And there was Septimus. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, his white hands nearly glowing in the darkness.

"Have to get back to camp, Travis. I'm most upset," said the tall man.

"Come on, man," whined Travis.

"No, Travis. No," said Septimus. He pointed at Bill. "And apparently you're nauseating him as well. Shame on you."

Travis sighed. Bill saw his lungs inflate, deflate.

"All right," said Travis. "Can I at least finish this one sandwich? I mean, I don't think he's going to want it again."

"You may ask him."

Travis turned around. There were pieces of sandwich in his beard.

"Don't mind, do you bro?" asked Travis, smiling through rotting teeth.

Bill coughed. "All yours," he said hoarsely.

"Now, Travis darling," said Septimus, "please get back to the camp. I have some business here."

"All right," said Travis. He sighed again and stuffed the sandwich back into his pocket. "Do I have to come back?"

"Yes."

"Bummer."

Travis shrugged. He turned to the dark woods, and took a couple of shambling steps past Septimus. The giant turned and watched Travis go, a smile playing over his white face.

Then he turned back to Bill. "Well," he said.

Bill braced himself against the door. He felt his fingertips running over the scars on his palm.

And through his nausea, he once again felt anger washing over him. His hand clenched into his fist. An image of Constance, lying on the ground and clutching her wounded face, burned into his mind's eye. He backed even closer into the door.

"Sorry," said Septimus, taking a silent step forward. "Travis forgets his place. Forgivable forgivable sin. A favor, darling? Take the flashlight out of my face?"

"No," said Bill. In defiance, he shone it into Septimus' eyes. The huge man didn't so much as blink. "I'll light you up however I want to, fucker."

Septimus laughed. "You're a young man, aren't you, Bill? Haven't been through much death?"

"No," said Bill. His heart beat wildly, and he wiped sweat from his eyes. "But I'll kill you."

Septimus laughed.

"Bill, William, darling," he said. "You could not kill me if you had all the tanks and planes and helicopters and bombs in the universe. Boom boom boom." Septimus snapped his fingers, the sound like little gunshots. "Stow the machismo, darling."

Septimus stopped about three meters away. Bill forced himself to look into the man's eyes, which had become a glistening black.

"Don't," said Bill. "Let us go. We didn't do anythinga""

"Too late, darling," said Septimus.

"You hurt us. You hurt my wife."

"Necessary evil," said Septimus. "And, darling, you weren't really hurt. Is there still a wound?"

Bill said nothing. He scratched the scars on his palm.

"No. Of course there isn't. If I wanted you dead, Bill, then I would have killed you. All I've done is give you a mark, like mine." Septimus stroked the scar on his cheek. "It won't protect you totally from Terris, but if he sees it, it's going to give him pause."

Bill stared at the man. He was right: if he wanted them dead, he could have done it by now, and many times over. Or maybe turned them into something like Travis, shambling through the woods, holding in its torn-up guts.

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," said Septimus. "I know I would. Do you want to know what's going on, Bill?"

Bill swallowed, ignoring the aftertaste of vomit.

"No," he said.

"Yes you do," said Septimus. "We shall talk."

"No. I'm not leaving her."

"No worries," said Septimus. "She will be relatively safe. And I will bring you back before the morning, when the fun's going to begin."

Septimus looked off into the forest. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

"Some of them follow me wherever I go. Nothing I can do about it," said the tall man, not looking away from the trees. "Mary, Mary. Such a flirt."

"What are you doing?" demanded Bill.

"Posting a guard," said Septimus. "For your peace of mind, if nothing else." Then, to the trees: "Mary, come on. Come out."

"Mr. Smith," came a thick voice from the darkness. "Who is this little prick?"

"He's our guest," said Septimus. "Be nice. And for God's sake cover yourself up. Bill, this is Mary."

Before Bill could look away, Mary stepped out of the forest.

"I smell chicken salad," she said.

She was horrifically fat.

"There's no more left," said Septimus.

"Is there?" Mary demanded. She looked right at Bill, her eyes shining. Tracks of moisture ran down her cheeks, as if she'd been crying, and were caught in the rolls of lard around her neck. Something on her neck gleamed, and Bill realized it was a band of gold. Or, rather, bandsa"countless gold chains of wildly varying thicknesses. Bill thought absurdly of Mr. T.

Mary wore a white dress, or the remains of one. Blood and dirt and God knew what other kind of filth soiled it from hem to collar. Mary's feet protruded out from the bottom, massive pillars of undifferentiated flesh.

Then Mary laughed. The sound was like a choking dog.

"Travis," she said. "I'll catch up to that boy yet. I'll take him over my knee and spank his fanny! Smack smack smack!"

Septimus stepped to her side. "Stay here and watch Bill's wife. Let nothing in. Do not let her out until we return."

"Can I sit?" asked Mary.

"If you wish."

Mary smiled. Her teeth were black and brown. "All right."

She did not sit so much as tumble to the ground. Bill thought she had actually fallen on her ass, and would roll across the ground until she bashed into the cabin like a wrecking ball. But she stayed put, her gold chains swaying on her massive neck.

"Stayin' put," she said. "But the war's not on yet, Mr. Smith."

"Can never be too careful," said Septimus. "Knowing the heinous proclivities of my opponent."

"Whatever that means," said Mary, and laughed again. Then she turned to Bill. "Little wifey's gonna be just fine with me and the others, little man. You go and run off with your new friend."

Then came a noise that sounded like a dirt bike plowing through a forest trail at full speed.

"Oh, God, Mary," said Septimus.

"Been holdin' that one in for awhile," said Mary, waving her hand in front of her face. "Oh, shit."

Then the smell hit Bill, and he gagged.

"Dear Lord," said Septimus. "Poor Bill shall vomit again."

The smell was even worse than a rotting Travis. It was like a dozen full port-a-potties had been dropped from a helicopter and smashed to bits right in front of him.

Bill pinched his nose shut, but he could smell it even breathing through his mouth.

"All right, my friend," said Septimus. "Your wife will be safe. You have my personal guarantee."

Bill heard, off in the woods, more footsteps, crashing through the forest floor. And whispering filled the darkness.

Bill took his hand away from his mouth. The stench had dissipated only somewhat..

"I'm not leaving her," he said.

"Yes, you are," said Septimus. "She will be fine. You have my word. I could make you come, Bill. Do you like being in control of your own body?"

Bill clenched his teeth. More threats.

"No choice then," he said.

"No. You don't. Then, Bill, will you join me? I haven't got all night."

Slowly, Bill peeled himself off of the door.

Constance. No choice but to leave her.

He prayed she was still in her bed, sleeping soundly, and snoring fit to wake the dead. Having dreams of princesses and ponies and castles by the sea and other nice girly stuff.

"We're not going to be away for long, are we?" asked Bill.

"No, no no," said Septimus. "Back in the morning, when the war starts. Now come."

"Yes," said Mary. "Go go go and have fun with all the dead boys and girls!"

Ten.

They were fifty yards into the woods before Bill looked behind him.

The moon was up, nearly full, glowing like a light bulb. Shadows of trees striped the cabin.

"Many guards," said Septimus.

And indeed there were. Bill saw their shadows, standing stock-still, as if they had died on their feet. He counted five figures at the rear of the cabin alone, all of them spaced more or less regularly apart, and all more or less human.

One of the shapes was peering into one of the cabin windows, his hands cupping the sides of his face. Bill felt a surge of anger at this voyeur. He wanted to sprint back to the cabin, put his foot through the guy's head.

In the darkest times of his life, his father had once told him, he would have to think about the best things in his life in order to get him through. So he tried: Constance, strolling down the aisle, clutching a massive bouquet of daisies. Her father, frowning as he stepped down the aisle with his daughter, his fat face making him look like a bipedal hairless bulldog. Their wedding reception. His dad's gift of the Jeep, the booze, and a few other things.

He sighed. The happy-thought strategy was not working. When he looked at Septimus, anger and despair punched him in the gut.

"Bill," said Septimus. "You may hate me. Hate is sacred."

Septimus walked with huge loping strides, passing like a specter through the trees. His clothes blended with the night, giving him the appearance of a disembodied head and hands strolling through the forest.

"Not far," said the tall man.

Bill snorted. "So," he said to Septimus' back. "Why walk, asshole? Couldn't just fucking teleport?"

Septimus chuckled. "Better to walk, darling," he said. "Traveling with your mind would drive you insane. I want you sane, William."

"Fucking great," said Bill.

"Fucking great, indeed."

They approached a copse of birch trees.