Not many things in the world surprised or amazed Isaac anymore. The emotions had been mostly wrung out of him by years of rigorous training, horrific experiences, and large body counts. He’d dealt with zombies, demons, monsters, cannibals, and giant bubbas. He’d seen powerful magicians do unbelievable things. But he’d never seen anything quite like this.

One hundred beers on tap.

The name of the establishment was Hutchins’s Hundred. The bar stretched the entire length of the pub, had six bartenders and exactly one empty bar stool. A moment of wonderful providence. He sat, picked up the beer list with the tips of his fingers, and held it reverently, like an archeological find. Within a minute he’d been served a pint of Marshmallow Abyss—a slightly sweet stout, dark on the bottom with a puffy, slowly dissolving, white head.

How he wished this were just a relaxation trip and not work-related. He glanced down the bar, which seemed to go on forever. So much to sample, so many regrets and sins to dampen. Halfway into the foamy abyss, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to shake the outstretched hand.

“Andrew Hutchins,” the man introduced himself. “Very happy to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Isaac. Nice bar you have here.”

Hutchins carried a stout build, shaped very much like one of his hundred kegs. He had a glistening sheen of sweat on his balding head, but somehow it worked for him—showed people that he constantly labored, remained always in motion. A gregarious fellow, he stopped repeatedly to greet patrons, waving and smiling at those not within handshaking range, as he led Isaac to his office.

No, not to his office. The bar owner led him past the office, through the bustling kitchen to a row of walk-in refrigerators. He opened the last one, motioned for Isaac to enter, and pulled the door shut behind them. Isaac must not have hidden his apprehension very well because Hutchins said, “I have a more private area for this part of my business.” The man then pressed something in the rear corner behind a bag of chicken wings. The hidden latch opened a concealed door that led to a descending stairwell. The walls of the tight, spiraling staircase were crafted from finely hewn stone which gave the descent a dungeon ambiance.

“Nice work,” Isaac complimented.

“Thanks. I really wanted to capture that castle feel. Initially, I had real torches put in but changed pretty quickly to electric. You don’t really think about it, but those things need to be replaced or relit all the damn time once you have them. And I was never comfortable with having unattended fires right under my bar.”

“Makes sense.” The electric wall sconces were designed to look like lanterns, so the sense of decorum remained.

The staircase bottomed out at a thick oaken door. Hutchins fumbled with his keychain and then tapped the handle with a skeleton key, not unlike Isaac’s. The door swung open.

Into a morgue.

Sort of.

Corpses of a variety of species littered the room; laid out on surgical tables, hanging from hooks, some whole, some in parts. Rows of large freezers probably contained even more. The humming fluorescents that dangled from chains bathed everything in a sterile glow that only served to enhance the sheer amount of death on display. The room stank of decay, masked just enough by antiseptics to not waft to the diners above. Isaac stopped, assumed it may be a trap, and started thinking about how best to kill the man.

Hutchins noted the trepidation on the magician’s face. “Oh, it’s fine. This is my workshop. I should have warned you. I’ve gotten really used to it over the years but forgot how disturbing it can be for some.” He produced a tin of menthol balm, the kind rookie mortician’s dab under their noses.

“No thanks. I’m good.” Isaac had no intention of blinding one of his senses. Besides, he’d smelled such things before.

Hutchins hurried across the room, turning on more lights as he went, the bulbs clicking on with small flashes as they warmed. Isaac followed, his eyes wandering like a kid in a museum of oddities that he wasn’t sure he should find fascinating. Mostly the bodies consisted of common North American animals. Workbenches were covered in dogs, cats, and various rodents. From hooks hung several wolf carcasses. A table was covered with rows of fangs and one large complete shark jaw. Antlers and bird talons hung from nails in the walls. Not a bad collection for a taxidermist or up-and-coming serial killer.

On several of the surgical gurneys there were figures, draped head to toe with sheets. These appeared to be human. And human bodies were not easy to come by for anyone. Obtaining those took connections. Money. Influence. Corruption.

The bar owner scurried around making sure every light clicked on. Maybe he thought Isaac would feel more at ease with less shadow, disregarding that each fluorescent illuminated something horrible. Until one bank of lights revealed something Isaac found much more interesting.

Hutchins must have run out of money for his castle dungeon esthetic as most of the basement walls were regular cement. But one section had been left as plain drywall. A flat, clean surface specifically installed for the large magical rune drawn on it.

Isaac let out a long, low whistle. “A dimensional door.”

Hutchins saw him admiring it. “Like it? Cost me a fortune.”

“It works? You’ve used it?”

“Nope. It’s reserved for emergencies. I don’t want to risk using it without good cause. Like when the health inspectors show up.” He guffawed at his own joke, but Isaac ignored it, too busy drinking in the details.

The magician let his eyes roam across it as if studying a painting. It was rectangular in shape. Meticulously drawn around the frame were magical symbols, all interconnected like one long cursive word. Isaac had used such a door before, traveling for his former master, but he’d never designed one. Such powerful and dangerous magic could not be taken lightly.

Properly done it could take you anywhere in the world, even beyond. Improperly done, with even the tiniest error in design, it would have tragic results. Not only did the door need to be perfect on this end, but there had to be a photo identical replica in place wherever one intended to go. Any deviations and the traveler could end up floating in limbo. Hence, Hutchins reserved it for emergencies. A caution Isaac agreed with.

“Ahem.”

Isaac realized he’d stopped paying attention to the bar owner. He tore himself away, took a seat across from Hutchins. Crudely drawn sketches of fantastical monsters covered his desk. The owner hastily stacked them, as if Isaac would consider that untidy, even while every other surface in the room had piles of dead things.

“So, what is it exactly that you do here? You don’t use the carcasses for cooking do you?”

Hutchins laughed, finding the notion absurd, even as they sat in a room of corpses. “Nothing like that. My bar will always be my first passion. This,” he waved a hand around the room, “is just a hobby.”

“Hobby? Looks a bit intense for a hobby.”

“It is intense. Very time-consuming. I build stitches.”

Stitches—reanimated corpses sewed back together Frankenstein style. It had something to do with each piece of flesh maintaining a spark of life. Enough sparks could ignite the fires of animation. Isaac hadn’t done much research into it, but he understood the basics.

“Mongrel stitches I take it?” he asked, referring to stitches made with nonhuman parts. It would explain all the animals.

Hutchins nodded. “I like to experiment. Shake it up.”

“So, you’re a necromantic surgeon?”

“Well, sort of. I like to joke that I haven’t really earned my doctorate in it. Not that there are many people I can tell that joke to.” He paused for Isaac to laugh but the magician didn’t. With a throat clear he continued, “My father was a taxidermist, so I kind of kept the family business going. I just took it in a different direction.”

Isaac grew bored and his mind started to drift to a hundred different beer taps. “So, you’re a beer brewing necromantic enthusiast. What do you need me for? Arrangement didn’t give me any specifics.”

“To the point. Good business sense, I like it.” He folded his hands on his desk, leaned forward. “Every few years I get together with some fellow necromantic surgeons for a little contest.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows at this. The idea that necromantic surgeons maintained a professional peer group sounded intriguing—the idea that they held competitions even more so. “Go on.”

“We arrange a scenario and bring our best creations to compete against each other.”

“Races, obstacle courses, spelling bees?” Isaac said although he had a pretty good idea of what the scenarios entailed.

Hutchins chewed his lip for a moment, trying to decide on how to choose his next words. “Killers. We build killers.” He paused, waited to gauge Isaac’s reaction. The magician shrugged, more annoyed that the bar owner wouldn’t just spit it out. “We make scenarios to test them. Whoever builds the best killer wins.”

Isaac soaked it in. “Who’s getting killed?”

“I assume I can guarantee your discretion?”

Isaac waved his hand around, indicating the plethora of corpses he’d already seen. His very presence implied discretion.

“It’s different every time. Once we arranged for a drug rehab group to do a free counseling session in a rural cabin. Another time we had a law firm doing a business retreat. Then we had a fraternity-sorority mixer. We get them someplace rural and give them a few days to enjoy themselves. Then we send in our stitches. Stitch with the most kills wins.”

While not the most deplorable thing Isaac had heard of, this ranked high. He knew himself to be closer to devil than angel on the morality scale and wasn’t the least bit averse to killing. But doing so for entertainment set a low point he had thus far refused to dig for. That thought finished, he still had no idea how this pertained to him. “If this is a friendly contest between you and your fellow mad scientists what do you need me for?”

“As thrilling as it is to see our creations in action the contests to date have all been completely lopsided. The participants...”

“Victims,” Isaac interrupted.

“Yes, I guess,” Hutchins admitted. “They never really stand a chance. It’s just become kind of unsporting. Each time it’s a bunch of regular people who don’t believe in magic or monsters having to fight back against the undead. By the time they know what’s happening, it’s over. They need a boost. A helping hand.”

It started to dawn on Isaac what the man alluded to. “You want me to protect them? The innocent people your monsters will be trying to murder?”

“We do. One night. Dusk to dawn. If you have even one of them alive at sunrise, all the survivors, including you, will split a very large cash prize.”

Isaac rubbed his chin. The surgeon’s little game sounded slightly less deplorable with the words “large cash prize” attached to it. And he wouldn’t be the one killing anyone. Technically he’d be helping the victims. Sure, most, if not all, would probably die anyway but maybe he could slow the stitches down for one night. Still though, what if these bastards arranged for a group of orphans or nuns to unwittingly partake?

There was also the more obvious concern. “Arrangement assigned me for this? I’m not sure if you’re familiar with my work. I really don’t have a great track record with keeping people alive.”

“It was odd. Pretty much right after we started looking for someone to join the contest we were spontaneously contacted by Arrangement. Well, Dr. Menclewski got the call and some creepy voice said you were perfect for it.” The bar owner winced at letting the name slip so he quickly added, “I’ll throw in free beer here. Lifetime coupon.”

“I’m in.” He stood up to leave. “So, this Dr. Menclewski is the boss?”

Hutchins sighed. “I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. He was less than thrilled that Arrangement took the choice of protectors out of his hands. But, yeah, he’s a genius. When you see the stitches, you’ll know which one is his. It’ll be a perfect monster.”