Cliff knew they were in trouble when Zootman died. Not the Zootman, of course, but the Author’s parody, and so was there in the Psyche Saloon. Zootman slipped and fell on the exclamation point he was trying to sell to newspaper editor Tom Wilson (they had run out of them in companion parody). Went right through him, punctuating his abrupt end. It upset the parody version of Mighty Man, who carried him away, but not before promising to end the whole “superhero” game. Cliff heard Wilson, Lily, and Scooter say “finally” under their breaths. Boogie, Zootman’s sidekick, sobbed as they carried away the body, but distinctly said “Now I can drive the Zootmobile.”

Turk, Cliff’s friend in their series, handed him a beer. “He’ll be back; it’s just a dream.” But Cliff was uneasy. This was the first time a character had died in the saloon and the first time all the characters and authors were there.

Not the real Author, of course, but the different ways he saw himself. Klaus, a dead villain from the Author’s first novel, said all real people create multiple self-images, each as much a fiction as they. But all of them together? It was unnerving.

As usual, the authors had to discuss what they’d witnessed, led by Analytical Author, who Angry Author said was full of it. Truth be told, all the Authors were irritable, Angry just more so.

“An exclamation point,” Cliff said. “Can you believe he died from an exclamation point?”

“At least it wasn’t an asterisk.” Turk drank some of his beer.

Cliff nearly choked on his.

Mighty Man returned, standing at the door in the dress suit he wore for his secret identity. “Guys,” he began.

He never finished. A purple meteor struck him down.

Lily shrieked and ran to him.

“He’s feeling bloody tonight,” said Angry.

“He never should have watched that horror movie,” said Anxious.

Wilson and Scooter carried Mighty Man away as Lily, sobbing, followed.

Cliff had just turned to look for Kate, his series love interest, when he heard an awful screech and a crash. Everyone rushed outside.

The Zootmobile had hit a bus head-on, with enough force that it had shoved the bus over Mighty Man and his mourners. The faceless bus driver, a standard spear carrier, stepped out and spoke to a faceless cop.

“It’s all because of that horror movie,” Anxious moaned. “Even the cat doesn’t want him watching horror movies.”

Various versions of Death gathered around the deceased and started doing rocks, paper, scissors.

In the distance there was the rumble of thunder.

“It never storms here,” Turk said.

“They’re under the bus,” a detective character said.

“Huh?” Cliff said.

“Just thinking out loud.” The detective jointed the author’s other detective characters and they huddled together, speaking in low voices.

A peel of thunder shook the saloon.

“We better get back inside,” Cliff said to Turk.

The authors had already gone back inside, standing near a window, looking uneasy.

“This isn’t right,” Anxious said.

“It’s only a nightmare,” Analytical said. “It’ll pass.”

“But at what price?”

Cliff frowned.

Klaus happened to be walking by with Von Helmut, another dead villain from the first novel.

“Klaus: This is only a dream, right?” Cliff said.

Klaus grinned. “Ah, but aren’t we all dreams? What becomes of dreams when the dreamer dreams no more?”

“You’re scaring him,” Von Helmut said.

“When have you cared?” Klaus said.

“Cruelty is a tool, not an end to itself.”

Klaus gave a smile that only uncovered his top teeth. “Ah, but there’s such pleasure there.”

Von Helmut scowled. “What our sadistic friend is saying is though this is a dream, we, being dreams ourselves, are at risk.”

Kate pushed her way through the crowd to Cliff. “But he’ll just dream us again, won’t he?”

Von Helmut’s face was impassive. “Dreams are a way real people work things out in their subconscious. If our author is eliminating characters, there is something deeper going on.”

Kate turned pale. “You mean the Author might not want us anymore?”

“That, or the horror movie is still on his mind.”

“And you call me cruel.” Klaus turned to Kate. “The truth is that we are all constructs of our author’s mind, and if his mind changes, so do we.”

Kate bit her bottom lip as she took Cliff’s hand. “Is there nothing we can do?”

Von Helmut pursed his lips for a moment. “Since dreams help real people work things out, and since we are dreams ourselves, perhaps we could do something, but what?”

Kate looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Get him to stop killing characters?” Cliff said.

“Maybe the danger’s past,” Turk said. “It’s been a few minutes since a character died.”

There was a bright flash and an immediate clap of thunder. When the spots cleared from Cliff’s vision, he saw the author’s versions of Death lying on the scorched sidewalk. As he watched, their bones crumbled to dust.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Someone screamed and everyone backed away from the door.

Anxious jabbed his finger at the rapidly scattering ashes. “Still say it’s only a dream?”

Analytical shrugged. “It’s just a nightmare.”

Anxious grabbed Analytical by his shirt. “You fool, dreams can change the dreamer!”

Angry and a few other Authors pulled Anxious away.

Analytical smoothed his shirt. “We won’t die, you idiot.”

“But they can,” Anxious said.

“Shut up,” Angry said.

The characters started to murmur. Several zombies lurched outside but were driven back by hail pelting the street.

Kate took Cliff’s hand. “Who’s next?”

The wind picked up. Frank, a recurring character in Kate and Cliff’s series, closed the door.

The authors huddled together, talking in low voices.

The Sage, a thin, bearded character, spoke. “Authors: What can we do?”

“Not a thing,” Angry said.

The saloon became silent as the wind howled.

Thomas, Kate’s father, strode to the center of the saloon. “I’m not just going to stand here and wait to die.”

Angry glared at him. “You aren’t in your novels, and there you only did what we wanted.”

Writer (he refused to be called Author Author) spoke up. “He’s right: Like it or not, all of you dance to our tune.”

Cliff looked at the Sage. “What about him?”

“Which ‘him?’” Writer asked.

“The Sage. You weren’t going to have him back. You weren’t going to have any of us back. He was a villain in the first draft of my novel. He wouldn’t stand for it.”

Writer raised his eyebrows. “That’s true. Some characters are that way.”

“If he could change the author, why can’t we?”

That set the room buzzing.

“How?” someone said.

“When I didn’t want to be written out, I fought against the author’s words. Finally, he gave in,” the Sage said.

“The storm,” Thomas said. “Concentrate on there being no storm.”

The room became deathly silent.

Incredibly, the wind abated.

“It’s working,” Kate said.

There was a bright flash and thunder so loud it rattled the room. Electricity arced from the outlets and fixtures, striking several characters. They fell to the floor, smoldering.

“He’s fighting us,” Turk said.

Several men moved the bodies to a side room as the wind once more howled.

“This isn’t right. He’s never fought back this hard,” Sage said.

“Why does he want us gone?” Kate said.

All eyes turned to the authors.

“Don’t look at us,” Anxious said. “We’re as much a fiction as you.”

Cliff looked around until he found Klaus. “Klaus: Since you and Von Helmut died, you have less limits than we. Any ideas?”

Both shook their heads. “He was feeling down, but that’s not unusual; he’s never been an upbeat fellow,” Klaus said.

All the authors nodded. “There is no Happy among us,” Anxious said.

Von Helmut furrowed his brow. “Before he watched the horror movie, he listened to a song. Something about failed chances.”

Klaus nodded. “He even imagined a music video for it.”

Everyone looked around for new characters.

An elderly black man stepped forward. “I don’t have a name, but he imagined me as an old vaudeville star working in a nightclub. I was sweeping the stage and paused, remembering the audience and the applause. That didn’t really go with the lyrics, though.”

Klaus frowned. “I’m not getting anything on that song. Was it about regret?”

The man shook his head. “No. It was about a performer who wanted to hit it big and hoped that this would be the day.”

The room became silent again.

“He’s given up,” said an innkeeper.

The characters’ voices quickly grew to a roar.

A character from a science fiction story, Captain Stone, yelled “Quiet!” When that didn’t work, he drew his blaster and shot into the air.

That got everyone’s attention.

“Okay, so the author doesn’t sell many books, but he doesn’t give up. He’s never tried to destroy us,” Stone said.

“Speak for yourself,” Klaus said.

“Storms can represent turmoil,” said Analytical. “It’s reasonable that he doubts the choices he made in life and wants to make a clean sweep of things.”

Stone shook his head. “That’s not like him, and you know it.”

Analytical shook his head. “He’s older now; doesn’t have as much of life left.”

“I don’t believe it,” Thomas said. “I won’t believe it.”

“You don’t know,” Anxious said. “You just don’t know.”

“I do,” Klaus said. “He wouldn’t do this. Writing is what he does. He wouldn’t stop, even if he couldn’t sell another word.”

Analytical folded his arms. “Then who?”

Stone holstered his blaster. “I say we try again. We have nothing to lose.”

Once more, all the characters concentrated. Once more the wind abated.

Cliff saw Analytical move away from the beer taps.

There was another flash, another clap of thunder that rattled the saloon. This time lightning shot from the taps, striking Writer and arcing through several characters. All slumped to the floor.

A young girl from Cliff’s first novel whimpered.

A doctor character checked Writer.

“Is he...” the Sage’s voice trailed off.

The doctor shook his head. Once more the men took the dead to the side room as the wind grew.

Turk spoke, his voice flat. “If Writer is dead, he’s really given up.”

But Cliff stared at Analytical. “He moved.”

“What? Who moved?” Turk said.

“Just before the lightning hit, Analytical Author moved,” Cliff said.

Kate nodded. “I saw it.”

“I saw him move, too,” said a vampire.

Analytical’s eyes darted back and forth. “That means nothing. It was just a coincidence.”

“You kept telling us it was just a dream,” Anxious said.

“Shut up,” Analytical said.

Angry and Quiet came and stood beside Anxious. “He’s right,” Angry said.

“Talk,” Quiet said in a voice that made Cliff’s blood run cold.

“What? You think I’m doing this?” Analytical said.

That mollified the authors somewhat.

One of a half dozen Wise Purple Guys pointed their finger at him. “You are nudging him.”

“Just like I did,” the Sage said.

The men started to group by story and novel as they moved toward Analytical.

The wind abruptly stopped, replaced by a rumble.

Characters from the author’s Midwestern stories turned pale. “Tornado!” one exclaimed.

Analytical gave a sigh of relief. “Finally. Now he’ll be free.”

“What do you mean, ‘free?’” Kinsley said.

“Don’t you see? With all of us gone, he’ll stop writing. He can move on with his life. It’s all perfectly reasonable,” Analytical said.

Stone drew his blaster and shot Analytical in the head.

The roar of the tornado grew.

“No,” Kate said.

Thomas drew his mouth into a line and slowly shook his head.

“We gave it a try, didn’t we?” Turk said.

Kate gave Cliff a sad look and moved into his arms. All the characters began to cluster by families and couples.

Cliff blinked. “Of course.”

“What?” Kate said.

Cliff stepped away and began waving his arms. “Everyone! No time to explain; we have to throw Analytical into the tornado.”

“What good will that do? I’ve already killed him,” Stone said.

“But you didn’t destroy him.” Cliff grabbed Analytical by the ankles and began to drag the body to the door. “We don’t have anything to lose.”

Turk and Frank shrugged at each other, then they, along with Stone, helped Cliff carry the body outside.

The wind snatched opened the door. It was dark, but he could make out a funnel cloud setting down in the street.

Cliff shouted, half afraid the wind would swallow up his words. “Hold! Hold! Now!”

The four tossed the body into the middle of the street.

It never hit the pavement. The wind caught it and pulled up into the funnel.

The four ran back inside. “Take cover!” Thomas yelled.

Kate looked Cliff in the eye. “Cliff, I -”

The wind abruptly stopped, and everyone glanced at each other.

“Is it over?” a girl said.

Thomas and Stone cautiously opened the door. “Yes,” Stone said.

Angry walked to Cliff. “How did you know?”

Cliff shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because our author wrote me as a character who couldn’t break a spell but turned it to his advantage. Analytical could have simply killed us all, but he couldn’t destroy us. That’s why he had a tornado. To our author, it represents destruction and that’s how Analytical intended to use it.”

Turk nodded. “So, with Analytical destroyed-”

“-There was no one nudging the Author to destroy us all,” Cliff finished.

Angry actually smiled. “I’m glad one of you figured it out.”

Turk stared at him. “You mean you knew?”

“Of course. We all did.”

Turk’s face turned red, and he stalked toward Angry. “And you all did nothing?”

“We don’t do Mary Sue stories.”

Turk muttered a string of foul oaths beneath his breath.

Things began to look translucent.

Quiet nodded. “Waking up.”

“Does this mean his analytical side is dead?” Kate said.

“No. Real people remake themselves all the time,” Klaus said.

“And the dead?”

Klaus gave a genuine smile “Death’s not fatal to dreams.”

“So, he hasn’t stopped writing?” Cliff said.

Von Helmut shook his head. “Doubt it. We’re still here.”

The room and all the characters were like glass now.

“Kate, you were going to say something to me,” Cliff said.

Kate smiled and began to speak–just as their author awoke.