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Meg ventured down a dimly lit corridor that bypassed some of the smaller labs and used the side exit to avoid running into any of the security guards. They tended to be chatty and she wasn’t in the mood for company. Outside, the muggy air pressed in around her like the walls of a prison. She rummaged through her backpack for her phone as she crossed the first lot, then paused on the island separating it from the rear lot. The cell was in the far corner of the bag, hidden beneath two prescription pads and a tube of lip gloss. The lip gloss made her smile. It was a gift from Sherry Roth, the little girl she’d discharged this afternoon, and it smelled like cherry bubblegum.

She pushed the pads aside and was about to grab the phone when the sound of heavy footsteps caught her attention. Reflexively, she glanced behind her. In the dense mist was the unmistakable shape of a very tall, very large man crossing the lot and coming her way. She wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but she thought he had a ski mask on. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end and her mouth went dry. She forgot the phone, grabbed her keys and started off again for her car at a run.

The man caught up with her before she’d gone halfway across the rear lot. He grabbed her bag and jerked her backward. She fell down and immediately started screaming and kicking. God help her, she was getting mugged.

Meg fought like a tiger, adrenaline dumping like rocket fuel into her blood. The guy couldn’t get a hold of her. He wore a ski mask, and black clothes. She continued to scream, but it sounded dull to her ears, as if the thick fog was swallowing her cries. No one came to her aid. No one heard her cries. Where the hell was security?

Unwilling to be a victim, Meg aimed a vicious kick at his groin and brought him down. She struggled to her knees, got to her feet and started to run, but the man was up in an instant and grabbed her again. She screamed for help as he spun her around, and she clawed at his face. He was forced to hold her at arm’s length while she struggled.

Instead of speaking, her attacker howled at her, and a puff of acrid black smoke rushed from his mouth. The world spun around her and for a moment she thought she might pass out. Sheer grit and fear kept her conscious. She held her breath and renewed her fight. The man reared back, opened his mouth again, sucked in an audible breath and let loose another one of the smoky gusts.

She went woozy for real this time, but just when she thought she’d pass out, a black blur leapt between them and knocked the man to the ground. The man dragged Meg along, but she was able to wrench free and fell to her knees. It defied logic and reason but somehow, a sleek panther, straight from the wilds of the jungle, had appeared. It wrestled with the man, slashing at him with blinding, powerful blows.

She crawled backward but was unable to tear her eyes away from the insane battle of mugger and cat. Sense set in and she reached again for her cell, but as her hands closed around it, the cat slapped at the man’s head and the ski mask ripped free. The face beneath was not human. It was dark yellow, mottled with red blotches, and twisted with thick ropes of keloid scars. There were only holes where a nose should be in a strangely shaped bald skull. It had black lips and pointed scarlet ears. Some kind of Halloween costume, she reasoned. Except it wasn’t Halloween.

The panther reared up once it had the advantage over the mugger, hissed, and then a thick mist enveloped it and swallowed it whole. The next moment, a man appeared where the panther had stood. Taller than her attacker, he wore a black leather biker jacket and held a wicked looking silver sword that gleamed with an unholy light. She couldn’t see his face from her vantage point, but his buzz cut hair was black as sin, and so was his intent.

Sanity slipped into her madness. “No, wait, let me call the police.”

Her attacker got slowly to his knees. He bled profusely from his wounds, but his blood was puss green and not red. He showed no signs of backing down and made an attempt to rise.

The swordsman moved his blade with an inhuman speed and severed the head of her attacker from the body. Putrefied green gore spewed out and then the body, head, and bodily fluids evaporated in a billowing cloud of ash.

Meg wanted to scream but she couldn’t find her voice, like she was in one of those bad dreams where you ran and ran, but couldn’t call for help and couldn’t outdistance the monsters. But she wasn’t dreaming. She was wide awake.

She sat down hard on the blacktop and stared, her numb brain trying to process what just took place. She was dimly aware of the sound of more people coming. And when she looked up, two with heavily scarred faces, and a third with that grotesque yellow mask rushed towards her. The fog thickened in their wake, closing out the real world, locking them all in a macabre grey prison.

A shadow fell across her. Before her stood the swordsman, his blade angled down, his harsh, craggy face cast in a mix of darkness and light. His stark black eyes were as vast as the night sky and as cold as arctic ice. The instinct for self-preservation kicked in and she started to inch backward. The creatures were closing in. The man took a step forward and held out his hand. She caught the scent again, the same mysterious, exotic one that had drifted into her office earlier on a gentle summer breeze.

“I’m Gideon Sinclair, Dr. Carter. The police can’t help you now.” His rough voice rumbled through the night like thunder in a storm. “Come with me if you want to live.”