Billy hefted his considerable frame off his stool, adjusting his gut where the leather of his belt had been digging in before heading off toward the elaborate door system at the front of the establishment. Whoever was laying on the buzzer tonight was going to catch shit once Billy got them to stop . . . and they stood a fat chance in hell of gaining entrance into the bar at this time of night, not after lockdown.

The inner wooden doors of the bar were easy enough to unlock but the heft of them had Billy opening only one just far enough to squeeze his girth through. A small vestibule opened up past them with a set of thicker steel doors blocking his path beyond that. Billy slammed the wooden doors closed behind him and locked them again using the electronic plate set into them. The empty space between the doors echoed even louder with the sound of the incessant buzzing. Billy swore under his breath and pulled back the metal plate of the peephole in the outer door, first making sure to step back from it. One-Eyed Steve had made that mistake once, and, well ... that’s why Billy called him One-Eyed Steve now, wasn’t it? Bouncer Billy was more than happy to keep his own nickname as it was, thank-you-very-much. It spoke of nothing born of mutilation and that was alright in his book.

Once the plate was open, the ringing blissfully stopped. He peered out the slit into the descending dusk of the Wastes, the floodlights high up on the exterior of the bar already kicking in, lighting up the land nearby. A sky of dark clouds threatened to open up over the vast plain stretching into the horizon. Huddled against the door was a lone figure with straw blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a hefty pack of worldly possessions strapped across his back.

“Sorry,” Billy said, reaching for the pull on the steel shutter. “Full up.”

“Hey!” the stranger said. “Wait!”

Billy laughed, relishing the cruelty in his voice. “Should have thought of that before riding the buzzer like you did, pal.”

“Are you serious?” the stranger asked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “It’s dangerous out here tonight. The brain munchers are out in full force. Just let me in.”

Brain munchers, Billy thought. He liked that. Almost made those monstrosities seem like something he’d want to meet. “Full up,” Billy repeated and started to slide the plate shut.

“Hold on,” the stranger said, agitated. His hand flew up to the long slit of the peephole, his fingers jamming into the space, preventing Billy from closing it all the way.

Billy grabbed up a cleaver that hung on a length of steel chain just to the side of the steel door, raising it up for the stranger to see. “Move ’em or lose ’em,” he said, brandishing the blade. “I’m going to be right pissed off to get blood on my biker leathers, but I’ll do it, I swear.”

The stranger pounded on the door with his other hand. “You are not going to leave me out here, man, are you?” the stranger asked. “I’ve avoided those monsters all day. If you leave me out here now, after sundown, I’m as good as dead.”

Billy shrugged. “Not my problem,” he said. Billy raised the cleaver, taking aim at the stranger’s hand. One clean swipe and the stranger’s little piggies would come off clean right at the second knuckle. Laughter erupted in Billy’s throat as “This Little Piggy” went running through his head. Billy brought the cleaver down in a powerful arc.

The stranger cried out and turned away, exposing his back. A long wrapped object poked up out of the man’s pack. Billy paused his swing and looked at the fingers still holding on to the edge of the peephole. The tips of them poked out of the stranger’s half-glove. The nails were trimmed and the fingers callused, but only at the very tips of them. Billy looked back out the peephole at the stranger and his pack.

A familiar itch rose at the back of his brain. It was the visceral itch of opportunity presenting itself, one that Billy had felt before, and it was one that Billy had learned not to ignore ... not since the world had changed, anyway.

“Is that a guitar on your back?” Billy asked.

The stranger smiled. “You noticed it, eh?” he asked. “You play?”

Billy shook his head. “Me? Nah, but I do know the value of an intact one these days. You got strings on that thing?”

“A fair question,” the stranger said. “I got lucky. I found an assload of stock at an abandoned Guitar Center just outside Albany a few weeks back. You let me in these doors, and I’ll play. I’ll play for the whole damn bar if it gets me off the Wastes.” Thunder rolled out on the plain and the stranger turned his head. Off in the distance, lightning filled the sky. “If I don’t get this guitar inside before this storm hits, the neck is gonna warp and a scarcity of strings won’t be the issue any longer, mister. I don’t have any money on me, but I can play something fierce.”

Billy felt the itch at the back of his brain increase. A musician at the door after lockdown. Billy’s pulse quickened. “Alright,” he said. Gil might not like letting him in this time of night, but screw the boss. Music means more money for the bar. He unlocked the outer door and smiled with his incomplete set of yellowed teeth before waving him in. “Looks like your lucky night, mister.”

“Guess so,” the stranger said, hurrying into the vestibule. “Thanks.”

Billy stared down at the stranger, nearly a head taller than the wiry blond, and then set about relocking the outer door without another word. When he finished with it, Billy checked it twice, then turned to the stranger.

“Now, lissen,” he said. “You performing here is going to be between you and Gil, and if you do, you’re gonna get some tips from the crowd. Understand right now that half of that is going to go to me, got it?”

“What?” the stranger said. “I thought the days of cover charges were over.”

“There’s no cover charge,” Billy said, “but if you want me to let you in from the Wastes, that’s the price.” The stranger looked distraught, which only made Billy’s blood rise. “Look. I was ready to cut your fingers off a second ago. You think I give a crap about leaving you out there?”

“I’m not going to make it to another way station tonight,” the stranger said, and then sighed. “Fine.”

“And let’s keep this between you and me,” Billy added. “Let’s consider it the cost of me risking the boss’s wrath even letting you in after lockdown. Unless you want me to send you out with those goddamned zombie bastards again?”

The stranger looked pissed, but Billy just kept staring him down until the guy finally managed to calm himself.

“I’m Wade,” the stranger said, offering his hand. Billy took it, and shook it. The guy had a strong grip, good for a guitarist.

Billy turned and punched the combination into the inner door keypad. He waited for the light to go from red to green, then pushed open the double wooden doors, giving the stranger his first view of the interior. “Welcome to Izdu-Bar,” Billy said.

The bouncer watched the stranger closely as he stepped into the bar. The disappointment on the man’s face was almost pleasing to him, although truth be told, Billy thought the place looked even more dingy than it had just a few minutes ago despite how crowded it was. And when the hell did Gil find one of those ancient and well-worn Ms. Pac-Man machines sitting off on the left? Billy certainly didn’t recall there being an entire row of dartboards along another wall, either. As he tried to remember, the guy gave a low whistle.

“Well, I’ve played worse,” the stranger said. “But not much worse.”

“I could let you back out,” Billy offered. “Speak now before I lock it down.”

It looked to Billy like the guy might actually be contemplating heading back out into the Wastes, which would ruin Billy’s plans. If the guy left, there would be no way to roll him for that guitar of his later.

“No,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll stay.”

Billy slammed the wooden doors shut behind him, checking the lock once he heard it all click into place. “How lucky for us,” he said, pushing past the guy. “Come with me.”

Billy walked the stranger over to the bar along the front right corner of the room where he knew Gil would be. The stranger followed Billy, dragging his feet as he looked around at the quiet, miserable crowd that already seemed hard at work drowning their sorrows. Billy approached his curly dark-haired boss who was busy stroking his well-trimmed beard and looking out over the crowd with concern before his eyes settled on the two of them.

“Good evening, William,” he said.

William. Billy shuddered. The utterance of his proper name was enough to make him uncomfortable. If the boss wasn’t the first guy to not fire him in a long time, Billy would have punched him in the face for sounding so fruity. He suppressed the urge and focused on the itch at the back of his brain again. “You in a good mood or not, Gil?”

Gil gave the stranger a wary glance, and then narrowed his gray-green eyes at Billy. It was enough to make the bouncer look away in discomfort. “Why do I think that’s going to depend on what you’re going to ask me, William?”

“Just checking, boss,” he said. “If you’re in a good mood that usually means the crowd’s in a good mood, too.”

Billy didn’t dare bring up what happened around the bar when Gil was in a bad mood. When the boss was miserable, the place seemed little more than a working class swill hole and that always brought everyone in the place down. Those nights became unbearable and finding the comforting of a good woman—or at least a good drunk woman—was near impossible, especially if he couldn’t earn the money for her, thanks to a slow night.

“Am I in a good mood?” Gil asked, looking out over the crowd assembled in the great room of the bar. His face didn’t brighten. “I’m not sure. We’ve got a full house. But then again, we’ve had a full house every night since the walking dead took over the nighttime world out there. Can’t say it’s going to be a thrilling night for folks in here. Don’t suspect I’ll be pulling too much from the taps, unless these fine people are looking to deepen their depression a little more.” Gil picked up a rag from underneath the bar and wiped the top of it, bringing the old wood to a fine polish.

Billy’s heart rose. The taste of opportunity practically filled his mouth.

“Got a little something for you then, boss. I know we’re full up, but I just let this guy in—”

Gil looked up at Billy. His boss looked pissed, a dark fire in his eyes. “You know the rules,” Gil said, his voice sharp. “We lock down for the night. No one comes in, no one goes out, at least not until sunrise when they can see those damn monstrosities coming.”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Gil said.

The stranger held up his hand. “Can I ask why?”

“As William mentioned, we’re full up,” the barkeep said, going back to cleaning the bar. “I have rules to keep order around here and if there’s one thing this modern world needs, it is order. It keeps the people in here safe.”

“What do you want me to do, boss?” Billy asked. “Throw the guy back out there?” Billy felt the itch at the back of his brain slowly fading, but he refused to give up. “You’ll like him, I swear. This guy’s a musician.”

Gil paused mid-polish and looked up at the stranger, and then to Billy. A wry smile crossed his face. “Playing on my weak spot, I see.”

“I know what you like, boss,” Billy said, laying it on thick.

Gil gave Billy a stern look. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you hoping to pull down a little extra money . . . and we know how you’d end up spending it, don’t we?”

“Hehe . . . yeah, well, that’s my business now, isn’t it?”

Gil just shook his head at Billy. “I suppose it is, William. I’ve certainly seen worse happen in here over the years, much worse than a little paid companionship.”

Billy gave a deep throaty laugh that turned into a cough. “Truth be told, stranger,” he said. “I was ready to leave you out on the Wastes, fingerless at our doors.”

Gil tsk-tsked him. “That’s not very nice, William.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t hire me to be nice now, did ya, boss?”

“You have a point,” Gil said.

“So . . . ?” Billy could barely contain his excitement, his heart pounding away in his chest like a tiny motor trying to power an entire city block.

“As you said, I can’t rightly throw him back out there,” Gil said with a sigh. “What kind of a host would I be then? I’ll hook the taps up to my special brew and we’ll see what we can do here about firing up a good time.”

The stranger looked relieved.

“Thanks, boss,” Billy said, turning his girth around and waddling back to his stool. Billy didn’t understand what the secret to Gil’s special brew was, but it was enough to know that when Gil served it, the bar’s crowd was happy.

Only a few things made Billy happy. The company of a good woman and the money to afford her. The second part looked well on its way to happening. Now he only had to work on the first part, which would depend entirely on raising more of the second part. His night was shaping up, after all.

The man Billy had let in stepped up to the bar. “Name’s Wade,” the stranger said. “You the owner of this place?”

Gil nodded at him. “For now, anyway. Why? You looking to buy a place?”

The stranger shook his head. “Afraid it would interfere with my nomadic nature . . . also, my lack of funds.”

Gil actually looked a little disappointed. “Too bad,” he said. “So William said you’re a musician?”

The stranger reached over his shoulder and patted the covered guitar neck poking out of his pack. “I wouldn’t exactly define myself as one thing,” he said, “but yeah, since it got me in here out of the Wastes, that’s who I am tonight.”

“Where you coming from?”

“I was up Cummington way, down from Albany over the Berkshire Mountains.”

“How’s it going up there?”

“They’re surviving,” the stranger said. “They run a good kitchen up in the hill towns and they know how to take care of their talent. Left me happy and satiated when I moved on.”

“‘Tis a noble pursuit, the life of the bard,” Gil said.

The stranger looked around at all the long faces. “Looks like you could use a bard for all your bored.”

Gil laughed. “You play the classics?”

The stranger nodded. “Sure. Hendrix, Marley, Cobain . . . the crowd pleasers.”

Gil looked to Billy, who nodded his approval.

“So that’s who passes for classic these days, eh, William ?” Gil asked.

“You’re not from around here now, are ya?” the stranger asked. “Got a bit of an accent.”

“Yes,” Gil said. “Yes, I do.”

The stranger stared at him expectantly, but Gil didn’t offer up anything more.

“Okay,” the stranger said. “Now about that meal. . . .”

“First things first, stranger,” Gil said. “When you’re in my bar, we seal a deal with a drink.” Gil picked up a mug from underneath the bar, tipped it to a slant under the spigot and pulled at the tap. A deep dark brew poured out, forming a perfect glass with just the right amount of foam at the top. “You should probably let that sit a second and settle.”

“No thanks,” the stranger said. “I try not to drink before a show. I know it calms some people’s nerves, but not mine.”

“We drink,” Gil said, pushing the mug over to the stranger, “or Billy here shows you the door. It’s our custom and as master of the house, I insist.”

The stranger looked over at Billy but the bouncer only stared back at him, dead-eyed and stoic. Maybe Billy had made a mistake letting the guy in. He had no doubt in his mind that Gil would make good on his promise to throw the guy out, but Billy didn’t want that ... not if he was gonna roll the guy for his guitar later, anyway. Still, whatever the boss said goes, and that was as good as law around here, but there was hope yet. If he had to give the guy the bum’s rush, he might still be able to get the guitar away from him.

Billy watched the guy with suspicion. He didn’t think the guitar player was going to take the drink at first, but after a long moment, he reached for the mug and brought it to his lips.

“Fine,” the stranger said. As he drank, his eyes rolled back into his head and after a few long swigs, he put the glass back down, empty. “Is that a house blend?”

Gil nodded. “The one and only.”

“Damn, that’s good stuff,” the stranger said, pounding one of his gloved fists down on the bar. “The way beer was meant to be made, if you ask me.”

“Glad you liked it,” Gil said. “Now we can get down to business. You play the night, get the crowd going, and you get protection from those monstrosities outside and a free meal. Plus if they all keep drinking, you drink for free.”

“Sounds decent enough,” the stranger said, “especially if the food is half as good as that beer.”

Gil smiled. “Can’t promise that. Brewing is my real specialty, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ve picked up a few recipes over the years. Should be suitable enough.”

“You have any fruit?”

“Fruit?” Billy said, laughing. “Why, boy? You feeling fruity, are you? You came to the wrong bar for that, son.”

Gil shot him a look. “William,” he said, and it was enough to kill the raspy laugh in Billy’s chest.

The stranger ignored Billy, but his eyes were lit up now. “I’ve been dying for a little fresh fruit, is all. It’s hard to harvest anything when you’re traveling solo out there in the Wastes, you know? I’d kill for an apple, all nice, juicy and red. I got me an appetite tonight and that would just about be the icing on the cake.”

Gil nodded. “I can oblige, mister. William here will see to it all when you’re done playing.”

Billy swore under his breath and was about to tell his boss he wasn’t about to start taking orders and delivering food around like some goddamned waitress, but after that last look the boss had given him, it died on his lips.

“Much obliged,” the stranger said. He looked off at the tiny platform at the far end of the barroom. An old worn stool and a rusted mic stand stood on top of it. “You sure that thing can hold me?”

“Don’t worry,” Gil said. “It’ll hold. You’re a performer. The stage is what you make of it, right?”

The stranger smiled at that. “I suppose it is,” he said, “but then again, I ain’t no miracle worker.” He pulled the wrapped guitar off of his back and unwound its covering. He pulled out a gorgeous six-string acoustic with a sunburst finish across the front of it.

Billy whistled. “How the hell do you keep it that nice traveling across the Wastes? I haven’t seen one intact since ... well, hell, I don’t know when I’ve seen one that intact.”

“The tool of my trade,” the stranger said, patting its body. He picked it up and headed for the stage. “Make sure those portions are big, though. Performing works up one hell of an appetite.”

Billy watched the stranger as he took the stage, barely able to resist the itch rising at the base of his brain again. Something like that guitar had to be worth a pretty penny these days, right?

The stranger took to the stage in front of the bored crowd and without even introducing himself launched into Hendrix’s Little Wing. From the first chord, the crowd reacted, their enthusiasm growing through the next several hours with each passing song as the guy worked through a lengthy catalogue of crowd pleasers.

As the night wore on, Billy did more than his fair share of slinging drinks while the boss worked at superhuman speed to keep up with the demands of the thirsty crowd. The dingy joint of sad drunkards transformed as the evening progressed, the crowd becoming friendlier as they joined in on songs from the old days, songs of a simpler time—songs from before the Wastes.

Even the bar itself seemed to change. Every time Billy ran drinks, he seemed to notice something new about the place, something he had never noticed before. The way Billy was running around, he felt the goddamned place might even be larger than usual, but laughed it off as simply being overworked. Still, he had managed to eye several women in the crowd who might be worth a sweaty grunt or two once things died down. The tips flowed in and for a brief period of time they killed the greedy itch he felt at the back of his brain. The crowd was song-drunk when the stranger finally stopped.

Billy watched the stranger work his way through the still clapping crowd, dozens of patrons slapping him on the back or forcing money into his hands as he went. All the love and respect they were giving the guy caused Billy’s brain itch to deepen, especially with the stranger getting all the attention from the ladies in the crowd. Billy was pretty sure that if the stranger wanted, he could have his pick of any of the women in the room. He was also pretty sure that none of them would dare charge the guitarist for their services, which only irked Billy further.

As the crowd finally settled down, the stranger made his way to the bar. “Wow,” he said. “This place really came alive, didn’t it? I mean the crowd, the energy . . . hell, at one point I thought the entire bar was actually changing! I thought maybe you slipped something into my drink earlier, but I swear this is not the same bar I walked into.... I mean, that microphone was rusted when I came in and look at it now. It looks like it just popped off an assembly line.” The stranger paused and cocked his head at Gil. “This place really is different, isn’t it?”

Gil shook his head. “It’s amazing how the crowd can change a person’s perception of a place.” Gil said. “But no. Izdu-Bar is just a bar.”

Billy could tell the stranger that he wasn’t quite buying Gil’s explanation. His boss stared at the guitarist until the stranger looked away.

“Right,” the stranger said, then changed the subject. “So about that meal . . . ?”

Gil relaxed. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The bargain we struck in exchange for your entertainment this evening. I live to serve. Give me a few minutes to whip something together. The crowd got a little out of control while you were playing, and well ... the customers always come first.”

“You got a place I can sit down for a spell while I eat?” the stranger asked. He held his guitar by its neck, balanced its body on his foot. “I’m worn.”

“Sure,” said Gil.

The stranger looked around the bar again. “Something off the floor, preferably,” he said. “I need a little downtime after a show, you know?”

“Not a problem,” he said. “Believe me, I understand the desire for a little privacy, especially in a bar. You can head down the stairs out back here behind the bar. I keep a table and chair down by the brew works for my off hours. I’ll send William down with what you desire when it’s ready.”

“Great,” the stranger said. “Thanks. And hey, don’t forget that apple, William!”

Him and his apple, Billy thought. Yeah, the guy was definitely fruity. Just one more reason to liberate the guy from his guitar . . . and maybe all those tips as well.

The stranger grabbed up his guitar and reclaimed his pack before heading off towards the stairs. Gil went back to the kitchen area and Billy scoped out the bar. The crowd was still drunk off the power of the evening, which was great. It at least meant Billy was more likely to get a deal on whichever one of the girls was willing to give him a tumble later.

When Gil presented him a tray stacked with a sizable meal—complete with a ruby red apple, of course—Billy headed over to the stairs with it. As he descended the staircase, however, Billy’s mind switched back to some of his darker thoughts from earlier in the evening.

A drifter passing through, no matter how talented, was the perfect victim. If the stranger disappeared, others would assume that he had simply moved on as drifters do. The stranger’s guitar would no doubt fetch a good price, but a new thought struck him, making him a little bit angrier with every step down the stairs.

A guy like that stranger, a guy who played that good . . . he had to be loaded, right? Billy thought so, especially after having seen the tips people had been slipping the guy once he got off the stage. Multiply that money by the number of towns the stranger must have played in his travels . . . the guy had surely been crying poor at the door earlier. Billy’s blood began to rise. The stranger had tricked him, Billy thought, no doubt about it....

The more Billy thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had been made a fool of. Hell, the guy probably wore one of those hidden money carriers on his body, the ones Billy had heard were popular in surviving the lawless plains of the Wastes. Thinking about how the guy had played him, Billy clenched his hands, his nails digging into the side of the steel dinner tray. The itch at the back of his brain was overpowering now, and goddammit if Billy didn’t want to hurt the guy for making a fool of him.

The sounds of the brew works became more and more pronounced as Billy got closer to the bottom of the stairs. The hiss of steam through the twist of copper tubes leading from the water tanks to the mash tun, hopback, and copper kettles filled the air, as did the grind of the old stone wheels that helped to fire the kiln and drive the heat exchanger. Billy stepped into the brew works, passed the wall of noise that seemed to die back down once he was past a large stone tablet the boss kept near it all, and headed toward the back of the room where the stranger sat at a long wooden table with his back to him.

“Here you go,” Billy said, dropping the tray on the table next to him, letting it ring out with a sharp clang. “You even got an apple, as requested.”

“Thanks,” the stranger said, ignoring the tray as he fiddled with a small wrapped pack on the table, “but the apple’s not for me.”

“Oh no?” Billy asked, checking over his shoulder to make sure the boss hadn’t followed him down. The path back to the stairway was clear.

“No,” the stranger said, shaking his head, “but we’ll come back to that. Let me ask you a question.”

“Go ahead,” Billy said, welcoming the chance. He had been so busy planning how he was going to spend the stranger’s money, he hadn’t worked out how he should go about the deed of killing him first. Answering questions would give him a moment to come up with a plan.

“That red stone thing about the size of my chest,” the stranger said. “What the hell is it?”

“Beats me,” Billy said. He stifled a laugh as a near perfect idea struck him. Beats you too, stranger. Billy headed back over to the object and examined all the tiny marks, squiggles, and symbols on its face. “Looks Egyptian or something. Boss says it’s the family recipe for his home brew here, but I think he just likes jerking around the help when they ask about it. I’d tell him to piss off, but the job market ain’t what it used to be ever since those brain munchers took over the outside world. Filthy creatures.”

Billy put his arms around the hefty piece of stone, lifting it off its display stand. The damned thing weighed a ton. Oh yeah, he thought. This will do the trick. No question.

The stranger scoffed as he continued fiddling with that package of his, paying no attention to Billy whatsoever.

“What would you know about what’s happening in the outside world?” he asked, a hint of anger in his voice. “You’re all just a bunch of shut-in’s, sitting here, drinking your swill, passing your time, talking crap about a world outside that you don’t even know. You think the world stopped when the zombies came? No. ...”

That’s it, Billy thought and he lugged the thing across the floor towards the stranger. Just keep talking. There was no doubt in the bouncer’s mind that the stone tablet would get the job done . . . and quick. Roll the guy, store the guitar away until he could safely get it out of there, and drag the body out back, maybe leave it to the brain munchers. . . .

“What do you expect us to do?” Billy asked, trying to distract the stranger as he moved closer. “Run around the Wastes town to town like you, hoping to avoid them?” Billy raised the stone up, hefting the heavy thing in the air using every ounce of strength he had. The damned thing was likely to crush the dumb bastard’s head flat. Billy looked at the back of his target’s head and caught sight of the stranger’s package, which was now open, its contents spread out on the table in front of him. It was a collection of small tins, tubes, and pads, along with a variety of brushes. “Is that . . . makeup?”

The stranger paused for a second. “Yes. For my performance.”

One swift swing, Billy thought, and it will all be over, save for the cleaning up. It was a risk rolling the bastard in the basement of the bar, but it wasn’t every day an opportunity to profit like this fell in your lap. And even if Gil caught him before he could drag the body up the back stairs and dispose of it in the Wastes, Billy already had a cover story forming in his mind. He’d tell the boss that the stranger really had turned out to be fruity and came on to him. When Billy told the bastard where he could go, the stranger had become violent and the situation had escalated. Billy was simply defending himself . . . against a wiry guy who was a full head shorter than himself. Right.

Okay, it wasn’t the most perfect plan for killing a guy he had ever concocted, but opportunity was not a lengthy visitor these days and just living in a world where the wandering dead filled the Wastes made life a little chancier anyway, didn’t it?

Billy readied the stone for its downswing, then paused as some small light bulb in his brain clicked on. “Wait ... why would you need makeup now? That doesn’t make sense. You already played.”

“The makeup wasn’t for my performance onstage,” the stranger said, spinning around in his chair. “It’s for my performance now.” His face was normal except for a small gray patch along his left cheek that was the color of those undead bastards out in the Wastes. The stranger dabbed a pad into the tin in his hand and smeared a swatch of flesh-colored makeup over the spot, giving the stranger the appearance of humanity once again.

Panic rose in Billy’s heart, the strength leaving his arms, causing the heavy stone tablet to fall towards the stranger’s head. The stranger, however, was quicker, and raised one hand to meet the tablet, stopping it midfall. How he was supporting it with just one hand, Billy didn’t know . . . then it hit him.

“Stinking zombie,” he said with a sneer.

The stranger shook his head, still holding up the stone tablet. “Just another of your stereotypes, I’m afraid.” He stood, taking the tablet away from Billy, and flung him back.

Billy crashed against a stack of barrels, his mind fighting to make sense of everything going on. “But ... but . . . the zombies can’t talk, and. . . .”

Billy fought to find words, but nothing more came to him and a second later, it really didn’t matter anyway. The stranger adjusted the tablet in both of his hands, flipping it around like it weighed nothing, and then slammed it down on Billy’s feet.

Billy heard the sound of his toes crushing before pain shot up his legs. He went to scream, but the stranger grabbed up the apple off the dinner tray and slammed it into Billy’s mouth, knocking out two of his teeth in the process. Billy, dazed and in shock, slumped to the ground.

“I’m capable of a lot of things you wouldn’t expect my kind to be able to do,” the stranger said, crouching down next to Billy and meeting his eyes. “As you’ve seen. But you’re quick to stereotype, aren’t you?”

Billy shook his head in uncontrollable panic as the zombie musician stared down at him, examining him. He could taste the sweetness of the apple mixed with the saltiness of his own blood.

“The world keeps on evolving,” the stranger continued, picking up the stone once again as if it were made of paper and replacing it on its stand, then walked back over to Billy. “I am a product of that evolution, friend. I don’t quite understand why I’m not like the rest of those zombies out in the Wastes, but I have a theory. They say a musician’s got music in his soul. They also say that ‘music doth have charms to soothe the savage beasts,’ so maybe that helps even me out. I’m not sure exactly. Either way, I’m still human enough to walk both worlds, even if it does take a bit of makeup to cover up the gray to accomplish it. I’ve evolved, but fat, greedy you hasn’t, have you? No. You just stay the same.” The stranger stood up and kicked Billy’s already broken toes.

Pain shot straight to the core of Billy’s brain and he screamed again, the sound muffled by the apple.

“Shh,” the stranger said. “We can’t have any of that now, can we? You know, there’s one stereotype that does hold true still about my kind ... you know, us brain munchers.” The stranger leaned down over Billy, grinning from ear to ear. “Your boss promised me a meal, but it wasn’t that tray of food I had in mind.”

The stranger moved out of sight just above Billy’s line of vision, a strange and cooling sensation filling his brain as the sounds of slurping and crunching filled his ears. Bouncer Billy would have prayed, if he believed in that sort of thing, but he didn’t bother. He doubted that a God who had created these damned monstrosities in the first place was a God he wanted to meet, anyway. The only consolation was that the itch at the back of Billy’s brain all night was finally fading, along with everything else....