Stamping workshop. Near a large press, Bill walked over with a junior worker. A foreman greeted Bill, "Hey, Bill, old buddy, glad you're here. This press has gone nuts. We just fixed the steel plate suction problem a couple days ago, and now every lid it stamps comes out all banged up. Take a look, will ya?"
Bill switched on his flashlight, poked his head in for a look, then pulled back and said, "The mold's busted. It's full of scrap. Gotta patch it up."
"Patch the mold? How long will that take?"
"Two hours, give or take," Bill estimated. "Depends how fast you guys move, though. Just taking the mold off and putting it back eats up an hour and fifty minutes. Taking it off is your job, by the way."
The foreman instantly looked miserable. "Bill, you know the production director laid down the law—no way we're getting two hours of downtime today. Is there any other way?"
"One bottle of ice-cold beer. Go buy it now," Bill said, opening the press to its widest. He ducked inside. "By the time you get back, this beast will be ready to roll."
"You're the man, bro! I believe in you!" The foreman dashed off to buy beer, while Bill and his junior squeezed inside the press. The machine that stamped the lids was huge—plenty of room for two people. Bill lay on the lower mold, fixing the upper mold above him, clearing out all the scrap.
All around, other presses were pounding away. Every time the dies came together, there was a bang, turning a steel plate into whatever shape they wanted. These heavy machines shook the ground with their sheer weight and force, like a never-ending mini earthquake. Newbies might find it scary, but Bill was an old hand—he barely noticed.
Five minutes later, the foreman zipped back, shouting from outside, "Hey buddy, your beer's here!"
Beer? Beer’s a beautiful thing. Bill called out to his junior, "You keep going." Then he crawled out of the press. The foreman handed him a towel to wipe his face, and Bill was just about to crack open the beer when he spotted a group approaching in the distance. A suit-clad office worker shouted, "Bill! These folks need you!"
Seeing Wendy, Bill irritably tossed his towel onto the corner of the press console, plunked down his cold beer, and shouted, "I've got nothing to say to any of them!" Then he spun around and stomped off toward the press.
"Bill!" Wendy rushed up and grabbed him, raising her voice: "Don’t you get it? Death is after us! It’s got its script all written, just waiting for us to drop dead! Two people have already been attacked—who knows who’s next, maybe you! That’s why we have to stick together if we want any chance!"
"Give it a rest, lady. I don’t wanna hear another word outta you. Look around—dangerous machines everywhere. If Death wanted me gone, I’d be gone already. Listen, I don’t care what crazy stuff you believe. Just this morning, I saved someone. If not for me, he’d have bought it in the drying furnace. How’s a guy who saves people supposed to be the one who’s doomed?"
While Wendy and Bill were arguing, nobody noticed the towel hanging from the console slowly slipping loose with every little tremor in the floor. Down below, beads of condensation formed on the beer can, dripped down, and soaked the bottom rim. The can was already perched on a slanted panel, and with the moisture and the shaking, it started to inch its way downward.
Bill bellowed, "Enough! I’ve got work to do. Keep away from me, and don’t ever come looking for me again!" He was about to crawl into the press when Jack Young stepped up and yanked him back. Bill swung a fist in anger, but Jack brushed it aside like it was nothing. Grabbing Bill by the collar, Jack snapped, "Spill it—who did you save this morning?"
If Jack Young hadn’t been there, Bill would’ve died on the subway this morning. And if Bill had died, he wouldn’t have been around to save anyone. So, if things had gone as ‘planned,’ that guy would’ve been doomed too—but now he’s another survivor! Find him, and he’s both a potential teammate and a target for Death!
"Hurry up and tell me—who’d you save?"
Intimidated by Jack Young’s fierce glare, Bill slowly pointed toward the inside of the press. "It’s... my little brother..."
Smack—the towel fell, hit the beer can, and the can toppled, rolling down the slope with a clatter and slamming into a button. That button? The press’s start button.
Bang! With a deafening crash, the upper press slammed down—no time for a scream. Blood sprayed out like a pressure washer, soaking Bill from head to toe. With a mechanical whirr, the tray popped out, and everyone stared, stunned, at the mold—a ‘person’ flattened to the size and thickness of a bottle cap. Bones, flesh, guts, eyeballs, hair... words couldn’t even begin to describe the grotesque mess.
"Ugh—!" Everyone except Jack Young couldn’t help but retch.
By sunset, after dealing with the cops, everyone gathered at Femi Foster’s place. Pretty much everyone looked awful—including Jack Young, who felt like the nasty vibe hanging in the air hadn’t faded with death or time. If anything, it was getting stronger. He wasn’t sure if it was just nerves, but the feeling of being watched was seriously creeping him out.
After a long silence, Jack Young finally spoke up: "Femi Foster, what do you make of today? Ever seen anything like this before?"
"Yeah." Femi Foster nodded. "Back in the Highway 180 Accident, one of the direct survivors saved a kid’s life. Not long after, the kid died in a freak gas explosion at a family barbecue. The odds of a grill blowing up are basically zero, but right then, right there, it happened. The whole thing was just... way too much of a coincidence."
Jack Young turned to Wendy. "Did you notice any signs before this happened?"
Wendy shook her head. "Nope. Maybe I missed something, but honestly, I didn’t feel anything weird."
Jack Young propped his chin on his hands, thinking. "So, starting with Wendy’s death premonitions, we direct survivors are the first tier. When Death targets us, we can spot some warning signs—like before Femi Foster got attacked, Wendy noticed something. But because we survived, it set off a chain reaction, creating secondary survivors. These folks aren’t directly linked to Wendy, so she can’t—or can barely—sense anything about them. But here’s the thing: Bill, did you feel anything weird before it happened?"
Bill sat in the corner, head in his hands, silent. Only when Jack Young asked again did he finally move, lifting his head to reveal a face drained of color. "I—I don’t know. I can’t remember."
"Then think harder!" Jack Young barked. "Sounds, words, movements, symbols—anything! Whatever made you zone out, think twice, or feel off, even if it just flashed through your mind—remember it, all of it!" (By the way, folks, this book is about to get signed! I’ve been sweating bullets for ages, and finally, it’s happening! Toss a recommendation my way to celebrate!)