Guido stroked his white beard. "Hm. Let's see. I told you about the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination, right?"

She nodded.

"How about G.W. and his plan to dominate the world economy by crashing planes into a couple buildings?"

Again, she nodded.

"How about the moon? Have I talked about that?"

"No," she said with a shake of the head. "Tell me that one."

"Okay. Well, it happened a long time ago, when I was a young'n in college. We and the Ruskies were always at each other's throats, trying to beat each other at everything, as if that would help distract us from knowing one side or the other would soon lose patience and launch the first nuke. One of the meanest compet.i.tions was this *race to s.p.a.ce' thing. Whoever landed on the moon would get some sort of bragging rights, take first place in this p.i.s.sing contest we had going. So one day, we did it. We landed on the moon. The whole world stood up and cheered for us, as if we'd accomplished something. But here's the thing, Alyssa. We never did reach the moon. It was all a ruse. You know what a film studio is?"

She listened intently as he spoke, her chin resting on her fists. She stared at him with those wide eyes of hers, and he felt his heart melting. This little girl was everything to him, had been since the day she came running into his yard screaming while sirens blared in the background. The announcement had just come over the airways, and everyone was in a panic. Vandals tore through every corner of Mercy Hills, Connecticut, his hometown. The little girl had looked so scared, so on edge, when she arrived at the doorstep of his farmhouse while he was outside sealing the shelter from the rain of ash soon to come. At first he thought to ignore her, to turn her away like he had the Letts family when they came calling. He hesitated, though, and when he looked in those large, innocent eyes, he remembered the dreams of his youth, the love of his family. The family she'd most certainly lost in the chaos of a crumbling society.

So he'd brought her in. He'd saved her, and that memory filled him with pride. Daughter, he thought. She is my daughter now. Or granddaughter, at least.

When he finished his story, he smiled. They said their goodnights, climbed into their cots on either side of the room, turned off the lights, and fell asleep.

A sound awoke him. It was like static, or baseball cards fastened to the spokes of a bicycle. He sat up, his tired muscles aching, and searched for the pull chord in the dark. He found it dangling above him and yanked. The overhead light clicked on. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust.

Alyssa was already awake. She sat on her cot, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes, always wide, were even more so now. The poor girl looked petrified. The strange crackling sounded again.

"What is that?" he asked.

Alyssa clutched her knees tighter and buried her head between them.

Guido swung his legs over the side of the cot. The concrete floor was cold beneath his bare feet. The thought came to mind that there might be people outside, desperate people who would do anything, kill anybody, for a chance at survival. He grabbed his baseball bat from above his reading desk and went to the reinforced door. Pressing his ear to it, he listened. There was nothing at first, and then that fizz came again. Only it wasn't coming from beyond the door, he realized. It came from inside the shelter.

He glanced at his desk, walked to it, and sat down. Positioned on the side was his ancient radio, still plugged in. His fingers touched the volume and turned it up. At first there was nothing, and then it crackled. It sounded like static, but beneath, he swore he could hear a voice. He twisted the tuning k.n.o.b-Guido Malfi believed in the solid construction of the old, and this radio hadn't failed him since his teen years-and slowly, the speaker on the other end broke into startling clarity.

"This is a message for all survivors," the voice said. It was male, polite, and had a thick accent. "My name is Colonel Martin Doucette. Citizens of the United States, we have arrived. We apologize for the delay, but we're here now, and we're here to help. As of this moment, our ships are docked and waiting for your arrival. You will be granted amnesty in France, if you choose to exit your homelands. We will remain docked for a period of one month, and hand out supplies to those that remain behind. The list of safe ports is as follows: Boston Harbor, Groton Harbor, New York Harbor..."

One hundred and twelve days of silence after the eruption, and it was the French, the G.o.dd.a.m.n French, who came to their aid. He couldn't help but smile.

They've always gotten a bad rap, he thought. They may be a bit testy, but hey, they're French, so who could blame them? Americans seemed to have forgotten that if it weren't for them, we wouldn't have a country to call home in the first place...

He wheeled around, snapped the radio off, and rushed to the aluminum chest that pa.s.sed for a closet. Throwing it open, he tore through its contents. Clothes flew this way and that.

"What's going on?" asked Alyssa.

He turned, smiled, and started tossing articles of clothing at her. "These won't fit, but we'll make them," he said.

"We're leaving?" Her face brightened, almost wistful. He'd never seen her like this before, and it was the most gorgeous expression he'd ever laid eyes on. It was as if the months of isolation had been stripped away, revealing her as she truly was for the first time.

"Yes, Alyssa," he replied, his heart soaring. "It seems the cavalry finally arrived."

The cold outside was intense, the worst it'd been in weeks. Guido did his best to ignore it as he walked the first of many miles toward the harbor. Alyssa trudged beside him through the wet, mulched ash as they turned down what had once been Main Street. He didn't know what time it was, other than a vague sense of daylight. The dark clouds above, the ones that seemed to rush across the sky yet never get anywhere, were thick as ever. It cast an eerie gloom on the world. For a moment, Guido regretted their decision to leave. We were safe in the shelter, he thought. Nothing could touch us there. All he had to do was look down at his miniscule travel companion, see the expectant look in her eyes beneath her mask's Plexiglas, and those doubts faded.

Before long they reached the center of town. Most of the houses they pa.s.sed had crumpled beneath the crushing weight of the ash. Windows were broken, leaf-barren trees felled, and cars overturned. Thankfully the ash covered all of these, hiding their atrocities, blanketing them into pale, gray lumps. That was okay by him.

The road signs were long gone, but that didn't matter. Guido knew where he was going. It was only three miles to the highway. From there, a straight shot on 95 until they hit the connectors that led to Groton. On foot, it might take a few days, but he'd packed plenty of food in the sled he pulled behind him. They could camp out at night, or at least whenever it grew too dark to see. They just had to make sure not to breathe too deeply with their masks off.

They were almost out of the town boundary when they heard a loud whooping sound. Shadows darted in front of him, crossing from one wrecked house to another. More whoops. A rock skittered across the muck-covered pavement in front of them, scattering ash to the wind. Guido placed a hand on Alyssa's shoulder and pulled her in close.

Figures emerged from the shadows, five of them, hunched and swaying. They circled like a pack of wolves, yipping. Alyssa shivered against his leg.

The figures drew closer, and even in the bleak light he knew they were male, and young. They wore blood-drenched scarves over their faces, the color shocking against the stained gray of their skin. Their eyes danced with madness as they wielded planks of wood with nails driven through them. Guido held Alyssa tight and reached into the cart behind him. He pulled out his trusty Louisville Slugger and held it with one hand, ready to make like Mickey Mantle should the need arise.

"Don't come any closer!" he warned. His voice echoed inside his mask.

One of the men neared. He pulled the scarf from his face. Blood streamed from his nose and the corners of his mouth. His teeth were brown and rotting. He grinned, and it was sickening. He couldn't have been anything more than a teenager.

"We got no problems with you," he said in a gravely voice. "We just want the girl."

"Step away," Guido said. He held the bat high above his head like a lumberjack.

"We said you can go, old man," growled another before lunging forward. Guido lashed out with the bat, barely missing. His old muscles screamed on the backswing. The kid danced back and chortled.

Something hit his leg from behind. It buckled as pain tore into his b.u.t.tocks. He dropped to one knee. It took all his effort to grab Alyssa before he fell on her. He pulled her against his chest and swung the bat wildly. He felt the wooden shaft connect. Someone howled in pain.

"a.s.shole!" one of the kids yelled.

Guido held his ground. He rose on his pain-seared leg and twirled around, thrusting the bat forward as he did. He caught sight of the wounded a.s.sailant, hunched on the ground, holding his head. He coughed. The remaining four closed in, encircling them. He knew he couldn't hold them off forever. At his age, it was just a matter of time.

"Listen to me!" Guido shouted. "There was a radio broadcast! The French have arrived! They have ships waiting in Groton, and all we have to do is get there. You don't have to fight me on this!"

One of the attackers-still wearing his b.l.o.o.d.y scarf-swung his board. It missed, and that only seemed to make him angrier. "f.u.c.king liar," he grunted.

"I'm not lying!" bellowed Guido. Alyssa's head buried further into his chest. He felt her body quiver as she sobbed. Regret filled him. That light, that hope, he'd seen earlier was gone. Anger shook him to the bone.

The one who'd spoken first piped up again, this time in a softer, calmer tone.

"Listen, man. No need to make s.h.i.t up. We know we don't got long to go. Just let us have some fun before then, 'kay? C'mon, you're a man. You understand. Right?"

Guido couldn't believe the words. He struggled with Alyssa's weight, his breathing coa.r.s.e and painful. "You won't get her," he whispered. He didn't think they could hear him beneath his mask. He didn't care.

With a sudden fury, Guido charged. The surprised kid didn't move fast enough. The bat struck his head, which snapped sideways, streaming blood like a morbid sprinkler. His body twisted and then lay still as it hit the ground Alyssa's weight slowed Guido's movements as the others attacked with a vengeance. One hit him in the shoulder. He hunched, protecting his precious girl with his own body. Another struck his thigh. He fell over, the pain horrendous. He rolled as to not crush the Alyssa, and then huddled over her. Someone ripped his mask off. Gasping, he inhaled handfuls of wet ash and began to choke. Another blow, this one on his back. He felt the nail punch through his clothes and pierce his flesh. It drove in so deep that when it retreated it felt like it dragged his insides with it.

The world turned hazy. Everything shook.

Keep her safe, his reeling mind insisted. Protect the girl, save the only one that matters.

Blows landed all over his body. Rusty nails drove into him. He grew weaker and weaker by the second. Alyssa clung to him as he fell to the side. He felt his blood leak out through the numerous new holes in his body, soaking his clothes and dribbling down his chin. And still, the girl clutched him.

A savage hovered above, tugging on Alyssa's hand like a fairy-tale beast. The girl screamed and kicked, not letting go. He tried harder, and that made her kick all the more. Finally he reared back and lifted the board above his head. The nail glinted in the faint light. Guido pulled Alyssa below him and closed his eyes.

A shot cracked the air. Another. Then shouting. They surrounded him, a chorus of chaotic voices. Guido held the girl, wishing he had a womb into which he could stuff her for protection. He was about to die, and even worse, so was she. In the only thing he'd cared about in a long, long time, he'd failed.

But there were no more blows. The shouts ceased, as well as the gunshots. Guido lay still, afraid to move. Alyssa squirmed in his arms. He could hear her breathing inside her mask. It sounded like a freight train.

Hands grabbed his mangled body. They rolled him over. He felt weak, and with blurred vision he watched a man lift Alyssa up. He held her out as if inspecting a sensitive work of art. Beside him was another human form, this one was smaller and holding a rifle. It kicked the motionless body at its feet. Several others walked by, just ghosts in his fogged eyesight. Their voices chattered on.

A shadow blocked out his vision. A man's face. He wore a bandana over his nose and mouth, blood soaked like the others. The eyes though...blue, kind, and concerned.

"My name's Jason," the man said. "We're friendly. Who were those kids?"

"Gone wild," Guido said, his voice rough and weak. "And hungry...hungry for things they shouldn't, they shouldn't..."

Jason glanced over at Alyssa and then nodded to show he understood.

"She's all right now?" he asked, unable to look for himself.

"She is," Jason said. "She's with my daughter, Melissa."

Guido tried to nod, but didn't have the energy.

"Did you hear the announcement?" he heard a young girl ask, most likely Melissa.

Alyssa responded, still quivering but on the edge of excitement. "We did."

"They've come!" said the girl between coughs. "We'll be safe and warm!"

Guido felt a bit of grat.i.tude as Jason lifted his head so he could see her better.

"We'll take care of her for you," he whispered. "What's her name?"

"Alyssa," Guido coughed. "My granddaughter."

Contented, he leaned his head back, smiled, and let the darkness take him.

- The One That Matters originally appeared in the best-selling anthology, A Land of Ash, edited by David Dalglish.

TRAIPSING THROUGH THE DARK.

THE STORIES BEHIND THE STORIES.

PLASTIC.

J.L. Bryan: "Plastic" was written specifically for this anthology. Rob told me the theme was isolation, and this idea popped into my head-someone who's all alone but surrounded by every kind of consumer goods imaginable. The character creates/hallucinates a world where he is not alone, with bizarre and funny consequences. I think the strongest inspiration for this story actually came from one of Rob's stories in the first Gate anthology: "Sullivan Street." I wanted to explore something similar, a character with a life that was wealthy in a material sense but spiritually and emotionally empty. On top of that, it was great fun to figure out how an entire human life could be represented by different retailers at the mall. When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about living in a big shopping mall, probably after I read a book about kids who ran away from home to live in a museum. So, mix all those elements together, and you get the odd story of "Plastic."

THE INDIAN ROPE TRICK.

D.P. Prior: Back in the summer of 2011 my son Theo got heavily into zombies. It started with Marvel Zombies and swiftly progressed to Resident Evil. It struck me at the time that I'd always studiously avoided the zombie genre and so felt it was about time I gave it a look. I started with George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead and was surprised at how good it was. This led to Dawn of the Dead (including the excellent 2004 remake), Day of the Dead, Survival of the Dead, Land of the Dead, and Lucio Fulci's Zombie Flesh Eaters. By this stage it was a case of *in for a penny, in for a pound', and so I watched as much of the genre as I could lay my hands on, some of it good, much of it exceedingly bad: Quarantine, Quarantine 2, Zombieland, Shaun of the Dead, 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, The Dead ...

By the end of the summer, Theo was thoroughly sick of zombies and heavily into Nerf guns. It was about that time I wrote an article for the blog Two Ends of the Pen called *Zombies on my Mind', which was my attempt at rationalizing the genre. That pretty much brought my zombie phase to a conclusion until Rob asked if I'd like to contribute to The Gate 2. Having read the first two books of Rob's The Rift series, which is steeped in zombies, I couldn't resist having a bash at the genre myself.

The Indian Rope Trick was a challenge to write in many ways. First off, I only had a couple of weeks to write it from start to finish due to the publishing deadline for The Gate 2. Next, and perhaps hardest, was attempting to write from a nine year old's point of view. There were also issues regarding the balance of comedy and horror, gratuity, and language that needed to be addressed.

The writing itself was thoroughly enjoyable, which is not always the case. It was a great opportunity to experiment with style, and I got to play around with speech rhythms, particularly when Wesley gets agitated.

NIGHT NIGHT.

Daniel Pyle: As the eldest of five brothers, I was rarely alone as a child. In some ways, this was great-I usually had a playmate if I wanted one, and all those little bros made it much easier to gang up on our parents...Brussels sprouts for dinner? We don't think so-but there were times when I wished they'd all go away for a while so I could get a few measly minutes of peace and quiet. Think Home Alone. In Missouri. With a smaller house.

When Rob told me that one of the themes of this anthology was going to be isolation, I decided to play around with the idea of siblings and alone time. I wanted to write about older siblings. Maybe because my brothers and I are grown up now-or as grown up as we're ever going to get-or maybe because I didn't like the idea of killing off a kid on page one of my story (page three would have been fine). I also wanted to add a twist, which I won't give away here in case you're one of those weirdos who reads the notes before the stories. In the end, I was very happy with how it turned out. In fact, I think this might be my best story yet. It's my favorite anyway, and I hope you enjoyed it too.

DEAD THINGS.

Michael Crane: This story started with an image in my head of an old woman knocking on her neighbor's door, screaming about zombies. I thought it'd be fun to have a character that clearly wasn't right in the head, although I knew that she wouldn't be the main character, nor would the story only be about her. It was just a starting point for me. I learned more about the characters as I continued to write, not exactly sure where it would all lead. That's when writing is the most exciting for me. When your characters take you on a journey where you're not sure how it'll all play out in the end.

DOES LAURA LIKE ELEPHANTS?.

Steven Pirie: In Does Laura like Elephants?, I wanted to explore the relationships between four characters, two couples who had essentially been cheating on each other, with one of the characters, Laura, set in her own, distant, stroke-induced twilight world. This dysfunctional setup gave me a character who was there, yet at the same time was lost, and I wondered how that would add to the dynamics of the four of them. Laura could not speak or interact meaningfully, so I gave her an occult-like relationship both within herself and with Don, her lover. I was keen to inject humour, as I believe that's what folk would turn to for respite in such a situation. Of course, I have exaggerated it somewhat for effect. What emerged is a story that has hidden depths and is one of my favourites.

39 DAYS.

Robert J. Duperre: The inspiration for 39 Days actually came from a short story I read a while back, Sweepers by Leslianne Wilder. It was a great-albeit very short-tale about rising oceans and people trapped in a skysc.r.a.per. Though I loved the story, I couldn't help but think the tale could have been stretched out, made more personal.

So when Dan Pyle contacted me hoping I could write a story for his Unnatural Disasters anthology, I took the same basic premise, changed it around to make it my own, and focused on the people involved instead of the events themselves. What came out on the other side is probably the best short story I've ever written...or at least my own personal favorite.

THE CANDLE EATERS.

K. Allen Wood: When I set out to write "The Candle Eaters," I wanted to do something with Halloween as the backdrop. I'd long had the idea for the story, and when another small-press magazine announced they were putting out a Halloween issue, I had the perfect reason to finally write it.

I had four months to get it done. Plenty of time. However, before I knew it, those four months had dwindled to just three weeks.

The first version I wrote was extremely dark, featured characters with few redeeming qualities, and had an ending full of death and destruction. This was not the story that had been in my head for so long.

With no time for a rewrite, I submitted it anyway-and was promptly rejected.

What I did accomplish with that first version, I think, was come up with some original elements within the oft-used Halloween motif. Specifically the "candle eaters," which of course are a riff on the old-time tradition of using hollowed-out turnips or pumpkins to ward off evil spirits.

When Rob e-mailed asking if I'd like to send him something for The Gate 2, I said I would. When he said the theme would be "isolation and despair," I immediately thought of this story.

On the surface, the story included here isn't drastically different from that first version, but after a few rewrites I think it accomplishes what I'd initially envisioned so long ago, which was a story fundamentally about faith and hope without being overly sentimental.

(I also managed to sneak in a reference to one of my favorite bands, The Dead Milkmen.) Ultimately, I just hope "The Candle Eaters" is a good, entertaining story.

BLACK MARY.

Mercedes M. Yardley: The invitation to this anthology came about at a particularly difficult time. My husband and I were delighted to discover that we were expecting triplets (surprise!) but ended up losing two of our little girls. The third is happy and healthy. Writing was a struggle and Robby D. and his artist, Jesse Young, were kind enough to pitch a few ideas to help get my creative juices flowing. One idea was a girl who was alone on an island.

This struck me. A lonely girl seemed like such a beautiful thing to play with. I created a horrifying yet feasible scenario where a little girl was left alone except for the unwanted company of her abductor. The only other individual to talk to is a rather strange friend called Black Mary. The eventual arrival of the littlest Red Mary spurs the girl into action. Are the Marys figments of the girl's mind brought on by her abuse and isolation? Are they ghosts from the man's previous victims? That's not for me to tell you.