cogito

Aphter: Nine

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT

NINE

"The Maker Song is a very old Fate story," Dad said, sitting at the kitchen table under the little wall lamp and peering into the book. "There are recorded versions of it as far back as 3,000 B.C."

"What's it about?" Amy had joined us at the table and was sitting next to Dad and trying to see the pages.

"Well, Fates, like all intelligent lives, have myths about origin and creation. It's only natural, after all, to wonder where we come from."

"Where do we come from?" Amy asked.

"See?" said Dad.

I laughed. Amy looked over at me with a curious look. "We don't know that, Amy." I said. "No one does."

"And neither do the Fates, though it's not in their nature to admit it," Dad continued. "The Maker Song is probably their most popular creation myth, but not all of them adhere to it. They're like us in that sense." Dad flipped the page to a section written in several different languages and scripts. The last bit was in English, a translation of the others, it seemed. He read it aloud. "First there was the Making Song, calling everything into order. The Maker went away. The Maker Song is woven into what was made. Learn the song and, when first things are done, sing the song to call the Maker."

"It's a little different," I said, trying to memorize the lines. "But it's too close for coincidence, I think. What do you think, Dad?"

"Well, let's see," he said, sitting back in his chair. "So, what we're postulating, then, is that someone took the girl's mother. That someone took her, if I understand your Whim, because, if we're right about this, they thought she knew this Maker Song. It follows, however, that some time yesterday they changed their mind and decided that Amy here is in fact the one who knows the song. They would have come back looking for her last evening, right?"

"Well, yes. I guess so." I hadn't really lined these things out in my mind yet. "It's probably morning by now back home."

"Right," Dad said. "Well, it's a hell of a story, I think. But then, Whims don't just show up every day. Something big must be up."

"I wonder," I thought aloud, "if someone did come back to the house to find Amy."

"I don't understand the dead man, though," Dad puzzled. "How's a dead man supposed to bring a living girl somewhere."

"He'd have to have help. Living help," I replied. "Is anyone out of town?"

"Not that I've heard," said Dad. "Well, except..." But he stopped short.

"Except whom?"

"What? Ah, hell. I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry, Simon, but I'm sworn to secrecy on something, and it's serious enough that I just can't share it, even with you. Nevertheless, it's no one that would be messed up in all this."

Strange. As far as I knew, Dad had never kept a secret from me. "Are you sure, Dad?"

"Completely. Let's not talk about this anymore. We've got our own troubles, and there's no one out of town that I know of who could be involved in our little affair here."

"What do you mean, out of town?" Amy asked.

"Oh, well," I sighed, not really wanting to explain it right now. "Once in a while, someone from Aphter chooses to go back for some reason. He has to have permission, though, because there's only one door that the dead can use to get to the living world from Aphter, and it's guarded by the Council. Only the Sheriff has the key."

"There are dead people on Earth?" She seemed surprised. "Can we see them?"

"No, we can't. When a dead man or woman visits the living world, they call that ghosting. They can't stay long, though, because there's no rest for them there. They get pretty miserable after just a few days, kind of like us here, though we feel it more quickly than they do."

"What happens if they don't come back? They can't die, right? I mean, they're already dead."

"That's right, they can't die. They just get more and more tired, more and more miserable. It's like torture for them. It's like hell."

"Sounds awful," she yawned.

"It's the worst thing we know of," said Dad, "and it's what keeps things in order around here. Any serious crimes in Aphter carry the penalty of 100 years in exile."

"100 years?" Amy shook her head.

"That's right," he replied. "It takes a long time to recover from that, let me tell you. I've seen some of the returners. Awful. Just awful. Not something I'd hope to see again."

"Well," I said, clapping my hands together loudly to focus my thoughts, "what's the next step?"

"I think," Dad said, rubbing his chin, "you should go see the Sister."

The mention of the Sister brought a sick feeling to my stomach, as usual. "Why in the world should I go see her?"

"Well, she can watch for us," said Dad.

"I don't understand. Watch for what?"

"Oh, didn't you know? She's working with the Greeters now. She joined right up with the Sisters in Waiting as soon as she arrived. Predictable, I guess." I felt like someone had punched me in the gut, but Dad didn't notice. He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the bedroom. "You know," he whispered so Amy wouldn't hear, "we've got to consider the fact that the mother could be arriving here any minute, if she hasn't already." Then he saw the look of dismay on my face. "What's wrong, Simon?"

"She's here? The Sister is here?"

"You didn't know?" Dad closed his eyes and shook his head. "Damn that woman, Simon. Damn that woman for the way she treats you."

"No, Dad. Don't." I was trying to process what I'd just heard. "She's already here. She died."

"I can't believe she didn't at least leave your name with her superiors as a next of kin or something," Dad said. "It never occurred to me you didn't know, Simon. Yes, she's here. She was transporting some supplies to one of her orphan homes and ran into some unexploded ordnance. She's been here for a few months, I'd say."

"I can't believe I didn't know," I said. But how would I have known? She never contacted me, and didn't like for me to come see her. "Well, you know, to her I'm the biggest mistake she ever made. Why would she have me notified?"

"No, Simon," said Dad, clapping his hand on my shoulder, "I was the mistake she made, son. You were just the consequence."

TEN

Aphter: Eight

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN

EIGHT

I wasn't sure the sort of talk to which Amy was accustomed, so I was starting to get a little concerned about the stream of profanity coming from the bedroom. "Hey, Dad, we have a young lady present," I called from the couch, but he made no sign of hearing. The muscles in my legs complained fiercely when I got up from beside Amy to go ask him again, and I remembered the urgency of our situation. I knew what it was like to grow increasingly drained during a long stay in Aphter, and I did not relish the idea. Amy looked positively miserable already, her eyes blood red.

"Any luck, Dad?" I asked, walking into the bedroom. The drawers of the dresser were all pulled out and emptied onto the floor and the bed. Unfolded shirts and underwear, unmatched socks, belts, gloves papers, pocket knives, keys, handkerchiefs, books and various other assorted junk was strewn about.

"What?" he snapped, glancing back. "Oh, no, damn it all to hell, where is that book!" Dad was never the most organized of men. "Ah shit!" he yelled in disgust, throwing an empty drawer against the bathroom door and sweeping by me back into the small living room.

"Maybe we should watch our language a little in front of Amy," I suggested, following him out. "I'd hate to return her corrupted to her mom."

"What," he scowled, diving into the closet and tearing out piles of junk. "Oh," he said, turning to me and remembering himself for a second. "I'm sorry to be so coarse, ma'am," he said, sincerely, "but it's a bit late to change that now." His managed to lowered his tirade to an angry mumble as he returned to work in the closet.

"It's okay," said Amy, sliding down to lie with her head on the arm of the couch and closing her eyes.

"Ah!" cried Dad, standing triumphantly with his prey in his hand, "here it is!" He strode loudly into the kitchen, plopped down on a chair, slammed the book onto the table and began thumbing through it. The book was bound in brown leather with the words "Glory Dawn" stitched into the spine in black. Dad did that mumbling, half-reading thing he often did when skimming a book.

"Are you hungry?" I asked Amy, tapping her on the shoulder where she lay.

"No, my stomach hurts," she said.

"You may feel better if you eat something."

"Okay." She didn't open her eyes or move.

I walked into the kitchen, "What have you got to eat around here, Dad?" I asked.

"Huh?" he asked, not really listening.

"Food, Dad. What food do you have around here." I noticed that the coffee was steaming away on the burner, so I reached over, set the pot onto heat pad beside the burner, and lowered the snuffer down over the flame. Taking one of the mugs Dad had set out earlier, I filed it with coffee. "Careful, it's pretty hot," I said, holding it out to Dad.

"Huh?" he said, glancing up. "Oh, thanks." He took the cup, set it on the table, and kept mumbling through the book.

So, I felt free to look through the cupboards. There was a loaf of dark bread wrapped in a cloth and covered dish of butter in the cupboard above the sink. In the back, behind the butter, there was a half of a smoked ham wrapped in kitchen towel. "May we have some bread and am, Dad?" I asked?

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I mean, yes, of course. Have anything you want. Of course." He never even looked up.

I found a sharp knife in a drawer beside the sink and cut a couple of slices of bread for Amy. I put a little butter on the bread, because it was a little dry, and cut some thin slices of the ham, making a nice little sandwich. "Here you go," I said, walking back over to the couch.

Amy opened her eyes and looked at the sandwich suspiciously and without enthusiasm. "What is it?" she asked.

"Ham sandwich," I said.

"Why is the bread so dark?" she asked.

"Because that's what my dad likes to eat."

She reached for the sandwich, sitting up on the couch. She opened it and looked inside. "What's on it?" She asked.

"Butter and ham."

"Is it fresh?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"Because," I said, "there's no decay here. Food stays fresh here."

She glanced several time from me to the sandwich and back to me, and then decided she had no choice. She took a tentative nibble of the bread, and then another with some ham in it.

"How is it?" I asked.

"It's okay." She began to eat it in little bites.

I picked up her cup from the side table and refilled it at the sink, setting it back beside her.

"Thank you," she said, her mouth full.

"You're welcome."

"Here it is," said dad, slamming the open book onto the table. "Right here. The Maker Song."

I walked over and sat in the chair beside him. "What is this book?" I asked.

"Glory Dawn," Dad answered, "It's one of the chief books in Fate literature."

"What's it about?"

"Well, what do you think? It's about the great and glorious plan the Fates have for the world. It's about the culmination of all things into the dawn of the glorious future the Fates have in store for all living things. It's a load of crap, of course."

"Who are the Fates?" Amy asked.

"Huh?" asked Dad, having forgotten for a minute about the girl. "Oh, right. Well, the Fates, little lady, are the biggest pains in the ass in the universe."

"Dad," I frowned. "She's just a kid."

"Oh, sorry." He left the book on the table and stomped over to sit beside her. She sat up next to him. "Do you know what ambition is, my girl?" he asked.

"I don't think so," she said.

"Well, ambition is like a drive some people have to accomplish things. You might have an ambition to be a butcher, like your mother. Or, you might have an ambition to be an artist or a singer. People have various ambitions or goals, and ambition is that feeling or drive that makes you want to get those things accomplished. Do you understand?"

"I guess."

"Well, the Fates are all ambition, Amy. The Fates are like spirits, but they're not human spirits. They're another kind of spirit, and they have a lot of ambition for the world. They want to control everything, and they claim they have a plan for all living things, a plan that will ultimately make everyone happy."

"Oh," she said. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"Doesn't it? Well, then, I must not have said it right," he laughed. "The problem is, little girl, that they don't seem to have any sort of plan at all. Each of them, in fact, seems to be working toward some different plan of his or her own. They'll tell you that everything they've ever done is a part of The Plan, but it's obviously not true. Most of them time the Fates end up fighting each other and causing no end of trouble for the rest of us."

"How?"

"Well, the Fates can't interact directly in human affairs, you see. They have to get people to carry out their plans for them. So, they'll plant ideas into the heads of people in position of influence. Sometimes they'll take complete control of a person, but they can't do it by force. A person has to willingly submit themselves to the Fate, commit themselves to the plan, and then the Fate can take control of them."

"You mean it can take control of their body?" she asked.

"That's right. One minute you're committing yourself to a life plan, and the next thing you know you're stepping out of the Lightstone here in Aphter and you never know what happened."

"And then," I continued, "the Fate takes control of your body back in the living world and uses it until it dies."

"So it kills you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Dad. "And then it uses your body and your name to make a mess of things back on Earth."

"Man." Amy seemed bewildered. "So, what does that have to do with my mom and me?" she asked.

"Well, we don't know. But that's what we're trying to figure out."

NINE

Aphter: Seven

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX

SEVEN

"Well, Simon, it's good to see you." Dad threw his jacket onto the large, yellow, stuffed chair in the far corner as he came into the door. Nothing had changed since the last time I was here. Same furniture. Same smell of coffee and pipe tobacco. Same jacket even, the long, dingy, khaki-tan duster that looked almost exactly like one he'd always worn when he was alive. He'd had it made and held by Séamas at The Boot Shop, a good friend, in the waning days of his life.

The place was modest. The entry room was a living room with a small kitchen in the far left corner. There was small wooden table two chairs near the kitchen and, filling the rest of the room, a couch and two chairs, all of yellow fabric overstuffed. There were two doors in the wall to the right as you came in. The far door led to a small bedroom with a bed and dresser and the near door, standing open, was a coat closet. I remembered that there was a small bathroom was you could get to through a door in the back, right corner of the bedroom. That was it. Everything a dead man needed.

"It's good to see you too, Dad," I said. And it was. I had been so busy with work for the past several months that I's not been able to visit. Plus I just knew this Amy thing was the kind of job Dad could do better than I could. "I've been pretty busy."

"And you, little girl, what's your name?" he asked, lumbering into the kitchen with big, loud, boot steps against the wood floor.

"Amy," she answered, climbing onto the dusty couch.

"How are you holding up, Amy?" he asked, opening the cupboard to get a cup. "Would you like some water? It's all I've got handy, unless you drink coffee."

"Yes, please," she said.

He turned the faucet knob and the pipes in the wall whined as the water ran. "Coffee, Simon?"

"Yes."

He walked over and handed Amy the cup of water, digging a book of matches from his pocket. "Here you go, miss," he said, and he tousled her hair a little. He wasn't much with little girls. Neither of us were.

"Thank you," she said, and she drained the cup.

Dad struck a match on the edge of the little cupboard as he walked back into the kitchen and placed it to the little oil burner on the counter with the coffee pot on it. "Just brewed this this morning. It'll stand one warming, I think. It'll do." He took two cups down from the cupboard and placed them next to the burner, ready for the coffee. "Now," he said, turning to lean against the counter, "tell me what you've gotten into here, Simon."

'Well, Dad, it's a Whim," I said, sitting next to Amy on the couch with a groan. I told him about the Whim and about the butcher shop and about the house. I told him the song in detail, and he had me repeat it to him several times until he knew it by heart.

"That last line," he said. "I've heard it before. 'Sing the song to meet the maker.' It's from an old saying."

"Really?" My heart leapt. I knew Dad would be able to help. "What sort of old saying?"

"Well, that's what worries me, though it might be nothing."

"It's a Whim, Dad. It's not nothing."

"Hmmm...," he said, rubbing his stubbly chin. "What have you gotten into?" He sounded distant, lost in thought.

"Why? Whose saying is it?"

"It's an old Fate saying, Simon."

"Damn," I said. I hated Fates.

"Yeah, damn," he agreed.

"What?" asked Amy.

EIGHT

Aphter: Six

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

SIX

The Twilight Zone was pretty far out on the edge of town, but it was far enough in that, as we approached it, we noticed that it was a little brighter. On the very edge of town, there's no light at all except for the lampposts. All the light in Aphter came from the same place: The Lightstone. It was right in the middle of town, and it was so bright that you couldn't look directly at it without some sort of protection. Even the lampposts were lit with tiny chips of the Lightstone. Nothing else in Aphter gave off any light at all, not even fire. Why? Well, scientists (dead scientists, of course) had been looking into the matter for centuries, since the dawn of science. They had discovered very little of use, however, except that they could, with great effort, chip off little pieces of the Lightstone and use them for lamps. The nicks left by these little chips would fill back in up a few days, keeping the Lightstone a perfect sphere.

Here at the edge of The Twilight Zone, however, you couldn't see the Lightstone at all, though you could tell what direction it was in by a lightening of the horizon, like a sunset.

"Is the sun about to come up?" Amy asked, looking off at the horizon.

"No. Definitely not," I said.

We'd been walking for something like an hour when we came suddenly to the last house in the burbs and the road fell away down a hill to lower ground. The burbs were up on a plateau of sorts, but it was too dark here to see how far it stretched off to the right or left. Down below the road passed into a shadowy cluster of low buildings that looked like shops and townhouses and apartments. The dim shadows were lit here and there with twinkles of lamplight, and the twinkles stretched out for as far as you could see ahead of us but got dimmer as they went, so you couldn't tell exactly how far this section of town ran. There were people, lots of people, out on the streets and sidewalks below. You could see their shapes moving around and you could hear the murmur of them from up here. The Twilight Zone was always buzzing with activity.

Amy and I walked quickly down the hill and approached the busy streets. A few people glanced at us as we approached, but no one seemed overly suspicious. The dead can tell the living if they look closely enough. There's a calmness, a stillness to the dead that the living lack. The living have little fidgets of the skin and eyes, little ticks and jerks. They move around too much, constantly adjusting to their own skin. It's pretty noticeable once you've been dead for a while. Out here, in the dim light, moving quickly through the street, probably no one would be able to tell the difference.

It didn't take long before I was in familiar territory. I'd been here dozens of times. Normally I'd have stopped in to see friends, but I really needed to keep moving. So, I avoided all the obvious places. I avoided the meat market where Mark would have spotted me for sure. I avoided Mr. Stipps' stoop, where he always sat and smoked his pipe. He didn't miss anything or anyone that came within a block. Instead, I ducked into the alley behind Mr. Stipps' place and took it for a few blocks behind McGrudy's and the Boot Shop and came out in the middle of Ashbury Lane. The coffee shop was across the street and two blocks down.

"Who are we going to see?" Amy asked. "Is it much farther?"

"We're going to see my dad," I answered, taking her hand as we crossed the busy street. "It's only two more blocks."

"Your dad is here?"

"Yes. He lives here. Well, not 'lives', technically."

"He's dead?"

"Yes."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

I glanced down at her. "Oh, don't be," I said. "He's never been happier. When he was alive he was always sick."

She didn't know how to respond to that. People were accustomed to thinking of death as a bad thing. Me? I just thought of it as a different thing. Still, not everyone knows what I know. Not everyone pays close attention to details.

We arrived at the coffee shop - open and crowded as always - and I slipped around the side and into the alley to the back door. It was open, as always. I hoped we could make it across the kitchen and to the private stairs to the apartment without being noticed, but we didn't. I was just stepping onto the first step when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Well, well, well. Here already, are you? Ah, well. You had a good run. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised you lasted this long, clumsy as you are."

"I'm am not clumsy and I am not dead," I said, turning to look the man in the eye.

"Oh, well. I see. I see. You've been too busy to come and see us, I guess," he said, nodding at Amy and winking.

"She's not mine. She's a friend," I said. "She's in a bit of trouble. I'm trying to help her."

"Well, well," he said, stepping up to us. He was a big man, at least four inches taller than me and twice as wide. "If he's your help, you're in trouble for sure." He smiled and stooped to look at Amy, offering his big hand for her to shake. She glanced at me and, when I nodded, she shook his hand quickly. He stared directly at her face closely for another second, and then stood abruptly and, clearing his throat, offered me his hand. "Hello, Simon," he said.

"Hello, Dad."

SEVEN

Aphter: Five

ONE TWO THREE FOUR

FIVE

I'd never seen this side of town before. It was like suburbia, someone's idea of a nice place. There were houses of various styles and sizes complete with lawns and sidewalks. There were lampposts everywhere, lots of them, though most of them were off right now, probably to simulate a "nighttime" experience for the people who lived here. The street was paved and meandered a curvy path through the neighborhood. There was no one out and about.

According to Sheriff Mercury, this road would eventually lead us to The Twilight Zone, a more urban-like area closer to the light at the center of town. It was named as a joke, partially because of the dim, shadowy light that its location provided, and partially because it had an atmosphere that tended to attract weirdos. No surprise, then, that it had always been my father's favorite place whenever we had visited Aphter back when he was alive. It was also no surprise when I found out he had moved into a nice little place over our regular coffee shop after the cancer took him. He had reserved the place in advance on one of his last visits.

My dad had more connections in Aphter than anyone else, living or dead, even when he was still breathing. He'd been visiting here most of his life, since learning the way from his grandfather. All the big names in Aphter knew David Sayer, and some of them even liked him. I was hoping he could help me figure out what was going on. I was hoping he knew something I didn't.

After a few blocks, Amy began to loosen her grip on my neck and slowly lifted her head to look around. "You feel like walking?" I asked her.

She looked me in the face for an instant, and then lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm acting like a baby." She let go of my neck and I lowered her to the ground.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You've had a pretty busy day, you know?" She smiled a little. "You're doing fine," I said, patting her on the back as she stood on her own feet.

She didn't feel like saying anything, so I was able to think while we walked. I went over the facts again in my mind, looking for any connections I had missed before: Early yesterday morning I woke up to see the pale figure of a Whim circling the fan in my living room above the couch where I slept. Listening carefully, like my father had shown me, I heard the Whim softly singing these words:

    Amy's not the butcher's son
    But the butcher's Amy's mum
    Amy's all alone today
    'Cause the butcher's gone away
    And tonight the one's who caught her
    Come to get the butcher's daughter
    When they see that they were wrong
    'Tis the daughter sings the song
    Then the dead man, he will bring 'er
    To the one who seeks the singer
    Hang the butcher, kill the baker
    Sing the song to meet the maker

I laid there and listened, keeping still so as not to frighten the Whim, until I had memorized the song. Then, without planning or thought, I said my plans out loud. "I'm going to the butcher shop down the street." It's important, my father had shown me, to act on your first impulse when following a Whim. Too much forethought and the Whim will lead you astray. So, I got up, got dressed and drove to the butcher shop in the little storefront strip down the road. I knew it was there, but I'd never visited it before. I bought my meat at the supermarket, as did everyone else I knew. Nevertheless, it must have done a decent business, because it was a nice looking place in a good part of town. "Montagne's Chop Shop" it was called. The lettering on the door said the place opened at 5:00 A.M., but it was 5:37 and the place was still locked up tight.

This was not the sort of town where people lived above their shops, so I knew I had to figure out who owned the place. It crossed my mind that I might have the wrong shop, but I ignored the thought. Whims didn't work like that. Peering through the door I saw the name "Darla Montagne" on a catering business card at the end of the counter. I jumped back into my car and drove down to the little coffee shop back near my apartment. I took in my laptop, ordered a triple, fired up Google and, within a few minutes, had a listed phone number with an address. I didn't bother second guessing, I just memorized the MapQuest directions and jumped back into the car.

When I got to the place it was immediately apparent that something was up. It was a nice neighborhood, all BMWs and Porches. It was not the kind of place where people left their doors hanging open. I walked to the door and called out. "Hello?" I yelled. Nothing. I didn't really want to go in, because I've always hated getting shot. "Hello, this is the police," I lied. "Is anyone here?" Still no reply. Nervously, I stepped into the large entryway. "Amy?" I called out. "Is there an Amy here?" After a minute, I heard a noise up above, and then I saw Amy peak from the top of the stairs. "Amy," I said, "I think I'm supposed to help you find your mother or something."

She was easy to convince. Kids always are. I just told her the truth, as strange as it sounded. I even told her the Whim's little song and asked her if she knew what it meant. She said she had no idea, and I believed her.

My next compulsion was to come to Aphter. Why? Well, because of the words "the dead man." Like I said, you don't over-think a Whim.

And so, here we were, walking through the suburbs of Deadsville, heading for The Twilight Zone. Might sound strange to you, but for me, it's just another day on the job.

SIX

Aphter: Four

ONE TWO THREE

FOUR

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Mercury," I said. "I'm a big fan."

"What's that?" he asked, distracted. "Oh, right. That. Yes, well, thanks. Just continue on this way and you should get into familiar territory in a while," and he spun and was gone, walking very quickly down the road that meandered off to the left.

"He was nice," Amy said, yawning.

"Nice? The last sheriff was nicer," I answered. I caught her yawn at that point and, stretching and flexing, I was reminded that we needed to hurry.

"Why did you say you were a big fan?"

"Hmmm? Oh, he's a pretty well-known singer, a rock star," I answered, starting to walk.

"He doesn't look like a rock star," she said. "Can we find a hotel or something here? I'm sleepy."

I cursed under my breath, wishing we'd have gotten here sooner. I was pretty zapped myself. "No, we can't. That's why we'll need to hurry. We can't rest here."

"Not right here," she said. "Don't they have hotels or something like that?"

"No, they don't. We can't rest here at all, here in Aphter. There's no rest for the living in Aphter." I tried to set a pace that wouldn't exhaust us too quickly but would still move us along.

"What do you mean?"

I sighed, wondering how to make her understand. "Look, Aphter is where the dead rest. There's no rest for the dead outside of Aphter. Well, we're just the opposite. We're alive. There's no rest for us here. We have to get in and get out without rest. So, let's not talk too much. Let's move."

"Or what?" She sounded nervous.

"What do you mean?"

"What happens if we get tired and fall asleep?"

"You can't fall asleep here unless you're dead."

"So what happens if you get really, really tired? You don't fall asleep?" She stopped.

"No. You can't rest at all. Just like out in the living world, though, if you get exhausted enough, you'll die."

She stared at me, tears welling up in her wide eyes. "Are you serious?" She looked so tired it almost broke my heart.

"Look," I said, kneeling down to look her in the eyes, "it's going to be alright. People can go a long time without sleep if they have to. I've been here for a few days before. Don't worry. Trust me."

"But I'm already tired now," she started to sniff and a tear ran down her cheek. "Can't we just leave?"

"No, we can't. We're running out of time, Amy. We have to keep going." I had to stay aloof. In my line of work you can't let your emotions take over. Let the emotions loose and, pretty soon, you can't pay attention to anything. I had to be sharp. I couldn't afford to miss anything. "Come on. Be strong." I gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder.

She started to sob. She stood there facing me, eyes squeezed shut, arms straight at her side, and her entire body shook and shuddered as tears poured down the crinkles in her cheeks, along her lips, over her chin and onto her shirt. A more skilled companion would have comforted her immediately. I knew this. 'She's a little girl, damn you!' I cursed myself. 'Do something!' I reached out with one hand and, placing it on the back of her head, pulled her gently toward my shoulder. She didn't need much encouragement. She plunged her sloppy face into the crook of my neck and shoulder and threw her arms around me so tightly I thought she'd choke me. For more than a minute she sobbed uncontrollably and dripped tears down my back. Once, between her moans and sniffles, I heard her choke out the words, "I want to go home." This renewed my sense of urgency. I'm not a commiserator, I'm a repairman. There was only one chance to fix things, and it was slipping away fast.

"Come on," I said, and I wrapped my arm around her back and stood, lifting her. She wasn't so heavy. I could move like this for a little while. I adjusted her weight a little for balance and started off in the direction the sheriff had indicated toward The Twilight Zone. I tried to focus on the task at hand and avoid becoming distracted or carried away by compassion for this troubled little girl in my arms. It wasn't the easiest thing I'd ever done, believe me.

FIVE

Aphter: Three

ONE

TWO

THREE

The cop was on the smallish side of average with short, dark hair and a thick, black mustache. He was wearing a skintight, short-sleeve, light-blue, button-front shirt with a silver badge on the chest and navy blue, skintight, polyester uniform pants. There was a raven perched on his shoulder peering up at me.

"Who the hell told you how to get here?" he demanded.

"N-no one told me," I stammered nervously. I'd never been greeted like this before. Who the hell was this guy?

"Hmmm...," he said, taking a step back and bending to look directly into Amy's face. She still had her eyes closed. "You can open your eyes, little girl," he said. She opened her eyes and was startled to see this strange policeman staring at her. She started to step backwards.

"No!" I yelled loudly, pulling her arm a bit too roughly to keep her from moving back at all. She stumbled forward a bit and almost collided with the cop, but he snapped up and thrust his hands onto her shoulders to catch her. In the commotion the raven cawed loudly and leapt into the air, flying to light on the roof ridge of a nearby house and calm its ruffled nerves.

"Careful there, breather. You'll have her arm out," said the cop, bending to look her in the face again, his hands still on her shoulders. "Are you okay, miss?" he asked, smiling a huge, toothy grin under his mustache. "Let's move a little further in to talk," he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder and leading her a few steps away from the edge of town. She held tightly to my hand, so I followed them.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I said to her, squeezing her hand. "If you had stepped back any farther I would have lost you." She just looked over at me with a blank, bewildered look.

The cop led us into the light of the nearest lamppost and then slipped his hand off of Amy's shoulder and snapped around to peer at us again. "All right now, you two, why the hell are you here?" His accent was hard to place, but there was something very familiar about him. His movements were a little exaggerated, almost flamboyant. His nose and toothy overbite stuck out in a way that I was sure I had seen before.

"Do I know you? Have we met?" I asked.

He leaned in and peered at my face. "No, I don't believe we've met," he said.

"Well where's the sheriff?" I asked?

"I am the sheriff," he replied, with a strong emphasis on the word "I".

"What happened to Sheriff Wayne?" I asked.

The question surprised the odd sheriff, and he put a hand to his chin like The Thinker and considered me for a long pause. "Who are you?" he asked, finally.

"My name is Simon," I replied, "Simon Sayer." I held out a hand to shake, but he just glanced down at it and back up again.

"Well, I've never heard of you, Simon Sayer, but you've obviously been here before. What brings you here now?"

"Just business," I replied drawing my hand back and putting it into the pocket of my jacket. "Where's Sheriff Wayne?"

"What sort of business?"

"You didn't answer my question," I observed.

"We have that in common, it seems." He smiled.

"Am I required to tell you my business, Sheriff?" I asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible. "I've never observed that requirement here before. Have things changed so much here?"

His smile faded a little, and I could see a little tension pass from him as he arrived a decision. "No, of course," he sighed. "Your business is your business, as long as you don't cause any trouble." He took a pen and small notepad from his front pocket. "Simon Sayer, you said?" he asked, making a note of some sort.

"That's right."

"And your name, my dear," he smiled at Amy.

"Amy," she replied.

"Amy what?"

"Amy Montagne."

He made a quick note and, with a flourish, snapped the notepad closed and thrust it and the pen into his shirt pocket. "Well, Amy Montagne," he said, sweeping his arms wide in the dramatic gesture of a sales model, "welcome to Aphter. I am called Sheriff Mercury, but you can call me Freddie."

FOUR

Aphter: Two

ONE

TWO

The sign just said, "Aphter," not "Welcome to Aphter" or "The Aphter Chamber of Commerce Welcomes You!", just "Aphter."

I turned to the kid, but I couldn't make out her face in the midnight dark. "Okay, now you'll need to listen to me carefully and do exactly as you're told, do you understand?"

"Why? What's going on?" She sounded tired. We both were. We'd been walking for at least six hours and my legs were throbbing.

"We're here."

"We're where? We're standing in a field!"

I sighed. "You'll have to trust me," I said. I put my hand on her shoulder, but it felt awkwardly like something someone else would do, so I took it off. "We're here, you just can't see it yet."

"Why not?" She looked around.

"I already told you why not. You need to pay better attention to things." I sighed again, trying to compose myself. "Listen, I'm exhausted, and I'm sure you must be too, so let's just agree to be agreeable, okay?"

"Whatever."

"Okay. You're going to have to take my hand, and you're going to have to close your eyes. Do you understand? This is really, really important. We only get one shot at this. I don't want to leave you behind."

"One shot at what?"

"We're going into town, into Aphter. I can go in because I can see it. You can only come in if you hold my hand and close your eyes."

"Why do I have to close my eyes?" she asked. She was still looking around, as if she could make herself see what I saw by peering intently into the dark or concentrating enough.

"Well, you don't have to, technically, but your brain won't like what it sees if you don't. It will make you sick. Really sick, trust me. We don't have time for you to be sick, so just close your eyes."

She thought about it for a minute. "Do I have to keep my eyes closed the whole time?" she asked.

"No. No. Just during the change. Once we're in town, I'll tell you and you can open them. It will only be for a few seconds, and I won't let go of your hand."

"Oh," she said, sounding relieved. "Okay." Then she added, "Are you serious about this? Is this real?"

"Just wait and see," I said, taking her hand. "Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep them closed until I say." I turned to look at the road into town. I wasn't in town yet, so I couldn't tell if anyone was about. The town looked empty, and probably would be pretty dead at this hour (no pun intended), but you could never tell. Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the dirt road of Aphter and pulled the kid, Amy is her name, with me. I was looking at the ground, so I saw the polished black shoes in time to stop just before running into the police officer less than six inches in front of me.

"That's quite far enough, breather," said his vaguely British accent.

"Can I open my eyes?" asked Amy.

THREE

Aphter: One

ONE

"Where are we going?" she asked, out of breath from trying to keep up with my quick, long strides. I didn't answer her. "Why can't we take the car?" she added after a few minutes.

"Just watch and learn, kid," I said. She'd never pick it up, though. She didn't pay close enough attention to pick it up. She fell silent.

We had parked the car just inside the city limits at a gas station. You had to leave town on foot. That was the first step. Luckily it was a lovely fall afternoon, good weather for a walk. I'd picked this direction out of town because there wasn't a lot of sprawl to the west. Once you got outside of the city limits it was all scattered houses, trees and rolling hills.

Much to my relief, we hadn't walked far when I heard the first call. It was just behind us and high overhead, but it was unmistakable. I fought my instinct to look and kept my eyes on the road.

"Where did you say we were going?" the kid asked again.

"I didn't say," I answered. "Don't talk, kid. I need to listen." As I was saying it I heard the second call almost directly in front of me and not far overhead. I caught a flash of black in my peripheral vision, and it took everything I had not to look, but I knew better.

"Did you see that?" she asked, startled. "That thing almost hit you!"

"Shh."

"What kind of bird was that?" she continued.

"A raven. Now be quiet. I've got to listen." She stayed quiet after that, walking along beside me as my pace slowed.

After a little more than an hour my legs started to get sore and I started to get worried. Had I missed the third call? I didn't have time to start over. We needed to hurry. I looked over at the kid, wondering how she was doing. Her cheeks were a little red, but she seemed fine. She was young. She could probably walk all day.

That's when I heard it. It was high up and over my right shoulder. I stopped and turned quickly, staring into the sky. There! There it was! The road we were on had veered slightly northwest, but this thing was headed slightly southwest. We'd have to leave the road. I looked to the southwest, but the road was cut into the side of a small hill that rose in that direction. I couldn't see anything past the hill.

"Come on," I said, crossing the road.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, running across the road.

"Up this hill. This way." I looked back, but the raven was gone. I got this suspicion that I didn't correctly remember the direction it was heading, but I what could I do? I had to go with what I remembered.

There was a barbed fence a few feet from the shoulder, but it was easy enough to pass through and we were soon standing at the top of the small hill. I was winded from the short climb after the long walk. The terrain past the hill was more flat, and I could see for a good distance. There it was, looking just like I remembered it. It was still a good walk away, and I was a little discouraged. We weren't going to get there before nightfall.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"Aphter," I said.

"Where?" she asked.

"You can't see it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't know how."

"Can you tell me how?"

"No. You can't tell someone. They have to watch and learn for themselves. Let's go." I started walking down the hill.

"What is Aphter?" she asked, catching up with me.

"A town."

"And we have to go there?"

"Yes."

"Who lives there?"

"Lots of people."

"People who can help us?"

"I hope so."

We walked without talking for a few minutes, listening to the cicadas start their evening song in the trees. A cool breeze blew in from the northwest.

"What sort of people live in Aphter, Simon?" she eventually asked.

"Dead people."

TWO