Ordinary Places, Human Monsters | 7 Halloween Horror Stories

Hello, spookies. Time for seven stories of Halloween terror to make sure you're ready before October. Most nightmares don't begin in crumbling castles or forgotten graveyards. They begin under fluorescent lights beside a swimming pool behind the wheel of a patrol car or at the front door of a perfectly ordinary home. Tonight, seven stories turn the places we know into traps. A supermarket clerk's first night becomes a desperate battle with something that should not exist. At a closed water park, the attractions are waking up hungry. In a small town, the people wearing badges may be more dangerous than anything hiding in the dark.

Mischief Night brings masked cruelty to a family's doorstep, while two workplaces discover that revenge can be prepared, packaged and served with a smile. And when The Graveyard Shift begins at a lonely radio station, even a locked studio may not be enough to keep the darkness outside. So check the aisles, lock the doors, and be very careful who you trust when the lights go out, because the worst monsters don't always have claws. Sometimes they wear uniforms, carry keys, and already know your name. Make sure you're subscribed on your podcast app. We bring a brand new Scary Story every Wednesday.

Now, let's begin. The Night Stalker by Shane Migliavacca. Millicent Richards, Millie to her friends, sat on the edge of her bed, pulling on her sneakers. She took a deep breath, lost in her thoughts. Tonight, she would begin her first real job. And on Halloween, no less. A lot less fun than trick-or-treating with Annette Wilson and Diane Samuels. Damn. Millie sure as hell didn't want to go tonight. But she needed the money, and her parents could use the help. She stood. On the radio, Bobby Brown was singing about calling the Ghostbusters, while a muted Night of the Living Dead played on the television.

She picked up her bargain groceries cap and adjusted it on her head. She took a moment to look at herself in the mirror. Smartly dressed in her crisp new blue and gold uniform, her light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Not too bad. Switching the TV and radio off, Millie picked up her Walkman and orange bookbag. She turned to leave but first turned to her poster of Patrick Swayze, which hung on her bedroom door. Wish me luck. She headed downstairs. The staircase railing was decorated with orange pumpkin shaped lights. Her mother always went all out for the holidays.

Rise from the grave, an artificial voice commanded from her brother's video game in the living room. See you later, Russ. Without taking his eyes off the TV, Russ waved back. Millie stepped into the hall, taking her coat from the closet. Can we manage, Barb? Millie heard her father in the kitchen. We can try. The extra money will definitely help. Is it enough? I don't know, her mother answered. Millie went to the door quietly and exited the house. Unnoticed. Witches, Zombies, and Skeletons rushed up and down the street on the hunt for candy, or mischief. She clipped the Walkman to her belt and slid on the headphones.

Retrieving her bicycle from the garage, Millie weaved her way through her mom's crazy lawn decorations and passed a pair of ghosts arguing over who had more candy. She'd felt a bit self-conscious about going out in her uniform, but it was Halloween night, everybody was dressed up as something. Millie just happened to look like a bargain groceries clerk. Once Millie was on the road, she peddled faster and faster, scared she might be late. Shit. She came to a stop. A gaggle of trick-or-treaters and their chaperone were crossing the intersection. Damn it, Millie swore under her breath.

Come on, come on. A car roared up alongside her, its engine drowning out her music. The red firebird sat, waiting for the procession of kids to cross. Heavy metal cranked to the stereo's highest volume level blared over the thunder of the engine. Millie knew the car. She'd seen it several times at school. Millie felt the two men inside, watching her. Hey, Troy, look at this. It's a working girl. Get off the bike, darlin. I got something you can ride. And it's a stick shift. Millie gulped. Come on, kids, come on. She tensed up. After the kids had all crossed, the car mercifully roared away.

Millie exhaled and pedaled on. She skidded to a stop by the bike rack outside of bargain groceries. The parking lot was fairly dead, only some last-minute shoppers left. Millie quickly chained her bike up. The sudden sound of heavy metal music made her heart skip a beat. A familiar red firebird slowly drove past the store. She watched as it passed, turning off onto a side street. There wasn't much time to worry about if they were looking for her or not, as Millie was pretty sure she was late for her first night on the job. The automatic doors swished open.

Hey! A young woman called. Over here, OC.! OC was Millie's nickname from way back, given to her by her best friend at the time, Samantha Vale. A cute redhead waved her over to the break room entrance. She was wearing a uniform like Millie's, but she had an eye patch and a fake mustache on for Halloween. Quick, punch in! You got a minute to go! The girl held open the break room door. Just inside the door of the break room was a time clock. Millie pulled out her punch card and pulled the machine's lever. Just in time.

Thanks, Sam! Millie said. Sam had always been a good friend, though high school social status had caused them to drift. They had finally reconnected and their friendship was stronger than ever. Stow your bag and jacket in the locker. I'll take you to meet John. He's out back. Sam pointed to Millie's walkman. Better stow that too. John's not into having that shit on the job. He's not too bad. He just has his own way of doing stuff. Hi! the cashier said as they walked past. Millie noted he was wearing pointy fangs. Avast me, hearty! Sam laughed.

This is Brian. Hey, Millie, you working here now? She felt a rush of embarrassment. Brian knew her, but she didn't recognize him at all. Yeah, I sure do, she struggled. He looked a little disappointed. I sat behind you in English. Mr. Kendrick's class. Oh, sorry. Right. She still didn't recognize him. Good to see you, she lied. Thankfully, Sam led her away. John's a cool boss, can be a little intense sometimes cause he was in NAMM. Millie followed Sam to the back of the store through large double doors. A sign read, employees only. The back area was stuffed with racks and palettes filled with various products piled high.

In a cramped little corner in the back was a desk. A middle-aged man sat, talking on the phone. He had the usual store uniform on, as well as a thick pair of glasses. His dark brown hair was cut in a neat crew cut that matched his neatly trimmed mustache. Alright, I understand. He wrote something on a pad. Special shipment, got it, we'll be ready. He hung up. Hi John, I'm not disturbing anything, am I? Sam asked. No, jokers from corporate are sending a special shipment for me to unload tonight. He took out a metal lighter and cigarette.

Lighting up, he turned to Millie. New girl? Millie nodded. Behind him was a sign that read, No Smoking. Next to that sign was a picture of John snuggling with a tiger cub wearing a camouflage cap. Both things summed up John perfectly. You come very highly recommended. Well, Sam blushed, I'd better get back out there. She left, leaving Millie with John. So, I'll lay out some ground rules around here and what you should expect to be doing work-wise. He opened the desk drawer, taking out a clip-on holster with a box cutter. You'll need this. He handed it to her, taking a puff of his cigarette.

Clip it onto your belt or pocket. He looked at her shirt. Did they give you an ID badge? She reached into her pocket, trying to fish it out. He stood, crushing his cigarette under his heel. Skip it. Come on. I'll give you the cheap tour. I have a little test for you. She followed him to an aisle of paper products. Paper towels, boxes of facial tissue, and toilet paper. He arranged some rolls of toilet paper neatly on the shelf. We call this facing or blocking. It basically creates the appearance that the shelves are perfectly stocked.

You do this by pulling a couple of products on the shelf to the front. We also pull down anything that's double stacked. He demonstrated for Milly a couple more times. Among some rolls of paper towels, he found a jar of peanut butter, causing him to grumble under his breath. See this? We call these returns or re-shops. People are... they're lazy bastards. They like to leave stuff they don't want all over the store. Some do it just to be dicks. He shook his head. You find something like this, return it to its proper place later, unless it's something like meat, dairy or frozen.

Those are top priority and need to go back ASAP. Millie nodded, trying to process all of the new information. I have a few things to take care of. I want you to get a feel for doing it. Take your time. Do as much as you can. I'll be back to tell you how much you screwed it up. Millie looked at him unsure. John laughed. Do your best. I'll be back in a bit. He left, leaving Millie alone in the aisle. She wandered up and down before deciding to start on one end and work her way down.

After a few minutes of work, Millie was starting to relax some. This was kinda like Tetris, neatly arranging the brightly colored boxes together. This brand here, that brand there. She stepped back to admire her work. Hey! She heard Sam call out from the front of the store. Peeking around a display of paper towels, Millie saw Sam confronting two girls. Millie recognized them, the McNabb sisters. They'd hung in the preppy crowd. I saw you, Sam said. You put a couple beers in your purse and tried to walk out. Oh, please, Terry McNabb scoffed. Do you know who our father is?

Yeah, skids, Terry McNabb added. She felt bad for Sam. Skids, that's what they call anybody from the poorer section of town. Why would we steal, Terry pointed out? Our father could own you. Yeah, skids, daddy could bulldoze your little trailer park hovel in a heartbeat. Millie knew Sam was holding back. If she didn't need the job so much, she would have given both sisters a good ass kicking. Pretty good, kid, John said. Millie jumped. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts as she worked, she hadn't noticed him standing there. Although you've been adjusting that one roll of paper towels for a good minute or two, you gonna make love to it?

Millie set the roll down, embarrassed. John checked his watch, letting out a whistle. Almost that time, gotta close up the store. Carry on with what you're doing. Just don't fondle any more paper towels. He left her alone again. After a few minutes, John came on the intercom. The store will be closing in five minutes. Please make your final purchases. Thank you for choosing Bargain Groceries, and have a good night. A few minutes later, the lights dimmed just a little. Millie continued working. Without the din of shoppers, she could hear the store's music. Trick-or-treat, OC. Sam stood at the end of the aisle holding a couple of candy bars.

Brian stood next to her. Sam handed Millie a chocolate bar. Brian looked at Millie, confused. OC.? The nickname, Millie answered. Ask Sam. Brian turned to Sam. Maybe I'll tell you the story sometime. Sam snapped her bar in two. If you can guess what it stands for. Millie crinkled the candy bar wrapper, sticking it into her pocket. What are you guys still doing here? We got volunteered with that special shipment coming in, Sam explained. There was an audible click as the intercom came to life. A robotic female voice sounded. Front end. Front end has a call on line five.

Ten to one the truck just got here, Sam said. The intercom crackled to life again. This time, the automated voice was replaced by John's. Sam to the back room. I repeat, Sam to the back room. Sam started down the aisle. Duty calls. So what now? Millie asked. Brian adjusted his plastic fangs. I guess we'll just finish this aisle and then do the next. Sounds like a plan. Ocean Cruise? Millie asked off hand. Excuse me? OC. Just taking a guess. Millie laughed. Sorry, no. Uh, Obsessive Compulsive? Uh, no. Damn. I'll get it sooner or later. After a few moments, they finished up and moved to aisle two which had a view of the parking lot.

Millie stopped. The sight of something sitting in the parking lot gave her a chill. No, no, no. She walked towards the front of the store. Hey, what's up? Brian asked. That. Millie pointed nervously out the large front window. The firebird sat there under a light pole. Millie shuddered. What about that car? The assholes in the car harassed me on the way here. Brian sighed. Damn it. He shook his head. Those two are always making trouble. You know them? Stay here. I'll go talk to them. Millie watched, feeling helpless, as Brian left. She watched Brian walk across the parking lot.

She needed to get John. Running over to the intercom, Millie fumbled with the buttons. Her first attempt was greeted by ear-splitting feedback. Her second and third attempts were no better. On the fourth try, her nervous voice boomed throughout the store. Hello? John to the front! Repeat! John to the front! Hurry! The sound of her struggling to hang up the intercom receiver boomed throughout the store. She waited, expecting John to come rushing. Instead, nothing happened. Millie ran back to the front window and peered out. Brian stood by the firebird, talking to the driver. Not exactly the tense confrontation she'd expected.

Movement in the reflection of the glass made her turn in surprise. John? There was nobody. Something hit the floor in one of the aisles. Guys? She walked by a display of Halloween candy. A plastic candy-filled skull grinned at her. Maybe this was a Halloween prank. Hazing the new girl. Millie turned back to check on how Brian was doing, only to see the firebird driving slowly towards the store. Brian nowhere in sight. She watched as the car drove by the front of the store. The interior was too dark to make out its occupants. Millie felt her heart beat faster and faster in her chest.

She'd have to go out there and look. Brian could be lying, hurt, out of sight somewhere. There was a first aid kit on the wall next to the intercom. She grabbed it before heading out. Pushing the door open, Millie stepped outside into what felt like a dangerous, alien land. Brian? she called out, her voice cracking and low. Millie wanted to grab her bike, get home and hide under the covers. She needed to get John. He'd know what to do. Millie hurried back inside and locked the door. Sliding on the high polished floor, she hurried to the back of the store, nearly toppling a display of Halloween themed cereal.

Barreling through the double doors into the back, Millie stopped for a second to catch her breath. John? she called between gasps. Sam? Silence, except for the low, constant rumble of the overhead heater. The loading dock was empty. The overhead door was open, letting in the cool autumn air where it poured in around the semi-trucks backed up to the dock. Guys? Millie started to panic. She was completely alone. Her eyes scanned the dark, cavernous room. The shadows hid countless possible terrors, but alas, so too did the floor, as she slipped in a puddle on its surface.

Landing hard on her knees and hands, Millie yelped in pain. There was something wet and sticky on her sore hands. Raising them up, she screamed. They were coated in a crimson blood. There was a trail leading out to the semi-truck, and there seemed to be something hanging in the truck's trailer. With pained steps, she cautiously approached that trailer. Her eyes adjusted to the near dark of its interior. Hanging from chains by his ankles at the trailer's center was John. His forehead had a bloody gash. Oh, God! Millie stammered. John? She reached out, stopping short of touching him.

John, who did this? She ventured a little further into the trailer. There was no sign of Sam. Turning around, Millie used the wall to guide her out. Her eyes scanned the loading dock. They could be lurking anywhere. She had to get help. On John's cluttered desk, she noticed a phone earlier. Limping over, Millie snatched up the receiver and quickly dialed with bloody hands. We're sorry, your call cannot be completed at this time. A robotic voice informed her. Shit, shit! Millie slammed down the receiver. She was growing just as frustrated as she was scared. John's metal lighter lay on a stack of papers.

Fuck communism! Engraved its front. She snatched it up and exited. Limping along, she leaned on a concrete wall. The block under her hand glowed lightly. Pulling her hand away, a strange symbol pulsated through the concrete. What the shit is that? The bloody handprint she'd left was absorbed into the block. Hurrying towards the double doors, Millie stopped. Someone walked past an aisle. A large someone. Or some thing. Millie ducked down. She needed to get a better view of what was going on out there. Not far from her was a sliding white metal door. She slowly unhooked the latch and pushed the door open and slipped into the dairy cooler.

She spied into the store between gallon jugs of milk. Her eyes caught another flash of movement. There definitely was somebody here. The intercom loudly crackled to life. Come out, come out, little goblin, a voice hissed. Trick or treat, an involuntary shudder of fear ran through her body. They were looking for her. Sneaking out of the cooler, Millie made up her mind. She couldn't leave Sam and Brian. Millie had to fight them, somehow. There was another set of double doors further down. She used them to slip into the store. Hiding behind a tank of lobsters, Millie looked up at the signs for each aisle.

She was directly across from aisle two. Housewares and cleaning. Perfect. Calling all assholes, I'm right here, Millie called from the intercom as she stood, a broom handle ready, rags tied to one end. It wasn't very long before a man, dressed in a black leather jacket, emerged from aisle six. A cheap Halloween mask hid his identity. Well, looky here, little goblin girl. He strode confidently towards Millie. Stopping, he looked down as his boot-clad foot made a squishing noise. There was a puddle of floor wax in front of him. Sneaky, trying to make me slip. Millie took out John's lighter and held it to the rags on the mop handle.

Where are my friends? She lit the end of the mop. With us. Just like you'll be. Wrong answer. She lit the puddle of floor wax. It exploded in a burst of flame, surprising Millie as much as it did the man. Fuck! He recoiled the tip of his foot on fire. Another similarly dressed man rushed down one of the checkout lanes at her as she ran for the door. Millie hurled the flaming mop handle at him like a spear. Inches from the door, Millie stopped, dead in her tracks. Outside robed figures stood side by side, their faces hidden by hoods.

One of the masked men grabbed her. He wrapped his arms tightly around Millie. She thrashed and kicked to no avail. The man with the burnt boot walked up to them. Lights out, little goblin bitch. He pulled a black hood down over Millie's head, enveloping her in darkness. Millie felt herself being dragged along. She struggled, but it was no use. After a few minutes, they roughly forced Millie to her knees. This Halloween wasn't doing her legs any favors. Someone yanked the hood from her head. As her eyes adjusted, Millie found she was flanked by Sam and Brian.

Next to Brian were the men from The Firebird. The concrete floor was bitterly cold. They appeared to be in the store's large freezer. A black sheet covered a mysterious shape underneath. Across the freezer stood seven robed figures. Behind Millie and the others, the two masked men stood. This is bullshit! One of the Firebird men barked, earning him a smack. Quiet pup, the masked man hissed. The center figure stepped forward. We've had our little trick-or-treat tonight, and I do enjoy a good treat. He laughed, lowering his hood. The older man was vaguely familiar-looking, Millie thought, as he paced back and forth.

Tonight is a blessed night, he said, and you lucky few are here among us to bear witness and serve a glorious purpose. He reached down and pulled the black sheet up in one motion. Underneath, lying on the floor was a large, grayish body. It was unlike anything Millie had ever seen before. It was similar to one of those diagrams of a person without skin that hung up in science class, except this thing was way more muscular, and it had strange symbols cut into its chest, head and limbs. Each one had a strange stone at its center.

Millie noticed with a shiver that its limbs and head weren't attached to the torso, but were laying next to it, in an approximation of a human body. This is our lord, he smiled proudly. Cool Nux, the Beast King. A corpse! the driver of the firebird protested. You're fucking nuts! this earned him a punch to the jaw from one of the masked men, bloodying his lip. Leave him alone, his friend pleaded. He's an idiot. Shut up, little bro. Stay out of it. Brother? Millie pondered. She looked at them. There was a resemblance. Enough! the old man ordered.

No more delays. Then it suddenly came to Millie. This was Nathan Solomon, founder and CEO of Bargain Groceries. His portrait hung in the back of the store. No shit! she whispered to herself as she made the connection. One of the robed figures stepped forward, handing Solomon a large, ornate dagger. Cool Nux! Betrayed by the druids and slain by the warrior Aeron, his body was dismembered, bound by druid magic, and scattered, still living. I found him. Built an empire for him. Constructed this place of power to heal him. He'll make this world right again. Solomon made a sweeping gesture.

Blood will run in the streets, and he'll feast on his enemy's bones. The king of a new order. But first the blood of the Virgin must flow. Millie felt her heart beat faster as Solomon raised up the dagger. Virgin? Oh, shit. Bring forth the Virgin! He pointed at the driver of the firebird. Me? I ain't no virgin. I have a girlfriend in Canada. We've banged, like, a lot! Randy, no! his brother cried out. Two of the robed figures dragged Randy to where Solomon stood. Only blood will remove the runes binding our king. Solomon brought the blade across Randy's throat in one swift motion.

No! Millie heard herself gasp as blood sprayed out of Randy's sliced throat. Solomon held Randy's limp body up as the blood flowed over the strange marks on the body before them. One by one the runes glowed. The severed limbs and head began to mend themselves to the torso of the strange body. Bring me another, Solomon ordered. Our king is thirsty. One of the robed figures grabbed Brian. Leave him the fuck alone! A battered John stood in the freezer door, a metal chain wrapped around his fist. What, catch you cultist shitters at a bad time? The night manager let his fists fly as the robed figures advanced.

Solomon struggled with Brian. The king must have his blood! he slashed madly at Brian, cutting open one of the young man's hands. The blood splashed across the body of Colnook's. The once lifeless gray body shuddered to life. It then sucked air into its ancient lungs. John decked one of the cult members. Sam, get everyone out of here! Sam and Millie grabbed Randy's brother, and the three went for Brian, who was doing his best to fend off Solomon's wild swings. No! Solomon pleaded. I must finish! He's too weak! Millie set her jaw and unleashed a powerful strike to the old man, sending him flailing desperately before he hit the cold floor.

The others grabbed Brian and rushed to the freezer door. Millie turned to see John trying to fend off the cultists. At the same time, the monstrous form of Colnook's began to rise. John, Sam shouted desperately, go, he ordered. Randy's brother turned to Millie and Sam. I'll stay, get out of here. For what it's worth, I'm Troy, and I'm sorry we fucked with you earlier. Millie nodded stoically. Millie and Sam dragged Brian out of the freezer. A hideous roar sounded from inside, followed by the frantic screams of the damned. That thing's got to be stopped, Millie took a deep breath.

Get help. What the hell are you going to do? Sam asked. Millie watched a reluctant Sam help Brian through the double doors. She scanned the room. Then she saw it. The forklift. Cole Nooks banged on the freezer door as she made her way to the machine. Millie climbed up into the cab and studied the controls. Oh shit, she said, confused. There was a key hanging on a hook. Like a car, right? She turned the key, and the forklift rumbled to life. Okay, she could do this. There was a loud crash as the freezer door surrendered to Cole Nooks' assault.

Millie scrambled to figure out the forklift controls. Most of the labels had long since worn off. I can do this, she repeated to herself. Millie caught a glance of the Beast King advancing. Time to die, bastard. She pulled a lever, and the forklift jerked forward and stopped. What? Millie pulled another lever. She managed to raise the forks up, but no forward momentum. Millie yanked a second level. The forklift roared forward. The Beast King seemed slightly perplexed for a moment, but it passed even faster. Millie tried ramming him with the forks, but Nux was quick and strong enough to grab them.

The creature pushed back against the mechanical strength of the machine, causing the wheels to spin out. Millie swung the forklift around, dragging Nux who still pushed back. Come on, you hunk of crap! Millie pushed the machine as far as it would go, slowly backing her bestial opponent. Kul Nux roared. Millie found herself screaming back at the monster. The old forklift lurched forward one final time, but not without struggle. It was enough to knock the mighty beast king into the waiting maw of the nearby garbage compactor. Millie sprang from the lift and slammed down the metal gate, trapping Nux inside.

The metal wouldn't hold long as the enraged monster hammered it with his large fists. Millie slammed her palm down on the large green button. The compactor squealed to life. Cole Nux fought back, trying to stave off the crushing grip. But in the end, the strength of the large machine was too great. Nux's arms shattered under the strain as he was crushed, letting out one last pitiful, defiant roar. They found John and Troy dead in the freezer, along with the cultists. Millie took John's pack of cigarettes. The sound of sobbing came from behind a stack of egg cartons.

Solomon, curled up in a ball, was devastated. Our king! Our king! The king is dead, Millie informed him. She lit one of John's cigarettes and exhaled. The doors to the store unlocked as the rising sun filled the building with hazy orange light. Two girls from the day shift entered the store and caught a glimpse of the mess that was Millie. Oh my god! one stammered. Are you okay? First night, Millie answered, the spent butt of the cigarette dangling from her lips. A wet and wild Halloween by David O'Hanlon. Bryce glared into the gaping mouth of the pumpkin king and knew he was going to die.

He could hear the terrified screams of those already inside. The screeching, piercing wails of their panic rang out over the cacophony around him, drowning out the rest of the world. One of the king's victims launched between the bright orange lips and hung in the air. Bryce's stomach twisted in nervous knots as the child flailed about in the afternoon sky before splashing into the pool below. The little boy exploded through the surface and shrieked a prepubescent, Yee-haw! Bryce shook his head and wandered around the ever-growing line of Texas's greatest waterslide. The only thing good about the state was that Halloween was still hot enough to enjoy a trip to the water park.

The other waterslides were largely being ignored in favor of the big, new attraction. It was their last chance before the park closed for the year. Some twisted genius had designed the winding tubes of certainish death so that four people could go down simultaneously, crisscrossing each other's paths along the black and purple shoots until being vomited out of the Pumpkin King's smirking face. The oversized gourd hung perilously over a bat-shaped pool with orange lights illuminating the water from below so the line of anxious guests could see the previous victims churning about, a heinous cackle emanated from hidden speakers signaling the attendants to prepare the next victims.

Bryce would be one of the night's sacrifices. Splashtown was open from the last day of school to Halloween every year, and with the water drop-shaped season pass around her neck, Rebecca Angle would be there almost every single day Bryce had fallen in love with Rebecca when they shared a moon pie at recess in the third grade. After eight years of awkwardness, Bryce had finally worked up the nerve to ask Rebecca to go on a date with him. She'd be at Splashtown anyway, so it wasn't any extra effort on her part. He was still surprised when she said yes.

Mommy, my skin is stinging, a little girl with sovereign pigtails whined as she walked past Bryce. You're fine, Susie, her mother said. You just need more sunblock. Bryce stuck his hands in the pockets of his swim trunks and made his way to the concession stands to meet up with Rebecca. He sniffed the air and tried not to drool at the flavors attacking his nose. He mentally untangled the sweet smell of funnel cakes from the savory chili dogs, the pizza slices from the cheeseburgers. His stomach growled with rage at the boy's new diet. Bryce rubbed his belly and looked down.

For the first time since he was seven, he could see his feet again. He missed the delicious foods, but he was glad he'd started eating right and working out. He ordered a bottle of water and a bag of peanuts before taking a seat on a nearby bench. A girl walked by sniffing her hair. Though he couldn't see her face, Bryce recognized Tabby Winfield by her high-pitched nasal wine. She tossed the thick braid over her shoulder and scrunched her nose. The water here smells like daddy's farm hands, she told her friends. Bryce remembered the girl from earlier and looked around the park.

Others made sour expressions as they tallied off as well. A man rinsed his sobbing grandson off with a bottle of water. John Cahill, the star of the basketball team, retched excess water into a trash bin. Bryce watched more park goers flying out of that damn pumpkin. Something was wrong. God damn it, Stu! Peter Brack shouted as he ducked under the low-hanging pipes on his way to the maintenance supervisor's office. You got the solution up too high. These assholes are beating down my door demanding refunds and free t-shirts. Those shirts cost me $6.50 apiece! Peter stopped complaining once he got to the water treatment controls.

Stu Band was nowhere to be seen. Pete checked the gauges on the machinery himself and sputtered his plump lips. Everything was in the green. He thumped them each to see if they were stuck, but nothing happened. He squatted as much as his knees allowed, and stared at the water samples collected in the slight tubes. Something sparkled in the suspension. What intarnation is going on? Pete scratched at his horseshoe of silver hair. Pete shouted for Stu again. No response. He continued his inspection of the machine, then stumbled to a halt. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, hoping he was wrong.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at the 55-gallon drums plumbed into the treatment lines with a defeated sigh. Pete had been running Splashtown for 30 years. The drums for the water-treatment solution had always been blue polymer. Pete stomped closer to the red steel drums and wrapped his knuckles against the side of the nearest one. It was already half empty. He searched each of them for a label or any other indication of what might have been inside. I'm going to break your scrawny neck, Stu. He grabbed the wheel to shut off the flow. The lawyers are going to have our balls for breakfast if this shit is toxic.

A moist hand clamped onto the back of Peter Brak's neck. The screwdriver plunged into his ear and he fell to the concrete. Stu's slimy, malformed hands cranked the wheel, fully opening the valves. Brak's final seconds were pure terror as he watched the sample tubes change color. That horrible shimmer became a frantic, swirling glow. Something slithered along the pipes overhead. Pete could almost see it. Bryce sipped his water and watched the park staff meander about in their Halloween costumes. Attendants at the Pumpkin King tossed handfuls of sweets along the line to keep everyone calm. Bryce missed trick-or-treating.

High school parties were fun, but they lacked the same spirit of the more childish pastime. He was a year from adulthood. Halloween couldn't offer anything as scary as that. A group of parents cornered a staffer in a witch costume and began berating the poor girl. Bryce couldn't hear what they were saying as they furiously waved their hands at the crying children behind them. A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he spun around on the bench to see Rebecca Engel standing there, smiling down at him. Her black one-piece was festooned with sparkling pumpkins and he tried to pry his eyes back to her face.

Hi, Becca, he said with all the coolness he could muster. Been here long? He didn't know why he'd asked. Her hair was dry and they'd agreed to meet at the concession stand, so the answer was obvious. Bryce forced a smile and hoped it covered up his folly. Nope, just got done putting my stuff in the lockers. She pointed at the pumpkin king. Should we get in line for that one first? It'll take the longest. I thought we could get it out of the way and just hang out while we wait. Bryce nodded. Sure, sounds good.

The line zigzagged back and forth in six rows between orange and black velvet ropes. They took their place at the end of the line and talked about their chemistry test and the fall dance. He was too distracted by more disgruntled guests which caused him to miss his opportunity to ask her to the dance. He tried bringing the conversation back around to the event when the screaming started. They echoed down the tubes of the slide as heralds of the misery still to come. The child shot from the mouth of the pumpkin king on an iridescent gout of violet water.

The shrill cries continued until the boy splashed into the pool below. From his position, Bryce couldn't see the chemical spilling forth and spreading, consuming the ordinary water with ferocity. His gaze flicked back to the gargantuan gourd and the elderly man that flew out next. Bryce rubbed his eyes to clear what must have been a trick of the light. An obese lady streaked down the waterslide right behind the geriatric. High above them, Splashtown employees dressed like Mario and Luigi hurried the next riders into their passages. Bryce called for one of the candy throwers but got no response.

Maybe it was for the better. After all, how was he going to explain his request to shut down the slide? They weren't going to believe him if he said the geezer's skin was... wrong. Bryce shoved forward in line to one of the pool's viewing windows. The purple fluid dyed the pool with shimmering, cancerous swirls. The teen cupped his hands around his eyes and leaned on the cool glass. The underwater lighting reflected off whatever the violet substance carried and twinkled like thousands of stars, but Bryce couldn't see anyone. The little boy swam by the window, giving Bryce a start.

More screams pierced the evening. Only these weren't filled with the playful fear of sliders. Another shape whipped past the glass portal. Bryce leapt away from the wall. The boy came back into view. The old man clung to his back. Finger-length appendages danced from open wounds along the man's exposed torso. A shiny black spine snicked out each like switchblades and darted into the child's flesh. The fat lady flipped over the guardrail over her head and hit the sidewalk next to Bryce, pinning another impatient guest below her girth. Bryce listened to the muffled screams beneath her and saw the same dancing, worm-like things stretching out from her skin and fighting the fabric of her ill-advised bikini.

He bolted to the back of the line for Rebecca as the crowd began to scream and run in all directions. Around the park, others were doing the same. Bryce seized Rebecca by the arm. We've got to go, now! What's happening? she asked as he dragged her away from the Pumpkin King. Did someone get hurt? Tabby Winfield answered her question by tackling two of their classmates. Her hand gripped the bag of Tom Zabo's collar. The worm things tore out between her fingers and stuck their talons into the base of his skull. Tom's date squirmed under Tabby, who lifted her head in a weak, shrill scream.

Her throat undulated and ripped open wide revealing rows of teeth. The new mouth clamped onto the trapped girl's skull with a crunch. What the hell? Becca whimpered. She stumbled as Bryce pulled her along. More park goers were being attacked by the mutants. Their new digits twisted away from their bodies in search of prey. The black talons darted in and out, ready to pierce flesh. Victims screamed and cried around them. Bryce pulled Rebecca into one of the restrooms and slammed the door. His hands slapped at a bare brass plate. Damn it! he shouted, kicking the door.

It only locks from the outside! Wonderful hiding spot. It'll do for now. Do you mind? A voice bellowed from one of the stalls. Some of us are concentrating. There's an emergency! Rebecca shouted. Do you have a phone? Obviously. The toilet flushed. What else do people do on the toilet? The door swung open and a middle-aged man in a Power Rangers costume stepped out, adjusting the bulge in his crotch. Don't worry, miss. It's a sock, not a chubby. He informed Rebecca. Spandex isn't the most flattering fabric. Gotta beef up the beef bus for all the single moms that come through here.

Know what I'm saying? Jesus Christ. Mutants inside and out. Rebecca grumbled. You've got some mighty fine genetics, the old man told her. Wouldn't have any single moms swinging in your family tree, would you? Listen, Harvey Weinstein. People are getting killed outside and we need to call for help. She blurted. Hell, I was just joking about the phone, he said. They make us lock them up at the start of each shift. Bryce pointed at the plastic card dangling around the man's neck. You're an employee? Who else wears a costume to a water park? He chuckled. Name's Flint.

Flintstone. You can shit-can the jokes, I've heard them all my life. Then you can get us to an office, a guard shack, Bryce stammered. I don't care where, just somewhere with a phone. That's cute, kid, Flint told him. I'm not taking you anywhere to make a prank call to the police about monsters eating people. Can't you hear the screams? Rebecca questioned. People are always screaming. It's an amusement park. Factor in bored staffers in spooky costumes and they'll do it more so. Frankly, miss, it sounds like a Tuesday. The door exploded inward, shattering from the force of the blow before the hinges could swing it open safely.

A man rolled across the tile and came to a stop on all fours. The white digits wriggled from his back like thick, sentient hairs. Purple drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, forming a puddle beside his head. A tooth dropped into the saliva, followed by another and another. Brown anorexic serpents slithered from the empty sockets of his gums stretching two feet in front of him. Mandibles unfurled from the sides of each creature's head and snipped at the air. Flint backed away. Slowly, his boots squeaked on the damp tile, drawing a hiss from the throat slit of the mutant.

The three oversized worms lunged forward. Their motion tugged the man thing forward as they followed the sound of Flint's retreat. The infected man sprang up and dashed across the bathroom. Bryce stuck out his foot and tripped the creature. It toppled to the floor and slid closer to Flint. The mandibles hooked into his thigh and he let out a shrill squeal before kicking the man's jaw shut on the bizarre appendages. They released their prey and shot backwards. Flint leapt into the air and came down on the man's back with both feet. The black talons speared at the white leather boots with sewing machine quickness.

Flint pushed off, rolling across the floor and away from the failed counterattack. He dipped into the stall and shut the door. Seriously? Rebecca shouted after him. Bryce hefted the rubber trash can overhead and tossed it at the creature. It bounced off, harmlessly. Rebecca looked around for something more effective when the creature jumped to its feet. The throat slit spread wide and gurgled a threat. The stall door banged open and Flint rushed toward the creature and bashed it across the back of the head with a green bucket. A follow-up shot sent it careening into a mirror.

The glass fell into the sink and clattered to the floor. The makeshift weapon flipped open and Flint swung it upward in a single deft motion. It wasn't a bucket, but the helmet to his costume. He clicked the latches in place. Can't go into battle without my armor, Flint muttered and dipped under an attack from the mouth pentacles. His gloved fingers found a piece of glass in the sink a moment before the man thing's hand closed around his neck. A talon clicked against the plastic helmet and drew back for another try. Bryce placed his foot on the wall and tore the paper towel dispenser free.

The creature turned its attention to the sudden commotion long enough for Flint to drive the shiv into its torso. The chest wound sputtered as the obsolete lungs drained of air. The mouth pentacles reared back and struck at the helmet. Flint thrust the glass dagger into the man's abdomen and slid him from hip to hip, intestines unspooled from the wound and piled at Flint's feet. And then something else plopped into the viscera. The former person collapsed in a heap as the thing evacuated the host body. The two-foot-long slug latched onto the toe of his boot and slurped loudly.

Flint sprang up and sat on the sink. The radula darted from the mollusk's mouth like a harpoon, its serrated teeth scraped across the porcelain and slashed side to side for tender flesh. Rebecca slid across the floor like she was stealing home and kicked the slug against the wall. She tried to stand only to slip in the thick layer of mucus clinging to her bare feet. Bryce ran forward and jumped over the discarded carcass. He swung the paper towel dispenser under his knees and landed on the strange entity. A bright spray of yellow and magenta gushed across the floor to signal his success.

Flint pushed off the sink and helped Rebecca balance herself. You just air-sabooted a goddamn space booger, he shouted. It's a snail, Rebecca corrected him. Still look like a Tuesday to you? Snails have shells, Bryce said between gags. What do you think that was? Rebecca pointed at the dead body. They got in the water, into the Pumpkin King. Where are their shells now? Flint shifted his visored gaze between the teens. I don't follow. How'd a bunch of those things go unnoticed? Maybe whatever that purple shit was made them grow faster. Bryce threw his hands into the air.

What's it matter? It drooled purple too, Rebecca shook her head. These things might be able to infect others by attacking them. We can't let them out of Splashtown. Snails move slow, Flint said. Like goddamn hobbits trekking to Mordor slow. We've got time. If you've got a plan, that is. Salt, Bryce suggested. We'd need a lot of it, not to mention a way to disperse it. Check and check. Flint put a hand on each of their shoulders. You can't see it behind this totally bitchin and officially licensed replica helmet, but I'm smiling bigger than shit right now.

Rebecca turned to the door. Well, then, let's yabba dabba do this. Flint groaned. You just had to fucking say it, didn't you? This is not a plan, Bryce shouted. Creatures hissed and shrieked in hot pursuit of the six-wheeled ATV designed for utility, not recreation. The vehicle was barely keeping its lead under the weight of its cargo. Well, if there's one thing Texans don't fear, it's a high-cholesterol diet. Pretzels, fries, burgers, homemade chips, popcorn, tater rounds, fresh-roasted peanuts, nachos, and onion rings were available at each of the 18 concession stands, which is precisely why Splashtown bought salt in 50-pound sacks.

It's working like a plan, Flint yelled back. One of the mutants lunged onto the purely cosmetic brush guard of the ATV. The mouthworm snapped at Flint's face. He seized one of them and jerked down, bouncing the creature's face off the hood and sending it back to the cobblestone path where the tires rolled over it. What exactly do you do here? Supposed to be helping on the pumpkin king. Good thing I ate pizza heroes last night. If I hadn't had the shits, the lines would have been moving faster, and you'd be a hobo murder slug's new tenement.

Thank you for your poor dietary choices. Hopefully your girlfriend's in position. She's not my girlfriend, Bryce corrected him. Son, you're about to save the entire state from Satan's escargot. Flint punched him in the arm. As soon as we kill these jizz drooling sons of bitches, she'll be all over you like imitation cheese sauce on a corn chip. You should consider writing poetry. Roses are red, violets are blue, I get carpal tunnel thinking of you. Flint laughed. There's one for you to use when you ask her to make it official later. Rebecca waved at them from a tower high above the path.

Flint bleeped the horn three times to signal her to go. She stepped out of the tower and rode the zipline across the way to the platform over Tsunami Falls. She grabbed the bullhorn from the hook next to the lifeguard station and squeezed the trigger. Hey, over here. Her voice bellowed across the park. Come and get me. Several mutants clamored through the pool below and slipped about in a vain attempt to scale the curly slides leading up to her. She smiled down at them. Her plan was working. Complex alien biology aside, they were still powered by primitive ganglia clusters.

She needed as many of the stupid mutants coming after her as possible. She pressed the button on the bullhorn to set off a siren. You space snail dickheads hear that? She called out. That's the dinner bell. What are you waiting for? Apparently, just that very thing. The creatures broke from their pursuit of the ATV and rushed toward Rebecca's diversion. Flint whipped around the corner, putting the ATV on three wheels before it rocked back down to safety. A wall of mutants converged on their path. Some were changed than others. Mouth tentacles flailed in anticipation of the fight.

I'll meet you at the water treatment station. Take the wheel! Flint didn't wait for Bryce to listen. He rolled out of his seat and toppled across the path. He groaned and tried to ignore the bone sticking out of his forearm. It looked a lot easier in the movies. This is what we get for using civilian contractors. General Wade Sisko pinched the bridge of his nose. Do we know the location of the samples? Captain Delharmon leaned a curvy hip on the plastic blue drums they'd been shipped by mistake and nodded slowly. Fuck! Sisko sighed. How bad is it?

She waved for the general to follow her. They navigated the winding corridor to the elevator. An intern mixed up the shipping instructions. We got water treatment chemicals, Delharmon said with a voice too sweet for her skill set. The Argos samples went to a water park in eastern Texas. The elevator door hissed open in a room full of computer stations and one wall-to-wall screen showing a live satellite feed of Splashtown. Mutated guests ran down victims, small fires burned, corpses twitched to life as the parasitic mollusks burrowed into their brains and took control of the flesh. Do we have options?

Sisko asked. Nuclear and conventional, the captain stated bluntly. Retrieval is out of the question at this point. The site and samples are lost. We only need one, Sisko reminded her. I want a team in there to snatch one of those things, have our people cook a story about a chemical spill. Yes, sir, Del Carmen said. Aren't we forgetting about the big one, sir? Oh, him. Sisko swallowed hard. Scratch the retrieval. Burn the whole site. Flint spotted a salt sack that had fallen when the ATV tipped and darted for it. He tore the bag open as the horde charged closer.

He tossed a handful of salt at the nearest one. It plowed into him, driving him to the ground. The human host was protecting the snail inside from the salt. Flint clutched the mutant by the chin, pushing the snapping tentacles away. The throat slit hissed and chewed the air. Flint gritted his teeth and used the bone protruding from his arm to stab into the creature's chest aiming for the slug inside. A magenta spurt let him know he'd found it. He stabbed it again. The corpse went limp, pinning him to the path. He felt the stick of black spines going into his legs.

The world became a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. The ground swayed beneath him like a gentle current. Pain drifted away from his wounds. And he giggled softly. Sons of bitches brought the good stuff to the party, Flint said, quietly. You guys are swell. A small mutant with auburn pigtails tore Flint's arm off at the elbow and shoved the nub to her throat slit. This is better than Ozfest, Flint snorted. Just swell. The mutants clamored over their own, building a meaty ladder off of each other's failed attempts at ascending the waterslides to get to Rebecca. Her plan was working too well.

She scurried down the ladder into the tiny chamber where the staff entered the ride and cracked the door open. The area behind the ride looked clear, and she bolted across the grass to hide behind a fish-shaped fountain spewing violet water from its puckered lips. Then something caught her eye. The clear path to the front gate. Bryce aimed the ATV at the roll-up door and floored the accelerator. The little green vehicle bounced off the door with a bang, and Bryce face-whipped into the steering wheel. Shit! He slid out of his seat with a groan. He made his way inside and opened the bay door that rolled up noisily thanks to the massive dent he'd added to it.

He looked around for a trolley to load the bags on. An empty pallet sat unsafely on a jack in the corner and he ran for it, quickly wheeling it back to the ATV and offloading the salt. He looked around for Flint and cursed. He didn't know anything about the water treatment system or where to find it. He scanned the large room and spotted a yellow sign shaped like an arrow in black letters. Water Treatment. Bryce ran toward it, tugging the pallet jack behind him. He told himself he'd be able to figure it all out and then the monsters would die, Texas would be saved and Rebecca would throw herself into his arms.

It was all going to work out perfectly. Rebecca crept through the shadow of the nearest concession stand. 50 yards of mutant-free grass were all that separated her from a safe getaway. Something moved in the corner of her eye. A thin black post pushed up from the ground. You've got to be fucking kidding me. She shot from her hiding place as the sprinklers kicked on. She zigzagged between them back onto the walkway. Her legs burned with effort. Rocks cut into her bare feet. She couldn't stop running. A body twitched along the path and sat upright. Rebecca kept running, cutting away from the thing's desperate lunge to seize her legs.

She hurdled the turnstile, her ankle twisted on the landing, and she fell on her face. She groaned and wiped the blood away from her lip. She gazed down at the crimson smear along the back of her hand. Her eyes shifted to the purple-tinged water droplet rolling down her arm. She sniffled and shook her head. It's just a drop. She stood up. It takes more than a drop. Rebecca started running again. The old war highway was only a mile away. She could find a ride away from the nightmare there. She would be home by dawn. Bryce's feet shuffled in the thick trail of slime.

The jack bumped him from behind, pushing him into a vertical water pipe. A deep moist laughter resonated from the shadows. Glowing orbs angled toward him in the darkness, and the things slithered forward. People in maintenance coveralls lined the monstrous snail's undulating body, held tight to its flesh by hardened strands of mucus. Their flesh writhed with hundreds of the white tube worms flicking their talons in and out. Bryce lunged for a sack and tore it open, pouring a line of salt between him and the SUV-sized hell snail. Get back, you ugly fuck, he warned. Or what?

It said in a sticky hiss. Will you assault me? The snail attempted to laugh again. This shit keeps getting weirder. Bryce scooped a handful of salt and cocked his arm back. Last warning. I fear not, morsel. The behemoth slithered forward, inching closer to the saline barrier. You fight. Tasty meat in a fighter. The monstrous mollusk speared its radula over the line and pierced Bryce's shoulder. The teen screamed and collapsed onto the pallet. Tasty meat, indeed. Bryce clutched the wound, watching his own blood spurt between his fingers. He remembered enough from biology class to know the brachial artery was severed.

He was a goner. You want to taste a fighter? Bryce rolled over and pressed his gory hands into the salt. Let me just season your meal first. The snail overlord stretched its head across the line, letting the tip of the radula wrap around Bryce's ankle. It tugged the tin closer. He rolled and punched the organ. The snail whipped back its head, slinging the radula side to side. Violet drool splattered Bryce as it roared angrily. Your mother fucks garden gnomes. Bryce lunged forward, punching the beast in the gaps of its cadaver shell. The mucus-glazed tissue shriveled and bubbled in the wake of the boy's salted knuckles.

He jumped up and struck a blow against one of the beast's googly eyes, rupturing the orb in a shower of goo. The monster head-butted him to the floor. Valorous effort, morsel. The snail said in a pained slur. But you have failed. They both cocked their heads at the sudden, piercing whistle coming from high above. Rebecca Engel watched the ground sail beneath her, and then toppled through the muddy field. She groaned with pain as she sat down and tried to orient herself. A fiery pillar rose where Splashtown used to be. She hadn't even heard the explosion when the shockwave caught up with her and launched her far, far from the nightmare.

Everything was gone. All the monsters were dead. So was Bryce. She'd wanted to tell him how much she liked him, ever since they shared a moon pie at recess in the third grade. But she was always too chicken. He died trying to save her and the rest of the world from the murderous mollusks. At least that much happened. We're all safe now, Bryce. We won. It's over. Rebecca said softly and scratched at a stinging spot on her arm. Bad Cop in a Small Town on Halloween Night by John Oak Dalton Farron didn't know what a viral video was until his daughter showed him a recording of him sleeping in the patrol car in the parking lot of the school.

Some asshole kid shot it on a cell phone and sent it to a friend who posted it on Twitter and the rest went how it went. That was on a Wednesday morning and by that night there was a dance club mix with Farron's loud snores and a sample from Junie Morrison's song Suzy Thundertussy. By Friday night the memes were in full swing. There was a screen cap of Farron sleeping in the patrol car and the text read, When you've been racial profiling all day and the donut shop is out of coffee. And a lot worse than that.

Monday night was the town council meeting, and if Farron didn't know anything about social media, he sure didn't think the town council did. But he was wrong. It was a three-person board who met once a month at the library with a handful of old people and a few cranks in the audience. Ellen Soames was the board president and also the town librarian, which was a tough combination. Joe Linceed was a retired farmer who held court at the gas station out by the highway most mornings, but didn't do much here. Buster Winsome was the son of a retired teacher named Anne Winsome, and when she passed away, Buster filled the rest of her term, and then nobody could think of any reason to vote him off.

Farron gave his usual monthly report about his speeding ticket quota and one or two domestic calls and one or two drunk driving stops, but he skipped over the fight at the high school because he didn't want to mention the high school. The town board seemed to be listening unusually closely, and afterwards, Ellen asked him to stay and talk. We've got some changes that have been in the works for a long time, Ellen started. Farron didn't bother to ask what changes, he just stood there. Ellen started back up. The county has agreed to drive through town a couple of times a day, and the high school has been wanting to hire their own resource officer anyway, so we will need you as a town marshal through Halloween on October 31st, but that's it.

Now, Farron reacted, that's this Friday. It's been in the works for a long while, Farron. Can I at least get my insurance through December? That's for Abby. It isn't going to work that way. Ellen looked at him with sorrow on her face, but Farron knew it was for herself. When her son got back from Afghanistan, it was Farron who talked him through what it was like to be a civilian. Farron had gone from high school to Desert Shield and then had been town marshal ever since, so maybe he wasn't the best, but he was all Darren Soames had.

It still didn't stop Darren from ending it all with a Takarev pistol he shouldn't have been allowed to bring back from his country. We can let you resign, she said. I'm going to need the unemployment, Farron answered. Nobody is going to know until the week after Thanksgiving. That's the next meeting. It's okay. I don't got my daughter for Thanksgiving. Farron walked out. The next day, Farron was sitting in his patrol car by the flashing light on the main street. It was Highway 1, but through town it was called Hadley Street, although everyone called it Hadbin Street.

Like there had been a grocery store there, that there had been a bank, and that empty field had been the school, before consolidation. People were speeding and doing rolling stops, but why did that matter now? He was talking to his daughter on his cell phone. As the teasing died down at school, he asked. It was never that bad. Mercedes dressed her dog up in an octopus costume and put it on TikTok like Wednesday or Thursday. People got into that. Well, thank Mercedes for me. Are you going to get in trouble, Dad? What Abby was really asking was, was her father going to be able to pay for her college, which she agreed to do as part of the divorce decree five years ago and was happy to make happen.

He worked as a bouncer at a bar called the Red Triangle in Ohio on the weekends, which was outside his agreement as a law officer in Indiana, and was why he was asleep Monday morning at his third job as resource officer at the high school. If I get in trouble, I can get out of it, he answered. I'll see you on Halloween. I'll have candy in the patrol car. I'm a senior. I'm too old for trick or treating. Well, walk down there anyways. Okay. And they hung up. Farron turned on the radio in the patrol car and put it on the country station everybody listened to.

His ex was the midday DJ and had done a lunchtime request show for years that Farron still liked. Dolly was singing about how hard it was to be a diamond in a rhinestone world. But then she played a Willie song about the redheaded stranger and the yellow haired lady and his heart fell in his chest. Farron was a redhead and his ex was a blonde and they danced to the song at their wedding. So that's how Farron knew that the news had spread through the little town about his firing. His ex was playing the song because she was thinking of him.

Farron didn't want to think about what it would be like to be an ex-cop. Everybody he'd pulled over and ticketed, when pretty women were let go after a smile and sometimes the promise of a drink or more. All the guys he knew would hit girlfriends or wives or kids or all three and might have accidentally bumped their face on the patrol car or found their paperwork lost for days when they got dropped off at county. All the dealers who were busted because they weren't his dealer. That was all we're thinking about, but having the pity of his ex-wife.

That was the worst. And then his thoughts turned to Abby. He could pick up more bouncer shifts at the Red Triangle, but not too many more. And he could go back to doing security at the big outdoor venue where they had stock races in the fall and concerts in the summer. But it was an hour each way and the tweakers were bad. You could put them in chokeholds and kick them in the balls over and over and they just didn't seem to feel any pain or care. At least the Red Triangle had mostly drunks and stoners and only a biker once in a great while.

And anymore most of the bikers were cops and firemen running wild on the weekends and they always got a pass on their behavior. He might be able to scratch together money, but he wouldn't have insurance, medical or life or anything. He had it until October 31st. And then there was nothing. And a little thought squatted in the corner. And he only looked at it out of the side of his eye. Until Halloween night. Then Farron sat in his cruiser at the flashing light at Hadley starting around 6 o'clock and gave out candy. He waited until Abby came by and she had dressed up after all and dragged out a couple of girlfriends.

And it was all meant to be ironic, but they were having fun. Farron ribbed them, but told his daughter that he loved her because of the thoughts that had been growing in his mind all week. She was wearing a mask so he couldn't gauge her reaction. As soon as she was gone, he put the patrol car in gear and drove south out of town and then a little further. Two summers ago during the town bicentennial, they had closed the main road through town and had a carnival come in. But a night or two in, there was an immigration raid of some kind and all the carnies were dragged off or ran off.

After a few days of complaints and nobody from the carnival coming back, Joe Linceed rode his tractor into town and dragged the rides off one at a time to a farm field the government was paying him to keep fallow. There, those old rides rotted away along with some busted up trailers and some other ragged odds and ends. It's where Farron pulled in and parked and saw a little campfire in the dying light. He knew Joe Linceed's nephews or cousins' kids or some kin hung out here all the time, but Linceed was kind of his boss, so Farron did nothing.

Even though he had an idea what they were doing out there. Farron took a Remington 870 shotgun out of the trunk and started walking towards the campfire where several figures crouched or sat in broken down patio furniture. Young guys still shirtless in the fall chill. There was a chemical smell in the air. Hello, Walls. The call from the gloom brought Farron up short. Only one person called him that, and it was his childhood friend and adult weed dealer, Ricky Webb. He knew his mother had named him after her favorite singer, Farron Young, and had loved his hit song, Hello, Walls.

Ricky was a nephew on Joe Linceed's wife's side, but never came out to this little encampment people up the road called, Rusty Town. You look damn serious, Walls. And all you hillbillies out here look damn jumpy. The energy shifted towards Junior, though who he was junior to, Farron couldn't remember. He was the lead dog in this younger group and went from juvie to county to state prison and only recently returned from the Grand Tour. The shining whites of his eyes stared out at Farron and his neck tattoos looked like bruises in the blue light. If you want some of that Leopold Gold I done brought up from Tell City last week, come by my place tomorrow.

You don't need to be out here, Ricky said. Neither do you. I ain't never out here but I got business tonight. I do too. So maybe you can slip out past that tilt-a-whirl and I'll come holler at you tomorrow for that grass. Somebody snickered. He said grass. Shut up Garwood, Ricky said easily, his eyes trained on Farron. Farron gestured with the shotgun. I tell you what, leave it out, Ricky. If there is eight teeth between all of you, I won't take you whole passel of dickheads in for making and dealing meth. Junior, Garwood, and the others began to move, but Ricky put up a steadying hand.

It dawned on Farron for the first time that Ricky, despite his easygoing demeanor, might have been the OG of this loose band of related feral criminals. It was just one more thing he had overlooked, not paid attention to. Let's slide. Walls, why don't you ease on out of this here job? Everybody knows this is your last night as town marshal. Let somebody else worry about this tomorrow, Ricky suggested. Junior blinked. Hell, if he ain't found until tomorrow, it ain't like killing a cop. Junior had a gun in his hand, and then Ricky did too. Farron just stood with the shotgun loose in his own hands.

We don't need to think like that, cuz, said Ricky mildly. He knows, said another voice from the growing darkness. Junior nodded for emphasis. What else would he be doing out here on his last day? Ricky studied Farron. That's it, isn't it? It's your last day. God damn, Farron, don't let it go down this way. Think about Abby. You know, I am thinking about Abby. It was the truest thing Farron had ever said. And get her name out of your mouth. Ricky blinked and Farron swallowed. Then tell your idiot half brothers or second cousins or whatever this island of misfit toys is to stand over against that hall of mirrors with their hands behind their backs and make this easy.

Ricky shook his head. Head on back to town, old hoss. I'm trying to talk these kids out of making a bad mistake. It's my mistake. I've been too easy on these young dirtbags because I took most of their mamas behind the football stadium at one time or another. Junior finally lifted his gun, a high point 9mm, just as Farron had hoped. Only Ricky lifted his own Bursa Thunder 380 and shot his cousin in the face. Garwood fired and Ricky tipped back in his chair and his legs kicked the air. Garwood turned and fired at Farron next, and Farron felt a hot bite take the bottom of his right ear off.

Ricky was up and on his knees pointing his gun at Garwood when somebody stepped out of the shadow and fired at Ricky. A geyser shot out of Ricky's neck, but he still shot again, and Garwood's jaw disappeared in a cloud of red, and his teeth peppered the campfire. Garwood convulsed and fired, hitting another man in the shadows who started to scream. Farron stood and waited for the bullet. But the new gunman turned and ran for the trailer, flannel shirt flapping behind, and the last man broke and ran as well. Farron watched for a moment, then threw his shotgun on the ground.

The Remington had been empty, but the Glock 19 in his holster wasn't, and it turned out he needed it. It was one thing to die in a hail of gunfire, and another to die in prison. So he walked up and shot the screaming man, then followed the other two towards the trailer. The one in the flannel banged the door open and ran in, but the other veered off. He figured he had the flannel guy boxed in, but had better catch up to the second guy. That guy ran hell bent towards what was labeled the Fun House, a big sheet metal box that had been built on the back of a flatbed.

The Fun House had some sort of zigzag gangplank held up with chains. And Farron watched for a moment as the guy, who he finally recognized as the recent high school dropout, Peyton Sanford, tried to navigate the wobbly platform in the dark. He stepped into the round O of a painted clown's mouth, and the brake must have been off on that tunnel because the gears started moving and the opening rolled up like a hamster wheel. It would have been funny if Farron wasn't trying to die in the line of duty. Farron fired into the clown's mouth and missed, but the bullet spanged around and finally hit Sanford and knocked him flat.

He tried to get up, but just flopped around in there until Farron drew a better bead and shot him again. And Sanford stopped moving. Farron turned away and saw some weird shapes dancing in front of him. He triggered his gun without thinking and heard shattering glass. He had shot right into the stupid half-assed hall of mirrors. When he saw his own image splintering a hundred times, he kept going. Farron beat it for the trailer and quickly realized he'd made a mistake. When he stepped through the door, the chemical smell was strong. He saw a hole that had been knocked in the back wall with a blue tarp strung over it and taped over onto another trailer parked right behind.

So Farron bolted through the trailer and out the back, hoping for the bullet that would blow up the trailer behind him and everyone around the world beyond. But instead, he found the last gunman standing in an open field nearby, next to a beat up 1980 Plymouth Volair Roadrunner. Farron knew the beater belonged to a kid everybody called Baby Gates, because once he got so drunk, his friends gated him into a kitchen to sleep it off, and he couldn't figure out how to undo the latch, even when sober. Baby Gates had popped the trunk and had the gun pointed inside, which Farron immediately flashed on, dog fighting.

Even Baby Gates couldn't think he could get out of trouble by shooting up a trunk full of drugs. But Farron went ahead and killed him anyway, then walked over to see what Baby Gates could have possibly been thinking. Inside the trunk was a very thin and pale young woman, wearing clothes you would throw in a dumpster behind the Goodwill. The stench of human smells was strong, but the young woman was alive. Farron bent over and vomited in the grass. Then he felt better. It was the killing of the young men and the finding of a young woman so close to Abby's age.

He had sometimes vomited after killing an Iraq and knew that was part of it. He reached a hand out to the cowering, feebly moving woman, but finally just reached down and lifted her out and set her on the ground. She was a flat five feet and didn't weigh a buck ten by Farron's eyes. What's your name, miss? The young woman just stood and shook, her teeth chattering. Can you tell me your name, miss? You're all right now. The young woman slowly opened her mouth and Farron saw a darkness within. It took Farron a minute to realize the woman had no tongue.

Farron looked into her eyes. Okay, we'll go back to my patrol car. I got a paper and pencil there so you can write your name down. The young woman shook her head. You don't want to write your name down? She shook her head harder. The truth punched Farron between the eyes. How long ago did you get taken? The young woman lowered her hand until the flat of it hovered around her knee. Farron felt the bile rise in his throat when he thought about the enormity of what had happened to the young woman. Okay, well, we still need to get back to the patrol car.

Just keep your eyes on me when we walk that way and don't look at nothing else. The young woman nodded and Farron led her away from the roadrunner. But as he neared the campfire once more, he saw movement again. He raised a hand for the young woman to stay where she was, and Farron approached the fire. Where his old friend Ricky was somehow still alive, holding a bloody hand to his neck, Farron stood over him. You ain't calling this one in. Are you old hoss? Ricky asked. No. Farron could see Ricky's eyes slide sideways in a glimmer of firelight.

I'm glad she's still alive. If it means anything to you, I thought baby Gates was talking shit, some stupid internet thing. I didn't think he could really go and get a girl from somewhere. I was here to make Junior let her go. That does mean something. Where was she from? I don't know exactly, but they bought her in Indianapolis. But I know where she was going. They sold her to them people out at Comfort Farm. Comfort Farm? Where they had those retreats? My ex went to a writers group out there. Them people went bankrupt two years ago.

This is a different group. They're from Jersey. Jersey? East Coast people, man. Farron thought on this for a moment. And when he looked down, Ricky was dead. The young woman was standing and looking. She didn't resist when Farron put her in the front seat of the car. He started the patrol car and turned and looked at her. I'm going to take you into town and drop you off at the flashing light. There are good people there. And somebody will call the police in the county respond. She grabbed his bicep and wouldn't let go. I can't take you with me because I'm going out to the farm where they were going to take you and I ain't planning on coming back.

The young woman grabbed and clawed at him so hard that instead of making a big U-turn to town, he turned off the car and started walking back towards the roadrunner with the young woman a ghost trailing behind. He took the keys out of Baby Gates' jeans pocket and threw his uniform shirt on the ground and put on Baby Gates' flannel, which only had some blood on it. He didn't say anything when she got into the passenger seat. Then, Farron bumped over the farm field and onto the highway and straight into darkness. Comfort Farm was right at the very edge of the county and probably out of his jurisdiction if he was thinking hard about it.

But what he was thinking was that he should have noticed somebody building a watchtower on the other side of the big cattle gates. Farron idled there and finally honked the horn and damned if a big spotlight didn't shine out of the tower and point right at the roadrunner. Farron and the woman sat, very still. After a long moment, he heard a deep-throated rumble. And here came a 1987 Chevy El Camino, black on top and silver on bottom that he couldn't help but admire. Some long-haired guy with a leather vest over a bare chest came out with a Mac-10 in one hand and a gym bag in the other and stood on the other side of the cattle gates.

Farron waited, knowing he had a flannel up top but uniform pants and a gun belt below. The guy squinted at the roadrunner. You're supposed to keep her in the trunk. Idiot. Farron said nothing as the man started to undo the chain holding the cattle gates together. Just for fun, Farron revved the engine and gunned it as the chain fell away and banged the gates open and knocked the long-haired guy backwards and watched his limbs turn counterclockwise. He heard a gunshot from above and so he drove straight on into one leg of the tower and crushed the grill of the roadrunner.

He heard a crack and a creak as the wooden leg gave way, but what happened next was hidden in a cloud of radiator steam. He opened the driver's side door in time to see a guy fall from above and bounce off the hood of the car, an AR-15 going flying. The guy scrambled for his weapon and slid off the hood of the roadrunner and Farron shot him before he could get his feet under him. The long-haired guy was somehow on his feet and firing into the steam. Farron bent down and scooped up the AR-15 and let it rip into the darkness.

He liked it better than the Mac-10 anyway. He heard the long-haired guy scream as he walked over to the El Camino, accidentally kicking the gym bag on the way. Money spilled out onto the dirt. Farron couldn't believe what he was seeing, but he picked up the bag and threw it in the back of the El Camino anyway. Somewhere down this dirt road, the big barn you could rent for weddings was all lit up. There were two guys walking down the path towards them. All the little cabins they used to rent to church groups were all boarded up on both sides of the overgrown track.

They had definitely heard a commotion, but weren't in full tilt panic yet. These East Coast types didn't think much of midwesterners, Farron thought, sourly. He climbed into the El Camino, and there was the young woman sitting there already. You gotta get outta here. You got me through the gate, but that's as far as I was planning on going with you. There's a bag of money back there. Take it and walk to town. She started grabbing at him again, so Farron just put the El Camino in gear, and started slowly rolling down the dirt road towards the men in the barn.

This one was absolutely not the 1970 El Camino he had lovingly finished restoring when his older brother got sick of it, but it was better than no El Camino at all. When he got close, he floored it, then braked hard and knocked both men down in one swing from the long back of the car. Farron got out, and reached into the back where he had seen a toe chain laying. He pulled it out, and hit one guy with it, and watched the hook hit him on the ear and yank part of his face onto the ground.

Then Farron got the other guy as he was standing up and wrapped the chain around his neck. What's in the barn? Farron asked, pulling the chain tighter, but he must have pulled too hard because the guy went limp, blood running from his mouth, and Farron just dropped him in the dirt. Farron climbed back behind the wheel and told the young woman to duck, then he floored it one more time and drove right at the big barn doors. They didn't bust open as dramatically as he thought, since he was pushing 45 or 50 by the time he reached them, but they splintered well enough that the El Camino went on through and went in a long skid as Farron pumped the brakes.

Farron jumped out with the AR-15 and the AR-19 pointing straight ahead and saw he was in the middle of a big space all painted red. The barn beams, the floor, everything. There were big bright lights everywhere and little cameras with red lights. There was medical equipment in the corners and chains hanging down from above. There were men and women in animal masks. It was the stupidest thing Farron had ever seen. He felt tired. He had gone this whole night and hadn't met anybody with the juice to kill him. He didn't think any of these people could either.

Then somebody stepped up with an ornate-looking knife, and when Farron stuck his hand up to block it, the guy drove it right into Farron's palm. Now something was happening, he thought, and he lifted the glock and blew a hole in the masked man's face. Bone shards blew back and cut his cheeks, and he realized it was a real skull of some kind, not some Halloween-town plastic shit like he thought. Farron tried to steady himself on the hood of the El Camino and work the AR-15. Somebody with a metal pole ran up to him, and too late Farron realized it was a cattle prod.

He tried to kick, and it hit him in the leg and jolted him clear to his balls, and he went down on his back involuntarily. The masked man threw the prod aside and came thrusting downward with another fancy knife, but Farron scrambled under the El Camino and popped up on the other side, shooting. Farron could hear a low keening from the front seat and realized it was the young woman, but couldn't do anything but kill everyone in front of him and hoped she would get it together enough to finally run away. Some woman in a flowing red robe rose from behind a bank of computer monitors and started saying some shit Farron couldn't hear between the rumbling of the El Camino and the sounds of gunshots and the keening of the young woman and the screams of the dying.

He shot her, thinking the rest of them might stop fighting when they saw it, but they didn't, and somebody stabbed Farron up around the collarbone and the blade deflected off and screeched across the El Camino's paint job. The Glock was out of ammo and so was the Air 15 and now he wished he hadn't thrown that Remington shotgun on the ground, but it was all right. He felt about done, but then he started thinking about what that young woman or even his daughter or both of them could do with a bag of money and he grabbed the guy who stabbed him around the neck and beat his head into the car hood until he dropped the bloody knife.

Then Farron took it and tried to slit the guy's throat, but it skittered off the bone of the guy's mask and then he thought maybe this was just a shitty knife and threw it on the ground. He picked up the cattle prod and used the business end on some asshole with a big hook knife and then swung at the computer monitors and it sparked and sputtered and surprising everyone, started a fire. Then there was a sharp pain in his back and he half turned and saw somebody whose wolf mask was half hanging off was stabbing him with a scalpel from the table full of medical instruments.

And it was some guy he had seen a hundred times jogging on the historical trail out where the old railroad had been. Then Ferran got pissed because it was one thing to die in the line of duty and it was another thing to die of a thousand cuts from a bunch of dirt bags who got all their ideas from beating off to death metal videos. So he head butted the guy and clawed at his scalpel but couldn't get it loose. He heard a loud chh chh behind him and saw some douchebag holding a Mossberg pump action shotgun pointed at him.

Ferran grabbed the barrel and forced it upwards, upwards until he forced it under the guy's chin. The blast showered Ferran with gore, but he'd lost track of whose blood was whose. There was somebody running away from the growing flames and Ferran brought the barrel of the Mossberg down on his head, and the guy stumbled and fell. Ferran wiped blood from his eyes and didn't see anyone else running or moving at all, just the steady red lights looking at him from every angle of the room. And so he lay down next to the last corpse and let the fire warm his feet, and waited to see if anything else would happen.

Unfortunately, Ferran woke up not in that red room, but in a white room, the county hospital. And there was a little boom box covered in stickers on the bedside table, and his wife was talking on the radio, and he knew that the boom box belonged to his daughter, and she must have left it there, and he must be alive. His daughter came in and started crying, and he did too. Not for the same reasons. After a few minutes he asked, Who's the girl? They don't know yet, Abby said. Everybody's somebody, her father whispered. You're a meme again, Abby said, showing him her phone.

The video was called, Sleepy Cop Wakes Up, and somehow there was heavily edited video of the massacre at Comfort Farm. What is this? Ferrin asked, pushing the phone away. You shouldn't be looking at that. You busted up a red room. It's where they take girls to be tortured and people pay to watch it on the dark web. The what? The bad part of the internet. There was a good part? Somebody put the video out. They said they thought the red room was a hoax, so they were recording it. But they are probably just saying that now because they're trying to stay out of jail.

Speaking of which, that guy outside the door looks like a fed. I don't know what he is, dad. I reckon he wants to talk to me. He does, but I had to get in here first. By the way, mom has your phone and is taking all your calls. She's doing what? The password is still your anniversary, dad. Okay, okay. What calls? People want to interview you. Pay for your story. A big podcast called. What's that? It's on the internet. You can get paid for that? Abby snuck a glance at the door where the man in the dark suit and red tie loomed.

Dad, I think they want your help. I'm not a cop anymore. The town council extended you. Mom got on the radio and raised hell because you were all stabbed and whatever and weren't going to have any insurance. Farron felt like crying again. It had to be the drugs. Well, she's a good woman. The town council still sucks. They only extended it till December 31st. Farron tried to shrug. Small victories. Farron closed his eyes. And when Abby left and the Fed came in, Farron was sound asleep. Mischief Night by Shane Migliavacca Ray had a bad feeling in his gut.

Bud had a sinister look in his eye tonight. It was Bud's idea they go out. There was an unreasonably cold chill to this October night. Most likely the reason the trick-or-treaters were starting to thin out. Bud wanted to do some trick-or-treating of his own. Ray knew Bud long enough to know that meant some kind of crime would be perpetrated by them tonight. Bud swung a beat-up paper sack back and forth as they walked. When Ray had asked Bud, told him only that it was a surprise. Ray didn't like his friend's surprises all that much. But without him, Ray would never have made it this far in life.

His mother was an out-of-work nurse, his dad a foreman at a chemical plant. Stuck home with a kid and a husband that was never around, she took her frustrations out on Ray, smacking him around. His dad, too busy and too tired from long shifts, failed to notice or care. When he was 15, Ray ran away from home. Those first few years had been harder than hell. He'd resorted to things he'd never thought he was capable of. Then, he met Bud. A former runaway himself, they were kindred spirits. Bud knew his way around the streets. Ray owed him.

No matter what the man did, he wouldn't desert him. Not to mention, he was more than a little afraid of him. A kid in a skeleton costume bounded down the sidewalk towards them, happily clutching a full bag of candy in his arms. As he passed by, Bud stuck out a leg, sending the kid crashing to the sidewalk, his bag of candy landing next to him, some of the candy spilling onto the sidewalk and lawn. The kid started blubbering as he rubbed his knee. Bud knelt down and looked at the kid. Did you have a nice trip, kid?

The kid shook his head back and forth. You tripped me. Maybe you're just clumsy, kid. Bud laughed. He snatched up the kid's bag of candy. Hey, that's mine! The kid hollered. Give it back! There was a flash of steel. Bud held out a switchblade he carried. Shhhhhh, he whispered. Ray felt his heart quicken. What was Bud gonna do to this kid? He'd never seen him hurt a kid. Could he go that far? Kill a kid? Listen kid, Bud said. This is my candy now. Mine. You tell anybody about it? Your parents? A cop? Anybody? And I'll make you watch as I kill him.

Cuz I'm the boogeyman. And I know where you live. Got it? The kid, near tears, more than likely pissing his pants, nodded. Good. Now run the fuck along and don't talk to fucking strangers. The kid high-tailed at his budd laughed, sniffing the air as he looked at Ray. I think that kid shit his pants. Or was it you? Fuck! Ray managed. Fuck, man! This made budd laugh louder, handing the bag of ill-gotten candy to Ray. Have some. Shaking his head, Ray reached into the bag, grabbing a small bag of Sour Patch Kids. What are we doing out here tonight, man?

He popped a red Sour Patch into his mouth. Besides mugging little kids. Well, my man, I want to do something more adult than trick-or-treating. Bud motion to the houses up and down the street. Pick one. Pick a good one, and we'll have ourselves some fun. Ray let his eyes wander over the houses. Nice upper middle class homes. Some decorated to the hilt for Halloween. Others bore nothing at all. One house in particular, a large grim reaper, stood on the lawn. His eyes glowing. A witch stood next to him, cackling at a passerby. Purple, orange, and green lights decorated the house's exterior.

A large glowing ghost hung on the front door, loudly wailing at little kids as they walked up to the front door. That one, Ray pointed. Bud nodded in approval. A pretty brunette answered the door, handing out candy to the little kids waiting there. Good choice. Amanda followed the outline on the construction paper. A detailed drawing of a skeleton grinning at her. She'd always been pretty good at drawing. Cutting things with scissors was another thing. Next to her, Amanda's little brother Kyle coughed as he colored in a pumpkin she'd drawn earlier. They sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by snacks and colored paper.

What a drag. Stuck at home on Halloween night looking after her sick kid brother. Her parents were off to have dinner and then a movie. She was missing Stevie Lee's big Halloween party at the Mill Creek Farms. She'd just got her driver's license and barely got to use it. Why couldn't her parents cancel? Why'd it have to be her? She looked at her brother. It sucked for him too. He'd really been looking forward to trick-or-treating tonight. Instead, they were stuck home together. Both of them had gotten bored watching horror movies on TV. She decided maybe making something would lift their spirits.

The horror-a-thon will be back with Night of the Killer Lobsters, after a word from our ghoulish sponsors, the television played in an empty living room. The ghost hanging on the front door wailed, breaking Amanda's thoughts. The scissors slipped, causing her to poke her thumb. Oh, shit! she hollered. You okay? Kyle asked. Yeah, you didn't hear me swear, right? He gave her a thumbs up. There was a loud knock at the door. Want me to get it? her brother asked. Amanda stood, holding the scissors in one hand. I'll get it. There was another loud knock. Coming!

Coming! Amanda shouted over the ghost's howl. Hold your fucking horses, she said under her breath. Look! a man warned on television. There's one of them now! As a lobster superimposed over the side of a car, menacing some kids in lovers' lane. Walking past an upright piano set against one wall, setting the scissors on the coffee table, Amanda picked up her mom's large ceramic bowl. According to her, it was some family heirloom. A red drop hit the beige carpet. Shit! Amanda growled, looking at the trail of blood drops on the carpet behind her. She hadn't thought the scissors had broken the skin of her thumb.

Now she'd have to get blood stains out of the carpet before mom and dad get home. What next? There was another furious knock. Yeah, yeah, she said, this time not even trying to hide her annoyance. The pile up of the night's events getting to her. So much so Amanda forgot to look through the window to see who was out there first. Something she always did. Unlocking the door, she yanked it open. Two men in plastic clown masks stood waiting. Amanda stood hesitating. Trick her. The rest of it was cut off as the closer of the two men drove a fist into her stomach, knocking the air out of her lungs and doubling her over.

Mom's precious heirloom hitting the floor, shattering, sending candy spilling over the floor. Before she could recover, strong hands shoved her back into the living room, the two men rushing in after her. The second man closes the door, locking it and turning off the lights. Amanda tries to stand, earning another punch to the stomach from the first man. We good? he asks. The second peeks out through the curtains. Golden, he answered, keeping watch through the drawn curtains. Amanda staggered, hunched over, barely able to gasp her air, much less form words. She wanted to warn her brother, scream out for help.

Anything. The first man grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head up so they were face-to-face. His gloved hand touched her cheek. In his other, he held a switchblade. You alone, girly? Yeah, she gasped. What's a looker like you doing all alone on Halloween night? I was grounded, she managed, tears burning her eyes. That so? Wouldn't be lying, would you? Don't have a boyfriend stashed somewhere? Maybe a girlfriend? You know what they say. When the cat's away, the mice'll play. You playing, pretty mouse? Amanda coughed. No. Too bad, he lamented. Gonna behave? Yes, please, take whatever and go, she pleaded.

The first man picked up the family portrait sitting on the mantel. God, she hoped Kyle had heard everything and run and hid. Or maybe he'd run out the kitchen door, heading to one of the neighbors for help. He was a smart kid, it was possible. Who says we want to take anything? He answered. Where's Junior here? He said, tapping on the picture. He went with my parents, trick or treating. Amanda answered. Did he now? Her watery eyes wandered the room. Not too far away sat the scissors on the coffee table. So far all she'd seen was the guy's knife.

No guns. If she could reach the scissors. The man chuckled loudly. She met his eyes. He'd seen her looking at the scissors. Amanda lunged, leaping towards the scissors. Don't think so, first man said, cutting her off with another punch. Amanda staggered and fell to her knees, the world fading in and out of blackness as the carpet came rushing up to meet her as she fell. Ray saw the girl go down in a flash, turning away from the window when he heard the commotion. She hit the carpeted floor and went limp. She budnelt down, checking the girl.

Out like a light, he stood, motioning Ray over. I'll stay here with the princess. I want you to check the place out. They gotta have something valuable stashed here. Mommy might have some jewelry or daddy might have some cash squirreled away. Check the bedrooms first. Okay, man. Then we can get out of here, Ray said. Her parents could be back anytime. Go find something good, Bud said. And if you see somebody, a boyfriend or the brat, he drew a finger across his throat. I'll entertain myself while I wait, he smiled. Ray nodded before leaving. God, he'd be happy when they were out of there.

When he could take off the crummy mask, he was sweating like crazy. Besides the mask, Ray was scared. Bud was really on a rip tonight. He knew what Bud was going to do with the girl, and he wanted no part of it. The fear in his bones of what Bud might do to even him, stopped Ray from helping the girl. Best he could do was find some shit so they could get the hell out of there. Heading upstairs, Ray searched as quick as he could. A bathroom, the boy's bedroom, then the girl's. Nothing. At least there was no boyfriend waiting up here.

No little brother playing in his room either. That left the parents' bedroom. Fuck he hoped there was something valuable there. He feared what Bud's reaction would be if he came back empty handed. He dumped the dresser drawers, clothes, a dildo and some papers. Bills mostly. Zip for anything worth a shit. Looked like the closet was it. Come on, he said to himself. You're killing me here. Opening the sliding closet door. Lots of clothes. Mostly the mother's. The shelf was crammed full of stuff. But there was one thing that stood out. A metal box. Bingo. He reached up, pulling it down.

A box of pictures fell, spilling on the floor. Holding the heavy box in his arms, Ray saw something that made his heart stop. A little kid hiding in the corner of the closet, huddled behind some of the clothes. The kid's eyes widened when he met Ray's gaze. Ray put a finger to his lips. Not a word, kid, he whispered. He knelt, setting the box on the floor, staring at the kid. What the fuck was he gonna do? If he brought the kid downstairs, Bud would kill him, for sure. Ray had a fairly good idea of what Bud was probably up to now with the girl.

Even if Bud let the brat live, there was no reason to subject him to seeing that. Reaching into his back pocket, Ray pulled out his own knife, looking into the kid's terrified eyes. Ray recognized what he saw there. How many times he had looked up with those same eyes at his mom, as she beat the piss out of him. No, he couldn't kill the kid. I want you to stay here, he whispered. Me and my buddy are going soon. Don't come out of here till somebody comes and gets you, okay? The kid nodded. Good, Ray said.

He clapped a hand over the kid's mouth. One more thing. Don't worry. I ain't gonna hurt you. It'll just sting a little. Ray drew the blade out down the kid's cheek, opening up a small cut. The kid squirmed, wanting to holler in pain, Ray's hand suppressing the cry. Done. Ray dabbed some of the blood from the cut on his blade. He wasn't taking any chances. If Bud thought he'd killed the kid, that should keep him from wanting to look for the kid. Picking up one of the father's t-shirts from the floor, Ray wadded it up and handed it to the kid, telling him to press it to his cheek.

Closing the closet again, Ray picked up the metal box, setting it on the bed. Using a solid metal ash tray, he smashed off the flimsy padlock. Inside the box, it was like Christmas morning had come early. Jewelry and a couple of envelopes of cash. Score. Picking up his prize, Ray headed downstairs. Amanda heard gentle music playing over the screams of terror coming from the television. She felt the softness of the rug against her back. Her body ached and she wasn't sure why. Her eyes focused on the man playing the piano. Amanda saw the clown mask and reality came crashing back.

The last thing she remembered was trying to grab the scissors and then nothing. Save for scattershot images. The man over her, the sounds of fabric tearing. Oh God. She rolled over onto her belly. The other man came rushing in, excited and holding the metal box from her parents closet. The first man opened it, letting out a jubilant hoot. She couldn't hear their words over the frenzy on the TV. Words are no words. Amanda knew what the blood on the other man's knife meant as he showed it to the first. Ray bounded down the stairs, eager to show Bud the loot.

Somebody was playing music, a piano or something. In the living room, Bud sat at the small piano, playing without a care in the world. The girl lay on the carpet, her clothes shredded. He knew what Bud had in mind for the girl. He could have... no, no, best not to dwell on it. There was nothing he could have done. They were almost out of there anyway. He showed him the contents of the box and then the knife. Good work, Bud said, looking at Ray's bloody knife. You're a man now, he motioned towards the girl. Want some?

Can we just get out of here? Ray asked. Fine, fine. I'm getting restless anyway. Bud stood, tickling the piano keys. A wail of anguish and rage rose up over the piano, over the screams on the television. The men turned to see a bloodied, beaten banshee standing before them, the scissors in her hands, the girl's expression was filled with so much hate. Ray felt shivers run up and down his spine. She lunged. Ray felt the hot spray hit his face, blood. Not his, though. He looked over to see the scissors pulling away from Bud's neck, a large, bloody hole left in their wake.

Bud tumbled over the piano bench, gurgling up blood as he desperately tried to stop it from jetting out of his neck, fastening his hands over the wound, blood flowing between his fingers. Standing there, petrified, Ray couldn't help but watch his friend squirm about on the carpet and the floor, the girl jamming Bud repeatedly in the groin with the scissors. The knife slipped from his fingers, the girl turned from the now-dead Bud, her eyes bloodshot. She howled with anger. Please, Ray begged, his body finally responding. He ran towards the door, slipping on the spilled candy inches from his goal.

He grabbed a large, jagged shard of the broken candy bowl, slicing his gloved hand, swinging at the crazed girl, cutting her arm. The pain didn't phase her as she plunged the scissors into Ray's right eye socket with a sickening crunch. Frenzied, Ray pushed her away, fumbling for the door lock. The only thought in his dying brain was to get away, but his fingers couldn't seem to manage the lock. Ray heard the girl breathing behind him, pulling the scissors from his eye socket. He blindly sliced the air with them. The crazed girl crouched, watching him, till finally his body gave out and he collapsed against the door.

It was hard to believe the girl, her face covered with a blank white mask, was his sister. Kyle visited her from time to time at the sanitarium. He was 16 now, the same age she'd been when it happened. He touched the scar on his cheek, a constant reminder of that night. Amanda sat there in the day room, staring out the window, never moving, her head never turning. Dr. Chandler said she was near Catatonic. The mask, he said, she'd started wearing to hide her shame. After that man found him in the closet, Kyle had stayed hidden, staying there till his parents had found him.

Amanda had believed the man killed him. Perhaps she still did. The doctors were afraid to let him talk to her. The first time had been a disaster. He blamed himself for what happened to her. Even though his parents, the cops, and his shrink told him there was nothing he could have done, he'd only been a scared little boy. Sometimes he dreamed about her. Not of that night, no. He dreamed of her escaping here, finding her way over his bed, a pair of bloody scissors in her hand. He watched her for a while. She was so unnaturally patient, gazing out that window, staring into the distance, waiting.

Sweet Revenge by David O'Hanlon October 29, 1999 The nozzle sputtered and sprayed thick ropes of its gooey confection across the men on either side of the conveyor. Hank and Reuben exchanged glances. Hank had gotten the worst of it. Globs of peanut butter-infused molasses soaked through the beardnet and glued the mesh to the hair underneath. Reuben laughed at his partner as he tried peeling the garment away. Reuben hit the stop button to remove the clogged nozzle. I'm gonna have to shave, Hank grumped. Shelley hates it when I shave. I don't blame her, Reuben said as he retrieved the pipe wrench.

Seeing half your face is bad enough. It is pretty ugly, Hank tugged at a gob of candy. Maybe that's why your mom insists on sitting on it. Funny Hillbilly, Reuben cranked on the nozzle. This bitch is really stuck. Hank handed a cheater pipe over the conveyor and Reuben slipped it onto the handle of the wrench for more leverage. The nozzle came loose with ease, promptly spraying warm gunk across Reuben's face. He back-pedaled and slipped, falling into the mess. It was Hank's turn to laugh. Reuben tried to throw the pipe at the machine, but the goop on his hands made it impossible.

It clattered harmlessly a foot away. I hate this job, Reuben huffed. Nobody even wants the goddamn peanut butter kisses. They're a staple of Halloween, Hank offered in defense. Yeah, like STDs are a staple of prom. You might get a few in your sack, but nobody wants them. Reuben peeled himself from the floor and checked the clock. He looked down at the analog counter on the side of the machine and tapped the cover to make sure it wasn't stuck. Fuck it, that's quota, he said. We can't work in nasty clothes, health code, right? We can go change and clean up for the last hour.

Got a razor in your locker? Hank asked. I got a bic, not a brush hog. Ruben gestured at Hank's bushy beard. What the hell is a razor going to do for that? I figure if I shave it off here, I can tell Shelley it got caught in one of the machines. She won't be as angry then. Good plan. Ruben tried to snap his fingers, but the sticky substance wouldn't allow it. Cleo, she goes to beauty college. I bet she's got her shit in the car. Hank stared at him inquisitively. You trust Cleo with sharp objects around your neck?

Not my neck, but I'd trust her around yours. That was fair. Cleopatra and Ruben had a thing once. Unfortunately, they had different ideas of what that thing was. Ruben's idea involved balling Cleo's cousin. The men shut down their machine and started across the factory. The locker rooms occupied the space beneath the break room in a two-story structure that looked something like a prison watchtower. Hank used his pocket knife to cut away the beardnet while Ruben scrubbed away the residual peanut butter kisses. Hank snickered. It served him right. After all, it was all his fault they'd been stuck on the machine.

It shouldn't come as a surprise that the owner of a place called Candy Jack's is a complete degenerate. When Candy Jack heard what had gone down, he quickly assigned Ruben to the worst shit detail in the plant to score points with Cleo. He sent Hank along because he knew Ruben wouldn't leave his partner holding the bag. The plan hadn't worked, but Jack wasn't giving up. So for three years, the duo had been making peanut butter kisses for Halloween, fruity candy canes for Christmas, and Candy Jack's knockoff peeps, the appropriately named Cheeps for Easter. That's how it works in a candy factory.

Your rank is based on how much people love or hate the product you're making. Ruben and Hank stood on the bottom rung. Cleo worked on the jacked protein bars in the Healthy Options department. It was third in the hierarchy of Candyland. Lording over them all were the workers that made the Carson line. Invented by Candy Jack's grandfather, Carson bars came in a number of varieties and were the third most popular candy bar in the country. An entire wing of the factory was dedicated solely to Carsons. Once they were cleaned up enough to look presentable, but still appear to have been working their entire shifts, Hank and Ruben sneaked across the plant to find Cleo.

The end of shift whistle blew halfway to her line, so they had to jog to catch her. Cleo came down from the catwalk stripping the chocolate-spattered vinyl apron off to reveal the curves beneath. Ruben gulped. He knew he screwed up big time, but the closest he'd come to fixing it was getting Cleo to wave at him. It was a step up from the fuck you he'd gotten for the first two years. Cleo had in fact brought her beauty supplies. Since Ruben had ridden with Hank that afternoon, it meant he couldn't leave until his friend was finished.

Cleo knew that too and took her time. She lined up Hank's beard perfectly, then offered to fix his hair. She even threw in a neck and shoulder massage just to keep Ruben from whatever or whoever he might have done had he not been stuck pacing the break room for an additional 40 minutes. Finished, she finally said. Hank checked himself in the mirror and whistled, I'll be damned. I've met your wife. You are, Ruben nodded for the door, and she's going to be wondering where your ass is. We should hurry up. Some men can actually be trusted.

Cleo whispered as she packed up her stuff. She stared at her hands for a second and grasped her wrist. Shit, I left my bracelet on deck. She looked out of the break room windows and saw a bank of lights shut off. Unlike Candy Jack, his grandpa had been a great guy. Tucker Carson took care of the employees, including giving them November 1st off so that parents could stay out late, trick or treating with their kids. In his will, he'd put a clause that it stay that way. With Halloween being Sunday, they were the last shift until Tuesday.

If I go home without that bracelet, my daughter will lose her shit, Cleo said. Another bank of lights clicked off. She sighed. Will you guys wait for me? Of course, Ruben said too quickly. I mean, I'll wait. Hank has to get home. I'm your, Hank started, best friend, Ruben finished. He jabbed a finger to the door. Which is why I want you to hurry home before you get in trouble. Right, Hank winked, wouldn't want Shelly grounding me. We have Bowlin Sunday, the big Halloween tournament. Ruben scowled. He hated bowling and rejected every attempt Hank made to get him to go.

His shoulders sagged. That's right, he agreed. I wouldn't want to miss out on bowling night. See you there, partner. Hank whistled as he left the two alone in the break room. Cleo grabbed the bag of styling tools and glared at Ruben. She didn't want to admit she had ever actually liked him, but she had, and three years later, she still did. It made her want to punch his stupid, pretty face in. I know it's normally your line, but I'll be quick, she huffed. Cleo stormed out. Ruben watched her go down the stairs and disappear out of sight.

It was going to be a long walk back to his place, but if he could get one step closer to un-fucking things between them, it would be worth it. He dragged out one of the plastic chairs and slouched into it. Cleo clamored up the stairwell quickly to her station. She'd forgotten she was wearing the little woven friendship bracelet Tia made her to commemorate starting first grade, and she hadn't had time to run back to her locker. She'd tucked it into the battered metal desk for safekeeping. She set her bag down and opened the desk. Its bent hinges screeched.

She slipped the ornament back onto her wrist and closed the desk. There's no overtime tonight, a man said in a predatory hiss. Not milking the clock, are you? Candy Jack leaned on the handrail, pantomiming something other than milking. His hair was slicked back and a platinum pompadour with a goatee died to match. All of his suits were gaudy, but the plum number he was wearing then was the worst, with the orange jacket lining and accompanying tie and a black shirt embroidered with tiny, purple lollipops. His exotic leather shoes were something akin to pumpkin guts. He sucked lecherously on a licorice and tried to look suave.

Cleo could only think of one thing as Candy Jack blocked her escape. Willy Wonka and the Nose Candy Factory. I forgot something in my desk. She held up her wrist to show the bracelet. I'm heading out. Jack seized her arm, lightning fast. He stepped close and eyed the jewelry. Then let his gaze shift down to the collar of her t-shirt. He pursed his thin lips. We're starting Carson Christmas Trees next week. He didn't bother looking up from her breasts. That comes with a lot of extra hours. Between school and being a single milf, you could use more of those.

I make do with what I have. She jerked her hand back and forced a smile. I'm fine where I'm at. Have a happy Halloween, Mr. Carson. She grabbed her bag and started around him. He cut her off, wagging a finger in the air. You know you can call me Jack, he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. Cleo clenched the bag tighter. You know I'm going to call you an ambulance if you don't get your hands off me. That's cute, Jack stepped back and snickered. You're cute too. Everyone wants the pink starburst. Every once in a while, you just gotta pop a yellow one in your mouth and suck on it for a while.

The taste grows on you. So do genital warts. You don't have to like me, Cleo. I'm not asking you to date me. I'm just saying I have other positions for you. Jack hands moved to his belt. He hooked his thumb behind the brass buckle and slurped loudly on the licorice. You should pay more attention to your market research, Jack. She shoved past him. No one likes the fun-sized bars. Her feet left the floor as he slung her back by the hair. The handrail slammed into her back. Her bag hit the deck and spilled out. Jack kicked it out of his path, grabbing her shirt.

He spat the licorice into her face. You could have made this easy. He knelt and grabbed her chin with his free hand. But I'm glad you didn't. Cleo tried to push his hands away, but Jack slammed her against the railing once more. He pulled his hand back and slapped her, then lifted her to her feet. My lawyers keep a checkbook ready just to pay off ungrateful bitches like you. He slugged her in the stomach. Everyone's a victim until they take the hush money. Then they're just whores. I wonder how much you'll end up costing me.

How about a leg? Cleo gasped. The shears buried into Jack's thigh. He bellowed and stumbled back. Cleo sprang past him and ran down the steps, using the rails to sling herself over the last few. Jack ripped the scissors free and rubbed the puckered wound before chasing after her. Cleo shouted for Reuben, but heard Jack's uneven gait catching up and darted for cover. The whirring of machinery gave her hope of finding help. She moved into the shadows of the equipment and followed the noise. Maybe someone was still shutting down. Cleo ducked behind a half-stacked pallet to look for Jack.

His hair glinted in the emergency lighting, letting her know he was still pursuing. She stayed low and crept alongside a melting vat. Keep running, Cleo! Jack called out. It makes it more fun! Jack's steps were getting closer. Cleo rolled under a conveyor and watched the ugly shoes stop behind her. Blood dripped from the stab wound down on the leather. Jack laughed and started away. Cleo crawled under the line. Old candy bits dug into her hands and knees like thumbtacks, but she forced herself on until she could hear the machine running more clearly. She rolled out from under the conveyor and sprinted up the first set of steps she saw.

Large drum mixers lined the platform with another catwalk above them to operate the loading bins. There wasn't anyone there. The hard candy machines had to run continuously to keep the leftovers from seizing up the workings. Fuck! She leaned on the handrail looking for Jack and Ruben in equal measure. Behind her, Candy Jack pulled himself over the railing, silently. Cleo turned in time to see him spring. He tackled her onto the ascending staircase. Her head clanked off the steel steps. Jack opened the shears and slipped a blade into each of her nostrils. The scissors closed slowly, crunching wetly through the gristle of Cleo's septum.

She screamed and thrashed beneath him. Jack clenched her jaws and licked the spilling blood from her nose. You got to stick something in me, he growled. It's my turn. He punched the scissors through her side, scraping them against the ribs as he wriggled them around trying to find the lung. She howled in pain, then cursed. Cleo couldn't see him through the tears, another pained grunt, and his weight came off her. She started clamoring up the stairs to get away. Then she heard the voice. I never liked this fucking job, Ruben said. The thud of a fist meeting flesh punctuated the statement.

More like candy ass Jack. Cleo tried to clear her vision. She could see the shapes of the two men fighting. Ruben clubbed Jack across the back with both hands. He kicked their boss while he was down. Then he screamed. Jack pulled the scissors from Ruben's foot and stabbed wildly up his leg before scooping him onto his shoulder and dumping him over the guardrail. The snap of bone giving way to concrete was clear even over the noisy equipment. Cleo stumbled up the stairs. Jack ran up them after her. He dived forward and caught her ankle, dropping her to the grated floor.

He scrambled to his feet but Cleo rolled and brought a heel up into his groin. Jack fell against the railing and began undoing his belt while Cleo struggled to stand. He wrapped the garment around his hand. He stepped in and punched her on the injured side. He threw the next one across her jaw. The buckle tore a deep gash. Cleo slumped over the handrail but kept herself upright. She stared into the swirling, prismatic abyss of molten confection below. Your wrapper is looking a bit wrinkled, Cleo, Jack hissed. But the candy is going to be so sweet.

He swung another haymaker and Cleo let herself drop and trip him. Jack flipped over the railing. Cleo sat up, looking him in the eyes. Nice trick, little treat. He got his foot on the edge. But I'm still coming to eat you up. Eat this! Cleo jerked a lever down. The bin opened and a waterfall of high fructose corn syrup blasted Jack from his perch into the superheated mixture. His skin burned and blistered, sugar sparkled in the grooves of raw muscle. He screamed until the powerful paddles pulled him under, flooding his lungs and leaving the vat filled with nothing but sweet silence.

Halloween 2000 The ball hook left, dropping a single pin before hitting the gutter. Ruben scowled. His injuries had gotten him out of it for a time, but he still owed Hank. He limped back to the bench. It's the leg, he said. Throws off my balance. How long are you going to milk that? Hank sipped his beer. I got stabbed nine times, you dick. Ruben shrugged. Oh, trust me, I know. You've been bringing it up for a year. Hank took a contemplative swig. Well, since you came out of the coma, anyhow. Nine stab wounds, permanent nerve damage, eleven days in a coma, and Cleo still hadn't given him a second chance.

Ruben chugged half his beer. After Candy Jack's death, his second cousin, Delia Carson Fitzpatrick, took over the company. It was renamed the Carson Candy Works, and all the employees got a fat raise with Ruben being given a sizable settlement and a promotion. So there had been an upside to the entire thing. It just wasn't the payoff Ruben really wanted. The healthiest relationship he'd ever had was banging his math teacher in 10th grade. Naturally, he panicked when things started going good with Cleo. He wasn't ready for a real commitment or to be a stepdad, so he'd intentionally sabotaged everything, and regretted it for the last four years, minus the coma.

It's not too late, Ruben, Hank said as if reading his friend's mind. Probably haven't even left to go trick or treating yet. We're in the middle of a game. You're knocking dust out of the gutters. Hank took Ruben's bottle and finished it in one gulp. Now you're out of excuses. Go! This is illegal. Graham rolled the drum down the ramp and into the grave with the others. Federal offense level illegal. Who's going to tell? Howie gestured across the cemetery. Unless the EPA has a goddamn seance out here, I think we'll be fine. Howie had managed to convince the pencil pushers at Denoyer Grove Chemical that he was a toxic waste disposal expert.

It wasn't too far from the truth, he figured. He'd been working in meth labs since he was 12, after all. Howie wasn't sure what was in the drums, but he was sure it wouldn't matter so far from the town. He'd even had a tombstone made to add legitimacy to the whole thing. It was the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. Another drum rolled down and clanked against the rest. He stared at the battered containers and huffed, Damn it, they're all jumbled up, he growled. The dirt has got to go over flat so it don't look conspicuous.

Hop down there and stand them up. You hop down there. Graham froze, then stood up and craned his neck. Shit Howie, look at that. Howie turned, a dim flickering glow came from the far side of the graveyard. Howie cupped a hand to his ear. A voice carried on the crisp fall breeze. He glanced back at the truck. Only one barrel left. They still needed to run the backhoe to cover the grave, or they'd be caught for sure. I'm going to go over there and see what's going on. Howie said, Finish up. I'll tell them we're cleaning up after grave robbers.

That'll explain the backhoe. Good idea. The only kind I got. Howie left Graham to finish the hard work while he went to investigate the strange visitor. He could hear the feminine voice more clearly, but that didn't make the words any more familiar. He snuck up alongside an ancient oak for a peek. Black candles burned in a pattern around a grave, and a cloaked figure muttered the words with increasing speed. An electric hum crackled deep in Howie's ears. His skin prickled. The ground throbbed beneath him. The sudden rumble of the backhoe's diesel engine nearly emptied his bowels and he squealed in surprise.

Howie slapped a hand over his mouth and looked over his shoulder. The work lights on the machine were moving as Graham covered the evidence of their crime. He turned back to the arcane memorial service, only to find it was over. The candles were out. The woman was gone. Howie stepped from behind the tree and wandered over. Something crunched beneath his shoe, then something else. The next thing he stepped on squished. Howie took out his flashlight to look around. Halloween candy was spread within the boundaries of the candles. A darkened patch of empty space lay before him and he eased to the edge.

Inside was a coffin, its lid splintered and broken open. He moved the light up to the gravestone. I'll be damned, he whispered. Candy Jack is back, the gravelly voice said behind him. Cleo watched Tia trot excitedly down the driveway lined with giant inflatable pumpkins. They'd hit the afternoon trick-or-treat circuit downtown before going home to touch up the child's costume and down a few chicken nuggets before the real fun began. Tia dressed as a commando princess held up the king-sized Reese's with a gap-tooth smile. She'd been self-conscious about losing four teeth in one week, but the tooth fairy paid up and it made her costume look more authentic.

The Grubers are giving away the big ones, she squeaked. They're the best. The Grubers went all out for every holiday. Their Christmas lights even made the must-see list in the Couto Basin Tourist Guide, and they were the first stop on every kid's trick-or-treating map. Cleo straightened Tia's lipstick bandolier and smiled. The last week had been a nightmare. Memories of the fight with Jack and his final screams kept her up at night. Her hands shook whenever she picked up her scissors at work. She'd wanted to write off the entire holiday, but pushed through and distracted herself by helping Tia make her costume.

It would be worth it. She was still on edge, but seeing how excited the little girl was kept her focused on the moment. I bet the next house will be a good one too, Tia shouted as she ran away. Wait up, guys! Tia disappeared into a gaggle of children as they swarmed along the sidewalk for the next house. Cleo started after them, joining with the other parents, trying to keep up with their own kiddos. Lame! a Power Ranger said as he waddled across the street. He scooped a handful of candy from his bag to show his parents.

What kind of rich people hand out hard candies? Cleo's mind flashed back to Jack boiling alive in the mixer. She watched the orange-wrapped disks spill from the kid's hand into the street like bits and pieces of her attacker. She wondered if they'd cleaned the machine thoroughly enough to get every particle of Jack out of the candy. Her stomach flipped and she veered for the sidewalk to vomit behind a row of Styrofoam gravestones. The coop chirped as Ruben set the alarm. He'd been too late to catch Cleo at home, so he set out to find her.

Everyone knew the best candy was in Argento Hills. Traffic in and out of the gated community was atrocious on Halloween, so Ruben did like most people and found a spot at Cohen Park. Even that had been challenging. He was really doing it. He was going to find Cleo and finally fix things. The nervousness ran straight for his bladder. It could be a while before he caught up with her, so he made a beeline to the restroom. The automatic lights flicked as if they were tired of doing their job, too, but finally kicked on, casting the concrete room in a wash of dim, corpse-white illumination.

Ruben scrunched his nose at the sight of the urinal. Someone hadn't understood the purpose, apparently. Ruben gagged a little and proceeded to one of the stalls. He closed the door, slipping the barlock into place. Something tickled his fingertips, and he pulled his hand back reflexively. Ants scurried along the lock in a dedicated formation, before disappearing into the neighboring stall. Jesus, this place needs work. He lifted the seat with his shoe. Ugh. And some bleach. Candy ass. A voice grumbled. Ruben jumped, almost letting the stream go prematurely. His neighbor didn't say anything else, but the man's voice lingered, haunting him like an old ghost.

It was strange and guttural, but he knew it from somewhere. The lights sputtered, Ruben's bladder constricted, the automatic lights had been off when he came in. The stranger with the familiar voice, had been hiding in there. Ruben shook it off, he told himself it was just a bum looking for a warm place to sleep. The lights flickered again, and he looked up at them. Ruben's eyes widened, the lights weren't flickering at all. They were covered with millions of sugar ants swarming around the tubes. He stumbled backwards through the door, plowing into the other occupant. His shirt clung to the man as he spun away.

He gawked, his mouth moved soundlessly. Ruben cleared his throat. That's... That's some fucking costume! Cracked, multicolored candy scales covered Jack's exposed flesh. The gaudy suit he'd been buried in was stained with expelled embalming fluid and grave dirt. Ants crawled between the candy plates, gnawing at sugary scabs. Jack glared at Ruben, with eyes hard and red-ringed like peppermint disks. He smiled, revealing a row of jagged, rotten teeth. Thanks, pal. He growled. Guess you could say Cleo made it for me. Candy Jack backhanded him. Ruben slid across the grimy floor and banged into the wall. Jack stood over him, his fingertips ripped as candy spikes grew in place of nails.

He stabbed them into Ruben's shoulders and lifted him to his knees. He glanced at the defecation spilling over the brim of the urinal. Would you look at that? Jack turned Ruben's face to see. Remind you of the peanut butter kisses, Rub? Time to get back to work. He slammed Ruben's face into the bowl of fecal matter. Ruben's legs flailed, his shoes squeaked for traction. Jack stabbed his claws into the man's side, forcing him to inhale more of the filth. Ruben fell still, and Jack stuck him again to make sure before letting him slump in a lifeless heap.

Candy Jack chuckled at the sight of him. Sorry, Rube. Jack slipped a licorice rope from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. That was a real shitty way to go. Kuto Basin was a town with a lot of history, and with history comes tradition. One of the oldest was vandalizing the Swinton home every Halloween since Carl Swinton tried banning the holiday back in 48. The Swintons continued passing the home on from one generation to the next, and likewise the town continued passing on the tradition. Karen Swinton chased four delinquents from her yard with a broom as they teepied her trees.

Hank chuckled as he drove by. Those four were the distraction. The main attack force swarmed from the bushes and egged the bejesus out of the porch. Hank belched. Beer, hot wings, and candy corn swirled in the confines of the car. He needed to reassess his diet. He lowered the window to get some breathable air. Down the road, he saw the 12-foot-tall inflatable skeleton waving in front of the library. Shelley had worked there since high school, finally becoming the director three years prior. On Halloween, she stayed late to read scary stories to the kids. Shelley never liked to drive, especially on the holidays.

Hank swung the car into the parking lot and moved his bowling ball to the back seat before putting in the book on tape Shelley had checked out for him. He didn't want to rush her, and the car still needed more time to air out anyhow. Panicked screams broke up the merriment. Cleo sprinted down the sidewalk. Tia was wiping away tears while two other kids were still fully engaged in the waterworks. Others clung to each other or the adults that had arrived at the scene first. A teenager in a bloodied clown costume laughed until he fell over and the prop knife clattered on the pavement.

His friend, garbed as a victim, chuckled but clearly realized the gag had gone too far as the adults gathered around to confront the children. Cleo grabbed the red nose and jerked the mask off the boy's head. What the hell is wrong with you? She shouted. They're just babies, you asshole. Unbunch your fucking panties, lady. The boy snatched the mask from her and stood up. It was just a joke. So was your birth. Cleo spun to check on her daughter. Fuck you, hypocrite, the clown started. Leave it alone. The other team grabbed his arm and tried dragging him away.

Suck it, Brian. The clown pulled free. How did you spend your Halloween last year? Cleo bit her lip. I made the kitties cry. I'm such a terrible person, Bozo mocked. At least I'm not a goddamn murderer. Cleo had a fistful of colorful polyester before anyone could stop her. Want to see how easy it was, you little prick? Mommy! Tia ran to her side, still sniffling. My bag's almost full. Can we go home? Cleo uncocked her fist and looked around. The other parents watched silently. Cleo pushed the clown into a hedge, then turned to the other teen.

It was just a joke, she said before taking Tia's hand and walking away. You'd think killing a sleazeball rapist like Jack Carson would make you a town hero, and it mostly had. But there were still others who were more content spreading bullshit theories to paint it differently. He deserved it. Truly Martin shuffled up beside them with her son Warwick in tow. The entire Bryson litter should have been dropped at the pound. Truly had been Tia's babysitter while Cleo worked evenings at the factory. The two had become good friends, but weren't nearly as close as their children had gotten.

During the weeks Cleo spent in the hospital, Truly had been the first to step up and take care of the little girl. The extra time at the Martin house had led Tia to declare Warwick her big brother. They'd even made official certificates that hung on each other's walls declaring them siblings for life. One day I'll be big enough to kick his butt, Warwick whispered loudly as he hugged Tia. You okay? Truly asked. Just ready to go home, Cleo said. It was a long day at the salon, lots of costumes needing special hairdos. Yours looks great, by the way.

It's a fitting costume, I think. Truly made a show of fluffing her bow-peep curls. Barely fitting, Cleo laughed. You're a half inch away from indecent exposure. I've got five, maybe six more Halloweens before me exposing myself becomes a trick instead of a treat. Truly pushed up her cleavage. I swear, girl, after 40, the women in my family go from MILF to Mildred. What's a MILF? Warwick asked. Hank jumped at the sudden shriek coming from the radio as the DJ came back on the air. He snickered at himself for being so jumpy. Hank glanced at the dash clock.

Shelley was taking forever getting the Halloween lights shut off. Their orange glow still sparkled through the frosted glass of the children's library. He looked back at the clock and crushed something on it with his thumb. He clicked on the dome light to examine the kill mashed onto the digit. A little black sugar ant. Another toppled out of the heater vent, letting the blast of air push it in a spin that landed it next to the gear shift. Hank ignored it. He always banged on the hood when the nights got cooler to make sure no stray cats were looking for a warm spot to sleep.

He'd never considered bugs might do the same. Hank got out of the car, but left it running for the six-legged hitchhiker. He walked up to the sidewalk in the dim illumination of the street lamps. The city spent a lot on the library, but never seemed to have enough left over to replace the bulbs in the parking lot. A long crack in the concrete caught his eye. He didn't remember it, and it was too damn big to have not been noticed. He knelt to inspect it. The crack moved away from his probing fingers. His eyes followed the long line of ants to the front door of the library.

Hank jerked up right. Shelly! He ran to the doors and jerked them open. Shelly, we need to go! Hank didn't know why the ants terrified him. He didn't have a problem with bugs in general. But ants were the puppies of the insect world as far as he was concerned. Yet, there he was in a full-blown, bowel-shaking terror over the critters. He darted through the library to the children's reading room. The wooden doors were ajar, halting him in his tracks. Shelly, where are you, honey? He stepped hesitantly into the room and got his answer. Her bulging, bloodshot eyes stared at him from a blue face.

Her tongue lulled from her mouth. The strand of orange lights blinked festively around her neck. Hank ran to her and tried to lift her up. She slipped in his arms and he saw the puncture wounds still oozing from her Victorian dress. Her ruffled sleeves ended at ragged stumps. You're gonna be all right, Hank said. I'm gonna get you down. You're gonna be all right, honey. That's a funny one. Jack stepped out of the shadows, clapping with Shelley's severed hands. Sorry for the terrible applause. Their second hand. Hank roared and charged. Candy Jack leapt away, letting him barrel into the drywall.

Jack discarded the appendages over his shoulders. Hank collected himself and attacked again. Jack ducked a haymaker and lashed out at Hank's belly. Intestines spilled at the man's feet. Jack backed away, chuckling. He wiggled his fingers to show his claws. Damn strange thing, isn't it? Jack sucked the viscera from one and moaned. They each have their own flavor even. Jack stabbed the talon under Hank's jaw until it came through his tongue. What's that taste like to you? He asked. Despair? Death? Blue raspberry? Your bitch fought harder than you. Hank swung his arms up and gripped Jack's throat.

I'm not finished yet. He forced himself to stand, letting his guts empty into a pile as he strangled the candy-coated killer. Hank charged forward. His boots slipped in his own insides, but he kept driving Jack back. He wanted Shelly to see when he popped the monster's head off. All his strength surged into his hands as they tightened. Candy scales cracked and sliced into his palms. Jack jerked his finger from Hank's chin and plunged the claws into his chest. The chokehold didn't release. Jack twisted his fist. Hank stumbled. His grip loosened. Jack tore Hank's beating heart from his rib cage.

Hank's hands slipped from Jack's neck as he fell. Haven't you heard, fat boy? Jack held up the organ. Carbs will kill you. The candy spilled from the pumpkin bucket onto the coffee table. It wasn't a great haul, not like the previous years, and Cleo felt bad about it. If she hadn't lost her shit on that punk, they'd have stayed out longer. Tia was excited nonetheless. All her favorites were in the mix, and even better, there was a pack of Dunkaroos. Those were Warwick's favorites, so she quickly set them aside to give him the next day at school.

She picked out a three-pack of Whoppers, dangling them by the paper. I'll trade you these if I can stay up late, she negotiated. You're already up late, Goober. Cleo leaned over and smudged the pink and purple camo on her daughter's cheeks. And you still need a bath. Go get washed up and you can stay up for one scary movie. Not too scary, though? Deal. Cleo snatched the malt balls and leaned back on the couch. Hurry up and make sure to wash your face really good. Tia scampered down the hall. Cleo tore the wrapper with her teeth and popped one of the candies into her mouth.

She rolled it around with her tongue. If Tia hadn't stopped her, she'd be spending the next few Halloweens in jail for assaulting a minor. She might have killed Jack a year before, but he was still chasing her. Every day, she dealt with him again. If the meds worked, maybe she didn't dream about him as often, but she still jumped whenever someone touched her. Still slept with the lights on, still kept a gun in her nightstand, still puked at the sight of a Carson bar. Every day, she faced Jack again, just like she had in the factory that night.

Only she hadn't faced him alone then. She went into the kitchen. The bathtub started running. That would give her time to do what she should have done months before. She took the phone from the wall and dialed Ruben's number. She hated that it was so easy for her to remember it. The line rang nine times before the answering machine picked up. She wasn't going to leave a message, but she didn't hang up either. Hearing his voice was strangely calming. When the machine beeped, she ended the call and returned the phone to the receiver. Of course, you're not home, shithead.

She muttered, or maybe I'm just a loser. It's the last Halloween of the millennium, and I'm home by nine thirty. Cleo stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Maybe he was home and saw her name on caller ID. He'd call her right back. It didn't ring. She reached for it to try again and pulled her hand away as if the phone were searing hot. He'd see she'd called twice. How would that look? Maybe he was too scared to try again, or maybe he'd moved on after years of getting the cold shoulder. He'd almost died saving her, and she sent him a get well soon card.

There was enough to process after what happened that she couldn't bring herself to explain it all to the man that broke her heart. Cleo went to the fridge and pulled a soda from the plastic rings. She paced the linoleum. The phone rang, and she sat the can on the table, sloshing some out in her rush to answer. Ruben? She asked. Eww, no, truly said. I know it's a rough night, but it's never take back an ex rough, girl. I just wanted to make sure you two got home safe. Yeah, true. We made it just fine.

Cleo let her head bang against the door jam. It is a rough night. You got no idea, Cleo. Truly said, keeping her voice low. What do you mean? There was a long pause before truly could bring herself to answer. Shelly Rudolph was murdered at the library. Her husband too. Dan just called from the station. It's bad. Like Manson family kind of bad. Hank? They killed Hank too? Cleo stiffened. Did Dan say anything else? No. Truly sighed. He just said it was terrible. Why don't you two come over here? It'd be better for you tonight anyhow.

Even if, I mean, even if this hadn't happened. I really don't want to be alone tonight either. Tia's in the bath right now. Cleo tried to control her breathing. She wanted to call Reuben even more. She needed to make sure he hadn't been with Hank. I'll call you in a bit. She hung up before truly could protest and went to sit at the dining table. She started dialing Reuben's number again when she spotted the aunt on the rim of her soda can. A few more lapped at the edges of spilled drops. Gross! Cleo took the can to the sink and poured it out.

She watched it going down the drain. Oh, look, it's like my sanity, she mumbled. She went down the hall to check on Tia. She could hear the child singing Free Your Mind through the bathroom door. She smiled and went to their rooms, turning on the lights in both before going to her bedside table for her 38th special Ruger. She set the revolver on the bed while she changed into her pajamas. Her gym bag caught her eye. Dan was one of Couto Basin's seven detectives, truly would be alone all night and probably into the morning with a murderer on the loose.

Cleo chewed her lip thoughtfully. She decided to try Ruben one more time before going over. Cleo went into the living room to get another whopper from the pack. She popped it into her mouth and immediately spat it out. Ants crawled out of the packaging, running across her fingertips. She threw the candy and slapped the bugs away. Great. Now I have ants to deal with. She glared at the package she'd tossed. That's not going to help matters. Cleo went and picked up the candy. As she stood, she saw the chain lock dangling. Her gaze drifted to the two deadbolts.

She'd forgotten to lock both of them for the first time since she had them installed. She corrected the mistake, clicking each into place and then securing the chain too. She stormed into the kitchen, dropping the last malt ball in the trash bin. Good idea. Jack decked her across the jaw as she turned. Sugar will give you toothaches. Cleo propped herself against the countertop. How? What? No, I don't quite understand it either, Candy Jack spun in place. But here I am, looking sweeter than ever. He sprang across the room, pinning her between him and the Formica.

He spread his fingers in the air, letting the light shimmer inside the translucent talons. He dragged their points along Cleo's cheek before settling his hand on her throat. He gave a squeeze. Cleo tried to scream, but he tightened his grasp, turning it into a squeak. I'm going to give you the sugar-frosted fuck of your life, little treat. He licked the scar on her chin, leaving a sticky trail over the raised flesh. Don't worry, I'll pull out. Don't want any sour patch kids running around. Could you imagine that? Think they'd look like their daddy? Jack clicked his claws against the candy scales of his face.

He ground against her thigh. Cleo brought her knee into his groin. Jack staggered back, clutching himself. Right in the milk duds, he groaned. Cleo wrenched the carving knife from the wooden block. She slashed repeatedly in an X pattern. Candy chips flew from bloodless wounds on his face. Jack brought his arms up and the knife sliced through the bright orange sleeves of his jacket. The blade clinked against the scales underneath. She thrust under his guard. The knife flexed and skittered off his chest. Jack's forearm slammed into her face. You can't stop me, Cleo. I've been snorting pixie sticks and chugging surge since I crawled out of that grave you put me in.

He tore open his shirt, revealing a torso covered in thick scales and wrinkled scar tissue between where his flesh had burned in the mixing vat. I'm an armor-plated, high-calorie, supernatural killing machine, baby. Now give me some sugar. He lunged forward and Cleo dived under his arms, rolling across the floor to safety. Spiked maltodextrin missiles splintered the door frame. Cleo screamed and grasped the one that had gone through her shoulder, pinning her to the jam. Jack looked quizzically at his fingers as new talons grew in place of the old ones. I didn't even know I could do that!

He smiled malevolently. Cleo pulled herself off the spear and crawled into the living room. You know running doesn't work, Cleo, and no one's coming to save you this time. I've made sure of that. Candy Jack stalked her down the hallway. He paused by the bathroom door and listened to the child singing. He dragged a claw down the wood, tearing a deep furrow. It isn't Halloween if the kitties don't get some candy, he hissed. Leave her alone! For now, Jack agreed, if you satisfy my sweet tooth. Blood spurted from the wound as Cleo pressed herself up from the floor.

She fell against the bedroom door and toppled through it. Jack threw himself onto her before she could recover. Don't get up, that's my job, and as you can tell, I'm very hard at work. He pressed his hips against her ass. Ironic, isn't it? You're about to give the candy your cavities. Jack twisted Cleo's hair around his hand and dragged her up to bend her over the bed. Mommy? Tia came around the doorway. Get away from my mommy! Run, Tia! Cleo shouted, but it was too late. The child charged into the room and beat her fists on Jack's back.

Wait your turn. He swung around, slashing her across the abdomen. I'll unwrap you next. Jack lifted Tia by the jaw and slammed her onto the bed. He jerked his head around to see the revolver bounce up from the mattress. Cleo jerked away, leaving a fistful of hair in Jack's sticky fingers. She stretched out her hand for the falling pistol. Jack pounced on her as she hit the floor. The blue steel broke his teeth and the barrel punched into his palate. Suck on it, Jack! Cleo thumbed back the hammer. The taste grows on you. The back of Jack's head came apart like a busted piñata.

An iridescent slime dripped down the wall and confectionary shrapnel scattered all over the floor. Jack slumped over. Tia crawled across the bed, hugging her mom's side. Cleo scraped up a handful of brain matter. Smarties. She dumped them onto Jack's corpse. Of course they are. Was he a monster? The child whispered. Always, Cleo answered. The scales on Jack's chest began to move. Some ground noisily against one another. Others fractured. Cleo aimed at his heart, preparing to fire again. The ants scuttled around the seams where the flesh met candy plating. Scar tissue pulsed, then erupted with black lava across Jack's body.

Cleo gasped and jumped back. She picked Tia up, keeping the weapon aimed at Jack. The corpse disappeared beneath the insects. Cleo backed them out of the room, unable to keep her eyes off the buffet. The body was already breaking down and collapsing in on itself. Cleo stuffed the revolver into her waistband. There wouldn't be anything left when they were finished. She closed the door so the ants could dine in peace. Candy Jack wouldn't come back again. Modern Tastes by David O'Hanlon, prologue. You gotta be hungry. Les Brown. It was the second week of October. Which meant it was 78 degrees following snow two days prior.

The further you got into the year, the more of a bipolar bitch Mother Nature became in Arkansas. Joel Francheret wasn't about to let the good weather go to waste. His afternoon runs were his reward for eight hours sitting behind a desk at the Alex Murphy Technical Institute. He always started with a lap around the paved path that encircled the campus to warm up his legs. AMTI understood the toll office work could take on the body, and the track was just one of the ways they offered to get their employees up and moving. When Joel had made the decision to do something about his weight, he could barely walk around it once without getting winded.

That fact made him smile now. After his warm up, he took the rugged one-mile trail through the woods to Cady Park, where he ran around the duck pond before heading back. He decided to take an extra lap since he'd cut one earlier in the week on account of the snow. At a quarter till seven, he was completely spent and decided to call it a night. Halloween was his wife's favorite holiday, and he wanted to surprise her the next day. He'd taken vacation without telling her. When she got off work tomorrow, he'd have everything out of the garage and the place fully decorated.

Everything except the yard, of course. Doing that together had been their tradition since they got their first shitty apartment together back in college. The only thing they had to decorate was a six-foot stretch of patio back then, but they always made the most of it. He was more of a Christmas guy, but he loved watching Cora's face light up like one of her plastic jack-o-lanterns every spooky season. The wooded path was soggy from the snowmelt, and the mud squished around his New Balance sneakers spattering up his bare calves. Looking at the muck clinging to his leg hair made him smile.

Two years before, he hadn't even been able to see his shins. His shoes were a mess, but they were due for replacement anyhow. He'd get a new pair when he took Cora out for the weekend. He glanced down at his feet once more, feeling extra proud of himself. If he'd been looking up instead, he might have noticed the figure crouching in the trees overhead. Chapter 1 There is no sincerer love than the love of food, George Bernard Shaw. Troy Bannister racked the barbell on the seventh rep with a frustrated groan. He could have gotten two or three more.

He sat up on the bench debating logging the effort in his app. It was his third shitty set of the session. The 225 had given him a nice pump, but PRs took more than great packs. They required heart, and his was currently stuck in his throat. He'd told a co-worker he liked her via text the night before. He wasn't sure which part of that had been stupider. Talita had read it, but never responded. He'd seen the little bubbles pop up as she typed a response that never came through. That couldn't possibly be good. They worked together three nights a week at Brown's supermarket, and he should have timed his revelation during that window.

Instead, Troy decided to speak up on his day off. Now, he was stuck with the stomach-curdling unease, while he waited for her to text him a rejection. What if she doesn't text me anything, he thought? Wouldn't that be way worse? Walking into the store tomorrow without a clue what to expect? Troy glanced at the mirror. He might have been an unlovable loser, but he had to admit that his triceps looked great. He flexed and tried to think about the progress he'd made. He'd taken up weightlifting four years ago, when his last relationship fell apart. He'd never been out of shape, more like he just didn't have one.

He always wanted to look like a comic book hero, but had never attained a build greater than the stick figure drawings he used to doodle in his school books. Talita was the first woman he'd taken an interest in, since he found out the truth about Ashley. He should have kept his streak going. Between the stress and the pre-workout, Troy wasn't sure he could do another heavy set without vomiting. If he'd embarrassed himself with Talita, he could always find another job. Finding another gym was out of the question. They had a pullover machine, after all. That was rarer than true love.

He wiped down the bench, taking a mental inventory of all the exercises he knew. He knew how to grow everything, except his balls, or else he would have told Talita how he felt in person, instead of via text. In another year or two, he wouldn't have that problem. He was in great shape, but he wasn't in the kind of shape where people ignore your shortcomings. Yet, if his chest was a little wider, his abs a little thicker, and his arms a bit more vascular, then he'd have no problem saying things like, I really like you, without feeling stupid.

Because you can be stupid when you have the body to make up for it. Troy went to the dumbbell rack and ripped a 45 to his shoulder. Overhead extensions always made him feel better. Every gym rat knew the exercise was the pump-inducing penicillin to cure every ailment. He banged out a fast set of 12 with his body angled to the mirror so he could watch the lateral head flex with each repetition. He let the weight sit on his shoulder while he took a short rest. The overhead extension isn't about lifting the weight. It's about lifting your goddamn spirits.

He took deep breaths to bring his heart rate down a little. He hated resting, but it was a necessary part of the process. He looked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the front of the gym. The bank of treadmills was lined up parallel to them so the runners could look at the outside world that they could have ran in for free. Troy didn't understand the idea of running inside or running in general, but there were worse things to block the windows with. Between two jiggling asses, Troy watched a woman hanging a poster on one of the light poles.

She was too far away to be certain, but she looked upset. She showed one of the posters to a passer-by who shook his head, and she seemed to deflate a little more. Must have lost her dog, he told himself as he pressed the dumbbell overhead. She's way too pretty to be a cat lady. Cora Franchere wanted to throw the flyers. Maybe dump them from an airplane or off the overpass. People actually cared about littering. But not so much about. Missing Husbands. It had only been one night, so the police weren't exactly all ears to begin with.

Then they asked for a photo of Joel and busted the whole case wide open. Joel had lost so much weight since they both went on the Mediterranean diet and he started running. Cora had given them a picture from their recent trip to the Gulf Shores. Joel's old high school musculature was showing despite some stubborn near-forty fat that hadn't come off yet. They looked over the picture carefully before turning their attention to the disheveled housewife in the oversized tee and leggings that had provided it to them. Cora wished she had picked a photo without her in it as well.

Joel looked like a more mature version of his younger self. She looked frumpy. She was sure the detectives were noticing the modest one piece she'd picked to hide the bra fat or the sarong to cover her hip dips. Maybe they were noticing the migratory pattern of her tits heading south for the winter of her life. She definitely wished she'd given them a different photo. The detectives were careful not to say it outright, but the implication was plain in the way they told her not to worry. He'll be home soon, was cop talk, for he'd ran off with someone hotter than Cora.

She knew that wasn't Joel. The man ate the same lunch every day, watched Guardians of the Galaxy at least once a month, and hadn't updated his musical tastes since 2002. If he liked something, that was the only thing he wanted. He liked Cora since they were 14. But, Binging True Crime Shows had taught her, it doesn't matter what you know. It only matters what you can prove. Cora became suddenly self-aware of the way the shirt had found its way into the folds of her belly. She knew Joel wouldn't cheat, let alone run away with some other woman.

The evidence said, why the fuck not? Cora compartmentalized it all the best she could. What she believed about herself went in one tidy, snap-tight storage container. What she knew about Joel went in another. There was no way he just ran off. She was sure something had happened to him. She went to AMTI straight from the police station and found his Hyundai parked in its usual spot. His work clothes were folded neatly in the passenger seat. He'd clearly gone for his after work run and was still wearing those items. That was proof enough. You don't put on nylon shorts and a faded warp tour cutoff to meet some bimbo.

He always wore his fat people shirts when he ran. He said feeling how loose they fit helped him keep motivated when his legs were burning and he wanted to quit. Maybe that was why he grabbed one of the XXLs from his side of the closet that morning. Self-doubt and the opinions of the police might have hurt, but there were still miles to go. She sniffed the shirt, thinking about the last time he'd worn it. He'd finished his laps in record time. He was so excited as he peeled it away for his shower. Cora had watched the sweat falling from his chest hair and trailing down to the edge of his shorts.

He'd noticed her watching. He told her how much he had missed giving her a reason to look at him that way, and they'd made love for hours. She was drifting further from her college peak, but Joel had never minded. He reassured her daily that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Fuck, it's true, she pouted as she cut through the woods. He's been lying to me about being beautiful for years. If he can do that, he can cheat. That bastard. Cora balled the hem of the shirt in her fists and shook her head, trying to clear away the negativity.

Maybe Joel wasn't a liar. Maybe he was just stupid and didn't realize she was hideous. That would explain why he thought she was hot and why he wouldn't leave her. Her poor idiotic husband was out there somewhere and she needed to rescue him. She hugged herself, feeling the material of his shirt and wishing he was inside it. She couldn't quit looking for him. Cora went to the pond and sat down on the bank, picturing Joel running his laps the night before. There wasn't much crime in the city. The parks were safe even after dark. She thought about the documentaries and true crime shows, looking for any scenario that might explain his disappearance.

Nothing added up. There were no gangs in town. There hadn't been any indications of a serial killer. He didn't fit the profile to be sex trafficked, though they'd be missing out in Cora's opinion. He was in good health, but there were much younger and easier to catch options to harvest organs from. He clearly wouldn't have been worth robbing in his running attire. She'd followed his path exactly, so he couldn't have simply fallen or had an accident. No scenario fit the situation. She eyed the parking lot across the way, wondering again if it were possible he ran away with someone else.

Someone could have been waiting with extra clothes for their getaway, a skinny homewrecker with big perky tips and a dump truck ass to keep her from tipping over. She's probably tall too. Cora hated this imaginary bitch. One of the ducks floated along lazily, snatching up soggy pieces of bread, drifting on the surface. Cora held up the flyer. Have you seen Daffy? She sniffed. The duck didn't respond, so at least she hadn't gone. Completely crazy. A piece of trash drifted into the animal's path, and it quickly paddled around it. Cora groaned. Most people didn't give a shit about litter either.

She grabbed a rock to pin the flyers down, and went to the edge. There were a pair of crossed branches laying on the ground. Discarded lightsabers or swords from a kids' game, she assumed. As the litter drifted closer, Cora could see it was a shoe. She used one of the branches to swat it closer to her. Gravel and mud caked the sole, but the worn outer edge reminded her of Joel. He always turned his feet out when he walked, leaving the same angle on all his footwear. She swung the branch again, splashing water into her face.

The sneaker warbled from the near mess. The logo bobbled into view for the longest second of Cora's life. She hooked the branch on the shoe to pull it in. It was the same brand as Joel's. She was sure of it. It slipped free, and she hurriedly batted it for another pool. The shoe capsized, revealing the stump of the ankle. Cora collapsed into the water. Chapter 2 Man Shall Not Live By Bread Alone, Matthew 4-4 Emile's Brotein Bar was never crowded. In fact, his partial ownership of the Hot Bod Health Club was the only thing keeping him afloat.

That wasn't the case as the police cordoned off Katie Park. Every Jimbrow and Cardio Karen had spilled in from next door, eager to spend the nine bucks Emile charged for a mediocre protein smoothie made with best buy yesterday milk or one of his special brownies that were nothing but Betty Crocker box mixes cut with the cheapest chocolate whey concentrate he could buy. For the first time in seven years, he'd sold out of the nasty confectionaries. Emile went to the cooling rack to see if the next batch was ready to go in the case and deemed with entrepreneurial pride over his latest creation.

Each brownie was slathered with cottage cheese frosting he'd found on TikTok and had a face made of candy corn. He set out the handwritten sign, put the pump back in pumpkin with the jacked O'Lantern brownie. If you didn't know Emile was a marketing genius, all you had to do was ask him. Troy hopped onto his stool at the bar. He was Emile's only regular, so it wasn't like there was ever any argument over who got to sit there. But today, it was the only seat in the house. Emile reached over the counter and slapped him on the dealt.

You see that? That's what loyalty gets you in my place, bro. He said. I saved your spot for you. It about got tooth and nail for a bit, though. I mean, look at this fucking place. Can you believe this, Troy? I'm packed, my guy. Want your usual? Sure, Troy answered half-heartedly. Don't try too hard to convince me or nothing, Emile said, taking a moment to check his reflection in the Baked Goods case. What's up? You shit yourself going for a PR? It happens, bro. Hell, I stripped my drawers twice last week. On that goddamn leg press.

I didn't even come close to a PR, Troy answered. It's Thursday, right? Sure is. Push day, then. Emil thought about it. You get stuck under the bar? Forget to move the pin to the bottom of the stack? Punch your dick doing pushups? None of the above, Troy sighed. It's all good, man. Just the usual will be fine. Bro, you look like a puppy at a Korean barbecue. Emil spoke as he added ingredients to the blender. You see that baddie by the window? She could play Candy Crush with those nips. I've seen her do it on the stationary bike, too.

You're fixin to down a Swole Berry smoothie made by my loving hands and with fresh milk, I might fucking add. It's your day off and tomorrow is pull day, my guy. You should be smiling right now. Maybe you're right. Troy turned his phone over in his hands, resisting the urge to check the text again. Guess I'm thinking too small is all. Thinking? That shit's for nerds that don't lift. Emile's face soured. Oh, fuck, bro. It's a girl, isn't it? Bro, chicks are like high fructose corn syrup. They make everything sweeter, but the whole fucking time, they're making you fat and killing you.

It isn't someone from the gym, I hope. Those contracts are binding. I can't let you out of it just because you hit a double bicep like a fucking noob, and now shit's awkward. No, Troy groaned. No one from the gym. Thank God for that. Emile started the blender and leaned over the counter. Troy, what you are experiencing is the pussy paradox, bro. Get your heart broken and you can squat a Honda for reps. Then some new chick comes along and gives you the W-Y-D, and the only thing you're lifting is your goddamn phone to send her TikToks, hashtag us, with a fucking kissy face emoji.

I haven't even gotten a text back. Troy set the phone on the counter, and we worked together. Shit, that's an easy fix. Royd Rage Oprah assured him, just quit your job, bro. Troy stared out the window while Emile poured his smoothie, and topped it with a sprinkle of nerds candy for a quick carb reload. Everyone was crowded around the windows, so he could only get glimpses of what was going on. The police had the entire park cordoned off. Several people meandered behind the yellow tape in CSI branded jackets. There was definitely some heavy shit going on.

Troy logged the smoothie into his fitness app, and scowled at his calorie total. Thinking about Talita had killed his appetite. He was 60 grams of protein shy for the day already, and he was on a diet, and he was on a diet. He needed to focus on what mattered, but his eyes lingered on the text app. Troy glanced back to the park, wondering where he should put in his first job application. A woman was sitting at one of the pavilions, wrapped in a blanket, and talking to a pair of detectives. She was completely drenched, so he couldn't be sure.

But she sure looked like the woman that had been passing out flyers earlier. Emil sat the smoothie down next to him. When Troy looked back, someone was blocking his view. He craned his neck to see around them, but it was pointless. Troy sucked at the straw, hoping the woman's dog was all right. The police presence at the park had been hot news for the day. At lunch, everyone had lingered around the job site, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on. Rumor had it the cops had found chopped off hands and feet in the duck pond.

You'd think an axe murderer on the loose would mean an early day, but they were already three weeks behind schedule on the park expansion, and the foreman wasn't having it. Preston Rich didn't mind the overtime. With winter on the horizon, things would be slowing down for him. Unlike his bowels, he checked his watch and groaned. You gotta be kidding me. He'd been off the clock almost forty minutes, and was still stuck in the damn porta-potty. Instead of hitting the usual fast food joints, the crew grabbed their grub from a questionable food truck called Terra Fryer, while they rubbernecked around the police cordon.

Preston should have known something was up by how little he spent on the meal. Not every price is paid in cash. That clown must have been buying his cooking oil from AutoZone. The free-range organic chicken had probably been pigeon meat, too. The next sphincter-scorching fart came with only a sputtering of semi-solid slop, and Preston prayed that that meant his guts were empty, or had come out entirely. He wasn't particular which one, just as long as this ordeal was over. The tiny overhead vent hadn't been built for a shit like that. Preston swore the odor had become corporeal.

He could feel it clinging thickly to the insides of his nostrils, and moving down the back of his throat. Preston reached for the toilet paper. He eyed the partial roll of one ply with growing suspicion. A power washer might be more appropriate. He grimaced at the first wipe. It definitely wouldn't be any more painful. He managed to finish the task with four squares left over that he tore off and used to dab the sweat from his forehead. He pulled up his jeans, tightening the belt a notch further than before. That can't be healthy, Preston poked at his stomach.

It churned hard in response. No, no, no, I'm sorry. Let's just be cool. He stepped out of the porta potty and looked up at the darkening sky. Halfway to his truck, he spotted the figure lurking around the tailgate. There weren't any other vehicles still on the yard. Hey, he shouted. What are you doing? The man sprinted away from the truck towards the pyramid of concrete tubes that would connect the existing pond to the new one. Preston watched the man climb up the pipes with a strange animal-like agility and disappeared inside of one. Whoa, that was actually pretty cool.

Preston had seen homeless folks panhandling around the park and wasn't about to roust someone looking for a place to sleep. Hey, are you okay? I wasn't trying to scare you or anything. Preston took out his phone and turned on the flashlight. He made his way to the culvert pipes, shining the light around to make sure he didn't trip over anything. Tracks in the mud slowed his progress. They were shallow and barefooted. Preston felt even worse for startling him. He dug into his pocket for his lunch change, pulling out a ten and assorted coins. Hey, man, come on out, Preston said.

You're gonna get tetanus running around barefoot like that. It's cool if you want to sleep here, but I want you to take this money and get you some shoes in the morning. No one came out. Pal, you still up there? Preston looked around the side of the pyramid, thinking the homeless man might have crawled out the other side and ran off. Tell you what, I'm going to put the money down right here. Second row, middle tube. You come down and get it when you want, all right? I'm going to go now. You have a good night.

Preston set the money inside the pipe and checked his other pockets for anything else he might have had on him. He came up with nothing. Something scraped inside the pipe and Preston raised the light slowly to the edge. Not wanting to shine it in the man's face, if he'd come down the back of the stack. Is that you, man? When he didn't get an answer, he shined the light fully into the tube. The man scrambled towards him on all fours. Preston stumbled away. The disheveled man sprang from the tube, landing in a crouch and sitting back on his haunches.

His long matted hair hung wildly around his dirty bearded face. Preston put a hand to his chest and tried to catch his breath. Fuck! He laughed nervously. It's a good thing I don't got any shit left in me, man. The man cocked his head from side to side and sniffed at the air like a frightened dog trying to assess the stranger in its yard. The man scratched at his beard. If you're still around tomorrow, I'll get you some food. Sound cool? Preston asked. The man reached behind him, drawing a stone hatchet from the small of his back.

Preston patted the air. Hey, it's all good, he said softly. I'm sorry if I scared you. I think we're about even on that one now, though. Tell you what, why wait till tomorrow? There's a McDonald's down the street. What do you say? You want to get a bite to eat? The man's dirty face stretched into a wide, toothy smile. Chapter 3. We all eat, and it would be a sad waste of opportunity to eat badly. Anna Thomas. It was pull day. What kind of loser is sad on fucking pull day? Troy ran his tongue over his teeth, clearing away undissolved granules of pre-workout.

Despite the 400 milligrams of caffeine, four grams of beta-alanine, and the proprietary blend of who gives a shit that turned veins into garden hoses, Troy felt as energized as an Amish vibrator. Pull days were the best days. Back, buys, and traps. He should have been ecstatic. At the very least, he should have been hyped up enough to fake it. Instead, it felt like ants were building a hive under his skin, and he needed to piss for the seventh time since leaving his apartment. He didn't want to lift weights, not even T-bar rows. He wanted to text Talita and tell her it was a joke or a drunken mistake or whatever the hell he needed to say so that their shift that evening wouldn't be completely humiliating.

I could drop a weight on myself, he thought. That would get me out of work for a couple of days. No, that's too short term. Maybe I can get stuck in the tanning bed. Why die like a man when you can die like a hot pocket? I wonder if she'll be at my funeral. I wonder if anyone will be. Probably just a meal to make sure it's true before he closes my membership. Troy walked around to the front of the gym, thinking of the best ways he could injure himself. He'd ran every scenario he could think of, trying to come up with a positive reason Toledo hadn't responded to him.

After that 45 seconds went by, he spent the rest of the day focusing on the horrible reasons she hadn't. What were the odds she hadn't noticed any of his flaws? She was probably just nice to him out of sympathy. He'd put in an application at his favorite pizza place just to be safe. He stopped at the front door and looked across the street at the park. It was all over social media. They'd found more body parts in the pond. He'd scrolled through some news on it. Apparently, there'd been a lot of missing pets reported throughout the county, too, and one article even mentioned similar crimes throughout the Appalachians.

Over the past decade, the cops were refusing to say there was a crime at all, like a bunch of people just up and decided to start some DIY amputee club. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. No one wanted to play at the murder park after all. A woman stood at the trunk of one of the vehicles, taking inventory on a backpack. Troy squinted at the familiar figure, and sighed. That's a bad idea, lady, Troy said, recognizing her. Let the dog catcher find your mutt. He turned to enter the gym. The pre-workout wasn't the only thing nauseating him, and it wasn't the Toledo situation either.

Before protein intakes and progressive overloads, Troy had loved helping people. He wanted to make everyone's day better, and to be someone people could depend on. Traits his bitch ex-girlfriend had manipulated for her own means. Hell, if he was being honest, so had everyone else. His family, bosses, friends. Troy liked feeling useful so much that he'd spent years as everyone's doormat. Ashley had simply been the final straw. He hadn't done anything for anyone since then, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it until he saw the woman at the park. Troy shouldered his gym bag and jogged across the street to the park.

Looking for a lost dog was a pretty damn good reason to miss work, too. The woman shut the trunk right as he caught up. She whipped around quickly at the sound of his plodding run, Troy waved, then rested his hands on his knees. He let his duffel slide off his arm to the asphalt. Hey, hold up, he wheezed. Give me a second. I need to catch my breath. Yeah, well, I hope the breathing thing works out for you. The lady moved her hand to the pocket of her Crystal Lake hoodie. But I got things to do.

Not alone, Troy managed to say. You trying to get pepper sprayed? I saw you yesterday with the flyers. So what? I want to help, he said, straightening up. I've really got to start doing my cardio. Looks like there's probably a serial killer on the loose. No shit knives out. You piece that mystery together all on your own? Do you think you could let the oxygen get to my brain before you bust my balls? I'm trying to help. Troy waved a hand at the woods. You shouldn't be out there looking for your dog by yourself. My dog?

Her shoulders relaxed, and she snorted. Thanks, Chad, or Hunter, or whatever. I'm not looking for a dog. Then what was your flyer for? My husband, she snapped. I was looking for my husband. Well, you shouldn't be looking for him alone either, he shot back. My name is Troy, by the way. Still a himbo name, Troy. I already found my husband, though. She nodded to the drained pond. Parts of him, anyhow. Jesus, fuck, um, I'm really, I'm really sorry, Troy Stammered. That's fucked. Seriously. But what are you doing out here? If you're not looking for him, I'm looking for his killer.

The construction workers' terrace major had been cut into thick medallions that seared on the battered cast iron skillet over the fire pit. His legs had been butchered into osso buco that marinated in a salvaged stockpot. It had been a good week for groceries. A pair of roasts he cut from the runner were smoking low and slow outside the shack. It was still too warm to keep much meat at hand, and the caves were a full day's hike, so Zachary had been sharing his kills. The bums at the camp never bothered asking where the barbecue came from, nor did they have any complaints about the quality.

Zachary prided himself on that. Every animal had different grades of meat, and he'd learned to be choosy with his prey, no matter where he hunted. Runners were great for ribeye and filet mignon. Bodybuilders were best for short ribs and tartar during their bulking season and carne asada later in their cut. Tennis players provided the best sirloins and cyclists were perfect for stews and roasts. If you wanted a mouthwatering brisket, however, you needed to find yourself a laborer. Bricklayers were preferable over landscapers, but carpenters always have the best marbling. He carefully removed the stakes from the skillet.

He'd let them sit for 10 minutes, so the juices could redistribute through the tissue. Zachary had chosen to pair the stakes with roasted asparagus spears. He transferred those to the plate next to the Petite Filet. He'd gathered two duck eggs from the park and had plenty of potatoes growing nearby. At breakfast, they'd be perfect accompaniments for the flank steaks he'd cut from the runner's abdomen. He was going to need a solid meal for the day's work. He'd been packing his favorite cuts into coolers he'd scrounged at the dump. With the police finding the inedible parts he'd tossed in the pond, it was time to move along.

He needed a couple more kills first. That would get him through the winter. The caves interwoven beneath the county were as good as any appliance he'd seen before his awakening, and the meat would hold for months in the deepest of them. Zachary thought about his old life and wondered what grade he'd have given himself then. The coke, the CrossFit classes, the alcohol, the frivolous sexual encounters, and the stress. So much goddamn stress. He probably couldn't have even gotten decent burgers out of his former self. He'd been making six figures a year, seven with a good bonus, when he had his mishap.

He sampled the asparagus. It was crisp with a nice zing from the lemon juice. After the asylum, he'd been released to a halfway house for continued monitoring. It was there he'd seen Queen for Fire. If they'd watched any other film, perhaps he wouldn't have ever woken up. Maybe he'd even have gotten better and picked up where he left off. He'd probably have blown his brains out or jumped from his office window by now. But the movie showed him the true meaning of life, and for almost 20 years, Zachary had lived harmoniously off what was provided for him, migrating and thriving in the natural way.

He cut a morsel from the steak and chewed it thoughtfully. He'd forsaken the modern world to live as a savage, but one thing was certain, civilization had great taste. Cora had led the way along the paved trail that lapped the perimeter of Katy Park. The meathead had tagged along even after she told him her plan. She wasn't sure if he was an adrenaline junkie or just a dumbass, but she felt strangely comfortable around the walking lunk alarm. Cora rambled off a list of things she remembered from true crime documentaries and podcasts. Drag marks, footprints, blood trails, litter, things that might give them a clue of where the killer had come from or gone to afterwards.

Troy looked around dutifully. At first, Cora thought he was just playing along, hoping it would satisfy her curiosity so that she'd go home and he could go back to bench lifting or whatever it was called. She watched him crouch at the edge of the woodland trail that went to Joel's workplace. What is it? She asked. The snow made this trail muddy as hell, so there's still good tracks, Troy said. It goes to the geekdom, so there's not many sets. Those are definitely running shoes. The geekdom? The kingdom of geeks, he explained. That's what the bros call AMTI.

The top eight floors come over the trees and look down on the gym like a nerd castle. They sponsored the park's overhaul a few years ago. It's some kind of R&D company that makes... Oh shit! What? What is it? One of the things they make is prosthetics, he said excitedly. There was a big article on it last year because they were looking for amputees to test this new robot leg they'd invented. What if one of the Poindexters is hacking people's limbs off so they have new guinea pigs? Cora started to say something but snorted instead.

Something hit her gut like a soft punch. It happened again, and this time she chuckled. It seemed so inappropriate that it caught her off guard. She broke into laughter before she could stop herself. It felt great, and a moment later, that made her feel terrible. What is wrong with me? She asked herself. What kind of sick, crazy bitch would be laughing a day after her husband is murdered? It was just a theory, Troy winced. I mean, serial killers are geniuses. That broke her from her internal self-flagellation. She might have been deranged for letting herself have a moment of levity, but she knew her shit when it came to serial killers.

She collected herself and shook her head. Actually, most of them are below average IQ, Cora said. They are clever or methodical, but not intelligent. What about Hannibal Lecter? That's like saying ducks can talk because of Daffy. Cora stared at him incredulously. He's a fictional character, Troy. I knew that, Troy shrugged. There could be a smart one, though. Joel worked for ATMI. She patted him on the back, feeling bad for how quickly she'd crushed his theory. It would be a great paperback, but I doubt they're snatching people to make them into cyborgs. Either way, those tracks are from running shoes.

If your husband worked there, then maybe he got grabbed between here and the office. Troy pointed down the path. There's a slope to the path that creates a blind spot. No one from the park would be able to see if they were passing by. Okay, Cora paused, suddenly surprised by the jock. That's some pretty detailed observations. Yeah, Troy looked at the ground and scuffed at it with his sneaker. My old man worked for Game and Fish. I spent summers with him after the divorce. We'd have to find missing hikers sometimes, or help tag animals for studies.

I guess I still remember some of it. He's passed away? She asked, noting the melancholy in his voice. Um, something like that. The muscle head seemed much smaller after he said it. Cora waited to see if he would say anything else on the subject, but he started walking down the trail instead. He scanned the ground as he went, keeping his focus to the edges rather than the worn path. He sighed and turned. I had a lot of pre-workout and like a half gallon of water, he said. Thanks for sharing, I guess. Cora raised an eyebrow, then noticed the way he was moving his feet.

Oh, right. I'll turn around. Thank you. Troy darted off the path and found a wide enough tree to dip behind. Cora noted that he made sure to angle himself so he could still see her without revealing himself. She appreciated the consideration, but wished he'd gone a little further as his stream noisily assaulted the brush around the tree. Painting the image with Bob Ross clarity. He was apparently aware of how loud it was as well, and gave her an awkward, red-faced smile. Troy stared up at the trees and mouthed something. Cora looked away, feeling the urge to laugh yet again.

She doubted he'd help her find Joel's killer, but she was glad he'd come along. Hey, you need to see this, he shouted. I am certain that I don't. Not this, this. Troy was pointing to the top of the tree. He tucked himself away and rounded the trunk. See, right there. Cora followed his finger and nodded. Yep, I see those. They're really something. You don't see it, do you? Maybe if you told me what I was supposed to see. Look at that one. Troy turned her by her shoulders. Dude, you were just holding your dick, Cora groaned.

And yes, it's another tree. They all look the same. Wait, those don't look the same. Exactly, Troy's frame seemed to re-enlarge to its former size. The one I peed on has a bunch of branches sawed off. But not just that. Look closely at the trunk. Cora gasped when she finally saw it. Thinner branches, tied together with twine, were laid between two thick ones, creating a triangular platform tight against the tree. While she was processing it, Troy grabbed the lowest branch and pulled himself up. His ascent was clumsy, but eventually he made it to the structure.

Cora watched him step onto it, tentatively, even directly beneath the hide. And with Troy wearing brightly colored clothes, it was hard for her to see him. I can see the park, but just barely, he called down. And I can see the trailhead over there. But I can't see you. Cora walked backwards up the trail, keeping her eyes on Troy's position, and watching him slowly disappear completely. Something he said earlier crept back into her mind. No one would ever know you're up there. I'm a buck eighty, Troy swung down from the branches and dropped the last few feet with a curse.

Someone lighter could stay up there for hours. Getting up and down would be a lot easier, too. I think I dislocated my scrotum dropping like that. Even easier if they were barefoot, Cora pointed at Troy's sneakers, then to the mud. This is getting way weird, Troy had to admit. He found what looked like Joel's path. The runner's gate was noticeable and consistent until it wasn't. Cora saw it too. The stride turned into the zigzagging stumble of a drunken dancer, then stopped at a flattened, smeared patch. Troy followed the naked tracks over and knelt. The spots were hard to see among the displaced muck, but they were there and Cora started to cry.

That's blood, she whispered. That's his blood. We don't know that. Troy tried to reassure her. He pointed without looking up, but the barefoot guy took something that way. Cora scoured her eyes with her palms. The tracks led off the trail, through a patch of flattened grass. That's a drag mark, Troy said. The tracks are deeper at the ball, so he was pulling something pretty heavy. I think you should go back to the gym, Troy. Cora's voice was soft, but stern. I think we should both go to the cops, Troy protested. There's enough here to at least suggest there's a murderer out there.

And what if he cleans it up before we get back? You said it yourself. They're stupid. Maybe he won't think about it. And if that's not the only hiding spot he's got, Cora pointed into the woods. He could be watching us right now. He could bolt before the cops finish sucking the donut glaze off their fingers long enough to type up the report. Shit, Troy mumbled. Okay, yeah, you're right. So we follow the tracks and see where they go. We see anything fucked up though. And I'm throwing you over my shoulder and getting us the hell out of here.

Agreed. Cora tapped her fingers nervously on her thighs. Something was gnawing at her. But she couldn't place it. Oh, she gulped as it all became clear. That can't be it. But it is, isn't it? The deer stand, the drag marks, the feet and hands left behind. This isn't podcast bullshit. Jesus Christ, this shit doesn't happen. Not in real life. Hey, Troy snapped his fingers. What's eating you? About that. Remember what you said about Hannibal Lecter? Oh shit, Troy sighed. Chapter Four. One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. Virginia Woolf.

They'd been following the killer's trail through the woods. For a little over an hour. The terrain was rough and untraceable He said that he had. traveled, so they lost the tracks a few times along the way. Troy got a jolt of excitement every time he picked the trail back up. It felt good to help Cora. Even if there was a distinct possibility, they would be murdered. Then they had crossed a rocky valley and lost the tracks completely. Troy worked diligently to locate the next set, even though they had just met. He didn't want to let Cora down.

Her husband just died. No, fuck that. He was just eaten by a lunatic. Troy took a moment to watch Cora clamor onto a downed tree for a better view. She's out here like Rambo. Some kinds of strong aren't made in a gym. I didn't get a text back, and I'm a bad fucking Ben & Jerry's commercial. Weak sauce, bro. He hadn't thought about checking his phone since they linked up. When that finally occurred to him, he left the device in his pocket. Talita may have checked all the boxes for what he was looking for in a girlfriend, but that wasn't the same thing as actually being his girlfriend.

Failure is good for you. You take the muscle to failure to get gains, he reminded himself. There's more than one way to get there, too. Talita is basically perfect, like a heavy set of skull crushers. They'll blow your tries up, but so will pushdowns. So will dips. Maybe I don't need skull crushers right now. Maybe I need some cable kickbacks. There's a trail for a reason. A voice shouted, breaking Troy out of his anabolic epiphany. Cora sputtered her lips. They'd been walking a circle for at least 30 minutes, trying to figure out which way the killer had gone.

Troy glanced around, trying to spot the owner of the voice. The man bumbled through the foliage, swatting away at strands of spider silk in his path. What are you two doing out here? He asked. Hiking, Cora said, pulling on her backpack straps for emphasis. What are you doing out here? My job, the man stopped and indignantly put his hands on his hips. Obviously. His khaki shirt was meticulously pressed and smooth despite the buttons straining at their holes matching shorts dug into his chubby thighs and compression socks stretched from his Walmart hikers to his knees. An embroidered patch on his sleeve and small gold-plated badge identified him as part of the city's park services, but not exactly which part.

We're saved, Troy turned to Cora and winked. I'm so glad to see you, sir. I told her we needed a map, but you know how women are, especially the hot ones, am I right? You bet your keister, the man said with a nervous laugh. He shot a finger gun at Cora. Babes like her are always finding new ways to give me headaches, let me tell you, making dicks hard and life harder since the garden. I hear you, sir. Troy was sure he'd only ever seen a naked woman in HD. You ain't got to call me sir.

That's for regular folks, not a pair of alphas like us. Just call me Steve, he said as he indicated Troy's outfit. You trying to find the gym? I was headed there when I get off myself. Maybe I can give you some pointers. I'm benching 405 lately. Been trying to do more high rep work, you know. You doing about four plates? Yeah, for my warm up sets, Troy thought. He sighed. You nailed it, Steve. I think I've hit a plateau. These last few months have been a real grind. Hell, I'm off at five and we can meet up, do a little hanging and banging.

How's that sound, partner? That'd be awesome. Troy's years in retail were paying off. Say, my girl was told about some site out here. One of the chicks from her Zumba class said it's real remote and romantic if you catch my drift. Right, Steve nodded. Friday is arm day, but studs like us always got time for hip thrusts. Am I right or am I right? You know it, bro. Troy said, ignoring the sound of Cora gagging behind him. Think you might know where this spot is at? Well, let's see. Steve pulled off his cap and smoothed his thinning hair.

Someplace far from the park, but close enough to keep your energy up. I'd say you're looking for Javi's Mill. Used to be real popular back in the day, but not many people remember it now. That's got to be it. It's still a hell of a hike though. Good thing I skipped leg day again. On leg day, we train chest. Steve agreed. The men broke into a brosterous laughter over the age-old joke while Cora watched on helplessly. Troy slapped Steve on the shoulder. Steve squirmed a little. Troy had put a bit of sting on it because, charade or not, there are Jimbrow protocols to be maintained.

Steve tensed his muscles one notch shy of shitting himself and laughed again. He gave them directions to the mill and reminded Troy about their gym date that evening, before venturing back to his duties in the park proper. And they say bromance is dead, Cora groaned. We've lost Hannibal's trail, Troy reminded her. Steve's directions line up though. A hunter doesn't stay where he hunts so that he doesn't spook the animals. He'd need a place close by, but out of the way. That sounds like this mill. You really think he's hiding out in some lover's lane? What if some couple stumbled in?

Cannibal Door Dash, Troy shrugged. Like you said, these guys are clever, not smart. This is the best lead we've got. I say we head out, and if we don't see some clues along the way, we can try something else. Cora seemed to weigh the options that Troy didn't know they had. She nodded. Yeah, you're right. Let's go catch a killer. You didn't say anything about catching him. What, worried you might miss your date with Steve? Cora nudged him with her elbow. Maybe you can have a protein shake with two straws. Troy groaned. Fuck it. Let's go catch a killer.

Remember growing up playing the floor is lava? Billy Lean asked, holding the phone out on the selfie stick. Well, that's the center of the grocery store. Everything here will kill you. It's not a question of if, but when. Billy was a self-proclaimed fitness guru and the face of Leanville. He'd gained over 20 million followers by walking around grocery stores and shouting about food additives. He skirted around an elderly couple and grabbed a can of asparagus. You see this? Can veggies. Ha! More like cannot veggies, he told the camera. You've never seen a can growing out of the soil, have you?

That right there tells you that this is bad for you. Check out these ingredients. Asparagus, water and salt. It's a can of asparagus. Why isn't that the only ingredient? The answer is obvious, folks. Big Pharma! The water and salt are there to create an oxidizing reaction that draws out the heavy metals of the can. This is a can of cancer. That was the general gist of every single Leanville video. All 1420 of them. Pick it up, skim the label, say something that sounds sciency and repeat. The old couple grumbled their disapproval, and Billy framed his next shot to include them.

Case and point, Billy said in a low conspiratorial tone. These people are in their 50s, and just look at the state they're in. They look 70, and I'm going to show you why. Let's head over to the next aisle. He rounded the corner, passing up the pasta he normally shit-talked. With Halloween just around the corner, he'd be blasting carbs heavier than normal in the next few videos. He'd already shot some short clips that afternoon, lambasting Count Chocula and candy corn that he would edit into a bigger piece later. Billy picked up the box of hamburger helper and shook it loudly.

He smirked, then tisked. Those two middle-age geriatrics had three boxes of this stuff in their carts. Let's just ignore the carbs for a minute. You know, we all know, that the carbohydrate lie is just another weapon in the big pharma agenda. Carbs are the starting line in the race, and the finish line is diabetes, ADHD, and erectile dysfunction. I wish you could see this label. This three-cheese pasta contains less than 2% cheese. So what is the other 98%? Powdered milk, fake colors, seed oils, and soy. Boxed meal. More like boxed conspiracy. Ephemonizing ingredients, carcinogens, heavy metals.

They put silicone dioxide in it. That's plastic for crying out loud. It should be made by Mattel. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop filming in the store. Mike Walker said, coming down the other side of the aisle, with his bushy beard and tattooed ham-hawk forearms. Mike looked like a biker more than he did an assistant manager. You need consent from the customers and the staff. You mean I need to pay the appropriate bribe and help spread your disinformation? I mean if you don't get out of the store, I'm calling the cops.

Someone needs to. This whole store is a case of attempted murder. Billy rattled the box again and posed like a champion for his camera. And that's not even getting into what you're doing to our kids and the blatant soy poisoning of our sons. You are complicit in the neutralization of the male gender. This is my favorite flavor. Mike took the box of hamburger helper. The manager crossed his arms and drew back his broad shoulders with a grin. I look womanly to you? Billy's eyes zeroed in on the star spangled tattoo that read Made at Fort Benning.

He pulled the phone from the selfie stick with enough indignation to save face. But not enough to provoke Mike. He pointed the selfie stick at the manager and scoffed. You're lucky I don't have time to waste on someone like you, the fitfluencer said with false bravado. Enjoy your box of colon cancer. Billy stormed down the aisle and made a beeline for the front doors. He knew better than to film after dark. He tried to ignore laughter, as Mike shouted a, Thank you for visiting Brown's Supermarket, behind him. Major retailers were quick to throw people like Billy Lean out of their stores, so influencers targeted places like Brown's instead.

During the day, they might just get a stern talking to. Nightshift wasn't just a different breed, it was a fucking thunderdome. Even the prissy, aspartame-sweet cashier was filming his walk of shame and snickering. One of the stockboys threw a loaf of bread at him, square between the shoulder blades. Watch out, Billy! the pimple-faced teen shouted. The carbs are coming to get you! The bakery staff lobbed out-of-date muffins and rolls in his direction. The perpetually stoned produce associate batted himself with bags of edamame. Help me, Billy! The soy! It's taking my manhood! He cried. Hey, eat my ass!

It's all natural! Another employee shouted. As soon as he was outside, he snapped the phone back into the stick and took a moment to compose himself. He looked through the sliding glass doors and saw the elderly couple standing in the middle of the main aisle. Grandma chopped at her crotch in the international sign to suck it while her husband went with the classic one-finger salute. Billy turned away, raising the phone to record on the way back to his brand-adorned Cybertruck. As you can see, the grocery stores are 100% in on this, he said. They are a mercenary army for the pharmaceutical drug cartels.

After I stopped filming, I was physically assaulted for trying to educate you to the truth. Are you going to let places like this wage biological warfare on you and your family? If you're ready to fight back, just comment Primal on this video. I'll DM you the 17 tenants our ancient ancestors followed thousands of years ago that I follow today. He shut the video off. Once it was posted, he'd make his wife send out the DMs. Maybe if she typed fast enough, she'd lose some fucking weight. Billy averaged 2,000 Primal replies in the first 48 hours a new video was up.

Almost all of them would shell out the 99 cents for his ebook. About half would order one of his vitamin bundles, and about a dozen would pay the 300 bucks for a life consultation. He climbed into the truck feeling some of the confidence coming back as he tapped on the McDonald's app. He made sure to set the delivery far enough in advance that he'd have his truck out of sight when Uber Eats arrived. He'd have his wife answer the door. Marrying a model had been a huge boost to his career early on. But two years after popping out his second fuck trophy, she'd be lucky to get a job with Lane Bryant.

He couldn't look at her without wondering how much longer she was going to milk the whole childbearing thing before she got hot again. Billy added a ten-piece McNugget to his order. Our ancestors would have fucking loved McDonald's, he said, as he debated between sweet and sour or barbecue sauce. He'd almost made up his mind when a fetid, warm breath drifted through his open window. He turned to see the wide, yellow-toothed smile of the ragged bum outside his truck. The homeless man scratched at his matted hair, paused, and then inspected something between his fingertips. I don't have any change, Billy said.

Go bother someone else. The man didn't respond. He just sucked the captured louse from his fingers. Gross, fucking freak, get away. The man laughed in a guttural, raspy way that reminded Billy of apes at the zoo. Look, bulimic post Malone, I'm going to call the cops if you don't get the hell out of here. I'm not telling you again. The bum took a step back and untied the rope that held his pants up. Billy watched in shock as the man freed himself from the tattered sweats. The hot steam spattered against Billy's door. Are you out of your goddamn mind?

Billy screamed. This is a Tesla, not your fucking shopping cart. He waited until the man sheathed his pork sword before jumping out to confront him. His croc splashed in the piss puddle, drawing his eyes off the bum just long enough. The man jerked the rope free from his pants and wrapped it around Billy's neck, swinging him to the ground. The fitfluencer's eyes bulged, his tongue darted out of his mouth, along with the breath he never got to finish inhaling. He felt the man's knee dig in between his shoulders. Blood vessels burst around the ligature. He clawed trenches into his flesh trying to get his fingers under the rope.

His face smashed into the damp asphalt, his nostrils filled with the scent of copper and ammonia as his own blood mixed with the man's urine. Billy's hyoid bone snapped, his trachea cinched shut completely, and his gagging turned into a gurgling wheeze. His vision went black, but he could still feel the rope pulling tighter. Then he felt something rough and cold dragging across his throat. Javi's Mill had been the town's main source of income until the 1890s. When a copper vein had been discovered in The- That dried up in the 40s, and by then, the mill had become the premier spot.

Fornecking Teenagers and Adulterous Spouses. The Virgo Killer put a stop to those sorts of shenanigans in the summer of 63. During the 90s, a lustful nostalgia had brought it back into popularity. But the tech boom had created exponential growth in town. hotels, bars, and cybersex chat rooms soon replaced the need for secluded makeout destinations. Once again, the mill faded from memory, and for thirty years it had been left to nature. The stone foundations of the outlying buildings were overgrown with moss and sprouting weeds. The timber had rotted away half a century ago, leaving the rusted nails and hinges sprinkled about the grounds with other artifacts of the ancient past.

While time had destroyed what once was, the mill was not without new construction. On the foundations of the main building, a shack had been pieced together from salvaged lumber, metal, and tarps. Wild vegetables grew among the tall grass, but others had been clearly cultivated in pots made of upcycled junk. Unidentifiable bones stained with dried blood and shriveled remains of connective tissue waved in the autumn breeze from a rack of branches. A coyote scratched at the ground below foraging for bits of awful from whatever had been butchered there. Rocks from the creek had been painstakingly stacked into an L-shaped wall around the shack.

Flavorful smoke rose from behind it, wafting over the hiding spot Cora and Troy had chosen for their stakeout. The coyote raised its head, sniffing the air. Even with the heavy scent of seasoned meats, it could pick out the floral notes of Cora's Gucci Bloom perfume. The animal darted back into the woods. At least he won't be eating us, Cora said softly. They were supposed to be watching for the killer, but the entire time they'd been staked out, her focus had shifted back and forth between the smoke and the bones. She wondered if those bones had been her husband.

Is that who's cooking? She asked herself, remembering Joel's scent. He always wore the same light, oceanic cologne, driftwood and oleander with citrus accords. It didn't seem possible that the savory, mesquite-infused smoke drifting over the wall could be Joel. I'm losing it. He's cooking my husband, and I'm worried about how he's fucking seasoned. They'd been hiding on the mill's perimeter for three hours, and Troy still hadn't abandoned her. She glanced at the gym rat. He wasn't bodybuilder big, but he was getting there, jacked, tanned and vascular. Cora couldn't imagine any scenario where he didn't have better places to be than hiding in the woods, trying to catch a psycho with a complete stranger.

The obvious explanation just didn't fit either. He was a full decade younger than her, for starters. Cora poked at the flesh of her thigh, pushing at the designer holes in her Levi's. She didn't know what his type was, but she was sure pudgy and pushing 40 wasn't on the list. If he wasn't thinking with his dick, then... Why are you here? The words were supposed to stay in her head. You looked like you needed someone to be, Troy answered without hesitation. They exchanged awkward glances. Cora couldn't explain it, but she knew. He was telling the truth.

No presumptions or ulterior motives. He just wanted to help. She never would have thought that by looking at him before, and she felt a tinge of guilt because of it. I guess that sounds kind of dumb, Troy said. I didn't want to go to work, and I saw you, and... I don't know. It felt like you needed help. Whatever it was you were doing, it just didn't seem like you needed to be doing it alone. Thank you, she whispered. No problem. Troy took his phone out and checked the time. My quads are sore as hell from all this crouching, and I need to pee again.

I'm going to circle around and see if I can get a better look at the murder tent. Maybe I can pick up this asshole's tracks while I'm at it. Be careful. Careful is curling in the squat rack. Zachary lowered himself onto all fours and sniffed the roots of the tree. He licked the fluids collected in the grooves of the bark. The urine was salty and sweet and brought back a distant memory of popcorn. It hadn't been an animal that marked his territory. There were humans nearby. He crawled along, sniffing the ground. They'd left obvious tracks.

One set belonged to a woman or child and the other to a man. The female wore hiking boots and was encumbered. The male wore sneakers. The depressions were even. He was heavy. But it wasn't from a backpack. He was just a big motherfucker. That explained the smell. The excess protein of a bodybuilder. Zachary chuckled at his luck. The police had been all over the park since his little fuckup. He knew to take the shoes off before tossing the feet in. But he'd been in a hurry and got careless. Zachary dragged the dead man into the brush to retrieve later.

If he hurried, he could catch up with the interlopers and come back for him later. If he worked through the night, he could have all three butchered by dawn and make his way to the caves before anyone could find him. There'd be enough meat for the winter and he could preserve some for the long hike west. Zachary was growing older. He'd lived well since his awakening, but he had lived without purpose. It was time for that to change. In the spring, he would make his way to the Rockies. There was plenty of game in those mountains and he could easily move unnoticed all the way into Canada.

Then through Alaska, he would travel the path of his Paleolithic ancestors back to the Cradle of Life. Chapter 5 The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cool. Julia Child Troy's stomach rumbled as he crept through the grass. He was thankful Cora was so far away. Intellectually, he knew the cooking meat was most likely her husband, or some other poor bastard. That didn't change the fact that it smelled amazing. Got me out here chasing the guy fietti of cannibalism. I bet I'd be a badass burger, he pinched at his belly.

Two patties of 85% lean ground bro, with melty slices of reduced fat cheddar, donkey sauce, and fried onions on a brioche bun. The Gainsis Maximus, now at Flavortown, USA. The text alert made him jump hard enough that he nearly came all the way to his feet. He flopped backwards, his fitbit lit up, telling him he was in the peak zone and to keep going. Troy slapped a hand to his chest, taking in heaving breaths. He felt stupid for not silencing the damn thing when he'd called in to work a couple of hours earlier. Even if this was his first stakeout, he should have known better.

He wrestled it out of his nylon pants, but before he could flip it to silent, he saw the alert. It was Toledo. Troy opened the message and laughed. She dropped her phone in the bathtub when he had texted her. She had wanted to explain in person, but he wasn't at work. More importantly, she'd apologized. That was something his ex had never done. Not even when he caught her getting spit-roasted by the maintenance men in their apartment. He laid his head back in the grass. Toledo really was amazing, if only by comparison to his past mistakes.

He typed a quick reply that he was helping a friend with a personal problem. Toledo responded almost immediately, filling the dead still forest with the echoes of the notification. Shit! He silenced the phone this time, before answering. Toledo let him know the crew had clowned on that Internet loser Billy Lean, and he had missed it, but she'd show him the video later. The bubbles warbled on the screen to let him know she was typing again. I would really like to see you, the next message said. I have the same feelings. That sealed it. As soon as he was done kicking the shit out of Chef Dahmer, Troy was going straight to the store.

He rose to his knees and looked over the grass. Several unlit lanterns told him no one had returned to the shack as of yet. Something whistled, sending a chill up Troy's spine. It wasn't a person or a bird. Something about it was unnatural and ominous. But he couldn't quite figure out why, until the spear passed through his abdomen. Zachary loaded another thin shaft into the atlatl and let it fly. He generally used the weapon for small, nimble game. The points weren't big enough to cause significant blood loss. Taking the muscle-bound youth from a distance seemed the only safe route, however.

His target wasn't much more than a man-shaped silhouette, but Zachary had become highly proficient with his weapon. He took his second shot and the weightlifter went down. The buck would be good eating, but he wasn't sure what to do about the dough. He knelt beside the unconscious woman and swept her hair away from her face. Women could have been a different species. Their flesh was softer with a consistency that made him think of pears. The marbling was evenly distributed in females, making every bite explode with flavor. A steak cut from this one would have cost him a mint in the restaurants he had frequented before his awakening.

Then again, there were other things to consider. Zachary inspected the wound where he'd clubbed her. It wasn't too bad. He could treat it so it wouldn't get infected. He pinched the back of her arm, then her side. He raised the baggy hoodie and ran his filthy fingers across her stomach. She wasn't particularly athletic, but she wasn't fat either. He moved one hand to squeeze her hip and let the other crawl under her shirt, digging past the lace and underwire of her bra to the flesh inside. It was firm, but delicate. Zachary made up his mind.

It was time to expand the tribe. Cora awoke to the smell of pulled pork and the taste of blood. The rough braid of the rope grated the flesh of her wrists. She bit on the knots of her gag until her jaw hurt, but it was tied too tight to wrestle it free. A plate of roasted vegetables and cooked meats steamed on the stone floor a foot away from her. She took in her surroundings quickly. She was laying in the corner of the L-shaped wall outside the killer's shack. The primitive rack she'd seen earlier no longer held bare bones.

In their place, a man's naked body hung by its ankles. Gravity drained the last drops of blood through the gash in his throat, but she was sure he'd been dead for a while. Through the fog of concussion, she remembered something about Levitity and Time of Death. The victim would need to be butchered quickly. That meant she had longer to live and to find a way to escape. Maybe she wouldn't have to at all. Troy could have called the police. Meathead definitely has his phone on him, she thought. His text notifications going off were the last thing she remembered before her skull got bashed in.

Perhaps he heard the club cracking off her head and dialed 911. Or maybe the killer heard the phone first and killed him. Please don't be dead, you lunk. I don't need another funeral to go to. She stared at the slices of rare meat oozing on the dingy platter. That's not Troy. That's not Joel. It's just a raccoon or a dog. Shit. Please don't be a dog either. The killer returned to his latest victim. Cora did her best not to scream. The gag would have made it pointless anyhow. The cannibal's hair was long and clumped with dirt and appeared interwoven with the unkempt beard.

He wore threadbare sweatpants and a tunic made from animal furs with no shoes. He reminded her of Neanderthal, both in a tire and the way he moved. He rolled a beat up igloo into a row of similar coolers. The caveman drew a stone bladed knife from his hip and started toward the body. He paused suddenly, turning his head up to one side. He used the blade to drag the hair away from his ear. Then turned to face Cora. The man approached her in a strange, quadrupedal manner. His approach was slow and cautious. He sniffed the air as he drew nearer.

He gnashed his teeth, grumbling and growling and letting out the odd syllables of a man learning to speak, or, more accurately, learning to speak again. He sheathed the knife when he came to her side and helped her sit up against the wall. Something clattered beside her, but Cora didn't dare look away from the cannibal to see what it was. He cupped his hands on her face and pried the gag from between her jaws. What do you want from me? She felt stupid asking a cannibal what he wanted. She should have just asked if he wanted fries with that, but she felt like she needed to say something.

He smiled widely at her. When she didn't return the gesture, he forced his grimy thumbs into her mouth and stretched her cheeks away from her teeth. He removed his fingers, and she scowled at him. The man barked. He squeezed her breasts roughly, and then pressed her face back into a smile. He smiled back, nodding vigorously to let her know that that was the correct response. Cora snapped her teeth at him, taking a chunk out of his thumb. He crawled away on his haunches and sucked the wounded digit. Cora squirmed, bringing her knees to her chest.

Her fingers brushed something on the floor, and she was suddenly aware of how light her pocket felt. She let her fingers crawl over the item, exploring the hard plastic shell, all the way to the metal ring attached to one end. She dragged it into her palm. The would-be caveman jumped his feet under him, so he perched menacingly across from her. He pointed at Cora, then to the floor, with an animalistic grunt. He stood and repeated the motions. Cora stared at him blankly. He jerked his sweatpants down to his thighs. His half-hard-on was just as emaciated and filthy as the rest of him.

He pointed to the floor again and growled. Cora growled back at him. Come and make me, you fake-ass Fred Flintstone! She tightened her grip on the object. Or is your club too soft to do the job? The man grabbed her by the arm and rolled her onto her face, then lifted her hips into the air. Cora let him position her how he wanted. As soon as she felt his fingers hook into her waistband, she knew she was on the mark. Cora mashed her thumb on the pepper spray's button. The caveman's hands clenched into fists and he howled as the pressurized stream soaked his genitals.

Cora held the trigger down. His cries turned shrill until they were nothing but strangled attempts to breathe as drops found their way inside the tip. At almost two million Scoville heat units, the spray felt like napalm traveling up his urethra. Cora rolled onto her back. The man frantically battered his own crotch in a vain attempt to stop the burning. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his blistered flesh with one hand and drawing his knife with the other. He sprang at her, but she rolled away and let him crash into the wall. Cora screamed as powerful hands seized her arms and jerked her to her feet.

She visualized an entire clan of primitive hunters dragging her back to their cave. I told you it was too dangerous to be out here by yourself, Troy said, spinning her around to face him. I called the cops too. Cora smiled at him, but then her eyes went wide and the expression melted into pure shock. The shaft of a broken spear protruded from his abdomen, and a large gash leaked down his side, where he had hastily torn out a second. Before she could say anything, Troy jerked her to the side. The caveman charged at them with knife cocked over his head.

Troy met him halfway, driving a shoulder into the man's chest and bulldozing him through precariously stacked stones. They both groaned and rolled in the rubble. Troy probed at the belly wound and found the spear had sunk in deeper. He grabbed the man by the arm and cranked it behind his back. Today he took a deep breath and steadied himself. Today is my favorite day. The Neo Neanderthal squirmed and fought to get free until Troy captured his other arm. He put his foot between the cannibal's shoulders and tightened his grip on his wiry appendages. Do you know what today is?

Troy asked. It's pull day, mother fucker! Troy stomped down and jerked back at the same time, the killer's arms dislocated with wet, sharp pops that seemed to echo forever in the desolate ruins of Javi's mill. Troy dropped him face first on the rocks and retrieved the knife. He went to Korra, cutting the ropes from her wrists. Jesus, you're hurt really bad, Himbo, she said. We need to get you to a hospital. That sounds like a great idea. I can't ever thank you for, for everything. Korra tried to brace his weight as much as she could.

You saved me. You caught the man that murdered my husband. You got stabbed for me. Twice. I got stabbed twice, he corrected her. Can we stop by my job? There's this great chick there named Talita and I need you to tell her all that. Especially the part about me saving your life. How about I drop you off at the hospital and then I go tell her? That's pretty smart, Troy agreed. That's why I lift weights, though. Thinking is for nerds. Epilogue. If it tastes good, spit it out. Vince Garanda. Zachary turned the bacon on the industrial griddle.

There hadn't been a trial. Given his previous incident in New York and the circumstances of the crimes, he'd been remanded to a maximum-security psychiatric hospital until a time when he was mentally fit to stand trial for the murders he'd committed. He'd behaved well since day one and even started to speak a little. He wore his uniform like all the patients, but still had an aversion to shoes, preferring the feel of the tiles on his bare soles. The doctors felt that was a small concession to make for his treatment. He'd been taking his regimen of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers without fail, and his only complaint had been the quality of the cooking.

After 18 months as a model patient, the administrators had decided to reward him by letting him work in the kitchen three days a week. There had been some pushback about letting a cannibal do the cooking, but the other patients had responded positively to the change as well. They all looked forward to his days on breakfast duty. Yo, Zee, Snyder Ambrose, or one of his personalities, said. They finally stopped being cheap and let you cook with the good stuff. This shit is gourmet as fuck. No kidding, Sammy Wilson agreed. Think I can get some more of that bacon?

Zachary nodded happily and scooped the sizzling slices onto a fresh plate, straight from the griddle. He passed it over the counter and gestured for them to share. He smiled as they bit into their pieces. The bacon was crisp and the spices he'd used were right on the mark. The men's satisfied groans told him that they agreed. They thanked him for the second helping and meandered to their table. Zachary always prided himself on his ability to pick the best meats no matter where he went. The Carter Institute, for the criminally insane, was no exception. He took the butcher knife from the magnetic strip and went to the cooler.

Doug Maguire waited in the corner. The pedophile stared blankly at him. His mouth hung open in mid-sentence with a strand of drool running from his bottom lip to his hairy nipple. Zachary knelt next to him and cut another section of pork belly from the man's abdomen. The Cece, as the patients called the Institute, had a diverse assortment of livestock for him to choose from. With his beady eyes and pudgy face, McGuire had been an obvious pick to harvest for bacon, but Zachary wanted to keep his menu fresh. He was thinking steak and eggs on Thursday.

Zachary already knew who he'd be serving. You can't just slap any cut of meat down on a plate. After all, you got to watch that dietary cholesterol. It's a real killer. For proper steak and eggs, you needed good sirloins. Dr. Wooten's office was full of tennis trophies. He'd taste magnificent. Despite the plentiful game awaiting his abattoir, there was something else to consider. Walking amongst the prey were others, like him. Ones that needed to awaken and take their place in nature with him. The appetite grows by what it feeds on. It seemed apropos that he was on the breakfast detail.

Soon his cooking would wake up the entire tribe. The Graveyard Shift by Shane Migliavacca Halloween Night For the first five years, Nate had been the broadcast assistant for the night shift to WHNT, the heart of upstate New York. That basically meant you do the shit nobody above you wants to do, mostly being the in-between for producer Monica Moe Foster on the WHNT's late night call-in program, The Madman Marks Show. It was a chilly night when he got to the station. A jack-o-lantern sat grinning on the desk in the lobby, and a bowl of candy kept it company.

Nate took a look through the station's large front window at the lights from town in the distance. It was a ten-minute walk from the station to town. There were never any trick-or-treaters who ventured out here. Sam, the technical assistant, and Moe were grabbing a quick smoke by the door. Moe looked at her watch. Pushing the envelope, Moe said. Again. Yeah, well, I know. Shit happens. Sam smiled, and Moe gave her a dirty look. Moe dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her sneaker. The big Halloween show is starting soon, Moe said, pulling open the door.

So keep it in your pants, lover boy. She went in, letting the heavy glass door slam shut. No doubt for Nate's benefit. Hey, Sam said, hi. Sam Kimbrough was fresh from college last year when she got a job at the station. A local girl, though Nate never recalled seeing her in town till she got the job. The fact that they'd been sleeping together for the last five months was probably the worst kept secret at the station. Sam took one last drag on her cigarette. Thought you were vaping. I am. Forgot to charge the fucker. She put the cigarette out.

Had to bum one off Moe. Wanna come over later? Are we actually gonna do more than fall asleep on the couch watching old cartoons? Sure. I promise we won't fall asleep. We'll watch old horror movies. Well, that's better I guess. We should probably get in there. No doubt. She already wants to hit me. Good evening, Boyles and Goulds. Our topic tonight for this Halloween evening. The disappearance of Molly Garvin. Tommy Marks, the late night host, grinned like the jack-o-lantern in reception. Molly Garvin was from Castle, just a few towns away from here. She went missing a few days before the 4th of July.

Her car found running, with its doors open, her cell phone in the passenger seat, and the radio playing. She'd been heading to her friend's cabin for the long weekend. Search parties have come up with nothing. There's even a $3,000 reward offered to anyone with information leading to her being found. What happened to her? Can a person just vanish? Steve, Tommy's on-air sidekick, pressed a button on his console. We've got our first caller, he said. The fun begins, Tommy nodded. So what are you thinking about this disappearance? A man's voice came through the speakers. I think it might be a stunt, Tommy.

A stunt? What kind of stunt? A publicity stunt, man. They're talking on the news about how Leanne Rimes is her favorite singer, and they're trying to get her to come up here for a charity event. I've heard about this, Tommy, Stevie adds. Molly's parents have been talking to her over the phone. Okay, that's good and all, guys, but to what end? Say Molly shows up all of a sudden with some crazy story. What does she get? Tommy asked. A reality show, the caller answered. Everything is about having your own show now. Maybe she gets a book deal, goes on the view, Stevie added.

Good point, guys. Well, definitely something to think about. We got another caller, Tommy. Thanks for your call, sir. Who we got next? What's your take on this missing girl? A woman's voice answers him. She is a sinner, Mr. Marks. Excuse me? A sinner, this garvin girl. I've seen the way they flaunt their little bodies on the street, barely wearing anything, sleeping with whomever they want. They have children out of wedlock, Mr. Marks. No souls. Sin, sin, sin. All of the sinners. The devil- Steve quickly cuts the woman off, dropping her call. Spooky sound effects began to play.

A wolf howled and a witch cackled. Well, that was interesting, Tommy chuckled. I'm sure it's all downhill from here, kids. Happy Halloween. After the show went to commercial break, Nate made his way to the break room. He needed something cold. Sam was already there eating some chips. Without saying a word, she offered him some. He took a big greasy handful. This is what I love about our relationship. He said. The junk food? Well, yeah. Not the great sex? Well, that's kind of one-sided, ain't it? I get great sex and you get to ride an old guy.

I never thought about it like that. You gonna drop dead on me, old man? If I'm lucky, that's one hell of a way to go. Why are we seeing each other again? Mo looked a little pissed when they got back. Nate was starting to wonder if she had the break room bugged. Enjoy your break? She asked, more than a little sarcastically. Before Nate could answer, Stevie put on a new collar. So what's on your mind, collar? Tommy asked, dead silence on the line. He looked at Stevie, who just shrugged. Hang on, we got another collar on the next line.

Stevie puts it on. Hello, collar? Nothing. Dead silence again. Hello, collar? It's gonna be one of those nights, Stevie sighed. Well, we got one on line three. Third time's the charm. Who do we got on line three? A loud metallic hum answered Tommy. The hum got louder and louder till Stevie cut it off. I guess three's not the one. Steve tried line four. Silence. Hey, Sam, everything's working like it should, right? Nate asked. She looked up at him a little frustrated and nodded. Well, line five just lit up, Steve said. Shall we? Maybe five is the charm, Tommy answered.

Hello, please be a caller. Nothing. Suddenly a monotone male voice answered. There are those among you who know the truth of this. There are parallel realities, the walls of which touch ours. These realities are overseen by the Agarti. As Nate listened, it felt like someone was running nails over a chalkboard. His body shuddered. The voice continued. There are areas that are weaker than others, where one may cross over. Some get stuck in between, in the timeless void. They become shadows. They are all around us. If you become aware of them, they become aware of you.

This is what happened to the girl. She is one of them now. The line went dead. There was dead air for almost a minute, as they were all frozen in their spots. Go to commercial, Mo said, finally breaking the eerie silence left in the call's wake. Tommy announced the commercial break, his voice shaky. What the hell was that? Sam, bring up that skit from last Halloween. We'll play that so we can take a breather after whatever that was, Mo said. I need a smoke. Nate stopped by the bathroom first. Tommy was splashing some water on his face.

He didn't look high. Not that Nate had much experience there, but it looked to Nate like he'd just been crying. Come to collect me? Yeah, Mo wants you back. He splashed his face once more before turning off the water. That voice, Tommy said, cut my damn heart out. You gonna be okay? I guess. Can't go home. No show without the madman, right? She'd kill me if I bailed. I can't deny she would. Then she'd come after the rest of us. They both laughed. Duty calls, bro. He walked past Nate, patting him on the shoulder. The bathroom door creaked shut, leaving Nate alone.

Suddenly the bathroom took an eerie presence. The empty stalls seemed threatening. The shadows were deeper, darker. Nate felt his pulse quicken. The dripping of the faucet sounded like thunder. He rushed out of the bathroom without looking back. By the time Nate found Sam standing outside by the front door, he felt foolish. He was letting that weirdo caller get to him. He walked outside. The night was cool. The smell of cigarettes hung heavy in the air. Sam sat on the corner of the brick flower arrangement by the entrance. Hey, hey, back to work? She asked. Sadly.

Can we get drunk after? Or failing that just hide under some blankets? Don't see why we can't do both. Nate looked off in the distance at town. Between the station and the edge of town was a small fenced building, almost like a concrete shack, lit by two large lights mounted on its sides. He was struck by how lonely it looked there in the sea of night, as if the rest of the world had been wiped away by some great cataclysmic event. How are you feeling? Sam asked. Everyone else is going mental. I'm okay. What's your status?

That got a smirk out of her. When they first met, Sam compared Nate to a robot because he never showed any emotion during any kind of crisis. She said he moved like a machine when he was working. One day he started talking like a robot to her, asking about her status. She laughed, thinking about it all day. Not long after that, they started seeing each other. Fine, I guess. She flicked her cigarette into the night. It hit the sidewalk in front of the station, sending out bright little embers that quickly faded away into the darkness.

During the break, the phone lines started lighting up. Almost every call reported the same thing. A weird reaction to that last call. Some complained of nausea. Others said their hearts started racing. People said their pets started acting weird. The rest of the show turned into a discussion about that weird caller and what it could have been. And then all the cars on the street turned on, one caller reported. The car alarms were blaring. Another call reported in. A frazzled cashier at the stop-and-shop. All the cans of soda started popping as soon as that weird dude was talking.

A woman called in. I was listening in bed, reading. My husband was sleeping next to me. As soon as that man began talking, my husband started talking in his sleep. In Latin. He doesn't speak Latin. A few of the callers, brave souls Nate guessed, asked them to play the call again. After a few more callers asked to hear it, Mo gave in and decided to play it. As the playback started, Nate could feel the hairs on his arms and neck stand up. When the caller said, They're all around us. All hell broke loose. The power clicked off, creating total darkness.

Nate heard Mo swear. Tommy laughed somewhere in the darkness. Nate heard Stevie bang into something and yelp in pain. Sam grabbed Nate's arm. After what seemed like hours, the emergency lights finally kicked on. Shit, Mo said. Shit. Well, that worked well, huh? Tommy cracked. Is it just us? Sam asked. Good question. I'll go look, Nate said, trying to look like a hero to Sam. The emergency lights didn't help dispel the feeling of dread crawling up Nate's spine. The shadows seemed alive as he made his way towards the front door. Nate walked outside. Everything was a lot darker now.

The lights at the entrance and the station sign were both out. Nate looked towards the town. Everything was out, including the lights on that little fenced-in building. He could hear dogs barking in the distance, and what sounded like every car alarm in town going off. Nate went back inside. As he walked down the hallway, he became aware of movement to his left. Nate turned, thinking it was one of his co-workers. But there were only shadows. His heart started beating faster. He felt sweat beating up on his forehead. He knew he couldn't lose it. Not now.

Not with this crazy shit happening tonight. He heard Sam screaming somewhere in the dark, and started running. Only to be knocked down as Tommy came running out of the studio. Sam, right behind him. Run! Tommy said, his face pale. The fuck? What's wrong? It got Moe and Stevie, Sam stammers. Who? A man. He came out of the shadows, Tommy answered. He was a shadow. Sam cut him off. Just go, God damn it. Tommy barked, starting down the hall. Sam and Nate followed close behind. They got outside just as the streetlights started to flicker on. Tommy pulled out his car keys, fumbling with them, as he tried to turn his alarm off.

They're dead? Nate asked. Sam nodded frantically. Tommy jumped into his car. Come on! He shouted as he started the engine. Sam pulled Nate towards the car. He still couldn't wrap his head around what they'd told him. Nate's legs felt like they were weighed down by concrete. We can't help them, Sam pleaded. Let's go, please! Nate followed her towards Tommy's car. He could see Tommy look in the rear-view mirror, just as a large shadow took form in the back seat. Tommy! They both screamed, but he never had a chance, as it reached out with its long, wispy fingers, fingers that burrowed into Tommy.

Tommy started to… The only thing Nate could think of is… dry up. The sound a straw makes when you get that last bit of milkshake rang out as he wasted further and further, becoming skeletal. What remained was folded into the shadow man's form. Nate didn't realize that they were running down the street. They made it to the first light pole. Nate looked back to see the shadow man standing there, in front of the station's sign. Nate turned and looked at that small shack, so brightly lit. Could that stop one of those things? Nate turned back and looked at the shadow man.

He was so much closer now, halfway between them and the station. He couldn't have cleared that much distance in only a couple of seconds. That little shack, we've got to get to that. Stick to the lights and don't look back. Nate started running, pulling Sam along with him. They ran hand in hand, like lovers running on the beach in some cheesy movie. Behind them, the darkness gained. The light from the streetlights behind them went out, one at a time. The shack, they were almost there. And then, they tripped and fell hard. Sam screamed in terror as Nate felt her grip on his hand go slack.

Nate heard that horrible sucking noise. He wanted to see her one last time, but he knew the horror that would greet him. Instead, he pictured her smiling. That first time he met her, as he got to his feet and ran. With all his strength, Nate ran towards those bright lights. But the darkness that claimed this Halloween was fast. The lights are coming back on, but the Ordinary World does not look quite the same anymore. Tonight, a supermarket became a hunting ground, a water park turned its attractions loose, and a small town proved that a badge can hide something worse than any creature.

A family's front door couldn't protect them from Mischief Night, and two workplaces showed us what happens when resentment is allowed to simmer until revenge becomes the special of the day. Then in the final lonely hours of The Graveyard Shift, even a voice on the radio couldn't promise that anyone was truly safe. That is the frightening thing about Ordinary Places around Halloween. We lower our guards inside them. We trust the lights, the locks, the uniforms, and the people who know the routine. But monsters love routines. They use them to learn when we're alone. And some of those monsters look exactly like us.

Well, Spookies, make sure you're subscribed because there's a brand new Scary Story every Wednesday and something scary to listen to every day of the week to keep your Halloween vibe alive. And we'll have another Halloween Scary Story compilation next Saturday. Until then, keep your doors locked and have the candy bowl ready and waiting.