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He screams until one of the creatures rips out his throat, and then he keeps screaming, in his head, as they begin to feed.

THIRTY-EIGHTELLIE

I don’t know what I saw back there with Raymond. It reminded me of that creepypasta thing that went around years ago. The Thin Man? It’d been something like that, but also not like that.

Raymond’s nightmare. That’s what it had to be, and when he starts to scream, I’m only glad that he’s no longer a threat. But then he keeps screaming and screaming, and I find myself wishing I’d been faster, that I’d used the knife faster, because no one—not even him—deserves to die like that.

We keep running until we reach the road. There’s no sign of anyone out here—not the zombies or the shooter or whatever killed Raymond, who is still screaming.

We slow and hold hands as we walk. Neither of us speaks. The plan was to rescue Noemi and stop Raymond. We failed, but with both of them dead, there’s nothing more to do except walk.

Soon the bar appears, and we head there as if we just don’t know what else to do.

Unfinished business, I guess. Confront Maggie and the bartender. See what happens next.

When we walk in, it’s like the other times we came back, Maggie at the bar, the guy behind it, polishing glassware.

“Hello!” the bartender calls. “Can I get you both a drink? Looks like you’ve had a rough night.”

“They’re dead,” I say. “Raymond killed Noemi. His nightmare killed him.”

“We know,” the bartender says cheerfully.

I walk to Maggie. “I thought you were supposed to witness our deaths.”

“I did,” she says without looking up. “It was quick for Noemi.”

I snort. “A mercy killing?”

“That wasn’t mercy.”

“But I’m fine with the result,” the bartender says. “The kid had enough to deal with, seeing her boyfriend die like that. And I think we can all agree that Raymond got exactly what he deserved.”

I shudder at the memory of those screams. Henry squeezes my fingers.

The bartender claps his hands. “All right then. Is there any point in offering you two the same deal? One of you kills the other and gains immortality and a really cool new job?”

We both stare dead-eyed at him.

The bartender sighs dramatically. “It was worth a shot.” He leans on the bar. “How about a reprieve? A little reward for a job well done, warding off your nightmares for round one. How long do you want?”

Henry glances at me. “Fifty years seem right to you?”

The bartender laughs. “Nice try. We’re talking hours, not years. Time enough for you to both rest and prepare for round two. And then round three, four, however long it takes. Because you are both going to die tonight.”

I glance at Maggie, who shakes her head, and I frown.

“Careful there, Maggie,” the bartender says. “They might interpret that shake as you disagreeing with me. Telling them they won’t die.” He looks at us. “She’s saying no, she can’t help.”

“I never asked,” I say.

“But she wants you to know it anyway. It’s very important to her that you understand she can’t help you.”

Something hits the door, and Henry and I both jump.

“That’d be your monsters,” he says. “You’ll notice I fixed the window.”

I glance at the formerly broken window, which is now whole. Something rises on the other side, and a zombie face appears, gnashing its broken teeth.