Quitetly, Quiggly stepped into the darkness as he stealthily approached and steeled himself for the sight he knew would be there. As always, it was there, just as he expected. A blackened carcass of a corpse lay in a pool of its own congealed blood. The smell of death was evident to all. Quiggly breathed the foul air of the corridor. No matter the time of day, the smell never changed. It was always there. Only the size of the stain varied. As he slowly backed away, Quiggly knew he would return in a few weeks and find it was bigger than the last time. Quiggly never went outside. Why should he? He was comfortable here, no matter the stench of death in the corridors. He was tired and knew he should get some sleep, but he just couldn't. The man sat on the stool and watched the screen. Images flickered across the screen. He watched these images without paying attention. He watched them for hours and hours. He did this over and over. Quiggly never understood why he was chosen to watch the images. He didn't want to understand. It was his job. He did it when he could. He always checked the door lock, he kept the water in the large plastic barrel full, and he cleaned the blood off the floor. Quiggly always walked on eggshells when he went into the corridor. He was always watching his step, always looking over his shoulder, and always listening for a footstep. Quiggly didn't like the man sitting on the stool. He was tall and lanky. Quiggly didn't understand what was going on in his mind. Quiggly wondered if he was crazy. Quiggly would like to go outside, but he was too scared. He wasn't strong enough. Plus, he'd never seen what was going on outside the main door of the building. The woman had never ventured outside. Quiggly had never known her to move from the chair she had sat in for many years. The chair was bolted to the floor. Quiggly felt sorry for the woman, but if he moved in her direction, the man on the stool would make him leave, maybe even beat him up. The woman's hands were bandaged. No one had told Quiggly why. He just figured it was because she cut herself a lot. He knew this because he sometimes saw her outside with her hands up to her eyes, and they looked like raw meat. If only he knew what she cut, he would know how to help her. The woman lived in the room with the black television. Quiggly had never heard the television. He didn't want to go inside that room. The smell of her blood on the floor scared him. She had lain there for months before the man had come to get her. The man would sometimes visit the woman. Quiggly didn't like it when he was in the room. Quiggly didn't like it when he carried her out. He would carry her, her hair hanging in his face. The doorbell rang. This was very unusual, as the man rarely had any visitors. If a person was important enough to see him, it meant a great deal. That is why he always wore the black outfit. He had always worn it, except on the night the man came to him. Quiggly couldn't quite remember when he had been in his bedroom, with the clean bed and white sheets. He had a strong recollection of the woman sitting in the chair. That was the first time he had been in a bed. He was a bit confused, but he knew there was something there. It was the first time he had done what the man was doing. When he was in the bathroom, he had put the lid down on the toilet. He turned the water on, and after a few seconds the water overflowed, hitting the bath and flooding the floor. He flushed the toilet and listened to the noise it made. He was really good at this. Quiggly was a very good washer. Quiggly felt very proud. It was all he had left. He was a man with almost nothing. He was happy to have almost nothing. He knew it wouldn't last forever. He was going to die soon. He hoped for soon. The doorbell rang. It rang a few times. This time it was louder than before. Quiggly walked toward the door. He picked up a glass and held it to his nose. He put the glass down and stood in front of the door. Quiggly smiled. The man walked into the room. Quiggly said, "I'll be with you in a moment." The man said, "I'm sure you will, but I'd appreciate it if you did it now. If you would come to the door." Quiggly opened the door. He saw that the man was bleeding profusely from his wrist. He saw that the man looked a little bit pale and weak. The man was happy to see Quiggly. He was glad Quiggly was still alive. He needed someone he could trust. He told Quiggly that something had happened to the woman. Quiggly said he had seen her carried out on a stretcher. The man did not want to know. He tried to lie, but Quiggly knew. He saw the blood on her face and knew what had happened. The man had to tell Quiggly to say nothing. He couldn't stop the bleeding. He had never seen this happen before. The man had never thought he would get hurt. The man was going to die. This was strange. The man was going to die in the house, and he wouldn't die alone. ## THE LAST THING THEY DID ### Jocelyn Mundell Razor scraped against his back as he ran, the pain an unrelenting reminder of the pain he'd inflict on his opponent. He felt a bit sluggish with the full weight of his bodyweight heaped up on his shoulder and he struggled to lift his knees in time to the music pounding through the speakers. He could already hear his opponent running toward him, that deep base frequency of his running in cadence with the music's melody. Razor, as he was now being called, didn't know when it had happened, but he did know that one thing was for certain: if he didn't win this fight, his life would end. They were all watching him from the observation deck of the top floor. He could see them through the slits in the mask, like so many bright flashing lights, like the night sky. "Booo," Razor hissed as he heard the sound of sneakers approaching and that annoying hiss of the plastic air cushion on the combat floor. He leapt from the floor, landing with a roll and an athletic twist as he spun around to face his opponent, who was coming up from below. "How many?" asked the voice that he knew so well. "Five," he said, and lifted his mask just a bit. "Two's your limit," said the voice and smiled as he walked toward Razor. There was a sudden change in the speed and rhythm of the music as it ceased. The silence was so unnatural to the environment that it didn't seem like there was any music at all. It was replaced by something altogether different, something that Razor had experienced only once before, in a different reality. As the two fighters squared off, each man poised for the other's attack, they saw the shadow in the doorway. Two pairs of eyes fell upon them, both sets in a mask. One was hidden by the darkness behind him. "Well now, are you going to let me play or should I end this right now?" said the voice from before. "End it," said Razor and waited for his opponent to get into position. "Stop!" yelled the other, who dropped into a crouch. "No," he said and stepped back. He smiled as he waited for the shadow, watching it step toward the exit, waiting for that shadow to vanish, when it did, he was gone. That was when he heard the sound of a blade scraping against concrete. He turned around to find himself facing a man of his own. "Five," said the man as he placed the blade of a dagger against Razor's jugular. "Two's your limit." A strange feeling came over Razor as the blade bit into his flesh. The man dropped his blade and let him fall to the ground. "What happened?" said the voice from before. The air was filled with a sound of grinding metal as he held his head and waited for the pain to subside. He didn't know what had happened, but he did know that he had to get out of this place before the man came back. The darkness began to recede and a light filtered into the arena. Razor rolled onto his side, the pain returning as it flooded his mind, leaving him helpless to the events that would soon unfold. There was blood in his mouth and it tasted bitter. ## EAT ### Katelyn M. Morris "I don't know why I chose this place." He looked around. The place seemed