The axe chops off the pig's head, which blobs down into the hungry boiling water in the cauldron.

I have never witnessed a crowd love such a performance.

Mouth agape, I feel something hot splash at my face. I felt it once the Queen chopped off the head, but I only register it when it trickles down my chin. I rub my face with my hands and raise them in front of my eyes.

It's the pig's blood.

This stage show is happening for real.

Chapter 4 1

I am stiffened, cemented, and chained by the cruelty of what looks like normal people, be it actors or the crowd.

The Queen of Hearts grins and starts to chop off the kids' heads. The kids start to stab the Duchess. The cook doesn't hesitate to boil whatever ends up in his cauldron—pig, heads, and even the Duchess' leg, chopped off by a kid.

Still stiffened, Jack holds me tight. Whatever he says is scattered into a million pieces. I think I lost my hearing.

I am pulled away by the Pillar and Jack. They are getting me off the stage. When I try to peek back over their shoulders, the Pillar grips my head tightly between his hands. He doesn't want me to see what's going on there. The shock value might be too high for me to tolerate.

We hurry down the steps and run away. The crowd doesn't understand yet. The crowd praises and hails. They are all standing in ovation now. I wonder how they will feel when one real spatter of blood reaches them. They still think it is all acting.

As I look at them, my hearing comes back. Their sound is deafening.

"Come on," the Pillar says. "We have to go!"

Near the exit door, I try to make any sense of what just happened. Why would the Cheshire do this? Just to drive me mad? It's not holding up. Something huge is missing.

The answer comes to me faster than I thought.

The crowd suddenly stops clapping, and some of them shriek.

When I stop the Pillar from exiting and turn around, I see them all staring with trembling bodies at the stage. It's the cook they are looking at. He is standing tall on the stage. All alone now. His double-breasted jacket is almost completely red from the blood of all those he killed.

It seems like he killed everyone, bearing two glinting knives his hands. I haven't noticed before that his trousers are a black and white pattern, like a chessboard. His eyes are still covered with his wavy hair.

The cook isn't talking, but his presence is strong. I am not sure if the crowd realized what's going on yet.

Silently, the cook pulls out a few jars of pepper. Those are different from the one he used before. He sets them in order at the cauldron's edge, like a scientist meticulously preparing for an experiment.

An epidemic of sorts comes to my mind. My heart pounds to the realization that the stage massacre, with all its gore, isn't the epic finale to his work of madness yet.

The crowd's breathing is almost absent; they have finally registered the reality of what is going on.

"Pepper," the cook says. This isn't his theatrical voice from the act. It's a hoarse voice, coming from someone who doesn't speak much. Someone who has kept to himself for years, locked in an asylum, awaiting his chance to break loose. "This pepper in my hand will make you sneeze."

A few forced chuckles scatter across the crowd, stopped immediately by the rise of his hand and the pursing of his lips.

This man isn't the Cheshire. This man is pure darkness. Why is he doing this?

"This time you will sneeze differently," the cook lectures. The hollowness of his voice fills the auditorium. It's like talking to a god. There's nothing you can argue with. "Please approach, madam."

A woman in the front row is pushed by the rest of the crowd toward the cook. One sheep sacrificed for the safety of many.

The cook tells her to stop a few feet away from him. He opens his jar of pepper and pours some in the air near her.

There is a long moment of waiting before the woman sneezes.

Once.

No one is laughing this time.

Then twice.

No one utters a word.

Then she can't control it. She sneezes and sneezes until she starts shivering and collapses to the floor.

"Sneezed to death," the Pillar murmurs.

Before the crowd panics, the cook holds the jar up high. "All doors in the theatre are locked." His voice still fills the place. "Everyone here is going to die here tonight. This isn't a warning. It's a fact that the theatre's surveillance camera will witness it for the world to see."

Everyone goes silent again. Me too. Running and knocking him down crosses my mind, but he already has the jars open in his hands. All he needs is to give them a little shake and dance.

I look for Jack, but he is gone again. Maybe he was never there really. It still isn't fair.

Behind me, the Pillar holds my hand. I am perplexed. Are we really going to die? Is this the end to the whole madness? Death by pepper?

"Of course, your beloved Margaret Kent is gone." The cook points at the empty balcony upward. "People like her always get away," he says. A bitter smile curves his lips. I notice a tinge of sadness in his last words. Is this cook the Duchess' real cook from Wonderland, now used like a puppet by the Cheshire to create chaos in the world?

"Before you have to die, you need to see this." The cook kicks a few things from behind the cauldron with his foot. Something rolls down before the stage.

A watermelon.

Finally, we realize who he is. We're staring at the Muffin Man himself. The mysterious man responsible for the watermelon murders.

The Muffin Man turns his head toward me and the Pillar. "You fell for the bait, Professor Pillar," the cook says. "You and your Wonderland apprentice are going to die too. Only the Real Alice would know her way out of this."

The shock value reaches its zenith. Although he hides his eyes, the smirk on his face is made for us. Somehow, he sees us. Even the Pillar next to me feels like a fool.

"He tricked us into coming here to die?" The Pillar is as shocked as me. I never thought I'd see that day.

The crowd around us begins running aimlessly, like in a Caucus Race.

The cook, I mean the Muffin Man, puffs his pepper in the air, like a madman would spread the Black Death's disease onto the world.

Everyone sneezes around me. The effect is fast and abrupt.

One sneeze.

Two sneezes.

Three sneezes, and if you last long enough for the fourth, you're already eligible for a death certificate.

Am I really going to die? Didn't Jack promise he'd die for me? Aren't I supposed to find a way out if I am the Real Alice?

It saddens me that those who haven't died from the sneezing yet are about to die under the scrambling feet of others trying to escape. Some people try to break the locked doors, but they are made of steel and locked with digital codes from outside. I wonder if the guards know about what's happening here inside the auditorium. Is it possible they are involved in the crimes, or did the Cheshire possess each one of them?

Now, I'm left waiting for the first sneeze to hit me, wondering why I ever left the comfort of my cell in my asylum.

I admit it. There is comfort in madness.

Unexpectedly, my moistened eyes meet the Pillar's. I never thought I'd see that look on his face. He is no less shocked than I am, staring at the endless sneezing people all around us. Dying by sneeze is as humiliating as it is terrifying.

"Well." The Pillar considers his last words. "It did cross my mind that I would die of hiccupping, but sneezing?" He looks angry that he has been fooled by the Cheshire and the Muffin Man.