Click.

That made him happy.

This business is not for impatient people – that much was made obvious during my first case – and it is by no means  something to be rushed. For instance, recall this selection of statistical notations from a competitor of mine I happened upon regarding the Hamburg case of 2008:

- Fairly expensive

- Big building

- Forty-eight surveillance cameras

- No blind spots

- Metal detectors

- Hefty vault

The case took no more than five months to evaluate and the heist itself took over two hours to finalize. This makes painfully obvious the fact that I am the best of the best in the market of heist consultation… and the reason why I shop at Gucci. In my opinion, the case should have been cleanly analysed in eight months. If that had been so, the actual heist would have been pulled in no more than twenty minutes with a successful outcome. Suffice it to say, if I had been consulted there would have been no fatalities and no evidence – more than that, the bank probably wouldn’t have known about it until several days later. Obviously, the cavemen who tried and failed the Hamburg case of 2008 are no doubt cooling their heals in prison and wondering why they didn’t hire me to do their dirty work.

This simply proves what I’ve been telling my employer (Mr. Toby) ever since he gave me the proposal – this business is for patient men; good things come to those who wait. After that it’s do or die, and at that point, you’d better have some pretty smashing intel about where you are and where you need to be. That’s where I come in.

Once I was finished walking around the building a few times, I stopped out back by the drive-thru area; the suction tube system had caught my eye. I found some very interesting factors that tickled me to death – see notes. After vacillating over the concept of robbing one of those systems, I made the decision that it would be wise to give it a closer look and further assessment. The reason? Seeing as how additional suggestions coupled with  intel require a larger cut in that which I helped to achieve, the reason is fairly obvious. More work means more pay.

After a couple minute’s investigation, a car pulled up. Jaguar it was. If I remember correctly, it had a scuff on the back right hub cap and a pock mark on the roof. One of the headlights was dimmer than the other. I notice these things. Once it pulled into the parking lot, the door opened and my Buddhist teller friend stepped out. I approached.

“The bank’s closed, you know,” he blurted before I could speak.

“So I see,” I replied, holding out my hand. He didn’t shake. “Sure, and why are ye here then?”

“I was on my way to the market,” he said.

“Market’s that way,” I returned, pointing in the opposite direction from whence he came.

“Oh, well, I was backtracking.”

I cocked my head and his eyes darted left.

“What for, mate?”

“I forgot my reading glasses.”

They were sitting on the dash inside the Jaguar.

“I see. So why are ye here? Bank’s closed.”

“I could ask you the same thing, Mr. Braddock.”

“Ye could, sure, an’ ye could at that. Forgot something from yesterday, eh?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I see. Well, I’d best be on me way, Isaac. Toodle-oo then.”

I should have thought he was going to ask me again why I was there, but he seemed in a hurry. After I made it back to my flat, I made another call. Mr. Toby was going to regret consulting me for a small while, but in the long run he would thank me. Oh, he would thank me all right.

snip//cell_bug_on._//snip

snip/87465//location_6491_gladmoore_st._flat_B._09462//snip

“Mr. Toby speaking.”

“Hullo Toby. This is your dear friend Braddo–”

“Yes, I know. I saved you to my contacts.”

“Only the best would, Toby.”

“What do you want?”

“More.”

“Eh?”

“I want you to get more.”

“I’m listening.”

“Toby, I want to come to a mutual agreement. I have some very interesting information – and I’ll give it to you. But I have some more information regarding a part of the plan that was not included in the contract. Suffice it to say, I have some intel that you are definitely going to want.”

“I see. What’s the catch, Braddock?”

“No catch, Toby! Just a slightly larger percentage of the cut. And of course if you took my idea, you would have a larger amount of cut to give.”

“… I’ll think it over.”

Click.

snip//cell_bug_deactivate._/1827369//snip

Again, I made him happy. Things were looking up… until the next day. Details to come.

Things I noticed:

Building Exterior -

- Glass doors – bullet-proof I assume

- Electrical wires and fusebox behind shrubs on the south side – right around the corner from the drive-thru

- No windows

- Leak in the roof – approx. 5in. from gutter over fusebox, approx. 26in. from drive-thru canopy

Drive-thru -

- Four lanes, two tubes for each lane

- Pneumatic tube system goes up six feet into the canopy, runs through it and comes down into the building; 4 tubes in all

- Glass window ‘twixt drive-thru and drive-thru teller’s desk

- Communication: two-way microphone from drive-thru to drive-thru teller’s desk

- Two ATM machines: one in lane #1 on the building side, one in lane #4 on the opposite side near the sidewalk

- Canopy: steel

- Pillars: brick

- License plate level camera with time-lapse shutter – wires connected to fuse box via underground cables

The chap behind me didn’t seem to understand, let alone that it was he whom I was addressing.

“Twelve cameras,” I repeated, looking over my shoulder at him.

“Huh?” he grunted. Far as I can remember he was wearing a soccer jersey for the world cup final. He didn’t play soccer, that was for sure; the size of his gut and multiple chins told me that much. I notice these things.

“Twelve cameras,” I said again, pointing at the object of the one-sided conversation. “Why would anybody need twelve surveillance cameras? That’s like one behind each teller’s booth. I mean, really, why?”

After realizing that I had indeed been talking to him, he made the fact rudely obvious with a loud “Oh!” Somebody gave him a sharp glance.

“It’s a bank, bro…” he said with exaggerated incredulity. I blinked.

“How very observant,” I replied. He ignored the sarcasm.

“Keeps it from getting robbed, y’know?” His tone was as though he were addressing a child. Now it was my turn to not understand.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Well….” His voice trailed off.

“Why?” I repeated.

“Well… they’d see you. They’d report you.”

“But that doesn’t keep it from being robbed. I’d still have robbed it.”

“They’d see you.”

“What if I wore a mask?”

“I’ve seen you, man. I’d report you.”

“What if I shot you?”

“You’d need a gun.”

“What if I have a gun?”

The man paused again. I saw a tiny bit of apprehension in his eyes. “You…”

I laughed, but didn’t say anything. That made him squirm a little, and, frankly, I enjoyed that.

“You don’t… you don’t have one…” he said, more as a statement than a question. “… Do you?”

The line was quite long, and it wasn’t budging due to an obstinate American lady in a red sweater arguing with the clerk (a little chap with beady eyes and a hawk nose – clearly Jewish) about trading dollars for pounds. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this isn’t the place to do it,” he was trying to say. She thought otherwise, obviously, and was making it loudly known.

People from the line soon became impatient – including my not-soccer friend.

“Aye, come on lady,” he said. “Pick on somebody yer own size!”

“I thought you Brits were pleasant; obviously, I’m mistaken!” she replied. I gave a dry chuckle.

“Ha! Welcome to London, ma’am,” I interjected. She scowled. I don’t take offence; I’m quite sure she meant people from London, not where I’m from.

After a while, she had finished and I did my banking. As the Jewish teller cashed my check, I made light conversation. (Note: At that point in time I was not what you would call ‘sensitive’.)

“Orthodox or Messianic?” I asked.

“Buddhist.”

My surprise was obvious. I gestured toward his nametag. “Isaac Ben-Judah?”

“By birth only. Buddhist.”

“Ah, that Lennon chap, eh?”

He pursed his lips.

“Sorry, I ran me mouth,” I said. “I think I’ll be going now.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Braddock,” he said begrudgingly. As I left, I heard him mumbling under his breath. “Bloody Irish…”

Bloody Irish indeed.

Things I noticed

-Twelve surveillance cameras – one for each teller’s booth and two by the door for good measure.

-Camera blind spots: limited, but doable.

-Two security guards – good sign, means more $$$ – armed with tasers and 9mm sidearms: red flag.

-Ten tellers – seven female, three male.

-Bank hours: Monday thru Thursday, 8:00AM to 5:00PM. Friday thru Saturday, 12:00PM to 4:00PM. Closed on Sundays.

-Drive-thru in back with suction tube system: three/four lanes – worth a look.

-Two ATM machines – specifications to come

–

Motive: Money.

Means: The Mind.

Opportunity: Right now.

We were all asleep in the middle of a rickety barricade made of chairs from around the food court in the middle of the night when the boy screamed. I woke up and reached for the M16 so fast it accidentally went off and fired into the darkness (I think somewhere near Macy’s). Jake woke up cussing and the kid was sobbing, but Lindy was completely silent. When I crawled over to check on her after hearing all about the kid’s latest nightmare, she was breathing more even and steady than she had since she got Kuru. I felt her forehead and it was burning up, sopping wet. She was whispering really quietly, so I asked her what she was trying to say. She looked over at me really slowly and smiled. I had a hard time smiling back… but… then it really wasn’t hard at all. I could tell she had been crying; her eyes were all bloodshot. After a long time, she spoke a little louder. I caught a line from Genesis:

“… And God looked at all these things and He saw that they were good…”

I told her that she was right and to keep going.

“But… the serpent…”

“No, no. Don’t talk about that. The serpent doesn’t matter any more, Lindy.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“The serpent… he…. he wants me, Steve… he’s coming to get me…”

“No. The serpent’s not coming to get you. He can’t, remember?”

“I can see him, Jake, he’s slithering up my leg…”

She started screaming.

“Stop! Stop it! He can’t do anything to you! Remember? Lindy, remember!”

“J-J…. J-Jesus…. Jesus….”

She calmed down.

“Yeah, that’s it. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Jesus is there. He’s always there. Always will be. Remember? Do you want to pray, Lindy?”

The next part sent me to tears:

“No, Steve,” She opened her eyes slowly.“It’s over, Steve.” Her voice had that old fire in it that she had when we found her there on Alcatraz. She wasn’t shaking. She wasn’t crying. She was happy. “It’s over. I don’t need to pray any more. I’m going to be with Him now.” I broke down. “Steve… I want you to know….” I stopped her again.

“I don’t want to hear it, I don’t.”

“You need to, Steve.” Darkness went over her face like a cloud. “It’s Vick.”

Shivers physically ran down my spine.

“What about him?”

“He’s still alive. There’s not much time, Steve. Don’t talk, just listen. Write this down. He’s been following us since Phoenix. Biding his time. They gave him an armored truck They stole. He has guns and and some of the Shamans with him. The cannibals from the airport are with them too.”

“How do you know?”

“I know it well enough. Trust me, Steve. Get everybody ready. We can’t leave. We’re stuck here.”

With that, she fell back asleep. Don’t get me wrong, the conversation freaked me out and I wanted to know more, but I didn’t want to disturb her. So for the rest of the night I made preparations just in case she was right. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Lindy, except to check around and make sure everything was quiet.

The guns are cleaned and loaded. I’ve made a three-point sling for the M-16 out of some old braided shoelaces, and it’s ready to go. I improvised a couple clubs from the legs of the steel chairs from the food court and stuck them in my belt. I discovered a little stash of pepperspray in one of the cash registers (along with about six thousand dollars in cash, which is absolutely useless now; call me what you will, but I stuffed it all in the bottom of one of the backpacks. If all goes well, I’m going scavenging again tomorrow and making an inventory of everything we have. We have to travel light in case we get followed, but you never know when something odd might come in handy—maybe even six thousand dollars.

Lindy’s condition hasn’t improved, but it hasn’t gotten worse. We sat in the food court all day, and I read the kid the Gospel of Mark in its entirety; I’ll spare you the details of Jake’s protest and the method by which he was finally silenced, but he sustained a minor bump on his forehead from the men’s room sink (I call the men’s room the ‘room of punishment’; interpret that how you will, but Jake really does not enjoy going there. Sadly for him, he’s too weak and thin to do anything about it. I hate to say it, but when I returned with Jake weeping, the kid actually giggled. I think I’ll let that one go—he hasn’t laughed in a long time). Lindy slept all day. Save for Jake’s and my little excursion to the men’s room, I haven’t stopped watching her. She’s breathing very evenly, but still burning up. I’ve been keeping cold compresses on her forehead to cool her down, but I’m no doctor. She’s throwing up any liquids or food that I try to give her.

I never really knew the meaning of ‘constant prayer’ until now… and boy, do I know it well.

We were all out looking for food and supplies and stuff, and hadn’t found anything. I started to get grumpy, but the kid noticed and walked up to me and said, “Stop it Steve. We’re all going to be fine. Look over there.”

He pointed across the highway and there it was. The El Paso mall. I thanked him and hugged him, and then we made our way over.

All the glass was boarded up and the doors were chained on the outside (and, as we found out, inside as well). At first that lead me to believe that there were people on the inside, but the kid (bless his heart) reminded me that the wood looked like it had been brand new when it was installed. You don’t just come across brand new wood nowadays. I came to the conclusion (and it proved right) that it had closed down before It all happened. So, with a little help from the M16, we got inside. Most of the mall was empty, but not from looters. It looked like it had been closed for a while, so I’m assuming the vendors just moved out when the crap hit the fan.

Lindy’s gotten worse. She can just barely mumble now. Her eyes are sunken and her mouth is swollen, and the cut looks horrible. Despite all my efforts it just won’t come clean. She’s got a bad case of dysentery. Every now and again she’ll chuckle at something but it just doesn’t make sense. It’s just going from bad to worse. I pray with her a lot. She said earlier that it would be nice if she could live to see the kid grow up, but that she was getting some vibes that God wanted her “up there” with him. That made her burst into tears so I hugged her and she wouldn’t let go of me. I was choked up too. I’ve been trying to get up the guts to tell the kid that it won’t be long now but I think he already knows. I hope he does. I don’t know if I can bring myself to say it out loud.

Jake was insistent on going off by himself, and I find it useless to argue with him any more, so I let him go. Lindy’s become so thin now, she can lay down in the radio flyer wagon with no trouble. We wheeled around the mall for a few hours, just looking around. We have time. The skylights were open so we could see just fine.

But none of this is the best part. We are now the proud owners of a gold colored Chevy Camaro with black racing stripes. It was one of those impossible to win raffle prizes where you enter your name to get drawn. Lindy seemed excited about it but I laughed and said that it was just the chassis with wheels and the body. But then I looked under the hood and found out that it had everything in it. The gastank actually smelled like gas. I checked the oil, and it was full. I couldn’t believe it at first, and I’m still having a hard time swallowing it. I said we would come back but only after we found some gas.

After a while we found an actual fallout shelter in the mall from the ’80s—fully equipped with working gasmasks! I got one for the kid plus a few extras, but that was all they had.

Lindy said she wanted to go to Forever 21, so I found where it was and wheeled her to it. I said that I would buy her anything she wanted and she gave a weak laugh. She has a hard time moving around so she told me her size and I brought her what she told me to get. It was fun for a while, but after about an hour she said that it was reminding her too much of when everything was normal. So we left, but not without a whole backpack full of clothes for her. She seemed happy with that. We went over to Old Navy and the kid and I picked out and tried on a bunch of clothes. He said he only wanted what he could carry by himself. We all got new boots at Footlocker, as well as a few extra pairs.

When we found Jake again, he was making his way to the nearest exit with a backpack full of beer from the liquor store. That was all he had. So I took him into a nearby men’s bathroom, slapped him hard in the face and told him to be helpful. He glared at me and looked like he was about to hit me, but I glared back. I’ve been through too much to be afraid of a thin, hungry guy with nothing but beer in his gut trying to beat me up. I guess it showed. All he did was say that it wouldn’t be long before he left the group. I told him that was fine with me, but that while he was in with us I expected him to pull his own weight or there would be consequences. I also said that we were all in this together, but both he and I know different. In a world like this, it’s either every man for himself or every man for his friends. I know my priorities, and Jake knows his.

We set up camp in the food court this evening. There was still old trash and food sitting on the tables. I went to the surrounding booths to look for some food that wasn’t rancid, but didn’t find any. But what I did find was a whole semicircle of vending machines—5 total. There’s probably more out there too. I’ll do a full search tomorrow and see what I can find, but we’re good for a while now. You name it, they have it. Doritos, potato chips, tortilla chips, candy bars, curly fries, water bottles, pop, everything. Enough unexpired, untainted food to last us a very long time. I’m thinking we might stay here for a while. It’s safe—or at least it feels safe—and secure.

I’m happy with how all this turned out. We might just be okay.

by Brian McCray

War-torn Europe.

1941.

The Polish man had no name. He had no need for a name. Only a number. Num?r Jeden. Number One. That was what he knew himself as, and that was all he needed. To others, he was simply known as The Polish Man. What an infamous name it had become. He always wore a black peacoat that came down to his knees. That was why he liked it. It concealed his equipment well.

-snip-

Two 9mil. P-64 handguns with silencers/flash suppressors. Lucznik Arms Factory produced. 9 by 18 Makarov cartridge. Removable 6-round magazine.

B?yskawica submachine gun. Armia Krajowa produced. 9 by 18 parabellum cartridge. Removable 32-round box magazine.

Bolshevik switchblade. Wood trim. Spring assist. Boot sheath.

-snip-

Hitler’s Nazis were spreading. The Third Reich was expanding its territory. The Polish man saw this as simply an invasion of distrustful foreigners. They were trying to take the Polish man’s country. That was not acceptable. It had to be stopped. Intelligence was gathered, evidence was destroyed. It was a system, and the Polish man used it well.

-snip-

Remote mountain supply road. 3:32AM. Supply convoy en route to Wohlzemburgh. Tripwire set. Explosives armed. Front driver shot in the head. Tripwire activated. Convoy demolished. Supply road out of commission.

No evidence.

-snip-

The Polish man was good at what he did. He was low key. He was average. He blended in. He looked like everyone else. Short cropped blonde hair, cold blue eyes, pale skin, permanent frown. He drove a beat-up Volkswagen Bug with a rusted hood. It got him where he needed to go.

-snip-

Polish German border. 2:21PM. Checkpoint. Three armed guards, one on each side of road, one in guard shack. Red and white striped rail down. Slow. Stop. “Papers please.” One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Three dead armed guards. One red and white striped rail snapped in half. One checkpoint out of commission.

No evidence.

-snip-

Nazi Germany noticed him. Yes indeed, he was well known by all in the Third Reich, and beyond. The Gestapo tried to follow him and failed. They even made their own sector devoted to finding him. Sonderkommando Jerzy. But they didn’t. They hadn’t. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. They would all of them die first.

-snip-

Nazi supply depot. 11:14PM. Loading bay. Explosives being loaded into truck. Guard’s throat slit. Loaders sprayed with Makarov rounds. Documents collected from office. Explosives set. Explosives detonated. Chain reaction triggered. Depot demolished.

No evidence.

-snip-

The Polish man was unrivaled. None could compare. He was driven, he was set in his ways, and he was silent. Silence was key. All connections were clothed in shadow, all deeds were done in the dark. Poland was too clean a place to be defiled with Nazi blood. So it would be made invisible. It would be destroyed and covered up, bit, by bit, by bit…

Until the end.

-snip-

Nazi concentration camp. 4:46AM. Outer fence: hole cut. Inner fence: jumped in a bound. First hut on the left. Spotted by guard in tower. Attacked by guard dog. Shot in the leg.

Captured.

Thwarted.

Finished.

No evidence.

End transmission.

Oh there it is again. The Bump.

So we shall begin.

Sir Opus Winslow, Baronet, had a hard time composing himself after his brief episode in the study, but he achieved his usual level of calm and esteemy muchness that he most usually possessed with a small amount of effort on the part of a large pint of fine brandy and another thimbleweed cigar. He had come to the conclusion that Something was indeed out to get him, and that said Something, however fearful, muchy, or frubby it was, would not stop until it had achieved what it was trying to achieve or what it was achieving if indeed it had something to achieve at all, if that could be imaginatively achieved. Howeverly and nonetheless, he tried not to be abothered by this chillingly kipple fact, and continued in his staunch, British way of uffish thinking that what was coming had to come and one had to keep their chin up and their chest out and everything would (hopefully) turn out quite alright in the end.

‘Twas a quarter and three minutes after the fifth hour of the post-noon clock, and Sir Opus was calmly strolololololling about the grounds of his muchy manour when he saw the first coach (drawn by two strong-backed Dwindlejubs (both wearing wetsuits) and piloted by a short, stubby, fat Dwindlejub (also wearing a wetsuit) who wheezed and chubbed when he drew upon the reigns to slow the two Dwindlejubs in front down) whiffling down the drive. Judging by the muchy ornaments adorning the vehicle, the inhabitant of such was most likely one of the Lords.

“Ah,” Sir Opus said dryly, and yet in a very muchly mild-mannered fashion (after all, he was so bloody British he practically breathed crumpets, God save the Queen). With a lazy bat of his left eye (which was hardly possible seeing as how he had no eyelid), he repaired directly to the back door leading to the kitchen. Once inside, he rapped thrice upon one of the great flour-covered wooden tables with his brass-topped cane, thusly drawring the attention of the kitchendwindlejubs to himself in less than half of three instants (the mathematics of that sentence are really quite exasperating)

“Attention, good people!” he cried, soon garnering many adoring looks from his cooks. “I am pleased toh announce that owah esteemed ghests ah beginning toh arrrrive. Theh’foh’ and thusleh, ’tis mine own suv’ren dyuteh toh infohm yoh’ that all good behaviah, suhvice and….. good.. behaviah… must be doubled upon and thrice duplicerated at the highest level possible level… possible… Thank yoh. Carry on my childrun!”

A hearty round of applause was giv’n from the servants as Sir Opus did exit the kitchen, then the work was gotten back to in a very wholeheartedly grubbish way.

SUDDENLY WITH A LOUD “AGH!” SIR OPUS WAST BESET UPON BY TWO OF THE TUMPHLINGLY HORRENDOUS CREATURES OF THE SAME KIND HE HAD BEEN VISITED BY JUST UNDER AN HOUR BEFORE THE PREVIOUS TIME–

To be continued, my children. Good night…

/snip creepy laughter

by Brian McCray

Boo.

Did I scare you? No matter. Well, here we are again my children. Here we are yet again. Tonight shall be a faddle bit longer than last night. I have much more to tell you.

… Ah.

Did you hear the bump? That must mean I should be beginning.

So we continue on.

Sir Opus Winslow, Baronet, was a strong Dwindlejub. By strong I do not mean physically strong (although he certainly was that) but mentally and psychologically strong. He was confident, aye, very confident, and also very fudrubblingly buddle (by this I mean fashionable). He could never be seen without his signature moustache, well-trimmed and bradumphingly styled, curled up at the ends like any self-respecting brittlegub’s fubble. He had impeccable style as far as his wetsuit went, for every time he went out gimbling he wore a different colour. For every day of the week he had a new wetsuit, with colours ranging from fribble to dubble to phumple to gubble (sometimes the occasional dibbledub but that was rather rare). He was a very rich Dwindlejub (which wasn’t unusual for a Dwindlejub, but Sir Opus Winslow’s wealth far surpassed that of many of the Dwindlejubs of Morgueton) and lived in a very large mansion surrounded by Winslow Manour (owned by the Winslow Dwindlejubs for decades) just a few miles away from the cliffs (which the Dwindlejubs called Old Dwingledub). Sir Opus Winslow hadn’t officially been knighted, nor had he been awarded a Baronetcy, but he liked to think he was very important, for he was indeed a very proud Dwindlejub. And now for the story.

Sir Opus was just walking home from the daily gimbling with his Personal Assistant Butler Runner Carrier Server (the shortened Dwindlejubbian slang term for which was ‘Pubber’, but his real name was Dillibus Gnofus Jeeves, so Sir Opus called him Jeeves) when Sir Opus had a most brilliant thought.

“Jeeves!” he cried, with such muchness and intensity that his constantly nervous and excited pubber (quite nearly) jumped out of his wetsuit (indeed, he was wearing one even though his line of work was not gimbling); Sir Opus continued excitedly, spiddle flying from his mouth and bouncing of his moustachel, “I have certainly been visited by a most brilliant muse! Fuddle you back to the villahge and procure sev’ral fresh cheekuns,” (his accent forbade him from saying a proper ‘s’ sound, so he was in a state of constant masculine lisp; he did indeed pronounce ‘chicken’ like ‘cheekun’) “I shall repair to the mansion and invite the Lohds; we shall have a party to be remebah’d!”

So enthusiastic was he that Jeeves was more than happy to do as his master told him to do, for he loved his master like a father; he had been in Sir Opus’ service for years. Sir Opus treated Jeeves well and Jeeves in return served Sir Opus so faithfully he was bestowed the honorary title of Head Pubber of Winslow Manour.

Just before Jeeves was about to begin running back to the village, Sir Opus stopped him quite suddenly. “Oh Jeeves!” he cried loudly. Jeeves stopped in his tracks, startled. “Fetch some fine brandy while yoh ah there,” after a moment’s pause, Sir Opus added with what was supposed to be a wink but turned out to be nothing but a slight sag of his right cheek, “and do remembah not to shake it up too badly on yoh trip home, alright?” Jeeves nodded obediently and set off yet again.

Sir Opus nodded approvingly, then began the rest of his journey toward Winslow Manour with a spring in his step, whistling a spritely tune as he galumphed along. Within the hour he was seated comfortably in his study with his feet up, smoking a fine thimbleweed cigar and enjoying an old classic book, “The Chumpinescence of Hubbit Nubble” (a very muchy volume). He had used his brand new telephone (newly invented) to call ‘The Lords’ (several upstanding citizens of Morgueton, and the co-owners of the actual Fishyaird itself) and invite them to dinner. Sir Opus liked entertaining; especially if it attracted the attention of the Lords. That usually gave them reason to donate a tidy sum at the annual Morgueton Donational Frubble (a grand festival in which the Lords gave ‘contributions’ to different citizens who treated them well throughout the year; ’twas quite selfish but Sir Opus liked it). Yes, tonight would be a night of muchy food and gubbishly dry conversation. Sir Opus was quite looking forward to it.

Creak.

Sir Opus shifted in his seat. The door had creaked open. Strange, he thought. Nobody could get in without the footmen noticing. It must have been a draft.

Click, click, click click click click click click.

Footsteps? No… Dwindlejubs never wore shoes that clacked like that (come to think of it, Dwindlejubs never even wore shoes). It must have been the repairmen fixing the shingles on the roof from the storm three nights previous. And yet… he hadn’t called upon them. Ah well, it was most likely just his imagination.

Click click click click…. click, click, click, click click.

There it was again… it sounded like it was behind him.

Click… click… click…. click….. click.

Sir Opus took another puff on his cigar, then decided it was time to get up and see what was going on behind him. He heaved himself out of his armchair, setting his cigar in the ashtray as he rose. As he did so, the clicking grew very rapid and hurried. Sir Opus looked thoroughly behind his chair to see what had made the noise.

Nothing.

Not so much as a tassel out of place on the great oriental rug that covered the middle of the room.

“Hm,” he grunted, then sat back down. He was just reaching for his cigar in the ashtray when several books toppled off one of the bookshelves. The same frenzied clicking followed as Sir Opus leapt from his chair and stood, scanning the room with his beady eyes.

Again, nothing.

“H-h-hellow?” Sir Opus was just noticing how dry his throat was. He was trying to sound strong, masculine and confident, but the result was quite (humorously) the opposite.

Silence.

Sir Opus narrowed his eyes (… as far as he could, which was hardly anything at all considering he had no eyelids), then resigned himself to wait. He was just about to sit back down again when, quite startlingly, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled about, in a panic, the sound of the clicking growing faster and louder by the moment, but nothing was there. Silence fell yet again. His eyes wide (well, as wide as they could be considering their size) and his heart thumping, he tried his best to compose himself. Sitting shakily down in his chair, he poured himself a large glass of brandy. It was just his imagination. He reached for his cigar with quaking hands… only to find that it was gone.

Sir Opus Winslow, Baronet, gulped long and hard on the brandy. This was too much. What was happening to him? Was he losing his nerve? Or even worse… was he losing his muchness?

No! He just needed to relax, that was all. It had been a rough day at Old Dwingledub. He just needed to relax, sit by the fire and–

The fire was out. It had been roaring a moment before, and now it was out.

Complete and utter silence covered the room. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking, and the goldfish in his fishbowl on the table were dead.

And thus Sir Opus Winslow, Baronet, didst remove himself from the study with dread, apprehension and impeccable speed in his movements. Once he made it out into the hallway, he checked behind him to see if anything was there. Still nothing… but he could hear it in the study. Something fell over and made a loud CRASH! inside, only increasing Sir Opus’ speed in reaching the kitchen (where most of the other Dwindlejubs in the manour were; he lived by himself but for the servants, all the same however, he found that other Dwindlejubs being about would comfort him, or at least protect him from whatever it was that had so obviously taken an interest in him). So hurried was he that in his rush he collided directly with Jeeves, who was just coming ’round a corner with a tray of tea-things. Sir Opus did not so much as stop to help the very upset and also very shaken Jeeves pick up the smashed contents of the now bent tray, but continued as fast as he could toward the kitchen.

Sir Opus Winslow, Baronet, was bruffle-dumpingly bingle-bumped.

Oh my… what was that? Clicking you say? I wouldn’t be surprised if they were here too…. I do apologize, I see that I am frightening you. I shall now repair to my room and sleep the night away (that is, if the monster in my closet refrains from gobbling me up in one fowl swoop with its razor sharp poison teeth). But I shall be back tomorrow, eaten or no, to tell you more of The Story….

Good-night, my children, good-night.

But what was that?

A bump… in the night…

I have a story to tell you.

It begins.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lay a snug little town upon the coast. The population of said town, in those days of course, was just over one hundred. However, unlike most towns, this town had a population of persons that were not like your average man or woman. No. They were vastly different. They were called Dwindlejubs. Tall, stately creatures. Looking entirely like a human, and yet… so entirely phumpishly strange. They had long, thin feet and hands, although their toes and fingers were drubbily clumsy. Their eyes were about an sixteen’th the size of a normal man’s. Surprisingly enough, you could not see the whites of their eyes, much less the iris. Just the pupil. But moving on. These Dwindlejubs had very large noses. Very British noses. They had next to no hair, although quite a few of them were known to sport very clean, tidy, grilliblishly trimmed and bumbledillily styled moustaches. Especially our main character. But that shall come later. The Dwindlejubs had legs about the length of a tall man’s, but the length of their torsos and arms were stradumphlingly longer, which made them perfectly built for swimming (which, by the by, they called “Gimbling” so that is what we shall call it). Dwindlejubs could never, absolutely never, and I mean really never, be caught not wearing a wetsuit with a skullcap.

The town they inhabited in that olde age was known (to the few fingerlubs that actually knew of it) by the name of Morgueton (pronounced “Morg-dun”), and it was a Fishyaird. A Fishyaird, in case you have never heard of one, is a town that exists solely for the purpose of fishing, processing the fish, shipping the fish and making moneys off of the fish. The only one of these Fishyairds, brufflingly dumphel, was Morgueton. The only Dwindlejubs in the world were the sole inhabitants of Morgueton, which was thusly the only Fishyaird in the world. Therefore, we can swindulfubbingly assume that this was a one-of-a-kind sort of place. The reason for the only bibble happening in that small town being gimbling was the fact that Dwindlejubs were absolutely fantastic swimmers and gimblingdwindlejubs. Their eyes were so small, they could see perfectly underwater without having to close them. Their feet and hands were so long, they were perfect for swimming. Their vocal cords were extremely strong, and capable of creating very low-frequency noise so they could communicate just the same underwater as they could above water (the only setback of this was the fact that they were also very flexible, my main point being that if any one Dwindlejub gained very much weight in their cheeks and chin, they would get so horribly constricted it made speaking very difficult).

The fact that they were good at swimming and gimbling was amazing enough as it was, but it was how they went about doing it that was truly incredible. I shall tell you. Morgueton was actually built on top of a 300 foot cliffside that shot up directly out of the water. You see, when the time of day came when the fish would come out, the Dwindlejubs would sneak up to the side of the cliff, then dive directly off the top, straight into the water, and grab the fishes with their bare hands, stuffing them into their mouths for storage (you see, their cheeks posessed a brubbdilling elasticity). They would then swim to the cliffside, still underwater, and swim into an elaborately dug underground cave system, and send the fish up a fubbish hand-operated elevator shaft that led all the way up to the surface and ended in the main processing factory where the fish were iced and packed, then shipped out to countries around the world.

It is this process that is exactly what I shall be telling you about over these next few nights I am here with you, my children. But alas, I am not as young as I used to be. So good-night, my children, I shall return again tomorrow night, and we shall discuss the events pertaining to The Fopness Dredds and Faerfell Murdaers of Morgueton Fishyaird and the escapades that were thusly connected. But that is for tomorrow. Good-night, my children. Rest your heads while you may. Keep an eye peeled in the most literal sense for the monsters in your closet, and beware the creatures under your bed with a deep sense of dread and apprehension, for you never know when a slimy tentacle might–well, I am getting quite ahead of myself. But remember this: The bump in the night is only the beginning. Good-night, my children….. good-night.

I’ll tell you about it.

So we’re in El Paso. We haven’t heard chanting for three days, and even then it was hardly close by. At the moment we’re holed up in what used to be a little vegan restaurant called “Fresco Deli” (the sign had bulletholes in it but it was still intact—but that made me worry that people might be around. Jake stopped whining for long enough to say that they’re old. He could tell by how rusty the exposed steel around the holes were. I questioned it at first but he was right). But that’s not the important part.

Over the past day and a half I’ve realized what an imperfect person I am. Here we are in what used to be the United States of America walking through mountains and deserts and God knows what else. This country has been bombed to hell and back, gassed like nothing else and ripped apart by a toxic brew of pollution and far more intense elements than any this world has ever seen, and yet, we’re still alive.

Last week I said that we hadn’t found any survivors. That’s wrong. The kid and I found Joe. We found Lindy. We found Jake. But that’s not right either. We didn’t do any of that.

God did.

When our little group was standing on the outskirts of town, looking up at the skyscrapers of this former city, Lindy looked over at me with a quizzical expression on her face from her seat on top of the wagon (I made her lay down on our stuff so she wouldn’t have to walk). And through those big beautiful hazel eyes of hers, I saw something that I hadn’t seen in months. I saw hope. We just looked at each other for a few minutes and smiled, and then she said, “God works all things out for the good of those who serve him, Steve. Do you remember that?”

That caught me off guard a little. First I was annoyed, (apparently visibly) but she grabbed my hand and held it. I said I did, and asked her why she told me that. She just said that I needed to know it. I didn’t really start thinking about it until later, but I thanked her and we started into the city. It’s been a while since we’ve been in any sort of civilization (does that even exist any more anyway?) so I was a bit rusty at keeping on the lookout for danger, but so far everything’s been alright.

Since that incident with Lindy, I realized something. I said a week ago that I didn’t care any more, and that we would all be dead soon. I keep kicking myself for being such an ass (and I’ll go ahead and put that under the “male donkey” definition of the term). For all we know, the members of this little group could make up a big percentage of the survivors in the U.S., and maybe even the world. But that doesn’t matter. We’re family, and nothing can take that away.

I do care.

I care about Lindy enough to do anything to get her well again. I care about the kid enough to be constantly looking for a gasmask. I care about Jake enough to not shoot him in the head (I know, I know, I’m working on it). I care about Joe enough to keep holding out hope that he’s still alive out there somewhere. And I’m not going to stop caring. Ever. I’m going to do everything in my power to keep every one of us alive, and I’m not going to stop until the last of my breath escapes my lungs. If anyone tries to take my family they’ll take them out of my cold dead hands. That’ll be hard to do.

So that’s my current situation. Everything is looking alright so far—we’re all going to go out looking for food tomorrow (I’m still quite uncomfortable with leaving everybody alone) and I’m confident that God will provide.

El Paso seems to be a ghost town. Then again, that’s what we thought about Las Vegas, San Francisco and pretty much every other big city we’ve been through.

The M16s are cleaned and ready and I’ve got my faith back. Nothing can stop us now.