"We should have sent you on your way. I should not have kept you."

Septimus turned around. A small smile sneaked back to his face, drawing up the sides of his mouth in a parody of real mirth.

"Terris is here," he said. "I feel him here. We will just have to set aside our differences to take care of this...small issue."

"Small issue? You're full of shit. That's my fucking wife we're talking about."

Septimus just shook his head. "It will be resolved quickly. As I've said to you before, Bill, guys your age are so full of themselves. It's actually kind of heartening, to see it. Do you want your wife back?"

"Of course I do."

"Then do not interfere."

"Why?" said Bill."Why us? Why did you do this to her? I don't understand."

"Who really understands anything, darling?" said Septimus. "Chalk this up under one of the billion things that you'll never figure out. My advice to you is to just play along, dear. Make your magic and obey your friend, and try to be happy while you're doing it. That is the ultimate secret of happiness in the universe, darling."

Bill had his head in his hands. He rubbed his forehead to soothe away the headache building up behind his eyes.

"I wish I were dead," he said. "I've never wished I were dead before. But now...."

"Don't be such a storm cloud," said Septimus. "There are still pleasures to be had in the world. And if we can get your wife back, that's another pleasure for you! Good for you!Well, looks like your wife has gotten her truck. I hope you're as psyched for this as I am. Are you, Bill? Are you ready?"

Septimus was pointing. Bill looked behind him and saw the eighteen-wheeler rolling silently into the front gates of the casino.

Twenty-Seven.

"Come on," said Septimus. "Let's surprise her."

Before Bill realized what was happening, Septimus had grabbed him by the wrist. The grip wasn't tight, but pain shot through Bill's bones and through his spine.

Then Septimus was dragging over the blacktopa*

a*and he found himself standing on the back of the tractor trailer.

"Shit!" he said, flailing around for a handhold. His feet were on the rear bumper-thingy, with the back door rattling inches in front of his face.

Bill's hand found something cold and hard. He swung his head around and saw that he'd grabbed a thin chain that dangled from someplace on top of the trailer. It supported his weight, and he quickly brought up his other hand to reinforce his grip.

Bill looked down, and realized that the truck was still rolling. But there was no engine noise; the only sound was the soft hum of the tires over the tarmac.

"This is going to be fun fun fun," said Septimus.

Bill looked beside him. Septimus stood on the bumper with his hands flat against the door. "Do cheer up, darling," he said. "Remember: take pleasure in life when you may."

They went over a couple of gentle bumps that rocked the truck. Bill nearly fell off on the second jolt, the chain links digging into his hands. Septimus just rode and smiled to himself, stuck to the door like a fly on a wall.

They passed over the flowerbed, the blossoms blurring underneath their feet. The truck shook and rattled, and Bill fought the urge to close his eyes.

Then they slowed, crawled to a stop. The movement was gentle, barely noticeable.

For a moment, Bill didn't move. Then he looked to Septimus, who had taken his massive white hands from the door and now held them casually at his sides.

"What now?" asked Bill.

"Shh," said Septimus, holding his finger up to his lips. "Listen."

"For what?"

"Listen!"

Bill too his hands from the chain. Red welts cross-hatched his palms. But no blood. Thank God for small favors.

Septimus hopped down from the truck. He landed soundlessly on the balls of his feet, turned, and gestured to Bill. "Come down," he whispered.

Bill eased his way off the bumper, his boots clopping onto the pavement despite the care he took to be stealthy. His pulse raced, and the blood rushing through his head flooding out some of the incipient headache. His hands shook from a combined muscle strain and adrenaline.

Septimus glided to him, his face uncomfortably close. The blood had dried to a brown film.

"They're coming," said Septimus. "Around to the other side. Now!"

He grabbed Bill's wrist again, but this time no enchantments flowed through his fingers: it was a simple gesture of urgency. Bill allowed the demon to lead him to the left side of the truck, where they halted next to the first set of tires. Their rubber looked slick and shiny, as if the truck had plowed through a puddle of baby oil.

Septimus lowered his mouth to Bill's ear. "Stay here," he said, the enthusiasm in his voice barely restrained. "We'll let her load them first. Then, lock the door. Lock all of the conscripts in there. Deal with her ourselves, after that."

Bill swallowed, peered behind him. His pulse slammed in his neck and at his wrists, and sweat trickled from his armpits and slid down his sides like the tips of tickling fingers.

Over the pounding of his heart in his ears, he heard many feet over the sidewalk. No voices raised above the noise; as if an army of mutes were on the march.

Bill ventured another look behind him. Filling most of his vision was the dull metal wall of the trailer.

"They're coming," said Septimus. "Don't worry. They're coming."

Bill looked down. The space between the bottom of the trailer and the road was a good four feet.

Without asking for permission, Bill kneeled next to the tire, and squinted into the gloom underneath the truck.

"Keep yourself hidden," whispered the demon.

As he peered through the opening, he saw the first set of feet. They wore an expensive brown pair of leather dress shoes, with socks pulled up over bare hairy legs. Blood smeared the man's flesh, in artless trails and whorls, like a kindergarten student had used him for a gory finger-painting.

"Quiet," said Septimus unnecessarily. "Loading up."

More pairs of feet appeared behind the first. Bill saw a woman's bare feet, the toenails painted a cheery sunshine yellow. A set with high heels and an obviously broken ankle. Combat boots. Converse sneakers.

It appeared that the dead were walking in a single-file alongside the truck.

"Loading up," said Septimus.

Then came the sound of the chain rattling. Bill startled when he heard it, clutched at the tire in front of him.

Then a vibration shook the truck as the back door of the trailer slid open, rattling upward on its rolling tracks.

Then, silence.

Bill looked to his right, and saw the feet wearing the expensive pair of brown shoes standing in front of the trailer. Then the owner of the shoes grunted, and one of the legs disappeared, then the other.

Bill watched as another pair of legs followed the same process. Then another and another and another, until the noise of feet walking through the trailer in front of him became a cacophony.

But he never once heard a raised voice or complaint. Indeed, there were no voices at all.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, after several minutes. "How many?" A horrible image of his wife came to mind. He saw her raise the cobalt-blue knife and swipe it down across some poor bastard's throat, spraying blood across a white carpet....

He shook his head, wiped his eyes.

After another couple of minutes, the amount of people hauling themselves onto the back of the truck decreased. Bill had lost count of them. At least a hundred, and probably more. His wife had raised herself a formidable army. Its size surely rivaled the ranks he'd seen spread out around Septimus' campfire, or the platoons that had their little war outside of the cabin.

Then, the line ended. Bill watched as one more pair of feeta*wearing purple Doc Martensa*shuffle around the side of the truck, and then disappear as their owner hauled themselves up. A shallow puddle of blood had spread next to the open door, seeping downhill toward the flower beds.

"That's it, I suppose," whispered Septimus. "Sure there are more in there. She'd bring more of them if they could fit. Would load that fucker up like she was taking chickens to the farm. Ha ha ha."

"Shut the fuck up," said Bill without turning around. He stared at the pool of blood running down the sidewalk, oozing into the flowers.

Then, as his gaze wandered underneath the trailer, he saw a final pair of legs.

They had cuffs rolled up almost to the knee, revealing calves with paper-white skin. On the feet were a pair of blood-splattered white Converse sneakers.

Bill swallowed again. His throat itched and he curled his hands around the tire. Constance's face invaded his mind's eye, pale and purple-eyed.

"She's here," said Septimus.

Bill ignored the demon and stared at his wife's feet.

Constance paused behind the truck. The chain thunked against the door again and again it rattled, as if she were checking to make sure everything was locked. Just like a concerned soccer mom, strapping in her brood before a long trip. Then there was a thud against the door, as if a body had been slammed against it.

"All set in there?" Constance asked.

No response, of course.

Constance's feet stayed put. Bill held his breath, watching the blood from the puddle beneath her feet wick up into the white canvas of her sneakers.

One of her hands reached down into view, and tugged at her sock. The hand also held the knife. The clean blade shattered the afternoon sunlight into dancing shards at her feet. Bill thought of the light refracting from her wedding ring as they sat in the Jeep, well before they came into the forest, and the back of his throat squeezed like there was a hand around it.

Constance's hand disappeared again, bringing the blue knife with it. She sighed.

"I know you're behind there," she said. "Come out. Come on."

Before Bill could do anything, Septimus was striding in front of him, slapping his massive white hands onto the metal of the trailer.

"Constance!" yelled the demon, his voice huge and jovial. "We love, love, love what you've done with the place! And so thank you for getting replenishments! This is wonderful!"

"Shit, what the fuck are you doing?" demanded Bill, as he stumbled to his feet and lurched after Septimus.

Constance grinned when she saw them. She raised the blue knife.

"Septimus, you're next," she said.

The demon stopped abruptly. Bill ran into his back, nearly smashing his nose flat on his broad back.

"Dreaming in Hell," said Septimus, his voice quiet. "What did you do?"

"Had fun fun fun," said Constance. She pointed her knife at the truck, but looked at Bill. "Darling!" she said. "You came back! Indecisive much?" She laughed.

Bill didn't laugh. He followed the point of her knife.

There on the back of the truck was Terris.

Or Terris' body.

The chain circled his neck like a noose. He swung from the door, his ankles bumping the metal. Constance had sliced off the top of his head, and his newly-halved brain quivered like gray pudding in the cranial cavity.

His tongue stuck out. His eyes bugged.

"This is me now," said Constance, pointing to herself "So I guess it's you and me, Septimus."

She laughed a terrible laugh and pointed the knife at Billa*

Twenty-Eight.

a*and he remembered Constance on the first day of their senior year.

He saw her standing at the entrance to the cafeteria. It was after school, about three-thirty. She was in a playa"Shakespeare or some shit.

Rodney Dolanz stood next to her, his skinny arms folded across his chest, his fat tongue licking his pale lips after he said anything. Rodney wore a red felt tunic, along with a pair of cheap sunglasses.

Constance wore a white floor-length dress, some kind of costume for the play. A series of lace X's stitched up her back, accentuating the curve of her spine.