ready for this?”

“Actually,” I said, “I don’t think I want to know anymore. Honestly, the more you reveal-”

“Aliens! Yes, ‘aliens’ is the explanation for everything else you could possibly want to know. Who built the gas station? Aliens. Who was Tony secretly working for? Aliens. The man in the trench coat? The glowing caterpillar? Doctor V? Aliens, all of them, all along. Even the parts that don’t make sense. In fact, especially the parts that don’t make sense. Now, everyone can finally stop wondering.”

I was annoyed and didn’t care who knew it. “That’s got to be the least satisfying answer possible.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I’m just the messenger.”

“Whatever,” I said. “If there’s nothing else, we’d like to get on with the rest of our lives now.”

Arcanumus disappeared with an anticlimactic fizzle, and we went back to the van. Jerry returned to his spot behind the wheel, Rosa took shotgun, and I moved the gnome that had somehow appeared in the backseat out of the way so I could fully recline and take myself a much-needed nap. As Jerry and Rosa began another round of twenty questions, I drifted off to sleep.

We stood in the torrential rain at the gravesite of Jerry “Big Guns” Pascal. I couldn’t believe the bastard was finally dead. And what a way to go, too. Shot with a machine gun fifty times in the dick.

I spat on the tombstone.

“Maybe this time, you’ll stay dead.”

Dead.

Just like Rosa and O’Brien.

Just like everyone else anybody was hoping would survive this book.

“You ready, honey?”

I turned around to see my supermodel girlfriend holding a six pack of White Claw™. “The limousine space ship leaves in ten minutes. If we miss it, we’ll have to walk all the way back to the planet Gas Station.”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” I said, pulling the microchip out of my head and dropping it on the ground. I won’t be needing this any time soon, I thought as I crushed it under my cloven hoof.

Just then, my cell phone rang. I answered. It was the president of earth.

“Jack!” he squealed. “We need you back at HQ! The terrorists have stolen the Mona Lisa!”

“The painting?”

“No! The person! Mona Lisa herself!”

“Say no more.”

I crushed the phone in my bionic hand, put on my sweet-ass sunglasses, and said to the camera, “Looks like I’m not so retired after all.”

THE END