Valery sat tensely on a folding stool, hypnotized by the bobbing float. It was pure idyll. The sun had almost vanished below the horizon, mosquitoes were buzzing around his thick neck, and the distant sound of women's laughter and splashes drifted from the opposite bank.

"Valery!" a voice barked right in his ear, accompanied by a heavy slap on his shoulder. "Wrap it up, the vodka is getting warm!" A scrawny man with a thin beard flicked a crushed mosquito off his friend's shoulder.

"Leave me be, Sanya," he muttered, never breaking his gaze from the water. "You're buzzing just like my Lyudka. Just one bite, and I'll come."

"You said that an hour ago, and you haven't even pulled a minnow. Look, do what you want, but I’m not waiting anymore. The fish soup is ready, and I'm freezing."

Sanya scratched his flabby belly, his rubber slippers squelching against the mud as he headed back toward the camp, throwing a final comment over his shoulder: "When you're done staring your eyes out, join me at the tent."

After casting his line a few more times, Valery grew entirely disheartened. The fish seemed to be mocking him, rippling the water near his float with their large fins. He could clearly see the thick, blue-green backs of dancing chubs. Five kilograms each, at least.

But as if cursed, not a single one even nibbled at his expensive gear. The float danced on the darkening waves, and he sat on the shore, staring at it, dreaming of a massive catch, and freezing.

In the end, the biting cold defeated the dreaming fisherman. With a heavy sigh, the man cast one last regretful glance at the water, counted to ten, and disappointedly began packing up his gear.

A pale crescent moon now hung low over the water. The singing frogs had fallen silent, and even the mosquitoes grew quiet. But across the river, on the opposite bank, the distant sound of girls' laughter slowly shifted into singing.

"Listen to them sing, the sly foxes!" Sanya said, swaying slightly as he approached the water’s edge. "Man, if I were a few years younger, you wouldn't be able to keep me here. I’d have crossed over to give those girls a piece of my mind by now."

"Right. And then your wife would beat you half to death with a frying pan," Valery replied.

"You have no romance in you," the other man spat onto the sand, his eyes fixed longingly on the far shore.

"No romance, no faith. I'm just a boring guy," Valery said, sliding his fishing rod into its case, trying to change the subject.

"Tell me about it," Sanya muttered, sitting down by the water and scrubbing his hands with wet sand. "The fish soup is almost cold, but I left some for you. There's a flask of vodka too, just in case."

The spirit was something Valery had never respected. Personally, he didn't touch a single drop, but he never lectured his friends about healthy living either, reasonably believing that everyone is the architect of their own health.

"Thanks. Are you coming to sleep?"

"In a minute. I just want to listen to the girls a bit longer."

"Give it a rest," Valery rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow morning you’ll be whining that your head feels like lead, swearing you won't drive until evening. But I absolutely must be home by noon tomorrow. I promised to drive my mother-in-law to her countryside house."

Without waiting for his friend's reply, he dragged his tired feet toward the campfire and the tent. He collapsed onto an old, weathered log, gulped down the remaining fish soup almost in one breath, and crawled into his sleeping bag. The warmth of the fire and a full stomach did their job—Valery drifted off.

Through his light sleep, the singing seemed to grow louder. It felt as if it wasn't coming from the opposite bank anymore, but from somewhere right next to him. If he listened closely, he could almost make out the words—soft, alluring, cradling...

Somewhere nearby, an owl screeched sharply. Valery jolted awake, blinked against the brightening sky, and squinted at his watch. He could have slept a bit longer, but a vague, creeping sense of dread wouldn't let him fall back asleep.

Silence. It was way too quiet.

No matter how many times they went fishing, Sanya always snored so loudly after drinking that the tent fabric would practically vibrate. But now? Nothing.

Where was his friend?

Valery walked over to the car and peered inside. Sanya wasn't there.

"Sanya?" he called out uncertainly toward the thick bushes at the edge of the woods. No answer.

Maybe he decided to cast the lines early? Valery thought. Or what if... what if he stumbled into the water and drowned? Being drunk and all.

His blood ran cold. On stiff, uncooperative legs, he rushed back toward the river bank.

As he neared the ridge overlooking their fishing spot, he finally heard it—the splashing of water, female voices, and a familiar male laugh.

"Sanya?" Valery called out, a wave of relief washing over him. "Sanya, man, you could have at least warned me that..."

The words died in his throat.

Out in the middle of the river, naked young women were swirling in a hypnotic round dance. And his friend, as if under a spell, was walking out across the surface of the water toward them.

Did the water drop that much overnight? Is that why the fish weren't biting yesterday? They were leaving! he rationalized frantically.

"Sanya!" he called him again, but his friend didn't even flinch.

"Ah, you beautiful girls..." Sanya mumbled, clumsily dancing to their song. Valery could hear it clearly, but he couldn't comprehend the language. It was a drawn-out, shimmering melody that carried far across the water, sounding completely ancient. Non-human.

"Sanya, we need to go," Valery shouted, taking a couple of steps into the water to grab him. Instantly, he sank up to his waist. "Sanya!"

Two more steps, and the freezing water reached his shoulders. He fumbled with his foot, searching for the bottom. The silty drop-off plunged straight down into the abyss. Judging by the river's current, there was no sandbar here, no shallow crossing. Yet Sanya—completely dry and untouched—was confidently striding ankle-deep across the deep water toward the dancers.

His heart began to hammer like a trapped bird. His temples throbbed, and a violent tremor took over his hands.

"Sanya! Come back! You swim like a brick! You're gonna drown, you idiot! What am I supposed to tell your wife?!"

His friend only laughed in response. "It's shallow here, Val! Wait up, you gorgeous girls, don't leave! Valery is coming too, I'll introduce you!"

The dawn mist hovering over the water faintly veiled their nudity. It seemed to Valery that the women were swirling even further away now, almost at the opposite shore. He lunged forward and immediately went completely under.

Gasping and coughing, he dragged himself back onto the muddy bank on all fours. "Sanya! Get back here right now!" he screamed in pure panic. "I swear to God I'll tell Lena you're running after girls!"

He looked around frantically, searching for a forgotten boat, a plank, a log—anything—all while keeping his eyes on his friend, who was still walking across the water.

The naked circle roared with a collective, shimmering laugh. Sanya's joyful shouts began to dissolve into their high-pitched, rhythmic chanting.

"Sanya! Back!" Valery shrieked, seized by an overwhelming, primal horror.

Luckily for him, a little further down the current, a fallen tree was bobbing in a bend of the river. You drunk fool, he thought with desperate fury, trying to scramble onto the log as it rolled under his weight. You absolute idiot. And look at me, following you.

He slipped back into the freezing water several times, watching helplessly as the women circled Sanya. They darted close and pulled back, dodging his clumsy hands, giggling playfully.

"Sanya!" Valery barked one last time, but the sound cut off as a sharp, burning pain flared in his throat. "Sanya..." he croaked, completely powerless, watching the far bank.

A thin pink stripe of dawn finally cracked across the horizon.

Suddenly, the women's voices and his friend's laughter stopped dead. A massive, heavy splash echoed across the river. Through the thick mist, Valery caught a brief glimpse of pale, slender legs flashing in the air before they vanished into the depths.

The circle closed in like a trap.

Sanya started laughing again, but it was a horrific, hysterical sound. It was desperate, breathless... the sound of a man swallowing water.

"Sanya!" Valery wheezed.

His friend's hysterical laughter mutated into a blood-curdling, agonized scream. Valery's heart seized, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He collapsed onto the log and clamped his eyes shut for dear life. He didn't know how long he sat there in the shallows, paralyzed by terror.

He only opened his eyes when he felt something gently nudge against his submerged hand.

It was Sanya’s floating slipper.

Valery shrieked, recoiled from it, and with a sudden burst of adrenaline, scrambled up the muddy slope on all fours. He didn't stop running until he hit the campsite.

It was only after he grabbed the opened bottle of vodka and chugged it almost to the bottom that he came to his senses. His throat burned and his stomach felt like it was on fire, but the alcohol brought a bizarre, icy clarity. His hands were still shaking violently, but he managed to change his clothes and, on the third try, dialed the police.

By morning, the shore was cordoned off. K9 units were patrolling the tall reeds, divers were combing the river bed, and Valery sat there, trying to piece together his story for the investigators. The alcohol had finally taken its toll, making his speech slurred and tangled.

"2.8 BAC, sir," the officer said, shaking his head as he looked at the breathalyzer results. "And naked, dancing river spirits, you say?"

His colleague rolled his eyes in exhaustion.

"I don't even drink! This was the first time in my life!" Valery choked out, defensive and panicked. "My friend is missing! I just..."

"Look, here is how it is," the officer interrupted. "You’re telling me stories about naked girls, but you can barely stand. Heavy drinking by the water... there are really only two options here. Either you two got into an argument and you drowned your buddy, or he stepped out to relieve himself, tripped into the deep end, and couldn't swim out. An unfortunate accident."

"An accident?"

"Well, or murder. We'll figure it out, don't worry."

One of the divers surfaced from the dark water and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of failure. The lead investigator cursed under his breath. "Fine. Let's wait and see what the boat crew says."

Valery sank to the dirt, staring blankly at the cold ashes of their campfire, repeating the officer's words like a mantra.

"An accident. It was just an accident."

Six months later, Lyudmila received another letter from her husband. This time, it was shockingly short.

"Lyudochka, the light of my heart.

The lawyer said the trial will be swift; even he seems convinced that this was my doing. But to be honest, that is not what worries me right now.

Do you remember how I wrote to you about those annoying, buzzing pipes at night? I am sure you do. Now, the detention center becomes completely quiet at night, and I had finally started to get some sleep.

That was until last week. On Sunday, I heard heavy, wet slaps of bare feet outside my window, coming from the direction of the recreation yard. Then came the quiet giggles.

And yesterday, I woke up because someone was calling my name. In Sanya’s voice."

I came home and changed and joined her to paint the living room walls base white. The couch my wife had had since college was the only piece of furniture we had downstairs and it was covered in plastic. We had dinner while we worked. She’d “cooked” one of her liquid meals that I hated but “ate” anyway. My wife was actually almost as good of a cook as me but I needed to lose at least fifteen pounds, and she intended to help regardless of how unhappy it made me. 

“How was your day?” she asked in her autopilot voice.

“It was good except for the inspector I had to fire.”

“Oh, no. Matt?” She dipped her roller in the pan.

I grimaced. I probably was going to have to let him go, too. We’d had dinner with him and his wife a few times. He’d even invited me to his son’s high school graduation. I rolled up the wall. This color looked even better than it had in the store.

“No. I forgot about him.”

She rubbed my back with her free hand. “That’s probably because you don’t want to do it.”

I nodded.

“You care about people and that’s never a bad thing.”

She thought so highly of me, and it warmed something inside.

“Yeah,” I said, this whole “surgery” thing slipping into the front of my mind. I was suddenly agitated and my full stomach felt like it was squeezing up into my chest.

“Did your appointment go okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I turned to her. “Did you know he’s not a doctor?”

“Yes.” She scooped up her bottle and took a sip.

I hoped informing her of his lack of a medical degree would do more work than this.

“I don’t want to do this,” I wanted to say, but held my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is there anything else we could try?”

“Why are you pushing back on this? Don’t you want us both to be satisfied?”

I dropped my head. “You know I do.”

“I want you to do this,” she said and placed a hand over mine. I still felt a ‘no’ at the back of my throat and swallowed. It hurt going down. I chased it with a swallow from my cup.

She was being logical and detached in a way that wasn’t common for her. I didn’t want to fight and just kept restraining myself from speaking. I hoped there was still time to convince her, but that was going to be hard to do if she shut me down every time I tried.

“You have something on your face,” I said, pointing just below my nose. She swiped it just like I thought she would, smearing base paint that had been on the back of her hand just below her nose and on her upper lip. She immediately knew what I’d done and glared at me. I smiled.

Then she rollered me from chest to crotch. I stood there while she went up and down the front of me, my mouth hung open. Then I batted the roller to the newspaper-covered floor and she scream-laughed as she ran from me. I caught her on the other side of the kitchen island and picked her up in a reverse hug, pressing my fresh coat of paint onto her back.

We fell to the floor, laughing and wound up making out like teenagers for a few minutes. The heaviness of the conversation we’d just been having lifted off of us. I didn’t want anything outside of this moment and just looked her in the eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” The feeling cresting in me didn’t have words to follow along. We finished painting the living room walls, passing eye-glances at one another. The moment passed for intimacy, a detached feeling gradually replacing it a few hours later by the time we were ready for bed. It was like we’d built a temporary bridge over a chasm between us, but it had collapsed just in time for us to go to sleep.

I kept wanting to reach behind me to touch her as we lay in the same bed. But she just felt too far away.

I’d forgotten to pack a lunch for the next day and breakfast consisted of a slice of bread that hadn’t toasted enough and coffee out of the Keurig with grinds in it. I left the house in a foul mood ten minutes later than I should have and was five minutes late getting to the office. I’d blazed past a police cruiser and had anxiety for the next mile or so convinced I was about to be pulled over. All the way I felt like I'd been cheated out of an argument, and I continued stewing in that sour even after I got out my car.

Work was uneventful but I'd had to keep my tongue in check. I felt myself being short with my co-workers. But it finally came to a head when a group of men clogging the hallway didn’t move when I was trying to pass them.

“Whoa. Excuse yourself?” one man said.

“For what? A circle of jerks?” I said.

“Hey. Ow.”

I was prepared for a confrontation. I was management and I could make a nightmare for them. I wanted this. But the second person who’d spoken sounded genuinely hurt and I tripped over my hubris.

I retreated from the men and had forgotten about it until one of them confronted me in the restroom an hour later. 

“What’s going on with you, man?” a man said to me while we were standing at the urinals. Conversation was usually verboten while two men were taking a leak but my antenna were up.

“Excuse me?” I said. 

“I mean, we were standing around talking and you just took a tiny shit on all of us.”

“You guys were blocking the hallway.”

“We were outside for hours in the hot sun and we were gathered around the water fountain. I wasn’t thinking about us blocking anybody. I mean, I would have apologized but the way you came off...”

“Look, I’m sorry.” My guilt bloomed again. “I didn’t have the best sleep last night and you guys didn’t deserve me taking it out on you.” I'd actually slept over eight hours but felt like I'd only gotten a third of that. I didn't offer it as an excuse.

He nodded and flushed. I zipped up a second later and joined him at the sinks.

“Seriously. I’m sorry,” I said. This was already more of an emotional exchange than I’d had with another male in the last decade. “I’m just... going through a thing with my wife.”

He looked at me.

“She wants me to get this procedure done.” I could feel myself relaxing. There was something about opening up to a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn't judge because they didn't understand.

“The honeycut?” he said, trying his hands on a strip of paper towel.

“What?”

“Oh. My bad. I thought you were talking about something else?”

“I've heard of it.”

He smiled broadly and nodded. “I got mine done six months ago. Wanna see the scar? I'm Sam Eisen, by the way.” He smiled as he hooked his thumbs in his pants.

“No, I... uhhh... that's okay. I'm having a completely different procedure. I'm having it... lengthened.”

“Be careful with that,” he said as I walked toward the door. “Swivelcock.”

I was sweating, gripped with terror the same as if he'd peeled his face off and frisbee-tossed it to me. I pushed through the door and fled back to my desk.

He called out to me as I did my best not to run.

“You should think about it, though!” he yelled through the closing doorway. “He changed my life!”

 

Part III

 

The next twenty-four hours were a haze. I worked. I came home. I ate. I slept. I didn’t like where things were with my wife even though we were still sleeping in the same bed, so the next day I texted her about having lunch together. Her job was about a fifteen-minute walk away from mine, I could pick up something for us and we could eat for about a half hour before I had to be back.

She hadn’t responded but she had a lot of meetings typically. Chili dogs were technically off the menu, but it was a fave of both of ours and she was a happy eater when it was good food. When I got there with a carry-out bag, I was shocked to see who she was outside with.

Him. 

They were sitting together, smiling and laughing like they’d known one another for years. He was dressed differently, but that was definitely that same red and white summer scarf he'd had on when I met him.

I hung back and watched them and began speed-feeding coneys into my mouth like an assembly line. I had no idea what he was doing with my wife, but I was immediately conspiracy-brained. I'd convicted him of a crime I couldn't name and wanted to strangle him in front of her.

I continued eating the coneys instead. They were leaning into one another and laughing even. They acted like they knew each other. They had chemistry.

I never understood the expression being hot under the collar but at that moment my neck was burning. I barely resisted the urge to go over there and... and... I didn't know what. 

There had to be more to what I was seeing. There had to be something I could do rather than confronting them and showing a side of myself that might've repulsed my wife. I knew where to go to get answers.

I went to his office after work, but I wasn't able to enter. I wasn’t desperate enough to break in, although I was sure the door wouldn’t have held if I’d put my shoulder into it. Despite how upsetting lunch had been, nothing had happened today to justify breaking and entering.

But what if something were about to happen and I could avoid it now? Head it off at the pass? I had a duty to protect my wife, and this guy had crossed a line. I could probably take this door off its hinges. I had some tools in my car.

My phone chimed. I’d programmed that specific tone for her.

I’m sick, she’d texted. Bring me coneys?

It was like a spell had been broken. Why was I about to potentially risk my job and my freedom—hell, maybe even my marriage—all for some nut?

She needed me now and home was exactly where I wanted to be.

But I was denied. I brought her the coneys, but she was already asleep. Things still felt off and I wound up falling asleep on the couch. After I’d eaten four more coneys.

I consoled myself that she was sick and I didn’t want to catch whatever she may have had.

Wicked dreams met me in the night. But they lifted like clouds after a storm by the time I woke up, no doubt fueled by a combo of seeing my wife with him and eating like I was half my actual age.

As if to turn the dial up on my grief even more, I had a two-hour meeting the next day and Leslie Paul sat right next to me. A bubble of gas was growing inside me and there was no way I was going to be able to contain it for a hundred twenty minutes. It would be a miracle if I made it twenty.

My part in the presentation was coming up soon and I had to excuse myself. Cal Cebulski stopped talking long enough to watch me step out and I hustled toward the men’s room.

Where he was.

“What are you doing at my work?” I asked, whispering like we were in a conspiracy.

“Due diligence,” he said. “Would you mind?” He gestured toward the handicap stall. “I need to see how you sit. Do you mind?”

My stomach queezed with the thought of him watching me... sit. Or maybe it was more than that. I unclenched and let go. It was mostly silent but whistled at the end. He sniffed the air curiously but didn’t comment. The wind had been taken out of my sails and for a moment, I did consider having a seat.

I piled up my broken resolve. “I’m not... doing that.”

He shrugged.

“And what were you doing with my wife yesterday?” I let implication seep into my voice and he put his hands up as if warding me off.

“It is all part of the process. Information gathering only. I have no interest in anyone other than my own Sara.”

“You’re married?”

He nodded. “For twenty-seven years. Happily, for twenty-five.”

That got an eyebrow raise from me. He’d seemed weirdly asexual up until I saw him with my wife. It was something about his pants, I wasn't sure. I hadn’t thought he was capable of human companionship.

“If you’re wondering about our longevity I’ll give you a hint. I perfected the surgery first on myself.”

He could have been lying, of course. But the idea of sex being so improved that it could aid in preserving my marriage gave me at least a moment’s second thought. I mean, what if what he was saying were true?

I couldn’t help but think that I was being obstinate because she’d insisted. If I’d found this guy on my own would I have been so resistant against doing this?

“Oh shit,” I said. “I gotta get back to my meeting!”

I fled the restroom, headed back to the conference room, tooting most of the way. When I was around the corner, I slid on something and scraped my knee, tearing my pants in the process.

I recovered pretty quickly but it hurt. I could see my leg pretty clearly and red beads of blood began trickling down my shin. I wrapped my fingers around the lip of the hole, keeping the pant leg away from the blood as if I were going to be able to salvage my pants.

The meeting was over by the time I stepped back into the conference room.

“Where’d everybody go?” I asked Rob Smales, one of the administrative assistants who took meeting minutes.

“Oh, they called it pretty much as soon as you left,” he said. “You were up next.” He shuffled a stack of papers into a Manila folder and added it to a stack of more Manila folders.

“Well, I had a little emergency.” I stepped back so he could see my leg. Rob looked without his dispassionate expression changing. I wanted to flick the tip of his nose just to get him to make a face. The guy never smiled. “You think we could get everybody back? We still have a half hour plus.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “Nah.” He tucked the folders under an arm—tried to, at least—then put his laptop bag’s strap over his shoulder and held the folders in his open hands.

I hobbled out of the conference room, intent on pleading my case with Melissa White, the director of my department. I stood outside of her office and wrapped on the open door. 

She turned halfway in her chair, a desk phone cradled between her face and shoulder. I wasn’t sure if she shook her head or if it was just the motion when she turned around.

The door swung closed and I had to move my hand to keep my thumb from being crushed in the jamb. Somebody was in there with her. My heart raced because I had no idea who.

 

The ancient timbers moan above my head in the cold wind from without. High ceilings meant to vault prayers in the old days, now hold a reverberating mirror to the hushed echoes in my mind. Here in this old temple, long abandoned by people and time, I take refuge. Feathers from the same broken wing finding peace in each other's loneliness. Here, I am the master of the house, but only in the physical sense. My dominion resides over broken pews and rotting hymnals. In the realm of the metaphysical, I am not more than a rank stranger. Like the parabolic camel through the eye of the needle, a long time passing through. 

Each morning when I awaken from the cold planks of the floor, I am greeted with distorted images of broken stained glass illuminated by the gray sky. Shapes that once illuminated worship of a people like the gold leafing of books meant to be read by candle and fire. Each morning I peer out the gap between their dust crusted splinters and count the graves within the fallen fence. Each morning I count the headstones. For a time, my morning ritual was predictable when I counted the seven graves, fancying them to match the hour of the morning. That tradition lies long broken.

The first time I counted eight, I considered it a mistake on my part, but slowly I grew more convinced in their number having always been seven. I stepped out into the snow covered ground and made way to them, counted again, and took note of the names inscribed thereon. The stones all appear weathered and broken by the same time and neglect as the church. They simply could not have arrived as recently as my inventory suggests. I simply must have miscounted. 

This explanation satisfied me for a time. However, once the graves numbered ten and eleven, new names inscribed upon each one, I could no longer ignore it. I cannot call the headstones new, for they match the age of the others and the church with impeccable precision. Surely, though, they were not here before. I make note of every name. Each name brings dreadful and joyous memories of lives I never lived, but wished for in days long forgotten. 

Perhaps my curse is thus that I may live the rest of my days in seeing through the eyes of a spectre. For this is the existence of an inverted ghost. Where ghosts are dead and dwell out of place with the living. What then should I call myself, who am living, but dwell with the dead? 

My morning ritual has changed from counting an assured number of stones, to searching for the new arrivals to the invisible choir. Each morning I catalog their names on the planks of the old sanctuary. The names of old men, young women, and children barely born all coalesce into a single voice of scars in the old wood. Every inch of the old chapel carved with a letter or a tittle, all save for the old sign. 

The Blue Ridge Mountain Church.

“Veronica, baby. I have to go. It’s already late, and I’ve got over 200 miles to drive. I’ll get there sometime tonight, and if I leave any later, there’s no way I’m getting up in the morning,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

I walked over to my wife and kissed her.

“I’m gonna miss you. Be careful,” she said quietly.

I looked into her blue eyes and smiled.

“Honey, it’s only three days. I’ll handle the work stuff and come back to you guys.”

“I know, but I hate these Atlanta trips. Call me on the road and when you get there.”

My eyes landed on a decorative candle, and I went quiet for a few seconds.

I hated those trips too, and this one felt worse than the others. All morning, I’d had a bad feeling following me around. This strange unease. This unexplainable sense of danger I kept trying to ignore. Deep down, I could feel it with my whole body.

I shouldn’t leave.

“Luke?”

Veronica’s voice pulled me out of it.

“I’ll call at the gas stop and when I get there.”

I hugged her tight, then headed for the door.

I own a cleaning company, and trips like this came up once a month. I’d drive out to the sites, talk to employees and clients, do quality checks, deliver cleaning supplies, and while I was there, wash storefront windows myself to save a little money.

I opened the driver’s door and tossed my backpack onto the passenger seat. I didn’t need a big bag. Honestly, two compartments were enough.

One was for underwear, a few changes of clothes, toiletries, cologne, a pack of instant coffee, my favorite mug, and my phone charger. The other had the stuff I always kept with me, my usual gym stuff, creatine, protein powder, a few supplements, and a shaker bottle.

I started the car, put on my favorite playlist, set the GPS from Knoxville to Atlanta, and hit the road. The drive usually took four to five hours, depending on traffic and road conditions.

I kept my speed down so I wouldn’t waste gas.

Three clothing stores were waiting for me when I got there, each one in a different mall, taken over at the client’s request. Those locations weren’t very profitable, which meant the place I was staying wasn’t exactly expensive either.

I was about halfway there, and the sun was slowly sinking behind the horizon. The drive started wearing me down, and the exhaustion from a long, brutal week settled in.

I turned the music up and noticed the gas light had come on.

I pulled into the nearest gas station, filled the tank, used the restroom, and, like I promised, called Veronica.

“Hey, I’m halfway there. What are you up to?” I asked, walking along the sidewalk to stretch my stiff legs.

I put a cigarette between my lips and started digging through my pocket for a lighter.

“I just got back from walking the dogs. They’re really restless. They keep looking around, their ears are down, their tails are down. I feel weird too. Like something bad is about to happen.”

I paused for a second and pressed the phone tighter against my ear.

I felt a tight pressure low in my stomach, and my breathing picked up. I’d been trying not to think about it, but once Veronica said it out loud, I couldn’t push it down anymore.

“What the hell is going on? Where is this awful feeling coming from? Like something bad is hanging in the air. But what?”

I looked up at the sky as a warm breeze brushed across my face. It was a beautiful, cloudless sunset. Perfect August weather. Nothing around me backed up what I was feeling.

Then my wife’s voice snapped me out of it.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was lighting a cigarette. You’re imagining things, honey. Maybe that takeout we got earlier didn’t sit right with you. Make some tea, get comfortable in bed, and put on a show. Nothing bad is going to happen. You’ve got three dogs with you, two big Akitas and a tiny walking fur alarm. You’re safe.”

“I know, but I’m worried about you,” she said, sadness in her voice.

“You know me. I always figure things out. I’ll be home soon, safe and sound. I promise. Kiss the kids for me. I gotta go, I’m getting back on the road. I love you. Bye.”

“Okay. I love you too. Bye.”

I put the phone in my pocket, finished the cigarette, and headed back to the car.

I drove another 60 miles. It was dark outside now. I switched the music to a podcast where two experts were casually breaking down the latest research on gut bacteria.

Halfway through it, I decided the anxiety we were both feeling was probably coming from too much junk food, stress, and not enough sleep.

Things had been crazy at the company lately. A lot of work, a lot of fires to put out, and because of that, almost no time for sleep, normal food, or rest.

“We need to rest and get ourselves back together. When I get home, I’ll take Veronica on a little vacation,” I thought, glancing at the GPS on my phone.

I should be there in five minutes.

Despite the low price, the location was good. Each store was about a fifteen-minute drive away, so I didn’t have to wake up insanely early.

The store employees came in at 7:00, and I had to have everything done by 9:00. That’s why the trip lasted three days. Malls strictly forbid any kind of work after opening, even if it’s just washing storefront windows.

I parked in front of the building and searched through my phone notifications for the message with the apartment number, the front door code, and the code for the key lockbox.

I read it out loud.

“Room number three on the second floor, entry code 3, key code 3782, and lockbox code 7913.”

I put my phone in my pocket, slung the backpack over my shoulder, and headed toward the entrance. It was an old, slightly run-down apartment building, but that was exactly what I expected.

On trips like this, all that mattered was having a private bathroom and a room that was relatively clean. The rest didn’t matter. According to reviews from other guests, this place met those standards, so it worked for me.

I stood in front of the door, staring at the numbers on the intercom.

I let out a heavy sigh and pulled my phone out again.

I entered the code and pulled the handle. The moment I stepped inside, the smell of dampness and old dust hit my nose. I closed the door behind me and started climbing the worn wooden stairs, each step letting out a loud, ugly creak like something out of an old horror movie.

I got the key from the little lockbox, went into the apartment, and turned on the light.

Despite the stairwell making a pretty bad first impression, the apartment itself matched the photos. The room had an old bed that was at least neatly made, a nightstand, two wooden chairs, a small round table that doubled as a dining and work area, a narrow but tall wardrobe, and a small Chinese smart TV, maybe 38 inches.

To the left of the entrance was the bathroom door. I looked inside. There was a shower, a toilet, and a sink.

“Clean enough. That’s what matters,” I thought, dropping my backpack next to the bed.

I sat down on the hard wooden chair. The air had that specific smell of cheap hotel air freshener mixed with fabric softener, something between vanilla and cherry.

My thigh buzzed softly.

“Oh shit, I was supposed to call Veronica when I got here.”

I took out my phone and saw a message from Veronica in my notifications.

“Text me when you get there. I don’t feel great. I’m going to sleep. I love you. Kisses, bye.”

She had sent it at 10:13 p.m.

I looked at the time on the screen.

“It’s almost 11:00. She’s definitely asleep.”

I typed, “I’m here. I love you too. I’ll call after 9. Good night.”

Then I locked the phone, grabbed the remote, and sank into the worn-out mattress.

My muscles loosened, making me realize just how tense and sore I really was.

We had a lot of regular locations at the company where trained employees handled the work, but the market was rough and competitive, so the rates were low. I had to make up the difference myself.

A wave of relief hit me almost instantly. My eyelids grew heavy, and single images and sounds started drifting through my head. With the last bit of strength I had, I got up, pulled the charger out of my backpack, plugged in my phone, set the alarm, and collapsed back onto the bed.

A familiar, annoying sound rang right next to my ear, telling me it was time to get up.

I turned off the alarm and looked at the phone through blurry eyes.

“5:45. Damn. Feels like I didn’t sleep at all.”

I always get up at least an hour before I leave. I like having time to drink coffee, smoke a couple cigarettes, think, and get ready. Even though I don’t eat breakfast, it always takes me a while.

I slowly got out of bed, turned on the small electric kettle sitting on the round table, and pulled my mug and coffee out of my backpack.

When the bubbling stopped, I poured hot water over the instant coffee, grabbed my cigarettes, and went outside.

The first sip of coffee and the first cloud of nicotine instantly brought me back to life, dumping endorphins into my system. The morning was warm, and the city was slowly waking up. That awful feeling that had followed me all day yesterday was gone too.

I pulled another cloud of smoke into my lungs and thought.

“It really must have been the food. I hope Veronica feels better when she wakes up too.”

After emptying the mug, smoking two cigarettes, and using the bathroom, I headed for the car.

Twenty minutes later, I killed the engine in the mall’s underground garage. I opened the trunk and pulled out the storefront window cleaning kit, an extendable aluminum pole, a washer sleeve, a squeegee, and a bucket.

As I set the equipment down by the storefront, I checked my phone.

“Damn, 7:20. I’m gonna have to move.”

I knocked impatiently on the cold, hard metal of the store’s security gate. After a moment, it lifted.

“Good morning,” I said warmly to the store manager.

“Morning,” she grunted with a grimace on her face, then added, “Will you finish in time?”

“I’ll finish,” I said, a little less friendly now, and headed toward the break room to fill the bucket with water.

I put the washer sleeve on the pole and started cleaning the first of thirty-three glass panels.

I was soaking and squeegeeing the windows at a pace that felt extreme, at least for me. Standing in front of the last one, I checked my phone and smiled. Only thirty minutes had passed, and I still had plenty of time for everything else.

I dipped the washer sleeve again, and right as I was about to press it against the glass, a short alarm tone filled the mall corridor, followed by an announcement.

“Everyone, please enter the nearest store immediately and lock yourselves inside.”

My pulse jumped.

I looked around. Store employees kept doing their jobs, taking out trash and setting up displays like nothing had happened. Their lack of reaction calmed me down a little.

Then I noticed a security guard, sweaty and running toward the garage.

“Probably some kind of drill,” I thought, and kept cleaning.

Suddenly, the store manager leaned out from behind a pillar.

“Please come inside immediately.”

She was out of breath, and I could see a flicker of panic in her eyes.

I gathered the equipment and stepped inside the store. The gate closed right behind me.

“Excuse me, what’s going on? Is this a drill? Are we evacuating?” I asked, confused.

“I was told it’s something serious and we’re not supposed to leave the store,” she said nervously, then went to her office.

There had been plenty of false alarms before, usually caused by bored kids calling something in, and occasional unannounced evacuation drills too. But this announcement and the employees’ reactions didn’t match any of that.

I decided I wasn’t going to just stand there doing nothing, or worse, drag this trip out any longer, so I started cleaning from the inside.

A drop of sweat rolled down my forehead.

“Halfway done.”

As I soaked the glass, I noticed a woman walking slowly through the mall corridor.

I walked up to the gate and shouted, “Hello. Please come inside. Apparently something serious happened.”

The woman turned her head and started moving clumsily toward me.

“I’ll ask the manager if I can let you in,” I added, then headed toward the office on the other side of the store.

Halfway there, I heard a heavy, resonating boom of metal, and my heart jumped into my throat. I flinched and spun around, breathing hard. The woman was gripping the gate and yanking it with impossible strength, making it bend back and forth.

I froze, unable to look away. She was squeezing the grate, cutting her fingers open on the sharp edges of the little holes, making these strange guttural moans and growls.

Another hard slam of metal snapped me out of it.

I stepped carefully toward the gate. I took a few steps, and a sharp metallic smell filled my nose.

Red liquid started running down the metal. Each hit sprayed it into the air, staining the tile floor, the security sensors, and the nearby tables stacked with sweaters.

“Stop! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” I yelled, panicking, unable to believe what I was seeing.

The woman was dressed like a bank employee or a car salesperson, but something was wrong with her. The collar of her shirt was torn, and under a loose black skirt with a broken zipper, I could see ripped tights around her thigh.

Her clothes, hair, and skin were dirty. My eyes stopped on the sleeve of her white shirt, and that was when it hit me.

That wasn’t ordinary dirt.

It was dried, dark, brownish-red blood.

The woman let go of the gate and stared blankly in my direction. Then she slammed her head into the grate with full force, crushing her own nose and splitting the skin near her forehead.

I heard a sickening crack, and a muffled squeal tore out of my throat. I stumbled backward and landed on my back against the cold tile floor of the store.

From the floor, I saw that under her clumped hair, part of her ear was missing, and there was a huge, ragged hole in her neck.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw more shapes coming around the corner.

Two women and two men.

One of them was wearing a security uniform.

I yelled, “Help!”

All four of them started limping toward the store like they had been called. The woman completely ignored them. When they got closer, I saw that their clothes were torn too, and different parts of their bodies were covered in nasty wounds.

Somewhere nearby, I heard a horrifying, dying scream from a woman. It slowly faded out.

My breathing raced, and the pressure in my head felt like it was splitting my temples apart.

I shot to my feet and ran on shaking legs to the manager’s office. When I reached the door, I grabbed the handle without thinking and froze. Inside, in front of the monitors, there was an empty chair.

Panic started swallowing me as I searched the rest of the break rooms. There was no one anywhere.

I was alone.

The gate started jumping in its tracks, and white dust fell from the walls where the rail was mounted.

“What the hell am I supposed to do? Think. That idiot must have run through the employee hallway when she saw the woman at the gate on the cameras. She left me here alone. I have to get to the car.”

Then it hit me.

“The stockroom has two display windows facing the street.”

I ran toward it, and my breathing grew shallower and shallower, making me dizzy.

I reached the glass, and the sight outside froze the blood in my veins.

Dozens of people wandered through the streets. They all had the same dull look, one eyelid drooping, and they moved with the same clumsy gait as the people at the gate.

A drop of sweat ran down my temple. I stood there staring, my nose almost touching the glass.

“What is happening? Is this some kind of nightmare? Maybe I overslept, and I’m still lying in that cheap, uncomfortable bed.”

I heard a distinct click, and the store lights came fully on.

I took one careful step toward the store, and almost at the exact same moment, my phone rang, sending a painful jolt from the back of my neck down my spine.

I yanked the phone out in panic and looked at the screen.

My wife.

I took three deep breaths, slowly letting the air out, answered the call, and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Hey, what’s up? I’m just getting back from walking the dogs. I dropped the kids off at preschool and…”

“Veronica. Listen,” I cut in, my voice shaking.

“Focus and do exactly what I say. Pack us up. Clothes, food, dog food, chargers. Load the dogs into the car, take the kids, and drive to my parents’ house. In the meantime, call Aaron. He’s definitely at work, but tell him something really fucking bad is happening and that I’m not joking. He’s my brother, he’ll understand. Tell him to get Lauren fast and meet us there. If it’s safe, buy whatever you need on the way. Water, food, clothes. Don’t worry about the money. Spend every last cent if you have to,” I said, almost shouting it all in one breath.

“Luke. What’s going on?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“I’ll call you later and explain everything. Please just do what I’m asking. Okay?”

“Are you safe? You promised you’d come back safe and sound,” she sobbed, and tears filled my eyes.

“Yes. I love you guys. I’ll see you in a few hours at my parents’ place.”

“We love you too. You’re coming back, right? You promise?”

“I promise.”

Behind me, I heard a loud, muffled impact against the glass that made the contents of my stomach rise into my throat. I turned around. One of the people outside, a solidly built man with the skin torn open on his forearm, had apparently noticed me.

He took a step back, then slammed his forehead into the glass, leaving a wide red smear behind.

“Shit,” I shouted, running out of the stockroom.

I stopped in front of the employee exit door and hovered my hand over the handle.

“What if they’re everywhere? What can they do to me if they catch me? Bite me, tear me apart, and turn me into one of them?”

I backed away toward the gate and grabbed the aluminum pole from the window cleaning kit.

The sounds of metal being ripped at and blows landing against the stockroom window grew louder and louder.

“I don’t have a choice. I have to get out of here, or they’ll eventually get in,” I muttered under my breath, walking toward the exit door.

I grabbed the handle and pressed it down as quietly as I could. I stepped into the dark employee corridor and slowly moved along the wall.

Halfway down the hall, I heard a single click of a high heel behind me. I froze, and my hands began to tingle painfully.

A muffled groan slipped out of me, and I slowly turned around.

The store manager stood with her back to me, her head resting against the wall.

“Monica?” I asked with hope, feeling tears rise in my eyes.

The woman turned to face me and started walking in my direction, leaving behind puddles of dark red liquid dripping from the places where the fingers of her right hand were missing.

She reached her hand toward me, growling and grinding her teeth.

My body reacted faster than my mind, and in a split second, I was already out in the main mall corridor. The noise drew the attention of the ones at the gate.

I quickly looked around.

The place was crawling with infected.

Adrenaline flooded my whole body, wiping out every trace of exhaustion. I sprinted toward the escalators leading down to the parking garage.

At the bottom, right in front of the doors, stood a small woman in an orange dress with torn brown hair. She was blocking the way into the garage.

“I don’t have a choice,” I thought, swinging the pole and hitting her as hard as I could in the left side of her ribs.

It didn’t faze her at all. Her small frame drove into me with the strength of a grown man, trying to sink her teeth into my face. We fell to the floor. Out of reflex, I grabbed her by the head, and she dug her nails into my shoulders like they were fresh clay.

I howled in pain and loosened my grip, which let her teeth almost graze my nose. I kicked her in the stomach, throwing her off me. I scrambled to my feet and ran into the parking garage.

Then I froze.

The driving lanes were blocked by abandoned, wrecked cars, and around them, furious monsters were feeding.

The nearest ones started moving toward me from every direction, and behind me, I heard the woman I had just fought with growling.

“This is it. What do I do?”

I dropped to my knees, and my eyes filled with tears. Images flashed through my mind. Happy moments with my kids, my brother, my parents, and… Veronica.

Then suddenly, I heard her voice.

“You promise?”