There Is No Way Out. Andrew Zolt

straining. The headlights burned into their faces.

      Six men climbed out of the black vehicles. Armed. Silent. Moving slowly toward them.

      “They’re always here,” Lucia whispered. “They wait for the ones who escape.”

      Anabel nodded, heart hammering a single thought: Run. Or die. But where?

      The landscape was barren – no forest, no buildings, just scattered shrubs and stones.

      They bolted – down the slope, stumbling over loose rock.

      Shots cracked the silence.

      Bullets tore the dirt beside them, flaring sparks off the stones. One struck Lucia in the thigh. She screamed and collapsed.

      Anabel caught her without thinking, throwing her friend’s arm over her shoulders.

      “Hold on!”

      Brakes shrieked in the distance – more vehicles were coming. They were being surrounded.

      Then, from the ridge above, came the growl of an engine. A truck – loud, filthy, battered – came crashing down the slope like a beast. It slammed into the black cars, forcing the men to scatter.

      The driver, masked, in a black jacket, kicked open the door.

      “Get in!” he roared.

      No hesitation.

      Anabel shoved Lucia inside and climbed in after.

      The truck roared to life, tearing away in a storm of dust and grit.

      Bullets rang out behind them, but the truck sped off into the night.

      They tore down the highway, empty and pale in the moonlight. In the side mirrors, red-and-blue lights flared behind them. Sirens howled.

      The truck weaved wildly, dodging, swerving.

      Lucia lay curled on the seat, her jaw clenched in pain. Anabel held her hand.

      The driver said nothing.

      Who was he? Why did he help? It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was escaping.

      After twenty minutes of relentless chase, the truck veered sharply off the highway, onto a narrow road choked with water and mud.

      Soon, the pursuers faded. Their lights dimmed, swallowed by the dark.

      Eventually, the truck came to a stop beneath the rusted canopy of an abandoned gas station.

      The driver turned to them. He was in his forties, face worn, eyes pale as ash.

      “You’re safe. For now,” he said. “But they don’t like loose ends. They’ll come.”

      Anabel shivered. “Who are you?”

      He gave a dry, joyless laugh.

      “Just someone who knows what’s going on. And knows better than to trust anyone. Even the ones wearing badges.”

      He drove them to a nearby village. Told them who might offer shelter.

      ***

      Weeks passed.

      Anabel and Lucia moved to a new city. A bright city. Loud. Alive.

      They rented a small apartment. Found simple jobs at a café.

      It seemed like it was over.

      But at night, the nightmares returned. The dark bus. The steel doors. The eyes behind the masks. Lucia had panic attacks. Anabel feared being alone. They understood: time doesn’t heal everything.

      Then, one day, browsing the local newspaper, Anabel saw an ad:

      “Psychotherapist with 20 years of experience. Trauma recovery. Confidential. Compassionate. Nearby.”

      The address was just a few blocks away.

      They didn’t even have to discuss it. They needed help.

      The house was neat – a small suburban cottage behind a white fence. Flowers in pots. A tidy walkway.

      They rang the bell. A young woman in glasses – an assistant – opened the door. Polite. Neutral.

      “You’re here for Dr. Marek? This way, please. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

      They were led into a cozy waiting room. Warm colors. Soft chairs. A painting of the sea on the wall.

      They sat down. Minutes passed. Time slowed.

      Then – a click. They turned. The door had locked. Automatically.

      Lucia’s voice was barely a whisper: “What was that?”

      The windows sealed shut – metal shutters groaned down over the glass. Then – a hiss. A strange, sweet scent filled the air.

      Gas.

      Lucia screamed. But stumbled, eyes rolling back, collapsing to the floor.

      Anabel lurched toward the door, but her legs failed.

      The world spun. Blurring. Stretching. In the hissing noise, she heard something – a voice. A voice she knew.

      “This bus runs to the final stop. No interruptions.”

      The last thing Anabel saw before darkness took her was a pair of headlights.

      And she knew – the bus had arrived. And this was the final stop.

      Forever.

      Ambrylith – the Tree of the Dead

      Liam inherited his grandfather’s farm – a place that looked like the universe had turned its back on it about twenty years ago. The house had a sagging roof, with nails sticking out like rusted needles. The garden soil was packed so tightly, it felt like last year’s pie crust.

      The only living resident was a snake named Bertha – short and fat like a kielbasa. She loved to lie near the well, as if guarding something better left alone.

      People in town whispered about Liam’s grandfather. They called him “mad.” Or sometimes, “a warlock.” No one came to his funeral.

      Liam was nineteen – a tired teenager with the soul of an old man who, for some reason, believed that a piece of land was better than a job in an office.

      One day, while digging up the soil near an old stone fence, Liam’s shovel hit something solid. He knelt down, cleared the dirt with his hands, and froze.

      It was a skull. A real human skull, cracked like his grandmother’s porcelain teacup.

      Inside the hollow cavity lay something black and smooth. It looked like a seed – but with a strange, unnerving shape.

      He slipped it into his pocket and left the skull near the well, where curious Bertha might enjoy its company.

      They say snakes like human skulls.

      That night, he dreamed.

      In the dream, a very thin girl with impossibly large, doll-like eyes took him by the hand and said,

      “Come with me – to the garden where the trees of the dead grow.”

      “Why?” Liam asked, confused.

      “They bear the most delicious fruit. You have to try them. They only appear once every hundred years – for a single day. Tomorrow, they’ll be gone. You’re lucky.”

      “Well, okay,” Liam replied, curious.

      They walked past a small lavender lake, its surface bubbling like a jacuzzi, then crossed a creaky old bridge that groaned like an arthritic mule over a deep, narrow chasm.

      Ahead of them stood a tall bronze fence, stretching endlessly in both directions until it vanished into the horizon. The girl touched it with her palm. The fence crumbled to dust.

      Behind it was a garden so strange, so alien, Liam forgot how to breathe.

      The