It was the fourth night and Illio was about to die!

But at least he’d had those last four days of life.   He’d been due to die four days ago, when he had been unable to raise the money he owed to Vedo.   Then, at the last moment, he had received a loan from Robbo.   Illio could still bear the lispy, hair-lipped freak mumbling, “You got four nights to pay!” and his mouthpiece asking, “Is that clear enough?”   Clear enough?   Hell, what could be any clearer?

Four nights!   Christ!   How was he supposed to raise $200,000 in so little time?   But at least he had bought four extra days of life.

A small, fair-haired man, forty-three years of age, Illio was often taken for a man ten years younger.   At the moment though he could easily have been mistaken for a man of sixty.

As he lay on his back on the lumpy cot, the only piece of furniture in the single-room apartment, his eyes roved slowly around the dirty, jaundice-yellow walls.   His breath came in short, sharp gulps, like a drowning man fighting for air.

Illio glanced at the electric clock upon the wall across the room: it showed 6:30.   He would have to leave within an hour.   The appointment was for 8:00 p.m.

That was if he decided to keep the appointment.

Not that there was any real point in trying to run.   Robbo had contacts everywhere and would hunt him down and kill him like a dog.   If he were lucky and somehow managed to stay free for a while, it would be at a price.   The price of fear.   Never being able to stop running, looking back over his shoulder, or being afraid of his own shadow.   Never being able to settle down and make a life for himself, or start a relationship with a woman for fear she might slow him down, might be able to be used against him, might even be on Robbo’s payroll.

No, that wasn’t living, it was…What did they say in the old horror movies?   Undead?   Yes, that’s what it would be: undead.   But nothing more than that.