A Fork in the Road

-1-

I hate Mrs. Beaverdick's class, don't you? I wish we could get out of here and do something fun. Anything's gotta be better than sitting here listening to her drone on about Lois & Clark or whatever. 

Liam chuckled at the misnomer in spite of himself. He took his blue pen and drew a line through the black ink of "Lois & Clark" replacing it with  "Lewis & Clark." Then, he added a few words of response and folded the paper along its pre-existing creases and passed it back to the young girl sitting next to him.

Ava slyly reached a hand down toward Liam's proffered note and snatched it back to her desk quickly; before suspicion could be roused. Her shoulders shuddered as she giggled silently, looking at Liam out of the corner of her eye. Her face flushed as he brushed light brown bangs from his brow, tucking the longest portion behind his ear. She bit her bottom lip as he winked at her. She averted her gaze before she gave her feelings away completely. After all, the whole world didn't need to know that she had a crush on Liam. Unfolding the paper she frowned at his correction, chastising herself for allowing him to think she was dumb. She glanced at his reply, trying to be as non-chalant as possible just in case he was watching.

This class is the worst. I'd love to get outta here. what did you have in mind?

Ava felt her stomach rise into her throat as the butterflies inside fought to escape. She hadn't actually been serious about getting out of the class; it had been a pretext to talk to Liam and perhaps catch his attention. Now, it seemed, he'd called her bluff and she had no Earthly idea what to do next. She looked at him, choosing to end the note passing before she got in even deeper. When he caught her gaze she shrugged at him, signaling that she didn't know what to do next. Liam smiled and raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Cunningham, you have a question?"

"Not exactly, Mrs. Beaverdick. I need to use the restroom."

"This is the Ninth grade, Mr. Cunningham. By this point in your life I'd like to hope you know when to use the restroom and when not to."

"So, I can go then, right?" Liam asked, feigning uncertainty.

"Yes, you can go. Though I do want to remind you that Lewis & Clark and the Louisiana Purchase will be on next week's test."

"Didn't they buy it from the French in 1803?" Liam said with a smirk, showing that he had mastered the material.

"Don't be a smartass." Mrs. Beaverdick said, though there was only friendly warmth in her voice.

"Better to be a smartass than a dumbass." he said, smiling.

"I thought you had to pee?" the teacher admonished.

Liam held up his hands in an "I surrender" gesture and retreated from the classroom. As the door shut behind him, he turned and caught Ava's eyes once again. He wagged his index finger in a come hither motion, then folded his hands together in mock prayer as the door shut.

*                    *                    *

"That was the last time I saw him, I swear." Ava said, her lips trembling, tears falling down her face,
"I already told you that. Why can't you just find him or else leave me alone?"

"That's quite enough." Mrs. Beaverdick said, placing a hand on Ava's shoulder. Her eyes, though, were on the older male in the room. His hair was thinning at his crown, light brown, but with temples that mixed silver with white. His beard was similarly marbled, with silver and white streaking through the thicker red and brown that looked uncharacteristically soft for facial hair.

"Mrs. Beaverdick, Ava," the man began,
"It's been thirty days since anyone has seen or heard from Liam. I don't know if you get what that really means. We don't have the resources to keep something like this going indefinitely. If we can't turn up a new lead in the next 24 hours then the case is going to be closed and marked as unsolved."

"No!" Ava cried,
"No, you can't give up!" she cried, sobs wracking her frame.

"I don't want to, sweetheart. But unless you or anyone else can think of something, and think of it fast then we're going to have no choice. The only way to keep this going is with a new lead. Now are you sure you can't think of anyhing else? Someplace he maybe liked to go that no one else knows about?"

Ava sobbed in response.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Mrs. Beaverdick said,
"At this point the school can't let you continue without the girl's parents present."

"I understand. We've talked with Mr. and Mrs. Arcola already; the first time we interviewed Ava, here."

"Has her story changed at all since then?" Mrs. Beaverdick asked.

"Not one word." the Lieutenant sighed.

"May I ask what you're hoping to gain?"

"It seemed clear from their friends that Ava and Liam had a relationship. Now, there just isn't something right about all of their classmates telling me they're inseperable and this girl is telling me He could disappear on her and she'd have no idea what's going on. It makes the hair on the back of my nick stand on end. When the hair on the back of my neck stands on end then I know there's something else going on."

"Try to remember what it was like to be that age, Lieutenant." Mrs. Beaverdick soothed,
"They might have expected to get married and run off together one week and then hated the sight of each other the next week."

"Yeah," he nodded,
"Yeah, I know you're right. It's just that ... have you ever had to tell a man and woma who's only child is missing that you're calling of the search?"

"No. I haven't." Mrs. Beaverdick said, allowing her eyes to sink to the floor,
"It will be a terrible blow to the Cunningham family, I know. And I don't mean to be indelicate, but isn't that a part of your job, Lieutenant?" there was no malice in her tone, and the Lieutenant looked at her, his eyes icy and his voice hard as steel.

"Yes it is, Mrs. Beaverdick. And if you'll excuse me, it's time I performed my duties." he turned on his heel and left the class.

"Would you like a cup of tea, dear?" Mrs. Beaverdick asked after he'd left. Ava nodded her head,

"Yes, the Lemon Ginger if you have it."

"Of course."

Ava sat still, her eyes focusing and unfocusing on what had been Liam's desk. No one knew what had happened to him. He'd left History class a month ago and for all practical purposes disappeared off the face of the planet. Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham had been given the standard trope of waiting 48 hours to file a missing persons report, even though anyone that knew Liam knew that he wouldn't have strayed far from his family. Ditching school? Maybe, but to not come home or call? That was so out of character that no one close to the family understood why they'd been forced to wait two whole days to get a search underway.

A surge of hope permeated the community on the 49th day when the search began in earnest. It seemed as if every man, woman and child had stepped forward to search for Liam. Ava and her parents working closely with the Cunninghams. Ava had gladly tole everyone everything that she knew. She'd confessed to having a crush on the boy, that she believed his feelings to be returned but had not acted on them. She'd taken them through all of the youth hangouts and secluded makeout spots. 39 kids had been busted for smoking pot. 17 had been caught in various stages of undress and sexual congress. 4 had been caught running away from home and had been reunited with their families. None of them had been Liam.

"There we are, now." Mrs. Beaverdick said jovially a she set a cup of tea in front of Ava.

"Thank you." Ava said, sipping gently.

"How are you holding up, Ava?"

"I'm okay, I guess." She said with a shrug.

"This seems to have been tough on everyone, but no one moreso than you. Losing your first boyfriend like that."

"He wasn't my boyfried." She said, guardedly.

"Oh come on now. It's just us girls, and I'm no fool. Everyone knew the two of you were an item, even if you hadn't announced it to everyone."

"But we weren't." Ava said, firmly.
"I liked him. And I think he liked me back. But the thing is, we never had a chance to ... well ...." she stammered.

"I know, dear. I know what you said in your official statement. And it may be true. But what were your true feelings? How did you label your friendship wth Liam?"

"He wasn't my boyfriend." Ava insisted. Then, when she caught sight of Mrs. Beaverdick's raised eyebrows,
"I just wanted him to be."

"I know, Ava." Mrs. Beaverdick soothed, taking sip of her tea.
"You know, I think I excused Liam to the restroom more than any of my other students. Nearly everyday. I actually tried to set my watch by it once. He wasn't so exact that I could really do that, it turns out. Still, everyday at some point around 1:30 he would ask to be excused to the restroom."

"I didn't realize it was every day." Ava said, shyly. Mrs. Beaverdick looked at the girl as if only now realizing she was there.

"Oh yes, every day." She continued,
"I always wondered where he was really going, but I didn't push it. He had good grades and worked hard. As long as he kept that up, I guess I felt I could look the other way."

"Mrs.Beaverdick?" Ava asked,
"Are you okay?" Her voice sounded anxious.

"Yes, I'm fine, dear. You should probably run along home."

Ava hesitated at the dismissal. She wanted to leave; she wanted to be alone more than anything. There was something about the way Mrs. Beaverdick was acting, though.

"I'm actually not done with my tea." She deflected.

"Ava, why did you lie to the Police?" Mrs. Beaverdick asked bluntly.

"What do you mean?" Ava went pale.

"Liam was excused from class for the restroom more than any other class. Do you know who was next on that list? Who had cramps so often that there is no way mathematically possible for her to be on a 28 day cycle?"

"Who's that?" Ava asked, sardonically.

"Why you, dear." another sip of tea.

"I didn't realize."

"Of course you didn't. If you had, then you'd know to change up your story, to come up with some other excuse or to vary which teacher you cut out on."

"Mrs. Beaverdick, I'm done with my tea now. I think I'd better go."

"Of course dear, I'll walk you. It'll be getting dark soon. Us ladies must stick together, safety in numbers you know."

Ava allowed the teacher to lead her out, stopping only to flip off the light switch as they left.

-2-

"What do you mean you've got to close the case?" Richard Cunningham rose to his feet, his face flushed with anger as he fairly towered over the Lieutenant. He ran his fingers through his thinning light hair before shoving his hands into the pocket of his cardigan. If he hadn't been so flushed with rage, there would be nothing intimidating about this man.

"Mr. Cunningham, I'm so sorry. You'll never know how sorry I am. I won't condescend as to cry about tax cuts and budgets; I just want you to know that if it were up to me I'd keep this investigation going indefinitely."

"So you do think Liam is still alive?" Joan Cunningham asked, wiping fresh tears and smeared mascara from here face.

"Yes I do. In fact, I believe that his girlfriend-"

"Liam wasn't seeing anyone. We told you that." Richard spat in disgust. The Lieutenant continued, unfazed.

"Friend, then. At any rate, I believe that Ava knows more than she's letting on. I think their involvement was more than a mere friendship and more than 'puppy love.'"

"What makes you think so?" Joan asked.
"She seems as broken up about this as anyone."

"Well, it's an instinct mostly. The thing is, she's not done anything ... not acted in any way other than exactly how we'd expect a young girl in this situation to act. Now, I'm not a psychologist, but it's damn peculiar to me. The 'textbook' cases are there to establish a pattern and tell us what to look for but there's not really any such thing as a 'textbook case' of anything. There are always little variations. Personality traits that are unique to the individual and makes their response close to the textbook but still slightly off. Ava? She's an exact textbook case. She cries when I expect her to cry. She says what I expect her to say. She's even insolent when I expect her to be insolent. It's like she's reading a script."

"Wait a minute, what are you saying? The Arcola girl knows where my boy is?" Richard was beginning to shake with rage.

"Richard, please sit down. The Lieutenant will explain, won't you Lieutenant?"

"I, uh, I don't know if I'd go as far as to say she knows where he is. But I do think she knows something and isn't telling. I don't think the teacher," he consulted his notes,
"Mrs. Beaverdick, is convinced as to the bone fideness of the girl's story, either."

"Well, get her to tell you." Richard nearly screamed.

"It isn't that simple, Mr. Cunningham. Ava is a minor and therefore protected. I can't question her without her parents present. I was allowed to talk to her with her teacher present today as a courtesy. Nothing more. Unfortunately, my conversation didn't turn up anything new; now here we are."

"You said we had twenty-four hours, right?" Richard asked, calmly.

"I'll be the one closing the case if I haven't turned up anything new before I go off duty at seven tomorrow morning. I just felt I owed you the respect of looking in your eye."

"And we appreciate that, Lieutenant." Joan said, softly. Tears ran down her face, though it was impossible to tell if she wept for her missing child, her unstable husband or for herself,
"But I think you'd better go, now."

"Yes," the Lieutenant stood,
"Yes. I'll give you some privacy. Just before I go, let me ask you, is there anything else you can think of? Any place Liam may have gone? Something he said that seemed innocent at the time but now ...." he trailed off.

"There's nothing, Lieuenant." Richard spat.
"There's nothing at all. And my boy is gone. And you're telling us to get over it."

"Mr. Cunningham, I wish there were more that I could do. I promise you we'll keep looking until the last possible second."

"No you won't." Joan said, her voice eerily cheery.
"You'll close the case long before the last possible second." She looked the Lieutenat in the eye coldly, though her tone remained upbeat and civil,
"Honestly, Lieutenant, I do understand that you can't keep up the search. I, that is, we, knew that it would happen eventually. It's just that I must insist that you be honest with us, and honest with yourself when you say it. You will not look until the last possible second."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"I want you to say it." Joan said, maintaining her calm demeanor,
"I want to hear you say that you won't look until the last possible second."

"Joan, come on, that's enough." Richard said, shooting a glare toward the Lieutenant,
"We're all upset. I'm angry too."

"He isn't. He's closing the case. The least he can do is be honest about it."

"Mr and Mrs. Cunningham, it is true I will have to close the case if I can't turn up a new lead by tomorrow morning. I realize this is upsetting news, and I want you to know that you have my deepest sympathies." Before they could reply, he turned and left; finding that he couldn't stand to look at them for another second.

Joan Cunningham crumpled to the floor. Richard caught her as she wailed. Sounds of pure pain and despair filled the hall as the Lieutenant walked away as quickly as he could while still being considered polite.

*               *               *

"Thank you for coming." Richard stood, and gestured for the seat across from him. Ava pulled the chair out and accepted his invitation.

"Of course, Mr. Cunningham. I was surprised to hear from you. Is everything okay? I heard about Liam's case being closed."

"Yes, the uh," Richard poured a glass of water for each of them from a pitcher that doubled as a centerpiece,
"The Lieutenant told us he'd talked to you."

"I wish I could help more." Ava said, concentrating on her glass of water, which was now sweating.

"The Lieutenant seemed to think you could." Richard said, his voice only shaking slightly.

"I don't understand." Ava said hesitantly.

"You don't understand," Richard mocked,
"You don't understand."

"Mr. Cunningham, are you okay?" Ava asked.

"You listen to me you little bitch," Richard grabbed her arms in his hands and pinned her to the table,
"I'm not the police and I don't follow anyone's rules but mine. And right now, when it comes to my son, to getting Liam back; I don't have any rules."

"Mr. Cunningham, you're hurting me." Ava whimpered.

"Good. That's how you can tell I'm serious. Ava. The Lieutenant believes you know more than you're telling. That your teacher believes you know more than you're telling. So I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. You're going to tell me what you know. Then you're going to go home and get ready for school tomorrow."

"Mr. Cunningham, I promise I don't know anything."

"Then why does everyone think you do?" Richard's voice rose and drew the attention of other nearby diners. He relaxed his grip on the girl's arms, allowing her to yank them free.

"I don't know, Mr. Cunningham. I don't. I don't know what happened. I wish to God I did but I don't.' she began to sob. Richard watched her intently, remembering the Lieutenant's words that she appeared to be following a script.

"Ava, what do you know? Please. Please just tell me. I need to understand." He pleaded with her.

"Mr. Cunningham, like I said I just don't know what happened." She replied.

"And I don't believe you." Richard said. Ava followed him out, but the two didn't share another word.

-3-

"It's just up here." Ava said, motioning for the Lieutenant to follow her.

"What is?" He asked.

"I have to show you. I can't wait for you to see it. Maybe then you'll believe me. Believe that I don't know what happened."

"Ava, I do believe you." the Lieutenant insisted.

"That's not what Mr. Cunningham said. He said you thought I knew more than I was telling."

"He shouldn't have spoken with you. I'm sorry that happened." The Lieutenant inwardly seethed. He should have seen this coming. The Cunninghams had both shown evidence of instability; it should have been obvious that one or both of them would do something stupid. He forced himself to put those thoughts aside for now, concentrating on following Ava.

He had met her at the school as she'd asked. Ava had called him and simply said that she had something to show him and that it was about Liam. She had led him from the school to a storm drain that ran behind the length of the school and its neighborhood. They'd followed the drain for a quarter of a mile, Ava insisting that their destination was "Just up ahead," before she began the climb out of the drain. The Lieutenant was now perched on the top of a runoff tunnel, his right hand holding onto a rock as he waited for Ava to climb ahead and make space for him to follow. She climbed to a point about five feet above him before turning around and motioning for him to follow.

"Quickly, Lieutenant. You need to see it! I need you to see that I don't know what happened."

"Ava, honey, I know you don't know what happened. Can't you tell me where we're going?"

"It's just up ahead. Near the Quarry."

"Ava, stop. I'm not going another step until you tell me where we're going." the Lieutenant stood up straight, allowing his height to intimidate the girl.

"Lieutenant, please. It's just up ahead."

"You need give me a little more to go on, young lady." He admonished.

"Walk with me and I'll tell you." She compromised. The Lieutenant followed her, reluctantly.

"Mrs. Beaverdick, you met her right? Her class really is the worst. Liam and I both hated it. We used to come up with any excuse we could think of to get out of it. He would have to use the bathroom, I'd fake cramps. Stuff like that. We've been friends for a really long time so it was really just a bit of fun. I promise. It was nothing more than a little fun. Do you believe me?"

"Ava, if you mean do I believe that you didn't do anything on purpose, then yes. I do believe you. But what did happen? Was there some sort of an accident?"

"You're not listening." Ava said, exasperated.

"We found this tunnel leading of from the Quarry. We started to explore it."

"Tunnel? Ava is Liam in this tunnel?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you Lieutenant. I don't know what happened."

"Okay Ava," he soothed,
"Just start from the beginning."

*               *               *

Ava watched the door close on Liam's "come hither" finger wag and smiled. Today was the day. She knew it. Today was the day she would tell him how she really felt. Today was the day of their first kiss. She looked at her planner and drew a heart next to the date where she had already written: "First kiss with Liam. Remember for anniversary purposes."

"Mrs. Beaverdick?" She called, raising her hand.

"Yes, Ava? I suppose you have to go to the bathroom too?"

"No, ma'am. I need to go to the nurse."

"You're not feeling well?" Mrs. Beaverdick asked.

"Not exactly. I sort of, um, forgot to bring ... you know ...." she silently hoped her teacher got the hint.

"I see. Yes, of course you may visit the Nurse."

Ava left as quickly as she could. She made sure the door shut before she moved again; not wanting anyone in the class to see her heading in the opposite direction. She bolted through the gymnasium exit, sprinting across the field to the hole in the fence that everyone complained about but that no one ever fixed. Once she was in the storm drain, she hurried to the Quarry. She'd half expected to catch up to Liam on her way, but there was no sign of the boy. Reaching the Quarry she made her way to the tunnel and found Liam waiting for her inside.

"Hey," she said, as casually as she could muster,
"How's it going?" There was no response. She looked at him, trying to tell if he was playing a game with her.
"I think Mrs. Beaverdick suspects something. I think we should make today count and take a break for a while and let things cool off. What do you think?'

There was again, no response.

"Speaking of making things count, Liam, there's something I've been wanting to give you for a long time. I've just been waiting for the right time. I think it's today." She leaned forward and boldly kissed him. She pressed her mouth firmly to his, allowing her passion to dictate the ferocity of the kiss. Her hands went from his chest to the sides of his face. For his part, Liam stood stock still. His arms remained at his sides.

"Liam?" Ava asked, pulling away,
"Liam, don't you like me?"

Liam didn't respond. He didn't move. In fact there was no change at all in his demeanor aside from a low growl in his throat.

"Liam, I don't understand. What's happening?"

*               *               *

"What happened next, Ava?" The Lieutenant prodded. The girl had trailed off and been silent for two minutes.

"I've been telling you, Lieutenant. I don't know what happened."

"Well, we're at the Quarry now, can you show me this tunnel?" He tried.

"It's just over here." Ava motioned.

"Ava, why didn't you tell anyone about this before?"

"Oh, I did." She replied simply.

"You did?" He asked,
"Who?"

"Just the other day I told Mrs. Beaverdick." Seeing his surprised look, she continued,
"She asked me why I had lied to you when you'd asked me if I knew anything else about where Liam was. I told her I didn't know what happened. She didn't believe me so I had to bring her here to show her."

"I wonder why she didn't call me?" The Lieutenant muttered to himself.

"I think she might still be talking to Liam."

"To Liam? What the hell is going on Ava?"

"Oh, I also showed Mr. Cunningham. Though to be honest I didn't want to. He hurt me. And he's mean."

"He hurt you? Ava, we need to stop right now, and I need to take you in to make a formal statement."

"Well that'll be up to Liam, won't it?  I mean if he isn't really missing then why do I have to make a statement?"

"Where's Liam, Ava?"

The girl didn't respond. Instead, the Lieutenant felt a tug on his right arm. He looked at the source and found the lifeless eyes of Mrs. Beaverdick. The deathmask she wore betrayed the fact that she'd been terrified when she died. She lumbered on a broken right ankle, pulling the Lieutenant behind her. Ava smiled,

"I told you she was still down here. That's why she didn't call you."

"What is this? What's going on?" The Lieutenant asked.

This time the response came as a tug on his left leg. He looked down to find Mr. Cunningham's arms wrapped around his ankle. Looking closer he realized that it was only Mr. Cunningham's torso that had hold of him. The man's body seeemed to stop at the waist; his legs were missing or had been replaced by a trail of his intestines and digestive system that he dragged behind him. Ava's grin became even broader.

"Mr. Cunningham was so happy to see Liam that he rushed right up to him and gave him a hug. Liam missed his dad too. He hugged him so hard he pulled him right off his legs!"

"Ava, you've got to listen to me. Please. Help me. Get them off of me. We've got to get out of here."

"Not yet, Lieutenant. You need to see that Liam's okay. That I don't know what happened but he's okay."

The Lieutenant heard another low growl from in front of him. He turned his gaze to the source of the sound and found Liam moving toward him from the darkness. Ava walked around the Lieutenant and took the boy's arm, kissing him on the cheek. Liam made no move against the girl, instead moving toward the Lieutenant as if the man were all he could see. The boy was in the best shape of all of them, but was still obviously a corpse. His skin was pale, as if his body had been drained of blood. The Lieutenant could see the trace lines of veins as if the boy's skin was transluscent. Ava wrapped her arm around Liam and helped him toward the Lieutenant.

"See Lieutenant. He's okay. Just a little different now. I told you I don't know what happened and I don't. I kissed him and then he was like this. I don't think it was my fault,but I can't think of anything else it could be. I don't know what to do, now because everyone thinks Liam is missing and when they see him like this they'll all know it was my fault." She hung her head in embarrassment.

"Ava, you've got to get me out of here. I can help you. We can get a team here, like I heard they had in North Carolina. We can figure it out."

"You're not listening, Lieutenant. I don't know what happened. I don't know what happened to Liam. I don't know what happened to Mrs. Beaverdick. I don't know what happened to Mr. Cunningham, and when they come asking me I'll be sure to tell them I don't know what happened to you, either, Lieutenant." she looked at Liam, kissing him on the cheek again,
"I've got to get home, honey. Mom will be worrying if I'm not back soon. I'll be by in the morning to see you again." Another kiss, this time on his mouth, which was in mid-snarl when her lips made contact.

"Ava, don't do this. Please. We can figure this out."

As last words go, they weren't the best. Ava wished that he'd had something more poignant or inspirational to say. Something about love beating the odds and how to make a relationship work. She found it immensely disappointing that he'd been about as useful as the others. So focused on how Liam had changed. None of them seemed to care that she'd changed to. That Liam had made her a woman.

"There's nothing to figure out, Lieutenant. I love him. We'll find a way to make it work. Somehow." With a final kiss blown to Liam, Ava left; the Lieutenant's screams playing a recessional to her exit.

The Road to Recovery

-1-

"I really don't know why I'm here, you know." Said Charles Greene,

"It's been weeks. Honestly, Doctor Mattel, I don't think there's any reason to continue this charade."

"Now Charles, we've been over this." Said the man named Doctor Mattel, looking up from an open manila folder, over black rimmed glasses that were perched on the tip of his nose. His stubble looked scratchy and at the point where it was difficult to tell if he was growing a full beard or was just too exhausted or lazy to shave. The circles under his eyes betrayed that it was the latter.

"Yes, we have Doctor Mattel. And I am completely aware that I need to forgive myself for what happened. I understand the logic and the science behind it."

"Indeed you do, Charles. And yet I don't believe you've done any such thing. Forgive yourself, I mean. I think you're telling me what you think I want to hear. I can't imagine that discontinuing your treatment now would be of any use to you; and worse than that, it would be irresponsible of me as your Doctor."

The two of them moved smoothly through the conversation, betraying the fact that they'd had it many times before. Charles rolled his eyes and looked at the Doctor again, his eyes suddenly hooded, dark and intense.

"Doctor Mattel, what do you think you can do for me in here? I watched my fiancé butchered by Zombies in front of me."

"Now Charles, you know that they're not 'zombies.'" Doctor Mattel interrupted.

"I don't give a fuck what you want to call them," Charles answered, his voice slightly raised in frustration.

"Bath Salt addicts if you like, I don't know what they really were, I just know what I saw." he continued.

"I watched him eaten to death by those things. They pulled him off of me in the middle of fucking. Not just any fucking, no, no! This was hot, sweaty honeymoon fucking! They dragged him to a corner, and they ripped his flesh from his body and they ate it. Right in front of me."

Doctor Mattel no longer had a response, instead scribbling furious notes into the open file folder in his lap. Charles' voice was haunted, but unwavering as he relived the nightmare.

"They never touched me. They looked up at me, each of them, one at a time, but none of them touched me. They just ate him, in front of me. Until there was nothing left. They left him there, his intestines spilled out in front of him, broken bones jagged and sticking out through his skin. His eyes were open, but he just stared at me. Then they left, one by one. They never touched me. They never made a move toward me." his eyes were wide, and far away; frozen in horror. Then, they suddenly cleared and he looked up at the Doctor again. A background in psychology was not needed to understand that Charles relived this moment over and over in his dreams.

"And it's been weeks. And I don't understand why they didn't come after me now any more than I did then. Everything I told the police is still true."

"I know, Charles," Doctor Mattel said.

"Your story hasn't wavered since you were brought in. We-" he stopped, correcting himself.

"I believe you." he said soothingly.

"But we can't ignore how a trauma like that can affect you. But after several weeks, it's been determined that you are no longer a danger to yourself or anyone else. I want to be honest, Charles that I opposed and voted against this decision, but I was overruled."



"What decision?" Charles asked.



"I came here today to tell you that we're ready to move your treatment to an 'outpatient' status. You can go home today."

Charles didn't move. His face betrayed no expression.

"Did you hear me Charles?"

"Yes. I heard."

"Do you have anything to say?" Doctor Mattel prodded.

Charles looked up at him, tears beginning to stream down his face.

"While I've been in here it's been a dream, Doctor. I could never be sure it really happened as long as you kept questioning what I saw and what really happened. Now I have to figure out how to live without him." his voice broke and he began to sob unashamedly.

"That's perfectly healthy, Charles," Doctor Mattel said gently.

"That tells me you're on the road to recovery."

When recounting the story to others, Charles would recall that everything beyond the initial conversation that day passed in a blur. He was allowed to put his own clothes back on, he was allowed to rest in his room while the discharge papers were processed and his continued course of treatment was agreed to and signed by him; like some sort of contract. The entire process took the better part of a day and when he left the hospital with pills in hand, he'd never felt more alone.

He took the taxi provided by the hospital as far as his neighborhood, but got out to walk the last few blocks. A knot of anxiety had begun building in his stomach as soon as Doctor Mattel had told him he'd be going home. What would he find there? What would be left of the horrific scene he'd been dragged out of? What would happen when he walked in? All of these things stacked up inside him until he reached the front door of his building and collapsed on the steps/ He clutched his stomach and doubled over in pain. He'd expected to see yellow tape that boldly proclaimed "Police Line: Do Not Cross" or blood on the street, or the door that had been broken open to allow the creatures entrance. He'd not been prepared to see . . . nothing; the streets clear as if the entire thing had never happened. The rewriting of his history continued as he entered the building, noticing that nothing had changed there either. Soon, he was face to face with his own front door. He stood before it for a long while, willing it to change in appearance. He'd read something in his childhood to the effect that it was "dangerous business stepping out one's front door," and he smiled wryly realizing the ironic truth of the statement. Putting all he was into making it appear as it had that fateful night. In his mind's eye he could see the splintered wood of the frame and the blood smeared on its surface; today, though, he saw an ordinary door; an ordinary door with a lock that had been changed.

"Shit!" he howled, realizing that he didn't live there anymore. The locks had likely been changed as soon as he'd been taken away.

"And why shouldn't they be?" he said to himself,

"It's not like anyone had any reason to expect I'd be back."

He tried futilely to open the lock again before howling in rage, and passive aggressively breaking the key in the lock. Once again calm, he turned and walked from the building as if he believed for himself that nothing had happened. Behind him, at the door of a residence he no longer resided in; laid a bag of pills he knew he couldn't stomach.

-2-

Charles passed the next several weeks in a blur. News of the so called "Zombie Outbreak" became more and more prevalent, until it was finally something he couldn't escape from. He laughed in mock humor whenever someone with an official sounding title stared directly into television cameras to state very carefully that no one was calling the "things" Zombies, while the screen split to show camera footage of bodies in various states of decay moving through the streets attacking people. The video footage was always taken from grainy cell phone cameras and lacked so much detail that the supposed "Zombie Outbreak" could be mistaken for Big Foot sightings. Walking the street at night had become a nightly display of courage for most. As for Charles, he preferred to darkness. He enjoyed watching the parasites crawl out of the holes in which they slept away their days and wondered that he should feel more at home among the dregs and the undead than he should among the living. Such thoughts occupied his mind, offering just enough distraction from reality that he could avoid the horror behind his eyes.

"Chuck?" a female voice interrupted his reverie, and startled him into anger.

"Dammit Marcy! I told you not to sneak up on me!" he snapped.

"Jesus, Chuck, sorry." Marcy said defensively,

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he snapped irritably.

"You look like shit, man. What happened? Hey, wait . . . aren't those the same clothes you were wearing last week?"

"Who the fuck knows, man." he said, laughing.

"You see what's going down out there?" he poked a thumb at the street behind her, just outside the entrance to the alley where he now stood. The girl stood in the street, illuminated in the glow of a street lamp, while Charles retreated into the shadows.

"Everyone's seen it, Chuck." she said, her tone soothing as if trying to calm the man,

"No one believes it."

"Well, they goddamn better well start!" he snapped, angrier than before. He accentuated his anger by pounding a fist into a nearby brick wall. Marcy could see that he'd left a smear of his blood in the wake of his fist. Blood that she now saw dripping to the ground.

"Fuck!" She exclaimed,

"Fuck! Fuck you Charles! Fuck!" she was frantic now, backing away from him.

"What? Marcy, get the fuck back here. Where are you going?" he came out of the alley, wincing as the light hit his face.

"You know that blood draws them out. You know that the smell of blood makes us change." she said, her face ashen.

"No, not 'us,'" he said,

"Them. It makes them change. If you were one of them you'd already be eating me." there was no humor in his voice, yet his face twisted in an obscene smile. 

"I don't care, Chuck." She spat,

"You want to get yourself eaten that's fine, but leave me alone."

"They won't eat me, Marcy." Charles said, suddenly calm and nearly whispering,

"They don't want me. I don't know why." He shook his head, as if to clear it and then looked at her again, clear-eyed.

"Do you have what I need?" he asked, simply.

"Fucking weirdo." Marcy said, producing a simple brown bag,

"I've got your stuff." she said, handing it to him,

"It's the usual deal."



Charles handed her a wadded up ball of bills and snatched the bag from her, grunting a thank you. Marcy looked at him with a cold sympathy.



"I gotta get home, Chuck. Patty will be waiting. She asked me to grab a couple things from the store on my way, so I gotta jet."



"Marcy, do you remember what it used to be like?" He asked, softly.



"You mean before ... it ... happened? Yeah, I remember."



"I can't remember anymore. What was it like?"



Marcy pulled a phone from her pocket and quickly typed a text message while she spoke.



"What do you mean? The world or us?"



"Us. All of us. You, me, Patty, Franklin..." he answered, trailing off.



"C'mon Chuck." she answered with a softer, friendlier tone.

"We've always been besties, you know that."



"Yeah, I know. It just, it seems so far away from here."



"That's because it is." she said, her voice laden with compassion.

"You lose Franklin ... that was a big deal. It literally changed everything. It changed you."



"But you're still here." He said with a smile,

"You're still my best friend."



"And I always will be." she said, closing the gap between them to peck his cheek.

"Marcy, it's all over. Isn't it?" he asked,

"Everything's changing and it's never going to be how it was again."

Her face became a mask of fear and resignation.

"No, Chuck. It's never going to be like that again. Look, I really do have to go."



He grunted something at her and waved her away in acquiescence. He'd pulled the contents of the brown bag out and was inspecting them carefully. He held the small bag of pills up to the light and was counting them.



"Tell me you'll be okay?" she called over her shoulder.



"I'll be fine." he said back, walking in the opposite direction.



"Where are you going?" she asked,

"Maybe we'll meet up later?"



"It's Friday night Marcy. I'm going to observe the American tradition of getting fucked and fucked up."



"That's my boy!" she said grinning.



He waved at her one last time and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground as he walked, unconsciously fingering the pills he still held in his hand. 

-3-

Hours later, Charles stood in the midst of a throng of very hot, very sweaty people in various states of undress all moving and gyrating in dance to very loud, bass driven music.  Clearly out of place as the only person who wasn't dancing, he struggled to make his way through the densely packed flesh to the bar. Nearly falling into the bar as he finally arrived.

"Easy there!" the comment was accompanied by a strong hand closing around his forearm. There was strength behind it that Charles was instantly attracted to.

"Thanks," he said, looking up.
"Almost wiped out there." He locked eyes with his rescuer and felt immediately at ease at the soft blue/gray that was scanning him for injury.

"Are you hurt, um ..." he trailed off, waiting for a name.

"Charles, and no. I'm fine. It's just uh, it's been a while."

"Sherman." the man said, offering his hand. Charles shook it and felt his attraction to the man deepen at the firm grip.

"Thank you Sherman." he said with a smile,

"What are you drinking?"

"House Mead." he said, accepting the unspoken offer.

"Sounds great." Charles said, taking position next to the man. He flagged down the bartender and ordered the two drinks.

"So it's been a while, eh?" Sherman said, sipping his Mead.

"Yeah. A while to say the least."

"So what brings you out after so much time? Just trying to 'get back out there?'"

"You could say that," Charles said,

"I'm not even sure it’s a good idea. It hasn't been all that long since I lost-" he stopped abruptly.

"Lost what?" Sherman asked.

"It doesn't matter." Charles waved it away.

"The point is that I'm here, doing this again. Whatever this is."



"Indeed," Sherman said through a sip of his Mead.
"What is this?"

"Flirting." Charles said abruptly, and bluntly.

"Really terrible flirting."

"I don't know. I don't think it's such a bad attempt. I'm here sharing a drink aren't I?" Sherman smiled.

The smile did something to Charles. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. He felt all his stress melt away and he saw genuine affection behind the other man's beard and gorgeous blue/gray eyes. His eyes misted and he blinked to keep from crying.

"Thank you." he breathed.

"For what?" Sherman asked.

"For sharing the drink." Charles smiled, opening his eyes again.

"And for helping me realize something."

"What's that?" Sherman prompted. His amiable and laid back demeanor made it clear that he was hoping to make something happen with Charles while still holding an attitude of distant non-expectation. He'd moved to face Charles with his whole body, his legs becoming more relaxed and therefore slightly open at the thigh. Charles notices all of this and turned his body to match, allowing the body language between the two of them to drive the desire he was sure the other man felt. He took a sip of his mead.

"Unusual to have Mead in a place like this, isn't it?"

"It's the best kept secret in town." Sherman said. The music stopped as he said it, increasing the volume of his voice ten-fold. Charles smiled and waited to speak again until the next song started up.

"It is delicious." he conceded over the new thrumming bass that seemed to be the same as the previous thrumming bass.

"So uh, Charles," Sherman said,

"Where was this flirting going to go?"

Charles looked at him and smiled.

"I think we both know where that's going to end up." He finished the Mead and ordered another. When it arrived he produced the bag full of pills and swallowed a handful. The bag's contents were nearly gone with only a few remaining, he offered these to Sherman.

"I never mix booze and pills." Sherman declined.
"Don't want to end up like Marilyn."

"Unless you do." Charles said wryly.

"I like you Sherman, and I haven't liked anyone in a really long time."

"I like you to, Charles." Sherman said, moving in closer and putting a lingering hand on Charles' arm.

"What are those pills?"

"They help me take the edge off in large crowds."

"I bet! You swallowed at least a dozen of them."

"Two dozen actually." he held up the bag, which had only four pills remaining.

"Gotta save something for the afterglow." he winked at Sherman.

"Like I was saying Sherman, I like you. I think we have a connection. Ya know?"

"Well, I think there's some attraction there, sure." Sherman said, moving his hand from Charles' arm down to his thigh and around to his buttock.

"I mean beyond that. Sherman, I'm going to level with you about something."

"Ooh! Mysterious!" Sherman said, leaning in even closer. The two men were now close enough that they could kiss if they wanted to. Charles took full advantage of Sherman's forward nature and grabbed the sides of his face and kissed him furiously. The kiss lasted for minutes, the two of them fighting for control of it. Charles attacked with all the ferocity of a starving man given food for the first time in days. Sherman was more reserved, allowing Charles to lead, but remaining steady in his resolve, keeping the kiss going in the way he wanted and only for as long as he wanted. When they finally broke apart he looked at Charles, smiling once again.

"You kiss like you've never kissed anyone before."

"Like I said," Charles replied,

"It's been a long time."

Sherman looked him up and down, deciding to see where Charles was willing to take things. He leaned back, putting some distance between them but staying close enough that they could still touch.

"What were you going to say?" he asked.

"I was going to be honest about something."

"What's that?"

"You're my first." Charles began."

"No I'm not." Sherman scoffed.

"No one who swallows pills like that and kisses like that is a virgin at anything!"

"I didn't mean my first ever. I mean you're my first in a long time. See, I had this thing happen to me a while back. I won't bore you with the details but it was bad. Really bad. I spent some time in the hospital and only got out a few weeks ago."

"What happened?" Sherman asked, suddenly cautious.

"Well, I had just gotten married. We didn't have much money so we went home and had our honeymoon at home in our own bed. We were," he stumbled over his words.

"Uh, we were fucking and that's when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"They came in all at once, just broke the door down."

"Oh my god! What happened?"

"They pulled him off of me and held him in the corner while I watched. They left me alone. I never figured out why they left me alone. But they took him away from me and made me watch while they did it. And this is the part I need to be honest with you about. It messed me up pretty bad. I spent some time in the hospital, just to get my head right. They let me out a few weeks back; deemed me "not a threat to myself or anyone else."

He paused here, and looked up at Sherman, gauging the other man's response. For his part,
Sherman still sat looking at him, completely calm and listening intently.

"That's awful!" Sherman said, taking the cue that he should say something.

"And this was only weeks ago? Are you sure you're ready for anything at all with anyone else?"

"I'm more than sure. I wasn't when I came in here, but I am now, more than ever. Sherman, I think you were meant to save me." he put on his best smile for the other man and moved in closer, putting one arm around Sherman's shoulders and the other arm in his lap, blatantly groping the generous bulge he found there.

"Will you take me to your place so we can finish what we started?"

Sherman smiled halfheartedly.

"Look, it really sounds like you've been through a lot and you leveled with me so let me level with you. I'm not looking for anything serious. I'm here to hook up. Nothing more and nothing less. Hell, I've sucked 3 dicks in the back," he gestured to a door dividing the front of the club from the back,

"Just tonight. I'm not really sure I'm what you're looking for."



"No, no. You are." Charles soothed.

"You're exactly what I'm looking for. I promise this isn't going to last any longer than tonight. What do you say?" he groped Sherman again and nuzzled his neck. When he broke away the look of desire on Sherman's face was now as obvious as what the hand in his lap was doing.

"I say you've convinced Me." he said, grabbing Charles by the arm and heading for the door.

It was a short distance to Sherman's apartment. The Club was his regular spot and he walked there to avoid drinking and driving. Within ten minutes they were walking through his front door and within fifteen they were naked in his bed.

"You really don't waste any time do you?" Sherman said breathlessly.

"No. I really don't." Charles replied with a smile.

"Last chance, you sure you want to help me do this?"

Sherman smiled,

"I couldn't stop now if I wanted to."

"That's what I wanted to hear." Charles said. He pushed Sherman down on the bed and straddled him. He used his hips to lock Sherman into place and braced himself on his shoulders.

"See, I knew you were the one who would save Me." he said.

"Consider yourself rescued." Sherman said, yielding to Charles' strength.

"Now, let's get down to how you're going doing it."

"I don't think I need any instruction there." Sherman said, with confidence.

"Not everything is what it seems." Charles said. He got off the bed and walked to his pants, crumpled on the floor nearby.

"Wait? Are you going? I thought we were just getting started."

"I'm not going anywhere. I just need to be sure of something first." Charles said. He produced the baggie of pills from his pocket and held them up.

"These pills ... I wasn't lying. They're to help me take the edge off. I took more than enough to make sure. If this works the way I think it will then I'll be saved before you can do anything else. If it doesn't work the way I think it will then you'll save me by calling 9-1-1 and giving the paramedics these last four to identify what I took."

"What the fuck!?" Sherman exclaimed,

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Charles produced a butterfly knife from his other pocket, as if in answer. He deftly opened it with one hand and drew the blade down his left arm from elbow to wrist. It was a surface wound only, not enough to be lethal, but enough to make sure that blood would flow.

"What the fuck are you doing? You psycho!" Sherman screamed. He was off the bed in a single, smooth movement and grabbing for a phone in his own pants' pocket.

"Now," Charles said simply,

"Save me." He lay on the bed, silently, as the blood dripped from his arm onto the sheets where it spread as the fabric absorbed the liquid. He closed his eyes; suddenly afraid to witness what he knew would happen next.

"Save me, Sherman."



Sherman was staring into space, his demeanor suddenly changed. He was no longer panicked and looked at the cell phone in his hand, dumbly. He shook his head as if trying to clear it before dropping it. Charles heard the clatter of the phone on the floor and smiled. With his eyes closed he was unable to see what happened next but his ears registered the sudden, guttural growl that came from his would be lover.

"I knew it." Charles said.

He laid perfectly still, his heart beating in his chest, though he didn't know if it was the adrenaline of the situation or if it was the drugs he'd overdosed on, finally ready to take his life.

"You can eat me, like you ate him," Charles said,

"But I won't be here for It." he laughed.

He felt Sherman move closer to him and felt his breath near the wound on his arm. A clot was beginning to form, slowing the flow of blood. Sherman sniffed at the wound, and licked at the blood; growling all the time. Then, without ceremony, he moved away from Charles, heading slowly for the door. Charles opened his eyes and looked.

"Where are you going?" he called after Sherman. The other man looked back at him with a snarl. Charles could see the dead eyes and understood that all life had left the other man.

"Just like before." he said, dejected.

"Why won't you take me?" he cried, sobbing. The tears flowed and he howled in rage and pain. Sherman watched him expressionlessly until the sound stopped. Then, he turned and with no further fuss, left the apartment.

Charles looked after him, then at his bleeding arm. He lay back on the bed, naked and calm.

"It doesn't matter," he said to himself as he lay there staring at the ceiling, expressionless and calm. He thought he could hear the faint sound of sirens nearby and he smiled, knowing that they weren't for him. With a final, peaceful breath, he allowed his eyes to close once again.

"You still saved me."

Weep Not for Roads Untravelled

-1-

"Officer? ... O-officer?"

"Yes? How can I help you?"

The voices couldn't have been more opposite. The first, asking for the officer's help was frantic, and gave an almost nasal whine to the words; the second, a deeper voice with a gravelly quality, oozed confidence. 

"My name's Jonny. Jonny Kalamata ... like the Olives. I, uh ... I need some help I think." 

"What sort of help?" the officer asked, his tag gleamed the name Ford and he held his hands close to the buckle of his belt as Jonny approached him. 

"Well, that's just it. I can't really explain, it's more like I have to show you." and he stepped into the light. Officer Ford could see clearly that he wore a black t-shirt that was sticking to his wiry, muscular frame; the boy was clearly soaked.

"That's close enough," Ford said, easing one hand to the flashlight in his belt. 

"What's that all over your shirt?"

"It's part of the reason I need help. See I was with my ex and-"

"Is that blood on your shirt?" Ford asked, shining the light on the young man. 

"Yes sir, it is." Jonny said.

"I think you'd better just stand right there and start at the beginning, son." Ford said, gently moving his other hand to his firearm.

"Yes sir." Jonny said, almost dutifully, and began talking almost immediately.

I broke up with my girlfriend about six months ago. It wasn't anything bad, just time to move on, ya know? Well, we tried to be friends and still hang out but that wasn't going to well. I went over to her house on a Monday night, right after the break up and had dinner. That's when it really started. Dinner was pretty normal, I guess. Spaghetti, but I didn't eat much because I had this weird paranoia that she was going to poison me. Anyway, we ate dinner and then sat down to watch the news; just like we did when we were together. The news was filled with all these stories about zombies in North Carolina. I thought it was just the bath salts thing happening again, but she was always scared of zombies and watching the tv that night she was white as a sheet.

"Didn't you live in North Carlina?" I asked her.

"Yeah for just under a year." she said, still ashen.

"I wonder what caused it," I said, kind of absently.

"Mind if I get a drink?" 

"No. Not at all." she said.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a mojito. 

"Would you like a drink?" I asked, and because I wasn't paying attention I cut my hand open on the lime I was putting in the drink.

"Ow! Shit!" I wasn't really hurt, mind you, I was just more like, pissed off because I'd been stupid. And because blood was dripping on my ex's floor. 

 "You have any paper towels?" I yelled. No answer though. I didn't care, really, I was used to her not talking to me. I found the paper towels, made my drink and got back to the news. She was still white as a sheet when I sat down.

"You okay?" I asked. I was feeling awkward so I was ready to use this as an excuse to leave. She didn't answer me though. She actually didn't move besides her eyes blinking every so often while she watched the news. 

"I bet this is all a hoax." I said. It just seemed too surreal, ya know? Zombies? In North Carolina of all places? What the fuck? Anyway, it was around then that I noticed a sort of growling. I looked over at my ex, and she had turned and was looking at my hand where the cut was, and the growling was coming from her.

Before I knew it she lunged at me and she was on top of me. I was surprised because we were broken up and I didn't expect her to come on to me. Then she got really close to my face and that's when I noticed something was wrong. Her eyes weren't right, they were all sort of white and glazed over, and her mouth, she almost seemed feral. I looked at he TV and saw dozens of other people, dragging themselves all over the street. Some were crawling and some were growling like my ex, but all of them looked scarier than shit! I didn't know what to do so I shoved my knee into her chest, like right between her tits and pushed her back hard. She flew backwards into the television and the screen went dark and the room got quiet.  I still didn't know what to do, but I didn't really get time to make a plan. I didn't even have time to ask her if she was okay. She pulled herself up and looked at me. Still growling and still angrier than hell. I walked backwards into the ktchen. Not taking my eyes off her. She followed me, her face a grimace, and I really couldn't tell you she was the same person I'd dated for the last few years. 

When I got to the kitchen I grabbed her cast iron skillet off the stove and waited. I let her get close and then I hit her. As hard as I could across the face with the skillet. Her head flew back far as she was knocked into the wall. But she didn't stop. She kept coming at me and I stood there letting her get close and hitting her every time. Her face was covered in blood and I now for a fact her nose and cheeks were broken. Her face was sinking in a little bit and I just kept hitting her. Over and over. But she just kept coming. I didn't know what to do. So I just kept hitting her. 

That's not the really messed up part, though. 

The really messed up part happened about an hour later when she was still coming at me and I was still hitting her. By that point I had gotten the point that it wasn't going to end and that I would have to try something else in order to stop her. I looked around the kitchen and found what I was looking for, the knife block. I reached over and grabbed a carving knife. The next time she got close to me, I grabbed at her hair with my free hand and yanked her back. She was growling at me and snapping her jaws, but before she could do anything I pulled the knife across her throat and watched the blood spill out. I remember a sort of laughing sound. I laughed out loud, I think, when there were bubbles in the blood because she was still growling at me. She never really stopped trying to get at me, but when I threw her on the floor a few moments later she had stopped moving and the blood was just pooling on the floor under her.

-2-

"Now wait just a minute son," Officer Ford interjected.

"Are you trying to tell me that you killed someone? That this happened six months ago and that for some reason tonight you're covered in blood and you need police assistance."

Jonny scratched his head and looked at Officer Ford sheepishly.

"That's about the size of it, I suppose." he said. 

"She wasn't really dead though. I mean, she kept coming at me."

Officer Ford scratched his chin.

"It's true, things have been kind of up in the air since these Zombies showed up. Let's stick with tonight. How did you get covered in blood tonight?"

"Officer Ford, you'd better come with me for that one."

"I don't think so son, I think you'd better just tell me right now."

"I don't really know where to begin." Jonny said, and launched into more of his tale.

I felt bad leaving her there, but I couldn't just take her with me either. I watched her twitch for about an hour before she stopped moving. The creepy part, though, is that she didn't die. She should have. I mean, I sliced her throat and everything. But she didn't. The creepier part was that I felt so detached from it. She came at me like a zombie and I dropped her. The woman I'd loved for years and I dropped her like that, like it was nothing. I watched her bleed out, twitch until all the blood was gone and I just stood there like it was nothing. I couldn't tell you then and I can't tell you now if that was because of the adrenaline of having no choice, or if it was because I had genuinely come to hate that woman for what she'd done to me in our "relationship." It didn't really matter though, she was dead and that's really all I cared about. She was dead and I was standing.

I stepped around the blood, being careful not to get my shoes in it and noticed that when I moved her eyes moved with me. I got a bit closer to her and waited. She moved incredibly fast but incredibly clumsy. Her arm snaked out and her hand wrapped around my ankle. I didn't think, I brought the knife down hard and sliced into it. The knife wasn't sharp like you see in the movies, so I brought it down again. And again. Over and over, hacking and hacking until her arm came off. Then I backed away again, she followed me with those dead eyes and I watched her. 

I left her there. I didn't really know what else to do. I went back to the couch where the news was on and I finished my drink. The news was full of stories about these zombies. The whole thing was surreal. I looked at my clothes and realized I was covered in blood. I walked to the bathroom to clean myself off and catch my breath. What else was I going to do? I wasn't gone for more than five minutes but it was that five minutes that really counted.

When I went back downstairs, still covered in blood but none of it on my skin anymore I heard a sort of sickening crunching sound. After what had already happened I couldn't imagine things getting worse, that is until I went downstairs. The sounds were all I had to guide me as I walked into the kitchen, as slowly as I could. The crunching was louder and more defined and there was also a crying sound, but what was most disturbing, was the absence of other sounds. The growling had stopped, there were no sounds of movement and when I rounded the corner into the kitchen I understood why.

While I had been upstairs, the kids . . . my ex's two kids had gotten up and made their way down the stairs. More than anything else that happened that night or since then, I wish I could save them. They are 8 and 5 and I loved them like they were my own. I mean, I stayed as long as I did mostly because of them, but that . . . that's another story. The important thing is the sight that greeted me because it will stay with me until I die. The youngest was laying on the ground in the pool of blood, curled up next to what used to be his mother in a sickening parody of cuddling. She silently ate his face, tearing the flesh from his skull with her teeth and using her tongue to lap up the blood. Her eyes were empty and her silence betrayed that there was nothing left inside her of this boy's mother. She silently and ravenously ate him. The whimpering came from the corner where the other boy cowered. I called to him but he didn't respond, whether in shock or frightened beyond belief.

-3-

"Are you trying to get arrested son?" Officer Ford once again interjected.

"No sir. I told you I need help. You asked for the details."

"Son, you're telling me a story that happened six months ago. A story that, by rights, I should arrest you for. The thing is, though, the story, if you're telling the truth, seems like just wrong place wrong time. No matter what, though, I'm going to have to take you in." he approached Jonny with his handcuffs out.

"Wait!" Jonny exclaimed,

"Don't you want to know what happened tonight? How I got covered in blood?"

"Son, I've asked you twice to tell me that and you gave me this cock and bull nonsense about zombies from six months ago. Now, I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't take blood longer than six months to dry."

"You're right, sir, it doesn't. I tried to tell you that I need to show you but you wouldn't let me. That's why I told you the story. I figured that you'd either see that I needed police help or that you'd think I was crazy and want to follow me to the bodies."

"Bodies? What bodies?"

"I told you. My ex. And the baby she killed. They're just around the corner and I need help."

Officer Ford considered the other man for a moment before deciding. He drew his firearm and pointed it at Jonny's chest. Jonny reflexively put his hands in the air.

"Lead on, boy. But you keep those eyes in front and no funny business."

"No sir, officer." Jonny said, dutifully.

He began walking and, true to his word, after rounding the corner and walking less than two blocks a gray/blue house clearly became their destination. Jonny walked up to the front door and pulled a key from his pocket. He deftly opened the door, as if he'd lived there for years. Officer Ford brought up the rear, pausing slightly before entering behind Jonny.

The first thing that happened was the wretching. He hadn't been prepared for the stench that made its way through the house and into his nostrils. Doubling over, he vomited on a large area rug that was in the living room. To his right he noticed the television, broken as Jonny had described. Glancing to the kitchen, he thought he smelled the faint metallic odor of blood. Forcing himself up and toward the kitchen he realized that Jonny was no longer in his line of sight. He trained his gun toward the room in front of him, and as he approached, he identified the source of the smell.

Sprawled on the floor, covered in dried blood and quite obviously decomposing, was the body of a woman. Jonny's ex, Officer Ford assumed. Remarkably, she moved as he entered the room, her head straining to get closer to him. He swallowed back a wretch along with bile and more vomit and without thinking fired one shot into the creature's head. 

"Whoa!" Jonny said, appearing in a nearby doorway.

"Was that really necessary?"

"I don't know what's going on here, son, but you need to come out of there nice and easy and we'll get this sorted out."

"There's nothing to sort out." Jonny said, taking a step out of the doorway.

"No?" 

"No sir. See, that night, the end of the story was that I realized they wouldn't eat me. I don't even think they knew why because they kept getting close, but even when I gave up and decided to let them, all they did was get close enough to sniff me, run their teeth against my skin but they never bit, not once."

"They?" Officer Ford asked.

It was then that Jonny came out of the door fully. Behind him came a small form, a shock of red hair on his head. The boy had deadened, empty eyes and from his throat came a guttural growl.

"She only got to eat one of them. I wouldn't let her get the other. The problem was, he was already gone. I'm not really sure what caused all this. I just knew that with his mother gone I would have to look after him."

"What did you do?" Officer Ford breathed. 

"I've been feeding him. I didn't really know what else to do." 

"Son, you need to get down on your knees and put your head on your hands." 

Jonny complied, getting on his knees.

"Don't you want to see the bodies?" Jonny asked.

"Could get you a promotion I bet, taking out a scumbag like me."

"You stay right there." 

Jonny moved so swiftly that Officer Ford couldn't have seen it coming if he'd been fully prepared. Jonny threw one hand out from behind his head and from his jacket sleeve a small piece of metal glinted in the overhead light. The knife caught Officer Ford in the belly and stuck there. He immediately dropped the gun and fell forward, within reaching distance of the animated corpse on the floor. 

"Just a one inch blade. I just had to stop you shooting me. The rest will come in time. See, I couldn't leave him here. Not with her. I couldn't seem to kill her so I did the next best thing. I brought him food and let him eat."

Jonny moved the boy close enough to Officer Ford, then backed away as the boy and his undead mother devoured the man. Jonny winced slightly at the screams but he'd long since been desensitized to the sounds of death. He watched with pride until there was nothing left of Officer Ford but bone, then the cold panic hit him again. The feeling that accompanied the realization that he didn't know what to do. He ushered the boy back into the doorway where he'd been hidden and said softly,

"I'll be right back." before shutting the door on him. 

Then retrieving his knife and tucking it once more into his sleeve he walked back out into the night.

"I wonder who can help me now?" he said to himself. 

In the distance he saw headlights heading toward him. With a smile he moved into the middle of the road and waited.

A Walk Up the Midway

-1-

She stood before the mirror; soft light from overused dimming bulbs that lined her reflection creating radiant beauty while lacking all function for the task at hand. She patted her face with powder, creating a cloud that gave the illusion of an otherworldly origin. The analogy was fitting for the setting, though she paid it no mind; her ritual was practiced with ease and grace borne of habit. She bent low and pulled dark stockings over her feet and up shaped calves onto her thighs where she clipped them to a garter, hidden under a black skirt. She stood before the mirror, topless, taking in her body's shape and allowing time to appreciate the curves that had taken so long for her to accept. She knew now that her acceptance didn't matter, not here, in this place; which was ironic since this very fact made it easier to appreciate. The image in the second mirror, behind her, was more difficult. Thanks to the juxtaposition of the companion mirror made her back visible and was a necessity, though it made her uncomfortable. She did not appreciate what she saw. Damaged, scarred flesh, made her shudder and curse her misfortune as she always did. She knew the scars were a necessary evil and to some, their symmetrical pattern would appear artistic, maybe even beautiful. To her mind, though, they were a reminder of the hardships that had led her here, to this place; and what had created the scarring she so despised. After a sigh she picked up her bodice and slipped her arms through it easily. She pulled it around her breasts tightly and began to fasten silver clasps in a regular pattern. With each gesture, the bodice tightened and she inhaled sharply in slight pain. Her back became more rigid as small wires inserted themselves into her skin at strategic points along her spine; these were the cause of the scarring, she knew, but she had no choice. Completing her task she stood before the mirror once more and gave herself a winning stage smile, spreading six arms before the mirror as if she were presenting a new car on a game show.

"Timothy!" the sharp voice cut the boy like a knife and he immediately blushes and quickly retracted his head from the tent, where he'd been watching.

"Timothy Clark Duncan! What in sam hell are you doing there?" Tim cursed silently to himself as he joined the fuming woman several feet from the tent.

"I'm sorry Ma," he said, "I was just watching."

"I know what you were watching, young man and you know God will strike you blind for peeping!" his mother said judgmentally. Tim ran a hand through his mop of dark hair with one hand while shoving his other into his pocket. He was handsome for his sixteen years, looking closer to twenty, with only his eyes and his smile betraying his innocence. 

"I'd rather be blind than a virgin." he quipped.

"Keep talking smart. You'll see. I bet all them monsters down in Charlotte were smart too. Look what's happening to them." In response Tim rolled his eyes.

Mother and son resumed their walk and Tim took in the sights and smells almost gleefully. He'd never been to a circus before, and had been pleasantly surprised when his mother had agreed to the trip. The midway was a bustle of activity and everything Tim had hoped it would be. A juggling clown on a unicycle rode in front of them and was rewarded with an awed stare from Tim. In spite of this, though, he wasn't deterred from his destination.

The sign read "World's Greatest Freaks!" followed by "100% Authentic! 100% Alive! 100% Creepy!" painted on the image of a ribbon wrapping around the rest of the text. Tim felt his heart begin pumping as they reached the entrance.

"Honestly Tim, I don't know why you want to go in there, those poor people."

"It's all fake, ma. Don't worry. I just saw Spider-Girl putting on fake arms." 

"I'll just bet that's what you saw." his mother said reprovingly.

"Jesus ma! Would you let it go?" he said, and instantly regretted it.

"Don't you dare take the Lord's name in vain! Now, I raise you better'n that, didn't I? Brought you to this place and that's the thanks you have?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just excited." he said.

"Well, excited about what?" his mother asked impatiently.

"That." Tim said, pointing.

The sign that read "World's Greatest Freaks" was centered above 4 painted portraits, each about ten feet tall.  The first was a smiling woman with six arms and read "The only living human arachnid! SPIDER-GIRL!" Next to this was a normal enough looking man, painted in a profile shot, wearing a black suit with a bowler hat on his head. His sign read "What cruel twist of fate can make a man become what he became? John Smith." Tim, wondered at this for a moment but shook his head, assuming there would be some gimmick. The third sign had been painted black with a banner that simply read "Removed by order of the state of Louisiana! Write your Congressman!" The fourth, though, was what had Tim's attention. The image was a man with the palest of pale skin, which appeared to be decaying; the eyes were glassy and white, lifeless and his clothes were torn and there were pieces of his body that had been worn down almost to bone. His mother gasped at seeing it but there seemed to be little surprise in her reaction. The sign read "FIRST APPEARANCE! GENUINE! CAPTURED IN CHARLOTTE! THE ONLY UNDEAD SPECIMEN IN EXISTENCE!" Tim didn't care that they hadn't bothered to name it, he intended to see it for himself, nonetheless.

"My God!" his mother breathed, "How awful!"

"If by awful, you mean amazing," Tim replied, "I agree."

-2-

"Step right up, step right up my young man!" the voice was boisterous and attached to a man who looked to be the inverse of a stereotypical ringmaster. He wore a black tuxedo, complete with tophat and tails on his jacket, his shirt was blood red with a white tie, and over his feet he wore red and white spats. His plump face was red and his bushy mustache was sculpted at the ends, rising into a curl on each side.

"Who are you supposed to be, Ringling?" Tim asked, incredulously. He made a mental note to point out on his blog that this man's appearance was so out of date that it passed nostalgic and served to take away from the ambiance of the attraction.

"If you like, good sir." Ringling replied with a smile, "We don't stand on ceremony here." 

"Whatever," Tim said, then before he could finish,

"Timothy! You're being rude!" his mother said with a smack on his head. 

"It's quite alright, madam! The boy is right to bring skepticism into the tent with him. A show like ours hasn't been seen in years and, as you can see some aspects of it have fallen before the more sensitive appetites of the modern world." he said, gesturing to the third sign on the panel before them.

"Look," Tim said, losing patience and waiting to get inside, "I already know this is all fake. There's no way you could get away with putting "genuine" freaks on display in a sideshow. Not these days. You'd get sued! It's not PC!"

"Quite so!" Ringling said with a chuckle, "Quite so, indeed. And yet, here we are. I assure you all of the attractions are guaranteed."

"Or our money back, right?" Tim scoffed.

"Not exactly. You see, you've already paid to enter and the entry fee is non-refundable. Our guarantee is something different entirely."

"Oh?" this from Tim's mother, she had moved closer to Ringling, and if Tim didn't know better, he'd think she was flirting.

"Indeed madam!" Ringling said with a flourish. "Why, if you aren't one hundred per cent assured of the bona fides of the attractions we will grant ownership of the entire show to your good selves."

Tim scoffed again, "Come on! That's hardly worth anything! If they're fake, why would we want them?"

Ringling was still undaunted, "As I pointed out, young sir, you have already paid the entry fee." he gestured to the tent. Tim admitted he had a a point. Even if the attractions were fake, a person could make money taking the act on the road.

"There's a sucker born every minute." he said walking into the tent. 

Tim blinked hard in an attempt to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness, though it didn't help. As soon as the tent flap closed all the light as well as the sounds from the Midway had vanished, and this unsettled Tim, though he assumed it was part of the show.  

"I shall be your guide on this tour of the grotesque," Ringling's voice came, more somber than before, "Please don't move until directed to do so. This is a safety precaution for yourselves. 

As if on cue, soft lights came up and Tim was able to see his mother next to him, as well as Ringling standing before a stage, cordoned off with a velvet rope, similar to a museum exhibit. Behind the rope, Tim could make out a velvet chair next to a simple wooden table. The table held several items, a pipe, a carafe of what Tim assumed was Brandy, a book of matches, and a lipstick. On a nearby wall there was a mirror, though there wasn't enough light to see a reflection.

"What we have here is the sitting area for John Smith." 

"Yeah, what's the deal with him?" Tim asked, "He isn't scary or a freak at all. He's just some guy in a bowler hat."

From further into the tent, Tim thought he could hear a low growl, and abruptly remembered why he'd been so eager. He felt fear for a moment, and wondered if the undead specimen was as genuine as promised. 

"Please, hold all your questions until the end, young sir." Ringling admonished. 

"John Smith was found north of the American border and welcomed the chance to make a home here with us. It seems that the residents where he'd come from were a bit unsettled by his countenance." Tim though Ringling had chuckled at the end of that sentence. 

As if on cue, a man appeared. He was clearly the man that had been pictured outside, he walked up to the chair and sat down, though he appeared to carefully position his back so that it wasn't pressed into the chair. He reached for the pipe and matches and deftly lit it and began puffing away.

"What's the lipstick for? Is he some kind of transvestite?" Tim asked, straining to make the normal character seem a bit weirder than he appeared.

"Certainly not!" came the appalled reply. John stood up, grabbing the lipstick from the table and began walking toward the mirror. He arrived, still facing the observers, and bent toward the mirror, backward. His back moved at an unnatural angle as he tilted toward the mirror, though what appeared as the reflection was anything but the back of his head. A blonde woman, reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in her looks (though quite obviously not the famous actress) appeared in the mirror and began applying the lipstick.

"Oh my!" Tim's mother cried out in surprise.

"Come on! That's just a trick with the mirror! Anyone who took theater in high school knows how to do that!" Tim didn't bother to hide his disdain over the obvious forgery.

"Young man," John himself spoke now, "I appreciate a skeptical mind indeed, though I must protest at your lack of faith. Perhaps you'd like a closer look?" 

John moved up to the velvet rope, close enough that Tim could reach out and touch him. He locked eyes with the young man and began to slowly turn. The move was practiced, and he paused for just a few seconds in profile view and then completed his turn. Tim took an involuntary step back and inhaled sharply. The blonde woman from the mirror stood before him, lipstick freshly applied. She leaned over, and Tim noticed the curve of her breast in spite of himself, and swallowed hard.

"How did . . . " he stammered, "Uh, how did you do that?" 

"We didn't do anything, sugar." the woman stated, her voice soft and with a hint of sultry seduction.

"What happened to you?" Tim's mother asked.

The woman looked at Ringling, "Now, I just hate that question, don't you?" she said, "Nothing 'happened' this is how I was born."

"You were born as two people? Or as the front of two people?" Tim asked narrowing his eyes.

"Yes." came John's male voice.

John sauntered back to the chair, the female face remaining visible, and sat down, a bit more daintily than before. Tim winced at the motion, wondering how the being's knees were able to bend so flexibly in either direction. 

"It's some kind of trick." Tim said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"I assure you there is no trick. Shall we continue to the next, ahem, exhibit?" Ringling asked. His question was answered by another low growl and what sounded like a small scream. Tim looked past Ringling into the tent and took a hesitant step forward.

"What's next?" he asked, "Spider-Girl?" 

"Quite." Ringling said, ushering his charges forward.

As the trio moved forward, the lights dimmed once more, preventing Tim from looking back at John Smith and his curious "twin." He felt disoriented again as he was veiled in a darkness that was somehow thicker than any other darkness Tim could think of. his disorientation passed as pale light returned, slightly to his right, and he looked at what he knew to be the "lair" of Spider-Girl. He thought breifly of watching the woman prepare for the show and his disappointment that she was a fake subsided when he recalled her full breasts and curved hips. Before his thoughts had a chance to turn too erotic, however, Ringling spoke again.

"What you've surmised is correct, young sir. We have arrived at the Web of Spider-Girl. Now, she is not an arachnid per se, of course."

"Right," Tim said, "Let me guess. Some type of human-spider hybrid?" 

"Nothing so droll, I assure you," Ringling said, his tone indicating that he was beginning to lose patience with the boy, "No, Spider-Girl was involved in horrific accident a number of years ago. There was damage to her nervous system and she lost much of the mobility of her arms and legs. She joined our family, originally, as "The Living Dead Girl" but the effects of her appearance on the crowd was simply too catastrophic. Through a series of bizarre accidents we discovered that a prosthetic allows her to regain 100% use of her legs."

"So you admit she's a fake?" Tim asked, suspicious, "I thought you guaranteed everything was genuine."

"You'll now, I'm sure, that the chief characteristic of spiders is that they have 8 limbs. I'm sure you were expecting that Spider-Girl will as well. There are, however, other characteristics of the spider. We'll let you decide, young sir, if Spider-Girl can indeed live up to her name."

From the back of the web, Tim's eyes caught movement, and he saw Spider-Girl emerge. She did have the requisite 8 limbs, though Tim had to admit he was surprised to see her using all of them. She fairly crawled on her web, almost as a real spider would have. As she got closer, Tim was distracted by the light glinting from the web. The material was thick, but appeared fragile. No doubt it was some type of fiberglass, but it did seem odd that it bore her weight.

"She can use all 8 limbs," he began, "I'll grant you that but what-" 

He was cut off by a roar and what was unmistakably a scream this time, and he jumped back, startled.

"Pay of no mind, young sir, I'll tend to it while Spider-Girl regales you with her talents." Ringling said, disappearing into the darkness so quickly it was like he'd vanished.

"Your legs are impressive." Tim said, conversationally.

"I've never had any complaints," the arachnis replied, "You don't believe I'm genuine, I take it."

"Well, I mean, come on. How can you be?" Tim said. Spider-Girl moved closer and his mother drew back, not bothering to mask her fear. Tim knew this was due to her great fear of spiders.

"You heard the story of my accident. The legs may be prostheses but I assure you, I'm quite the Spider." her voice dripped with confidence in what she was saying. There was no question she believed every word.

"You see, when I was "The Living Dead Girl" the crowd reaction was fierce. Children screamed. Women cried. Men fainted." she said, the memory clearly drawing menace from her. Tim, was hypnotized by her gaze as she spoke.

"One day, a little girl screamed and wouldn't stop. I laid still, not wanting to scare her any further, but her mother, so appalled by my, began hitting me with her handbag. My benefactor," she gestured to where Ringling had disappeared, "Did his best to stop it. In the end, though, it was a good thing. Because I learned how to do this." she leaned in, mere inches from Tim's face, and he leaned back, so hypnotized was he, that he welcomed what appeared to be a kiss. At the last moment, however, Spider-Girl opened her mouth and a thick substance shot out and sealed itself over Tim's mouth. He reflexively reached up and pulled it away. It was sticky, but pliable and after a moment he was completely free. For her part, Spider-Girl crawled back to the top of her web.

"What the hell?" Tim's mother smacked his arm reprovingly as he swore. "What is this stuff? Spider's web?" the only response he got was the shrug of six arms.

"Ah, I see, Spider-Girl has let you in on her true nature." Ringling said, suddenly reappearing. His face was ashen, and sweat beaded his brow. 

"She caught me in her web, if that's what you mean." Tim said, then, "What's wrong with you, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Nothing like that, young sir. It's been tended to and we are now ready to continue our tour. Shall we proceed?"

-3-

"Finally!" Tim exclaimed, no longer to contain his excitement. The other "exhibits had been cool enough, and he was intrigued about what a woman with six arms could do, but that didn't change the fact that what he'd really come here for was  the undead specimen they would now see. 

"Has the young sir not been happy with what we've seen so far?"

"Why do you keep calling me 'young sir'?" Tim asked, evading the question. The truth was he was convinced that nothing was being faked, but he could never let Ringling know that after being so certain it was. After all, for all he knew it could have been and was just far more elaborate than he had at first guessed. Either way, he had no intention of challenging the authenticity. If he lost the challenge he'd lose face in a public setting and if he won the challenge he'd win a Circus he didn't really want.

"My apologies. My intent is not to offend; we simply stand on a certain  . . . propriety."

"You can call me Tim." Tim offered carefully.

"No, young sir, I don't believe I can." Ringling said after a pause.

"Whatever." Tim rolled his eyes.

"Before we go any further, sir, madam; I must warn you that this next, er, specimen, is quite violent. You will need to stay back for your own safety."

"Is it safe?" Tim's mother asked.

Ringling met her gaze, his face still ashen. By way of reply he made a sweeping gesture.

"Shall we continue?" this time, instead of leading them on; he dropped behind them, ushering them forward. 

"He didn't answer my question." she murmured, moving forward.

"What's that smell?" Tim asked as they entered the next room. They were once again shrouded in blackness and a faint metallic smell had touched his nostrils.

"That is the smell of iron." Ringling said, "Now remember, stand perfectly still where you are and-" he was interrupted by a low growl. 

"What's that?" Tim's mother asked.

The growling increased in intensity and volume. It seemed urgent, feral, as if the source was a threatened animal backed into a corner. Tim stood still, and began shaking, suddenly afraid. He wasn't sure what was going but he knew that he wished the lights would come back up. He recalled, with the most vivid of mental images, the painting of the undead specimen he'd seen right before entering. He recalled the other times he'd heard the growl and later what he'd thought was a scream. Then, Ringling had disappeared and . . . . the thought clicked in his mind.

"Wait, is that-" 

His mother's scream was preceded by a guttural roar. Tim cried out in terror,

"NO!" 

But it was no use. Her scream was long and loud, and eventually dwindled to a wail that sounded wet and strangled. The metallic smell from before became stronger and Tim sobbed, knowing what had happened.

"You asshole!" he screamed, at no one in particular. He wasn't sure where Ringling was due to the darkness, but he knew their guide could hear him, "You killed her!"

"I am sorry to stand on semantics, young sir." Ringling said, his voice barely above a whisper, "but I assure you I did not kill your mother."

As if on cue, the lights came up and Tim saw his mother's body, limp and lifeless; hanging over the velvet rope before the undead creature they'd come to see. The creature's mouth dripped with her blood and it's lifeless gaze turned to Tim as it growled once more. It was bound by chains, unable to move its arms and had limited motion from legs that were chained to the floor. Tim forced himself to look at his mother's body; at the damage that had been done. 

"That smell you said was iron? That was blood wasn't it?" Tim asked, softly.

"It is accurate to say that it was iron, young sir. Though I believe what you are referring to is the high concentration of iron in human blood that gives it a metallic odor."

"I'll kill you." Tim said. Either to the pathetic, chained, undead creature before him; or to Ringling, he wasn't sure.

He started at his mother's form once again and committed her wounds to memory. She'd likely strayed just close enough to the velvet rope for the creature to lunge. The bite was on her neck and her entire throat was torn out. She would have died in seconds from blood loss and oxygen deprivation, Tim knew that much to be certain. Her blood dripped from the gaping hole in her throat and onto the floor creating a pool beneath her. He breathed sharply as her finger twitched but sobbed in grief and anger as he realized he must have imagined this.

"I am sorry, young sir." Ringling said, moving between Tim and his mothers form. Tim eyes him suspiciously as the undead creature loomed behind him. He observed silently, waiting, willing the thing to lunge again. To destroy the demented tour guide that had led his mother to oblivion, but the creature only growled.

"You're sorry?" Tim said, anger overtaking him, "Sorry!?" he lunged himself, pushing Ringling back toward the velvet rope. The man stumbled and fell into the creature with a cry of alarm. The creature leaned over him menacingly, blood and saliva dripping from its open mouth as if it were taking stock of what the man was. Then, without ceremony, it stood and looked at Tim, snarling again. Ringling scurried to safety and stood before Tim.

"Young sir, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises." 

"Oh I will," Tim warned, "And I'll be back with the police." 

Ringling was on him in a flash, so fast that Tim barely had time to register the glint of metal that he next felt pressed to his throat.

"Listen to me, you sniveling shit," Ringling said, his voice suddenly a stark contrast to what it had been before, "You'll leave this place now or you'll become food just like your bitch of a mother. Savvy?" 

"I'll kill you." Tim responded, his voice choked as Ringling's hand closed around his throat.

"You'll leave us alone you bastard." Ringling chided, digging the knife in deeper. Tim winced as the blade broke the skin on his throat and he felt a trickle of blood down his neck. The undead creature jerked against its bonds, straining to break free at the smell of new blood.

"Or you'll kill me," Tim said, "Either way, one of us is dying today." and he brought his knee sharply into Ringling's groin causing the older man to jerk his arm upward, slashing Tim's cheek from chin to eye. Blood spurted from the wound and soaked half of Tim's face instantly. Ringling for his part doubled over, clutching his injured crotch. He wasn't felled for long; he fell and rolled into Tim's braced legs the motion causing Tim to stumble and trip.

Directly into the monster.

As it had done to his mother before him, the creature sank its teeth into Tim's flesh at the junction of neck and shoulder. His vision blurred and he let out a strangled cry as he fell to the floor. He thought he could see his mother, just out of the corner of his eye. Had she fallen from the rope? How had that happened? Was she crawling away? Blackness surrounded him again and as he lost himself within it, he faintly wondered what was left to see in this den of horrors.

Ringling stood over the boy, watching in fascination as gouts of blood gathered in a pool at the boys feet. He moved closer, to draw the boy closer to the undead creature, pausing long enough for the chained beast to move away from him. A second growl joined the first, guttural moans, and he heaved a sigh as the lifeless body of the young man's mother crawled toward him, a grotesque analogy of a newborn rooting for the breast.

"I'm sorry madam." he said, his voice once again proper, "But we've got no more space for new attractions." and he brought his knife down into the back of her head sharply, burying it through hair and skull into the brain underneath. He pressed it into her cranium as firmly as he could until she'd stopped convulsing and then pulled it out in one smooth, deft motion.

He turned his attention back to the boy and stopped cold. Blood was dripping from the gash he'd opened in the boy's face, but impossibly; the bite wound was getting smaller! Ringling watched, mouth agape as the hole in the boys neck slowly, steadily closed. Where the wound was spilling blood only a moment ago, there was now only fresh, pale flesh. Ringling kicked the boy experimentally, and was satisfied when he didn't move.

"Seems dead enough, anyway." he murmured, bringing his knife to bear.

In a move as sudden as it was unexpected, Tim swept his leg into Ringling's ankles causing the man to fall on his back, hard. He gasped, trying to recover the wind that was knocked out of him but before he could move, Tim stood over him holding a knife that had been Ringling's only a moment earlier.

"Victims." Tim said. He shoved the knife between the eyes of the undead creature that had killed his mother, and pulled it out again not bothering to watch the creature fall to the floor. He slowly knelt down next to Ringling,

"Aren't we all?" he asked, slicing the man's throat.

He watched silently as the blood poured out of Ringling; though it was the man's eyes that he watched closely. He gurgled and struggled for oxygen that would never come, and reached out toward Tim in a supplicating gesture. Tim didn't respond. He simply stood there watching until Ringling's eyes faded into nothing and his breath stopped. Satisfied, he dropped the knife and found his way out of the tent. He never looked back, never registered the glances of other circus goers that gasped in concern or gave him a wide berth as he walked by them, covered in blood. Some of it was his own, coming from the gash in his face, and he was thankful for that; it would be far easier if he could convince people that the blood was from his own injury; at least he could distract them from the fact that he'd just killed a man. He knew that the sheer amounts of blood didn't add up, but he forced himself to keep a steady pace; strolling up the midway as if nothing had happened. There would be plenty of time to figure things out later.

He hoped.