OF ALL EVIL
By Robert Ford

The residences of Wyntrebrook Estates were like a theme park for the wealthy. Even in the middle of the night, the swelled, egotistical pride of the people who lived here was evident. Bright outdoor halogens focused on the architectural details. Elegant stucco facades, trimmed
shrubbery and manicured lawns, the massive, circus freak sized entrances with English ivy growing around them. The community was a who's who of stuffed shirts and rich, uppity snots. A brown Ford Fairmont crept along, pausing at each driveway, one functioning brake light glowing in the darkness like a cherry on death's cigarette, then dimming again as it moved on.

"There's no way this is going to work, Darren.”

click. click, click.

“And I'm telling you it is. It's the best selling garage door opener to these rich pricks. Byron told me like he was reading out of a manual, and Byron knows his shit.”

“Just because he got A's in science class doesn't mean he's frigging Einstein.”

click, click. click.

“It's going to work.” Darren let out a long sigh, then under his breath. “You're always so damn negative.”

“What?” Mike glared over at Darren.

“Nothing.”

“What'd you say?”

“Nothing, okay?” Darren stared back at Mike briefly and stopped the Fairmont again as they neared another driveway. Six-foot brick columns framed both sides; gas lamps perched on top, brick walls flaring out to show off brass street numbers a foot high.

click, click.

The night air felt cool through the open windows of the Fairmont , but you could tell it wanted to tighten sweltering burlap hands around your throat.

“I can't believe you bought into this shit. We're driving around in the middle of the night waving at garage doors when we could be throwing back some beer and playing grab ass with barmaids. Plus, I haven't eaten a damn thing all day. I'm starving.” Mike angrily stuffed the garage
door opener between his legs and reached inside his denim jacket, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and lighting up.
Mike blew a stream of smoke in Darren's direction. “There's no way this is going to work.”

Darren stuck his arm outside again, pointing it toward another mini-mansion.

click, click. click.

As soon as he pushed the button on the garage door opener, he knew this was the one. He jammed the brakes and Mike jerked forward, mouth open, eyes wide. The three car garage door was starting to rise up.

“I'll be damned.”

“I told you. Byron knows his shit.”

Darren killed the headlights and turned the Fairmont into the blacktop driveway. The closer they drove, the more massive the place became. Pale bleached brick formed most of the building, with huge block cornice pieces. There were the obligatory lights focused at the home's exterior, dark, shutters framing every window, and a small spotlight at the landscaped front walk focusing in on the high, arched entrance and the intricate moulding surrounding it.

“Who do you have to kill to live in a place like this anyway?” Darren eased the Fairmont up the driveway, watching for the houselights to go on. Nothing. He let the brake up enough to move a little faster toward the garage. They got within twenty feet of the garage, and still no houselights. Good sign. He looked over at Mike and smiled, throwing it in park.

The Fairmont rattled as Darren shut it off, the whole frame trembling. Mike and Darren exchanged mixed looks of disgust and expectant rage at what was to come. A comically loud backfire belched from the Fairmont and it stopped the death rattle, going quiet. They jerked their gaze back to the house, holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable upstairs light to come on, shadows moving behind curtains. Darren put his hand back on the ignition key, ready to crank it back up and haul ass.

Still nothing.

“Hot damn. Empty nest.” Darren checked his watch. 12:45. “Long weekend in the Hamptons maybe?” Darren grinned wildly at Mike. “While the cat's away...”

“The mice will ransack the house!” Mike laughed and reached to the backseat, grabbing a flashlight and two canvas duffel bags.

Darren stared into the open garage, lit by the dim lights of the overhead door. He popped the handle on his door, and then turned to Mike. “You sure about this?”

Mike clicked a flashlight on and off, testing it. “You're kidding right? It's your plan. You and Byron, that is.”

“Yeah, I know, but we've never...” He looked at the looming nouveau mansion in front of him, and then back to Mike.

Mike turned to the garage, taking inventory, then took a deep breath and slowly let it out, handing one of the duffel bags to Darren and popping his own door. “Come on, let's go. I need cigarette money.”

They put on gloves and started methodically on one side of the garage, quickly stuffing anything they could sell into the bags. A pink tricycle sat in the corner of the garage, a bucket of plastic beach toys spilled out behind it. Mike grinned. “You want to take those for your girlfriend?”

“Kiss my ass.” Darren reached into a cabinet, rummaging inside. Nothing but car care manuals and receipts. Debbie's only four years younger than me.”

“Might make her day.” Mike went on, rubbing salt in the wound.

“Keep it up jackass, I'll leave you here.”

Mike laughed and kept working the room. There was a mountain bike hanging on the wall and he reached out, touching the frame. “We should have brought a truck.”

“Or a moving van. Yeah, that wouldn't have been suspicious in the middle of the night.” Darren rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Like your turd brown Fairmont 's not? It looks like Sanford and Son in the middle of Beverly Hills .”

“Man, you are just full of piss and vinegar tonight, aren't you?”

Darren kept walking, working toward the doorway leading to the house. “Come on, let's make it snappy in case the Mr and Mrs are only taking in a late show.”

To the left of the door was a small security panel with blinking green letters marching across its face. Darren read the letters and smiled.

D-I-S-A-R-M-E-D

Darren reached out to the doorknob, twisting and feeling the giving ease of an unlocked door. “We are on fire tonight.” He pushed the door open and quickly stepped into the darkness, abruptly tripping over something and falling hard.

“Damn it!” He rolled over on the floor, holding his right knee. “What the hell?”

As Mike shone his flashlight, Darren heard him let out a low troubled groan.

“We got some problems here, Dare.”

Still rubbing his knee, Darren looked at what he had tripped over. A circular saw was in the middle of the tiles. The silver cast metal was bathed in deep maroon, and there were gobs of dark, clotted material still hanging on the teeth of the blade.

“What the hell?” The dried maroon continued on the floor to a wide, dark, path and as Mike trained the light on it, Darren's eyes followed it down a hallway where carpet started, and it continued around the corner.

“Let's get the hell out of here man.” Mike put a hand down to pull Darren up. “This isn't cool. Something bad went down here.”

“Look, we're already inside. If something went down, obviously the cops don't know about it yet. And I highly doubt whoever is still left here is able to call them.” Darren looked back to the bloody saw. “Highly doubt.”

Darren reached out and found a switch, throwing low light into the hallway. A skinny, wrought-iron table stood against one wall of the hallway with pictures on it, a small reed basket with keys and change in it. A picture of a tanned forty-something guy with dark hair swept
back from his face, wearing a flowered tropical shirt and khaki shorts, smiling. Another of a Sharon Stone type of blonde with a girl of two, three years old tops. “The master of the house has done quite well for himself, hasn't he? Quite the trophy wife.” Darren walked on down the hallway, seeing the house open up to a vaulted ceiling over the living room. It could have been a double-page
spread for Better Homes and Gardens except for the fact that everything was smashed up.

There was a sectional sofa lining the room, its white foam guts spilled out into bright, screaming clumps. Pottery was smashed in a corner, reeds of some kind tumbled from their gaping, pained mouths. A glass coffee table was shattered into long shards, tilted up like glittering punji sticks. Busted pictures dotted the carpeted landscape like photographic confetti. A big screen TV had a spider web hole in the center of the screen, zigzagging out in wild, glittering lines. The ceiling fan overhead hung at an odd angle, cables ripped down from electrical roots, barely hanging on. Farther on, to the right of the living room, a countertop and the edge of a stainless steel fridge could be seen in a kitchen. A linen table cloth was pulled halfway off the dining table, several dishes and plates still there with food on them, others on the floor, a gravy boat, a casserole dish of shriveled baby carrots scattered like fingers of a jack-o-lantern. On the stairs leading to the second floor, the trail of dried gore continued up through the middle of the beige carpet.

“We should get out of here.” Mike's face was solemn and tight. “Now.”

Darren let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Don't have your smart ass attitude now, huh?” He unzipped his canvas bag. “Come on, let's get started.”

Mike watched Darren start walking toward the big screen and then slowly joined him. Once again, they began working the room, dumping cds and dvds into the bag. They were an easy thing to dump at pawn shops, and that meant fast money.

“Well looky, looky, we got nooky.” Mike held up a dvd case, its cover showing a lithe Asian woman on her knees, lavender negligee ripped open. “Nothing better than dvd porn.”

“Nice.” Darren nodded, smiling broadly. “Too bad the big screen is all bitched up or we'd take that too.”

“Sure, if you want a hernia.” Mike kicked a broken figurine out of his way and grabbed a pair of silver candlesticks. His stomach grumbled and he looked to the darkened kitchen, putting his bag down. Glancing at Darren, he shrugged as he walked by. “I'm starving to death here.”

Mike opened the fridge, casting harsh fluorescent light into the room and tapped his fingers on the sides, scanning the contents of the shelves. Withdrawing a plate, he peeked under the foil wrapping. London broil. Mike set it down and looked for something to drink. He slid open drawers and yelled out to Darren.

“Well, I'll be damned!”

“What's up?”

“Rich people besides rappers really do have a bottle of Crystal at all times.”

“I'm going upstairs.” Darren called from the living room.

Mike walked out to where Darren was, glancing again at the bloody streak trailing upstairs. “Dare, are you sure that's a good idea?”

“Will you quit worrying? Like I said, if anyone is still here, I really, really doubt they're much of a problem anymore.”

There was a small alcove in the wall that held a mini bar and Mike grabbed a decanter, not even bothering to sniff the amber liquid, just tilting it to the head and handing it off to Darren, who took it wordlessly, taking a deep swig as well. Scotch burned down his throat and a fireball blossomed in his stomach.

“All right, let's do it.” Mike picked up his loot bag and took the decanter back again.

The stairs twisted up to the left and led to a small landing in the middle of a hallway, two doors to the right and the left. Mike tapped Darren's shoulder and pointed. On the left side of the hall there were four long, red smears like drawn out exclamation points. They culminated in a full, bloody handprint right before the first door.

“Darren, this is bullshit.” Mike spoke in a low voice, sounding strained, ready to break.

“Let's start at the far end, check for jewelry and then we'll cruise, all right?” Darren sighed. “I guarantee you there's a Rolex in here worth at least five grand.”
Mike nodded. “We check for jewelry and that's it.”

“All right.” Darren started down the hall.

The dark stain led straight down the hall like the stripes on a highway and disappeared behind the last door, cracked open just a little. They began to walk softly down the hall, easing their way, listening for any sound of movement, but there was nothing but quiet. Darren turned to
the first door, motioning for Mike to go to the next.

At the foot of the door lay a stuffed, toy dog the color of Georgia clay. Across the front of its belly were several darker sprays of color and Mike looked away, tightening his grip on the crystal decanter as he edged closer.

He put his hand gently on the partially open door, easing it open so he could peek inside. Even with the dull light spilling in from the hallway, he could see that it was a child's room. Pink bears made a border at the ceiling, and there was a collection of stuffed animals huddled together at the foot of the bed. Still more on the floor.

And there she was.

A golden spray of hair was partially hidden by a flowered bedspread and Mike could see one tiny hand stretched out from beneath. Half of the girl's cherub-like face was dark and bloodied, and she stared at him with one dull, blue marble of an eye. Mike's stomach flipped and he clenched his jaws together to fight back the urge to throw up,
stumbling away from the girl and back out to the hall.

“Darren.” Mike felt cold and sweaty and as if he could piss himself right here in the middle of a million dollar hallway.

Darren came out of the room he'd been in and looked at Mike, then his gaze dropped to the girl on the floor behind him. For the first time that night, the expression on his face read that they were way past due to get the hell out of there. He looked back up at Mike and nodded, trying hard to form words.

“Let's... let's go.”
Down the hallway, there was a familiar whooshing sound of a toilet flushing.

“Get back!” Darren hissed the words through gritted teeth, and tucked himself to the wall. Mike crouched down low, gripping the decanter, ready to swing. A man stepped from the end door, stopping at the head of the stairs, wild eyes shifting back and forth from Darren and Mike.

“Can you smell it?” His hair was splayed up all around his head in a stiff nebula. Dressed only in a pair of dark silk boxers and a white t-shirt, he was soaked in the same dried maroon that decorated the carpet and walls.

Darren blinked at him. It felt as if his heart was ready to throw a gear and burst from his chest.

“CAN YOU SMELL IT?” The man's raised voice was rough; work boots crunching on gravel. His expression hardened.

“I... I don't...” Darren's mouth was dry; his head felt like it was going to float away from his body.

The man's undershirt blossomed pink at his collarbone and ribs, the color seeping through from beneath the cloth. His face was a pristine example of scrubbed meat, his blue eyes sapphires on red velvet, and then Darren noticed his left arm, or rather what was left of it. Just above the elbow there was a belt tightly looped and buckled. Below the black leather there was nothing but the stringy, congealed remnants of a stump.

The man lowered his head and sighed, his expression softening, resigning his stance, as if he were talking to children. He took a step closer into the light, raising both arms, gesturing pleadingly, and in the stump Darren saw a white core of bone like a center cut of bloody ham.

“All right. All right. I apologize.” His voice suddenly gentle, placid, the man ran his hand over his face, back through his hair, matting it down only slightly. “I'm sorry. I...” He looked genuinely upset with himself, his eyes glassy, tearful, as he shook his head. “I forget that not everyone can notice it. My name's Gary .” He began to offer his hand to shake, then stopped halfway, seeming to think better of it. Glancing down at the decanter in Mike's hands, he smiled. “I'd offer you a drink, but it seems as if you've found that department already.” He gestured with his good arm, pointing downstairs to the living room. “Please, sit down. Bring the scotch if you want. I'd like to talk and I need somebody to help me. I... I can't do it by myself.”

Darren backed up slowly, feeling Mike moving behind him. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but he desperately wished he was somewhere else; getting drunk at a bar, with Debbie at her parent's place, any-frigging-place-on-Earth instead of here.

Gary started ahead of them, strolling comfortably down the steps and walking toward the loveseat. Without even thinking, Darren started following him, shooting a glance at Mike, whose face had bleached of color. There was a split second where it seemed like it might work out.
They'd sit down on the couch, play therapist for a while and figure out what the hell happened, and then leave, having one hell of a story to tell over lots and lots of beer. A split second. But when they reached the bottom of the steps, Mike dropped his bag and the decanter and
started running toward the garage.

“Mike, no!” Darren screamed, but it was useless. The only choice he had was to run along with him. In the space of eight long strides they reached the door, but not before a heavy, metallic thump signaled the security system driving deadbolts home. Mike pulled at the knob, stepping back and kicking it. Gary came walking around the corner, smiling.

One more fruitless kick at the doorknob and both Mike and Darren turned to look at their captor.

“The alarm is top of the line, I assure you. Deadbolts on every door, shatterproof glass in every window.” In his one good hand, Gary held a remote control for the security system. Cradled between his elbow and shoulder was an axe, both the pointed side and the blade darkly crusted and patterned, recently used. He tossed the remote to the carpet and brought the axe straight down, smashing the remote to fragments, then looked up at them again. “Please, I need your help.”

“Three weeks ago was when it really started coming on strong.” Gary looked down at his lap as he spoke, the axe handle propped between his legs. “It got so I couldn't even stand going into department stores anymore. The first time I noticed at all was about six months ago. I stopped at a BMW dealer and thought I was going to suffocate right in the frigging showroom. The smell was so thick I threw up in the middle of the salesman explaining why the 7 series is the best bang for my buck. Shrimp bisque right on his $120 shoes. He was so pissed off you wouldn't believe.” Gary snorted laughter.” This house reeks of it.” Gary looked around the destroyed living room.

“It becomes engrained in you after a while, embedded in your DNA.” He raised his stump, detachedly examining the ruined edges. “It takes a while to single it out, but once you do, oh sweet Mary, once you do, you can't not smell it. You can't go back to the way things were before.”
Beads of sweat were fading lines through the caked blood on the sides of Gary 's face, the hair at his temples wet and plastered to his skin.

Darren studied the room, looking for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. There were canvases torn from the walls, gaping holes in the drywall like empty sockets where teeth had been ripped out. Frames smashed and broken, paintings torn in half. Most of the coffee table in front of them had been shattered, but on the one remaining corner Darren noticed several dark clumps of material. It took him a few moments to realize they were steel wool pads, bloodied pieces of flesh still entwined in the metal fibers. He looked back at the raw mess of Gary 's face and the ruined end of his
arm and Darren's stomach lurched.

“What... is it that you smell?” Darren kept his words low and soft, trying to sound as calm as possible.

Gary looked up abruptly, looking surprised that someone else had spoken.

“The stink of greed.” He shook his head and motioned around the room with his good arm. “It's infectious. You two, I think, are okay, but you can never be sure.”

Gary walked to the big screen TV, lifting a picture of his wife from the top. “It's all through this place like a cancer, and by the time I found out we were infected, it was... I thought we'd make it but then I smelled it on Lyn and that was the beginning of it all. It spread so fast.” He put the picture face down on top of the TV. “I tried so hard to cure her. Nothing would help. No amount of scrubbing did anything. Scalding water. Bleach. Ajax . Didn't matter. That stuff's no use. The only way to cure it is to cut it free.If thine eye offends thee...” Gary gave a low laugh, shaking his head.

“I thought at first it was only in her leg and for a day or two after I took care of that, she seemed all right, but it came back. Lyn kept denying it even then, begging me to take her to a doctor. She couldn't sense it yet. But it came back so hard.” He turned to them both; his eyes were distant, pupils like dark pond water, dredging memories to the surface. “It was in her skin, her hair, and lungs. I'm sure that's how I got it. I could smell it on her sweat as heavy as a whore's perfume. I could taste it on her breath. I kissed her right before she went away.” He put up his hand defensively, shaking his head. “I know, I know. Stupid of me. But Lyn was my wife. I loved her. It was just it was too late.”

Gary 's face crumpled in on itself and he released one deep sob before exhaling forcefully and hardening again. He vigorously shook his head from side to side, letting out a low growl and shaking off his emotions, sniffling hard. He nodded at his stump. “Worst part of this? Washing my damn hands.”

Gary let out a harsh, barking laugh. “Or hand, I should say. But better this than the shit I was headed for. I'm just thankful I found it before it was too late. I got it just in time. That damn circular saw came through for me. Thank God I bought the high end carbide blade.” He snorted laughter again, waving his arms slightly and Darren got another good look at his stump, the bone sticking out like a pink exclamation point, the shadowy middle filled with clotted marrow. He strained his eyes to get a better look at the belt tourniquet wrapped around Gary 's bicep and saw the stamped gold buckle. Gucci.

Darren felt Mike nudge his foot and he glanced quickly at him. Mike nodded in the direction where Gary had been sitting. He had left the axe, upside down, handle leaning against the couch.

“And Haley.” Gary turned, chewing on his lower lip. “When you're young I think it hides itself better. It's intelligent you know? Clever how it works its way inside.” He put a hand to his mouth, rubbing his lips, and then down to his throat. “Once I realized Haley was too far gone I
made it quick. I already knew there was no way for me to save her. I didn't allow her to suffer, because after Lyn... after Lyn I learned sometimes you can't save the ones you love no matter how hard you try. Sometimes the only option is just to cut and run.”

Darren tapped Mike's leg as he silently mouthed the words, “He's only got one arm,” then gave simple directions with his fingers, pointing. You go for the axe, I'll go for him.

“But that's all in the past. We've got to concentrate on the present and the future right now.” Gary turned to look at them and smiled a weak smile. And Darren and Mike jumped from the couch.

They lunged for him, and Gary snapped free, eyes wild, pupils wide and blown out like a barn owl's. He turned at just the right moment, twisting away from Mike's grabbing hands and jumping toward the axe. Just as Darren reached for him, Gary swung the axe in an uppercut, sinking deeply into the side of Darren's hip. It pulled free with a wet, sucking sound like a boot pulling from mud and an obscene spray of red shot out. Darren shrieked and dropped to the floor. Mike stumbled over the coffee table, the jagged blades slicing gouges in his thigh, and jumped on Gary , the axe falling to the floor as he dug fingers into the stump of Gary 's arm, feeling crusted wounds and rough, wet bone. Gary 's eyes fluttered like moths close to a light bulb and he fell to his knees, punching at Mike and making gurgling noises. Grabbing the axe by the bladed end, Mike lifted it high overhead and brought the handle down on Gary 's skull with a flat wooden thump. Darren's hip was positively spouting. A gush of blood was ribboning out on the carpet in hot pulses, and Mike could see his face begin to change as he was going into shock. He pulled a pillow from the couch, pressing it down on Darren's hip and pulling Darren's hands up to push on it.

“Dare, hang on man, you're gonna be all right.” He ran toward the door to the garage again, looking at the digital alarm.

A-R-M-E-D

“Shit!” Mike turned back, trying a door to the right. It swung in easily and the overwhelming smell of household cleaners hit him full force, along with the sweet smell of old death. It was a small bathroom, and sitting on the toilet was the lady of the manor, blonde locks of hair swept back, face ablaze and bubbling with powdered blue cleanser. Both accusing eyes were open and shriveled back in their dark sockets. Mouth a wide, silent scream, teeth and blistered tongue stained azure. The front of her lavender nightgown was splattered with bloody Morse code and the neckline and shoulders of her gown were bleach spotted.

Mike stumbled backward into the hall, almost falling, and a low, mournful groan came from Darren.

“Hang on Dare!” Mike looked up at the ceiling and saw a sprinkler system, then turned and ran for the kitchen. The oven was a large stainless steel mate to the fridge, and Mike turned every dial on the front, the gas burners firing immediately. Shrugging off his jacket, Mike pulled his t-shirt off and rooted around in the drawers until he found a spatula, twisting the shirt around and around, tying it, and then putting it over the burner, watching the flames lick the cloth and catch fire.

From the living room the unmistakable, whining peel of a circular saw rang out and Mike felt his body go cold as he heard Darren scream.

Gary was standing with the saw, bending toward Darren's ankles when Mike tackled him from the side, screaming and rubbing the burning shirt into Gary 's face. They both flipped over the loveseat, tumbling to the floor, the saw's screaming whine stopping as it fell. Gary howled, high-pitched and feminine, and began clawing at his cheeks with his good hand, the ruined arm flailing uselessly at his side, Gucci belt twisting and flapping like an exotic snake. Gary was rolling over and over, trying to staunch the flames on his face, and that's when Mike picked up the decanter with the scotch, sprinkling it over Gary like holy water and making the flames turn bright cyan and leap higher still. Gary began flopping in wild, heaving convulsions, his wails growing to a sharp, thin crescendo and then he was still, the flames and smoke rolling from him in grey, stinking plumes to the ceiling. It smelled of over-roasted hot dogs at summer camp.

There was a sudden loud pop overhead, and the sprinklers began to rain down on the room. A secondary thump, and Mike ran to the alarm again.

D-I-S-A-R-M-E-D

“Time to get the hell out of here.” He turned to get Darren, and that's when the door to the garage busted open, policemen and medics pouring through in a mad rush.

“What would you have done if the sprinklers hadn't kicked the alarm off? We would have been barbecued in there. Did that even occur to you?” Darren stared at Mike, waiting for an answer, a loopy, half smile on his face.

“You're always so damn negative.” Mike punched him in the arm.

“Besides, Byron's not the only one who knows things. 105 stitches. You're lucky to be alive, son.” The doctor walked into the operating room and smiled at Darren. He was bald on top, neatly trimmed gray beard and mustache hiding his middle-aged face. “If you had been hit at a slightly different angle, you would have bled out before you got to the ambulance, much less to the hospital.” He took a closer look at the long, vulgar gash in Darren's hip, the black stitches train-tracking along the edge of his pelvis. “You'll be in physical therapy, probably using a walker for a while, but other than that, you'll be fine. There was no damage to the bone, only the muscle tissue.”

“A walker? I'll be the only twenty-something geriatric in the ward.” Darren gave a weak smile. Even through whatever they had given him for the pain, his hip still throbbed and pulsed with a heavy, aching heartbeat of its own, but the doc was right. He was lucky to be alive.

There was a surgical cart beside him, rows of instruments neatly lined up. Darren didn't remember it, but people had been hard at work here. Wads of bloodied gauze were gripped in polished sutures. A bone saw, its blade still thankfully unblemished, was beside a pair of bloodied surgical gloves.

“The police will want to have some questions answered when you go to a recovery room, but I kept them out of the O.R. At least for a little while.” The doctor smiled again, putting his hand out to shake.

Darren looked at the small rectangle of wire mesh window at the entrance door and saw a cop staring at him.

“Thanks.” Darren grasped the doctor's hand and shook. His hands were smooth and clinic cold. “Thanks a lot.”

The doctor walked from the room, pausing outside the door to say something to the officer.

“What the hell are we going to tell the cops?” Mike let out a heavy sigh.

Darren ran a hand back over his head and gingerly touched his bloodied lip. “Not too sure about that yet.” He caught the fetid smell of rotted meat. It was foul. Rancid. A bloated corpse in the August sun. He jerked his hand away from his face.

“Dare? You okay?”

“Yeah. I'm... I'm just really tired.” Darren slowly raised his hand up to within inches of his face. The stench was coming off his skin in rippling waves and he could feel the sickly heat there as it spread, marching through his bloodstream. His stomach boiled inside, empty, but
threatening to force dry heaves before he jerked his hand away again.

He looked back at the doctor standing in the hall. The man smiled at him, raising his hand in a wave, and for the first time, Darren noticed the doctor was wearing a gold Rolex.

A warm feeling of resignation came over Darren, and by the time he grabbed the bone saw and flicked the power switch, it was too late for anyone to stop the blade from doing what simply needed to be done.

##