These (one before, this one, and the next passage in the works) took a lot of editing because I had to remove most of my preachiness about PBM's. I originally had this weighty metaphor of undead corporate-type decoys that just didn't work. Just for clarity, the business named Corporate Somatic Material Solutions is completely made up. There isn't much need of a separate drug distribution company, since drugs don't take up that much space. It was easier, though, than finishing researching how drugs really ARE stored. It was also better, in my opinion, than risking publicizing it and causing drugs to be even more expensive for the additional security that would be required if everyone knew just how easy it might be to make off with some. Personally, I hope that PBM's (Pharmacy Benefit Managers) die a rapid, but horrible death and do not stand up again. Money grubbers of every stripe do horrible damage to every capitalist society, but there are always going to be too many ways to legally lie, cheat, and steal as long as we try to handle human nature with the law. That's it for now. Consider my soap box put away.

WILL HE LEARN ABOUT THE STAR?

House's eyes snapped open. The masked man sat across from him in the recliner. The masked man pointed at a copier paper box beside the recliner labeled 'A2.' "Probably not your favorites, but I do appreciate your following instructions. My cause is important enough that I cannot afford to take too many risks."

House's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to know what that cause IS before making any real progress, Xavier. Call it my inner Oppenheimer."

"Those transcripts are data bursts which may include the location of NORAD. I very much wish to discover whether there is a living pro tempore to govern the United States, or whether we will be holding a brand new general election as things improve."

House blinked. "Improve? How exactly are things going to improve, Xander? As the dead thin out, so will the ways to survive. Do you mean the dead dying out or us? Both are going to happen approximately together."

"The second problem, which I've left behind your chair, is all the data I've compiled on how to solve the dead problem."

"Most people just stab them in the head?"

"To make them stop rising."

"Ohhh. Yeah. Why didn't I think of that?" House made a mock shocked expression.

"I'm sure you've already wondered. Likely though, you didn't have my resources."

House made a face. "I can see where some nice toys would come in handy, but they're not going to be enough, Mr. X-man."

"X-man?"

House held up his empty left ring finger. "Hey, I've got an ex-wife." He held up different finger.

"I'm preparing a lab for you to work in. After you've read my work, I'll be open to suggestions that I may be able to fulfill. It looks like you may have written a short program. Something is running on one of the computers I left you."

"Three programs are running. I tend to multi-task."

"What are they doing?"

"I snapped a few pictures with the digital camera. One of the programs is looking for any visual pattern based on the idea that one of the codes may correspond to a screen shot or video. I haven't bothered with a full-on text analysis yet, because I don't have a digital copy, and that's clearly the plan."

"Your friends are scanning the pages into a new device. Once I've checked it, it will become a read-only file cloned multiple times for your convenience."

House nodded. "The second program is searching through the devices' memories for anything about you. I like to know who I'm working for. Where you bought them, why you picked them. These are state-of-the-art even though they seem to run on DOS rather than Windows, Mr. X-factor."

"They run on DOS because they have to last, and we don't have memory space to waste. There's nothing on them about me because I didn't buy them or pick them."

"You BUILT them?!" House's eyes glazed over.

"I made these, copying some made for me. I'm a fair technician, even if I'm not that original with the designs."

"They're cylindrical."

"They were designed to be part of a vehicle."

"Why do they smell like apples? Not even Apple computers smelled like apples."

"That's the batteries. I had to pick a readily available acid to make them work. In this case, the solution vinegars before the charge expires. It does poison the apple vinegar, but the smell deodorizes the power source."

"You have a cider press and reclamation plant, Mr. X-ray Fish?"

"In a manner of speaking. I put dead on treadmills hooked to static generators to generate power. They occasionally grind the apples, too."

House goggled at him. "I've heard of green energy, but PUKE green?"

"We're getting off the subject. What about the third program?"

House nodded. "Obviously, we may have to do some data mining at some point. I've written a probability generator to help calculate how long to go through the average server backup based on presence of search terms."

The masked man picked up the only computer with a blinking light. He pressed several buttons. "Your search terms are 'naked, bare, lady, woman, girl, bitch' and 'ass?' You're searching for pornography?"

"Everyone needs a hobby, Mr. Rated-X."

The masked man paused. "The search terms are interchangeable?"

"And the program tweakable. If you get to certain server backups in Trenton, Birmingham, Jacksonville, Louisville, or Phoenix, I could actually have you check my work with these search terms. I'm aware of a way to beta test. To 'X' them out, as it were. Am I getting warmer?"

"You specifically know some of the porn there."

"EX-actly, Mr. Trebek!"

The masked man nodded. "Wilson said you might be very productive if I allowed more irrelevant-seeming activity. It seems he was right."

"You want me because I'm sharp. And everyone knows that 'all work and no play' thing."

"That aphorism has 'dull' as boring rather than dim-witted."

"Semantics. Idiots, boredom, same thing really. So. I've done some work. What about talking a bit, Harpo Marx?"

"You're not a social person."

"I'm an interested third party. And if anyone needs to SPEND time with a party, it would be you, Groucho." He waggled his eyebrows and tapped an imaginary cigar in the air.

"I have limited social interests."

"That I could guess, Mr. Quaid."

"I don't wish to be known."

"Hence, the mask, Mr. Li. You move like a martial artist. Not a lot of wasted effort. You don't have anything personal against me yet, which means we'd probably never met before you kidnapped me. Yet you find me and already know my name and stuff about me. The only people that know me that I know are still alive work for Negan—"

"I'll see you in eighteen hours." The masked man attached the timed cutter to the zip tie on House's right wrist. He stepped back and turned toward the door.

House glanced down to see the fingernail clippers between his thighs on the chair. "You know it would be a bigger incentive to give me clues to who YOU are."

"I'll consider it."

"You're not fondling me in my sleep, are you?"

The masked man didn't even slow down, just didn't reply. House watched him lock the door, turn, and walk down a glass hallway with drywall on both sides of it before the lights in the hallway went out from the other side of the passage. House frowned. When he'd fallen asleep, the doorway had looked completely different. He looked at the walls. He startled. The room was a different shape, less square than before, and had a small kitchenette in the corner beside his chamber pot and trashcan. His eyes darted to the base of the recliner. The timer went off. House cut himself free, picked up his cane, and stood. He limped to the door, tried it, and limped back to the recliner. He used the handle to lift the foot holder. He smiled wickedly at the small food can covered with plastic with the tiny puddle of sleep agent under the recliner. He limped to the boxes behind the chair. He opened Box A. Inside was a timer counting down from seventeen hours, forty-two minutes.

It was the usual—limited supply of Vicodin, though more than before, sleep agent, envelope, office supplies, and a different random mix of canned goods. No sandwich. He pushed boxes A-E over to the recliner, and opened box A2. A charged i-pod, some expired cookies, and some Jolly Ranchers. He dry-swallowed a Vicodin, popped a Jolly Rancher in his mouth, began collection of some more sleep agent the way he had yesterday, and stuck the earbud in his ear for some rousing music, examining the playlist for a moment. He opened the envelope. It read:

'Same conditions and instructions as before. All clear progress and basic compliance considered rewardable. Avoid excessive noise till further notice. We will be having visitors between now and five hours from now that I must discourage, maim, or kill, and killing will bring more of them. I do not wish to enlist your friends' aid in killing or appeasing them, though it would be easier, so keep in mind that quiet will assist me. -X'

Oh, boy! What about those visitors? How good IS Dooby? Consider this a bonus look at the pursuers, as I hadn't planned to tell you more about them yet until the last page was written.

Who-oooa! Getting Closer, Coming Nigh

Ben and Dooby and two other bikers pulled to a stop beside the smashed drugstore. Dooby pointed at the place. "We should look to see if they've any food. We're runnin' low an' we still gotta get some back to Croc and Batter."

Ben made a rude sound. "They can go hungry on the way back! If they'd done what I said, they wouldn't be laid up. Lucky those traps didn't kill 'em. We helped 'em up onto that roof. We'll go back for 'em, don't worry. You say this is where they were?"

Dooby frowned. "This is where somethin's wrong with this trail, man. See how it don't match up there? It drove over its own tracks, turned around and went back, but it was a couple inches off suddenly. You see that line in the silt over there at the mismatch? It's like somebody hosed away the tracks and then drove over them again, so we would think they didn't drive somewhere in town or to'ards the river. Bridge over it's out, though. Like we would think they DIDN'T go somewhere? They made more silt for the new tracks. I've never seen that. There's somethin' round here he tried to hide. Spread out. Look for one of those stains. Or some recent tracks. Same as before—don't FUKKIN' TOUCH NUTHIN'!"

The four men spread out and started looking in various directions. Ben whistled and pointed. A foot path stretched between two buildings and ranged into the woods. Dooby hustled up. After a moment he nodded. "Cane tracks, limpin' here. Yeah. Different shoes, but, yeah, he was here." Dooby looked at the trail ahead. "Footbridge across the river there looks like it leads uphill. Can't see what's up there."

They walked for a bit. They crossed the footbridge to find a small area of very sticky mud. Dooby stooped to take his boots off at the end of it. Ben stopped him. "Don't. You know House sets traps."

The four bikers walked on in silence, then saw the four-story building with the odd sign. Dooby shook his head. "What's 'somatic?' This looks like an office building." They walked into the lobby. "Why don't they have ceiling tiles?" said one biker. The nearest one shrugged. They walked up to the bulletin board, only one of them peeking at the thumping behind the desk and the vibrating office chair. In mismatched plastic letters a wall-mounted message board read: 'I've already taken everything of value here, Negan's men, except for a bottle of aspirin across the room. You will definitely need it if you try to follow us and succeed in living.'

Dooby pointed through a badly smashed door with a sign that said 'Corporate Samples' at empty shelves. Ben nodded grimly. One biker noticed the bottle of aspirin on a windowsill, barely in reach. He took hold of it. There was a click. The sprinklers turned on, spraying the bikers. Dooby's eyes went wide. "Rubbin' alcohol! GET OUT!"

The bikers as one turned to the door, and the nearest one flung it open. Flames licked out at the bikers from the front wall with an audible 'Whump!'

With charred clothing, missing or singed eyebrows, and blistered faces and hands, the bikers stomped out, cursing. No one was dead. Downhill and across the footbridge, the bikers found a tube of Vaseline at the ruined drugstore. Dooby was almost done treating everyone when Ben saw him pause and frown.

"What?" Ben looked rather angry.

Dooby shook his head. "Nothin' I guess. These traps seemed different. Nobody died. Two separate triggers. Like somebody else helped him. Then there's that 'don't follow me' threat. Maybe he's goin' somewhere makes him an easy target?"

Ben went very still. He turned to the worst of the blistered bikers. "You lost a lotta skin back there. What do you think?"

The biker scowled, grimacing through the pain it caused. "You got a potato peeler? I'm thinkin' about skinnin' me a PERSON and fryin' it up and FEEDin' it to 'im! I heard of a Reuben! I'll make him a FRIED SKIN and REUBEN ALCOHOL SAMMICH!"

Dooby held up a finger. "That's RU—"

Ben elbowed him.

"Right! That's right!" Dooby held his elbowed side for a moment.

"Whatcha go'n' use as BREAD, huh?" Ben asked.

"His SHOES!"

Satisfied, Ben nodded. "All right then. Dooby? You said he went west. What's west?"

Dooby pulled a rumpled, charred pamphlet out of a pocket and held it up. "Corp'rate S'matic Ma-terial S'lutions." He unfolded it and held it up for all to see. "Town of Winchester. Next office up. Got the address and everythin' right here. We could take more dirt tracks insteada highways, maybe make up time. I know some a that country."

Ben pulled out his radio. "Ben here, checkin' in. Found another trap, but nobody's even badly hurt this time. Headin' up to Winchester to head him off. We know where he's GOIN'."

Ohh, boy. The most memorable moment in all cartoon history for me is the Pink Panther using a stamper and inkpad to lay down a fake trail to get the detective to follow 'him.' I guess you can all figure why that's relevant . . .