Tick Tock

disappearing into the doll's chest as if something had pulled them from inside.
    “Jesus!”
    Tommy stumbled backward a step and nearly fell into his office chair. He clutched the arm of it and kept his balance.
    Pop-pop-pop.
    The stitches over the thing's right eye broke as the cloth under them bulged with internal pressure. Then they, too, raveled into the doll like strands of spaghetti sucked into a child's mouth.
    Tommy was shaking his head in denial. He had to be dreaming.
    Where the broken sutures had disappeared into the face, the fabric split with a discrete tearing sound.
    Dreaming.
    The rent in the small blank-white face opened to half an inch, like a gaping wound.
    Definitely dreaming. Big dinner, two cheeseburgers, French fries, onion rings, enough cholesterol to kill a horse — and then a bottle of beer. Dozed off at my desk. Dreaming.
    From behind the split fabric came a flash of colour. Green. A fierce radiant green.
    The cotton cloth curled away from the hole, and a small eye appeared in the soft round head. It wasn't the shiny glass eye of a doll, not merely a painted plastic disc, either, but as real as Tommy's own eyes (although infinitely stranger), full of soft eerie light, hateful and watchful, with an elliptical black pupil as in the eye of a snake.
    Tommy made the sign of the cross. He had been raised as a Roman Catholic, and although he had only rarely attended Mass over the past five years, he was suddenly devout again.
    “Holy Mary, Mother of God, hear my plea…”
    Tommy was prepared to spend— happy to spend—the rest of his life between a confessional and a sacristy railing, subsisting solely on the Eucharist and faith, with no entertainment except organ music and church bingo.
    …in this my hour of need…
    The doll twitched. Its head turned slightly toward Tommy. Its green eye fixed on him.
    He felt his gorge rising, tasted a bitter vileness in the back of his throat, swallowed hard, choked it down, and knew beyond doubt that he was not dreaming. He had never before nearly puked in a dream. Dreams weren't this intense.
    On the computer screen, the four words began to flash:
    THE DEADLINE IS DAWN.
    The stitches over the doll's second eye popped and raveled into its head. The fabric bulged and began to split again.
    The creature's stubby arms twitched. Its small mitten hands flexed. It pushed away from the desk lamp and rose stiffly to its feet, all of ten inches tall but nonetheless terrifying for its diminutive stature.
    Even Chip Nguyen—toughest of all private detectives, master of Tae Kwon Do, fearless fighter for truth and justice—would have done precisely what Tommy Phan did then: run. Neither the author nor his creation was a complete fool.
    Recognizing that skepticism in this case could get him killed, Tommy spun away from the impossible thing that was emerging from the rag doll. Pushing aside the wheeled office chair, he crashed against the corner of the desk, stumbled over his own feet, maintained his balance, and staggered out of the room.
    He slammed the office door behind him so hard that the house—and his own bones—reverberated with the impact. There was no lock on it. Frantically he considered fetching a suitable chair from the master bedroom and bracing it under the knob, but then he realized that the door opened into the office beyond and, therefore, could not be wedged shut from the hallway.
    He started toward the stairs, but on second thought he dashed into his bedroom, switching on the lights as he went.
    The bed was neatly made. The white chenille spread was as taut as a drum skin.
    He kept a neat house, and he was distressed to think of it all splattered with blood, especially his own.
    What was that damn thing? And what did it want?
    The rosewood nightstand gleamed darkly from furniture polish and diligent care, and in the top drawer, next to a box of Kleenex, was a pistol that had been equally well maintained.
     
     
     

TWO
     
     
    The gun that Tommy took from the nightstand drawer was a Heckler & Koch P7 M13. He had purchased it years ago, after the Los Angeles riots that had been sparked by the Rodney King case.
    In those days, his merciless imagination had plagued him with vivid nightmares of the violent collapse of civilization. His fear had not been limited to dreams, however. He'd been anxiety-stricken for a month or two and uneasy for at least a year, expecting social chaos to erupt at any moment, and for the first time in a decade, he had flashed back