To his left was a snack bar. It too was empty. Nobody in front of or behind the counter.

And besides the thudding of his heart in his ears, the place was silent. Though the lights were all on, and the machines glowed, not one of them made a sound.

He made his way onto a concourse that wrapped around the main casino. The carpet was a tessellation of stylized brown leaves, and he found himself thinking back to the forest where this had all began. The cabin, the woods, Septimus lurking on hilltops, Constance sitting beside him in the Jeepa*

The Jeep.

Bill stopped running, wiped the sweat off of his brow.

They'd arrived in the Jeep.

Surely it was still there.

Then he looked up, ready to run again, and realized that he was in a lobby. Behind him was a long brown marble counter that looked as long as half a football field. Above him, sunlight streamed in through a dome of stained glass, leaving pools of green and blue and red on the white marble floor. And in front of him were glass doors, leading to the car ports outside.

A pink and white Cadillac Escalade was jammed onto the curb, its passenger's side door ajar, all of its windows broken. Fresh blood smeared the sidewalk.

And in the middle distance, a row of artificially bright flowers.

And the Jeep.

Without another thought, he ran to the glass doors. An electric eye sensed his presence, and a pane slid silently aside as he jogged through.

"In the flowers," he repeated to himself. "In the fucking flowers."

Just beyond the car park, there was a kind of median that stretched alongside the building. Blue, purple, and white flowers were planted there, looking healthy and well-tended. Pulled up into the middle of the flowers was the Jeep. A trail of ruined flowers lay behind it, their blossoms pulped underneath the tires.

He was acutely aware of the silence as he ran to the Jeep. There wasn't even any traffic noise. No birds, either. Just the sound of his heavy breathing, and the clop of his boots on the pavement.

He ran around to the driver's side. The door dangled open, but there was nobody inside.

Bill threw himself into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and felt in his pockets for the keys.

"Shit," he said. "Shit shit..."

Bill pulled his hands from his pockets and peered to the side of the steering column. And there were the keys, plugged into the ignition and swaying gently.

"All right," said Bill. He twisted the key and was gratified when the Jeep's engine sputtered into life. He shifted it into neutral, and his hand came away from the knob sticky. He wiped it against his shirt, not bothering to look down and see what the substance was. He knew what it wasa*blood, from somewhere on Constance. From her own body or the body or someone else's.

Bill jammed the Jeep into first gear. He tore through the remaining flowers. When he reached the pavementa*smooth and black as a vinyl recorda*he accelerated too fast, chirping the tires.

He popped it into neutral, letting the engine coast while he grabbed his seatbelt and pulled it across his chest. He needed to do some pretty fast driving.

But to where?

There were only two options. He could go back to the woods. But, at this pointa"why? What possible business could there possibly be there? Let Septimus and Terris and the thing who had been his wife fight their disgusting little war there.

The other option was fleeing. He could go back to their little apartment, fling himself onto the bed, and drink the bottle of champagne that was still in the back of the Jeep. When he woke up, he could take it from there. Perhaps call his dad and tell him some fake-o elaborate story about how his wife had left him.

Or maybe just drive, and keep on driving until he reached the end of the Jeep's gas tank, and then get out and walk.

Bill blinked hard and wiped his face. "Just drive away," he told himself.

He found himself at the end of the long driveway, leading out of the casino and onto the access road.

There were cars parkeda*or just stoppeda*on the sides of the road. He passed one beat-up blue Ford Escort. It was up on the grass median, a white starburst pattern in the windshield where the driver's head had hit the glass. The passenger hung out the window. It was a woman as fat as Mary, with her arms out as if she were diving off of a high board.

And there were more cars. Bill knew that if he looked into them he would see similar scenes. He didn't want to think about them. Didn't want to see them. Of course his wife was responsible, somehow, for all those people's deaths. How had her influence gone outside of the casino? Was it like a radiation, with the only limit of its destructiveness the whims of her twisted brain? Probably true. Like she had said: she could do pretty much whatever she wanted. If she wanted to slaughter an entire town, then so be it.

Bill smashed on the brakes at the stoplight. It was pure reflex; there was no practical need to stop short. He was between two high granite pillars, carved to look like the profiles of Indians. Fires burned on the tops of the pillars, sputtering in the cold air.

Bill pulled out, to the right. There were signs up for route 95 east and west. If he went west, he would be heading back for the woods; if he went east, he could go back to the apartment, or to his dad's, or just keep on driving....

There were no cars on the road. He shifted into third, pushing the Jeep's engine hard. Soon he was at sixty, his hands clawed over the wheel. "Get the fuck out of here," he heard himself say. "Goodbyea*"

Then he saw the devil's face.

Twenty-Five.

"No," he said. "No no no."

About thirty meters ahead of him was a bright green highway sign, suspended above the road with metal struts.

Bill popped the Jeep into neutral, took his foot off of the gas.

"No," he said. "No no no."

The Jeep slowed, the tires humming on the rough road.

The face was easily ten feet tall. The teeth were jagged slashes, the eyes open in a wild cartoonish stare. Its the edge of the sign cut off the tops of its horns, as if the artist had run out of room.

And it was painted in blood.

"Fuck no, fuck no," he said. "This is not happening. Not happening."

The Jeep lost momentum as it rolled toward the sign, the sound of the tires on pavement deepening in pitch as he slowed. Bill could do nothing but stare at the devil face and swear to himself.

He remembered what had happened back in the woods, when they'd tried to escape the first time.

Bill braced himself for the sound of the engine grinding to a halt; and indeed it came. The noise was violent for three or four seconds, as if every moving part had suddenly exploded.

Then it eased into a nervous ticking, like there were clocks stuffed under the hood.

The Jeep rolled to s stop.

Then nothing but stillness and silence.

Bill closed his eyes.

"No," he said.

He reached down, eyes still shut, and located the keys dangling from the steering column. He seized the ignition key and gave it a twist.

Nothing.

"Come on," he said. "Come on. Can raise the dead. Must be able to raise a fuckin' car."

Again he twisted. Again, nothing.

He opened his eyes and rubbed them. The road ahead of him was empty. The bright late-autumn sunlight slanted through the trees on either side of the road.

Bill popped open the door and swung his legs out. The stillness and silence surrounded him, oppressive as smog.

He walked in front of the Jeep.

"All right," he called into the distance. "Get this over with."

Silence answered him.

"Dispense with the fucking cuteness."

Bill felt his legs muscles freeze. The force came harder than the last time he'd felt it in the forest, what seemed like a hundred years ago.

"All right," he said. "Say *no.'"

"No," came the voice.

"All right, now march me around."

As he spoke, he walked back to the Jeep. He regained control of his legs as he bumped into the fender.

Bill took a deep breath.

"Come on," he said. "Show yourself. I know that you're here. Constance didn't put these up."

"No, she didn't," said Septimus. "Are you tired, Bill? You look like your wife just left you. Ha ha ha."

Twenty-Six.

Septimus stood next to the Jeep, his massive arms crossed. Blood smeared his face and shirt. For some reason, his feet were bare. His toenails curled out from his feet, and shone a piss-yellow.

And he was not smiling.

"You got away," said Septimus. "A casino?"

Bill turned to fully face the man. Septimus' eyes were now either dark purple or black, just like his wife's. "Not my idea," he said "A casino? She could have gone anywhere in the world. Anywhere, asshole. Chose this scummy dump." Septimus rubbed his face. The gesture made him look astonishingly vulnerable and tired, like a factory worker at the end of a long shift. He brought his hand away and the blood was smudged to a pink streak.

"It wasn't my idea," Bill said again. "I think she wanted to bring me here because we were going to come here for our honeymoona*"

"Shut up," snapped Septimus.

He unfolded his arms, and sat on the hood of the Jeep. His bulk made the shocks squeal.

"She was not supposed to be given this," he said. "Not supposed to be." Septimus stared out into the road as he spoke. "Terris violated our arrangement. Mr. Logic violated our arrangement. That changes things. Changes a lot."

"So you put up faces here instead?" asked Bill, pointing to the sign.

Septimus ignored the question. "Did you see her?" he demanded. Did you see her there in the hotel?"

"Of course I did."

"What was she doing?"

"Why the fuck should I tell you?"

"Because I can stop it."

Septimus stood up. The Jeep rocked on its suspension.

"Was never supposed to happen," he said. "This was just for amusement."

Then, to Bill's alarm, Septimus reached out and put a massive white hand on his shoulder. Bill went to pull himself away, but couldn't move from underneath the pressure.

"She's getting her own," said Septimus. "More dead boys for her. That's what she's doing."

Bill crossed his arms. It was cold on the deserted street. The autumn wind snapped through his clothes. The air smelled like new pavement and leaf mold and exhaust.

"I know," he said.

"Not your fault," said Septimus. "I feel sorry for you."

"What?"

"For you and your wife."

"What?"