“There’s two possibilities. One,” Rhonda held up a gloved finger, “it’s all bullshit. Everyone believing in something that doesn’t exist. A tribe stuck on a meme. A cult telling campfire stories and egging each other on. Or two,” she held up a second finger, “there is some freak sucking people’s blood, but there have been no credible eyewitnesses, no suspects, no arrests, no one shooting a home invader when we live in a gun-loving state that allows open carry in public, no police sketches, no social media pics or vids, and no credible theories on the chat boards, and believe me I looked because of nonstop rants from guys like this.” She jerked a thumb at Mr. Manx.

  “Ugs…” he wheezed.

  “So which seems more likely?” Rhonda asked me. “Shared hysteria? Or some super villain creeping around for years, unnoticed?”

  “No one noticed Larold and Rita Goodall,” I said.

  “Who now?”

  I held up my bandaged arms. “The serial killers who tried to eat me.”

  “I’ll give you that.” She nodded. “But you think this small town has more than two people acting like low-budget movie psychos? Maybe all those rumors about the Destiny Drac were about those two. And you and your missus took care of them, didn’t you now? I know for a fact they’re in the morgue, chilling out in the basement cooler. So problem solved.”

  While I was 100% sure those two were dead, I didn’t like the idea of them being in the same building as me and my family.

  I changed the subject. “How hard is it to find a vein when drawing blood?”

  “Ain’t easy. Phlebotomy training takes four to eight months. It’s usually part of other programs.”

  “Are there classes?”

  “Sure. There are classes for everything.”

  “Anything local?”

  “No. But Colorado has the Red Cross. Some community colleges teach it. I hear these days you can get certified online.”

  “What do you practice on?”

  Rhonda laughed. “Students practiced on each other a lot. Family members too, before they got sick of being pin cushions. There are also venipuncture practice kits. Comes with a fake arm, all the gear.”

  “Thanks, Rhonda.”

  The RN squinted at me. “You think this Destiny Drac boogeyman is real?”

  “Maybe. Local police asked us to look into it.”

  “Who?”

  “Kertis.”

  She snorted. “He’s still around? I thought he died or quit or something.”

  “We just talked to him.”

  “Really? I didn’t think that apathetic little shit cared about anything other than riding a desk until retirement.”

  I shrugged. “Seemed like a decent enough guy.”

  “Let me tell you something about cops in this town, Mr. Troutt. They either couldn’t make it in the big city, or didn’t want to do big city work. So they’re either bad or lazy. Or both.”

  “Ugs!” Mr. Manx chimed in.

  I nodded at the nurse, then rolled out of there, getting halfway to the elevator before realizing that somehow Rhonda knew my last name.

  FLESH

  After selecting the appropriate disguise, Flesh headed to the hospital to pay his respects. There had been too many cops, too much activity, to say a proper goodbye. But the longer he waited, the tougher it would be.

  Literally.

  So he donned the uniform, locked up the apartment over his shop, took the magnetic signs off of his van’s side panels, climbed in the vehicle among much jingling of keys, and drove to St. Erasmus, humming tunelessly to himself. He steered with one hand, the other squeezing his grip strength dynamometer. It measured up to four hundred and fifty pounds, and though Flesh didn’t look like a bodybuilding gym rat, he could max it out with both hands.

  My fingers are my business. Got to keep them in shape.

  He parked in the employee lot, hanging the fake tag from his rearview mirror. It wouldn’t be needed; the security guards recognized him and his vehicle.

  If you show up to work and act like you belong, no one actually checks to see if you are actually employed there. And after enough time faking it, you fit right in.

  A type of crustacean known as decorator crabs will attach things to their shells to blend in. They can stick rocks, plants, and even sedentary animals to themselves.

  Flesh could also accessorize to remain unnoticed. Even with his large, athletic frame, he could disappear in plain sight using a variety of items. His favorites were a clipboard, a leaf blower, a broom, a hardhat with a tool belt, a reflective safety vest, a work apron, and the ever-present Photoshopped name badge ID with a recent picture. When paired with a location-appropriate uniform, you became virtually invisible to the public. But you were also able to access information and closed-off areas simply by announcing yourself and acting like you belonged there.

  Quoth Sun Tzu: The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.

  In stained coveralls, wearing disposable shoe covers over his boots, and pushing a mop and bucket, Flesh could go almost anywhere.

  He rolled the bucket to the rear entrance, used the duplicate key to unlock the door, and entered the maintenance area of St. Erasmus. Ignoring the few workers he passed, Flesh took the service elevator to the basement level.

  Half-expecting to see Blood by the morgue door, he was somewhat relieved to find the area devoid of all people.

  All living people.

  The morgue was locked. Still. Silent, except for the soothing hum of the coolers. Flesh used another dupe key to let himself in. Then he stood next to one of the stainless steel autopsy tables and breathed in the unique mortuary odor.

  Bleach. Bodily fluids. Lemon disinfectant. And the smell of a meat cooler in a butcher shop.

  Flesh’s mouth filled with drool.

  He eyed the bank of refrigerator doors, then checked the dry erase board for names and quickly found Rita and Larold Goodall, along with fifteen others.

  Almost at capacity.

  Unfortunately, they were all Covid deaths. Normally Flesh would check out the recently deceased, do some sample tasting, but both Flesh and Blood avoided those infected with coronavirus. No sense in tempting fate.

  So he located Larold’s drawer and tugged open the handle, then pulled out the sliding metal drawer.

  The old man was naked. Cleaned, but the damage to his head made him almost unrecognizable.

  Flesh clenched an angry fist, relaxed it, and then ran his fingers over Larold’s chest.

  Cold. Firm.

  Still strong, even in death.

  Flesh placed his head over Larold’s left nipple, listening for a heartbeat, holding his breath and keeping absolutely still to make sure.

  No life.

  But his scent was intoxicating.

  Flesh held him, daring to close his eyes and exist in the moment.

  This is our closure.

  You didn’t die in vain.

  I will avenge you.

  Goodbye.

  Flesh went to his mop bucket, removed his box of Yasuidesu knives and selected the utility blade. He approached Larold again with the reverence the dead man deserved, and began to remove his biceps, noting a needle mark on his forearm.

  Blood already took a few pints.

  That made Flesh smile.

  Flesh then gently hefted Larold onto his side and removed the buttocks. Good lean-to-fat ratio there, to grind up into burgers.

  The whole process took less than two minutes, with Flesh keeping an eye on the door. After sealing his meat in plastic bags and putting them into his mop bucket, he gave Larold a kiss on his ruined face and pushed his drawer back in.

  Rita was next.

  This is going to be hard.

  Literally.

  When he pulled her drawer and saw all of the bullet holes, a sob caught in his chest.

  Dear Rita. Dear, beautiful Rita.

  Beauty being in the eye of the beholder. Rita’s body boasted an endless collection of wounds and scars, many self-inflicted. Her dead face resembled a skinned skull, the top gone like a missing pot lid and her brains collected in a plastic bag and shoved into the gaping hole.

  Flesh kissed her lipless mouth, his tongue meeting hers.

  Cold and damp. Like liver.

  Flesh began to chew, then stopped himself, knowing what he wanted, knowing he couldn’t have it and risk being seen. It wasn’t an autopsy day, and most hospital employees avoided the morgue. But it was a pandemic, and people were dying. It was possible someone could walk in.

  Flesh removed his coveralls, naked underneath.

  Then he climbed on top of Rita, and placed his hands on the vault walls to push the drawer back inside.

  He pulled the door closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, to let in some light.

  Then he began to say his tender goodbye.

  SAM

  Mom and Dad were roaming the hospital, looking for clues, and Uncle Harry was sleeping.

  I felt useless. And tired. And a little sick. And a little scared.

  Scared because my chest was really starting to hurt.

  Scared because Mom and Dad said there were no more monsters in Destiny. They said they got rid of the monsters.

  But they didn’t. There were still monsters in town. Maybe even in the hospital.

  And I didn’t know if they were old monsters, or new monsters. I was hiding my face when they shot Mr. Goodall and his sister. I didn’t look.

  But now I wish I had looked. Because I wanted to be sure they were really dead.

  The funny thing is, science can create mRNA vaccines, and send a space probe to Pluto and send back pictures, and figure out how to build electric cars with a smaller carbon footprint than fossil fuels, but it wasn’t so good at understanding life and death.

  No one knew how life on Earth got started. Or how to create life in a lab.

  And no one knew how death worked.

  Sounds weird, right? Sixty-five million people die every year. That’s 178,000 per day.

  But there is no scientific consensus on the true definition of death.

  Most medical professionals say it happens when the heart stops and can’t be restarted and there is no longer any respiration, reflexes, or reactions.

  Seems simple enough. Except it isn’t.

  Some people come back from that. From no response at all, to full consciousness with no damage whatsoever.

  This scared people during medieval times. A lot. Many people during the Dark Ages insisted on having bells installed next to their tombstones, with a string leading down into the grave and into their coffin so if they were still alive, they could pull it and alert people to dig them up.

  Crazy, right? But there have been cases where that actually saved lives.

  Because even though we think we know death, sometimes death is very hard to determine. And that makes sense, if you think about it. What’s the difference between someone alive and someone dead? All the cells are still there. And those cells are all still alive for a while. It takes several minutes after circulation and respiration ceases for brain activity to cease. But no one hooks a dead person up to an EEG to check for brainwaves, which some scientists propose is a good idea, because brain activity can continue after death. Consciousness can continue after death.

  Cells can take hours, or days, or even weeks to fully die. Look it up. I did. I look up everything. Some cells go into a dormant state, and can be reawakened up to 17 days later.

  If a car breaks down, it can be repaired. We don’t call it dead and throw it away.

  But with people, a minute after someone stops breathing, the grieving starts.

  When, in some cases, the grieving is very premature, because the dead person comes back.

  So I was thinking about Covid-19, and also thinking about not seeing the Goodalls when they died.

  Mom and Dad and Uncle Harry were worried about Blood. Also called the Destiny Drac.

  But what if Blood was really Rita or Larry Goodall?

  Someone needed to check.

  Someone needed to check if they were really dead.

  Someone needed to check the hospital morgue.

  “Uncle Harry?”

  He didn’t answer. I could hear him snoring.

  I knew I shouldn’t do this alone. I was just a kid.

  But the only difference between being a kid and not being a kid was how long I’ve been alive. I was smart. I could run fast. I wasn’t as strong as Dad or Mom, but I could put up a fight, and I could scream for help.

  I coughed, then sniffled, then looked at the doorway.

  I was worried Nurse Bantam would come back. Or Dr. Michaels. If one of them told me I had coronavirus, I’d be sent to isolation. Quarantined with other Covid patients.

  The word quarantine comes from the medieval Venetian word quarantina, meaning forty days. That was how long they isolated ships coming into harbor, to make sure no one on board had the bubonic plague and could spread it. The quarantine period for coronavirus was only fourteen days, but it meant I’d be isolated and not allowed to go anywhere.

  Which meant I probably wouldn’t get a chance to sneak away.

  So if I really wanted to make sure the bad people were dead, now was the time to do it.

  It was also better to do something—anything at all—other than sit in bed waiting to be told if I had a deadly disease or not.

  I was so ready for 2021 to be over.

  I was also ready to sneak into the morgue.

  I got out of bed. The backwards hospital robe thingy I wore was too big, and I had on my Black Widow underwear. I found my clothes in a bag in the bottom drawer next to my bed, and quickly put on jeans, and a T-shirt that said FATAL AUTONOMY, that Uncle Harry gave me.

  Autonomy means the ability to make an informed decision. Fatal Autonomy made zero sense. But Uncle Harry said it sounded cool, and that was the only thing people cared about.

  I didn’t bother with socks, and just slipped into my black Converse All-Stars and did two quick double-bows.

  I figured someone might ask me where I was going, but I had a plan for that. Dad had gotten me some balloons, so I took the largest one, which had a teddy bear on it, and brought that into the hall with me.

  Now if anyone stopped me I’d tell them I’m bringing my Mommy a balloon.

  I made it to the elevator down the hall without anyone stopping me. Which was kind of awful. What sort of hospital allows a child to walk around without supervision?

  “I’m losing my trust in this healthcare facility,” I said, to myself.

  Sometimes I talked to myself when I got nervous.

  There was a map of the hospital floorplan next to the elevator, which was helpful. I found the morgue in the basement level, and hit the down arrow button.

  When the doors opened, there was a lone man inside. He was in a custodian’s uniform, and his name badge read ELROY. He was younger than Dad, and taller, and he had a big Adam’s apple and long arms.

  “Hi,” I told him.

  Elroy’s face twitched when he looked at me, and he made a popping sound with his lips.

  “Funky monkey dunker!” he yelled, just as the doors closed.

  I stood very still and stared at the panel of buttons. The G button was lit. I needed to press B, but I didn’t want Elroy to see where I was going.

  “I have a neurodiverse syndrome,” Elroy said.

  “Tourette’s,” I said.

  Elroy popped his lips again. “How did you know that? You’re just a kid.”

  “Do you like it when people think you’re weird just because you’re neurodiverse?” I asked.

  “No. I hate it.”

  “And I hate it when people think I don’t know things because I’m young.”

  Elroy grinned. “That’s good. Don’t let your age define you.”

  “I don’t. But I still can’t ride some roller coasters.”

  “That’s height discrimination.”

  “I know. I’m thinking about writing a letter to the governor.”

  Elroy popped. “How old are you?”

  “You’re triggering me.”

  “Sorry. Funky monkey dunker!” Elroy’s face twitched, then he stared at my balloon.

  “I’m bringing it to my Mommy,” I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  The elevator didn’t seem to be moving.

  The silence kept going, and felt really long.

  Why was he staring at my balloon?

  Neurodiversity includes all kinds of mental conditions.

  Including psychopathy.

  Did Tourette’s and psychopathy ever overlap?

  I should check that next time I’m on my phone.

  Why is he still looking at my balloon? It was getting really uncomfortable.

  “Do you like balloons?” I asked, mostly to break the silence.

  He didn’t answer. Which was creepy.

  “Did you know the world is running out of helium?” I said. “It’s the second most abundant element in the universe, but it’s rare on Earth. When it gets into the atmosphere it escapes our gravity and floats into space. In thirty years we might not have any left. Isn’t that interesting?”

  Elroy made a popping sound with his mouth, and his face twitched.

  Then we finally, FINALLY, got to the ground floor.

  When the elevator doors opened, Elroy stood there, not moving. I exited first, and Elroy caught up and started walking next to me.

  “You know where you’re going?” he asked.

  I gave him a look that Mom gives me when she’s annoyed at something I did.

  Elroy popped. “Sorry. Not trying to trigger you. Just stay out of Ward C on the third floor.”

  “What’s in Ward C?”

  “It’s closed. It used to be classrooms and student labs and a big operating theater. They’re tearing it up to hold more Covid-19 patients. It’s dangerous in there.”

  “Then they should lock the door,” I said.

  “It is locked.”

  “So how could I go in?”

  Elroy stepped in front of me and squatted, looking me in the eye. I was so startled I couldn’t speak.

  “People underestimate me. Because of the Tourette’s.” He needed a breath mint. And he was too close to my face. “I bet people underestimate you, too. Because of your age. Am I right?”