text: "*It began when they come took me from my home, And put me in Dead Row,* *Of which I am nearly wholly innocent, you know."* \-Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds "Give me the key to the Chevy, Ant, you aren't driving that thing anywhere. You're toasted." Anthony looked at his old buddy Pete with quiet indignation and relinquished the keys to his truck. Partially because Pete was a straight shooter--always had been, and partially because there were currently two of him. "Sure, you got it. . .*Petes*." Anthony said with a laugh. The twin Petes did not laugh. "Get to steppin' buddy. I'll call Suzy and tell her you're on your way." "That's a terrible idea," Anthony said, throwing his hands up with exaggerated alarm, "I'll catch hell--just give me my house key off that ring and I'll get out of your hair." "I lost my hair because of friends like you years ago, Ant." Pete said, finally relinquishing a smile. Pete had a nasty habit of scaring off potential new customers with his trademark resting-bitch-face or "RBF" as the regulars called it. He was a prematurely bald fellow, but it didn't look wrong on him--6ft and 250lbs of bearded Americana. With his white apron on, he was your stereotypical small-town, working class, bartender. A stereotype he did not mind perpetuating. "Here ya' go anyhow, chief." Pete said, with a sniff, sliding the key across the bar to Anthony. As he scooped his key off the polished oak he looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. "Jesus, I sure do look the part." He said, scratching at his chin. Anthony's neat hair had fallen out of it's normal combed back style, and was a bird's nest atop his head. His cheeks were flushed, and his ears were red. A 5 o'clock shadow had developed on his previously clean shaven face. Anthony was handsome enough, dimpled chin and a strong jawline. His college baseball days were behind him, but he was still in shape. His eyes were a unique hazel, more green than brown. But now, his unique eyes were blood shot, and if you put enough booze in Tom Cruise, he'll still look like shit. The thought of explaining his current condition to his wife weighed heavily on his mind. Luckily, the Pair-o-Petes saved the day with sober reason. "Shit yeah you look the part," Pete said, "wash up and get the hell home, Ant." On his way to the men's room, Anthony heard what sounded like someone getting sick. The person inside the john was moaning, it sounded to Anthony like a ghost from a bad campfire story. "Did you eat some of Petes cooking? You *gotta* be new here." Anthony called out, stifling a laugh. No answer, and the moaning continued. Anthony tried the doorknob, finding it locked he realized he had to take a leak. He began to knock. "Hey fella! I'm not shy and I need to make water . . . light a match if you have to, I just want to use the pisser!" Anthony knocked harder still, causing the thin plywood door to shake in its frame. "Honestly pal, I'm gonna piss my pants if this door doesn't get unlocked, I need to go!" The moaning continued, unchanged. "Fucking *hell*! PETE!" Anthony cried. "What do you need, Ant? Too drunk to work the toilet?" Pete answered with a laugh. "Har-de-fuckin-har! You got a stew bum passed out in the commode with the god damn door locked!" Pete didn't respond. "Peter," Anthony called out, "I'm going to take a whiz on your floor if you don't get back here and open this thing!" "Bull*shit* you will! I'll have your ass!" "Too late Peeeete, it's happening!" Anthony called out in a singsong voice. Peter appeared at the end of the hall way, his bald head turning bright red, and made his way quickly to the men's room door. "You don't tip me enough to be your goddamn doorman too, ya know." Pete said with a wink, fumbling through his keys, "Either way, here's the throne room, your majesty." The bathroom door swung in to reveal an empty room, the stall door stood open with no one inside. "What the hell?" Anthony said walking in, already looking for the source of the noise. Peter watched his blitzed friend search under the sink, behind the 3-foot-tall waste basket, and finally, in the toilet bowl. "Pete, I swear to God th-" "Don't, Ant, this joke didn't track, but I'm not mad." Pete began making his way back down the hallway. Watching Peter leave without a word, Anthony made his way to the corner of the restroom where the urinal stood. As he did the deed, he noticed a folded piece of yellow legal paper tucked behind the flusher. He unfolded it and stared at a single letter, scrawled across the scrap. **A** "'A' huh? Well, isn't that neat? Coulda' left me a fiver or something, Mr.Disappearing-man." Without thinking about it, he stuffed the note into his jeans and left, being sure to leave the door open. A round of 'See ya laters' followed Anthony out the door, as he left Pete's bar. He started to walk towards his house, only a few blocks down the street, then remembered he was leaving the truck, and spun on his heels. He made it to the vehicle and checked the driver's side door, finding it locked, he chuckled. *Good,* he thought, *no one will be able to get my precious collection of burned cds and loose change*. He walked around to the passenger side door, checked the handle and discovered a piece of paper tucked inside. "Lemme' guess", he mumbled, "'b'?" 'B' it was not. Written in the same sweeping hand writing as the note in the bathroom, was the word: **WE** Anthony jammed the paper in his pocket and stormed back towards the bar to see if Pete or the guys new anything about the notes. He arrived at the large door and yanked at the handle, flinging it open, dramatically. He let out a frightened squeak. The bar was completely empty; tables wiped clean, chairs stacked, glasses and mugs spotless on their shelves behind the bar. There was no smell of beer or burned burgers. It was like being inside a picture. "Guys?", Anthony said, panic causing his voice to hitch. No one answered. "Who the hell is leaving me these notes?" He called out, any buzz left in him had been scared away. "Why am I getting fucked with?" He continued to ask the empty room. A pained moan was his only reply. His balls jumped into his body, as his feet left the floor. "What the fuck is this!?" Anthony bellowed, trying his best to sound tough, but sounding more like a petulant, little kid. The sound came again, from behind the bar, gritty and grinding, like an old door opening. In an ungraceful leap, Anthony landed prone on top of the bar, landing on an ashtray and winding himself. His legs draped over the stools, he took a sharp breath in, and peaked behind the bar. Nothing was back there, not even a bottle cap on the floor. Seeing this, Anthony got up and sprinted for the door. Once outside he took a breath and pulled out his cell. 'NO SERVICE' flashed at him from the screen. He took off down the street towards his house, pumping his legs as hard as he could. He approached the first of two cross walks he would have to pass before arriving home. He began to slow to makes sure he wouldn't get flattened by a car, when he noticed two things: 1) There were no cars, no traffic at all. It was only ten o'clock but every house was dark. 2) There was a shadow walking towards him from the other side of the road. It looked like the world had a man shaped hole in it; as if some great child had used the earth as its construction paper for a "Flat Stanly" cut-out. It was close in shape to a Ginger Bread Man, but instead of nice, round hands and feet, this shadow had cruel spikes for fingers, and terrible clawed toes. As this thing approached Anthony, it's walk steadied, and it began to take on more definition; and an awful smell. The once shuffling gait had evolved into a smooth pace, and the long arms, and spiked hands had ceased resting at the creature's sides. They were now raised, and the fingers were fidgeting--anxious to find something to grab. The familiar moaning began to project from the living shadow, it moved at him, faster now. Its body made no sounds as it moved, no footfalls, no shuffling of feet or swishing of fabric, only the horrible moaning, the musty smell of warm river water and mud began to coat the back of Anthony's throat. Anthony didn't wait for the monster searching claws, he took off in another dead sprint. His lungs on fire, his legs felt as if they were filled with broken glass, his heart was beating so hard in his throat he was afraid he would gag. As his body burned, his phone began to ring. He snuck a glance behind him; he had lost the shadow. The caller ID showed unavailable. He answered, not caring who it was--the need to hear a human voice vital. "Don't fucking moan, please" Anthony began, badly winded, "Tell me I'm being audited, or that my dog died, just don't fucking moan." First, there was soft static, then a voice which sounded like cicadas singing, worked together to speak. "WEEEEE. AYYYYY." The fear left Anthony for a moment and was replaced by a confused rage. "'We-ay' what?? The fuck does that mean!? Who are you!?" "AYYYYYY. WEEEEEE." The cicadas answered. "Where are all my friends!? What the hell did you do to everyone!?" A young woman's voice answered him this time. "You will be alone, just like us, Anthony. You will understand." Anthony's stomach did a rough flip, and settled itself. Anthony understood, but didn't believe it. It had been fourteen years since his accident. It had been fourteen years since he heard that awful moaning. She was walking towards Anthony's truck off of the shoulder, being sure to keep her face towards on coming traffic, and Anthony was too drunk to notice her. He was driving like an 18-year-old does on an old farm road; fast and free. One second of negligence was all it took. Anthony had reached down to pull another Miller tall boy off the plastic six pack rings, then there was loud thump which shook the vehicle and jerked the wheel. He slammed the brakes hard and got out to see the damage, and the size of the deer he had struck. When his boots hit the gravel, he heard the moaning. He crossed to the passenger side of the truck and the moaning grew louder, and the smell of shit and blood hit his nose. "Help us," she said, choking, "You've got to help us, *please*." She held her stomach gingerly, the all too obvious bump of pregnancy was now misshapen, like a half-deflated football. Her hair, brown and curly, was plastered to the side of her face with blood, her jaw trembled. She couldn't have been more then 25. Her dark skin and full lips were illuminated by Anthony's tail lights. The red glow muting what would have otherwise been an incredibly harsh, red, scene--she was beautiful even then. Her slender frame was warped. The truck had done it's damage. Her legs were twisted and broken, and her hips where so far out of place it made her look as though she were smuggling produce under her jeans. Jeans which darkened as a rapidly growing stain spread from her knees, and up to her groin, and wrapped around her waist. "Fuck no. No-way-no-way-no-way", Anthony mumbled, his eyes wide, but dry. His hands were shaking, so he pulled them in against his chest, and crouched beside her. He began to rock back and forth. "Help us", she choked, her teeth becoming more red with every word, "I'm 6 months. He's healthy. Go get someone." She looked at him, staring, waiting for a reply. "Okay, let me get you into the truck--wait, should I move you? *Shit,* I don't know what to do!" she didn't respond, she just kept staring at him. *Past him*. She was gone. Her body settled, laying perfectly still and silent. The only sounds on the stretch of road were the clunky idling of Anthony's truck, and the singing of the cicadas. They had been everywhere that spring and early summer, loud, noisy and ever present. Strange creatures, showing themselves sporadically, some annually, some taking almost 2 decades to come forth from the ground and scream their unwanted music. Now, they sang their song to this broken woman, no eulogy for her and her unborn son, just the grating cry of the cicadas. Anthony worked quickly, not thinking, panic driving his body. He rolled her off the side of the road and down into the deep irrigation ditch, long out of use. There was a splash, and he watched her body rise to the top, like a fishing bobber. "No, no, *no*!", He scrambled along the shoulder of the road, found a few heavy rocks and ran down the hill, and into the water. He made his way to the woman with one of the rocks in hand, and stuffed it beneath her hooded sweatshirt. He felt her cold, wet skin and the lumpy presence of broken bones beneath it and recoiled, then vomited. The smell of brackish water and thick mud was so overpowering, the smell of recently expelled beer was nearly cancelled out. He continued his work until she sank, and stayed at the bottom. He watched for a moment, and deciding it was good enough, returned to his truck to check the damage. He dug his fingers deep into the earth, pulling himself up the bank, cursing himself for being so stupid, and cursing the woman for walking along the dirt road in the middle of the night. The front end looked nearly perfect, the old steel frames were sturdy and unforgiving. There was a small dent in the chrome bumper, but nothing that anyone would notice. He had thought for certain there would be blood on his truck, but there was none; it was all over the asphalt. He looked down at the dark spot on the road and dry heaved, the metallic smell of blood climbing into his nose and down his throat. After checking the front end out, he got into his truck, and drove faster than he had before. He drove like a man possessed, passing drivers on double yellow streets when he was back in town, and cutting through the church parking lot to get to his parents' house. He parked behind the garage, and walked through the backdoor, into the kitchen. His father sat at the small table doing a crossword, and greeted him without looking up from the paper. "How we doing pal? Didn't think we'd see ya' tonight, heard there was a party out in the McManis's back field. There's leftovers on the sto-" He stopped, mid-sentence and coughed. He thumbed at his now wrinkled nose, he smelled foul pond water, beer and vomit. He looked up to his son and saw the dried mud that covered his hands, and the dark water that dripped from his pants. Before he could say a word, Anthony fell to the linoleum floor sobbing, his jeans began to bleed brown liquid. It spread about like the tendrils of evil, looking for prey. His father moved his socked foot away from one of the dark trails of water, and Anthony told him everything. His father's response was grim, but not unexpected. "No one knows, and no one is gonna know, Anthony," His father said, reaching for his keys, "You aren't throwing your scholarship away on some *colored* girl. Not now. You're leaving for school in a couple weeks. You tell me where she is, and I'll take care of the rest." So, Anthony told him. His father had done what he said he would, and never spoke of that night again. Anthony left for college two weeks after, and made himself forget, and it stayed forgotten. Two state championships, and a whole lot of partying helped. Meeting a girl, getting married, and buying a house sealed the deal. It was all buried deep down, and locked away in a casket in his conscious. Now, for some reason, it was getting dug up, and the memory was kicking and scratching at the lid, desperate to sink its rotten nails and broken teeth into Anthony's soft, vulnerable mind. He *would* remember. The static faded back in, slowly at first, then it was louder than a jet engine. Anthony howled in pain and dropped his phone. Using both hands, he covered his ear and pressed hard, as if to keep his brain from oozing out. He stumbled backwards and fell on his rear. The deafening white noise was pervasive, he felt it in the fillings in his teeth, and in his guts. The phone began to vibrate from the magnitude of the sound, and scoot along the sidewalk. Suddenly, the static stopped, and Pete's voice issued from the phone. "Have." Pete said calmly. "Have, have, have, have," Pete began to scream. "HAVE, HAVE, HAVE, WE, A, HAVE, A, WE" Anthony started to cry and picked up his phone. "Petey? Where are you? What are they doing to you, Pete?" "Ay. Have. We." "Pete, I don't understand, you gotta help me here, I don't fuckin' understand!" His voice was choked with tears, he began to cry harder, "Pete please tell me where you are!" Silence. "Please?" "We have ayyyy. . ." Pete's voice trailed off and there was a click, then silence. *Fuck this*, Anthony thought as he took off running towards his home, *I'm going to go home, get my Remington and go look for Pete and the guys. They have to be somewhere, right? It doesn't make any goddamn sense, none of this makes any goddamn sense, Suzy is going to think I*\- His trail of thought snagged, he stopped dead in the middle of the last crosswalk. "Suzy! Oh Christ, Suzy!" He resumed running. This time he didn't notice any pain in his legs, or his heart, or his lungs. He only thought about Suzy. Suzy grabbed up by the shadow, t*hat fucking moaning thing. That stupid moaning bitch that took Pete and the guys, and left me all those stupid* fucking *notes.* *The notes*! Anthony's mind screamed. *Those notes! Peter was trying to warn me about something, but what?* "We have a what, Pete?" Anthony said as he approached the back door to his home. He tried the door and it was locked. *Thank God for that*, he thought as he pulled the key from his pocket, *thank God for that, Suzy is okay, she's going to think I'm a nut, but she's okay*. He unlocked his door and pushed it open with such force it slammed against the wall of the kitchen. "Suzy! Where are you honey? I need your help!" He waited for a reply for a moment, and began to feel a chill run up his back, the silence was too blanketing. It was everywhere. . . The silence was too loud. Anthony quickly turned and shut the door, locked it, and took off for the bedroom. *Maybe she's asleep*, he thought, his breath was ragged as he walked up the stairs. Fear made Anthony's vision tunnel. He could see light leaking out under the bedroom door. *Her lights on, she must've fallen asleep reading*. He mounted the top of the stairs and walked to the door. He tried to turn the handle, but his palms were so sweaty that it slipped. He wiped his hands on his shirt, grabbed it again, turned, and pushed the door open. The bed was made, but empty. On the middle of the bed was a folded piece of yellow paper. Anthony could hear nothing but the thud of his heart as he approached to pick up his note. As he got closer, he began to recite, in a dry croaky voice he didn't recognize, "We. Have. A. We. Have. A." He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. There was a click in his throat. "What exactly do you fuckers have?" He unfolded the paper and his hands began to shake. His body broke out in goosebumps, the hair on his neck stood on end. Written on the paper was the only word that had mattered. **KEY** Anthony began to scream as the closet door behind him creaked open, and the cicadas began to sing.