Was there chafing in the afterlife?

The answer to that would be yes. Yes there was. The angel had dodged most of his questions and hurried him on his way, but it seemed like he was stuck wearing the clothes in which he’d died, which included a cheap, itchy, ill-fitting binder. Maybe that was part of his punishment.

Everything hurt and his eyes were blurry and he was pretty sure he had landed in a pile of wet, stinky garbage. He tried to stand up, but it was hard to get a grip on the slippery plastic.

“Are you an alien?”

“What?” He squinted. He could see a figure standing over him. He blinked a few times and the figure materialized into a short, squat person with a round face and blond hair.

“I said, are you an alien?” the person repeated. “A normal human couldn’t have survived a fall like that.”

“No, I’m not an alien,” he said.

“Well, are you okay?” They held out a hand to help him up, but he ignored it and stood up on his own.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, good. And hi!” The person gave a broad smile. “I’m Lucinda Wells! You can call me Cinda.”

“Jude Price,” said Jude, not looking at her.

“No way,” said Cinda. “Like. Price Co. Jude Price? Golly!”

“Uh,” said Jude, “yeah.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned Price Co. The way the whole building burned to the ground, that was just awful! And to happen so soon after that hooplah with the dead woman in your bed…”

“She wasn’t in my bed!” Jude snapped. The whole story had gotten way out of control. He happened to have stumbled – literally stumbled – on a corpse in the middle of the hall in his apartment building, but tabloid journalists put on some appalling twists.

“Hey, I’m not judging!” Cinda said, grinning, and at that point Jude wondered if she was purposefully bringing up these things to make him uncomfortable. “I’m just saying, it must have been quite a week.” She started ticking them off on her fingers. “Let’s see, the necrophilia scandal,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers, “then Price Co. burnt down, and then you were hit by a truck and…” Suddenly her pink face blanched and her eyes went wide. “You died. You’re dead. You’ve been dead. Oh my god, I’m talking to a dead person!”

Jude didn’t really know what to say to that. “Uh, yeah. Calm down.”

Cinda, apparently, had no intention of calming down. “I AM TALKING TO A DEAD PERSON!” she squealed through her hands. She was half hunched over, as though this revelation made her unable to stand up straight. She really had to stop. People would stare.

“Look,” said Jude, “I didn’t mean to, uh, scare you–”

“Scare me?” Cinda said shrilly. “I’m psyched! Do youknow how long I’ve been trying to spot another ghost? And here you are!” She grabbed his forearm, staring up into his face with a wide, almost manic grin. “Proof! Walking, talking proof!”

“Proof?”

With gusto, Cinda dug into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a slightly wrinkled business card. “’Lucinda Wells, P.I.’” Jude read. He looked at her with skepticism. “You’re a private investigator?”

“Psh, no,” said Cinda, with a dismissive flap of the hand. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

Jude had to fight really hard not to roll his eyes. “Oh, Jesus. What does a paranormal investigator do? Watch for aliens?”

“Well, yes,” said Cinda, “but that’s only a small portion of the job. I do anything and everything having to do with the paranormal. Mostly I answer calls from people having trouble with various creatures—ghoul in the attic, bigfoot in the garage, that sort of thing. Once someone claimed to have the ghost of Elvis sitting on their toilet, but it was just an impersonator. But enough about me. What are you doing here, dead man?”

He sighed. “I have to do…good deeds. For everyone I’ve wronged in my life.”

“Long list?” Cinda asked.

“Long as a supermodel’s legs.”

“Interesting simile.”

“They say write what you know.”

“Well,” said Cinda grandly, “there’s probably a reason the Powers That Be dumped you onto the same street corner as me. It’s fate. I have to help you finish your business!”

Jude simply stared. “That’s okay. I got this.”

“What, you think you’re too good for me, Mr. Big Shot?” Cinda demanded, poking him in the chest.

“No no no, that’s not what I meant,” Jude lied. “I…just don’t wanna take up your time!” He smiled what he hoped was a winning smile. “I don’t wanna make you late for, uh, Bigfoot or whatever.”

Cinda was unimpressed. “Bigfoot doesn’t even live on this side of the country, stupid. But fine. You wanna do it all on your own, that’s peachy keen.” She turned and swiftly walked away, raising a hand in farewell just before she went around the street corner. “Enjoy eternal hellfire.”

Jude was silent for a moment, then let out a sigh of relief.

He opened up the scroll. The first name, written in ornate script:

Lucinda Wells

2: 1.2 [Jude]

“Aw, shit,” Jude groaned. “CINDA! Hey, Cinda!”

Cinda poked her head around the corner. “Yyyeeeees?”

“I do need your help.”

“Oh, really,” said Cinda.

“You’re the first person on the list,” said Jude. “Can you think of a time I might have…wronged you?”

“Yep!” Cinda said immediately.

Jude frowned. “Right off the top of your head?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Damn. I don’t even know you.”

“Exactly.” She gave a very tight smile that may as well have been a middle finger.

“What’d I do?” Jude asked, and it struck him that it was probably a very bad sign if he was going around doing bad things without even realizing that he was doing them.

“Well.” Cinda took a deep, self-important breath, as if she were about to begin a long story. Oh boy. “I was trying to spread the word about zombie attacks. Because, y’know, they’re a genuine threat, and I want people to be prepared. So…what?”

“Zombie attacks? Are you serious?” Jude said with a sneer.

Said Cinda with the utmost solemnity, “Yes.”

Jude immediately grew solemn himself. “Okay, go on.”

“I was going around with informational pamphlets, and one of the places I went was your office building. I made it all the way up to your office, thinking, hey, it’s worth a shot, maybe I can convince him, some celebrity endorsement for the cause would be good—-but then you slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh,” said Jude. “Well,” said Jude, “what can I do to help you?”

Cinda thought for a minute. “Help me on my patrol around the city.”

“You go on patrol?” Jude said incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Patrol for…paranormal creatures.” He was having difficulties keeping a straight face. Cinda, on the other hand, was having no such difficulties.

“Is there a problem?” she said icily.

“No,” said Jude, “no problem.”

“Okay then. Let’s roll.”

Cinda, he quickly found out, took this very, very seriously. Her face pulled into what he guessed was a very calculated combination of concentration and suspicion. Everything they passed seemed completely mundane to him, but Cinda remained on the alert. Behind street lamps, in sidewalk drains, underneath old cigarette butts and empty paper cups. Jude couldn’t figure out for the life of him what she could possibly be looking for, and eventually he decided that she had no idea herself; she simply looked everywhere. While Cinda was examining the drain, Jude caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye that made his insides tremble. “My god.”

“What?” said Cinda, looking up. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her behind a nearby mailbox. “What!? What is it?”

“There are–there’s people eating someone over there!”

“Ha! Who called it? Zombies are real!” Cinda crowed.

“Theeeey don’t look like zombies,” said Jude.

As it happens, Jude was right. Muffy and Bobo, a blond teenager and a smelly, scruffy homeless man, respectively, thought they were zombies and went around eating people. However, they weren’t zombies. They were gravely misinformed.

“Aw man,” said Cinda, looking disappointed.

“Maybe you should call the police?” Jude suggested. It was probably the right thing to do. The man Muffy and Bobo were eating wasn’t quite enjoying it as much as Muffy and Bobo.

“Psh, amateurs,” said Cinda. “We can handle this. Let’s go help him.”

“You go help. I’ll be at the bar, trying to phase through some beer,” said Jude. He wasn’t exactly sure about the mechanics of existing as a ghost, but he was intent on finding out. Before he could even move, Cinda grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Damn you, corporeality!

“Don’t even think about it, Casper.”

She dragged him toward Muffy and Bobo, who were still voraciously digging into the poor bastard. When Cinda turned to speak to them, Jude slipped out of her grip and out of sight.

“Excuse me,” said Cinda politely, “what are you doing?”

Muffy paused in mid-bite to look up at Cinda, blood and disdain all over her face. “Eating, duh. I’m a zombie. You know. ‘Braaains.’”

“Reeaally,” said Cinda, and Jude was glad to see that snide, condescending tone of hers directed at someone else for once. “Hon, I don’t think you’re really a zombie. That is a nasty-looking cut on your arm, though, how’d that happen?”

“Bobo bit me. He’s the one that turned me into a zombie,” Muffy said, as casually as someone discussing the weather. “Duh. I’m gonna, like, bash your head open and eat your brains now, ‘kay?” She looked at Bobo and gave a little tilt of the head. He picked a baseball bat up off the ground and raised it threateningly. Muffy picked up a crowbar.

“Ahaha, I don’t think so,” said Cinda, but she didn’t sound so confident anymore. She looked nervously from Muffy to Bobo and back. Muffy took a step toward Cinda.

“I do,” said Muffy. “There’s one of you, and two of us, and we have superzombie strength. And plus Bobo can shoot lasers out his eyes.” Bobo tackled Cinda, pinning her to the ground. She screamed, wriggling in his grip.

“This is not going as planned! Abort! Abort!”

Muffy raised her crowbar. A drop of blood slid off and fell on Cinda’s face with a plop. Jude decided now was the time for action. He jumped out from behind the trash can where he was hiding. Somehow—he wasn’t sure how he did it—he flew into the air, glowing a ghostly blue glow. “Frrrreeeeeeze, mortal scum!” His voice was amplified, echoey, like some sort of creature from another dimension. Muffy and Bobo froze, and Cinda looked at him with an expression that was simultaneously relieved that he showed up and furious that he had disappeared in the first place. He swooped down on Muffy and Bobo, yelling, “Release that woman at once or I will EAT. YOUR. SOOUUUULS!”

Muffy shrieked and swung the crowbar at him, but it phased right through him. Being asomatous took a bit of conscious effort and he didn’t know he could do it until he had, but a crowbar flying at your face is an impetus to do a lot of things you wouldn’t expect.

Seizing the opportunity, Cinda kicked Bobo in the crotch and shoved him off. Muffy went after Cinda with her crowbar. Cinda, looking alarmed, grabbed hold of a metal pipe sticking out of the side of the wall. Miraculously, it broke off, and they began a sort of sword-fight type deal, crowbar against pipe. Meanwhile, Jude had pushed the prostrate Bobo into a trash can. Muffy swung her crowbar at Cinda and Cinda ducked. “Ooof.” She kicked Muffy’s feet out from under her. Muffy fell on her face, and Cinda sat on her, pinning her there.

“When you get offa me, I’m totally gonna tear out your entrails!” Muffy fumed.

“Sure, if by ‘tear out my entrails’ you mean ‘accompany us to the police station, quietly and without a fuss,’” said Cinda.

–

“That was, ah…that was really something back there,” Jude said awkwardly, later.

“Right back atcha, pal!” Cinda said, beaming. Jude made a face.“I didn’t know you could get all glowy and echoey like that.”

“Me neither.”

“Also,” Cinda said slowly, as if it was hard for her to say this, “thanks. I applaud you on not just running away.”

“Well…” Jude shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave you there and let them hack you up.”

They were continuing on Cinda’s patrol route, but it seemed as though nothing else out of the ordinary was going to jump out at them. Just the mundane hustle and bustle of a small city.

“You’re probably on a time limit, right?” asked Cinda.

“Yeah.”

“So we should probably get going on helping the other people. Can I see your list?”

3: 2.1 [Jude, Penelope]

Jude knocked on the front door.

“Hello! How may I be helping?”

The woman that answered the door was tall and skeletal, less like a human and more like a creature shaped by someone who only had a hazy idea of what humans looked like. Her skin was pale to the point of looking almost waxy, like soap. Her hair, oil-black against her pale skin, was pulled tightly into pigtails on either side of her head, which stuck up in spikes every which way like small black sickles. Her brown eyes were the size of saucers, and her face was angular and blocky. There was no mistaking – this was the person he was looking for. Soff, the list said. Only one name, and an oddly-spelled one.

“Hi,” said Cinda, stepping up since Jude had just sort of zoned out for a moment. “Can you see my friend here?”

“Y…es?” Soff said hesitantly. “Why would I…not?”

“Well, he’s sort of dead,” said Cinda.

“Sort of?”

“Mostly. More dead than not. He’s a ghost,” Cinda explained.

“Oh.”

“You’re Soff, right? My name’s Cinda,” said Cinda. “This is Jude.”

“Hi,” said Jude.

“He was hit by a truck. Like many ghosts, he’s sticking around because there are some things he still needs to do. Apparently he stayed at the hotel you worked at and was pretty rude to you,” said Cinda. She looked at him. “Do you have something to say, there, Jude?”

Jude sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. Okay? Happy?”

“It’s not me you’re supposed to make happy right now, J-dog. It’s her.”

“J-dog?”

“Say it like you mean it, J-man.”

“Soff,” said Jude, “I am really, truly sorry that I was rude to you.”

Soff beamed. “It is very nice of you to apologize! Thank you! It is not often people apologize to me. Actually it is not often that people are talking to me at all, ha ha! Most days it is just me and Anita and Gertrude! They are my mop and my broom.”

“Well,” said Cinda, “we should be going. Deeds to do. Enjoy your…cleaning implements.”

“Wait, wait,” said Jude.

“Come on, time’s a-wasting!”

“Just a minute!” He turned to Soff. “You wanna…hang out with us?”

“Hang….out?”

“Yeah. Hang out. Be with people other than a mop and a broom.” He held out his hand. Slowly and gingerly, Soff clasped it with hers. Her hand was oddly cold.

“Ahem,” said Cinda. “Let’s go, shall we?”

–

Years ago, Penelope Smart was the best temptress in the netherworld, the reason that scores of men and women were burning forever. Unfortunately, one slip-up was enough to undo centuries of work. Since that day, she had been designated to the dung mines – great pits full of human refuse that never emptied, no matter how much you shoveled. Ten years later, Penelope finally got an appeal.

The office building where the meeting was to be held was all fancy décor and shiny floors. She looked as out of place as a roach on a wedding cake. Penelope had been the sort of person who would fit in there, but not now, not with an ill-fitting jumpsuit covered in brown stains and curly maroon-colored hair that had become frizzy and knotted from ten years without brushing.

She strode down the hallway without talking to the receptionist–(“Miss! Uh! You can’t go in there! Hey!”)–and found her old boss’s office. She barreled past the door labeled RICHARDS and slammed her hands down on his desk. He didn’t even lower his newspaper.

“Guess you haven’t changed at all,” said Richards. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“You need to give me another shot,” said Penelope.

“I don’t need to do anything. Get back to the dung mines, shitpicker.”

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t. I won’t. There’s no one better at my job than me, you know there isn’t–”

Richards threw the newspaper down on his desk. “If I give you another chance, will you shut up and get out of my office? No, don’t answer that. Youare going to shut up and get out of my office, regardless, but I’m also gonna give you an assignment because there happens to be some available.” He rifled through the stack of manila folders on his desk and held one out to her. Penelope wiped her grimy hands on the front of her pants, took the folder, and opened it.

“Julian Price,” she read. “Hmm. He’s kinda cute. That’s a shame.”

“Now get out,” said Richards. “And if you mess this one up, you will never, ever get the smell of shit out of your nose.”

4: 2.2 [Jude]

“It’s ridiculous!”

“What is your deal? You didn’t even walk up the stairs like we did. You’ve been floating the whole time.”

“I’m just saying, what kind of building doesn’t have an elevator?”

“The kind of building we happen to live in.”

Cinda had said her bag was too heavy to carry around for much longer, so they trucked off to her apartment building so she could drop it off.

“We?” said Jude.

“Me and my cousin. Luce. It’s her apartment, really, and she just lets me live there. Which is lucky, because paranormal investigation’s not exactly a steady rent-paying job.”

“More like a no-rent paying job. What does she do?”

“I dunno, she’s not really chatty about it. Some sort of support group. I think she’s paid by the government. This is us.” They stopped in the hallway in front of the door numbered 37. Cinda dug her keys out of her pocket. The door opened onto a cluttered kitchen with a wobbly-looking table and a checkered linoleum floor. Cinda set her bag on the table—it did wobble—and went through the doorway into the next room. Jude and Soff followed.

The room was sparsely furnished, only a couch and a TV and a couple of potted plants. A plump woman with dark braided hair sat on the couc with her legs folded underneath her. She was wearing a clunky gaming headset and a look of intense concentration.

“Hey, Luce,” said Cinda.

“Okay,” said Luce, not looking away from her video game.

“I said hi,” said Cinda.

“What? Oh. Sorry.” Luce paused her game and took off the headphones. “Hi.” She looked at Jude. “You’re a ghost.”

“Uh,” said Jude, “yeah.”

“And you,” said Luce, looking at Soff. “I’m not sure what you are. That’s odd. A ghost, though–” This was directed at Cinda again. “That’s an accomplishment for you. Are you going to turn him in right away, or keep him around to do experiments on?”

“Ha!” said Cinda. “Luce, you’re so funny.”

“No I’m not,” said Luce blankly.

“Keep him around to do what?” Jude repeated.

“Luce is just being silly,” said Cinda. “It’s just a joke! Luce, you know I’m trying to help the poor ghosties!”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said! This time is different.”

“Wow, this conversation isn’t suspicious at all,” said Jude.

“Jude, honestly. When have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” said Cinda.

“How about the moment you walked up and said ‘Hi, I’m Lucinda Wells’?”

“Are you helping him because he’s the guy you have pictures of in your room?” piped up Luce.

Jude wasn’t sure whether to be scared or amused. “Pictures?”

“Newspaper clippings and magazine ads and things,” said Luce. “She thinks you’re hot.”

“Shoosh! You’re not allowed to talk anymore!” Cinda said, looking panicked. Luce shrugged and left the room.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” said Jude. “It’s common knowledge that I’m hot.”

Cinda put her face in her hands. “Kill me.”

“Dying is not the solution to your problems, believe me,” said Jude.

“You’re not allowed to talk anymore either,” Cinda mumbled from behind her hands.

“Can I move on to the next name on my list, or is there still more…patrolling you want to do?”

“There is one more thing I’d like to investigate. I think there’s something in that house down the street.”

“You mean the scary house?” Soff asked, her eyes somehow even wider than usual.

“Yes. The scary house. I think there’s something there. I think it’s…..” Cinda did a ‘spooky’ voice, or what would have passed for spooky on a Halloween Scary Sounds CD. “Haaaaunted! Oooooh!!”

“Eeeep!”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Jude.

“Not at all. Ghosts are serious business if they have malicious intentions, especially poltergeists. Just like zombies, I plan to exterminate them. After exposing them to the media, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go in that house and find that poltergeist.”
–

They approached the front door of the house. It opened slowly, creaking loudly. Cinda shone her flashlight around. The inside of the house very dirty, and there were gashes all over the floors, the walls, and the furniture, like some wild animal went on a rampage.

As they got into the house, they all jerked back.

“Ugh! Smells like-”

“Rancid meat,” said Cinda.

“I was going to say ‘shit,’” said Jude.

“Unclean,” Soff said in a hushed voice.

“Okay,” said Jude, “we’ll be able to search this place faster if we split up.”

“I don’t want to search fast! I want to do a thorough job of it.”

“’Kay, Cind, but I want to get all my good deeds done before my time runs out, not waste all my time looking around a creepy, smelly old house for a ghost that may or may not even be here.”

“Fine,” Cinda huffed. “Soff, you stay here on the first floor with Jude. I’ll go up and search the second floor.”

A tall, looming figure sprung out of hiding. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” In the glow of Cinda’s flashlight Jude could see the person was a muscular, angry-looking woman with chin-length black hair and dark smudges around her eyes.

“We’re no one,” said Jude. “We were just leaving. Sorry to bother you.”

“My name is Lucinda Wells,” said Cinda. “I’m a paranormal investigator. I thought there was a ghost here.”

“No ghost here,” the woman said. That wasn’t technically correct, but Jude didn’t feel bold enough to correct her. “Just me.”

“And who are you, exactly?” Cinda asked.

“Someone who doesn’t appreciate people barging into my home.”

“Or maybe the better question is WHAT are you? How did all these scratches get here?”

Jude had a feeling that if Cinda kept talking like this she was going to get punched, hard. “Cinda, I told you this was a bad idea. Let’s get out of here.”

“Are you a werewolf?” Cinda demanded. “Living in an abandoned shack like this, I bet you’re unregistered! I ought to report you!”

“You wanna lose a couple limbs first?” the woman snarled.

“Hey, whoa, let’s settle down here,” Jude said. Cinda took out a taser and zapped the woman, who fell to the floor, unconscious.

5: 2.3 [Cinda]

text message log

CINDA: i have an unconscious werewolf, pls advise
LUCE: ????
LUCE: called the agency. should be there soon
CINDA: what? NO
CINDA: I CAN HANDLE THIS ON MY OWN DANG IT
CINDA: TRAITOR!!!!!!!!

-

It took a tremendous effort, as the werewolf was a lot taller and bulkier than any of them, but eventually they got her back to the apartment and onto the couch. A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and when Luce answered it, two agents clad in black suits, Lee and Laskaris, strode into the room. For some reason, Soff started looking uncomfortable and started to emit a soft but very high-pitched squeal. Jude grabbed her.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested, ushering her out the door.

Agent Lee nodded at Luce and at Cinda. “Mx. Wells. Ms. Wells. What’s going on here?”

“Cinda thinks this woman,” Luce said, gesturing to Dez, “is a werewolf, so she tasered her.”

“She was dangerous!” Cinda protested. “She threatened me!”

It looked like Agent Lee was looking at Cinda, but it was impossible to read his expression behind his big dark sunglasses. “A word?” He took her aside. “May I remind you that you did not successfully complete agency training, and you are not authorized to act in a situation such as this?”

“I got a dangerous werewolf under control! Doesn’t that prove that I deserve to be one of you?”

“What it proves,” said Lee, “is how little of the training stuck. Our aim is to protect non- and part-humans as much as it is to protect humans. We conduct ourselves with compassion and respect, not tasers. If you were part of our organization, I’d put you on probation. As it stands, stop playing vigilante.”

“But–

“This conversation is over.”

Meanwhile, Laskaris had been talking to the werewolf. “Sir, she’s the one we’ve been looking for. Torres.”

“Is she?” said Lee. He looked at the woman whose name was apparently Torres. “You’ve given us a lot of trouble, young lady. And your brother’s worried about you.”

“Oh, shit,” said Torres.

“Come on. We’ll take you home.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t do it. Please don’t make me.”

“She’s been through a lot today,” said Luce. “Maybe it would be better if she stayed here tonight and went to see her brother tomorrow.”

“That’s acceptable. Perhaps Ms. Torres would also benefit from joining your group,” said Lee.

“But my group is all kids. I don’t think I can help her, she’s a grown-up…”

“A ‘grown-up’?” Torres repeated. “Are you twelve?”

“It’s either group therapy or you see a psychiatrist,” said Lee.

“Please let me join your group,” Torres said quickly.

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mx. Wells,” said Lee.

“Thank you for responding so promptly.”

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Desdemona Torres.” He did the thing where he pointed his fingers at his own eyes and then at Torres.

“It’s a shame about you, Wells. Remember how we were in training together? Until I passed and you didn’t,” said Laskaris with a smile.

“I remember,” said Cinda through gritted teeth.

“A shame,” Laskaris said again. “You’re not horribly incompetent. Just, you’ve got a ghost detector where your moral compass should be.”

“Mariam,” said Agent Lee sharply.

They left.

A little while later, Jude poked his head in. “Are they gone?”

“Yes,” said Luce.

He and Soff came back inside the apartment. “That was weird.”

6: 3.0 [Luce]

Luce woke suddenly, as if someone had shouted in her ear. She sat up and looked around, her eyelids feeling heavy. It was dark in her bedroom. The middle of the night, probably, and no one else was awake. She was about to lie down and go back to sleep when she saw it. Standing in the corner of her room was a tall, thin figure. It wore a long white sheet over its head like a cartoon ghost.

“Hello,” said Luce.

“Hello, Lucille,” said the figure. Its voice sounded like at least two different people speaking at once, one of them high and reedy, the other low and rough.

“How do you know my name?” That was as good a place to start as any.

“We know many things. We are a higher being.”

“Why are you wearing a sheet?” she asked.

“We have taken a form that your human brain can understand.”

“It’s just a sheet.”

The figure grunted. “Fine.” It took the sheet off, revealing itself as a humanoid creature with two heads. One of them was boyish, round-cheeked. The other was decrepit, an elderly face with hollow cheeks, countless wrinkles, bones protruding like the points of knives.

“Who are you?” Luce said. “Why are you here?”

“A higher being, as we said, not of this mortal plane,” the heads said. Luce was pretty sure the low growly voice was coming from the one that looked like a five-year-old boy, and she was having a hard time taking it seriously. “We have a task that only you can complete. It is very important. The fate of your world is at stake.”

Luce yawned. “Can you come back later? I’m tired.”

“This is not a request,” the heads said. “It is a demand. You must complete the task for us.”

“You’re a higher being, do it yourself. I’m going back to sleep.” She rolled over and pulled her blankets back up to her chin.

7: 3.1 [Dez]

 If only she could stay unconscious for a little while longer. But everything hurt, and the blankets were itchy, and she couldn’t sleep through the irritatingly loud noises of people clattering around in the kitchen.

The blond leaned over the couch and got way too close for Dez’s comfort. “Morning, fuzzface!”

“Get out of my face,” Dez snarled, “or you’ll be losing yours.”

“Geez,” she said as she backed away, “guess you’re not a morning person.”

“I’m not a you person.”

“Would you like anything to eat?” That was the other one. What’s-her-name. The one with the braid and the glasses.

“You got any steak?” said Dez.

“Um,” said the blond, “there’s some hamburger in the fridge–”

“Great.” Dez opened the fridge and pulled out the foam tray.

“But please don’t–”

Dez dug into it with her bare hands, shoveling chunks into her mouth.

“–eat it like that,” the blond trailed off. “Ew. Ew ew eeeewww.”

“Be grateful I’m not chewin’ on your head,” Dez said around a mouthful of raw beef.

“I’d shoot you first,” said the blond.”

“Ha!” Dez barked, accidentally spraying chunks of beef on the counter. “I’d like to see you try.”

“No threats at the table,” said braid-and-glasses.

That was when the famous guy drifted in, all ghost-like. “Oh, hey, Jude,” said the blond. “How goes the good-deed-doing?”

“Good-deed-doing?”

“Yeah. You were out doing good deeds, right?”

“Oh. Yeah,” said famous guy. “Let’s go with that.”

“What were you really doing?”

He mumbled something.

“Jude….”

“I was going to try to do good deeds,” Jude said, “but then I couldn’t find the guy I was looking for so I gave up and I…uh….ended up going to…. a strip club.” The blond looked furious. Dez cackled and almost choked. Glasses got her some water.

“What good were you doing at a strip club?” the blond demanded.

“Donating generously to the hardworking ladies at Sleazy Joe’s?”

“You’re a horrible person.”

“I know.”

“The powers that be give you a second chance and you use it on strippers.”

Dez felt someone touch her arm and looked up. Braid-and-glasses was standing next to her. “One of the kids in the group I oversee is performing his poetry in the cafe down the street. I promised him that I’d go see it. You could talk to him to get a better idea of what the group entails, if you like. We’ll go to your brother’s after.”

“Whatever,” said Dez.

“What cafe?” said the blond.

“The pretentious one,” said glasses.

“Oh, perfect. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of sad-sacks that need help. Jude can take his pick.”

“Lemme see if Soff wants to come,” said famous guy, going for the phone. Dez was pretty sure ‘Soff’ was the one that looked like a toothpick wearing a plastic wig.

The blond rolled her eyes. “Oh, great. So Soff is coming.”

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything. I…you’re hearing stuff.”

Dez snorted.

The Espresso Yourself Cafe was, like glasses said, pretentious. It was full of snooty faux-intellectual types and people trying too hard to be cool. Everyone was looking at the little stage at the side of the room, where a scrawny young man wearing eyeliner was getting ready to recite poetry.

“Okay,” said the blond, “what does everyone want?”

“Hot chocolate,” said glasses.

“Coffee. Black,” said famous guy.

“Four muffins,” Dez said.

“I–” Toothpick started to say something but the blond left before she could. “–don’t want anything. Okay.”

And then the poetry began. The guy performed his piece with passionate melodrama.

“pain in my soul like torrential rain
tears me apart
it makes good art
but it twists my heart
like a twisted thing
makes it sing
a song of pain
how I hate this melancholy existence
slit my wrists
drown in a puddle of blood
my suffering makes ravens cry
bloody tears
of pain
and suffering
and pain
Yankees suck”

Everyone in the cafe snapped their fingers, which Dez guessed was applause for people who thought they were too cool for clapping. The poet bowed and then rushed over to their table. “So what’d you think?”

There was a silence as people tried to think of diplomatic answers.

“The imagery is…interesting,” said glasses.

“Yeah, super…interesting,” said the blond.

“Never heard anything like it,” said famous guy.

“What are Yankees?” the toothpick inquired.

Somebody had to tell him. “Your poem sucked.”

“Thank you!” the poet said. “Everybody I’ve read to tries to be polite and say something nice. They’re so full of shit. I’m trying to be terrible.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone, this is Weaver,” said glasses. “Weaver, this is my cousin Cinda…and this is Jude…Soff…and Dez. Dez is thinking of joining our group.”

“Cool!” said the poet. “Fresh meat!”

Dez’s interest was peaked. “Meat? Where?”

“You’re the meat. It’s an expression,” said the poet. “Anyway, Luce is the best and everyone’s really nice. You’re gonna love it.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Whenever someone tells me I’m going to love something, I usually end up hating it. Or eating it. Or both.”

“Haha! You’re weird. You’ll fit right in.”

“That’s so comforting.” Dez frowned.