Antonio walked Gilbert back to his room, talking incessantly as he did so. It had become quite clear through the course of the evening that Antonio was the type of man who liked to talk about himself when he got drunk. This was perfect for Gilbert, because it required him to give up nothing about himself while he gained information about the other person. The Spaniard was in the middle of telling the story of his childhood, "So, when I told my father that I wanted to leave Madrid to go to America, he said to me, 'Join the church, these are Godless times and American souls need saving.' As the eldest son, naturally I had to be obedient."

At this point, they had reached the door to Gilbert's room. The German couldn't stop himself, the fascination with the inconsistency in the story was too great, "But you're a doctor, not a priest." Antonio smiled drunkenly and responded, "Ah, well, how I got here is an interesting story, but I should let you go to sleep. I will tell you it some other time." His green eyes glittered when he looked into Gilbert's eyes again, and he reached out in an uncoordinated way and took a hold of one of the German's hand. He said, "Don't be mad at Lovi about what he said. He's still young and he's not used to holding back his words." Gilbert noticed that Antonio's thumb was moving across the back of his hand in soft strokes. It was a gesture that spoke volumes.

Thinking about the nightmares he had the last time he had fallen asleep, he fleetingly considered inviting Antonio in. It would keep him awake longer at any case. Antonio was older than him, but he was vibrant and attractive. Gilbert looked at the other for a couple seconds, trying to convince himself that he wanted to invite the other to bed. He couldn't do it, so he pulled his hand away and said, "I would like to sleep now. I will see you tomorrow." He pulled his key out of his pocket and unlocked the door behind him, and turned the knob. As Gilbert turned to walk into his room, the Spaniard said, "Gil-" The German turned back around and looked at the other. Antonio seemed to struggle with his words and finally said, "Sleep well" and then he walked away down the hall. Gilbert quickly closed his door.

The room inside looked very much the same as it had, except that there was a bottle and a single glass sitting on one of the tables. The bottle was unlabeled and filled with a clear liquid. Gilbert walked over and uncapped the bottle in an attempt to figure out what was in the bottle. He should probably be wondering about where this came from, but it didn't bother him. The scent coming out of the bottle was light and crisp and familiar. He picked up the bottle and poured the vodka into the glass. He had gained an appreciation for the alcohol when he had been serving, and it also reminded him of the taste of his doomed affair. He took a drink from the glass and walked over to the bed. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, but it was a good pain. He felt extraordinarily unrested by his unintentional midday nap.

However, he dreaded the idea of falling asleep again. He started to undo his tie and the buttons of his shirt. As much as he wanted to avoid sleep, it was impossible. He drained the glass of vodka, hoping that the alcohol would bring him a dreamless sleep. He put down the glass and reluctantly lay down in bed. As soon as his eyes closed, he fell asleep.


Gilbert listened to the fading sounds with a familiar sense of sinking dread. The crisp autumn breeze swirled around him, chilling him. He looked down at his watch and waited for the prescribed number of minutes. He wished that the second hand would slow and stop, just to postpone the inevitable. He knew what was coming next, it was his duty, but that didn't make it any more pleasant. He turned to the assistant who had dropped the pellets into the chamber. The man was staring at the ground below his feet with a look of shock, his mouth slighty open. Gilbert said shortly, "It is time." The other nodded.

Gilbert walked down to the entrance, feeling the sense of dread rising still higher in his throat with every step he took, it tasted of bile. When he unlocked the door, he held his breath as the air seal broke. The air that rushed out of the chamber burned the inside of his nose and smelled of death and decay. He looked over at his assistant, who was covering his nose with a handkerchief. He spoke softly, "Why do we have to do this?" Gilbert adopted the most formal tone he could and said, "It's law: a doctor must confirm death in all executions." The full length of the building was laid out in front of them. He braced himself and started to walk down the center of the building, looking at the piles of bodies on either side. This was not the first time he had done this, but the twisting in his gut was still there. He refused to touch any of the corpses; a simple glance was enough to affirm death.

The eyes in the emaciated faces were rolled back so the entirety of the eyes appeared white, the mouths were hanging open in futile screams. When a part of a corpse got in the way of his path, he nudged it out of the way with the toe of his boot. He turned to the other living person in the room, who was still holding a handkerchief to his nose. Gilbert noted that this must be a fairly new recruit that hadn't yet learned to compartmentalize. He said, "They are all dead, go get the crew to clean out the bodies."

The man turned and practically ran out of the chamber. When he passed through the door, it slammed shut. Gilbert gasped as soon as the door closed. These chambers were meant to be unable to be opened from the inside. The door shouldn't have closed like that; it made no sense. Panic started to surge through him. His heart palpitated in his chest and his breath came out in shallow quick gasps. He knew he was trapped, but he didn't want to believe it. He walked quickly towards the door, but as he took the first step, something caught his ankle and he fell forward. His chin scrapped against the cement floor, causing it to bleed. Confused, he turned to look for what he had tripped on.

A single pale hand was wrapped around his ankle. The hand was attached to one of the corpses, which was now looking at him with blank dead eyes. Its gaping mouth moved and formed a single word, "Guilty." The voice no longer sounded human; it sounded like wind moving through dry leaves. A scream ripped out of Gilbert's throat. In panic, he kicked out with his other foot. His boot hit the corpse in the face. The scanty flesh was surprisingly soft. The bones made a sickening snap as the neck broke to the side. The hand released him and he pulled himself back up to his feet.

As soon as he got to his feet, he started running full tilt towards the door. He tried not to look to either side of him. He could hear the collective groan of the bodies around him starting to move. The sound of bones scrapping along the cement floor sent chills shooting down his spine. He didn't make it very far before both of his feet were pulled out from under him. Only a quick movement of his arms protected his face slamming into the ground again. He turned to look already knowing what he was going to see. Both of his ankles were in the grasps of another set of corpses. Their mouths moved in unison again speaking a single word, "Guilty." Gilbert tried to pull away, but it was impossible; the dead fingers only tightened like a vice.

When he looked around in either direction, the piles of bodies on either side were moving and hundreds of sets of dead eyes looked at him. He was flipped over onto his back by dozens of bony hands. The word "Guilty" rose around him in a litany of hundreds of voices. On either side of him, hands grabbed his wrists and held him down. He looked up at the blue painted ceiling and felt the pain of bones digging into his skin. One of the reanimated corpses climbed on top of him. The weight on his chest was surprisingly little. He looked up into the dead face and couldn't even muster a scream. The bony hand grabbed his chin and forced him to look directly into those milky dead eyes. The corpse opened its mouth and exhaled gas. He tried to hold his breath, but that only kept him safe for a couple moments. When he could no longer hold his breath, he was forced to suck in a breath of toxic air. Gilbert choked and coughed, but he couldn't pull himself away. The hold on all four of his limbs was too strong. As the gas filled his lungs, he feebly jerked under the hold of the dead. His vision faded to black and all of his movement stopped.

Gilbert opened his eyes and felt a profound relief in finding himself back in his bed. In the years since the war ended, he had never had nightmares like this. Guilt had never occurred to him. Now it was flaring up in these strange nightmares. He decided that the best thing to do was to drown himself in alcohol so that he would pass out and rest without dreaming. He pulled off his blankets and walked back over to the bottle, carrying his glass over with him. However, there was another glass sitting next to the bottle already, as though another person was expected. Gilbert walked over to it and contemplated it.

A familiar voice spoke right behind him, "Pour me a glass, Gil. It's been a while since I had a drink." Gilbert looked around slowly and saw Ivan sitting on his bed; splendid in the uniform he wore on the night they spent together. The sight was enough for his to inhale sharply, cursing this for being another dream. It seemed that the cycle of dreams was so dizzying that it was starting to obscure reality. Gilbert put down the glass he was holding next to the bottle and looked back up at Ivan and said, "When I wake up in the morning, this will be back over on that table. This is just a dream and you aren't here."

Ivan started to laugh and said, "Do you really think this is just a dream? Look at your wrists." Gilbert pulled back his sleeve with no expectation of seeing anything. There were red marks around his wrist that looked as though they had been formed by bony hands wrapped around his wrist. These welts shouldn't have existed, but it was not definitive that they did. If this was a dream, then these marks were hallucinations. He looked back at the other and said, attempting to stay firm, "Nice trick. This convinces me of nothing." Again, the Russian laughed, apparently unperturbed, "Then, I will have to convince you."

He raised one hand and snapped his fingers. Gilbert was immediately thrown backwards by an unseen force and he slammed against the wall. He felt a single hand close around his throat. The Russian had materialized just in front of him with one hand around his throat. He looked straight into Ivan's endless violet eyes and saw a manic fire. Ivan spoke, his voice deeper and stronger, "Does this pain feel real to you?" The answer was already clear; Gilbert could feel the fingers closing on his neck and the pain burned through his skin. The pain was more than real, it was inordinate and agonizing. It raced through every nerve in his body. He nodded slowly, but it didn't seem to satisfy Ivan. The grip tightened, "But you don't accept yet. You don't believe this is real." He leaned farther forward and spoke softly in Gilbert's ear, "I need you to believe for me, but I have time." Gilbert's vision started to fade to black. As he lapsed into unconsciousness, he heard Ivan say, "I will see you when you wake in the morning."

Gilbert awoke not on the bed but asleep in the middle of the floor. The wooden floor beneath him was incredibly uncomfortable and he wondered how he had managed to sleep on it all night. He wasn't certain how he got there despite distinctly remembering falling asleep on the bed. He pulled himself back up to his feet, trying to ignore to pain in his back from sleeping on the floor. He felt like he hadn't slept all night. He knew he had from the nightmares, which apparently drained him of energy. As he looked around the room, he noticed that the bottle of vodka and one of the glasses were gone, but one glass remained sitting where Gilbert had placed it in his dream. That couldn't be possible and he knew it. Gilbert pulled back his sleeve with shaking hands to look at his wrist. Red marks curled across his white skin in the shape of thin fingers.