The Fallen 3 by Thomas E. Sniegoski

loudest tough-guy voice, telling the thugs to leave the old man alone or he’d call the cops. His warning didn’t seem to register. In fact, they seemed to start pummeling the man all the harder.
    Dusty had tried to help, and it would have been perfectly fine if he’d just walked away. After all, what was he to do—take on all three? Certainly he’d been in his share of brawls since deciding to quit school at eighteen and take to the road, but three against one was practically suicide. And he’d never thought of himself as suicidal.
    A loudspeaker announcement from the bus station next to the fast-food restaurant momentarily broke Dusty’s concentration and returned him to the present. It wasn’t the bus hewas waiting for. He took another large swallow of his diet cola before immersing himself once again in the review of his folly.
    A large broken pallet had been leaning against the wall of the alley, and Dusty had pried a piece of wood from its frame as he headed down toward the commotion.
    “Leave him alone,” he had hollered, hefting the wooden plank, making sure the goons could see that he had a weapon in case they chose to mix it up with him.
    Dusty remembered the relief he’d felt when they actually stopped beating on the old man. He also remembered how fleeting that feeling was as the three thugs let the old man drop to the ground and turned their attentions to him.
    The men had slowly advanced toward Dusty, and he had had to make a conscious effort to hold his ground. It had rained for most of the day, but the sky had just begun to clear, and as the three figures slowly stalked toward him, a curtain of thick clouds drew back from the moon, filling the alleyway with an unnatural light.
    That was when Dusty realized that the men who were coming for him weren’t really men at all.
    Sitting at the restaurant table, Dusty closed his eyes. This was the part where he usually began to doubt himself, thinking that maybe he’d been mistaken, that what he’d really seen was a trick of the moonlight, or the effects of an empty stomach—he hadn’t eaten anything that day except a stale bagel at breakfast—causing him to hallucinate.
    But what had followed had proved that it was neither.
    The men stood fully exposed in the moonlight. At first Dusty’s brain had attempted to rationalize what his eyes were seeing, explaining away their awful appearance as horrible masks that made their flesh appear pale and glisten as if wet. But the closer they got, the more he realized that these men were not wearing masks or even makeup.
    Their eyes were black, shiny, and unblinking, like a doll’s. Their teeth were long and pointed, and there seemed to be far too many of them crammed inside their mouths.
    They looked like dead men … or at least what he imagined long-dead men would look like. These men were something he wasn’t supposed to ever have seen … something that would kill him to keep their secret safe.
    “A hero amongst the sheep,” one of them managed to speak through his many teeth.
    “A sheep who believes himself a hero, brother,” said another.
    “But a sheep nonetheless,” the final of the three monstrosities had offered.
    Dusty had spent a large portion of his life being afraid. He’d always thought his abusive father to be the ultimate bogeyman. How wrong he’d been, for the terror he felt as the three creatures began to circle him made his father seem like a joke. His heart was hammering in his chest so hard that he thought his ribs might shatter. He had no idea why he hadn’tsimply turned and run. It was as if he was mesmerized by the nightmare that had been revealed to him.
    Dusty shook himself from the memory and tried to collect his wits.
    The harmonica had started to make a soft, tremulous moan, as if a faint breath were blowing through the instrument. It almost sounded as if it were growling in response to the memories of Dusty’s fear.
    As the monsters, for Dusty had no doubt that was what