Like a tourist at the zoo, Isaac studied the pair of stitches through the glass wall of the recreation room. He assumed that the surgeons had considered the massive window a strategic point of entry for their monsters to dramatically crash through. Instead, the pane of glass, being one long continuous piece of material, proved easy to seal. One rune of protection marked the whole thing and left the stitches standing outside. Motionless. Inert.

Hutchins had been right. The surgeons did good work. The multi-armed Spartan warrior and Hutchins’ wolf-headed beer advertisement were the two at the glass. They were far from horror masterpieces like the gorilla monstrosity, but they appeared to be solidly constructed. Isaac had been hoping for some shoddy craftsmanship on at least a couple of them; flawed designs that would be easy to damage.

Overall, he was happy with the group’s performance. They had rushed to the basement when ordered and sealed both doors and the glass wall, effectively creating a magical safe room. Still, with the two stitches eyeballing them like unrepentant peeping-toms, they could catch their breath but not build their confidence.

Isaac had no real experience with pep talks to survivors, and he didn’t fare well with this one. “Ok...good work, everyone. Only one death in the first five minutes. Way to go. Go team. We’re red hot. Woo...hoo.” When none of their expressions changed for the better, he added, “We’re safe here.”

“Safe?” asked Peyton. “How are we safe? We’re surrounded and trapped. How safe can being locked in a cage be?”

“Shark cages are safe,” Isaac retorted but that did little to assuage the jock.

“This magic really works,” Kendra said from behind him. She phrased it as a question, but it was clearly a nervous affirmation. “Those marks you had us make on the doors really stopped...them...whatever they are.”

“Bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Zombies don’t exist. Frankensteins don’t exist. Magic doesn’t exist,” argued Wayne, saying logical things but not having a face that believed them.

“It does. My grandmother’s sister-in-law was a witch. She used to tell me stories.” So said Bianca.

“Oh please, everyone has a ghost story. Everyone knows someone who knows someone that saw something. My drunk uncle saw a UFO one time. That doesn’t make this shit real,” chimed in Peyton.

“Look out the fucking window Peyton. Are those things real?” Bianca challenged back.

“Do you guys think the prize money is real?” asked Angie.

From there the group devolved into a cacophony of shouts, questions, orders, denials, all talking over one another with no one listening. Isaac sighed, walked to the bar, picked up a mug, and shattered it on the floor. Then, with everyone’s sudden attention, he telekinetically lifted several of the biggest pieces of glass and floated them in a circular pattern, like a jagged mobile.

“Listen up. Let’s have this talk and get it out of the way. This is all real. The monsters are real. The danger is real. Vince is dead. Really, really dead. A level of dead that surprised even me. Magic is real. Magic is effective. The symbols you painted work. Either accept all of this as fact and follow my lead or choose your own path and your own way to die.” They listened and watched with rapt attention as the glass shards caught the light like little disco balls as they spun in empty air. “I’m not sure how this is going to play out, but at the moment we’re safe. So, everyone take a deep breath and calm the fuck down.” Then he dropped the shards and they all jumped with frayed nerves. “That’s the last time you’re all allowed to be afraid.”

A long silence followed the speech before Wayne raised a hand like a student in class. “So, what do we do?”

Isaac motioned and they all followed him to the glass wall, albeit reluctantly. “Ok. These are stitches. Named so because they are literally stitched-together parts from multiple beings. Strong. Scary. Dangerous. Some high-end stitches can have human-level intellects, but these don’t seem too bright and are certainly not perfect.

“This one with the wolf noggin and awesome shirt? Pretty gruesome right? But watch the head.” Isaac moved side to side and the Mongrel had to turn its whole body to track him. “It can’t turn its head. A wolf skull just doesn’t fit right on a human spine. If you have to fight it move side to side, it’ll slow it down as it has to shift its whole body to see you. And the antlers are just stupid. If you’re running from it try to go under something low, like branches or a doorframe. It’ll get hung up.”

He turned to the Spartan. “Now, General Leonidas here. It’s going to be pretty dangerous to take on directly. But see these lower arms? No shoulder sockets, so all it can do is move them straight back and forth. So, at the least, we know it can’t swing wide down low. That’s why it has knives in both lower hands, it can only stab.” He gesticulated plunging an invisible knife into an imaginary foe.

“Or masturbate.” This joke came from Bianca and put a smile on Isaac’s face. The others managed to chuckle as well, and the mood shifted a bit.

“Now, weapons.” Isaac plucked up a pool cue and with several swipes of his scissor-spell carved the end into a rudimentary spear. He handed it to Bianca, before weaponizing the rest.

“Seriously?” she asked incredulously.

“Go for their eyes. If you can’t blind them then go for the torso and push them backward.” He walked back to the bar and poured himself a drink. “My last bit of advice? Everyone have one drink. Just one. Something that burns your throat and puts a fire in your gut. You’re going to need it.”

***

With the recreation room being mic’d for sound the surgeons were none too pleased with Isaac’s review of their creations. That there had been sporadic laughter from the crowd during the speech only added salt.

“My antlers aren’t stupid,” Hutchins mumbled.

“Yes, they are. What good do they do?” Dr. Tate said.

“They look cool. You’re just mad that you put an extra pair of masturbating hands on yours.”

This made Ambassador Murray roar with laughter. “You gave it four hands and no sex drive. That’s just bad karma.”

Dr. Tate, not brave enough to get into a verbal spar with Hell’s Ambassador, scowled and walked away.

Seeing the doctor kowtowed in such a manner cheered up Hutchins even more so than his growing inebriation. “I would love to see Menclewski get put in his place like that.”

“The night is young.” She studied his beer as he lifted it to his mouth. “Where’d you get that? All I’ve seen here is wine and champagne. I may as well drink water.”

“I brew it myself. This is a blonde ale.” He held it up so the Ambassador could see the label. It was called Blonde Wayne and had a picture of a cowboy with wavy yellow hair. “Want one?”

“I do.” She accepted and took a dainty sip. “Not bad. I’m more of a stout drinker. You should brew one of those and call it Dark Gable.”

Hutchins enjoyed this idea immensely and they cheered their bottles together with a clink just as Dr. Menclewski gave a simple command to his technicians.

“Now.”

***

Isaac, with disapproving curiosity, like an adult observing a child misbehave but not caring enough to intervene, watched Angie make a giant hodgepodge of a cocktail. When she finished with the drink, which had changed color no less than three times, she saw Isaac’s face and said, “What? You said one drink.”

The magician wanted to say something but couldn’t think of anything meaningful. Maybe this one would fare better being drunk. Instead, he turned his attention to Peyton, who had his ear to the door that led up to the first floor. “Don’t get too nosy. That big bastard with the gasmask is probably right on the other side. The runes seem to be holding but no need to risk it.”

“I don’t hear anything. Maybe this way is clear.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Isaac said. “These things are animated death. They don’t need to breathe. They don’t get antsy or uncomfortable or yawn or stretch or scratch their asses. If they’re completely silent it’s because that’s how corpses are supposed to be.” The words “death” and “corpse” seemed enough to deter the jock and he moved away. “I understand you guys are nervous but trust me, we’re in the best possible spot right now. We might just be able to ride this out all night.” In a rare show of smug confidence, Isaac leaned back on his stool and propped his feet on the bar.

A faint metallic click caught his attention. It sounded vaguely like a car door unlocking. Then came a whirring sound as if a nearby machine churned to life. The others heard it as well and, in unison, they traced the sound to the glass wall, just as it started to lower. Like a reverse garage door, it slowly sank into a recess in the floor, taking the rune of protection along with it.

“Damn it,” Isaac mumbled. This was just a beautifully devious move on the part of the surgeons. He should have known better than to be so self-assured. He looked to one of the cameras and gave it a slight nod of respect.

“Are they going to come in?” Angie asked, clutching her giant cocktail like the undead were going to steal it. The others leaped out of their chairs, makeshift weapons up and ready in trembling hands.

“Well, yeah.” Isaac downed his drink, hopped from his stool, and adjusted his Everbag onto his right hip.

The glass finished its journey, locked seamlessly into place with a cessation of gears, and the pair of stitches stepped into the room.