“The study was a fiasco, terminated less than halfway through the experimental procedure.”

“The subjects?”

“Some died, a few others were executed. You know how it goes; there’s no problem that the PRC has that can’t be solved with nine grams of lead, or so they say.”

“So they say. But how exactly did the study fail? Sedation overdose?”

“Suicide. The first group was sedated for a month, kept from atrophy and whatnot with the same technology used for astronauts. When they were awoken, to a man they immediately attempted to kill themselves with the nearest available implement. They only executed the ones who failed.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either. All I know is that the sedative induced a near-constant state of REM sleep. 20–25% of total normal sleep is REM sleep, about 90–120 minutes in an average night. It’s also when the most intense dreaming takes place.”

“So they had been, essentially, dreaming for a month?”

“And they decided, to a man, that they’d rather die than face the waking world again.

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Anderton Schultz looked back at Kent, his eyes wild. One of the contact lenses had slipped, with blue appearing like an eclipsed moon from behind the blood red. The latex appliances were coming off in spots, and hadn’t really been applied properly in the first place.

“Think about what you’re doing!” Kent cried. “You’re not well, Andy!”

“Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!” growled Schultz. “Cast the warm-bloods into the Caverns of Ice!”

“Stop saying that stupid line!” Kent snapped despite himself. “Andy, for shit’s sake, snap out of it!”

Even if Schultz’s hatred toward Kent hadn’t been laser-sharp and incandescent, he wouldn’t have heard a word. The movie had been made in 1990, and he’d been buried under makeup, but in light of his recent reversals, Schultz had realized that after fighting it for so long, it was time for an embrace.

With a gutteral growl, Schultz hefted Kent up over his head with both hands, using the strength that he’d used often in doing his own stunts. Upon seeing the inky abyss before him, concealing the canyon floor 100 feet down, Kent’s wheedling abruptly turned into frenzied, infantile shrieks.

“Cast…the warm-bloods…into..the Caverns of Ice!”

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“See? All of them gone.” Caleb Barnet, the cemetery caretaker, was an odd sort with a vaguely singsong diction and a long-running, long-joked-about conflict of interest since he was the younger of the two sons of old Ethel Mae Barnet who ran Barnet Funeral Home over on East Schloss St.

Deerton PD Officer Mike Overhauser had responded to plenty of Caleb’s calls before. Usually it was something about teenagers in the cemetery walking over his fine crosscut grass or littering, and he’d been known to call the fuzz when one of the kids he hired for odd jobs over the summer looked at him funny. A lot of the guys in the city police looked at Caleb Barnet’s calls as a good excuse to pick up some coffee at Easton’s Gas.

And then there was this.

“Any idea who might have wanted to take them?” Mike bent over a grave to examine it closely. The gentleman six feet south, all dressed up with nowhere to go, was one Jared Matthews. As noted on his tombstone, he’d died in Korea circa 1952 and by rights there ought to have been a little steel holder in the ground with an American flag and a slot for flowers. Instead, the flag and flowers had been placed on the ground on either side of an empty hole.

“It’s those damned teenagers again,” Caleb said in his distinctive diction. “Pulling them up and selling them for scrap to get money for meth and dope.”

Mike pulled on a latex glove and examined the flag and flowers–one of many scattered about a burial field completely denuded of steel holders. “It’s just cheap pressed steel,” he said. “Worth less than a penny each in scrap. All the money’s in copper and stuff like that.”

“Then they’re making shivs out of them, or using them as crack pipes,” insisted Caleb. “I tell you officer, it’s those goddamned kids, with too many horror movies and not enough respect for the dead!”

“Maybe,” said Mike, unconvinced. “I’ll dust these for prints and we’ll do some drive-bys tonight.”

Over Caleb’s protestations that dusting and drive-bys weren’t enough, Mike bagged the evidence and returned to his squad car to call in the report. Caleb stalked back to the cemetery maintenance shed in response, muttering darkly.

Not far away, the stolen steel flag holders were arranged in a complex geometric pattern on the ground about their thief, close enough to be seen but missed by both caretaker and cop.

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They are the most enigmatic order of insects, and yet in many ways the most beautiful, the most devoted. It’s a measure of how little we know of them that they have only such cold and impersonal names as Strepsiptera or “twist-winged flies.” I have devoted my life to their study.

I am sure that at some stage in their evolution they were something else, but in our era they are parasites, living inside creatures as varied and pestilent as wasps, silverfish, cockroaches. The young are scuttling planidium, almost microscopic in the wild, that burrow into the larger insects they parasitize. Once inside, they undergo hypermetamorphosis, losing their legs and their eyes in favor of a wormlike form that has a variety of effects on its host in addition to living off it as a parasite. They can alter the host’s behavior in a much more complex way than Cordyceps fungi to suit their needs; causing it to go where they want and to congregate with more it its kind.

Females remain wormlike parasitic grubs their whole lives, but the males eventually metamorphose again into tiny fly-like organisms with beautiful gossamer wings. They have only a few hours to find and mate with a female before their energy reserves are exhausted, and cannot eat…what used to be their mouth has been modified into a sensory structure of unparallelled power for something so tiny. There’s a certain purity about Strepsiptera that’s not found in any other creature; they never eat when they are mobile, and they do not typically kill their hosts.

My sponsors in the military hoped to use Strepsiptera’s ability to alter the behavior of its hosts for strategic purposes, and that was the source of our experimental breeding program, trying to create a Strepsiptera large enough to affect a mammalian host and one that will alter behavior in the way that would be useful for killing and maiming, even though that is not at all in keeping with the nature of these gentle parasites. The largest males of our new strain were the size of butterflies, their wings a thousand times more delicate and beautiful, and their heads aquiver with complex sense organs and the most basal compound eyes in the insect world. The females were much larger, and gave birth to young who could secrete enzymes to break down not only skin but also clothing to enter.

They said that the experiments were ultimately a failure, that the behavior induced in the test animals was simply limited to congregating with other parasitized specimens and becoming deeply protective of the living monuments to maternity within and the fleeting, selfless masculine gossamer flutterlings without. They said that the funding was to be pulled before we could engage on field trials and human subjects. They are peaceful parasites, it is true, but that does not mean they do not know a modicum of defense.

We are all huddled together now in the laboratory on the base, deriving the most serene comfort from each others’ presence, the sort of feeling that would have precluded all human conflict had we but discovered it earlier. The ones outside are dead; having refused the gift, we were forced to act in the name of the greater good. They are peaceful parasites, it is true, but that does not mean they do not know a modicum of defense.

I can see them protruding from my abdomen now, a dozen or more gently quivering with peace and life. Some destined to reside in me forever, to bring forth brood upon brood of peace and brotherhood to release upon the world; some destined to soon burst forth in fleeting gossamer life to mate with others and bring still more broods about.

Strepsiptera. Twist-winged flies. Parasites. Love, in its purest and most selfless form. I cannot wait to see where they will take us in their purity.

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“But I’m an entertainment reporter,” I protested. “I don’t cover crime scenes.”

“I know what you are,” snapped Sturlsson. “I sign your paychecks, remember? But this is a big deal, exactly the sort of thing I need to haul the paper out of red ink for the year, and it has an entertainment angle. So you’re on assignment with Baxter and Rodriguez. The address is in your email; I expect you there in 20 minutes.”

“Just…Steve, will you just do me the common goddamn courtesy of telling me what’s going on?”

Sturlsson made a noise halfway between a sign and a groan. “Okay, fine, whatever. You know Candon Verbridge?”

I knew him, all right. An auteur director, dozens of films under his belt, most with buckets of gore and loads of sex. Critics generally loved him because his movies weren’t cookie cutter products of a Hollywood that saw fit to stamp out two trilogies’ worth of Transformers. I hated him because I tended to faint at the sight of band-aid worthy cuts; my ex-girlfriend can fill you in on the sex part.

“Yeah,” I said. “His movies never make more than 30 million but I always get loads of hate mail when I pan them.”

“Some of your better work,” Sturlsson said with the air of delivering a magnanimous–if forced–compliment. “Controversy sells papers and generates clickthroughs. Anyway, Verbridge has a vacation home outside of town.”

“Candon Verbridge had a vacation home outside of town?” I cried, a little aghast that the director I panned might have been just a few miles away.

“Nobody knew, apparently. But they will soon.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Someone burgled Verbridge’s cabin, he had to call the cops, and now that the secret’s out, you want me to talk to him while he’s still in shock.”

“Well, you can talk to him if you want,” said Sturlsson, “but I don’t expect he’ll answer. He’s dead. Murdered. Real bloody one by the sound of things, but I have an in with the sheriff and I need someone who knows what the hell he directed as part of the write-up. So you’re in.”

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We found another cavern today, the same as the previous two. It appeared to have been hollowed out by water action, and indeed a small flowing pool appeared at the far end, fed from a spring seeping through the porous limestone from up above. It had been our hope to follow the sound of water back to the surface, but it’s clear that without heavy equipment we can’t make it through.

I’ve taken to calling the three caverns “The Pearls” as they are strung out along a series of linear tunnels. We’ve noticed that the spring water is warm; that and a smell of sulfur occasionally in the air tells me that we’re near some kind of geothermal spring or magma chamber. The danger there is twofold: first that we stumble into a steam geyser or other hazard, and second…

I haven’t mentioned this to any of the group, but the geological survey didn’t indicate any geothermal activity in the area. Surely they all read the report as thoroughly as I did before the cave-in; surely they are all thinking the same thing that I am.

“The Pearls” shouldn’t exist. No system on earth, and certainly not in the area we surveyed before descending, could carve the natural formations we’ve stumbled upon. With food running low and not sign of daylight for nearly a week…I can only hope that someone finds my scribblings here useful in determining the what, and the where, and the why.

For I simply cannot.

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Dr. Richat, the local medical examiner who doubled as a practitioner and occasional surgeon at Deerton General Hospital (people still called it that even though it’d been Infrared Health Systems for nearly 20 years) kept a tight ship. Everything was locked and labeled, signed and sealed.

His assistants were a different matter entirely. They didn’t last long, reeled in by the high pay but quickly reeled out by the long hours and Dr. Richat’s imperious nature. Tina Hedstrom was at the night desk when Caleb and Fay arrived.

“Twenty bucks,” Tina said in response to Caleb’s plea. It was a week’s salary for either of them, but they scraped it together even if a quarter of it was in change. Tina unlocked the door and returned to her magazine nestled snugly between the covers of Grey’s Anatomy.

Joshua’s body lay in a drawer, but Caleb did his best to put it out of his mind. The effects lockers were a room away; in a bigger town, the stuff might have been kept in the police station. Caleb had a hunch that since the Deerton PD shared a building with the library that they thought the stuff was safer in the hospital annex.

Clutching Fay both to support and be supported, he opened the “J. Kwaterski” locker. The torn jeans and filthy t-shirt were Joshua’s beyond a shadow; Caleb was sure he’d seen them dozens of times, but in here, like cast-off lizardskin…it was horrifying.

Joshua had a few coins and a driver’s license in his wallet, but it was mostly frayed duct tape. Some tobacco-stained lotto tickets that had been kept for use as rolling papers, a braided leather belt, and…

“That’s it,” said Fay. “That has to be it.”

Caleb hefted the item at the bottom of the locker. It was heavy for its small size and wrapped in newspaper. Through a few tears, he glimpsed a cool beige surface with what vaguely resembled crackle glaze. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Fay sadly. “He said it was going to make him a ton of money.”

Caleb stretched a hand out to unwrap the object. It looked like a small coffee cup with thicker walls than he’d ever seen. Moisture glistened on the inside, and there were three perfectly circular handles evenly spaced around the outside. Caleb balanced it on its newspaper rind with one hand. “It doesn’t look that valuable to me.”

Fay’s brow furrowed. “He said it had a covering, like rubber…I guess it must have come off. I think he might have put some water in it?”

Shrugging, Caleb spat into the cup. Fay recoiled, but a moment later she shrieked as a blue light flashed from within the object with an intense ozone smell. The liquid had crystalized into something that looked like an uncut gemstone, sparkling under the harsh florescents.

“Holy shit,” Caleb cried. “Holy shit! Did you see that, Fay? Did you-”

In his excitement, Caleb brushed one of the ceramic handles with his hand. He pulled it back violently as if burned, and then clutched at his chest with a piercing shriek. The cup clattered to the floor, and Fay joined the screaming as she saw red flowers of blood blossoming all over Caleb’s torso, soaked up by his shirt.

By the time Tina rushed in from the front desk, seconds later, Caleb was on the floor in a spreading puddle of his own fluids.

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“You’ll be responsible for basic upkeep for two weeks–nothing complicated, mostly buttoning the lighthouse down for winter. The list of chores and instructions is in the kitchen.”

That suited me just fine; I’d volunteered to live and work at the old decommissioned Iron Point Light to be free from distractions, after all, to unplug and disconnect and do a digital purge. “What about tourists?” I asked.

“It’s past the end of the tourist season, so you likely won’t get anyone coming by. But if they do, you’re to show them around, take them out to the rockpiles, and try to solicit a donation or sell them a t-shirt.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The rockpiles?”

“You’ve never heard of ’em? They’re the biggest draw for the Iron Point Light aside from the lighthouse itself.” Oscar rubbed at his nose. “You can see them from here.”

I looked through one of the front windows. The gentle sandy slope to the beach was full of small shrubs and gently bent grass, but at various points in the water and on the beach there were standing piles of lake-smoothed rocks.

“Do the tourists make those?” I said.

“What does this look like, Mission Point?” Oscar scoffed. “We don’t get enough tourists for that, and the water’s ice cold. No, the piles are one of the mysteries of the lake. they just appear and disappear as they will.”

“Has…anyone ever tried to investigate it?” I said eagerly.

Oscar fixed me with a harsh glare. “That’s a hole you don’t want to be going down, kid. Best stick to your duties.”

I knew at that moment what I’d be spending my two weeks doing: shedding a little light on that very mystery.

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f1ns007 has entered chat.

SMULibrarian: Hello, welcome to the Southern Michigan University Libraries digital librarian live chat help service. How can I assist you?

f1ns007: hi yeah im lookin for my online course verses

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f1ns007: ya those

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f1ns007: ya thats right how did u know

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f1ns007: we had to read something from walden and a something about how meet is murdr

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f1ns007: huh thats wierd

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f1ns007: ok sure but how do u know that stuf im a comp sci major adn theres no way u should know

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I had known my friend Wilfred Barnham since we were youths, and his father came from Puritan stock older than mine, yet a cloud had always hung over him due to his parentage. His mother, as I’d heard my own aunt whisper, had been a debutante from a small town south of the Mason-Dixon line, and she had died not long after Wilfred’s birth, as the couple had been traveling to his father’s estate in Providence. The rumors always seemed to suggest that the elder Barnham had been seduced by a hardscrabble woman of ill repute who intended to drag herself to the upper crust and prosperity using their child as an anchor, but Wilfred maintained–often angrily–that they had truly been in love, that his mother had been a model of Southern hospitality and manners, and her sudden death even now hung over the elder Barnham like a pall.

It was partially in response to those society rumors, and partially the same wanderlust and yearning for answers that takes hold of all young men, that led Wilfred to undertake a journey to his mother’s hometown of Calhoun, Mississppi, in the summer of 1913. It was not long after our final days at school together, and even though the postal service in the backwater bayous of that oft-rebellious state was not the best, Wilfred promised to write me as I undertook my first readings to become a law clerk.

The first news I heard of him was that August, scarcely a year before the war started, and it was surely not the news I had expected: a terse telegram informing me that Wilfred Barnham had taken his own life, hanging himself in the closet of a hotel in Jackson, Mississippi, not far from the rail line which would have borne him safely home and on which his passage was already booked. It was devastating news, to be sure, but worse was to come. Through my family, I sent inquiries to the elder Barnham about attending a memorial service or perhaps arranging for flowers to be sent in my name should it be too remote. His reply was a tersely handwritten note, informing me that Wilfred had been promptly cremated and his ashes scattered, that I was better off saving any funerary monies for a worthier cause, and that he would speak no more on the subject. This I attributed to what must have been overwhelming grief on the old man’s part, Wilfred being his only child and the only reminder of the lost Southern love he had once cherished.

And there the matter rested, until two weeks later. A letter arrived at my address in Providence and was forwarded to me at my lodgings upstate; as I had feared, the post had delayed Wilfred’s missives so much that the news of his death had arrived before the news of his life.

“WE ARE THE DREAMS OF A DEAD GOD,” the letter declared in a ragged hand recognizably Wilfred’s, “AND OUR CITIES BUILT IN THE BLEACHED BONES OF ITS MAJESTY.”

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