I run. My eyes, a deep well, locked onto the car ahead. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes behind me. I'm terrified. Bullets hum their haunting tune. Death, its silent whisper, waits for me.

I reach the grey Toyota Camry. The handle sears my palm; I yank the door open and dive in. I begin to drown. The heat grabs at my neck, squeezes it. The air, syrup-thick, suffocates me. 120 degrees flashes on the dash display. My mind races. Sweat and tears streak my face. I open the window. A breeze slashes across my face, leaving my hair torn back, clinging to survival. My ears burst. Another shot. Too close. Too loud. A window shatters. Glass sprays in. My cheek rips. Blood spills. There is no time. I slam on the pedal. Metal screams, the car lunges forward. I'm gone.

I blink. I am somewhere else, somewhere safe. It is quiet. Warm air strokes my skin, begging me to sleep. I won't give in. "Tick," a grandfather clock looms over me, casting a shadow onto the right side of my body. Night creeps closer, darkness lurking, ready to consume. "Tick." The couch melds to my back, embracing it in its soft cotton cushions. "Tick." My eyes begin to close. "Tick." No. "Tick." They open wide, the well now an ocean, as tears threaten to escape its vast depths. "Tick. Tick. Tick" - until no more. The clock lies on its side. Blood speckles its wooden casing. A hole the size of my hand punctures its glass front. The ticking stops. Forever.

One thought. One idea. It never leaves, I can never escape it. What if they find me? What if they tell my kids? What will happen if my children think that I'm a murderer?

It changed too fast. My home. My sons. My wife. They're all gone, deserted me like everyone else. Tim's cackly laugh. Ron's stupid grin. Rose's off-key singing. I claw at my ears, nails tear skin as if I can rip the sound, the memories, out of my head. It happened too fast. I begin to sob. They didn't even let me explain - my DNA on the victim doesn't mean anything, I've made plenty of mistakes checking samples. Why? I choke. Why did they have to chase me? Why did they have to accuse me? They didn't have to die. Not all of them.

Images of the scene remain imprinted in my head. Red. Everywhere. Death, watched me. A warning of some sort, a hint of what is to come, of my meeting with him. The coldness of the house bit at my skin, its white interior, stained and in disarray.

That night, as I sifted through the evidence, my own blood stared back - proof, accusation, guilt.

Sirens. Shattering the silence. The night begins to wail. They won't find me. They can't. The walls twist, folding in. The sound grows—louder, closer. Impossible. I'm safe. My heart slams my ribs, desperate to escape. Closer still. The wails turn to shrieks. I slam my head into the wall. Warm blood runs down my forehead. I do it again. I press my sleeve to my face. The shrieks fade—become wails. Then silence.

Exhaustion wins. Sleep takes me. The dim yellow chandelier dissolves behind my eyes. Darkness...

Until she appears. She’s smiling at me from the kitchen. “How do you like the pancakes?”

Hands on her hips. Her apron, soaked with raw egg, clings like skin.

Sunlight slices through the window, landing in a perfect line across the table.

“They’re great, honey,” I lie. My mouth curls into a smile. Proof enough.

She believes me. Her grin widens. Lips stretching too far. Teeth too white. Something is wrong.

“Honey, are you okay?” I ask.

Blood trickles from her mouth, slipping down her chin.

“Honey!” I stand. The blood keeps coming. The kitchen floods - thick, red. Endless.

I grab my chair. Climb. The blood reaches my knees. Waist. Chest.

“Honey!”

It reaches my neck.

“HONEY!”

My mouth fills. I choke. Blood pours down my windpipe. I’m dying. Death stands in the corner. Watching. Shaking his head. I wake up.

I blink again. But something's changed. The shadows don't move right. I'm surrounded. Guns. Armor. People. There must be twenty of them. All of them completely covered, one formless glob of black. Their uniforms blur together in the dim, lightless room. This is it. They surge forward, knocking me to the ground. My face slams into the beige carpet. It's over. They drag me through the threshold, then toss me into the belly of a waiting truck—like trash, like evidence.

My head pounds. The metal walls tremble around me—shaking, shivering. Maybe it’s afraid of me.

“I can kill you too!” I scream at the wall. Silence.

“You hear me?” I snarl. “You’ll die just like she did.”

No response. I reach down to my sock and pull out the revolver—the one they missed. The one I used on her. I level it at the doors. “This is how it ends.” The shaking stops. The truck groans. The rear doors creak open. And there he is. Death says nothing. Just stretches out one bony hand. I grab it. It’s time. Or maybe I've been dead ever since that night.