Page 71

“The doors are open,” the bartender says. “You just don’t exist beyond them, being dead and all. If you can’t open the doors, I’d suggest that’s your subconscious, whispering that you really don’t want to go back out there, with all the worms and the rotting and the endless void of nothingness from whence thou camest.”

“Are you crazy?” the man says.

“Oh! New one! Thank goodness. The old ones were getting boring. Is this a prank? A video? A nightmare? A hallucination? You all just keep treading the same ground. Except for dead-man-walking here. Am I crazy?” The bartender frowns. “I don’t think so.”

“Stop.” The voice comes from the woman at the bar. She doesn’t look up, just says that one word with such weary resignation.

The bartender puts a hand behind his ear. “Did you speak?”

“Stop.” She tenses and then whispers, “Please.”

“Oh, well, since you asked so nicely.” He leans over the bar and fake-whispers to her, “Bit late for that, isn’t it, old girl?” Then he backs up and looks at the newcomer. “So you want to leave?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the magic word?”

I start toward him. “Don’t—”

“Please,” the man grits out.

He flies off his feet, so fast that everyone seems to move in slow motion to grab him, reaching out only to find he’s already past, hurtling toward the window. Noemi screams. The man hits the window headfirst, shattering the glass and sailing through.

“Fitting, huh?” the bartender says as he walks from behind the bar. “Don’t mess with what worked the first time. Headfirst out a window.”

He peers through the broken glass, and I run over to look out and see the man on the ground, bleeding and whimpering.

“Huh,” the bartender says. “He didn’t fall into the endless void. Guess I was wrong. It’s been known to happen. Not often, mind you.”

Caleb, Noemi, and Raymond stare dumbfounded, but Henry advances on the bartender, his face mottled with rage.

“Uh-uh.” The bartender raises a finger. “You saw what happened to him. This is my bar. I say who stays … and who goes. Plenty of windows left. Though that wouldn’t be as fitting. How were you supposed to die?”

The bartender peers at the woman. “Slip off a high-rise, wasn’t it? Doing one last construction job for a buddy.”

She doesn’t turn.

He looks at Henry. “I have a question. Did you feel anything? Up there on that building? The slightest pressure at your back. A foot slips. But you manage to pull back.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s still alive,” Noemi whispers.

“Well, duh,” the bartender says. “That’s the problem, isn’t it, Henry?”

“I mean the man you—you threw out the window.”

“Threw? I never touched him.”

I join Noemi at the window. The man lies on his stomach, hand to his throat, blood pumping over his fingers. He’s groaning and crying softly.

“We need to help him,” she says.

“Why?” the bartender says. “He’s dead. Re-dead. Dead again. Call it what you like. He’s gone.”

“He’s not—”

“He will be. Come and have a drink. Oh, and ignore any sounds you hear from out there. All that moaning and bleeding is bound to attract something.”