I stumbled and fell. Within seconds I knew they were closing. I could hear their breath. They’d have caught my scent and so I fired a single shot.

Better, I thought, than being torn apart.

In a matter of seconds, whatever it was had managed to come through the door, destroy the inside of my kitchen once again and knock the camera over into the floor, the lens pointing to the open refrigerator door. Smiling, I grabbed the camera and plugged it into the TV. The screen went blue, crackled with static and then began playing. I sped through nearly three hours of blank space, the cat sauntering back and forth through the kitchen like she owned the place. Finally, there was movement. The cat door opened all the way up and a slender white strand of something slid through. This was quickly followed by four more slender things that looked very much like fingers attached to the hand on an arm that stretched up to the center of my back door. Eventually a bald dome and faceless head, another slender arm, and then an emaciated white body that when standing was at least as tall as me had come into my house. It struck the camera, knocking it towards the fridge. Plates, the bread box and everything from the fridge began to fly. Finally, it was holding a raw piece of steak I had been planning to grill tomorrow. A large mouth opened in the center of its featureless head. The steak was gone.

It must have heard me coming down the stairs as it quickly ducked behind the fridge door. Slender as it was, the door fit flush against the wall with only a bald head, a pair of feet and a few knuckles holding to the door handle visible. Quickly, the head and feet joined the rest of the body behind the open door. All that were left were a few knuckles and my ugly face as I scooped up the camera and ran it into the den where the television was. The screen fuzzed again and returned to blue.

In the kitchen, I heard the fridge door slam.

But I don’t want it. I don’t want to be this kind of person. I don’t want to do any more harm. I don’t ever want to hold a knife in my hand again, or see this much blood spilled upon the floor.

It’s always been a part of me, the fury. It lives deep, deep within my heart. But if I just cut a little bit further, I know I can get it out.

The first time it hurt me, I thought nothing of it. In the dream I saw it fly towards me, but the poor thing couldn’t land. I held my hands out as a perch. It landed safely and I felt claws digging into my palm. They dug in harder and harder until the talons were under my skin. I tried to shake it off but it wouldn’t let go. All the while it sang to me, such wonderful sounds. I awoke in a sweat and checked my hands. They were fine.

The next night, the bird flew towards me again, and landed again. The pain was sharper this time and when I woke, I had half-moon marks in my left palm.

My partner, Mark, suggested that I sleep in our spare room one night, to break the routine. Still the bird invaded my dreams. I awoke with scratches down my cheeks.

The next night I tried earplugs–but still the onslaught continued. The thing was even there when I spent a weekend in London.

I knew I couldn’t escape the night the bird attacked my eyes. You wouldn’t think birds could show emotion, but I swear it had evil in its look. I had to wear an eye-patch for weeks, but even that didn’t stop the sparrow. Mark says it’s just a bird and my mind is playing tricks, that I’m hurting myself in my sleep. If that’s true, then I probably deserve it, deep down. Even so, I don’t think I can take any more. I hope the bird won’t follow me where I’m going. Or perhaps it will. Maybe it’s a demon, preying on weak souls and, when the time comes, dragging them down to hell. Yet how can something so evil produce such a lovely sound? Either way, I know my time’s close. I hear its song all the time now, calling to me. My little sparrow is coming to get me.

Mom tugged on her hand, keeping her at pace with the family. Their feet kicked up a dust cloud.

“We’ll eat when we get to Jehovah’s Point,” Dad said. “The pain’ll pass.”

Dad had stopped looking at Angel when he spoke to her. His eyes fixed ahead on the trail from their homestead in the rocky hills. Angel mopped her face with a ratty bandana. She twirled in the free air, the hot wind. They’d taken shelter in the mineshaft for four days when the air burned hot. They slept in the day and snuck out at night to dig roots and tubers. She gazed up at the crimson sky and sung to the prismatic show.

Mom wept. Her hair had grown back. She’d shave it soon again. Benjamin fussed in his carrier, crying from hunger. Mom set him to her breast. She stumbled as she walked, legs gone weak.

“Stop singing,” Dad said. “You’re upsetting my wife.”

“Dad?”

“Just shut your mouth till we reach town.”

“But I love to sing,” she said.

“We all have to make sacrifices.”

Angel stifled her song. She didn’t mind. The family was going to eat meat tonight. She’d feel much better. The human body needed meat to survive, and the families of the tribe gathered every month to share in the ration.

The tribe gathered in the commons of cement bunkers, meeting in an open-air theater sided with stone levels. Families set up tables and sold wares: patched clothing, rusty cooking ware, meager roots. The cooks set up their tent away from the gathering and carried steel drums to serve the flock. Some folk chatted. Others slept. Most of the ashy-faced people knelt and prayed, their lips moving in sync to violet lightning splitting the sky.

The preacher stood at the heart of the stage. His white robes blew in the dry wind.

“We will survive, my children.”

“We will survive,” chanted the people.

“Through sacrifice,” he said. “Through faith.”

Mom wept again. The tears wet the soot on her face to mud. Dad squeezed her hand. Benjamin fussed again, and Mom smoothed his soft hair.

“God has visited on us a test when He threw the rock at our world. He drew the curtain on our sky. He dripped acid rain. He burned the world in hellfire of His making. And we survived.”

“It’s not right,” Mom said. “How can we?”

Dad cupped her mouth with his palm.

“We have to give our share. If we don’t, it’ll be all of us.”

She kissed Ben’s head.

“We must all give for the good of the community, for the human race,” spoke the preacher. “We are the chosen people. The first tribe.”

Lightning herded through the Alaskan sky, igniting the night. It set the preacher’s face ablaze. Angel had never seen him in the light before. His kind face twisted. He gazed through her with empty skull sockets missing their eyes. He licked his lips with spindly tongue.

“Angel, you need to go help the cook,” Dad said.

“I want to stay here.”

She looked over at the far tent and watched the smoke rising from the chimney. She swallowed against a rock in her throat.

“We all have to do our share,” Dad said. “Or would you think only of yourself?”

Angel nodded and get up off the stone seat. Mom reached for her, but Dad grabbed her.

Angel wandered up the steps and walked over to the cook’s tent. The chef pulled back the tent flap. Sweat poured down his chubby body, soaking his apron, diluting the blood stains.

“Howdy, sweet darling,” the cook said. He sharpened a long butcher’s knife on a stone. Scrape. Scrape.

“My dad said you needed me,” she said. “I didn’t want to come, but we all have to sacrifice. Right?”

“That we do, sweet girl. My sweet, sweet piggy.”

“I know that,” I said. “But why?”

“You’re dying.”

“Your bedside manner sucks.”

“We’ve been friends too long and you don’t pay me to be nice.”

“Impossible. From what exactly?”

“Microcellular invasion of post-particulate…”

“Reggie, shut up with the medical bullshit-ese and tell me in words I will understand.”

“I can’t. I don’t understand, myself,” he admitted. “It’s a cellular invasion of a virus that acts… well… like a vampire.”

“You are so bullshitting me. What? I am going to turn into a vampire?” I laughed.

“Of course not. You know they don’t exist.”

“Is this a form of cancer and you don’t want to tell me?”

“It’s worse. Toby… you’re probably going to die in the next week. I’m sorry.”

“What the hell–”

“The ‘vampire’ cells are attacking the healthy cells and turning them into more ‘vampire’ cells. These infected cells are eating your muscles and tendons. It’s why you get tired after working out and stay stiff after working out for days at a time. The virus doesn’t allow your muscles to recuperate.”

Finally, I was speechless. I spent my life in a gym. Working out and power lifting were my life. What would I do without that?

“How did this happen?” My heart constricted. All I could think of was the cells eating my hard-earned muscle mass away.

“It’s likely that people have passed some sort of virus through the gym and it morphed into this virus in you. You are too contagious. I think it’s airborne. You must be quarantined. I’ll admit you immediately.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want this to spread,” I agreed.

“If you promise to go right to the hospital, I’ll let you get a few things.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ll go right to the hospital,” I promised.

He nodded.

“I’d hug you but I don’t want Kari and the girls to catch what I have.”

He nodded again.

“See you there.”

“See you there,” he echoed.

I left Reggie’s office. I didn’t bother with denial or making plea deals with a God that I didn’t believe in. I didn’t let anger or sadness enter my thoughts. I was going to die. Reggie wouldn’t lie about that. I bypassed all the normal grieving portions of news of this type. It’s why Reggie let me go “home.” He knew I was too analytical to allow an opportunity of this magnitude pass me by without any action. I needed sleep. Tomorrow I would go to the hospital.

I woke up to the sun shining. I drove to my gym. I marched into Andrea’s office. She was seated behind her desk and glared at me through her hideous red-rimmed, heart-shaped eyeglasses. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

“Why aren’t you training someone? You still owe me money and you better work it off soon.”

“You got the house and the pool boy. Fuck you. I quit.” I leaned over the desk, close enough to smell her breath.

“You can’t quit. It’s part of our divorce agreement,” she argued; her voice rose higher, panicked.

I reached across the desk and cupped her head in my hand. Her blond hair spilled over my arm. I pulled her closer and pressed my lips against hers. She sighed against me, eager. I swiped my tongue across hers and kissed her like I did when we were first married. When I felt her lean into me, I pulled back.

“I forgive you,” I whispered. I looked into her blue eyes. “Remember me.”

“Where are you going?” Her eyes were filled with hope and a promise to love again.

“To the hospital for a few tests. I’ll see you next week,” I told her. I touched her hand and walked out.

“I’ll be here,” she called after me, eagerness in her voice.

See you in hell, I thought.

“And with that,” Count Gregor intoned, “he commandeered the stereo at the party and played nothing but godawful jam band bootlegs, yammering all the while about how none but a small percentage of the band’s most devoted followers could ever hope to appreciate the brilliance of their music. Can any sane man fault us for what we did next? His body still reposes beneath my floorboards. Left a lot of bloodstains, too. I’ll bet that takes a chunk out of my security deposit.”

Count Gregor drained the last of his brandy and motioned to the waiter for another. Then a pallid, hitherto unnoticed man among our small gathering spoke up.

“A chilling tale, that,” the pallid man said. “I myself have a tale that I would share, with your kind indulgence.

“’Twas on a night much like this that I was driving along a fog-enshrouded road, and happened upon a young woman hitchhiking. Though she spoke not a word, I found myself much smitten. Her porcelain skin, raven hair and ruby lips were reminiscent of a delicate china doll, neglected in the attic of a stately home for many a year. Nice set of honkers, too.

“She gave a slight shudder and I offered her my sweater, which she accepted silently. At length she motioned that I should pull over, which I did.

“Without a word, still clad in my sweater, she exited my motorcar and proceeded into an opaque bank of fog. I followed, as I was overcome with curiosity about what errand might draw a lovely young woman to such a remote spot in the dead of night. Plus, that sweater wasn’t cheap.

“The fog thinned somewhat, and to my surprise I found myself in the midst of a graveyard. To my even greater astonishment, I came to a headstone upon which my sweater was draped. I bent down to read the inscription.”

“And what was written upon it?” asked Count Gregor, as the waiter set before him another glass of brandy and an order of the place’s specialty “Burn-Yer-Ass” Buffalo wings.

“I know not,” answered the pallid man. “For at that moment, a big freakin’ guy in a clown mask jumped out of the bushes and cut me in half with a chainsaw.”

“Ah hah!” rejoined Count Gregor. “If this is true, how is it that you are with us tonight, regaling us with this account?”

“How indeed?” said the pallid man, fading to spectral translucence and then vanishing altogether.

Count Gregor dipped a wing in bleu cheese dressing, took a bite, and then swallowed a mouthful of brandy.

“Shit,” he said. “I hope we don’t get stuck with his tab.”

Or perhaps you’d prefer…

Aquamation. Costing a third less in greenhouse gases; using a seventh of the energy. Pressurized to ten atmospheres and heated to 180 degrees in lye, the fleshy tissues dissolve within three hours. The bones are refined in the cremulator and the liquid poured into the municipal water supply.

It’s perfectly sterile…

Not a trace of DNA…

You seem rather…

Some water, madam? With ice?

To put it in simple terms that even you can understand: It’s over.

Don’t worry; I intend to spare you the embarrassment of a messy divorce. I’m not moving out, and we won’t be fighting over the bank account and pension that I worked for. You get nothing. Not even this letter. If you have read this far then it has already served its purpose. You have been distracted long enough that you haven’t made it out to the kitchen. Otherwise I’m sure you would have noticed that a knife is missing from the block, or heard me coming up behind you.

I could feel my way out, but the way out was also their way in. No jaws, just teeth. And when I woke they woke too. It was as if they had lain in wait, counting the seconds until I opened my eyes.

They were long, like fangs.

But unlike fangs they were not held by gums.

They were the walls and the floor, the ceiling and the air. The teeth were everything and I was in their center. It wasn’t wet but it wasn’t dry; it wasn’t cold but it wasn’t warm.

It was only teeth:

Endless teeth.

My skin was between them. I tried to scream but my tongue was between them too.

Everything I was, between the teeth.

Gnashing, biting, gnashing and biting.

I struck out with arms and legs but everything I hit was sharp; met bone and still I couldn’t scream because my tongue wasn’t mine. Everything belonged to the teeth. They moved with a life of their own–caressing my flesh and eyes and nails. They didn’t breathe but they made sound, like needles knitting, as they flowed over one another.

I stopped flailing out. They could feel no pain. Only I could bleed and tear–maybe even cry. Yes, I could cry. I tasted salt then. I tasted teeth then.

They scraped in their ballet of motion, grinding over my flesh. Soon my legs were gone. I couldn’t wiggle my toes because I had nothing below the knees.

The teeth owned all that now.

They took more. Up to the waist; and if I was a girl or a boy before that moment, I could not remember–only teeth now.

The pain was everything to me. I felt each nerve as it was devoured. As it was ground from existence.

And then I felt my spine snap, a shock that removed all other pain from me.

But not thought–no, it could not remove thought.

Even as the teeth reached my ribs, crushed my lungs, I could understand them.

Could they understand me?

No, they were teeth–they knew nothing; only bone.

How did I wake to this? How did teeth come, gnashing, biting, gnashing and biting? Where was my tongue?

And as the teeth reached my throat I knew, soon I would be a tooth too. And there goes my chin, which I had rested on my arms so many times–arms that were gone long before it; there go my cheeks, flesh grandmothers had pinched and girls or boys had kissed–I can’t remember which; there goes my nose, smeller of the rose and the spring–every scent that it could find; there go my ears, listeners of long forgotten words–songs and whispers, love letters spoken aloud; there go my eyes, viewers of this life and the next, returning to the black they had been born of–black of the womb before development; there goes my brain, thinker of thoughts and knower of knowledge–school and identity, personality and ego; and there goes me, all of me–the person, sexless, the lover, loveless.

But where did my teeth go?

Gnashing, biting, gnashing and biting.