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I woke up at the sound of
a woman's voice asking me a question.

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The voice was familiar, but only
a little had I just met her?

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Where were we at? I was
on a bed, wasn't I? Had

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we screwed everything up when the railroad
closed down the line through Tulsen. I

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don't know if that was true or
not. Other than big shipments. They

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were too heavy for planes or trucks. Did anyone use trains anymore? Either

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way? It was five years to
the day that they ran the last train

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down the track that the killing started, and no one could leave town anymore.

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They called it the death train,
which made no sense for a number

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of reasons. First of all,
it wasn't a train. It was Harvey

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Stark in his old conductor's outfit riding
around and Jeff Humble like it was a

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prize bull. Stark was a little
guy, sure, and Jeff was built

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like a brickhouse, so he could
towed Stark around on his shoulders with no

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problem. If that was all it
was, people would have giggled and went

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about their day. But Jeff had
on one of those strap on headlamps,

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and Stark had that whistle he would
start blowing when he felt the need to

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warn someone that the train was coming. Except instead of a train, it

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was a four hundred pounds naked man, shaved clean and slick with sweat,

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a machette in each hand and a
hard on him between making goddamn train noises

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or the little asshole on his back, two to that horn and spurred him

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on like a prize stallion. You'd
think people would see it coming and run

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away, but no. The first
three or four just stood there, staring

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in confusion as the pair master blast
their way toward them and started hacking them

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to bits. By that point,
the police had tried to stop them,

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but nothing put them down or even
seemed to hurt them for long. The

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cops had fired until the train turned
its glowing iron them, and then even

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the ones that tried to run got
run down. The next day we found

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forty or so bloody and deformed bullets
in the street, like the old death

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train had just crabbed them back out. Maybe it had, But none of

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this made sense, did it.
I didn't live in this place, and

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yeah I knew and remembered all this
stuff, But what kind of nonsense was

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it? And had it really happened
to me or was it all just a

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dream? I needed to wake up. Man, I'm trying to give you

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a chance. Here, I gasped
as a small hand slapped me across my

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face. Whh geez, what's going
on? The small lamp turned on next

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to me, and I saw the
girl sitting on the edge of the bed.

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Her eyes narrowed as she stared at
me. I remembered her. She

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was cute. I had met her
at the bar and snap out of it.

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Okay, you awake, you with
me? I felt myself, wanting

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to go back to sleep, but
fought the urge she might slap me again.

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I'm awake. You hit me.
Rolling her eyes, she let out

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a sigh. Do you feel something
crawling on you? My eyes widened as

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I realized I did. Panicking,
I began frantically brushing off my chest.

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What is it? Get it off
me? I don't see anything. She

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nodded, Oh, it's there.
We just can't see it or touch it

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this early. But you've got bigger
issues what you were just in. It's

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called a hatter's dream. It's not
a normal dream, and if you let

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yourself you can get trapped there,
lose your mind. There my ster editor.

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What how why? She started to
speak, and then lowered her gaze

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before she went on. The short
version is that I roofed you. We

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didn't do anything. I just drew
on you. She gestured to a spot

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on my arm. There was a
small black circle connected to a black rectangle

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that flared out at the bottom.
What you drew? What is that?

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The woman gave a little laugh as
she held up her hand to show a

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similar, more refined tattoo on the
back. It's it's a keyhole. I'm

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not much of an artist, just
made it with a marker and well,

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a bit of my blood and spit
mixed in. I pushed away from her

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as I sat up more in the
bed. What the hell, what are

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you sick with? Her expression was
unreadable as she met my eyes. Me

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nothing now, I mean thanks to
you. It's not like a normal disease.

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It moves around but doesn't leave anything
behind. You give it with a

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keyhole and the spit and blood thing. I started shaking my head. You're

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crazy, she laughed again. No, I don't think so, not anymore.

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It stopped crawling on me as soon
as I put myself into the drawing.

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But my father was crazy. He
was crazy for nearly two years before

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i'd listened to him. I saw
she was crying now. He told me

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these stories about a madness he'd found, not a problem with the brain or

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the mind, but a living thing
that hunted and crawled from person to person

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until they were drain dry. When
I finally got desperate enough to have him

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back, I started to pay attention, and it didn't take long before I

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believed he wanted me to help him
escape the hospital so we could find someone

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to give it to. But I
knew that would never work, and I

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could see his grip was slipping.
She wiped out her eyes, so I

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finally convinced him to teach me what
needed to be done and give it to

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me, just for a little while. He made me promise to find someone

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cruel and evil that deserved it.
But how do I know? And I

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couldn't stand feeling it on me,
knowing that it was boring into my brain.

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I shuddered. She was right.
I could feel it still, like

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a faint breeze that wasn't there,
not just on my chest, but in

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the dark, behind my eyes,
rustling around, feeling for cracks and wounds

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to exploit. Geez, stop,
she grabbed my hand. No, I

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need you to understand, so you
have a chance. I didn't do this

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to mess up or ruin your life. It's not personal. I did it

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to save me and my dad,
and you can do the same thing that

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I did, and maybe you can
find someone that actually deserves it. Just

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stay awake, get tons of caffeine
or pills or whatever. I grabbed around

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back, clenched my teeth. Why
don't I just put it back in you.

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She shook her head and she waved
her other hand again. It won't

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work. Dad says, it won't
take the same key hole twice. Standing

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up, she pulled away and stepped
to the other side of the room.

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Still. I figured you'd be mad. That's why I'm going to leave before

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the drugs were off enough for you
to chase me. I tried to move

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my legs, and she was right. They were there and I could feel

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them, but everything still felt loose
and liquid below my waist, You asshole.

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The woman nodded, yeah, I
guess I am, and I am

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sorry, good luck, and then
she was gone. It was another thirty

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minutes before I could get up and
walk to the door. We'd been in

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a cheap motel room not far from
the bar I remembered going to. But

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this late, all the bosses were
gone and taxis were few and far between.

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I wound up sitting on a bench
for nearly an hour waiting for a

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ride share to come, dipping in
and out of strange dreams the entire time.

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I debated calling the police, but
I wasn't sure what to tell them,

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and it was embarrassing drugged by some
cute but insane woman that drew on

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me and made up some bizarre story. I decided to just get home,

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get some sleep, and decide what
to do the next morning. Except I

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didn't wake up the next morning.
Instead, it was three days later.

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I was lying in a bed covered
with dried pea and feces, and I

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was so dehydrated that I had to
crawl to the bathroom to drink out of

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the toilet because I couldn't reach the
sink. I remembered where I'd been.

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It wasn't just one place some other
time. I was back in the town

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that was being terrorized by the death
train. Times I was underground somewhere,

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crawling through a tunnel littered with wrappers
and bits of candy. I spent several

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hours in a building with fleshy walls
that bled when you touch them and groaned

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with every step you took. Something
lived in those walls and was after me.

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So I had to keep moving despite
the stink and the noise and the

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blood, on and on through one
terrible thing and then another, and the

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entire time my unseen invader was crawling
all over me, probing me and lightly

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biting, as though testing the flavor
of its new found meat. I say

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all of this because I want you
to understand that I believe you now,

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and I want you to know that, like you said, it's not personal.

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It's not going to work. I
already told you, turning on the

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headlamp so I could see better in
the darkened room, I finally found her

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hold up in after weeks of tracking
her down. I disagree. I've given

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it a lot of thought. I
can still give it to you. I

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just need to get rid of your
little keyhole. She was crying hard now

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as she tried to pull free from
her restraints. It's a tattoo. He

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made me get a tattoo, so
I couldn't get it back. After I

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got rid of it, I grinded, her stinging sweat streaming into my eyes,

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but that was okay. The pain
made everything sharper, just like the

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machette. I made it extra sharp
for a clean cut. I pulled the

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blade out from my rucksack and she
began to struggle harder. Then he should

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have told you to put it somewhere
expendable. No, no, no,

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I could hardly hear her screaming as
a piercing whistle filled my ears. Raising

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the blade in both hands, I
took a small practice chop before lining up

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the final cut. It would all
be over soon, and would I miss

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it? I'd be lying if I
said there wasn't two minds about it.

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Tightening my grip on the sweat slicked
handle, I let out a bellow as

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I brought it down. It wasn't
as terrible and musical as the high pitched

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thrilling in my ears, but it
still felt right. Chew, chew, chew,