I used to think it was a big deal to wake up screaming or swinging. That’s what the Vietnam vets did. It was a new version of the red badge of courage. I certainly didn’t expect it to happen to me, and when it did start it was two years after those thirty-eight days from the Jan. 14 outbreak to the Feb. 25 invasion, then the six days of combat and the other two days falling back out of Iraq through Kuwait and at last to King Fahd Air Base and Al-Khobar.

Two years went by and then, one day, a roommate touched me when I was asleep and I came awake gasping and panicked and hit my head on the wall.

It pleased me a little at the time because you can’t choose how to wake up, and this gave me street cred as a real combat vet, and not like what I thought of myself as: someone who’d been there but hadn’t really seen it, hadn’t really done it.

I didn’t regret never having to use my rifle to kill someone I could see fall and bleed. And helping hand up an eight-inch projo while someone else rammed it and another guy pulled the lanyard and sent it twenty miles downrange—well, that was just like practice.

The disappointment was not seeing the bodies. I never saw a wounded guy, never saw a corpse. Never even saw a blood stain. At first that just frustrated me. Later I decided God must have shielded my eyes, because every damn body around me saw the guts and the gore as we drove past. We’d driven down a highway of death, trucks still on fire with fresh bullet holes, only minutes after the Abrams tanks and Bradley troop carriers had swept through and machine gunned and cannoned everything to junk. We’d bivouacked in the middle of bunkers and foxholes and I’d fallen asleep in my ammo truck while three terrified Iraqis huddled in a foxhole just twenty feet away, but I didn’t see them cuz I wasn’t on guard duty and too tired and dumb to be afraid, so I slept while the guys on duty cleared the holes and took the prisoners.

And then on our last position forward we were in a wasteland of overturned cargo trucks and abandoned earth movers and spent a couple of days burning stacks of Romanian AK-47s still in their oiled-paper wrappings and burying mortar shells and even burning a stack full of rifle ammo and RPG-7 rockets that went off with great hisses and left arcing smoke trails but didn’t arm themselves and never exploded.

Only one night, the last night before we reached Kuwait, our convoy stopped in darkness while the officers plotted the route with those ancient, massive, $35,000-apiece GPS readers, and the light wind carried the smell of rotting flesh. Shapes in the dark, if I remember, looked like berms pushed up by bulldozers, and somewhere out there were earthworks full of dead men. But I never got closer than smelling them.

So all in all, that wasn’t much to get worked up about. I saw smoke, I heard explosions, I saw a few prisoners get taken and turned loose after we fed them and realized we couldn’t keep them. I saw Bedouins come bobbing their heads up to the battery perimeter, empty water cans in hand, motioning at the water trailer behind the old Korean War-leftover deuce-and-a-half truck, and the first time I held my rifle at port arms because I was on guard duty and I shook my head, but the battery commander came over and said, “C’mon, Gripak, let ’im in.” And I returned the bow with heel-of-hand-on-forehead and the benediction of “Salaam” while the smiling Arab scuttled to the trailer and filled his can.

I remember the engineers from the 18th Airborne Corps driving around in armored vehicles and setting charges in bunkers I didn’t know were there and setting off ground-shaking blasts that sent gray mushroom clouds swirling up, and not knowing until later they’d been blowing caches of cycloserin nerve agent while we stood or laid around breathing the air, our protective masks tucked in their hip pouches.

So in the years afterward I sometimes thought the mystery cocktail of C4 smoke and nerve agent might be responsible for the shakes and the muscle-grinding and the feeling of doom that squeezed me until I’d bite my knuckles or burn myself or cut myself for relief. But that wouldn’t give me nightmares full of dying men.

Even so, two years later the nightmares started. And I started waking up gasping or shouting. On my wedding night ten years later, I kicked my wife when she snuggled against me.

I felt like a fraud. I’d done nothing to earn this kind of dysfunction. I hadn’t seen anything. I hadn’t killed anyone. The only blood I’d spilt on a foreign shore was from a slip while illegally sharpening an M-1 bayonet.

I’d stood in one artillery firefight when the Republican Guards’ 2nd Division tubes almost got our range, and for about a minute their South African 155s started raining shells nearby. But their observers were dead and our choppers were out and maybe our radar trackers got their range too, and the guys on the bitch boxes called new coordinates and our M110 eight-inchers shifted tubes so many mils quadrant and deflection and our next rounds pounded them to silent junk that we went out the next day and gathered up as trophies, so that we came back to Saudi Arabia dragging two Gerald Bull 155mm’s and a Russian 122mm.

But there was no glory because the only Purple Heart handed out in the 2nd Battalion, 18th Field Artillery went to a cannoneer who fell off a howitzer and broke his collarbone, which made the award a fraud. Bronze Stars were handed out “for meritorious service” but not for valor, to every officer in a Humvee and above lieutenant and every first sergeant and the sergeant major and the battalion commander and the XO and each of their drivers. But there was never a single damned brave thing done except that the battalion blundered across the line of infantry and armor on Feb. 28, 1991, because we’d suddenly and unexpectedly come across an enemy that hadn’t run away yet.

And because we were there, we got the call of “Fire mission!” and the farthest right howitzer fired a blind shot and the flying forward observers saw where it landed and shot a laser range-finder at the impact and calculated an azimuth and called it back to the boys in the old M113 command track, and they ran their slide rulers because computers back then were too slow for combat.

And while every gunner lined his sites up against the gun on his right, the privates with the commo wire were running lines to the fire-direction track and hooking them up to the bitch boxes, and FDC called over “Fire mission. Shell, DPICM. Fuse, VT. Powder, red bag,” then read off the six-number deflection and then the quadrant. And Fourth Howitzer’s M548 tracked ammo carrier had broke down a day or two earlier and been left behind with its crew still on it so I had my HEMMT truck backed up to the gun and I stood on a 12-ton stack of projos and powders and hooked the spider cables to the nose plugs in the projos so the crane could lift them down six at a time. Charlie Battery on our left got off the first shot and then we were just a few seconds behind, and then FDC called an adjustment and the next rounds went out and the bitch box crackled, “Fire for effect.”

And while the red-bag powders were shooting fire out the muzzles and making the dust jump off the ground, and the sun was dipping down and the dark falling fast, the Abrams tanks behind us started shooting at nobody-knew-what except that tanks only fired line of site, so whatever it was it had to be close, or closer than us King of Battle gun bunnies were supposed to be. And while the glass was crazing in our windshields and the door windows were blowing out of their frames because we were shooting bigger powder than we’d ever fired in practice, BANG! . . . BANG! . . . BANG! . . . there came that sound we’d never heard except far away, but that sounds nothing like a round going out the tube. Incoming fire.

There was no scream of a shell rolling in, and maybe that’s only what you hear when it’s about to land on top of you. But CRUMP. CRUMP. CRUMPCRUMP. And louder than it sounds in a word like CRUMP, but that’s the sound it makes.

Then I knew I was in a real fight and, standing on top of the ammo, I was on top of the world too, certain I couldn’t be touched, and not a bit afraid because it was impossible to die just then.

And when it was over I set up my cot and went to sleep, and when the howitzer went off a few times in the night I woke up for a second or two and went back to sleep because it was my first time on a cot in four days.

But that’s not trauma. That’s adventure.

So when I gasped and shot up in bed that first time when a roommate nudged me, I felt like a fraud. Like I’d wanted to be a real veteran and I’d envied the real men who’d fought in a real war. And when I kicked backward at my wife when she snuggled up to spoon I was ashamed because I wasn’t only a fraud, I was a bad fraud, cuz who ever heard of a wussy move like that? And when I got on my knees out of her sight below the bed and prayed silently that I would never do it again oh please-please-please don’t let me ever do that again, I felt lower than a snail belly ’cause as a fake veteran I hadn’t even done a good job of faking my terror ’cause I hadn’t shouted properly or done anything to dignify a wussy move like jerking my ankle backward. And I was only glad that I’d botched the act and hadn’t really hurt her.

The ringing tinnitus and low fidelity in my ears were the only genuine, but invisible, marks I could confidently blame on battle. Big deal.

Later I read a book, On Combat, and learned that “selective exclusion” is common in deadly fights. People block the sounds of gunshots but hear the sound of empty brass hitting the ground. They edit out images that other people saw. It was a natural defense, the author said.

And finally it made sense, because it just wasn’t possible I’d been the only guy in Alpha Battery not to see a corpse or a torn-off limb in the road.

Accepting that these were the images in my dreams didn’t bring back any memories. But I felt better, because if this kind of thing happened to cops and soldiers, maybe it’d happened to me, and maybe I wasn’t a wannabe.

At the same time I was learning to meditate my way out of a lifetime load of depressions and compulsions and resentments. As I learned to feel an emotion and stay with it and let it have its way and pass on, the dreams got more frequent and vivid. Later as I took morphine for an injury, they grew more colorful and intense and lasted longer.

And I stopped minding.

I don’t know why, but even now, most nights I go to sleep and dream of being with my high school friends, and we’re in a cafeteria and we’re all in uniform. And then we’re gathering weapons and defending ourselves and gradually every weapon malfunctions, and while I reload and replace and shoot the enemy keeps coming and it’s clear there’s no way through. And sometimes I’m shot and I feel real pain.

But even while it’s all happening, nowadays I don’t get too worked up. I’ve gotten so used to the dreams that even when they’re playing out, some part of my awareness knows they aren’t real. And when I’m awake I know the dreams are hints of real things I may never remember.

My dreams are my eccentric, erratic tutors and reminders. They’re always there and they have their odd ways, but I don’t mind them. Because now I know they’re supposed to be there, somehow.

And these days I don’t shout or gasp or strike out when someone wakes me up.

Of course, that doesn’t matter so much as I wish it did. I sleep alone these days.

My name is James Jacob Alty. At the time of writing I am forty-seven years of age. I believe this makes me the third oldest man on the face of the planet – though I hope this to be untrue.

I was two days shy of seventeen when the plague hit. By the time I was eighteen the world as we knew it had ceased to exist.

The plague, as I’m sure you know, turned out not to be a plague at all, but a military-funded bio-weapon. A terrorist group bombed one of the old country’s classified military bases and the bio-weapon leaked. I don’t think they knew what they were doing. I hope they didn’t.

I’m sure young folk, “plague babies,” don’t know what on earth I mean when I use old-speak like “bio-weapon” and “classified.” But all know of the plague. We drilled it into plague babies before they could even speak.

It is capable of being transmitted through any bodily fluid. Usually this is a bite, but getting spit, blood, or vomit into an eye or an open wound is just as effective. Always wear protection.

It is able to turn brother against brother, father against daughter—a man into a monster.

I once saw a mother who had sheltered her infant son through the hellish initial two years of the plague. She had dragged him through ghost towns and death fields. She told me she had been through two separate cannibal cities. She would keep him pressed against her breast, having seen what men were capable of, fearful to let another human being near her precious son.

I watched her eat him alive. She tore his limbs off and threw them to the masses, then swallowed him whole. The poor kid didn’t even scream.

But this is not her story. Nor is it mine, or even the story of the plague. This is the story of the four boys from Broomhall. This is the story of the first murder trial since the world ended.

I’ll let you know before we begin, I’m writing from a position of privilege.

I am both a Resident Regional Elder presiding over the case and the principal witness to the ‘alleged’ crime. Unlike the old system, where being a witness would have disqualified me from any judicial involvement, my involvement with the issue was a crucial element in my selection as Elder, one of the few things I prefer about our fledgling legal system. The junior member of a three-man panel, it falls to me to both judge and impartially share what I saw that day. God, I try to remain impartial.

The two boys, though I suppose they’re men now, chose the brightest of them to speak. Thomas Lang was his name, and he spoke on behalf of his deceased brother James Lang and their friend Arnold Venger.

Watching Tom and Arnie climb onto the raised podium of defence, two sallow, gaunt men who wore guilt on their faces like a mask, I felt a pang for the boys I once knew.

Tom had been taller than his brother, but both of them were dwarfed by Arnie. He was a giant of a boy; his skeletal frame reached six feet at only twelve years of age. All three of them were taller than the fourth boy. They used to tease him about it, in that good-natured way we all tease our pals. The quietest one in the group and a tad on the husky side, Lochie Phillips was the fourth wheel those boys needed.

They killed him in 2023.

Broomhall was a prison before the plague, but afterwards its solid walls provided sanctuary for those lucky enough to make it inside.

I arrived in 2017, part of a gang of five who had flown there when it became apparent we couldn’t live forever in the local airport.

In 2020, I picked up the brothers and Arnie, along with Arnie’s parents and a few others. It was a mercy mission to a small island chain that we’d been in radio contact with for weeks. The Plagued can’t swim, and the islanders remained relatively unscathed compared to the rest of the world. Their issue had been hunger – and an awful issue it ended up being. I don’t think the boys ever came to terms with how they’d survived. But they had survived.

In 2021 I saved Lochie, pulling him from the rubble of his family’s bunker, blocking his eyes so he didn’t see their swollen corpses.

In silence, we flew out of the cannibal city his hometown had become. Blood-soaked and alone, he had broken down in tears and rushed me for a hug. From within my rubber survival suit I held him close, stroked his hair with gloved hands and whispered things that he couldn’t hear. For the first time in my life I felt truly powerless.

In quarantine he’d met the other boys, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

No one gets a free ride in a survival facility, not even kids. By the end of 2021 the boys were working their own four-man crew in the level 2 vegetable garden. Their hard work, co-operation, and sensibility made it the best in the facility. It was good for the boys too, kept them active and engaged – gave them a stake in society.

By the end of 2022, by my own suggestion, they were given the task of cultivating a large part of the exterior prison grounds. Plague babies, they had a great work ethic and even better survival techniques. I would have bet money on each one of them to be handier with a rifle than me.

But I wouldn’t send them into any danger. Despite being beyond the stone prison walls, the job was safe. I had handpicked a team of men to patrol the wire fence surrounding the prison grounds.

Each one was authorized to use lethal force against anyone with suspected infection and equipped with a warning beacon that also had a dead-man switch. When one of these went off, the boys were sure of their responsibilities. For the good of the facility they were to retreat immediately into the prison and, once inside, seal the door permanently. The men were aware of the instructions, and had their own involving a cache of explosives and a gas-jeep—if the infected overcame them.

It was a good plan, though it had never had to be utilized. The Broomhall Prison Survival Facility survived ten years without incident. Then came 2023.

It started with a tragedy. A flood had come with the spring and destroyed the boys’ garden. So many months of hard work and effort, blood, sweat, and tears, wasted. Worse, the unexpected food shortage meant half rations across the entire facility.

The boys spent days cleaning up their ruined crops, and anyone could tell it was affecting them. I took a few of my Rescue-Team down there to help. We personally spent days reviving the drowned garden and the depressed boys. After a few sodden turnips to the face, and a few rotten vegetable missiles flung at the boys in return, they began to see the lighter side of things again.

After a few days of this I had to leave on a rescue flight, and it ended up being weeks before I had time to visit their garden. By the time I returned, it was once again beautiful.

I had brought the boys a present, a football. None of them had ever seen one before, and myself and a few of the other senior men spent weeks teaching them the rules. I must confess that we spent many long afternoons in the sun drinking moonshine and laughing at the boys as they struggled to come to terms with the game. But it took in the end, and for the first time since they arrived I found myself having to tell the boys to work. But work they did, and their garden soon returned to maximum productivity – even with immense football breaks in their shifts.

What came next is the subject of much debate.

Thomas Lang, in his opening declaration of innocence, had this to say:

“November twenty-third, 2023, remains one of the great tragedies in our fledgling nation’s history. Trust me when I say it was an even greater personal tragedy.

“No one experienced greater loss than us that day. To accuse us of . . . of intentionally causing initial exposure at Broomhall is the greatest insult I can imagine.

“Broomhall was our home and Lochie Phillips—Lochie was our friend.

“We rigorously adhered to survival and lockdown procedure after the infection of our friend. As anyone who has any experience with one of the infected knows, they cease to be human. Their body remains, but their spirit, their reason—their essence—is gone.

“This is what happened to Lochie. Our friend. That is why we euthanized him.

“As to the initial exposure, the infection that tore Broomhall apart – of that we have no idea. It killed my brother and my only surviving friend’s family. Trust us when we say that we want answers too. We re-state that we have no idea how initial exposure occurred at Broomhall Survival Facility.”

To clarify, the boys’ version of events is this: On the morning of November 23, 2023, Lochie Phillips was exposed to the blood of the infected. In an act of heroism from both parties, the boys lashed the consenting and compliant Lochie to a tree. They did this to spare the boys the task of killing their friend. They then sat on the edge of the field, in order that they might talk to and comfort their friend in his final moments of sentient life. They admit that they ought to have raised the alarm at this point; however, the situation was clearly under control.

Their mourning was interrupted by the exterior fence alarm. Adhering to protocol, the boys immediately went inside and sealed the door. Lochie Phillips was about to turn, and abandoning him would not be a crime. Was not a crime according to the two. The only crime they confess to, say the two, is the crime of compassion.

Bullshit. Here is the true story of what happened that day.

The day had started off like any other.

The four boys had been walking towards their garden, talking shit and kicking the football. Lochie, Tom, and Jim were running ahead, kicking the football and chasing it. Arnie was following them with a wheelbarrow full of garden tools. Tom, in a rare moment of over-excitement, kicked the ball too far.

It almost cleared the exterior fence, but instead rattled the chain-link and bounced down to nestle snugly against the bottom. The boys hollered at one of the guards to throw the ball back, but he shrugged and pointed to his bulky rubber suit. He climbed onto the Jeep and tore away towards the break room, giving the boys an apologetic wave as he went past.

The boys drew straws, and Jim got the short one. He didn’t mind.

Grinning, he tore off his overalls and did a naked sprint around the western edge of the compound, running the butt of his rifle against the fence as he went.

The other boys broke down laughing.

The tiny, naked boy soon had about twenty infected trailing him around the fence, keeping a safe distance from the vast spools of razor wire piled at the bottom.

Jim stopped for a second to boot the ball back to the other boys, then turned towards the Plagued and shook his dick at them.

The other boys laughed even harder.

Ravenous, the infected rushed the fence, but were stopped by the thick spools of razor wire that sliced through their limbs.

Jim let out a thick whoop of excitement, his fists clenched above his head, screaming at the sky. The blood landed in his open mouth.

A Plagued individual had severed an artery of some kind, and its thick, dark blood spurted like a sick fountain into the sky, soaking the screaming, naked boy. He ran sobbing back to the others, a broken, terrified stumble; a lone figure in scarlet.

Lochie went immediately for the alarm, but was stopped by a right hook from Tom.

The smaller boy went down and Arnie tied his arms and legs to the apple tree with bean twine, whilst Tom hosed his howling brother down from a safe distance.

Lochie struggled until he’d rubbed his arms raw and tried to scream past the T-shirt stuffed in his mouth. Arnie stood shirtless and silent whilst the other two told Lochie to remain quiet.

Then the gag was removed, and the boys began to bargain.

“He’ll be killed if you tell,” was Tom’s opening statement. Lochie spat his own blood onto the ground and locked eyes with Jim. “I’m sorry Jim. You’re dead anyway. I’ve seen it before. The plague never fails.”

“You don’t know that!” a petulant Arnie growled. “You’re no scientist!” “No,” agreed Lochie, “but I’ve seen it.”

“My parents . . .” Tom went to interrupt, but Lochie kept talking: “’Sides, Mr. Alty told me that the infection rate was a hundred percent successful.”

“Lochie,” Tom said, in a flat, emotionless growl, “I can’t let you kill my brother. I can’t . . . I can’t lose him. He’s all I have left. My whole family.” There was nothing else to say. Again and again they hit him, till he went limp.

Using the thin, worn-sharp edge of a hand shovel they sliced the tip of his thumb. Then they sliced the tip of Jim’s thumb.

The boys had played blood brothers before, but never like this.

Jim was sent out to the fence whilst the other two explained what they’d done to Lochie. His gag had been replaced, but he remained silent when he heard the news. A single tear rolled down his bloody, swollen face.

Jim used a pair of pliers to cut through the fence. A few strategically placed holes were all the help the Plagued needed to break in. Once past the razor wire, it was only a matter of time before they breached the perimeter fencing. The boys were back behind the safe walls of the survival facility well before that could happen. They raised the alarm. Then they welded the door shut and sealed the door on Lochie Phillips forever.

That’s when I saw them. Three terrified teens, slumped against the door and sobbing hysterically. Crying for their friend who they said they’d had to abandon, infected and alone. I listened to their story and sent them to the medical bay. Then I waited, my shotgun aimed at the door and my radio pressed against my chin.

I swore I would unleash hell rather than let the Plagued break down that door. I would rather destroy everything than let the damned take Broomhall. Ten minutes later I saw one.

Lochie popped up against the door, smearing blood across the reinforced glass. His mouth was torn, bloody, and gaping, and I was sure he had already turned. He saw me and beat his hands against the glass. I resigned myself to putting the boy out of his misery.

Then I saw the object in his hands.

The football. Never had I seen an infected carry a football.

I looked closer and saw the raw pain, the humanity in his eyes. This was not one of the Plagued.

But he was still damned. I mouthed that I was sorry. He nodded and looked at the ground.

He looked back at me with a flash of excitement and pulled the walkie-talkie from around his neck.

He wrote his radio frequency on the window in blood. His threes were backwards. I tuned my radio to his wavelength and listened to the whole twisted story. Out of respect I listened until his words turned to sobs and his sobs into snarls. I watched until I saw his soul leave. Then I turned and sprinted to the medical floor.

I needed to stop those boys. By the time I got there it was already history.

A localized, internal infection in an enclosed space like Broomhall – there can only ever be one outcome. The medical floor was filled with the Plagued.

I don’t . . . I don’t want to recall what I saw – what I did – to survive. Suffice to say I eventually escaped by following a ventilation shaft to the roof and following the roof to my chopper. I escaped only through luck and a thirst to live. A need for justice.

Of the 3,500 survivors living at Broomhall Survival Facility in 2023, only twenty-five survived. Twenty-five from 35,00.

Yet I am determined to see the number of survivors drop.

Two of those twenty-five will hang.

For the intentional infection and eventual destruction of one of only four known functioning post-plague societies, they’ll hang.

For the deaths of 3,475 people, they’ll hang.

For the cold-blooded murder of a twelve-year-old boy, their friend, who trusted and loved them more than any other people in the world, they’ll hang.

But I’ll live.

I have to.

For Lochie.

 
Hamish McGlasson is a law student and wannabe writer from Tasmania. He has an identical twin, or maybe he just pretends to. It’s hard to tell. He recently resumed writing after a prolonged absence. You don’t want to know why. His friends enjoy his writing, although to be honest, it is sometimes a bit fucking creepy. This is his first published work.

Drambuie Tam came down from the mountain with a powerful thirst. Astride a panther, she led a treasure horse between the water-hewn boulders that marked the nominal start to the mining town of Argent Springs. Crude store-fronts leaned on each other in shock at the dusty apparition swirling the expanse of red dirt jokingly known as “Main Street.” Scuttling men carried sacks with eyes averted, loading heavy wagons hitched to philosophic donkeys. Drambuie Tam spared them not a flicker as her claw-footed steed strutted toward the last ramshackle building on the street, jutting with wide-flung doors from the base of the mountain like a womb.

Every man in the Silver Lode looked to Ben Evans when the alarm was given. Head miner, the oldest man in town save for Old Dusty behind the bar, Ben was a cool head in emergencies. He had invented the insouciant drift toward the back door which preserved life and dignity and now they awaited his signal. Running for the door when Drambuie Tam hit town was frowned on because, they often reminded each other, “Durnit, she’s jist a woman!” For another thing, it was too dangerous for a bar full of large, panic-stricken men to go kicking and clawing to get out first, and to hell with everyone else. Casualties had a way of stacking up in the door-way, which only made easy pickings for Tam.

Seated at his favorite table, very much aware of the responsibility, Ben slowly leaned forward with his scarred hands braced against the matching wood. “Ah do believe two’s enough fo’ me.” He pushed himself up with a solemn grunt, a two-beer saint, and so believable in the role that everyone, even Powder River Charley, who seldom agreed with him on anything, was convinced that two, not twelve, was his daily limit.

“That’s Gud damn right for once, Ben,” Charley swore approvingly, pushing a half-full tin mug away and getting up. The other miners got up with him, some saying they’d had enough, others insisting the beer was worse than usual and what the hell was Old Dusty doing poisoning his customers? It was a shame, somebody muttered on the way out the back, that a hard-working guy couldn’t get an honest drink. The gray-haired man behind the bar watched them go with the expression of someone caught in his own trap.

Dusty tried to calm himself by checking the stock. Beer wasn’t the problem; he brewed his own from a concoction of loblolly pine bark and aspen leaves in an abandoned shaft under the mountain. Five barrels of questionable rye whiskey quickly became ten after a little spring water was factored in. The hissing snarl of a panther froze him for a moment. She was close now, probably tying up the horse. The panther was never tied, he knew too well, but left to sprawl in the red dirt and watch with green eyes full of lazy mischief. “Yer scairt like a rabbit smellin’ wolf,” Dusty barked at himself in disgust. “Old Dusty’s what they call ya and it’s ‘bout right; chock full of old dust. Now quit shakin’ an’ face it.”

“It” was the small cask stored in the back room with the mining supplies he sold as a sideline. Dusty slipped between the picks and shovels, dynamite, coiled rope, giving the liquid nitro- glycerin jugs a wide berth. He rocked the cask back and forth a few times with a foot while shaking his head doubtfully over the pitifully few drams of Drambuie on hand to appease her. “Won’t last her an hour,” he muttered, kicking the exotic looking wood in frustration. You could get almost anything from San Francisco by mule train in a few weeks, but Drambuie came only from Scotland, six months voyage around Cape Horn, all the way up the Pacific Ocean to the California coast.

Nobody but Tam would touch the stuff. Dusty himself hated the spicy sweetness of it; a terrible way to treat good Scotch whiskey to his mind. It wasn’t good business stocking what only a single customer wanted, except Tam was that customer, and supplying her needs was the only reason he’d lasted this long. Dusty had seen what happened when her blue eyes went all smoky on a miner. He figured age wouldn’t save him if they ever went smoky on him.

Footsteps on wooden planks startled him into action. He put the cask under an arm, picked his way quickly out of the room to the back of the bar and set the cask on its stand. A large glass tankard—the only non-metallic drinking vessel in the establishment— got a few swipes with the bar rag. Everything was now ready except for him and he never had been ready for Drambuie Tam. He cursed under his breath while putting on a welcoming smile.

Her hair was chestnut in the dim interior, though he knew it was red-gold under sunlight, and silky. So soft looking that some young fool of a miner full of payday whiskey had once remarked, within her hearing, that her hair must be the softest thing in the whole town. “Not as soft as yore head,” Ben Evans told the damned idiot before pulling him out the back door, unfortunately too late. Dusty remembered how the man looked, draped over Drambuie Tam’s horse, grinning like a prize pig as she led him out of town. It was always the younger men who were drawn to talk to her. Dusty and the older miners did what they could to protect them even if they didn’t always win.

How in hell does she do it? Dusty asked himself, not for the first time. He had to practically bend over the bar to get a good look at her. She couldn’t be five feet, though he’d sooner have chewed his own tongue off than ask. He’d seen them, strapping six-foot-plus miners, men who could carry off a hundred-pound sack of flour under each arm straight up the mountain. They stalked into the Silver Lode like tigers in their prime and he’d seen them leave on that treasure horse, weak as kittens.

They’d catch a man if they could, and he left them quickly, only to be captured further down. A leather jerkin set with multicolored gems won from the mountain sparkled at him, and Dusty was almost out of safe places to look. Tam always did herself up proud when she came to town.

He examined his boots. “Hullo, Tam. Strike any good color lately?” It was generally safest to start with that, for Tam was proud of her prospecting.

“Tolerable, Dusty.” She tossed a cloth sack on the bar after sliding onto a stool. “You gonna give a girl a drink? I’m plumb parched.”

“Looks like you done real good this month, Tam.” Dusty was eyeing the sack. He stooped behind the bar to bring up the scale.

“Hold it, Dusty. You pour me that drink first, hear?”

“Shore thang,” he agreed, relieved she could pay in silver. Dusty found it good business to stake the miners to a few drinks when their luck hadn’t been running, until they struck color again. He’d been rethinking that policy ever since Tam had asked, after one particularly unfruitful month: would he trade sweet for sweet? It still gave him the night shakes.

“Yep, real good month, looks like,” Dusty repeated, screwing a spigot into the cask. He drew a half-tankard of the amber colored liquor, set it on the bar with a little nod to Tam. “All the way ’cross two oceans.”

“Drinks gettin’ awful small in this town,” Tam grumbled after banging the empty tankard on the bar. “Afraid I can’t pay, Dusty? I reckon you better weigh my take, set your mind at ease.” Raspberry lips pouted. “Or maybe you don’t want my silver today. Maybe you want to ride that treasure horse after all.”

Dusty took a step back. “Now Tam, we done agreed on that a while back. I ain’t so young anymore; can’t be ridin’ no treasure horse up the mountain.”

Drambuie Tam’s gaze rested on him as she leaned forward to lick a drop off of the tankard lip with a little pink tongue. “Not so old is what I said then, and I still say . . . but if you don’t aim to ride you better start pourin’ big.”

“Shore thang, Tam.” Dusty grinned while he drew the tankard full to the brim. A secret little shake of the cask wiped the smile away for a moment, but it was back by the time he shoved the tankard in front of her.

“Now that’s a drink,” Drambuie Tam judged, and drained half of it in a few gulps.

Old Dusty kept on smiling.

Behind the Silver Lode, hidden under a canopy of rustling aspen, the displaced miners were sitting around waiting for Drambuie Tam to get her fill and ride out. There was grumbling as usual about the injustice of getting forced out again by “That durn woman” when the beer had been going down nice and easy. On this particular day, though, grumbling was secretly becoming full-blown revolution. Young Cletus Jenkins, tossing away the chunk of aspen wood he’d been whittling, jumped up to shock everyone by defiantly framing the debate in a loud voice: “Ah’m tired a-hidin’ from ’er when she’s in taown. What’s she want with stealin’ us away up the mountain anyhow?”

The men looked at each other in confusion, and it was surely a tricky situation because nobody could say for certain. Ben was of the opinion that Tam put the men to work on her own claim. Worked them to exhaustion mining the silver until they were ruined men, he maintained. Most everyone was ready to hitch their wagon to that explanation, except Powder River Charley shook his head obstinately. There were other ways a woman could work a man to exhaustion than swinging a pick, he muttered darkly, then refused to say any more when the younger men demanded to know what he meant. Charley let them make hash out of all the gossipy possibilities for a while before coming out with a story that froze them pale.

“You boys seen Caleb Smith ’round town? Know he used to hunt up on the mountain? Wall, he comes in the bar a while back, shakin’ like a leaf. Seems he’s trailin’ a grizzly deep in a pine thicket. He’s pickin’ his way through quiet-like, and comes out in this clearin’ where there’s a cabin he’s never seen. What’s more, a man’s sittin’ on a stump in front of the cabin, jist sittin’ there doin’ naught. So Caleb comes closer, and somethin’ ’bout the man says he seen him afore, and he recollects all a sudden it’s Jacob Green, used to be one of the best miners ’round, ’til he tole Drambuie Tam her hair looked soft one night. Last anyone seen him he was tied to that durn treasure horse, headed up the mountain.

“So Caleb goes right up to him, and Jacob’s makin’ this God awful noise like singin’ only it aint exactly singin’, more like hummin’, but jist scary an’ God awful, like I said. His eyes is closed, and he’s smilin’ like it’s a parade with free beer. ‘Jacob Green, wot the ’ell you doin’?’ Caleb asks ‘im. ‘Woll howdy Caleb,’ Jacob says when he opens his peepers. ‘Ah’m jist takin’ the sun and sayin’ howdy to all the little creatures.’ And he goes right back to hummin’.

“Right off, Caleb knows Jacob’s in a bad way. He’s got to do sumpin’ quick. ‘Jacob, come have a beer wit me,’ he says. ‘Jacob, there’s good color for the takin’ down the mountain. Don’t ya want ta git yore pick an’ go a-silverin’ again, see Dusty, and Ben, and Powder River Charley, all the guys?’ Jacob quits hummin’, looks Caleb in the eye. ‘Jist tell im’ Jacob Green’s happy,’ he says, and commences that racket again. Caleb’s debatin’ if he should take Jacob down the mountain in front of his gun, or maybe shoot ’im for his own good, when he hears a panther scream and he lights out of there directly. Nobody’s clapped eyes on Jacob Green since and nobody ever woll.”

Only wind-blown leaves disturbed an otherwise perfect silence when Charley finished. The miners’ jaws were slack with horror. Fists thrashed the air as frightened men aimed unconscious punches at nightmare fates. Ben Evans wore an expression normally reserved for mine cave-ins and other disasters. He squinted determinedly at his old adversary.

“Charley,” Ben cried, “Ah knows we ain’t agreed on much, but ah wants ya ta promise if you finds me sittin’ in the sun hummin’ you’ll put a bullet ’tween me peepers. Don’ hold back like Caleb done. Promise?”

Powder River Charley stood up, a bit unsteadily, but he made it. Tears shone on his weathered cheeks as he stumbled over to shake Ben’s hand. “Ah won’t hold back an instant, Ben, if ya promise ya won’t hold back on me.” The other miners were so impressed by this rare understanding that several more agreements pledging mutual destruction were struck. Only Cletus and a few of the younger men looked unconvinced.

Dusty’s smile was all that was left when the last drops from the cask had gone the way of the others. Tam banged the tankard down in front of him with an expectant stare. His grin directed somewhere over her left shoulder, Dusty knew his time had come. The most dangerous time was when she’d had just enough to wet her whistle. Dusty usually brought out another cask about now, pushed more and more Drambuie on her like the good barkeep he was, until Tam was barely able to stand. He’d help her outside, bravely stand his ground while she got settled on the growly panther, wave her out of town, and everyone was safe until next time. That was the way to handle Drambuie Tam.

Even as he was sifting his mind for a solution, the change came over her. Tam began darting sharp little glances around the empty bar as though prospecting for silver. Dusty knew where those blue eyes would come to rest if he wasn’t quick. He looked heaven-ward for a long second even if he’d never been much for church.

“It’s the durndest thing, Tam . . . but . . . I ain’t had my shipment yet . . . run low on Drambuie . . . plenty good whiskey an’ beer . . .”

Dusty stared at the cracked floor boards while mumbling on about bad trails and slow delivery, so he never did see how such a tiny woman got over the bar that quickly. One moment he was confidently predicting the imminent arrival of five casks of Drambuie and the next . . . well, his mind was muddled regarding the chain of events that unfolded. At some point he was aware of being pressed against the storeroom wall, a fragrance of wood smoke mixed with horse, Drambuie, and an undeniable floral note tickling his senses.

“Been waitin’ a long while, Dusty,” she breathed, her hands warm on his chest. “When the drink gives out it’s time to ride, is what I say.”

Dusty looked down into grey smoke dancing over mountain top sky. Maybe it was time. He smelled flowers; he felt . . . he didn’t know what he felt, but it wasn’t unpleasant. A man couldn’t spend his whole life in a bar, nothing but dirty miners swilling day after day, could he? Her lips were perfect. He suddenly wanted them more than a hundred-pound silver nugget. He wanted to see dark chestnut hair turn red-gold up on the mountain. Dusty’s legs went shaky under him; maybe it really was time.

The panther squalled beyond the open doors, sounding like an angry woman. Dusty shuddered, pulled away. Another snarl split the air. Mouth gaping, he gulped air like a fly-caught trout flopping for its life on a stream bank. Slumped against the storeroom wall, he struggled for words.

“Jist remembered.” He gasped another breath. “Got ’nother barrel out back. Ah’ll bring ’er.”

Dusty lurched away on tingly legs. Drambuie Tam watched with moist eyes as he disappeared into the storeroom. “Best be quick, Dusty,” she called after him softly. “I’m powerful thirsty.”

Cletus stood with clenched fists, staring down Powder River Charley.

“Who ah talk with don’t concern ya, Charley. Maybe ah wanna sit in the sun . . . an’ hum. Ya ever think a that?”

Charley could barely speak he was so angry. “Ya god-durned fool!” he spat, and couldn’t get anything else past his rage. Swallowing hard, he looked beseechingly to the man who commanded every miner’s respect.

Ben sat on a stump, studying both men. He’d been around, seen a few things in his time. On one hand it was clear young Cletus didn’t know the danger he was in. On the other, Ben had learned it was sometimes better for one man to be sacrificed if it saved the rest.

“Go ’head, boy. Go talk ta ’er.”

Powder River Charley turned his back and gazed up at the mountain as Cletus nodded once and walked slowly toward the back door of the bar.

“He were a good ’un,” Ben eulogized. The men bowed their heads.

Dusty checked the full tankard carefully. It was about the right color. He put his nose to the lip, yanked it back. It smelled awful, but then Dusty hated the odor of Drambuie as well, and he supposed, he hoped, Tam wasn’t inclined to smell it. He put the nitroglycerin jug down carefully before heading just as carefully for the bar. Years of listening to drunken miners arguing the merits of various explosives had given Dusty the notion that a tankards worth of nitro was enough to solve all his problems. It was unclear as to what would happen if Tam tried to drink it down, and whether he and/or the Silver Lode would be around afterward if it actually detonated. Dusty told himself he didn’t much care.

Drambuie Tam was seated back on the customer side of the bar when Dusty came out with the tankard cradled in both hands. He pushed it in front of her. “Plenty more where this come from. Drink up.”

Tam looked at him with hands folded on the bar top. Dusty noticed the nails were raspberry the same as her lips, wondered how long it had taken her to get ready for town. Something about that made him feel worse than he’d figured on. He looked past her, out through the open doors to the red dirt, wishing he could leave himself behind and just start walking. But a skunk was still a skunk wherever it went, Dusty knew, no matter how bad he wanted things different. Wishing wasn’t going to change him, or sell any beer.

Still watching him, Tam picked up the tankard. “Thought this might be our day,” she said in thoughtful tone. “Fine weather up on the mountain; gives a girl funny thoughts about how good things could be.” She raised the tankard to her lips, but paused. “You ever get any funny thoughts, Dusty?”

Dusty considered it for a moment. “Only kind ah got, lately,” he answered, watching the tankard.

Heavy footsteps made them jump. Turning quickly, Tam slopped a little over the top of the tankard. Dusty followed the drops down the glass onto the bar as though each one was a different destiny. Chest pounding, he looked up to scowl at whoever was fool enough to be walking into the Silver Lode just then.

Young Cletus filled the doorway tall and proud. The warning Dusty thought to shout came out as a rumbling of heavy rock groaning deep under the mountain. Ignoring him, Cletus stood looking at Drambuie Tam. The panther screamed loudly beyond the doors. Cletus showed no sign of hearing that either, but took a single deliberate step toward Tam. “Ah wants ta say . . . ah think yore hair’s softer ’en anythang.”

It seemed a dream to Dusty afterward . . . how Tam, eyes alight, slid from the stool, left him behind. She closed the distance to Cletus, put a hand on his arm. They turned together and Dusty was left with the receding tread of their boots on wooden planks, and himself, an old man behind a bar, caught in his own trap.

Powder River Charley never tired of telling the story of Drambuie Tam, especially how poor Cletus smiled as he rode up the mountain with her on “that durned panther.” The younger miners shook their heads and teased him about spouting such nonsense, even as they demanded more. What about the treasure horse, somebody was sure to ask, and Charley, knowing he had them just where he wanted, would take his sweet time. He’d call for another beer and make them wait until Old Ben, the barkeep, brought it. “Woll, that were the puzzle, sure ’nuff,” he’d begin, after an improving quaff from his mug.

He’d tell how Drambuie Tam left her treasure horse tied up in front of the Silver Lode, which was strange, but not the strangest part of the story. The next morning the horse was gone and the doors to the bar were shut tight for the first time anyone could remember. The thirsty miners broke the doors down after awhile, but Dusty was never found. Ben Evans took the bar over immediately and everyone drank one on him in honor of Old Dusty, wherever he was.

Some fresh-faced miner was always popping up to say it was all just a tale. How could a bunch of rough and tough miners be so afraid of a little woman, he’d challenge with a smirk. Charley would get angry then, slam his mug down on the table. The mountain was stranger than any fool could know, he’d declare, staring down the ignorant youngster, and just because Drambuie Tam hadn’t been in town for a while didn’t mean she wasn’t up there right now. All the older men would solemnly nod agreement. Charley liked to finish by pointing through the open doors, across the red dirt to where the land rose. When you heard the panther scream, he’d say, you’d know she was coming down from the mountain, and that she was thirsty. Drambuie Tam had a powerful thirst.

Michael Andreoni’s stories have appeared in Euphony, PIF, Iconoclast, Fogged Clarity, Thumbnail Magazine, and other publications. He lives near Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Dan had never seen anybody look so strung out. Not in real life anyway. Sure, he’d seen people on TV who looked pretty rough, mostly on the news, convicts in bright orange jumpsuits, all staring at the floor, tamed by chains and shame, breathing the fumes of justice.

He’d never seen anybody like this in real life before, ratcheted as tight as the guy coming up the stairs at the end of the hall, eyes fuzzy and yellowed by booze or drugs or surefire madness. Moving as if he were late for a deadline he didn’t understand.

He carried a large shopping bag gripped to his chest.

Another day, Dan might have wondered why this guy was in the maternity ward, rivet-eyed and tense. But he let the thought pass in the space of a glance, the way you ignore single raindrops in a rainstorm. Big always overwhelms small.

Dan had troubles of his own today. His head was buzzing. And he’d just had a run-in with the head nurse. Perhaps he was still hung over, or freshly drunk from the wine he’d had for breakfast. Or maybe it was the weed he’d smoked before he left for work, weed he’d heisted from the stash his roommate hid under the couch to keep him from stealing it.

Or maybe just a combination of all three.

Of course, there was the simple possibility of bad luck. But did it really matter? Things weren’t going his way, and it didn’t help him concentrate.

Now, Dan struggled to steer a goddamn mop bucket, trying to guide the wheels in a straight line. Hard enough by itself, without having to fight against a loose strand from the mop head looped around one of the wheels, making the whole contraption jerk hard to the right.

At first, he tried to pull the strand loose, but gave up because it was less complicated to push the bucket than figure out which direction to unravel the string.

To the right, where another corridor came to a tee, there was a peaceful gauntlet of pink and blue balloons hanging from some of the doors. Up ahead, he could see the nurses station, where She probably waited for him. She. That’s what he called the head nurse, when She was within earshot. Chucky when She wasn’t.

She was a short woman with a large head and straight, bottle-red hair. She wore round glasses that kept slipping down her nose.

She drove him crazy with her constant badgering. As if She expected him to give a shit. Finally, last night, after drinking a bottle of cheap wine, he decided to quit his job and leave his budding medical career for something on a beach somewhere. Anywhere. A sand pile in a vacant lot would be fine. As long as it wasn’t anywhere near this damn hospital.

So he called his cousin, who agreed to drive to Florida with him in the morning. They resolved to sleep in Dan’s car, splitting the cost and the girls they planned to hustle. Since they had no money, they figured to sell dope along the way, all for fun and profit. They were in no hurry. Who wants to rush a good time?

But after midnight, on his way home, the transmission in Dan’s car dropped out, and along with it vanished their only transportation. So this morning, going to work took on a different meaning. Even if he sold the old car for junk, he didn’t have enough money to replace it, and walking and thumbing a ride to the hospital this morning, particularly in his condition, took several hours.

By the time he arrived, She was furious.

Puckering her jowled face, She shouted,”I can’t decide if you’re trying to be a jerk, or just a fool.” Dan didn’t know the answer to that either, but figured that telling her anything else would just open up more options. Some of which he’d even thought about himself, but he really wanted to cut down on the complications in his life, not expand them.

After She got through hollering, She sent him to clean up a bathroom, where some asshole had thrown up all over a toilet. That’s when She became Chucky for good.

Not that he gave a damn about anything Chucky said or thought. No, and he didn’t care what he did with his own time either, as long it didn’t cause him pain. So now he was stuck in this stupid hospital for several more months, working to get his life out of hock. He felt trapped, like he’d just been denied parole.

Dan paid scant attention when the stranger marched past without blinking or flinching, his yellowed eyes staring straight ahead, as if he were wrestling with thoughts harder than stones. Thoughts Dan didn’t care anything about. He was an orderly, not the emperor of curiosity. He didn’t give a damn where this guy walked or what he did, as long as he kept on going, dragging his own fucked-up world with him.

In the stranger’s wake was the odor of sweat. Maybe something in the bag shifted because he stopped and rotated his load. His fingers were short and thick, with black hair growing around the knuckles. Then he turned, as if waking from sleep. And for the first time Dan saw the man’s eyes move, rolling like two smashed grapefruit, studying Dan for an instant, then sliding away, sinking into confusion.

“Room 221. You know where it is?” asked the stranger. His voice was nervous, irritable.

“Beats the hell outta me. Ask them.” Dan nodded at the nurses’ station at the end of the hall, dismissing the guy with his best don’t-give-a-shit shrug. Leaning, Dan tried to wrestle the mop bucket forward, but only managed to twist it sideways. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

The stranger came out of his trance and looked at Dan hard, but Dan didn’t look up. He continued to mutter directly into the bucket while he pushed the protruding mop handle, causing the whole contraption to move against itself, as if trying to go in two directions at once. The wheel stuck, grinding, and water sloshed over the rim.

The stranger blinked, shook his head, and peered down the hall. He backed against the wall, his face twitching. Then he moved toward Dan, his feet lifting higher than necessary. The overhead light looked yellow on his cheeks, gray on his chin.

“I got something for my wife. You gotta help me,” said the stranger. He closed in, hugging the bag.

Dan fidgeted, feeling the mix of wine and dope in his system. “Sorry. Gotta go,” he said. He didn’t mind orderly work. Usually he just pushed around stiffs, who didn’t have any particular timetable, and mopped up shit and blood and puke. And when you did that, most people left you strictly alone, to do as you pleased. But now that he was stuck here for several more months, he felt little tolerance for hassle, especially from people who expected him to give a damn, from nurses who acted like his broom should have a purpose. Especially when they gave him a hard time when he showed up stoned or drunk. He didn’t have any trouble fitting together the various parts of his life, and he didn’t understand why others couldn’t make the same allowances.

The stranger stared, crinkling his brows, jaws tight. He took a step forward, holding out the bag, his face pinched and taut. “You gotta deliver this.”

“I ain’t Western Union.”

The stranger grimaced, shifting his hands. As he did, something tumbled from the bag, hitting the floor with a thunk. Wild and bushy, it rolled toward Dan, wobbling. Stopping at the wall. All teeth and matted hair. Smeared with something that looked like ketchup.

A man’s head. Whiskered and severed.

“Fuck!” said the stranger, sweeping the head back into the bag, almost sending it through the hole again. His elbows flapped in every direction, even in some that Dan wasn’t sure an elbow could bend. His eyes burned with fear and accidental rage.

“Whoa,” said Dan, sorting through his senses, his reeling mind. Did he really see a head rolling around the floor? Or was this morning’s weed cut with opium? Something his roommate bought when he had money. Which wasn’t often.

Dan stared at the floor where a trail of blood squiggled to the wall. “You bringing it back for a refund?” he asked, saying the first thing that popped into his mind. And regretting it right away.

“You think you’re funny?” Something flashed in the stranger’s hand, glinting in the artificial light. “Now hit it with a mop. Here,” he said, pointing with a blade. His eyes rolled, hardening.

“No problem. You got the right guy,” said Dan, splashing a mop full of water onto the floor. Glancing up and down the empty hall, his heart pounding, he wondered why it was so easy to get away with things when you wanted somebody to see you. He squeezed out the mop and did it again.

Maybe, if that really worked, he’d try to get caught robbing a bank a little later …

The stranger frowned, struggling with a thought. Then his arms moved suddenly, awkwardly, grabbing the head by the hair and thrusting it into the bucket of dirty water. Water splashed onto his shoes and the floor.

Dan jumped back.

The head was still visible, sitting on the mop head, so the stranger yanked out the mop and laid it back into the bucket, covering the head with dirty cotton strands, making it look something like a decapitated Medusa. “Now move,” he said. “No monkey business, or I’ll slice you open.” He folded up the empty bag and held it to his chest.

Dan tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. This was wilder than opium-cut marijuana, worse than a broken transmission. “Where are we going?” he asked, trying to keep his feet from floating away.

“Room 221, asshole. And if you open your fucking mouth to anybody, I’ll cut you to ribbons.” To emphasize his point, the stranger touched the blade to Dan’s ribs, his eyes bristling. Then he slid the knife into the bag, his breath coming fast and ragged.

As Dan steered, he heard the metal-on-metal of wheels and the slosh of water. A handful of dark hair wiggled among the strands of the mop head, and once a nose rotated to the surface and disappeared.

The stranger walked slowly, clutching the bag, studying the room numbers like he was trying to find a secret passage.

A woman in a floppy white robe emerged from a room with a pink balloon on the door. Shuffling past, she frowned and glanced away, her nostrils twitching.

Room 221 was halfway down the hall, on the right. There were no balloons on the door, only a hand-lettered sign that said: It’s a boy.

Beyond them, a hundred or so feet away, was the nurses’ station. There were two women sitting behind the counter. One was fat, every hair in place. She was reading a magazine, licking her fingers as she leafed through the pages. The other one faced in the opposite direction, bent over a file cabinet, her butt a rounded patch of white.

Maybe it was time to make a break. Dan didn’t feel any desire to find out exactly what this guy intended to do, or to clean up the damn bathroom either. He’d be entirely happy to spend the rest of the day drinking beer or wine, if he could find somebody to buy it, or to smoke his roommate’s dope. Better yet, both. Hell, he’d be happy to stare at the ducks in the park if he could get out of here in one piece.

He glanced toward the fat nurse, wondering if he could flash her some kind of sign, but she was flipping through the pages, her lips moving with the words. Then he smelled the stranger’s breath, close and fetid.

By itself, that squelched any idea of escape. He’d already lost his transmission today, he didn’t want to lose his plumbing too. Even the baloney sandwich he left in his locker was beginning to sound like fillet mignon, something to look forward to.

Either the wine and dope were wearing off, or fear was breaking through his buzz.

The stranger nudged Dan forward, nodding toward the sign on the door. “She was fucking around, you know what I mean,” he said, as though Dan had asked. Or cared. There was a hard edge to his tone, an inward glaze in his eyes.

“So you brought him by for a visit,” said Dan, without thinking. “In case she got lonely.”

“Shut up!” said the stranger with a groan.

But Dan didn’t look around. He was too busy wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

Outside the door, they stopped. Dan looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. “I got an appointment. You can take it from here, if you want,” he said.

The stranger shook his head, rattling the bag. His eyes frightened, bleary. “See if she’s awake.”

Dan understood the rattle. Hoping to be noisy and conspicuous, he poked the door, relishing the tiny squeak. For the first time he tried to imagine what would happen when the stranger was ready to leave. But just as he brought the thought into his mind, he pushed it away. He felt giddy, as if he were dangling in mid-air.

He slipped his head around the door, afraid to go completely inside. The girl rested in a cloud of sunlight diffused and whitened through the gauzy window curtains alongside the bed.

“Can’t tell,” said Dan, leaning across the mop bucket sitting in front of the door at his feet. “I think she’s asleep.”

“Go in,” said the stranger, his voice rasping.

“What about …” Dan motioned at the mop bucket and its grisly contents.

“In! Go on.”

Dan shrugged and pushed, trying to move the bucket with his shins, the mop handle lying against his neck.

“Hey! What are you doing down there?” A shrill voice filled the corridor, rushing through Dan’s senses like a derailed train. He stopped, but the stranger bumped into his back, touching the knife to his spine.

“Who …” said the girl, her voice groggy and soft.

“What’s going on down there?” The same shrill voice, agitated.

The stranger shoved and Dan fell forward, banging his shins on the bucket, the mop handle splashing up water as they both fell into the room. Dan tried to grab the door, but he missed. “Shit,” he said, tensing for the blade. Feeling the sting of his hands slapping the floor. Turning to see the stranger’s legs step across him.

“Oh my god! Jack!” cried the girl.

“Brought you something,” said the stranger, his voice thick, quaking.

In the bucket, a white eye poked through the dirty water, floating in waves of dark water. Reaching down, the stranger pulled out the dripping head, lifting it by the tangled hair. He growled like an animal.

The girl screamed.

Down the hall, soft-soled feet hammered the floor. Then mingled voices, muffled and unclear, spliced into the quick sound of more, faster feet clicking in the distance. Dan tried to rise, but the stranger kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling back, landing on the round mop handle.

Without thinking, Dan rolled, swinging the handle into the air. Wood struck bone. Then a clatter of metal, and a blunt toe caught him in the nose, bringing tears and blurred vision, dulling his senses.

He tried to move, but couldn’t. The knife lay at his side. The fat nurse was standing over him, a wisp of hair dangling in her face, waving a rolled up magazine like a weapon. A second nurse stepped on his fingers to reach the girl, who was huddled against the pillow, shivering, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her screams shifting into hysterical wails.

The fat nurse sucked a sharp breath. “Wh … wh … what?” she stammered, pointing.

The stranger was gone. Dan’s face was a raging fire of pulsing, aching flesh. In his lap rested the head, unmoving, shiny with water and clotted blood, staring with rolled-back whites at the cold ceiling.

He threw up.

Bob Kalkreuter has placed 32 stories with magazines such as Potpourri, Fairfield Review, eFiction, Underground Voices, Edgepiece, Writes For All, The Stone Hobo, and Enigma. Two of his stories were nominated for Pushcart Prizes. One story was awarded the Herman Swafford Prize from Potpourri Magazine.

“How do I know you really love me?” she asked, standing tall on the hotel bed with both hands on her hips.

Nick stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked up at her. The way she stood there, barely dressed in French lingerie with the ceiling light shining down on her, she resembled a burlesque stripper on the Rue de Lac.

“You know I love you,” he said.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“I am not positive of it.”

“Come on. . .”

“Like I said. . . how do I know?”

Nick paused. “Well. . .”

“You must prove your love for me,” she said, interrupting. And raising her arm she pointed at the door in a commanding fashion: “Bring me chocolate!”

Nick turned and looked back at the door. It remained dead-bolted; the Do Not Disturb sign still hanging on the outside knob.

“Chocolate?” It is some kind of lover’s game, he thought.

“Yes, chocolate!” she said sternly. “And I don’t mean any kind of chocolate. Something like Barettini or Lindt.”

Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. “I think everything’s closed.”

The woman’s posture began to contort.

“Can we sleep on it? I’ll get you all the chocolate you want in the morning.”

Her body twisted into sharper angles. Nick remained wisely silent.

“I need chocolate, and I need it now! If you really love me, you will go now and will not return until you have chocolate!”

Nick took a deep breath. It was one of those moments, he knew, that happens in every relationship. What he would say or do now would determine his fate for the evening. You can be right and be alone, he thought, or you can be warm in bed with the one you love.

“Okay,” he said.

He buttoned up his shirt, tucked his wallet in his pants, and took his coat from the armoire.

The woman smiled and dropped her hands to her side. “Bring me chocolate and you’ll be my hero. You’ll be my prince.”

“Chocolate it will be,” Nick said, and he opened the door.

“Don’t come back until you have some.”

“I won’t.”

“Ganache would be okay too,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll see if I can find some.”

Nick exited, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the outside. It reminded him of a romantic night that was not to be.

The night clerk was startled at the sound of the elevator bell. The hour was late, the hotel was nearly empty, and he had already settled in for the night. Nick strode out of the elevator cage confidently, greeting him with a “Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir, how can I help you?” the clerk said.

“I need chocolate,” Nick said bluntly.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, some high quality stuff, Swiss or Belgiam.” He caught himself. “Of course, French will do also.”

The clerk frowned. “It is late, Monsieur.”

“I know. The chocolate is not for me. It is for my fiancée.”

“Is it possible to wait until the morning?”

“She wants it now.”

“Well Monsieur, it may be hopeless this time of night and all….”

“I must find chocolate,” Nick replied, “or another hotel room. She will not let me back in unless I bring her chocolate.”

The clerk glared at the elevator door, as if trying to visualize the woman who made this irrational request. “The Mademoiselle desires chocolate and will not let you back in the room without it?”

“Yes.”

“She cannot wait until morning?”

“No.”

“It is a desperate situation! C’est vraiment des conneries!” The clerk glanced at the elevator door again. “It is Cannes. It is October. It is midnight! It is impossible . . .”

“I tried to explain to her . . .”

“We do not have Seven-Elevens here … everything is closed now.”

“Nevertheless I must try.” Nick paused thoughtfully. “. . . unless you have another room available?”

“It is a big problem for you.”

“Yes—oui.”

The clerk tapped his fingers on the counter and glanced skyward. “There are some fine shops along the Boulevard Croisette.”

“Okay.”

“You can also try the large hotels along the Croisette. . . but Monsieur, I’m sorry to say, I know this town very well and I don’t think you will find gourmet chocolate at this hour.”

“It’s not negotiable. She wants chocolate and wants it now,” Nick said.

The clerk’s eyebrows furled. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Thanks for the help,” Nick said.

“Bonne nuit,” the clerk replied.

Nick left, heading down the alleyways to the waterfront where the major hotels lined the Boulevard del la Croisette. Along the way he saw the lights were out in the many boutiques and restaurants that had been open and filled with people earlier in the evening. He was glad to see the palm-lined Boulevard Croisette was still lit by street lamps. Down the coastline were several large luxury hotels, among them the Cannes Intercontinental Carlton, considered one of the finest hotels on the Cote d’azur. Nick headed directly for it.

He climbed the steps to the entrance corridor where he was immediately greeted by a young door-guard dressed in a colorful renaissance suit.

“Can I help you, Monsieur?” the young man asked.

“I am looking for chocolate,” Nick replied.

“Perhaps we can help.”

Nick hesitated. “I am just looking for a chocolate shop. Do you have one?”

“Yes, perhaps we can help you with that.”

The doorman motioned into the entrance lobby with his hand. Simultaneously, from within, came a handsome young bellhop in a black tuxedo and top hat.

“He needs chocolate,” the door-guard declared, confidently.

“Excellent,” the bellhop replied in perfect English. “This way, Monsieur.”

Nick paused but followed.

He was led across marble floors through the spacious entrance lobby to the concierge desk, there to be greeted by another young man dressed in a vintage, white tuxedo.

“Yes, Monsieur, how can I help you?”

“He needs chocolate,” the bellhop informed.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, do you have a chocolate shop here in the hotel?”

“No, Monsieur, we haven’t a shop in our hotel but I think we can help you with this.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

The Concierge’s eyes lit up. “Monsieur, it is not an inconvenience. It is my pleasure!”

Nick looked over at the bellhop who seemed equally gleeful. Then he realized they believed he was a guest there at the Carlton Hotel.

“It must be gourmet chocolates,” Nick said quickly.

“Of course.”

The Concierge pulled out a thick phone book and paged through to the French word chocolat. Listed there were several shops on the Rue d’Antibes. He pulled the countertop telephone close to his chest, placed a ruler beneath the first number, and began dialing. But each time he dialed, waiting patiently, he eventually depressed the receiver and dialed again. Slowly, the ruler made its way down the list of chocolate shops.

“C’est pas grave. No worries, Monsieur,” the Concierge assured. “It is not a problem.”

“It is my fiancée,” Nick explained. “She will not let me back into the room unless I bring her chocolate.”

The Concierge looked up quickly.

“Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous.” Nick said. “But it’s true. She won’t let me back in the hotel room without chocolates.”

“Mon dieu! It can’t be true!” the Concierge said.

“Really. She will not let me back in.”

“Not to worry, Monsieur. We will find you something.”

With fingers dialing more frantically now, but still without success, the concierge’s gleeful expression began to fade. After five minutes, two additional men were summoned, each likewise dressed in vintage, white tuxedos.

“My name is Pierre,” one said. “I am chief concierge.”

“He needs chocolate,” the bellhop promptly informed.

“Chocolate?”

“Yes, chocolate.”

“His fiancée will not let him back in their room without chocolate,” the first explained.

“It must be gourmet chocolate,” the bellhop clarified.

“Gourmet?”

“Oui.”

“For his fiancée?”

“Oui.”

“Quel désastre!” the third Concierge cried.

The information desk quickly became a buzz of activity. Three men, all dressed in white tuxedos, plus the boyish bellhop with his black top hat, working the telephones, checking a handheld GPS device, and Pierre flashing through screens on a laptop computer.

“Try Villeneuve-Loubet,” Pierre said.

“And Nice?” one asked.

“Yes, and Nice,” Pierre said brightly.

“What is it with these women, anyway?” the first concierge said. “We must climb mountains and cross oceans for them . . .”

“Buy flowers and order the proper bottle of wine . . .” the third Concierge said.

“Remember the day we met them,” Pierre chimed in.

“And try to find chocolate in the middle of the night,” Nick added.

“Oui!” the first Concierge exclaimed. “And we are kept waiting, constantly!”

The young bellhop shrugged his shoulders and said, “It is what we must do.” His words brought a collective sigh to the group.

Finally it was done. They had scoured the entire Cote d’azur and found no chocolate in the south of France. It was Two O’clock in the morning. Pierre looked beat.

“Surely she will let you back in,” he said.

“She must! She can’t expect you to sleep on the streets!” the first Concierge said.

“Il est injuste. It is not fair!” the bellhop cried, shaking his head.

Pierre took a pen and notepad. “If you provide your room number we can have chocolate delivered to your room first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Nick said nervously. “A list of the shops will do.”

Pierre scribbled down the names and addresses of the best three shops and handed it to Nick. The bellhop removed some flowers from a vase in the lobby.

“Maybe these will help?”

Nick kindly waved him away. “It’s chocolate tonight or nothing, friends.” He tucked the list of chocolate shops into his shirt pocket, gave his thanks again, and bid them all a farewell.

Feeling exhausted and beaten, he returned to the streets, walking for several blocks with his head down. Ironically, he passed a chocolate shop, shut for the night. It was dark inside. He pressed his face to the window and peered in. There was a small interior nightlight revealing several glass display cases. Within were rows of chocolates and truffles. The sign above the door read: Chocolatier Cupid.

It is torture, Nick thought, for past sins.

Hanging inside the door was a small sign listing the shop’s hours: 10:00 to 18:00. It was only half past two.

Nick marched on, not lifting his eyes for several minutes. When he did, he saw the red neon light of a tobac shop half a mile down. It was still illuminated inside. He headed straight for it.

He stepped inside to find two men conversing in French. The shopkeeper, who stood behind the counter, was a tall thirty-something man with dark hair. The other man, middle-aged and gruff-looking, sat on a stool smoking a cigar. He flicked ashes on the floor as Nick stepped in.

“Excuse me. Do you have chocolate?” Nick asked.

The shopkeeper looked a little annoyed that Nick had interrupted their conversation. He motioned downward with his head to the counter beneath the cash register. There Nick saw the usual assortment of commercial candy bars: Three Musketeers, Mars, Snickers, and Almond Joy.

“I’m looking for gourmet chocolate,” Nick said.

“Pardon, our chocolate is not good enough?”

“I need fine chocolates.”

“It’s American . . .” the man on the stool said harshly.

“It’s not for me,” Nick explained. “It is for my fiancée. She desires something European.”

The two Frenchmen exchanged glances.

“Your fiancée sent you to find chocolate?” the shopkeeper asked, disbelieving.

“At two a.m.?” the other one added.

“Yes.”

“Why doesn’t she get her own chocolate?” the shopkeeper said quickly.

“Is it for sex?” the man on the stool asked.

“No! No! It one of those woman things . . . you know what I mean. She just wants to know I appreciate her.”

The shopkeeper’s face contorted. “Merde! It is the problem with you Americans . . . you don’t understand woman.”

“Elle tourne du chapeau!” the man on the stool grunted out.

“Only an American would be fool enough to wander through the night in search of chocolate for a woman,” the shopkeeper said. “You are slaves to women. You do not understand them. You have everything in reverse.”

“Ce me fait chier!” the man on the stool said. “You must deny them to receive their devotion.”

“Oui, it is true!” the shopkeeper said. “The less you give, the more you’ll take!”

“Otherwise, she will leave you for another man,” the man on the stool said.

“Really, she should be out looking for chocolat for you,” the shopkeeper said fiercely.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Nick said.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

The man on the stool mumbled out the word, “Salope!”

“Call it want you want,” Nick replied.

“There is no need to cower to your woman,” the shopkeeper counseled. “If she doesn’t like it, there are plenty of other women out there.”

Nick paused. “Where are your women?” he asked.

“Oh! Monsieur! I have plenty of women! I am on holiday from women!”

“You are worn out, Jacque? Not enough to go around?”

“Oui! Oui! Even I have my limits. Twenty, thirty women a month . . . it’s too much for any man!”

The men laughed.

“You guys are very funny,” Nick said.

“Better to be comedians than a fool!”

The laughter roared again. “Okay guys,” Nick said. “Thanks for the wisdom.”

The two men continued to laugh.

“I am glad I was able to provide you with some comic relief,” Nick said. “You guys have a nice night.”

Nick stepped out of the shop disgusted. As he walked away he could hear the laugher continue for quite a distance down the Croisette. It was a mocking testament, he thought, to this strange request that he had been strapped with by the woman he loved.

Maybe they’re right? he thought. Am I the prince or the fool? He looked up into the glistening stars but found no answer.

He continued west, strolling along with his head down. The streets were desolate. It was 3 a.m. The only sounds were the waves lapping against the seawall and the distant bark of a dog.

Then came a female voice, “Bonjour!”

On the side street was an old Peugeot with the window down. Inside was a forty-something-looking blonde.

Nick walked over. “Hello.”

The woman had on heavy blue mascara and thick Sangria lipstick and her blouse was unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing perfectly shaped, half-moon breasts.

“You are English?” she asked.

“No, American.”

“I like Americans,” the woman said quickly. “Are you looking for company?”

“I’m looking for chocolate.”

“Chocolat?” The woman’s large, doe-like eyes flashed thoughtfully.

“Yes, chocolate.”

“You want a black woman?”

Nick stepped back. “No, I need chocolate candy. Barettini, Lindt. It’s not for me. It’s for my fiancée.”

“Your fiancée?”

“Yes.”

“Que voe?”

“It’s a long story and I’m really tired . . .”

“Please tell me.”

“It’s complicated . . .”

“Come on. I must know. It must be romantic, no?”

“Something like that . . .”

The woman turned and glanced thoughtfully out her front windshield. “Really? It is early morning and you are searching for chocolate for your fiancée?”

“It’s the truth.”

The woman’s large eyes flashed again. “Really, it is romantic.”

“Becoming less so by the minute.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

She paused. “Well, I require no chocolate.”

I imagine not, Nick thought. “Thanks, but I really must go.”

“There is a room nearby,” the woman said.

“It’s a nice offer,” Nick said nervously.

“We can go there now.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on.”

“I must go.”

“It is right there,” she said, pointing to a light on the second floor of a building down the alleyway. “No need to walk the streets alone.”

“Goodnight and good luck,” Nick said with finality and he quickly walked away.

“She is a lucky girl,” the woman yelled from her window as Nick ducked around the corner.

Nick marched rapidly east, back to the Chocolatier Cupid. There was nothing more to do, he thought, but to go back there and wait. When he reached the chocolate shop, he stepped into the little alcove and pressed his face against the window once more. Seemingly now, with more detail than before, he could see deep into the display cases, to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of mouth-watering chocolates; varieties of all kinds, white and dark, some with colorful toppings, others plain, some beautifully wrapped. They were all calling him, haunting him. He could feel himself salivating. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it but it was locked. He checked the windows too, locked also. He considered breaking in, but quickly dismissed the idea. The closed sign hanging inside the door reminded him of his situation. The shop would not re-open until 10:00 a.m., and now it was only 4:00 a.m. The insignia on the sign was that of a little cupid with an arrow.

“Thanks Dude,” Nick said.

Nick shrank to the floor with his back against the door. He rested his head against the glass and closed his eyes. He could smell the sweet aroma of chocolate coming through the doorjamb. He is evil, he thought, referring to the cupid . . . he is torturing me!

* * *

Time stood still. His eyelids grew heavy. There was that semi-state of peaceful unconsciousness, then slumber. Then there was a noise.

And a foot kicking him.

Nick looked up and saw an old man with a sparse, grey goatee and long grey locks standing over him, yelling at him in French.

“Congé! Leave!”

The man kicked Nick again and Nick tried to scoot away.

“Laissez-vous l’homme fithy. Sortez! Trouvez un autre endroit pour dormer!” the old man cried as he pursued Nick with his foot. “Get out you filthy one! Find another place to sleep!”

But the foot was fast and it came against Nick’s thigh again. Nick raised his arm in self-defense, simultaneously trying to explain himself. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to buy some chocolate. I feel asleep.”

The old man was agile for his age and pursued relentlessly with his foot as Nick scrambled away.

“I’m sorry,” Nick repeated. “I just needed to buy chocolate.”

The old man stopped abruptly.

“You are English?” he said with a heavy accent.

“American.”

Nick remained curled up in a ball with his knees at his chest and his arms up protecting his face.

The old man looked down thoughtfully. “You want to buy chocolate?”

“I cannot leave without chocolate,” Nick said.

“Then you must return at ten o’clock.”

“It’s my fiancée,” Nick explained.

The old man remained silent.

“She will not let me back in our hotel room until I bring her chocolate.”

“Ce qui? Your fiancée requires chocolate?”

“Oui—yes. She requires only the best chocolate.”

The old man’s posture eased and his blue eyes lit up like the Cote d’azur. He reached into his pocket and brought out the shop keys.

“Come, follow me,” he said. “I have the best chocolate in the south of France.”

He unlocked the door and Nick followed him inside.

“You are a lucky man,” the old man said. “I came in early today. Only today. To do inventory and bookkeeping. Normally it is another three more hours before I arrive.”

The old man handed Nick a bag, and in a short time, with Nick holding the bag and the shopkeeper filling it with his best recommendations, Nick possessed a hefty assortment of to-die-for chocolates. Nick paid the man, thanked him, apologized again for sleeping on his steps, and was on his way.

* * *

Nick staggered back to his hotel in the morning sunlight and was greeted there by the day reception clerk.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour,” Nick replied.

He stumbled into the elevator cage, pressed the button, rode the elevator back up the two floors, and wobbled down the hallway. The Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door. He quietly stepped inside.

There she lay, as she had been now for several hours, quietly asleep on the bed. Her arm was outstretched to the empty space beside her and there was a note in her hand. Nick hung his jacket in the armoire, set the bag of chocolates on the nightstand, and quietly reached across the bed for the note. It was simple, composed of only four words: Never leave me again.

Nick stared at the note, not knowing what to make of it. It was she who had asked him to leave? Maybe it was the wine, he thought.

Nick peeled off his shirt and pants and climbed in the bed next to her. He set the bag of chocolates at the end of her extended hand where the note had been. Then he propped a pillow under his head, turned, and gazed at her. Her face was calm and forgiving.

“I will never leave again,” Nick said in a whisper.

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

The sound of hushed voices and hissing air greeted Ryan as he started to wake. He could only think that he was still dreaming as he tried to brush off the sounds. When the freezing cold air finally hit him, alarm bells in his head immediately started sounding.

Ryan cracked open his eyes, letting him finally look up at the team of four people that stood on the other side of the glass tube he lay in. His clothing was gone save a pair of underpants, letting him feel the freezing air all over. Despite the cold, his heart raced as fear set in. He shouldn’t be here, wherever ‘here’ was. “Sir, you need to calm down. Take some deep breaths,” one of the people outside of the tube said.

Ryan tried to listen, tried to comprehend, but it only partly worked. He examined the room outside of the tube, making out the details of a world that couldn’t be real. Everything he saw felt metallic, the cold steel of an unfamiliar world replacing the concrete and wood constructions he had always known. “Wh-where am I?” Ryan asked.

One of the people, dressed as what seemed like a doctor, looked at the others. “Before we can answer that Ryan, we need to ask you some very basic questions. Can you do your best to answer them for me?” the man asked. The doctor’s voice seemed eerily calm and reassuring, helping Ryan focus.

Ryan was shaking, the cold air biting at him as if he were swimming in the arctic. “Please, just get me out of this tube. I’m freezing in here,” he replied.

The doctor nodded at the other people around the tube. “Alright, let’s unseal him. Get me one of those blankets please,” the man said, running his fingers over his arm. As if on command, some kind of holographic screen appeared over the doctor’s arm. Only then did Ryan notice that the doctor’s arm wasn’t made out of flesh and bone, but metal.

The doctor noticed Ryan’s gaze at the metal arm. “Ryan, I know this seems impossible right now, but trust me, we’ll answer all your questions. Just bear with us, okay?” the doctor asked of him. Ryan could feel his heart beating extremely fast, but something felt wrong inside of him. He knew how his body felt on any other day so he knew that something seemed ‘off’ now.

Nodding, Ryan watched as the the doctor’s fingers ran over the display and the tube he lay in split in half. As soon as the space permitted it, Ryan sat upright and a blanket was wrapped around him by one of the nurses.

The doctor came over and shined a light in Ryan’s eyes, causing him to wince at the overbearing brightness. “Okay Ryan, I need to ask you some very simple questions. What is your full name and when were you born?” the doctor asked.

Ryan kept shivering, though he seemed to be warming up. “Ryan Yallo, born October 15th, 1985, in Seattle,” he answered.

The doctor nodded at him before turning to one of the nurses. “Make a note; it looks like the virus has fully embedded itself. We’ll have to watch and see if it reappears,” he told the nurse before looking back at Ryan.

By this point, Ryan was beyond tired of having no answers. What virus, and embedded in what? “What are you talking about?” he asked the doctor.

The doctor glanced at the display on his arm. “Ryan, listen to me. My name is Robert Shonet and, as you might have guessed, I’m a doctor. There are some things I need to tell you, but they won’t be easy to hear. Before I begin, I need you to tell me the last thing you remember, okay?” he said.

Ryan nodded, “Last thing I remember was…was…” he said, his voice trailing off as he lost his focus on the doctor. His memory seemed blurred at first, making the details hard to recall.

The doctor put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Work your way back to it. Think of something clear and retrace your steps. Take it slow, this isn’t something you want to rush,” he reassured Ryan. The doctor’s voice and demeanor helped Ryan calm himself, especially as he acknowledged the metallic hand again. In the end, he finally recognized what he last recalled.

* * *

Ryan lay in bed, staring at the bedroom ceiling with wide open eyes. In his mind, he was sifting through the recent news of the dead police officers from his precinct. On the nightstand just next to him sat his patrolman’s badge, now acting like some haunting reminder of dangers he might face.

In the past two weeks, three of his fellow officers had been gunned down in the line of duty. One was shot and killed during a traffic stop gone wrong. Another, killed when breaking up a bar fight. The last, shot and killed during a narcotics bust. Too many lockers were being emptied out, too few familiar faces haunting the precinct hallways.

Some movement and a groan to his left told Ryan that he wasn’t the only one awake now. “What’s the matter, work bothering you?” asked a tired feminine voice.

Ryan turned his head to his wife, Karen, as he faked a smile. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep, I’ll be right behind you,” he said softly.

The way that Karen looked at him was a mixture of worry and amusement. If there were such things as angels, Ryan swore they had to have faces like hers. Karen’s long brown hair and piercing green eyes further added to her beauty. The moonlight that shined down through the nearby window helped highlight her face in the night. “You’ve always been a terrible liar; what’s going on?” she asked as she moved in closer to wrap an arm around him.

Ryan hesitated, biting back the urge to continue saying it was nothing. “Just thinking about the guys at the precinct, what with the news,” he answered, failing to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

Karen was silent for a moment, never enjoying where these conversations led to. She was twenty six, only a month younger than Ryan, but they had a future planned together. Talks like these only served to draw attention to the danger of Ryan’s job as a cop. “Do you remember what you told me when we first moved in?” she asked.

Ryan nodded next to her. “I told you that I’d always be here to keep you safe, and that I’d always come home to you,” he replied.

In response, she brushed her hand along Ryan’s cheek, caressing the short cut hair and chin stubble. “You’ve never let me down either, and I have complete faith that you never will,” she said with a smile.

Before Ryan could think of what to say next, the sound of glass breaking could be heard from down the hall. Without a second thought, Ryan was out of bed and throwing a nearby pair of pants on. Before he moved over to the bedroom door, he reached into the nightstand and grabbed his service pistol.

Ryan turned on the light and grabbed the door knob before looking back at Karen. She sat upright in bed, her night dress and the sheets covering her. “Stay here, call 911. I’ll be right back,” he whispered. Taking comfort in the nod she gave him in reply, Ryan opened the door and stepped into the hallway, closing the door most of the way behind him.

Light from the street lamps outside and from the moon helped illuminate the hallway just enough for Ryan to see down the length of the single-story house. At the other end of the hall, just outside of view in the kitchen, Ryan could hear the sounds of footsteps.

A fire swelled inside him. The thought of someone breaking into his home and endangering his wife removed all fear and left only anger. “I’m a police officer, step out where I can see you!” Ryan yelled down the hall, stepping further out from the bedroom doorway.

From the kitchen stepped a man, his hands raised above his head. Ryan kept his service pistol trained on the man the entire time. The man wore enough rags and cloths around him that Ryan couldn’t make out any distinct features. “Get down on the ground, hands behind your head,” Ryan ordered, anger and authority lacing his words.

Before Ryan could see the man follow his orders, the sound of more glass breaking could be heard coming from the bedroom. “Ryan!” he heard Karen scream from behind the bedroom door.

Ryan turned his attention immediately back to the bedroom, back to his wife, as he turned around to face the door. A blood-curdling scream came from Karen on the other side of the door, followed by one deafening gunshot. “Karen!” Ryan yelled, his voice unable to be any louder. Just as he reached the door, another gunshot came. Only this one was from behind him, the bullet ripping through his chest.

Every ounce of strength that Ryan had and every breath of air in his lunges instantly left him, sending the patrolman down onto the carpet. Ryan gasped for breath, barely able to keep his eyes open let alone move. Behind him, he could hear the previous intruder walking past him to open the bedroom door.

Inside, Ryan could make out the broken bedroom window. He could see the second intruder, carrying a semi-automatic handgun. The empty shell casing was visible on the bedroom floor. His wife’s still body lay across the bed, streaks of red tracing down the sheets.

Unable to move his body, Ryan tried to call out to Karen, though nothing more than a moan escaped his mouth. His entire body had gone numb, rendering him unable to even move his hands. Despite the armed men in his house and the hole in his chest, the only thing Ryan could do as blackness consumed him was look at the body of his wife.

* * *

Realization came to Ryan as he sat in the opened pod and he instantly looked down at his chest. No bullet wound, no scar tissue, nothing. Looking back up at the doctor, Ryan knew his eyes were wide with fear and panic. “I-I was shot!” he nearly yelled out.

Robert, the doctor, now sat in a chair that was wheeled over so he could sit while Ryan recited what happened. “Ryan I need you to pay attention, okay? You weren’t shot, you’re perfectly safe,” he said.

“Bullshit! I felt that bullet go through my chest! I felt myself fall unconscious while I watched my wife-“ Ryan stopped mid-sentence as another realization hit him. “Where’s Karen?” he asked Robert.

“Ryan, you need to calm down. You’re perfectly safe, so please just take a couple deep br-“ Robert said, trying to dodge the answer.

“Screw that! Where is my wife?” Ryan yelled, panic and adrenaline driving him at this point.

Robert seemed to finally yield. “She’s fine, Ryan. She hasn’t been shot or harmed at all, she’s perfectly safe. Just like you, she was infected with the virus,” he said.

Part of Ryan was relieved to hear that Karen was fine. The other part, however, was instantly confused by what Robert was telling him. “What ‘virus’? What are you talking about?” he asked.

Robert seemed to hesitate for a moment, but he finally gave up answers. “Your name is indeed Ryan Yallo, but you were not born in 1985.” Robert said, watching Ryan’s reaction. “You were born in 2089, with the present year being 2115.”

Ryan was at a loss for words, barely trying to wrap his head around what Robert was saying. “The virus I’ve mentioned is a digital virus that infects people with neural cybernetic modifications. It connects people with its own server and writes a new layer of memories over the real memories they have. In short, Ryan, the world you experienced was nothing more than a program.”

Ryan started shaking his head as the words left Robert’s mouth. “No way, I don’t have whatever ‘modifications’ you’re talking about. I work as a police officer, I’m married to Karen Yallo and we live in a single-story house-“ Ryan said in response before Robert interrupted him.

“That’s mostly true Ryan. You are a cop, Karen is your wife and the two of you do live in a single story house. The virus uses those truths to make it easier to keep you contained in the coding. As for neural mods, everyone has them these days, especially officers like yourself,” the doctor said.

“No, this has got to be some hallucination or something…” Ryan said, his voice trailing off as he thought his situation through.

Robert simply sat back in his seat with a sigh. “Listen Ryan, I know you don’t want to think that the world you thought was real in fact wasn’t. I’ve seen many people who couldn’t cope with the truth, and I don’t want to see you be one of them.”

Ryan closed his eyes as his thoughts flashed back to Karen, hearing that terrible scream before she was shot in their bedroom. “I want to see my wife,” he said, his voice breaking up as he choked back a sense of grief. Robert said she was fine, all Ryan wanted was to know he was telling the truth.

Robert nodded, “Okay, I’ll have her brought in. She shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. In the meantime, I would like to talk about you physically.”

Ryan nodded. As much as he didn’t believe this was real, he didn’t see any way to escape it for now. Until he could get out, he was going to just play along. Just the same, maybe the doctor could explain why he felt ‘different’. “I feel kind of…strange. I don’t know how to explain it,” he said.

Robert nodded. “You understand how your body felt in the program, so the feeling of your real body is foreign. It’s the enhancements in your body, your mind isn’t used to recognizing them as a presence inside of you for now. It’s another reason we powered them down after you were hit by the virus,” he explained.

Ryan shook his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, what? I don’t know you’re talking about,” he confessed.

Robert adjusted his seat for a second. “Okay, you know how in the program, children were expected to get flu vaccinations?” Robert asked, Ryan nodding in reply. “Well, these days it isn’t the flu vaccine that people are asked to get, but an injection of nano-machines. They build a series of synthetic augmentations, and then are flushed from the body after they’re done.”

Ryan rubbed the temples of his head. “So you’re telling me that people are…modified? That we’re engineered like machines?” he asked.

Robert seemed to wrestle with words for a moment. “I wouldn’t go that far. Take neural mods for example; where you had cell phones, music devices, and computers, neural mods permit the same functions as all those things and more, but the person remains the same.”

“You’re saying that you people have tools in your heads, but nothing else about you is changed?” Ryan asked, trying to find the truth to all of this.

“Yes, but not just neural mods. Other mods that people have include some physique mods which improve people’s health. The common cold? Let’s just say that it’s not so common anymore,” Robert explained, a smile crossing his face. “There are even some mods that are built that correct irregular heartbeats and other conditions, even including Alzheimer’s.”

Ryan was about to ask another question, but pain suddenly swept over him like a migraine. It was sudden and throbbing, enough to render him barely able to see or speak. “Ryan? Ah hell, nurse!” he heard Robert yell, “Get the systems powered back up, we didn’t get rid of the virus!”

By this point, Ryan had collapsed backwards into the pod once more. Just before the darkness could consume him once more, a woman’s voice that he longed to hear once more filled his ears. “Ryan?” the voice asked, but he could no longer respond.

* * *

“Ryan? Can you hear me, Buddy?” a voice asked. Ryan finally felt the pain dissipate, letting him open his eyes. The metallic and synthetic feeling of the room with the doctor, Robert Shonet, was gone. In its place was a traditional hospital room, one he recognized as being from a hospital a couple miles from the house.

“Hey Man, welcome back,” said the voice again. This time, Ryan could finally focus in on the details of one of his fellow patrolmen; Daniel Rosrow.

“Danny? What’s going on?” Ryan asked, feeling indescribably weak. Looking down at his chest as he lay in the hospital bed, Ryan could make out the bloodied piece of gauze that must have covered stitches.

“Take it easy, you’ve been through a lot. You’ve been out cold for a few days, the doctors having been working on you for a good chunk of that time,” Danny said.

“A few days? What happened to Karen?” Ryan asked, his head swirling with thoughts and ideas.

At that question, Danny seemed to freeze up. Ryan knew that reaction, as involuntary as it was. That sudden freeze as someone has to tell you that the person that you loved was no longer there. “I don’t know how to say this, but-“ Danny said, pausing mid-sentence, “Karen didn’t make it.”

Unlike the confusion that overwhelmed him in the ‘other’ hospital room, grief was something Ryan knew well and could express. Now, it was like someone let open the floodgates. Tears streamed from his eyes, any words he had to say died in his throat.

Danny hung his head as he gave Ryan the news. “The best we can tell, there were two intruders and a getaway driver. One broke in the front door while the other went around to the bedroom window and-“ Danny said before his voice cracked apart. “Listen Man, I’m so sorry. I know what Karen meant to you…” he said.

By this point, Ryan couldn’t even think. He had promised her that he’d always be there for her, that she’d never need to be afraid. Now he knew that he had failed that promise, that he uttered it the same night that he lost her.

All the thoughts that had entered Ryan’s head about this world being some kind of virus had suddenly fled, being overwritten by grief and sadness. In his mind’s eye, he remembered times that he had taken Karen out to dinner, watched a movie together, or gone on a trip. Now, those were the only memories he would ever have of her.

A knock came from the doorway, making both Ryan and Danny look back to see one of the doctors come in. Danny then turned back around to Ryan. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” he said before getting up and leaving the room.

When Ryan finally got a good look at the doctor though, part of that grief gave way to confusion. The man looked like he could be the twin of the doctor he had seen in the hallucination, down to the seasoned look in his eyes. “Well, good to see you’re still with us Ryan. You’re pretty lucky to still be alive,” he said.

Ryan finally found the strength to hold back his grief, at least for a time, while he wrestled thoughts in his head. “That depends on your idea of luck,” he replied.

The doctor paused for a brief moment, hesitation clear on his face. “I take it Officer Rosrow told you then,” the doctor said, to which Ryan nodded. “Well then Ryan, let me say that I am sorry for your loss. Losing someone like that is never easy.”

Ryan slowly nodded, breaking eye contact. In a way, the more he looked at the doctor and saw the similarities between him and Robert Shonet from the dream, the more he wasn’t sure it was just a dream.

The doctor placed the medical chart down at the end of the bed. “Where are my manners, my name’s Tom Salef. I’ve been your doctor here during your stay,” the doctor said, reaching out with an open hand.

Ryan shook Tom’s hand, trying to grip it firmly but found that he couldn’t muster much strength. “How…how bad was I?” he asked.

Tom sat down by his side as he let out a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie, Ryan, it’s amazing that you made it here to the hospital. The gunshot wound you suffered caused a large amount of trauma, then the slug’s shavings caused a lot of internal bleeding. We’ve had you in surgery a number of times to patch up leaks.”

Ryan looked back down at the gauze on his chest once again, his brain telling him that pieces of him were missing underneath it. “It’ll take some time for you to heal up, Ryan. Until then, you’ll want to rest up as much as you can. If you need anything, just let me or one of the nurses know, okay?” Tom explained.

Ryan nodded, then watched as Tom got up and left the hospital room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Outside the glass divider between his room and the hospital’s main floor, Ryan could make out Tom updating one of the nurses. The notion of déjà vu struck Ryan all over again, one of the nurses seemed like she could have been a twin to one from the dream.

Thoughts and doubts ate at Ryan as the day passed. Aside from nurses and Doctor Salef checking in on occasion, he was mostly left to his own devices. It gave him time to dwell on the loss of his wife, but also on some of the unsettling things happening around him. The similarities that his doctor and nurse shared with their hallucination counterparts deeply troubled him. Because of that, he found it was the assurance he had been given in the vision that Karen was alive that gave him hope.

When night finally came, Ryan was unable to sleep. Given what happened at his house, what happened to Karen, he found the idea of sleep distasteful. Tom finally came back to check up on him once more, only to decide to give Ryan a sedative to help him sleep. “To help the recovery,” he said.

As Ryan’s eyes grew heavier, so too did his guilt. As he fell asleep in this hospital bed, he was alone, and the possibility he was going insane crossed his mind. He rationalized that he had hallucinated the vision earlier due to what happened at his house, but the thought provided him no comfort.

* * *

When Ryan next opened his eyes, he was staring up out of the pod that was from his hallucination. Staring at the increasingly familiar ceiling tiles above him, he found himself not even wanting to look around, as if acknowledging this place granted it authenticity.

“Welcome back, Ryan,” said Robert Shonet, the doctor coming into view as he came around from a console. “We thought you had slipped entirely back into the program, but it looks like that wasn’t the case.”

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment before looking over at the doctor. As much as he didn’t want to think that ‘this’ was real and that the other place was an illusion, he couldn’t ignore his doubts. “What happened?” he asked, noticing how dry his mouth felt.

As if he was psychic or something, Robert grabbed a water bottle from an end table and handed it to Ryan. “We weren’t sure we had gotten rid of the virus in your neural mods when you woke up the first time. As it turns out, we didn’t, and the situation has gotten a bit complicated,” he said.

Ryan opened the bottle of water and downed a third of it in one go. He looked at Robert in a confused manner afterwards. “How could it get any more complicated for me than it already is?”

Robert took a second before he replied. “Put as simply as I can Ryan, the remaining pieces of code from the virus have embedded themselves in a way that stops us from removing it. The only way to get rid of it is for your mind to reject it.”

Ryan took a second to think it over. “So, what you’re saying is that I have to firmly believe that ‘this’ is real and the world I’ve known all my life is a fake?” he asked, to which Robert nodded. “Right, I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.”

Robert sighed. “The signs don’t lie in this case, Ryan. If you didn’t think or hope that this place was real, we would have watched you fall entirely back into the program. It was the doubts you have about the validity of the other world that kept you anchored here,” he retorted.

Ryan just stared at the doctor for a moment. Deep down, he knew that Robert was right about his doubts at least, and the thought perturbed him. “The doctor and one of the nurses in the other hospital where I am recovering from a gunshot wound look identical to you and your staff,” he admitted.

Robert spun the idea around in his head for a second. “What about Karen? Is she there, or do you know yet?” he asked, obviously testing theories.

Ryan was silent for a few minutes, watching Danny tell him about Karen in his head all over again. “She didn’t make it,” Robert nodded without a word, prompting Ryan to glare at him. “That’s all you can do? Sit there and nod?”

Robert’s expression changed ever so slightly. “It’s not that I’m trying to seem unsympathetic, Ryan, it’s that I told you before; Karen is fine. Judge for yourself,” he said, motioning with his arm over to one of the chairs along the far side of the room.

In it sat Karen, curled up with a blanket wrapped around her as she slept. Not a blemish was on her skin, her brown hair formed to her perfectly despite being disheveled. The sight of her, not seven feet from him, sent a chill down Ryan’s spine. He had been told by Danny that she was dead, told by Robert that she wasn’t, and here she was.

“Karen?” Ryan called to her. She shifted slightly in the chair, though she didn’t wake.

Robert made a motion to get Ryan’s attention once more. “Best to let her sleep, she’s been awake for nearly three days straight. It would be best for you to talk when you are both awake and lucid,” Robert said.

Most parts of Ryan’s mind screamed at him to ignore Robert’s advice, but he accepted it in the end. “So, if this thing was a virus, who made it and why did it affect us?” he asked instead.

Robert sighed. “It was made by non-augmented purist hackers who live outside the cities. They say it is to prove how a man’s body shouldn’t be changed by machines, but all they do with these attacks is just kill or destroy the lives of innocent men and women.

“They smuggle themselves inside the cities, setup in an area, then distribute the virus across our networks. Security is able to pin the virus down after a couple minutes, but that’s long enough for the virus to potentially infect hundreds of people,” Robert tried to explain.

“What I don’t get is how we supposedly woke up from that program,” Ryan wondered.

“It’s all about tweaking the program. In the simple version, we basically changed a slight bit of the virus’s code so that it killed you in the program. From there, it resets, during which time there is a window for us to pull you out and destroy the virus,” Robert explained.

“Wait, wait, you’re saying you supposedly changed this code so that two armed men broke into our house and killed us?” Ryan asked, anger entering his voice.

Robert definitely picked up on the emotions. “Listen Ryan, it’s the only way we could do it.” he explained. “Every other alternative winds up with innocent people like you or Karen living in vegetative states for the rest of your lives. Even I don’t like it, but that’s how it has to be.”

Silence crept over the room as Ryan went back to watching his wife. Inside, he could still remember looking at her lifeless body on their bed, her blood running down the sheets. Now she sat in a chair, sleeping like there was no concern. “So what now?” Ryan asked.

“Well, now you have a choice to make Ryan. What is more real to you; this world and your wife, or that program that you’re familiar with,” Robert explained.

“Or, on the flipside, this illusion with my wife, or the real world and loneliness,” Ryan countered. He noticed the look in Robert’s eye, the one that seemed almost like a plea not to make that determination.

“However you want to look at it, Ryan. Just keep this in mind: you fall asleep here, you wake up there and vice versa until you finally decide what world is real enough for you. When you decide which world is where you belong, your life in the other will end,” Robert explained. “I can’t make that choice for you, neither can Karen. Only you can decide where you belong. Once you do though, you’ll be stuck either there or here, whichever you decide is real.”

Ryan was silent a few more minutes as he looked back at Karen. “I need some time to think,” he said in acknowledgment.

Robert nodded, then stood up and headed for the door. “Holler if you need anything,” he said on his way out. Ryan only nodded in reply.

Ryan kept his eyes on his wife at first, before he turned his gaze to a medical chart that didn’t belong to him. Flipping it over to take a look at it, Ryan realized it was Karen’s chart. On it, it listed that she had all the ‘normal’ modifications like the neural tools and muscle enhancement, but also an additional one.

The mod was labeled as a retinal mod, detailing that her eyes were partially synthetic in order to counter a condition that caused blindness. Ryan felt stunned briefly as he read the description, but another glance at her told him that he didn’t care. Placing the chart back and laying back down himself, Ryan closed his eyes, realizing that he had already made his choice. All he needed to do was set it in stone.

* * *

Ryan woke up once more in the familiar hospital near his house. The sun had just come up, the morning finally creeping in. He enjoyed the view from the window as long as he could before he heard a knock on his door and Tom came in. “Good morning.” he said as he walked in.

“Morning, Doctor,” Ryan said, nodding his head.

“How are you feeling today, Ryan, any better than yesterday?” Tom asked, checking the chart for any new developments noted by the night crew.

Ryan took a moment, thinking back to his last experience. “Yeah actually, I think I do.”

Tom smiled, placing the chart back as he looked Ryan over. “Well that’s excellent news. No signs of any complications either, so it looks like we stopped all the internal bleeding,” he said. “Listen, I got to check on a few other patients. Is there anything I can have brought to you?” he asked.

Ryan thought for a second before nodding. “Yeah, there is one thing. I’d like it if you could have someone bring me a DNR form,” he said.

The statement made Tom stop in his tracks. “A ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ form? Ryan, I know you’ve gone through a lot, but as your doctor, I feel I need to urge you not to do anything hasti-“ Tom said before being interrupted.

“No, Tom, you’ve honestly got no idea what I’ve gone through. I’ve made up my mind, and I’d like you to respect my wishes as a patient and have a form brought to me,” Ryan countered.

Tom opened his mouth to counter, but ultimately gave in. “Okay, I’ll have one of the nurses bring one in,” he said before leaving.

It was probably about twenty minutes before the form was brought in and signed. Once the DNR tag was added to his chart, Ryan felt a certain degree of finality in his plan. He knew where he belonged and no one could tell him otherwise. If Robert was right, and his life would end in the world he didn’t choose, he thought maybe the DNR might be the way to make his decision final.

Only then did Ryan look over to one of the tables in the room. Adorning the table’s surface was a massive number of cards, all written and signed by members of his precinct and from his friends and family. All of the cards wished him to get better, and they all expressed their sadness for the loss of Karen.

Throughout the day, he had numerous other members of the force come in and talk with him. Some were there to get his testimony about what happened at the house, but almost everyone came by to give their condolences for Karen and to wish him good health. The only one that stuck around was Danny.

“Listen Man, the doc tells me that you might make some…reckless calls. What’s going on?” Danny asked.

Ryan actually chuckled lightly. “Let me guess, he asked you to make me take it easy? Sorry Danny, it’s just some things I need dealt with,” he said.

Danny let his head sag slightly. “I know, I know. These recent events have hit you hard, but I just want to make sure you’re not going to do anything crazy. We’ve known each other for years and, when Karen died, I lost a friend too. I just want to make sure I don’t lose another.”

Ryan sighed. “I promise Danny; nothing stupid. I’m just covering my bases is all.”

Danny nodded in reply. “Okay, good enough for me. Anyway, I got a night shift coming up that I gotta get to. You get better, you hear me?”

Ryan laughed before pain from his stitches stopped him. “Loud and clear, Doctor Danny,” he remarked as Danny left.

The remaining hours in the day ticked by, leaving Ryan feeling both confident and nervous in the choice that he made. When night finally came and sleep crept up upon him, Ryan welcomed it with open arms. “I know where I belong, and it isn’t here. Not anymore,” he said before he fell asleep.

* * *

Ryan stirred slightly in the pod, finally getting a feeling of rest. “Ryan?” a voice called. It was a voice that he had longed to hear once more, one that he dreaded he’d never hear again. When he opened his eyes, he saw Karen standing over him, looking down at him with her green eyes. Eyes that, like the chart said, were partially synthetic, but they were hers none the less.

“Karen!” he gasped as he launched up and wrapped his arms around her. The two of them hugged and embraced like they’d been separated by years, when it hadn’t even been a week. “Oh god, I never thought I’d see you again,” Ryan could hardly breathe as tears flowed down his cheeks.

“After that man broke in through the window and I saw the gun, I thought it was all over,” she said, pulling herself back so as to look Ryan in the eyes. Only then did Ryan see the tears that flowed steadily down her cheeks. Despite the shifting and whirling of mechanical pieces in her eyes, Karen’s tears came naturally.

“That’s all over; we’re here now,” Ryan assured her as he ran a hand across her cheek. “I failed you at the house. I broke my promise to keep you safe,” he said, watching as her expression changed to one of grief. “I swear to you though, I will never let you down again. This is our second chance, and I swear to god I won’t waste it.”

At Ryan’s new promise, Karen smiled. “If that life wasn’t real, then you didn’t fail me. Besides, I have faith that you’ll keep your promise,” she said. Not but a second after finishing her sentence did Karen swoop down and seal it with a kiss.

I

James Adall is at home on a Sunday night. He isn’t working on homework, though a high-schooler of seventeen in AP classes would have a significant amount to complete before Monday morning. He isn’t playing video games. He isn’t even looking at pornography. In fact, he isn’t being productive in the slightest. He’s on Reddit: a social media website both renowned and nefarious for the many accomplishments of its sizable user base, where some users spend hours each day discussing pictures, videos, and web articles covering a broad range of topics which the community has voted to the self-proclaimed “front page of the internet.” Some people call the site addictive, but James just enjoys the easy socialization and quick, cheap laughs.

He has spent his entire life growing up online, although the real world imposes its frequent interruptions to whisk him away to school or a short-lived career folding high-priced burritos. He was a burristo, a barista that makes hot food instead of hot drinks. Hence his online name. His first choice, burrista, was taken, but he decided he liked the masculine tone of ‘burristo,’ as well as the similar spelling it shared with ‘burrito.’ Although he only worked at the franchise shop for two months, he had become their most skillful burrito maker: efficient, affable with the customers, and always maintaining a clean workstation. Too bad his manager was such a douchebag, or he’d probably still have a job and something meaningful to do on a Sunday evening.

Despite his transient career, the resulting online name stuck and burristo remains an active member of the Reddit community. James has an appreciable quantity of ‘karma,’ a valueless currency awarded for valuable contributions to the community, whether they be comments or submissions. From time to time he’ll chance upon his counterpart, burrista, and they’ll engage in light banter for the sake of easy karma. Some speculate that the same person is behind both names, but James has always maintained that it’s just a chance meeting of like minds.

This Sunday is similar to most others on the social website. There’s adorable pictures of assorted cats, hilarious pictures of cats, and crudely drawn comics involving cats. As James scrolls through page upon page of cat pictures, he notices a little orange-red envelope icon in the top corner of his screen, indicating he’s received a message. Most often this is a response to comments he has made on the site, but occasionally it may indicate a private message directly between two users. He clicks the orange-red icon and checks the page. It’s a new message from a user he does not recognize, ‘vixxious:’

Shall we play a game? I’ve started without you and took my first move. The clock is running; you have 24 hours.

Unsure how to respond, James takes the easy route and ignores the message. Seems a bit crazy, maybe it’s a viral marketing scheme. He’s never been interested in them, alternate reality games and the like, it’s just another way to sell goods and services.

An hour passes, most of the time spent reading a single political discussion thread covering internet censorship. It’s a delicate issue, and one the online community has always taken a strong interest in arguing—primarily against, and the discussion involves a lot of dittoing.

James’s phone buzzes, he’s received an email. He pops his phone off the desk and taps the message. “Hey, it’s vixxious again.” Pulse quickening, James flies through the message, grasping for understanding. It’s brief, and there’s a video attachment.

Look, I knew you wouldn’t respond, but you can only afford to lose an hour. We’re playing ‘the game,’ whether you want to or not. It’s no thermonuclear war, but the stakes are just as high, at least for you and your family. I’ve sent a video, it’s recommended viewing.

Beads of sweat trickle down James’s face. A private message to a publicly-known username is one thing, but a private email address is something else. No automated bulk mailer would link his Reddit account to his email address, so this must come from a real person, and one who has taken enough interest in him to do some research. And there’s the overt threat to him and his family.

He downloads the video, running a quick scan for viruses to be sure it’s safe. The video file sits innocently on his desktop, as his mind races to make sense of the situation. The moment of hesitation passes and James opens the file.

The video starts zoomed onto a man’s face, the lower half masked by a simple red bandana, and the top half shaded to obscurity by an oversized grey hoody that’s pulled low, hiding his features in shadow. At most, only the glint of the man’s eyes can be seen.

The masked man speaks into the camera. “So here’s the situation. You’ve already wasted one hour by failing to respond, but I expected that. I’ve sent you this video to give you a better idea of the game we’re playing. I hope you appreciate that this is in hi-def, it’s a pretty nice camera in fact, I just picked it up. The lighting in here is poor, but you should be able to see the girl well enough.”

He turns the camera off of himself and pans the room. It’s dark, too dark to make out meaningful details, besides the odd pile of garbage. The room is otherwise empty, and the windows have been boarded up with only fractures of light squeezing through. The frame settles on the dark outline of a person seated in a lone chair.

The man sets the camera down again and moves into the frame, standing next to the chair. He reaches out and flicks the switch of a tall floor lamp that was not previously visible in the darkness. It only manages to provide meager illumination.

The light is enough to make apparent a girl seated in the chair, a single tear frozen on her cheek. Her mouth has been wrapped with duct-tape, effectively gagging her, and her arms and legs are similarly bound to the chair preventing most movement. She doesn’t seem to be struggling against the bindings. After her eyes adjust to the light, she finds the camera and locks her gaze on the lens. Desperation pours from her eyes, reaching James on the other side of the video and filling him with an equally desperate urge to help her.

“You might not be able to tell, but I haven’t hurt her. I’m not going to hurt her. If I do anything at all, I’m going to kill her, quite plainly she will be dead one moment after being alive. Now, all you have to do is win the game, and she will remain alive and unhurt, as she is now. I bet she wants you to play my game.”

The man turns to speak directly at the girl, who does not halt her quiet pleading with the camera.

“You want him to play my game, don’t you?”

She shakes her head, ‘no,’ as obvious as if she spoke it through the thick duct-tape gag that keeps her mouth silent.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do. You want to live, right?”

Her shoulders slump, but she does not give him the satisfaction of a response.

The man turns back to the camera, “She wants you to play, even if she’s too uninformed to say as much now. Give her a moment and she’ll come around to the idea, same as you. I want to show you both something.”

He picks up the camera and sets it about fifteen feet further back from the girl, revealing more of the empty, trash-filled room. On the ground in front of her is a slate grey sheet, covering a large indistinct mound. He pulls the sheet back with flair and a deadpan, “tada!”

The girl moans through her gag, as streams of tears start rolling down her face.

“Now, this boy, he was about the same age as you, I think. I brought him here from Tennessee. He was in the last game I played, but the player was a real loser. I even gave them an extra 24 hours, but the loser refused to take part. Must have thought it was all an elaborate scam. That foolish boy now has this kid’s life on his hands, and I’m sure he feels real bad about that. You’ll learn from his mistake, I hope. Play along, and this girl doesn’t have to die.”

He tosses the sheet aside, leaving the boy’s body on display.

“So, the rules of the game. There aren’t a lot of rules, but I thought you’d take them more seriously if I told you in this video. Text just doesn’t have the same impact, you know? So there are two. Rule number one! This girl’s life is forfeit if you lose. Rule number two! You win by reaching the top, the very top, of the front page of Reddit, within 24 hours. That’s it. You win if you reach the *1 spot on Reddit’s front page by this time tomorrow—well 23 hours from now—and if you win, the girl will live. I’ll let her go immediately. Ah, there’s a third rule, but I mean it’s obvious really, I shouldn’t even have to say it. Don’t go to the police, or this will all turn sour. I haven’t decided what happens if you break this one, it might mean you die, it might mean you both die. Just know, there will be consequences, so let’s not go to the police, alright? As you hopefully guessed when I sent that email, I know a lot about you, James Adall of Enid, Oklahoma.

“Wellll, I think that’s enough for now. Heed my warning; this girl will die unless you do your part. I think I’ve made it easy for the both of you. I can be far less reasonable, when I wish to be. Consider yourselves lucky, play by the rules, and no harm will be done.”

The video ends abruptly, without a credit roll. Twenty three hours remain.

II

The video imbues James with an immediate desire to save the girl. However, fools rush in, and James views himself as the antithesis of foolish. He decides to investigate the situation with a philosophical approach.

What responsibility does he have to save this girl? Vixxious has warned him of the consequences of breaking a rule, but there’s no rule requiring him to play. The last contestant didn’t play, which seems to James the most prudent course of action.

What of the girl’s life, though? The lighting in the video was enough that James could recognize her as merely a stranger. If she were friend or family he would act without thought and do what he could to save her, but a stranger is another matter. He doesn’t believe that he should be held accountable for the life of every random person. If this girl were in a burning building and he were the only person on the street to witness the fire, he would not rush in and put a second life at risk with his inexperience; he’d call 911 and let the experts handle it.

Rule number 3 prevents him from calling the police or he risks retribution in the form of harm to himself or the girl. Vixxious has already shown an uncomfortable amount of familiarity with James, and if he has a phone number, does he also have an address? Is he being watched? Calling the police is the riskiest action he could take, so the easiest means to give the girl help is unavailable to him. His alternatives are to do nothing, and watch the building burn as it were, or to play the game and put himself at risk. It seems at first glance like a simple variation of the classic trolley dilemma.

While considering this perspective, James comes to see it as an unfair assessment of the game: the three rules given are quite lenient towards him. In a trolley problem someone always dies, but if he plays there is the chance that nobody will die. He can play the game at no obvious risk to himself, besides the risks inherently involved when cooperating with a lunatic and possible serial killer. With so few rules, he expects to find loopholes aplenty to exploit. Even if he loses, his own life is not threatened, and he’ll know that he did what he could to rescue the girl. If he wins, as far as he can tell the game is over and both he and the girl are safe. The rules could change, but there is that risk whether he plays along or not.

Coming to no further conclusions, James is finally satisfied that he has a rational reason to become involved, in addition to his initial emotional response.

Resolved to save the girl, James spends the next few hours expending futile effort pushing cliche material onto Reddit. He struggles to gain recognition, and some submissions garner moderate attention, but he’s nowhere close to reaching the front page. To do so requires thousands of “upvotes” from the community, but he’s only managing to attract dozens. Despite reposting tired memes, pictures of adorable cats, and even a breaking news stories with “BREAKING:” in full caps fails to yield the necessary attention to drive his post to the front page. It’s hours past his bedtime, and the lack of progress makes sleep seem more appealing. He wants to help the girl, but he still has to go to school tomorrow.

He shuts down. The night is long, his sleep interrupted often by haunting dreams that he’s the one in the chair.

By the time he steps out of the shower the next morning, the whole fiasco is nearly forgotten. He only gives himself minutes to get ready for school, and heads off to catch the bus with a handful of walnuts and a banana. A half-dozen other groggy students join him as the city bus nears their school. Glancing at his cell phone, he checks his previous night’s submissions to see if anything has caught fire and reached the front page, but his submissions are as good as dead. There’s hardly any ongoing discussions. Typically something that reaches the front page will have hundreds, more often thousands of comments in long many-threaded discussions covering the topic from every angle.

What he needs is something that generates a lot of interest and discussion, James realizes. He’s not going to do that with something people have seen before. It needs to be something new.

He shuffles off the bus and hurries to class; the bus arrives at his school with only a few minutes to spare before his homeroom calls roll. The first few hours go by in a blur; he doesn’t retain a thing his teachers say.

In AP Calc, he whips out his phone absentmindedly and checks his previous night’s posts to see how they’re doing. No change.

She’s in that room, right now. And I’m safe here in class, James thinks to himself. What kind of asshole am I, that I’d leave her in that situation and go about my life? I didn’t put her there, but she’s relying on me to get her out. What am I doing here?

He looks up from the phone, suddenly aware the room has gone quiet and the class’s attention has been turned onto him. From the front of the room, the teacher calls his name. “James?”

“Present.”

The students snigger rudely.

“That wasn’t the question. You’re interrupting my class to check your texts? Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

“Actually, yes. I have to go.”

“Do you. To the principal’s office, then?”

He hurries to leave, tossing the notebook he had not yet opened into his bag. “No, I’m going home. You’ll learn all about it in tomorrow’s news.”

James is normally quiet and placid in her classroom, only chiming in to provide the correct answer to a question the teacher’s posed, and often with incredible speed. She’s too astonished by his uncharacteristic behavior now to consider stopping him, settling instead on passively watching as he leaves her class.

James is lucky. He encounters no adults on his way out of the school. There’s one armed guard who paces the halls, mostly giving students tickets for the kind of anti-authoritarian misbehavior he’s currently engaging in, but James must have caught him on a coffee break.

As he leaves the building, a sudden sense of urgency strikes him. He’s wasted half the day, and there’s only about eight hours left until the constrictive deadline vixxious has left him. With urgency comes inspiration, and James pops open his phone and begins uploading the video file to a file sharing website. It’s a slow transfer over his phone’s network, but the bus ride home will take 20 minutes, assuming he doesn’t have long to wait for the bus to show up. He checks the progress bar several times on his way to the bus stop. He arrives, then stands impatiently as he stares at the bar, willing it to fill.

James has the easiest means to the front page of Reddit ever! Vixxious practically handed-delivered the solution to his own game. The bus arrives as the file transfer completes, and James mindlessly boards while pulling Reddit open on his phone’s web browser. The driver grabs his arm as he passes by, “fare’s $2, kid.”

“Of course, sorry,” as he whips out his wallet and slides his fare card through the reader.

He takes a seat towards the back of the bus, and starts a new post on Reddit. Typing on his phone isn’t easy, but he doesn’t have a lot to say:

Reddit, this girl’s life depends on us, please help!

In the body of the post he copy-pastes vixxious’s private message and text from the previous evening, and includes a link to the uploaded video. [Submit].

He returns the phone to his pocket and stares out the bus window for the rest of the ride home. As the bus follows its familiar route home, he thinks forward to how the afternoon will play out. His post will rocket to the front page, within a couple of hours it’ll certainly be at the top. The community’s discussion will examine the video thoroughly, from whether it’s a fake to determining its origin, and extracting what clues they can. Some people might make jokes, but serious comments will rise to the top of the discussion through the community’s self-moderating upvotes. At some point Reddit’s admin will become involved, but due to the subject nature they’ll certainly leave his submission untouched.

Is this how vixxious intended him to play? It all seems too easy, now. James’ll be on the front page with hours to spare, and if he follows his own rules, he’ll release the girl before 24 hours have passed. What could go wrong?

His parents won’t be home until late, around six. At least he won’t have to explain why he came home early, don’t want to get them involved. He grabs a snack from the fridge and rushes upstairs to fling his laptop open and check the discussion.

It’s on its way up the front page already, with over 1000 upvotes in half an hour. The discussion has exploded just as he expected. In addition to the massive public response, he’s received an additional half-dozen private messages. A lot of people seem bothered that he hasn’t responded in the comments yet, even though it’s only been half an hour. He starts digging through the comments to begin allaying their concerns. They need to know where he’s located: Enid, Oklahoma. They ask if he knows anything more about vixxious or why he’s been targeted: he knows nothing. They ask if he’s gone to the police: he can’t, third rule.

He finds the private messages far more interesting. One catches his attention, that of a private investigator in Oklahoma City who has already tracked him down and offered to help, his message says he’s en route to Enid.

Another message stands out, with the sender’s name highlighted in red, signifying they are a site administrator. James’s pulse quickens as he reads it.

“We’ve discussed your post internally and decided not to delete it until after the 24-hour deadline. The FBI has given us a subpoena for your account and all information pertaining to this case. We thought you should know the authorities have become involved. If we find anything that might help you with your situation, we’ll contact you further.”

Shit, the FBI? The warning stands clear in his mind now: rule number 3, don’t go to the police. He didn’t seek their help explicitly, but will vixxious interpret the situation differently? James can only hope that vixxious won’t learn they’re involved.

He doesn’t have a police record, he’s mild-mannered and has always been polite and respectful to authority. That doesn’t mean he won’t be their first suspect.

Since there isn’t much he can do until they show up, he goes back to the online discussion storming over the video he has posted. Commentators have worked out a couple of pertinent clues, identifying an Enid gas station from its logo on a cup in the garbage. The gas station only has one location in Enid. They also isolated the sound of two jets passing overhead. The video was recorded locally, James concludes. There are military aircraft flying over all the time, with a decent airbase only a few miles away. The horror sinks in as James realizes he wasn’t just a random target.

There’s another message from the private investigator: “I’m in town, think I know where the video was shot. Going to check it out.”

The girl’s clothing is identified as a school uniform, one person points out. Another spots her school ID dangling from a lanyard, occasionally peeking from under her sweater vest. The partial name appears to read “Maggie,” matching a missing person reported two days ago in Enid, a 16 year old girl by the name of Maggie Saxxon.

This is getting serious. The police aren’t just going to be curious about some video, they’ve got a missing person case to solve and he’s got fresh evidence of the kidnapping. Panic leads him to consider fleeing, but the moment passes. He doesn’t know how to escape the police, and he might need their help if vixxious has further plans for him. He needs to wait them out, convince them quickly that he’s working on their side to save the girl, and get back home.

He doesn’t have to wait for them long.

III

With a mere five hours left before vixxious’s deadline, the doorbell rings followed by a stern knock at the door. James closes his laptop and brings it with him as he heads out to meet the police. He expects to be arrested, and they’ll want the device as evidence. Help them, and maybe they’ll help him.

As he descends the stairs, he spots the flurry of activity outside his home. A SWAT team stands ready near their distinctly marked truck which has parked on the curb, with several city police cars at every angle around it. They responded quickly, clearly they suspect James has the girl tied up in his home somewhere.

He opens the door, inwardly nervous but outwardly calm. The two officers, one male and one female, are both noticeably surprised when he answers after the first knock, and he’s unarmed to boot.

“Are you James Adall?” the male officer asks, authoritatively pounding the words out one by one.

“Yes, sir,” James dutifully responds. He observes as the two officers share an inquisitive glance with one another, as if to ask ‘he’s just a kid?’

“And are you known as,” the officer checks a slip of paper held in his right hand, “‘burristo’ on the website ‘Reddit?’”

James takes a deep breath and thanks his lucky stars that he’s in a fairly small town, with small town police. “Yes sir, that is me. I know why you’re here and I’ll fully cooperate. You’re welcome to search the house, but this laptop has all the evidence you’ll need.”

“We have a warrant to search the premises, but we appreciate your offer. Are your parents home?”

“No sir, they both work at the plant, they won’t be home until late.”

“Please go with Officer Jenny. She will log your laptop as evidence. We will have to cuff you, now, for your protection as well as ours.”

Officer Jenny directs him to turn around and reads James his rights while she cuffs him. They’re loose, and he thinks he could squeeze out of them if he felt like running.

“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?”

“Yes. I mean to cooperate, we’re mutually interested in finding Maggie. Look, there’s not a lot of time left, can I speak to the officer in charge here before we go?”

“Uhh-mmm,” Jenny seems a little unsure, she has far more experience handling uncooperative perps than cooperative ones. It’s so much easier when she can throw them around a little bit. “I guess we can do that. Come with me please,” she says, as she directs him towards the cluster of police cars through subtle nudges to his back.

“Captain Smith, our suspect is in custody. He would like to speak with you.”

The police captain is shorter than James by an inch or two, but he makes up for it in weight. He squints as he glares at James. “What’s this about kid? Do you know where the girl is?”

“No sir, but I’d like to share what I do know with you. I was contacted online by an unknown individual about twenty hours ago with regards to this missing girl, whom I’ve since learned is named Maggie Saxxon. I was sent a video with simple instructions, and told to follow them within twenty-four hours or she would be killed.”

James pauses, unsure how to continue. The captain looks to Jenny and a few of the nearby officers that have gathered to listen, but nobody speaks.

“I don’t know where she is, sir. I brought Officer Jenny my laptop, it has all the information that I have. Did you watch the video that started this?”

“No, son, I haven’t. The feds sent us out to pick you up, weren’t big on details other than you were somehow involved in the Maggie case.”

“In under five hours, Maggie will die unless I satisfy this anonymous individual’s demands. He calls himself vixxious, and is somewhere here in Enid. I don’t know who he is, and I don’t believe I’ve had any contact with him.”

“What do you mean, you don’t believe you have,” the captain asks with suspicion.

“Well, I find it hard to believe that this person, whom I’ve only had contact with online, and the missing girl are both in Enid by chance alone. He seems to know a lot about me, but like I’ve said, he’s only contacted me anonymously, so I don’t know who he is or how he knows me.”

“Fair enough. What’s this video, then.”

“It’s on my laptop. Can I show you?”

“Ahh, no, we can’t let you tamper with the evidence.”

James’s heart sinks, the blood rushes from his head. He’s lost.

“Excuse me, captain?” A plainclothes officer standing in the small crowd steps forward. “If it would hasten our investigation, I can access files on the boy’s computer.”

“Hmm, alright let’s see it then.”

Jenny passes the laptop to the man, who sets it on the roof of the nearest car. He logs in with the password James gives him, writing it down for later investigation.

“Okay, it’s going to be in my downloads folder. It’s the one right there,” James describes, as the officer awkwardly navigates through his files, “it’s in the folder to the right of that one. Yeah. Alright, it’s the first file, the video.”

The officer runs the video, and they watch in silence. The speakers carry only so far, and some in the back of the crowd whisper, asking one another what was said, but the captain shushes them and directs the plainclothes officer—he calls him Patrick—to skip back.

When the video ends, they remain in silence for another moment. Patrick closes the video file, visibly shaken by what he’s seen.

“You’ve never seen this man? Or heard his voice? Think hard, does it sound at all familiar?”

“I…no sir. I don’t recognize any of it. I’ve shared the video online, which is how the FBI became involved, and there has been a very active ongoing discussion primarily involved with the video’s analysis. They have uncovered clues that indicate it was filmed here in Enid. One man, a private investigator at Oklahoma City is in town and says he might know where it was filmed. He said he’d get back to me. Um,” he points with his head at Patrick, “could you open the web browser and check if he’s responded?”

James goes through the complicated process of guiding a computer novice to the website, then through his private messages, until he finds a recent message from the private investigator. It’s brief, apparently written from a cell phone. Patrick reads it out loud for the crowd to hear: “I’m in Enid. Think I’m being followed. Black van, no markings”

Ominous. The officers look from one another, not sure how to use all of this new information. The Federal agents will expect James to be delivered upon their arrival, but if his story is true then he can’t be held as a suspect, he’s clearly a victim of sorts.

Captain Smith finally speaks up. “Alright son, we need to detain you for further questioning, but we’d like to get you out to err…handle this situation…before it’s too late. Unfortunately our hands are tied, pardon the pun, until the Feds arrive and decide how to proceed. We’re required to act in their absence, and they asked that we bring you in.”

“I understand. Did they say how long you had to keep me in?” James asks, with a mix of jest and hope.

“You know…they didn’t. Ha! I like the way you think. Alright let’s get this over with. We’re going to take you in, book you, have you sign a statement verifying everything you’ve shown and told us here. We’ll leave a few officers behind to keep an eye on things, make sure you don’t try to run or this vixxious character doesn’t drop by.” He turns to Officer Jenny, directing her. “Will you write that report up and fax it to HQ now? I’d like him to sign it as soon as we get there.” Turning to speak to the crowd of officers, he bellows, “Let’s get moving people, we don’t have a lot of time left to find this girl!”

The caravan moves out, and despite their aid, James can’t shake the feeling that he’s already lost. He’s broken rule 3, the police are as involved as they could be. He’s worried about what the FBI will do to him when they have to come arrest him themselves, but his most immediate concern is still for the girl’s safety. Will she be punished for his mistake?

As the caravan moves toward police headquarters, cars break formation to head back to their respective patrols. Finally, it’s down to his car and one other as they arrive at the station. Captain Smith opens his door and helps him get out safely; he’s still cuffed and it’s a struggle to stand up. He’s guided to an interrogation room, and the Captain leaves for a minute, returning with the papers as he had earlier described.

“Sign these and you’re free to go.”

James skims the testimony to verify it doesn’t make any claims of his guilt. He knows enough to not immediately trust he isn’t being framed for the kidnapping, but a quick read satisfies him that it’s only a rough accounting of the events that occurred outside his home. He then signs the other, a notice that informs him that he may be contacted by police again for further questioning.

“The two fellows from the FBI will show up in a little bit, so don’t be alarmed. They may arrest you, but hopefully you’ll have the situation sorted out before they arrive. We’ll keep them here as long as we can, but eventually I’ll have to tell them that we didn’t keep you.”

“I understand. Win or lose, I think this game is just about over.”

“Oh yeah?” the captain asks inquisitively.

“When we were checking my laptop, I noticed the post that started your involvement was at the top of the front page…I passed his test. The only question is whether your involvement means I broke a rule. I didn’t directly ask for police help, and he said the third rule was don’t go to the police. But you’re helping, and he might not be aware that I didn’t request your assistance.”

“Well we’ll have officers on the scene to provide protection, so he’ll have a hard time punishing you directly. We’re worried about the girl, too, but he’s holding all the cards until we can locate him. That tip you provided us should help, all officers are on alert for a black van.”

“Do me a favor and keep my protection inside the house? I don’t want him snooping around and spotting police, he might not know you’re involved yet.”

“That’s a great idea. You’ve got it, kid. Alright, let’s get you home. I guess you’ll need your laptop,” Smith says, and nods at the officer standing at the door. “It’ll be returned to you outside. Stand up and I’ll remove your cuffs.”

The captain leaves James with two officers who escort him to a car in silence. Neither seems aware of the situation, at least enough to show any signs of urgency. James asks them to pick it up, and the two officers share a quick look, one shrugs to the other, and the car flips its lights on and accelerates, gaining an additional 15 MPH. James taps his fingers nervously on the laptop, but it’s functionally useless until he’s home and able to reconnect to wifi. He glances at the car’s clock in the front seat. There are two hours and fifteen minutes left.

IV

They arrive at his home within minutes. James pops out of the vehicle and opens the garage door for them, effectively concealing any police presence. His parents should be home soon.

“Can you guys watch out for my mom and dad? They’ll be in a white four-door sedan. Let me know when they show up, I don’t want them to open the garage door and see your car or they’ll flip out.”

The officers chuckle, and one nods with a “sure thing.” They head up to his room, where James plugs in his laptop and boots it up. One of the officers takes a seat on his bed and pulls out a cell phone, losing himself in the screen. The other stands near the window, discretely keeping watch over the cul-de-sac below. Seems like a lopsided balance of responsibilities, but officers always work in pairs when the situation calls for danger, and there’s not much else for them to do besides watch the street. He’s not sure which is having less fun. At least they’ll only be here for a couple of hours, at the most.

James logs into his account and checks for new messages. There are an overwhelming number of them, and it takes a quarter of an hour to sort them. Most can be discarded at a glance, those wishing him luck, prayers, or offering whatever other assistance they can provide from Nowhere, ID, or Toofar, GA.

Two messages catch his attention, one from the private investigator and another from vixxious. He takes a deep breath and decides to read the PI’s message first while he calms back down. It’s terse, likely still from a cell phone.

“He’s not here. I’m standing over the chair where your video was shot, but they’ve left. Looks recent, light was still on, no dust collected on the seat.”

It doesn’t really help his anxiety, but it’s probably better than the next message. He opens the one from vixxious.

“I’m not happy that you’ve flaunted my rules. I only gave you three. So you got the police involved, even if you didn’t ask them. What am I supposed to do with you, now? We had an agreement, James. I’m going to let the girl live, but you? What do I do about you?”

James waves the idle cop over to read the message, who then reads it aloud to the lookout. They look a little disturbed, apparently they hadn’t realized the kid they were protecting was in any real danger. James notices the lookout unbuckle his gun, so that it’s loose in his holster.

“Should I call the Captain?” James asks them.

“No, we don’t want to alert this vixxious character that you’re under protection, if we bring more cars down he might not show up, with or without the girl. This could be our only chance to catch him.”

James nods, then sits back at his desk. He can’t do anything now, but wait. He pulls his cell phone out and fiddles with it. There’s a notifier alerting him to a text message from his mom that he must not have heard. His parents are heading home, and might pick up McDonalds if he wants anything. The timestamp is thirty minutes old! Fear grips him, it’s only a 15 minute drive from there. Would vixxious go after his parents, if he knew James was under protection?

He’s about to bring this news to the attention of the two cops when the lookout gives a sudden hand gesture to the other, who stands immediately and draws his weapon.

“Black van,” the cop whispers from the corner of his mouth as he keeps his eyes on the street below. “Just pulled into the cul-de-sac. It’s stopping in front of your house.”

The other officer calls in the details, holding the cell phone with his left hand, but keeping the gun ready in his right.

“Are you going to go down and arrest him?” James asks naively.

“No, we can’t leave the house and chase him, there’s no way we’d keep up. We’ll have to rely on our support. There are other vehicles in the area that can respond.”

A voice comes back over the officer’s phone, but it’s too quiet for James to pick up. The officer nods as he listens, then pockets the phone. “They’re going to send what backup they can, but some officers in the area are responding to a serious accident.”

James gulps, but the swallow catches in his throat. His parents? It’s not possible.

He rushes to the window and throws the curtain open. The side door of the van is open and a girl is stumbling out, her eyes are covered but she’s otherwise unrestrained. Blond hair, it must be Maggie. Lost in the moment, he suddenly remembers why he’s watching the scene and looks the vehicle over, but doesn’t spot any damage: it hasn’t been in an accident. Maybe it’s coincidence, he dares to hope.

He sees a driver through the front window, but he’s too shaded and distant to make out any identifiable details. The girl walks forward testing each step, nearly blundering into the mailbox. She’s headed towards the house. The van door suddenly slams shut, and a noisy puff of smoke bursts from the tailpipe as the van starts, jolting forward. The two cops race out of the room, leaving James alone. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to follow them or not, so he does. They race down the stairs, James taking a more casual pace. The first cop fumbles the lock as he tries to open the door. The latch slides open and he pulls the door open, just as Maggie reaches the front porch. She’s removed the blindfold, and is looking around the neighborhood, apparently trying to get her bearings.

“Are you really a police officer?” she finally asks him with some skepticism.

“Yes m’am,” he smiles at her.

“You won’t catch him. He told me to tell you that, if I wanted to. It’s not safe, and you shouldn’t try.”

“We’re very good at what we do, Miss. Don’t you worry about us.”

“Oh I know. He said you’ll think twice, though. I’m not sure what he meant by it.”

The second officer speaks up, “Are you hurt? Did he harm you in any way? We can call an ambulance.”

“No sir, thank you. It wasn’t that bad, just dark and he wouldn’t let me talk. I’m sorry I even cried. You must be James?” she asks as she notices James lingering between the two cops.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m burrista. From Reddit.”

“No shit? Is that what this is about?”

“Vixxious said he found it amusing, that we had similar names and both lived in Enid. He’s a bad person. This wasn’t some harmless game. Both of our lives were in danger. But I don’t think we are anymore, you won.”

“Do you know if my parents are okay?” James dares to ask her.

“What? I…I don’t know. I mean, I was blindfolded, but I don’t think he had time to do anything, unless it was before yesterday. Although, we had a very rough ride over here.”

The officers turn to James now, suddenly alarmed. “Do you have information that suggests your parents are in danger?”

“Well, they should have been home by now. About half an hour ago, I think. And vixxious threatened me again since I got you guys involved. I…I don’t really know what he did, or will do.”

“What kind of vehicle do they drive?” the nearer officer with the cell phone asks, as he pulls it back from his pocket.

“Um, it’s a white sedan.”

The officer places a call as they all watch, James showing only the slightest indication of the tension he’s feeling.

“Hello, this is Officer Rinkley. Could you connect me to an officer at the scene of that accident? Sure, I’ll wait.”

He taps his foot while he’s on hold, until a tinny voice comes through the phone, again too quiet for James to catch any details.

“Is this Phil? Hey, it’s Rinkley. I was hoping you could describe the vehicle involved in that accident for me.”

The officer watches James as he listens to the voice on the other end. His eyes grow wide with surprise as he hears the description.

“Would you say that again?” the officer asks, as he finally puts the phone on speaker so they can all listen.

“I said, the vehicle is an FBI car. Those two feds coming from Oklahoma City were involved in some sort of accident, they ran their vehicle right into the side of a building. Nobody else was hurt, but the two agents, and now they’re both dead. They must have been going at least 70 when they smashed into the wall. We had to close half the city block to figure it all out, but it turns out a witness saw them get run down by a black van.”

“Is that the same van the perp in Maggie Saxxon’s case is driving?”

“Seems like it. How’d he know the FBI was coming up, and where to find them? It’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Those questions are outside our league. I’m sure the FBI will be swarming over the town to try and figure that one out, now that their own are involved. All we can do is keep these two kids safe, and take care of their dead. Thanks for your help, Phil.” Rinkley hangs up the phone, and looks to his partner for ideas, draws a blank, then looks to James. “Well kid, your folks aren’t in that car, at least.”

As he says it, the lookout officer at the door gestures at James to come over, just as his parents’ white sedan turns into the cul-de-sac. James pushes past the officer and rushes out to the street to meet them. His parents pull into the driveway, and his father steps out to open the garage.

“Wow son, are you that hungry? It’s a little stale, there was an accident downtown and we got stopped in traffic.”

“I know all about it, Dad. Before you open the garage, there’s something I need you to know.”

James’s father looks to his wife still sitting in the car. As if telepathically, she kills the engine and steps out. He looks back to James and asks, “Well, what is it son? You’re not hiding a goat in there or something, are you?”

“Umm… no. Not exactly. The police are here. I’m not—“

“What?!” his mom exclaims with alarm. “Is everybody alright?”

“Yes, Mom! Everything’s fine, now. Please come inside, and I’ll tell you the whole story. There’s a girl here, too. It’s the missing girl that was on the news.”

His parents exchange a glance, uninterpretable by anybody but them. “Alright, but let me grab your dinner,” his mom says as she pulls the bag of fast food from the front seat, and they both quietly follow James back to the house.

As James reaches the front door, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Doing his best not to alert his family or the officers, he nonchalantly draws the phone from his pocket and checks the text.

“You played well. I can’t blame you for the pigs sticking their noses where they don’t belong. I’m on my way out of town, but maybe we’ll play again sometime?”

TJ Clark is a lifelong reader that is now working to find a foothold in the burgeoning self-publishing marketplace. He has one short story already published on Kindle, with several more in various stages of development. He lives alone (+1 cat) in Minneapolis, Minnesota.


Every weekend is the same. Drinking cheap beer with bored people at the same house. We’re all talk. Every weekend we say, “Let’s go do something.” But we never do. We’ve exhausted every topic and dragged out every drama. Everybody knows everyone else’s business. We’ve redefined gossip out here on the island.

We’re always doing everything together. Carpooling, surfing, eating, fishing, watching TV, sleeping together. Everyone’s fucked someone who’s fucked someone else who’s fucked your roommate. And everybody knows all about it. We bring a new definition to the grapevine out here on the island.

We might as well be wearing leafs for clothes and blowing conches instead of texting. Why we even drive our cars anymore is beyond me. Everyone lives within swimming distance of each other on the canal. During the summer months, when the sun boils the water and we turn brown the way lobsters turn red, we air up a few tubes and we float the canals, never forgetting the floating cooler stocked full of Keystone. Sometimes I think we drink as much as we do because we hope someone will say something that will spark an idea or at least a fight. Sometimes I think we only drink so we can forget we’re bored and unimaginative.

Out here on the island, we’re always waiting for things to begin when they’ve already started. We don’t start drinking until 10 most nights, and don’t really go out until 12. Things usually wind down around 2 or 3 in the morning—at least that’s what we’ve concluded after reviewing the drunk-texts sent the night before. The most fun we have on the weekends is waking up hung over and piecing the previous night back together. Everyone calls each other and meets up at one house or another, still a little drunk from the night before. If one of us is missing, we call around until we figure out where they are, go over to whoever’s house they ended up passing out at, and rescue our fallen comrade. We bring a new definition to “The Walk of Shame” out here on the Island.

Once we’ve assembled and finished vomiting half digested beer and stomach bile, we collect what we remember;

“Do you remember deep-throating that cucumber?”

“He was all like, ‘I thought everyone was down to watch a movie, if I had known everyone was down to party, we could have just partied’- fucking moron.”

“When we were driving over to their house I saw this guy walking down the street barefoot with his hand down his pants so I stopped and realized who it was… I can’t believe I’ve had sex with that guy.”

“We stole your phone and hid it in the blender, sorry for forgetting about it when we decided to make margaritas.”

“Dude, you slapped him, grabbed his bottle of vodka and started chugging it in his face. Then you proceeded to vomit into the sink- or should I say around it. Please stop eating spaghetti before you drink.”

“We were all screaming for her to ‘suck that dick’, it was horrible. But hey, at least she got a free beer out of it.”

“Yeah man, you ripped one and he was like, ‘What the fuck, dude’ and you were like, ‘I’m sorry, I thought we were all adults here?”

“We found him passed out face down on the side of the house covered in his own vomit with sticker burrs stuck all over his clothes and in his hair”

Every week we break new ground, doing stupider shit than the week before. Maybe that’s why we drink, so we can let our subconscious reign free, show our true colors and blame it on the alcohol.

Whenever someone’s 21st birthday rolls around it’s always an event. The island’s gift to you on your 21st birthday is alcohol poisoning. I’m surprised no one’s died yet. Those of us who are old enough to go to the bars, or crafty enough to sneak in, always go to the same ones—the only three out here on the island. They’ve all got their own names fabricated by whoever was sober enough to remember them when someone blurted it out. “The Dirty Bird got me” never gets old out here on the island.

When the summer months start to fade into the fall we depend on bonfires out on the beach. The wooden pallets are collected and the mass texts are sent out;

“South Pac. 10:30. LETS FUCKING RAGE!”

Bonfires are always the same. Everyone rolls on out to the beach in their trucks and SUV’s. Bonfires sound like Warped Tour- there’s always five different trucks blasting five different types of music. As soon as you get tired of metal you just head over to the truck blaring country or rap or Dub Step or Skynard.

Without fail, the topic of rotisserie chicken always gets brought up at every bonfire. You’ll be talking to someone and realize your arm is burning hot so you rotate places with the person you’re talking to until your other arm gets hot. The people closest to the fire rotate with the people furthest from the fire all night. Everyone rotates like rotisserie chickens.

It’s always great trying to find a place to pee at bonfires. You’ll get a friend to accompany you to the dunes if you’re really modest, but the drunker everyone gets, the closer you pee to the crowd. Before you know it, you’re pissing on the tire of the someone-who’s-fucked-someone-else-who’s-fucked-your-roommate’s tire a car or two away from the crowd.

The things you see when you’re moderately sober, pissing up in the dunes, is ridiculous. The drunkest are already making out against parked cars. It’s always fun catching someone puking their guts out, all doubled over with one hand holding onto the bumper of a car for stability. It’s even funnier when you catch the same person throwing up three times in one night. That’s what happens when we’re feeling classy and decide to splurge on a keg of Shiner. Only us dumbasses out here on the island would think a keg of Shiner was a good idea.

Sure, we have our fair share of idiotic moments out here on the island, but we do manage to slip in a little romance here and there. You wouldn’t think it possible, what with all of our meaningless sex and drunken hook ups, but everyone admittedly needs some level of intimacy from time to time. The necessity for passion occasionally radiates from the flames into our hearts at bonfires. Nothing quite compares to the rush of half drunkenly gazing out across the flames and catching someone’s eye. Such an occurrence is rare, but it does happen. The heat from the fire makes your insides warm and your cheeks glow. One can’t help but look gorgeous in the luster of the flames. You’re never sure if it’s the caffeine in your Four-Loko, or just the thrill of someone new approaching, but when you see those eyes wrapping around the perimeter of the fire, the sand glittering pink as the wind carries it to sea, you can’t help but let your heart leap. It’s hard not to think you’ve fallen in love at a bonfire, but when the Sailor Jerry’s jack-hammer hangover pops your eye balls out of their sockets, it’s plain to see bonfires are just an escape from our regular 40 watt artificially lit lives.

In the winter months we always talk about getting a group of us together and road tripping up to Colorado or New Mexico for a ski trip, just to get off the island. But we’re all too broke and full of shit to follow through. We would never admit it, but our island is our vacation every day. The winter sunsets of purple ribbons doused with blue cotton candy clouds are enough to justify the outrageous rent. Some people head back home over winter break but the majority of us stay. We fill our time with more alcohol and talk about the summer when we were tan and happy and really living. The winter months are great for reminiscing on your back patio, downing a bottle of rum with your roommates as the sun floats down the canal;

“Remember when we were throwing back a few and she stood up and was like, ‘C’mon Fuckers, lets go jump off of some shit’ And he was all like, ‘What? Why?’ And I’ll never forget it—she stomped her foot and threw her hands up and was nearly screaming, ‘Because! This is all there is and I’ll be damned if I don’t go jump off of something that doesn’t shock me back to life! Now let’s go jump off the pier before it’s too late!’ and we all piled in his obnoxious SUV, drove down to the pier, and wouldn’t you know it, everyone jumped except for her.”

“Nah man, I got one better. We were over at their house high as balls and someone thought it’d be a good idea for all of us to climb up on the roof and jump off into the canal. The only thing is, the first guy that went to jump forgot about the balcony below and ended up clipping his foot on the railing. The stupid fuck nearly died. And then he ripped his shit up on the barnacles trying to climb out of the canal instead of using the ladder right next to him! I’m glad that douche moved to Maryland or wherever.”

“The best was when we were all over at that one house and what’s-his-face’s little sister was there and we got her retarded drunk. Dude, she ended up making out with like five of the guys there and tried to go down on one of them right there in the middle of the living room- with everyone watching and everything! She would have done it too if her brother hadn’t stopped her. I kind of wish he’d have been taking a piss or something when it all was happening, that shit would have been funny.”

“I nearly died laughing that night we had that shot contest and she took like 7 shots, all within an hour of each other. When we got back to his house she announced she had to pee and shut herself in the bathroom with the lights off. She was in there for like ten minutes so I poked my head in and there she was, passed out sitting up right on the can with her pretty little dress all cinched up under her arms. A few minutes later I heard her come out of the bathroom and open the backdoor, so I darted around the corner and she was all cross eyed like, ‘Are we going?’ and I was like, ‘Hey man, what’s that bulge under your dress?’ She goes, ‘uh, nothing…’ shut the door and ran up stairs when I heard him go, ‘What the fuck? Why are you trying to smuggle toilet paper in your underwear?!’ I mean, we steal toilet paper from Stripes all the time but from a friend’s house? Man, what a night.”

“Did ya’ll ever hear about the guys who got their asses handed to them at Mardi Gras? Yeah, they were a bunch of guys, you know, a bunch of white guys in New Orleans. So anyway, they’re hammered and everything, and this group of black guys walks by and one of them bumps into one of the white guys, and the white guy— he’s fucking out of his mind drunk—he turns around to the black guy and goes, “Fucking nig,” and of course the guy turns around and just deck’s the shit out of him. So it turns into this all out brawl, like straight up out of a bar fight scene in those old Wild West movies. Anyways, the black guys beat the shit out of all the white guys and the best part, the guy who started it all, the one who called them nigs, his face got stomped into the ground. He ended up in the hospital with Mardi Gras beads embedded in his cheek. No joke, it was fucking great.”

The best part about winter break is all the extra free time we use to mess with each other. We don’t have a name for it, maybe re-gifting garbage, but whatever you call it, it’s a great way to kill time. After Christmas, everyone out here on the island throws away their Christmas trees at this city collection spot, along with a bunch of big garbage items, like chairs and couches and stuff like that. Anyway, we’ve all got it in our heads that it’s a great idea to pick up a bunch of the random trash and Christmas trees people toss out and we “re-gift” the junk, dumping it in whoever’s yard is closest, or whoever is more annoying. This always leads to retaliation by way of flour bombing cars, breaking into houses and throwing slices of cheese high up on walls, sticking slices of bologna on walls behind pictures, putting DVDs into the wrong cases, writing “Fuck” and drawing penises on anything and everything possible, changing people’s home page on their computer a gay porn website, you know, harmless stuff. The anarchy goes on until the sun starts to yawn and before we know it, it’s spring and our time is passed in the ocean or at school or out drinking as usual.

Spring break is the time to amp up our already chaotic life styles. No one leaves the island all week, not even to visit home. The causeway is backed up all the way to the mainland and it takes over an hour just to get over the bridge, or ‘O.T.B.’ as we like to say. The Thursday before Spring Break is unleashed we all pool our money and stock up on beer and liquor—prices go up anytime tourists flock to our island. We spend the week out on our white sand beaches, gathered along the designated path for tourists to follow so as to not get their two wheel drive cars lodged in the sand. We’re the only people out there who aren’t wearing sunscreen, not because we want to get tan, but because our bronzed bodies are immune to the sun by now. Our area is crowded with games, footballs flying overhead, washers and PVC-can. Most people don’t know what PVC-can is until they’ve lived out here on the island. It’s simple really, just two PVC pipes stabbed into the ground with an empty crumpled up beer can balanced on the top. You play by trying to knock the can opposite of you down with another empty crushed can. If you knock it down the other team has to drink, if they knock yours down, you’ve got to drink. Beer bongs are continually in the air, saluting the sky in thanks for giving us such a beautiful day. The trucks we crowd around spew different music, like they do at bonfires, and we rotate like rotisserie chickens around the music, baking in the sun.

Spring break is the time when we realize how lucky we are. We live mere seconds from the most beautiful beaches in Texas, the beaches that people from all over the United States flock to, just for a day or two. And we get to wake up every day and see the ocean and smell the salt and feel the suns warmth. Every. Single. Day. We would never admit it, but when we all drunkenly run out to the crisp blue water, the blistering white sand kicking up beneath our feet, the salty wind kissing our cheeks—that’s when our hearts flood with gratitude. With the ocean spraying our skin and the sun beaming down on us, we know in that moment that this island doesn’t belong to us—but rather, we belong; Out Here On The Island.

The familiar ding of the email alert caught Robbie’s attention. He swiveled his chair away from the TV and rolled his fingers across the keyboard. Something flashed across the monitor briefly altering its appearance from a few seconds ago. His eyes instantly spotted the new mail in his inbox.

Curiosity tingled his thoughts, anticipation of something new, something he hadn’t known or read or seen fifteen minutes earlier held him in thrall. The thrill of it never failed to stop him cold no matter what he was doing. With one click of his mouse he was skimming over the email in its entirety before starting at the top again.

Robbie heard a shuffle down the stairs across from the front door. Boots hit the tile and stopped. He heard a deep sigh.

“Robbie c’mon,” Cole said. “Get offline. We’re going to be late.”

“One sec… I just need to send this to seven people.”

“Not this again.”

He could hear Cole’s impatience building, that way he would muddle about in place, his feet brushing across the floor over and over and his hands plunging in and out of his pockets. Robbie didn’t care. The email said he had seven minutes to forward it on to seven people. If he did that he would meet the love of his life.

“C’mon Cole, I have to. I could meet that special someone in seven days. If I don’t forward it, I’ll have bad luck for seven years.”

“For Crissakes, Robbie. These chain letters are bullshit. Nothing has ever come true, not money, not love, not good luck, not bad luck. It’s just stupid junior high garbage.”

“Calm down, I do it just for fun.”

“No you don’t. You really believe it. You believe everything. UFOs, Bigfoot, ghosts. All that crap.”

“So, it makes life more interesting.”

“Just don’t send it to me. I’m sick of getting them. I delete them all without opening anyway.”

Robbie’s shoulders tensed. A nervous flutter crossed his chest. His eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to do that. Never break the chain. You have no idea what could happen.”

“Robbie, enough, I swear if you send me one more…”

“Okay, okay I won’t.” He quickly replaced Cole’s name in his forward message with an online buddy out of state he’d never met and pushed send. “There. All done. Let’s go.”

“’Bout time.” Cole opened the front door for them and made sure Robbie slipped on his shoes and grabbed his wallet. “You got a real problem with those chains and forwards, man. You can’t let one of them go.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…c’mon the love of my life is waiting.”

* * *

Cole leaned against the bar and cradled his beer. He watched people glide back and forth, some greeting each other, others slyly scoping hopeful connections. Heat filled the air, mixing with the heavy scent of perfume, cologne and sweat. The potential was endless in a bar that welcomed all.

“Hey, where’s your roomie?” A tall man with tattoos of thorns and roses on both arms asked Cole. Before Cole could answer, the man’s head swiveled to watch a thin, blonde goddess with legs for miles stroll by.

“He’s making out with some guy.”

“I don’t know. A gay dude for a roommate, you’re brave, man.”

“Robbie’s good people. I’ve known him since I was six for God’s sakes. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Sure, until he strikes out here and eyes you later on, too many beers, no place to run and hide.”

“Give it up, Kev, Robbie isn’t like that, he’s like a brother. Why don’t you stop being so afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of him. He’s your roommate not mine.”

“Right. This night’s a bust. I’m getting tired. Guess I should try to find Robbie.”

“Good luck with that. He’s the only one that got lucky out of the three of us tonight.”

“Yeah, and he ‘s looking for the love of his life within the next two hours.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. He’s obsessed with those stupid email chains.”

“God, I hate those things.”

“Me too. See ya man. I’m out.”

“Go get him tiger.”

“Don’t be an asshole.” Cole turned and bumped shoulders with a tall, muscular–his eyes scanned the form storming past him wearing a satiny blouse, mane of brown hair cascading down the back of the neck–woman. The woman didn’t stop or even look back as she vanished into the crowd. “Excuse me,” Cole snapped and resumed his search.

In a far corner he found Robbie staring into a glass of half melted ice and pouting. Cole walked up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “Where’s your friend?”

“He already had a boyfriend.”

“Oh…sorry. Well, there’s always next week. Why don’t we call it a night?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ve about had it with men.”

“At least for tonight.”

“Exactly.” Cole could always get Robbie to crack a smile, no matter what was going on.

Robbie drove them home, carefully avoiding the speed traps that staked out every bar and dance club in town and pulled into the single assigned space they had in the apartment complex. That worked out just fine since Cole didn’t own a car. Trains and subways were his friend. Luckily their apartment was only two blocks away from a station.

The first thing Robbie did when they walked through the door was head straight for the computer in the open closet of the den.

“What are you doing?” Cole asked, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“I just want to check my emails.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I won’t stay on all night.”

“Whatever, I don’t care. It’s your life.”

“Nice Cole. Isn’t it past your bed time?”

Cole shook his head and wove his hand at his ridiculous roommate before stumbling upstairs.

The room lit up with the soft glow of the monitor.

* * *

Forward this email to fifteen people within fifteen minutes and you will have good luck for fifteen years. Sent.

Forward this within the next half hour to receive amazing news within the week. Sent.

If you forward this to at least ten people you will find true love. Sent.

The good luck fairy sprinkles you with her pixie dust. Now don’t keep her for yourself send her along or you will have bad luck. Sent.

Please keep this candle lit. Sent.

Send a smile to someone you love. Sent.

Robbie glanced up at the computer’s digital clock. 4:13 am. Shit…I’m going to be a wreck tomorrow. I’d better get to bed.

He stretched and yawned, trying valiantly to pull himself away from his computer. He was like an addict just wanting one more hit. One more thrill. One more rush. The more of them he forwarded the more excited he got. The more chances there were, the more the promises would come true. The wishes. The miracles. And he could guarantee nothing bad would touch him or his friends and loved ones. He did his part. He followed the rules, he played the game, but he was losing the battle against fatigue.

Robbie’s eyes grew heavy. His head nodded once and he jumped in his chair, a quick startle that felt like he was falling then the strange jump in his legs, muscles twitching. He thought about making some coffee but lacked the ambition to get up out of his seat.

Another yawn and his eyes watered, the corners of them soaked. Cole’s right. This is crazy. Besides. There are no more tonight. The inbox is clean. Let it go…let it… what’s that?

The inbox refreshed, a beep resounded. New mail! The subject line was flanked with asterisks and read DO NOT IGNORE in all caps. Robbie’s interest was immediately piqued but he was exhausted. It was almost too much effort to direct his mouse over the mail and click it.

The screen flashed. The mail’s background was black, the type red and before he could read the first word, his eyes closed and he slumped back in his chair.

* * *

Cole lumbered downstairs, groggy, his hair tussled, a massive headache assaulting him and the first thing he saw through his hazy sight was Robbie, facedown on his keyboard. A slight snore escaped him. Cole spotted the email still open on the computer screen. The black and red color scheme glared at him in annoying mockery. He shook his head. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m unplugging this fucking thing.”

Robbie sprung to life just as Cole got down on his knees and reached for the power cord. “No wait,” he grabbed hold of Cole’s hand. “This is the last one tonight. I’ll send it right now and go to bed.”

“It’s morning, Robbie.” Cole dropped the cord and stood up.

“It is?”

“What’s wrong with you? Lately you’ve been into this shit more than ever. You barely leave the computer. I’m starting to get worried, man.”

“I can’t help it. I feel like I have to do it. I just don’t want any of them staying in my inbox.”

“Then delete them!”

“I can’t.”

“Robbie, have you taken a look at yourself lately? There are dark circles under your eyes. This is the worst I’ve ever seen you. It’s messing your life up. These last few months you’ve stopped living your life for these things.”

Robbie stared up at him speechless. His mouth hung open but his eyes skimmed the email that still begged for his forward.

“Where’s the Robbie I used to know?” Cole continued. “You’re no fun anymore. No one wants to be around you. Come out of your little closet.”

Robbie laughed out loud. His eyes widened with excitement for something other than chain emails.

“Not that one. I mean seriously, have any of these emails ever done what they said?”

Robbie shook his head. “No.”

“Of course not. Because they’re a bunch of bullshit. All of these forwards and not one thing ever came true. It’s time to stop them. They’re for lonely losers. You’re not a loser, man. I mean look at this one.” He pointed at the black email with its red type. “Oh, what are those words supposed to be like blood? Oh, I’m shaking.”

“You’re right,” Robbie giggled. “It looks like a twelve-year-old created it.”

“Exactly. Some lonely loser kid with nothing better to do. It has no more magic or threat than the Easter Bunny. Just delete it Rob, take this first step. Delete the damn thing. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, we’ve known each other almost all of our lives. Delete it. I want my friend back.”

Robbie stared at the screen. He scanned over the text again. Studied the layout, the colors. He smiled and looked up at Cole. “You’re right. Enough.” He pushed the delete key and successfully sent the mail to his trash folder. Then he powered down the computer, got out of his chair and stretched.

“Good for you.” Cole rubbed his friend’s shoulders and grinned. “C’mon, let’s go out for some breakfast.”

* * *

Robbie…Robbie…In the dream he heard someone calling his name over and over again. He just couldn’t tell who it was or where they were. It was as if his head was underwater. “Robbie!” Finally the voice woke him from his dream.

Robbie stirred, his body stretched, lethargic, aching. He glared at someone in his bedroom doorway through blurry eyes. “Cole?”

“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” Cole adjusted his tie and tucked in his shirt. “You’re usually gone long before me.”

Robbie looked around trying to shake the fuzzies from his head and settled on his clock radio. “Shit!” He jumped from the bed. “Why didn’t this thing go off?” He snatched the clock off the nightstand. “It’s set, everything’s right but it didn’t go off.” He shook the clock then slammed it back down. “Piece of junk. Thanks Cole.” He pulled his shirt off as he watched Cole smirk and vanish down the hall.

Rain poured as Robbie left the apartment and headed to his car parked on the side of the road. He hopped in as fast as he could and started off down the street. I’m going to be so late. He barreled through two intersections before the car lurched then buckled. He heard a loud pop followed by a roaring sound. Oh God no! Not now! He eased the car off the road and let it roll to a stop. A hissing sound resounded and the car hobbled like a wounded animal. Robbie turned the vehicle off and stepped out.

“Goddamit!” He watched his left front tire quickly lose all its air. It sagged onto the street, ravaged and deflated. He gave the car a swift kick as the rain soaked him. Freezing cold water rolled down his back, dripped off the tip of his nose and matted his hair to his forehead. Robbie pulled his cell from his jacket and dialed Triple A. He’d never been so pissed off before.

Upon arriving at work Robbie got his arm caught in the elevator and spent the better part of a half hour getting screamed at by his manager for missing the fiscal update meeting in which he was to give a presentation. At the end of the day his left arm was still aching from the damned elevator.

When Robbie stepped out of the building after work he collided with a bald man who knocked him to the ground. The guy never bothered to stop, he turned to look back and croaked, “Sorry, dude!”

Robbie pulled himself up, dusted off his clothes and headed for his car across the parking lot. “Could this day suck anymore? Thank Christ it’s over.” He peeled out of the lot and headed for his favorite Italian restaurant on his way home. He picked up dinner there at least two or three times a week. For a moment he felt a bit better. He was looking forward to a garlic-infused meal.

Where the hell is it? The young girl behind the counter stared as Robbie searched all of his pockets frantically for his wallet. It’s gone… it’s fucking gone. He paused, looked around at the impatient people in line behind him then remembered. “The guy who knocked me down,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up at the girl behind the register and smiled awkwardly. “You know what, I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten my wallet. Can you just cancel my order?”

The girl nodded and Robbie left the restaurant in a huff. All the way home he could not get that email out of his head. The one Cole made him delete. Why did he listen? Why? He never should have deleted it. None of this would have happened! Oh God, he could not live this day again and again… Is there still time? The email, it has to still be in his trash. He remembered that he never emptied it.

He stormed into the house and plowed past Cole to get to the computer. “Whoa, Robbie, what’s the hurry, man?”

“You have no idea what kind of day I’ve had thanks to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told me to delete that email. Now, I’ve gotten a flat tire, got chewed out at work for being late and my wallet was stolen.”

“You got to be kidding me. Those are just coincidences. It wasn’t because of some stupid email.”

“Tell that to my arm, asshole.” Robbie lifted his arm and practically shoved it in Cole’s face. A long, ugly bruise ran down the length of it.

“Hey back off, man. You’re even more messed up than I thought.”

“This is all your fault. I should never have listened to you.” Robbie turned his back on Cole and sat down at the computer. It finished powering up. He signed-on to his email and searched his trash folder.

“It isn’t anyone’s fault,” Cole continued. “It’s called life. Try living it.”

“Just shut up…I’m not listening to you. Where is it, damn it.”

He finally found the all caps subject line in his trash and opened the email. The black background opened up with the blood red text.

A great evil stalks you. There is no telling what it will do to you. Forward this to one person to rid yourself of this evil. Do it now or it will be too late. If you do not want this evil to consume you pass it to another, just as this was passed to you. Do not ignore this or break the forward or it will find you.

“God, I hope I’m not too late. I was supposed to do it right away. As soon as I got it…and to only one person! It would have taken me one second. One second would have stopped all this. Why did I listen you?”

“You’re so sad, Robbie. You just had a bad day. Just like the rest of us. Now you’re right back to where you were. Pathetic.”

“Just shut up.” Robbie skimmed his address book, picked a name and forwarded the email. “There…I just hope it works. Please work.”

“Such a jerk.”

“Go to hell. Look at what you did to me.”

“We grew up together, Robbie and you’re just going to throw it away over these emails. I didn’t do anything, you jerk. You did it to yourself. It’s a wonder that you’ve made it through life this far. Enough.” Cole walked off and stomped upstairs.

Robbie sat alone in the room, staring at the computer screen. He heard Cole pace a few times above him. The silence in the apartment was deafening. He thought of the email now sent, then thought of Cole. He didn’t like leaving things this way. Robbie pulled himself from his chair and started upstairs.

He eased Cole’s half-closed door all the way open and saw him on his bed listening to his ipod. “Hey.” Robbie gestured.

Cole removed his earphones.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I was a jerk.”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry. We’ve been friends forever, I don’t want to fight with you. Can we forget it?”

Cole rolled his eyes. “I guess so. You know you’re an idiot, right?”

“Of course. Thanks Cole for caring about my dumb ass.”

“Somebody has to.”

“Besides, everything’s going to be ok now. The email is gone and from now on everything in moderation. I’m still going to forward them, just not every second. Promise.”

“Okay Robbie. Whatever you say.”

“Seriously, I swear. Now let’s go out to the club.”

“Ok, you’re buying.”

“You got it. But you’re driving my drunk ass home. I’m going to drink until I forget all about this day from hell.”

They laughed all the way down the stairs to Robbie’s car.

* * *

The roads were still a bit slick from the rain earlier in the day but Cole handled them well. Robbie squirmed in the seat beside him and babbled nonstop. That was typical. Every time he had too much to drink you couldn’t shut him up. Cole didn’t mind. For the first time he wasn’t worried about him. He was different in the club tonight, dancing, drinking, having fun and not concerned about checking his emails. In fact he hadn’t mentioned them once. Made it all the way to two in the morning without a mention. A new record.

Cole grinned and looked up at the moon peeking through the clouds, its light cast the clouds in silver gray hues and caused shadows to dance across the road. He glanced at the abandoned factory to his right, over Robbie’s bobbing head. The gray building’s windows were broken. Its parking lot, overgrown with grass and weeds, now looked like a vast field.

The intersection came up fast, the light was red and Cole pulled himself to attention away from the scenery and slammed on the brakes.

“What the hell?” Robbie complained then burped.

“Simmer down, lush. We’ll be home soon.”

Across the other side of the intersection the neon lights of the strip malls reflected mesmerizing shades of color in the puddles. The light turned green and Cole pulled out into the intersection. He heard the sound of an engine gun suddenly.

A roar resounded to his left and he turned. He heard himself call out but it was already too late. A monstrous black SUV came straight at them, charging like a wild animal.

The SUV plowed into the front of their car, collapsing the front end and driver’s door, throwing the car from the road. Their car spun a complete one hundred and eighty degrees and settled at the edge of the factory’s field-like parking lot, hitting an old chain link fence. Cole heard it rattle around them. Agony gripped his left leg and he screamed. He tasted something salty in his mouth. He realized suddenly that it was blood. The windshield cracked into hundreds of spider web-like splinters. Through it, Cole watched the SUV slowly roll to the center of the intersection, straddling it just ten feet away from the front of them.

That truck… it’s beefed up or something. Cole stared at the other vehicle. The front of it was wrapped in steel bars protecting its front end and grill. Bits of glass from Robbie’s car coated the bars and the road, glinting in the streetlights. The bumpers were rubber further cushioning the SUV from damage. What is that thing, a tank? Did they do this on purpose?

Robbie moaned and stirred in his seat. Cole looked over and saw him waken. He looked unhurt. “What the Christ!” Robbie yelled. “Look what they did to my car!”

“Are you okay?” Cole asked.

“I’m fine… Jesus, look at you. Those assholes. You’re bleeding.” Robbie opened his car door.

“Robbie no… you could have internal injuries…stay in the car. Don’t move.”

“Hell with that!” Robbie started to get out of the car. Cole reached for him but the searing pain took hold of him. He grimaced and stretched.

“Robbie! I’m really hurt. I think my leg is broken.” Cole saw a figure emerge from the SUV. Something about it was familiar yet strange, disturbing. There was something threatening in its movement. Cole squinted and looked. It was a large person. Looming. Starting towards Robbie.

A bad feeling washed through Cole. Desperation set in. He pushed on the crushed driver’s side door. It didn’t move. He pushed again and again. Finally it gave way and went ajar. Cole knew his leg was broken and that he was bleeding but he could not let Robbie go blindly into whatever waited outside.

“Robbie no!” Cole screamed as he pulled himself onto the sidewalk. He crawled across broken glass, dirt and trash. His face rounded the front of his car and he saw a lone street light above him. Beneath the light the SUV waited, the large person lumbered around the side of the behemoth of a vehicle then stormed into the light.

A tall, muscular woman headed toward Robbie with a purpose, long brown hair wafting over broad shoulders, satiny blouse glowing but as she stepped into full light, Cole realized it wasn’t a woman. It was a man–man with high cheekbones and a cleft chin. Massive biceps and a heaving chest were visible through the blouse. The man did not try to hide his masculine features in the least, except for the smear of red lipstick haphazardly applied to thin lips.

He stomped toward Robbie who spouted off at him as if he was scolding a child. “You sons of bitches! Look what you did to my friend. Look what you did to my car. Don’t you fuckers know how to drive? Goddammit!”

“Bring him.” Cole heard a voice call from the SUV. “I want his eyes. He had the most beautiful eyes in the entire club.”

Without a word, the man in drag curled both hands into fists and hit Robbie across the jaw with a right hook. Robbie went down hard. He coughed once and trembled.

“Robbie!” Cole called. “You leave him alone. Fucking asshole!” Cole crawled toward them but the pain became unbearable. He froze in his spot. A scream escaped him and he grit his teeth to bite back another.

The cross-dresser kicked Robbie in the ribs with a boot and Robbie stopped moving. The man in the satiny blouse hauled him off the ground and slung him over his shoulder.

“Robbie! My God… Robbie!” Cole watched helpless, spitting blood and fearing for his own life. He watched the man carry Robbie to the SUV and throw him into its backseat. Cole saw shadows wriggling back there and a hand reached out and pulled the door shut. The huge she-man turned, glared at Cole once and walked calmly back to the front passenger’s side, climbed in and shut the door.

Cole cried out again, but it was no use. The SUV pulled away from the crossroads and drove off into the fog that blanketed the horizon. Cole’s mouth hung agape, his lips quivered, he had nearly lost his voice, his eyes welled. “Robbie…”

He pulled himself slowly back to the car to search for his cell phone.

* * *

The cast was up to his hip. Cole sat at home, recovering after a lengthy hospital stay, on disability. The police questioned him again and again. He knew they didn’t believe his story. Who would? They said they’d be back at the end of the month to see if he remembered anything more about that night. Right. They were just hoping his story would change and he would crack. He didn’t care what they thought. He remembered that night like it was yesterday.

He clicked around the web for a while, searching news reports on Yahoo, Google and MSN. There were a few police logs he managed to pull up as well. A few of them mentioned stray body parts found in the East River. Then there were the out of state stories of missing gay men, last seen at the local dives or bars—no leads, no bodies. No witnesses. There was some sort of pattern to it; some sort of trail but Cole wasn’t sure what it was. No one mentioned a cross-dresser or a rigged SUV but they were out there. He knew it.

The familiar ding of his email alerted Cole to new mail. He went to it immediately. He saw the forward mail in his inbox. The Luck Fairy again. He opened it, skimmed it, selected ten friends from his address book and hit send. Just as he did with the Light A Candle email and the Find True Love after you send to fifteen people, and the Send A Smile email, and the Send Within Five Minutes and You’ll Have Good Luck For Five Years email. He sent them all and he always would.

I opened the car door and stepped out onto a freshly patched pothole. Apparently unable to determine where the curb was, the computer decided it was going to park in the middle of the street. As if the “CyberCrimes Investigation Unit” insignia splashed across the car doors didn’t attract enough attention, now I had to leave an obstacle in the road for the neighbors. I could already hear my phone call to the department help desk – “Did you try turning it off and on again?” Good question. Yes, five times in fact.

I’ll have to remember to thank the captain for volunteering me to take part in this Automated Driving System beta test.

I turned around and looked toward the house. I felt as if I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on a movie set. There was the splinter-free white picket fence, a rock-lined garden of rosebushes and pink petunias, and a lawn so perfectly trimmed that it would bring the most surly barber to tears. The tiny wooden house must have been built in the mid-20th century, but it had obviously been maintained with care.

It was quite the contrast from the seedier parts of the city I normally worked in. I understood the Bureau wanted to expose its agents to different departments, but I couldn’t wait for this temporary re-assignment to end and for some real work.

I opened the tiny gate and walked up the brickwork to the front door. After a polite knock, I heard dull clangs and shuffling feet coming from the other side. The deadbolt rattled as it was unlocked and the door swung open quickly, releasing a patch of warm air from the house.

“Well, hello, Sweet Pea,” a tiny voice said.

Standing a foot below my head was a brittle and delicate woman, looking all of the eighty years old the records showed her to be. Her wavy, silver hair settled just above her shoulders, and tied around her waist was a flour-dusted apron, displaying a repeating pattern of a fork and knife chasing a fried egg.

“Come on in,” she said, turning around. “I just pulled the cookies out of the oven.” She scurried into the kitchen without looking back. Despite the first impression that she might collapse if a fly were to land on top of her head, her motions exhibited a youthful energy.

I closed the door behind me and stepped into the entryway. It opened up to a small living room that reminded me of my late grandmother’s home. Faded yellow and baby blue floral prints covered a loveseat, an adjacent leather recliner bled pea-green and against one of the walls was a shabby off-white credenza, its surface covered in colorful postcards.

A few oil paintings hung throughout the room, ranging from autumn landscapes to your basic fruit bowl. Among them was a single eight-by-ten photograph. It was a typical family-style portrait, probably taken at a local department store, yellowing from age. A younger Mrs. Cartwright was standing to the right of a seated man, presumably her husband. He wore sharp-rimmed glasses and had no discernible hair on his head. Though she wore a large smile, her husband appeared quite stiff and serious. Part of me expected to see other photos showing children and grandchildren, but there were none, in accordance with what the records showed.

I heard a clatter behind me and turned to see Mrs. Cartwright walking back in from the kitchen. She was carrying a tray which held a pair of tea cups, a steaming pot of tea and a full plate of cookies. They appeared to be more chocolate chip than cookie.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had my double-chocolate chip cookies.” She motioned towards the recliner. “Please, have a seat and help yourself.”

As I sat down on the edge of the recliner, she lightly blew into her cup and took a sip. I noticed she kept staring at me through the rising steam.

“Well, aren’t you hungry?” she asked. “Have a cookie! I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

No reason to not be polite. I grabbed a cookie sitting on top of the pile and took a bite. She kept staring at me.

I chewed a couple of times and finally swallowed. “They’re delicious.”

Her already long smile seemed to stretch a little more. I put the rest of the cookie back down on the plate and dusted the crumbs from my hands.

“Mrs. Cartwright, I believe you know why I’m here.”

“Yes, I received a notice that I was to expect you today. And as of a year ago, it’s Miss Cartwright. But please, call me Mona.”

I paused. “I’m sorry, Mona. I didn’t see in the records that your husband passed away.”

“He didn’t,” she replied. She took another sip of tea. “He left me for another woman.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Though she didn’t appear to be bothered, I was sure she didn’t want to discuss it any further. After an awkward moment of silence, I cleared my throat.

”Mona, as required by the Online Cheating and Gamesmanship Abatement Act, I’ve brought recorded evidence of your online activities. You do realize that since the passage of that act, any sort of cheating within a multiplayer online video game is considered a Class 6 felony?”

She put down her cup. “And what may I call you, young man? You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Agent Winchell.”

“I hope your parents were kind enough to give you a better first name, Agent.”

I cracked a smile. As innocent as Mona seemed, I couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t all she appeared to be. But why shouldn’t I play along for a little while? After all, she had been nothing but kind to me and I couldn’t just throw her up against the wall, slap on the cuffs, and treat her like some of the other criminal scum I’ve dealt with. Because she was so old, I wanted to make this as smooth as possible for her.

“No, they decided on Charles,” I replied.

“A very distinguished name, Charles. It fits you well.”

“Thank you.”

After another moment of awkward silence, I straightened up, reached into my pocket and pulled out a small holoprojector. I pushed the little red button, generating a floating translucent display over the coffee table. On the left side was a photo of Mona including details about her age, height, weight, hair color, and a multitude of personal notes. To the right of that, a video played showing a cartoony dwarf in a forest of digital trees. He was wearing a funny looking helmet with deer antlers and running around with a large iron axe, chopping away at various woodland creatures. He was moving at an incredible rate and the axe took a bite out of everything in its path. The giant spiders and rabid wolves attempting to maul him didn’t stand a chance.

“According to the official Land of Lorecraft records,” I began, “you amassed fifty-thousand character kills within only three weeks of your account registration date. Of course, this raised several red flags within their corporate security department, and we were brought in to take over the investigation. Their system log files enabled us to obtain a warrant so we could tap your gaming sessions, the results of which you see on the display.”

I turned from the image to look at Mona. She was gazing silently at the frenetic dwarf, trying to keep up with the action. All was quiet except for the dwarf’s canned death cries.

I looked back at the projection and continued. “Between August and November of 2034, you rose in rank on the competitive ladders from the very bottom to number 3 in the nation. You were even invited to join an elite guild, The Fancy Fraggers. They elected you as their chairperson within the first month. That’s quite extraordinary.”

Mona remained speechless, the reflection of the rabid dwarf dancing in her eyes.

I reached out and tapped my fingers at the interface. A new image popped up over the video and showed lines of computer code. I dragged my finger across a subsection of text, highlighting it.

“Please observe this section of code. It was identified as an abnormality in the client-server routines. This programming sequence was illegally inserted into the network packets during your repeated gameplay sessions, allowing you to manipulate the speed algorithms assigned to your character. In essence, your dwarf was able to outmaneuver other players at an absurd rate, and therefore, become almost unstoppable.”

I reached down and pressed the red button, causing the hologram to disappear. I turned to her.

“And there you have it, Mona. The evidence against you has been presented. Do you have anything to say before we head down to the Bureau for processing? I can help you gather your things and give you time to make arrangements with friends.”

Mona’s eyes remained in the same position, staring at the air where the image once hung. Her lips were tightly pressed and her jaw showed signs of tension. She turned and looked directly at me.

“Please try to understand, Charles. I’m a very old woman. My husband abandoned me for another woman last year. I was never blessed with children and so, of course, no grandchildren to spoil over the holidays.” She gazed wistfully down at her bony arms and age-spotted hands and looked back up at my face. I could see her eyes beginning to moisten. “I don’t expect that I’ll be around much longer. Can’t an old woman be granted some happiness in her final years? A bit of excitement that’s been missing for far too long?”

I wanted to avoid her gaze. I looked up and found the photo of smiling Mona standing beside her stoic husband. A solitary photo among a sea of generic paintings.

“I’m sorry Mona.” As painful as it was, I looked directly into her eyes. “My hands are tied.”

She nodded slowly and focused on the teacup in her hands. Her tired, old hands. “I understand,” she whispered.

At least that’s what I think she said as the image of her staring into the cup unleashed a torrent of emotion. I remembered spending a day in my grandma’s house. Grandpa had just passed away a couple of weeks prior, and my mother and I were helping her clean out his things, deciding what to keep and what to donate to their church. Through all of the commotion of emptying closets and packing boxes, one thing had seared itself permanently into my consciousness: an image of my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table. She never moved a muscle except for the occasional blink. She just sat there, gripping a cup of coffee with both hands and staring down at the dark liquid, never saying a word. There was a heaviness that permeated the air and gripped my throat. I remember finding it hard to breathe when I looked at her and feeling a dull pain in my chest. I’d never felt pain like that before.

And now here I was in Mona’s living room, finding my throat constricted and fighting that same ache in my chest.

I pushed the projector button and the image showing the offending code reappeared. I poked my fingers at the air a few times and was prompted for a password. After punching in my key code, another prompt displayed:

Are you sure you wish to permanently delete this file?

I hesitated for a second and saw Mona still looking down at her tea. I hit Yes and a few moments later, a message flashed across the screen:

File deleted successfully.

I cleared my throat and shook my head.

“When are they going to work the bugs out of these things? You know, these new system upgrades they’ve been putting in have been nothing but trouble. Every once in a while, information gets corrupted or even lost.”

I powered off the projector and put it back in my pocket.

Mona looked up at me and I could see where tears had stained her cheeks. She promptly stood up, wiped her face and smiled. I could feel the pain in my chest beginning to ease.

“Let me wrap up these cookies for you.”

She returned shortly from the kitchen and emptied the plate of cookies into a brown bag. I followed her to the front door, and as I exited, I turned around.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you today Mona. Please take care of yourself and be careful.”

She smiled back. “Thank you, Charles. You’re always welcome to stop by for tea and cookies.”

I nodded and headed toward the car.

* * *

Mona slowly shut the door behind Charles and grabbed the tray sitting on the coffee table. As she was returning to the kitchen, she heard a rustling behind her.

The old man emerged from the hallway leading to her bedroom, one shaking hand on a cane and the other in his pants pocket.

“Who was that, dear?” he asked.

“Oh, no one, Sweet Pea. Just the paperboy collecting his payment.”

Phillip McCollum hatched from the sleepy, but always interesting, Mojave desert in Southern California. He currently lives in Orange County and spends the majority of his day looking at network packets and plugging in cables. When he’s not working the day job, his time is divided between writing fiction, composing electronic music, playing video games and spending time with his patient and lovely wife.