Only two of us manned the ship, the captain and I. He set course, gave directions, and planned our journeys. I never once envied him for his fortunes, never lusted for his women, never maddened at his commands. Though, I must tell you, leading up to the discovery of “Blue Eye’s Chest”, I had never been a more suitable mate for the captain. I tell you this because I have a sense, a feeling, for things which we ought to come across. The captain may take pride in his discoveries, but without me, he would have no such prizes. His brilliant narcissism and unforgiving confidence were unmatched by any captain I had seen or traveled with before. But do you think for a moment he could man a ship by himself? Do you think it possible that he would find these fortunes without a man aboard who had the keenest of senses? The sharpest of intellect? I could tell you it was my envy of his respect and fame that led me to kill the captain, but that would be dishonest. I am not a dishonest man. I took the life of the captain in order to preserve the sanctity of the chest. I will prove to you my honesty, for the events leading up to our discovery show how much I cared for, how much I respected the captain.

He said we would head east, off the coast of our most recent port, and not stop until we hit land again. His directions were vague and unsatisfying, but confidence soaring, I trusted the captain. He hadn’t wronged me before, and it was to him I owed my life’s earnings. We traveled eastward, heading for the place rumored to be sunken miles beneath the ocean’s surface. The captain said it would take seven days by his count, to reach the island. I had patience. I was always patient with the captain. Even as he lay in drunken stupors in his quarters, unable to stand properly, sea legs long forgotten, I waited for him and his instruction.

On the first night of our journey, the rain proved relentless. The captain took a moment from his busy drinking schedule to aid in the upkeep of the ship. He shouted commands at me through the downpour. I could not hear him. Instead, I attempted to sense what he was saying, giving nods and shouts of approval, showing no hesitancy. My efforts proved worthy as we kept the ship upright. The storm subsided, but its footprint still lingered. The air felt thick, too dense to breathe. Skies abandoned the bright blue of a happy day, traded it for the mind-numbing grey. I could feel the captain getting irritated at the uncooperating weather. On the morning of the second day, he retreated to his quarters, where I would not see him for many hours.

In those times, when the captain slept or passed out, I would keep the ship steady. If you think the captain to be selfish or greedy or perhaps even lazy, I can tell you he is not. He is a gracious man, although firm. He has always let me work on his ship. He has always shared, to an extent, his riches.

By the second night of our journey, my senses, these feelings I have, started to prickle. First, I felt it in the hairs on my arm. They shivered, like each hair was its own being. My bones vibrated next. Then, against the muggy weather, my head felt cold, like I was leaning my face against a glacier. Lost in my own thoughts, I found my way to the door of the captain’s quarters, where he rested. The door was adorned with a stained glass creation of a pig and a chicken. The pig, chunky and serene, looked like it was smiling at me. It appeared much more optimistic than his chicken brethren, who peered off to the side of the room, not catching my eye, nor paying any attention to me. I looked through the pig’s pink body to see the captain.

He lay there in his fatigues, sleeping with a sullen look, a near-empty pint of rum dangling from his hand. What I did next was of no intent of mine. The coldness in my head and influence on all of the little beings on my arms made me do it. I opened the door slowly, ever so slowly, so as not to disturb the captain. The weather had steadied but remained dreary, and the ship flowed across the top of the ocean without interruption. I tried to move as gently as I could, but the slight sway of the ship on the water made every movement unsteady. I halted next to the captain, and from my pocket retrieved a small vial with a clear liquid inside. I removed the cork stopper, and let two drops of liquid fall out. I returned to the ship’s deck without a sound, waiting to hear something from the captain. For a long while, the day remained silent. We continued eastward, toward the land which might not be. All the while my senses were hysterical. With each passing breeze, I felt the tingles in my bones and the sliding of my skin quicken, deepen, intensify. I felt strong, though my head was airy and ill-equipped for conscious decision making. I thought I may be going mad.

On the third day, the captain worked livelier than normal. He moved with a grace I hadn’t seen before. While he busied himself near the bow, I snuck back into his quarters to see if he finished the drink from the night before. There it sat, unfinished, stuck between a few loose boards. I asked the captain about it, but was casual in my tone. He said he was “giving it up”, which I had heard him say many times before. However, I noticed something different in his voice: certainty. Like something else was making the decision for him. I felt something then, like my senses were regulating themselves. My head felt hot to match the weather, my hairs returned to being hairs. The rest of the day passed without much interference. So did the next. And the next. The captain didn’t drink, and I did not interfere with his new choices. I began to despise the captain for his behavior. I hated him when he didn’t sleep. I hated him when he told me that I should get some rest. I hated it when he didn’t command me. On our sixth day of travel, the weather cleared. The grey, depressing clouds abandoned the sky and left nothing but the pale blue of relief. The captain noted the miraculous change in weather, and in waiting for my response, I merely smirked. It was not his change in attitude that I disdained so, but his entire change in being.

This was a new man, one whom I didn’t want to be around. I watched him live fully, taking in the salt smells of the water, basking in the radiant sun that was finally showing its face. That should be me, I thought. That night, while the captain worked tirelessly to keep course for the unknown island, I stepped into his quarters once more, to see if he truly hadn’t drunk in the passing days. The chicken and the pig still looked like opponents in a fight that would only commence with the ship’s demise. The crook in the boards where his near-empty bottle had sat before was bare. I casually glanced my head around the small room, seeing nothing save for a chair, desk, and a cot that the captain had used to collapse onto after too much rum. I watched him do this many times. That night there was no rest for either of us. We stared towards the bow, longing to see some type of foliage, some type of rest from the ailment of sailing a ship with only two people. The night passed, and as dawn broke, when the sun’s radiance hit the water for the first time, it spotlighted a dark, but nonetheless apparent island. The captain and I rejoiced and embraced each other. We had never done so before. I gave him a long look of disgust after he let me go. He continued to stare straight ahead while I glared at him. I glared at his transformation, at this new man who meant nothing to me. I attempted to pierce his heart with my eyes.

The ship kept on. By midday, we laid anchor and used the dinghy to finally reach this land. This land which until now, was thought to be imagined. If I am to be an honest man, I must tell you that what I did in the next few moments was out of the control of the captain and of myself. The dinghy hit the sand and the captain and I looked at what was beyond us: a sprawling forest of palm trees, but indistinguishable in size. It was massive but cozy. It invited us in. The captain was the first to step foot on the island. When he did, he scolded me. Something about bringing the dinghy up far enough on the land. I took a foot out and let it touch the scorching sand.

The honest man in me will tell you that in a gasp of breath, my head iced over and my hairs flared as before. My bones vibrated. The clouds of the past week, which had flown away, now appeared suddenly in my mind. I couldn’t discern from the weather outside and the storm raging in my head. I left the dinghy where it was and followed the captain into the density of the palms.

I heard the captain continue to complain and groan as we made our way deeper and deeper into the forest. I looked behind me and saw nothing but the tall trunks of the trees. I looked towards the sky, expecting to see the blue relief of before, but the leaves of the palm trees seemed to be expanding and blocking more and more of the sky and the sun. I quickened my pace and walked alongside the captain. I cannot tell you how long we walked. I am an honest man, and I would be lying to give you an exact amount of time. But we walked and walked and neither of us said a word to each other, though the captain could not seem to stop whispering mild, mostly incoherent obscenities under his breath.

The sun was our spotlight. Up ahead, with just enough break through the leaves, it beat down upon a chest. A chest great in size that would take several men to carry. We had not seen it before. Then it was there, 100 paces ahead. The captain didn’t even look my way and sprinted - he really sprinted - to the expansive, sunlit chest. I followed him. The chest was golden, with delicate carvings of animals and people and trees and ships along its base. Its hinges were smooth. The captain opened it without hesitation, the chest silent with its movement. Inside, a burgundy felt covered the walls and floor, and on a bed of seagull feathers lay an eye. A replica of a human eye, but much too large. Encrusted with diamonds and pearls and in the center lay the biggest sapphire I have ever seen. My head grew colder than I thought possible. It now lived inside of the glacier it once sat against. I could not willfully look away from the glorious eye. The captain’s mutterings ceased, his hands gripped the side of the chest so tight it looked like his knuckles might burst. The island sat quietly, disturbingly quiet. There was no breeze to catch the leaves or insects buzzing about. There was nothing.

I felt my eyes start to get heavy as I watched the captain. He released his death grip from the side of the chest. With exaggerated slowness, he crept his hands forwards toward the eye. My mind stopped all reasonable solutions. I retrieved the vial of clear liquid from my coat pocket and uncorked the top. Then I leaped behind the captain, yanked at his neck with my forearm and all of my tiny soldiers. I shoved the entire vial into his mouth. He struggled against me for just a moment. Then he seized, seafoam spit from his mouth and he convulsed. He shook for so long, but I held him in my arms while he did. The seizing stopped. I felt his presence abandon the body and go limp. I sat there a while, wide-eyed and out of breath. But the sunlight caught me and led me back to the eye.

Much like the captain had just done, I drifted my hands toward the jewel, my heart thumping so hard I could feel it in my fingers. I grabbed the eye. I heard a sound, the first sound I had heard since we came to the island. There was the rustle of leaves and the voices of distant folk coming nearer. My decisions were not of my own, you must believe me. In order to rid myself of the treachery I had just committed, something came over me to hide the body. I started to dig into the dirt and sand with my bare hands. The blue eye sitting gently on a fallen tree watched my every move. I dug deeper. Dirt and gravel filled my fingernails, the skin on my hands started to crack and tear. The little army on my arms seemed to move my muscles for me. I dug deeper. A hole in the earth deep enough for a body. The eye watched and I watched the eye. My hands and arms worked but I never took my gaze off of the eye. It watched me and it judged me. I dug deeper. The sounds of the people were louder, twigs snapped under their feet and their voices grew. I heard the wind pick up through the trees, but still I kept my eyes fixed on the blue jewel.

I climbed out of the hole. For how long I dug, I don’t know, but the voices only grew louder. I grabbed the captain's limp body and dragged it across the dirt and sand, then I let it plop down into the earth. While the eye watched me, and I watched the eye, the hole was filled.

Where could I hide? I looked about me for a place to go when the others arrived, their voices now upon me. I searched for signs of them, breaking branches or even a glimpse of the people, but still I could not see them. I heard them but could not make out their language or their words. I must tell you this was not a decision of my own.

Whatever controlled my body and my thoughts made me snatch the eye off of the log, and sprint back through the forest and to the ship. I started to sprint like the captain. The voices were somehow deafening. I moved through the forest against the direction from which they came, but they followed my steps. Twigs, I could hear, snapped behind me at an impossible rate. Tens, no, hundreds of twigs crackled burst behind me like I was being chased by an angry mob. I could see no one. I kept running towards the edge of this tiny island, but could find no water.

“Take it! Take it! Take it!” I screeched while I took the blue eye and heaved it with all my might into the abyss of the forest. The silence returned. The dead, relentless silence of the forest which was just inhabited by hurds of men, returned. I kept my pace, trying to find the beach. And as I tell you this now, I continue to walk, with an unwavering pace.

If you think I am being punished for the ill deed bestowed upon the captain, you have been wronged, for I have paid my consequences. Now, it's just the two of us: you and eye.


In the hot, crowded market at Takapuna, sweat trickling under my arm, I pull out my sleek little Nikon 35Ti. It is the final month of our sabbatical in Auckland. Four-year-old Daniel is leaning toward a tray of baked goodies, small glazed confections slathered with gooey white, dotted with teasing reds, sprinkled with edible glitter. On the first Saturday every month, this vendor comes by with tray after tray of exotic delights—and is sometimes mobbed by people “in the know.” But we are not; this is a spur-of-the-moment occasion. “Look this way,” I say, and Daniel faces me, but his eyes slide toward the tray, and his face telegraphs such raw desire that, even as I snap the photo, I feel myself weaken. Give in to temptation , I think. We could all do with a break. *       *       * Three decades later, as I clear out my home office, I am struck by the frozen image: a busy, sun-drenched market where a curly-haired boy inclines his head toward a baker’s stall and a woman raises her eyebrow as if to say, “Why not?” Around them—around us—for I was the typical shutter-bug dad recording this moment for posterity—the photo contains disembodied elbows and stroller wheels and net bags of avocadoes of a crowd of people. I study the photo closely. In the distance, dozens of tie-dyed T-shirts were fluttering that day in one stall, and in another, back massages were being given, with curtains of clacking beads giving customers the illusion of privacy. Just an ordinary Takapuna market day, an activity that we would never repeat again. It would become extraordinary. We were in the throes of saying farewell to our Kiwi friends and associates, ending this chapter of our lives, and I was in a photo-taking mood. I was constantly stepping out of the flow of the moment, trying to grasp time by its slippery edges, saying, “Now,” and twenty minutes later, “No, now ,” and riling my dear Calista in the process. As if moments were like butterflies that I had to impale to admire them, destroying them as I sought to preserve them. What drives me to force a permanence on things? The scholar’s urge to record, reflect, possibly redo? I dress it up as an artistic urge to find the most esthetic combination of position and color. But lately I’ve come to think it’s a form of greed. Nearing the end of life, I am still wanting more. Even before that fateful day, I loved photographs. They are a way to draw a line in the sands of time, to demarcate “before” and “after”—lest experience flood our sensory channels and wash away everything. And in this photo, none of us would ever forget the before and after. Calista says my bouts of camera compulsiona are part of a sickness I have. I overthink the moment. I read too much into the randomness, she says. Although this is my most memorable photo of all our travels, I keep it in this tough protective plastic tub. I look at it seldom. Its strength is to be hidden, not displayed, like electrical wiring that powers a grid, buried inside walls and devices. *       *       * Excitement pervaded the Saturday market. Smells of ripened fruit hung heavy in the air. Shells of fresh oysters on ice clattered as Calista put a dozen in a bag. The rhythmic chant of sellers announced deals to be found, right this way. The steam rose from the dumplings booth; a small roar crackled from a juice-blender. “Please-please-please,” Daniel begged from time to time. For a Transformer toy, for a Chupa-chup lollipop, for a sticky ball from this tray. Should we cave , I wondered . Buy the treat that he’ll never forget? It was a genuine quandary. We were convinced that sweets raised the blood sugar and made him impossibly hyper. We were laughably inept parents then: so earnest, so correct. So misguided. How bad, really, could our four-year-old be? He was one of those impossibly cute kids, all curls and dimples and big clear eyes that allowed him to get away with murder. Up to that point, what were his infractions? He’d broken Grandma’s fancy blind by yanking on a cord; he’d up-ended a table of petit fours at a legendary tea shop; and most notoriously, he’d knocked over a gallon can of latex paint on a shag carpet. As parents, no matter how violently we fussed and fumed that he must behave, there was always the “wild child” inside, especially when he was coked up on sugar. I too had been a kid unusually susceptible to sugar. I was the worst of my siblings: my sneaky fingers poking into boxed chocolates not meant for me, prying off bits from gingerbread house displays, gouging through cream icing on lavishly decorated wedding cakes. But I was an ugly boy. I had big yellow beaver-teeth, a buzz-cut meant to pre-empt lice, and ears like two tablespoons affixed to the sides of my head. No one would ever say, “Give that dear child a sweet.” *       *       * Daniel wants so badly for us to try these delectable goodies that we finally give in. I glance over the table, see flies alighting here and there and point to the one tray without small things flitting above it. Soon a colorful bill passes from my wallet to the grinning vendor’s hand. The shine of sweat and oil makes him look glazed, too. He spatulas three concoctions onto white frilly papers and we cup them in our hands as we step toward an alcove. Saliva builds just thinking of our edible treasures. Snip! snap! Like fairy-tale wolves we tear into them. There is barely any sweetness. Suddenly my mouth is filled with an overpoweringly hot spice. Daniel bites his snack once, emits a cry and lets the item fall from his mouth to the ground. Tears spring from his reddened eyes. Calista and I fare much worse. We are too civilized to spit out something directly—without a paper napkin properly before us or a cup to spit into. I turn aside and cough-gag it into my hand. The entire cavern of my mouth feels like it’s now missing a layer of skin. A scouring pad scrubbed over tongue and palate couldn’t be worse. In the back of my brain, I am connecting two and two: why had I chosen the pastries avoided by fruit flies? “Now are you ha—” Daniel begins to say and he starts to chuckle as he sees Calista and me helplessly weaving out of sight as we try to hide our rudeness. Calista spits hers out and curses—first time ever in public, in front of Daniel. “Now are you happy?” Daniel gasps. He starts to giggle uncontrollably. A wet patch darkens his little khaki shorts. Oh, we are a sight, I’m sure: the over-careful parents, always making sure of clean faces, pleasant demeanor, decent language. “Now, now, calm down,” he squeaks. People are turning to look at the small Napoleon and his reeling red-faced parents, who are incapable of rebuttal. *       *       * Even then, it was evident that Daniel liked to turn the tables on us, liked to grab the reins from our hands. Although he was only four, he’d heard incessant messaging: brush your teeth—comb your hair—say your pleases and thank-yous. Another famous slogan was “Play-time’s over.” One spring day, while looking for the sprinkler attachment, we’d emptied the garage onto our back lawn—piles of rusting tools, dusty flowerpots, and bundles of tarpaulin. Our tempers were frayed. Yes, we had junk; no, we couldn’t find the sprinkler attachment. We were grousing at each other. Daniel bounded into the yard and said, “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It was a surreal moment when we heard our pet phrases echoed back to us. The irritation vanished. Yes, we had junk; moreover, we had a reminder in the flesh why we must not let our spirits succumb to the slings and arrows of daily aggravations. Unexpectedly, my eyes sting. If Calista came upon me now, teary-eyed in the dusty old study where I have dragged out this tub of photos, packing up, she’d be likely to say it, too: “Play-time’s over, put away your things.” It’s one of those family phrases traded between us. Even now, when Calista and I visit Daniel and his wife and his six-year-old twins, we are apt to hear the incantation “Play-time’s over” or, if the foosball game gets out of hand, “Now, now, calm down.” But Calista, looking at the photo, seeing my tears, would need no explanation. She knew what happened next—that day in Takapuna, after I had snapped the photo, after we had bit into those horrid snacks. Before Daniel could finish his sentence that day, a sudden blast knocked him flat. And Calista, too, was abruptly on the ground. I staggered toward them, arms outstretched. The shock, the terror, the sheer incomprehension on their faces—were no doubt mirrored on my own. The next hours were a blur—screaming, sirens, and a trip to the nearest clinic where I was pronounced “fine but shaken.” Daniel and Calista were treated for scrapes and bruises. No-one died and the blast was soon found to be due to a gas leak. It was not a “big thing,” scarcely enough to garner a mention in the local news at six, but it unnerved me. No matter how much I loved them, I had been unable to protect them. The blast imprinted in me that moment of desire and disappointment, of adventure and vulnerability. And random chance. Random, random chance. THE END


Trigger warning: suicide

-Ten days ago- “He’s been writing for hours,” Yasmine whispered to me. “He’ll stop, scribble things out, crumple up the paper and then toss it away. It’s happened even more than when he’s working on an essay. I’m getting worried.” I stared at Rayne as he rammed a hand through his hair and gave a tiny growl of frustration. I’d never seen him like this, even when he was freaking out over his resume in tenth grade. I turned to Yasmine. “Have you tried to talk to him?” Yasmine shuddered. “Yes, and it didn’t go over so well. He practically bit my head off. There was blood everywhere. It wasn’t pretty.” I rolled my eyes and peeked through the crack in the doorway again. Rayne was scribbling furiously now, eyes afire with something I couldn’t place. I waited until he stopped again, glowering at the paper, and then pushed the door open and strode into the room. “Rayne! How are you?” I plastered a smile on my face. Rayne glanced up and sighed, turning the paper over. “Now is not the time, Cail. I’m busy.” I sighed dramatically. “You’re always busy. Are you ever gonna have time for me?” Rayne turned his glare to the doorway. “Yasmine, I thought I told you to keep people out of my room.” Yasmine shrugged helplessly. “You try stopping Cail. It’s like talking to a wall.” Something akin to a smile flickered over Rayne’s face. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What are you working on?” I asked playfully, reaching for the paper. Rayne’s eyes widened and he slapped my hand away. “It’s nothing!” Seeing my startled look, he sighed and softened his tone. “It’s nothing, Cail. I promise. It’s just another essay.” “Another one?” Yasmine asked warily. “How many essays have you had this year already? Twelve? College must be hard.” “College is hard, baby sister. And it requires a lot of focus, so I need to be alone right now. Okay?” He directed that part at me. I stared at the floor, twiddling the strings of my jacket. “Yeah. Okay.” “Cail.” His tone was patient. I looked up. “I’ll be out soon.” He smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I nodded and slipped out the door.

“I see what you mean,” I remarked to Yasmine when the door was closed. “He’s never been like that before.”

Yasmine cleared her throat and nodded. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s just a school thing, despite what he says.” “I don’t think so, either.” Yasmine looked up at me pleadingly. “You’re his best friend. Can’t you do something? He scares me when he’s like this.” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t know, Yasmine. I wish I could. But this is mostly up to Rayne. If he wants to talk to us, he’ll talk to us.”

I wish I hadn’t been as confident about that as I was.

-Now-

“Last Will and Testament of Rayne Ash Brooks My dearest family and friends. I regret what I am about to do already, but it could not wait any longer. I would like to thank you all for everything you have done for me, and I would like you all to know that you did nothing wrong. What is about to happen is no one’s fault but my own. I was weak, and that weakness dragged me too far to ever return to how I was. I hope you all know that I loved each and every one of you. To my mother, I leave all the scrapbooks and photo albums I made over the years. I hope they may remind her of the good memories. To my baby sister Yasmine, I leave whatever she would like to have. I hope whatever she chooses may serve her well. To my grandfather, I leave the pocketknife he gave me on my twelfth birthday. I would like to thank him for teaching me about carpentry. To my grandmother, I leave my guitar and my thanks to her for teaching me how to play it. Finally, to Cail I leave whatever else could possibly bring memories and comfort. I love you, Cail. I want you to know that. My deepest thanks to all of you for caring for me the way you did. You are all wonderful people. I will miss you dearly.”

I fold the paper in half numbly as tears drip down my cheeks. People around me are singing quietly, but I can’t hear the song. The world is so loud in its silence. Rayne should still be here, laughing with me over absolutely nothing. Teasing Yasmine while she’s yelling at him. Why would he do this? What could have caused it? An overwhelming urge suffocates me, telling me to curl into a ball and never get up again. I squeeze my stinging eyes closed and try not to think about how certain I was that he would talk to us if he needed to. Had I only asked how he was doing, had I only paid closer attention, I could have at least done something. A half-sob escapes my lips and I press a hand over my mouth to stifle it. Someone starts gently rubbing my back, but it can’t take away the yawning cavern that has been carved into my heart. I open my eyes and open the paper again, staring at the words as they begin to blur again. I do not look up for the rest of the funeral.

I head for the doors as soon as the ceremony is over. I need to be alone. Unfortunately, someone taps my shoulder before I can make it to the safety of my car. I mumble something about home without turning around and keep walking. But they clasp my hand and spin me around to face them. Yasmine is staring up at me, tear tracks covering her cheeks. She gives me a watery smile. She knows what I am going through. I gather her up in a hug. People part around us like a boulder in a stream. Neither of us move for a very long time.

Finally, Yasmine pulls back, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s so different now.” Her voice wobbles and she pauses. “I never would have guessed- I mean, he was always so happy.” I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “He was incredible.” My voice breaks and tears trace down my cheeks again. I ball my hands into fists and press them against my eyes, willing myself to stop crying. Yasmine rubs my back gently, and I take deep breaths. “You loved him, didn’t you, Cail?” She asks suddenly. I look up at her sympathetic face and then down again, nodding silently as fresh tears well up. “He was the best man I’ve ever known. I just wish he could’ve known that, too.” Yasmine hugs me again. “Me too, Cail. Me too.”

Four hours later, Yasmine and I are staring at the orange and pink of the sky as the sun turns red and sinks below the mountains. I am looking for traces of him; I have no doubt she is, too. We sit there until the sky is dark and pinpricks of light shine down on us. Hand in hand, watching the stars. The ones he left behind.


Three months ago, the Client had cried and begged to my liaison to help fulfil his vengeance. I don’t remember why I agreed to the first meeting, but I’ll never forget the excuses I made for every meeting since. I won’t forget when the excuses dried up, either. Hammerhead and I had been driving down to a café once; he’d asked me why I didn’t cut the deal. I didn’t have an answer for him. I just turned to the window and took a long drag of my overpriced cigarette. It was easier to admire my hazy reflection in the side mirror than to think too deeply about it. Maybe I thought I’d find an answer reflected somewhere there in those tired lines. They only had more questions and half formed accusations. Anger at myself, anger at the Silence that the Client brought with him. Two weeks ago, the Client had finally scraped together the small fortune he’d need, to the surprise of even himself. He’d passed authentication and security and the funds were laundered for later collecting. I remembered a small knot in my chest, an unfamiliar trepidation that surrounded a task I’d seen through a dozen times before. Something was different this time. Four days ago, I attended the wedding doomed to end with the grooms’ death. Hammerhead had arranged my invitation to oversee Plan B, insurance to cover everything from a minor miscalculation to divine intervention. The revolver felt heavy in my purse, its silver barrel itching to see the sun. I knew I wasn’t the only one. The groom’s father was a spider in the web of the underworld; the hawkish men and women overlooking the perimeter would drop those clammy, half-hearted smiles in exchange for firepower in an instant. Everything proceeded like clockwork. The bride and groom exchanged their vows, eyes reflecting the deep, overflowing love of true passion, ignorant to the cruel strings of fate closing around them.  The reception started slow, steadily building into a frenzy of contagious excitement, a cacophony of laughter that infected every guest in attendance. I joined in and tried not to sound too disinterested with the casual conversation and predatory attention swirling around me. The attention would be redirected soon enough. All eyes were drawn to the first dance between newlyweds. A practiced routine paced to slow, near hypnotic music at odds with the vibrant energy of just moments before. I remember turning away at some point, trying to appear busy on my cell. Raucous applause and a new round of drinks let me know it was finally time to get into position. Back against a nearby exit, purse opened slightly, a hundred paces from the nearby escape vehicle if worst came to worst. Imagining the beads of sweat rolling down the drivers’ forehead brought me the first genuine smile of that night. When the groom finally collapsed still holding his liquor of choice, the first sound was a sparkle of uncertain laughter. It melted away in the same second as the gravity of the situation settled in and hysteria blossomed. The man’s life faded before emergency services arrived. Though the official autopsy was still underway, I knew that they’d figured it out within the hour. Poison in the ice. Simple to detect, though it would never be traced to my people, so it didn’t bother me. The Client was quite specific about how he wanted his perfect vengeance to unfurl. It was impossible to forget the little specifics that the Client requested. Every time he paused to think, there was that blasted Silence. When I’d realized later that I’d never have to hear his dreadful metronome grinding again, I felt… something adjacent to relief. Not quite, but close. I thought that was the end of it. Just as I was beginning to steer my thoughts elsewhere, Hammerhead told me the news. That brings us to today, when I learned that the Client had earned a pittance of a bounty across the local community and was expected to expire within the week. In hindsight, it wasn’t that surprising. The man hadn’t been subtle about his involvement. I’d heard that he even taunted the groom’s family afterwards. Family that, mind you, had their finger in the pie of every half-crooked officer and politician of our fair city. The paltry sum offered for his disappearance filled me with a strange melancholy. It didn’t even break five digits. A fraction of what the Client had paid for his vengeance, paid by men who could afford a standard fee without breaking a sweat. It felt insulting. I knew it was beyond stupid to feel that way, but I couldn’t fully suppress that little curdle of indignation on behalf of the loathsome Client. All that planning, all that fiery obsession, to be met with a price so lukewarm that it was hardly worth the time or risk for any serious contractor. I’d told Hammerhead to pin down the Clients address; until now, communications had been exclusively through a liaison or burner phones. He told me he’d get it within the day, which was his modest way of promising six hours at most. Now I had a free afternoon with no choice but to relax, unwind and enjoy the latest trashy thriller on my shelves in silence. A peaceful, serene silence, interrupted only by the turning of pages and the sound of my own breathing. A longing, fragile silence, fractured by every car that sped by before being pulled back together. An impossible, unwelcome silence, unfamiliar after so many conversations with the Client. Every time I turned a page, I could feel it echo in the back of her head. Gnawing, gnashing, grinding, yearning— I snapped the book shut more harshly than the innocent paperback deserved. It wasn’t the novels’ fault. It didn’t bring the Silence. It wasn’t judging me. It wasn’t watching me. It certainly didn’t think any less of me for these unwelcome thoughts. Minutes passed as I did everything I could to try and clear my mind. Reclining one way, then the other, draping over every piece of furniture in my apartment like a particularly restless cat. I poured out the cheap red wine kept at the front of the counter for emergencies, took a single sip and divorced myself from the glass a moment later. I curled my hands and flexed my fingers, pulling them from my lips time and again, resisting the instinctive urge to bite at my nails like thin mints. A nasty habit I thought I’d kicked to the curb decades ago, resurrected in the wake left by the Silence. I gave up eventually, of course. There’s no way I could get my mind off it. The dreadful cloak that the Client had wrapped around himself during every conversation. That unnerving tic that had left her regretting the very first meeting and second guessing every interaction thereafter. I turned back over to the book, finding myself seated right back where I started. I knew what it’d say if it could talk. If those words could rearrange to write a query, or better yet, split down the middle and enunciate with a grotesque, half formed mouth, the question that had no sane answer. What the hell are you so worked up about? There’s no way I could explain to anybody, but I knew that anyone who heard the Silence would understand instinctively. Hammerhead knew as well. It didn’t seem to bother him as much, but I’d seen the way his face contorted into a subtle, uncommon grimace when I’d mentioned it to him the first time all those weeks ago. In the three months that I had been in touch with the Client, we’d exchanged seven conversations over the phone. Every single one of them had been punctured by what I liked to call the Silence. That word came with a capital S, and no dictionary in the country would dispute it once they’d heard the evidence. The Client was the sort to take long pauses between his words, especially after rants about the various injustices of the world and the depths of his despair. These rants were never rare; he was blessed with an unrelenting loathing that would put the grudges of ancient Greek and Norse myths to shame. In these times when he caught his breath, I’d feel my shoulders tense up just a little as I listened to the Silence. It wasn’t anything occult or mystical. A simple grating of teeth, at least I assumed. I’d never heard a man who could grind them with such audible zeal before. It was as if his molars were stones wearing at each other as they had since the dawn of time. A chilling gnashing that left me a little on edge just imagining it. With that piteous grinding of teeth came the long, ragged breaths. They weren’t deliberate; they came too erratically, but not at a pace or labour that suggested actual exertion. Too quiet to be panting yet too loud to pass off as regular breathing… and every so often, just a little, sickeningly wet. It was a disastrous combination of noises that came to be known as the Silence, and it was always at its worst when the Client discussed his vengeance. At those times I swear I could hear the trickling of feral saliva dripping down from his maw, an odious bile that would surely sizzle through the floor beneath him. I hated the Silence. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal; it wasn’t the first person I’d met with an annoying tic. There was something about it that felt… off. As if the Silence was expecting me to acknowledge it. Every gnash of molars was a command. Every longing breath was an invitation. It wanted recognition. I never did. That would be surrendering. I knew that the Silence was hungry, yearning for attention, yearning to invite more questions so that the Client could rant on and on about the deep seated loathing that had become his very being. The Silence and his romanticized, all-consuming vengeance were two sides of the same, oozing, rotting coin. It made me wonder if it was gone, now. That was why I’d sent Hammerhead to find him so quickly. I hadn’t even realized it at the time. The self-realization filled me with more shame than I care to admit, and I returned to my long-abandoned glass of wine to finish the job. As if he could sense the way that every passing minute dug its hooks into me, darling Hammerhead was ready with the location of the Client within a single hour. It hadn’t been hard to find him, with the bounty up for almost a full day before I’d been told. Night had already fallen, and the soft padding of rain kept it company, but the location was surprisingly close. A seedy motel with dirt-cheap prices perfect for the sort of hanged man that had cashed over every dime he’d ever earned on a contract killer.

Strapping on my boots and weathered coat, I stepped out with umbrella in hand and purse over shoulder. The firearm in there had never felt more vital, like a second heartbeat. A reassuring presence, a companion in the rain, promising that everything would be alright. It promised me that it could drown out the sound of Silence with a single pull of its trigger. Keen awareness of surroundings was vital in my line of work. Hardly an insect would escape my notice on a bad day, and I could count the heads in a crowd in less time it took me to finish a breath. Tonight, that usual alertness was muddled- and I knew it. I could scarcely pay attention to the cars that rushed past, nor anything ahead of me until the motel finally came into view. It was a ten minute walk. I couldn’t tell you a single thought that had entered or left my mind throughout. My hand was shaky as I pushed open the door to a motel half as lively and twice as decrepit as I had expected. The man at the counter didn’t even bat an eye at me as I walked right past to go upstairs. The alarm bells that should’ve been rattling in my skull were nothing but a muted recognition of the surreal edge that tonight held. It was dangerously easy to accept these strange tells. A single, flickering light stood sentry over the upper hallway of the motel, guarding a total of three rooms. The one that I was looking for had its door already ajar. I could feel my heart racing in my chest, a creeping dread infused with crouched adrenaline ready to spring. The hallway was silent- truly silent, and I walked with quiet, trained steps with a hand in my purse. He was already dead, of course. I didn’t need to open the door to confirm that, yet I still felt a small stain of disappointment when I saw the body. He was slouched over his mattress at an uncomfortable angle, head turned away from the door to hide his visage yet unmistakably deceased. At first glance, it looked like his throat had been quietly slit. Stepping into the room at the same time an overgrown cockroach skittered out, I inspected the scene more closely. The room was filled with empty bottles of cheap beer and take-out boxes; the Client had been here for an extended stay. Either this motel didn’t provide daily room cleaning or he’d explicitly told them to delay it. He didn’t look as gaunt and sallow as I’d expected, even in death. I looked over my shoulder. The aloof attitude of the man at the counter flashed back to mind. He must’ve been paid off to turn the other way for today. He might’ve mistaken me as a cleaner, or maybe he was keeping his distance from the unsavory dealings tickling his nose. I needed to leave as soon as possible in case other would-be bounty collectors came along. I knew that, but I couldn’t move. My feet were glued to the floor. The Silence was gone. Tension that had weighed on my shoulders invisibly for weeks melted away like butter on hot pavement. The Silence was gone- but that wasn’t enough. After a moment, I stepped forward to confront that burning, unknowable question. I grabbed the corpse by the chin and turned his head with an almost reverent gentleness, to face me. Empty, baby blue eyes met my own. In them I could see my reflection, so like that hazy visage in the car an eternity ago when Hammerhead first asked me to explain the impossible. This time, I could muster an answer. I’d never really believed in peaceful or dignified death. Every corpse was one of two ways for me; gormlessly staring up at the heavens, or too mutilated to do even that. When I looked upon the face of the Client, however, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man, surrounded by his own squalor and murdered for a pittance, was content. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that in those last few days he’d been free of the Silence. The Client had invested everything into his vengeance, and he’d never looked back for even a second. It made me wonder, for the first time since my earliest clients, what it felt like to cling to something so passionately. Clawing at a romanticized, pointless vengeance like it was a divinely instilled purpose, throwing away every shred of your life to chase it and sacrificing even your own future? I refused to open his mouth. I didn’t want to see what condition his teeth were in. When I finally turned away, I couldn’t help the shadow of a smile that touched my lips. The question that I’d never known I had was finally answered. The Client had died in enviable peace, and the Silence died with him.


      The mansion was immense, a construct of towers, turrets, and gables linked by mansard roofing, crowned by a railing of black iron. The walls were dotted with windows, a hodgepodge of arch, lattice, and porthole, from small circles to long, narrow rectangles. The exterior was liberally decorated with ornate scrollwork, trimming every edge and border. A sweep of broad steps led up to a large porch, its roof supported by tall columns. The whole place was a masterful study in Victorian architecture, something out a Jane Austin novel adaptation, like it belonged to a different time entirely.            Tonight, however, it was clearly very much in the present. Light spilled out of every window, and the faint sounds of music and conversation drifted through the still night air.            Brent let his gaze wander over the façade for a moment longer, wondering what he was doing there. He glanced down at the invitation in his hand. There was his name, spelled out in elegant script, inviting him to an All Hallows Eve party at the Token House Historic Inn. Guests were advised to dress in black tie or gown; instructions for the party game would be provided.            Heaving a sigh, Brent mounted the steps, crossed the porch, and raised a hand to knock.            The door swung open, revealing a tall man in a somber suit. At the sight of Brent, his long face broke into a smile. “We’ve been expecting you. Please, come in. Let me take your coat.” His voice was low and gravelly.            Brent let himself be ushered inside, and allowed the man—the butler, he guessed—to take his coat. The entrance hall of the mansion was bigger than any house Brent had ever been in. Wall sconces set into dark wood paneling provided a soft, warm light, illuminating paintings and carved molding, reaching up at least fifty feet to a copperplated ceiling. An immense staircase swept up to a second story, where it branched off into a landing leading to separate halls. Brent shifted in place, twitched his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in the unfamiliar suit he wore. He felt out of place, a little frustrated, though he couldn’t have said exactly what was bothering him.

           “If you’ll follow me, sir,” the butler said. “I’ll show you to the party.”            He led the way across the hall, to heavy door of real oak, varnished to a dark finish, which opened to reveal a short hallway. At the end of this passage, the butler halted before a set of double doors.            “Before we go farther, sir, I must acquaint you with the rules of the evening,” he said, fixing Brent with his mild gaze. “First, here is your mask.” He produced a simple mask of stiffened felt, just large enough to cover the upper face, with a silk ribbon to hold it in place. “All guests wear them. As your invitation implied, this is a game party. Each guest has been given a role, a history of sorts. Here is yours.” He held out a card of soft, thick paper, neatly folded in half.            Brent took the mask and card. “How do you win the game?” he asked.            The butler smiled. “This is not a competitive game, sir. Its goal is something else entirely. Each guest will be evaluated on how well they follow their script, and rewarded according to their performance.”            “Got it,” Brent said, though he wasn’t sure he did. He slipped the mask on, drawing the ribbon tight, feeling the fabric press against his cheekbones, already disliking the way it felt. “How long will this last?”            The butler arched an eyebrow. “Do you have somewhere you need to be, sir?”            Brent gave a quick shake of his head. “No. Nothing like that. Just wondering.”            “It will take as long as it needs to, sir. Besides, you just might enjoy yourself. One never knows.”            With that, he opened the doors, stepping through and to one side, allowing Brent an unimpeded view of the room beyond.            It was an impressive sight. Brent stood at the entrance of a huge ballroom, floored in parquet with walls covered in white marble façade. Mirrored panels covered the ceiling, from which hung a huge chandelier, bathing the room in brilliant light. Along the walls sat tables groaning under a wide assortment of drinks and finger foods. Large floral arrangements sat at the ends of each table, the bone white blossoms of a flower Brent didn’t recognize suffusing the air their sweet fragrance. A bandstand in one corner was occupied by a small orchestra, playing soft chamber music. There had to be at least a hundred people in the room, men in dark suits, women in black dresses. They clustered in groups or wandered alone around the room, chatting and laughing or grazing on the buffet and sipping drinks. Some of them had paired up in the center of the room, where a space had been cleared for dancing, their bodies swaying and turning to the music. The doors closed behind Brent with a soft click, and he found himself standing there with his card in hand and no real idea of what to do next. “Well, look here, a new arrival.” The voice boomed at Brent’s shoulder, surprising him, and he turned to see a tall, beefy man standing there. He wore his suit like he’d been born in it, and his dark, graying hair was professionally styled. A wide mouth was stretched in a smile, revealing perfect teeth. “Just go here, did you?” “Yeah,” Brent said. “You?” “Been here a while,” the man said, as if it didn’t matter to him. “People come, people leave, but the party goes on.” He chuckled. “Say, quite a spread they’ve got. Care for a drink?” Held up a tumbler of thick crystal, containing at least three fingers of amber liquid. Brent hesitated. For some reason he didn’t like the guy standing beside him. Something about him seemed… aggressive, overly self-assured. Like he was so used to pushing people around that he did it on instinct. But he couldn’t think of a polite way to avoid him. “Sure, I could use a beer.” “Beer, eh? Lightweight.” The man chuckled, then started off toward the nearest table. “This way. Name’s Tom, by the way. Say, you read your script yet? Better do that; don’t want to break the rules, now do we?” He gave a sly smile, tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Right.” Brent unfolded his card as he followed Tom. The creamy paper was scrawled with several lines, written in a curling script with dark red ink. Rules of the evening: Guests are on a first name basis only. Conversation is encouraged. For the purposes of this gathering, you will play a recently deceased individual of your name. Only two topics may be discussed: what you did in life, and how you died. The goal of the game is left for each player to decide. Once you feel you are ready, you will be scored and rewarded. Please refer to your script, and adhere to it. Brent looked up to see Tom holding out a frosty bottle of beer, eyebrows raised in a questioning look. “So?” His gaze went back to the card, and the script written there. “I’m Brent. I was a soldier, fighting against insurgents in the Middle East. I… I died,” his voice caught a little, and he coughed. “I died while on combat patrol, when we were ambushed.” He shrugged, took the beer and tilted it back for a long pull. Something about those words felt… weirdly familiar, like he’d read them or heard them somewhere before. “Not really imaginative, is it?” “Oh, it’s fine, really,” Tom said with a snort. “Mine’s just plain boring.” He fished a card out of his jacket. “Let’s see. I was an investment banker and lobbyist, involved in multiple financial and political improprieties. I died by suicide after being indicted.” He gave a booming laugh. “Now is that pathetic or what?” Despite the dismissive attitude, Brent thought the laugh had an edge to it that made it sound forced and desperate. “Yeah, pathetic.” “Well,” Tom said with a loud sigh. He lifted his glass and drained it in two swallows. “What can you do. Rules are rules, am I right?” He reached out and grabbed Brent’s hand in a firm grip, gave it a shake. “Great meeting you, Brent. Don’t be a stranger.” With that, he was off, disappearing into the crowd like a drop of water into a bucket. Brent shook his head. This night just got weirder and weirder. For a while, he drifted around the edges of the crowd, nursing his beer. He hadn’t felt much like talking when he arrived, and his encounter with Tom hadn’t changed his attitude. There seemed to be more than a few people of like mind, looking uncomfortable and out of sorts. Of course, there were others who worked their way through the crowd, stopping and talking to as many people as they could, acting with almost manic energy, as if to show how happy they were to be there. He had finished his beer and was trying to decide if he wanted another when a hand touched his arm. “Hey there, good looking.” He turned to see a woman smiling at him from under her mask, her eyes regarding him with a mixture of interest and amusement. “Care to dance?” Brent shook his head. “No, thanks. Not much of a dancer.” “Oh, come on.” She tightened her grip. “Who’s gonna care with a floor this crowded. Besides, I’ve danced with just about everybody else, and I can tell you there’s no shortage of bad dancers out there.” Before Brent could say another word, the woman plucked the empty bottle from his hand and dragged him to the middle of the room. With another smile, she adjusted his hands to her satisfaction, sidled close, and set off. For a few minutes, they focused on their steps and sway, getting a feel for each other’s movements. Brent had never spent much time dancing, but he soon found a rhythm, and was dancing easily. “Feeling better?” the woman asked, her gaze fixed on his.  Brent gave a shrug. “You’re a good partner.” “You think so?” A gleam of something passed through her eyes, there and gone again, like a shark emerging from the depths as it circled its prey. Brent cleared his throat. “My name’s Brent.” “Oh, right, the game,” she said. “I’m Crystal. I was married to this very rich doctor. Kind of an older man. I was just after his money. Naturally, I was a serial adulterer.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug of her own. “I mean, what could I do? He was always working, always with his patients. Never paid me enough attention.” Brent suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Really?” “Really, really.” Laura looked away from his face, her expression darkening. “I was gonna take him to the cleaners. I got his lawyer to destroy the prenup. I always had a talent for manipulating people. Especially men.” “No kidding?” “Yeah.” Her face took on an even gloomier aspect, and she leaned her head against Brent’s shoulder. “Then one day, I took my Jag out for a ride. To clear my head. I loved that car. But I’d had a few drinks first. I was under so much stress.” Brent felt her draw a shuddering breath. “Didn’t see the light change, didn’t see the other car.” Her breath caught in a soft sob. “I guess it was a pretty sad life, huh? Certainly not a happy one…” “Then why live that way?” Brent asked, the words out before he could stop them. “Why indeed?” Laura whispered. Suddenly, she straightened. One hand lifted to wipe at the corners of her masked eyes. “Oh, well, so much for regrets, right?” She gave a shaky laugh. Then she stepped back from Brent. “It was great meeting you, Brent. You’re a good dancer, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. See you around.” She turned and walked away, leaving Brent staring after her. Before she had gone more than a few steps, the butler appeared, emerging from the crowd. He put a hand on Laura’s shoulder, bent close to whisper to her. She didn’t meet his gaze, but she gave a little nod. The butler took her arm and led her off, the two of them vanishing into the press of bodies around them. Brent was left standing alone, more confused and uncomfortable than ever. He decided that what he needed was another drink. At the table, he paused, considering whether he wanted another beer, or something stronger. Then he noticed a young woman standing nearby, leaning against the wall, an empty glass held absently in her hand. She had a look on her face that said she wasn’t seeing the people milling around her, and that she didn’t care if her glass was empty or full. Maybe it was that he sensed a kindred spirit, someone else who just as well wouldn’t be there, but Brent grabbed a couple of glasses, poured wine into each, and headed over. “Enjoying the party?” he asked the woman. For a second, it seemed she hadn’t heard him, but as he trying to decide whether to repeat the question or give up, she answered. “No. Not really.” She sounded sad and confused, as if bothered by a hurt she didn’t remember receiving. “Someplace else you’d rather be?” Brent asked. The woman frowned, her mouth tightening. “I’m not sure. It’s more like… I’m supposed to be with someone, but they’re not here.” She finally looked at Brent, her gaze sharp and curious. “Do you feel that way?” Brent thought for a second, then shook his head. “No. No, it’s more like there’s something I didn’t do that I really wish I had.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s been a weird night.” “I’ll say,” the woman agreed. Then her lips curled in a small, tremulous smile. “I’m Carol.” “Brent.” “They give you one of those scripts?” “Yeah,” he said. “I was a soldier, died fighting insurgents. It was right outside this little town. My unit was on combat patrol; we were ambushed, scattered for cover. LT yelled for me to take the mounted gun on our Humvee. But I didn’t want to break cover. Guys were going down all over the place. We couldn’t see the shooter. Manning that gun could have turned the tide, saved lives.” Brent sighed. It was all so clear, like it had happened just hours ago. “Finally, LT says to me ‘Get on that gun, soldier, or we all die.’ So I broke cover, went for the vehicle.” He paused, feeling a sudden jolt of confusion and disappointment, like the feeling you get when your favorite character in a TV series suddenly dies. “But… I didn’t make it. I tried. I wanted to do it. But… I was shot. Bleeding out.” He drew a deep breath, remembering the pain. “And I died.” He looked up to see Carol gazing at him, her eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sorry. But at least you tried.” “Yeah, I did try. I guess that’s what counts.” Brent felt as though a weight was slowly lifting from his chest, as if telling his story had somehow relieved him of its burden of guilt. He took a deep breath. “What about you?” “Plane crash,” she said. “First anniversary. My husband and I were on our way to the Caribbean.” She paused, shaking her head slowly. “I wanted to go on that trip so much. But as the plane was going down, I kept thinking about all the things we weren’t going to live to see. Our friends and family. The house of our dreams.” Her voice grew faint, hoarse. “Our children.” She swallowed, drew a shaky breath. “Everything that would have happened in our lives, gone.” Silently, Brent handed Carol one of the glasses he held. They touched rims, took a drink. Then Brent sighed. “We really are dead, aren’t we?” “I think so.” “And this,” he waved at the room around them, “is some sort of… afterparty, for people who aren’t ready to… go on?” “I think it’s something like that.” “Then when can we leave?” “Whenever you’re ready, sir.” Brent looked over his shoulder. The butler stood there, a smile on his face. “Whenever I want?” The butler shook his head. “No, sir. When you are ready.” Brent frowned, confused. “But I am ready,” he said, then he hesitated, as a sudden stab of fear shot through him, fear of leaving everything behind, fear of going into the unknown. “At least, I think I am.” He looked at Carol. “Are you?” “I think so.” There was a slight quaver in her voice. “I want to be. I… want to see him again. I really do.” She glanced around the room, and she smiled. “There’s nothing here for me. Yes, I’m ready.” “Very good, miss,” the butler said. “If you’ll just come with me.” She looked at him, then back to Brent. “Will you come with me? Can we go together?” Brent glanced at the butler, who nodded. “There’s no need to take the trip alone. As long as you’re ready.” Brent took one last look around the beautiful, elegant ballroom, with its lovely decorations and distractions, at all the people there, unwilling to leave, sentenced to wait there for as long as it took. But for him, it was like the mansion itself, a place from a different time, that no longer mattered to him. As a limbo, it wasn’t so bad, unless what you brought with you turned it into purgatory. “Yes, I’m ready,” he said. “Excellent, sir,” the butler said approvingly. “If you’ll just follow me…” Brent felt Carol slip her arm through his. Together, they followed the butler, and left the party.


Nothing is worse than having your sleep stolen from you unexpectedly. But, in retrospect, the unexpected is becoming the new norm. Death is in the air; people are hiding themselves from anything that’s real anymore and here I am, sitting up in bed, stirring due to a case of late-night insomnia. At any rate, I decide to check the time on my phone, despite knowing it would only make the fight for sleep all the more challenging. The simple action of pressing down the rubbery power button provides some sense of ease in my late-night unrest. I immediately wince upon turning on my cellular idol but a millisecond after open my eyes completely to realize some more of the unexpected. Atop my lock page, I see a message sent from my best friend Derek. Derek was always more outgoing and adventurous then I am, but even I was surprised to see a message from him at two-twenty-five. After I quickly opened my phone, like a thief typing in some digital safe code, I was welcomed with a message from Derek asking what I was doing. A part of me wants to send him a message in all caps saying,

I WAS SLEEPING, YOU MORON! But he’s the closest friend I got, and I don’t want to seem like a loser that does homework on the weekend and goes to bed early. So, I send a more casual retort.

Why?  After a single blink, his response dots appear making me wonder what’s Derek is getting into this late in the night.

Meet me at this club.   What club is open now and why does he pick tonight of all nights for that matter. So without a further thought I franticly type,

Isn’t that illegal ? As the message leaves my safe place secluded by three dots, I regret sending the message at all. As before, his reply is almost immediate leading me to believe this must be pretty important, because Derek hardly texts me at all when he’s out.

Maybe but just get down here.

By now. I’ve had it with the ambiguity of his proposal and my sleep deprived animosity types away,

Why do you need me to be there? Don’t you have more exciting friends to ask out?

His reply appears.  Becauuse, guess who just showed up?

Thanks to my introverted nature his guessing game feels more like scratching at my brain, but I reply anyway . Who?  I anxiously observe as his message generates. Sydney Wilcox.

As soon as that message appears, I feel excitement accompanied by a nauseous feeling. But even that would be an understatement. Maybe this is what people mean by getting butterflies? See, ever since I first laid eyes on Sydney in my English class last year, I felt that feeling. But, of course, time went on and class after class would pass without a word. Before I got a chance to confess how I felt about her, it was already too late. The semester had ended and the only person I mustered up the courage to tell was Derek. Of course he made fun of me for it, but after he saw how broken I was he helped me through it. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now. Or maybe this is just some scheme to get me to go clubbing with him. Whatever it may be, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen Sydney or really anyone outside my parents for that matter. So I sprint to my shower and wash out my bedhead and hopefully the dread that comes with significant social interaction. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to go home with her tonight! Or even have a simple conversation... At any rate, both felt equally impossible until tonight. After I turn off the showerhead I spend way too much time doing my hair in the mirror, then sprint to my room. I realize I forget the stray textbook on my floor as I fall flat on my face. Just like that, the illusion dies, and it all comes back to me. Why I want to see her in the first place? Why I study on the weekend when I could be out raising Hell with Derek? And why would a scrawny college nerd would never have a chance with a girl like Sydney? My self-deprecation is suddenly brought to a hiatus after I hear a buzz come from atop my bed, followed by a murmuring from below. I must have woken my parents with my tumble. Then, with the speed of a cheetah, I rise to my feet, throw on a black t-shirt and jeans and almost leap out my window onto the tree outside. While I may dedicate way too much of my free time to my studies, I still love to climb trees. Upon reaching the bottom of the tree trunk in a manner even a ninja would admire, I quickly turn on my car and speed off to the nameless coordinates that Derek sent me. Shortly after parallel parking my car in a spot where I pray it’s too late to be towed, I make my way over to the “entrance” of the club. Upon my arrival, I am met by a burly, yet dapper man who stops me and asks for my identification. Luckily, in the same moment Derek, sporting a polo shirt and slacks comes out of the club and drags me in. Now I’m getting the a-okay and even a smile from the same man I thought could bury me. Luckily, Derek was an upperclassman who took me under his wing, an analogy that was quite literal as we descended down the stairs with his arm around my shoulder. The nauseous feeling comes back, except this time without the excitement. This feeling seemed to only get worse as we entered the club. As stated previously, this is not my scene, not before the pandemic, not now. My eyes flutter around the war-like landscape tattered with blinding strobes, deafening music, and enough people to fill out a small army. Eventually, Derek approaches a group of five that I can only assume is his usual crew. I hold back and begin to look around for you know who, but the search is fleeting. Because just as my eyes start to dance around the room like most of the people in there, my attention is pulled right back to Derek, who is now waving me over with a Cheshire grin. I hesitantly approach and once I am introduced to Derek’s band of clubbers, I begin to look around at each member of the group. My anxiety builds to a crescendo. I feel each one of their piercing stares penetrate my mind and maybe even my soul. I start to wonder, “Can they hear my thoughts? Do they know behind my hard outer layer hides a scared little boy who wants to go home?” As my anxious thoughts race, one of Derek’s friends breaks the ice with me after handing me a drink. As he mouths words that sound more like gibberish in this bedlam, my heart begins to race. Not knowing what he said but wanting to reply, I take a sip from the already open beer and scream the obvious, “This music’s really loud!” With ears adept for the environment, they hear me and respond in an uproar of laughter. My nausea seems to only get worse, and I begin feeling sweltering heat in my upper body. Suddenly I begin to hear a voice in my head. This voice, unlike my own, makes the room spin around me as if I where a couple bottles in. They’re not laughing because you're funny, they’re laughing at you, you loser. Why did you even come out of your hole in the first place? Not only are you a loser, you’re an incompetent idiot. All the while, Derek’s friends talk to him and occasionally talk to me, but all I hear is this damn voice. Why don’t you just go home? I mean, Sydney? Really? “Just go away. Just go away. Just go away!” I yelled. Seconds after, I realize the implications of the thought that escaped my mind. Everything comes into focus and I can hear again. Sydney had just approached me and the group and was now running away with tears fleeing her eyes. “Way to go. I set up a night for you and the girl of your dreams, and what do you do? You scream in her face,” Derek said. I sprint to the bathroom to at least try and recollect myself, and guess who comes along. Nice going bud. Maybe next time she’ll tell you she loves ya. Once again, my thought escapes, “Just shut up!” Everyone near the bathroom looks over to me as I shove the door open. It’s as if I am stepping off a boat. As I enter, I hear whispering strewn with faint giggling. As I drunkenly make my way over to the first stall, I’m on the verge of puking. Suddenly, the seemingly distant noises sound closer than ever. Could this random ambience be trapped in my mind like my unwanted, commanding visitor? The truth was revealed too soon; I cautiously pushed on the stall door revealing the source. Right before my eyes was a man sporting jeans and a biker top with a silver cross. He had a mean look and arms that could probably pop my eyes out with one squeeze. As for the woman that he was kissing she wore a tattered belly shirt and jean shorts so short you could see the pockets. As I awkwardly watched them, I felt the vomit rise to my throat, but even in my frozen state I was able to choke it down. It was this faint revolting sound, however, that caused the woman to open her eyes and draw the attention of her lover.

“Get get of here, freak!” Just like that my trance is broken, but not soon enough. Just as I am about to leave, the man screams, “You better run before I kick your little ass, es scortum obscenus vilis!” As he yells what sounds like some dead language, the man’s eyes turn as black as sin and make me question my own morality before adrenaline takes the wheel. Almost immediately after making a b-line out of the club, I spew my guts out onto the stairwell. By now, I no longer have the energy to stand so I fall to the floor. Then the bouncer, looks down at me with the same eyes the biker had and starts screaming, “fututus et mori in igni!” To my surprise, and surprisingly my delight, Derek bursts out of the club not a second after, screaming at the man. “Leave him alone Morris, I’m sure Jack’s not the first one to vomit on your precious, might I add, illegal, club steps.” He looks down at me, following up his confident backlash with a voice one might use to talk to a child as he puts his hand down. “Hey bud, let’s get you home, okay?” In that moment, the voice returns. He’s not you’re friend. If he was, would he talk to you like a child? Better yet, would he have had one of his friends drug you? After putting the pieces together, I slap Derek’s hand away and start to back Derek up the stairs as I scream, “What did you put in my drink, Derek? Just because I don’t waste my night’s partying like you doesn’t mean you have to drug me!” Derek screams back in a slur as I step closer and closer to the street behind me out of fear, “I didn’t give you anything man. Just because you lost your mind after one drink doesn’t make it my fault!” Derek shoves me a little and the burning sensation returns. “Does it Mr. I’m gonna become a recluse because some chick I’ve never even talked to breaks my heart!” As he yells this, Derek’s eyes blacken and he shoves me so hard, I fall into the street and a car almost hits me. The driver then gets out and screams at me with the same soul-less eyes. After that, I ran away so fast my heart felt like it was going to burst. Once I arrived at my car, I got in and gassed it out of there, only looking back once or twice. For the rest of the night, I sat up in my bed looking out my window every now and then for those nightmarish creatures that were once people. When daybreak finally came, I passed out and slept for almost all of Sunday. I didn’t wake up until my parents asked me if I wanted dinner. I thanked them, but told them I was sick and went right back to staring out my window.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was, you guessed it, sleeping late. In fact, the only thing that truly woke me was a call from “Derek,” or whatever was left of him anyway. After letting the call run its course I saw that he had left five calls before now, and even a voicemail that I promptly click on. “Hey man, look, I’m sorry about last night. I was a little drunk, but I don’t want this to get in the way of our friendship. Look, you already missed Calc, but if you hurry over you can probably still make Anthropology. Hope to see you soon dude.” After hearing the beep reminiscent of a flatline, I fall back on my bed and start to debate going to class at all. I mean I could go to class, but at the same time, I’d rather keep my head then a couple of A’s. However, that did sound like the Derek I knew growing up. Unless he’s only trying to lure you into a trap. No, he’s only trying to help me. Oh like he helped before when he invited you out to drug you, so you could make a fool of yourself in front of Sydney. A single tear falls from my eye. He’s not your friend anymore he’s one of them. I do start to feel dead inside after I am reminded of, quite possibly the final time I’ll ever see Sydney again. The tears welling up in her eyes make my face and my stomach cringe. No, this can’t be it. It can’t end here. I bound out of bed, my heart beats faster as I near the door. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing. After opening my front door, I feel the sharp burning in my chest. Do you want to die!? Refusing to quit, I make my way to my car and speed off to class. Once I finally arrive at the school, my chest feels like a furnace and my heart is beating a drum. After wiping the sweat off my brow, I look in the rearview mirror. I look as bad as I did the night before, but I follow through with my plan anyway.

As I walk to class my hand starts to tremble, so I conceal it with my other hand.

Look, If you walk into that classroom, one of two things is gonna happen. One, Derek and his posse will kill you. Or two, you walk into the classroom and spew your guts out again. Then everyone at the school will hate you too.

“Just leave me alone!” After looking up from the ground I see two other students diverge to the other side of the walkway. Oh wait, they already do. My bodily conditions only become worse the closer I get to the classroom. Just like last night, my environment starts to spin again. When I finally arrive at the door, my trembling hand reaches out to grab the door handle. Upon making contact, I experience the worst premonition, enveloped in fire. When I come back to reality and pull the door back, I wince and feel vomit bubbling up in the back of my throat. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you little faex. Upon hearing this I feel a bodily sensation run from head toe and I come to the realization that it’s all in my head. But to the outside world, I was simply paralyzed in the doorframe. Just then, the entire class looks back at me with eyes blacker than the bottom of the sea. Out of child-like fear, I quickly look over to the professor who also has the same eyes. So I simply close mine and repeat the following mantra, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head! Is it over? Are they gone? Guess there’s only one way to find out. Just then, I open my eyes to see a class of iris filled corneas. I can’t help but smile as I look at the sea of amber, blue, brown, gray, green, and hazel eyes. I spot Derek who shoots a smile back before yelling through clasped hands, “Don’t fall asleep now. You just got here.” Almost the entire class laughs, and without skipping a beat, I join in. I did notice however, one person was not laughing. A person I never thought I would see again, yet here she was, staring at me with her deep blue eyes. After class, I finally talked to her. I never thought that I might need to apologize, yet here I was, ready to take on the world and whatever black-eyed demons came my way.


I pulled into my sister's at about 6:15, only fifteen minutes late, unsure whether she would be ruffled by my proximity to timeliness. Usually if she tells me a time, she does so with the full understanding that I will be approximately forty eight minutes late, and gives me an earlier time of arrival than she actually expects me to show up at. She doesn't like it when I mess up her life hacks, even if it is as a result of trying to be a responsible adult. Her annoyance will be mitigated by the fact that I brought two boxes of wine with me, or maybe she would be irked because she was only expecting one. It's hard to tell what will set her off these days. I hope her new boyfriend will take the edge off a bit. I worry about her when she gets anxious like she has been recently. I decide to sit in the car for at least ten minutes, just in case, and recline my seat back so I can drink straight from the box. Everyone always expects me to bring a box of wine when they invite me. I am the box wine guy, ever since the ordeal with Mrs. Perot back in the 10th grade, which is actually a pretty funny story. One morning I spotted a box of wine just sitting under a tree in the park as me and Tommy were walking to school. He dared me to take it, and then said we would chug straight from it at my locker in between classes. By fourth period we were both completely blotto. I was in Mrs. Perot's English Lit class, and we were discussing The Old Man and the Sea, which I had actually read the summer before, and disliked immensely. While Jackie McKenzie was giving her usual brown-nosing spiel on the moral worldview which she believed the story was a metaphor for, some overeager hogwash about perseverance and natural law, I stood up and declared Hemingway to be a closet homosexual whose masculine prose was nothing more than a literary beard, then puked in Jenny Watson's hair and all over her cheerleading outfit. So that is why I will be 'that boxed wine guy' for the rest of my life. While I waited I turned the radio to the oldies station and played a game where I drank every time someone sang the word 'baby'. I do not recommend it. I ended up doing this for fifteen minutes and had finished half a box. I was feeling fully socially lubricated when I knocked on my sister Lacey's door. As soon as she opened it she could tell I was pretty well into my cups, and gave me a look of exasperation. "You're early." "I brought you a box and a half of wine," I said, holding the full one out to her, then let out long belch that somehow summoned a chunk of cinnamon roll I ate hours ago into the back of my throat. I lifted the box to wash it down. "Come inside and do that, you savage lush," she commanded. I followed her into the house and said hello to the other dinner guests, offering to hoist my box so they could wheeze my juice, but they all politely declined. Too polite for my taste. I hardly knew these people any more. We all grew up together, but then they actually went and grew up for real, and the fun machine took a shit and died. It used to be awesome that I was the boxed wine guy, but now they look at me like some kind of hopeless manchild, which is what they were doing right then. These fucking people with their hopes and dreams and unaffordable mortgages and credit card debt. "Where's the new guy?" I asked my sister. "Out back smoking with Paula." she replied. "Cigarette or joint?" "Dinner, you fuckin' manchild," she scolded. I am dying to see meet the dude that has my sister texting emojis, something she once claimed was the literary equivalent of pissing your name in the snow, but first I have a few pints of boxed wine to relieve my bladder of. I somehow get sucked into an article in a magazine that is sitting on the toilet that claims the KGB were responsible for having Malcolm X killed, which is complete and utter bullshit, but contains some really great illustrations with unintentionally hilarious captions beneath. I am staring at a picture of J. Edgar Hoover in a pencil skirt with a tennis racket and thinking that mainstream liberals have gotten out of control with this ironic neo-McCarthyist, anti-Soviet stuff - since we have plenty of corruption inside our own borders that is far more worrisome -when someone knocks on the door. "Go away, baitin'," I respond, but then am drawn out moments later by a familiar voice. One that should not be here. When I reach the living room my worst suspicion is confirmed. My sister is dating Geoff. We both act like we have never met, which is easier for me since I am expected to act drunk and stupid anyway. My sister introduces us and we shake hands. She explains how they met at the laundromat after he offered her a coupon for a free salad at Panera in exchange for using some of her soap. Everyone laughs at all the right parts of the story, but I can tell Geoff is faking it just as much as I am. Neither of us wants to be here in the same room with the other, it goes against every instinct of our kind. Werewolves are a strange bunch. Someone who might be your best friend on a full moon will be someone who you would never want to run into during the rest of the month. It's just hard to look into the eyes of a man whose asshole you have sniffed, and with whom you have tag teamed a German Shepherd on numerous occasions. It is almost unbearable to come to terms with the fact that such a beast is boning your little sister. Somehow we managed to get through the night without Lacey realizing anything was going on, mostly because I drank myself unconscious within an hour. Before I passed out Geoff and I managed to communicate the necessity of our predicament using nothing but facial expressions. A few days later my sister called, emotionally devastated, and told me Geoff had broken up with her the next day, citing some bullshit about an ex he still hadn't gotten over, but hoped to work things out with. I felt terrible, knowing I was part of the real reason, but I knew it had to be this way. They had only been dating for a few weeks, so it wouldn't be too hard on her. I showed up later with a box of wine and we watched all four Toxic Avenger films to help take her mind off the breakup.

A week later Lacey called to tell me she had already met someone new, a Morrissey lookalike who sings in These Charming Men, a tribute to The Smiths. Immediately I found Geoff on Facebook and messaged him that he should give my sister another chance. There are worse people to be forced to spend Thanksgiving with than a guy who occasionally licks his own balls and once gave you fleas.


Last light.  It's like first light for the sailors of old, except it is the final hour of sunlight before the darkness of night swallows the sun for the second half of the day.  Usually, Tholan would be busy at this time with the cruxes, setting up new boundaries.  This night, however, was different.  It was his turn to patrol with Lindia, and both would be checking upon the older cruxes near the trees about five miles out from their community. This night, there was going to be a full moon.  This meant one thing:  the Hunters would be coming.  Tholan couldn't help but remember the lesson from a few days ago, a lesson repeated once a month, yet required out of reasons of security: "The Hunters like to push into the forests," stated Garrold the Gray, the community's leader.  "They also have a knack of coming towards, and even force-entering, homes that are in the woods that they mistook as abandoned.  Hence, the cruxes." Here, he indicated to the large pieces of wood, fixed together into x-shapes with twine.  "These are set up in certain areas as a means to ward off the Hunters, especially if they are of a dark-red color.  For some reason, the Hunters turn away from such a colored designed creation, almost as if afraid of going beyond in areas where these things lie.  Perhaps it's something from their history, or maybe it is like the colors of poisonous animals that warn any to not attack them.  Either way or not, we must be sure that our community remains hidden even with the use of these cruxes, to be placed as far from our community as possible, while keeping any useful resources within the boundaries.  Children are not to go beyond these, I cannot stress that enough!" "Now, are there any questions?" It just happened to be, that day, that a bunch of children actually showed their hands.  Garrold chose one of those hands.  "Yes...uh, Cassie, right?" Cassie, just eight years of age, smiled and stepped forward.  "So, sir-Mister Garrold, sir, uh...is it true that Hunters can kill with a sound?" Garrold shook his head.  "No, child.  That is a fabrication that children spread to each other.  No, Hunters don't kill with a sound, the sound is just accompanied by their ability to kill from a distance.  Next!" Another child was picked at the time, this one named Harlon.  He asked, "Garrold, sir, are the cruxes magical?" Garrold, again, smiled.  "In a way, yes.  There's a special and spiritual ritual that we do, upon and around the cruxes, but you need not worry about how it is done.  You're too young; when you become a young man, we'll teach you everything you will need to know in making, placing, and blessing the cruxes." Tholan remembered that he was the last person picked with a question on his mind.  "Why do the Hunters hunt us?" When that question was asked, Garrold went silent for a minute, pointing his nose to the ground as if the scent of the Earth would give him an answer if he inhaled deep enough.  The smile was gone; in its place, a growing grimace formed on the face of the community's leader.  "Heh, why indeed?" He then looked directly into Tholan's eyes, his grimace now acting out a fake smile for the sake of sincerity, to help relax the audience as they became more invested in the words of Garrold.  "The list goes on and varies, from mistakes of the past to myths that continue to haunt dreams and make paranoia the daily drug ingested by the Hunters.  Many of them blame our people for unprovoked attacks on their people, including their children.  Some view our community as diseased, which actually works in our favor to live out here and carve out our own existence.  There are even a few that believe that, in killing us and even eating us, they'll gain great strength and become far greater Hunters than before.  Regardless," he paused, and waved his hand to the crowd, "the greatest influence of the Hunters is fear.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of change.  Fear of the idea of a perceived threat near their territories, maybe even replacing them." Garrold waved his hand in Tholan's direction.  "Don't worry about it, kid.  You don't bother them, they won't bother you." Tholan nodded, the memory of that day dissipating in the background of his focus.  He was near a river, one that the community utilized for fresh ingesting as well as bathing.  This was a new spot, so he had to set up his last crux here.  Later, he figured that he would go hunt deer, maybe bring a buck back.  He wondered about bringing Lindia with him when a strange feeling suddenly trickled upon his spine like a cold sweat running up to his skull.  He looked around, wondering if anyone was watching him. No one.  No animals, even.  Tholan shrugged, and set up the crosspiece of wood.  Right now, it was just the plain light-brown wood, two large pieces held together by a carefully tied knot of rope, wrapped tight enough that neither pieces could slide out even if made wet.  As if being reminded, Tholan checked his pack from which the cruxes were strapped; water, brush, rubbing alcohol, lantern, matches, dry cloth, bandages, and a Bowie knife (an heirloom of his grandparents).  He pulled out all the items except the lantern, and then he got to work. He picked a spot near the river, one that was devoid of a lot of plants and was mostly flat.  Using the knife, Tholan dug makeshift post holes and set the crux inside, setting it up as a standing X.  The knife was then used to create a circle around the crux, carving the shape into the ground.  From four points of the circle, he created straight lines directly to the post holes.  He then looked to the sky; the full moon was coming.  He quickly took off his clothes and crouched in front of the crux, waiting.  He looked around, just to make sure of his solitude, and then bent his head forward with his teeth set upon his raised palms. The pale moon shown down from the cover of clouds, waiting for the sun's departure over the horizon.  Tholan waited, ignoring any sights and sounds, keeping his eyes closed and his palms set to his teeth.  He counted the minutes, enduring the night's cold air amongst other things.  Finally, it was time.  He bit into his palms; the blood trickled into his hands and upon the wet dirt.  He rubbed the blood upon the crux, the light-brown now showing as dark-red in the moonlight.  Finally, he carefully grabbed the rubbing alcohol, pouring it in the circle carved upon the ground.  The liquid ran around the carving, making its way to the four points that fell towards the post holes. Now came the hard part; the sealing, followed by the blessing.  Tediously, he picked up a match and, after a couple scratches on the sandpaper edge of the matchbox, took the now lit matchstick and touched it to the circle.  Immediately, the alcohol caught fire, with the post holes catching.  The bloody wooden construct also went up, slowly from the bottom and moving to the top.  Tholan grabbed the dry cloth and suffocated the crux, putting out the fire and leaving the red design within the dying light of the circle.  Before the moon was hidden again, he knelt down and held his cut hands to the crux, uttering a prayer to his community's patron deity.  Once it was done, he erased the circle and lines, pushing more dirt into the post holes to hold the sign. He had to relieve himself and did so a few feet away from his work.  This would drive away wolves in the area, while the crux would (hopefully), drive off the Hunters. The moon was covered, but he was still naked.  He stuffed his clothes in the pack with all the other supplies.  Time for some food, he thought.  He walked to the direction of his home... The uneasy feeling came back, this time accompanied by his hair standing up.  He froze for a moment, then took his pack and pulled out the lantern.  He wouldn't have difficulty with the matches this time, and the lantern shown brightly.  In an instant, the light reflected off of two reflective surfaces in the dark.  Tholan turned instantly, but the surfaces were gone.  Back and forth, the lantern showed the flora, but no fauna. No other animals.  Not even insects.  Tholan knew something wasn't right, and it was close. He ran. Into the woods, staying within sight of the river, he moved quickly through the brush and past the trees, giving an occasional check over his shoulders.  Sure enough, shadowy figures were caught in his glimpses, moving from spot to spot, keeping pace with him.  Their eyes seemed to glow in the dark, following him as fast as he was running. Finally, he reached a clearing.  He slowed and stopped; any more in his current direction, and he would be endangering his home.  This must be where he stands, even if it was his last. Besides, the moon returned. Quickly, he blew out the lantern before dropping it.  The shadowy figures slowed down and started approaching him with caution, four in total and all masked.  Two held bows, one approached with a woodcutter's axe, and one stayed behind the others, with a rifle in hand.  They paused as Tholan composed himself, towering over them and baring his teeth and nails.  He was facing the Hunters, and they were going to kill him. The bows fired their shots.  Tholan dodged one, while another nicked his shoulder.  Steel, he thought.  It was a prelude of what would come.  Damned Hunters, with their hubris in mocking him and his people!  As the bows were being reloaded, he charged, only to be met by the Hunter with the axe.  He definitely saw the silver-lined edges, and moved out of the way of the swing.  In turn, he swiped the first bowman, hitting him in the throat.  A gurgle was made in place of a scream, and the bowman fell with a hand on his neck.  The second bowman aimed his bow, and Tholan dodged yet another arrow (this one smelling strongly of silver).  The axe-man turned and swung his axe again, nearly hitting Tholan's nose.  Tholan, in turn, shifted from the aim of the rifleman, trying to move one assailant between him and the other. A shot rang out, with the round clipping his left ear.  It stung, but he would manage against the wound.  The axeman suddenly charged and shoved the shaft into his chest, almost pushing him down.  He pressed his feet down, digging deep into the earth.  For a moment, the momentum was against him as the axe-man shoved with all his might.  Tholan dug deeper, and halted the assailant.  Then, he pushed back, bringing the attacker back.  He stared deep into the reflective surfaces behind the mask, eyes of fear and determination, and he growled.  The axe-man growled back, and tried to yank his weapon back.  Tholan allowed him, clearing an opening to the chest.  His nails punched deep into the heart of the axe-man, who howled almost as good as Tholan could.  The axe swung back, catching Tholan's left shoulder. The rifleman was now rushing Tholan, his rifle rising to his shoulder.  Tholan saw him coming, but was limited in his movements.  What could he do? The rifleman roared, his finger moved to the trigger... A blur of brown knocked him over, his next bullet missing by a mile.  A thrashing came from the feminine form on top of the rifleman, slashing to and fro.  Near death, he grabbed a knife from his side and slashed at her chest.  Yelping, she stabbed her nails into his eye socket, killing him instantly. Tholan pulled his own nails out of the axe-man's chest, and made his way to the brown-furred individual.  She stood up as well, and growled until he was close enough.  She looked upon him, and her facade changed.  Rushing over, she hugged him, sniffing and licking him all over.  He, in turn, licked her ears. Lindia was wounded, but alive.  They both were.  But they had to leave.  Tholan pointed, and Lindia nodded.  They quickly moved into the darkness; the forest would claim this fresh red sacrifice.