"What are the dead?"

The five of them spoke as one. "The dead are invisible and silent!"

"And the dead shall be?"

"The dead shall be remembered and honored!" Their voices mingled in frustrated harmony, creating an authority to which they simultaneously submitted. But one voice was missing. Chet glanced at Taylor, to his left. He was just mouthing the words.

"Why do we choose to be dead?"

"Because to live is not a choice!"

Avery motioned to Taylor and Owen Bean. They removed the painting of Dean Yarrow from the wall behind Avery, revealing the spraypainted King Milo it concealed. Alex passed around shot glasses and filled them with Wild Turkey. He placed one glass on the floor under the Milo graffito.

Avery raised his glass to Milo. "Rex Mortem."

"Rex Mortem!" They all drank. Then they took their seats, under the unseeing eyes of King Milo, and the first meeting of the 30th Quorum of the Nine Dead Men came to order.

Only Avery remained standing, under the portrait of Milo, as was customary for the Secretary of the Exterior. He was their conduit to Milo, and, in Milo's absence, assumed the privileges and responsibilities of leadership. On a temporary basis, of course, until Milo returned to resume command himself.

"There is only one item on the agenda tonight," Avery said. His deep, coarse-sandpaper voice, the product of both abnormally thick vocal cords and a smoking habit that started at age eleven, echoed in the airless room. Avery's authority didn't derive solely from his rank. Though just 21, he maintained the weathered, no-nonsense demeanor of a much older man. It helped that he was so big: 230 pounds but not fat, just square and solid. Literally big-boned. His hair had started to go grey in high school, and now he kept it short, a thin layer of silver wire. He wore a suit at all times, even to class, and what had at first seemed a pretentious affectation now seemed an essential part of his being, the suit rumpled but not dirty or ill-fitting. It was very much like his skin, like maybe he slept in it every night and showered in it every morning. "Abduction is in ten weeks. At our next meeting, be prepared to make your case for your chosen candidate."

Dave raised his hand. "The Sergeant-at-Arms is recognized," said Avery.

"Do I have to find a candidate? The only freshmen who'll talk to me are total douchebags."

"No one forces you to write that shitty column, Taddlington," said Taylor. He was somehow lounging in the ancient straight-backed chair. His body looked like a demand curve plotted on a graph. "Hey, what about those chicks that were yelling at you the other night? They seemed feisty."

"Shut the fuck up, Taylor."

"Gentlemen." Avery stared them both down. Every Dead Man had gone on the record at least once with their hatred of Taylor, who had been forced upon them thanks to his family name. All except Avery, who as Secretary maintained an air of pained neutrality whenever the subject was broached. "He's right, Dave. Find a candidate." Avery turned to Chet. "Quartermaster."

Chet stood up. "Yes, Secretary."

"What can you tell us about Andrew Boyd?"

"Who?"

Avery pulled a small notebook out of his inner jacket pocket and consulted it. "Andrew Duncan Boyd. One of the new residents of Wintertree room 79A."

The name felt familiar, but just out of reach. It was the first time Chet had heard the name, but he thought he might have seen it. It shone bright gold in his mind's eye. The cover of a Handbook maybe. But he had no idea whose name it was. "Are you sure that's the right name?"

"Yes. Andrew Duncan Boyd, Wintertree 79A. Have you not met this person?"

Every fall, one of the freshmen in 79 or 79A was chosen to be Abducted into the Nine Dead Men. Chet was that freshman last year. The process was opaque to him, a real chicken/egg situation. Did he get Abducted because he lived in 79, or did the Nine pull strings to place him in 79?

"I don't know who Andrew Boyd is. The freshmen in 79A are Tim and... I want to say Neal?"

Avery's face twisted into a grotesque mask. For a moment Chet thought that "Avery" had disappeared, replaced by a monstrous parody of human features, until he realized that Avery was just confused. He'd never seen Avery confused by anything. Avery looked at the notebook again, then back at Chet. "I don't understand," he said.

"I don't know what to tell you. Tim's in 79A. And Neal, I think."

"Did you say Tim?" Alex half-stood out of his seat. Alex, the alleged musician. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

"Yeah."

"Kind of like a... like a real average dude? Like you kind of forget what he looks like, even if you're looking right at him?"

A harsh assessment of Tim. But accurate. "Yeah, kind of."

"Dude, I think I know that kid. He's living in the mystery room?"

Avery seized on this new information. His expression reverted back to its usual placid confidence. "Viscount, do you think this Tim is a potential candidate?"

"I mean, I don't know about that."

"Find out." This was the Avery that Chet was used to. Taking control. Giving orders. "Quartermaster. Track down this Andrew Boyd."

That's impossible because he doesn't exist. The thought came and went in less than a second, but it was enough to give his words an air of tentativeness. "Yes, Secretary."

Avery pinned him down with those eyes as gray as his hair – with a look that was so much like his father's. Like any father's. "You hesitate, Quartermaster?"

"No, sir."

"Is the request not reasonable?"

Avery and Milo both awaited Chet's answer. He hesitated again. "It is reasonable, Secretary."

Avery took three quick steps across the hardwood floor – three sharp rifle cracks under the heels of his Chelsea boots. His face hovered less than an inch from Chet's. "Quartermaster. Do you choose to be dead?"

"I do." The answer came without thought, a reflex. A line in a script.

"And why do you choose?"

"Because to live is not a choice."

Avery didn't move. He kept his body parked in Chet's personal space, silently daring him to move, studying him for signs of less than total commitment. But Chet studied Avery's face as well. Up close, he was so much younger than he seemed.

"Good," Avery said, finally. Out of the corner of his eye, Chet saw Taylor watching him, smiling his mocking smile. Chet realized that he wanted to betray him. He just needed to find a reason, besides the obvious.

******

They descended on downtown as a pack, with a pack's hunger. They were not alone. The entire great mass of youth that was the University of Northwest Georgia swarmed downtown, spilling into the streets with joyful disdain for the hapless, ill-prepared drivers. It was the first real Friday night of the semester, and there were memories to be made, even if they were forgotten by Saturday morning.

This was the best part of being a Dead Man. This was the worst part. Crossing Delmonico in formation with Avery and Taylor and Dave and Owen Bean and even Alex, Chet bought into the legend: here they were, the secret kings of the University, hiding in plain sight. He reveled in the power as students and townies and parents alike – an inordinate number of parents, ostensibly here for the football game but really to cling to whatever young flesh they could find, to ward off Death for another day – stepped aside to allow their swaggering wedge to pass by.

But in the reactions of those who stepped aside – the ones who reacted at all – Chet saw the truth. There was no awe or fear or respect on their faces, only an annoyed resignation, tinged with disgust. Here they were, another six-pack of dudes, the one resource of which the University had an infinite supply. There were so many dudes roaming downtown tonight: scrums of cloned frat dudes in their cargo shorts and artfully mangled baseball caps, middle-aged alumni dad dudes with their fat florid faces and purple polos, professorial dudes hiding their essential dudeness behind tweed jackets and advanced degrees. Dudes were at best an omnipresent nuisance, another daily obstacle to be avoided if at all possible. At worst, dudes would go to obscene lengths to prevent just that.

For a year now, Chet feared that that was exactly what the Nine Dead Men were: some frustrated lonely Dudes' attempt not to be avoided.

Their first stop was the diner. Clumps of kids in threes and fours hung around on the benches and planters outside, waiting for tables and trying to ignore the townies who eyed them with undisguised contempt, but Taylor whispered something to the cashier and she ushered them back to two just-cleared booths. Chet slid in next to Alex, across from Taylor. It was understood that Avery and Dave and Owen Bean would not sit with Taylor if they could help it. That lot fell to Chet and Alex, the sophomores. But after Abduction they would have some freshmen to take on that duty.

"What did you say to her?" Chet said.

"I just told her who I was." Taylor smiled, so goddamn smug, and picked up his menu.

"Dude, I had no idea this Tim kid was your roommate. Did he tell you what happened?" Alex fidgeted with his silverware. "I don't know, man. Some pretty heavy shit went down. There's a song or two in it for sure. I mean if I even still have a band."

Chet tuned Alex out. He didn't care if Alex met Tim. Eventually everybody met everybody. There weren't six degrees of Kevin Bacon at the University. There was one degree of separation, at best. Rumors circulated that this was by design: a collective effort by DUH, University Transportation, Food Services and whoever wrote the Handbook to ensure that students came into contact with as many of their fellow Ambassadors as possible. Bathrobe Billy had cornered him one unfortunate night at Weston and showed him some campus bus route maps, mumbling about "vectors" the whole time. But Chet figured this was just how college worked. You cram enough horny, confused kids into a small enough space, they're going to start bouncing off each other.

Their waiter came, a crust punk so crusty he was practically a baguette. They ordered patty melts and feta fries, the only things worth ordering at the diner. Probably the only things safe to order.

"Dude I didn't even know how to respond. I mean what would you do if your girlfriend wanted you to suplex her? And then fucking Xander says that Audrey asked him to suplex her – which, like, that's a fucking coincidence..."

"Renee wanted you to suplex her?" Of course Taylor would take an interest in whatever weird sex shit Alex was jabbering about. "Like pro wrestling?"

"Yeah, dude."

"Sounds kind of hot."

"It was kind of hot, at first. But then... I don't know, dude. I haven't even talked to her since then. And I don't even know what's going on with Xander and Audrey. She won't talk to me now. And fucking Stephen Brick was no help."

Listening to Alex was so exhausting. Chet didn't want to get involved, but sometimes base curiosity compelled him. "Why would Stephen Brick be able to help?"

"That's what I'm saying, dude. He wasn't."

"Look," said Taylor. "It sounds like things at the Dollhouse are a little precarious right now."

"Precarious. Yes. Exactly, dude."

"Why don't you let me talk to Renee. See if I can't smooth things out." There he was. There was the true Taylor Hollister, wriggling up to the surface. He was going to snake Alex's girlfriend right out from under him, and Alex was going to cheer him on.

"Dude, that would be awesome." Of course it would be awesome.

The crusty waiter brought the patty melts and a steaming mound of fries for the table, smothered in chunks of feta and a vinegary sauce. Taylor reached in and grabbed a handful, taking half the feta with it. "Go on," he said. "Have some fries."

******

When they were full they headed for the Dip to satisfy a hunger of a different kind. Outside the diner a wad of dirt-punk townies glowered at them through the permanent haze of smoke that surrounded them. Freshmen were always scared at first of the townies at the diner, but Chet learned pretty quickly that there wasn't anything to be scared of. They didn't become dirt-punk townies because they were good at anything, not even making threatening faces at college kids. Chet glowered right back.

"Dave. Avery." All six Dead Men stopped. One of the townies was speaking to them. He emerged from the smoke: a youngish one, with lank blond hair and a face dominated by a nose that approached Groucho-glasses proportions.

"Oh shit," whispered Alex, maneuvering himself behind Chet and Owen Bean.

"Holy shit," said Avery. "It's you."

"You got a minute?" said the townie.

Dave waved Chet and the rest away. "We'll catch up with you."

Chet felt Alex's hand pushing on his back. "Come on, man, let's go."

They left Dave and Avery to talk to the townie and kept making for the Dip. As soon as they rounded the corner onto Creeker, Chet pushed Alex away. "What is your fucking problem?"

"That dude, that townie – I threw a Gatorade bottle at him."

"You what?"

"He, like, works at the Kangaroo. I was there with Tim. I threw a Gatorade bottle at him."

"What kind?" Leave it to Taylor to ask the dumbest possible question.

"Lemon-Lime." Leave it to Alex to answer it.

"Was it full?" Owen Bean's investigative tack was marginally less stupid.

"No, I'm not a psychopath."

"I don't know, man. Dude pisses me off bad enough, I might throw a full Gatorade at him. We're talking the 32-ounce jugs?"

"Yeah, the jugs. Like—" Alex made a Gatorade-bottle shape with his hands, like some old pervert failing to describe an hourglass figure. "I don't know how many ounces."

"Guys, this is idiotic." This was how Chet knew the Dead Men weren't really the secret kings of campus. Secret kings didn't spend this much time discussing the particulars of a thrown Gatorade bottle. Secret kings definitely didn't throw Gatorade bottles at townies at the Kangaroo, full or otherwise. "So you threw a Gatorade bottle at him. So what?"

"So, like, I pulled some Dead Man shit on him. I reasonably requested that he go fuck himself, basically. And he knows Dave and Avery?"

"And?"

"And shit. I don't know, man. I just didn't want him to see me." Alex reached for the tattoo on his arm, the one that said "XANDER." "You think he was a Dead Man? I thought the whole point of being a Dead Man was so you didn't end up a townie."

"Shit!" Owen Bean slapped Alex on the shoulder. "I know who that was. That's Roger. He lived at the Dollhouse with Dave and Avery, like, two years ago. Fuck, he should be mad at me if he's mad at anybody. They kicked him out so I could have his room."

"He looked like he was forty."

"Yeah, he looks like shit now. Even then he was like a seventh-year senior. Dude was never going to graduate."

Alex staggered over to the entrance of Bluebird Gifts & Curiosities and sat on the front step. "Fuck, dude." He stared out into the street, breathing too fast. Chet had always thought Alex's brain was going to break, but he didn't think it would be over something this stupid. "He lived in the Dollhouse. That's Xander's room. Fuck. This is..."

"Gentlemen. This is boring." Taylor was leaning against the front window of Bluebird, just looking too cool for fucking words. A gaggle of sorority rushees passed. He nodded at them, and they literally squealed.

"Keep it in your pants, Taylor," said Owen Bean. "Our brother is having an existential crisis."

"I thought you were the only brother in the Nine, O.B." Owen Bean's entire body froze. It felt like time itself froze. Even Alex held his breath, waiting to see what happened next.

Owen Bean turned toward Taylor with military precision. "Corpus Minor." The words were two darts of controlled fury. Taylor either didn't notice, or didn't care. He kept his eyes on some girls across the street. "Corpus Minor, you will look at me when you are addressed."

Taylor heaved himself away from the window and gave Owen Bean a sarcastic salute. But when he saw O.B.'s face, his body stiffened.

"We're cool," Owen Bean said. "But we ain't that cool."

Owen Bean and Taylor stood in the middle of the sidewalk like two pillars of rock in an ocean. Passers-by broke to either side of them like waves. "I'm going to reasonably request that the next time you have something you want to say to me, you think about whether it's something you should say to me. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"What was that?"

"Yes, Corpus Major."

"Good." Owen Bean turned his back to Taylor and knelt down, face to face with Alex. "Alex. What's going on, man?" Chet looked back at Taylor. He was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, his shoulders bouncing up and down.

"Can't you feel it? Something is happening. Tim, Roger, Russell... the fucking boy in the tunnel... We call these rooms home but they're not. Not really. They were here before us. They'll be here after us. You live in the room for a year or two and then you move on. But you leave something behind when you go." Alex scanned back and forth from Chet to Owen Bean, searching for a sign that they understood him. "She knew. She told me. She said 'You aren't supposed to be in here.'"

Owen Bean looked at Chet. Neither one of them had a clue. "Who told you?"

"She was right. I'm not supposed to be—" A car pulled up to the stoplight next to Bluebird. Van Halen blasted from its open windows. "Runnin' with the Devil."

Alex sprang to his feet and ran to the car. "Did he send you?" he shouted. "Did he send you?" The light turned green and the bewildered driver sped away.

Alex turned back to them. He looked like he was going to collapse in the street. Taylor grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back to the sidewalk. "All right, 'brother,'" he said. "I never thought I'd say this to you, but your brain is running too hot. You need to shut it off for a few hours."

******

By the third round of Irish car bombs Alex's brain had firmly switched off. Chet's wasn't far behind. Taylor had whispered something to the bouncer and procured the "VIP Area," which consisted of a couple of threadbare couches and a circular coffee table on a mezzanine overlooking the cramped dance floor. Alex was now standing on that table, strutting around like Mick Jagger while Taylor egged him on.

"Diplomats' Club" conjured images of a suite of room in a Manhattan brownstone, all dark wood and soft leather and a man in a tux to take your coat and bring you a Scotch. Hobnobbing with Astors and Rockefellers and Roosevelts. That's why everyone just called it the Dip. Your standards, your inhibitions, your IQ, your hips – when you walked in the door, that's what they took.

The ping-ponging bassline of "White Rain" bounced out of the speakers, soon joined by careening guitar arpeggios. "Oh shit!" said Alex. "This is my jam!"

"Fuck yeah it's your jam," said Taylor. Chet had watched him slip the DJ twenty bucks to play it. There was a good chance he would have played it anyway, considering it was '80s Night – as it was about 60% of the time at the Dip – but better safe than sorry.

Stephen Brick's vocals joined in after a few bars, and Alex sang along. Up on the table he did Brick's arm-flailing dance from the video, but there was mockery in every movement. His voice was one sustained sneer.