Free The Last Mile by Tim Waggoner

question, and one he’d asked more than a few times himself.
    To the girl he said, “The fountain.”
    The girl glanced over her shoulder and gave him a skeptical look. “I’ve seen some weird-ass things since the Arrival, but do you really expect me to believe that a goddamned fountain—even one that sprays blood—is a Master?”
    “Believe whatever you like. I don’t give a shit.” Dan stared at the fountain, listened to the thick, heavy plaps of blood drops falling back into the pond. His thrall-mark burned like fire now, and he could feel blood pulsing through the swollen flesh of his forehead. His Master was eager for the sacrifice, and Dan could feel his patron’s hunger as if it were his own. Old, this hunger was…older than the stars, older even than the concept of stars… It was the hunger for which the universe had been created and allowed to grow, until existence itself was ready to be plucked like a ripe fruit and finally, after unimaginable eons of patient waiting, bitten into with razor-sharp teeth and devoured, the blood of infinite multitudes dribbling down the chin like sweet, sweet nectar.
    The girl turned to look forward again. A line of blood now ran down her back from where the shaking knifepoint had pierced her flesh, but still she didn’t react, even though she had to be feeling it by now.
    “What next?” she asked. “You just…throw me in?”
    That’s exactly what Dan usually did—when his offerings were bound hand and foot. But the girl was awake, and her feet were free. He supposed he could try to shove her in, but his bones felt watery, like half-melted ice, and he didn’t know if he could summon the strength for even a single shove. If only his Master accepted dead sacrifices. Dan had spoken to another thrall once, an elderly woman whose Master inhabited the waste treatment plant just outside of town. Not only did her Master like its offerings dead, the more rotten they were, the better. Lucky bitch.
    A wave of vertigo washed over Dan as his vision went gray, and he took several stumble-steps backward. He could feel nothingness rushing in to take him, and part of him wanted to let it bear him away on its dark, dead wings.
    Caroline… Lindsey…
    He had a job to do, family to provide for, and he couldn’t give up…for his wife and daughter, if not for himself. Dan concentrated and fought to push back the darkness. For an endless moment, nothing happened and he thought he’d failed. But then slowly his vision began to clear.
    He found himself looking at the girl’s grinning face. On her forehead was a thrall-mark, and in her hands—hands no longer bound by duct tape—was his hunting knife.
    “Your Master regrets to inform you that your services are no longer required,” she said, and then slashed the blade in a vicious arc across his throat.
    Dan’s own miniature blood fountain sprayed from the newly created opening above his Adam’s apple. The girl dropped the knife, grabbed his arm, and swung him toward the pond. He stumbled forward, his feet splashing in the gore. He pressed his hands to his throat in what he knew was a futile attempt to staunch the gushing red flood. As he had seen many times before, tentacles emerged from the surface of the pond, slender serpentine limbs formed from blood itself. Half a dozen in all, the tentacles lashed toward him, wrapped themselves around his arms, legs, waist, and then began pulling him downward.
    He glanced back and saw the girl standing at the pond’s edge, watching with wide-eyed fascination. Remnants of duct tape were still stuck to her wrists, the ragged edges where her bonds had been torn dripping dark blood. Blood left by the tentacle that had reached out to free her when he had almost lost consciousness, Dan realized. His Master hadn’t given him a second chance after failing to deliver a sacrifice on his last run. His Master had sent him to find a replacement.
    Dan tried to cry out the names of his wife and daughter,