ONE

It smells like shit in here.

I groggily sat up, only to wince and clutch my spinning head.

What the fu—AH!

My stomach gave a dangerous lurch and I gingerly lay back down, willing the world around me to stop spinning, just for a second.

Where am I?

It wasn’t the first time I’d woken up from a night of drinking with that question on the tip of my too-dry tongue. Of course, that was back in my college days. At thirty-two, I couldn’t go out and party and feel relatively fine the next day anymore; I was already at the part of my life where things were starting to hurt and I was making Dad Noises when I’d get up from the couch.

I cracked open my tired eyes and squinted around at my surroundings. I was behind bars, laying on a wooden bench against a cold, dirty stone wall. Equally-dirty hay covered the ground. Outside my cell, the room was decorated like a medieval dungeon. Torture implements hung from one wall and weapons hung from another. At the center of the room was a long stone table with leather straps at its corners. I shivered at the sight. One other table sat a few feet away—this one made out of wood and surrounded by matching, toppled-over chairs.

Okay. So you’re in…jail? Question mark?

I groaned. Clutching my head, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried sitting up again. The world pitched beneath me. Before I could stop myself, I retched into the hay at my feet.

“Ugh,” I rasped, and spat the taste out of my mouth. I only felt marginally better. I needed water. If I could get some water in me, I could rejoin the land of the living.

Staggering to my feet, I sucked in a breath to settle my stomach. So far, so good. If I could stand without wanting to hurl, then I was well on my way to functioning.

Wait—what time is it?

I doubt a jail would let me keep my phone, but this place was so weird-looking, I doubted I was in jail to begin with. This had to be some kind of prank; that’s all that made sense to me, even if this was such a weird extent for my friends to go to for a prank.

I dropped my hand to my side to grab my phone from my—

No pockets.

I glanced down at myself with a stab of panic. Gone were my jeans, Docs with purple ladder laces, and Miskatonic University hoodie. In their place were stained rags that were held together with hope and a prayer. No pockets meant no phone.

“Okay, you guys—what the hell?!” I winced at the sound of my voice hitting my ears. I pressed my forehead to the bars. Silver lining—they were blessedly cool against my throbbing head. I rolled my head to the side, letting my right temple rest against them.

There was no response. No Ginger leaping out from her hiding place, none of Sam and Jack’s soft snickers from around a corner, no shoulders shaking in front of me. Nothing. I was alone.

“Dammit,” I groaned. “This is such bullsh—”

I paused and scanned the room again. I wasn’t alone. My friends may not have been here, but these actors definitely were. I’d just have to get their attention so one of them could let me out, and I could go home. Easy-Peasy-Pumpkin-Peasy!

“Hey! Hey you!” I called.

No response.

These guys are really dedicated…

“Hey! Guy right in front of me!”

I watched the soldier slumped over the wooden table, holding my breath as I waited for any sign of movement, no matter how small. Still, nothing.

Fuuuuu—

“Hey! Could you help me out here? Please?”

The soldier’s glove-clad finger twitched. A wide, relieved grin stretched across my face as he groaned and straightened, looking and sounding just as creaky as I felt. He tilted his head from side to side and muttered an “Aw, yeah,” at a particularly satisfying pop.

Then he paused, as if remembering something vitally important.

“Um—hullo?” I called. “Over here!”

The soldier ignored me. Instead, he turned his attention to a knife handle sticking out of his back—a knife handle I hadn’t even noticed at first. He groped around blindly for it and pulled it out with a string of curses and a grunt. My stomach roiled at the sight. There was nothing left for me to puke up, and yet I was ready to do just that.

“There we go. Much better,” the soldier muttered to himself. He probed at the wound, frowned, then shrugged.

“HEY!” I shouted.

The soldier leapt to his feet with a quickness I’d never seen before in someone who’d just woken up. In a flash, his sword was drawn and pointed right at me. I jumped back, hands shooting into the air.

“Name, rank, and class,” he growled.

“Um—can you put that down first?”

“Name. Rank. Class,” he repeated, more slowly this time.

“Dave. Uh…entry-level…three-oh GPA?” I squeaked. The soldier opened his mouth but didn’t speak at first.

“Entry-level? GPA? Speak plainly, rogue.” He jabbed the sword at me again.

“Entry-level! Y’know, bottom of the rung? Newbie? Ah…” I searched for a word he might understand. “Grunt?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes…grunt. But what be you, who so deftly called me back from death?”

It was now my turn to frown. I stared down at my hands, trying to will them to stop shaking.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I grumbled. “I think there must be some mistake. See, my friends didn’t tell me they were doing this, and I really need to get home…” I trailed off.

The soldier’s face remained impassive.

“Listen, I think—I think I’m lost, okay?”

“Even the lost know magic.”

I sighed. “You want magic? Fine.” I held up both hands and curled my fingers around my left thumb, making sure the soldier could see my right. I moved my right hand back and forth. A simple act of prestidigitation, but my niece seemed to like it.

The soldier stepped away and began to pace, tapping his chin as he muttered to himself. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I reached through the bars and snapped my fingers at him.

“Hey! Can you get me out of here now? Please?”

He turned back to me, now grimacing, and rushed back over. I tried not to stare too much at the trail of blood he was leaving behind.

It’s just marinara. Or juice. Or something, I told myself, sucking in a breath through my nose and letting it out through my mouth.

The soldier unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and flipped through them until he found the one he was looking for—a small silver one that was, unfortunately, also stained with blood. I gulped, forcing my gaze to the top of the soldier’s helmet. No blood there, thankfully, just a dent that looked like whatever caused it must’ve really hurt.

“I’m Wesley, by the way,” the soldier said.

“Oh. I’m Dave,” I said. Wesley looked up at me and grinned.

“Nice to meet you, Dave.”

“What happened here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A group of Undead attacked. No survivors.”

“Hold on—they’re all dead?” I gestured to the people around us. Wesley nodded slowly.

“Yes, Dave. Everybody’s dead.”

Okay. I can play along.

“That sucks.”

Wesley gave me a look—shocked. Confused? Wait, did they even say “sucks” here?

“I mean, how unfortunate,” I hastily amended. “My condolences to their families.”

Wesley returned to his task and nodded in agreement. “This is indeed an unfortunate way to perish, but at least their families will be richly compensated.” Wesley froze, catching himself. “And it has certainly been an honor to fight alongside people of this caliber.”

The lock clicked, and the door swung open with a hellish squeal. Wesley grimaced. I clapped his hands over my ears to block out the noise, but to no avail.

“Come, Dave. We should not linger here. There may be more undead in the vicinity.”

“Yeah, sure. Undead.”

I followed Wesley to a door to the left of my cell. Well, what was left of the door, anyway. The thing was just barely hanging on its hinges, splinters littering the ground. Even as I tiptoed around the debris, I still managed to come away with bits of wood lodged in my feet.

Okay, this is going too far. I hope my tetanus shot’s up to date.

Wesley held out an arm, stopping me in my tracks. “A moment, if you will.”

“Do I have any other choice?”

“Before we leave, you should arm yourself. Here.” Wesley held out a dagger for me to take, but I shook my head.

“No—no—you keep it. This is just an act, right? A prank?”

“’Tis no ‘act’, Dave.” Wesley forced a smile. “Take the dagger.”

I eyed the dagger warily. The blade was silver and etched with some type of runic script I couldn’t read. Its handle was a polished leather, this time stamped with a symbol: a lion’s head with a mane like sun rays.

“I think I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

Wesley sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward, and shrugged. “Very well. Suit yourself,” he said in a tone that seemed to say, You can’t fix stupid. Whoever this actor was, I hoped we got a raise after dealing with me.