《Perpendicular to Reality (Halloween Short Stories)》 Objects in the Mirror OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR "It was basically like he died fifty years ago," Calvin said, looking up at the flickering puke-yellow sign of the pawn shop. The glass was tinted heavily like the windows of a drug dealer¡¯s Cadillac Escalade; except you understood why the drug dealer wanted privacy. The same fa?ade on a storefront gave it a unique, sinister quality. "It''s Thursday," Johnathan ¡®Joe'' D''Iver replied, pushing past him and grabbing the handle. "Let''s put off conversations we can have the office.¡± "Just imagine! Him waking up every morning and saying, ''Time to go to the place where''ll die someday.'' " Walter might have thought as much, but Joe very much doubted he ever said that part out loud. The guts of the pawnshop were a stark contrast to the outside. No flickering lights, no jaundice coloring. It was white, too white. It was the austere color of heaven, to someone who had no love for the idea of religion. And yet through the rows of shelves and furniture, dark shadows formed in unnatural ways. A whimpering chime pinged as Calvin joined him, and the door wooshed shut. ""No promotion. No big salary bumps. Just a man rotting away at his desk doing the same thing every day." Calvin only stopped to look around skeptically at the store, one eyebrow raised. "I know this place is on the way home, but really?" Engaging with Calvin would result in more chatter, as impossible as it seemed. He learned that the day they started work together. Calvin was a little guy at war with his diet. Too much fat around the neck and arms, too scrawny fingers with big fat balloon tips that were now reaching out and poking at. . . an egg shell in a vice? In fact, the selection at this shop was confused. Rusted metal trinkets lining tall gray shelves of cork. Lots of self-made furniture with rot. Jewlry scattered about with no regards to security. And somehow the merchandise was silhouetted with shadows despite the hum of the lights directly overhead. John eyed a paperweight of a black monolith. He had seen that somewhere before? "So where do you see yourself in five years, old chap?" The hair on John''s neck stood on end at that. Was he being punished? He lugged this guy back and forth from the office every day. The second he tried to cash in and get some help to carry furniture, Calvin started talking about the damn office. About their newly deceased coworker. Poor bastard had a massive carotid and died gurgling only last week. John wished it was him. Only once. "Can we just find a mirror and get out?¡± John nodded to the nondescript anchorite of a man sitting at the cash register, staring at the opposite wall with religious fixation. The man didn''t nod back or even seem to acknowledge them, the gold glint of a jewelry case cast a gleam on his face as if distorted by water. It was less lonely work than John''s; working here, you could look down and pretend you were rich. "I''m not talking about work," Calvin pressed, "I''m talking about life." If he was waiting for an answer, it was unclear as Calvin disappeared behind a row of tall shelves cluttered with old vacuum parts¨C something sticky poked out from one of the nozzles. It rested on a stack of yellowed Bibles. "Thank God," John said seeing his coworker disappear. He pushed ahead past the piss-stained couches and a 1950¡¯s fridge with distinct smudgy finger prints on the outside. He strode to the back of the store past many items that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A couch wedged between two dressers: a broken stapler and a half used candle. This is where he was at in life; this is where he was shopping. Joe walked past all these things that his gut railed against and more-- right up to a mirror. It would have been perfect if the top left corner hadn¡¯t shattered and enameled the shivs of glass into the mahogany. John wasn''t even in the room when it happened. He had been standing there in his kitchen, scrubbing some guff off a plate with a fork as his dinner hummed the sweet tune of radiation. Next thing he knew it was all, crash, boom, scree. The worst part was that initial jolt in his belly, hearing something you don''t normally do and breaking out in sweat. Two seconds later, his heart descended out of his neck and John started that dreaded walk to the bathroom knowing he was about to be out a day''s salary. Never even found out why the damn mirror fell. The cleanup had only been as bad as dreading the very moment he was now in, having to waste time buying a new one. Except for that one surprise sliver of glass that fell on the toilet seat, that was worse. Truth was, he had been at this job for five years. Same amount of time he had lived at the apartment. It was about time for things to start breaking. That was life. Things just started going if you didn''t make a change. Or at least didn''t put some work into them. And why not? John couldn¡¯t even place when it had started, he used to have things in working order. Looking around, he felt that the thrift shop would agree, as if the hobbled shelves could remember their better days too. It would be easier to have a conversation about his life with them or the bobble heads than Calvin. Joe passed under a chandelier skeptically. "Entropy!" Calvin rounded the corner, toying with a wooden slide puzzle, prattling away to himself. "A place like this is all entropy," Calvin continued. "It''s a cosmic landfill of everything lost or discarded, wasting away until the heat death of the universe." John said, "I get that Walter''s death is taking a toll on you, but can you get back to talking like a human being. For just three minutes?" John held his hands out, palms up¨C a veritable beg. Calvin whistled. "You know where I¡¯ve seen this puzzle before?¡± John shrugged. ¡°Good ole¡¯ Walter¡¯s house. It was sitting on his living room table. His grandfather made it, apparently.¡± ¡°When would you have ever been at Walter¡¯s house?¡± ¡°He hosted a Christmas party one year. Only I came. Actually, the boss swung by for five minutes too.¡± Calvin continued down the aisle, his eyes set on something. ¡°You see that couch back there? Grey, bit of water damage? Walter had the same one. We were sitting on it while he explained the woodworking.¡± John followed Calvin''s lead but he wasn¡¯t buying it for one bit. Ghost stories. He couldn¡¯t refute what Waltor did or didn¡¯t own in life, but there was no chance his belongings just happened to end up here. The only real coincidence was he and Calvin spending time together. Those kinds of relationships didn¡¯t just happen without a story¡ªthe kind involving either trauma or excessive amounts of alcohol. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. This one did not. "A mirror. I wouldn¡¯t want it, but the only intact one I see." Calvin thrust his oversized thumbs into his jeans. They stood before a large mirror approximately the right size, but attached to some bastardized amalgamation of a desk and a drawer. It was the only part of the store where the shadows laid down properly. John rubbed his hands together and approached, looking at the joints that hung the mirror in its frame. "Yeah, this will come off; let''s see if we can sneak it through without buying the entire thing." The clerk was obscured in that daedalum weave of tetanus. They wouldn¡¯t see. Not thieving exactly. Just a bit of slight of hand. The only issue was the lack of price on the mirror itself. "Say Cal," John began slowly, giving him the warning that what would come next would be unscrupulous. "Would you say you''re a standup guy?" Calvin licked his lips and blinked a couple times. "As much as anyone?" "Oh, that''s good news." John walked through the clutter, squinting at each yellow price stamp. Calvin followed behind, watching him with the utmost interest, quiet, against all expectations. John stooped down at a shelf and pulled up a toaster. Not one of those neat chrome editions, but a kitsch mess that looked right out of the seventies with some frayed wiring uncomfortably close to the male end of the plug. "Twenty sounds good for a mirror right?" Calvin shrugged. "Cheap in some ways, expensive in others. It''s just sand which is pretty much free. But you''re paying for the know-how. How many people would know how to make a mirror if you gave them a bucket of sand? It''d be like doing your own dental work." John only shook his head as he took his finger nail and slowly rocked it back and forth at the edge of the price tag. Sucker would break easily, had to be gentle. Be delicate. Little by little the bastard detached and John even managed avoiding the sticker curling on the end. That was the real trick. In just under a minute, John had the entire stub off the blue and white spackled toaster and stretched his back. He certainly would need to think twice about squatting like that in five years, but something told him that wasn''t the kind of answer Cal was looking for. Speaking of Calvin, that squirrel of a human being was back at the mirror. John approached wearily. His coworker was just standing there, head cocked. He spoke up when he heard John on his heels though. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t you want this mirror,¡± John asked. ¡°Two reasons,¡± Calvin shrugged. ¡°First off, mirrors are weird. Who¡¯d want to own a mirror?¡± "You''re saying you don''t?" John pushed past him and slowly reapplied the price tag. Licking a thumb and running it over the stub for good measure. "Course I do¨C everyone does. Even native Americans at those reservations do. Or at least I''m assuming so.¡± John got to work unhinging the mirror from its joints. "But people should have a problem with them. Who wants to see themselves like that?¡± ¡°Combing your hair? Flossing? Most basic hygiene really.¡± "You know what I mean.¡± John did not in fact know what his friend meant. John sighed and grunted at the same time as he lifted the mirror from it''s perch on one side. Cal cut in and forced the mirror over as they held it, face down. "You¡¯re focused on vanity, I¡¯m talking about shame. Although right this second in which case I don¡¯t want to see how this store looks like on the other side. "I''m not ashamed of myself. I have a decent job. A nice place. Family and friends. And you know what?" Cal looked up quizzically. "I neither look nor sound like you." The two men huffed under the stress of cooperation. The mirror was too ungainly to carry by one person, but too light for the pair. This meant each man was at the mercy of the other. Cal in particular bumped John as they moved, and John could swear it was on purpose. As they arrived at the cashier''s counter with its assortment of pipes and bongs underneath, the teenage girl there looked shocked. "Don''t recognize that at all," she said, "and I price everything.¡± John side stepped and tilted his arms to show off the $20 tag licked masterfully onto the mirror''s frame. She looked content so John shimmied the corners daintily onto the ground to rest and dug for his wallet. He handed a crisp twenty to the man behind the cashier¡¯s counter. The mirror fit into the back seat snugly. The corners biting into the black carpet of the 2007 Nissan. John needed a new car anyway. Maybe next year. As the engine revved, John looked over to Calvin and said, ¡°What was the second reason you didn¡¯t want this mirror?¡± ¡°Hm? The mirror? We¡¯re back to that?¡± Calvin licked his lips. ¡°It was also Walter¡¯s. Wouldn¡¯t want a dead man¡¯s stuff and that¡¯s why I never shop at these places.¡± John bit his lip and stared ahead. ¡°Hold on. He left the car running as he stepped out and reentered the store. He strode to the paper weight and scooped it up, flipped it over. There on the bottom, with the office¡¯s label maker, were printed Walter¡¯s initials. John didn¡¯t know why he did it, but he brought it to the counter and slapped a five-dollar bill down. "Can you also help me get it up to my apartment, I''m cutting it close here," John asked as slid back into the driver¡¯s seat. He threw the clunker into reverse and peeled out through a yellow light. "You got somewhere to be?" "I have a date tonight. And if you really want me to bear my soul, a job interview first thing in the morning, so I want to keep things moving." Calvin leaned back, the side of his index finger rubbing his lips, doing a poor job to hide a grin. "What?" John asked. "I would literally die right now if I thought I''d be doing the same exact thing I''m doing now in five years." ¨‹¨‹¨‹ Later that night and back from his date, Joe finished setting the mirror, freshly degloved from its frame, onto the bathroom wall. Steam filled the room and John relaxed with a hot shower. Normally the highlight of his day and the premier place for relaxation, the shower seemed as much a nuisance as anything. As each drop pelted him, he could only think more and more about his life, a thin snarl creeping across his face. The date did not go well. Tomorrow. He could turn it all around then. One big job interview and he could be a new man. Not the same thing ad nauseam. It couldn¡¯t be forever. Joe ¡°John¡± D''Iver stepped out of the shower and tentatively placed a wet foot on the slick tile and grasped for the towels that should have been on the bar. He took a deep breath of the steam-soaked air. Maintenance still hadn''t fixed the vent. If anything, it was pleasant. Like a sauna. Why did he ever use the fan in the first place? The lights flickered and that was new. Maybe maintenance could fix that too when they finally came by. John shrugged as he went about his nightly routine. He brushed his teeth and the heat evaporated. He flossed in front of his new mirror and the fog dimmed. All that remained from his shower was the opaque spray caked onto the mirror. That was going to bother him. With no towel or rag in sight, he used his slightly hairy forearm to wipe a sweaty, smoggy smear over the mirror. Just enough to see a blurry reflection looking back. Only it wasn¡¯t. As John stared squarely into that blurry mirror, his reflection looked around the room. John''s breath quickened and his heart skipped. He too peered around the room. To the door, to the shower. His eyes jittered in a frenzy. But when he looked back to the mirror, the reflection seemed normal. The man in the mirror was a bit blurry from the fog, but that was it. A dent in his forehead where he fell off a swing in the third grade. Two days of beard stubble. Completely normal. But John cocked his head, studying harder. The angle didn¡¯t seem right. Well now it did. But even still, everything he looked at now seemed a fraction of a hair off. Joe stared at the mirror, mouth agape, and realized: the image of Joe in the mirror was standing two steps back. Joe could barely breathe now. His instincts took over and he backed away, from this. . . thing. This illusion. This not-Joe. And as the real Joe looked on in horror, the image''s own bulging eyes and snarling mouth became clearer and clearer, the water evaporating away. He almost jumped as the image vaulted to the side, but not out of view. The not-Joe on the other side of the mirror flung downwards and thudded to the floor. There was a horrible crunch and he listened in abject horror as a voice, his voice but not his voice screamed in agony, a sound worse than anything Joe had ever made in his life. He had to leave. He had to get out of here. It was just this mirror. He had to get away from the mirror. Joe¡¯s wet toes dug into the divots of the square porcelain tiles only long enough for his feet to slip out from under him. The back of his skull careened into the floor first, and then his neck coiled and crunched. John screamed. He screamed like the mirror screamed. He screamed a bloody, gurgling, death-beckoning scream¨C the kind which a human can only do once in their lives. The same scream from the mirror¨C seconds before. And then, with one last whimper, he was quiet. The mirror and the image it reflected matched perfectly now. Cry, Baby CRY, BABY "Let me do it for you.¡± Mary leaned back and breathed heavy, one eyebrow perched high and ready to strike like a hawk at another word from her husband Samuel. She grimaced and placed one hand on the summit of her pregnant belly. "I don''t even know what I want to eat yet and you want to do it for me? Drive around the parking lot a couple of times. I''ll text you on my way out." Samuel smiled sheepishly and opened his door. He ran around the front of the car and helped Mary to her feet. As he walked her up to the sliding doors, he said, ¡°I¡¯ll just go park out there.¡± He pointed halfway down the parking lot to an empty space under a fluorescent pole light. Mary took a quick installation lap around the aisles and then began her search in earnest. She forewent the plastic bag and left with a jar of full-sized kosher dill pickles under one arm and a bottle of ranch dressing under the other. She breathed in the refreshing night air, feeling a kick from the baby. ¡°Going to be the outdoor type?¡± Mary cooed. Mary looked in the direction where her husband parked, but the car stood there silent. She grunted and moved the ranch under her chin and waved. The car didn¡¯t rev to life, the lights didn¡¯t turn on. Mumbling under her breath, she started walking towards him. She wasn¡¯t mad on principle, just annoyed he dangled that carrot-- said he¡¯d pick her up and then forgot. She rounded on the car from behind, squeezing towards the passenger door, her belly dangerously close to wedging itself between the car and a large truck parked too close to the line, like a boulder in a very small canyon. She bent at the waist and grabbed for the handle, but it pulled cleanly with no resistance. Mary tried again and realized the car was locked. She straightened her spine with a groan and wrapped her knuckles on the window a couple times. Absolutely, nothing. With a flurry of more curses, she backed out of the ravine and waddled around to the driver side. She rapped her knuckles once more on his window and then leaned over to yell at whatever silly prank Sam thought he was doing; it was cold out here. But as she leaned over and looked him square in the eye, a shrill scream cleaved from her throat. ### Baby Samantha didn''t cry, she barely cooed. For the past three weeks, the baby had been quiet and Mary found solace in that alone. It may have been silly to think that the baby shared her pain, that it could be as gut-wrenchingly distressed as Mary was, but it made sense to her. A guilty verdict was the only alternative. She had lost her appetite and barely eaten anything up until the birth. After seeing her husband in the car like that. . . . She cried and cried, and the times that the image rose to the surface, she wanted to dry heave. As for the baby¡¯s namesake, Mary had yet to find out what happened to her husband. The police couldn¡¯t explain much and they certainly hadn¡¯t found the killer. ¡°Murder.¡± The police said it so directly when they first asked questions. No rhyme or reason, nothing stolen. Gutted from one side to the other and bled out like a stuck pig. Mary didn¡¯t know she could miss anyone like she did now. Samuel couldn¡¯t wait to start a family and the nursery was smothered in that love. As she rocked the baby in her arms at three in the morning now, she did so in the living room. Mary let the baby sleep where it belonged, but she avoided the nursery at all other times like anathema lest she be confronted by her husband¡¯s handiwork. Samantha slept now, which she did far less than a normal child would have. Instead baby Sammy would lay in her crib or on her blanket in the living room and stare up at the ceiling. Her eyes weren¡¯t unfocused, showing the warning signs of something truly wrong deep down; she was just. . . herself. Tonight, as a storm prodded with its first snaps of wind, the god-sent that was the quiet finally grew thin. Her child worried her. Mary toted Samantha down the narrow halls of their home like a ghost, their apartment a mausoleum. The somber pair departed as Mary laid her child down to sleep. But tonight was not a night like all the others. One month after Samuel¡¯s death. One month to the minute Mary had discovered the body, as Mary drifted into an empty sleep baby Samantha first began to cry. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Mary woke, snapping to as a howl reverberated down the halls and clawed in her eardrums. She took a deep breath and one foot at a time dragged herself out of bed. Glancing to the window, her foggy eyes beheld the dark tumult of a night about to storm. It wasn''t until her bare feet touched the chilled wood floor that the strangeness of the cry set in. She had never heard her baby cry. She knew that it was normal, she even knew she should be happy, but she wasn¡¯t ready for normal quite yet. Mary stifled a sniffle as she crept into the long, empty hall that divided her from the nursery. Placing a hand out to orient herself, Mary shuffled ahead confidently. Even with no sound reason, she had made this trip hour by hour every day. If she hadn¡¯t worn a path through the wood yet, it was bound to happen soon. As Mary approached the door to the nursery, the wailing stopped. The door was already cracked open an inch, but Mary didn¡¯t want to intrude. If Samantha was back asleep already, one of them deserved a good night¡¯s rest. Mary stifled her breathing and ever so subtly closed the door, her fingers quietly twisting the doorknob to avoid that metallic clang as it rested. Mary walked back through the barren hallway, past the wedding picture sitting there in the dark, past the bathroom, past an empty cardboard box she hadn¡¯t the heart to fill. Back in her room, she threw herself at the bed and fell asleep instantly. And then that crying needled her dreams again. Mary sat up bolt-straight like she was a spring tightened for that very moment. She had just laid down, hadn''t she? It couldn''t have been more than five minutes. She looked to the window¨C saw darkness, heard the trees creaking in the wind. No time had passed at all. But there was no denying it, down the hallway the wails of her baby rang through the apartment and she had no choice but to go again. Out of bed, down the hallway, Mary underwent her pilgrimage. But as she began to open the door, the hoarse cry of her little girl faded into nothing again. This time, Mary entered the room. Half decorated, half painted, supplies for crown molding in the corner, a crib her father helped put together in the dead center. Mary crept through the dark nursery illuminated only by the moonbeams that snuck around the storm clouds and through the window. They lit the cradle in a halo of pale light. Her perfect little girl slept like an angel. Mary bent down and caressed the girl''s cheek with a single finger before laying the back of her hand on the baby¡¯s forehead. Mary hesitantly looked outside as the rain began to pelt the ground in cold sheets and bit her lip and considered moving the crib into her room tonight, but looking down at the baby now, she looked so peaceful. "Just bad dreams," Mary whispered, shuffling back to the door in a dark that was as black as pitch. Down the hallway she stumbled as the whistling winds received a groaning reply from the building. In the confusion, her foot kicked into the box and she nearly fell over, slumping against the wall and clenching her teeth to stifle a scream of frustration. Her arm snaked around the opening to the bathroom and fished for a second before her fingers found the switch. A light emanated into the hallway and Mary picked up the box and tossed it away. She flinched as it gave a hollow thud on the floor and swooshed to a stop. An appraising eye rested on the door to the nursery, expecting a renewed burst of yelps. Instead, Mary only shrugged and moved back to her bedroom, fell down on her bed a dead weight. As Mary pulled back the covers, sticking a single foot outside to stay at the perfect temperature, the crying returned¨C just as loud, just as unruly. Mary sighed deeply and cursed to herself. This was going to be every night from now on, wasn¡¯t it? She regretted wishing for this torture already. Mary rubbed her eyes at the light. She needed to stop and reset. She looked left to the bathroom, its insides dark and cavernous. Slowly, her head moved to gaze at the nursery door. Light crept through the cracks, faintly spilling into the hall. Was she losing it? Had she turned the light on her last trip? No, that didn¡¯t make sense. That didn¡¯t make even an iota of sense. Her heart fluttered as she moved forward to the nursery door, nightgown flittering about her ankles. Mary blinked, double-checking this was no flash of lightning from the storm, no delirious vision that would go away. But it was still there. She wanted to call for help, call the police, do anything, but that light came from her daughter''s room and she couldn''t wait for any of that. Mary reached out and grabbed the door handle decisively. And just as she did, the light within turned off. Her breathing quivered in her throat and her hand once so sure now shook with tremors. As she threw the door open, the cries of her baby stopped. Mary rushed to the cradle swaddled in darkness. A streak of lightning lit the room for a second and Mary¡¯s heart fluttered. She could just make out her child there in the crib, just a couple feet away. But in that instantaneous moment, Mary saw something else. Just out of view, in the corner of the room, she saw something here that should not be. And she screamed. A second bolt of lightning rent the night sky. Illuminated for the briefest of moments, standing in the corner was another person. Dressed in black from head to toe with a tape recorder in their left hand-- they brought a bloody knife up and unfurled their index finger, pressing it to their lips. "Shh," came from the corner as the room snapped back to black. "The baby is sleeping.¡° And then Mary heard a click and the sound of a baby¡ªnot her baby¡ªcrying filled the air. Clown Hospital CLOWN HOSPITAL Alexis Graham was drawn to curses. Not in the macabre, self-styled witch sort of way where she collected worthless rocks and had an astrology tattoo on her calf. She just got sucked up into them. As long as it didn¡¯t involve dire injury, something in her life always went wrong. From games of musical chairs as a child where the legs broke to $400¡¯s worth of attempts to win a $5 hand of blackjack when she turned twenty-one. No one believed her, but the rental house her family lived in for one year when she was eight was totally haunted by a large, gangly dark shadow. Out of high school, she got her EMT certification and began work on an ambulance in the inner city. They kept four of the emergency vehicles in the bay and Alexis got assigned to the good ¡®ole 103. Violence in West Adams was as frequent as a homeless man taking a dump on the street corner, but only the medics on the 103 ever got hurt. They would suffer someone getting put out of commission on a biweekly basis. It was the only vehicle that ever had a death. Alex kept with her personal tradition and made it through those eight months of work just fine, but not one of her colleagues did. You could call Alex the lucky sort of cursed. She thought for just a second that her life was becoming a bit more normal when she went to nursing school¡ªno wobbly desks, no fetal pigs that were accidently still alive, but she always knew to be on the lookout for the next ill omen to cast a shadow on her life. She didn¡¯t need to keep a lookout because the next curse she got herself involved in practically reeled back, held it there for a second, and then slapped her in the face. Straight out of school and fully certified to save lives, it was easy to find work as a nurse. But it was incredibly difficult to find a job that wasn¡¯t the night shift. But find that magical unicorn of a job Alexis did, accepting a position at St. Miera Memorial and Childrens¡¯ Hospital. She packed up her belongings in the back of a short U-Haul and dove feet first into her new career 250 miles from home. Alex had two days to settle in before orientation on Thursday, and in that time the first murmurings of the curse were in literal bold print. With no wi-fi for the foreseeable future due to a scheduling error on the cable company¡¯s part, she lugged herself down to the library. Near the entrance, the local paper pronounced that ¡°The Miera Curse¡± was getting it¡¯s own Netflix documentary series. Combined with a Google search, the recent history of her new employer spelled ominous in all caps: The ¡°Curse,¡± as it was coined, started almost six years ago in the neonatal unit over Christmas weekend. A newborn, name pending, went missing¡ªa story that had made the national news. Every nurse, doctor, tech, and any visitors were absolutely grilled. No lead was too small and no stone unturned, but no amount of police work or pleading on the six o¡¯clock news turned up any results. Next year, it happened again with an older child. Devonse Williams, age 4, disappeared from pediatrics, December 28th; Three years ago: Ashlyn Frye, age three, December 24th; Two years ago, Dvonde Brown, age six; The previous year, Benjamin Baldwin, premature on New Year¡¯s night. The newspaper¡¯s announcement that the feds were getting involved didn¡¯t surprise Alex. Apparently last year saw a steep decline in births and treatment at the hospital for patients under the age of ten. Parents would rather go out of network-- which was saying something. And that was the thing: no one knew. Every year saw more security, more cameras, less privacy. The crash carts were thrown out, mattresses thinned down. If it was big enough to hide a child in, St. Miera¡¯s now forbade it. By Thanksgiving of this year, the hospital would be instituting pat downs. By Christmas, the hospital was expected to have full body scanners straight from the TSA. The governor had passed an order allowing the hospital to bypass fire and safety codes and do away with emergency exits for crying out loud. The hospital administrator had made a pledge, ¡°The Devil himself couldn¡¯t get in or out of the building without us knowing,¡± but Alex had to scowl. She was here, and that meant things wouldn¡¯t work out that simply. But it was summer and she¡¯d have plenty of time to prepare herself for whatever hellishness awaited. December 25th, 2:07 P.M. The average high security prison was more expedient (both in and out) than St. Miera¡¯s today. Alexis pulled her sleeve back and calculated how late she would be as the line moved up a single pace. No special privileges for employees, no way around the pat downs and the single x-ray machine for the entry line; it was all the same in the opposite direction. Alex craned her body to the side in a half moon trying to get a peak. It was always slow, but this was just ridiculous. The problem presented itself in the largest man Alex had ever seen. His patchy auburn hair had stuck up in the line as he was a head higher than anyone else, but only now as two guards patted his massive frame could she see the absolute girth of him. He had to be at least 500 pounds. She hadn¡¯t worked long as a nurse yet, but she knew what that body size looked like already. This guy¡¯s proportions were more front heavy than the rotund shape she¡¯d seen however, almost like his stomach distended from starvation. A woman was rifling through his duffle bag pulling out an unusual assortment of belongings: bright colored scarfs, a spray bottle, a limp piece of plastic that looked like it might inflate into a hammer. The clown. Alex had heard about him. He came less than he used to, but the clown never failed to come during Christmas week to attempt to cheer up the children. They confiscated his duffle bag and the line took one thumping step forward. ¡°His name?¡± Alex¡¯s work friend Lindsay laughed as they exited the handoff together. ¡°I guess he hasn¡¯t been here in a while. It¡¯s not surprising, last time I saw him he seemed to be in agonizing pain whenever he moved. His clown name is Red, we all call him Herring behind his back. ¡°Red Herring?¡± They couldn¡¯t be serious. Lindsay read her face like a batting coach stealing signs. ¡°You were about to declare him the murderer, weren¡¯t you?¡± Lindsay¡¯s voice dropped to a mute whisper as she spoke, Alex having to do some lip reading to double check. The topic was hammered home in orientation: leave it to the police, never bring it up. If a single word about the series of missing children ended up on your social media, you were gone. Calling the disappearances a murder was surely a red fucking line. ¡°The first three times it happened,¡± Lindsay continued, ¡°Herring got a lot of heat. I wasn¡¯t here the first year¡ªI came in to fill all the firings that happened¡ªbut I heard the police tore through his home without a warrant, and I mean tore. The rest of the conversation would have to wait. The two departed down opposite hallways to begin their rounds. As Alex came back to the island an hour later, finally ready to take a deep breath, she saw her first glimpse of the clown. Red, as Alex was not ready to concede he was a herring, lumbered down the hall in full face paint, his magical affectations bundled together in his arms. Not once in her life had Alex seen clowns as anything but creepy, but Red managed to beat the rap. He had an almost Santa-Clause like quality with much of his face naturally so rosy that extra paint beyond white wasn¡¯t needed. Added to this, his apparent inability to paint the fat rolls on his neck gave a pitiable quality to the man. ¡°You¡¯ve been here, who do you think it is?¡± Lindsay shook her head and hunched over the computer in a way to block off as many of the staff from getting a good look at her. ¡°It¡¯s pricklier than ever today, and you¡¯re asking me that?¡± Alex grinned. There was no one more prone to gossip than nurses. It didn¡¯t take prodding, just ten more seconds of silence. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Someone who works here, has access to the crematorium or something like it. You¡¯ve seen what security looks like; it¡¯s impossible to get anyone out of here.¡± ¡°Just murder then?¡± Alex didn¡¯t like it. This was all too complicated to be a flight of fancy. The news would fear monger on about the occasional nurse or doctor who went off the handle and murdered a dozen patients with their medical knowledge over the course of a year, but that seemed like a crime of convenience. ¡°Murder. Molestation. Cannibalism. Whatever it is, it¡¯s someone¡ª¡± Lindsay shut her mouth as her peripherals picked up movement. Alex made to look busy as a white coat came by. She wasn¡¯t a usual doctor on this floor though, just someone Alex had seen in passing in the elevator or cafeteria. Sallow complexion for what it was, thick round glasses, hair pulled into such a tight bun that it strained the forehead. ¡°Doctor Nguyen,¡± Lindsay breathed as she passed by. ¡°Important woman, filling in today. Apparently Dr. Appeldorn had a psychotic break or something. Might be dead, might have quit. Either way we¡¯re short.¡± ¡°She¡¯s in. . .? ¡°Surgeon. A really good one. If she¡¯s helping today, she volunteered for it. No hospital is going to waste its top talent with mediocre work like this.¡± ¡°Maybe she just wanted to see the clown,¡± Alex said, and then the two got back to work with a single fleeting smile. Not all the rooms were filled but St. Miera¡¯s was at capacity with the staff it had. They couldn¡¯t hold a single child more, legally. So Alex rubbed her eyes and did a double-take to try and read the chart again. Looking down at the newly admitted five-year-old girl in the wheelchair, Alex gave her a comforting smile and a less comforting shrug. "Let''s find a room for you then?" Clipping the chart onto the back of the wheelchair, Alex steered the little girl around a gurney, two arguing techs, and Doctor Nguyen who was rushing in the opposite direction. The brave little soldier in her seat watched the chaos with saucered eyes and blank expression, at least at first. The next person they passed made the little girl retract. Her hands quivered, her feet scrunched up to her butt, and her shoulders slapped the back of the chair as a red grinning clown shambled on by. ¡°Hospital clowns are a real thing, believe it or not,¡± Alex said. ¡°I looked it up.¡± As if a Wikipedia entry was the mark of normalcy.¡± Polly. That was this kid¡¯s name; her chart said Pauline. She was admitted with a small scrape to her elbow and hemophilia. As Polly was happy to share, she had just gotten really excited opening presents and got her feet tangled up in a sweater sent in the mail by grandma and thrown aside. For that sin alone, she¡¯d have to be watched until tomorrow. It was with her admittance that the shift began to skew off-kilter. Alex wasn¡¯t wrong and they were indeed at capacity, but in the hubbub and chaos, a clerical error had been made: Polly was assigned, when she shouldn¡¯t have been, to a taken bed while its patient was a floor below in X-ray. Any other day, the double booking would have been fixed easily enough when that other boy got brought back, but that wouldn¡¯t happen. Not today. Mr. Red ended his juggling. Silhouetted against the window to a grey sky, he caught three saline bags to sparse applause from the tweens in the room. He bowed from the waist as low as his bulbous gut would allow, not letting the reception damage his ego, too much. He was there for them after all. The kids were at the age where clowns were transforming from scary to lame, so Mr. Red knew he had to follow up the expected with something magnificent. "And for my next trick¨C" he began in his ever-present somber tone, interrupted by the door swinging open. "There you are, I was looking for you," a man said dressed in the navy-blue security guard uniform of the hospital. His name tag read Vinh. ¡°If you want to go to another room, you let me know; you¡¯re not getting out of my sight.¡± Mr. Red¡¯s painted-on smile turned blue. ¡°Oh ho!¡± he shouted, miraculously holding his monotone speech, his eyes pallid with the years smudging the twinkle that resided there for every true children¡¯s entertainer. ¡°The lad is so excited to see every one of my tricks, he won¡¯t let me get away.¡± Mr. Red held out his heads to be cuffed. His head thrown back in mock submission. Vihn moved to swat away the hands with clubbed sausages for fingers and heard a faint click as he did. He pulled backed in astonishment seeing a cuff clamped down on his wrist, and with the size of the clown, he was pulled like a Dachshund on a leash as the other cuff locked over a bed¡¯s siderail. The kid¡¯s cheered at that, they really did, and Mr. Red smiled. It was a better trick than he had planned, and even though the kids couldn¡¯t be consciously aware of the inherent comedy in subverting authority, he was pleased to find the humor so universal. And then the uppity security guard named Vihn screamed. He yelped bloody murder. ¡°Hey, cool it kid, these aren¡¯t real cuffs.¡± Mr. Red leaned in with a reassuring hand on the guard¡¯s back. ¡°Cheap magic props? See the little switch on the side right there? Just hold that.¡± The calm logic of the situation took over and Vihn whimpered to a seething silence. He brought his hands together and flicked the switch. Just like that, he was out but the damage was already done. The kids looking on in a traumatized kind of shock was bad enough, but behind him the door burst open with a kick. The new nurse was first: Alexis. Cute in a nontraditional kind of way, bit gossipy. And within two seconds after that, five others had poured in, including two doctors. He had expected as much; people were on edge this time of year without the Miera Curse. The excitement forced Mr. Red to retreat, hold his belly and cough a full lunged cough¡ªhe was no smoker, that was for sure. Alexis was on the clown already, the second he could breathe. ¡°Just what were you doing here, you creepy mother fu¡ª¡± she paused to look at the kids, oldest in the bunch eleven which was old enough, but still. ¡°--funny guy.¡± She finished. The clown stayed silent, but the rest of the room had erupted into so much noise that she couldn¡¯t make sense of it all. The security guard, Vihn, was babbling on, trying to address three people at once. He looked scared, some pleading in his eyes. She¡¯d definitely find out what he screwed up later. Nurses Lav and Dave were already among the kids, trying to keep them calm, checking for any injuries or clues under that pretense. The cacophony came to a head as the security chief pushed his way into the room. Big burly grey mustache, mutton chops. ¡°What¡¯s the matter here? Eh? You¡¯re one of mine, let me hear it.¡± It was awkward for the security chief to give precedence to him over the doctors in the room, but Vihn spoke up. ¡°I overreacted.¡± ¡°Ho? How so?¡± It was inappropriate to have this conversation in such a public forum, but Alex was curious too. With the state the hospital was in, the alternative was probably a lockdown. ¡°I¡ªI was following the clown for the obvious reasons, and I got jumpy.¡± His boss really wasn¡¯t going to let that stand, he could see it. ¡°Freaked out about a magic trick, it¡¯s silly.¡± ¡°Obvious, eh?¡± The chief really was a man of few words. ¡°With me then. We¡¯ll have a talk. Apologies to everyone else, go about your business.¡± The two stopped by the elevator, and Vihn could feel the heat pouring over his cheeks. ¡°You¡¯ve been here three years.¡± ¡°Yes sir.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a fuck up.¡± ¡°Yes¡ªsir.¡± ¡°You get my point, boy?¡± Vihn couldn¡¯t look him in the eye. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°No you don¡¯t. Look at me,¡± the chief said. Vihn did not. ¡°Your dad worked here for twenty years, God rest his soul, and despite the short staffing, he¡¯s the only reason you got the job. Be more like him, will you? ¡°Be like him how. . . ?¡± ¡°For Christsake¡¯s, I¡¯m not asking you to hang yourself or feel an unaccountable amount of guilt. Start by leaving the clown alone. Stand in places where people can see you. Help when you are asked to help.¡± By every and all account, Doctor Nguyen was the god of St. Miera¡¯s and higher on the ladder than any patron saint. Even this floor, one alien to her was now her domain. She stood absolute, and on an overworked Christmas day where the staff worried about rapers and murderers, she paid those factors no mind at all. The other doctors might as well have groveled the way they stared at the floor during her passing. Nguyen was here because of her mother, in a way. As a first-generation immigrant M? Nguyen had imparted her wisdom to her one and only child: ¡°They¡¯ll fuck you if they get the chance, so don¡¯t give them one,¡± ¡°Do whatever you want because they¡¯ll still fuck you if you do the right thing,¡± and of course, ¡°You¡¯re going to be a doctor, don¡¯t fucking argue.¡± Safe to say M? Nguyen had a singular viewpoint on the world, but it was all advice that Doctor Nguyen was following today. This hospital had given her benefits and opportunities no other would, academic liberties and resources to indulge her curiosity. Either someone would need to take the blame for the kidnappings, rightful or not, or Doctor Nguyen would just have to resign herself to making the most of the time she had here left. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°Well? What is it?¡± Nguyen snapped as a young nurse entered her office. ¡°It¡¯s. Um. The clown. He¡¯s. . . off.¡± The doctor opened her hand like feeding a piece of cheese to a dog and the nurse obeyed. ¡°It¡¯s Alexis. Alex.¡± ¡°Right, Alex. I have to be in surgery in about forty minutes, and this means that we¡¯re going to be even shorter staffed. You know what I¡¯m doing right now?¡± Alex shook her head. ¡°Of course you don¡¯t, I¡¯m trying to get someone here to cover, maybe for the surgery because that would be easier believe it or not. The last thing I need to deal with is a bloody clown." The doctor''s brows knit as she whipped her head back to Alexis. "Even if we weren''t busy, what could possibly possess you to come to me. To bother me of all people. Call up administration, their time is worth much less." "You think I should then? Call admin I mean?" "This is a consult now? You just came in so you could say I agreed?" Doctor Nguyen stood, ripped the coat off the back of her chair and threw it over her shoulders, rushing past Alex in the span of two seconds. "Unless you come up with the evidence to put him in the electric chair, forget the clown and do your job," her voice trailed off as it shifted away like a speeding train. To Alex, it sounded as much as an invitation as an admonition. "Bleh. Blurgh. Blah." The sounds of exaggerated vomiting emitted from Mr. Red¡¯s cavernous body as one scarf after the other sprang from his throat. As the final ribbon fell to the floor joining the other two feet of cloth, the clown gave a mild shrug. "Well, there you go. Magic." The two children in this room looked on in dumbfounded stupor. In truth, their blase reaction to the trick matched Mr. Red¡¯s own understated presentation, so all things were equal. "How about. . ." Mr. Red trailed off, looking out to the hallway absentmindedly. In a fit, he gave a rattling cough and then sniffed. He pulled the chart off the bed and looked it over, the faintest hint of skepticism in his droopy face. "The doctor thinks you had an allergic reaction to the food here? I think anyone would be allergic to this food.¡± Crickets. ¡°I¡¯m qualified to make that diagnosis. I went to med school and clown school, I''m what you call an osteopath." Mr. Red¡¯s baggy eyes looked around the room, apparently expecting a laugh or two. He regretted not having something to write with (only so much space to carry stuff in), that was a joke he wanted to use again. Licking his lips, the clown nodded. "How about we just do balloon animals?'' Reaching inside his stained yellow jumper, Mr. Red pulled out a small gas canister. "Who likes snakes?" Vihn sat in the break room. For security, that was in the basement. He spun the can of Sprite on it¡¯s axis, just watching the drops of dew slither down the sides. He looked at his texts and shook his head, turning the phone off. The security chief was right; Vihn was not cut out to be in any job that required snap decisions. He had no gut for it, no confidence, and this job only made it worse. He had seen what his dad¡¯s last few years had done to him like so many others in this place. Everyone oozing with personal responsibility, In that way, Vihn was lucky. He lacked the competency to feel responsible, like he was along for the ride as those above him made the big decisions, as those around him fixed the real problems. Alex opened the door to room 3 and discovered the small space littered with poorly crafted twists of air and plastic. They bounced on the ground in a depressed state, like the most unfortunate residents of the local pound that would never get adopted. "Oh you again," Mr. Red said without even looking her way. "Great timing. We can end with a joke. What did one cannibal say to the other as they ate a clown?" Mr. Red gave the nurse three seconds to answer, gave the children two seconds more. "Does this taste funny?" The kids were only six, but they laughed anyway, a dullness in their face that questioned whether they really got it. "I''ll be right back," nurse Alex said, "I have a call to make." Only seconds after she was out the door, Mr. Red slapped his thighs and hefted his massive gut up. "Thanks, I''ll be here all week. I really will." Grabbing his gas canister that jingled with a metallic ping, Mr. Red moved on to the next room. And who did he find but little Miss Polly. She sat in her bed staring out the window. As his footsteps thudded on the floor, she adjusted her gaze to this new aberration and retracted in her bed, terrified. "I remember you," Mr. Red said. "Or I should say, I don''t." He chuckled for real this time. "I was in here earlier and you were not. In fact, the boy who was in your bed? He¡¯s getting his x-ray¡¯s done, right here.¡± Mr. Red pointed to the right side of his chest. I dare say, you are in someone else''s bed." He slowly fetched a chair and pulled it by her bedside. "This won''t do at all." He pulled the curtain just so, blocking the view to the door. He placed the gas canister on the nightstand with a thunk and she retreated to the very edge of her bed. Mr. Red brought out the ribbons of cloth and stripped them away, leaving a thick spool of thread that had joined them together. As the girl watched with quivering eyes, he wetted the end and attached a needle before placing it in his lap. From his sleeve, he brought out the balloon filler and twisted the cap, a scalpel falling out. Finally, from a pocket of his jumpsuit, he pulled out a syringe, an opaque mixture sloshing inside. And then he smiled. "Do you want to see the magic trick I learned in medical school? How to make a little girl, disappear." Nurse Alex¡¯s feet churned up smoke as she found someone who could help. Vihn had just stepped out of the elevator, rested up and ready for the crush. He wasn¡¯t remotely what she wanted, but he represented the only choice without making a fuss. She opted for the fuss. Shaking her head, she stomped back to the island, ready to call the reinforcements proper. Her shoulder brushed against the clown¡¯s elbow as he emerged from Polly¡¯s room. She¡¯d have to check on the girl after, lord knew a visit from that thing making jokes about cannibals would scar her for life. Sweat dripped down one side of her neck as she and the clown walked to the island together; it was like walking next to a horse, except this horse and kept it¡¯s eyes on you. They passed Polly¡¯s room and Alex couldn¡¯t see anything but the curtain from the small square porthole window. She slid into her rolling chair and zipped to the intercom. Her body was stiff like a log and she was conscious of how tense it was, conscious that the clown would see her and suspect. ¡°Alrighty then,¡± Mr. Red said, rubbing his hands together. I¡¯m going to head out for the day. Have plans tomorrow, but I¡¯ll be back the day after. Keep those kiddos happy and thinking of Santa for me. Santa visits hospitals all the time, not just Christmas.¡± He chuckled and began putting the effects he¡¯d stored on the desks in his arms. Alex had halted, glaring him down, studying the little details. He looked the same, had no weird bulges in his pocket, or bulges in his jump suit that weren¡¯t already there. She cursed and let go of the button, not willing to sound the alarm. What was a little dark humor really? The kids probably heard three ¡®fucks¡¯ a day from nurses not watching what they said in the hallways. And it wasn¡¯t like Red was ashamed making that joke in front of her, the staff probably already knew what his sense of humor entailed. She should let it go. Biting her tongue, Alexis gave up. As the clown shuffled for the elevator, she decided peek in on Polly. Best to mitigate any damage if possible. Doctor Nguyen emerged with a radiology tech wheeling out a transport bed. Two boys were in the room now. ¡°Where did you move the girl?¡± ¡°The girl?¡± Nguyen said. Unlike so many people who would lean down a bit, peer over their glasses to analyze, to show disapproval, Nguyen did the opposite. Her head bobbed up and she looked at Alex through the full scope of her spectacles like they were magnifying glasses honing in on the most hidden imperfection. ¡°Not a good day to mix up the rooms, nurse. Take your break if you have one." "No stop. Everyone stop!" Alex said, her voice cracking. "There was a girl in there, Pauline. I put a tiny little five-year-old girl in there and now she''s gone. That," Alex¡¯s index finger jabbed violently in Mr. Red¡¯s direction, slowly making his way to the elevator, "thing¨C he was the last to see her." The sound that came from Nguyen¡¯s throat sounded like a phlem covered grunt. "I was just checking the x-ray results. This room has been those two kids since yesterday. The documentation is on the door, it¡¯s at the foot of their beds.¡± "No! It was open. I put a girl there two hours ago.¡± "You couldn¡¯t have done that," Doctor Nguyen said, her lips finely pursed. "But I did." Alex¡¯s voice was becoming more frantic by the second. "She¡¯s gone. And psycho clown here is the last one to see her. I know it." Mr. Red turned to stare down the hallway his eyes squinting into straight slits. He heard someone say something about him, he just didn¡¯t know what. He shook his head and used the tip of his thumb to press the call button again, lest he press both buttons at once. Alex stormed down the hall, pointing at him. "He''s a big guy wearing a giant-ass jumpsuit. He could be hiding her in there! You don''t know!" Vihn sidled uncomfortably next to Mr. Red, watching the procession as Nguyen followed, each step hitting the floor like a dropped knife. The clown looked down at him and he shuddered but stayed. The doors opened and the clown was already moving, but Vihn held his hand out in a show of force that was more symbolic than physical, and yet it was the most decisive thing he had ever done in his life. Now everyone was together by the elevator, with a ring of the other nurses and techs and medics gravitating over. ¡°This is ridiculous,¡± Nguyen said. ¡°Look up the patient¡¯s room in the system before you start accusing others for your mistakes.¡± ¡°No,¡± Alex wheeled on the doctor like no one in this hospital had done in sixteen years. ¡°Today of all days! We¡¯re not taking chances. Clown, take off your jump suit.¡± The clown pulled his baggy yellow jumpsuit with pink pom poms tight, outline his gargantuan belly and moobs, you couldn¡¯t call the fat that rolled over his waist a muffin; he was rocking a full-on stack of pancakes. It didn¡¯t satisfy her and the audience was growing-- a fact that Nguyen realized as well as she divorced herself from the situation and left. The clown chuckled and acquiesced, leaning over and placing his collection of gags on top of a rolling defibrillator. The room hushed as his fingers rose to the zipper, grasping it like a toothpick. He slowly unzipped his jumper with the speed and presentation of someone in his profession. The drama! Alex held her breath as the first vestiges of a red undershirt appeared, sweaty and glued to his skin. It stopped halfway down his torso and from there a large tract of pocky skin under a light dusting of brown hair crested. He didn¡¯t make it far enough down for his belly to flop out before she held her hand up begging for him to stop. What had she expected? A sumo suit from the local Halloween shop? Really? The heat started in her toes and by the time the jumper was zipped all the way up she felt like she was on fire. The clown smiled with jagged teeth; he saw the shame on display before the entire floor, and he didn¡¯t hesitate to capitalize on it, addressing the room: ¡°Shall I do anything else for you? Sing a song? Do a jig. Pole dance?¡± He said that last bit with the sultry jiggle of his hips. ¡°Maybe some quarters will fall out of my fat rolls, maybe some children too. This hospital didn¡¯t have these problems when I worked here.¡± He was gone. Down to the lobby like that and the crowd dispersed. Alex stood in place, staring at nothing for what felt like ages, an eternity that lasted until Vihn interrupted, ¡°Come on. If you can¡¯t find someone we need to look together. Not a good day to lose track.¡± Alex nodded, about to follow him, but her feet refused. They rooted and she looked up. ¡°What did he mean? When he said these problems didn¡¯t exist when he worked here.¡± ¡°Oh, that. My dad mentioned it. He used to be a doctor here, chief surgeon before Nguyen took over. Stuffed into a drawer? Sewn into the mattress? Alex had made her share of assumptions as the clown stripped, revealing nothing underneath the jumpsuit but his bare skin, but he was a surgeon, dammit. Or he had been. "Oh fuck me." Vihn didn¡¯t appear to have the faintest clue or comprehension as Alex jammed the down button. ¡°Don¡¯t let him leave!¡± She ran for the stair well now. She took the stairs two at a time, three at a time, her heals sliding on the end, falling with such momentum that she never stopped. She burst into the lobby rounded her way to the entrance. Thank God the clown was still there, stuck in the check out line, being patted down, the would-be-TSA agent moving from his gut to his leg interior. Neither of the men saw her coming. She darted forward like a cheetah about to ambush a mastodon. Mr. Red recognized the attack as it happened but he wasn¡¯t famous for his speed. Alex leapt up and had the zipper in his grasp, gravity bringing them both down. She stripped him down to his ankles in one fell swoop, close enough now to recognize a pungent odor that slid off his body. He looked the same as before, barring the extra nudity, but she knew. Oh did she know. There was only way to get a child out of this hospital, one possible explanation that no one had considered because it was that sick. ¡°Get off of me!¡± Alex screamed. Two guards yanked her backwards. She flailed and twisted but their arms had curved around her chest now, containing her fully. Her feet flailed in the air impotently. The world was a blur of light and sound. She didn¡¯t know who was saying what, but Mr. Red was zipping back up and receiving apologies. ¡°Make him take off that undershirt. It¡¯s not sweaty, it¡¯s bloody. It¡¯s fucking bloody.¡± Alex¡¯s experience on the ambulance wasn¡¯t life threatening carnage like she made it out to be when she had a crowd to entertain. She would come home to her parents after the long shifts with all sorts of stories that were more interesting or downright odd. Once, the senior medic in her van once played ice cream truck music as they drove from a call; the station brought a dog back and nursed it to health; babies were born in the back of the van. One particular baby she¡¯d talked about every chance she got in nursing school: The One-O-Three had picked up a large woman complaining of cramps. The symptoms seemed benign enough to the point that Alex had rolled her eyes that they had to ferry this woman to the hospital. Only the symptoms were a little too severe, a little too specific. Her senior had suggested Braxton Hicks, a sort of pseudo birthing contractions. Only the woman insisted she wasn¡¯t pregnant. But the thing was: She was. And it wasn¡¯t Braxton Hicks, it was full on birthing contractions. The crowd in the foyer wasn¡¯t the normal crowd of familiar faces this time of year. They were federal agents, contractors, a state police officer. Alex was prepared for the worst but got to hold on with bated breath as they complied. Mr. Red resisted before moving into a dumbfounded quiet as they started at the bottom of that musty red shirt and pulled it up past his mits. And just there, at the top of the belly where the fat rolled in on itself, Alex saw something she recognized, something anyone with common sense would recognize: a couple of stitches. They had let her go at this point, and she took that initiative. There could have been cleaner, neater, more sanitary ways of doing it, but no one stopped her. She marched up to the clown and plunged her fingers right in. The needlework ripped out of the skin and the fat unrolled showing more and more stitches. His stomach opened up across the top like a high Cesarian. And Alex plunged her hands right in. His stomach cavity was warm, moist, constricting, but she found her way immediately, grasping the exact thing she felt for. The clown screamed and someone was on her again, trying to stop her. But it was too late. Everyone could sit on their asses and watch the miracle of life in action. Alex put her back into it and heaved, and from the red goo of his innards and past the yellow flecks of fat that she pulled with her, a small girl emerged, headfirst into a bright and shining world. Alex fell back with Polly who slept sedated, an oxygen mask attached to her face. As they lay there on the floor together, Alex howled with laughter. The follow-up was as messy as the ordeal. Questions, interviews, a mandated seminar on the correct procedure for dealing with open wounds. None of it mattered. For the first time in her life, Alex hadn¡¯t been a bystander to the horror and left as the cursed went on to spin its dark webs, she had broken it. Deep inside, she knew that it was more than symbolic: something had changed in her life. The sky was brighter, the nights less dim. Alex had never considered herself a scared person, but she could see that she had arrived out the other end of a tunnel, past a guillotine that had been over her head without realizing. It wasn¡¯t a journey of self-discovery for everyone. She wasn¡¯t told the specifics, but Vihn had quit, right out the door without giving his two weeks¡¯ notice. Meanwhile, Alex got some time off and didn¡¯t have to come back to the hospital until New Year¡¯s Day where she was hailed as a hero. The clown hadn¡¯t spoken, the searches hadn¡¯t turned up any information about the previous missing children year after year, but that would come in time. As she clocked out and went through the handoff, Alex got in the elevator, joining Doctor Nguyen. ¡°Lobby is good.¡± It would be easy to get out today, all the security measures had finally been lifted. There¡¯d be more than there was six years ago, no getting around that, but Alex wouldn¡¯t need to be molested to get out of the building, so that was nice. ¡°Already headed there,¡± Nguyen said from her perch in front of the buttons. The two women gave a stoic nod and went silent. At least at first. ¡°You¡¯re quiet the talk of the town.¡± Alex blushed and only nodded back. ¡°You knew the clown right? Back when he was a surgeon?¡± ¡°Of course. Everyone in the hospital did. He was the talk of the town back then. Taught me a lot of what I know.¡± The sides of Nguyen¡¯s mouth puckered into an invisible grin. ¡°I was no slouch though; I¡¯d like to think I taught him some things too.¡± ¡°Like?¡± The question jolted Nguyen up right. ¡°You¡¯re an oddly perceptive woman. Not the kind you see in the world. Sure you aren¡¯t in the wrong profession? There¡¯s a few other cold cases in town that could use your eyes. Maybe you¡¯ll be the one to find those other missing children? Wouldn¡¯t that be something?¡± Alex shrugged, the blush fading as there seemed to be something embedded in all the compliments she couldn¡¯t quite place. ¡°I¡¯ve always preferred helping people, preventing their disasters. Hard to do that with a chalk outline.¡± ¡°A true bleeding heart.¡± Nguyen nodded. The elevator pinged and Alex took a step forward as Nguyen moved aside to let her go first. But Alex stopped on the threshold; this was the basement. A prick caught her in the place between neck and clavicle and her mind swum in the dark seas. Alex woke instantly without a hint of grogginess or after affect. She was lucid and aware, her brain transfixed on her body¡¯s position. Straps hugged her torso tight, restraints clasping her hands and feet tight to the bed. Even her head was fixed in place, the feel of cool leather running across her forehead. What she could see of the sterile room could only be accomplished by straining her eyes to the left or right to the point of pain. ¡°Good evening, Alexis,¡± Doctor Nguyen¡¯s voice sounded through reverberating speakers. Alex could just see her in the next room, an observation post with push to talk capabilities. ¡°What¡¯s? What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°Come now. You¡¯re a promising young woman, more capable than any detective that has ever graced this town. You tell me.¡± The terror sunk in now. She had been awake for thirty seconds, thirty seconds of compounding fact upon fact of just how screwed she was. She didn¡¯t know the nexus of her terror yet, why Nguyen had done this, why anything¡ªshe just knew she was screwed. ¡°Why?¡± Her voice came out meak. In a whimper. ¡°That old clod got the children for me, of course. I don¡¯t hold your discovery against you¡ªdenying me my hobbies, but I¡¯ve paid close attention since then and you are a liability. I¡¯m just as likely to be next for the electric chair if you stick around. Ironically, the missing children have been a smoke screen as I push the others out, dispose of them. People are so keen to contribute the stresses of the job when they find a man hanging. ¡°You?¡± ¡°Me? Yes, me. I became a surgeon because it¡¯s what my mother wanted. She needed that money in the family to feel secure, but I realized within my first couple weeks of residency how soul crushing it all was. Too late to go back, even if I did want to pursue a degree in psychology. But then I realized, a degree is only the approval of others, and I had already surpassed my colleagues in every way. The one true barrier to psychological experimentation is the ethics you know.¡± ¡°Someone will find us. You can¡¯t just keep me here.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t I?¡± Alex couldn¡¯t bear to look in that woman¡¯s direction anymore, but the smugness in her tone was enough to chafe. ¡°The first two years I had Doctor Talwar (I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve heard the clown¡¯s name in the news by now) grab subjects, we used a back door in the crematorium. With security gone, thanks to you I might add, I could use that again. We aren¡¯t in the hospital. No one is coming.¡± Alex needed to keep talking. It was the only thing. Someone would come, she just needed to buy time. ¡°The clown, Doctor Talwar? He had the same interests as you, psychologically speaking?¡± ¡°Not at all. It started with me nudging him out of his position. He was my first experiment, and while he has certainly paid dividends, the coulrophobia and fatalistic obesity were unfortunate divergencies, even if we found their uses.¡± ¡°And the kids? What have you done with them.¡± Alex heard the clicking of a tongue as Nguyen shook her head. ¡°You haven¡¯t noticed yet?¡± Alex had noticed, in some obscured subconscious part of her mind. The room was dim, her head constrained, but at the very tip of her vision, down below the gurney a guttural part of her had detected movement, movement and shadow. ¡°Did you know the record for an adult man staying awake without sleep is eleven days? I¡¯ve managed twenty-two with the correct preparation and a young mind, Alex. The things they tell you, the things they see.¡± Alex¡¯s heart was ready to explode, her skin turned ice cold. The shadows on the edge of her reality stirred. A small, dark hand worked its way up the side of her bed and Alex looked away. She felt the rock of the gurney as they clawed their way up. Her eyes clenched shut, not wanting to see what they were. Their breath blew around her, it stank of rot and fettered meat and dampened the air with its presence. Tiny hands work their way up her body and she screamed as their sharp nails dug through her skin merely by grabbing at her scrubs. They came up and up, she felt their presences all around. A weight rested in her upper belly, expelling any air she held. She opened her eyes to see the fruits of Nguyen¡¯s work. The thing reached forward to her chest and dug into her skin. ¡°Bleeding heart indeed,¡± Nguyen said. The Midnight Meat Store When you¡¯re feeling a might bit hungry and rabbit food won¡¯t pass. When you¡¯re needing the finest cuts of something that eats grass. That¡¯s when you come to The Meat Store. We¡¯ve got pork, cow, and chicken. Pretty much anything but kitten. Why don¡¯t you come down to the Meat Store? The Meat Store, your local butcher, the name in meat. Open 24 hours a day for your, meat, emergencies. The deep bassy voice of the narrator ends with the commercial. A faint click sounds. Perhaps a mistake in editing. The Meat Store hardly has the money for a professional help, whether that be writing or editing: it isn¡¯t a chain and never will be. The only commercial they¡¯ve ever filmed plays on public access, late, late at night. But within the thirty-mile radius of San Mattiu Nevada that the commercial does play, there isn¡¯t a soul who hasn¡¯t seen, or at least heard, about the store. The pig that sings the commercial-- standing upright on two legs and dressed in blue overalls¡ª looks like an effect out of Hollywood. The store¡¯s notoriety is also boosted by the fact that they really do have some quality bacon. ### Abraham Kerkullah¡¯s wife Adelina loved to cook, God save this tale from the misguided Bechdel enthusiasts. There were certainly other things we could point out about her: she was a competent, albeit somewhat under achieving attorney; she had a passion for making one-foot-tall sculptures made from local hobby store clay; and she was an even tempered, stress-free woman¡ªnormally. On this day in particular, she was scared to death of spending time with Abraham¡¯s parents. On Abraham¡¯s side, he knew a good thing when he saw it. Their courtship was a whirlwind resulting on him getting down on one knee six months in, with the ring he ordered still not arrived. A month later and they were married. Adaline was also scared of meeting his parents on their wedding day, but luckily for her that¡¯s not the type of thing the bride has time for, not in any appreciable way. In truth, they probably overdid it. She had a decent job working with a small boutique firm, he had an. . . okay job as a radiologist; not at a hospital, just a small clinic in a strip mall store front where you could get some extra tests done when the insurance company felt generous. Despite finances that would otherwise put them in the middle class, they were eight months into paying off that marriage ceremony. The alternative was to not give Adeline everything she ever wanted which was pretty much out of the question by their second date. So Abraham worked late on the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve, if you will. He closed shop at seven. From there, he stopped by the jewelry store just as they were closing. He didn¡¯t feel like starting an argument when they told him to come back: ¡°Don¡¯t worry, we¡¯re open until two tomorrow.¡± He¡¯d fine time on his lunch break; he didn¡¯t have a choice. With the commute, it was 11:00 at night when he finally crossed the threshold back into the comfort of his own home. The lights glared at this hour, a waft of steam and smoke held on the ceiling clawing its ways upstairs. A shallow sniff told him something was burning. ¡°Abraham!¡± Adaline yelled from the kitchen. He bent down and pulled a shoe off. ¡°I¡¯m here baby. Give me a sec.¡± ¡°I got distracted with the hors d''oeuvres and the ham got burnt. I¡¯m going to need you to get me another.¡± Abraham braced himself on the couch, used his socked toes to remove the second shoe and re-ran those words through the old mental processor. ¡°Right now?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not taking tomorrow off and your parents are going to be here. Has to be right this very second, honey.¡± ¡°Momma can help you tomorrow.¡± As the words left his lips, Abraham knew his fate was sealed. ¡°Hell no. Either you go get a honey-soaked ham, or you come finish the sweet potato casserole and green beans while I go. Everything needs to be cooked, or ready to be cooked, the second I get home.¡± Nothing to do but get it done. ¡°I¡¯m on it girl.¡± Abraham looked out the window at the slow snow drifting through the blur of colored lights. He couldn¡¯t deny the cool air would do him more good than this stuffy, burnt end bits house. ¡°Shit. I haven¡¯t been to the gym in three weeks. I¡¯m going to walk it. The Meat Store is only a mile away.¡± Adeline glided in from the kitchen. Or maybe she flew. Whatever she did, she didn¡¯t walk, because no angel Abraham ever heard of walked. She kissed him on both cheeks and returned to her work, disappearing with that same awe-inspiring radiance¡ªhair wrap, lotion plastered under the eyes and all. As much time as he had spent indoors this past month, the walk was just the thing Abraham needed. The crunch of crystalline snow under his loafers was music. The noise started low and bassy, and right as the full weight of him came down, the final pop of the ice was sweet and high. The lingering burning evacuated his nostrils and his soul danced at the prospect of getting out of an hour of kitchen drudgery. The mile short walk to the Meat Store delivered as promised. Abraham could feel the tension in his shoulders melt away. The smell came first. Built on the north end of the city, the Meat Store was equal parts urban and rural, with the fetid smell of swine hammering home the rural to the surrounding housing market. Those that lived around adjusted. A couple hours around any barn and the smell becomes undetectable¡ªthe human brain/nose combination is a deliverance in that one instance. And if the prospect of the Meat Store was still too much for homeowners, that¡¯s okay. The Meat Store was here first, so they knew what they were getting into. Coming up along Poplar Street, Abraham walked passed the silos and barn that stood tall as monuments across the fenced in yard behind the store. In warmer months, pigs crowded the yard, oddly respectful with the noises they made, respecting their neighbor¡¯s sleep cycles. Maybe some cows and chickens joined them. Adeline had once sworn she saw an emu driving home for work. They did sell emu after all. With a whistle on his lips, Abraham strutted across the parking lot and inside to be bathed in the yellowed fluorescent lights what bore the aesthetic of a locally owned international grocery store. Find one near you, you¡¯ll get the gist real fast (and better food than your used to, to boot). Abraham took a spin around the aisles inspecting the slabs, balls, and bits of meat from every animal he had ever heard of. He knew what he was here for and didn¡¯t plan to keep his wife waiting for more than he should, but there were only three aisles to peruse¡ªno harm in that. Sliding up to the counter, he slapped his hand down, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the Jew working behind the counter. ¡°Give me your best ham soaked in honey, my good man,¡± Abraham said, genuinely respecting another man away from his home. Abraham¡¯s father was a dual citizen who spent half his time in Liberia. Abraham wasn¡¯t. The man behind the counter certainly belonged nowhere else; he only left Nevada three times in his life. ¡°All out of stock.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you are, so close to Christmas, but could you go check anyway? We could make do with something else, but I¡¯ll have to coax my wife down.¡± Abraham grinned. ¡°And I¡¯d rather not do that.¡± The man behind the counter with a clean butcher¡¯s apron grunted. He glanced sideways to the strips of plastic that divided the store front from the butchery. ¡°I¡¯d rather not. I¡¯m sure we¡¯re out, and the butcher deserves a break this close to the holidays.¡± ¡°Your boss is working this late, huh? Good to hear, good to hear. If we gotta work, so do they. But, hey. Can¡¯t hurt to check right?¡± The clerk¡¯s posture slackened, yet he did not acquiesce. Abraham saw he was the smallest of pushes away. ¡°Please?¡± ¡°Fine,¡± the clerk said through gritted teeth and shaking his head. ¡°Wait here.¡± He disappeared through the flaps and Abraham watched for him to pop up through the window, walking through the hanged meats, but that was apparently not his path. Further up, further in. The minutes ticked away, each plowing a line onto Abraham¡¯s forehead. He was going to be away from home later than he meant. Could of driven, dammit. Pacing happened next. Already having scouted the aisles, Abraham crossed the line that divided customer from employee to get a better look at the butchery windows. Up close, he could see the appeal. Give him some boxing gloves and an afternoon here? Woo. He could work out some frustrations. Abraham looked at the plastic flaps. It¡¯s only meat, right? He stuck two fingers in and pulled the flaps sideways, just a tad. He saw nothing new, nothing he couldn¡¯t see from the window. Just meat. Meat on tables, meat on hooks. Abraham retreated back to the floor, vaulting over the counter for the sheer style of it. Right as Abraham cursed the minute and hour hand meeting for their salacious midnight rendezvous, the clerked trapsed back through the gateway. In his hands? A hock of ham covered in white paper. ¡°You¡¯re lucky the boss doesn¡¯t like to turn away a customer.¡± The clerk began weighing the meat. ¡°I told him to not fulfill any orders like this until after Christmas but¡ª¡± The clerk sniffed. ¡°That¡¯ll be $38.82.¡± Shee-it. I¡¯m supposed to be grateful now because they let me spend my money here? Abraham railed internally. He slapped two twenties on the counter and left without waiting for change. The wind outside had picked up, as much as it could for a city buffered by desert mountains. Abraham cursed and tucked the ham under one arm as he checked his phone. ¡°Fuck.¡± He wanted some time alone together before his parents arrived. The house wasn¡¯t big enough for sex with guests around, bless his mama¡¯s heart. At least not with the sounds Addi made. ¡°What-ya got there?¡± The voice rocked Abraham out of his swelling imagination. He double checked and saw that he was past the pig pens now, in the neighborhood, just past the Barbara Mahony realty billboard. ¡°Aww here we fuckin¡¯ go.¡± They were kids, but the big kind. Three that Abraham could see immediately: not that they would need more than two. Only one of the boys was bold enough to speak, he asked again: ¡°What. Do. You. Have.¡± He took a pause to look to his fellows. ¡°There?¡± ¡°Ham. I bought it with my credit card. Let¡¯s tell each other Merry Fucking Christmas and be on our way.¡± Abraham pulled the ham from under his arm pit, flourished it like a club, but the boys still crept closer. San Mattieu was not a town known for violence and Abraham had never been mugged in his life, but that didn¡¯t stop him from recognizing the situation. Before the first boy and his goose-stepping ass came another step closer, Abraham closed the gap in three strides and brought his weapon, helter-skelter, against the boy¡¯s head. It was a solid lick-- a commendable effort. The rest happened so fast it was the only point he scored. The first boy staggered and the other two pounced on him. The beating did not stop until Abraham was on the ground, arms thrown over his head and curled into a ball. As he heard them running off, he waited for another thirty seconds before sitting up, splitting blood out of his lip cracked in two places. Phone? Gone. Wallet? Yeah, that was gone too. They didn¡¯t take the ham, not that it mattered. His weapon got thrown to the side and the wrapping had fallen off. He could have taken it home, washed off the mud and dirty snow, but ole Abraham was not a man with half an ass. Raging, absolutely fuming to the point that the heat of his anger could melt the snow as it fell, Abraham jogged back to the Meat Store, using the sleeve of his jacket to clean as much blood as he could before he stepped through the swinging doors. The clerk was still there, along with another that looked just like him. Just older. ¡°Ehh. You need the police?¡± This new man asked. ¡°It¡¯s okay dad, I¡¯ve got this,¡± the clerk said. The older man shook his head and sat down. ¡°The police, the army, the goddamn salvation army,¡± Abraham started. ¡°Nobody is going to help me tonight. I¡¯ll file a report tomorrow. What I need from you, right this very second, is a ham.¡± Abraham wrapped his ring finger on the counter twice. ¡°I¡¯ve paid you once, you know I¡¯m not a dead beat. I will be back tomorrow and pay you twice whatever the ham is worth.¡± Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Ehh. You sold him a ham? Tonight?¡± The old Jew said. The clerk grimaced, waived the old man off. ¡°There is no way we¡¯re selling you a ham tonight. We¡¯re out, it just can¡¯t happen.¡± ¡°You were out before.¡± ¡°We were out before. The butcher wanted to give himself and the pigs a break before Christmas, but well you see: he¡¯s not good at saying no.¡± ¡°You know what the alternative is? Do you?¡± Abraham paced along the length of the register table. ¡°None of the other stores are open this late. I would have to leave work early, or wake up an hour early. I already have to pick up my wife¡¯s gift for the love of Jesus Halifax Christ.¡± ¡°We have plenty of other choices,¡± the clerk interrupted. ¡°You¡¯ve had a hard night, it can be on us.¡± The old man stood back up, put a hand on his son¡¯s shoulder. ¡°He wants his meat. The boss sells meat. It¡¯s his choice to sell it or not.¡± The clerk threw his hands up and over his head. Untied his apron and tossed it to his father. ¡°My shift is done. Breakfast is at nine and the kids would love to see you, Avi. I¡¯m picking up extra hours at the WinCo though, so hurry by.¡± The new clerk smiled and he said he¡¯d be back, and he was. The old man passed through the flaps shaking his head. ¡°Sorry. No ham. My son¡¯s offer still stands.¡± Abraham¡¯s mouth slackened as he looked around the store. There was a turkey right there, but he wasn¡¯t asked to get a damn turkey; he was asked to get a ham. Tomorrow, he¡¯d just have to get that ham. He pulled his coat tighter and double checked the zipper was all the way up as he left the Meat Store. The clock above the doorway read one. It was ten degrees colder than the start of his odyssey. His feet beat the same rhythm into the asphalt as he crossed the lonely parking lot, the distant glow of rainbow colors his personal yellow brick road home. As he came to the edge of the parking lot, he stopped. Abraham turned around. Abraham burst through the front door, their frames clanging against the walls. The old clerk said something but it sounded the same frequency as the electric hum of the lights. Abraham pushed by him and barreled through the flaps face first. The room was colder, damper than the outside. Abraham marched past a group of hooks with a thin layer of frost on their tips. He made it to the other end of the meat locker and out into a hallway. There, a back door opened to the pig pens, a small office lay with door ajar, and a stairwell plunged down into what had to be a basement. The office space was crammed with an early 2000¡¯s Windows computer, receipts, and filing cabinets half closed with protruding manilla folders. The tiny cube was balmy hot with a space heater working on max to absolutely turn the work space into hell. As Abraham closed the door, the shit dropped out from him (metaphorically) as a pitter patter assaulted his eardrums. He cursed, violently, and jumped as something brushed past his leg. Through the crack of light from the office, he saw a baby pig waddle to the end of the hallway and disappear through the doggy door and into the yard. Abraham laughed at himself and realized what a great guy he was. He wasn¡¯t going to report such unsanitary food handling to nobody¡ªneither snitch nor bitch. Even if the Meat Store wasn¡¯t the most respectable establishment anymore in his eyes, he would take his ham and leave without issue. Now this is where it got complicated. Normally, Abraham was no fool. He¡¯d seen the movies, knew about all those meta jokes about a black man walking to some dark place in a strange location, fooling around where he did not belong. But the stairwell wasn¡¯t dark. It was brightly lit¡ªclean even. And there was nowhere else for the butcher to be, so he followed the path downwards. The basement wasn¡¯t under the butcher shop directly. Abraham felt like he was walking under the yard now. He stopped at a giant metal sliding door, shut tight. Abraham tapped it with his foot, impressed. ¡°Is this how all butchers store their meat?¡± He adjusted his jacket zipper again. ¡°Can¡¯t be colder than outside.¡± The door wasn¡¯t the test of his manhood like he hoped it¡¯d be. It disappointed and slid like a greased pig on an iced floor (forgive the pun). Before it opened all the way, he heard clatter, voices inside. He had been preparing his speech since coming through those flaps: ¡°How much does a brother have to pay, to get some god damned¡ª¡± His words fell on the floor. ¡°Shut your mouth.¡± The room was similar to the meat storage upstairs, but here, at the very center, were the butchers. Two pigs swayed heavy and hairy on two feet. They both wore aprons, splattered in blood and guts, as they lumbered through the hanging meats: A pig with a cleaver held tight between its two. . . hands took a swing and hacked off a sirloin from a cow. This butcher had a crutch shoved under one of its arms and a torniquet rounding off their stump leg. Hardly sanitary, the stump bled slightly through the bandage. Somehow in the madness, Abraham noted that the clerks did not lie. There were pigs here with legs, at least not dead ones, and thus no ham to be found. Abraham was already beating a cool retreat, his feet not needing the slickness of the ice to slide his ass on out, but the pigs were faster. The pig with all his legs intact and grizzle along his jaw that looked like a beard swooped in with one arm on Abraham¡¯s back, corralled him forward, and slammed the meat locker shut behind them. The one-legged pig had pulled out a cheap foldable metal chair and placed it squarely in the center of the room, in the forest of meats. ¡°Hey now,¡± Abraham chuckled as he was forced into interrogation position. ¡°What even are you fine fellows?¡± If it was a mite bit hotter, he would be sweating now. ¡°Pigs,¡± the one-legged pig that Abraham had decided was the butcher grunted. ¡°Talking pigs!¡± Abraham¡¯s laugh was hollow and oh so forced. ¡°But not like those?¡± He pointed to the legless pigs hanging from their hooks. As the pigs followed his finger, he attempted to spring from his position and make for the door again, but he was immediately forced down by two piggy hands from behind. ¡°Pig is pig,¡± the non-butcher said, holding him down. ¡°All pigs are working pigs, even if these pig rest now.¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me, you¡¯re going to be food?¡± Abraham asked, eyeing the butcher pig¡¯s missing leg. ¡°You won¡¯t be?¡± The butcher got back to work, clearing a shank in three slashes. ¡°I work.¡± Shling. ¡°I make money.¡± Slice. ¡°I feed the little pigs.¡± Shlang. ¡°How did you even get back here? Must be for something important. Hope you didn¡¯t do anything to the workers upstairs? Hm? Good people; manning the storefront for generations.¡± ¡°Your commercial says the store has only been here for sixty years.¡± ¡°Five of our generations.¡± The butcher¡¯s next swing sprayed stipples of blood onto Abraham¡¯s face. Abraham said a prayer under his breath-- only a religious man on special occasions. ¡°Can¡¯t hear you.¡± ¡°I came for some ham, but as you clearly sold out, my brother, I¡¯d like to be going now.¡± The not butcher oinked and grunted. The two went back and forth in a flurry of pigsty chorus. Abraham couldn¡¯t tell if it was anger, fear, or laughter. The butcher pointed to his leg. ¡°You cut your leg off an hour ago then?¡± Abraham asked. The butcher¡¯s eyes narrowed and Abraham could envision that next swing of the cleaver going through the soft sinews of his supple neck. It didn¡¯t; it buried into the cow. ¡°You were the one insisting on ham? Yes? Don¡¯t look at your feet like that. This is America. We have product, we sell product.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have asked if I knew. I mean, obviously I wouldn¡¯t have asked that of you.¡± ¡°But you did know. You knew the basics. What you didn¡¯t know is how often we have to skip feeding the children. You didn¡¯t know how often we pay the rent late. Thirty bucks for a leg. Keeps the light on, you know? Want some more?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t put that crazy shit on me. I¡¯m not asking now. Hell man. I¡¯ll never ask again.¡± The butcher laughed in his piggy, snorty way. ¡°Don¡¯t do that. We go broke. Ask me to cut my brother into bacon?¡± Chop. ¡°A sisters rump skinned clean?¡± Slice. ¡°Yet you won¡¯t ask me to cut off my leg? I don¡¯t understand you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a working pig. I¡¯m a working man. What¡¯s not to understand?¡± ¡°That is the question, isn¡¯t it?¡± The pig set down his cleaver, leaned heavy on his crutch. ¡°Are you a pig, or are you a man?¡± Abraham ground his teeth and leaned back. ¡°Well we can both see that I am clearly not a pig, so that makes this back and forth a bit of a time waster doesn¡¯t it?¡± The butcher shrugged. ¡°Man cannot leave here. Pig may, if they choose.¡± ¡°Well in that case,¡± Abraham gave his chintzy grin, ¡°I¡¯m as pig as it gets.¡± He stuck his nose up and tried to snort, the effort resulting in some mild sniffling. ¡°The difference is not always clear. Would a pig make demands? Would a pig force his way down here to take? No.¡± The butcher pointed to his leg, to his fellow.¡± But would a man put other above himself? Would a man bleed for his fellow man? We pigs think not.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the rub, ain¡¯t it? I gotta convince you I¡¯m pig enough. If not, you¡¯ll chop me up and sell me as some exotic meat upstairs?¡± The butcher pulled back. ¡°Absolutely not sir. We have standards to enforce here. Inspections by the United States government¡ªyour F.D.A. But let¡¯s resolve the question: Where do you work?¡± ¡°Where do I work? I¡ªUh. Medical field.¡± Abraham answered, a little too used to the vagueness that puffed up his ego, let others believe he might be something more than he was. The pigs conferred with grunts and Abraham saw the misstep. ¡°Just as a radiology tech¡ªnot a doctor or anything. I don¡¯t even work at a hospital for Christ-sakes. I¡¯m a small guy. Pig kinda guy.¡± ¡°Radiology?¡± The two pigs sniffed and oinked to each other. The conversation was lost on Abraham, but he could sense the confusion. ¡°We don¡¯t know radiology, but it doesn¡¯t sound very piggy.¡± ¡°Oh it¡¯s piggy. It¡¯s hella piggy. I help people. I make them better. You understand that right? You¡¯ve got vets?¡± ¡°The disparaging remarks aside, go on. What do you do? ¡°I take X-rays. Pictures of bones so the doctor can decide if you¡¯re sick or not.¡± ¡°Pictures? Like magazine?¡± Abraham could swear the butcher was raising an eyebrow. ¡°How much do you charge, for a picture?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a little confused about what human things you understand and what you don¡¯t? You do understand magazine and F.D.A., but you don¡¯t understand x-ray.¡± ¡°This is a meat house. Small children have come by to sell magazine, which I asked Daniel upstairs to buy for me so I could look at pictures. But I have not been to a hospital. When pig gets hurt, pig cannot afford such things. When pig gets hurt, pig provides.¡± ¡°Unless there¡¯s a sickness, then we call vet,¡± the pig behind added. ¡°Okay so¡ª¡± ¡°No, no,¡± the butcher said, picking up the cleaver again. ¡°You answer my question first. How much do you charge for picture.¡± Charge? Abraham didn¡¯t know what he was hearing. ¡°Hell, man. It goes through insurance, and they pay. You gotta get an order from the doctor or maybe you don¡¯t have one. In network, out of network. The charges are variable?¡± ¡°Variable?¡± the butcher asked. ¡°Not piggy,¡± the not butcher oinked. ¡°Not piggy at all,¡± the butcher concurred. ¡°We all eat sir, but it seems that you do not supply.¡± A banging at the meat locker caught the pigs¡¯ attention. The butcher crutched his way there. ¡°I¡¯m coming. Shift change couldn¡¯t have come at a better time.¡± The pig behind Abraham tightened his grip, pancaking him to the chair. The butcher didn¡¯t need to open the door, Abraham already knew it was just going to be more pigs. And if the butcher left, there went any repour he had managed to build thus far, not that he felt he had done a particularly good job pleading his case. Edible or not, it seemed like there was only one way this would play out. So he showed no hesitation. He spun in his seat with his elbow out, catching the not butcher in the gut. The pig¡¯s grip loosened as an almost human squeal filled the room. Ignoring that travesty, Abraham went for the door. Two more pigs stood on the other side; the Meat Store never closes. The butcher pig stood between him and the door, but he was clumsy on one leg and easy to get past-- the other two weren¡¯t ready for a human. Abraham knocked the butcher down and slammed his full weight into the other two pigs. All four fell in a heap together. Amid shuffling and screeching, Abraham somehow found his footing and started for the stairs. His hands caught the second and third step as a pair of paws latched onto his foot. He shook his lower half violently which lessened the clamp-- fingers, or lack thereof, making all the difference. Free, Abraham rocketed up the stairs on all fours. He slammed into the door leading to the yard and wrenched at the handle. The door wouldn¡¯t budge. So much for the easy way out. He swung past the office and into the hanging meat section of the butcher shop. It was dark, far too dark. The kind of darkness where time slips away, evades any natural senses. Abraham couldn¡¯t say how long he¡¯d been in the meat locker, but he should have found the store front already, dammit. He should have at least been able to see the lights from the salesfloor, unless the Meat Store took a break for the first time in its existence. In the misty, meaty air, Abraham bumped into a hanging rack of lamb. He cursed and tried to feel his way around the room. Somewhere behind¡ªor maybe to the side¡ªhe heard the scurry of pig feet on tile: heavy, heavy, pig feet. Abraham¡¯s gut hit a table. He looped around it tracking the pigs on the other side on sound alone. He heard the skid of their hooves on the slick meat locker floor, desperate to get at him. They split, coming at Abrham from both sides, once again proving they were smarter than the average pig¡ªnot that much confirmation was needed after they spoke. But Abraham was a human in not just mind but body too¡ªfast, agile. He popped up onto the table and rolled over as the pigs crashed in that indeterminable dark. Out of that room-- thank you Jesus-- he saw a faint light. Skidding back into the hallway with the office and the stairs and the door turned that praise into a curse. He looked down the stairs and saw the one legged pig hobbling up, from the meat locker behind the pigs came. He had no choice. Abraham attacked the door viciously, throwing his shoulder at the center. Kicking, slamming the sides with his fists. He heard cracking. Another assault and it full on creaked. But he was out of time. The pigs were on him and took the last avenue that he could think of. Abraham dove like an Olympic swimmer and hit the doggy door (or piggy door in this instance) at full force. His head breached. His shoulders caught. The distant glow of Christmas lights beckoned him, the pricking winter air teased the tip of his tongue. His feet scraped against the tile, tried to shrink his broad chest, get his shoulders to touch. He could fit. And if not, he would break through the damn door. An arm joined his head outside and he used it to claw at the dirt. His manic imagination won out over the cold voice of reason that observed and kept saying that he would die: his second arm burst through. His body was sliding into freedom. ¡°Fuck you pig. I am a man!¡± Abraham shouted into the open air, and screamed again as his ankle¡ªthe last 5% of him yet to make it through-- erupted into pain. A thousand little nubs ground against bone as pig teeth clamped down. He put his entire being into it. If he was an Olympic diver before, he¡¯d be a fucking Olympic swimmer in the dirt. Another piggy mouth clamped down as he did the breast stroke. The rush of adrenaline and endorphins gripped him for another five second before he realized he was being pulled back inside. There¡¯d be no gold medal tonight. Adeline Kerkullah woke on Christmas Eve to an empty bed. She went to sleep trusting her husband. Wherever he went, whatever he was up to, he¡¯d be fine. He was a good man, once you got past all the eccentricity. Adeline paced through the house, calling her husband¡¯s phone five times and checking every room for a sign. By the time she was circling the outside of the house in her night gown, she was on to checking on his friends¡ªchecks his social media as she fought back tears. Finally, she skipped calling in to work to let them know she wouldn¡¯t be there, and jumped right to the one phone call no human being ever wants to make. By the time the in-laws arrive much earlier than they said they would, the house was bathed in the blue¡¯s and red¡¯s of police lights. Abraham¡¯s mother found Adeline sitting on the couch, shaking, giving her account. ¡°He went to the Meat Store. We needed a ham. And he should have been back in an hour.¡± Adeline didn¡¯t even realize that he walked; she was busy enough last night. Abraham¡¯s car out front throws the investigation off for a couple hours because maybe he did come back. Eventually, the police investigate. They talk to the Meat Store clerks, hear how Abraham Kerkullah came in half past 11, bought a ham and left. In a couple days, the police would be tipped off and find out that Abraham was mugged on his way back from the Meat Store. The interrogations were lengthy and one of the boys even admits to murdering Abraham. One of them goes to prison, the second one is found not guilty, and the third hung himself before he ever saw the inside of a court room: Adeline knows enough to not be satisfied with such a result, but she¡¯s also a smart enough woman to realize that she¡¯ll never truly know what happened to her husband. And as the years go on, that knowledge hurts less and less but never truly goes away. As for Abraham, he found a new life. The butchers put a collar around his neck with a chain that slid along the rafters. Abraham spent the rest of his days feeding, watering, and mucking the silos behind the Meat Store. Sometimes through the blind hate, the suicidal desperation, or the sheer numbness of it. Just sometimes as his muscles groaned and became utterly focused on the work, he would acknowledge that there was something to this life, something he didn¡¯t have before. In either case, his coworkers were happy to finally call him pig.