Fifteen Rules For The Midnight Watchman | Part 1
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With an hour before boarding, there's only one place to go. The Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. There, you can recharge before the big adventure. Or enjoy a locally inspired dish. You can recline in a comfy chair to catch up on your favorite show. Or order a craft cocktail at the bar.

Whatever you're in the mood for, find the detail that moves you with curated touches at the Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. Chase, make more of what's yours. Learn more at chase.com slash sapphirereserve. Cards issued by JPMorgan Chase Bank and a member FDIC. Subject to credit approval. Talk to nicely. A podcast, you say? I ask the young man as he stands on the threshold of the sliding door to the guardhouse. Yes, sir. The young man replies.

He opens a bag and shows me a bunch of electronic stuff that I cannot identify. "What's that?" I ask, blocking his way. "Well, I have a microphone, my recorder, cords for the… no." I interrupt. "What's a podcast? Oh, right." He says. "It's like radio." "Like radio, but not radio?" I ask. "Yes, it's an audio program for the computer." He says.

"Radio on the computer." I say and shake my head. "I don't have a computer." "You don't?" He asks. He's starting to fidget. The night is getting to him. I don't blame the young man. Standing outside, exposed to whatever may be lurking in the forest around us, so close to a gate that basically vibrates with ill intent, all of that would make me fidget too. But I'm used to it. I look over at the gate.

and it's twenty feet of iron magnificence. Without the gate, there would be nothing between us and, well, what's on the other side? I suppose that goes both ways though. I let the young man stew in his growing fear for a couple more seconds, then stand aside and gesture for him to come in. "Have a seat," I say, and point to a chair and small table behind me. I have to move over so he can squeeze past.

There isn't much room for the two of us in the guardhouse. Then I close the door and return my attention to the night. "Thank you," the young man says and takes his seat. I remain standing by the door and the sliding window, my eyes on the gate. "Nice place," the young man says, trying to be polite. "How kind of you," I reply. The table and the chair are the only pieces of furniture allowed in the watchman's house. It's called a house,

but it's really nothing more than a shack. It's a simple guardhouse. It contains a table and chair, a standing desk by the sliding window, a cabinet bolted to the wall, a telephone bolted up next to the cabinet, and an ever-changing picture of the city's mayor on the opposite wall. This is where I serve. I glance over my shoulder at the young man as he sets up his electronic equipment on the table, a large microphone with its own table stand,

a small rectangle with a multitude of buttons, some cords, pretty much what he said was in the bag. I go back to my watch as he connects everything. "Test 1-2," the young man says. I assume he is dictating into the microphone. My eyes are focused on my work. "Alright, it appears to be working fine," the young man says. "Your guardhouse is actually great for recording, is it?" I reply, not really interested in the answer.

"The acoustics are perfect," he says. "Acoustics?" I say under my breath. The young man says he wants to stay all night and truly learn what a midnight watchman does. If that is the case, then he will understand acoustics very soon. "First, let me thank you for this opportunity," the young man says. "I'm looking forward to learning everything. Do you really want to know?" I ask for the first time. It will not be the last.

"Yes, that's why I'm here," he says. "I work for the, um, you know." He snaps his fingers a couple of times. "I know," I say, letting him off the hook. There's silence as he fidgets with his electronics. Then he claps his hands. "Okay, so if you don't mind, please state your name and occupation for the record," he says. "I am the Midnight Watchman," I say. When he doesn't respond, I look over at him.

He's waiting patiently for something. I tilt my watchman's cap back and raise an eyebrow. "Oh, that's it?" the young man asks. "Could I get your real name? For the record." "For the record?" I ask. "For the record," he says, nodding. "The Midnight Watchman," I repeat. The young ones these days aren't so bright, I have noticed. "Yes, I understand that that is your job title," he says.

"But could I get your actual name too, please?" I take a deep breath and scan the area around the gate. Seeing no issues or signs of coming issues, I let the breath out and face the young man, my arms crossed over my chest. One of the brass buttons on the end of the sleeve of my watchman's coat snags on a seam and I have to carefully pluck it free.

It ruins the dramatic effect I was going for, so I let my arms fall to my sides. "Being a midnight watchman is who I am and what I am, nothing else," I say. "That's the first rule of this job." "How do you mean?" he asks. "Do you really want to know?" I ask. "Yes, of course," he says, with way too much enthusiasm and a little impatience.

"I'm here to do a feature on the inner workings of the boundaries of the city, the places the majority of citizens never see. That's my assignment." "That's your assignment?" I echo. "Yes," he says, a little unsure. "To discover the purpose of areas like this, places that, while not technically off-limits, citizens of the city might not visit on their own."

With good reason in most cases, I suspect, I say, and return my attention to the night. There are parts of the city, parts of existence, that are best left undisturbed. I see movement in the bushes across from the guardhouse. My hand goes to the large nightstick that I keep propped up next to the door. It's about two feet long and three inches thick with a good, strong handle wrapped in hide. A rope dangles from the handle, and I slip my wrist through it.

"Come on, you bastard." I mutter as I lift the nightstick and feel its brutal heft. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that." The young man says, "Can you speak up for the microphone?" I ignore his request. My eyes scan the bushes. There's a small rustling then the bushes go still. I do my job and count to 12 when nothing happens. I relax a little and set the nightstick back down. "What was that about?" The young man asks.

"Doing my job," I say. "Was someone out there?" he asks. "Someone?" I reply. He says and waits. I do not elaborate. He'll learn soon enough. "So you were saying something about how there are parts of the city that are best left undisturbed?" he says. "Do you mean this gate? Can you talk about that?" "Do you really want to learn about it all?" I ask.

He has no idea that the answer to his question is the most important answer of his life. "Yes, of course," the young man says. "That's why I'm here." A feeling of sadness fills my heart. And yes, I do have a heart. Please remember that when this is all concluded. "Alright," I say and smile at him. "I can tell you about it all."

Deep down I pray he doesn't ask the next question, even though my gut is telling me it's exactly the question he wants to ask. But such is the way of the midnight watchman. "Do you have a wife or husband?" I ask the young man, hoping to divert him, giving him a chance I was not given. "No, I'm single," he says. "Children?" I ask. "Uh, no, no children," he says. I hear his enthusiasm waning already.

The youth these days have no patience. It will be a long night with this one. "Let me ask you this," he begins. "What you hear and see tonight, you may not want to share with the public," I say and nod at the microphone. "Well, I feel that what people do with the information they are given is completely up to them," he continues. "I report on subjects that most people do not have the time or the means to explore. There is so much about the city that is a mystery.

"As it should be," I say. "Are you new to the city?" "Yes," he says. "Well, sort of. I was born here but left for school when I was young. After my parents died, I returned and moved into the family house. It's been about two years now?" "You aren't sure?" I ask. "No, it's been two years," he says. "I think the city will do that to you." I say and leave it up to him to define his own "that."

"Now, getting back to the gate," the young man says, "you had mentioned how parts of the city should be left undisturbed. But before that, you said being the Midnight Watchman is who and what you are. Let's expand on that first, so the listeners have a better understanding of what you do and why you do it." I nod. He smiles. Some of his enthusiasm is returning. That's unfortunate. "You said that was the first rule," he continues.

"Is that just a term of speech, or are there actual rules that you must follow?" "There are rules to every job," I reply. "Yes, yes, I know. But do you have a set of rules as a midnight watchman? Rules unique to your profession?" He presses. "Yes," I say and close my eyes. I take another deep breath and let it out. "There are fifteen distinct rules to being a midnight watchman."

With an hour before boarding, there's only one place to go. The Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. There, you can recharge before the big adventure. Or enjoy a locally inspired dish. You can recline in a comfy chair to catch up on your favorite show. Or order a craft cocktail at the bar.

Whatever you're in the mood for, find the detail that moves you with curated touches at the Chase Sapphire Lounge by the club. Chase, make more of what's yours. Learn more at chase.com slash sapphire reserve. Cards issued by JPMorgan Chase Bank and a member FDIC. Subject to credit approval.

Oh, it's such a clutch off-season pickup, Dave. I was worried we'd bring back the same team. I meant those blackout motorized shades. Blinds.com made it crazy affordable to replace our old blinds. Hard to install? No, it's easy. I installed these and then got some from my mom. She talked to a design consultant for free and scheduled a professional measure and install. Hall of Fame's son? They're the number one online retailer of

I'm

I learned from the previous midnight watchman. "So like passing of the torch you'd say?" he asks. "Yes," I say. "Just like that." I look out at the handful of actual torches staked on either side of the gate. The flames sputter and dance in the night to an unheard, unfelt breeze that never stops. "And is that how it's always done?" he asks. "Passing the rules down from one midnight watchman to the other?" "That's how it's done," I say.

"Oh, this is great," the young man says. "The listeners will love how the essence of the job has been passed down from midnight watchman to midnight watchman. We'll see how much you feel like sharing when it's over," I say. "So, these rules?" he asks. "Tell me about those. Are you sure?" I ask, giving him an out. It's the last one he gets.

"One hundred percent," he replies. "I want to hear all of the rules and anything else you have to say. I'm here for all of it." "Yes, you are," I say. I watch the flames flicker and wave, and I think back on when I first became the Midnight Watchman. "The first rule, like I said," I say as I start in, "is that the Midnight Watchman is who you are, and what you are." "How so?" he asks.

"It just is," I say and shrug. "There is no more explanation to it. I am the Midnight Watchman. What I do is what the Midnight Watchman does. That is the first rule. Who I am and what I am is the Midnight Watchman. Nothing else." "Okay," he responds. "And I know he's not getting it. I don't blame him. It's a concept you don't comprehend until you have to."

"Then what does the Midnight Watchman do exactly?" he asks. "Those are the other 14 rules," I say. "Some I can explain, some I'll have to demonstrate, and some you have to experience on your own." "Oh, I'm only here to observe," he says, "not participate." A laugh bubbles up from my throat, but I hold it back and nod at him. "Rule number two?" he asks. "Never leave your post," I say.

"Oh, that's easy enough," he says. "It's what you're hired for, right?" "Hired," I say in chuckle. "Right, yes." "So, how long is a shift?" he asks. "It varies," I say. "Can you give me a ballpark?" he asks. "It's long," I say. "That's about as much as I can tell you."

"Do you get breaks for meals or to use the bathroom?" he asks. Sorry if that sounds crass, but if I don't ask, I'll get emails from listeners wanting to know. Then usually someone will start arguing about workers' rights in the comments and it becomes a whole thing. I stare at him. He smiles at me. I keep staring at him. His smile slips slightly. "I don't know what any of that is," I say. "But to answer your question, I do get to eat."

Someone will bring me a meal at some point. "Oh, you get it delivered?" he asks. "I didn't know drive and deliver comes all the way out here." "I don't know what that is," I say. "But someone will come by and hand me a meal. They may bring one for you too tonight, since you're here." "I didn't order anything," he says. "Is there a menu I can choose from?" "No," I say. He waits. "So, what? Food just shows up?" he asks. "Yup."

I say. A twig snaps and I grab the nightstick again. "You keep doing that," he says. "Holding that stick, is that all you are armed with?" "It does the trick," I say. "Be quiet." "Oh, sorry, I was just trying to find out--" "Shut up," I say in a tone that gets him to clamp his lips together instantly. Another twig snaps. Then I hear a footstep on the old, cracked pavement.

I place my free hand on the door, slip my wrist through the nightstick's strap, turn and look at the young man and say, "Rule number three is if you hear something, you count to 12, wait and observe. If you keep hearing something after the 12 count, then you investigate." A third twig snaps, and I slide the door open and step out into the night with my nightstick in hand. I look about the area, my ears on alert, my eyes wide open.

All I see are the trees, the watchman's house, the gate and the torches, the road that leads up to the gate, and a seven-foot tall shadow standing about 40 yards down the road on my side of the gate. "The fourth rule is always keep your stick with you when you leave the watchman's house," I say as I step out onto the road. "Once you step outside, you are fair game and they know it." "Fair game?" he asks. "What does that mean?"

I said there were some rules you have to observe. I say and take a couple of steps toward the shadow. "Should I come outside?" he asks. "Can you observe from where you are?" I ask, and take a couple more steps. The shadow doesn't move. "Let me grab my gear," he says. I sigh and roll my eyes. I can hear him scrabbling around in the guardhouse. Then he appears again with his microphone in one hand and that rectangle of buttons and knobs in the other.

"I'm recording," he says. "Go ahead." "Thank you for the permission," I say. I take a few more steps. The shadow still hasn't moved. I take a few more steps, and I catch just a hint of a face at the top of the shadow. It's a long, drawn face. Stretched more than a face should be stretched, but so is the entire shadow. After a few more steps, I can see the arms dangling at the sides. I see the spindly legs that are almost the whole body.

I see the tight torso, and then I see the top hat. "Grimlow," I say, "you are not wanted here." "Hello, Watchman," the shadow says. "It is good to be remembered. How many years has it been?" "Fifty or sixty," I say, "but I can never forget a monstrosity such as you. What are you doing here?" "I have come to return home," Grimlow says. "Open the gate for me, Watchman." "No," I say.

"I must insist," it says. "What are you doing here, Grimlo?" I ask again. "Oh, are we going for the rule of threes?" it responds. "Such base magics. Below even a person with your stature." Grimlo bursts out laughing, and I watch that top hat shake and shiver on top of its pointy head. I wait.

"I already told you," Grimlo says. "I am here to return home." "You were cast out of your home, Grimlo," I say. "You can stop saying my name." It says, hissing. "Names have power," I reply. "Once you have been ejected through a gate, you are no longer welcome back to the other side. You know this. There were reasons for your expulsion and I-" "Lies!" Grimlo roars.

The trees surrounding us shake and rustle their leaves with nervousness. I don't blame them. Gripping my nightstick tighter, I close the distance between us. Five steps, ten, twenty, thirty steps and we are almost face to face. I stare up at the ashen skin and the top hat. "You were wearing that the day you came through," I say. "Have you been wearing it ever since?" "Of course not," Brimlow says and sneers down at me. "That would be weird."

I smile up at him. "Last chance, Grimlo," I say. "Answer truthfully, or I will have to act." "But I haven't done anything," Grimlo says and shrugs his slender shoulders. His arms wriggle and flop about like snakes hanging from a tree branch. "You have approached a gate without permission, Grimlo," I say, "with intent to cross through despite having been expelled. Answer my question truthfully, or there will be consequences."

I have come to kill them all. It says. There, I say. That wasn't so hard. You have answered truthfully by the third asking of the question. You are free to go. But I do not intend to go. It says. I intend to. I strike quickly with the nightstick, bringing the ancient oak against Grimlo's left leg, just where a knee should be. With as much force as I can master, the creature screams and falls back, drawing its leg up to its body.

Grimlo cradles the leg in its arms like a baby, which is quite a feat of flexibility. "Why did you do that?" Grimlo cries as he hops backward on one leg. "That hurt!" "I can make the hurting stop," I say, and raise the nightstick over my head. "Forever if you want. You answered the three truthfully, so you have earned a chance at retreat. I have given you one chance. How many more chances shall I give?"

Even though the creature's eyes are lost in the deep shadows of its thin face, I know they have narrowed and are filled with nothing but hatred for me. "The Midnight Watchman shows no mercy and gives no second chances," Grimlo says, as if from memory. "Then you have a choice to make," I say. "Now, my nightstick is still raised above my head, but my arm is not tired. I can hold it in that position for eternity if needed. It's my job."

I shall withdraw, Grimlo says. But I will not forget this. Nor will I, I say. Good night, Grimlo. Drink piss and choke on it, Grimlo says, then dissipates into the night. I lower the nightstick. Where'd he go? The young man asks, directly behind me. I do not jump. A midnight watchman does not startle easily. Instead, I turn on my heel and look at the young man. He is shaking with fear and adrenaline.

but he is not running or hiding or cowering or showing signs of going mad. Good, the kid may have a chance after all. "It left," I say, walking past the young man and back to the guardhouse. "Who was he?" the young man asks, trailing on my heels. I say, "That was not a he, a she, or a them. It was an it." "I don't understand," the young man says as I enter the guardhouse and set my nightstick in its place.

The young man scrambles up into the guardhouse, the rectangle clutched close to his chest while the microphone is jammed out at me. "Tell me what that was, please," he says. "So the listeners can understand what just happened." "It's radio," I reply. They couldn't see what just happened. "I'll explain it in detail later," he says. "But having it directly from you would be a great help."

A lesser demon that was expelled from Hell over fifty years ago returned tonight and tried to convince me to let it pass through the gate without authorization," I say. "So I confronted the lesser demon and changed its mind. Will that help your listeners?" The young man blinks at me. The look on his face shifts from one of confusion to one of disbelief to one of wariness. He fears I am mad he would not be the first.

"I'm sorry," he says and takes his time before he continues. "Did you call that person a lesser demon?" "An It," I insist. "Not a person. Do not allow yourself to believe that thing has any humanity in it. It is as far removed from humanity as an earthworm is. Except earthworms are beneficial.

The young man blinks at me some more.

He is close to deciding if I am mad or not. Once he makes his decision, his fate will be sealed. "You're serious," he states. "You believe what you just said. I would be a poor excuse for a midnight watchman if I didn't believe what I just said." I respond. "The question is whether or not you believe what I just said. You mentioned decades." He continues after a moment or two to ponder what I have said.

that this Grimlo was expelled decades ago. "Yes," I say. "I remember it well." "But you can't be more than 40 years old," he says. I see what he's doing. He is fixating on my age as an anchor for reason. If he can sort out what he has heard against what he sees, then he can make sense of what he just witnessed. If only it was that easy for him. "I'm over 40," I say and lean against the standing desk.

I return my attention to the scene outside the window. I sigh. "You say you have been back in the city for two years, is that right?" "About that, yes," he replies. "About that," I echo. "And in those two years, you haven't noticed what the… what's the word? Demographics. Yes, demographics. In those two years, you haven't noticed the demographics of the city?"

"How do you mean?" he asks. "The demographics of the city's residents?" "Yes," I say. "And the transients that pass through now and again." "The city is a wonderful place, filled with many wonderful people," he states. "Okay," I say and study the night outside the window. "I see. See what?" he asks with a tinge of annoyance. "You aren't being very helpful, Mr." "Midnight Watchman," I say.

or just watchmen will do. "But what is your name?" he almost shouts. "Your actual name!" I turn my focus back to him. He takes an involuntary step back. Good for him. "That is my name," I say. "That is my job. Rule number one." The young man mutters, then goes to the table and collapses into the chair. He sets his electronics down and starts rubbing his hands together.

Once more, I turn back to the window, into the scene outside. Trees blow in the impossible, secret breeze. The torches sputter and wave. The gate stands there as it always does. I see nothing else. I hear nothing else. "These rules," the young man says from behind me. "You said there are fifteen of them?" "Yes," I reply without looking at him.

"So far, there is the first rule which is, you are the midnight watchman. That is your job, that is your name, nothing else." He replies. "Correct." I reply. "The second rule is never leave your post." He says. "Yes." I say. He's learning. "The third rule was-" He stops and thinks for a while. I let him ponder as I study the woods. Something is out there. I can feel it. I haven't heard anything since Grimlo.

But I know when the guardhouse is being watched. I know when I'm being watched. "If you hear something, you count to twelve, wait and observe. If you keep hearing something after the twelve count, then you investigate," the young man says triumphantly. "I need to write these down." "No," I say and tap my head without looking at him. "You will remember, and once you do, then you never forget." "I don't understand," he says.

"You will," I reply. There! Oh, I see it! Hidden in the holly bush that stands exactly 13 feet from the gate's right side. Two yellow eyes watching the guardhouse. I get to an eight count before the eyes blink. "Is everything alright?" The young man asks. "You tensed up? What was the fourth rule?" I ask, and give him a hint as I grab for my nightstick once more. "Always keep your nightstick with you when you leave the watchman's house," he says without hesitation.

I hear him gasp and I smile. "I remembered that instantly. I didn't even have to think about it." "Good for you," I say. It is not good for him. The yellow eyes blink again but do not reopen. "Damn it," I mutter. "Where'd you go?" "What's out there?" the young man asks. "Trouble," I say. "More trouble than that Grimlo person?" he asks. With a shake of my head, I risk a glance back at the young man.

As I said, Brimlow is not a person, I say. Right, of course, the young man says. He is a demon expelled from... The entire guardhouse shakes as something rams into the side. Damn! I shout. I shouldn't have let the young man distract me. I could have avoided this if I'd done my job and ignored all the questions. Stay here! I yell and shove the door open.

Standing outside the guardhouse, maybe only ten or so feet away, is a creature with big yellow eyes, big yellow teeth, and matted fur so thick that it looks like plated armor. "Watchman," the thing growls low in its throat. "Plegate." "Are you on the list?" I ask from the doorway, my nightstick held at my side, but in a way that I know the creature can see it easily. "You have to be on the list."

"What is that?" the young man asks from directly behind my left shoulder. "Stay back!" I hiss at him. "Do not make sudden movements!" "Wise advice to give the young one, Watchman," the creature says. "You haven't answered my question," I say. "Are you on the list?" "You will ask me once more before you attack me," the creature states. "So I shall reply now."

"Yes, Watchman, I am on the list." "Don't lie to me, beast!" I say. "I'm not." The creature growls. Drool drips from its mouth and sizzles on the pavement. "Lying to a Watchman is a fool's game." "You aren't wrong there," I say. "Let me check." I step back and run into the young man. "Sorry," he says, and scrambles out of my way as I reach over to the desk and grab a clipboard from the middle shelf.

With my nightstick firmly in one hand, I thumb through the clipboard's pages with my other hand. "Let's see, what is tonight?" I mutter to myself. "The eve of the Sacrificial Lamb," the creature says. I glance up at him and raise an eyebrow. "Is it…already?" The creature shrugs. I return my attention to the pages on the clipboard. "Ah, here you are," I say with surprise. "Donald Connolly, yes?" "Yes," the creature says.

May I ask you now, Watchman? I do not want to be late for this sacrifice. Of course, I say and place the clipboard back on its shelf. Let me open the gate for you. Oh, the young man says, and I hear him scramble for his electronics once again. I'm coming with. Hold on, I say, and place a hand back to stop him. Not yet. My hand rests against the young man's chest, and I can feel his heart beating quickly. If I can feel it,

Then Donald Connolly can hear it. "Donald?" I ask. "Yes, Watchman?" He replies. "This young man is an observer this evening," I say. "I would appreciate it if you did not tear his body apart when he exits the guardhouse." "But he sounds so alive," Donald replies. "And he smells delicious." "I'm sorry, what did it just say?" The young man asks. "He. His name is Donald Connolly, and he is a he."

"Oh, sorry about that," the young man says loudly. "Easy mistake," Donald replies. "Nice young man. Good manners." "Which is why I don't want you to eat him," I say. "Do I have your assurance?" "Eaten since eleven, and I'd rather not go to the sacrifice on an empty stomach," Donald answers. "So I don't have your assurance then?" I ask.

"You do not," he says. "I am sorry, but if he steps outside that guardhouse, I will tear his body apart and feast upon his shredded flesh." "You're staying here," I say to the young man. He doesn't argue. Leaving the guardhouse with my nightstick in hand, I give Donal a wide berth. He'd be insane to attack me now. He's on the list. But rule number seven is you assume nothing.

As the old adage states, assuming it's for idiots who would like their heads ripped off and shoved up their asses, I point the nightstick at the left side of the gate. "Stand over there, please," I say to Donal. The smell coming off of him is like a damp dog and rancid blood. I give him a warm smile and wait for him to comply, but his eyes are locked onto the guardhouse.

"I really, truly am hungry, Watchman," he says. "The young man is off limits, as long as he is in the guardhouse," I say. "You know the rule, Donald." "Stupid rule," he says and shakes his head. Then he drops to all fours and strides to the place I had previously indicated. "Is this satisfactory, Watchman?" "It is," I say and move to the center of the gate. I raise my hands over my head.

"Would you like me to hold your nightstick for you, watchman?" Donald asks. "It looks heavy and awkward." "No thank you," I say. "Suit yourself," Donald says, and sits down on his haunches to wait. In a language even I do not understand, I recite the words that were taught to me so many decades ago. There is a flash of light around the gate, then a loud clang as the lock disengages and the gate's two halves swing outward toward me.

I take several steps back as the gate opens, then I lower my hands and turn to face Donal. "Your entrance to Hell has been approved," I say. "Good luck with the sacrifice." "Thank you, Watchman," Donal says, and strides through the gate. "I'll see you again after a few days on my return." "Make sure you are on the list," I say. Then my eyes are drawn to movement a couple of yards past the gate.

I rush forward and grab one of the halves of the gate and shove it hard as I recite the same exact words but in reverse order. "What is it?" Donal asks, then screams as a thick tentacle grabs him and yanks him from the road and into the black and dead trees that lurk on the hell side of the gate. "Dammit!" I shout. The gate is closing too slowly. Donal's screams are cut short just before his body is flung across the road and high up into the dead and black trees.

Then several tentacles shoot through the gate at me. I slam my nightstick down on one, and purple blood spurts up from where I have crushed it. Two tentacles wrap around my legs, and I strike at them over and over again until they let go.

but those were a distraction so that another tentacle could grab me about the throat and start to squeeze. My airway is cut off instantly, and I know my head will pop off in seconds. I bring my nightstick down on the tentacle again and again, but it refuses to release me. "Let him go!" the young man shouts, suddenly at my side. I would ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, but I have no breath. Spots dance before my eyes.

Let him go! The young man shouts again and dodges a tentacle that swipes for his head. I feel cold plastic slip between the tentacle and my skin. Then there is a hard pulling and twisting. The blood in my skull throbs with intense pressure. I can feel my head about to pop. Then the pressure is gone and I can breathe once more.

I do not waste time. I flail wildly with my nightstick, connecting with anything in my way. "Ow!" The young man cries then stumbles back. He pulls something with him, and I see it is one of the cords from his electronics. A tentacle shoots for his neck, and I strike it aside with my nightstick. "No more!" I shout into the night. "You are not authorized to pass!" More tentacles come for me, but stop just an inch from my face.

A roar of frustration and anger fills the air. I glance past the tentacles and see that the gate has closed on them. "Get back!" I warn the young man as I retreat to the guardhouse. He doesn't argue. He retreats with me, and we hurry inside the guardhouse just as the tentacles on our side of the gate explode from the pressure. Purple goo coats the outside of the window. "Three warnings or three questions?" the young man says.

I turn and he is seated at the table, his electronics in disarray before him. "What was that you said?" I ask, knowing exactly what he said. "The fifth rule," he says. "Three warnings or three questions. That is what you give or ask. Three warnings or three questions." "Very good," I say. "And do you know what the sixth rule is? Never back down," he says. "Close." I reply as I rub my neck.

The pain is gone and the swelling is already dissipating. I'll be back to normal in a minute or so. "Except you are being too kind." "Too kind?" he asks. Then thinks for a minute. I really need to go out and clean the purple goo off the window. But I want the young man to finish his thought process. He's making progress, and I do not want him to slip backwards now. "No second chances?" he asks. "And no mercy," I say. "That is the sixth rule."