Archive of Our Own

Never let it be said that Clancy Javis was a quitter.

He was many, many things, but never a quitter. Not when his mother signed him up for the local little league, and he’d been resigned to the bench. Not when he and his brother huddled around the arcade machine, Player 1 Wins! blinking in front of him. Not when his professor peered over her glasses and demurely asked him if he had any other interests besides filmmaking.

Call it foolhardy, or call it determined. Clancy practiced his swings until his arms quivered from exertion, gripped his last quarter so tight the ridges left imprints against his skin as he demanded another round, and pushed through with a meager C average to his degree. He threw himself into the field with the same brash determination. Clancy learned how to see the world through a viewfinder and hit his mark, got an eye for composing shots, and refined his craft. Even when he had to start taking worse and worse gigs to make ends meet, he pushed on in search of his one true break. Amateur films without basic safety, a couple training videos, then when he was desperate, web shows. His last job had left him with an inch long scar on his forearm, and barely enough money to make rent.

Maybe that should have been a sign. A telltale It’s only worse from here, Javis should have been loud and clear. Instead, Clancy assumed the opposite. This had to be somewhere close to rock bottom, and he had no plans to start digging. When the message asking to help film a cheap ghost show in the bayou popped up on his laptop, he didn’t think twice. He’d gone to a couple abandoned places before, he could handle this, and the pay was decent. Apparently, they were on episode seventeen, though how they’d gotten that far while keeping the name Sewer Gators was beyond him. Clancy knew the type of show, though; explain the poor family that disappeared or got murdered, rig up some fishing line and act surprised as objects flail around the deeply uncharismatic host. In and out. Dishonest, but who cared? Who would even watch this? It was a safe bet, not entirely a lucky break, but something to keep him afloat.

Safe bet his ass. His first image of Peter had been a guy barking orders in a department store suit jacket and blue jeans. Andre had greeted him politely and then offhandedly apologized about Peter’s temper. A bitter complaint about his previous work experience forecasted just how much of a slog this job would be. Clancy had so much time to call it off. When Peter bitched about not feeling him as the cameraman, he could have fought for his dignity then left. When Andre went missing, when they revealed the secret door- the largest, most obvious warning sign that this house wasn’t normal- Clancy should have sprinted for the hills. He didn’t know these guys, why did he care if they went missing? But he wasn’t that kind of guy, he wouldn’t just leave someone behind like that. Peter may have been bullshitting when he’d said it, but in a way, he’d been right. Clancy was a good cameraman, and he wasn’t a quitter. So, he stuck by him, and he kept the film rolling all the while. Only when the boot came down against his skull did he feel any regret.

The next few hours- days?- passed in a sluggish blur. The claggy smell of mold and rot infested his lungs as he felt himself carried, half conscious, through the stuffy Louisiana air. Another blink, and he felt stone against his back again, heard the low hum of an AC unit and incandescent lights. The stench of rot had lifted, replaced with mildew and urine. An underbite of mold remained. A deep voice rumbled somewhere beyond him, telling of another presence, but he couldn’t make out anything against the molasses coating his senses. Another blink, a shadow crowding his wandering vision. “You ain’t get to die on us yet, boy.” Growled into his ear, drawing forth a delayed flinch. Something wet pressed against the back of his head, and the world came into sharp focus as fire raced through his veins. A strangled cry tore from his throat, through his skull that pounded in time with his heartbeat. “That’s it, just like that.” A heavy southern lilt coated the words, but they barely reached through the ringing in his brain. Clancy felt the awareness dissolve as soon as the pain ebbed, and the call of unconsciousness once again tried to soothe him under. In the next blink, the shadow was gone. The fire had died down, leaving his limbs lead filled.

It took a while to come back to himself. Various voices threaded through his bursts of awareness, each layered in Cajun drawl. None of the specifics remained in his grasp though, slipping away like silt through a stream. A gap opened wide between his brain and body. His mind wanted elsewhere, and the body on the floor felt too heavy to take with. Clancy lost count of how many times he almost surfaced, but on the fourth or fifth awakening, something felt like it was pressing against his forehead. Each time his eyelids started to droop, it squeezed, bringing him back. Consciousness trickled in slowly, the vague disconnect between his body and mind whittling down as his senses came rolling back in.

Pain registered before anything. An ache, thudding like a drumbeat, continued to radiate from the section of his skull that took the brunt of the boot. Beyond the hurt, the first thing he picked up on was the smell that had done nothing but encroach further into him. It reminded him of his first college dorm, and the black mold him and his roommate had continually complained about to the RA. Next, sound filtered in. He could make out drops of water splashing down from leaky pipes, his own heartbeat and feather-light breathing. The AC had been turned off, but the lights continued their steady hum. It was quiet, almost to a worrying degree. Clancy’s vision righted itself enough to make out his initial suspicions. A crisscross of wood beams and insulation greeted him, along with a single yellowed bulb dangling from a chain. They’d stuck him in a basement. Was he still in the same building? A wheezing rattly sigh pulled from his lungs as the world finally focused, but something else caught his attention. Something lingered at the edge of his senses that he couldn’t quite pin down, something that remained in the divorced part of his consciousness that wriggled about and tried to pull him up. Clancy curled his bitten down nails against the concrete and forced himself not to focus on it.

He didn’t know how long he remained staring at the dingy ceiling, trying to will away each ache and pain that sprung up across his body. Clancy knew he needed to move. He needed to get up, needed to get going. He fought the nausea that swept through at the smallest of movements, and he almost hurled sitting up. As his stomach quieted and his vision steadied again, Clancy took in his surroundings. It took a moment to piece together that the bizarre little bedroom was in fact a cell, big enough to fit a small bed and a bucket where he determined the smell of piss to be coming from. The walls were covered in mattresses that had long since stopped being white. Some peeled off from where they were nailed, and some were torn, muddied fuzz clinging in their place. He cringed at the dark brown stains soaked through the ones in the middle of the wall, and the black strands crawling from exposed ground. Turning his head to the other side, he could see the door, a collection of bars with a heavy padlock. A bowl sat in front of it, but the contents were far too red for his liking. There wasn’t much he could see beyond the bars from where he sat, just the open tunnel in front of him and those pipes that he’d been hearing. A couple things covered in tarps, but they looked to just be boxes. After putting it off for so long, he did an extremely cursory check of himself. Dirt clung to his sleeves and pants, his hat and equipment were gone. Clancy tentatively brought his hand up to the spot that kept pounding and came back with what he hoped was flakes of dried mud. Andre’s body was gone. Pete was nowhere to be found. Clancy was alone.

Cold dread burrowed into his chest. Foul play his ass. They’d been here the whole time. Or at least Jack had been. Was he just waiting for idiots like them to wander in so he could snap them up? He winced as the aroma of rancid meat attacked him much more readily and turned to the bowl he’d skipped over. The contents were a muddy red, chunks of rotten yellow and white breaching the surface. Any hunger he’d had before quelled at the sight, then altogether disappeared at the sight of black chunks that bobbed under the oily surface in thin strings. “What the fuck.” He did his best to cover his nose, and finally stood. The haze of his probable concussion lifted at the movement, and urgency finally found its way into his bones.

He needed to get the hell out of here.

Clancy carefully nudged the bowl aside and pressed himself to the door, trying to see as much as he could. Beyond the initial sights, he could make out a small workbench to his right, covered in papers and various tools and- his heart leapt to his throat- his camera. Muck coated the lens and covered the side, but it was undoubtable his. Further down was another opening, but darkness obscured it. There was nothing to the left but a wall. Clancy turned the lock experimentally in his hand. Old, but sturdy.

The extra twisting beyond his senses suddenly snapped taut, and the awareness that someone was coming settled into his thoughts. Not a second later, footsteps echoed down the stone, and he stumbled back frantically. No, no time to consider. Just act. Clancy laid back in the same spot he’d woken up in, pressing his eyes shut and forcing his breathing to slow. The boots stopped in front of the door, and keys jangled. The rough voice from before echoed through the cell. “Time to get your ass up, boy.” He couldn’t help the minute flinch as the lock clicked open, as the man crossed the threshold. “Wakey, wakey, Clancy.” A sickly-sweet tone enveloped his words, but Clancy remained resolutely still. The man gruffed, then kicked him none too gently against his side. “I know you’re up, don’t try that trick on me.”

Clancy coughed as his eyes snapped open, taking in the towering form of what he could only assume to be the father, Jack Baker, looming over him. He resembled the old man in the painting he’d seen in the house, with his long sleeve green and orange button up and thick cargo pants. Same glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and receding hairline. But instead of the easy calm expression in the brush strokes, his face was twisted in a snarl, madness buzzing in his eyes as he watched him. It became clear, very quickly, that there would be no reasoning his way out of this. The words from his concussed state crawled back to him through cloudy memories. “What-“ Clancy turned to face him. “What the hell do you want from me?”

Jack smiled, but it was mostly teeth, then crouched into his space. Mud and that tangy smell of rot invade his nose. “We don’t normally like vermin crawlin’ around our property. But my little Evie’s taken a liking to you.” His eyes scanned over Clancy’s face, and he hmphed, like what he’d found was severely lacking. He tried to remember the briefing Andre had given them. Jack, the father, Marguerite the mother, and the son Lucas. They’d had a daughter too, but he’d never gotten her name. Maybe that was Evie? “I want you to accept her gift.” Jack gestured sidelong to the bowl he’d pushed aside. The fat had started to congeal around the top of the broth, the black strands below clinging to the meat. “Marguerite made it special, just for you.” If it were any other situation, Clancy would find the pride in those words charming.

Instead, he braced his hands against the stone and dragged himself back towards the bed. “I don’t-“ A grunt of pain pierced his aggressive tone, “I don’t want to be part of your fucking family.” Clancy spat. He had no legs to stand on here, his hand was dangerously the lower one, but playing along felt like the worse option. All he had was his token resistance. Jack’s face twisted again; the scowl deepened. Clancy’s gut dropped.

“Fucking kids,” He spat, snatching the bowl with one hand and plucking out a chunk of intestine, “don’t know what’s good for ‘em.” Jack crossed the meager space in two strides, pawing at Clancy’s throat and dragging him forward with a cry. “Come on, come on, nice and easy.” He crooned, like he was feeding a reluctant toddler.  Slippery iron slathered his tongue as the lump of flesh was jammed into his open mouth. Clancy clawed at the hand around his collar, twisting and letting his gag reflex take over as the meat flew across the room. Revolted tears obscured his vision as Jack growled over him. “Sum bitch, ain’t your mama ever teach you manners?” An open palm met his cheek, and the resulting sting finally drew the water from his eyes.

“No,” hapless pleading fell out as he panted, “no no, please, don’t-“ Clancy choked out, squirming under the calloused hands supporting his weight. The bowl sloshed as Jack once again picked up a piece of innards. His legs kicked forward uselessly, hitting the solid meat of Jack’s thigh but barely getting a flinch. The fetid smell inched closer to his mouth, but before it reached, something overhead rumbled. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was, but it reminded him of a rockslide. Maybe some far off explosion, maybe something collapsing. Too distant to know. Jack became tense, however. His eyes flicked up, and the hand keeping him half suspended disappeared. Another sputter was knocked free from his chest.

“Gad damn that girl!” Jack’s voice was already gaining distance as he roared out, “Zoe!” The loud stomps carry down the righthand corridor.

Clancy didn’t waste any time scrambling upright, and almost laughed. In his haste, Jack had forgotten to lock the door again. He edged forward, listening until the footsteps stopped echoing before pulling the cell door open. “Thanks, Zoe.” He whispered to the open air, hoping the sentiment somehow carried. He stepped out, then made straight for his camera. A calm washed over him once the weight settled in his grip, and already he was subconsciously running his check. Everything is still intact, somehow, just in dire need of a good scrub. They’d even left on the straps he used as a makeshift shoulder harness. Clancy set to flicking through the camera’s settings, fixing the focus and color grading. Clancy would never been able to say why this had been his first priority, nor why his thoughts had turned to the memory of his professor on their first class in filmography. “Every shot can be used.” she’d said. “Keep the camera rolling.” Later, he’d tell himself he wanted to make sure there was some evidence of what had happened to him.

A small dirt-stained piece of paper lay next to his camera, and with idle fascination he flipped it over. Clancy could make out small clean script printed across the front. His attention focused more when he identified it as a list of names. Clancy scooped it up, eyes hitting each one. Dead, dead, dead, turned, holy fuck how long had they been doing this? There were over a dozen names here. Nothing was written by ‘Mia’ so he could only hope she escaped, and near the end of the list…

A strangled sound pulled from his chest.

                Peter – Dead

                Andre – Dead

                Clancy –

Clancy stared down at the marks cutting through the paper, as if willing them to change. He shoved it back onto the bench, cramming it out of sight. That was it. He was it. A part of him started to wander off, wondering if they had any family he could tell, but he quickly yanked himself back onto the task at hand. No one would know the truth if he died here, and he’d spent enough time idling already. Who knew when Jack would come back? Clancy shook his head, hooked on the straps of his camera, and turned to assess his options. There was the route in front of him, away from the man who had taken him hostage, but that could possibly only lead further into the basement, or to a dead end. Or, he could go the direction Jack had gone, clearly leading to some way out but chance running into him. Neither seemed good. He wished he’d asked Andre for a map of the property before coming down.

A sigh to his left startled him. Somehow, in his haste, he’d missed an entire wheelchair settled by the workbench. An old woman perched in the seat, wearing a thin white shirt and a red scarf. Her head tilted back, and milky eyes stared off into some space beyond him, lips quivered against themselves. Leathery hands lay curled against the armrests, and if he looked, he could trace the veins under her papery white skin blanched with liver spots, make out the bones between muscles too weak to lift themselves. Ghostly thin strands of hair fluttered down as she languidly turned in his direction, though her eyes remained in their unfocused state. Clancy was struck with another memory, this time with his own grandmother in her nursing home. He’d remembered sneaking a look in the room across the hall and catching sight of the woman inside. Her eyes stared off the same as the one in front of him; completely sightless and folded in on herself. His grandmother off handedly stated no one came to visit her when she noticed his dewy glances. Explained she wasn’t really ‘there’ even though he could see her.

Had Jack brought her down here? It didn’t look like she was cognizant enough to move herself. Clancy cleared his throat. “Hello...?” The old woman made no move of acknowledgement, so he cautiously crept forward. “Hey…” He brushed his hand across hers, then flinched back. She was freezing. Clancy frowned as something in his chest ached with hollow sympathy. A shell of a woman abandoned down here by her son. Against his better judgement, he went back into the cell to gather up the thin woven blanket thrown on the cot. He glanced over his shoulder to see her head tracking him, but beyond that remained completely still. He shook his head to himself, then brought it back and gently draped it over her. “Any idea which way to go?” He spoke mostly to fill the silence. Clancy didn’t expect her head to move deliberately to the side, pointing towards the hall to the left. “Oh.” He breathed out. “…thank you.” As Clancy passed by and flicked on his camera light, he missed as she started to smile.

The hallway twisted onward, around a few bends, past an old rusty bunk bed frame, a discarded toilet, and more boxes. Around a large wooden slat covered in crayon scribble, something shifted. Something deep in his gut started to pull, strained his boots against the stone to get him to go faster. It mixed with that far off sense that he’d been resolute in his resolve not to acknowledge. Clancy shook his head, stamping down on the urge as he came up to a wooden door which opened with ease. He stopped short on the other side, though.

Must settled against his shoulders. He'd been led into what looked like a half-flooded room. The smell of sewage and rot almost sent him back down the hall again. Clancy cursed softly. Maybe his act of kindness had decided to fuck him over. He stepped forward though, desperation and that inkling against his stomach driving him on. Several pictures were plastered to the wall behind him, but he refused to look beyond sweeping his camera to catch a still. He could scrutinize it later. Clancy instead focused on the water, watching as the ripples sent out by the edge that lapped the dirt didn’t bounce back once it reached the wall. He worried his lower lip, then eased down onto his knees, twisting his head and spying a couple inch gap between the surface of the water and the top of the wall. A crawl space? The weight of supposed betrayal lifted, and he smiled. It led somewhere.

Clancy inched down into the water, cringing as it rushed into his boots, soaked the fabric of his pants and chilled his skin. He could feel himself sinking into more mud, each step a fight against a suckering vacuum. Something else tangled against his legs, but the murk and debris made it hard to see past the surface. The stoop brought the water level halfway up his chest, so thankfully he wouldn’t be doing any swimming. Clancy hoisted the camera up just in case.

Right as he stepped up to the overhang, his foot caught under something. Fear broke like fireworks in his chest as he tugged, bracing his hand against the wood beam and pulling harder. Something buzzed against the back of his skull, like hands reaching out, grasping at his neurons and wringing them, tightening his throat-

Bubbles broke the surface, and then a large shadow swelled. Clancy bit back a scream as the bloated face of Andre flopped to the side. The blood had washed from his face, and the skin had gone a sickly green tint while it started to bloat. His eyes, mercifully, remained rolled back instead of focusing on him. Shallow grief clogged his throat. Andre had been the one to reach out. He’d been polite, always professional. Even had the courtesy to offer drinks after the shoot. Clancy doubted it would have been anything fancier than a six pack from a gas station, but the thought struck a cord against his heart now. Before he could think, his hand stretched toward Andre, though to do what he wasn’t unsure. As soon as Clancy’s fingers came in contact with his waterlogged shirt, the sensation at the back of his skull broke forth like lightning, and a new, much scarier feeling spider webbed up his arm. His head started to throb all over again, suddenly heavy and full in a way that didn’t make sense.

“No.” He breathed out, yanking back and almost dropping his camera. “No, no, keep moving.” Clancy ducked under the overhang and started sloshing forward. A couple steps from the body, there was a slorp from behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to know the corpse had been dragged back under. For a second, Clancy hesitated, then sighed. “…I’m sorry, Andre.” Then he pushed on.

He ignored the sense of detached forgiveness that nestled against his spine.

The flooded tunnel had turned a few times before the slope under his feet increased into another small damp area. Quiet anxiety pooled in his gut as the familiarity of the space dawned on him. The blood around the pipe and staining the floor had congealed to a thick dark red ichor, and the mere sight of the ladder sent his pulse jackrabbiting. But a thread of hope looped around his chest, dragging him up to the rungs even as he steeled his nerves. Clancy knew where he was now, could trace the path through the creaking floorboards overhead. He could make it out.

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy.

Clancy made it through the hidden alcove, and just started his rush to the other door when a series of thumps drew him up short, stilling his fingers around the knob. The acrid aroma of mold seeped in under the door in gusts, and the heavy breathing of… something battered against the wood. It sounded like someone growling against phlegm clogging their throat, or a cat before hacking up a hairball. Something heavy dragged through the hall, thick nails clacking against floorboards that groaned under the weight. He held his breath, then- even as alarm bells rang in his head-  clicked off his camera light and twisted the handle as slowly as he could.

A shadow had been thrown on the wall by the flickers of moonlight. Something bipedal, something large and hulking that arched its back and clicked its teeth against the open air. Clancy bit down any reaction to the long arm that twitched out of the darkness; long cords of black muscle tangled around blood-stained bone, ending in inky claw like protrusions. He flinched back from the opening. It seemed to be simply idling there in the hall, just beyond the door. Clancy’s mind raced to pull back the scraps of memory. There was a single door in the direction the creature had gone, which meant it didn’t have much space to explore before coming back. How much distance did he have to cover? He’d have to clear the hall and pass the stairs, he remembered that much. Then left, into the kitchen. If it caught him, could he get the door to the entrance hall open fast enough? Would those two inches of wood give him enough time to sprint to the exit? Panic started to seep in. What if it was locked? He’d be cornered, and he didn’t know the layout upstairs. Andre had kicked the door open just fine, maybe it would work there too.

The creature twitched around, and he quickly refocused. It shuffled back down the way it had come; the direction he needed to go. Clancy heard it dragging past the steps, knocking a picture frame free in its descent, then stopping again. Patrolling. That’s what it was doing. He eased up to the small crack in the door, incrementally pressing his weight against it until he had enough space to slide through. There was a room, a closet or storage room he remembered, between the stairs and the living room. Clancy could hide in there until it passed. It made the distance feel less impossible to cross.

The creature did another loop before he allowed himself to breach the doorway. Deft foot falls carved his path into the closet. The prowling didn’t seem natural, but then again nothing about it did. Were they like guard dogs? Were they somehow looking for him? Clancy turned the corner sharply and cursed as his forehead smacked a twine doll hanging from the ceiling. The languid huffing of the creature snapped to attention, and he quickly scrambled for a hiding spot. The walls shook with the force of it running towards the closet. Nothing. There was nowhere, just some shelves it would clearly spot him in. With more than a little harried desperation, Clancy gave up and pressed against the wall immediately beside the door. Maybe it would buy him a second or two.

The shadow barreled through the frame a second later, and he bore witness to the full picture of monstrosity. A macabre mockery of a person stood before him. Bones lay exposed across the tangled black, and reddish organs pressed against ribs. A large misshapen head snapped at the doll that continued to swing, easily snapping it in half. Rancid breaths filled the space, gargling as it searched for its prey. Clancy gripped tight to the camera strapped to his shoulder, then prayed to any god that would listen to spare him a miracle.

He toed as silently as he could towards the doorframe, then broke into a sprint.

Clancy had always heard that the human body could do all sorts of things under stress. People miraculously became marathoners, expert marksmen, professional climbers under enough threat, though he’d never been in enough mortal peril to warrant it. As he sprinted through the trees, stumbling through knee high grass and bramble, he wondered briefly if this was what it felt like. Adrenaline turned his thoughts to soup, the primal instinct to flee coursing through his veins. Clancy tore through the underbrush with little regard, muggy air coating his lungs as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind him. It was a blazing flight that threw his heart in wild swooping arcs between the pit of his stomach and the crown of his head, made him feel both on the edge of throwing up and running on a gnawing hunger.

The doors hadn’t held the creature for long. It crashed into the first when he’d gotten halfway up the hall, then used the remaining momentum to plow through the second. Clancy sprung across the yard and fought for purchase up the small ledge where the path had ended. He heard it screech as he toppled over; globs of dirt now caked his fingers and smudged his jeans as he righted himself. He threw a small glance at the blurry shape streaking through the grass after him, then started to haul ass down the dirt road they’d taken through the bog. It took a few stride before the snarling made it up after him, and by then more sounds echoed through the trees. A cacophony of howls and shrieks nipped at his heels across the embankment; he caught sight of more monsters crawling from the woodwork, each as twisted and grotesque as the last. Darkness clawed from the gnarled trees. Their branches caught against his jacket, but he pushed on, flicking on his camera light so he could make out the path.

All thoughts rested on the van; some veiled bastion of safety they’d tucked beyond the broken fence line. They’d neglected to lock it- Peter annoyedly asked why a ghost would need to steal a van- and Clancy couldn’t be happier with the oversight. Sure, he didn’t have the keys, and he had a clear demonstration of what these things could do to puny wooden doors, but there were very few options. Adrenaline could only carry him so far, and they were miles from anything that resembled a town; once physical exertion outweighed the hormones flooding his bloodstream, Clancy would be at these creatures’ mercy. Something told him they didn’t tire the way he did. No one had ever taught him how to hotwire, but it couldn’t be that difficult. He’d have to learn on his feet, just like with everything over the past few hours. The van also held the promise of a weapon. A pocketknife, anything heavy enough to be a bludgeon, hell, he’d take a plastic fork at this point. Maybe one of the Gators had thought to stash a gun in there somewhere in case things ever got hairy.

Clancy counted maybe three extra sets of foot falls echoing behind him. It was hard to tell over the snarling and raspy roars. A flash of white through the trees drew his attention, and he nearly screamed with relief. He’d made it. Clancy thudded down the path and launched himself against the sliding door, damn near tripping over the extension cords they’d laid out for their equipment. The beasts caught at the fence. He could hear the resounding clang of their lumpy heads against the top of the frame. With a puff of exertion, he fell into the cabin of the van then twisted around and yanked on the handle with all his remaining strength. Only when the latch engaged did he dare spare a glance at what had been chasing him. Four crowded the opening, and they didn’t seem to realize they could duck. One had an arm that appeared much bulkier than the other, the threads of mold thicker and darker with large, twisted barbs curling away from where it attached to the shoulder.

He swiveled around in the seat to start his search, but his stomach dropped.

The van was completely empty. All their equipment. Anything that could have… gone. Jack must have cleaned it out during his bout of unconsciousness. Clancy shifted, and something crinkled under his knee. He felt around, then yanked out the offending bundle. The script for the episode stared back at him, complete with the black and white image of Peter, Andre and their previous camera man on the front. Their tiny black dotted eyes stared back at him, all at once disapproving and completely indifferent to his struggle. Andre’s clean pen strokes telling the other to schedule equipment cut through the bottom left of the picture, Peter’s hastily scribbled red marker ‘OK!!’ bled against the paper beside it. Clancy lowered the script, a stone lodged in his throat now, but something else caught his eye. Something at odds against the blank back of the paper. He turned it over.

‘Join us’

Clancy threw the script with a scream just in time to catch movement in the side view mirror. The van violently lurched and the window cracked against the force of one of the creatures. He was thrown back down against the seat with a grunt and got a full view inside the thing’s mouth as it tried to bite at him. Its breath steamed the glass as it rocked the cabin back and forth. The embers of fight that drove him dampened, and bitter defeat threatened to wash them out. Like a weighted blanket, resignation not his own pressed down upon his back. Clancy grit his teeth as the creature reared back and raised its thicker claw like arm.

“We are not dying here.” He disregarded the use of ‘we’ in that sentence for the time being. Renewed determination pushed past to foreign submission. The claw caught the glass again and his arm flung out, throwing the door open and sending it stumbling from the impact. Clancy clumsily rolled out under its other flailing limb and hit the ground at an awkward angle that sent spurs of pain up his shoulder. He quickly regained his footing, but the creatures got suddenly quiet, and far too still. A tremor ran up his spine, and the constant buzz in his skull that he’d grown accustomed to stilled. The superstitious part of him chanted that someone had just walked over his grave.

“Hooo! City boy, you really are somethin’!” Instead, it was just Jack baker on his own property. Clancy slipped against the mud as Jack stooped under the dented fence. A large rusty shovel was propped lazily over one shoulder, and his expression was far more approving than he was comfortable with. “Got me runnin around like a dog tryna find you!”

The monsters that had chased him spasmed, then melted into a puddle of that same black substance. His eyes flicked frantically from the spot they’d been to Jack, now rapidly advancing. “Let me go.” The words were caught between a plead and a warning. Neither would have stilled the glazed insanity in the Bakers’ eyes.

Off kilter laughter shook the man’s body. “Aww, ain’t that cute? Think you can just talk back, hm?” Jack’s lip twinged upward, and his grip tightened on the shovels handle. Flakes of rust crunched under his fingers. Clancy’s back hit the van, and he quickly started searching for his escape. Maybe he couldn’t outrun monsters, but maybe he could outrun another person.

Fat chance, Javis. His subconscious chided. You’re running on fumes already, remember?

Jack pounced before his body could react- for an older man he was incredibly spry- and knocked the air from his lungs as he clenched his throat in his fist. Clancy felt the ground disappear under his feet. “Let’s see what you’re really made of then, boy.” His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his scratched uselessly at the muscle of Jack’s forearm. Lungs screamed for air that remained stubbornly out of reach, and the edges of his vision blurred. “Just sit tight, I got some friends I want you to meet.” The hand squeezed tighter. He swore he heard something pop. The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was Jack Baker’s sneering smile, and the edge of a sneaker just beyond his head.

lazy Saturday morning cans lined against a fence BB gun in his small hands grandpa teaching him to shoot smile lines whooping laughter, Rain, rain so much rain hadn’t been this bad since the last hurricane found in the rubble warm blankets fresh clothes, gift family pain Pain PAinpainPAINGIVEINGIVEINGIVEIN-

Concrete floor again. This time face down. Clancy blinked the fading images from his mind’s eye and groaned as pains flared across his body. Bruises ringed his neck and his throat ached with each breath, his shoulder bemoaned where he’d fallen on it, and several other spots throbbed where he’d been roughed up. “Where am I…?” Clancy groaned softly, lulling his head up. The light thrown from his camera bounced off the stone as he braced, leaving him to stare dazed at its presence. He brought his hand up to inspect that yes, his camera was still where he’d clipped it on his right shoulder. The mud had also been cleaned from his hands. A small comfort in the face of the much larger problem. He was still on the property, though now he’d lost his way. The room didn’t look like the basement he’d been thrown in before, though a workbench covered with tools stood in front of him once again. This one took up more space in the room, and the wall behind it was covered in panels of wire mesh. Smaller things caught his attention; a cathode ray tv on a shelf turned to the bench, a digital clock displaying it was almost ten minutes to two, a football player bobble head.

Jack used this space much more than the one previous. Clancy could see bits of a man not waiting to slaughter unsuspecting urban explorers, and that reality was so jarring he refused to investigate it any further, instead looking for something else to take his attention. At first, he considered the sticky vein of mold covering the far wall, but the large tarp won out. It covered several oblong shapes, and a slat of wood had been placed on top. Clancy rose unsteadily to his feet. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

‘Accept Her Gift’  was painted in red over the front. Clancy chucked it aside with a dismissive grunt, then snagged the edge of the tarp and pulled. Four guns rattled against the force, and a couple boxes of ammunition slid, hitting bottles of first aid medicine. A large hunting knife rested in the center, stabbed through a piece of paper. Clancy would have been overjoyed to finally have the weapons he’d been desperately searching for, if the implications didn’t weigh on his thoughts. Jack had given these to him, fully expecting him to use them. The question remained if he was supposed to trek through towards an exit or if he’d be experiencing an onslaught. The piece of paper he pinched off the blade pointed to the latter. ‘Survive till morning, city boy’ then 2:00 and 5:00 written under it.

He groaned and crumpled up the paper. A test to see if he was worth it, of course. Jack was still hellbent on making him part of the family. He slipped the knife back into the complementary sheath and clipped it to his waistband, then fretted his hand about the rest of the bench. Clancy didn’t know much about guns. His father had taken him to a shooting range once or twice over the years and insisted on gifting him a pistol much like the one in front of him for his eighteenth birthday. It had been left to collect dust in his apartments safe. Beyond that, he’d never handled anything above plastic nerf weapons and water pistols, trading physical shooting for the scenic kind.

Clancy picked up what he was most comfortable with and turned it about until he found the safety and magazine release. He knew how to handle this one. It would have to do. The shotgun, while tempting, would be useless unless he figured out how to reload, and he had no idea what the other two were. One was a large hunk of metal with the biggest barrel he’d seen on a gun, and the other was a crooked thing that smelled of gasoline. Oh. It was a flame thrower. Jack had given him a very clearly homemade flame thrower that he still didn’t know how to use. There wasn’t time to learn the mechanics either as he’d already spent five minutes here and hadn’t even explored the space. Clancy turned to the doors, but winced as his ears began magazine port in the bottom four shells pump before shooting stock against your cheek on your shoulder twist off the fuel tanks take the grenade launcher Clancy don’t be stupid figure it out to ring.

He whipped his head around, bristling as his lungs squeezed. “Hello?” Clancy brought the pistol up, but he wasn’t that stupid. The voice, the… whatever, hadn’t made any sound. There had been no echo. Nothing was forthcoming from the darkness around him, and intuition said bullets wouldn’t do the trick. A more hysterical thought entered his head, but lingering on it only caused his chest to tighten further. Instead, he turned to the bench again, opting to sacrifice his exploration time.

Three pistol magazines, a box of shotgun shells, a handful of grenade rounds, every bottle of medical fluid and six minutes later, Clancy pushed himself away once more. He’d plucked up the other weapons and explored them with a new frightening proficiency, then figured out how to tote them around. Both the shotgun and the grenade launcher had straps, and the flame thrower easily hooked against his belt loop. He did a final check of his camera before he left, an old habit. It brought some calm back, eased the tension and let him think.

Even if he was somewhere past sane, Jack had to know that these arms could be used against him. Clancy dreaded whatever gave him that confidence. Maybe it was this elusive ‘gift’, he scoffed to himself. He also couldn’t help but wonder where the rest of the family had gone. Only Jack and their grandmother had shown up. Someone named Zoe existed somewhere on the property, though she seemed at odds with Jack. Where was Marguerite, who’d made his meal? Or Lucas? And what was the deal with all the mold? It had been everywhere in the basement, and he could still see it out of the corner of his eye. The monsters were made out of a similar looking substance. Clancy’s train of thought ended there as he clicked open the tape deck and noticed a new one had been placed inside. That didn’t bode well. Someone now had his escape footage. He checked his watch, then sighed and slotted his camera back against his shoulder, the left one now that he had to handle a shotgun.

With his gear in check, he turned his attention to the rest of the room, and finally caught sight of the wall behind him. Six or seven square hatches lined the wall, each with a piece of masking tape under the handle. Names, again. Clancy swallowed thickly with the realization that they were the same ones he’d seen on the list. Peter’s name didn’t appear anywhere, though it did little to wash the foul taste out of his mouth. He couldn’t find the courage to actually open them; he’d had enough corpses for a while.

Clancy moved cautiously out now, both hands gripping the pistol. “I can do this.” He crept down the hall, then gagged as the first room came into view. It had a couple porcelain bathtubs tucked into the corners, and various sinks hooked onto the walls. Two or three red barrels with open tops were tucked against wooden supports, but that hadn’t been what had drawn his interest. Large pillars of mold stretched to the ceiling, tendrils leaping from the bathtubs and gushing out of taps. The bottoms bulged, some clinging to the wall like pustulous sacs. The longer he looked, the more he realized it was actively moving, pulsing and slithering against the tile with a chorus of squelching. “Oh, god.” Clancy curled his lip and passed by with the hope the other direction would be better. A large patch of the same mold splattered across the ground, but it seemed marginally nicer. He took that route, finding one of the cinderblock walls knocked in and another doorway. On the left, a room with more large basins and bags filled with suspicious meat, and on the right, more god damn mold though this time in hall form.

A snarl brought him swinging around in time to see the first creature broach the puddle he’d just passed. He got the full view of it stitching itself together, congealing bone from the muck and knitting sinuous tissue across the frame. The monster dropped and shook itself, spraying droplets of mold as it stumbled forward like a newborn foal. Clancy stepped back pointedly but raised his pistol. If he wanted to survive, he couldn’t simply run from them like he had before; the ache from walking alone told him as such. He recalled those scant few days at the shooting range, the targets with their grey ovals around the chest, and his father complaining about the lack of marks for the head. “Headshot’ll take anything down, cowards. Can’t walk around if you don’t have a brain.” Clancy lined up the sight, squared his shoulders, exhaled and…

The first shot went wide, embedding itself in the tile behind it, and squeeze the trigger don’t yank he cursed. Clancy’s arms vibrated with the recoil, ears rung with the lack of protection, but he managed to jump back as it lunged at him claws first. It barely grazed his skin but destroyed his sleeve in the process. He brought the muzzle up again, firing another round and hitting his mark. A spray of viscera from its skull painted the wall as it staggered back. Two more shots popped its head open, and the body hit the ground with a tooth rattling thump. “Shit!” Pride flickered against his heart, but it only lasted until the body started gurgling, melting back into the mold it had been born from. Those scratching growls he was growing accustomed to were sounding at all angles now.

Clancy drew his shoulders up, then peered at his watch. Ten fucking minutes. It was going to be a long three hours. He turned and continued down the way he’d been walking; the path was suspiciously quiet.

A pair of claws jutted out from the wall and caught him unaware. Clancy sent a volley of bullets from the monsters’ sternum to its throat as he sprinted past, earning a much larger gash down his forearm. The space was far too tight for his liking, and he’d end up with more than that if he stayed here. Clancy danced around the large patches of mold that crawled up the cement and drooped from the ceiling, hopping over the goop that flooded the floor. He careened headfirst into the room. It was the same one he’d woken up in, meaning he’d done a big loop.

The monster followed quickly behind him, and he panic-shot until the gun clicked uselessly, and his foe remained standing. “Fuck!” Clancy dove to the side as it charged, cramming the gun into his pocket and slinging the shotgun from his shoulder. A single buckshot sent it crashing to the ground in its death throes, and him back against one of the tables. “Oh,” he lowered the weapon and pushed up, “that’s… much easier.”

The scuffle must have drawn the ire of the rest of the horde. More appeared beyond the door, and one lithe beast came darting after him on all fours, hissing and spitting like a cat as it leapt. Clancy angled a kick down its throat then pumped another round into its skull. The others were ripped apart quickly, in much the same manner. He flexed his fingers slowly, body thrumming with the lingering shock of the recoil though the ringing had lessened.

Clancy remained tense, vigilant until he was sure he had time to spare. He feverishly dug for bottle of first aid fluid, then bit the cork off. “This better work fucking miracles.” His hands shook as he lathered a healthy dose onto his bloodstained sleeve. Needling pains webbed over the slash, and then numbness. Clancy peeled the clinging fabric back to a fresh scar, puckered and pink. He traced his finger across it in disbelief, then lifted the bottle to inspect the label. Water damage obscured the ink. He shook his head, then replaced the half empty bottle to his pocket. Whatever, it worked. Clancy used the sudden lull to slot shells into the shotgun and replace the magazine in the pistol. He briefly flirted with the idea of hunkering down in the room and defending his position from there, but finding out what was in store after these three hours didn’t seem entirely appealing. If he’d been brought in, then logic dictated there was a way back out. He just needed to find it.

Clancy idled by the room with the columns of mold. Every neuron not fried from stress told him it was a terrible idea. The room reeked of death and disease. But he could see a set of stairs on the far side of the room, which meant there were rooms beyond it that he needed to check out. Clancy readied the pistol once more and stepped down.

The second his sole hit the concrete floor, the pillars of fungus undulated and shook with life, each bursting with a different viscous horror. Like marionettes squirming free from their strings, they fought against the gummy confines. His legs tried to take him back up the steps, but he ended up catching his heel and tripping over himself; his spine cried out as he landed on the guns strapped to him. Somehow, Clancy had gotten the grenade launcher in his hands and sent a shell into the crowd. Heat blazed across his face and hands, white hot pain searing through his pores. The creatures shrieked and the smell of cooking rotten meat assaulted him as the sound died down. Orts of charcoal black flesh shook from his arms as Clancy stood and covered the distance to the steps before anything else could arise. “Distance, need more distance before I shoot that.” He tugged the barrel down and replaced the spent shell before slotting it on his back again.

A large boiler rumbled in the next room, covered in more fucking mold. Clancy didn’t spare it a second thought. He wasn’t here to ogle at how much of a biohazard this place was, he was here to find an exit. He strode through the wave of heat wafting through the room to the next; a tiled room with a table stained with a dubious dark liquid. Clancy dabbed the sweat from his brow. More warmth blew from the next space, and even from here he could see something tied in a white sheet hanging from the ceiling. Hazy orange light cascaded down from large domed lamps. He stole his nerves and pressed on.

Clancy might have been incorrect about which room had been the morgue. Carcasses draped in tarps dangled over the floor below, and the metallic taste of blood filled the space. Cage like structures held even more under the balcony though the large industrial fans spinning near the ceiling kept the air from remaining stagnant. He suppressed a whimper as noise came from his right. More dripping, more hissing as they sloughed off the mold onto the catwalk. Clancy shouldered the shotgun. “Where the fuck do you keep coming from?” Two more, three more, then he ducked into the door to the right.

Another hall. Patches of mold he no longer bothered jumping over. Clancy lifted his head to see… a cinderblock wall, knocked outward. “No,” he spun on his heels, “no no, come on.” He dodged one with a thick claw arm and took the stairs two at a time to the other exit he’d seen below. It turned into a hallways, a set of stairs and a tiled room. Dubious stains and all. “Is this just one big loop?!” Anger cracked his words, flooding in to push out any despair that threatened to ground him.

The mold creature he’d ignored reminded him of its presence by sinking its teeth through his shoulder. A pistol shot sent it back, then another three ruptured the arm it raised, a fourth and fifth splattered its brain across the pavement. Clancy took another two shots at its limp form, then angrily kicked at it. He snagged the open med fluid bottle and poured the rest against his shoulder, grinding his teeth as he slumped against the wall. Clancy wanted to yell, but that drew attention so instead he silently seethed as the various monsters sulked in the distance. He brought his camera down to inspect the damage, wincing at the tooth marks now embedded in the casing. It was still recording, somehow. He worked his finger against the plastic, staring at the half-exposed wiring through the gaps. The weight off his shoulder brought some relief, but he protested the idea of leaving it behind. This was all he had left. A last resort that he could grasp to steady his mind and bring the world back into focus. A doorway to-

Doorways. There were no doors down here; he’d only seen frames without so much as a hinge remaining. Clearly so he couldn’t latch them shut and hide behind them, but that also telegraphed where he was allowed to go. Clancy wracked his brain for any places he’d neglected to look. If he could find a door, he could get out. He replaced the camera, checked his ammunitions, then took a slow steadying breath. “Keep it together, you’ve made it this far.” The words echoed strangely through the room, layered with something else.

Clancy backtracked through the rooms, dispatching of any mold creatures that had grown in his wake. There were a few connecting paths he’d missed, but none led to an exit. At least this time he wasn’t expecting one. The rooms held no immediately obvious doors, but it gave him time to get into the rhythm of survival. It included far more walking backwards than he would have imagined, but he had enough tracking shot experience to keep himself from falling on his ass constantly. Clancy would be deaf by the end of this, if he lived, but he understood his arsenal far better. The pistol worked best if he needed to stagger them, the shotgun worked best up close, and the grenade launcher was for emergencies only. He’d used the flame thrower once, but it offered him neither quick death nor distance, so it remained in his belt loop. One shotgun shell to the head or three pistol shots killed the big ones, he could kick the small ones away if they got close.

He turned down the hall next to the broken cinderblock wall that had caused his panic, and finally, finally spotted it. A single door against the left-hand wall. That bastard mold covered it, but Clancy could see the shape of the knob. He pulled out the unused knife from his belt and slowly scraped back the tendrils against the handle, then turned it. Unsurprisingly locked, but it never hurt to try. He stepped back in time to see the mold retaking the areas he’d cleared.

Experimentally, he brought the knife back up and carved out a section from the door. Only a second or two later the latticework returned, blocking him off. Clancy considered. While he’d been combatting the creatures, he noticed the mold that didn’t attack him remained indifferent to being shot. It remained mostly stationary as he stepped through it, though it stained his socks and pant cuff. But that didn’t mean this was hopeless. The layer seeping from the grain looked thin, and even then, it was just a wooden door. One grenade should give him enough time to get through before it regrew. Clancy sheathed the knife as he trekked back down to the end of the hall and slung the launcher from his back.

The slug sailed down the hall, rattling the walls with the force of the explosion and bathing the corner in fire. Flamed licked the walls, pulling the paint up in bubbles as the black expanse under it twitched and roiled. Any hope curdled in his gut as the fire suddenly stifled, dying to a few flakes of ash swirling in the air, and the door remained standing. Still covered in ichor, though it seemed thicker now. Like it had absorbed it. “God damn it.” Clancy hissed.

A couple monsters appeared around the corner, drawn in by the explosion and their own curiosity. Clancy started his process of picking them off, but he’d barely started when they shook and liquified and that harsh silence gripped his senses once more followed by the telltale yank. He turned around, panic gripping his chest.

“Where you at, boy?” Jack’s voice boomed through the walls. He turned on a swivel between the door and the open spaces around him, trying to debate if wasting ammo on the door would be worth it. It didn’t look like he’d be breaking through with the store he had, and any other attempt would draw Jack to his location. He could already hear his boots clomping closer. Clancy sighed shortly through his nose then gripped his shotgun. Jack first, door after. “You tryin to get away from your obligation to your family?”

Clancy turned into the room with the mold obelisks, then narrowly avoided a shovel to the face. “Found ya!” Plaster crumbled with the force, and Jack’s cold eyes stared down at him. He looked as insane has he had in the damp Louisianan swamp, though this time he lacked a shirt. Jack hoisted the shovel again, lips pulling in a sneer. “Come on then. This’ll hurt me much more than it hurts you.”

“Fuck you!” Clancy fired squarely at his chest. Flesh and muscle tore away under the shrapnel, but Jack barely staggered, forcing him back with a downward swing that sent sparks flying. Bloody sinew swelled around the wounds, and he watched in horror as the holes rippled and shrunk. Jack cackled.

“Ain’t it wonderful?” He purred as he rolled his shoulders and pointed the bladed end of the shovel at Clancy’s chest. “My little girl’s really something special.” Jack charged, and he rolled out of the way. The metal crunched against stone, twanging as it lodged in. Clancy ducked behind one of the wooden supports as the other man grumbled and grunted, tugging against the handle. So the shotgun was useless, and that extended to the pistol. The grenades had worked pretty well on the monsters, but he only had three of those left. Clancy ducked as the support shattered in a burst of splinters that rained on his jacket. “Quit runnin, son!”

Red paint drew his eye. One of the barrels had been knocked over, causing oil to sluggishly gurgle across the floor. Clancy traced the path with his eyes as an idea surfaced from the rainbow sheen. He tore the burner from his belt and turned sharply. “Come on, then!” He spread his arms wide, reckless abandon coursing through his veins and blazing in his eyes. Jack took the bait flawlessly, spitting and charging once more with the shovel close at hand. Clancy clicked the trigger of the flame thrower as he moved, the edge catching the oil as he toppled away.

Jack’s body shook with manic laughter, a sound that was swallowed by the earth-shattering explosion that sent both of them flying across the room. Soot and ash filled his nose, and his skin screamed at him that the fire was too close. It felt like standing directly next to the sun. Clancy peered out between his arms to see the supine form of Jack an inch or five away. The skin across his back was cooked, tinged with charred black edges that flaked as his muscles flexed, and the blotchy baked flesh extended across his arms and around to his stomach. That didn’t distract from the fact he was still moving. Still had a nicotine-stained smile on his face as Clancy unloaded the remaining shells at him. “You gonna have to do better than that, boy.” His voice strained, and then he collapsed.

Clancy felt around for the pistol, which he kept pointed firmly at Jacks head as he stumbled to his feet. His body did not writhe. It did not melt or disappear into some void to be spat back out again from thrashing vines. Jack Baker was really dead now, and Clancy Javis had been the one to kill him.

An unearthly silence fell over the basement. The many details he’d shoved aside in his desire to live came crashing in all at once. His jacket was damp on the left side, and he could feel glass shards embedded into his side. Sweat adhered every inch of fabric flush with his body, and Clancy felt a bone deep exhaustion weighing him down. Every burn and slash and wound jockeyed for his attention, but the overwhelming crash brought him to his knees. He flicked his wrist out to check his watch.

3:06

Clancy let his body sag, head making contact with the banister. He remained there until his lungs steadied, then turned his thoughts back to escape. He’d won. The door had to be open. Apprehension trickled down his spine at the thought of leaving the corpse behind- he’d seen enough horror movies to know how this worked- but he wasn’t about to carry it with him either. Clancy sighed, then left the room.

The door had not been open. In fact, it had been completely swallowed in a huge glob of mold. Not that he’d been given much time to be upset about it; once he’d gotten to the door, more of those creatures started spawning. The denser crowd forced him back, and every subsequent attempt to return proved that they’d set up more to guard the area. Clancy had to change tactic. He had to play along if he wanted to get out. The stress of his dwindling ammo supply lifted as he noticed new boxes and magazines sprinkled through the areas he’d already been. The only indication as to how they got there were the stubborn strands of mold oozing from the cardboard or wrapped around the edge of the metal. Clancy did his best not to think about it.

He really tried not to think about much of anything outside his own continual living, or the disparate pieces of information would try to knit themselves together, and some unfortunate reality would come crashing down on him. It was a game, trying to hold tight to the other shoe so it didn’t drop on his head. The notes scattered around the workbenches didn’t help in staying the inevitable. The Bakers were very thorough with cataloguing the people they’d taken, and their insistence on making them family. A quick skim through the papers revealed a couple pages of notes and accompanying polaroids outlining the process of ‘turning’ and knowing when a body has gone bad. Another had a list of dates and who they’d picked up. Anger, guilt and hints of sorrow mixed uneasily in his stomach. Those creatures he’d been filling with lead had been people at some point. Clancy could only hope killing them was some act of mercy; they weren’t people anymore, not really.

Jack’s body disappearing from the pillar room also didn’t help matters.

There wasn’t time to process this, though. The lulls in monster activity were much more infrequent, giving him less time to wander aimlessly. In some way, it was a blessing. Focusing on dodging and shooting kept the storm of thoughts at bay. A new type of mold monster came out to play, this one bloated and wrapped in thick white folds. It could weather the grenades like it was nothing, but also exploded when it died. At the top of the next hour, there was another period of quiet that stretched longer than the others. Clancy spent the time gathering the extra rounds and bringing them to the room he’d woken in so he could sit and replenish. Gun powder coated his fingers in a speckled sheet, and his jacket sleeves looked to be a lost cause after taking a heavy beating from several clawed hands. A low hum had picked up in his ears by now, encouraged by the constant shooting. He was sore, he was tired, and he wanted to go home.

Cramming bullets with feverish intent hadn’t taken more than a few minutes. He needed something else to distract him while he waited. Once again unclipped his camera. The lens was clouded with powder residue and chunks of blown back tissue. Clancy picked them off slowly but knew it, along with everything on him, needed to be burned once he got out of here. A real shame too, he liked this camera. It had taken a good few years of saving to get, caught some of his better memories through it. Clancy let his thoughts idly circle around this idea, the things he’d do once he got out of here. First thing he planned to do was shower. The filth would never wash out, but he could scrub at it until he bled. Clancy would need to tell someone about what happened here, although he didn’t know how much he trusted the Dulvey police department to get that done. Andre and Peter’s families should be told what happened, or at least some version of events. No normal person would believe the depths of the horror he’d seen here.

Clancy brought a clean piece of his sleeve up to wipe off the camera light. A hiss floated down the hall, and he sighed.

Break time was over. One more hour till dawn.

Clancy glazed over the next forty minutes. Shoot, run, reload, shoot run reload, throw suspicious healing liquid on any cuts gained. Shells littered the ground now; they were the one thing that proved he’d fought anything at all, considering the bodies simply vanished. He’d gotten into the habit of checking his watch compulsively, which did little to ease the mounting agitation. It didn’t make the time go by any faster either. Time marched onward however, no matter how slowly. He threw himself behind the boiler as another bloated monster went down, fat and blood raining down against the pipes. A dollop fell on his watch as he lifted to check it. “Almost done.” His stocks were low, but he should have enough to get through. If all else failed, he had the knife, though learning close combat with these things sounded daunting. Clancy shook out his shoulders, then moved as another four legged skittered across the ceiling. It dropped from the rafters at him, teeth bared.

The pistol drove it off, but as he kicked out at it, it gargled and melted down against his boot. Silence. And not the welcome kind. Clancy whipped around anxiously. A shadow fell through the blinking red lights, and his eyes blew wide. “Wait. Wait! I killed you!”

Jack Baker stood before him, holding some cross between sheers and a chainsaw with one hand. “Mmmhm, and I just came right on back.” The burn had stitched back together, leaving only the splotches of red behind to mar his complexion. “Sure as shit beats the hell outta dying, don’t it?” The contraption in his hand revved, and he heaved it up. “Prove you’re worthy of it, then.” The teeth of the chainsaw whirred as he rocked onto the balls of his feet.

Clancy didn’t think twice. He pulled off the launcher and shot over his shoulder as he ran, heat racing with him through the halls. Even after seven salvos, Jack’s tittering voice continued in its pursuit. “I’m gonna getcha!”

“Leave me alone!” He burned through the ammunition for his shotgun quickly, far too quickly for his liking. Forty rounds of handgun ammunition, half a tank of burner fuel and a knife stood between him and certain death. The fear he’d been packing away in neat little boxes to keep himself focused broke open, and his hands started shaking as he pawed through his pocket for any extra bullets. He didn’t want to die here, alone, in the middle of nowhere. No one would find him, no one would know what happened to the Sewer Gators or the dozen other people that had been squirreled away. Clancy felt the teeth of the saw edge catch his back, blinding pain causing him to stumble into the rail. He’d ended up in the morgue somehow. Fitting, in some way. He walked slowly around the balcony, shooting round after round into every inch of the encroaching Baker until he had to reload. Discarded magazines were kicked aside, and the holes closed faster than he could make them. Fire did nothing. The slid clicked back, Clancy pat at his pockets, but only came up with the three bottles and his knife.

A boot dug into his ribs, plunging him over the railing and onto the floor below. “What’s a matter, son? You outta ammo?” Jack stepped over effortlessly, dropping down after. The orange glow silhouetted him, casting an aura of blazing hellish revere. It brought to mind a painting of Micheal he’d seen in his art history class, sword in hand and foot pressed against Satan’s head. Though maybe here the image was reversed. Clancy scuffed his elbows against the ground as he tried to back away. Panic and dread sloshed his stomach. The sheers caught the light as they rose up, glinting as bright as Jacks smile. “You really were nothing more than a vermin.”

Clancy was not a quitter, but he was pragmatic. He knew when he was out of options. The door wouldn’t open, he was most likely underground, and Jack healed faster than he could damage him. Fight would wear him out before he got anywhere; flight would only delay the need to fight.

All he could do was We are not dying here roll out of the way as the blades came down at his neck.

Invisible puppet strings dragged him through the motions of standing, blade clenched in his left hand. His own words still rang through his head as he started a slow circle. Arteries tendons spinal cord bullets won’t work fine bleed him out. Clancy rattled from the barrage of information and seemingly endless fury coming from his unseen patron. That hapless extra had been silent since force feeding him info on how to use guns, and he’d learned to shove off the mismatched emotions. But now it felt like he was staring down whatever thing had infested his veins; the large black empty mass stared back, forcing its will down on him. A wedge drove between his body and himself, dulling his senses and swaddling him from the flex of his muscles as he maneuvered around the implement Jack wielded, raking his blade through the meat of his thigh clumsily.

Feeling rushed back into his limbs as he overshot and crashed into one of the cage like walls. Warm wet blood soaked into the skin of his arms, and his heartbeat roared in his ears as he turned. Clancy shifted the knife into his other hand. “You just don’t know when to quit.” Jack’s voice boomed louder, narrowly warning him of the incoming stab. “You’re wasting your time. What’s that little splinter gonna do?”

He pushed himself off the fence, diving the knife deep into the column of his spine. The snap resonated up his arm, but he pushed down the disgust. None of the mold monsters ever bled, and they were already some twisted horror beyond his imagination. Fighting Jack felt different. Even if he clearly wasn’t, Jack still looked too human for comfort. He could distance himself from the monsters; they were clearly single-minded and barely passing sentient. Jack yelled at him, grumbled against the pain and remained cognizant. It was too close. And yet he fought.

They danced back and forth for a bit, Clancy using the pillars to avoid Jack’s blade and taking opportune slashes at the soft skin behind his knees and elbows or cutting against his vertebrae. The wounds closed, but not without a gush of blood spraying out. Blood loss must not be as healable, as Jack’s movements started to go wide and get sloppy, his body heaving more with the effort it took. Th progress was barely noticeable, but he could see it. His own body started to ache once more with the effort, and Jack had landed more than a few glancing blows. Blood soaked the concrete. It was a race to see who would collapse first, and Clancy felt it would be one he’d lose. The phantom anger couldn’t carry him the rest of the way. He needed a new strategy.

Jack’s weapon and body had done a decent job of tearing up the environment around them. The fencelike structure encircling the area under the stairs had been slashed through and dented, leaving long jagged edges exposed towards the combatants. Clancy had been unfortunate enough to get caught on a few when he’d tried to move out of the way. He figured if he could tease one out further, it would have enough length to catch Jack once he ran towards it. While it might not hold him for long, it would give him the chance to enact some greater damage than his single slices. Clancy flipped the blade around in his hand, finding one of the bars that was already out an inch or two then dashed over as Jack charged again. He pushed the blade under and pried back, further and further until it hung out an easy six or seven inches. Clancy turned.

“Motherfuck!” Jack ripped free of the mesh, swiveling back to face him with gnashing teeth. “Stay still!”

Clancy remained silent this time. He didn’t have to goad him into the very thing he’d been doing the entire time, and he figured that inviting it would tip Jack off, even in his rage drunken state. He remained steadfast in his spot until the other man reared again, slathering as he came careening down at him. Clancy jumped to the side.

Black tinged blood spurt out as the rod pushed clean through his stomach, puncturing out his back. Clancy circled around and dug the knife into the space where his neck met his shoulder, putting most of his weight onto the handle as it cut across. Jack squirmed and cursed as he pushed against the bars, a sucking sound accompanying each pull. Clancy grit his teeth as he clung tight. The edge caught bone, and his weight carried him off the handle. Jack gargled and laughed as he stumbled back. “Butterfingers.” He crowed. Clancy leapt back again screaming as he ripped it through to the other end.

“Shut the hell up!” That odd echo fell over his voice again. Maybe this room just had weird acoustics.

Jack’s head hinged forward awkwardly, and his body sagged, the weight finally dislodging the pole. His expression was something akin to wonderous. “Well now,” blood pooled in the back of his throat, “ain’t you somethin’?” In the next breath, he’d gone still, eyes glazed.

Heavy chimes from some distant grandfather clock reached him. One, two, three, four, five. Clancy’s shoulders fell back, and he laughed breathlessly. “It’s over!” His vision spiked with tears before he shooed them away. “It’s over, I made it.” Creaking whining hinges moved distantly, and his heart soared. Clancy didn’t spare the probably-not-corpse another look as he took off for the door.

The sight of the open door almost brought those tears back. Aureate light cascaded down the steps, warm and welcoming as he stood before it. Clancy propped himself against the frame and pulled out his final bottle of the first aid fluid, throwing it over any remaining open wounds. He tossed it over his shoulder, then yanked the door shut as hard as he could. There had been no creatures in his break for the exit, but that wasn’t a guarantee. It also contained Jack’s body for the time being.

Clancy took them two at a time, coming to the landing and examining slowly. The most immediate thing was the heavy curtains drawn shut across from the top of the stairs. The hall continued to his left, and over the railing to the right was a door. He readjusted his grip on the knife’s handle, then stepped forward and dragged the thick wool curtains aside. Dust drifted down from the folds, billowing down around his face and drawing a string of sneezes from him. Clancy fruitlessly swatted at it, then frowned at the heavy iron bars that separated him from the glass.

Someone else must have tried that before.

He moved to door on the right, peering into the quiet. A cozy office greeted him. A couple tables, a chest of drawers. Clancy slipped in, picking his way through the drawers in case any of that ammunition from the basement had been hidden here too. The area around him didn’t look like any he’d been in previously. Safe bet said he was in a different building. For one, the lights were on, while the power in the rooms he’d visited had been turned off. It didn’t look as abandoned either. No heavy layers of dust beyond what had been trapped in the curtain. Clancy hoped he hadn’t been moved far. The car was still his best hope out of here, since the closest road was still miles out. It was also still dark, as he’d seen through the barred window, so finding his way would be even more difficult.

He pulled out the drawer near the back of the room and found a scrap of cardboard. Pencil marks became more visible as he picked it up.

Something’s wrong with me.
 It must be that shit they made me eat.
If I’m gonna die, I’d at least like to go out fighting-

 Something caught against the glass of the pictures hanging on the walls. Movement, a flash of dark hair. Something different played notes through the pool of consciousness at the back of his skull, though he barely had time to notice before a dirty cloth to press up against his mouth and nose. Strong chemicals stung his nostrils as he fought against the hands that held him down, but it was inevitable the way the world went dark again.

white walls white clothes so many tests over and over and over so tired no one ever stays no one except her a ship fresh air for the first time promise family escape, something’s wrong with daddy gotta hide gotta get help it’s the girl its her fault she came and everything went to hell in a hand basket, “Clancy?” what’s taking you so long brother you want to be family right give in let me in letmeinletmeIN-
                “Clancy?”
                “…Andre?”
                “Are you alright?”
                “…I’m so tired, Andre.”
                “I know. I’m sorry.”
                “…”
                “Go back to sleep, Clance.”
                “Alright.”

Shadow greeted him upon his third awakening. No hard floor this time, just an old mattress and several worn pillows. Soggy and sweaty linens replaced the blood and decay. Clancy’s body rested at an odd angle. His neck had a crick in it from where it had been leaned forward, and his hands were on something wooden. His shoulder ached, but beyond that the weight of his arsenal was gone. A small collection of candles burned like a vigil on the table across from the bed, and a vanity with a broken mirror was tucked into the lefthand corner. On the other side of the room sat a loveseat and a grandfather clock, a door hunkered in the corner.

Clancy looked around, then down. His jacket was gone, and the skin of his hands was slightly pink from where the blood had been scrubbed away. Neat stitching held the claw marks on his sweat stained shirt shut. His eyes traced down to the single iron latch looped around one of his wrists. “What the…” He tugged back sharply, then brought his other, non-latched, hand up to pull and claw at it. “Shit,” He breathed out, feeling at the mechanism, “shit.” Those ripples tore through the black again, causing him to still. It was different. He could tell it was different, and that someone was approaching the door in front of him. Clancy pulled his hand away from the latch and instead tapped at his camera- now missing its light- in a bid to seem less suspicious.

Blaring lanternlight spilled into the room as the hinges squealed open, and a hunched older woman came ducking in. She looked to be pleasantly wrinkled, around Jack’s age, and balanced a serving tray in one hand while she pushed the door open with the other. “Sleep well, darlin’?” That same Cajun cooked tone laced her words. She wore a simple yellowed shirt, and a tawny skirt that fell past her knees. Shiny flats clicked against the floor as she stepped in. Marguritte Baker smiled as her other hand came up to support the tray. She let out a small, pleased hum at the sight of him. “Ah, already tinkerin with your camera. Evie noticed you liked it, so she said to leave it with you. Ain’t she so sweet?” The woman cooed. “Now, our daughter really likes you,” she continued as she crossed in front of the footboard, “she wants you to be her big brother. Says your friend can come along too.” His continual silence brought her to a stop, and the easy smile fell an inch. Clancy forced himself to relax whatever wide eyed expression he must be giving her.

“Oh.” He curled his fingers against his palm, hoping it didn’t look as much like a grimace as it felt.

Marguerite’s smile returned in full. “Well now, don’t get too excited, don’t jump up ‘n down just yet.” She resumed her walk over. “You wanna be part of this family, you gotta eat like family.” She pulled the lantern off the tray and hung it somewhere by his head. Clancy could make out the bowl now, full of the same stuff he’d been served in his first basement. Disgust tinged the back of his throat. Marguerite spun on her heels and made a show of smelling her dish. “Mmm! That smells good, don’t it?” It didn’t, in fact as she pushed it onto the table over his lap, he could see a fly or two circling it. “You eat all this, n you can be one of us.” She spoke about the idea with reverence, moving the spoon from its position behind the bowl towards his hand. “Then I’ll take those things off, and you can go out ‘n play.” Marguerite’s hands braced on either side of the bowl. At this distance, he could see the way her hair fell in unbrushed clumps around her head, the way the crow’s feet around her eyes exacerbated the veins on her face, see the gray rotting her teeth. “But you gotta eat all of it.” Those green eyes were colored with the same unseeing insanity Jack’s had been.

Clancy swallowed thickly. He’d gotten through the basement by playing along, and Marguerite wasn’t immediately trying to kill him. He plastered on his smile again. “Wow, this… this looks delicious.” He forced out, then winced as she leaned closer. The smell of mildew and sweat crawled from her as she clicked her teeth together. “Really! It, it looks great.” He tried to lay it on thick, sinking back into the cushions to try and get any distance from her.

“Oh, good.” Mercifully, she backed up, nodding once as she turned. “I’ll be back in a little bit to check on you.”

“Wait!” He hurried. Maybe he could bargain; Clancy could tell he was starving, even if he didn’t want to eat what was clearly just more entrails. “Is there anything else to eat?” It was a thin hope, but if he ate all of something less… meaty, maybe that would fulfil the requirement.

Marguerite turned from where she’d strode across the floor. “You don’t need nothin’ else.” A harshness colored her words now, eyes draining of their previously misplaced warmth. “Now eat your god damn supper!” Black veins traced around her eyes as she raised her voice. She spun back around and stormed out of the room, drawing the door shut behind her.

Clancy fell back against the headboard and stared at the ceiling. Most immediate thoughts turned once again to escape, but for a second, he just… wanted to rest. The moment he got out of bed, it would be another fight for survival. This would be as close to a break between threats as it got. Already, those disparate pieces of information begging for attention through his run in the basement came surging forward.

It was a fool’s errand trying to convince himself something wasn’t deeply wrong with him. Voices, his body being wrested from his control, and whatever stitched him back together with something akin to rubbing alcohol? Clancy couldn’t stretch any logic around that. And based on everything he’d seen; the mold was the epicenter of it all. It infected everything, the food, the walls, the monsters, and no doubt Jack and Marguerite Baker. Odds were, he’d been breathing in the spores since he'd stepped into the old residence. Probably still breathing them in now. Clancy had heard of the various things mold could do to a person; his roommate, an aspiring astronomer with an interest in biology, had thought it appropriate to mention all the problems their shower black mold could cause, and then espoused the effects of other, much worse, molds. It wasn’t a huge leap in logic to say the spores might be affecting his brain. The mold beget madness, but it didn’t explain this daughter: a little girl he had yet to see but had clearly taken deep interest in him.

If he had only the mold to go off, he’d assume the controlling child and voices were delusions. But he had more. Clancy knew those monsters had been people once, and it stood to reason that perhaps he was becoming more like them with each passing breath. It didn’t explain the healing, which also clearly came from the infection considering Jack Baker could do the same thing. It didn’t explain how he just knew things, like when the Bakers were approaching. And it didn’t explain what Marguerite had said earlier. “Your friend can come too.”

That hysterical thought that wormed in the first time he’d been ‘spoken’ to reared its head. The secondary emotions, the voice; it hadn’t started until he’d found Andre’s body in the basement. And that pull, a desire not his own drawing him towards the cadaver. The idea of mold induced madness might have satisfied his confusion, if Marguerite hadn’t also known. Clancy stared down at his hands for a moment. He flexed his fingers nervously then splayed them out. Only one way to get an answer. He rooted around his head, trying to pick out any feelings that didn’t seem consistent, but only found a wall of apprehension. “…Andre?”

The hand not bound in a shackle spasmed, then his pointer finger tapped, once, twice.

“Oh, oh fuck.” He watched as it dragged across the wood, splinter catching but barely feeling it. “…I’m really losing it, aren’t I?” Clancy mumbled as his index tapped the latch. It looked old, scratched and bent from use. He sighed. “I know. I gotta do something. Just… give me a moment.” His hand dropped, and he now felt where the wood had caught his palm.

Boxes. He needed to sort out what he knew, what he didn’t, and what was important for escape. Mold, pretty bad, probably driving him and the entire family insane. Andre and Peter, dead, but one was apparently bouncing around his skull somewhere. Jack Baker, unable to be killed, also possible for Marguerite. Those creatures around the property used to be people. The Bakers had kidnapped them all. He was next if he didn’t get the fuck out of here. It could be assumed that he was already extremely infected, and that this mold was far from the normal kind you’d find in damp drywall and sewers. He didn’t know where Peter’s body was, or where he was, or how to get out of the house. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a way, but it was a terrifying unknown, and left him at a disadvantage. The Bakers probably knew the estate well, at least better than him. Clancy would need to be sneakier in his escape attempt this time. Take it slow.

Something shoved against his ribcage, and he grunted. With his presence acknowledged, Andre seemed more willing to throw his weight around. “Fine, okay.” A few quick tugs on the latch, and his hand was free. Clancy threw his legs over the side of the bed.

The lantern hung on some strange double pronged hook, held in place by a cork. “…weird.” He picked it up though. A sizeable crack in the wall caught his eye. The plaster had been ripped away and even some of the supporting boards broken so reveal the space beyond. Lantern light caught against metal framing, and he could make out… a bird cage? With another bit of metal inside. A dead snake was wrapped around the handle. “Is that a key?” Clancy moved forward, sticking his arm through, but he couldn’t quite reach. A cylindrical lock held the door next to it shut, though it looked like it only had three inputs. An idle spin shown ten different faces, so a thousand different combinations, though he doubted the symbols would repeat. So only around seven hundred. He opted to check the rest of the room first; maybe they left the code lying around, they seemed to write a lot.

The vanity with the broken mirror had two drawers, a small vase on the top, and several things of nail polish and makeup that didn’t look to be useful. He cast a glance at the fractured reflections, tracing the tired folds under his eyes. Clancy looked like shit. He was pale and more than a little haggard. Yellowed bruises went around his neck and colored the skin over one of his eyes. They looked days old instead of being gained in the last few hours. No cuts, though, only a scar or two. He tore his eyes away at the sight of an oddly tinged vein.

Instead, he turned to the drawers for anything useful. Clancy’s fingers brushed the knob on the right, and that ringing fuck the drawer jammed again Daddy’s gotta keep the cigarettes in there on purpose started again. He snatched his hand back like it had been burned. Twin flames of panic billowed through his chest. That hadn’t been Andre, they both knew that. “Shit I really am losing it.” He hissed, then hesitantly grabbed the other handle.

Nothing happened when he opened it other than finding a bit of paper with ‘The same time as all the other clocks’ written over the front. He turned from the paper to the lock, and then to the altar with three impressions in the wall behind a heavy leather book. It sat atop a wooden plinth with two hinge mechanisms, and wires that led to the spots on the wall. The realization struck that it was all one big puzzle. A god damn puzzle room. Clancy wouldn’t be surprised if this was yet another set up. Another test to see if he was worthy of the family, though this time with an easier out presented with the food.

Though they’d made a misstep here. Clancy always loved logic puzzles. Anything that got his brain turning, murder mystery shows, point and click flash games, brain teasers on cards; he loved it enough that his friends had taken him to something called an escape room for his last birthday, and this looked mighty similar. The food wouldn’t be easier, his gag reflex was terrible, so puzzle it would be.

He turned around. Cursory glance first, see what needed to be done and categorize where everything stood in case of emergency. Marguerite had said she'd come back, and if he could avoid the fight, he would. An oval painting of a man with his arms outstretched hung on the first spot behind the book. Clancy found the door she’d gone through lacked a knob, and pushing didn’t result in anything, so he moved on. “Gotta be another way out, then.” He murmured.

The grandfather clock’s face was covered in paper, though he could see a spot for a key. On the side of the room he hadn’t looked yet, one of the missing paintings sat atop a barrel. This one had white birds carefully painted tearing apart a hunk of meat. A small peak behind it revealed two bottles of wine hung on racks and way too many spiders for his liking. Clancy cringed back and turned his attention to the final table in the room. It sported a small clock, a globe, and a drawer without a handle. He set the lantern down. Main objective seemed to be the key, and for that he’d need a code, which he could get from somewhere in the room no doubt. Clancy rubbed his face, then let his eyes settle on the bed. Something rounded poked out from under it, and he furrowed his brow, dropping to his knees to peer.

“Huh.” He pulled up the sheet slightly to reveal the door hidden under the bed frame. “Well. There’s our exit.”

The next few steps were surprisingly easy. With a bit of prodding, the minute hand of the bedside clock dropped into his palm, and he used it to jimmy open the grandfather clock door. The third painted had been tucked inside. It was of another guy, a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his eyes. Clancy raised a brow terrible taste in art. He drummed his fingers against the wood. “Very unique.” He reached it and nudged it out from behind the pendulum.

It dropped, and the bells began to chime. “No no, shh-shh-shh-“

“What was that noise?!”

Clancy shot a sidelong glance to the door before closing the clock face and scampering back to the bed. She was moving once again, closing the distance between the door and giving him his window to work. The internal count down didn’t scare him as much as he’d thought, though maybe because Marguerite seemed scarier. His absconded painting went behind the pillow, and he set the lantern back before clamping down the latch. Even pulled out his spoon and dipped it in the mush to nudge around.

The door opened as his internal countdown hit zero. Marguerite peered around the room; lips pinched in a frown. “Mh…” Clancy winced as her eyes skirted past the clearly broken clock by the bed, but she didn’t even pause. “Guess the old grandfather was just actin up again.” She waltzed over and scrutinized his bowl. “Cmon now! I said you gotta eat all of it for you can come out.” Marguerite turned those beady eyes to him, and he fought to keep a neutral expression. She broke into a grin. “Oh, I see. I’ll be right back, dear.” With that, she disappeared again.

Relief, like a cool salve against his heart. Close one.

“Yeah.”

The paintings opened the book to a twine doll with a sewing needle stabbed through its chest. Clancy pinched it between two fingers and pulled it out. Red coated the tip. He’d lost the minute hand somewhere in his rush to get back in bed, so maybe that’s what this was meant to replace. Clancy checked everything just to be sure, and only came up with a lighter in the vase he’d missed. No disjointed memories attacked from any items he touched, so he made his way to the smaller clock and pressed the needle in.

It clicked in without much effort. Clancy moved to manipulate the hands but stopped short. What happens when it rings? He frowned. Right. Chances fell more in favor of the funny clock making a sound when he used it. Clancy quickly returned the paintings to their spots, considered, then hung the lantern. It threw enough light to see where he was going. He spun the minute hand slowly, ticking past the hours until it struck five and a shrill ring pitched from the metal.

He’d expected the handleless drawer to open. He’d expected something to fall and made a bunch of noise. What Clancy hadn’t expected was for the entire bed to groan and shift across the floor. “That’s what makes that move?!” The door below the bed lay brazen before him. It had a large circular wooden wreath with snakeskin twisted through wire. Clancy frantically scanned the clock. “Come on go back go back-“ he forced the hand up, but Marguerite was already en route. Painful seconds ticked by as the bed righted itself, and he all but threw himself on top of the covers.

“Is that you Lucas? I keep telling you, boy, keep it down!” Marguerite’s voice carried as she closed in, opening the door again. This time Clancy tried to see beyond, but only got a banister and some foggy lighting. Anger trickled from her expression as she met his eyes. Another tray draped across her arms, sporting a copper crockpot and a Bunsen burner for some reason. “I swear, that boy’ll drive me to drink.” Marguerite approached the bed and swapped the trays. “Here, I figured since you ain’t touched your food, it was your polite way of sayin you don’t like stew.” She lifted the top with a flourish, and a few cockroaches scattered from the putrid cloud of steam. “Don’t that just smell heavenly? Boiled, ‘specially for you. I ain’t know a soul alive who’d turn down a boil.”

Clancy stared in dismay at the human stomach at the top of the pile. “Oh, wow that’s...” he forced himself to look away, “that’s so generous.” Her silence brought him to face her, though she was busy scanning the room.

“Oh, somethin ain’t right.” She flicked her eyes about the space. “Someone been in here?” Clancy shook his head. Marguerite pursed her lips. “Well. Everything seems in order.” She scooped up the spare tray, cast another suspicious look around, and then left.

“Marguerite, you still fawning over that boy? I told you to throw him out, we already have enough men in the house!” Jack Baker’s voice reached through the door as it shut, and Clancy sunk down into the sheets. Of course, he wasn’t dead.

“Quiet, Jack! You’ll scare him!” Marguerite hissed, “And don’t forget our little girl insisted that he stay, so you hush!”

“Just get him to eat and get him the hell outta here!”

Margeurite let out an angry huff, but her footsteps faded.

Disgust squirmed against his collarbone, and the unlatched hand shot out to grab the lid wedding gift from her Mawmaw Jack smiled as she talked about all the things she’d make him long days tending to pot roasts and gumbos and chilis. “Gotta love home cooking.” Clancy covered the revolting mass, though he was starting to wish she had brought a lobster boil with how his stomach gnawed at itself. Those flashes of memory in a kitchen; they felt incredibly real, to the point where the cayenne pepper from the gumbo still stung his nose. He stared down at his hand. That was probably some sort of sign the infection was getting worse, he had to hurry.

Now he had a fork to work with, and an empty cooker. He narrowed his eyes at the wrapping around the forks handle as he picked it up. A snake was printed in the tape. Clancy brought out the spoon to find an apple on the back. He turned to the lock and found matching symbols. “Would they really..?”

He threw off the latch and crept over. Spoon before fork, probably. Clancy set the apple and snake in the lock, then slowly rotated through the final cylinder. “Damn it.” He thunked his head against the door. While two symbols lowered the possible combinations drastically, he still didn’t have time to try them all. Clancy pressed his cheek to the door and started to peer back at the rest of the room. He squinted at the space behind the vanity instead. “…is that a knife?”

A paper had apparently been knocked loose when the bed moved. It was a stupidly straightforward story that told him another painting combination, which lead him to a much clearer visual of the code on the back of the doll. Clancy was torn between how intricate and how easy it was. It was the complete opposite of Jack; shooting things and surviving was straightforward but physically taxing, while the puzzles were convoluted but not a challenge.

Casting shadows onto a painting was certainly a new one though. “Who the fuck are these people?” He rubbed his eyes as he pieced together what the projector and pedestals meant. It did nothing to dissuade the idea that the entire room was designed for him to get out of. Crests of sympathetic frustration buffered him. Andre was apparently shit at puzzles if the bouts of auxiliary confusion were anything to go by. Clancy spied the other half of the hook in the back, also held by a cork. He traced over the strange hooks, then looked to the Medusa painting and the darkened projector. That left the corkscrew as the last thing he needed to grab before the homestretch. He checked the room anyway just to be certain.

Zoe was once again due a thank you, this time for his new knife according to the papers in the coats pocket. She’d hidden things beforehand, or maybe sometime during the decline. Clancy hoped she was alright, though something about it irked at him. Jack, Marguerite, Lucas, Zoe, and Evie. But in the family portrait, there had only been four. Maybe they’d had a new kid recently. Clancy stopped by the second hook and dug his nails against the cork, but only ended up pulling a few chunks free. He sighed. Time to get the corkscrew. Overthinking it.

“What? No, it’s a cork, you’ll need the-” In response his hands moved again, pushing the knife into the cork and leveraged it up with the tongs. The cork had been flush against the wall, and only a couple inches in length, so the knife hit the paint easily and the fork could slide under easily. Clancy caught the brass fixture. “…fine, guess we’ll do that.” He frowned, then set it on one of the pedestals as smacks of smug pride buoyed his lungs. Clancy repeated the process with the other and brought it to the painting room. The projector fit the lantern perfectly, so he shut the door and turned back to the brass pieces. Hopefully the puzzle wall in the supposedly abandoned Louisianian ranch wasn’t too picky about his hands being in the shadow. Apparently not, as the painting hissed and drew forth the face of Medusa under the shade. That just left the head of the snake, and the various bits of metal that didn’t look at all like the shape he needed.

Clancy splayed out his remaining items and turned from the painting to the items. Process of elimination, then. The knife didn’t work, and neither did the spoon, but the fork landed him his snake head, and with it, an open birdcage. Clancy grabbed it, wincing as it caught against the bars with a clang, but not nearly one loud enough to draw attention. The key was merely a metal rod with a square end, snakeskin wrapped on with barbed wire and nails. Clancy gripped it tight though and turned to the door. The exit was within reach.

“Clancy! Where are you?” Clancy hadn’t even heard her come in, nor felt her. Then again, he also hadn’t felt her when she’d caught him the first time. Maybe she knew about it.

He flinched back, tucking the key into his waistband and moving to where he’d discarded the knife. Either way, the fight he’d been trying to put off  seemed upon him. “God damn it! Why are you so stubborn!” She continued, and he heard her tearing through the room. “I gave you a place to sleep! Fed you! You ungrateful little shit!” The sound stopped abruptly. He gripped the handle tight.

“It’s when she gets all quiet that you gotta watch out.”

The door burst open with the force of Marguerite’s lunge, giving him just enough time to snatch her by the wrists. Her fingers stretched and clawed near his face, catching by his cheek and digging at his eyes. “You bastard! I made that shit for you!  I’ll force that down your throat, you!-“ Clancy shoved away the hand that obscured his knife and drove the point into the joint between her neck and shoulder. It struck the carotid artery, spraying blood out as she stumbled and collapsed to her knees to writhe in both pain and frothing anger. As he hurried over to the clock, a terrible gurgling sound broke from her chest, and the red bled into a thick black ichor. Bugs swarmed out of her open mouth. The bed rolled to the side.

“Why?!” She hissed. “That hurt me, you son of a bitch!” No hint of fear shadowed her features. Clancy watched her twist and smack the ground in rage, then turned to jam the key into the fully uncovered door. The lock clicked, and with a pneumatic hiss, it popped up. “Fucker!” Marguerite hissed as he descended the presented stairs. “I’m gonna make you eat this damn knife!”

The door gently clicked shut again and plunged him into pitch black.

Mildew and moisture carried him through the passage, hands skirting by moss and mold as he felt his way down the path. Clancy eventually found moonlight through the gaps in a rickety wooden door. He shouldered it open to the sound of the hatch hissing closed, meaning another pursuit. But he’d be wary this time, go slow and conserve his energy. Running like a mad man got him caught, so Clancy took stock of every place to duck and hide.

Marguerite’s anger shook the trees, spitting every curse in the book at him as he moved from bush to bush and wall to wall. Bugs that had at once seemed sparse circled him with growing frequency. Clancy could hear her behind his stack of boxes, espousing the ways she’d gone out of her way to care. He’d been backed into a space with little cover, and another building seemed the only place to hide. Dread built at the thought of being forced into another confined space, but Marguerite’s lantern appeared in the corner of his vision.

“Found you!” She screeched.

Clancy threw himself off the boxes and dashed into the space, flinging the door shut behind him and hearing a lock engage. The dread grew. He squinted against the uv lights that illuminated white paint in a trail across the carpet. “Just my luck.” He turned to see Marguerite banging against the wire around the door, salivating and squirming her fingers in. Clancy stole a breath. He was getting real sick of being treated like some chew toy to be thrown from family member to family member. “…alright, whose next?” He ground his teeth, then started through the room.

Mannequins filled the room beyond. They filled the floor in crumpled heaps, and he could see one propped up against the wall. Sloppy marker scrawled across its back, spelling ‘You want out?’. That was probably important. He picked through the piles carefully, hairs raising on the back of his neck. The entire space buzzed with a new tension. Like a hunter watching its prey, like a rabbit standing on the edge of a rope trap.

Clancy examined the mannequin at the end of the room as he crossed over. It stood with its back to him, head rested against the wall. Deja vu and flavors of annoyance dripped through his thoughts. He was an arms breadth away from it when someone said “think you’re lucky, huh?” And something heavy cracked against his skull. He only had the strength to slur out “not ‘gin.” before he hit the floor unconscious.

silence.

This was by far the most uncomfortable position he’d woken up in over the past four black outs. Clancy sucked in a breath, then squinted against the darkness. He could feel the solid wood of a chair against his back, and his hands rested at odd angles. His left was splayed out, pressed into cold metal, while the other curled against what felt like more wood. The camera weight against his shoulder was less a comfort now, and he could feel the stiffness of duct tape forcing it into an awkward position. The ache in his head was back; another head trauma to add to the pile. Something stuffy had been pulled around his head, and his vision was slightly obscured by burlap. The threads in the back of his head twitched and writhed, trying to drag him into alertness quicker.

He tilted his head up. The entire room was dark, with a single light exposing the dirty poker table in front of him. A figure was seated in the chair across, burlap sack tied over their head with two eyeholes torn into it, must be what he had over his head as well. They wore a dingy white work shirt, and their breathing was slow and steady. Out cold, like he’d been moments before. Clancy’s left hand was strapped tightly into a metal holder, and he could swear he saw the glint of blades. He tugged, but this one was much more secure than Marguerite’s flimsy cuff. Another band of metal looped his torso, keeping him firmly the seat that didn’t move when he shifted back and forth. Lucas had locked him down pretty tight. He’d been stripped of most things, yet again. “…still there?” He whispered, and Andre tapped an affirmative against the table. Not everything, then. Clancy checked the camera, and found the entire thing covered with several layers of duct tape, making it one large lump against his shoulder.

Several tv screens flicked to life, causing the man in front of him to wake with a start. The lights shining across his shoulder told him the same array sat behind him. Static clicked as a hand was removed from a lens, and a gaunt man stared out of the many angles. He sported a blue jacket and a bit of facial hair, and when he moved the light casted a sheen against his skin. Probably sweat or skin oils, he didn’t look like he showered much. The man’s pale eyes bore through at them. “Hey,” he inched toward the camera, “hey! Hey! Look at me!”

Clancy’s eyes bounced from screen to screen, then the man across from him who’d recovered from his awakening and fixed his gaze over his shoulder. “There ya go.” Lucas relaxed back in his chair, slinging his legs up casually. “Now, I wonder. Do you two have what it takes?” Showmanship oozed from his posture and tone, practiced words falling out of his chapped lips and a sadistic glint caught in the cathode rays. “See, you two are gonna play a lil game.” Lucas’ arm stretched off to the side as he spoke. “And whoever wins gets to walk on outa here alive.” One of those shit twine dolls came walking across the table, held around the back by his grease smudged hand. “So pay attention, because it’s life…” the doll was lifted to the camera, his other hand reaching up, “or death!” He cackled. “Yours, that is.”

Melodramatic. Clancy grunted his agreement as Lucas spun in the swivel chair with a little giggle, pitching the broken doll back. He drew his hand back as something plastic slid across the table.

“You like cards? Course you do.” Two were dealt in front of the pair, one face down and one up. A scratchy ‘7’ was marked on the face up card. “Well, I’ve made up a game especially for you two, except we don’t bet with chips ‘round here.” Two lights clicked on, illuminating the devices their hands were stuck in. A piece whirred and clicked upward to reveal he’d been right in his previous assumption about the blades, and the other guy whimpered. A mini guillotine was pointed down at their pinky fingers. “If you catch my drift.” Lucas’ face filled the screen now, before his palm scuffed the lens again and the screens switched to static.

Terse silence fell for a moment, then the guy across from him leaved forward. “Hey, he said he’d let the winner go.” He spoke conspiratorially.

“Yeah?” Clancy lifted his head around then leaned forward a bit as well. “Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You believe that freak?”

He considered. Lucas felt different. His eyes didn’t have the honey coated veneer of someone doused in the mold. He wasn’t speaking about family at every turn, nor did he mention Evie or her gift. This game wasn’t for her, he figured, which meant all bets were off. “No-“

“And now, I’ll explain the rules of the game!” Lucas’ voice came over the speakers while the televisions remained on static channels. Both of them jerked back at the noise. “You fellas played blackjack, right?” Silence for a beat. “Right?”

“Yes.” Clancy knew the basics. His grandfather made sure of that, though he’d only ever been semi successful. Games of chance took too much out of his hands for it to be fun, but according to Gramps there was some thrill to be had playing the odds.

The man across from him nodded. “O-of course.”

“Fantastic! Now I don’t have to go over all the borin shit.”

“Wait, wait! This is crazy!-“

Stock sound of people clapping and cheering came over the speaker. “So! Say your prayers and let the gaaaaaames begin!”

Clancy held back a bitter laugh at his predicament. He’d jumped out of the pan and into the fire and seemed to have ended back in the pan for the third fucking time. “Are you fucking kidding?” He spat instead.

“Aight Clancy, my man. Call it.”

“What?”

“A coin, dumbass. Ain’t that all the dough you carry around with you? Now, call it. Heads or tails.”

Clancy drew his shoulders up. “Heads.” He heard something flick, then metal rolling and some mumbling swearing.

“Well, lookie there,” his voice was distant, but he heard a chair squeak and a grunt, “you’re up first.” A signal lamp on the right edge of the table shone across his cards, and the television across from him displayed ‘Your Turn’. He checked the facedown card. ‘6’.

“Hit me.” Another shot from the dispenser, a four.

The light turned off, and a second came on to show the other’s hand. “Okay, Hoffman- you’re up.” Lucas spoke his name like it were two words.

“I’ll stay.”

“Oh. I shoulda mentioned earlier, you’ve got cards numbered one to eleven. No doubles! And, you share a deck.” He tittered.

Him and Hoffman clearly had the same reaction, as they peeled up their facedown card and looked around the table. Hoffman’s single face up card was an eleven, and he’d stayed so he could guess that his facedown card was another big number; Clancy would wager between eight and ten. Most of the remaining numbers of small then. That took two of the larger cards out of the deck for him. He tried to remember what his grandpa had said as he let it fall back. Blackjack wasn’t just about luck or chance. It taught you the way of risk and reward and how to hedge your bets. It was a game that taught you how to read people and push bluffs. Gambling wasn’t exactly a survival skill though; he was still bursting with adrenaline and primal fear. Andre wasn’t helping with his erratic frustration. Clancy was barely picking up on what numbers were in front of him, let alone what Hoffman was doing with his body. Clancy frowned as the light next to him turned back on. “Hit me.” A two. The light remained on.

“Well, Clance, Hoffman already decided to stay. Whatcha gonna do? Want another card?”

Only one card could keep him under the target number. “Stay.”

“Alright, show ‘em, fellas!” A tinny drumroll filled the room. The thought of Lucas playing with a soundboard while they feared for their lives was so macabre, he almost laughed.

Hoffman and Clancy moved over, turning their cards over as the lights rose. The air stagnated as each took in the respective numbers. Eighteen to his nineteen. “And the winner is… Clancy!” Relief rushed from his lungs, but it was short lived as Hoffman leaned back against his chair with a whine. The same cheering sound stock floated through the speakers. Red light spilled over his shoulders while a green ‘YOU WIN!’ filled the TVs he could see. Déjà vu and nausea attacked him at the sight. “Now,” Lucas had gotten closer to the mic, “the loser pays the bet.” He growled, and Hoffman sat up straight.

“What? No, this is insane you can’t-! NO no, wait wait wait wait!” The mechanism quivered against springs, then snapped down with a sickening crunch and a spray of blood across the cards. Hoffman’s pinkie finger hit the table and rolled. “You sick fuck!”

There was a definitive shift in the air as Hoffman sobbed across from him, back hunched in an attempt to curl against the pain. Hoffman was the single normal alive person he’d met since Peter had told him to go down the ladder. He’d seen evidence of the people they’d taken, but now he was in a room with one. And he was being forced to win a card game and deprive him of his fingers, and probably his life. All for the amusement of some psycho he couldn’t even see. A new kind of fear filled his lungs, a helpless desperate fear like that of a cornered animal, or a mouse sprinting from a toying cat. He wasn’t proving anything, he wasn’t surviving, he was a bug under a microscope having his legs plucked off one by one. This guy must have just been picked up if the disbelieving tears were anything to go by. Clancy couldn’t play along this time, he just couldn’t. Even if no other options presented themselves, he wouldn’t be able to live with this stranger’s blood on his hands. Would accepting her gift stop this? Maybe not. Maybe he’d just become okay with it, even be the one to kidnap more victims. Alarm beat against his ears at this thought. You won’t die if you lose your fingers. That was true, though this place was nowhere near clean enough to avoid infection. And he couldn’t be sure Lucas wouldn’t kill the guy later either. What would happen if both of them didn’t play? Prisoners’ dilemma then; Clancy had no clue what was going through Hoffman’s head. He probably blamed him for the finger that now toppled uselessly to the floor. Clancy was indirectly torturing someone to save his own skin, and that made him feel grosser than any of the mold and mud he’d been mucked in previously. He missed dealing with Marguerite, hell, he missed dealing with Jack because at least he’d had the decency to be fair. They’d given him a chance, while here he felt stripped bare, left to the whims of whatever the cards wanted. For once, Clancy didn’t feel like he had a fighting chance.

Lucas’ crowing laugh shattered the revelation. “Oooo-eee! Hell of a game, right? Let’s add a few more fingers to the pot.” The second blade on his lifted.

“I’m sorry,” Clancy shook his head, “I’m so sorry.” He watched the cards shoot back out, then lifted his head. “I’m not playing.” He raised his voice in some desperate bid for control. “You hear me? I’m not playing your sick fucking game!”

Hoffman looked up, gripping the table so hard his knuckles were white. “What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed.

“Aw, Clancyyy.” Lucas groaned. “Cmon now, you played so well with maw and paw!”

“Fuck you!” He looked over to Hoffman, hoping he’d pick up on it.

“Didn’t peg you for a quitter.” Clancy’s heart stuttered as the remaining three blades lifted. “Well, if you ain’t playin, then you forfeit.”

“I-I’m not playing either!” Hoffman croaked out, finally catching on. “You can’t do this to us!” He twisted around as much as the restraints would let him, trying to see beyond the screens.

Any meek defiance wavered the second Lucas raised the blades on Hoffman’s side as well. “Daggumit, you two are just no fun. Guess I’ll have to find two new contestants.” The chair squeaked loudly through the speaker, and Lucas tutted softly, thumbing some papers against the mic. “Maybe I’ll try and find these pretty little things, eh, Hoffman? I think they’d be more than willing to play.”

Hoffman thrashed more. “What? No! No, don’t touch them!” He shook his head frantically. “I’ll play, I’ll play, just don’t go near them.” He turned back, relaxing as the blades lowered to his initial bet. “I’m sorry, man. I can’t. I don’t want them hurt.”

“Well, Clance. Last chance. What’s it gonna be?” The blades twinged, on the precipice of snapping down and removing his digits. “You really gonna quit after getting this far?”

Clancy could feel Andre squirming with anxiety against the back of his skull, pushing against the thought with all his might. He knew if either of them lost all of their fingers, the blood lost would take a while to kill them, and Hoffman had already stopped bleeding. Survival was much more obtainable with both hands, and he’d also need them if he wanted to strangle Lucas. “…fine.” He’d gotten this far. “I’ll play.” Trepidation pooled in his gut.

The triumphant laugh didn’t make him feel any better about his decision. “There he is! Let’s keep going, then!”

Clancy turned to his cards, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he picked up the facedown one. Nine and four, and Hoffman’s face up card was a ten. The bags worked as impenetrable poker faces, so he couldn’t tell how good the others hand was. “Hit me.” He watched a six slide over.

Hoffman stayed, and so did Clancy. They hastily flipped their cards. “And the winner is… Hoffman!” Twenty-one to nineteen.

“Shit!” Clancy pulled and thrashed against the device. No amount of pleading or yelling helped. The blades fell with a crunch and the wet snap of bone accompanied fresh black tinged blood spraying across the table. Some banal instinct had him catching the flying fingers, though he quickly dropped them back on the table as pain ricocheted up his arm. The monsters had only ever gotten their claws or teeth in him, and the adrenaline had kept the full scope of the injury at bay until the first aid fluid could be thrown on it. Clancy felt all of it now, the liquid seeping down against his palm, the spasming muscle fighting against open air, blood vessels screaming for the digits they’d been sliced from. The pain trust him momentarily back into his state of hyper vigilance, bringing back every ounce of fight or flight he’d just tamped down on. It also brought with it a faint tug just on the edge of his senses before the feeling numbed over. Is this helping? They flexed of their own accord, and Clancy choked with a relieved sob. Hoffman let out a sympathetic whimper but didn’t say anything.

The bet raised to three, and Clancy clenched out a win by one point, leaving Hoffman shifting and whining in his seat at the growing pool under his metal restraint. He turned his head as the razors cut down, and the whines turned to screams. He heard his own bet raise, and the cards be dealt. “Final round!” Lucas called with delight. “Will Clancy take it with only a single loss? Or will Hoffman seize a victory from the edge of defeat?”

Clancy had a total of eight, six card face down and two up, while Hoffman had a visible three. He frowned as his hit scored him a one. That still meant any card would be good for him, at least.

“Give me another.” Hoffman spoke across the table, and a ten was deposited next to his three. The bags may have worked as their own poker faces, but it did nothing about the rest of their bodies. The man across from him tensed as the card came to a stop and moved his head to look between Clancy’s hand and his own. “Shit,” then a quieter, “damn it.”

Bittersweetness filled his chest. “I’ll stay.” He didn’t have to turn over his card to know. The victory was completely hollow. Clancy watched the tremor in Hoffman’s hand as they turned over their face down cards, and the way his body sagged as Lucas called the results.

“Please, please don’t, oh god!” He fought harder against the latches. The remaining digit went flying, and he yelled, over and over, hand free hand jammed against the arm of the chair and trying to force himself up or away or anywhere. Hoffman slumped backward after a breath, and Clancy clutched his sleeve tight. He could make out the faint rise and fall of his chest still, and the dribbling blood still gushing where his thumb had been. Some of the spatter had flown across and hit Clancy, staining his chest.

“…Now you’ll let me go, right?” He didn’t expect much. Lucas would surely pull something out of his ass to keep him here, unless he really was somehow the fairest Baker, even if the cruelist.

Lucas clicked his tongue. “That’s how the game works.” He sounded almost disappointed. “I wish we coulda had a little more fun.”

Clancy balked in disbelief. “Wait, really?”

“Well, I did have-“

Hoffman groaned softly, drawing Lucas to silence as he lulled back forward. “No,” he fought for air, “I gotta… I gotta go home to my family…” he spoke through gritted teeth, the bags cut eyeholes level with Clancy’s face now. “One more… round.”

“Aw! That’s the spirit, Hoffman! Sorry, Clancy, I guess we’re playing another round.”

Something vile spread though his thoughts, something deeply selfish and annoyed. He’d won, like he was supposed to. He’d been through hell and back tonight. Like a petulant child, the same thought kept circling. He’d won; why was Hoffman being so stubborn? It wasn’t even the Baker’s twisted nonsense fucking him over now, it was just another person and their natural desire to live. Clancy suddenly understood why his brother stopped playing games with him if this was how it felt. Still, even as these thoughts came about, he had enough decency left to feel some shame. This guy didn’t know what he’d been through, and he had no right to be upset over another’s will to fight. Hoffman had a family he needed to go back to, of course he wouldn’t give up easy; the only thing keeping Clancy going was himself and a dead guy.

The single overhead light shut off, plunging them into darkness. “What the fuck?” Clancy could hear machinery moving about. “Hey! What’s going on!” There was no answer. He huffed. “Dude, what the hell?”

“I’m not… leaving my family.” Hoffman’s voice echoed in the void, his breathing evening out the more he spoke. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’d understand if you had one.”

“How do you know I don’t?” It came out more defensive than he would have hoped.

Shifting fabric, then “Do you?”

Clancy sighed softly. “…no. Not like that. Just a mom and brother.” There had been little incentive to talk over their card game, but with the gulf of time and moving machinery, it appeared they both had loosened their tongues. It distracted from the present well enough. “What’s her name?”

“Hm?”

“Your daughter. Way Lucas said it, I assumed you had one.”

Hoffman chuckled wetly. “Melissa. She’s eight, likes fairies and her favorite color is beige because no one else likes it.” He spoke with more warmth, a reverence not unlike the ones the Baker’s held for their own daughter. This kind was soft, though, a love not driven to consume but to protect. Clancy’s previous shame only doubled. “Listen,” more shuffling, and it sounded like he’d leaned closer again, “I know it seems selfish, asking someone to die, but…”

“I can’t.” Clancy spoke before he finished that sentence. “I just… I can’t either. Not after all this. I lost two friends tonight, and that can’t be for nothing.” It may be stretching the truth slightly, but the sentiment still rang true.

“Oh.” The chair groaned as Hoffman leaned back again. “…fuck.”

The lights snapped back on as the silence settled, as if Lucas had been waiting for them to finish. Two large boxes had been set up over the hands strapped in the vices, an unsettling dial strapped on with a skull as the final ‘number’ and two prongs angled down at their skin. What looked like a large car battery was hooked up to it, and the panic that had started to quell came galloping back in his heartbeats.

“Voila! Just a little somethin’ special I made for the occasion.” The indicator moved up to four, and the machine whirred, lightning dancing in joyous arcs over the exposed turbine and blacking out the rest of the room. “Figured it out yet? Awww, I bet you ‘n guess!” The prongs moved down, and searing pain arced through his skin, jolting his muscles and drawing him rigid. Needle like pain traced from the point of contact to the soles of his feet while stray bolts swooped overhead. Every sense whited out, leaving him floating as images traced over his mind’s eye jumpsuits shackles eyes peering from glass anger relief never should have dated that bitch oh god I don’t want to die why would someone want to watch this finally peace.

Once again, he felt that tugging, and he raced to care about it more than the phantom memories. It grabbed on tight to his attention, sinking claw into bone and dragging itself forth, crashing against his brain like a rogue wave and careening him back to earth as the implement lifted. Stars winked from his vision. Both he and Hoffman were gasping for air, and the smell of cooking meat filled the room. Clancy could do little more than moan against the pain and the tightness of his skull.

Lucas yipped over the microphone. “This puppy’s a relic from an execution chamber. I got ‘er working again though!” Pride laced his words. Clancy thought he was going to vomit. “See them gauges there? The current goes up every time you lose. ‘But what’s the bet, Lucas?’ Just look here!” A smaller box popped up over the gauge flashing ‘01’. “At max power, you’ll really ride the lighting!” He laughed.

A delirious laugh pushed against his chest. A slurry of panic, confusion, relief, concern, anger, fear whirled around him in a cocktail he couldn’t parse. “This place is insane. You’re all fucking crazy.”

“You know what? I think it’s time to spice this game up a little bit.” Lucas’ voice carried on above him. Two square cards with shimmery gold edges slid across the table. “I made a couple trump cards for you fellas. My own spin on house rules.”

Clancy blearily picked them up, body and mind still reeling. One had a sword with BET on it and a single triangle, and the other had a seven card on it. The next hand was dealt. He couldn’t pick up on more than a few details at a time, the shine of lights reflected off the cards, the speckles of too dark blood against the worn green tabletop. Exhaustion threatened him, but something snapped against his brain- like a hand smacking lightly against his scalp- and the world sharpened into focus. Clancy flicked his eyes down to his cards. He’d been given an initial hand of nine with a one face up. Hoffman had a ten. The light was on; it was his turn. “Hit me.” A six in return.

“Give me another.” Hoffman spoke as soon as his light turned on and got a nine look at his posture his shoulders dropped. Clancy could feel goosebumps pimpling against his arms with the sudden second presence weighing against his clavicle. He could tell the difference, and he didn’t like it. But he looked. And they were right. Hoffman had unwound slightly, and he’d gained a bit of confidence. Clancy turned back to his own cards, and figured a fifteen wouldn’t cut it. “Hit me.”

A seven.

He'd gone over.

Inadvertently taking on a second passenger was both a blessing and a curse. They’d chime in every now and then with strategy and pointers on Hoffman’s disposition. Somehow it even commented on his own tells: a subconscious huff of annoyance or the drumming of his fingers. It told him to keep still. Keep even. But dealing with the emotional weight of three people was a near herculean feat. He was also dealing with a string of terrible luck in the process, brought on by the new trump cards, so his dial sat a hearty five while Hoffman’s remained at one. Clancy came down from the Lucas ordained four amps with a gurgle, another round of begotten criminals’ last moments fading from view. The smell of roasted flesh had only gotten stronger, and blackened matter clung around the contact spots against his hand.

Hoffman remained in good standing, only letting out apologetic noises at the height of his screams. A cold sweat now tacked his clothes to his body, and his face was no doubt slick with tears. The cards were already dealt. They stared, mockingly. A new trump card with a heart and arrow entered his hand to rub salt in the wound. Hold onto that. A bout of prolonged silence blanketed the room as he stared at his cards. At his turn. “…I’m going home, Clancy.” Hoffman spoke without prompting. “Just… forfeit. It’ll be quicker.”

Any previous source of sympathy had evaporated under the deluge of electricity. “So what?  you just want me to lay down and die?”

“Yes! Instead of torturing yourself.”

Lucas giggled over the speaker. “Mighty confident of you there, Hoffer.”

“Shut up!” Clancy hissed upward. “Why should I forfeit? Why can’t you?”

The silence that filled the space was very telling, but eventually Hoffman spoke again. “I have a family…”

“You think just because you have a family, you deserve to walk out of here alive?” It was a low blow, but any comradery had gone up in smoke two rounds ago.

Hoffman’s hand gripped tight to the arm of his chair. “Be reasonable here, man.”

“I am! I’m being very reasonable! I reasonably want to live!”

“Winning won’t bring your friends back.” Venom dripped into his words, and the rumble of annoyance in his chest broke into thunderous rage. “Just… just please, don’t make this harder than it has to be, for either of us.”

Clancy’s lip peeled back, and he growled. “I hate you.” He didn’t know who he was referring to. Lucas, Hoffman, the rest of the Bakers, himself. Probably all of them at this point. He slipped out one of the trump cards and slapped it against the table, a small sickening delight curling through him at Hoffman’s little whimper and the sound of his ticker going up by one.

“…Fine.” Hoffman slipped one of his gold cards out and placed it with more finesse, and Clancy’s bet ticker shot up by two.

Lucas hollered over the speakers. “Damn, you boys play hard!”

Clancy stared down at his cards. If he fucked this round up, he died. He drew his shoulders up and turned to his cards. Nine. Face up five. “Hit me.” He moved his hand as another card shot from the slot, revealing an eight.

Hoffman had a two. He got an eleven, and his breathing hitched. Gone over.

Clancy stayed. Hoffman stayed.

Seventeen to Twenty-two.

And if Hoffman’s screams brought even an ounce of satisfaction, only three people needed to know.

Black stains oozed out against the white of Hoffman’s jumper and smoke curled from his shoulders. Though the black didn’t look like the burn marks like the kind he could see on his hand. It looked… wet. The burlap around his eye holes sopped up the liquid and that combined with the pitiful weeping sucked him back down to reality. The bet counter flicked on to ‘05’. Clancy was at five and Hoffman was at six; this next one would spell the end for one of them, no matter how they sliced it.

Lucas’ ever present, ever grating voice, confirmed this fact. “Next jolt’ll pop one of you like a frog on a hotplate! So which’ll it be, which’ll it be?”

The cards fell. A constant stream of whimpers and sobs sang over the table. Clancy checked those weird little trump cards he’d been mostly neglecting. A draw four, a card to get rid of the last card he drew, and two others that raised the bet. He was already sitting at a reasonable thirteen with eleven face up and an overturned two. “Hit me.”

The card that came down was one of the trump cards. “Well, lucky you, Clance, you got an extra trump card!” Something lurked under those words, but he wasn’t quite sure what until he picked up the card. It had a small heart with an arrow through it and said that it would give his opponent the best deal. Then the card he’d hit for came into view: a five, and Clancy’s throat dried. This was a choice. Lucas was letting him either save his own skin or ensure Hoffman won. It was giving him assurance, but he didn’t necessarily have to play either.

Hoffman drew through his twitching and whining, adding a ten to his one. His shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. Good deal, not the pot.

Clancy held the golden foiled cards in front of him. So, he’d have to play the four, then, if he wanted to live. If he were a betting man- and this situation made him one- Hoffman had something between eighteen and twenty. He lowered the trump cards. He wanted to live. Clancy let it fall forward against the table.

A four came shooting out of the dispenser. No dread came to claim him, only the ashen remains of his own bitterness against his throat. “Hey, Hoffman?”

The man quieted. “Yeah?”

“Do you live around here, or were you visiting?”

Hoffman’s shoulders dropped further. “What?”

Clancy was thankful for the bag over his head, as his poker face had fully broken down at this point. “Just… answer the question.”

“I was visiting.” He answered eventually. “Work trip. Why are you-“

“And Hoffman is your last name?”

“Clancy, what are you doing?” Hoffman’s bag fell forward slightly. “Why are you asking me this now?” A nervous trill entered his voice. Clancy remained silent. “…yes, it is my last name. My first is Brian.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.” Clancy brought his arm up. Brian Hoffman, eight-year-old daughter, will probably be reported missing. That should be enough information. “I’ll stay.”

Hoffman stared him down for a moment longer, then silently motioned his hand across his cards with nothing more than a small whine. “Well now, Clancy, you seem so dire, it’s like you know something.” Lucas’ seedy voice came bubbling from the speakers again, and for a minute, Clancy had almost forgotten he was there- almost being the load bearing word. “Flip em, boys!” They moved slowly, and Clancy slowly flipped it over. Hoffman had nineteen; close, but not the pot.

The machine began to whir again, and Lucas practically crooned against his mic. “Uh-oh! Looks like Hoffman just won himself the consolation prize!” The dial ticked one by one towards the skull, static electricity gathering in the air and a coppery tang sending Clancy’s amygdala scurrying for shelter.

“No! No no, damn it, please! Please don’t kill me, don’t-“ Clancy watched as Hoffman thrashed, watched as emotionlessly as he could when the conductive prongs met meat. He did not speak. He did not offer comfort. For what comfort could be given to someone on death row when no crime has been committed. Black gushed into the jumpsuit, like even the very obvious mold was trying to escape its torture. Hoffman’s body jerked and thrashed and smoked like a hog on one of the church barbeques, and there was no tell when the man’s soul had finally fried from his body, but eventually the machine burst. Hoffman’s corpse let out a small groan, then fell forward. Sulfur and burnt hair were now added to the suffocating ammonia in the clearly poorly ventilated room.

Pity and indifference fought behind his eyes. Exhausted swaddled them both. “He’s dead.” Clancy said, once he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake too much. “He’s fucking dead now, alright? The deal was that if I won, I got to leave, so let me go.”

“Oh, alright Clancy. You won fair and square.” The voice was far too measured, far too practiced. “Guess I’ll set you-“ Something akin to a door flying open sounded through the speakers. “Well now, what do you want?” Lucas didn’t sound alarmed at all.

“Hey, you promised me a round, Lucas.” That wasn’t a different voice. Lucas had just put on a lower timbre and moved back further in the room. “Well, shoot, guess I did.” His fake voice disappeared. “See, ‘fore that tough son of a bitch Hoffman demanded another round, I promised a good friend of yours that he’d get to play with you.”

“What?” Bewilderment beat out on the stoking rage. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Lucas only laughed. “Sit tight.” The lights turned off.

“No! You said you’d-“ Some of the rage crested, and he slammed his palm against the table. “Talk to me you psycho bitch! You said you’d let me go!” Clancy got no response. Only the clang of gears and the rattle of chains. Straps popped open, metal groaned as it slid, and wood dragged across the floor.

In the dark of that room- and for only the briefest of moments- he wept.

Mold. Clancy could smell it, even as the darkness continued to blanket the room. “Oh, what the fuck now?” He spat, throwing his head back against the chair. “Do you really need to use those-“

The lights came on.

The body that sat across from him had changed. At first, his eyes were drawn to the large maw half growing half tearing through the sack over its head. It looked almost grafted on with the way the bag bulged with extra contents. Red polyps covered the area down to its shoulders; a large one stood out in the middle of its chest, pulsing in the open air. Though small white structures invaded the space between the gaps, and they looked almost crystalline. But then Clancy noticed the clothing.

A department store brown suit jacket was draped over a black stained button up. A Prince Albert knot severely loosened on a black satin tie. Clancy felt a stone drop in his gut. “…Peter?”

The body remained still while a steady rhythm of not me not me not me that is not me played through his synapsis. Clancy flicked between the tumorous growth of a head and the clothing, his body winding tighter and tighter with each pass, equal parts disgusted and indignant. “I wanted to bring in two very dear friends for our grand finale.” Lucas didn’t give him long to simmer. “Like what you see? Fished him outta my old man’s ditch. Figured a guy that slimy would have turned easy, but I guess you can’t win ‘em all.” Chains clattered against each other, and a large pully wheel descended in front of him. Several knives of every variety were soldered onto either side. “And meet-“ the wheels spun, and it lowered, sparking against the table, “Mr. Saw!”

“You’re sick.” He growled out, and the echo from the morgue was back in full force. “You’re fucking insane!”

“Now now, Clancy, is that any way to talk to the man who reunited you with your dear friend?” A dangerous edge crept into his tone, and finally Clancy took in the fact that Peter’s body that is not me wasn’t moving outside of the mold that palpitated. Two rings had been stabbed into the flesh of his arm, and rope went up towards the ceiling. It creaked as it was pulled up, arm flopping awkwardly. “Yeah, be nice to Lucas.”

Revulsion burgeoned into complete outrage. Lucas was explaining the bet and distance, but they didn’t hear. The line between him and the others blurred, mixing and slurring into one insurmountable drumbeat. The goal remained the same, no matter the implement Lucas decided to wield.

Fucking end this.

Lucas didn’t seem to know much about Peter. But that didn’t stop him from flailing his arm about and speaking for him. “Why are you fighting me, Clance? I thought we were friends!”, “I always knew you were a shit cameraman.”, “But I’m your boss!” Were all remarks thrown across the table. Clancy refused to respond. Instead, he gritted his teeth, and he played.

Win, loss, win, loss. Lucas’ trump card playing felt suspiciously intentional, and the voice he put on when ‘Peter’ lost didn’t seem that upset. Clancy would have thought more about it if he weren’t so focused on getting out of here.

He played a hand of twenty against nineteen, and the saw spun until the numbers read ‘3-11’. It hung dangerously close to the corpse’s face, and the smallest bit of hope managed to snake its way into his chest. One more, and he’d… probably be thrown into whatever Lucas had thought up next. Though maybe that one could be escaped. Still, it was a hope. Clancy got a rousing hand of three, but before he’d gotten a chance to look at ‘Peter’s’, the arm cranked up. “Oh no,” Lucas was doing little to hide the smile in his voice, “Clancy’s gonna beat me! What caaan I do?” The hope soured, and Clancy’s throat dried. “There’s gotta be somethin’!” The arm moved up and down in bigger swooping motions, successfully making the head flop back and forth. “Oh yeah! Guess I’ll use this!” The small device set up to hold the corpse’s trump cards clicked as the gear turned. A perfect draw card revealed itself in the light, and a seven came down from the machine. But a second trump card followed the first. This one had a clown face printed on the front, and he watched as the bet counter whirred until it said ‘99’.

“Hey!” Maybe he shouldn’t have been that surprised at Lucas cheating. If Clancy had been paying attention, maybe he would have come to that realization sooner. Or the realization that this had been the plan all along. Lucas had never actually planned on letting him go. Peter’s body had been in the wings: the two extra torture implements were all set up and ready to go. It should have been clear from the beginning. Clancy was supposed to die here.

“This is my ace in the hole!” Lucas’ voice barely kept up the lower register charade. “Can’t draw cards anymore, not even with those extra special ones I gave you.” Triumph spoke through the speaker, and Lucas started cackling.

Clancy looked desperately from the deal in front of him to the saw, and then to the trump cards. Returning Lucas’ face up cards didn’t matter if he still had three. If he couldn’t draw, then all these were it doesn’t matter if he goes over useless. “What?” His finger tapped the card with the heart; the very one Lucas had given him to use on Hoffman. The corner of his lips twinged up, and he lifted his head. “…to hell with this.” Clancy slipped it out and slapped it down, silently reveling in the way Lucas’ laughter stopped on a dime.

“Huh?!” A three came out of the dispenser. “Hey, what the hell!”

“I’m staying.” Clancy announced, listening with growing vindication as Lucas swore loudly. “And I’m leaving.” That was a pipe dream, and he knew it, but the moment swept him away. The tv screens changed to bright green, and the saw automatically started moving to the corpse. As the blades whirred closer and closer, the head snapped slightly, but it didn’t have any time to move before the metal was plowing through its front, rending the flesh and spraying black chunks across the table. Clancy watched wordlessly as it ground to a halt, clearly buried deep in the bone. He waited with bated breath for Lucas to pick it back up again. “…we’re done now. Right?”

The stock audio of cheering poured through the speaker, and once again the televisions flickered to the image of Lucas Baker perched in his chair, hands folded over his stomach. He looked annoyed, but slowly, he started clapping along with the track. “You are one cold son of a bitch, Javis.” The use of his last name shouldn’t have unsettled him as much as it did. “Now, you impress me so much, I’m gonna give you an extra reward.” Lucas readjusted in his seat, turning more to the side. “We gon play another game- you and me.”

“Not cards.” He blurted. Clancy knew there would be no chance for escape if it was more fucking cards.

Lucas giggled. “No, Clancy. Not cards.” He leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head now as he smiled. “Something much more fun.” Lucas hummed to himself as he turned slowly to the left and right. “Ain’t life grand?”

Clancy couldn’t say one way or another. He just knew that he needed to find another opportunity to leave and fast. He watched with trepidation as Lucas let out another content hum, and the screens clicked off one by one. All that mattered was getting to the next hour. Clancy wasn’t sure how long he sat there, waiting. A crack of light broke through the wall of screens, and a series of metal clinks accompanied a quiet hissing sound. The chemical odor reached him before the thin haze of smoke climbing up from under the table. “Hey- hey, wait!” Clancy tugged at the vice around his hand, but his lungs started to seize. “What the fuck are you doing?!” Maybe he’d misjudged Lucas. Maybe he’d had him wait here so he could get something ready to kill him. “Say something you bitch!” But there was nothing. As the world fuzzed out around the edges, all he could manage was a small “…fuck.”

Late nights around the radio gripping flashlights tight and hiding in the dark childish screams and racing down the stairs, running through the rooms large shadow against the walls chasing pain up his spine legs numb just a little more-

If Clancy were counting correctly, this would be the fifth time he’d be brought to consciousness over the span of a day. Rough ground scratched his back, and Clancy could feel his arms and legs bent at awkward angles. Hands closed around his ankles, and whoever was dragging him was huffing and puffing something fierce. “Heavy son of a gun, ain’t you?”

The voice brought him to rapt attention. Clancy looked to be in the same building; he doubted if Lucas would spread his torture chambers out that far over the property. He was also being dragged by a very sweaty Lucas, who had clamped zip ties around his wrists and ankles. Clancy immediately took to shifting his weight back and forth, easily slipping his feet from his grasp but getting no farther. Lucas braced his foot against his chest. “Now what’d you do that for?” He refixed his grip on his flailing legs. “What’re you gonna do, inchworm away? Them moldy bastards would have you before you even got out the door! And you’d miss the surprise.” Lucas dragged with more purpose now, and as he twisted, he craned his neck. Clancy could see the direction was toward a large, grated door with a keypad. “You, my friend, are one lucky son of a bitch!”

Clancy’s legs were thrown down as he turned to input a code, and he remained still. Lucas was right about one thing; there wasn’t much he could do with his legs bound. He arched his head back to peer at the way he’d come, but only found shadows encroaching on them. “You know, I actually envy you.” Lucas continued speaking as he pushed the door open. Clancy whipped his head back to peer at him skeptically. “What?” Lucas turned. “You don’t believe me?” He walked over, crouching over his chest and staring him dead in the eye. Sweat dribbled down from the tip of his nose, and the area around his wide eyes was puffy. Noticeably, that same milky film lacking lucidity wasn’t present. Lucas was fully present. Dirty hands slapped against his chest. “This joy?” He motioned up at his face. “Why you can’t fake this.” Lucas stumbled backward, grabbing his legs along the way and pulling with all his might. “It has taken me weeks to finish this, and it is finally ready.”

They traipsed into the darkened room, and Lucas tugged a knife from somewhere, catching the blade against his ankle binding. “And it’s all for you!” He yanked him up by the wrist, and Clancy flinched as the blade was pushed to the plastic. “Aw, come on now. Don’t be like that. It’s gon be fun-“

Clancy socked him as soon as his hands were free. He heard Lucas yell as he pushed up off the floor and launched to the open door. A blade digging into his calf sent him back down again. “Son of a bitch!” A shadow passed over him, and the door slammed shut. “Little fucking-“ Footsteps carried the end of the sentence down the hall. He rolled over slowly. The hilt of the knife stuck clean out of his pant leg.

“Damn it, damn it.” He reached down, gently curling his fingers around it and bracing. Don’t take it out, you’ll bleed out faster. Andre’s words stilled him. Clancy couldn’t see how bad it was in the low light, but he would also figure it was close to a major artery. Even Jack was knocked down by blood loss. Better safe than sorry. He slowly brought himself up. A spike of pain shot up his leg with even a little bit of pressure, so Clancy would be working through this with a very pronounced limp. He finally took stock of the space around him.

There wasn’t much visible beyond the flicker of a single flame dancing along the arm of some mechanical doll. It was another clown, and Clancy could make out nails and scribbles on the paper in front of it. There was a doorway to his left, and one directly behind the clown. He chose the one on the left and slowly walked through what looked like a small disused kitchen. Party balloons decorated the space, and fancy streamers with stars came down from the ceiling. More light caught his eye through another doorway. Three more candles illuminated a cake, and a board placed on top. Clancy limped toward it. Water doused him and his candle as he burst his way in.

The overhead lights came on instead, and he found himself in a room with a large barrel and a small lockbox painted to look like a present. The cake remained in front of him, with all three lit candles flicking back mockingly. Banners accompanied the streamers in this room, and he could see a few speakers tucked into the corners. The plaque on the cake read ‘Happy Fucking Birthday Got a light?’

“It’s a game I call ‘I’d like to make it out of this room alive and not die a horrible painful death’.” Lucas had lost some of his showman’s luster. “Temp title. And remember to smile; this party is for you!”

“Fuck you!” Clancy spat. He turned back to the room he’d blindly felt his way through. A wind-up key plugged the barrel, but he refused to touch anything before he knew what it did. Unlike Margueritte’s bedroom, this one was specifically designed to cause pain. Clancy turned to examine his leg. The blade hadn’t been shoved all the way in; a good inch still hung out, and a patch of red was starting to seep out into the fabric of his pants. He stepped more into the room and examined the pipes for the spigots. The valve was missing. Okay, so he’d work backwards then. Candle for the cake, valve for the pipes. Lock box needed another three-input code.

The kitchen stove still worked, meaning he could relight his candle. On the way over, he caught sight of the valve through a knocked-out wall with ‘HERE’ painted above it. The door near it was roped shut but easily burned open. Balloons pooled out the door and bumped against his legs as he tried to peer in. Of course, the valve door had another lock. This one had letters instead of the weird symbols. Clancy walked over slowly, lowering himself down with the help of the wall. This one door stood between him and the final step of the solution.

Lucas very clearly wanted him to go through the place, and set up whatever careful trap he’d laid, but Clancy was tired of playing along. The only way he’d get out of this alive was by doing it outside of the rules Lucas had set. Clancy had his own ace in the hole, if only he could get it to work. He cradled the lock in one hand and tried to concentrate. Going through the thought process of Lucas Baker didn’t sound entirely pleasant, but any insight could help. Taking apart the lock and setting the cylinders to LOSER maybe it was childish but even the small things made em feel like shit a permanent reminder of what they are. Clancy couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He spun the cylinders and threw the lock aside, snagging the valve off the wall.

Clancy used the walls to hurry back to the kitchen. “What the hell!” He ignored Lucas as he jammed it into the wall and cranked it. “You fucking cheater, how’d you do that!” Clancy limped with purpose back to the stove and dipped his candle into the flame. He allowed himself a bit more pressure on his leg in an attempt to hurry through to the cake. “Hey! I’m talking to you, dick!” Serves him right. Clancy landed against the table and the big finale, should catch the kerosine and be a real fireworks show very quickly got an idea. He blew out the candle and stuffed it into his back pocket before hoisting the cake up with two hands. Lucas continued to piss and scream over the speaker, but that was good. As long as he could still hear him, that meant he wasn’t trying to stop him. The stumble back to the door was slow, annoyingly so, but his leg was protesting the added weight. Clancy almost buckled, but someone locked his legs we won’t let you fall and he made it with a healthy sheen of sweat now coating his brow.

The speakers got quiet as he braced against the walls to hurry into the kitchen. Clancy was on the clock. His hand shook as he held the wick down into the flame. “Cmon cmon cmon-“ he yipped as it caught and started his harried walk back. Clancy lowered it, took a few breaths as preparation, then jabbed it in the waxy icing as a shadow crossed in front of the door. He launched back. The explosion knocked the door clean off its hinges and rained soot and burnt cake down on him. He heard a body hit the floor on the other side.

“Aight I’m done playin nice!” Lucas’ voice carried from beyond the opening. Adrenaline greeted him like an old friend, and before he could think he’d ripped the blade from his calf and twisted himself into a standing position. “You fucking cheating little pig! I’ll kill you!”

Clancy laughed. It was a howling, nasty sound. “Give me a break!” He glowered down at him, leveling the tip at him as blood gushed from his now open wound. “You want a demonstration of what I did to your mother?” Clancy could see the way his eyes flicked to the blade he’s scared, maybe just cautious and bared his teeth. “Then stay the fuck down.” He did his best not to wobble as he circled around his crumpled form. Lucas’ eyes tracked him slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, but Clancy didn’t care. He’d already turned out the door.

The stairs up were torture, but the limp lessened the more he walked. Clancy couldn’t tell if this was leading him to an exit or not. The rooms all looked the same, with walls covered in paint speckled plastic tarps and a confusing mess of furniture crammed inside. There had been a path behind him, but he hadn’t had time to think about the direction of his flight, just that he needed to be anywhere but there. He couldn’t hear Lucas anymore, and that set his nerves even further on edge. The rooms wound and twist, and finally he pushed open a door to another rickety set of stairs. The muggy Louisiana air rushed to greet him, and finally he stopped to take a breath.

Clancy leaned against the vinyl fencing, lifting his leg slightly. The gash was an inch or two in length, but it was too bloody to see how deep it was. He noticed it wasn’t gushing blood anymore, so it probably hadn’t hit an artery. Maybe he could find some of that first aid liquid somewhere. A small bastion of safety opened up on the patio steps, room to sit and regroup. He daren’t touch the tape covered camera for fear of it disappearing into the ether or crumbling in his hands. It could graft itself into his skin for all he cared, he was not losing his fucking camera. Clancy readjusted his grip on the knife and started down the steps, coming out into the yard. He could see the back of the house from here, and a trailer stood only a few paces away from him.

The ground squished under his boots as he tromped out. Lucas hadn’t seemed that interested in chasing him, and the only sounds around him were the buzzing mosquitos and the frog song coming from the bog. He figured he had a bit of time before either Jack or Marguerite came careening down upon him. Clancy didn’t know where on the estate he was anymore. But that didn’t matter anymore. He just wanted out. So, he picked a direction and walked with purpose across the lawn. It didn’t seem like the smartest plan; the Louisiana wilderness was just as likely to kill him as the Bakers. Maybe if he had a vehicle, it would be easier, though he refused to waste any time searching. Any cars would be in the garage, and he would never be going back near that domicile.

Clancy had learned the hard way not to corner himself in any of the buildings. Any of the structures could be a herald to a new and deadly family member, so he made his peace with wandering in the woods until he collapsed from dehydration. He hopped over the fence and kept his knife tight in his grip. Something growled through the trees. The brief reprieve of safety was over, and those monsters were now roaming about.

Most of the black creatures were the standard ones he’d seen in the basement, and a few of the smaller crawling ones. Luckily, unlike the basement the forest offered plenty of cover. Clancy became well acquainted with the feeling of bark digging into his back and bramble snagging at his clothing. He forced himself to take it slow, be cautious, like he’d tried with Marguerite. Andre and Peter remained as satellite emotions, silent but vigilant.

Clancy had hidden behind a bush when the mold creature turned and ran off. He could hear various footsteps echoing away from the immediate area. He poked his head out slowly. Good luck was always suspicious, so he stayed put until he was certain nothing was coming. Clancy crept from the underbrush.

“Are we playing hide and seek?”

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a young voice came from behind him. Clancy brought the knife up, and turned to see a young girl standing between the cypress copse. She wore a knee length dress and rubber boots and watched him with curious eyes. Black shoulder length hair swayed back and forth as she rocked on her feet. “Because I’m very good at this game.”

“What?” Clancy could feel the panic against his throat. The girl in front of him didn’t feel like Jack or Marguerite, no small blip on his map. She was… so much more. Like staring down the endless abyss of the ocean or the stars that stretched forever. Clancy was infinitesimal in the face of such a thing. Her proximity brought with it a sense of vertigo.

The girl broke into a wide grin, though it looked hungrier than anything. “I think it’s a fair game. You three against me.”

Clancy shook his head. “I don’t-“ This was Evie. It had to be, and finally he understood why the Bakers revered her so much. Her presence was overwhelming, pressing whispers against his brain that blocked out everything, even his own thoughts. Such a force of will caged his own, and the hand gripping the knife loosened. “No.” He readjusted. “I’m not playing.”

Her face pinched, and her bottom lip poked out in a pout. “But I want to play!”

“No!”

“Why’re you being so stubborn, brother?”

It felt like lifting a boulder instead of simply pointing the knife. “I’m not part of your insane fucking family!” It didn’t feel as vindicating screaming this at a child, but she’d been the one so interested in him.

Evie’s curious little eyes darkened considerably. “You don’t want to be my brother?” She bit off a threat somewhere in there, and the force of that will became ever stronger. Clancy could barely keep his arm raised. “…Then I’m done with you.” Her eyes turned to the wider forest, and he felt air return to him. “Mommy!”

“Wha-“ A body burst from the trees and snatched the knife away without much trouble. Margueritte had a lot more strength than he remembered.

Brown hair flew in his face as hands shoved him to the ground. A women that was notably not Margueritte towered over him, black seeping into her eyes as she pinned him to the ground. Clancy screamed as the knife was driven over and over into his stomach, spilling blood and organ onto the forest floor. Energy rapidly drained as the damage spread further and further. Stomach, liver, heart, lungs. It broke through bone with little more than a snag and crunch. He barely registered the weight disappearing from his chest. The world came in flashes of information.

Black hair dangling in his vision, a pale hand pointing.

A rapid heartbeat in his ears.

Tearing, a weight gone from his shoulder.

Metal and plastic raining down on his face.

Raspy apologies.

Heartbeat faltering.

Growling from the darkness, hissing as teeth sink into his shoulder.

Murky muddy water filling his nostrils, his lungs.

Darkness.

Dappled light fell across his eyes as a groan tugged from his chest. A soft cushion supplied his head at an awkward angle, and a scratchier fabric fluttered against his hands. A homey blend of spices and the lazy bubbling of a pot filled the silence. The lack of fettered aromas attacking his senses would be a blessing, if not for the fact that the entire situation seemed impossible. Clancy had felt the knife cut his throat. He’d felt himself die. Maybe the Bakers had found some way to bring people back from the dead, and he was in another death trap. Or maybe his brain was pulling up its last dredges of comforting memories before it fizzled out. Clancy didn’t want to open his eyes, lest the spell be broken.

Something clinked behind him. “He wake up?” A voice that shouldn’t be speaking asked.

“Nah. Just moved.” The other responded. Clancy tightened his grip on the blanket. No. He was well and truly dead. He had to be. “Have you ever tried shaking him?” Peter’s voice moved closer.

“Once. But I figured he could use the rest after…” Wood scraped the bottom of a pot. Then, a huff, “Pete, c’mon, let him sleep.”

It was all the warning he had before a hand landed on his shoulder. Clancy shot up, flailing instinctively against the touch. His limbs caught against the blanket that had been draped over him. “Whoa, whoa! Easy! Jesus.” Peter’s petulant expression appeared near the left side of his vision. “You’re fine.”

“Can you blame him?” Andre’s voice continued to come from behind his head. “You’d be jumpy too after all that shit.”

Peter turned back to argue, but Clancy’s attention moved to the space around him instead. He was in an apartment, sprawled across a couch. Directly across from him was a small coffee table littered with magazines and stained with cup rings, then another recliner where Peter probably had been previously. To his right, a cabinet with a tv on top sat evenly between two windows with their curtains drawn. The left produced a hallway with three doors that he could see- all closed- and a small chest of drawers at the end. Several frames depicting geometric shapes and vague splashes of color hung on the walls, and a single framed poster of Elvis Presley near a buffet against the wall. Different knickknacks and figurines lined the various shelves, filling the space with life. One of the larger ones hosted a collection of snow globes, each with a different state or city along the base and varying in size and quality.

The moments before he lost consciousness nagged at him now, demanding the contradiction be acknowledged. Clancy slowly turned to examine his chest where he half expected to see his stomach still split open. The folds of the blanket remained soft green instead of flooding red.

“-ancy?” Andre’s voice flittered back to him, and he turned back to see a kitchenette, eyebrows drawn together in concern. He was bent over a pot, steam curling around the wooden spoon he held aloft. Behind him, Clancy could make out a few counter tops, a sink built into the counter, a fridge against the left wall, and what was probably a pantry. Various newspaper clippings were pinned under mismatched fridge magnets. “Are you alright?” The question was spoken softly, with full knowledge of the answer beforehand.

“I’m…” He flicked his tongue out against his chapped lips. His throat felt raw. “…where the hell am I?”

Andre’s expression softened, and he dipped the spoon back into the pot. “You’re in our apartment.”

“Not really.” Peter had flopped back into the recliner at some point. He no longer donned the suit, instead sporting a pair of sweatpants and a partially unbuttoned long sleeve shirt. The casual air meshed oddly with the faux professionalism he’d seen. “It’s just some fucked up recreation.”

Clancy tugged the blanket up and around his shoulders, pressing it against his body like a sort of armor. “What do you mean?”

“He’s just being dramatic.” Andre rolled his eyes. He picked up the pot and walked to the sink. “It’s not fucked up, there’s just an extra door we can’t open.”

“And we can’t leave!”

“And we can’t leave.” He amended. “But it is something that looks like our apartment.” Andre drained whatever he was cooking, then pulled down three plates.

Clancy watched him dish out noodles and sauce. “Is this where you’ve been the entire time?”

“Kind of.” Andre dished out three portions of noodles. “Sometimes we are. Other times, I don’t really know.” He shrugged, then grabbed another pot from the stove. The noodles were coated in a white sauce then brought over. “Here. I tried not to use meat or… anything red.”

Clancy looked down. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in days, but at the same time he wasn’t too hungry. He took up the fork though and spun a few noodles into his mouth. It was muted, like a balm had been applied to his tongue beforehand, but he could still make out notes of garlic and butter. The hunger came roaring back, and he was slurping up the dish with haste. A cold glass was tapped against his forearm at some point, and he turned to see Andre offering him a bottle of some crisp amber liquid. Clancy nodded. “Thank you. For this and the food.”

Andre settled back with his own plate while Peter languidly picked at the dish. “I figured you hadn’t eaten in a while. And there’s not a lot to do around here.” He lifted the neck of his bottle with a smile. “And I did say we’d have a beer after the shoot.”

Despite everything, a small smile worked its way onto his face. “Yeah.” Clancy held out his bottle and tapped it gently, then popped off to top. The obvious questions still lingered on the surface, but the other two were at least attempting to keep the mood light, so he played along. “So did the ghost show cause you to move in together, or did living in the same space cause the ghost show?”

“It’s not a ‘ghost show’.” Peter snarked from the couch. “It’s investigative journalism into urban legends and myths. Not just ghosts.” He shot Clancy a pointed look, then turned to Andre. “Told you I didn’t feel him as cameraman.”

“We lived together first.” Andre spoke through a chuckle. “Decided to start our own show after Pete got fired from some hosting gig. I think he said something like ‘how hard can it really be?’ and we went from there. Named it after our first case.”

“And are those from the places you went?” Clancy gestured to the snow globes.

A faint hint of pride rose in Andre’s eyes. “Yeah. I wanted something to mark our travels. We’ve been all over the East coast.”

Peter didn’t seem entirely interested in the conversation. He kept looking over at Clancy, like he wasn’t sure he was really there. “So when does he disappear?”

Metal scraped across stoneware. “Pete-“ Andre’s nostrils flared as he huffed. “I don’t know. Okay? He comes and goes.”

“But… I died.” Clancy lowered his fork.

“Yeah. Probably one of the more violent ones.” Clancy balked at the implication, and at his befuddled expression, Andre continued. “I saw how Jack handled you at the van. He definitely killed you. And I don’t think many of those ‘knocking out’ methods were very… gentle.”

Clancy stared down into his half empty dish. He may have suspected a few things, but to have it confirmed was a new feeling entirely. He’d also wondered why he was awake this time around, and not before. Maybe the damage was too much for him to come back from this time. “Oh.” Andre offered a small apology, but he waved it off and they continued the dinner with the newer tenser air. He finished, then shoved the plate back and closed his eyes. Clancy didn’t know much about how this mold stuff worked, yet somehow he’d been able to come in and out.

“…what the hell are you doing?”

He peeled his eye open to squint at Peter. “I’m trying to leave. Hanging out is nice and all, but I’m still a body in the woods right now. I need to move before one of them does something to me.” Clancy shut his eye again. Maybe if he visualized it, his brain would kickstart whatever healing the mold did.

“You look like you’re trying not to shit.”

“Well since you know so much, how am I supposed to do this?” Clancy threw his hand up at him. “Then you could come out and help me.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s mold, right? It’ll probably just mitosis on its own.” He crossed his arms, but seemed to consider. “Hey, how long does it normally take?” He looked to Andre.

“Few minutes tops. But I also don’t know how time moves in here, and the damage this time was pretty bad, so maybe it takes longer.” Andre gathered his plate for him. “You might just have to hang for a bit. The tv works if you want to use it, though it only has a couple channels that work.”

Clancy’s eyes were drawn to the snow globes, and then the hall again. This entire place was personal to these two guys, and yet they said something was different. And he was here. “Which door did you say didn’t open?”

“The one on the left, why?”

“Just a hunch.” Clancy pushed off the couch and walked down the hall. He tried the handle, unsurprised to feel it click and push in. The room inside was darkened, blinds drawn and the several lights switched off. But he could make out the bed, and the shelves and monitor and keyboard on the desk. And a single camera, with its casing intact, on the bed. Clancy felt tears well up in his eyes.

Something as simple as his own bedroom felt almost foreign to him now. Clancy traced his way through the room, stopping at his camera. He’d felt its shattered remains hit his face, so this was the last place he’d see it. The last place it existed. Clancy sat down and, like he’d done several times before, flicked through his settings. There was nothing to really fix, but the feeling of manipulating it in his hands was enough to wash away the growing discontent in his chest.

A shadow passed over the door. “Huh.”

Clancy didn’t look up from his camera. “Surprise.”

“Of course the weird shit has to do with you. Only one other person here.” Peter’s footfalls entered past the frame. “Interesting set up.”

Clancy grunted in acknowledgement, but let Peter continue to examine his room in silence. He quietly took apart the lens and examined the aperture. Something rumbled off in the distance, and the room shook for a moment. A ray of light sliced through the room, and he looked up to see Peter parting the curtain with his finger, frowning as he stared into the abyss. “What the hell was that?”

“I have no idea. First time that’s happened.” Peter remained by the window though, a contemplative look in his eyes. “What happens when you get out of here? Not here, but off the property.” He spoke.

“I was hoping to get some authorities on the Bakers.” Clancy opened the tape deck, just to check. It was empty. “So people stop going missing.”

Peter frowned. “Have you wondered why they haven’t already?”

“What do you mean?’

“I mean, yeah, the police station here is garbage, but someone had to have noticed. Over a dozen people missing, and Andre couldn’t find any police reports about this?” Peter started pacing. “We would have mentioned that in the episode, but no reports even mentioned the Baker’s farm. If they all go to the same place, wouldn’t that come up somehow? Just-“ He stopped in front of him. “Something doesn’t smell right. I think maybe you should just leave. It’s not our problem.”

Clancy clicked the tape deck shut, then angled his gaze up at Peter disbelievingly. “You were murdered, and you don’t want these people checked out?”

Peter threw his hands up. “I’m just saying it seems suspicious, and it’s not really our problem!” He leaned back against the desk. “Just leave. Maybe place an anonymous call to the police if you’re that worried, but I don’t think anything’ll come from it.”

It was a good option. But the list came to mind. And the note he’d found in the drawer. The morgue and the lockers with names on them. Andre’s body in the basement. Clancy simply wasn’t that kind of guy. He turned away from Peter. “I can’t just let this go, Pete.”

Peter’s face fell, and he sighed. “Fine. But don’t be stupid about it.”

A wave of tired nausea settled behind his eyes, and Clancy shucked the camera off to the side. He sagged backward, but a tar fell over his bones as he tried to respond, and a floatiness fragmented his thoughts. All he could do was grunt in acknowledgement as Peter said something. He never caught it. The world, for the sixth time, went black.

Cold. God, he was so cold. Water and muck stuck his clothing to his body, while a current tried to tug at his lower half. Clancy couldn’t move. Couldn’t find the strength for it.

Something moved in front of him, something large and dragging. A voice yelled. “G’on, get! Get back! ‘S my catch!” The things snapped and gurgled but splashed into the water trying to draw him away. “The hell ‘s that doin there?” Something warm broke through the cold surrounding his body. It closed around his shoulder and pulled his limp body through the sediment that clumped over his limbs. Clancy could only get out a small gurgle. “Aw shit- stay with me, son. Imma get you somewhere safe.”

The solid meat of a shoulder cradled his chest as the steady rhythm of footsteps carried him through the bayou. Light fought through the thin layer of dried mud over his eyelids. Clancy tilted his head up as much as he could. Morning. It was morning. He sighed out as the stranger wove through the trees, away from the stink of rotting shellfish. Water splashed over him in an easy trickle.

“Hey,” Clancy didn’t know when he’d shut his eyes, “hey, boy, you alright?” The stranger had brought him into a shack and laid him out on a mattress. Instinct brought him scrambling back from the man, who held his hands up like he was placating a wild animal. Clancy almost felt like one. After he got back a fair distance, he opened his mouth, but his lips felt dry, and his throat felt like it was clogged with dust. He ended up coughing, bent over the side of the cot while the stranger watched with cautious worry. “Easy, easy.” A glass was pressed to his palm, though the condensation almost had him dropping it. “Take a sip, it’ll help.”

Clancy sat up more and took large gulps. His entire body creaked and groaned, flakes of dirt falling with each movement. Pain and hunger blotted out his senses for a second. He coughed a few more times before looking up. The stranger stood tall in the room. Snow white hair crowned his head and covered his face, and blue eyes scanned over him curiously. His features looked familiar, but he couldn’t exactly place them. The stranger wore a cotton white shirt and suspenders, along with a sturdy pair of boots. “Who are you…? Where-” Clancy broke into another coughing fit, and felt a glob dislodge from his throat.

“Names Joe.” He spoke with the same thick accent as the Bakers. “You bout became gator bait there, son.”

Clancy recovered, then looked down. His entire body was sopping wet, though dirt still clung in the folds, and it looked like the gators had torn through most of his clothing; the scar tissue across his stomach and arms were mostly exposed. Angry red sunburn covered his top half, and some bandaging had been wrapped snuggly around his shoulder and arm. “…shit.” He peeled up the edge of his shirt.

“I ain’t got a shower so I tried to hose you off. See if you had any bites needin stitchin’. Mostly just needed a few bandages.” Joe looked over where the knife wounds made a pattern of angry red scar tissue. He eyed the scars warily. “Clothes are toast, though. I could find you some of my nephews shit you ‘n use.”

He winced a little. Another Baker. Clancy had figured it was too good to be true. Though Joe looked fully conscious, and the table to the left had a plate with very normal, non-intestine food on it. No mold was present in the cabin, Joe wasn’t immediately attempting to assimilate him, and hadn’t mentioned anything about family or a little girl. God, he looked so damn normal. Maybe he was safe. Suspicion lingered in the back of his brain. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Joe nodded and stepped back. A necklace with a pair of dog tags and a rifle bullet clinked as he moved. Clancy looked around the shack, which seemed to be mostly one room. A quaint little kitchen and living room. The skull of a crocodile sat on a bookshelf, and a calender hung on the wall next to a large depiction of a crucified Jesus. That couldn’t be right. It was flipped to July, and the marks denoting the days went well into the month. Clancy shrunk back into the sheets. He’d been out there for a month. How the fuck…

He jumped as a jacket was slung at him. It was dark blue and had a few stains, but Clancy’s threshold to care was extremely low now. He pulled his arms through the sleeves. It smelled heavily of detergent, giving him a bit of ease. Clancy’s eye was drawn upward though. Joe didn’t register with the internal finder like the rest of the family. So maybe he wasn’t infected. But that raised more questions. Did Joe know what happened to the rest of the family? Or was he stringing him along into something far worse? Just because he wasn’t infected didn’t mean he wasn’t in cahoots with the rest of his family.

“Wanna tell me what the hell you doin’ out there half dead?” Joe moved into the kitchen.

Distrust was baked into his repertoire by this point. Clancy wasn’t about to tell him the truth, but he needed a convincing story. “I was…” The words dried in his mouth as he caught sight of one of the mold creature’s soft skulls placed on the counter. “What the fuck-“

Joe turned to where his gaze led. “Ah.” He picked it up with one hand, turning it to him. “You seen them creatures before?” He scanned over Clancy with more reproach as he nodded. “But you ain’t look like you came with them choppers.”

“Choppers?- No, no I came with a camera crew.” Clancy hurried out. “We- we were attacked. And my friends were killed. We were just trying to fill our show, when this crazy guy attacked us.” Joe’s expression darkened, but he barreled on. This was the first person who hadn’t immediately attacked him or put him through some hellish game. He couldn’t lose that now because he made the mistake of insulting this man’s insane family. “Look, I’ve been through hell today, man. He took me hostage. And I just barely got out, and I want to go home.” His voice quivered.

“Awlright, awlright, I b’lieve ya.” Joe held his hands up. “…figures you ain’t with them solider boys. They had more guns.” Fucking told you something smelled He scrubbed at his beard and shut the fridge. “They’re crawlin’ all over the marsh, though. Both them soldiers and monsters. ‘F your wantin’ out without being spotted, best chance ‘d be the river.” Joe pointed. “Up that a’way. I got a boat, could probably get you close to town.”

“You’ll take me?” Clancy’s heart leapt to his throat.

“Yeah? ‘Less you got your own way of goin.”

“I- thank you, thank you!” Tears came spilling before he could choke out the words. Everything in him said this was too good to be true. He’d been on the verge of escape so many times. But Clancy had to believe. He had to.

Joe looked confused. “Yeah. You’re welcome?” He jerked his thumb to the cabin door. “I can go get ‘er warmed up. Just sit tight ‘n try to recover. Looked like you were out there a while. I laid out some jerky case you were hungry.” He walked to the door and disappeared without another word.

Clancy watched him go, then turned to take more greedy gulps of his water. He didn’t know how far he’d been taken from the property, but he felt… empty. Andre and Peter still argued somewhere behind his eyes, but the incessant buzz had been cut down to a minimum. Something was missing. There still was the issue of trusting Joe. Plucks of paranoid anxiety tried to shove him out the door while he was busy, while another kept him put on the cot.

A motor started rumbling beyond the walls, and the glass dropped to the floor. Clancy pushed off the bed, every horrible contraption and creature coming to mind as he backed up into the middle of the room, searching for the danger. The engine sputtered out and he could hear Joe’s loud cursing. Clancy tried to ease himself. It really was just a boat. He wobbled slightly as he came down from the momentary spike of panic and ended up bent against the table. A plate had been knocked askew on the surface, and he caught sight of the few strips of jerky. The hunger from before came gnawing at him, and Clancy didn’t feel like rooting through this man’s fridge. They looked fine. No weird black strings. And Clancy didn’t know what dried human meat looked like, but probably not that. He took a small experimental bite, then quickly scarfed them down.

The door opened, and he scrambled back on high alert. Joe regarded him. “Jumpy fella, ain’t you?” He wiped some oil from his fingers. “Got er runnin’. When you’re ready.”

Clancy turned. “Now, I’m ready now.” The end was so close. It was a boat ride away. He started forward, but Joe’s hand stopped him.

“Now hold on, son.” Joe moved him forward with ease. “First I want you to tell me who it was that snatched you.” Sharp eyes examined him, and Clancy quickly realized there were wrong answers here. Joe didn’t seem infected, but he probably wouldn’t take too kindly to him calling Jack crazy.

“Some guy named Lucas.” Rumors of him being a bad egg were already present. It was an easy out, and as Joes shoulders sagged, he knew he’d chosen correctly.

“Damn it…” Joe turned to the door. “Where’d he put you?”

“I don’t know. It looked like it was being remodeled, though.” Clancy saw determination set itself in his expression. He panicked. Joe Baker looked built to shit, but those mold monsters were something else. He didn’t want to send this man into a death trap. “The mold, the stuff that the monsters are made of, it was all over the place.” Clancy spoke as he followed. “I wouldn’t go-“

“Don’t you tell me what to do with my family, boy.” He snapped. “Mind yaw own.”

Clancy flinched. “Okay- okay. I just wanted to warn you.” They stepped outside, and he had to shield his eyes against the light. A faint breeze greeted him, and he heard the puttering of an engine not too far away. A small motorboat sat at the end of the dock, just big enough for the two of them. Rolls of cloth lined the back, and a pole extended to the motor. Fishing tackle had been unloaded to make room for him. It didn’t look like it had a wheel. Clancy couldn’t be happier. He hurried over, practically collapsing in his attempt to get in. He felt Andre laugh. “Shut up.” He mumbled, then flipped over into the bench. The boat rocked back and forth as Joe climbed in after him with a much more practiced gait. Clancy drew himself up, still caught between trusts. “…why’re you helping me?”

“Y’all askin now?” Good humor belied the dire expression. Joe grabbed the pole, and the motor purred to life. “Them soldiers what caused this. Help don’t come with gunships and bombs.” Ghosts flittered about his eyes. “Naw. They’re here to burn it all down. I seen too much, son. If they ain’t shoot you where you stand, they chew you up an’ spit you out.” They pulled slowly away from the dock. “Best not get caught up ‘n all that.”

Clancy scanned over him, then nodded and turned into the wind. He held his breath as they wove through the bends of the swamp. A couple structures had been erected through the trees, but none of the soldiers that Joe had mentioned were visible. Anxiety clenched around his chest as he waited for it to all go wrong, for them to be noticed, or for some mold creature to fling itself at the boat.

One beat. Then two. Nothing came. The bank disappeared over his shoulder. No monster, nor little girl to drag him back to the darkness. Did he dare give into that hope? Andre’s reserved apprehension fought against Peter’s urgent anticipation. The slow purr of the engine rose to a roar as they picked up speed. They burst through the trees, and a weight evaporated from his chest. The canopy of cypress gave way into the wide-open sky over the Dulvey bog. Never before had the oppressive heat of a Louisiana afternoon felt so much like freedom. The Baker’s property disappeared through the bramble.

Free. He was free. He’d fucking done it.

Clancy momentarily startled at a howl of delight, before recognizing it to be his own as they plowed through the river. The dam broke then. He flung his arms out, screaming in relief as the wind caught at his sleeves. It devolved into a laugh, and as it caught in the whirlwind, he could swear he heard three voices being carried away.