tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532009252164274052024-03-05T12:47:18.794-08:00Eric R. LowtherEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-34024109370359935322014-07-21T21:11:00.001-07:002014-07-21T21:11:07.943-07:00The Dead Tell Tales<br />
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Hello all. I know, I know... I've been neglecting you. Unfortunately, the needs of the real world have been taking up most of my life for quite some time now. Bills need paid, things need done, and there just doesn't seem to be enough time, money and energy to get to them all. However, I would like to let all of you know that I just released a new book, titled <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LMX6I28">"The Dead Tell Tales".</a></em> (Note; blogger is being quite difficult in allowing me to post the cover art by my son, Jordan Rhodes, here. You'll have to click on the link to see it. Apologies.) It's a collection of zombie short stories and novellas from different points in my writing career. For those of you that have read this blog since I started it, you may recognize one or two of the stories. Otherwise, most of the stories have not been published elsewhere. For you <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3">"Area 187; Almost Hell"</a></em> fans, though, pay attention; "The Dead Tell Tales" includes the entire prologue to the forthcoming sequel, "Area 187; Almost Home" (yes, it is a real thing, and yes, I am still writing it) as well as a look back into the Area's past with a story that many people have told me they wanted to see starring everyone's favorite old, grizzled-yet-loveable grave robber, Jasper Connelly. My wife/editor, <a href="http://annamlowther.blogspot.com/">Anna M. Lowther</a>, even weighs in with a tale of her own in the collection that classes up the pages as well.<br />
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No matter how you like your zombies; shambling, running, talking, or even magical, I've got you covered in <em>"The Dead Tell Tales".</em> Want alternate history? Done. Want to hear a zombie pontificate on the human condition? Got it. Want happy endings? Er... okay, maybe, like, one or so depending on your life outlook. But otherwise, you want the dead, I got the dead.<br />
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This is the first of, I hope, many new books and novels that will be coming out from Marime Press, a publishing house we have founded with the release of<em> "The Dead Tell Tales".</em> But, for this thing to get off the ground, I need your help. Please, check out <em>"The Dead Tell Tales".</em> And, if you haven't yet, take a look at the reviews for<em> "Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> and act accordingly. As I write this, I have yet to gain a single review for <em>"The Dead Tell Tales",</em> so for those of you that live to be first, here's your chance.<br />
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I am still working on <em>"Area 187; Almost Home",</em> and I promise you that it will see release within at least your children's lifetimes. It will likely be another large book, mostly because I don't seem to know when to shut up, and these things take time. So bear with me, and until then take a look at <em>"The Dead Tell Tales".</em> Your support now will allow Marime Press to grow, supporting not only me but eventually other small-press authors. As always, thanks for your readership, your support, and to whoever it is that keeps sending me mackerel, please stop. I have enough.<br />
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Just write, damn itEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-27696363335507342242012-01-17T02:20:00.000-08:002012-01-17T02:20:17.889-08:00Revolution - Guest Author Fiction<br />
<em>Welcome back, Constant Reader, and welcome as well to the Casual. Things are starting to move for me on the writing front with the continued great reviews and buzz going for</em> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3">“Area 187; Almost Hell</a>”, <em>and if you haven’t read it yet, well, you really should. I’ve also got more exciting news that is just now breaking about upcoming projects, but you’ll learn all about that on an upcoming post. This time, I’m here to welcome returning guest author Ken Harrelson of Angry Puppy Films. Most of you will remember Ken’s last guest spot,</em> “<a href="http://ericrlowther.blogspot.com/2011/06/clownpocalypse-guest-fiction.html">Clownpocalypse</a>”,<em> right here on my little blog. If you don’t remember it, just click and enjoy. It’s a hoot. This time, Ken stretches his alternate history legs in one of my favorite ways. And, if you’re anything at all like me, not only does your mother weep herself to sleep each night but you’ll also enjoy</em> “The Revolution”.<br />
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<em>Note; this work of fiction is provided by and is displayed here with the express consent of the author and is shown here exactly as written by the author. All copyrights and ownership are with the author, Ken Harrelson, following standard copyright laws.</em><br />
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Standing in the arena, the gladiator was almost deafened by the roar of the crowd. Capua was not as large as the Coliseum in Rome, but it dwarfed anything in his home of Thrace far away. Hot and sweaty before the fighting had even started, the man wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his sword hand. <br />
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His opponents stood trembling before him in the sand near a large bloody patch where several others had met their end a short time earlier. Crixus had barely started to breathe hard dispatching that cluster of criminals. Now it was his turn. There were five of them, standing huddled like sheep come to slaughter before a wolf. This gladiator would slay them all. Taking no pleasure in his efforts, he would still give the crowd a show before ending them all. <br />
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Afterwards, as the last one fell to the ground with blood spraying from his neck where it barely remained attached to his torso, the gladiator turned his back on the sheep in man’s flesh. He raised his sword and shield triumphantly to the crowd and demanded their adoration. They did not disappoint.<br />
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“Spartacus! Spartacus!” they chanted.<br />
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Spartacus looked to the place where his master Batiatus sat watching in a comfortable seat, fanned by topless slaves. Spartacus pulled his sword to his chest and then brought it straight out in a salute to Batiatus. Batiatus smiled broadly at the display of fealty from the slave that he had been told could never be broken. Batiatus understood that it was a matter of finding what the man had wanted above all other things and dangling it within reach. Spartacus wanted freedom above all other things, but he also had grown to love the adoration of the people. Batiatus played on these desires, and Spartacus had become his greatest gladiator, rivaling even the fearsome Crixus in his savagery. <br />
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Afterwards at the ludus, the men were naked and covered in oil as they wiped away the dirt and stench of the day. The men that had fought would have a night of wine and debauchery to enjoy. Crixus and Spartacus stood near each other and a bit apart from the others. In truth, the others were a little afraid of the pair. None wanted to face either of them in the arena since it would be certain bloody death. <br />
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“You fought well today,” Crixus said.<br />
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“As did you, brother,” Spartacus replied.<br />
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The other men all laughed and slapped each other on the shoulder and back but not the two champions. They were as concise in their speech as they were in the arena. Neither wore the smiles that the others had plastered on their faces. <br />
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Crixus finished and walked away, his skin glistening with a thin coat of oil in the torchlight. If Spartacus was a wolf, the Gaul Crixus was a lion. He moved with a powerful grace and confidence, naked through a crowd of men that parted without a word for his passage. All of the men were trained killers. Crixus and Spartacus were natural predators.<br />
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As the morning sun began to brighten the sand in the training are of the ludus, Spartacus walked away from the two naked women sleeping in his bed. As champions he and Crixus had the privilege of private bedrooms and their choice of women or men if either had been so inclined. The champion before them had been so inclined and had enjoyed many nights with young men. He had fallen to a pale giant with an axe that seemed unstoppable. The crowd in the arena had roared when the champion had fallen in honorable combat. <br />
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The hot sun was blazing down on the sand as the men trained throughout the day, under the watchful eye of their trainer. He was a tall stern man with a whip and harsh demeanor. All feared and respected him. Today he shouted words of encouragement and instruction to the men.<br />
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“Harder you bastards!” His whip cracked to punctuate his sentences;<br />
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“Do not show any weakness. Weakness is death. Death without fighting is dishonor. You will not dishonor this ludus or the men beside you! You will fight until the blood in your veins boils or you crush your opponents!” The whip sounded like thunder to the men nursing hangovers.<br />
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With wooden practice swords Spartacus and Crixus sparred with some of the newer gladiators. Sweat poured from their muscular bodies as they instructed the newcomers and prepared for the next games. Sometimes there would be a glimmer of promise in the new gladiators, and other times the champions would shake their heads and accept the fact that death would come for the new men. Some would try to cover their fear with rage and charge into the champions only to find themselves flat in the sand with a sword point at their throats.<br />
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“You must remain in control at all times. Rushing into an opponent only hastens your death,” Crixus told a fellow Gaul in the dirt.<br />
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“My name is Altus,” the man said.<br />
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“I do not care. If you do not learn better, you will not be here long enough for me to learn your name,” Crixus said as he turned away from the man.<br />
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Days passed and the next games approached. Spartacus would face another group of opponents that were said to be impossible to kill. Spartacus didn’t care. If it walked, he could kill it, and he would kill them. <br />
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They marched to the arena as usual in a column of twos with Crixus at the front of one line and Spartacus at the front of the other. Batiatus strutted ahead of them in his finest clothes. He loved the attention he received at the front of his gladiators. People lined the streets and cheered their favorites and tried to touch the men they admired. Women flashed their breasts to the men in lewd displays of passion. The gladiators marched a little straighter and appreciated some of the displays. <br />
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The fights went as expected. Altus somehow managed to survive his fight and won a lackluster victory over a soft looking man unfortunate enough to be trying to work off his gambling debts by fighting. Crixus fought a visiting gladiator from Pompeii that used the net and trident like they had been born in his hands. Crixus picked up a cut on his ribs and the visitor ended up a head shorter. <br />
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Spartacus walked past Crixus into the arena.<br />
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“Die well brother,” Crixus said.<br />
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“I shall try hard not to,” Spartacus replied.<br />
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Standing in the arena Spartacus watched as his opponents were brought into the arena. Silence fell across the crowd. The rumors had been true; each was at the end of a choke pole. Their handlers released them and ran from the arena, closely pursued by the men. Slamming the door behind them trapped the hissing slaves in with Spartacus. Spartacus faced his master and the crowd and saluted. <br />
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“We who are about to die, salute you!,” Spartacus said. The crowd exploded into cheers.<br />
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His opponents noticed him for the first time. They turned and hissed at Spartacus. Spartacus slapped his shield with his sword and nodded at them. At that instant, Spartacus could no longer hear the crowd. All he could see were the three men coming to try to kill him. The first staggered toward Spartacus and the stench hit before the thing arrived. Spartacus stabbed straight through the stomach as the fool rushed him. Sinking deep into the man’s stomach Spartacus quickly stepped away to allow room for the body to fall. As he did he noticed that his opponent had his sword lashed to his hand.<br />
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Next thing he noticed his opponent didn’t fall dying to the sand, even thought his guts began to fall out. That was definitely not normal. Spinning, he swung his sword in a horizontal swipe that removed the man’s head. Unburdened from his head, the body fell to the sand. Somehow, the smell got worse.<br />
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The other two slaves ignored their comrade and approached Spartacus apart. Spartacus attacked the one on his left while the one on his right attacked at the same time. Stabbing his target in the throat Spartacus spun to strike his attacker with his shield edge. Spartacus overestimated his foe’s speed and his shield passed in front of him and missed. The man grabbed Spartacus’ arm. <br />
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Spartacus tugged his sword free of the one man’s throat and tried to turn and fight the other man. The other man had latched onto Spartacus’ arm with a surprising strength. Again, Spartacus noticed the sword lashed to the man’s hand. It was ignored as the man endeavored to bite Spartacus on the arm. Spartacus stabbed into the man’s neck and wrenching his sword to the side severed the man’s spine. Releasing Spartacus, the man fell to the sand and lay still.<br />
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Spartacus lowered his sword and stood panting until he felt teeth sink into his ankle. The second man had survived the stabbing long enough to crawl over and bite Spartacus. <br />
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“Bastard!” Spartacus sliced the man’s head off and he finally lay still. <br />
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Spartacus stepped away from the bodies and watched them closely for a moment. As if a gate had been opened, Spartacus could hear the crowd screaming his name as one would invoke a god in a fit of religious fervor. He turned and saluted his master and then acknowledged the crowd. The bite on his ankle had stung but had barely broken the skin. Through the gate he could see the owner of the men he had just slain leave smiling.<br />
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“Fuck you, Capua,” the man muttered.<br />
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That night Spartacus was feeling particularly fit and selected three women to join him. Each was more eager than the other to please the champion, and he was pleased at their enthusiasm. They left the group and retired to his room and the night with a large bottle of wine.<br />
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Later, Spartacus was awakened by a burning in his ankle and a pounding in his head. Shaking his head he slid out of bed and looked at his companions. They had all shared repeatedly of themselves this night. Each woman shuddered in their sleep as if a specter caressed them softly. Spartacus left the room and walked naked into the training area.<br />
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His head pounding, Spartacus looked at the racks of training weapons and wooden practice posts. Sections of the post had been worn away by millions of blows over the decades. Sand crunched between his toes as he stood thinking. The villa was silent except for someone snoring in the common sleeping area. Spartacus shook his head and thought about the time before he became a slave. It seemed like a dream now of someone else’s life. <br />
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The next day everyone trained hard in the sun. Sweat stinking of stale wine, the men forced themselves to strike hard and often. Crixus sparred like a man possessed with one of the new men. Every blow was controlled but powerful. A flurry of strikes left his opponent on his knees as Crixus roared in fury. Crixus raised his sword to deliver a killing stroke when a hand grasped his arm.<br />
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“What?!,” Crixus screamed as he whirled to face the fool that interfered and found himself facing Spartacus.<br />
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“He is beaten,” Spartacus said.<br />
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Crixus yanked his hand away from the other champion and kicked sand at the man on the ground.<br />
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“Get out of my sight,” Crixus said.<br />
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Wisely the man crawled away. Crixus turned to face Spartacus and saw his friend looking pale and sweaty.<br />
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“You look like death has kissed you.”<br />
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“I have felt better,” Spartacus said.<br />
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Crixus patted his friend on the shoulder and the two went to get a drink of water. Spartacus drank from the ladle and handed it to Crixus. Crixus also drank from the same water before putting the ladle back. This communal ladle would be used by everyone that drank that day. <br />
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“Want to spar?” Crixus asked.<br />
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Spartacus nodded and the two walked back onto the sand. Soon the pair were hard at it fighting with each other. The other gladiators stopped and turned to watch their two champions displaying their fighting prowess. It was primal and thrilling to see the best fighters of the day cutting loose with each other. One would press only to have the other take it back. Spartacus finally seized advantage of having the sun at his back and began to wear down Crixus until the other man was hard pressed to deflect any of the blows raining on him.<br />
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Suddenly the blows stopped. Crixus looked into the sun and found his friend on one knee in the sand, breathing hard and paler than ever. Crixus walked to Spartacus as the man crumpled to the sand. Spartacus faintly heard someone call for the medicus when the roaring in his ears drowned out the world. <br />
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The ludus was in turmoil as everyone realized that their champion was out of commission. Batiatus himself came to check on Spartacus. The man lay on the cot and shivered in the heat. Sweat poured from his body and his flesh had taken on a greenish tint. The medicus was less than optimistic about the chances that he would ever arise again. <br />
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Crixus lay on his cot and had nightmares. He dreamed of falling in the arena to a group of weaklings unworthy to face him. Then a demon rose from the sand to devour his soul. Crixus awoke with a pounding head and a weakness in his limbs that left him unable to rise. Death had come to the house of Batiatus. <br />
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The slaves that had lain with Spartacus had since lain with others, both gladiator and guards. Others that fallen ill as well. Disease spread through the ludus like fire through straw. Soon nearly all of the slaves had fallen ill. Worse news reached Batiatus that both his champions had fallen and would never rise. <br />
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“The gods themselves have turned their backs and shit upon me,” Batiatus said. <br />
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Batiatus began gathering clothes, jewels, and gold to leave this house of death. His wife was ready to flee with him. They walked to the gate, realizing that when they left there was no one able to close and bar the gate behind them. Neither desired to remain locked inside with the growing number of dying people. <br />
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“Perhaps someone poisoned the well,” Lucretia said.<br />
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“Perhaps. It is good that we didn’t drink the water then, isn’t it?” Batiatus said. <br />
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The pair slipped away into the dark. Silence filled the villa behind them. Capua was asleep as they fled into the hills. Death stalked the streets behind them. <br />
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A day later Spartacus sat up on his cot. Hunger wracked his mighty frame. Insatiable, gut wrenching hunger. He sniffed and looked around the room. Bodies lay everywhere he looked. They were not moving so they weren’t food. <br />
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Rising to his feet, the mighty champion struggled to walk out of the room. His limbs were stiff and unresponsive, so his stride where once powerful and graceful became a lurching struggle. Outside in the training area of the ludus, he stood swaying in the moonlight. No breath filled his lungs. His great heart beat no more. Hunger filled the remnants of his mind. <br />
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Crixus sat up in his bed stiffly. He was starving. Flesh called to him. Rising to his feet he lurched from the room in the same fashion as Spartacus. Joining his friend in the open they stood swaying. Their eyes met and an unspoken message was shared. They must feed.<br />
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The other gladiators and household slaves rose to join their champions in death. En masse they shuffled from the villa into the street as the morning sun rose above Capua and the dead walked the Earth. <br />
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“Brains,” Spartacus wheezed. Other voices joined him.<br />
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The horde shambled through the streets toward the market. An unfortunate man was caught unaware by them and died screaming under the hands and teeth of his hero gladiators. Soon, he would rise and join them.<br />
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In Rome, Praetor Gaius Claudius Glaber was told to take his Legion and put down the problems in Capua. Glaber hated Capua but hated slave revolts even more. He and his Legion marched immediately. Glaber didn’t expect this to take any amount of time since gladiators were brutes and slaves. They couldn’t possibly present any difficulty to a force as sophisticated as his legion.<br />
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Soon he faced an army unlike any he had ever faced before. Wounds that would slay anyone were ignored as they fell on his men like beasts. Worse, the ones that were bitten would sicken and die, but then would rise and fall upon their fellows like animals. Weeks became months as they fought across the peninsula.<br />
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Glaber and his Legion had no choice but the flee in the face of the things in front of them. This rabble that had no fear and seemed only driven to eat the living. The stench from the slaves was enough to make the strongest man vomit. Numbering in the thousands this army was enough that they might even be able to bring mighty Rome itself down. <br />
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Rome sent another legion to support Glaber in the battle. In a valley the legions held the high ground while the horde shambled below. Only the moaning of the slaves reached the ears of the Romans. That and the stench.<br />
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Glaber had his men gather logs and bind them into a large round bundle. These they coated in oil for use against the undead army of slaves below. Glaber had suffered much at the hands of these slaves, but the most hurtful was the damage to his pride. (It was known throughout the empire that an army of slaves had managed to defeat his legion repeatedly.) Runaway slaves across the land ran to join the rebels in hopes of gaining their freedom. To their surprise they were quickly liberated from their lives. The rebellious slaves shambled in aimless circles and milled about below. After losing sight of the legion they had forgotten what they were chasing.<br />
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Now Glaber faced a horde of the undead that outnumbered his Legion two to one. Glaber understood now that these were no ordinary runaway slaves. They were an undead army of monsters that conventional weapons didn’t work against. Trapped on the side of a mountain they faced the choice of fight and win or die and join the undead things below. As silently as possible they built the weapons that they would use against the dead. Crassus was coming with a legion to support but had not arrived yet. <br />
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By early afternoon everything was ready. Fires were lit and battle armor tightened. The armor had been changed to cover most of the arms and hands to protect from the teeth below. Archers made ready their arrows. The legions formed their ranks and girded their courage. If they didn’t stop the things below, who could say they would ever be stopped?<br />
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On a signal from Glaber, the order was given and each soldier slapped his sword against his shield. The noise echoed through the valley. The archers notched their arrows.<br />
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The creature that had once been Spartacus in life was on the other side of the undead things from the army. They had forgotten about the men they were pursuing. Now something in their brains triggered that noise meant food. As one they turned toward the sound.<br />
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On the side of the mountain the centurions and legionnaires watched as the things began to shamble toward them. Some of the things had missing parts and most looked rotted. Some were only a few weeks old and looked more intact. Spartacus was trapped behind them and unable to get through as they shambled uphill.<br />
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Next to the archers young soldiers touched the arrows with torches and set them on fire. The archers were given the order and they unleashed a cleansing volley of arrows deep into the ranks below. Early on they had discovered that the dead flesh could be stopped in two ways, fire and decapitation. Fire from a distance was safer than close up decapitation. <br />
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Onward the horde came towards the waiting ranks of Romans. More arrows flew into the undead. Each struck one of the things and set it alight. It took several long minutes of burning for the things to fall to the ground and move no more. <br />
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A trumpet blast gave the order for the ranks to part. On the ground behind them were the logs soaked in oil. A lit torch was stuck into each of the logs handle-first then pushed down the hill towards the undead. In seconds the logs burst into intense flames and struck the front ranks. Decaying bodies all but exploded when the flames hit them. The effect of the fire on the undead was astonishing. Though they were being wiped out, they continued to attack the Romans above. <br />
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Some caught fire below the waist and continued onward until their legs were destroyed and then drug themselves by their hands with their lower bodies burning below. Eventually the flames destroyed enough of them that they stopped crawling. The stench of burning flesh was almost overpowering. <br />
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“I thought they smelled bad before,” one Centurion muttered. <br />
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Massive numbers of the undead perished in the first minutes of the battle. The archers continued to fire volleys of flaming arrows into the horde. Now the numbers were diminished to the point where many arrows fell on empty ground. <br />
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A centurion ordered the legion to lock shields and they immediately formed the nearly impenetrable wall of metal and blades that had built the empire and crushed the world beneath Rome’s heel. Soon enough the undead arrived and the most dangerous part of the battle commenced. <br />
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Swords struck undead necks and teeth gnashed at living flesh. Fear lent desperate strength to the soldiers and many heads left the undead shoulders. No blood sprayed. If a soldier was bitten his fellow Romans would slice off his head as soon as someone noticed the bite. Fear of becoming one of those things outweighed their sense of camaraderie. <br />
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Soon enough the shields separated and the battle became one of desperation. Even though the fire had wiped out massive numbers of the things there was still a lot of them left to fight. The undead only knew there was food ahead. Some of the things had decayed to the point where they no longer had stomachs but they still tried to eat. <br />
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When it seemed that even with their cunning weapons and strategy the Romans were about to be devoured, Crassus and his legions arrived behind the undead. They attacked from behind and began hacking their way through the undead slaves. Heads littered the ground like pine cones in winter. <br />
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Finally, there were only a hundred or so of the undead left. The Romans were nearly spent from their efforts to wipe these things out. Crassus himself gave the order for choke poles to be used to capture the remaining things. Spartacus found himself captured by the Romans again. <br />
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Across from Spartacus, Crixus snapped his teeth at the man he could see but somehow couldn’t reach. Wagons arrived and the things were forced inside giant cages. The choke poles were kept in place and the things were trapped inside. When they ran out of room they simply decapitated the things. <br />
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Glaber rode his horse to speak with Crassus.<br />
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“These things must be destroyed,” Glaber insisted.<br />
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Crassus looked at Glaber as one would look at a child.<br />
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“They will be, but this must happen where the people can see what happened to them. This revolt cannot be allowed to continue.”<br />
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Glaber looked shocked. Crassus was going to try to use this for political purposes. <br />
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“What do you mean to do with them?”<br />
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“I am going to nail every damned one of them up between Capua and Rome and let every slave that even thinks about revolting see what happens when they do!”<br />
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From the first wagon of things Spartacus managed to remember a word. <br />
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“Spartacus,” he wheezed.<br />
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Other undead voices joined in saying “Spartacus”. <br />
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That was exactly what he did. In most cases he had to have them tied to the crosses because the nails pulled through their rotted flesh. For every four that he had nailed up, one of his men was bit and had to be put down. Glaber spotted Spartacus and was happy to see that he was crucified last. Glaber had food brought out and pitched a tent and stayed until Spartacus was no longer moving and the weight of his body caused the wire holding his head in place to pull through his neck, finally ending the slave revolt. He returned to his home a much more sober and thoughtful man than when he left to squash a bunch of foolish slaves. <br />
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The undead things hanging from crosses from Capua to Rome didn’t stop moving for weeks. More chilling was the moaning of “Spartacus” from them until their bodies fell apart. For the rest of his life, Glaber was tormented with the nightmare of one of those things escaping and spreading across the empire. <br />
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<em>Thanks for reading and, just write, damn it.</em> - ERL<br />
<br />Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-40458130211352739612011-11-17T09:41:00.001-08:002011-11-17T09:41:40.638-08:00Suburban Legend - Fiction<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'><em>Hello again, Constant Reader, and welcome to New Friends. I know I keep promising new, free fiction for you, and I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep everything moving at a better speed. Life has been a bit of a challenge of late, and my novel, "<a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3'/></em>Area 187;Almost Hell<em>" still continues to take up my time but is proving to be quite popular. If you haven't checked it out yet, well, why the hell not? Anyway, I did give you some great offerings from good friends in the form of guest author posts by Ken Harrelson and his <a href='http://ericrlowther.blogspot.com/2011/06/clownpocalypse-guest-fiction.html'>"</a></em>Clownpocalypse<em>" and the first chapter of <a href='http://ericrlowther.blogspot.com/2011/10/avery-nolan-fictionguest-author.html'>Mr. Tony Faville's</a> great noire offering, "<a href='http://www.amazon.com/Avery-Nolan-Private-Dick-Dead/dp/1463631979/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321551402&sr=1-1'/></em>Avery Nolan; Private Dick of the Dead<em>" so at least I didn't leave you adrift in a sea of mediocrity. <br /></em></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'><em>This doesn't mean my sleeves are empty, though, Constant Reader. Two other projects are marching along to completion as we speak, so don't think I've just been sitting on my ass over here. But until those are deemed ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world, I'll give you this little tale known as "</em>Suburban Legend<em>". This story was originally published in the anthology "<a href='http://www.amazon.com/Bump-in-the-Night-ebook/dp/B004JMZJ2O/ref=sr_1_20?ie=UTF8&qid=1321551023&sr=1-20'/></em>Bump in the Night<em>" by </em><span style='text-decoration:underline'>Drollerie Press</span><em>. Unfortunately, Drollerie was recently forced to close its operations but I believe you can still get a copy of the anthology. It's filled with dozens of stories by names great and small, and I highly recommend you pick up a copy. I hope you enjoy this little collection of words, and I certainly hope you have read or will be reading "<a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3'/></em>Area 187;Almost Hell<em>". It's the right thing to do, and the undead way to do it. </em>- Author<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Josh should have been in Columbus by now, trying to finish his presentation. Every mile of the twisting, back-road detours in the pelting rain meant that much less preparation, that much less sleep. Suddenly an odd glimmer of white rushed past. He turned his head, only for an instant but just long enough for a barricade to appear before him. Josh slammed the brakes and tried to compensate. A loud bang shook the car as he fought to keep from spinning out. When the car finally stopped, he was mere feet from the barricade, a crude, hand–lettered sign proclaiming the ROAD was CLOSED. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>He opened the glove box, pulled a flashlight and got out. Cold rain soaked him as his light revealed the shredded front tire. He got in, wiped his face and pulled out his cell phone; no signal. <em>So much for fine German engineering and the auto club</em>, he thought. He sighed, popped the trunk release and went back into the rain-soaked night. After a short yet decisive battle, he was finally able to pull the spare from the well. His clothes already a lost cause, he carted the tire and jack around to the front of the car.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Now that he was soaked, the rain was more a hindrance than anything else. Setting the jack, he went to loosen the lugs but found the wheel cover refused to budge. He smiled despite himself and scanned the ground for the special tool to defeat the anti–theft device. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I think you dropped this…"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>He startled and fell against the fender, turning his light in the direction of the voice. A pair of old–fashioned black saddle shoes and bobby socks stared back at him from his ground–level perspective. A white skirt started about mid-calf and was, of all things, an honest–to–God poodle skirt. He let the light trail up to a simple blue blouse covering an ample and, thanks to the rain, well–defined bosom under a too-large letterman's sweater. Her face was young yet devoid of the scars of acne or age and her bright blue eyes glinted in the flashlight's beam. She blinked a few times and held up a hand to ward the light away from her eyes.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh… sorry…" he called out over the rain.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I didn't mean to scare you."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Scare? Oh, no… just not expecting is all." <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>She extended her hand and displayed a small steel tube. "You dropped this back there," she offered. He took it, careful not to touch the girl's hand for fear of frightening her.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What are you doing out here, anyway? No kind of weather to be out in," he grunted as he put the tire tool to the lugs.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"My date got a little too fresh so I got out. He just stranded me here," she answered. "Here, let me help." She picked up the flashlight and held it steady on the wheel.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"That's too bad," he said as he got the last bolt off and worked the jack. "Do you need a ride back to… well, from wherever we are?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"That would be great! I thought I'd be stuck out here <em>forever</em>!" She leaned over and braced a hand against his shoulder as she looked inside the fender, her right breast mere inches from his face. He moved away from her gently enough not to throw her off balance and rolled the old tire out of the way. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What's your name?" he called out as he hefted the spare.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sally… Sally Witherow." <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Well, Ms. Witherow, I'm Josh Morgan…" Josh looked behind him and saw she'd already picked up the old tire and had went to the trunk. "Hey! You're going to get dirty."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"More than I already am?" she giggled. He joined her and let the real humor of the night sink in through her infectious laughter. "I think the rain's already seen to that."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"You may be right," he agreed as he closed the trunk. "Hop in," he offered as he went to open the door for her. She joined him just as he started to feel around for his keys. He frowned for a moment then realized how close she had moved beside him. A simple shift in either of them would bring them into direct contact. The idea wasn't repulsive, but the last thing he needed was some under–age sex scandal. "Let me see the light." He shined it into the car and saw his keys dangling from the ignition, taunting him. "Son—of-a…!" He walked around to the driver's door, tried the handle and cursed anew. The rain and wind picked up even more, further adding to their dilemma. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I'm sorry," he yelled across the roof of the car. "I…" The girl was gone. Suddenly the car door opened against his body. He jumped back several paces as the girl's face appeared awash in the courtesy light. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Guess my side was unlocked," she said.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Thank God," Josh mumbled. He started the car then looked at her. She was an incredibly attractive young woman, the kind of beauty time hadn't yet had the chance to work over. Her skin seemed to glow and her eyes were an even brighter blue than he'd thought. He opened his mouth and found he was literally stunned.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Mr. Morgan? Is something wrong?" she asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Huh? Oh, no, I…" just then, the car's courtesy light died away leaving them alone in the dark. Josh Morgan had been around the world and had seen women in all shapes, sizes and guises. But he'd never been affected by one like this. <em>Seventeen will get you twenty… </em>he kept repeating to himself silently. "And please, call me Josh."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sure, Josh. What brings you out this way? This road's been closed for years."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Lost I guess, detour out on the interstate." Sighing, he checked the gauges and dials on his dashboard to hide his embarrassment. He turned back to her just in time to watch as she peeled off the too–big letterman's sweater. His breath caught in his throat and he swiveled his gaze back to keep from staring. She stretched like a cat and swung her sweater around, leaving it draped over the back of her seat.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Nice car," she remarked as she ran her hand over the leather-covered gearshift. He caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and swallowed hard. "What do you do?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Me? I'm in sales."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oooh, sounds exciting."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"It's not, really."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh, I'm sure it is. Nice car and all, you must make a lot of money. I've never seen a car like this."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Josh attributed her rather forward nature to her youth and settled into his seat. "I do all right, I guess. So, where exactly <em>are</em> we, anyway?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Just a few miles outside the city."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What city?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Columbus, silly! Boy, you really <em>are </em>lost, aren't you?" She gave him a playful tap on the arm, sending tiny electrical jolts through his skin. He repeated his mantra several times and counted backwards from ten. "Well, I guess it was a good thing for both<em><br /> </em>of us you stumbled back here. I don't know how I would've <em>ever </em>gotten back."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I guess you're right there," Josh said. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Brrr! It's cold in here. Must be the rain," Sally said suddenly then crossed her hands just under her breasts to rub her arms. The motion served to warm more than just her arms as her breasts swayed with the motion. Josh couldn't help but stare before polite gesture crept back in.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I'm sorry," he said and turned on the heater. "Better?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Much…" she purred as she leaned towards the dash, letting the warm air bathe her face. "You wouldn't happen to have a towel, would you?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"No, sorry. I really should be better prepared, huh?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"How could you've known you'd break down? But if we're not careful we could catch our death of a cold." Sally shivered in spite of the warm air and rubbed her arms even more vigorously. Then she undid her ponytail and let her long blonde hair spill out over her shoulders to let the warm air dry it. Josh leaned away as if stung as ice-cold drops of water landed on his face. "Oh! I am <em>so </em>sorry!" she gasped, a hand of embarrassment over her mouth. "Let me get that." She wiped softly at his face with the back of her hand. Josh could feel his arousal despite his mantra. He had never felt a touch so soft yet firm enough to make his blood rush to boil. She let her hand linger on his face longer than the errant drops had made necessary before removing it. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"It's okay, really…" Josh managed to say, his voice threatening to crack like a teenager's.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"No, it was very rude of me, and after you've been so nice and all. Nothing like that creepy John."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Well, I'm sure he's just young and hasn't learned any better."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I know one thing <em>I've </em>learned though; if you sit around in wet clothes you're bound to catch cold," Sally said. He turned to face her just as she was unbuttoning her blouse. Sally finished the job and leaned forward, struggling out of the wet garment. Things like this only happened to salesmen in <span style='text-decoration:underline'>Penthouse</span>, not on some lonely Ohio back road. She draped her blouse over her sweater on the seat and started to struggle with her skirt. She stopped at midpoint and looked at him with a giggle.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh! I'm <em>sooo</em> sorry! It's just that I'll never get warm if I stay in these clothes. It doesn't bother you, does it?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I… I mean no, I mean, ah… it's…" There was no denying his obvious excitement now. She finished with the skirt and got up on her knees, facing the back so she could spread her skirt out on the rear seat then kicked off her shoes and peeled the socks from her feet. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh, that is <em>so </em>much better. Don't worry, there isn't a house for miles," Sally assured him as she ran her fingers through her damp locks. "You know, you should get out of those clothes, too. Big, important man like you can't risk getting sick now, can you?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I… you, no, you see…" This wasn't happening, <em>couldn't</em> be happening. He tried to count to ten, the mantra reduced to a sigh as his mind realized the other side of the biology had wrested control. She leaned across the console and started working at his tie.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Brrr! You are <em>soaked</em>!" she commented as she finally undid the knot.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sally… Ms. Witherow, we really shouldn't be doing this," Josh whispered impotently. She unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt and slid her hand onto his bare chest. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What, we shouldn't be getting warm? You don't want to catch your death, do you?" Sally asked. "I'm sure you have someplace very important to be if you're out this late on a night like this. It just wouldn't do for you to get sick," she purred as she finished with his buttons and slid his wet shirt tail from his trousers. Josh reflexively arched his back to allow the soaked silk to pull free from his belted waist.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sally, please… I don't think this is… <em>proper</em> for a young lady…" Josh said. He raised his hands weakly and put them over hers as they continued to trace his chest and abdomen. Sally turned and moved her body over the center console to straddle his legs, the heat from her body radiating like a furnace against his chest. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Ssshhh," Sally sighed, her lips dipping towards his ear, her teeth making a playful nip against the lobe. "I want to thank you for getting me home tonight, Josh. I'm so very grateful you came along." He arched against her as her teeth played across him.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sally, you're just a kid," he protested softly. She may have been young, but the way she ground and moved against him, matching the reflexive bucking of his chest and hips told him she wasn't without experience. "I could get in a lot of trouble."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Don't be silly," she whispered as she undid his belt. "I turned eighteen last Wednesday." The shreds of his resistance fled him as her lips touched his. There was certainly something to be said for getting lost.<br /></span></p><p style='text-align: center'><span style='font-family:Courier New'>###<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>They rode in comfortable silence as she guided them around the suburbs and finally to a large home at the end of a cull de sac. She giggled and thanked him for the ride then gave him directions back to the highway. Josh watched her sway up the sidewalk and waited until she disappeared inside the house before pulling away from the curb. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Josh cruised along the quiet, tree–lined streets, reliving the best bits of the last hour. He was still smiling when he stopped at a light and stretched his arms, the left coming in contact with something wet and cold, the smile leaving his face at the sight of the letterman's sweater still draped over the passenger seat. He thought about just throwing it away or keeping it as a souvenir, but he figured Sally had rented the '50s get–up for the party she never made it to and would need it back. He sighed and hooked a right, threading his way back through the suburbs to the girl's house.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>He pulled up to the sidewalk and sat for a moment as he tried to come up with a good story as to why he had Sally's sweater. He finally decided he'd sneak onto the porch and just leave it with hopes her parents would think she'd dropped it on the way in. He gathered up the sweater and got out of the car, careful that the keys were safely in his pocket this time around and made his way up the walk the way Sally had gone just a few minutes before then gingerly tested the steps on the darkened porch to make sure none of them would squeal under his weight. But just as he gained the top, he heard a harsh, low yell from the house. Josh imagined the girl had come in so late after curfew that her father was giving the little vixen a piece of his mind. He couldn't blame the man, though. He'd probably do the same if he had a daughter. Of course, since he was at least partially responsible for her tardiness his best course of action was to leave the sweater and drift off into the night like a playground stalker. He held the sweater over a chair and made to drop it just as the front door swung open. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, not as tall as Josh and with a few pounds and years on him. The man reached to his side and flicked on the porch lights. In the balanced light Josh could see he was in his late forties or early fifties, the type of man that had a five o'clock shadow before lunch and more hair in his ears than on his head. He wore a slack, dun-colored necktie and had his shirtsleeves rolled up at the cuffs; the typical middle manager after a long day at the office. Josh froze and tried to come up with a good story as to why he was on the man's porch with an article of his daughter's clothing, fighting the creeping guilt as he faced her father with the evidence of their dalliance dangling from his hand.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Let me guess; you brought her home?" the man asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I… yes, I mean, no… I found this sweater and I…"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh, knock that shit off! Do you think you're the first to bring her back here like this? If she did whatever she did with you, don't you think she'd do it with just about anybody?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Sir, it wasn't like that! It was raining and…"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Oh! Of <em>course </em>it was raining!" The man stomped across the porch and let the screen door slam behind him. A woman's voice drifted out and he turned his head back. "In a minute, Margaret!" He walked near the steps and dug a battered pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. He lit one and pushed the smoke out in a long hiss. "Let me guess; she was <em>so </em>wet and <em>so </em>cold she just <em>had</em> to get the wet clothes off. That how it went?" <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I, really don't think…" Josh stammered. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I can't believe how gullible we are, men I mean. Just take up with any slut that drops in our laps, huh?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Now hold on a minute…" Josh started.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"<em>Save it!</em>" he barked and took several drags from his cigarette. "That little slut… been awhile since she's been back, should've known it wouldn't last forever. If guys like you could just keep your pants on."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Mr. Witherow! With all due respect, this is<em><br /> </em>your <em>daughter</em> we're talking about!" Josh said.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"First, she's a little slut, a whore, a <em>professional</em> whore. That's all she ever was, and that's all she is now! Second, she's no daughter of mine. And the name's Jensen. Bill Jensen."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Josh stood mute. Perhaps the man was Sally's uncle, maybe a foster father. He tried to gauge the man to see if he'd turn violent. Jensen's forehead was flushed with color as his blood pressure trip-hammered in his chest. "Mr. Jensen, may I ask…" Josh paused and looked down at the still-damp sweater then willed his fingers to unclench. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"That damn sweater," Jensen growled, his eyes narrowing to it. "Throw it away, burn it, ship it halfway across the world… damn thing comes back." The porch light suddenly flashed as brightly as it could without the bulb bursting. "Great! Just great! Thanks, mister."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Just what the hell is going on here?" Josh asked. There was something here, something that went far beyond a tryst with a questionably–legal girl.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Jensen sighed, turned his back to Josh then sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette off the dying stub stuck between his fingers. "We stumbled onto this place 'bout ten years ago; dirt cheap, too. The realtor said the place was owned by an old lady that'd died the year before. Of course, the old bat's children didn't want anything to do with it, wanted to move it quick for pennies on the dollar. It was our dream place, didn't even need much work. So we sunk our life savings into it and moved in." They were silent for almost a minute while Jensen smoked and thought. "The first year or so was great. My job was going well and Maggie and I started planning a family. What's the sense in having a big house if you weren't going to fill it, right? Well, Maggie got pregnant, and we thought we had it all. About three months in though, <em>things</em> started happening."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"<em>Things</em>? What do you mean?" Josh asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"We were sitting here on the porch. This guy comes up from the <span style='text-decoration:underline'>Dispatch</span>, says he's doing a piece on the haunted houses of Columbus. Now, we'd seen a few things around the house. You know, stuff misplaced, doors that were shut would open… nothing serious. We attributed it to being an old house, or we'd joke we had a ghost in the place. We told him he must have the wrong address and that we'd never heard anything about the place being haunted, not even as color commentary from the realtor. That's when he pulled out a binder with all kinds of news clippings. It seems that the place was owned by a sweet little old lady, ran a halfway house for "wayward girls" back in the seventies and early eighties. But what she really ran here was a whorehouse. From what the papers said, they had a big black Buick they used to pick up the johns' so there wouldn't be a bunch of cars sitting around. Since she wasn't a real halfway house, nobody bothered to check her out."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I find that hard to believe," Josh interrupted.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Believe it, mister. He had it right there in black and white," Jensen shot back angrily over his shoulder. "You want to hear the rest or not?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Go on," Josh said warily.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"About five years before we bought the house, one of her customers went nuts and shot up the place, killed a bunch of the whores. He might have been able to escape if it hadn't been for dear, sweet Sally Witherow. The house had been sound–proofed for obvious reasons and there was enough distance between here and the next house that nobody outside knew the shooting was going on. But Sally had been to a costume party and was late to meet one of her customers, according to local legend, anyway. The guy was coming out, blasted her right here on the porch. The neighbors heard that one and called the cops. As it turns out the guy killed half a dozen hookers all through the house. We were stunned. No wonder the place came off so cheap. A little plaster, a little paint and voilá! Like it never happened. We moved here from Parma, never heard about the 'Whorehouse Slaughter' as they called it around here. The neighbors never brought it up with us. Probably in everybody's best interests at the time to just brush the whole thing under the rug and let it be. The least they could've done was told us about lights coming off and on in the windows, even when the power was out, or even that a lot of them had seen dear, sweet Sally walking around the neighborhood from time to time in that damn fifties get-up."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"So what did you do then?" Josh asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What'd we <em>do</em>? Just went on with our lives," Jensen said. "Maggie or I'd never been what you'd call superstitious. We just chalked it up to our luck for buying a death house. I mean, what the hell else <em>could</em> we do? We exhausted our savings just buying the place. We didn't have anywhere else to go and since we knew about the house and with the new article coming out we'd have to give full disclosure. We'd have been lucky to get out of it what we put into it. The reporter's visit was enough to throw the place into high gear, though."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Jensen stood up and placed his hands at the small of his back as he stretched then turned and came back towards the door. He chuckled and shook his head, a man defeated. "See? She's at it already." He pointed to the porch light. Josh turned and found thin streams of what could only be blood running down from the bulb and over the fixture. Josh took a step back and stared at the congealing mass as it dripped to the porch.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What the hell?" Josh whispered.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"The old bleeding wall trick? That's kid stuff, seen her pull that a thousand times. Must be for your benefit," he said. "That night, after the reporter left, we went to bed. I was sound asleep. Maggie told me later she'd heard a sound downstairs, thought maybe she'd forgot to bring the cat in. When she started down the stairs, <em>something</em> tripped her. She fell hard and didn't stop until she hit a small table we kept at the bottom. By the time I heard her screaming she'd already started bleeding… you know, from the baby and all." His voice hitched in his throat and he lit another cigarette to try and cover it. "I tried to take her to the hospital but the front door wouldn't open, like it was stuck or something. I tried every door in the house but none of them would open. By the time I broke out a window she'd passed out from the blood loss. We lost the baby, almost lost her, too."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Isn't it possible she just tripped? I mean…" Josh started. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"What's your name?" Jensen asked suddenly.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Josh, Josh Morgan."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Okay then, Josh, does <em>that</em> look like fucking Kool–Aid to you?" Jensen asked, pointing the glowing end of his cigarette at the pooling blood on the floor. "The bitch killed our baby and almost killed my wife. Oh, at first we wrote it off as an accident, pretty much the same way you just did." He walked over to Josh and stood beside him, staring at the blood as if he were a farmer looking over his field. "We tried that for about two years but we never did try for another baby. I think, deep down, we both knew what was going on. But neither one of us wanted to admit it. About three years ago though, the little whore really started showing her teeth. Knives flying all over the place, shit breaking, electricity shorting out, even a few small fires."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"So why didn't you get out then?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Couldn't. I'd had a few setbacks at work, ended up we had to refinance the place. We couldn't get out from under it if we'd tried." The chair beside them suddenly burst into flames. Josh cried out and fell back against the porch rail while Jensen shook his head. "She'll quit in a minute." He turned his back to the fire and joined Josh at the railing.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Uh… then what?" Josh asked quietly as the flames died, leaving the chair without a mark.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"We tried a few things. We tried ignoring it. 'Course, that didn't work. Little Sally just wanted to make us go nuts. We never got any of that <span style='text-decoration:underline'>Poltergeist</span> type crap out of her, no <em>leave now</em> spelled out in blood on the walls or anything. She just likes to torment us, like we're her entertainment or something. We finally found something that we thought would work, though. We got a priest in to bless the place."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"And that worked?" Josh asked as black puss started to ooze down the pillars and across the railing. He jerked his hand away just as the stuff moved close to him. Jensen moved away nonchalantly and threw his cigarette into the pool of blood on the floor. It sizzled for a moment then died away.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"The blessing? Hell no. Get this; she <em>raped</em> the poor bastard," Jensen said, a dry chuckle in his throat. "We were just going through the house as he blessed each room. We came out of the guest bedroom ahead of him and the door slammed shut before he could get out. It took 45 minutes and three cops before we could break down the door. He was strapped to the bedposts by his vestments, naked and babbling and completely alone in the room. Last I heard, he was still at one of the special hospitals those nuns run. Hell of a thing, to keep a vow of chastity through sheer will just to have it ripped from you by a little slut like that."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"You can't be serious," Josh said.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"No? Check out the story sometime. Priest's name is Bates. Heard somebody was going to make a movie about it. Not in a way that I'd get anything out of it, of course, but all the same," Jensen said roughly. "The bright side was that Bates's deflowering got the diocese's attention and they sent Father Roberts. This guy was their heavy hitter; a real, honest-to-God, fire-breathing exorcist like you see in the movies. The guy came in here and made us leave for three days. We got a call at the motel on the fourth day and came back. Roberts looked like he'd went ten rounds with Tyson, but he told us she was gone."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"So then what happened?" Josh asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"About six months later, a young guy came to the house. Had that same sweater," he motioned to Josh's hand. "Said he'd dropped Sally off earlier when he'd picked her up hitchhiking and that she'd left it in the car. We put up with it for another month or two then had to call the priest back in. He got rid of her again for about a year. That's when I found the damn sweater out here on the porch. Never did know how it got back here that time, but I bet it was a guy a lot like you."<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I don't understand…"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Don't you <em>get it</em>? Christ! You guys keep <em>bringing her back here!</em>" Jensen screamed, his face red and blotchy. "Every time we get rid of the little whore, she keeps hitching a ride back!" Jensen spit out a mouthful of smoke, seemingly more disgusted with than afraid of the spectral prostitute. "Well?" he said after several tense moments.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"I'm sorry, what…?"Josh stammered.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Are you gonna' give me the damn thing or not?" Jensen asked.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>Josh looked down at the sweater clutched in his grip. Suddenly, his mind was awash with the intense memories of less than two hours before. He stumbled against the railing and closed his eyes as a wave of heat and lust rolled through him. He could feel her hands on him, caressing him, pulling at his belt. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the girl groping him, tearing at his clothes, bringing her heat against him. Instead he found himself at the top of the porch steps, his heels hanging precariously off the edge. A shiver ran down his spine as he lurched forward, his brush with falling from the high porch to the concrete slab below enough to break her hold on him. He grabbed the sweater in both hands and threw it violently to the floor. "It's all yours." he said, teeth bared against the invisible woman. Josh stumbled away and down the steps. Jensen watched him stagger across the yard, get in his car and rocket off down the soaked, silent street. He plucked the sweater from the floor and threw it over his shoulder, just another burden to bear. <br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Bill?" a voice called out. A moment later a middle–aged woman appeared and opened the screen door. She glanced down at the pool of blood and the black ichor that still seeped down the columns and sighed. "Everything all right, honey?"<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Same as it ever was!" he growled at her.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Should I call Father Roberts?" she asked, her voice light and only slightly tinged with concern. Even the stress of their ghostly harlot couldn't diminish her graciousness.<br /></span></p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'>"Yeah, call him. Tell him Sally's found her way home again."<br /></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='font-family:Courier New'><em>So until next time, just write, damn it.</em> - Author</span><br /> </p></span>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-33610705970459070742011-10-05T08:11:00.001-07:002011-10-05T08:15:16.345-07:00Avery Nolan-Fiction(Guest Author)<span xmlns=''><p><span style='font-family:Garamond; font-size:12pt'><span style='color:black'>Hello again, Constant Reader, and a fresh hello to new friends. Things are still going well with my novel, <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3'/></span><strong><em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em></strong><span style='color:black'>, and the promotion and continuing projects have just been kicking the ass of your favorite biguglyhairyscary. But, that's no excuse for neglecting all of you out there by slacking on giving you something to read here in my little corner of the web. I was talking to another author, <a href='http://tonyfaville.com/'/></span><strong>Tony Faville</strong><span style='color:black'>, and he's been kind enough to fill in for my blogging shortcomings by giving all of you Chapter 1 of his new novella, <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Avery-Nolan-Private-Dick-Dead/dp/1463631979/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1317827277&sr=1-1'/></span><strong><em>"Avery Nolan; Private Dick of the Dead"</em></strong><span style='color:black'> free of charge and right here on my little ole blog. The good news is, if you like it you can get an electronic or paper copy (after you pick up <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3'/></span>"Area 187; Almost Hell"<span style='color:black'>, of course…) of your very own for a steal over at <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Avery-Nolan-Private-Dick-Dead/dp/1463631979/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1317827277&sr=1-1'/></span>Amazon<span style='color:black'>, <a href='http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/avery-nolan-tony-faville/1104170567'/></span>Barnes & Noble<span style='color:black'>, and <a href='http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/68201'/></span>Smashwords<span style='color:black'>. I've read this one, folks, and it carries my personal seal of approval. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a little taste of old-fashioned noire with a twist from Tony Faville.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style='color:black; font-family:Garamond; font-size:12pt'><strong><em>Note; this excerpt provided by and is displayed here with the express consent of the author and is shown here exactly as written by the author. All copyrights and ownership are with the author, Tony Faville, following standard copyright laws. <br /></em></strong></span></p><p><br /> </p><p><span style='color:black; font-family:Garamond; font-size:12pt'>CHAPTER ONE<br/><br/><br/><br/>September 22, 1959<br/><br/>New York, New York<br/><br/><br/><br/>It was a quarter to six on a Tuesday afternoon as I walked out of the<br/>42nd Street movie house. I had just finished watching the latest singing<br/>cowboy movie to come out of Hollywood and I had hoped the last hour and<br/>a half would help to ease half a lifetime of pain and suffering.<br/><br/>I should have known better than to expect a miracle.<br/><br/>It was late September, and the skies were dark with a storm front<br/>blowing in from the northwest. I pulled my fedora down low over my head<br/>and popped the collar of my overcoat up to shield my neck from the now<br/>blowing winds and cutting rain. Stepping around the corner and into the<br/>partial shelter the alleyway provided, I pulled a half empty pack of<br/>Lucky Strikes from my pocket, shook out a smoke, and tapped it against<br/>the side of my zippo. <br/><br/>Rolling the dented and scratched hunk of brass around in my hand, I<br/>watched it as it moved in the quickly fading daylight. I couldn't help<br/>but remember it's former owner, a Navy Corpsman that lit my smoke for me<br/>as I lay there bleeding into the black sands of Iwo Jima. Of course I<br/>could never forget, just as he flipped it shut he took a Jap round in<br/>the neck. When he fell over dead across my body, the lighter the must<br/>have fallen into my gear because it was with me when I finally got home.<br/>I have carried it with me every day since.<br/><br/>I flicked it open and rolled the wheel, bringing the yellowish flame to<br/>life with a small spray of sparks. Lighting the small filterless<br/>cigarette, I heard a noise down the darkened alleyway behind me.<br/>Turning, I squinted through the wind and rain and saw a lone bum on his<br/>hands and knees, looking for all the world like he was throwing up the<br/>remnants of last nights nickel hooch and canned baked beans.<br/><br/>This is New York City and the sight of a bum in an alleyway is nothing<br/>new or earthshaking, so I make my way down the street towards my office.<br/>If recent business had been better I might have caught a taxi to take me<br/>the few blocks, but times are tough, even more so for a twenty dollar a<br/>day, private dick such as myself.<br/><br/>Because of the rain, I covered the distance in under fifteen minutes, a<br/>little double time jog harkening back to my days in the Marines. Running<br/>full bore through the jungles of Guadalcanal with forty pounds of gear<br/>and a Garand rifle in my hands was a lot different than sprinting<br/>through the city streets of the concrete jungle. Rotating through the<br/>door of my building, I stepped into the foyer and shook my whole body as<br/>if I were a cocker spaniel who just came in from taking a crap in the<br/>yard.<br/><br/>Joe, the old coot of a doorman, sat in his chair and failed to even look<br/>up at me as he sat there snoring his way through his golden years. I<br/>stepped past him and the broken elevator, and headed up the three<br/>flights of stairs to reach the landing that held my ramshackle office. <br/><br/>Pausing momentarily to look at my name painted in gold on the frosted<br/>glass of the door, I made a mental note to remind myself to ask the<br/>building super to freshen up the paint when he had a chance. <br/><br/>Reaching out, I took the doorknob in my hand, and stepped back a step as<br/>the door slowly opened inwards under my touch. Instinctively, my right<br/>hand shot into the gap of my open overcoat and whipped out my pistol,<br/>bringing it out to bear on the darkened office before me. Stepping in to<br/>the room slowly, I attempted to let my eyes adjust to the darkness.<br/>Cursing my inability to afford an office with an exterior window, I<br/>reached behind my back with my left hand, feeling for the lightswitch.<br/><br/>Suddenly, a lighter flicked to life in the dark shadows of my office.<br/>Even in the darkness, I could see the dame that was sitting in the chair<br/>at the side of my office with a cigarette dangling between her ruby red<br/>lips. In the brief moment her face was illuminated by the flickering<br/>yellow glow of her lighter, I could see she was something special. <br/><br/>It was either that, or she just has a habit of thinking she is special.<br/><br/>Flipping on the overhead light with my left hand, I continued to hold my<br/>pistol in her general direction. <br/><br/>With a smokey voice that was gently touched by expensive scotch, she<br/>said, "Unless you tend to hold all of your clients at gunpoint Mister<br/>Nolan, I would kindly request that you put your pistol away. You men and<br/>your guns, I believe Doctor Freud was right, that is an awful big gun."<br/><br/>Walking across the office to behind my desk, I placed my pistol on the<br/>corner, and took off my coat. Shaking the wet topcoat, I hung it to dry<br/>on the wooden rack in the corner, then took a seat in my squeaky wooden<br/>and leather chair. "It's not the size of the gun lady.."<br/><br/>She interrupted me before I could finish, "Yes Detective, it's knowing<br/>how to use it, correct?"<br/><br/>I could see that from her ten dollar shoes to her forty dollar dress and<br/>all the Chanel no. 5 all between, she was a dame that was truly used to<br/>money. Old money was my guess, and from the looks of things, a lot of<br/>it.<br/><br/>My only question was, what was a dame with money doing in the office of<br/>a guy like me. Sure, I was no slouch as a private investigator, but I<br/>was the guy that lonely housewives paid to take pictures of their<br/>husband in a cheap motel in flagrante delicto with the latest bimbo du<br/>jour.<br/><br/>"Since you have me at a distinct disadvantage Miss, could I at least<br/>have your name?"<br/><br/>"Of course Mister Nolan, my name is Anna Winters." She stood from her<br/>chair and slinked across the room like a jungle cat to take a seat in<br/>the chair in front of me. If this were all an act, she was laying it on<br/>awfully thick. Problem was, it was working. Flicking her ashes into the<br/>ashtray on my desk, she continued, "My father is Doctor James Winters, a<br/>geneticist that does his research at New York University."<br/><br/>She could have said her father was a platypus and I would not have cared<br/>any more at this moment in time. As I said, she was a world class dame,<br/>with a set of pins that led all the way up to there, and with more<br/>curves than the Pacific Coast Highway. Sure, there were plenty of<br/>lookers in New York City, but a lady of this caliber only comes along<br/>once in a blue moon.<br/><br/>Pulling a photo from the manila envelope she had in her hands, she slid<br/>it across my desk, then she settled back and took a long drag from her<br/>cigarette before gently exhaling a stream of smoke into the air. <br/><br/>The man in the photo before me looked like a professor, a true to life<br/>egghead. From his white lab coat, to the bow tie and eye glasses perched<br/>awkwardly on his narrow face. Yeah, I would say he appeared to be the<br/>epitome of a professor.<br/><br/>"My father is missing Mister Nolan, and I would like you to help me find<br/>him."<br/><br/>"Please call me Avery, my father was Mister Nolan. At least that is what<br/>my mother told me. So, you say he is missing?"<br/><br/>"That is correct Mister...Sorry, Avery. Nobody has heard from him for<br/>the last two days, not my mother, nor any of his colleagues from the<br/>University."<br/><br/>Looking back at the picture, I was able to rule out that he was lost on<br/>a bender in some alleyway, as he did not seem to be the type to wile<br/>away his time with booze and loose women. "Have you filed a police<br/>report? Missing persons is more up their alley, not mine."<br/><br/>"My fathers situation is a little more, shall we say, sensitive than the<br/>New York Police Department is capable of handling. I need someone with<br/>more of your skill set."<br/><br/>"Look, Anna, I get a pair of sawbucks a day to take pictures of guys<br/>cheating on their wives. Now, if you simply want me to find your father<br/>and take pictures of him, then maybe I do in fact have the skill set you<br/>are looking for, if not, then maybe I am not your guy."<br/><br/>"Sergeant Avery Nolan, United States Marine Corps. Enlisted on December<br/>eighth, nineteen-forty-one. You were made a squad leader after<br/>Guadalcanal and were decorated for bravery on several occasions, a Navy<br/>Cross, two Bronze Stars and four Purple Hearts, the last of which was<br/>received on Iwo Jima. No Avery, I believe you have exactly the skill<br/>sets I am looking for."<br/><br/>She impressed me as she had obviously done her homework, so I said so.<br/>"Okay, so you have read my file, that still doesn't make me your guy."<br/><br/>"No Avery, I paid a man a sawbuck a day, as you put it, to find me the<br/>right man. As the children in the school yards are fond of saying: Tag,<br/>you're it Mister Nolan."<br/><br/>In the distance I could hear a police siren screaming through the city,<br/>the typical sounds of the city that never sleeps. "Okay, so you need<br/>someone that can handle themselves, that tells me there is more to the<br/>story than just a missing professor. And since you have not been very<br/>forthcoming with additional information as of yet, I am inclined to tell<br/>you that my fee is thirty dollars a day, plus expenses, with one week<br/>paid in advance."<br/><br/>She stamped out the remnants of her cigarette in the ashtray and<br/>promptly lit another. Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out an<br/>envelope and tossed it across the desk. It landed with a weighty plop<br/>and then slid off the desktop and into my lap. <br/><br/>Picking up the envelope, I opened it and found a cool grand in twenty<br/>dollar bills. She slid the original manila envelope across my desk and I<br/>looked inside, finding additional photos and notes with names, addresses<br/>and phone numbers.<br/><br/>Expertly blowing another cone of smoke in my direction she said, "A<br/>thousand a week and all expenses paid Mister Nolan. Not only is my<br/>father missing, but so is much of his research. Most importantly, his<br/>specimen is missing from the lab."<br/><br/>"Specimen? What kind of specimen are we talking about, rat? Monkey?"<br/><br/>"I feel it would be best if you found the answer you seek at my fathers<br/>lab. I have already contacted the school and you will be granted full<br/>access to his lab, and cooperation from his research assistant, Tommy."<br/><br/>Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I retrieved a bottle of cheap<br/>scotch and two dirty glasses. Pouring a glass, I offered it to her, but<br/>she politely declined. Sliding the bottle and spare glass to the side, I<br/>raised the glass to my nose and took a whiff of the mossy spirit before<br/>savoring a small sip.<br/><br/>"Okay Miss Winters, consider me your man. Since I prefer to give my<br/>client daily reports of my findings, how do I get in touch with you?"<br/><br/>Standing up, she placed her lipstick stained cigarette in the ashtray<br/>and pulled her royal blue overcoat on and cinched the belt tight around<br/>her narrow waist. On any given day, with her red hair and subtly<br/>freckled skin in that shade of blue she could have passed for a movie<br/>star.<br/><br/>"My number is in the envelope, you can feel free to call me at any time,<br/>day or night."<br/><br/>"One more question before you go Anna, what exactly was your father<br/>researching?"<br/><br/>"He was working on a project for the Department of Defense. He said it<br/>had something to do with battlefield first aid capabilities for<br/>soldiers. Avery, truthfully, I really don't know anything more than<br/>that."<br/><br/>"First aid is not exactly something people tend to disappear over. Are<br/>you sure his disappearance is related to his work."<br/><br/>"It is only my assumption. My last phone call with my father was three<br/>days ago, he said something about going to Mischka's. I thought nothing<br/>of it, assuming he meant a colleague, but none of them claim to have<br/>knowledge of a Mischka."<br/><br/>Rising from my chair, I extended my hand to her and shook her hand. A<br/>gesture she readily returned with a strong grip, stronger than most<br/>women of her stature. "Don't you worry Miss Winters, I will find your<br/>father for you, you have my word on that."<br/><br/>I walked her to the door as she thanked me for taking the case, then<br/>stepped her through the open door. I watched with a certain pleasure as<br/>she walked down the long hallway to the stairs. <br/><br/>Walking back to my desk, I poured myself another drink and looked at the<br/>stack of money peeking out from the open envelope on the desktop. A cool<br/>grand a week to find a stodgy old professor that is likely lost in some<br/>dark and dank archive hall? Yeah, I guess a Private Dick with a skill<br/>set like mine could get used to those kinds of numbers.</span></p></span>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-85457043923440226132011-09-21T02:38:00.001-07:002011-09-21T02:38:39.914-07:00Area 187 News and a Bunch of Other Shit<span xmlns=''><p>Hello again, Constant Reader. I know, I know… I've been neglecting you and for that you have a thousand apologies. Things have been a bit busy for the old biguglyhairyscary and I promise there's more good stuff to come. The biggest news, and the biggest drain on my time, is that my novel, <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> is doing very well over at that <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1308050296&sr=1-1'>Amazon thing</a>. Just about 1000 copies have already shambled their way onto <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/dp/B00572LRBC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1308757998&sr=8-3'>Kindles</a> and into mailboxes around the world, and as I write this the book has stayed on the top 100 paid Kindle Horror genre (print and electronic) lists for the 4<sup>th</sup> straight week without falling off. I know this may not seem like much to some, but it certainly makes me feel pretty damn good to have a book so large (600+ pages print, 230,000+ words) and from a "1<sup>st</sup> time" novelist reach this level with virtually no real (read "paid") promotion and carrying a Kindle price of $4.99 and paperback $18.00. Even though there are many, many, <em>many </em>much cheaper and smaller works in the horror genre (remember, I'm up against literally thousands of $0.99 books, here) not to mention in any genre, sales have been steadily climbing since its release in June and it's been getting <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/product-reviews/B00572LRBC/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1'>great reviews</a> on Amazon as well as from other genre reviewers. If you haven't checked it out yet, maybe it's time you did. Here are some links to check out a free preview, read the reviews and buy the book. It's primarily available through Amazon, and I haven't forgotten my more worldly friends. Canada, Germany, Japan, the UK and probably a few other Amazon markets and 3<sup>rd</sup> party book clubs I haven't stumbled upon yet carry it, too.<br /></p><p><strong>Reviews;<br /></strong></p><p>There are 12 total reviews on Amazon for the book; 10 5-star, 1 4-star and 1 2-star (and that one was from a reader that admits he only read the prolog). <a href='http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Almost-Hell-ebook/product-reviews/B00572LRBC/ref=dp_top_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1'>Check them out here</a>.<br /></p><p>You can also get the limey (1 5-star and 1 4-star) reviews at <a href='http://www.amazon.co.uk/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490'>Amazon UK</a>.<br /></p><p><a href='http://www.livingdeadmedia.com/horror-books-and-fiction/261-almost-hell.html'>Living Dead Media</a> also has a review up for the book.<br /></p><p>While not a review (though he does give his $0.02 in an Amazon review), you can find an interview with me conducted by Author / Blogger / Podcaster Keith Latch <a href='http://keithlatch.com/home/2011/06/23/the-radioactive-pen-1-3-author-interview-eric-r-lowther/'>over at his site</a>. The good folks over at Wicked Channel, a Fearshop.com site, also did an interview with me some time ago. You <a href='http://wickedchannel.com/2011/02/author-interview-eric-r-lowther/'>can check that one out here</a> as well.<br /></p><p><strong>Free preview</strong>;<br /></p><p>I've set up a youtube channel where you can hear a full-production audio drama of the entire prolog. A free preview and you don't even have to turn a page or read or nuthin. <a href='http://www.youtube.com/user/biguglyhairyscary?feature=mhee'>Check it out</a>. You can also read a synopsis at Amazon, where you can also use the "Look Inside" feature for a random selection.<br /></p><p>The book is listed on <a href='http://www.bookdaily.com/book/2827875/area-187-almost-hell'>BookDaily.com</a> where you can also read a long sample and try before you buy.<br /></p><p><strong>Where to get it;<br /></strong></p><p>Amazon, of course (<a href='http://www.amazon.co.uk/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490'>UK too</a>). As I said, it's also listed on BookDaily as well as <a href='http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11818089-area-187'>Goodreads</a>, <a href='http://libraryofthelivingdead.lefora.com/2011/07/03/eric-r-lowther-area-187-almost-hell/'>Twisted Press</a> (publisher's website, aka "The Library of the Living Dead"), <a href='http://getglue.com/books/area_187_almost_hell/eric_lowther'>GetGlue</a>, <a href='http://www.zombiefun.net/4269/area-187-almost-hell-reviews/'>Zombiefun</a> and many other places. It's a really real book with pages and a cover and its own ISBN number and everything, so you can also get it through the Ingram catalog from most brick-and-mortar stores as well. Hurry before they all shut down. My publisher, Twisted Press, is also developing a version for Smashwords that will support e-reader and Nook. I will announce availability as soon as I get confirmation.<br /></p><p><strong>Swag and other stuff;<br /></strong></p><p>I've opened a storefront on <a href='http://www.cafepress.com/area187almosthell'>Café Press</a> where you can get t-shirts, mugs, shot glasses, totes, bags and a bunch of other "Area 187" stuff. If you liked the book, show the world. It'll be like having coffee with me every morning and a tankard of your favorite beverage with me every night…<br /></p><p>If you have read the book, you have my thanks and I hope it was everything you wanted in a zombie survival novel. If you haven't read the book and you like what you see on my blog, you really should check it out. I firmly believe it's my best work to date and there are more than a few others who agree. Also, if you've read the book in either Kindle or paper and would like it signed but don't think you'll get the chance (or don't want me writing all over your Kindle), I have special postcards suitable for display that I will gladly sign and mail to you if you like. Drop me a line at ericrlowther (at) yahoo, and don't worry, I'll delete the address as soon as I mail it unless I find you really stalkable.<br /></p><p><strong>Other stuff;<br /></strong></p><p>Even I get tired of pimping <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> (available in paper and Kindle at Amazon), so let's talk about some other stuff.<br /></p><p>I'm in the final stages of getting the cover together for my first foray into self-publishing with my forthcoming 1-author anthology <em>"The Dead Tell Tales"</em>. This will contain eight zombie short stories (with one possibly hitting novella length) and will be available on Smashwords. I hope to have this one out in time for Halloween buying, and while it won't be free it'll still be a steal.<br /></p><p>I am still working on a free audio anthology of 7-8 short stories of the <em>not</em>-zombie variety that will help launch my new website (yes, I'm finally doing something with the damn domain name I bought years ago). I hope to have the fully-produced audio dramas available by Halloween as well. Did I mention they'll be completely <strong>free</strong>? It will also be a bit of a concept piece in that I'm recruiting podcasters/authors to record various characters. I already have a few confirmed but if you're a podcaster or a podcaster/author and want to get in on this project drop me a line at the e-mail address above. I will be attaching promos for the shows to all who participate, so you get in on a fun project that will surely attract podcast listeners to hear their favorites play character roles and introduce listeners to different podcasts and hosts.<br /></p><p>Of course, you can still read and hear my genre movie reviews over at <a href='http://thewitchshatblog.com/'><em>The Witch's Hat</em></a> blog and blogcasts operated by the venerable pod-father, Root Rot. I'm also producing stand-alone segments on an infrequent basis for <a href='http://thewitchshatblog.com/joanie-loves-twh/'><em>Joanie Loves The Witch's Hat</em></a> where I conduct audio interviews with directors, authors and other artists from the various horror-related genres. It's a great blog and a fun set of shows, so I hope you check them out.<br /></p><p>I'll be producing more short fiction free for the reading here on the blog in the coming months, as well as starting another book from the world of Area 187, so make sure you stay tuned for more. I'm also looking for other un-published or under-published authors to sit in right here on my blog with some free short fiction. If you're so inclined, drop me a line and show me what you've got. I should also tell you to check out the great line of books from my publisher, <a href='http://www.twistedlibrary.com/'>Twisted Library Press</a>, with separate imprints for all your horror and fantasy needs as well as the blog and forums you'll find there. So, until next time Constant Reader, just write, damn it. <br /></p></span>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-16965054979189814602011-07-02T18:59:00.000-07:002011-07-02T18:59:05.395-07:00Area 187; Almost Hell - Audio PrologHello again, Constant Reader, and a new hello to new friends. It's been a hectic few weeks for me with the release of my first novel, <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> from <a href="http://libraryofthelivingdead.lefora.com/2011/06/24/area-187-almost-hell-available-for-purchase/">Twisted Press</a> under the Library of the Living Dead imprint. The novel is now available in both paperback and Kindle version at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1308050296&sr=1-1">Amazon.com</a>. And don't worry, I didn't forget about all my<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490"> UK friends</a>, either.<br />
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The book has gotten a few great <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/180545614">reviews</a> and some really great buzz, but I'm not ashamed to say I need your help. So please, spread the word. You can check out the synopsis in the previous post as well as at the Amazon site. Now, the paperback version may seem a little pricey at $25.00 (with the Kindle at $4.99). However, please remember you're getting over 230,000 words of zombie goodness and government conspiracy for your money. That translates to over 600 pages and 2 pounds of, and I'm not afraid to say it, some pretty damn good fiction. It's also one of the few zombie books that, in a pinch, you could actually use to crack open a zombie's skull should the need arise. It also qualifies for free shipping all on its own without having to seek out another cheap item you don't really want to make the cut-off for the shipping dollar amount.<br />
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Since I'm asking you to shell out your hard-earned money, I thought it only fair that I give you the chance to try it out before you buy. Along with the free preview pages and "Look Inside" feature on Amazon, I have produced a complete <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/biguglyhairyscary?feature=mhee#p/a/u/1/zfStMe1bf3M">audio dramatization of the novel's prolog</a> as a sneak peak free-of-charge over at youtube. I encourage you to give it a listen.<br />
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So, to those of you that have purchased the book, you have my heartfelt thanks. If you have read it, please take a minute and leave a review on Amazon. You can also find me at my <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4977210.Eric_R_Lowther">Goodreads</a> profile or over at the Library of the Living Dead. All comments, even negative ones, will be appreciated. My work may not be for everyone, but I sincerely hope it will be for you. I'm still hard at work on both a new self-published anthology set for release this summer as well as an audio drama anthology coming in the Fall so keep watching here for more information on future projects and more about Area 187. So until next time,<br />
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Just write, damn it. -<em> Author</em>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-68470025172047175852011-06-21T03:22:00.000-07:002011-06-21T03:22:40.064-07:00"Area 187; Almost Hell" Official Release Announcement<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLSBtPZqmaGdJVcvt1rsV8LVS6JB3Z5Z4K5p2UfZzbFcKH0aD_pRG3C-cykOdpSZoZeInuEseVYIjqGVuRFOM5y1qrR05oW9TWu8PZ4TSHcZh-jdqJ69Jrue-AGf0shp5rTWRaIpcAKc/s1600/AREA187_FRONT_V2%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdLSBtPZqmaGdJVcvt1rsV8LVS6JB3Z5Z4K5p2UfZzbFcKH0aD_pRG3C-cykOdpSZoZeInuEseVYIjqGVuRFOM5y1qrR05oW9TWu8PZ4TSHcZh-jdqJ69Jrue-AGf0shp5rTWRaIpcAKc/s320/AREA187_FRONT_V2%255B1%255D.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>Well, Constant Reader, I've been talking about this one for a long time and now it's finally here. Through long delays in publishing and editing, my new novel,<em> "Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> is finally in print from Doc Pus and all the good folks over at <a href="http://www.libraryofthelivingdead.com/lefora">Library of the Living Dead Press</a>. I say this is new, but to me, the characters and the world they inhabit have become old friends, and I certainly hope they'll soon become friends of yours, too.<br />
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So, what's it all about, you ask? Well.....<br />
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<em>In the year 2007 an accident at a clandestine U.S. government facility in rural West Virginia releases several test subjects infected with a necrotic virus. Within weeks the U.S. military and the Department of Homeland Security are forced to declare the bulk of the state under quarantine. Defensive lines are fortified and nothing is allowed in or out, damning those missed in the short period of evacuations to a living hell and locking away the real truth of the virus’ creation.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>The government transfers the responsibility of maintaining the quarantine from the military to the Department of Homeland Security, which christens it “Area 187”. Suits and claims are dismissed under anti-terror legislation as the rest of government scrambles to cover their involvement in the original project, distancing themselves and their reelections.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Seven years pass.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Homeland Security enforces a total news blackout on all things Area 187, and as with other disasters before it the bulk of America is more than willing to move on. Conspiracies continue to thrive outside the now-immense defensive wall and fortifications, and mercenaries known as “grave robbers” regularly slip in and out of the Area, stealing valuables and taking contracts to bring back specific items for well-paying customers. Our story follows Josephine Terrell, a television reporter and John Heath, once an Air Force search-and-rescue team leader that escaped the Area after five years of fruitless searching for his wife, as they risk their lives from both the dead and the living inside Area 187 to rescue a group of survivors.</em><br />
<em><br />
</em><br />
<em>Josephine is looking for the story of the century, one that will prove living, breathing Americans still await rescue inside the Area and that Homeland has been covering up their existence. Heath joins her mission after he sees what may be his wife, Eileen, in a video message from the survivors. Personal rivalries, government conspiracies and a simple man’s simple promise weave together with death incarnate to follow their every step as they make their way through a blasted, nightmarish landscape full of the hungering dead. But the peril offered by the mindless corpses behind the wall becomes second to the danger presented by the living beyond it…</em><br />
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Unlike most zombie stories that show you either the beginning of the death of the world or throw you into a world already dead, <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> shows you what could happen if the apocalypse was contained before destroying all as we know it. What lengths would government and the military-industrial complex go to absolve themselves of blame and responsibility in the aftermath? How would those outside the territory now given over to the dead go on and how would their old world adapt to the presence of this new one? How do those left behind to be ruled by the dead survive, and how do they affect their loved ones forced to leave them behind? It's one thing to be a survivor in a whole world gone mad, to accept that everyone you've ever known and loved is either dead or worse. It's quite another to live among the dead knowing there's another world just beyond the quarantine wall, a world filled with your family and friends, a world you can never again inhabit due to factors and politics beyond your control. The biggest difference between my story and many others is that in most zombie tales, no one can ever go home again. In this one, <em>you</em> can't go home again.<br />
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The book is available now at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Area-187-Eric-R-Lowther/dp/1461159490/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1308050296&sr=1-1">Amazon.com</a> and through the Ingram catalog for those that still like to buy their books from the brick and mortar stores, and the Kindle version should be live shortly after this post goes up. You can also "look inside" the book and get a preview of the world of Area 187 there as well. Now, I know the $25.00 cover price is a bit high. However, at that price it automatically qualifies for free shipping (no more searching for another cheap item you don't want so you can get free shipping on the $24.99 item you do want). You're also getting 620 pages in a 6x9 print format. That's just about 230,000 words of fiction, and if I do say so myself, it's some pretty damn high-quality fiction. <br />
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Keep watching here for more about the book as well as my upcoming projects. I'll soon be releasing a zombie-themed anthology through Smashwords tentatively titled<em> "The Dead Tell Tales"</em> (my first foray into the self-publishing world) and will have an audio anthology free for the download coming out near the end of summer as well. In the meantime, please take a minute to check out <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> at Amazon. It makes a great gift, and at 620 pages it also makes a great doorstop. You can also hear me most every week on The Witch's Hat podcast and read genre movie reviews on the blog of the same name. In fact, you never know just where I may pop up, perhaps even under your bed. Who knows?<br />
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So until next time, Constant Reader, I'll simply say; just write, damn it.Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-11766002302405672932011-05-04T07:27:00.000-07:002011-05-04T07:27:13.197-07:00Night Lambs - Fiction<em>Welcome, New Reader, and welcome back, Constant Reader, to my little corner of the web. My novel,</em> Area 187; Almost Hell <em>continues to creep ever closer to hitting ink and paper, and I hope to have a full cover image to post sometime in the next week. I'm also continuing work and actually nearing completion on my zombie anthology tentatively titled</em> "The Dead Tell Tales"<em> which, if all goes according to plan, will be a self-published work available through Smashwords, iTunes and the normal outlets and formats. Work has slowed a bit on a free audio anthology I've been working with, but as soon as</em> "The Dead Tell Tales"<em> is completed I will throw myself back into that project. You can also hear my movie reviews and thoughts on life as a member of the</em> <a href="http://www.thewitchshatblog.com/">Witch's Hat</a> <em>blog and blogcast.</em><br />
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<em>Since my time has been rather short of late, I thought I would bring out this short number, </em>"Night Lambs"<em>, featuring a bit of backstory on my vampire hunter, Shakespeare, who appears in the tales</em> "The Taxman Cometh"<em> and</em> "Rotting Meat",<em> which are both available in this very blog, as well as "</em>Bait<em>", one of the stories that will appear in the forthcoming audio anthology. I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the backstory of one of my favorite characters to write (and for many to read if my feedback is correct) and keep watching here for more updates on my continuing projects. Thanks for reading. -</em> Author<br />
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Father Norwalk looked out into the sanctuary. It was well after ten in the evening, and there were still a half dozen parishioners scattered throughout the church. While such a thing would have been unheard of in his tiny Ohio parish, he’d been told by Father Jessup that things worked a bit differently in the city. Not everyone worked the days, slept the nights and had their Sundays free for church. Here, the church stayed open until well into the night to accommodate the diverse congregation and to be a safe haven of sorts for those that needed rest from the nightly terrors of the city. According to Jessup, the faithful and the whore, the righteous and the derelict all had a place at God’s table.<br />
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Norwalk couldn’t argue the logic, though in practical terms it proved unsettling at best. Though no expert, he’d already counted two prostitutes and three bums in the motley congregation. At least he wasn’t required to give a sermon to these… these<em> night lambs</em>, as Jessup called them. He supposed he could get used to such an arrangement, especially if it meant he would one day be able to minister to the more conventional congregations that had the decency to gather in the daylight.<br />
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“Father Norwalk…”<br />
<br />
“Oh! Sorry, Father Jessup,” Norwalk said, startled. “I didn’t hear you coming. A little spooked I guess. Not used to the hours.”<br />
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Jessup nodded his gray head and looked out into the sanctuary. “I’ve always handled the evening watch. To tell the truth, I prefer it.”<br />
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“You prefer these hours?” Norwalk asked.<br />
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“Look around, Father Norwalk; it’s all fine and good to be an upstanding pillar of the community, show up on Sunday and throw money in the plate. But these people…<em>these</em> people need this church. You may go weeks without speaking at all. But when someone does come to you, their need is real. These are the real lambs of God, Father Norwalk. Now that I’m retiring, you’ll need to see to them. They may not be what you’re used to, but they need a shepherd the same as any other; more so.”<br />
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Norwalk looked deep into Jessup’s eyes and found emotion and compassion nearly pouring from them. “Isn’t this a little dangerous? I mean the kind of people that come through here…”<br />
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“…are the exact people that’ll need you the most, Father Norwalk,” Jessup said.<br />
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“Yes, Father Jessup.” Norwalk was already looking forward to getting a daytime assignment. Father Jessup had nearly forty years of service, and Norwalk failed to see what drew him to work such hours, especially at his age.<br />
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“Good. I have papers to tend to. Call if you need anything.”<br />
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Norwalk watched the old priest disappear behind a small door in the alcove and sighed. There would be changes to the night operations once Jessup was gone, that was sure. He looked up the aisle and noticed a scantily–dressed young woman standing before one of the poor boxes. Though he couldn’t see the box, he also couldn’t see her hands. He launched himself up the aisle as fast as his robes would allow. Norwalk slowed as he approached her and peered over her shoulder and saw the lid of the box thrown back, its small lock dangling open from the hasp. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed at her, his whisper carrying across the cavernous sanctuary. The girl spun suddenly, a few crumpled dollar bills in her hands. Her eyes were wide, tired, and her face showed the marks of a very recent hand.<br />
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“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, tears rolling from her large eyes. “I’m so sorry, father. My baby…he’s hungry.”<br />
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“Then you should look for honest work and an honest life! Stealing from a church! You should be ashamed!” He grabbed her bone thin wrist and shook it roughly. “You would steal from God…” Norwalk’s words trailed away as he felt… <em>something</em>… behind him. He kept hold of the girl and turned his head to find a large man. But then, large wasn’t the word for him. He was easily a head taller and twice as broad as the priest himself. His face was weathered yet still pale, framed by a mass of shiny, black and silver–specked hair that fell from his head and peeked out from his waist around the floor–length leather drover he wore. “Can I help you my son?” Norwalk asked in his most official voice<br />
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“Alms are for the poor,” the big man said from behind dark glasses. “I think she qualifies, don’t you?”<br />
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“What business is it of yours?” Norwalk shot back. “This is the house of the Lord…”<br />
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“He’s not here yet, Father,” the man said. “I’ll let you know when he shows up.” He reached out and separated the priest’s hand from her wrist with a deft, painless twist.<br />
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“You…I…” Norwalk stuttered. The air in the sanctuary had taken on a palpable, heavy feeling. The priest’s breath came in heavy, short bursts as he stepped back from them. The man pulled a roll of cash from his pocket and peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. He shoved one into the girl’s hand and the other into the open poor box.<br />
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“Take care of your baby,” he told the girl. She nodded up at him dumbly then scurried from the building. He turned to Norwalk and stared down at him. “Take care of your flock.” With that, he turned and went to the basin of holy water to the side of the aisle. As the man kneeled, Norwalk felt a hand on his shoulder.<br />
“We need to talk, Father Norwalk.” Jessup said quietly.<br />
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“That…that man…a girl stole from the poor box and…” he turned away from the old priest and saw the man sit at the end of a pew. Small wisps of smoke curled away from his bowed head. “And now he’s <em>smoking</em>! Honestly, Father Jessup, I can’t see why you put up with this behavior…”<br />
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“Father Norwalk, there’s something you should know.”<br />
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Norwalk didn’t let Jessup finish his sentence. “Maybe <em>you</em> condone such behavior from these miscreants, Father Jessup. But <em>I</em> won’t!” Jessup watched as he stalked across the sanctuary and came to stand before the stranger. “Do you have any respect for the church? Put the cigarette out immediately…”<br />
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The man raised his head slowly. He had removed his glasses, his eyes closed. Norwalk realized the man was trembling. There was no cigarette burning in his lips. The smoke wafted up from an angry red mark in the shape of the cross on his forehead. He opened his pupil–less eyes to reveal unearthly, glistening black orbs.<br />
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“God’s here now, Father.” the man said softly, his voice pained and thin. Norwalk stumbled backwards a few paces and turned. Jessup stood where he’d left him, motioning for the young priest to come back. Norwalk hurried up the aisle to join him, breathless and shaking.<br />
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“I…he…” Norwalk stammered. Jessup smiled and walked away towards a small alcove, Norwalk in tow.<br />
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“You have nothing to fear from him, Father Norwalk,” Jessup whispered.<br />
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“Who…<em>what</em> is he?” Norwalk whispered feverishly.<br />
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“He’s been coming here more than 25 years now. I’ll admit, when I first met him I had the same reaction you did. That’s how I can assure you he won’t do you or anyone else here any harm. As to who he is, well, frankly I don’t know. As to what he is…”<br />
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“That man can’t be human! Those eyes…”<br />
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“Father Norwalk, please control yourself.” Jessup looked out from the alcove and saw the man had bowed his head again. Only the occasional wisp drifted up to the frescoed ceiling now. “Since you will be taking over, I’ll tell you. But, you must remember that the confidentiality of your flock is paramount. He will seldom ask anything of you save to hear his confession, though he’s only come to me three times for that. I doubt anyone would believe you even if you did want to talk about it.”<br />
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“Confidentiality can’t apply to something that isn’t even human!” Norwalk said.<br />
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“He was human once, Father Norwalk. Now he fights to retain the humanity the rest of us take for granted.” With a groan born of age, Jessup eased his old bones onto a wooden stool in the alcove and rested his hands on his knees. “For lack of a better term, he’s what you would call a vampire.”<br />
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Norwalk snorted and leaned against the wall. “Do you pull this on all the new priests that come here?”<br />
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“You don’t believe in vampires, then?”<br />
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“Of course not! And now I certainly hope this was a very poor joke...”<br />
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“No joke.” Jessup said softly. “Whether you believe in him or not, he believes in you. And he’s sitting in your sanctuary. We’ve spoken little over the course of the years. The only thing I really know is that he hunts others. Others like him.”<br />
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“<em>Others</em>? Now you’re telling me there’s more than one? Father Jessup, you must realize just how ludicrous…”<br />
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“I’ve seen things in my lifetime I hope no other needs to see, Father Norwalk. I was not always the sedentary turnkey you see before you.” Jessup chuckled to himself softly and sighed. “That was one of the reasons he sought out this church. Though I’d never met him before, I had developed somewhat of a reputation, in certain circles. One of the reasons the church saw fit to deposit me here, out of the way and out of sight. But that’s not this story.” He smoothed his robes across his thighs and folded his hands in his lap. “As unthinkable as vampires may be to you, he is even rarer. He is repentant.”<br />
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“<em>Repentant</em>? You can’t be serious! Even if I were to believe…”<br />
<br />
“You saw his eyes, didn’t you? Felt the cold chill come over you? Did that feel like some sort of practical joke to you?” Jessup asked, his eyes piercing into Norwalk’s.<br />
<br />
“I…no…but…” Norwalk was visibly shaken by the conversation but not enough to shatter his doubts. “If he is what you claim, how can you call yourself a man of God and allow him here?”<br />
<br />
“You don’t believe in the power of confession, of absolution? Even a murderer isn’t denied these simple comforts,” Jessup said.<br />
<br />
“But part of that must be atonement!” Norwalk whispered hoarsely. “There’s a big difference! A convict is imprisoned, and one sentenced to die is forced to the ultimate act of atonement! They’re paying a debt to society! They’re denied freedoms! What of those he destroys when he’s not here? I don’t know what he is, Father Jessup…but I know it is <em>not</em> the same.”<br />
<br />
“What he destroys are others like him...”<br />
<br />
“Oh? How about what, or who, he has for dinner? What about them? I’m no expert on mythology, but I’m pretty sure they don’t eat salad!”<br />
<br />
“But I <em>am</em> an expert on mythology, Father Norwalk,” Jessup said darkly. “What you call mythology, I have lived. He is a… different sort. Though he told me this in the confidence of confession, I will impart it to you, as a professional courtesy to hopefully ease some of your fears.” Jessup paused, waiting for a signal from Norwalk to acknowledge the sanctity of the knowledge he was about to share. Jessup took the confidentiality of the confessional very seriously.<br />
<br />
“I’m listening,” Norwalk said.<br />
<br />
“He was not made a vampire in the traditional way, the way you would know from movies and books. He would not give details, not because he didn’t trust me but because he doesn’t trust <em>them</em>… the ones that made him. The less I, or you, know about it, the better. He is not wholly undead, yet he is not wholly alive, either.”<br />
<br />
“So… you’re saying he’s not a <em>real</em> vampire, as ludicrous as that sounds?” Norwalk asked.<br />
<br />
“As I understand it, he is, yet isn’t. I’m sure it’s all far more complicated than that. He was part of an experiment during the Korean War…”<br />
<br />
“Korea?” Norwalk gasped. “That would make him…”<br />
<br />
“Yes, Father Norwalk; far older than he appears. The hope was to create elite warriors with the strength and stamina of the vampire without the messy side effects.”<br />
<br />
“Messy?” Norwalk breathed, almost laughing.<br />
<br />
“I only say it as it was said to me. That man sits in a prison far worse than any mortal man will ever know, Father Norwalk. No longer alive, not yet dead. Desperately seeking redemption yet knowing that salvation must be nothing more than a word. What kind of atonement would you recommend, Father Norwalk? How many <em>Hail Mary's</em> do you think could absolve him, eh?”<br />
<br />
“If that’s the case, why doesn’t he fall on a stake? Maybe wait to see a sunrise?”<br />
<br />
“This is not a joking matter, Father Norwalk.” Jessup interrupted. “Perhaps it is not yet time for me to retire after all. Perhaps you should return to Ohio. I’m sure they’ll have your old position open for you.”<br />
<br />
“Now Father Jessup, let’s be reasonable,” Norwalk said.<br />
<br />
“You obviously don’t have the best interests of your congregation at heart, Father Norwalk. You seem possessed by the idea that all you need do is conduct a few masses and a few weddings to serve the Lord and your flock. You will be leaned upon for far more than that here. Perhaps this is not the best place for you.”<br />
<br />
Norwalk leaned against the wall and sighed. Ohio was the last place he wanted to be. But even for this late–night post, he also knew Father Jessup’s name carried not a small amount of weight. If he’d done the type of questionable work he alluded to in days gone by, it would only stand to reason. But even so, the thought that not only were things like vampires real but that one so brazenly sat in the house of God was still hard for him to take. “Father, let’s assume he is what you say. Who else knows?”<br />
<br />
“Here? No one. You will only see him at night, and you will be the only priest here,” Jessup said.<br />
<br />
“This is too much, father…”<br />
<br />
“Look at it this way, Father Norwalk; he is not only one of your flock, he is also one of the leading silent contributors to this church. Over the years, his donations into that very poor box have fed and clothed hundreds. We recently sought donations to repair the organ. He learned of it and a week later there was a team of four men from Germany at our door. They refinished, repaired and tuned the old girl. They never asked for a dime and did the work over the course of several nights, never in the day.”<br />
<br />
“You think he…?”<br />
<br />
“He’s never said, and I’ve never asked. I told the church the donations came from several benefactors that wished to remain anonymous. Wisely, they didn’t question. But the greatest irony? He’s never even heard it play. How many of our parishioners do you think would do such a thing? Most of them would want a gold plaque bearing their names for the ages,” Father Jessup said.<br />
<br />
Norwalk looked out into the sanctuary and watched as the man got up and walked across the expanse to the confessionals. He paused outside for a moment then squeezed his large frame into one. “Father Jessup…”<br />
<br />
“I know.” The old priest stood slowly, achingly from the stool. He paused and looked at Norwalk with a piercing gaze. “Perhaps this would be a good time for you to fully assume your duties. Tend your flock. He has to know I’m leaving. It’s been in the bulletins for weeks.”<br />
<br />
“I…me? Father Jessup…maybe you should see to him. I mean, it is your last night and all…”<br />
<br />
“Yes. But he’s <em>your</em> lamb, now. He wouldn’t have come tonight if he wasn’t willing to give you a chance, to trust you with the very nature of his being. If he puts such faith in you sight-unseen, can’t you put your faith in the Lord that he has come here from a higher calling, just as you and I have been called? He is looking for aid and comfort, no matter how slight, to keep what little shreds of his dignity and humanity he has left. Would you deny him that?”<br />
<br />
The two men of God stood staring at each other for long moments before Norwalk turned without a word and went to the confessional. He paused for a moment, his hand on the delicate latch. He didn’t look back. Jessup smiled and left the alcove just as the last of his lambs filtered out of the church. He went to the pew where the vampire had sat and found the small leather pouch waiting for him in the usual way. He opened it, filled the many small vials inside with holy water and placed it back on the pew then extinguished the candles around the basin. Looking out past the alter he paused to admire the massive brass tubes of the pipe organ glowing softly in the candlelight thrown off from the altar. He cracked his knuckles gently and cast a smile to the confessionals before making for the old organ. <em>Goodbye</em> should always be more than a word.<br />
<br />
<em>-Just write, damn it-</em> AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-7636375432609539102011-04-13T18:46:00.000-07:002011-04-13T18:46:53.924-07:00The Bad Man - Fiction<div><em>Welcome back, Constant Reader, and welcome anew to the Casual. I've been a bit busy the last few weeks with other projects, so please forgive the lapse in my usual, punctual posting. This time around, I bring you an old tale with, to Constant Reader, a familiar concept. You might recognize a few character elements from this week's tale from other works, namely</em> Shakespeare<em>, the vampire hunter. This tale,</em> Bad Man<em>, was an early physical character concept for that character. Sampson complex? Perhaps. Either way, I enjoyed my time with the Bad Man, and I hope you do, too. Thank you for your readership, and I hope you enjoy this week's offering.</em> - Author<br />
<br />
<br />
April was late. Again. She tugged at her turtleneck, trying to pull it up higher to her chin. It was always too warm in the wards, but concealment was the necessary evil today. She hoped her rushed make–up job would stand up to the task as well. At least it was Saturday; a lot less people to notice she was late. Again. She checked in with security and trotted past the main lobby into the recesses of Mercy. Finding the locker room empty, she took a moment to check her make–up. Far heavier than she was used to, but that couldn’t be helped, either. She closed her locker and turned to find Janice sitting on a bench a few feet away. The woman had made the silent nurses’ walk an art form.<br />
<br />
“You’re late again, April,” the tall, older woman said severely.<br />
<br />
“I know Janice. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again…” April said, her face hot under her heavy cosmetics.<br />
<br />
“Yes, April. It will happen again. And again. There are counseling services available through your health insurance. I suggest you use them,” she said.<br />
<br />
“What’s that supposed to mean?” April shot back, though lacking the force she’d wanted.<br />
<br />
Janice pulled a tissue from her pocket. With a quick, rough motion she wiped it across the young woman’s face like a mother dabbing at ice cream on a child’s chin. The fresh make–up yielded easily, revealing the hint of an angry bruise on April’s cheek. “I was sympathetic, the first few times. That was three years ago. Get your life together or I’m going to have to let you go. The work here is difficult enough. The patients deserve your full attention.”<br />
<br />
Tears had welled unbidden in April’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “He’s not a bad man, Janice,” April said huskily yet unconvincingly through the tears. “He has problems…”<br />
<br />
“We all have problems.” Janice didn’t bother to give her a comforting smile or even the light touch of solidarity on her shoulder. “You’re on the security ward today,” she told her as she walked away. “They had some issues last night. Stop at the pharmacy first and pick up the meds.”<br />
<br />
“Bad issues?” April asked, wiping away her tears.<br />
<br />
“Phillip grabbed Kevin’s hair last night. Kevin’s in isolation.”<br />
<br />
“Is he all right?"<br />
<br />
“Kevin is just fine. Phillip , however, is in traction.”<br />
<br />
April didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. She hurriedly applied more make–up and pinned her long blonde hair back, making sure to grab her special bag from her locker before hurrying off.<br />
***<br />
<br />
The security ward at the mental facility was a fairly light affair, merely a wing cordoned off by a stout door with a few more surveillance cameras and locks. The guard, Bob, buzzed her through the door and stood when she came to the desk. He was a young man, tall and not hard on her eyes. A tiny stab of pain from her neck erased those thoughts instantly as the guard took her loaded–down tray so she could drop her bag by the desk.<br />
<br />
“Glad to see you, April. Place went a little nuts last night,” Bob said, smiling. His smile faded from happiness to something near sympathy as he looked at her, his male mind slower to notice the heavy make–up and even heavier eyelids. April quickly picked up a clipboard and stared at it to break his gaze. Christ, did everyone here know her business?<br />
<br />
“What happened last night?” April asked, scanning the clipboard but reading nothing.<br />
<br />
“I wasn’t here, but from what Ralph told me it was TV time. Phillip grabbed Kevin’s braid…” Bob didn’t go on, didn’t have to. April quickly lifted her eyes from the clipboard.<br />
<br />
“Anyone else hurt?”<br />
<br />
“Phillip, of course. Two guards will be off for awhile. One of the supervisors finally brought him down. Had to taser him twice to do it, though.”<br />
<br />
“Any of the staff?” April asked.<br />
<br />
“Nope. The two that tried he just threw into chairs.”<br />
<br />
“Is he sedated?”<br />
<br />
“They gave him stuff. He’s still awake though,” Bob pointed to the small monitor mounted above his desk. She glanced at it and saw Kevin seated on the bed in the tiny segregation cell. He was wearing full restraints but looked the picture of calm, his head hung low on his chest. As she was about to look away, Kevin’s chin rose, his face swiveling upward into the camera. Even on the black and white monitor she could still see the haunting in his dark eyes. Did he know she was there, watching him? “Like I said, I’m glad you’re here. It’s no secret you’re about the only one that can handle him. Especially… well, you know how he can get.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I know.” For some reason, Kevin had grafted to her soon after she’d started working at Mercy. But it wasn’t as if he was overly talkative with her, or anyone else for that matter. He’d apparently been in the military, since his psychiatrist was in uniform and carried VA credentials. She checked Kevin’s chart to see what was administered and when. April wasn’t surprised to see they’d given him enough tranquilizer to drop a bull moose at a dead run. It amazed her he was even awake in the first place.<br />
<br />
“I’ll take care of him after everyone else gets their meds,” April said as she picked up the tray and made to walk away.<br />
<br />
“April…” Bob said softly after her. She stopped, not liking his tone yet finding a little tingle running up her spine at hearing her name called so softly, the jab of pain from her neck ignored for the moment of the sensation. “Janice wants him transferred. With his history and the security reports, it’s likely to happen. Soon. I’d rather you heard it from me than from the dragon lady.”<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
April finished giving the medications to the others then came back to the isolation ward. She picked up her bag and flipped it open, making sure she had everything she needed and plucked the key to Kevin’s cell from the nail board that hung above the desk.<br />
<br />
“April… I can’t let you take that,” he said apologetically. “Janice’s orders. He’s on lock–down.”<br />
<br />
April stared at Bob as if he’d slapped her. She strung her bag over her shoulder and leaned against a tall file cabinet beside the desk. “Bob… the man needs help. Please. Help me out here?”<br />
<br />
The guard sighed and stared at her hooded eyes. “April, no offense, but you look like shit. Maybe today isn’t such a good day for this, especially after last night…”<br />
<br />
“Kevin’s got more tranq’ in him than you have coffee. It’ll be fine. He just needs a little calm time. He’ll be a lot easier for you guys to handle if I can get to him. Please, Bob… I’ve never asked you for anything.”<br />
<br />
“I know…” Bob agreed, then adding in the barest whisper, “…but maybe you should”.<br />
<br />
April had heard him, but not clearly enough. She didn’t push the issue though. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Ten minutes, no more. I can turn off the camera in his cell, but if it’s off too long they’ll know if they review the tapes. Use the guard lounge sink. I’m the only one on duty for another two hours.”<br />
<br />
“Thanks, Bob. I won’t forget this.”<br />
<br />
“I hope not,” he said in the same tone he’d called her name before. This time she smiled; a small smile, but at least genuine. In a moment of impulse, she bent down and gave him a quick, small peck on the cheek. The act stung her bruised face but she discounted it and quickly made off down the hall.<br />
<br />
April paused at the cell door, key in hand, and waited for Bob to wave to let her from the other end of the hall. With the camera off, she quickly went into the cell to find Kevin seated exactly where he had been when she saw him earlier. He was a large man, well muscled and exceptionally tall. Seated on the bed as he was, he could still almost look her in the eye. He looked at her, a smile sharing space with the haunting in his eyes if not on his lips.<br />
<br />
“Bad Man was here, April…” he said. “I tried to keep him away…”<br />
<br />
“I know, Kevin,” she said. She put an arm around him to help him up. The leg shackles would make their trip slower but it couldn’t be helped. It was enough that Bob risked his job for her. April didn’t see pushing the issue and asking for all his restraints to be removed. It would be enough that she could get the jacket off herself though she knew his wrists would be bound under the heavy canvas coat.<br />
<br />
As they made their way down the hall Kevin leaned on her less and less. The exercise of walking had already started to work off some of the effects of the tranquilizers. “Tried to tell them. Told them you were the only one that could talk to the Bad Man. Wouldn’t listen. Tried to hurt the Bad Man. Bad Man hurt them.”<br />
<br />
“Ssshhh. It’s okay, Kevin. I understand.”<br />
<br />
“Hurt me, too,” Kevin said dully, “Neck hurts.”<br />
<br />
They passed into the guards’ lounge, April locking the door behind them. “Let me see, Kevin,” she said softly. He tilted his head to the side to reveal an ugly electrical burn. They’d tasered him directly into the neck. She frowned, but all in all it probably couldn’t be helped. April had first seen Kevin’s Bad Man, his psychotic alter ego, a few years ago. It took two weeks after that before she could go near him again. But that experience had taught her a valuable lesson; how to calm the Bad Man and make him go away for weeks, even months. “Kevin, I’m going to take off the jacket now, okay?”<br />
<br />
Kevin nodded dumbly and stood rigid while she unbuckled the canvas contraption from his torso. The guards hadn’t used the sleeves, preferring to leave his shackled wrists in front of him under the coat. The straps had been wrenched down painfully tight, evidenced by the long angry red marks across his shirtless chest and back. She rubbed a few of the worst spots gently and pushed a chair with her foot in front of the deep sink against the wall. Kevin sat down without a word and leaned his head forward.<br />
<br />
April moved around behind him and slowly, gently took Kevin’s long braid in both hands. Bound as it was, the tip just reached his waist. She pulled it up to hang over the back of the chair and started to work at the tiny knots in the long cord. It had been a fight for her to get the hospital to even allow the long leather strip, but with the help of his psychiatrist, she achieved the exception. His psychiatrist had also counseled against forcing the cutting of his long mane, citing the mental health of the patient. No one wanted to know what would happen if Kevin awoke one morning to find his hair gone.<br />
<br />
“Now, Kevin… I’m going to take out the braid. Okay?” April said with a hint of nervousness. Kevin had never made any motion of any kind against her, though this part of the ritual always tensed her a bit. April was compassionate, not stupid.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, April.” he answered in a whisper. “Hair itches. Can’t scratch,” he said, shaking the manacles on his wrists as evidence.<br />
<br />
“I know, Kevin. We’ll take care of that.” Finally freeing the small knots, April slowly pulled the leather away. Kevin tensed but only for a moment before she handed him the thong to hold in his bound hands as she worked her fingers into the tightly–laced braid, a braid she herself had wound just the week before. “Kevin, are you okay?” she asked as more and more of his thick hair came loose from the weave.<br />
<br />
“Yes, April. Feels good. Thank you.”<br />
<br />
She finally worked the last loop of the braid free, letting his hair fall across the back of the chair. “Still okay, Kevin?” He nodded slightly, but now a small, low sound was coming from his throat. Far from a growl, and not necessarily an unpleasant sound, more of a purr. That was how it usually went when the transition from Kevin to, well… not Kevin came to pass. “Is Kevin still here?” April asked apprehensively, her fingers shaking slightly as they slowly raked down his mane.<br />
<br />
“He is here, but not.” Kevin and the Bad Man shared the same voice, but when Kevin went away, the voice took on a far deeper, almost sinister quality. Her hands paused, but only for a moment before continuing to separate the long–bound strands.<br />
<br />
“Do I need to be afraid?” April asked quietly, her hands still tracing through his hair.<br />
<br />
“I am the only man you have nothing to fear from, April.”<br />
<br />
April shivered slightly. The Bad Man could be cryptic, maddeningly so. Oftentimes, the tone of his voice and the things he said seemed to reverberate in her head for hours afterward. “I’m going to run a brush through it. Is that okay?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Do what you will, and what only you alone will do,” he said, the words melding with his purr. April pulled a brush from the bag and started working it through, pulling out the small knots and tangles as she went. The Bad Man sat still yet relaxed, his purr buzzing comfortably in her ears. She finished with the brush and put it back in the bag, pulling two bottles from it as she went.<br />
<br />
“Lean your head back,” April said. He complied, his dark eyes now staring up at her. Where Kevin’s always seemed to be haunted and distant, the Bad Man’s were nothing of the sort. Dark and glistening, she thought she could almost see the madness in them. There was no lost way, no haunted vacancy. They were cold, calculating; dangerous. April shook her head, breaking their stare. Like the hypnotic trance of a cobra those eyes could lock you in place; the prey waiting, almost wanting, for the kill.<br />
<br />
“You are very good to me, April. And to Kevin. He needs you, you know,” the Bad Man said conversationally, as if talking about a shared friend. He closed his eyes as she hauled his mane into the sink and started running hot water through it.<br />
<br />
“What happened last night?” April asked as she worked his hair through the falling water.<br />
<br />
“Last night? Oh! I see.” He smiled, looking much like a great cat that had just finished dinner. “The lunatic would not leave Kevin alone. I cared little about the proceedings. But when the madman touched me… well, I could not let such insult pass without answer.” The Bad Man sniffed the steamy air a moment and opened his eyes to slits. “April, you are not wearing your perfume today. I do so enjoy the scent.”<br />
<br />
“I… slept in this morning.” April said, her voice strained from the memory of her latest altercation with her husband. “I didn’t have time for my usual morning rituals.”<br />
<br />
“Ah. I see,” he said mockingly as she applied shampoo through his tresses. “Yet, oddly enough, you still had time to apply that mess you have on your face. Perhaps in the future you will more rightly concern yourself with the finer things, eh?” The tone of his voice, still ominous, had taken on a different, almost mocking tone. April fell silent at that and busied herself with washing. It was usually a week or more between times and she wanted to make sure the job was done thoroughly. The Bad Man continued to purr all the while though left his eyes open to slits, making April consciously avoid looking into them. “You should let your hair down more often, April,” he said, referring to her own severe ponytail.<br />
<br />
“Work rules,” April said as she rinsed the shampoo from his hair. Finished with that, she applied conditioner and started working it through. He sniffed the air again, continuing to purr.<br />
<br />
“You use a different product for me than what you use for yourself,” he noted.<br />
<br />
“Your hair is thicker than mine…“ April stopped her fingers and risked a look at him. “You can smell that?”<br />
<br />
“Ah, April. Scent is so important. It is how man finds woman, how the world warns of dangers, how slayer finds prey.” That last example set April's mind on edge. Mixed with the heavy–lidded, glinting gaze it was almost unbearable.<br />
<br />
“So, is Kevin’s doctor to arrive today?” The rapid change in subject threw her off balance as did his odd inflection on the word ‘doctor’. April swallowed hard and returned to her work.<br />
<br />
“I think he’s scheduled this afternoon.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Your therapy has a way of making me over–calm. But I will endeavor to be sufficiently awake to assist Kevin. The boy so needs tending, and the doctor, as you call him, he can be quite persuasive to a weak mind.”<br />
<br />
April was becoming confused. The Bad Man was not normally this talkative. And his obvious disdain for his psychiatrist was something they’d never discussed before. Not wanting the avenue to close, April decided to risk pressing the issue. “You don’t care for your… for Kevin’s doctor?”<br />
<br />
“Doctor? Oh, do not tell me you have fallen for ruse, sweet April. The man is no doctor.”<br />
<br />
“What? How… why do you say that?” April finished working the conditioner through and had a few minutes to wait for it to work its magic. She turned the water off and wiped her hands on a towel from the bag.<br />
<br />
“You must become more observant of the human condition, April,” the Bad Man admonished her. “You did not strike me as one to be taken in by charlatans and snake oil. Tell me, April. You are a nurse. Well trained and highly skilled, yes? Tell me, April. Do you see patients with dirty hands?”<br />
<br />
April stood and stared at his now–closed eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”<br />
<br />
“And thus my point,” he said. “Though I still appreciate the tender mercies you place upon Kevin and me. I will miss them.”<br />
<br />
“What do you mean?”<br />
<br />
“Do you think me daft? I know well that my time here is short, for I no longer belong here… though I would ask you not to tell Kevin of it. He can be excitable sometimes.”<br />
<br />
“As excitable as putting men in the hospital?” April said before she could regulate the words. He opened one eye, his expression giving the gesture more to a wink than to vision.<br />
<br />
“I do not willingly suffer injustice, especially from the likes of lunatics and stupid men. I allowed Kevin to warn them. If they did not take heed, I take no blame for their conditions.” He closed his eye and settled his head more comfortably on the chair back. “It has been one minute thirty seconds; the normal amount of time you allot for the conditioning process.”<br />
<br />
“What? Oh…” April turned the water back on and started working his hair through it. She knew she was already past her ten minute window but it couldn’t be helped. She would need to dry his hair thoroughly before braiding it. With his doctor coming in this afternoon, wet hair would be a dead giveaway he’d been out of restraints. Finished with the rinsing, April took up the brush and plugged in her hair dryer.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, but that contraption will not be necessary,” he said dryly. “I do not wish to have that incessant whining in my ear.”<br />
<br />
“If I don’t dry it… after your little stunt last night…” April forced herself to calm down. She couldn’t let familiarity lull her into saying the wrong thing to the dangerous man sitting before her. She measured her words carefully. “You’re not even supposed to be out.”<br />
<br />
“Ah, but I am, am I not? All things occur for a reason, April. All things are connected, related. Time is no barrier, only hindrance. You have helped me, April. And you have helped Kevin. For that, you have our gratitude, though I doubt Kevin's simple mind could express them with the proper eloquence. Why, if it were not for you, I would have perhaps gone mad in my years spent in this fine institution.” The Bad Man smiled as he leaned his head up off the chair to allow her to brush and braid it. April stepped fully behind him and started running the brush through the water–logged strands.<br />
<br />
“I would miss both of you, if you went anywhere that is,” April said. “You have beautiful hair.” The buzzing of the intercom split the room.<br />
<br />
“April…” Bob’s slightly panicked voice came through, “… you really need to hurry it up.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry Bob, almost finished.” April hurried the brush a bit more though still running it through all the way to the ends.<br />
<br />
“Bob is a Nice Man, yes?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes. He is.”<br />
<br />
“And a handsome young lad to boot, I wager.”<br />
<br />
April stopped her brushing for a moment, again taken aback. The Bad Man was full of unusual observations this morning. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not looking…”<br />
<br />
In less time than it took her to blink she found her feet dangling above the floor. The Bad Man had stood, turned and dropped his manacled wrists around her, lifting her in a bear hug so tight her arms were pinned to her sides. At the end of that blink she was eye to eye with him. Shocked to silence, April could only tremble and stare, caught in that cobra’s glance. “If that were true, you would not have his scent upon you.” The Bad Man smiled wickedly and completed the venomous image as he licked her lips gently, with just the barest tip of his tongue. “Especially upon your lips…” Nose to nose, gazes locked, the Bad Man sniffed gently again, this time frowning slightly. “There are... other scents upon you. One exhilarates… sweet… oh, so sweet… but yet from you it carries a dark taint, spoiling it, really.” Using his teeth he pulled down the tall neck of her sweater to reveal a large bruise shaped suspiciously like the hand of a small man. “Blood trapped beneath the skin… such a waste of its color… its scent. And that other foul scent? One I have tasted upon you since our first meeting; one of a weakling, a coward. Only such a disgusting creature as this would leave such sweetness trapped between vein and skin with not the courage or nerve to neither honor it in the vein nor free it for the world to see.”<br />
<br />
He set her down gently, making sure her legs were under her before removing his support. April stood shaking uncontrollably, the brush falling from her hand. “You should tress me up now, April. I do not want you to fall into disfavor for showing Kevin and me such kindness as you have. That kindness will surely not be forgotten... and will yet be repaid.”<br />
<br />
After she’d put herself back together, gathered her things and wound his mane tightly, Kevin returned. Though not seemingly observant of the world around him, he was enough so he could tell April had been affected by her visit with the Bad Man. She wouldn’t answer his few simple questions about the time he seemed to have lost. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have questions for him. She took a moment to fight a stray wisp of her own hair from her eyes, realizing she must have lost a bobby pin when the Bad Man plucked her up. She would have to replace it later. Janice was a stickler for appearance.<br />
<br />
“Kevin,” April asked as she put him back into his restraints, leaving them far looser than they had been, “...do you like your doctor?” Kevin stayed silent as she fastened buckles and straps. “Kevin? Can you hear me?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, April.” he answered. “Bad Man says he’s not a doctor… I shouldn’t tell him anything. If I tell him, he’ll kill me.”<br />
<br />
“Kevin! That’s absurd! Your doctor wouldn’t do that!” She moved in front of him and looked up into eyes that just moments ago had placed fear such as she’d never known into her. “He’s your doctor.”<br />
<br />
“Bad Man says doctors don’t have dirty hands. Bad Man says if we tell him what he wants to know… we… we will have… outlived our usefulness.” April gasped at the last words, all issued in the Bad Man’s voice.<br />
<br />
“Kevin,” April said, choosing her words carefully. “What does your doctor ask you?”<br />
<br />
“About stuff. Places. Stuff when I was in the army… that’s where I met the Bad Man… he takes care of me… keeps them from hurting me. If I don’t tell what they want to know… he can protect me…”<br />
<br />
“Kevin… what did you do? In the army?”<br />
<br />
“I killed people.” he said as if he had just told her he was a pilot or a garbage man.<br />
<br />
“You mean the Bad Man killed people,” April corrected.<br />
<br />
“No… I killed them… Bad Man came after that.”<br />
<br />
There was so much more April wanted to ask but they had already reached his cell. She helped him sit back down on his bed and smoothed a stray wisp of hair from his cheek that had slipped from its bonds. “Kevin, listen to your doctor. He’s here to help you. He won’t hurt you. Maybe if you listen to him…”<br />
<br />
“He’ll kill me…” Kevin said softly. “Bad Man says so.”<br />
<br />
April shook her head and left the room. Just as she reached Bob’s desk two men in dress-green Army uniforms came around the corner. April stepped out of their way and breathed a sigh of relief. Had she been a few moments longer with Kevin it would have gone badly for all of them.<br />
<br />
“Dr. Korbin,” Bob greeted him as he handed the doctor a clipboard. “Who’s your friend?”<br />
<br />
“This is my associate, Dr. Keller. He will be assisting me today.” The tall, thin doctor scribbled on the clipboard then handed it to the other, shorter but far more solidly–built officer to sign. As they handed it off April glanced at their fingers. The tall one, Korbin, had bits of black grit under a few of his nails. The shorter had several rough calluses on his thumbs. Her eyes wide, April took another step back and tried to be invisible while in plain sight. She dealt with doctors everyday. Not one of them would see a patient without washing up first. “I understand Kevin had an incident last night? Nothing too serious I hope?” Korbin asked.<br />
<br />
“If you call putting a few guards in the hospital not serious, then yes, I guess so,” Bob said as wryly as his uniform would allow. Korbin gave him a smirk then turned down the hall, his associate in tow. “Standard procedure if you would, Officer Martin,” he called over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
“Standard procedure?” April repeated. “And won’t they need the key?” She held up the key to Kevin’s cell and dropped it on Bob's desk.<br />
<br />
“Dr. Korbin has his own key. And the standard procedure is the camera in the cell goes off and the intercom is disabled.”<br />
<br />
“What? Why?”<br />
<br />
“Don’t know. Those are standing orders. Guess you’ve never been on the ward when his doctor comes, have you? Very cloak and dagger stuff. I was told not to question it. They’ll be in there for about 20 minutes or so and be gone.”<br />
<br />
April looked up at the monitor just as Bob’s hand reached to turn it off. She saw that Kevin had got up from the bed and was now standing, his face up against the intercom. “Bob, wait... I think he wants to talk to us.” April reached over and flicked the intercom on just as Bob’s finger fell on the camera button.<br />
<br />
“Too late now…” Bob said as they both heard the cell door open farther down the hall. But instead of turning off the intercom, April touched the mute button to close off their end. “April, what are you doing? This isn’t just a firing thing, this is messing with the Army thing…”<br />
<br />
“I know, it's just something Kevin told me today. I just want to know what’s going on.”<br />
<br />
Bob shot her an odd glance then turned the volume down, low enough that a passerby couldn’t hear, low enough to force her to move her head mere inches from his own to hear.<br />
<br />
“Captain Beloit…” Keller said over the unknown intercom. “Good to see you again. You remember Dr. Keller?”<br />
<br />
“You’re not doctors.” Kevin’s soft voice buzzed over the intercom. “None of you are.”<br />
<br />
“You know…” Bob whispered, “…they’re going to know we’re listening. The little green light will be flashing on the intercom with the line open.”<br />
<br />
“They haven’t noticed yet. If they do, I’ll take full responsibility,” April whispered back, not taking her eyes off the tiny speaker on the desk.<br />
<br />
“Captain, you know who we are. We’re here to help you.” Korbin said. Apparently Keller was just an assistant, or a guard for the rail–thin Korbin.<br />
<br />
“Bad Man says I shouldn’t talk to you.” Kevin said.<br />
<br />
“Kevin, let’s be reasonable. Why don’t you let us talk to the Bad Man for once…”<br />
<br />
April and Bob exchanged nervous glances. “Are they nuts?” Bob whispered. “I’m going to call for back–up. If Kevin freaks out in there…”<br />
<br />
“No Bob… please, wait. Let’s just hear what they have to say. They won’t let him out. They know better than us what he’s capable of.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah… let the Bad Man out so we can talk to him,” Keller finally piped in. A loud metallic sound crackled over the intercom.<br />
<br />
“What was that?” April asked.<br />
<br />
“A pistol being chambered,” Bob whispered. “I have to get in there…”<br />
<br />
April was already moving. She snagged the key from the desk and made it just a few steps before the intercom came alive with shouts and screams of pain. The sounds stopped her, but the next voice froze her in her tracks.<br />
<br />
“Now, Doctor Korbin…” the Bad Man said quite clearly over the intercom, accompanied by Korbin's pained gurgling. “I’m sure the viewing public would be interested in this sight.”<br />
<br />
April walked slowly back around the desk and nodded at Bob. “Turn the camera back on.”<br />
<br />
Hesitantly, with one hand on his radio, Bob flicked the camera’s eye back to life. The screen brightened to show Keller on the floor. The barrel and slide of the pistol they’d heard only a moment before had been shoved through Keller's neck, a large, black pool of ichor spreading on the floor under him. Keller's right arm had been rotated far from its designed angle, making him look like a slack–eyed rag doll cast onto the floor. Kevin stood against the wall, Korbin’s neck wrapped firmly in the crook of his left arm. Korbin’s face was obscured by the thick shock of the Bad Man’s mane as it spilled freely down his shoulders. The Bad Man looked up at the camera, winked then spat something tiny and hard at the lens.<br />
<br />
“What the hell was that?” Bob asked, squinting.<br />
<br />
“The little green light that was supposed to flash on the intercom,” April said without a missing a beat.<br />
<br />
“How did his hair…?” Bob asked. “And the restraints?”<br />
<br />
April had sudden flashes of memory, like pieces to a puzzle. She had put the restraints back on more loosely, and she'd handed the leather thong to Kevin to hold while she worked. Her missing pin. “It’s my fault,” April breathed.<br />
<br />
“Now, good doctor. I want you to tell all our listeners exactly why you are here. This will tell them why Kevin is here. And, why both of us will be departing very soon.”<br />
<br />
“I have to get help up here,” Bob growled as he turned his chair and keyed the radio. April didn’t try to stop him. If the Bad Man were loose… if he picked up the pistol…<br />
<br />
“Now, doctor. You will die otherwise. It will be slow. It will be very, very painful, and it will involve the loss of each of your bodily fluids in turn.” There was a slight pause, then “Why is Kevin here?”<br />
<br />
“You know… you… why…” Korbin gasped, blood gurgling in his throat.<br />
<br />
“I am not Kevin. You destroyed Kevin. Destroyed him with your drugs, did you not? Destroyed him for participating in that most basic instinct… self preservation. Isn’t that right? Do not tell our listeners of the details, else they would become hunted by honorless dogs just as Kevin has been all these years.”<br />
<br />
“Listen…” Korbin’s voice pleaded over the intercom, “whoever may be out there… contact the authorities… he’s going to kill me…”<br />
<br />
“Korbin; Kevin hid something from you, did he not? What did he hide from you, Korbin?” the Bad Man said.<br />
<br />
The gurgling intensified for a moment over the intercom, finally ending in gasps and gulps for air. “Yes!... for the love of God yes!” Korbin gasped, choking on the words.<br />
<br />
“Kevin had been such a Nice Man. One bad mission too many for Nice Kevin, was it not? He knew too much, yet he was far smarter than any of you. He hid details… evidence… of his black operations… the depravities and atrocities he committed for you and your clandestine agencies and operations… did he not? So much information, so much proof… things no one would ever want leaked to the press in any nation. Is that not so?” The intercom fell silent just as the sound of running feet came from the elevator down the hall from the security desk. Bob’s reinforcements had arrived.<br />
<br />
“Yes!” Korbin screamed, his voice tight with unimaginable pain.<br />
<br />
“And it was your doing, your drugs… your pathetic attempts to make Kevin reveal the location of his proof… it was these things that brought him to me. It was these things that brought me into the world. To protect Kevin. And to seek his vengeance. Your services are no longer required, doctor. Kevin is now in my care. You will live, if only so you may tell others our good listeners shall be kept free of charges or suspicions. They know nothing. But that does not mean you shall not bear the marks of this day.”<br />
<br />
April watched the monitor in growing horror as the Bad Man spun Korbin around, facing away from him. The Bad Man drew back his fist and launched a punch that blurred on the screen as the pixels scrambled to keep up. Korbin didn’t scream. Instead, his eyes went wide as he crumpled silently to the floor, his legs splayed in an unnatural state. “You stole Kevin’s life, I have stolen your legs. The two of you now stand even. Do not seek to up the score.”<br />
<br />
“My God… “ Bob wheezed, “…he just crippled him…”<br />
<br />
Jack, the captain of the guard, and three additional guards with Janice in tow arrived breathlessly at the desk just as Korbin’s body fell. “Holy shit! What the hell’s going on in there?” Jack barked, his finger jutting at the screen.<br />
<br />
“He got loose,” Bob said as he put on his web belt as he rushed past April to join the other guards.<br />
<br />
“I think his doctor released him from the restraints, something about therapy…” April lied. In for a penny, in for a pound they say.<br />
<br />
“Lock it down, damn it!” the captain roared.<br />
<br />
“Won’t help… he’s got a key,” Bob said. He formed a line across the hall with the rest of the guards, trying to cordon off the way out. Each was armed with a retractable baton in one hand and a can of pepper spray in the other.<br />
<br />
“A key? What…” the captain turned to Janice. The elder nurse gave him a sniff and looked away.<br />
<br />
“His doctor has the highest of military credentials. I couldn’t have denied him access if I’d wanted to,” Janice said.<br />
<br />
“Then get on the phone and get the army or the cops… get somebody in here, Janice. This is about to get real ugly real fast. I saw what this guy can do…”<br />
<br />
“And he was successfully contained with a taser last night, much like the one you’re carrying, Captain. Simply subdue him. He will be medicated and will be transported to a proper criminal facility this evening. I don’t see what all the bother is, really. He’s only one man,” Janice said, paying only the faintest interest to the proceedings. “The last thing this hospital needs is negative press, especially from the psychiatric ward. The police won’t be necessary, captain. I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”<br />
<br />
“There’s a gun in the cell,” Bob warned.<br />
<br />
“A what?” Jack almost screamed.<br />
<br />
“The other one with Korbin brought it in. Last I saw it was buried up to the trigger in the guy’s neck,” Bob said. Just then, the door to Kevin’s cell swung open. To the left was the guard lounge and a dead end, not even a window from which to escape. The only way out for Kevin was through the guards. But, it wasn’t Kevin that emerged from the cell.<br />
<br />
The Bad Man stepped out and turned to face the assembled force. He closed his eyes and turned his neck to each side with loud cracking sounds for reward. His hair hung loose and free, the longest it had done so without being in April’s hands for more than a decade. And even over the twenty–odd yards that separated him from them, April could see the dark eyes gleaming.<br />
<br />
“Clear my path, lest you leave your wives widows and your sons bastards,” the Bad Man growled as he stalked slowly down the hall. April saw no fear, no apprehension from the lone man as he walked straight into the path of four armed ones. In place of those was a near maniacal glee; a wet, black glint. What Kevin once did as an occupation, the Bad Man did for sheer pleasure.<br />
<br />
“Bob…” April whispered as the Bad Man came towards them, “…get the hell out of here… now… all of you… get out of his way… it’s not worth it…” April leaned against the wall, willing her weak knees to slide her along it to the elevators. She made a few sidling steps before she looked up and locked eyes with the Bad Man, freezing her in place. She knew she needed to run, must run, but she was snared. The Bad Man continued staring at her, holding her in his own way. Even when he met with the wall of guards, still his eyes held hers.<br />
<br />
There was no fight, no squaring off of opponents or courtly salutes. To a man the guards knew their training was useless. To aim to subdue would lead them to a quick and painful end. When the Bad Man came within arms’ reach the hall erupted into a dervish of arms and legs, bodies and blood. The steel batons rose and fell with lightning speed, but not nearly fast enough to catch their target. With speed belying his size the Bad Man avoided a half dozen blows before snatching up two of the guards and snapping a wrist in each of his hands. Now armed with their batons he fell upon them with a savage glee. Years of institutional solitude rolled off of his weapons as he pummeled the men into the floor.<br />
<br />
Bob had wisely hung back. Sizing up his opponent, Bob stepped in and brought his baton up and over his head, the high arc meaning to bury the weapon in the Bad Man’s skull. But he merely brought one of his own weapons up over his crown to meet it, the jar of steel on steel sending a shock wave through Bob’s weapon and down his own arm. Numbed, his fingers lost control and his baton fell with an empty clang to the floor. Bob staggered back and nearly fell over his desk as the Bad Man advanced on him. From somewhere far off April heard herself scream at the Bad Man, to tell him not to hurt Bob. But it seemed the Bad Man wasn’t listening. His attentions turned to Bob, April was able to break that gaze and fell forward directly into Janice.<br />
<br />
“Janice… call the police… call someone…” April screamed frantically. Janice simply reared her hand and slapped Janice across the mouth.<br />
<br />
“Calm down, nurse. The captain has the situation in hand.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah… right…" Jack said through clenched teeth as he brought the taser to bear. He pointed it at the Bad Man and touched the trigger, sending the twin barbs with their trailing steel lines hurtling through the air. Without missing a beat the Bad Man grabbed Bob from the desk and swung him in the path of the missiles. The barbs stuck in Bob’s shoulder blades, causing his body to contort and heave in the Bad Man’s hand.<br />
<br />
“April believes you to be a Nice Man, Robert,” the Bad Man whispered in Bob's ear as the electricity finished its course through him. “And because April thinks you are a Nice Man, I will allow you to live.” He dropped Bob’s still–quaking body to the floor, more gently than one would have suspected, and turned his attentions on the captain. “You have another trigger yet to pull,” the Bad Man said to the captain, nodding at the remaining two leads jutting out of the weapon. “Use them. It will make your death more sporting for me and more heroic for the children of your children to hear.”<br />
<br />
Jack licked his parched lips and continued to hold the taser in front of him like a crucifix to ward off evil. As the Bad Man closed Jack suddenly dropped the weapon and put his hands in front of him in a gesture of surrender, backing up to keep the two women protectively behind him. “Now, Kevin… we can talk this out… no need for anyone else to get hurt. Why don’t you put the clubs down and we’ll talk about this…”<br />
<br />
The Bad Man did, in fact, drop the batons. But he kept coming. With a swipe of his hand he knocked Jack the floor. The captain was unconscious before he touched the tile. With that same hand he snatched Janice up by her lab coat and hauled her into the air so they could look each other in the eye. “You, dear woman, should invest in the touch of a man. Any man. Perhaps your mood would not fall to saccharin as easily for the effort.”<br />
<br />
Janice stared at him in wide–eyed terror, her fingers wrapped tightly around his tensed wrist. He pulled her face in as close as he could without their features touching and reduced his eyes to cat–like slits. “Boo!” he suddenly hissed at her, the sudden epitaph being all the old woman needed to short–circuit her already fragile grip on the situation. She fainted dead away in his hands, leaving April and the Bad Man the only conscious, breathing things in the hall.<br />
<br />
The Bad Man looked down at April and smiled. Though a wolf’s grin, it almost seemed genuine. “I will be taking my leave now, April. Though in my passing you, too, will be free of your own prison. Again, Kevin and I are in your debt for your sweet ministrations and kind words. You have kept him on at least the brink of sanity in our time here.” The Bad Man grabbed her waist and suddenly pulled her into him, the smell of blood and musk heavy on his skin. April gasped, her body trembling as if on the brink. She closed her eyes and waited for… she felt a soft kiss on her forehead, nothing more, nothing less. When she opened her eyes, the Bad Man was gone.<br />
<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
A week later, April stood in her best black dress at her late husband’s grave. The publicity Janice so desperately tried to avoid had come anyway. Kevin had removed April’s wallet from her coat at some point in the hall, including the spare car key kept within. Her key gave him her car, her wallet her address. The papers said that Kevin had went to her home, found her husband there and killed him in coldest blood, so much so that they could only guess that all his parts were in the box before her. He was still at large, they said. She doubted they would find him. The Bad Man was taking care of Kevin now. She felt sorry for whoever did find them.<br />
<br />
She made the sign of the cross over her breast and walked back down the hill towards the waiting family car. Her husband’s death had been brutal, savage. As she walked, she tried to feel sympathy, tried to feel anything towards the man. The bruise at her neck, healing but still evident enough to require a scarf, twinged again. She put a hand to it self–consciously and got in the empty limousine. It seemed even his family hadn’t thought much of him, either. A flash of color on the seat beside her turned her head. A single, long–stem rose lay there, a small note stuck to long and numerous thorns. She read the note several times then folded it neatly and stowed it away in her purse. She sniffed the delicate bloom then smiled a small smile.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, a Good Girl had need of a Bad Man after all.<br />
Just write, damn it. - Author</div>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-88158658495836503372011-04-03T21:02:00.000-07:002011-04-03T21:20:34.025-07:00The Prophet Romero - Fiction (Flash)<div align="left"><em>Hello one and all and welcome back to my head. I'm still in the throes of getting my anthology together, and editing work on my novel,</em> "Almost Hell; Area 187" <em>is finally nearing completion. I'm told the entire story will be put back into one, larger work as opposed to the originally announced two-part novel, and while trying to market a much larger book will be a challenge I must say I'm happy with the decision to return the work to one, single book. I hope to have a more official update before the end of the month. Until then, here's a very rare piece from me; flash fiction. I don't typically write flash because, let's face it, as most of you know I'm just too damn long-winded. I hope you enjoy.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br />The Christians didn’t get it, nor the Jews, the Muslims or any of the rest. It was a delicious irony that Romero ended up a more accurate prophet than Christ or Muhammad. The dead walking had nothing to do with Armageddon and everything to do with science. The government admitted to its involvement quickly to keep mass suicides, end-of-days cults and religious zealotry to a minimum. But admitting didn’t change the fact the world was screwed.<br /><br /><br />Aside from random gunshots and screams it had looked safe enough to make a break for it. Jake threw open Patty’s car door just as their neighbor, Dean, shambled from his garage, chunks of flesh missing from his face and neck. Jake stood frozen as once-Dean moaned and started across the yard. Patty screamed, breaking Jake’s trance. As Jake reached for his door, the ghoul was on him. The battle was brief but vicious, ending with Jake smashing once-Dean’s head against the pavement. It seemed The Prophet Romero had got that part right, too.<br /><br /><br />They sped down the torn streets, past abandoned vehicles and wandering, shuffling ghouls and more than a few running, bloody people as well. Jake wasn’t stopping for them. No telling if they’d been infected, and Jake wasn’t about to take the chance. He shrugged off the blood that dripped from his hand as he drove and assured Patty it was nothing, that he would be all right just as a car sped through the intersection ahead of them, colliding into her side of the car. Patty's world went black to the tune of screeching tires, shrieking glass, and twisting metal.<br /><br /></div><br /><div align="center">### </div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">The sun was low when Patty’s eyes fluttered open. She tried to shake her head, but nothing happened. There was no pain, rather a distinct absence of <em>all</em> feeling. Her head lay on the dashboard and her left arm was draped, unfeeling, across it. She sighted down the arm to Jake, focusing on him to clear her vision. He was slumped against the steering wheel, his bloody hand still locked on it in a death’s grip. The skin around the bite he’d suffered had turned a green-gray and his chest no longer rose and fell. Patty tried to call to him but could only croak. The realization of her predicament hit like a lightning bolt. She was paralyzed, Jake was dead, and they could be set upon at any time by ravenous ghouls.<br /><br /><br />Jake suddenly twitched then slumped back in his seat. Patty called to him, repeating his name. If he could get her out, help her get to the rescue center…<br /><br /><br />Jake’s head turned slowly and he fixed his milky, lifeless eyes upon her. He opened his mouth, moaning like once-Dean had done before he’d attacked Jake. Her body pinned from the impact and paralyzed, Patty could do nothing but watch as once-Jake reached out and lifted her arm from the dash. She couldn’t even scream as the ghoul she loved raised the tips of her lacquered fingers to his mouth.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Just write, damn it.</em> - Author </div>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-75227792872417545492011-03-26T16:59:00.000-07:002011-03-26T17:10:40.282-07:00Kicking and Screaming Into the Digital Age-Article<em>First, they came for the movies, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a filmmaker…</em><br /><br />30 years ago, the movie industry was abuzz with the innovation of the VHS recorder. This invention made it possible for people around the world to see movies in the comfort of their own homes, tape television shows for later viewing, and allowed for the beginnings of a true independent movie scene. People in rural areas and in the great expanses of the Midwest that rarely got a chance to see movies first-run in their town could now buy or rent the tape, and many of the great filmmakers of today would’ve never been able to start cutting their teeth at so early an age without the companion VHS camera as well as allowing Joe American a far easier and cost-effective way of recording home movies. And I don’t need to tell you that without the VHS boom the adult film industry would be a much different thing today.<br /><br />Of course, the consumer quickly realized the movies could be easily copied. Yes, it was a pain to hook up two VCR’s and dub from one to the other, and it took at least as long as the movie itself to make a single copy. The tapes were bulky and took up huge amounts of space, and their quality diminished over multiple viewings. But still, it was the start of real home entertainment. It was also the start of the entertainment industry’s long love/hate relationship with in-home technology. Who hasn’t scoffed at the various Interpol and FBI warnings still with us today about copying and displaying copyrighted material? Who among us, if it wasn’t actually us, didn’t have an uncle or a cousin that had whole walls devoted to copied VHS movies? Yes, there were a few arrests here and there, but those were mostly from the ones that tried to sell their bootlegs at flea markets and sidewalk blankets. Most movies that were copied came from the booming video rental business, and the big movie companies and distributors were somewhat mollified by considering the tapes were at least bought by the rental businesses in the first place.<br /><br /><em>Then, they came for the games, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a gamer…<br /></em><br />When I was a youngster, I had and loved my little Commodore 64 PC (the 128 was for pretentious snobs). In the days before the big Nintendo 64 boom, my little Commodore was the premier game system. I also had a few buddies that had a few buddies that knew a few people (anybody remember the “Basement Boys”? If you do, then you’re an old fuck like me) that could get you any game you wanted. I had boxes and boxes filled with pirated games and really thought nothing of it. I played “Wasteland” with bunches of back-up floppy discs (kids, look that one up) so I always had ammo caches to run back to. I played “Pirates!” into the wee hours of the morning and lost myself in Skara Brae with just my warrior monk to face the hoards. Life was good, and though I didn’t realize it, I was part of the problem. Every pirated game I had was that much less going to the creators and companies that paid big money to produce and market them. Coupled with the ease of pirating these floppy-based products, it was no wonder when the Japanese cartridge-based evolution came to be that the game companies virtually abandoned the floppy market in favor of producing for the much harder to pirate game systems.<br /><br /><em>Then, they came for the music, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a musician</em>…<br /><br />Many years ago, when Napster was still a borderline-illegal file sharing peer-to-peer network, the music industry freaked out. And rightly so. Music lovers said they were tired of having to purchase entire albums just to get the one song they liked. They were fed up with the rising costs of CDs and, at the time, cassette tapes. They were sick of hearing about the massive profits the big labels were making off a few cents worth of plastic and silicon. They wanted to be able to put together their own albums and create their own soundtracks and playlists. The MP3 was the answer to all their woes. Now, only one person need buy an album and download it into their computer. The rest would go to Napster, Kazaa or other similar sites and “share” with the rest. The argument; it wasn’t illegal since no money changed hands. It was just friends numbering in the millions “sharing” copyrighted material with other friends numbering in the millions.<br /><br />Then the lawsuits and the arrests started. The FBI busted in on a few high-profile users with literally hundreds of thousands of songs stashed away on their hard drives. The industry scrambled to keep up with technology of their own, from greater copy-protection methods on their physical media and what would eventually become today’s DRM (digital rights management). Lars Ulrich, the drummer for Metallica, became the most hated man among these file-share music fans because he was one of the earliest and loudest opponents of free music sharing. Imagine, the nerve of artists and labels actually wanting to make a profit from their work when the people wanted to pay only in the coin that any artist should value; attention. Eventually, the labels and independents alike learned they would have to play ball on the new digital field, reluctantly embracing the new technology themselves. Napster went legit and artists and labels formed unholy alliances with them as well as Kazaa, Amazon and even Wal Mart (yes, Wal Mart has a huge mp3 online operation) to distribute their music to the digital age. Individual songs, whole albums and literally millions of bits and bytes of content flooded the online market for pennies on the dollar. This was still good news for digital music fans, though they now grumbled about paying $.99 for a song, and it was “okay” news for labels and artists who were at least now getting something where before they got nothing. It has also allowed many lesser-known musicians to gain access to wider markets through the comparatively inexpensive uploading and transaction technologies.<br /><br />But the revolution was not without its casualties. Concept albums are virtually impossible to sell now with the ala carte mp3 concept. What label or artist wants to put the effort into that kind of endeavor when the individual songs will be cherry-picked and the artist’s meaning will be completely lost? One of the joys of physical media was finding the “hidden track” or other bonus goody. That, too, is pretty much a moot point now as well. And though the technology has allowed lesser-known musicians wider distribution by self-publishing through their own sites or through sites specifically catering to “new music” fans, it means these acts will rarely get picked up by the larger labels and become true professional musicians able to quit their day jobs and focus on their art. We all know the concept of the “starving artist”, and we all know musicians that say the integrity of their music is the only thing that matters to them. We also know that, with limited exceptions, neither of those groups would turn down a big-label contract, either.<br /><br /><em>And then they came for the writers, and there was no one left to speak out for me…</em><br /><br />Kindle, Nook, e-Reader… no matter the format, the digital book is here to stay. Just as musicians and labels were forced to accept the digital revolution, writers and publishers are now faced with changing or dying. Brick-and-mortar bookstores selling ink-and-paper books are closing faster than video rental stores. You can get any book you want shipped right to your door if you’re the type that needs to feel the pages between your fingers, and the rush is on to convert every book known to man to the digital formats.<br /><br />But wait, you’re likely saying to yourself, don’t the benefits outweigh the losses? Digital books are far cheaper than their dead-tree counterparts, not to mention more eco-friendly. They’re more convenient to the reader, and literally hundreds of them can be stored in the physical space occupied by your average coffee table book, or less. People that normally couldn’t afford to buy more than a few books a month can now buy dozens for the same money, not to mention the very nature of e-publishing has allowed for an explosion of hungry writers no longer confined by the narrow guidelines of publishers and editors to get their work out there to the masses.<br /><br />Yes, yes to all those things and likely more. However, there’s a downside to all this; a big downside.<br /><br />First, writers and e-publishers are now facing the same threats to our intellectual properties and copyright ownership as the music industry faced. Unfortunately, the copy protection technology used for mp3 today doesn’t have as strong a counterpart for our text-based work. For an example, Tony Faville, author of <a href="http://www.tonyfaville.com/">“The Kings of the Dead”, </a>discovered quite on accident that his entire novel was being shared via torrent. His novel has since been picked up by a traditional publishing company, making him a good example of both sides of the e-publishing coin. He put his book out as a self-published work and gained enough traction from his excellent reviews to get placement with a traditional publisher. However, had the torrent gone on longer and the book reached a saturation point for free there would’ve been no benefit for a regular publisher to pick up the work. Why would they go through the trouble and expense when there were so many freeloaders that now have no reason to buy the book?<br /><br />Second, the publisher eliminates much of their upfront expenses of days gone by (i.e. advance printing in the hopes the physical books will sell, expensive transportation and distribution etc) and really only has to concern themselves with the occasional P.O.D. (print on demand) orders and promoting the product. Many publishers simply contract out their remaining duties to other companies (Lulu, Amazon etc) yet still take their 50-75% cut of the net profits for doing, essentially, nothing.<br /><br />Third, a lot of exclusively e-publishers either charge for editing services or simply rely on the author to self-edit. In so doing, they are failing in one of their traditional capacities; that of working with their authors through the editing process to the benefit of both sides. The publisher has such a low level of capital risk with e-publishing they are now far more willing to just throw a bunch of shit against the wall and see what sticks. Editing and quality control often suffer since the publisher really has no monetary stake at risk. So what if a book they publish is actually pretty crappy and doesn’t sell? Aside from some bandwidth they have nothing invested in it. Even the advertising is virtually always done on the web through banner and link shares and the publisher’s website and Facebook, which as you know are either free or cost comparatively little.<br /><br />I have read a few e-books that, while the stories were quite good, the hand of an experienced editor could’ve made them great. Part of the publishing experience, especially for an up-and-coming writer, is working with their editor. Many authors need the unbiased eyes of an editor, someone not so close to the work that they regard it as one of their children. Additionally, and I fully include myself in this, not every author is a scholar. My “toolbox” (as Stephen King calls it) is pretty-well tricked out and organized, if I do say so myself. But that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the dreaded adverb or grammatical mistake. With many e-publishers now unwilling to invest in editing services on the front end for their authors to fine-tune their works, some authors that truly deserve a shot at becoming professional writers can develop a bad reputation for sloppy work through their self-edited e-books. There are exceptions to every rule, of course, such as Jennifer Melzer’s (nee Hudock) fine author-edited <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39402">“The Goblin Market”, </a>but she has the rare double-threat of not only knowing how to create a story but also how to properly display it to the reader. But in many other cases I can see an author publishing through one of the start-up, self-edit or pay-edit e-publishers tarnishing their image before they even establish it through poor editing skills.<br /><br />I’m not saying these things didn’t happen in the ink-and-paper days. There are still traditional publishers that charge reading fees, “office fees” and even editing fees. But these publishers still at some point have to make the financial investment to print and advertise the book and, in some cases, pay an advance to the author before book #1 gets sold. They aren’t going to spend the money upfront unless they’ve got a reasonable chance of selling the damn thing to the people. This creates a de facto quality control of sorts, separating the hobby writers from the real aspiring professionals. Now, I know what some of you are saying to this; the old way only means the same trite, overdone bullshit just keeps getting printed because they know it will sell. On that, you’d be right to a degree, but that mindset is often what made blockbusters. If your stuff was way different than the norm but a publisher thought it was good enough to risk putting it out, you knew you had something there.<br /><br />And, finally, there’s the e-market itself. The explosion of self-published authors means a market flooded with all manner and level of literature. On the surface, we can say “good for them!” It’s now easier than ever for a writer to put their work out there and build a readership. The problem with it being so comparatively easy to do is that the market is overloaded. How does a self-published writer compete in this sudden mass market? Well, through their pricing of course. This is a boon to the e-book consumer as they can now load up their digital reader with dozens of books for anywhere from $.99 to $1.99 each. Yes, folks, that’s less than a dollar in many cases. Unless you already have a “name” or your book is through a traditional publisher that is offering your work in digital form, if you price your book at anything higher than that your sales will show it. Remember mp3’s from a few paragraphs ago? They typically sell for $.99, too. That’s a 3 minute song for the same price as a 50-80,000 word or higher novel or anthology. Without the editing and monetary risk safeguards of traditional publishing the market is flooded with the really good, the really bad and the really ugly, and the only way to compete is to rock-bottom the price. This is great for the hobby writer, but for the scribe that either is trying to or would like to make writing their career it just won’t cut it. A lot of professional writers are doing both traditional publishing and e-publishing at the same time. This can and does work well, but few of them got their break in traditional publishing from their self-publishing. Yes, I know, you can probably tick off two or three just while sitting there reading this, but compare this to the overall number of self-publishing writers and the number remains small.<br /><br />I’m also not saying self-publishing is a bad thing in and of itself. I plan on dabbling in it myself in the near future. But I’ve also been through the publishing grinder and have a very healthy rejection folder that forced me to get better at the craft I love so. I had to improve or my work wouldn’t see the light past the editor’s desk lamp. Writers need to start small, and yes, a writer’s work needs to be judged by a critical and sometimes harsh eye. I worry that young and/or inexperienced writers that have real talent will completely forego the traditional experiences of working through the magazines, the small-press publications, hunting for representation and the many, many rejection letters that both thicken their hides and force them to get better. I worry they will elect the quick-and-easy self-publishing, self-edit route only to find their work doesn’t sell or worse some trolls tear them apart in some 140 character review or comment section, forever dampening their love of the art and destroying their confidence in a public forum instead of the constructive destruction offered up in relative privacy by the wielders of the red pencils. I also worry that the technology protecting our intellectual properties and copyrights just hasn’t kept up with the technology to distribute them, and there are few writers out there with the financial means to keep a lawyer on retainer for when they discover their work has been pirated or is washing down a torrent all through the world wide web.<br /><br />Until the ability to protect ourselves catches up with our ability to distribute ourselves, self-publishing will be a dangerous game for any of us to play. I’m not saying “don’t do it”, I’m simply saying if you’re going to do it, do it well and do it carefully. The world has changed for us, both writers and readers alike. You readers out there need to do your part as well. Don’t support free torrents unless it’s specifically stated the author supports it as well. Don’t give your friends your log-in and password to your e-book accounts so they can read for free the books you’ve bought. Every time you do, you take food from the author’s mouth and reduce his ability, drive and confidence to create more art for your enjoyment. If you liked an e-book, take a moment and leave a comment or review about it. Those comments are often the only real advertising some up-and-coming writers can afford. Come on, he sold you the damn thing for less than $2 in most cases, the least you can do is leave a little feedback, right?<br /><br />In closing this thing out, let me assure you I’m not some pro-corporate guy, nor am I some sort of snob elitist when it comes to scribbling. I’m just a guy struggling to get his words out there the same as a lot of other folks with as much or more talent than me. But I’ve also been playing this game long enough to maintain a healthy suspicion and skepticism of a barely-controlled distribution medium. I have had two different experiences with my writing, one in the digital arena and one with a shady ink-and-paper publisher, that have taught me hard lessons about signing away my babies. I won’t be fooled again, and as I navigate these new self-publishing waters I’ll be sure to pop back up here and give you updates as to my experiences in this new age. You may not like what I have to say, but you can be sure it will be the truth of things as I know it. So, until then, just write damn it.Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-91037680966741092232011-03-20T06:37:00.000-07:002011-03-20T08:47:04.659-07:00Go Forth, And Sin No More - Fiction<em>Hello once again, Constant and Casual Reader, and welcome back to my head. For those of you with faith, do you believe that all sin can be absolved? Do you believe in the power of forgiveness and atonement? For the mortals among us, this can usually be achieved through a few</em> "Hail Mary's", <em>some painful discourse with those sinned against and a few bucks in a collection plate. But what happens when something</em> not-so <em>mortal wants to repent? I give you</em> "Go Forth, And Sin No More". <em>I hope you enjoy.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br /><br />The truck stop diner was nearly deserted. It was Christmas Eve, and most of the road warriors would either be taking advantage of the equally deserted interstates or heading home to be with their families. But there were those stalwart few who had neither home nor family, whose life was and always would be the road. These little places served as the only family and home many of them would admit to, so they stayed open throughout to give them just some small feel of home.<br /><br />But John Amos was not a son of the road but a son of God. He was a balding, middle–aged man that couldn’t believe he was sitting here instead of leading his parish in Christmas Eve services. He'd turned that duty over to his younger assistant and had couched it as a chance for the younger to get a taste of how maddening the preparations and the service itself could be. Father Amos’ church was small by many standards, but he’d never let the size of the congregation dictate the importance of the service. He’d never missed a Christmas mass, even through his bout with the flu a few years before. It would take an act of God to make him miss any of it. But then, he was here after all, wasn’t he?<br /><br />Father Amos stirred his coffee and thought back to the vision he’d had just a week before. He'd just gotten off the phone with the florist to arrange for the poinsettias that would decorate the foyer leading into the sanctuary when his office filled with a bright, warm light. Too startled to speak he could only watch as the glow intensified just a few feet from his desk and slowly took on the shape of a man. The rest of the room faded away, leaving only the gently–glowing man before him. He was incredibly tall, well–made, and as naked as the day he was born. It took several moments before Father Amos realized the huge gossamer wings that stood out from his shoulders. At that he fell from his chair in supplication and made the sign of the cross reverently against his head and chest.<br /><br />“Do not kneel before me, Servant of the Lord,” the angel said, for it that was the only thing he could be. “I am not your master, though we serve the same One.” Just remembering the angel and his sweet voice caused Amos's heart to stir with joy. He'd never had such a vision in nearly 20 years with the Church. But he had always believed and had always carried the faith both in his words and heart. It was a vindication for him; real, tangible proof that not only was there a God but that He had not forgotten Man.<br /><br />Amos had tried to speak but found the words simply would not come. What could one such as he have to say to an angel? He remembered the angel’s perfect, warm, loving smile. But he also remembered the angel’s eyes. With his body and face such perfect, unblemished specimens, Amos would've expected a pair of equally bright, warm eyes. Instead, he had no eyes of any color beneath his lids. Where the colors and whites should have been was nothing but small, black voids. While disconcerting, the sight wasn’t enough to reduce his awe in the presence of the holy creature.<br /><br />“Rise and take heart, Father John Amos," the angel said. "In recognition of your constant faith and loyalty I come as a herald, to give you a most important labor. On the celebrated eve of the birth of the Son, you will meet with a man named Morté. Once one of pure evil, he has seen the light and love that is our Lord and Master and seeks asylum and absolution from those he once served. Meet with him and bear witness to his confession, and know that the ear of the Lord shall ride at your shoulder. Take strength in that, Father Amos. You may need it for the trials ahead. You will find him on that night near to hand, in a place that never sleeps and feeds those on their own journeys. Go with God, Father Amos.”<br /><br />With those words the angel had disappeared. Amos kneeled there on his office floor for nearly an hour in prayer. His knees finally protesting, he had gotten up and looked around. The office seemed dimmer than it ever had now that the light from the herald was gone. But while Father Amos was a spiritual and faithful man, he was also a rational one. For a moment, he started to doubt that what he had seen was nothing more than a vision. Perhaps he had been working too hard trying to prepare for Christmas. He'd walked to the spot where the angel had appeared to him. There on the floor was a single, perfect white feather.<br /><br />Amos fingered the edges on that same feather as he sat in the barely–clean booth, trying to decide if this was merely a test of faith. He had told Father James, his apprentice, that he'd promised to make rounds at a local hospital on Christmas Eve and he simply couldn’t be in both places at once. It wasn’t necessarily a lie since he <em>had</em> gone earlier in the day to fulfill his obligations. Amos only hoped that whatever it was he had been sent here to do could be accomplished quickly. If he hurried he might even make the midnight mass.<br /><br />Without knowing who or what to look for, or even if he was truly in the right place, Amos sat and sipped at the too–strong coffee and waited. He'd been there for an hour now and had finally decided to order a piece of pie when the door open behind him. A moment later he felt the weight of a body move into the booth behind him. Amos stuttered as he finished ordering his slice of lemon pie as a dark weight settled squarely on his shoulders. He got through his order and watched the swirling black coffee as it poured into his cup like the feeling that poured into his gut. For good or ill, Father Amos knew he'd found the right place. And, the right person.<br /><br />The waitress moved to the next booth and asked the stranger for his order. Amos heard the man's order for ice water and the waitress's that he couldn’t take up space even in the deserted dining room for only water. Then he heard the distinct sound of a crisp, new bill being peeled from a wallet and overheard the man tell her to keep the change. With his booth rental secured, both man and priest waited for their orders. The man’s voice was perfectly pitched with absolutely no trace of an accent. Without any other reason the priest felt it was the single darkest, most ominous voice he'd ever heard. The man seated to his back practically <em>reeked</em> of evil. Father Amos had never experienced anything like it before. His breath came in shallow bursts as he tried to calm himself from fleeing from the site. <em>No</em>. He had been sent here to do something; something obviously very important and with the will of God Himself. How could Amos run from that duty now?<br /><br />The waitress came back to the pair and went to Amos first. She set down his pie with one hand and carried a tray with a large pitcher of ice water and a tall glass in the other. Amos listened to the tinkling of the ice as the man poured his glass full. He could just hear the man swallow, his own ears being so close to the man’s throat, then a long, satisfying sigh. That sigh grated across his nerves like a rasp.<br /><br />“It really <em>is</em> true, Father Amos. We really do want this.” the man said without turning around. “I do so appreciate you meeting with me tonight. I must admit, though; when I am in your world I usually insist on far better accommodations. Being the holiday and all I decided that this would have to do. Besides. This is the closest I could come to a confessional on such short notice.”<br /><br />“Are you Morté? <em>What</em> are you?” Father Amos managed to ask, his voice heavy and soft. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t think he could face the man if he tried.<br /><br />“Me? Just another face in the crowd, Father Amos. Just another lost soul in a world chock full of them. You see them everyday, you just don’t realize it,” Morte said.<br /><br />“No…not like you…you…you’re…”<br /><br />“<em>Pure evil</em>? It is all right, Father. Not but a few decades ago I would have not only agreed with you but would have thanked you for the compliment. Of course, I would have disemboweled you soon afterwards. But always with respect and never with malice, though I will say I took a great deal of pride in my work. Some would even say <em>joy,</em> if there truly is such a concept.”<br /><br />They fell silent for a moment as ice clinked against glass. Morté poured another and shifted his position slightly. Amos heard a soft, rushing sound and smelled acrid smoke as he lit a thin, brown cigarette. Amos had never smelled such pungent tobacco before, nor had he heard the rasp of a match or even a lighter. He shivered slightly as his mind’s eye pictured the cigarette flaring to life on its own.<br /><br />“Why are you here? And why am I? Is this a trick?” Amos asked. He tried to pick up a fork for the psychological comfort of a weapon but his trembling hands did nothing more than cause the fork to clatter to the floor.<br /><br />“No trick, Father Amos. I am beyond that now, though if this were some kind of trick I daresay it would have been initiated with far more grace and aplomb. I was never sloppy in my work. As to why <em>you</em> are here, I would have thought you would have been told that already.”<br /><br />Amos thought back to his vision. The angel had said asylum and absolution. But what of either of these things could he offer to such a… <em>man</em>… here, in this place? And would he even if he could? “You seek that which is not mine to give,” Amos said finally.<br /><br />“But there you are wrong, Father Amos. It is <em>indeed</em> yours to give by the word of the Lord and Master himself, held through the millennia and wrapped steeply in your ritual and mythos. <em>On earth, as it is in Heaven</em>… isn’t that how that goes, father?”<br /><br />The quote mixed his fear with not a small touch of anger. To hear such from Morté brinked on blaspheme. He still wasn’t sure what Morté was, but whatever he was couldn’t be one of the Lord’s children. “What would you know of it?” Amos shot back. His hands had stopped shaking. “What would you know of the word of God? What would you know of His works?”<br /><br />“I know far more than you, priest. Far more. I know secrets of this world… of your God… of your existence that would drive you mad for the thinking. And I have been privy to more of His works than you could ever conceive. I know your God, because He is also mine. Even Lucifer must bend his knee if the Lord and Master wills it, though never willingly. And that is really the crux of why I am here, and why you are here… ultimately why <em>everyone</em> is where they are and does what they do.”<br /><br />Amos was admittedly confused. The surreal situation was made all the more difficult since he could not see Morté. Then again, perhaps it was better that they not face each other. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”<br /><br />“Ah… the human finally comes out of the priest! What is it about your race that makes you believe everything must revolve around you, eh? Where does this grand sense of self come from that makes you think every single event that transpires around you must have <em>you</em> as its catalyst? Though you consider yourselves the height of all living things, you are, simply, <em>not</em>. There are things in the mortal world that are as far above you as you are above cattle. Many of them treat you the same way as well, whether you realize it or not.” Morte emptied his drink then poured another from the rapidly–emptying pitcher. “You are here <em>because</em> of me… and <em>for</em> me.”<br /><br />Hands shaking once more, Amos picked up his tepid coffee and sipped at it to wet his dry mouth. “Then… <em>what</em> is it you're asking of me? You know any request from one such as you carries with it sin just in the speaking…”<br /><br />“I do not seek to stain your soul, priest. You have been sent here for this purpose. I do not believe the Lord and Master would hold you to account since it is by His design that you occupy that very seat. I have done some seeking within myself over the course of the last few decades, and I have found something quite… remarkable. I have found that my heart does not truly lie in service to the Undermaster. I came to realize many of the things I had done in his service, and in all fairness thoroughly enjoyed at the time, over the course of the millennia had begun to weigh heavily upon me. I developed what you may consider a <em>conscience</em> of sorts. This sort of thing is frowned upon in my circles, I’m sure you understand.”<br /><br />“No… I don’t…”<br /><br />“Let us be frank, Father Amos. I am what you believe. Unlike many other bastard servants of the Undermaster I was born a demon unto his service. I have known no other life unlike the damned souls that populate Hell. Those had the free will to live their lives as they saw fit and to reap the rewards of their actions. Those of us born into this life, into the Pact, have little choice in our lives. Our will is limited to what we have been tasked. For most, this is enough. The power of Hell and the knowledge that you are one of the most powerful creatures to ever walk the world is a powerful aphrodisiac, Father. But alas, I am defective. A <em>broken demon</em>, as it were.”<br /><br />“A broken demon? What sort of nonsense is that?” Amos almost turned around save for the warning hiss from Morté.<br /><br />“Please father… we must preserve the sanctity of the confessional.”<br /><br />“Confessional?” Amos said bewildered, though he didn’t turn around.<br /><br />“I cannot tread upon hallowed ground, father. I seek absolution to purge my sins and throw myself upon the mercy of the Church. I seek to confess my sins so that they may be forgiven and that I may finally find peace. I have found that I cannot live like this any longer.”<br /><br />Amos sat quietly as the words bounced back and forth between his ears. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, couldn’t even believe that this was happening. “You are a demon? A self professed, <em>real</em> demon?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“And you want <em>me</em> to hear your confession?”<br /><br />“Yes.” Morté answered. “Of all the priests in the world, Michael, you send me to a dense one…” he added, mumbling.<br /><br />“This is highly… unusual…”<br /><br />“Unusual? It’s bloody <em>unheard of</em>!” Morté almost shouted, then checked himself. “Thus is why there is also a certain… urgency… present in all this. My desire to leave the service of the Undermaster has become known. There are those that see it as, well, let us say bad <em>publicity</em> for one such as me to do this. I am hunted, Father Amos. I am persecuted for abandoning service to the Undermaster, Lucifer, Beelzebub… whatever name you may give him… your enemy and now mine. His agents seek me, other demons that will be far less cordial than I. If they find me and return me to Hell I will never again have the chance to shrug off the bonds that tie me. You are a man of the cloth, Father Amos. But more importantly, you are a good man. A man that I think would not consign one to the Pits if there was anything that could be done to save them.”<br /><br />“You're serious about this?”<br /><br />“Deadly so.”<br /><br />“And if I do this… if I hear your sins and grant absolution, then what? Will you live your life according to His word and law? Will you truly go forth and sin no more?”<br /><br />“For what remains of it, yes, Father. Even if I am successful that does not mean the agents of the Undermaster will allow me to live. They will still come for me, if for nothing other than the principle of the thing. Demons do not simply <em>defect</em>, Father Amos. They exist, or they do not. Time grows short, Father. Will you do this as I have asked?”<br /><br />Amos folded his hands on the table and closed his eyes. He shuddered to think of the kinds of sin that one such as Morté must carry in his soul. Just the thought of what he may hear chilled him to the bone. He weighed his options. The demon had nothing more than a bit of sport at his expense to gain from the exercise if he were not sincere, and Morté was surely what he claimed to be. Amos could feel the evil emanating from the booth behind him as surely as if Morté had hit him over the head with a brick. His summons had come on the wings of an angel, further proof there were those that desired him to carry through. But through it all, and for all the good it did him, Morté had basically been right. Amos had never denied anyone that sought the comfort of the confessional. He had heard confession from murderers and crack whores from a stint he served as a prison priest. Those stories had been enough to make him lose sleep at night when he was younger, and a few of them still haunted him to this day. Amos sighed and pushed the slice of pie away from him, all thoughts of making the midnight mass gone.<br /><br />“Speak, my childe…” Amos said in the practiced, modulated tone. It was a voice designed to comfort to those seeking confession. Here, it served more to comfort him than his subject. A small attempt to normalize an abnormal situation.<br /><br />“Bless me, Father, for I have <em>truly</em> sinned…” Morté began. “I have never sought the release of Confession, father, and for that I am remiss. I have committed every sin known to both man and God, and do not know where it is that I should begin.”<br /><br />“At the beginning, my childe… where else?” The stock line he used with ne’er –do–wells or teenage girls that felt guilty for fooling around seemed less appropriate in these circumstances, but it seemed the right thing to say.<br /><br />“Father, I doubt we have that kind of time.”<br /><br />“If you seek absolution of a sin, you must confess it.”<br /><br />“As you wish, Father.”<br /><br />Amos blinked into the sudden, strong light. It was a bright day and high summer if the sudden heat was any indication. He was standing on a field of sand and surrounded by thousands of screaming people. Trumpets blared as the sudden thunder of hooves filled his ears and shook the soles off his feet.<br /><br />“Ah! Roma!” Morté sighed. He was standing back to back with Amos in the center of the arena. “Can’t you just smell the excitement, father?”<br /><br />Amos looked to each side and found a chariot bearing down on them from both directions. His legs froze with fear as the horses barreled towards them. “Morté… <em>Morté</em>!” Amos raised his hands over his head as the chariot to his right barreled <em>through</em> them, veering just in time to avoid a crash and allowing the gladiators to attack each other as they careened past. Amos looked down at his shaking hands and almost turned completely around to face the sinner.<br /><br />“They can’t see, hear or harm you, Father. Look! Over there, by the gates!”<br /><br />Amos looked across the field through the heat waves rising from the hot sand and saw a young man dressed in the armor of the emperor with a long whip lashing another man dressed in rags. “My first assignment outside of Hell. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I possessed a man that trained lions for the Circus… and one of the first to gleefully release the beasts in my charge on the Christians the emperor chose to persecute. This was still the days where the Undermaster would whisper to lords and kings and potentates in their beds, making them believe it was the voice of the Lord and Master commanding them.” The past Morté whipped the slave several more times before he finally pulled a long lever on the wall. Two different gates opened across the field from each other. From one spilled a group of ragged men with long beards and wild hair stumbling and squinting up into the unfamiliar sun. The men stayed together and came onto the field warily as the crowd hissed and hurled insults and offal into the arena. A chorus of great roars came from the gloom behind the other gate, followed by three full-grown lions bursting from the nether regions of the coliseum. The crowd went wild as the bewildered men screamed and tried to run.<br /><br />“I watched scores of men die like this, Father Amos. More than watch as I typically had an active part in their deaths. These were devout men, men that believed in God. I’m sure they were also good fathers and sons and husbands as well. But do you know one thing that I <em>never</em> saw here, father? I never saw a single one throw himself down and renounce his faith, even with the impending doom of the lion’s maw. Perhaps even here I began to see the power of faith Man held in the Lord and Master. Of course, I would not have admitted that to myself back then. Mostly, I saw them as fools, sacrificing themselves for something they could not see or hear or even feel. But you are a learned man, Father. I wouldn’t bore you with the details of the time.”<br /><br />Amos watched in horror as two lions fell upon the same man. They tore into him and devoured his entrails while he screamed and prayed through the bubbling blood that poured from his mouth. Through it all, Amos never heard anything but praise for their God. Amos slammed his eyes shut and nearly screamed as the cries of the dying men filled his ears. Suddenly, all was still and quiet. The air turned chill and carried a hint of wood smoke.<br /><br />The priest opened his eyes and found himself by a wide, rushing stream. Several dozen men, women and children stood silently on the opposite bank. They were dressed mostly in blacks and browns with only a grey shawl or cloak amongst them. In the distance he could hear a woman’s muffled screams.<br /><br />“Morté… where are we…”<br /><br />“Ssshhh! You’ll miss the best part. Watch… there I am.” Amos looked up to the top of a small hill that led down to the opposite bank just as an incredibly tall, thin man crested it and started down the other side. Moments later, two men with a bound and gagged woman between them followed down the hill and joined the other man on the bank. Amos looked into the tall man’s eyes. The man stared back for several long moments, almost as if he knew Amos was there. There was a pure, malicious evil in the man’s eyes. It took no guessing to deduce which of the somberly–clad people across the stream was Morté. He stared more closely and saw the trappings of a man of God on the past Morté.<br /><br />“I thought you said you couldn’t stand on hallowed ground? How did you come to play the part of a minister?”<br /><br />“I showed up in town one day and claimed to be their new preacher, as they called me. Of course, since I had slain the <em>real</em> thing on the road a day before and assumed his form they had little cause to doubt me. They had just built their little hovel they called a church, and as my first official duty I was called upon to sanctify it. The rubes worshipped at an altar given over to the Undermaster for nearly 20 years without ever realizing it. Quite a feather in my cap at the time. I also introduced the concept of witch trials to this sleepy little burgh. It was all the rage in Salem, you see. Quite a stroke, really. With each innocent led to slaughter they believed not only in God but in the power of the Undermaster as well. With the proper theatrics, these poor, simple bastards could be led to believe their own mothers danced with the Devil and dunk them in the waters accordingly. If I’m not mistaken, this one I tried to convert to the Undermaster myself. Green eyes and red hair are rare, Father Amos. The Undermaster especially prizes anything rare in his service.” Amos could tell by his voice that Morté had turned around to face the back of his head, but he was determined not to break the ritual of confession, even in this most unorthodox case.<br /><br />Amos listened as the past Morté said a few words and gave the conditions by which the young girl would be judged as well as the specific charges she faced. Suspected fornication with the Devil was not a matter taken lightly in this day and age, regardless of the ridiculousness of the evidence at hand. Green froth started to leak out from around the girl’s gag as her eyes went wide with pure terror. “A bit of the theatrics on my part, I’m sorry to say. There are certain weeds available in the bogs around the area that froth and foam when in contact with human saliva. A liberal dose on the gag and the excitement of the day made for a rather potent visual effect, don’t you think, Father Amos?”<br /><br />The people gasped and backed away as the girl started thrashed about, throwing the green froth this way and that. At a nod from the preacher the men at arms threw her into the ice–cold autumn waters. After she'd completely submerged, several of the onlookers became bolder and stepped closer to the water and peered in, trying to see the accused. After several minutes of intense silence, the girl did not surface. The past Morté declared her a witch and announced that she had, in fact, admitted her sins before the trial and would go on to her final reward free of the devil’s influence.<br /><br />“Barbaric… absolutely barbaric,” Amos whispered. “Why didn’t she float?”<br /><br />“Lead weights sewn into her cloak. That, and her hands and feet bound with three days of fasting makes a body virtually unable to gather the strength to swim or even tread water. I doubt she felt much of anything though, the water had to be near to freezing. More like as not she went into shock as soon as her head was submerged and the water gripped her heart in ice.”<br /><br />“You do not sound at all repentant, Morté. The act of confession is hollow if you do not recognize the sin and harm caused by your transgressions.”<br /><br />“Oh, but I do, father. I realize the pain and grief I have caused and the sheer volume of souls that now resides in Hell due to the direct course of my actions. Do not think I boast of these deeds. I rather explain them so that you not only grasp the seriousness of my former depravity but also so that you can see how easily humanity can be misled by the simplest of tactics. The agents of the Undermaster are everywhere, Father Amos. I am merely attempting to give insight into their methods so that you may recognize them if you should happen upon them.”<br /><br />“I know of the duplicity of your master, Morté,” Amos said.<br /><br />“<em>Former</em> master, father. Former.”<br /><br />“I guess that is what <em>I</em> am to decide though, isn’t it? If you are truly repentant, that is.”<br /><br />“Your Master knows full-well that I am repentant at the very least, Father Amos.”<br /><br />“Yes,” Amos said softly, a sudden light of understanding suddenly filling his mind. “On earth as it is in heaven, isn’t that what you quoted earlier, Morté? I see now. You must still be absolved of your sins the same as anyone else. If I do not grant you absolution you cannot enter Heaven, no matter whom or what you may know,” Amos’ words were cut off as he was hit with a sudden, sharp chemical stench.<br /><br />The world around Father Amos suddenly went dark as the impression of walls and ceiling came up around him. He closed his eyes as a sickly nausea slid across his stomach. When it passed, he opened his eyes and found himself in a dark corner of a large room. There were several tables and even cages that ran in an orderly row down the center of the room, each with a few bright lights mounted on a moveable arm above them. These lights were the only ones in the place. The chemical smell pervaded everything and made him somewhat light–headed. Along with the chemical smell though, he got the impression of other scents around him. Sweat and blood and fear mixed with the chemical tang so thickly Amos could taste them. He nearly choked on his first full breath and made every effort to breath shallow and through his mouth. “Where are we?” he managed to gag out.<br /><br />“Buchwalden, Auschwitz, Treblinka… all the same, really. One of any number of places the Nazis founded for their research. Here the masters of the Third Reich sought to reinvent Man into the little dictator’s version of perfection. Ironic, really, considering that the little weasel himself would have been one of the first to be exterminated under his doctrine of Aryan perfection.”<br /><br />A tall, thin man dressed in a perfectly–tailored grey military uniform with two others in white lab coats trailing behind came into the room through a door lost in darkness and into the light from the first table. They spoke in low, murmuring voices and poured over a chart that hung from the side of the table.<br /><br />“You would be the military man, I assume?”<br /><br />“Correct, Father. I oversaw not only the extermination of thousands but also the depravity in the guise of science you see around you. With each death and experiment, I pulled all those that found the blood of the Chosen People on their hands into their own private Hell, both on earth and in their proper reward. It is utterly astounding the level of faith some humans place in mortal rule, to the point those they support can seem to be a god themselves. Oh, but I was not the only one. Just one of several, to be sure. But I made sure that each had a heart as dark and foul as my own before I was done with them.”<br /><br />The man on the table was covered with a thin sheet. One of the white–coated men pulled the sheet away to reveal a human face that had been stripped of its flesh. The subject on the table still breathed but was in such obvious pain he couldn’t even gather the breath to scream. Amos winced as the past Morté jammed a pencil into the mass of muscle on the tortured man’s cheek. This time the man did scream, a hoarse, harsh sound that rattled every nerve in the priest’s body. The body jerked and the man even managed to lift his head from the table. But he must have been strapped well beneath the sheet, keeping him from moving off the table.<br /><br />“Why do you show me these things, Morté? Why not simply tell me of them? You must know that actually seeing your sins enacted before my eyes and hearing your passionless narration lends no credence to your claims to seek absolution.”<br /><br />“Aside from my flair for the dramatic? I show you these things so you may see what ultimately turned me against all that I have held dear for eons. In fact, it was my time spent in that accursed uniform that started my revelation and revulsion to the things I had been a party to and supported throughout the ages. These men did not need <em>me</em> to turn them towards the service of the Undermaster. They did quite well with that on their own. I daresay they even taught me a trick or two about the torture of not only the human body but of the mind as well.”<br />The men had moved on past the next table to a cage built to nearly human proportion. The past Morté rapped on the cage with his uniform crop and held his ground as a woman more animal than human ran at the bars. The doctors stepped back several paces as the officer laughed at them out loud.<br /><br />“Human genetics are so easily manipulated once you learn the simplest of their secrets. The Reich knew decades before anyone else about such things. You people really are one of the simplest constructs ever made by the Lord and Master. You’d never see any mortal able to manipulate demon or fey in such a way.”<br /><br />“You still don't seem as repulsed as you claim to have been.” Amos pointed out as the past Morté laughed and jabbed his crop between the bars and poked the raging woman in the forehead.<br /><br />“On the contrary. I could not reveal the level of my discontent in front of these. You see, there were many others of my ilk operating at this time in your history and on <em>both</em> sides. Don’t believe that your vaunted United States or the other Allied powers had a corner on the market of either good or evil. If I were to have revealed my state of mind at the time it would have been reported to others and I would have been hunted from that day forth. I would not have survived long enough to sit with you now. But it was at this time that I initiated contact with holier powers about my eventual intentions to leave the service of the Undermaster. The stakes were high for both sides at this time in history and it was decided that, for good or ill, it was far too delicate a time for such a thing. So, I was forced to wait.” The thing in the cage screeched, a sound like nails on a chalkboard as it suddenly rammed itself into the cage with an arm extended between the bars. Long, chipped yet sharp nails raked past Morté’s left cheek and left deep, ragged and bloody furrows across it. He stepped back quickly and raised his crop out of reflex, then lowered it and put a gloved hand to his face.<br /><br />“Serves you right,” Amos mumbled. The whitecoats produced long, black sticks from a side table and rushed toward the cage. Blue arcs of electricity jumped from the prongs at the ends of the weapons. But instead of jamming them into the cage and the pitiful beast beyond they were stopped short as the riding crop swung in a vicious arc and caught them both across the chest. They flew back and crashed into the table behind them, ending up on the floor at past-Morté’s feet. Confused, the priest watched as Morté reached down and took a ring of keys from the belt of one of the doctors. Amos could see the face clearly now, the same face that had graced the laughing Roman centurion and then the fire-and-brimstone preacher centuries later. The ragged wounds on his face bled forcefully beneath his glove, leaving the front of his uniform a shocking red in contrast to the drab grey and black. Morte selected a key from the ring and unlocked the cage. Without hesitation, he swung the cage door wide and stood off to the side. Morté whispered to the beast, and though Amos couldn’t hear those words uttered more than half a century before he could see they had a calming effect on the tortured soul within. It slipped past him nervously and out of the cage, looking over its shoulder only once as it screeched and ran for the door.<br /><br />“You let her go. Why?”<br /><br />“I told you, priest, I simply couldn’t bear to see her held like that any longer. She knew from previous encounters that to lash out like that would mean severe punishment. And yet she found the strength and bravery to attack, to show us though we had broken her body we could not break her spirit. In that moment, I knew that there was hope if I could only keep my strength and bide my time. With such hope, faith and luck, perhaps someone else from an unexpected corner would come along and release <em>me</em> from my own Hell as I did for her.”<br /><br />Amos watched as the past Morté stepped into the cage and gripped two of the bars. With no visible effort he pulled, bending them until they made a passage large enough for a human to fit. Then, he hit himself smartly with the end of his crop on his right temple. Of course the blow had no true effect on the demon. But the human shell he inhabited produced a bleeding and nasty head wound that for him would amount to mere theatrics. Then he lay down opposite the doctors and waited to be discovered.<br /><br />“Your vaunted theatrical talents again?” Amos asked.<br /><br />“I could ill afford to let these humans think I was anything other than what I appeared to be, Father.”<br /><br />“And what of that poor woman? What became of her?”<br /><br />“Unfortunately, she never made it out of the compound. She <em>did</em> reach the fence though and managed to kill almost a dozen guards on her way. After my human commanders learned of the security breach they shut down all such testing and experiments permanently. If word got out through loose–lipped guards that such monstrosities were running about there would be a great deal to explain to history. This was in the waning years of the war, when most sensible people realized the Fuhrer had finished his descent into madness. With defeat imminent, no one involved wanted to have to explain to the Allies the atrocities they had committed in the name of science. The ovens and chambers would be enough to defend against. There would be no defense for such things as the woman.”<br /><br />The world went dark and the nausea slipped over Father Amos once more. “After my time in the Reich, I took a long sabbatical. I needed to make sure what I had felt before was not merely a passing thing. I traveled your world in many guises. Where I would usually do this with a possessed body, this time I created one from my own power. This meant I was limited and could be harmed as any other body could be, to an extent. My point in this was to try and experience your world from your perspective. I wanted to see, hear, even feel your world as one of you.”<br /><br />“To what end?” Father Amos said into the still void around him. “You were still immortal and the spawn of Hell. You could never feel the same way that humans do. You would always know that any problem that came about could be handled far more easily by one such as you than by any mortal.”<br /><br />“Ah! That is where you are wrong, Father Amos. I placed a geis on myself that limited my power more than even my physical body did for a score of your years. True, I could not die in the conventional sense. But I was still be able to suffer the same ailments and feel the same things as any human. My thought was that if I turned out to be an evil and unscrupulous human, then my emotional state could only be described as a passing thing. A quirk, if you will. But, if my time spent as a mortal showed I had the inclination to morality and all the trappings valued so highly in the race then I would never be able to return to the service of the Undermaster with, well, a clean conscience, if you will.”<br /><br />Several images slid by, only a minute or so spent with each one. Always placed behind the past Mortés’, Father Amos watched as a veritable slide show of the demon’s time spent on earth slipped past. He saw Morté in Berlin as columns of American and British armor trundle down the streets accompanied by the cheers of the people. He was there when the demon made a point to visit many of the landmarks of Europe, most still showing the after–effects of the war all around them. Amos watched as Morté marveled at the collected works of human art in museums across Europe. In their side conversations, he learned art and music more than anything had laid the groundwork for many of his human leanings. Such things had few examples in his home world. Those that did exist invariably involved either the activities or the pure psyche of a demon, something that no human should ever be forced to see.<br /><br />Seasons flew by. He watched as Morté spent time with Tibetan monks and other Eastern mystics. He was there when Morté lived in Ireland for a year and became one of the most famous patrons to three different pubs. Morte had wisely left a good metabolism for his human form, it seemed. He watched as Morté lived a decade in the span of minutes. But it was not all for the good. Amos saw Morté get robbed and beaten. He watched as Morte stepped in to stop the same thing from happening to a young woman in Poland just a few months later and receive a beating that would have killed a normal man for his trouble. He was there when Morté received life–threatening injuries from a fall as he helped rebuild a war–torn hospital in Italy and almost sympathized with the demon as he dealt with pain far greater than any he had been dealt in his previous misadventures. But through it all, Morté did nothing that seemed even remotely on par with his demonic nature, though he was sure that the demon wasn’t showing him everything that had occurred.<br /><br />Almost as if he sensed the priest’s unanswered question, images of Morté the thief slid past them. First stealing bread then money from merchants and street vendors in Paris. Morté explained he had to commit such acts to prove to himself he was indeed a changed being. He even subjected Amos to a violent rape scene involving the man–demon and what appeared to be a prostitute in London. Though he did physical harm to her for several moments he backed away with obvious self–loathing in the end. Morte had even offered to turn himself in, but the young woman didn’t want such attention. It didn’t stop her from taking the several pound notes he offered her by way of apology, though. Amos had been prepared to dismiss the entire thing as nothing more than a creation, to fool him into believing the demon to be a better creature than he was, that he was greater than the sum of his being. But if he was anything, Father Amos believed himself an excellent judge of character and an even greater judge of the truth. He was almost ready to believe the demon was what he claimed. Almost.<br /><br />The year was 1962. He could tell as much by peering over the past Morté’s shoulder as he read a newspaper at a sunlit street café. The paper was in Italian, though he wasn’t sure where in the country they were. A truly stunning woman sat down at a table nearby, causing Morté to gaze at her over the edge of his paper. After a moment, the paper and cappuccino were forgotten. He didn’t need to see Morté’s face to know he had been smitten.<br /><br />“It was bound to happen, wasn’t it?” the current Morté asked from somewhere behind him. “It’s not as if I hadn’t known the touch of a woman in my years as a mortal. But up to this point it had more been to experience the sensation of the physical act.” Morte sighed and fell silent as the two watched his past for nearly a minute. “Theresa Aldozza…” he said reverently in a breathy whisper. “There was never a more perfect woman then or since, nor will there ever be.”<br /><br />The young lady in question had all the best attributes of her stock. Long, thick black hair pulled back just enough to keep it from nuisance. Her eyes were large and dark and seemed to laugh of their own accord. The baggy, heavy sweater she wore did little to disguise her near–perfect form as she scanned a newspaper of her own and sipped on her coffee. Past and present Morté could do little else but stare. After more than a minute the woman seemed to feel his stare and looked back at him with her clear, laughing eyes. She smiled slightly and nodded at him then went back to her paper. After several more minutes of torture for poor Morté she signaled for a waiter, paid her check and left. All the Mortés’ could do was stare after her. “She was absolutely perfect. And playful.” Morté said more to himself than to the priest as if he had forgotten that Amos was with him. They watched as the past Morté got up from his table and walked to where she had sat. There on her discarded newspaper was a matchbook from a local establishment.<br /><br />The scene suddenly changed to a lively Italian bistro. It was night now as they watched Morté walk into the dining room and look around. There at a quiet table near the back sat the lovely Theresa, quite alone but with a table set for two.<br /><br />“I was completely and totally smitten,” Morté said from behind him. “I remember this night as if it were yesterday. I remember that I considered waiting for awhile, to make sure the whole thing wasn’t a fluke, that she wasn’t waiting for her escort for the evening. But then, it has never been in my nature to wait, human or otherwise.”<br /><br />Past Morté squared his shoulders and walked slowly across the busy dining room and to the lady’s table. Amos didn’t need to hear the conversation to know she'd fully expected him to come that night. Her eyes and equally laughing smile were all he needed to see to prove that out.<br /><br />“Theresa was everything to me, Father,” Morté said as the world slipped into darkness. This time though, the nausea stayed at bay. Perhaps it was the demon’s thoughts and feelings that had affected him before. It was obvious by his voice he was happy to relive these particular memories. “Perfection in flesh. But not just her physical beauty, Father. No. She had a beautiful mind and a spiritual soul. If it was possible, we believed we had found our soul mates, if that concept does not sound so ridiculously romantic and sappy.”<br /><br />“I don’t believe so. I have long held there is someone for everyone that deems to look.” Amos added.<br /><br />“Ah, but Father Amos… I mean no offense but a man of the cloth could never possibly understand such a strong yet delicate bond between a man and a woman.”<br /><br />“But you are <em>not</em> a man. Even there.”<br /><br />“Yes. You are right, of course,” Morté said darkly. Then brighter, “Most of the time I spent with Theresa, I forgot about my past, about what I truly was. My only thought was spending time with her and making her as happy as she had made me.”<br /><br />Light filtered back into Amos’ world. They found themselves standing in a church. Morté and Theresa stood at the altar before a priest and a packed house, taking their vows as husband and wife. “I thought you couldn’t stand on holy ground?” Father Amos said.<br /><br />“Oh, I can’t. Not without great pain at any rate. I am barely conscious as you see me before the altar. I remember it took every ounce of my being not to cry out, to fall writhing to the ground. But church rites were very important to my Theresa. How could I deny her that? I believe that I had lived as a human so long the effects were not as devastating as they could have been, that I had perhaps grown more accustomed to such things. At any rate, we were married. I can’t begin to describe how truly special that day was.”<br /><br />The light faded back to the void then slipped back again as many small images flickered past. The two of them living, laughing, and loving. A small cottage with a garden behind, large dinners with what Amos could only guess was with her family and a host of other times and places. “I’m sorry, Father. But it is my way to only remember the best of times when I was with her, for I truly believe that we had no ill ones. At least, not until the end.”<br /><br />The light faded again, followed by the strongest feeling of discomfort Amos had experienced yet. He winced through it and put a hand to his stomach as the bile rose up in his throat.<br /><br />“My twenty years came and went far too quickly, Father Amos,” Morté said from the void. His voice was deep and hollow, almost what one would expect to hear from a demon. Amos shivered at that and fought down his gorge as the feeling subsided. “In truth, I often forgot everything about my true nature. The only real reminder was when Theresa and I discussed children. I had included sterility in my personal geis. It is possible under the right conditions for human and demon to mate, and I did not wish to unleash such a beast on the world. It was the only thing she wanted that I could not give, and it pained me to no end that I could not provide something so simple that any man should be able to give to his wife.”<br /><br />Morte's voice though still void took on an odd, quivering quality. If Amos didn’t know better he would've believed the demon was crying. “If nothing else, I applaud your foresight in making sure that none of your spawn came into the world,” Amos said more roughly than he had intended.<br /><br />“You have every right to believe or disbelieve my sincerity, Father. After all, I <em>am</em> borne of Hell. Who is to say I am not lying to you even now? Yes… I understand, Father. I would look upon the reverse situation with as jaundiced an eye, to be sure.” More scenes of their lives together flashed by. It seemed the couple lived an idyllic life with little to trouble them. “Her father maintained a small winery that had survived the war. We both worked there; her in the small shop and me in the vineyards. Our cottage was on the grounds as well, a wedding gift from her father. He was a very proud and intelligent man and quickly earned my respect. Even in my true form I doubt I could ever have been moved to harm him.”<br /><br />“Catholic?”<br /><br />“Devout. I professed to the religion but usually found ways to avoid Mass by being in the vines. The few times I went were… <em>trying</em> at best. Ironic, isn’t it? Or perhaps a great joke by the Lord and Master that my one true mortal love would be one of His own followers. Who’s to say?”<br /><br />“So, what happened?”<br /><br />“As with all good things, it ended.” The slideshow of images abruptly halted. Amos found himself in their small cottage. Morté was sitting on a small sofa before a roaring fire, his darling Theresa fast asleep couched against his shoulder. Morté sipped a glass of wine and watched the fire. The flames suddenly leaped and danced, shooting a few feet from the hearth and forming the figure of a man. As the flames died away another demon stood, skin still smoldering from his entrance. “Valklasha…” both Mortés’ hissed.<br /><br />“Koroshinklas… or should I call you Morté?” the demon said with a sneer. His skin was as red as the flames that bore him, with cloven hooves and long horns that jutted straight out from his forehead. Though only Morté’s memory, the thing’s voice still made the priest’s knees weak. “Your ‘holiday’ is at an end. The Undermaster has called for your return.” The demon looked around the room and laughed. “With so much you could have done, you wasted your time like this?”<br /><br />Slowly, their voices faded away from Amos’ ears. “Why can’t I hear the two of you anymore and why is it that Theresa hasn’t woken up?”<br /><br />“There are things being said that are best not heard by mortal ears. Many names and times were discussed. Names are powerful things, Father Amos, especially the true name of a demon. It is best that you not hear much of this exchange.”<br /><br />“Then what is happening?”<br /><br />“Valk' was sent to retrieve me. I had not realized that my time with Theresa was at an end. We argued, the very nature of us keeping our words from Theresa’s sleeping ears. I told him I was not ready to return,” Morté stopped short his reminiscing when the demon produced a flaming scroll and offered it to his remembered self.<br /><br />“And that?”<br /><br />“My official orders to destroy all trace of my mortal life and return to my expected duties.” Past Morté gently moved Theresa from his shoulder and lay her down on the sofa then turned back to the demon. He took the burning parchment, read it slowly and then continued to argue with the demon. “I had been ordered to slay Theresa and her entire family and lay waste to the vineyard and grounds, more a show to my loyalty to the Undermaster than any fear of detection. And here, Father Amos, I will profess that I actually considered it. But only for a moment. Even if it would not have been Theresa, I knew in my heart that I could not comply, that I could not slay those whose only crime was their ill–fortune to have welcomed me into their hearts and lives.”<br /><br />Suddenly, past Morté’s body exploded into white–hot flames. Amos’ vision blurred as he tried to watch the metamorphosis from man to demon. While both were obviously born of the eternal flames, Morté seemed far more dignified and graceful in his true form, if such a thing could be said. His skin was far darker, the color of blood, and his horns arced back in the style of an antelope and black as coal. He sported no tail as the other did but was built far more powerfully. The fire in the hearth reacted with explosive, almost joyous force as the two infernal creatures locked in combat.<br /><br />The two exchanged blows that would have felled most adult trees as the flames in the hearth left their boundaries and rushed across the carpeted floor. Within moments the entire room was in flames. The other demon’s attentions occupied, the spell he must have laid on Theresa died away. Amos watched as she shot up from the couch, her screams lost in the roar of the fire as it reached the ceiling.<br /><br />“We fought for only a few moments, until I realized the danger in which I had placed Theresa. I tried to reach her, but with my mind so distracted Valk’ was able to keep me from aiding her.” Amos threw up his arms out of instinct as a large beam burned free of its moorings high in the ceiling and crashed through him, its other end landing squarely on Theresa. He crossed himself and mumbled a prayer as the burning timber crushed her under its weight, her screams forever gone from the world. Amos’ vision went black as a feeling even darker slid across his soul. He was feeling the emotions of the demon now through his memories, and though Amos was far from a stranger to the pain of others this was something far different. He almost felt as if it were his own life that had been extinguished.<br /><br />“I killed Theresa that night. Not directly, but I might as well have crushed the life from her with my hands as what happened.” Morté’s voice was thick and filled with pain. There was no doubt the demon was being truthful. Amos knew genuine emotion, and what he felt from him was as great as or greater than any other he had ever experienced. It was honest, real, searing and filled with agony. “I could have resurrected her, you know. But what she would have been forced to become would have been anathema to everything that she had held so dear. Though I would have moved heaven and earth to restore her to my side, I would not allow my selfishness to damn her soul to Hell along with mine.”<br /><br />“And what happened to the other demon, this Valk’?”<br /><br />“I killed him,” Morté said this so plainly that Amos wasn’t sure he heard him. “Yes, Father, it is possible to kill a demon. If you know how. And oh! How I know those secrets. As I said, I am powerful even for one of my own kind, and Valk’ was no match for me. Once my geis lifted I had access to my full power and fury. And I am not ashamed to say I used every ounce of it and thoroughly enjoyed his destruction. But this is another story whose details are best left to the imagination and not the ears of mortals.”<br /><br />Amos looked down just as the waitress filled his cup. His hands were balled into fists and it took several seconds for him to stretch his fingers and get blood to flow through them again.<br /><br />“Father, are you okay?” the waitress asked him. “You’re as white as a sheet.”<br /><br />“What? Oh, yes… I’m fine. Just getting over the flu.” As she walked away Amos heard ice clink against glass from the booth behind him.<br /><br />“I would have confessed more, father, but I fear that my pursuers are near. I can feel them.”<br /><br />“I think that will be enough.” A sudden, stabbing pain shot through Amos’ head. He gripped the side of the table for a moment until the feeling subsided. How long had their journey through the demon’s memories lasted? He checked the clock and found that less than fifteen minutes had passed since he last noted the time before Morté sat down. Amos rubbed his temple slowly with his free hand and sipped his coffee.<br /><br />“And what of it all, father?”<br /><br />“You have lived a sinful life and worked directly as one of the devil’s own children. But I do respect the time you spent as a man, and I think you have experienced enough pain to be sympathetic to those you have harmed. Still, this does not atone for sin, only that you have faced it and recognized the agony and heartache you caused over the years.” He sipped his coffee again and realized he still had hold of the table. “I would say it is a good start.”<br /><br />“Father Amos, I have no time for <em>starts</em>. They will be coming for me soon. If they catch me, they will take me back with them to hell.”<br /><br />Amos contemplated his coffee then checked the time again. He could still make the midnight mass if he hurried. “This is far too grave a decision for me to make alone. Come with me to the church. If you can pass the threshold and enter the house of God, I will accept that as a sign of His forgiveness of your sin. Then together we can seek out how best you can atone.”<br /><br />“If you insist.”<br /><br />Both men stood and slowly turned to face each other for the first time in their current place in history. Of course, the demon’s human visage would be timeless. He looked just as he had when in the guise of the holy man sending the young woman to her watery grave. Except for one glaring, almost shocking exception; his cold, hard aquiline features were marred by four long scars down his cheek.<br /><br />“You seem surprised, Father.”<br /><br />“I would have thought you would be able to make those scars disappear.”<br /><br />“I could do that quite easily, Father. I consider them a reminder of the things I have done. It is more a testament to Theresa than me that she fell in love with me despite the marks.” Morté pulled two fifties from his pocket and laid one each on their tables. “You will have to drive. I took alternate means.” Demon and priest left the diner, got in Amos’ car and drove off into the night. Neither saw the long, black and lightless sedan that eased soundlessly onto the road behind them.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />The trip to the church ha dbeen a silent one with priest and demon each lost in their own thoughts. They parked and walked up the stone stairs to the church doors where they paused as Morté readied himself.<br /><br />“Do you feel anything?” Amos asked.<br /><br />“Dread… nervousness… but no pain.”<br /><br />The sound of several car doors opening and closing turned their attentions back to the deserted Christmas Eve street. Five men dressed in black suits and sunglasses stood at the base of the stairs staring up at them.<br /><br />“Morté,” one of them said, his voice as deep and resonating as the other demonic examples Amos had heard through the night. “You have led us on quite a chase. We have spent more than forty years in search of you. It is time to return. Come quietly.”<br /><br />Amos suddenly grasped his chest. It was as if a vice had tightened around his heart. He gasped for air and fell against the doors. Morté cast a worried glance at him then looked back to the hunters.<br /><br />“No,” Morte said simply and reached out a hand to steady the priest.<br /><br />“Our patience is at an end. You will come with us. Now.”<br /><br />Amos grasped the door handle and let his weight swing the tall door open. Morté gripped the priest’s arm tightly out of reflex and the falling priest’s weight pulled him through the open door. The pair fell into the foyer to a chorus of howls and hissing. Morté kept his feet and managed to shut the door behind them. Organ music wafted out from the sanctuary as Amos got to his feet and took several deep breaths.<br /><br />“Father Amos, are you well?”<br /><br />“Yes,” Amos whispered. “Their power obviously stops at the door.” They stood for a moment while Amos caught his breath. “But the real question is, are <em>you</em> well?”<br /><br />Morté suddenly remembered where he was then started to laugh. “I don’t feel anything, Father! No pain! Nothing!”<br /><br />“Nothing?” Amos said cautiously.<br /><br />“Nothing <em>except</em> the Lord and Master,” Morté corrected himself, his tone far more solemn. Amos smiled at the demon then cast a worried glance at the entryway to the sanctuary.<br /><br />“They’ll be letting out soon. We’ll go to my office…” A heavy knock on the door cut off his words. The two exchanged worried glances. Amos pushed Morté away from the door and opened it just enough to see out. One of the hunters stood a few feet from the door.<br /><br />“This does not concern you, priest. Give us the demon. Now.”<br /><br />“He… he is under the protection of the Lord and has been granted sanctuary in His house. You hold no power here, demon,” Amos said.<br /><br />“I hold no power in this House devoted to the protection of the weak of mind and heart, Father Amos. In this you are correct. But I am <em>not</em> without means.” The demon turned and walked down the stone steps and out of his sight. Curious, Amos opened the door wider and looked down the steps toward the street. The trunk of the car was open now and one of the demons was distributing wicked–looking rifles as well as several smaller items that could only be grenades.<br /><br />“What do you think you’re doing?” Amos called out. Flames suddenly erupted across the stairs and ran out of sight in both directions. Amos threw up an arm and took a step back as the flames climbed higher than a man.<br /><br />“Let us see how much value you place on the traitor, Father. In exactly ten seconds, my associates are going to throw several grenades through your beautiful stained glass and into the throng of your pathetic congregation. Those that do not perish in the explosion and try to escape must then pass through the flames. And, should any survive that, we will exterminate them like the pitiful insects they are.” The demon’s voice rang through the flames and screeched in his ears, all pretense at any sort of human modulation gone. It was as if the words were being etched on his brain rather than heard. Amos glanced back nervously at the sanctuary and then back to Morté.<br /><br />“They…”<br /><br />“I heard him, Father,” Morté cut in. “The choice is clear, then.”<br /><br />“What? After all this? After the years of running? You’re going to give up just like that? They’ll kill you!”<br /><br />“No Father, they will <em>not</em> kill me. Killing me now only means they will chance losing my essence, my soul, to other masters. If they take me alive they will return me to Hell. That is their goal. And make no mistake, they will do exactly as he has said. The lives of your people mean nothing to them. I cannot allow any more to die because of me.”<br /><br />“But… you came so far…”<br /><br />Morté walked past Amos and into the open doorway. “Yes, Father. I have. But if it is to end this way, it is worth it. Perhaps this is my penance then, Father?” He looked out into the flames and chuckled. “Delicious in its irony, isn’t it? I confess my sins and have apparently been welcomed into the House of the Lord. But the penance for the sins that brought me to its very door will be the denial of the salvation I have so desperately sought. So what of it, Father Amos? Will you grant me absolution?”<br /><br />Amos stepped to him and reached out, placing a hand on his forehead. He said a small blessing and crossed himself, then stepped back.<br /><br />“Father? Will you do me one thing? When you get... <em>there</em>… will you tell Theresa I am sorry for all that I caused her? And, please, tell her that I did try.” A tear slid down Morte's face with more threatening to follow. He wiped the back of a hand across his eyes.<br /><br />Amos nodded slowly and stepped into the doorway as Morté stepped through it. He turned his head to the side and gasped.<br /><br />“I never knew just how hot the flames could be,” Morte said.<br /><br />A sudden inspiration struck the priest like the proverbial lightning bolt. Morté had entered holy ground. He had cried and he could feel the searing heat of the flames borne of Hell; things no demon should ever be capable of feeling.<br /><br />“Wait,” Amos said. As Morté turned to face him, Amos plucked a tall, heavy candlestick from a table in the foyer and struck Morte squarely across the face. The once-demon stumbled but didn’t fall. He looked at Amos, confused and in pain. Before Morte could utter another word, Amos reached out and dragged him back into the church and onto the floor. Father Amos raised the bloodied candlestick over his head in both hands then brought it down savagely on Morte’s neck. Blood and a garbled cry burst from Morte's mouth as Amos hit him again and again. His throat nearly crushed and gasping for air through blood–stained lips, Morte stared wildly at the suddenly insane priest with a silent plea to his obvious question.<br /><br />“You live now! You’re not a demon anymore. You were granted absolution and life… gifts only the Lord can give and only the Lord can take away. Go, my childe… go and sin no more,” Father Amos said. With all the strength he had remaining, the priest grabbed Morté and rolled him through the open door and directly into the flames. Morté didn’t even scream as the flames lapped at him, searing him and granting him a nearly–painless death.<br /><br />As soon as the body was in the flames the collected demons outside shrieked in a cacophony louder than the roar of the conflagration. The flames died away quickly, but not quick enough to leave more of Morté’s body than a few charred bits of flesh and bone. Amos stood just outside the door and looked down at the demons. Each had their weapons trained on him, a sickly red glow coming from behind their dark glasses.<br /><br />“You have been denied your prize, foul creatures. Leave now and stop defiling this house of God with your presence!” Father Amos roared at them.<br /><br />“You have no idea what you toy with, priest!”<br /><br />“Morté’s soul is for the Lord Jesus Christ to judge now. He is as far from the clutches of you and your masters as I am from you.”<br /><br />“Do not be so sure, priest.” The sound of sirens suddenly filled the night around them. Someone must have seen the flames or heard the racket the demons had made.<br /><br />“We must go!” another of them hissed at the speaker.<br /><br />“<em>No</em>! The priest must be made to pay! I will not be denied!”<br /><br />“And if we are discovered? What of it then? We only have writ for Morté and any standing with him. Morté is dead. No one on earth stands with him now! We must go else we violate the Pact!”<br /><br />The speaker howled in rage and threw his weapon against the sidewalk, shattering it in his hatred. He made an exaggerated motion and the rest of them quickly climbed into the car. “I <em>will</em> see you again, priest. This is not over!” he said as he climbed in after his fellows. The driver didn’t even wait until his door was closed to speed off into the night.<br /><br />Amos released the breath he had been holding and stepped to Morté’s charred remains. He kneeled and said a small prayer over where the body had been then went back inside just as the first wave of his congregation began to file out. Amos blocked the main doors with his body and directed them around to the side doors just as the fire trucks screeched to a halt in front of the church. He told them that there had been an accident outside and the authorities had requested they all exit from the rear of the building and avoid the front. It wasn’t a complete lie, he just didn’t tell them whose authority had requested it. Father James came out to wish his flock a merry Christmas and was met by Amos.<br /><br />“Father Amos, what’s going on?” the younger priest asked.<br /><br />“A funny thing happened on the way to mass…” Father Amos quipped as James went and opened the front door. He saw several firemen and paramedics examining the charred remains and nearly lost his gorge.<br /><br />“What the…”<br /><br />“I’ll handle this, Father James. Just make sure that none of the congregation comes out this way.”<br /><br />“But, Father Amos… what happened?”<br /><br />“Remind me sometime, and I’ll tell you. Suffice it to say that the Lord does, indeed, work in his own mysterious ways.”<br /><br /><br /><em>Thanks for reading, and, just write damn it.</em> - AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-80139255196761538352011-03-06T06:40:00.000-08:002011-03-06T07:51:47.636-08:00"A Proper Gremlin" - Fiction<em>Hello to Constant Reader and New Reader alike. I know, I know; no new fiction got posted last week. You have my most humble apologies, but be assured I'm not resting on my laurels. As you can see from my last post,</em> "What's Up?", <em>I'm quite the busy boy in getting many shorter pieces together for two different projects of new fiction for you, and it's taking up quite a bit of my time. Please, bear with me.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I would like to invite any of you that practice this craft to submit a short story for guest-posting right here on my blog. I would prefer hobby authors or those that have little to no publishing history to submit something. You won't make any money, but you will get a goodly amount of exposure if I do say so myself and you will of course still own your story. If interested, drop me a line at</em> ericrlowther (at) yahoo (dot) com<em>. Make sure to put the words</em> "blog story<em>" in the subject line, and I hope to hear from you soon.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>In the meantime, I give you "</em>A Proper Gremlin<em>". I hope you enjoy</em>. - Author<br /><br />Grippik threw down his spanner and scratched his nearly bald, green pate. Human machines were so incredibly, <em>needlessly</em> complicated. He itched at a particularly nasty mole and chewed on a pencil as he examined his last modification. He'd been working on it for several hours and still couldn’t deduce the actual use the humans had for it. It was comprised of so many different elements and pieces that seemed to have no real intimate connection to the other. Grippik could only assume the various parts made up the whole in such a way that he just couldn’t fathom. Humans were like that, though. They always had to make things so complicated. But that was what made studying their inventions and machines so rewarding. Gremlin machines were rather straight-forward with their technology. One only had to trace a rope to a pulley or a lever to a cog to gain an almost immediate understanding of the machine’s purpose and intent. But humans liked to be tricky and show off their intelligence and opposable thumbs, something the gremlins lacked.<br /><br />Gremlins had developed a nasty reputation over the centuries in human climes. Those that believed they even existed thought of them as nothing more than pranksters and vile vandals. In truth, most gremlins had no real cause to damage or even destroy human machines and technology. Most involved themselves with the stuff out of insatiable curiosity as to the workings of their machines or in reverse engineering so that the secrets of the humans could be applied to gremlin technology. True, there were those gremlins that took great pleasure in destroying human machines or causing them to operate outside of their designs, but these were looked down upon by any proper gremlin. Just because you couldn’t understand a thing or your own creations didn’t work quite right was no reason to take out your jealousy on the works of others. And the more Grippik looked at the machine he was in, the more it looked like a gremlin invention gone horribly wrong.<br /><br />He'd tried tracing the various wires that ran throughout the thing but they ended in junctions and parts that Grippik's brain simply couldn't fathom their purpose. He'd pulled and changed the positon of wires and gadgets and all manner of parts and bits throughout the machine then put them back again and he was still no closer to solving its mysteries. He'd even tried disconnecting one of the many energy cells the creator had installed and still failed to create any noticeable effect on the machine as a whole. Grippik wrapped his fingers around a thick wire and felt the energy within. But the power wasn’t moving, just lying dormant in the line. Grippik guessed that where that energy would go would finally reveal what purpose of the machine. And to find that, he would have to go even deeper into the works.<br /><br />While Grippik envied the physical size and incredibly useful thumbs of the humans, being able to reduce yourself to only a few millimeters in size and the ability to make your body intangible certainly had its benefits, especially when a reverse-engineering project went awry. His ability to shift his physical body to the ethereal and have his spirit remain in the mortal world had saved him from crushing gears and great blasts of energy more than once when delving into human equipment. For all their grand technology it was amazingly easy to cause one of their machines to function outside of their design parameters.<br /><br />Of course, with Grippik this kind of result was <em>always</em> on cause of accident. But it was those design flaws inherent in most every human machine that allowed other, more unsavory gremlins to cause a great deal of damage. Grippik didn't personally know any of his kind that had ever been physically caught, and that was a good thing. He'd seen some human designs that only existed to cause great pain and destruction and would hate to have a human designer create a machine to inflict that kind of punishment on a gremlin. Humans seemed to have a great propensity for causing damage and killing each other with their technology, things anathema to most gremlins. With a sigh, he shrunk to his smallest size and started climbing along the thick bundles of wires in search of the termination point of the main power supply.<br /><br />Grippik hadn’t been working long when the whole machine started moving, and none too gently. He could hear rough human voices booming around him and the whine of other machinery outside his own. He was being moved somewhere. The thing finally stopped moving, allowing him to continue his work. The relative peace and quiet lasted for little more than an hour before a great explosion of sound and vibration caused him to send his body into the ether out of reflex and he was again being moved. After a time, the feeling of motion fell away, leaving only the constant, booming drone. Grippik brought his physical body back to the mortal world and poked his head outside the machine’s exterior case to find only intense darkness that his small miner–style hat couldn’t cut. Not knowing where he was or what was around, Grippik elected to stay within the machine and continue his work.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />It took nearly an hour, but Grippik was finally able to keep the roaring from tickling the thick tufts of course hair in his ears. He'd made some progress in the machine, though, and had finally traced the power to a large screen. Humans were notorious for wanting to see how their machines were working without actually going <em>into</em> them, something that a gremlin engineer would never truly understand. Why create such an intricate device and not take the great pleasure in watching it work from the inside? But he knew the practical reasons that humans had to rely on such complicated diagnostics and he almost pitied them for not being able to take such a level of pride in their creations from within as the gremlins' inherent abilities allowed them to do. Grippik put such thoughts aside for the present and studied the readout. If he was to present his paper to the Society and justify his time spent in the mortal world he would need to get to it. Their next meeting was less than a week away and he'd yet to discern what function this machine served.<br /><br />Grippik examined his sketch pad and tried to complete a flow chart of the power lines he'd been tracing. They were a literal maze that shot this way and that and branched off in the oddest of directions. He found that the live wire ran into the readout and several other wires that appeared to be designed to conduit power ran away from it to other appliances within the machine. The readout contained several representations of the number characters humans used. One of the numbers kept changing. He counted several cycles and found that for every tenth change, the number beside it would change, and after every hundredth change the one beside that would change. So, at least one part of the device measured time. Grippik jotted this significant finding in his notes and continued his study. He traced one of the wires leading away from the readout to the lower portion of the machine and was immediately struck by a harsh, chemical smell. Just like humans; they couldn’t merely rely on technology or machinery, they had to mix alchemy into the picture. While the timekeeping function was a significant find, it also complicated matters even more. He'd been around human machines enough to know that anytime they mixed alchemy and power there was a great chance for the reverse engineering process would fail in a spectacular fashion.<br /><br />Grippik traced the original wire back and found the main power source. Humans were great believers in the harnessing of energy into chunks of lead and copper. He applauded their ingenuity in finding a use for the otherwise neuter elements even while he scratched his head and examined the bundle of wires running from it. Grabbing several lines he felt along the wires and found two that had power within them. He grabbed hold of one and tugged on it till it came loose in a shower of tiny sparks. Grippik patted out the flames that had erupted in his single shock of white hair and grimaced. It would take weeks to grow back. Wouldn’t he just look a sight at the Society’s presentation? But still, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d sacrificed a little piece of himself for his work. Satisfied that the power had been cut off from the chemicals, Grippik went back to his work. He could always plug it back in when he was done.<br /><br />The smell of singed hair followed Grippik as he crawled through the machine’s works. He'd gotten so used to the roaring noises outside the machine that he barely noticed when they changed in pitch and vibration. He went immaterial as the volume increased and he felt a sudden falling sensation. This lasted for several moments until the world around him bounced and screeched. If he hadn’t been in the ether he would've been thrown about the machine. Grippik waited until the feeling of motion stopped and the sounds died down to a respectable roar. Bringing his body back to the material world, he gathered his notes and sat down on the readout. The interruptions hadn’t helped and he’d lost his train of thought.<br /><br />The sudden movement of the whole machine threw him off the readout and onto the floor. He cursed himself for not paying attention and again sent his body into the ethers. The ghostly image of the gremlin rubbed the growing knot on his forehead and waited for the machine to come to a stop. How could the Society expect an exhaustive report? No engineer, gremlin or otherwise, could conduct proper research under such conditions! Of course, the humans wouldn’t know he was inside, but the whole idea of science being manhandled in such a way discouraged Grippik to no end. He could feel various types of movement and had to wait several minutes before the thing steadied in its shifting. It was still in motion but had now fallen into a much gentler and steadier rhythm. The noise level had died away considerably but now his sensitive ears could hear a multitude of human voices all around him. The cacaphony was no more pleasant than the droning roar had been, but at least it was at a lesser volume.<br /><br />Grippik dared poke his transparent head out of the machine and found he was moving in circles. The place was common to those where humans tended to congregate. Great artificial lights played overhead while hundreds of them moved this way and that. He was surrounded by dozens of other cases in various shapes and sizes that seemed to be waiting for seemingly random humans to come along and pluck them up. There were humans of both sexes and a wide range of ages, sizes and colors. Grippik had never seen so many different ones mingling together, or even such a place, before. He only wished his sociologically–inclined brother, Gronk, were here. He could have a thesis made from this place in just a few hours. But Gronk had always been the black sheep of the family for disowning any interest in machines and technology and had become quite hard to find. Last Grippik had heard, his intrepid brother was studying the Yeti in their natural habitat elsewhere in the mortal world.<br /><br />Suddenly, a dark hand reached down and picked up the machine. Grippik thought of disembarking, but then another thought occurred to him. Since conditions surrounding the machine were obviously not conducive to proper research, perhaps the humans could show him the machine’s intent. If he knew that, he could apply it to his notes and make enough sense of it so as not to be laughed from the Society's presentation floor. Grippik stayed ethereal and rode along with the machine. The human carried it throughout the large structure while Grippik watched other humans move in great waves before and after him. How many of them were there, anyway? Their reproduction rate was extraordinary, but he had no idea there could be so many of them with a purpose to be in the same place at the same time like this.<br /><br />The human finally carried Grippik and the machine into the night air. Truth be told it'd been rather hot and stuffy in the machine, but if Grippik brought his physical body back from the ethers now he ran the risk of detection. He would have to suffer through. After several minutes, one of the humans’ transportation devices pulled up beside them. He'd always marveled at such machines, but they were simply far too complex for one gremlin alone to catalog and study. He shuddered when he thought of old Frippo, his great–grandfather and the gremlin heralded as one of the greatest minds the race had ever produced. Frippo had tried to study some of the internal works of those machines and just couldn’t help but turn himself material once inside. A great metal rod had squashed him into his raw materials in an instant. The gremlins would have to wait till the humans made a glass one before further study could be done safely.<br /><br />The human carrying the machine got into the vehicle and it sped away. There were two other men in the contraption similar in appearance to the one that carried him. Their speech was quick, excited and very animated. They seemed to be arguing about something. The human that carried him shifted the machine on his lap and started to work the latches on it’s case. That’s when Grippik realized he'd neglected to reconnect the power supply. Not wanting to be seen as one of those engineers that destroyed frustrating technology, Grippik went back into the case and turned material. Tracing the lines back to the power supply he found the wire he'd disconnected, but it was too late. He could see thin strands of light creeping through some of the less–solid seams and knew the human would be looking at the blank diagnostic readout.<br /><br />The human uttered what could only be a curse as he discovered the dead readout. Grippik shoved the wire back into the slot where he'd pulled it from, but the energy felt different than before. When he'd pulled the wire the energy had merely been stored in it, content to sit and hum with no real direction or purpose. Now though the energy sung through the line, completing the complex circuits that humans took great pleasure in forcing electricity to achieve. Grippik hurriedly climbed back through the works and became intangible just as he breached the top of the machine then stood on the readout and waited to hear the human laughter and congratulations as their machine came back to life.<br /><br />But instead of the sounds of joy, he heard the humans making a great commotion. He looked up with invisible eyes and saw the human that held the machine turn as white as a unicorn, his mouth open and quivering. Could they see him? He looked down at his own body and made sure he was still immaterial and caught sight of the readout. Grippik watched as the last few numeral symbols flickered away on their countdown. There was only one symbol left and it was changing almost as fast as he could recognize them.<br /><br />3….2….1<br /><br />The mortal world suddenly turned into the sun. Grippik's sensitive ears picked up the hum of the electricity and the chemical smell almost instantly. He frowned and stayed in place as the speeding vehicle suddenly erupted in flames and noise. In his immaterial form the explosion couldn’t harm him, so Grippik elected to stay in the heart of the inferno for later inclusion in his notes. He would have to find another machine to work with for his presentation at the Society. He simply couldn’t use this one. It would be the same as a dozen other reports from dozens of his other colleagues. Just one more reverse–engineering project gone wrong.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><div align="left"><br /><em>“In our top story, a car exploded on the bypass just outside of JFK airport late last night. The driver and two passengers were found dead in the wreckage. Formal identification has not been made but according to sources one of the passengers may have been Mushaif Ossalami, a known terrorist that has spent nearly a decade on the FBI’s</em> Ten Most Wanted <em>list. Airport security cameras and passenger lists indicate that Ossalami, traveling under an assumed name, had just debarked from a flight originating in London…”</em></div><em><br /></em>The television suddenly flickered then died in a shower of sparks from the rear cover. A man in a suit and tie flinched away from the sparks as the television mounted over his head at the airport gate uttered its last. He gathered his things quickly and moved several seats away. No point in alerting anyone. He was sure someone would be along to repair the machine soon enough. No matter how far technology went, it seemed that no one could ever get <em>all</em> the bugs out.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Thanks for reading, and, just write damn it...</em> - AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-54825616462476232982011-02-19T21:17:00.000-08:002011-02-22T03:20:14.218-08:00What's Up? - ArticleHello one and all. I thought I'd take a minute this week and catch you up on what's going on with my various works. I have a lot of different work and endeavors going on for 2011, and I hope all of you will come along for the ride with me.<br /><br />My novel, <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell"</em> is (finally) in the final editing stages and I hope to have a release date before the end of the month. There is some talk about possibly combining <em>"Area 187; Almost Hell" </em>and it's second part, <em>"Area 187; Almost Home"</em> back into one single book as it was originally conceived. This would make it a rather large book, though, so there are pros and cons to both methods. The book is being published by <a href="http://libraryofthelivingdead.lefora.com/">The Library of the Living Dead Press</a>, with painted cover art by Laura Conkle and edited by Felicia Tiller.<br /><br />I've been working on an audio anthology containing 6-7 short stories to be released either at the same time as the novel or shortly thereafter. Most of the tales are previously unreleased/unpublished works, and I have a variety of podcasters, authors and other talented people doing the voice acting. These will be full audio drama productions and not just dry readings. They will also be offered as 100% <strong>free downloads</strong>. Keep watching here for release dates.<br /><br />I am in the process of putting together another anthology, this one containing all zombie stories and tentatively titled <em>"The Dead Do Tell Tales".</em> This project will mark my first foray into e-book self-publishing. Stick with me and let's see what all this new-fangled e-book stuff is all about.<br /><br />I recently did my first-ever interview as an author with Fearshop Mike over at <a href="http://www.fearshop.com/">http://www.fearshop.com/</a> Hop on over to <a href="http://www.wickedchannel.com/2011/02/author-interview-eric-r-lowther/">Wicked Channel </a>and have a look for yourself.<br /><br />I've been quite active with genre movie reviews over at Root Rot's <a href="http://www.thewitchshatblog.com/">Witch's Hat </a>blog. Make sure you pop in and check out <a href="http://thewitchshatblog.com/eric-r-lowther/">my reviews </a>along with all the other reviewers and good stuff Mr. Rot has over there. I'm also a regular audio contributor to The Witch's Hat Blogcast, the audio companion to The Witch's Hat blog, so if you want to hear me whisper sweet nothings in your ears about genre films make sure you give 'em a listen. Oh, and if there's a movie you'd like me to review for the show, make sure you head over to The Witch's Hat forum over at <a href="http://www.killerreviews.com/forums/showthread.php?10128-biguglyhairyscary-reviews">Killer Reviews </a>and let me know what you want to hear.<br /><br />And finally you can also see my guest movie review for my good friend across the pond, Jonny T, at <a href="http://www.jonnyscultfilms.blogspot.com/">Jonny's Cult Films.</a> This is another great horror blog with a companion blogcast, and if you like hearing Brits get drunk and rip apart movies then you've found a new home.<br /><br />Well, that's enough for now. I'll be back next week with more new fiction. So, until then, see ya, kids.<br /><br />Oh, yeah... just write, damn it.Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-47942342920923184242011-02-12T07:12:00.000-08:002011-02-12T09:21:13.012-08:00Spring Break - Fiction<em>Hello to Constant and Inconstant Reader alike and welcome back to my head. This week's offering is another from the vaults. I did a script treatment of this one a few years ago, and though it didn't go anywhere I certainly hope you enjoy it in its original story form.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br /><br />Susan sighed and closed her book. Country road rushed past her window, lulling her into a contemplative mood. How did she get roped into this trip? A senior, she had avoided this ritual throughout her university career. But this year, she'd been convinced she could use the experience to fuel her psychology thesis. She could take the names and addresses of those she encountered then come back to them years later to study where they'd gone and what they'd done. The idea seemed plausible, especially while Wendy plied her with cheap wine in their dorm room the week before. Now that they were into the fifth hour and second day of their road trip, Susan was cooling rapidly to the idea. If they would've listened to her when they started out they could have shaved a day off their travel.<br /><br />Wendy was of no help, either. She and Steve had kept her up till nearly dawn in the bed across the room from her at the motel. Wendy always promised to be quiet when Steve stayed over but she could rarely contain herself, dorm or otherwise. It wasn’t anything overly impressive on Steve’s part, though. Wendy had been that way with everyone that had followed her home before him. Currently, she was curled up in a thick blanket beside her, fast asleep. Susan had always preferred warmer climes, too, but the presence of the blanket in the Georgia heat would have stifled her, even with air conditioning.<br /><br />Susan stared at the back of Steve’s head for the hundredth time. He and Moose had been discussing nothing but football since they got in the car, at least when Moose was conscious. He’d apparently had a rough night as well if the smell of cheap alcohol was any gauge. Thankfully, Moose had been out like a light for the last seventy miles or so. With Wendy in the same condition and her eyes burning from reading and Steve’s smoking, Susan had lost any refuge from the trip. She sighed and tried to get comfortable, but the small, two–door car left little room even for that.<br /><br />The scenery was typical deep–south with nothing but large fields and deserted countryside all morning. Wendy had convinced Steve to abandon the interstates in deference to seeing the <em>real</em> countryside. Of course, Wendy had also decided to abandon consciousness. Susan had checked a map before they left, and a quick mental calculation told her they would be a hundred or so miles ahead of where they were now if they'd just taken the interstates.<br /><br />“You girls okay back there?” Steve asked.<br /><br />“Wendy’s been asleep since we got in the car. No one back here but me,” Susan said. Steve was the quarterback, and even though Susan wasn’t entertained by sports he was still quite handsome. That she recognized this bothered her, even though she had the mechanisms to explain the attraction through her field. Unlike Wendy, Susan had a plan for her life, one that didn’t involve becoming the trophy wife of the school jock or wherever his unearned degree would take them. She consoled herself that all the lonely nights spent studying would make the rest of her life far better than if she'd spent those same nights as Wendy had done. Susan could wait for personal satisfaction once the professional considerations were met.<br /><br />“Well, isn’t that just like her? We’re only on these cow tracks because she wanted to.” Steve exhaled sharply and cracked the window to try and vent the smoke. “Moose! Moose! Wake up! You’re supposed to be navigator!” Steve punched the big man’s shoulder and got only a grunt from the lump in the seat beside him for his trouble.<br /><br />“Wha…” Moose groaned. “Whadda you want?” he said.<br /><br />“You’re supposed to be the <em>navigator</em>, remember? We’ve got a crossroads coming up; which way?” Steve asked.<br /><br />Moose shifted his bulk in the seat and dug around for the map on the floorboard. He pulled the wadded–up paper onto his lap and fought with the folds. After several moments of his fumbling, Susan leaned over the front seat and tried to take the map.<br /><br />“Let me do that, huh?” she said. Moose crumpled the map even more and shot her a dark look over his shoulder.<br /><br />“Back off!” Moose growled. “I know what I’m doing… been to Fort Lauderdale three times already. I think I can find it again, okay?”<br /><br />“Fine!” Susan shot back and threw herself into her seat. “Just trying to help.”<br /><br />“We’ll be fine, Susan,” Steve said as he looked at her in the mirror. “Besides, Moose is right. We’ve done this trip for years. I’m sure we can find it.”<br /><br />Susan folded her arms and pouted out the window, accompanied by the sounds of crumpling then ripping paper from the front. After another minute Steve stopped the car at the crossroads. Moose scratched his head and looked back and forth from the map to the crossroads and back again.<br /><br />“Moose? Which way?” Steve asked.<br /><br />“Oh… uh… that way,” Moose pointed to the left fork and looked at the map again. “Yup. That way.”<br /><br />“Oh come on… he doesn’t know where we’re going. I doubt you even know where we <em>are,</em>” Susan said.<br /><br />“Would you quit bitchin’ at us, brainiac?” Moose said, “We know what we’re doing.”<br /><br />“Oh, of <em>course. </em>I wouldn’t want you to think that this delicate little female would ever even think that she may know something you don’t,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Huh? Oh, well... yeah,” Moose said in his most authoritative voice, oblivious to her sarcasm. “That’s what I thought. Like I said, Steve… it's <em>that</em> way,” he said, indicating the left fork again. Moose settled into the small bucket seat and leaned his head against the window. He was snoring before Steve put the car in gear.<br /><br />They drove down the dirt road for miles before Steve adjusted the mirror so he could see Susan. “You’ll have to forgive Moose. He’s not what you’d call… <em>sociable</em> under these circumstances. He’s actually a decent guy once you get to know him.”<br /><br />Susan looked at the mirror and caught Steve’s stare. He did have nice eyes. “I think I’ll pass on getting to know him. I’ve made it this long without having to make friends with Moose, I think I can make it a little longer,” Susan said. They rode along in silence. Susan opened her book to pick up where she left off but the road had become far too rough to keep the words from jumping around.<br /><br />“Think we could take it a little easier?” Susan asked.<br /><br />“Don’t blame me, it’s the road.” He tried to veer around a large hole and succeeded in putting the left front tire into an even deeper one concealed by a clump of field grass that was doing its best to encroach on the roadway. The shock was intense. The book flew from Susan's lap while the whole car first dropped then rose up the other side of the hole. Wendy cried out from underneath the blanket as she fought with it to try and uncover her head from the rude awakening. Moose never flinched. A metallic ripping sound filtered through the car, followed by a drop in the undercarriage towards the offending tire. The car went into a skid and swung about broadside as the frame of the vehicle pushed against the wheel, locking it. After several seconds, Steve was able to bring the car to a stop.<br /><br />“Shit!” he screamed. “Everyone okay?”<br /><br />Susan and Steve almost laughed, then did, as Wendy’s muffled screams came from under the blanket. She’d wrapped herself so tightly that she couldn’t free herself. Finally, she managed to get her head out from the blanket in a spill of perfect, naturally–blonde hair. Even the combination of blanket and wreck hadn’t been enough to put even one strand out of place.<br /><br />“What the hell happened?” Wendy asked as she turned her head wildly. Even now her hair whipped around like a supermodel in a photo shoot. Susan found herself wishing she had a pair of scissors.<br /><br />“Evil Keneval up there decided to try and jump the ravine,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Not like I was trying to,” Steve said. He turned his attention to Moose. The man hadn’t moved an inch, oblivious to the action. “Hey, <em>asshole</em>! Wake up!” Steve smacked the big man’s face with the back of his hand several times.<br /><br />“Whu… huh? We there yet?” Moose asked.<br /><br />“Oh, Christ…” Steve shot a look at Susan in his mirror to make sure she hadn’t heard him. Of course, she had. She warned them of that before the trip even started. “Sorry, Susie.”<br /><br />“If you want to apologize, don’t call me that again,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Whoa… what happened?” Moose asked as he came fully awake and realized they were sideways in the road.<br /><br />“We hit a hole or something back there, messed up the car I think. Let’s check out the damage,” Steve said. The two young men got out of the car and stretched. Susan waited for Wendy to fully slither out of the blanket before the two of them joined the men. Steve and Moose were already kneeling, trying to look under the car.<br /><br />“Hey, Steve, doesn’t it look like that metal rod thingy should be attached to that other metal doohickey?” Moose asked as he tried to pass off his words as technical lingo.<br /><br />“Yeah, genius. That’s probably where it’s supposed to be,” Steve said. He opened the driver’s door and turned the wheel experimentally. The front driver’s side tire didn’t move. “We’re stuck.”<br /><br />“We wouldn’t be if we had taken the interstate.” Susan grumbled and shot a look at Wendy. “Or if Davy Crocket here would have just admitted he didn’t know where we were.” She didn’t bother looking at the lummox. He wouldn’t have understood, anyway.<br /><br />“Susan…” Steve started, “this isn’t going to help.”<br /><br />They stood silently, contemplating the damaged car. “How far from the last service station are we?” Wendy asked.<br /><br />“Haven’t seen one of those for better than 40 miles. If you’d been awake to see this little slice of Americana you would've known that,” Susan said.<br /><br />“I was tired, okay? Geez, you don’t have to be such a bitch,” Wendy said.<br /><br />“Oooh… cat fight!” Moose said. “Steve, you got any pudding?”<br /><br />“Not now, Moose… you’ll just make it worse. Ladies, come on. Cars break down. I’m sure there’ll be help just up the road. I mean, there has to be something out here. There’s a road, isn’t there? You don’t have a road if it’s not going to go somewhere, do you?” Steve said.<br /><br />The girls exchanged looks before Susan sighed and walked around to the back of the car. She needed some space right now. They weren’t bad people, she told herself, just not that bright.<br />“Well. Should we wait here for help or take a chance and start walking?” Steve asked the group.<br /><br />“I don’t care what you do, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m freezing. Let me know when we’re fixed,” Wendy said as she got back in the car. Within moments, she was fast asleep back in her cocoon.<br /><br />“Oh, you’ve <em>got</em> to be kidding me,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Wendy… hey, Wendy,” Steve called to her.<br /><br />“Don’t bother,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Yeah. Okay, we’ll do both then. Moose, come on. We’re going to head up the road and look for help. You ladies stay here,” Steve said.<br /><br />“What? You’re going to just leave us out here?” Susan said.<br /><br />“I’m sure that strong, independent females like you two can take care of yourselves. Just remember, if you hear banjos, run,” Moose said.<br /><br />“What a funny guy,” Susan mumbled. She came around the car and reached past Steve to remove the keys. “Go on then. If someone <em>does</em> come, we’ll try to remember your names when they get us out of here,” Susan said. She went to the trunk, fumbled around a moment and came out with a can of beer in each hand. “Didn’t I ask you guys to bring water? The only thing in here is beer.”<br /><br />“<em>Water</em>… knew I forgot something. Didn’t have any back at the ‘house. Sorry,” Moose said as he walked back and dug in the cooler. He came out with several cans and tossed two of them to Steve. “Don’t want to get de… <em>dehydroficated</em>.”<br /><br />“That’s <em>dehydrated</em>, you absolute imbecile,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Hey! <em>I’m</em> the one majoring in sports medicine. I think I know what I’m talking about, right Steve?” Moose said.<br /><br />“Yeah Moose. I guess you’d be the expert,” Steve said with a brief smile at Susan. He held one beer under his arm while he opened the other. “Don’t want to get dehydroficated now, do I?”<br /><br />Susan smiled despite herself and pulled out another beer. At least it was cold. She ran it across her forehead and stared up at the cloudless sky. It wasn’t even noon and the early spring day was already in the eighties. She figured the people at the gas station yesterday were right after all; the only reason Florida didn’t float away was because Georgia sucked. Susan watched until they disappeared behind a rise in the path. She refused to call it a road.<br /><br />Susan opened her door and retrieved her textbook. There was a small copse of trees several yards off the path with a patch of shade. If she was going to be stuck, she might as well make the best of it. She grabbed two more beers and walked to the spot. Within minutes, she had a tree to her back and was actually able to enjoy her reading. A thin breeze had started, something she wasn’t used to feeling. All in all, it was rather relaxing. She read for a time then slowly fell asleep from a mixture of the reading, the breeze and the quickly-warming beer.<br /><br />Something woke her. In her daze, she wasn’t sure what it had been. The sun had moved considerably, proving that she had been asleep for at least an hour. She looked back towards the car and had to blink a few times to make sure what she was saw was real. A very large, burly and hairy man had pulled Wendy out of the car, keeping her within the confines of the blanket like a large sack and had the bundle over his shoulder as if she were laundry. Wendy screamed again, the blanket far from sufficient to keep her screams from reaching Susan. Wendy must have thought Moose was playing a joke on her. She kept screaming his name and describing all the vile things she would do to him if he didn’t put her down.<br /><br />“Wendy!” Susan screamed as loud as she could as the man threw his bundle down on the path. He pulled back a meaty fist and punched a lump in the bundle. Susan shot up from the tree and screamed again. Sudden pain blossomed from the back of her head. Susan cried out and lost all equilibrium. Dazed, she rolled over and found herself staring up into a grizzled face. Her vision swam as she tried to focus on several blackened teeth in her assailant’s mouth.<br /><br />“You sure are purty…” he said in a southern drawl. He pulled back his foot and kicked her hard in the temple. The world went black.<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /><br /></div>Susan woke up and found herself hanging by her arms from a hook set into the ceiling. Her wrists had been bound together and the bonds fastened over the heavy hook above. It was dim, but she could tell the hook was stained by something dark. A gag had been tied around her mouth with a lump of cloth shoved into the hole for good measure. She tried to keep her swollen tongue away from the fabric. There was no telling what tastes awaited there.<br /><br />Steve had fared worse; battered, bloody, unconscious and hung on another hook a few beams away from her. His hook had been sunk through his back and pointed out his chest. Susan shook her head and saw both Moose and Wendy strapped onto tables near the center of the room. The huge man that had taken Wendy stood over her, fondling her naked, still body. Moose was clearly dead and missing his left arm. Ragged skin stood up on his chest in her nearly–profile view speaking to crude evisceration.<br /><br />Susan couldn’t believe she'd been so stupid. Getting the gang to cajole her into the trip was bad enough, but to be duped by a few back country rubes? How would she ever live this down? They were going to be in serious trouble if they didn’t get out soon. She tried to flex her hands a few times but found the cord had not only cut into her skin but had robbed her of most of her circulation. The effort produced fresh rivulets of blood that rolled slowly down her forearm.<br />She played dead when the man turned and approached her, so close now that she could feel his hot, fetid breath. It was all Susan could do to keep from wrinkling her nose when his stink hit her square in the face. Rough hands ran up her outer thighs. Jeans had seemed a bad idea in the heat of the morning but now she was grateful for her unwitting foresight. She didn’t know if she would've been able to keep her composure if she'd had to feel the primate’s bare skin on hers. The sound of old, rusty hinges shrieked through the slaughterhouse and a bright, piercing light shot into the room. Susan had to concentrate just to keep from squinting as the light cut through her eyelids.<br /><br />“<em>Boy</em>! What’d I tell you ‘bout playin’ with them hussies, huh? Are ya’ deaf as well as stupid, Boy?” The voice was almost painful to hear, the howl of an old, toothless woman.<br /><br />“Sorry, Mawmaw; just seein’ if’n she was still alive.” The man that had hit her alongside the road had had what most would consider a classic slow, southern drawl. This behemoth’s voice was even slower. Susan was sure there was not a small amount of mental retardation in the giant. Typical human genealogy. Make the slowest and dumbest the biggest and the strongest.<br /><br />“Now that ain’t the way you check them things, Boy!” Susan could hear the old woman’s shuffling gate as she crossed the room. She smelled almost as bad as he did, her odor wafting up from much closer to the floor. A sudden sharp pain in her right thigh made her gasp and cry out. Susan's eyes flashed open to see the hideous old woman grinning toothlessly over a long knitting needle. “<em>That’s</em> how you test ‘em! Looks alive to me!” The old woman stared up at Susan and squinted with a gaze almost as piercing as her needle. The crone kept her gaze for several moments and then stepped away.<br /><br />“What’s wrong, Mawmaw?” the dullard asked innocently.<br /><br />“That there is an <em>evil</em> woman, Boy! You mark my words… she’s evil and needs a cleansin’. Won’t be no good for nuthin’ without a right and proper cleansin’. You take her down and bring her up to Pawpaw so’s he can make her proper. I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ in my deep freeze that stinks a’ evil like that hussy,” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Yes Mawmaw,” Boy said.<br /><br />The old woman backed out of the room quickly and left the door open as she went. Boy grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up and off the hook then dropped her on the filthy, blood–stained floor. Susan hit hard and felt something in her right ankle snap as she rolled over onto her stomach. The gag muffled her pain as she coughed against the rough, alien–tasting cloth. The dullard turned his back on her, confident that she was no threat to him now.<br /><br />Susan choked back the unaccustomed pain. She hadn’t paid much attention in human physiology class, just well enough to pass her tests with excellent marks, of course. She thought back to her course work, especially the dissection curriculum. Susan struggled to her feet, off balance from her hands being bound before her and the screaming pain from her ankle. She brought her hands up to her face and was able to wrestle the gag away from her mouth just as the big man turned around. She threw herself towards the door and hobbled across the floor at a surprising rate of speed.<br /><br />Boy stood shocked for a moment then turned and lumbered after her, knowing she wouldn’t get far. Junior was always hanging out in the basement somewhere, especially when there were fresh sinners; fresh <em>female</em> sinners, at any rate. Boy's brother was useless when it came to the men but he knew Junior would be down here somewhere. He'd taken a liking to both the women they'd found out on the old fire road, especially the one now on the table, so much so that he’d rode in the back of the pickup with her all the way back to the house.<br /><br />Susan cleared the doorway. Her hands were still bound but she could already feel the heat from her shattered ankle coursing up through her leg. The silhouette of a man suddenly blocked out the light and she ran headlong into him. He laughed and grabbed her around the waist, swinging around in large circles to exhaust her momentum and keep her snuggly in his scrawny though muscular arms.<br /><br />“<em>Shit</em>! Where you thinkin’ you goin’ there, girly–girl? Huh? They ain’t no where to go!” Susan recognized the voice from the road. With her hands still bound, Junior lifted her off the ground then threw her down hard. She could almost feel the bruise as it spread across her left hip. “I think you need some of that fight taken out of ya’,” Junior said. He pulled a large knife from his belt and swiped downward, opening a large gash across her left cheek. Susan gasped in pain as the blade separated the delicate flesh then rolled over on the filthy floor and tried to get to her feet, earning a vicious kick to the ribs for her trouble.<br /><br />The pain and humiliation were unbearable. But without knowing where she was or what she was dealing with, or the condition of her friends, escape simply wasn’t possible. She couldn’t leave without them. They were already going to have enough explaining to do. Besides, she was a psychology major and advanced beyond even the usual high standards of excellence the program demanded. If anyone could talk sense to these rednecks and get them all released, it would be her. Susan had just decided to play along and bide her time when the man rolled her over with his foot and fell on her stomach. Wiry fingers worked at the button on her jeans.<br /><br />“Yessir… take that fight right out a’ ya’!” Junior howled. “You gonna’ <em>love</em> this girly–girl, yessiree!”<br /><br />Playing along was one thing, but <em>this</em> kind of abuse was simply uncalled for. Susan understood better than most the depravity some people were capable of, but the mere thought of this man touching even her shoes made her skin crawl with revulsion.<br /><br />“Get her hands, Boy!” Junior said.<br /><br />“Junior! Mawmaw said she was evil,” the dullard said. “You know she’ll beat us but good if she comes down here’n sees this.”<br /><br />“Boy! Just do what I’m’a tellin’ ya’! That old bitty couldn’t get through that thick hide a’ yours if she tried. ‘Sides, you know you want to. You hold her for me an’ I’ll hold her for you,” Junior said.<br /><br />Susan finally got enough air into her lungs to let out a long, high–pitched shriek. The sound made Junior start and was enough to make him rise up off her gut, granting her enough air to scream again. She drew back her bound hands and swung with all her strength, her fists acting like an axe handle. The blow took him by surprise and he fell off to her right with a grunt. She rolled away from him just as a blast of thunder echoed through the room. Susan focused at the far corner of the room and found the old woman standing at the base of a set of stairs, a smoking shotgun in her palsied hands.<br /><br />“<em>Junior</em>! What in the name of the Good Lord an’ all His works are ya’ doin’? Just can’t a’ keep from the ruttin’, can ya’, ya’ godless little bastard! Christ but I can’t leave you two alone for five minutes, can I?” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />Susan cringed at the crone's usage of the Lord’s name. Well, she couldn’t expect them to follow the geis she'd placed on the others, now could she? She lay on the floor for a few moments and tried to gather her strength. This was proving to be more difficult than she had thought.<br /><br />“Boy! I told ya’ to get her and take her up to Pawpaw now, did’n I? Did’n I tell ya’ she was evil and needed a’ cleansin’?” Mamaw said.<br /><br />“I told Junior, Mawmaw! He wouldn’a listen…” Boy said.<br /><br />“You little snitch!” Junior hissed under his breath, knowing the old woman couldn’t possibly hear him that far away.<br /><br />“You never mind that, Boy. You just do what I told ya’ and get her upstairs. Ya’ see? She’s so evil she done gave Junior them impure thoughts, usin' her feminine wiles against ya'!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Yes, Mawmaw…” both men said in unison like scolded children. The two grabbed her roughly, Junior at her feet and Boy at her head then carried her towards the steps while Junior regaled her with what they were going to do to her.<br /><br />“Oh, yeah, girly – girl…we gonna’ have some fun with ya’. Soon as Pawpaw’s done with his cleansin’,” Junior said.<br /><br />“You really don’t want to do this,” Susan said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You could just let us go. We won’t tell anyone. We’re not even from around here.” It was obvious that she was dealing with insanity. If nothing else, she was certainly gaining material for her paper.<br /><br />“Oh but we <em>do</em> want to do this, girly–girl. You’ll see just how much we do,” Junior said. The indignity was almost too much to bear. But if they were all to escape without further issue, Susan would have to remain calm. She didn’t see how one human could inflict their depravity on another so easily. But discovering the mechanisms behind such behavior was her chosen career path, wasn’t it?<br /><br />They carried her up the stairs. It was obvious that housekeeping was not on this family’s list of priorities. She was carried through several rooms and finally deposited in what appeared to be a large dining room lit only by dozens of candles placed on the large table and around the room. They threw her down on the threadbare carpet and stepped back.<br /><br />“Please, listen to me; you don’t have to do this,” Susan said.<br /><br />“You shut ya’ mouth, <em>hussy</em>!” the old woman’s voice exploded from somewhere in the room. “Ya’ ain’t good even for eatin’ stock lessin’ ya’ git a cleansin’! I’ll not have evil in this house!”<br /><br />“What do you think you have here now?” Susan asked.<br /><br />“What did ya’ say? Ya’ callin’ <em>us</em> evil? Pawpaw! Git on out here! We gots one that thinks <em>we’re</em> the evil ones!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Not evil, really… just sick,” Susan corrected. “Evil would require your torturing, rape and apparently cannibalism had a direct purpose not related to your mental state.” She regretted her clinical analysis almost instantly. The old woman exploded across the room and came into view near her feet. The hag used her cane on her legs several times, screaming with each blow.<br /><br />“<em>Sick</em> now, are we? No, girl, ya’r the one that’s sick… and Pawpaw’s gonna’ cure ya’ of it right quick! Pawpaw!”<br /><br />“<em>You’ve been in tougher scrapes than this</em>,” Susan thought to herself. In actuality, she hadn’t. But it seemed the right thing to say. They were all in big trouble, no doubt about that. The sound of slow, shuffling footsteps cut across the floor. She craned her head and saw a pair of well–worn yet polished black shoes. She let her gaze travel and took in the incredibly tall, gaunt old man. His face was heavily lined and tanned, but he did carry a certain dignity. He held his shaved chin high and peered down at her with watery blue eyes over his hawk–billed nose, a pair of half–spectacles at the tip. A starched, white clerical collar at the base of his sinuous neck completed the picture of a true fire–and–brimstone preacher.<br /><br />“<em>Evil</em>? Did I hear rightly that there’s evil in my own home?” Pawpaw said. The boys took another step back from Susan as the old woman smacked her again with her cane.<br /><br />“‘Fraid so, Pawpaw. This one’s a’ got th’ evil in her, Christ be praised,” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Please… can you stop using that name like that?” Susan asked politely.<br /><br />“Don’t speak the name of the Lord before ya’, huh? <em>See</em> Pawpaw? I told ya’ she’s evil. Can’t even stand ta’ hear the good Lord’s name!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“No, it’s not that at all,” Susan said. The cane snaked out and cracked her in the left temple. Pain exploded through her head and she cried out as blood rolled into her eyes.<br /><br />“You shut up! Ya’ hear me, girl? You <em>shut up</em>!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Mawmaw, you shouldn’ be goin’ around like that,” Pawpaw said. “Ain’t her fault she’s riddled with Satan’s sin. Ya’ should be more compassionate when dealin’ with the fallen.” Chuckling at his own sarcasm, Pawpaw kneeled down and cupped Susan’s chin in his weathered hand. His eyes were like the old woman’s; piercing and almost hypnotic. He suddenly gasped and let go. Deprived of his support Susan's chin hit the floor and almost made her bite through her tongue while the gash from Junior’s knife cried out in fresh pain. She made a personal vow there and then that if they got out of this she would bone up on her old physiology textbook.<br /><br />“<em>Evil</em>!” Pawpaw cried out as he struggled to his feet and backed away. “Sinner! You’re the bride of the Devil himself! Oh Lord! Why have you brought this vile creature into my home? Have ya’ forsaken us all? We’re only doin’ Your works!” Pawpaw stumbled back against the wall as the boys gave Susan an even wider berth.<br /><br />“You are all very, very sick. You need help. Please, let me help you before you go too far with this and someone else gets hurt,” Susan managed to say through her pain.<br /><br />“I know why th’ Lord sent this witch here Pawpaw! He sent her here so’s ya could cleanse the world a’ her evil!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Just let us go and the ‘evil’ will be gone,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Evil doesn’t just walk away, child; it has to be <em>destroyed</em>. I’m a’ doin’ this for you as much as for the Lord!” Pawpaw made a motion to the boys, then another as they hesitated to pick the battered girl up from the floor.<br /><br />“You said she was a’ evil, Pawpaw. What if’n she does somethin’ evil to us?” Boy asked. The fearful quivering of his voice hardly matched his massive body.<br /><br />“Ah, shut up ya’ blubberin’ fool and git her over to the chair! Ya’ sure didn’t think she was a’ evil when you were tryin’ ta’ fornicate with her downstairs, now did ya’?” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />The big man acted as if stung and sheepishly reached down to pick Susan up. She didn’t fight him, <em>couldn’t</em> fight him, as he carried her at arms length and dropped her into a chair at the head of the table. Her body ached and throbbed, but her mind stayed alert and clear. She would get her chance to try and talk some sense into these people. She just had to play into their religious delusions. Susan looked down on the table and saw a huge mixing bowl filled almost to the rim with what could only be blood.<br /><br />“They told me when they took my church away that I was crazy. You know that, girl?” the old man hissed at her as he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back till all she could see was his inverted face and the dirty ceiling. “<em>That</em> girl was evil, too. Fornicator! Flaunting God’s law and prostituting herself at truck stops all along the highway. Sold drugs, too, she did.” Susan tried to shift her weight and felt the skin on her scalp scream. “No sense tryin’ ta’ git away, girl. This is for your good, too. ‘Course, you’ll still be made to pay for yer own sins, even those ya’ did while the demons had their way with ya’.” His hand dropped below her vision and she could hear his fingers sloshing around in the bowl in front of her. “But I showed them, didn’t I, Mawmaw? They could take my church, but they couldn’t take my faith or my life in th’ service of the Lord Jesus Christ!”<br /><br />“Hallelujah!” the old woman cried out. The boys echoed her cry, though much more softly.<br /><br />“Shoot! Ya’ boys is nothin’ but scaredy–cats, ain’t ya’? The evil’s <em>in</em> her. She can’t go ‘round hurtin’ people, much less the likes a’ you two. Her evil’s what lives inside. It can’t do no harm to ya’,” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Is th’ other girly girl evil too, Mawmaw?” Junior asked.<br /><br />“We’ll just hav’ ta’ see ‘bout that one, Junior. You just keep yer pants up ‘round any of ‘em. That’s fornication, and I’ll not have it in this house!” She stamped her cane on the wooden floor to emphasize her point.<br /><br />“Yes ma’am,” both boys said together. They moved closer to the spectacle at the head of the table, their grandmother’s words a soothing balm to their fear.<br /><br />“Your…your church,” Susan said, her throat pinching the words at the unnatural angle the old preacher held it to. “They took your church. So you had to take your… fight… against evil into the world. Must have been hard on you to lose your church. Probably the only life you knew,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Just hold yer tongue, missy. I don’t converse with evil, I destroy it,” Pawpaw said.<br /><br />“But don’t you see? You had a classic delusional reaction to the utter loss of not only your livelihood but the threat to your faith. So you personalized it, made it seem that the church was responsible and somehow in league with the very thing you purport to fight…this is textbook…” Susan started.<br /><br />“Missy…” Pawpaw growled as he viciously pulled her head back so far her mind threatened to black out. “Apparently, ya’ don’t grasp the gravity of yer situation. After yer cleansin’, you’ll be reborn and clean. Clean enough to eat,” Pawpaw said.<br /><br />Susan gasped for air until he loosened his hold slightly. “Okay,” Susan gasped, “I understand the feelings of loss and the bitterness you harbor towards the church. I can help you work through that. But I just don’t get the cannibalism aspects…”<br /><br />“Cannibalism? <em>Cannibals</em>! You thinkin’ we’re a bunch a’ Godless <em>cannibals</em>? A bunch a’ heathens and jigaboos… <em>that’s</em> what you’re a’ thinkin’ we are, girl?” Pawpaw let fly with the back of his hand and nearly knocked out one of her teeth. Susan tasted blood not for the first time that day and tried to keep her wits. She was starting to lose her professional detachment, though; enough to wonder if a career in human psychology was for her.<br /><br />“The thought had crossed my mind,” Susan said.<br /><br />“We can’t leave the carcasses a' evil in the ground. Evil grows where ya’ plant it, my granddad used ta’ say, Lord rest his soul,” Pawpaw said. At that, the whole family looked heavenward for a moment. “If ya’ burn ‘em, your just releasin’ their evil to ride the winds and infect other good, God–fearin’ people. No. The only way to truly <em>destroy</em> evil is to cleanse it, then have the good, God–fearin’ people devour ‘em! Evil can’t survive being taken in and devoured by goodness. The body’s a temple to the Good Lord, girl; no evil can survive in a proper temple to the Lord!”<br /><br />The family called out a grand amen while Susan winced. Using the Lord and Master’s name, either in vain or in decency, could only hurt them all now. It would draw undue attention, if it hadn’t already. If the family kept this up they would all be in some serious trouble. The pain in her ankle was gone now, and her legs felt good as new. Susan's bruised and battered face would take more time, but she was getting used to the body now. How the hell the human race could be so flimsy and live even as long as they did was a completely alien concept to her.<br /><br />“So you kill <em>evil</em> people, which apparently is anyone but the four of you, and then you participate in cannibalistic rituals infused with a pagan belief structure in service to a Christian… <em>higher being.</em> And you lost your church over just <em>that</em>?” Susan said.<br /><br />“Enough a’ yer sass! Cleanse ‘er, Pawpaw! I don’t want that evil in my home another second!” Mawmaw said.<br /><br />“Yes, Mawmaw. I believe it’s time for this one to taste the wrath a’ God almighty!” Pawpaw dipped his right hand in the bowl and pulled her head back to painful extremes again with the left. “A good, pure virgin gave her all to the cause to supply the blood that will be your salvation, girl. Remember her sacrifice as the blood a’ the lamb washes away the evil and sin from ya’!”<br /><br />Pain like Susan had never experienced before transcended her human body and soaked deep into the core of her being. Virginal blood wasn’t enough for this yokel. He had to bless it, too. If he was insane enough for them to take his church, the least the bastards could have done was remove his ordainment. She gritted her teeth as her skin smoldered and blistered at the touch of the sanctified blood.<br /><br />Pawpaw had never seen the likes of it. The girl’s skin grew so hot under his thumb that it burned his own. He drew his arm back out of reflex and released her head as he stepped back a pace or two against the wall. The girl’s forehead continued to smoke and blister as Mawmaw and the boys involuntarily backed away from the table.<br /><br />“By all that’s Holy,” Pawpaw whispered. “<em>Evil</em>! I knew you was possessed by the Devil, girl! I knew it!” He kept his back to the wall, never taking his eyes off the back of the girl’s head. He bumped into a side table and felt blindly until his hand closed on a well–used and stained hammer. She wouldn’t be the first sinner the hammer had brought to righteousness. She wouldn’t be its last, either.<br /><br />“You don’t… you don't understand... what you’re doing here…” Susan hissed, her voice wracked with pain. “Stop this, stop this now be..before anyone else has to get hurt. Just let us go and… and we’ll pretend like this never happened,” Susan said.<br /><br />Susan found the strength to raise her head. The blood sacrament had run down into her left eye and had made a ruin of it. Puss and gore ran down her cheek from the still–smoking crater that had been her eye. Pawpaw brought his hammer up high over his head and looked to the heavens. Intense prayer whispered from his thin, cracked lips as he brought the hammer down on the crown of her head with as much force as he could muster.<br /><br />“Just let us go,” Susan managed to whisper before new pain blasted through her as the heavy–headed hammer fell. She could feel the plates of her skull separate as the tool punched through them and into the soft grey matter beneath. Her head dropped to the table with a hollow thud as her left leg jerked spasmodically in time to her beating heart.<br /><br />“Ya’ did it, Pawpaw! Lord be praised, ya’ beat down th’ evil!” Mawmaw’s words died away as Susan sat up suddenly, like a marionette on unsure strings. Her remaining eye was closed as she sat and swayed slightly. The mark of the cross continued to smolder on her forehead, adding one more pungent odor to the rest in the house.<br /><br />“It’s just th’ nerves an’ stuff,” Junior said with a smile. “’Sides, even if it ain’t, she’s cleansed now and all. Come on, Boy, let’s git her downstairs.” Junior walked ahead with newfound bravery towards Susan.<br /><br />“Now ya’ mind ya’self, Junior. Just’n case she needs another cleansin’. I won’t trust ‘er till she’s good and dead,” Mawmaw said from across the room.<br /><br />“Oh Mawmaw, look at ‘er. Ain’t no evil left in ‘er!” Junior laughed and grabbed her bound wrists.<br />Susan’s remaining eye shot open. The strong cord that bound them snapped as she effortlessly spread her hands. Her eye turned red as blood as she grabbed Junior's hand and crushed the bones with relish. Junior screamed as she shoved him into Boy, making both men stumble back.<br /><br />“<em>Evil</em>?” Susan hissed. Her voice had become hollow and cold, accompanied by an unearthly echo that chilled every ounce of marrow in the room. “You know nothing of evil. You are pathetic. You are miserable excuses for life of any sort, even that as lowly as Man,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Oh God in heaven,” Pawpaw said. He cried out and lashed out with the hammer again and again. After several blows Susan's skull was completely caved in. Blood rushed down her chest as Pawpaw stepped as far away as the walls would let him. Susan’s body had rocked with each blow, but she did not fall. Mawmaw screamed and stumbled back against the wall, her hand clutching at her chest.<br /><br />“I told ya’ she was the bride a’ Satan hisself!” Mawmaw screamed.<br /><br />“And you know <em>nothing</em> of the Undermaster,” Susan said. “He is not the marrying kind.” She scanned the room slowly as the bones in her face and skull started to move underneath the skin, seeking out their shattered parts and making them whole. Within moments, her head swelled like a balloon then deflated, leaving it unmarred and untouched save for the deep scar in the form of the cross on her forehead. Susan touched it gingerly as a wisp of errant smoke rose from it. Both her eyes were present again and the color of blood. She could see the shattered bones, muscles and tendons of her body clearly in her mind now, making the task of putting the shell back together far easier.<br /><br />“I have tried to understand. I have even tried to help you understand the nature of your existence. I have tried to show you that what you hold dear is fallacy. I have failed. I am only glad that my professors are not here to see my failure in what should be a textbook case of human insanity and paranoid delusion. Despite that, I do not wish to hurt you,” Susan said. Her eyes slowly returned to their proper human color as she took a deep breath. “You will be set to your own Pits soon enough, and I might even be amused enough to check in on you from time to time.” Her voice had returned to normal as she craned her neck this way and that, the vertebrae dropping back into their intended places. “Your antics are quite comical, though not original.”<br /><br />“You… you ain’t real,” Junior said as he nursed his shattered hand.<br /><br />“There are far worse things in the world than you slack–jawed, pathetic rednecks. I am but one. You have one minute to leave this house and not return till morning. That should give me time to calm my friends and get them to leave. I assure you, they will not be nearly as… <em>understanding</em> as I have been,” Susan said.<br /><br />“I ain’t leavin’ my home, foul creature a’…” Pawpaw started in a quivering voice.<br /><br />“Do you realize just how utterly laughable you really are? You don’t, do you? Do you think you people are the only head cases in the world? Do you think the Lord and Master actually <em>speaks</em> to you? He rarely makes an utterance to his own clergy, to kings and queens of men, let alone a miserable collection of inbred homicidal maniacs with delusions of divine right. Go, before this escalates and you call up something you can’t possibly conceive,” Susan said.<br /><br />The snap of gun barrels turned her attention to Mawmaw as she brought the old scattergun to bear between Susan’s breasts. “Back ta’ hell with ya’!” Mawmaw screamed as she pulled the triggers. The recoil pushed her back against the wall. Susan and her chair flew against the wall behind her, dumping her to the floor.<br /><br />Susan blinked a few times and struggled to her feet. She put her hands to the hole in her chest and shook her head as if she were dealing with small children. A sudden howl, as cold and dark as a pack of wolves drifted up from the basement. “Too late,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Oh Jesus Mother a’ Gawd! Pawpaw, let’s git outta’ here!” Junior said.<br /><br />“Too late,” Susan said again as the hole in her chest healed over. “Moose woke up. You could try to run, but Steve’s pretty quick. He spends a lot of time in human bodies,” Susan said as she picked at a speck of blood under her fingernail. In a burst of fear Pawpaw swung at her head again. Susan raised a finger. The steel head melted in an intense burst of flame, the molten steel pouring onto the preacher’s freshly–polished shoe. Pawpaw screamed and fell against the wall, the pain too intense to bear.<br /><br />Junior abandoned his brother and ran screaming from the room only to reappear as a flying bodyto crash onto the table. A roar of pure hatred sounded as a humanoid form easily as big as Boy and far thicker stormed in past Mawmaw and to the end of the table. Its eyes were red, glowing with an inner fire as it slammed both fists onto the edge of the table and shattered the thick old oak. Large spikes grew out of its hands and arms and a respectable set of curled horns crowned its head. The face had become almost bovine, missing only a ring through the nose.<br /><br />“Satan hisself!” Mawmaw hissed from behind it. The shotgun dropped from nerveless fingers. It turned to her and growled low from its throat.<br /><br />“Really?" the demon said in a conversational tone. "You <em>really</em> think I look like him? Really?” The candor of his speech took Mawmaw off guard. “I always kinda’ thought so, but try telling that to <em>these</em> guys,” Moose said.<br /><br />Susan rolled her eyes as Steve and Wendy came into the room. They had likewise transformed into their proper demonic selves. If the university didn’t know they were in the mortal world, so many unapproved demons in their true form would surely alert them now. Wendy spied Junior’s body on the dining room table and leaped through the air, landing on her knees and straddling the stunned man’s chin.<br /><br />“Isn’t this what you wanted, human scum?” Though Wendy's voice possessed the same hollow quality as the rest she still seemed able to make it sultry. “Well then, it’s all yours!” A thick, spiked tentacle shot out from Wendy's crotch and lashed Junior’s face. Everywhere the thing touched caused the skin to boil and flay, exposing the soft meat beneath. Wendy threw back her head in ecstasy. Her perfect bone structure, dainty horns and unmarked skin the hue of sunset made her a sight to behold, horribly beautiful even by human standards.<br /><br />Boy looked around wildly, his simple mind battered beyond all hope by the presence of the demons and his brother's horrified cries. Boy cried out in sympathy for his brother's pain and charged the table. Steven raised a clawed hand and laughed as a strip of intense flame sprang to life from the tapers across the edge of the table. Boy skidded to a halt and raised his arms in an effort to ward off the flames.<br /><br />“Guys? <em>Guys</em>!” Susan finally had to scream over the havoc. The demons paused and looked at her. “We’ve got to get out of here. I’m surprised we haven’t been caught already.”<br /><br />“We’re supposed to let them get away with this?” Wendy asked in a purring voice. The appendage had gashed open Junior’s cheek and latched onto the smooth muscles, feasting from the inside out. All he could do was twitch and jerk even as her lacquered nails dug through his denim cover–alls into his chest.<br /><br />“Oh, no <em>fucking</em> way!” Moose said. “Did you see what this goofy bastard was going to do to us? The freezers are full of parts down there.”<br /><br />“Need I remind you that we aren’t even supposed to <em>be</em> here? And you know as soon as one of us transformed they could find us. Now the three of you are fully transformed. They can’t ignore that for long,” Susan said.<br /><br />“But these mortals…” Wendy started.<br /><br />“Wendy, Susan’s right,” Steve said as the flames died from the table. His own modest horns and long, spiked tail withdrew into his body as his skin returned to the comparatively pale color that so many humans found fashionable. “We could be in a lot of trouble if they find us in the mortal world. We have to go.”<br /><br />Susan looked at Steve with a new–found respect. Though it was tradition for young demons to sneak into the mortal world during breaks from their university studies, the practice was completely illegal. For those that were <em>born</em> as demons, the authorities often looked the other way so long as they didn’t cause much trouble, arouse the Grey or, worse, the accursed angelic forces. None of them would have been given permission to xcome to the mortal world until they finished their studies and were ready to embark on their careers. Those such as Moose and Wendy would rarely get that chance, anyway. With Moose looking forward to a spot in the Skullball league and Wendy training for her cosmetology degree, they didn’t have much in the way of skills the Undermaster would need. If they were caught here now, Susan and Steve would lose their respective chances of continuing their research and work in human psychology and duplicit international commerce, respectively. For willfully violating the Pact they would never be allowed to leave Hell again if for nothing more than good relations with the Lord and Master and to stay on the right side of the Grey.<br /><br />“Okay, we’ll leave. But not before we rip these hillbillies apart!” Moose siad. He turned to Mawmaw and grabbed her, his arms elongating before him to cover the distance. The old woman could do nothing in the face of true evil as his huge hands grabbed her shoulders and lifted her off the ground. Moose unhinged his jaw and started to pull her into his waiting maw. Suddenly, the drapes over the large picture window burst into white–hot flame.<br /><br />“Oh, shit,” Wendy said as she turned to the flames. Her tentacle detached and turned towards the window as well.<br /><br />“I tried to tell you. Great. Three hundred years at university shot to… well, <em>shot</em>.” Susan said with disgust.<br /><br />“Okay, let Susan do the talking,” Steve said in a stage whisper. Pawpaw and Boy stayed against the wall, knowing they were powerless to do anything. Even Mawmaw had quieted there in the mouth of the demon and tried to crane her head to see the flaming drapes.<br /><br />“Me? Why <em>me</em>?” Susan asked.<br /><br />“You’re the big psych’ major, aren’t you?” Steve said. Susan sighed.<br /><br />A figure materialized from the smokeless blaze. He strode out of the flames in a perfectly tailored, stark–white suit. His bald skull was covered in extremely tight, smooth skin. If it weren’t for the wicked smile on his face the students would have sworn their Dean of Students was twin to the preacher cowering at the other side of the room.<br /><br />“I <em>thought</em> he looked familiar,” Steve said.<br /><br />“It was not intentional I assure you, Mr. Blizbubling,” the Dean said smoothly. His accent was a mixture of middle–European dialects and fit his chosen form well. “I have sported this countenance when forced to travel to the mortal world for nearly a thousand years.”<br /><br />“It looks good on you. Not many men could pull off double–breasted like that,” Wendy said.<br /><br />Considering the seriousness of their situation, Susan would have laid even money the first words out of Wendy’s mouth would have been an attempt to shove her nose as far up the administrator’s posterior as possible. She scolded the vixen with her eyes and tried to formulate a good excuse for them.<br /><br />“That will be enough, Ms. Klinzaakaal. I would ask why the four of you are here, now, in violation of university policy, the student handbook and even the Pact itself. This infraction could still cause a great deal of difficulty at the highest levels,” the Dean said. The four young demons looked around at each other at a complete loss for words. “Mr. Blutokrovisgin, please put the human down. I find it less than dignified to be staring down your throat in mixed company.”<br /><br />“Yeth, Dean Thithlykthloth,” Moose said, his words fumbling off his tongue and elongated jaw, then “sorry, Dean Sysslyslos.”<br /><br />“Much better, Mr. Blutokrovisgin,” Dean Sysslyslos said.<br /><br />“Forgive me, Dean, but with all due respect may we dispense with using our true names around the h..u..m..a..n..s..?” Susan whispered.<br /><br />“There is no worry they will ever try to summon any of you, Ms. Zulishtakaz. I suspect that none of you will be leaving Hell for <em>any</em> reason, at <em>any</em> time in the lifespan of these humans’ or many others. It was not bad enough that you chose to participate in a rather boorish, childish ritual. No, you had to allow mere humans to best you. This is not going to be a bright mark in your permanent records,” Dean Sysslyslos said. He looked at the humans in the room and tried to suppress his laughter. “I would have thought better of any of you than to get taken by these inbred cretins. You will return with me; <em>now</em>. I am sure your parents will want to know all about your extracurricular exploits. Drunken debauchery among humans is something only the lowest of demons would do. Mr. Blutokrovisgin, Ms. Klinzaakaal, I would expect this kind of lowbrow antic from the two of you. But Mr. Blizbubling, and especially you, Ms. Zulishtakaz, well, I expected far more. I can see now that I was in error. We should perhaps rectify my lapse in judgment.”<br /><br />“Ah… sir? What about <em>them</em>?” Steven asked, indicating the murderous family cowering in various parts of the room.<br /><br />“They are none of your concern. However, they <em>are</em> a concern of Professor Ujkwixcaalan. He has been studying them for several years, you see. Actually, to be quite frank he has been using them as a capstone for a long-term study concerning the depths of depravity the human mind is capable of performing when it feels that its actions are just. You all know Professor Ujkwixcaalan, don’t you? Especially you, Ms. Zulishtakaz. After all, he chairs your department. I am sure that he will want to have a long philosophical discussion with you since you seem to know so much about his projects as to interfere with his study,” Dean Sysslyslos said.<br /><br />Susan swallowed hard and shook her head. Last term, Ujkwixcaalan failed one of her classmates because he neglected to hold a door open for him when his arms were full. The professor also ripped the student's horns off. It took almost three months for them to grow back properly. She shuddered when she thought about what awaited her in her professor’s private office. “Dean?”<br /><br />”Yes, Ms. Zulishtakaz, Professor Ujkwixcaalan is well aware of your dalliance here. I am sure that he simply cannot <em>wait</em> to compare notes with you.” The Dean looked at the cowering preacher and smiled at him. “You do the Lord’s work here, Pawpaw. Please, continue and spread the glory and light of His name,” Dean Sysslyslos said. The young demons looked perplexed and stared at the gaping humans. “To them, I have feathery wings and a voice as sweet as harp music. You have much to learn; <em>all</em> of you. Come. We go.”<br /><br />The demons exchanged worried looks then fell in behind their Dean. Wendy and Moose allowed themselves to completely transform and were joined by Steve and Susan. The last transformed themselves as they walked and paid little heed as pieces of the human bodies they had killed then possessed slid off them like rain from a slicker to leave a trail of flesh and bone as they went, like slugs would leave slime trails, from their points in the room to the flaming portal that would lead them back home.<br /><br />“Dean Sysslyslos, if I may ask a question?” Susan asked quietly as she passed through the flames.<br /><br />“Certainly, Ms. Zulishtakaz.”<br /><br />“I know we committed a horrible breach of the rules and the Pact by coming to the mortal world without permission. But if they saw you as angelic and they will continue damning themselves and slaying the innocent in the most depraved ways their small minds can imagine, why would Professor Ujkwixcaalan harbor ill will towards us? His study should be far from ruined and may actually be enhanced by the events we unwillingly, and certainly unknowingly, were forced to participate,” Susan said.<br /><br />“Dear girl. Dear, sweet, innocent child,” Dean Sysslyslos said in a mocking, sing–song voice that patronized Susan to her core. “You <em>do</em> realize the one constant of your existence, do you not?”<br /><br />“Yes. We live in a state of being that is solid yet apart from the material world, and that…”<br /><br />“Ms. Zulishtakaz, a human once said, ‘Brevity is the heart of wit’. I daresay it is also the heart of wisdom as well. Any question you or the others may have as to the severity of your punishment can be answered quite simply,” Dean Sysslyslos said.<br /><br />“And is the Dean able to impart this wisdom to the next generation, or will we be expected to fumble our way through until we hit upon the answer ourselves?” Susan asked. Her tone betrayed her emotion. She was being unfairly lumped in with the rest, or so she felt. She had never wanted to go on spring break, anyway. She was <em>different</em> than these others; better. She was alone among them, the rose between thorns. She had made a youthful mistake. She felt certain that her future worth to the Undermaster would trump any stupid, youthful diversion she may have had the misfortune to be guiled into.<br /><br />Dean Sysslyslos stopped dead, almost causing the rest of the line to crash into each other. His human form suddenly fell away in great shreds as his true body and nature grew from the leavings. He towered over them, far larger and more sinister than any demon any of them personally knew. He leaned down and stared into Susan’s eyes and she instantly felt her black blood run like ice through her veins.<br /><br />“The answer is simple, whelp, and one you would do well to heed and hold in reverence and awe until the day the Undermaster devours you. Hell does not discriminate, Hell does not judge. If you are here, the judging has been done by powers far beyond your simple comprehension, whatever place your pitiful form may occupy in the Undermaster’s plan. In short, you will all be punished, and punished severely, if for nothing more than that one glorious and constant truth in all your wretched, pathetic little lives. Simply put? You <em>are</em> in Hell, aren’t you?”<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><em>As always, I am humbled by your readership and grateful for the tiny slice of your life you choose to spend with my words. So, until next time, just write damn it</em>. - AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-51303927508621046112011-02-06T07:44:00.000-08:002011-02-06T09:20:22.602-08:00"The Vault" (part II of II) - Fiction<em>Welcome back both Constant and Casual Reader alike for the second and final part of "The Vault". I hope you enjoy.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br /><br />Don had nearly covered the entire basement when he heard an unaccustomed string of expletives from his usually reserved comrade. “What now?”<br /><br />“This… this G.D. thing! I can’t see any reason why we don’t have power. Maybe it was cut from the outside,” Kyber said.<br /><br />“Doesn’t sound like something the locals would do. It wouldn’t help them. Just look at how they keep this place,” Don said.<br /><br />“Well, it must be something. All the fuses are good and everything else is here, just no power. Look around for a junction box or something,” Kyber said.<br /><br />“Kyber, I’ve been looking around for over an hour now. If there was one I would have found it,” Don said.<br /><br />“Then trace the wires, see where they go,” Kyber said as he shined his light up the panel and onto the ceiling, revealing a thick conduit that ran into the darkness beyond. Don took his cue and brought his own light to bear and the two followed it to various parts of the basement where it spliced off and went into holes that had been drilled into the floor. “I think the electrical system dates back to the thirties in this place,” Kyber noted more to himself than his partner.<br /><br />“The stuff in here dates back even further than that. And not a rat, cobweb or bit of mold to boot,” Don said.<br /><br />They continued tracing the various lines and splices until they came to one that ran down a wall behind a large stack of crates. “What about that one?” Don said.<br /><br />“We’ll have to move the crates to see. It runs down, may be a ground of some sort.” Kyber looked at Don and smiled at the distasteful grimace on his face. “Don’t worry… a little hard work never killed anybody.”<br /><br />The pair put down their weapons, set their lights on another stack then went to work moving the heavy crates. After several minutes, they had revealed the conduit. Halfway down the wall the conduit was broken, the large grounding wire within savagely ripped from it. Don whistled and got their lights for a closer look.<br /><br />“Who the hell would have done this? Looks like the thing’s been ripped apart,” Kyber said.<br /><br />“Crazed Amish?” Don asked.<br /><br />“They’re a very noble and misunderstood people, Don. Lay off.”<br /><br />“Sorry. You take this shit way too seriously, man. You need to relax a little, maybe get laid,” Don said. Kyber shot him a look that seemed to dim their lights. “Scratch that. You <em>definitely</em> need to get laid.”<br /><br />Kyber went back to the control panel and returned with his tools then went to work to reestablish the line. Don watched him for a time but grew bored with the process. Nothing turned Don Moore off like anything having to do with real work. He didn’t see how people could do it. He turned and faced the rest of the floor, idly casting his light around the place.<br /><br /><em>THIEF… FALSE PROPHET</em><br /><br />A sudden hint of motion caught Don’s eye and he turned his light on it as his hand went to the butt of his pistol. He kept the light on the spot for a moment and blinked several times. Obviously, his time in the pitch-black basement had affected his sight. Just as he was about to move the beam away from the spot a man–shaped bulge suddenly appeared in the wall near the floor and slid up to the ceiling from inside the wall.<br /><br />“What the… Kyber, did you see that?” Don asked.<br /><br />“See what? I’m doing what we’re supposed to be doing,” Kyber said. He stopped and stood up, stretching his back. “What was it?”<br /><br />“I… I don’t know… it was like the wall kinda’… bulged <em>out</em>. Like something was in it, moving through it,” Don said.<br /><br />“Hmph, probably just a rat or your eyes or something. I’ll be done in a minute and then we can leave this <em>spooky</em> basement,” Kyber said, emphasizing the word like Count Chocula would as he returned to his work.<br /><br />“Haven’t seen a rat the whole time we’ve been here, and if that was the size of the rats around here I won’t be staying long,” Don said. He went back to scanning the walls, moving the light slowly and paying close attention for any sign of movement. There; again, but this time in a different wall.<br /><br />“Goddamnit, Kyber, there’s something in the wall! I just saw it again!” Don said.<br /><br />“Post–traumatic stress getting at you, or just afraid of the dark?” Kyber chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m finished here. Just need to throw the main switch over on the board and see if we’re hot.”<br /><br />Don turned back to Kyber and found the wall just above him bulge out in the rough shape of a man. “Fuck! Move!” Don shouted as he drew his pistol and fired. Kyber immediately crouched lower as lead slugs grazed chips off the stone wall.<br /><br />“You crazy bastard! What the hell are you doing…” Kyber started. A massive stone fist erupted from the wall and connected squarely with Kyber’s chin. He flew back several feet and slid across the smooth floor. Don immediately backpedaled and worked his way to the center of the room near Kyber.<br /><br />“Kyber! Kyber! You okay?” Don asked. A weak grunt was his only answer. Don whipped the flashlight around aimlessly, panicked and watching. He tried the radio and found nothing but static. “Fuck! Kyber, can you get up? Kyber!”<br /><br />He passed his light over the other mercenary. Kyber’s jaw was shattered and lay open with several of the teeth missing or broken. Blood rolled freely down his chin and onto his chest. He was still conscious, but just barely. Kyber raised one arm weakly, pointing towards the control panel.<br /><br />“Light…” With only a cursory glance at Kyber, Don leaped over him and made his way to the board. Something erupted out of the stone floor under him, and only a strong sense of self-preservation and nimble feet kept him from getting tangled up in the bucking floor. He got to the panel and threw the switch upward; nothing. “Fuck! Kyber!” Don threw his light onto his friend in time to see two massive, grey arms emerge from the stone floor and wrap around him.<br /><br />FALSE PROPHECY… SIN<br /><br />Don screamed like he’d never screamed before as Kyber’s nearly unconscious body was actually pulled into the floor beneath him as if he were in quicksand, leaving only his shoulders and his feet sticking out. It would almost have been comical for Don if he didn’t think he’d be next. The stone around Kyber’s body seemed to quiver and reflected the light back at Moore in an odd way. Suddenly, the quivering stone returned to its natural form. Kyber was roused from his unconsciousness as the floor solidified, turning the parts of his body submerged in it to stone. Heart and lungs changed to granite in the blink of an eye, and he gasped only once before death came for him.<br /><br />SIN…DEATH<br /><br />“What the… oh God… what the hell …what the <em>fuck</em>…” Don grabbed the switch and worked it up and down like a madman while trying to keep his flashlight sweeping across floor at the same time. He spared a look at the control panel and found other switches similar to the main but smaller. Several of them were in the off position. He left the main power switch in position and started to throw the smaller switches. A shriek cut the still air in the basement and his bladder threatened to let go. He shined his light in the direction and found a massive, man–shaped creature bearing down on him from across the room. He screamed again but continued to work the switches as it covered the distance between them in heartbeats. Don hit the last switch and could almost feel the electricity course through the basement.<br /><br />Ancient light bulbs suddenly came to life with several blowing out from the unaccustomed power but enough held to give him a clear picture of the thing. It was shaped like a man but stood easily seven feet tall. It was bigger than any body builder he had ever seen and had grey, almost scaly skin covered in small horns, with two large ones that curled up and away like a ram’s from its forehead. Large, dead eyes that seemed to lack any real sign of life fixed on him. What worried Don the most was the incredibly large mouth full of jagged stone teeth and claws nearly a foot long that stuck out from each finger and toe. He raised his pistol and fired, knowing it would do no good. Don closed his eyes and continued to fire, emptying the weapon in seconds. He remained there for several moments, clinging to one of the electrical mounting poles before he realized that he was still alive.<br /><br />LIGHT<br /><br />Don opened his eyes ever so slowly and regarded the stone gargoyle before him. A taloned hand extended towards him, the tips of the claws mere inches from his face. The thing was nothing more than a stone statue now. He exhaled then gently let go of the pole and backed away. The electric light in the basement wasn’t bright by any means, but bright enough for him to make out its details. He could even see where his bullets had chipped tiny slivers of stone away from it. Don took a minute to breathe and make sure his heart was still in its proper place before daring to step closer.<br /><br />He took his flashlight and gingerly tapped the outstretched claws. The sharp rapping sound of metal on stone made him jump, but the gargoyle reacted as all good gargoyles should and didn’t move. Don moved a little closer and dared to tap first the hand, then further up the arm. He chuckled nervously and backed away from it, moving around it slowly. Once he cleared it he made a dead run for the stairs and didn’t look back. There was no hope for Kyber. He only hoped it wouldn’t be the same for the rest of them.<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br />Several soft footlights along the altar platform came to life just as Warrant, Kevin and Manny with Moe’s lifeless body in tow came into the sanctuary. Jack immediately rushed to his downed friend and roughly pushed Kevin away. Manny and Jack laid Moe’s body down while Warrant flew through the room barking orders to the twins.<br /><br />“Get those big fucking guns up, god damnit! I want one to the front and one to the rear. If anything moves that isn’t one of us, rip it apart!” Warrant said. The brothers stepped–to and hoisted their cannons, waiting for the next thing to move in their sights.<br /><br />“What the hell did this?” Jack asked as he examined the wound in his friend’s chest. “My God, it goes <em>clear through</em>! Manny, what the hell happened up there?”<br /><br />“Somebody hit him.” Manny said. His eyes were glassy, like a man looking at something far away. “You remember when we all went to Tijuana last spring… Moe took up with that hoochie and her old man came in…”<br /><br />“Yeah I remember, Manny. That was a good time,” Jack said.<br /><br />Warrant overheard them and came back. Jack looked up and nodded slightly. “Get it together, Manny. He’s dead. Let it go. You got one minute to get his head on straight, Jack.” Warrant cautioned. “We can’t take this right now.” He stalked away from them and went to the base of the altar. “DeSade, Gina, <em>report</em>!” Warrant barked into the microphone. The radio had gone dead, not even giving him the satisfaction of static. Only a small hum came from his earbob. “Kyber! Moore! <em>Report</em>!” Again, nothing.“God Damnit! What the hell is going on around here?”<br /><br />The sudden sounding of a “hup!” from Jim Browning caused all to move as one, turning in his line of sight with weapons brought to bear. The big gun opened up with a deafening chatter accompanied by the metallic singing of spent shell casings as they cascaded to the floor. A body screamed out and sailed in a dive across the main entryway to the sanctuary and slid across the glassy marble floor.<br /><br />“<em>Fuck</em>! Stop shooting at me!” Don screamed from behind a pew that had just started to be eaten away by the heavy slugs. “Damn it! Knock it off!” he screamed again. Warrant ordered the guns to quiet and called out across the sanctuary.<br /><br />“Moore! Is that you?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“For the present, if you can keep the trigger–twins off the damn juice!” he spat back and crawled to his feet.<br /><br />“Power’s up, at least that’s something,” Warrant growled. “Where’s Kyber?”<br /><br />“Dead. Something got him in the basement,” Don said.<br /><br />“<em>Something</em>? What do you mean something?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“I think you’d better come and see. I wouldn’t believe me, either. Besides, I’m not going back down there alone,” Don said.<br /><br />Warrant stood for a moment and wondered when the exact moment occurred that he lost any control over this situation. “Jim, Bob… you two stay up here and watch the room. Nothing in or out unless it’s us, and watch what you’re opening up on. Manny? <em>Manny</em>!” The shocked merc’ looked up at him only slightly more lucid than he had been before. “Look alive, soldier. You stay here and coordinate fire if these two have to chatter. <em>Don’t</em> fuck up, soldier. Jack, you’re with Kevin, Moore and me. First, the basement, then outside to see what the hell is going on. Moore, you better be straight with me or so help me…”<br /><br />“I might lie about women and money, Henry, but never my life,” Don said. His use of the familiar gave the commander pause. The two had been working together for years, and if there was one thing the sneaky little bastard that was Don Moore loved more than money was his own skin. Warrant nodded at him and walked past, the rest in tow.<br /><br />The place looked different in the artificial light. Though there were noticeable gaps where the ancient appliances or bulbs couldn’t handle the years, enough had come back up to lend an almost solemn light to the place. In short, it had started to look like an actual church. Some of the glory lights had come back and showed several paintings and other artwork in a more pleasing light. The electricity would make cataloging easier. If they could figure out who was trying to kill them, at least.<br /><br />They threaded through several hallways until they came to a cramped service corridor and followed it to the basement stairs. Warrant looked to Moore at the end of the line and nodded. Don swallowed hard and nodded back, his pistol clutched in his hand like a security blanket.<br /><br />“Should have brought one of the Brownings with us…” Don muttered as they started to descend. Warrant took a few steps then leaped for the bottom. He hit the floor as gently as he could and rolled, coming up in a crouch that allowed him to keep the stairs at his back and still make a grand sweep of the room. After several moments, he gave the “all clear” signal and the rest stormed down the steps and took up defensive positions around them to keep their escape route open.<br /><br />“Clear front!” Warrant barked.<br /><br />“Clear flanks!” Moore and Jack chimed in.<br /><br />“Steps secured!” Kevin answered, though not as strong as the rest. The fear was plain in his voice as he kept his eyes on the stairwell. Not being able to turn and see the room bred a small terror in him.<br /><br />Warrant almost laughed when he saw Kyber’s body sticking out of the floor. It was the last sight he thought he would see down here. He instantly wished he’d debriefed Don more thoroughly. The gargoyle statue sat several feet behind Kyber, its back to them. “Moore! What the hell happened down here?”<br /><br />Don went into a quick explanation of the events, punctuated by several “<em>I know you’re not going to believe this's</em>” and “<em>I swear to Christ’s</em>”.<br /><br />“Bullshit,” Warrant said when Don stopped talking.<br /><br />“Didn’t I make it clear that I was <em>not</em> fuckin’ lyin’ about this? Goddamnit! Look at Kyber! That kind of shit doesn’t happen when you’re just walking down the street! Look at the floor around him! It’s <em>solid</em>! It’s not broken up or anything. How do you think he got that way?” Don asked.<br />Warrant gave the signal and the group moved as one. Kevin stepped off the stairs but remained where he could look up the well. The group kept their interval and moved across the floor. They broke only to pass over Kyber’s partially–entombed body and reformed within a few feet of the statue.<br /><br />“You say this thing was coming at you until the lights came up?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“Sir–yes–fucking–sir!” Don said.<br /><br />“Watch your tone, soldier,” Warrant said through clenched teeth. The last thing he needed now was a smart-ass.<br /><br />“It was in the walls first, punched him right from inside the wall, I swear to Christ,” Moore said, not caring if anyone was really listening to him or not. “Almost blasted his jaw off. I ran for the lights and it came up through the floor and sucked Kyber down in. It came for me, but as soon as the lights came up it turned into, well… <em>that</em>.”<br /><br />“Fan out!” Warrant ordered. “Until I figure out what kind of bullshit this is keep an eye on the walls and floor for any movement, no matter how minor. Moore, take Kevin’s position. Kid, get your ass over here.” Don gratefully exchanged places with the young soldier while Kevin joined Warrant near the statue. “All right, kid. Use that big chess–club brain of yours. What the hell is going on here?”<br /><br />Kevin and Warrant stepped slowly around the statue and studied the front for several moments. “For fear of stating the obvious, sir, it’s a gargoyle,” Kevin said.<br /><br />“You don’t say?” The sarcasm literally dripped from Warrant’s tongue. “Pray tell, then, what the fuck is it doing down here? How could it do this… if it even did?”<br /><br />Kevin kept studying the statue, seemingly oblivious to the warnings from Moore. “It’s the same type of stone used for most of the walls and floors of the church. Most likely, it came from the roof outside,” Kevin said.<br /><br />“Not possible, soldier. Come up with something a little less <em>Star Trek</em>, would you?” Warrant said.<br />“With all due respect, sir, if you believe that this thing wasn’t sitting right here when Moore and Kyber came down then it doesn’t really leave room for any other possibilities,” Kevin said. He didn’t think that Warrant would catch his Vulcan–like delivery stemming from Warrant’s Trek reference. With his private joke safely tucked away, Kevin dared put a hand on the statue then shoved at it. The gargoyle wouldn’t budge. “There’s no way that the two of them could have moved this thing anywhere.”<br /><br />Warrant looked back at Kyber’s body and spared a hand to rub his eyes in frustration. “So I’m supposed to believe that a gargoyle is responsible for killing Kyber and Moe, as well as all the rest that have come through here? Unacceptable,” Warrant said. He toed several of the empty shell casings left from Don’s ineffectual attack. “Moore! These your leavings?”<br /><br />“I hope so. If not, that means they’ve got pistols, too, and that just wouldn’t be fair on a cosmic scale,” Don said.<br /><br />“Cut the wise cracks and shape up,” Warrant warned him. The story was completely unbelievable, but the current condition of Kyber’s body was enough to make even him admit that there was something completely contrary to rational thought happening in the god–forsaken church. “Fuck; alright. Let’s suppose, just <em>suppose,</em> that we’re dealing with something not entirely… <em>human</em>. Now what?”<br /><br />“Sir?” Kevin spoke up. “If you’re willing to allow that what is going on may not be entirely… <em>human</em>,” Kevin waited for the commander’s answer. Warrant’s moods could be volatile, and whether the old mercenary realized it or not the stress was starting to play out in his voice.<br /><br />“I’m open to suggestions,” Warrant finally relented.<br /><br />“According to folklore, gargoyles served as more than just downspouts and decorations, especially in the middle–European and Slavic cultures. They were also guardians that were supposed to ward off evil spirits and protect the place they’d had been made part of. When Christianity spread, the Church found it easier to get their converts to patronize the church by giving in to some of their local customs. The gargoyles were an easy one, and they quickly became part of grand architecture. You know, letting the designer hide a lot of the functions of a building like gutters and conduits for pulley chains, that sort of thing. But they all look evil, or at least malicious, by design. The custom would try to, well, <em>out-evil</em> evil, by making faces and bodies that would scare off real evil spirits.” Kevin paused for several moments to allow his monologue to sink in.<br /><br />“And this means <em>what</em> exactly to us? If this thing is actually alive, does it consider us <em>evil spirits</em>? And if it does, why the hell isn’t it trying to make us part of the church like it did to Kyber? More importantly, why the hell am I even considering this shit?” Warrant said.<br /><br />“Maybe it does consider us evil,” Kevin said. He hoped Warrant’s last question was more rhetorical in nature.<br /><br />“Or maybe,” Jack added quietly, “maybe it’s protecting something. Like you said, a guardian.”<br /><br />“Like whatever may be in the missing vault,” Warrant finished for him. “Would have to be something pretty valuable to have guards like that, wouldn’t you think?” The question wasn’t to anyone in particular but to the group at large. If his unit thought they were dealing with something that could come out of the walls after them, he would have to lay it on heavy and appeal to their greed to keep them in line and on course. Warrant still couldn’t believe that they were facing something other–worldly. There had to be a reasonable explanation, he just hadn’t thought of it yet. He’d been around the world several times over and had seen things that almost defied explanation. Almost. When Warrant found such a thing he made it his personal mission to first find out what it truly was and then how to exploit it to his own means. He would treat the Corduva Church no differently. “That still leaves the question of why this thing isn’t trying to tear us new assholes at this very minute.”<br /><br />“Gargoyles are made of stone, and legends say in the light of day they will be just that; stone. Maybe once the lights came up they were a workable substitute for daylight. The thing would’ve only been dealing with their flashlights before the house lights came up, maybe the flashlights weren’t enough light to affect them? Allowing, of course, that they are <em>real</em> gargoyles,” Kevin said.<br /><br />The group was quiet for several moments before Warrant relaxed his posture slightly. “Kevin, go back to the stairs. Moore, go up and get one of the twins down here, I don’t care which one. Just make sure he brings a .50 with him.”<br /><br />“You want me to go back to the sanctuary <em>alone</em>?” Don asked.<br /><br />“Yes, soldier. Go,” Warrant said.<br /><br />Don glared at him for a moment then broke and went up the stairs two at a time.<br />Warrant looked around him. Virtually every wall and floor in the church was made of stone; slabs, cut pieces, even cobble and mortar in some areas. Nearly everything but the doors and windows were made of stone. Even most of the furniture was hewn and carved. That much stone over, under and around them would certainly play hell with the radios and would also explain why he hadn’t heard the sporadic episodes of gunfire that had happened in various parts of the church throughout the evening. Along with that, if the living gargoyle could move through stone, it would only make sense to have as much of the building made of the stuff as possible.<br /><br />“What the hell am I thinking?” Warrant admonished himself. Living things didn’t move through stone. But, they could move through tunnels cut in the stone, within the walls and floors. “Scooby–doo strikes again,” he whispered to himself. He could only think that the excitement and the condition of Kyber’s body had distracted him from the obvious explanation from the start. The stone around his body was a minor irritant to his logic, nothing more. Warrant took a deep breath and felt much more in control.<br /><br />“Reporting as ordered, Boss.” Jim Browning announced as he came down the stairs. He had to turn sideways so that he and his weapon could make it.<br /><br />“I want you to reduce this statue to tiny, tiny bits,” Warrant ordered.<br /><br />Jim shrugged and leveled the barrel at the statue. The rest covered their ears as the big gun started up, spewing huge chunks of lead through the air to crash against the gargoyle. The gunner started at the head and concentrated his fire on the very top then methodically worked his way down until large chunks of it fell to the floor. Most of the unit had to hit the floor and cover their heads for fear of ricochet or flying stone chips. Gun smoke like fog soon filled the room. Browning kept his rate of fire for as long as he could before quieting the big gun before the barrel got too hot.<br /><br />When the smoke cleared a bit, Warrant approached the statue to check out the gunner’s handiwork. The head and shoulders of the statue had been torn away bit by bit until they lay in hundreds of small chunks and slivers dusting the floor. The left arm was missing from the elbow down and the right had been sheared off by concentrated fire at the shoulder. The remaining torso and legs of the statue were complete save for several large chunks that had been blasted from it. The body of the thing was far too thick to be destroyed with the tools at hand.<br /><br />Warrant stood on his toes and peered at the stump where the neck should have been; nothing but stone. He shook his head and turned back to Moore. “Well, I don’t think it’ll be moving around anymore. You? No? Good. Manny, you and Moore head back to the sanctuary. Jack, Jim, you’re with me. We need to check on DeSade and Gina. Move!” The unit hit the stairs and split up into their groups as soon as they got out of the service corridor.<br /><br />Warrant hadn’t realized just how cool the air in the church was until he stepped out into the humid night. They crept out the door and down the stairs to the courtyard, watching for any movement that might draw their fire. The three fanned out slightly and went around the eastern side of the church. No one used a light and instead relied on the weak streetlamps. They’d been in darker climes before and Jack and Jim were seasoned professionals, men Warrant was proud to have at his back. A little darkness wouldn’t faze them.<br /><br />They moved soundlessly around the perimeter of the eastern side and turned to cover the northern face. Warrant halted them with an upraised fist and crouched down as soon as he saw a sliver of dim light at the bottom of the stairs. He moved forward slowly and low to the ground, the other two falling in behind in single file. Warrant trusted his men to keep an eye behind and to their unguarded flank and kept his ahead, zeroing in not on what he knew could only be a discarded flashlight but into the void around it. This side of the building was noticeably darker than the front or eastern faces, a fact he kept first and foremost in his mind. Warrant shut out Don’s voice reminding him that the thing kept coming and seemed to stop only when the light was strong enough to turn it to stone.<br /><br />Warrant put himself against the exterior of the stair box and used it as cover while the rest of the men caught up. He made a series of motions to them then slipped up and over the edge and onto the top step. A foot turned at an unnatural angle lay near the step. Warrant leaned down and pulled a small LED flashlight, hoping that its neutral, soft glow wouldn’t attract as much attention as a normal white light would. The blue–tinted glow cast DeSade’s remaining eye in a flat and most unflattering light as it stared past Warrant into nothingness. If he hadn’t been his commander for more than two years, Warrant might not have even been able to recognize him. DeSade’s face had been almost completely destroyed with what could only be claw marks in what was left of his head. The smooth stone floor beneath the body had allowed the blood to run out and spread in a pattern far wider than he would have expected, the life’s blood reflecting almost black in the blue light. He switched off his light and slid back down a few steps, the other two men in defensive positions facing away from him and watching his back.<br /><br />“DeSade’s dead,” Warrant whispered as quietly as he could. “Keep your eyes open. Gina’s still unaccounted for.”<br /><br />They continued on without a sound but didn’t get far before Warrant stopped them at the base of one of the gargoyles set into the courtyard. He risked standing and used his LED to examine the face. It was identical to the one that he had seen demolished in the church basement; nearly identical, anyway. The expression on the face was different though no more handsome. “Got you, you little bastard,” he mumbled. “Let’s see what else you little beaners can do.”<br /><br />The trio moved on across the courtyard like a snake in an uneven style to avoid patterns. Warrant reached the western corner and cast an uneasy glance around the side. Though still dim, the light was considerably greater on this face of the building from the town lights off to the west. Warrant had always followed the old adage, though, and knew that whatever helped you see your enemy often helped them see you.<br /><br />They moved around the corner and went a few feet before an odd wind tousled their hair and beat against their backs. A moment later a very human scream pierced the night and made Warrant and Jack spin on their heels with weapons ready. They found nothing but night behind them. Night… where Jim Browning should have been. Warrant left Jack facing rearward and pivoted back in the direction they had been heading, then back again in a sweeping motion. Something warm hit his forehead and ran down his face. There wasn’t a mercenary alive that didn’t know the salty smell and rolling viscosity of blood on their faces. In a burst of inspiration he shoved Jack violently, sending him stumbling several feet as Jim’s massive rifle hit the ground right where he had been crouching just a moment ago.<br /><br />Warrant fell onto his back and turned his muzzle skyward in time to see a dim but huge winged figure nearly fifteen feet above them. A large lump hung limp from one of the thing’s arms, raining blood and gore down onto the brick courtyard below. The winged thing let out a shriek that made Browning’s death knell pale in comparison and buried its short muzzle into the dead mercenary’s chest, ripping out chunks of flesh and muscle<br /><br /><em>SWEET</em><br /><br />and feasting on the remains as it beat its great wings to stay aloft.<br /><br />“Open fire!” Warrant screamed as he pulled the trigger on his weapon. Jack followed suit and the night was broken by the sulphorous, dazzling glare of their dual muzzle flashes. Tracer rounds lit up the night as the gargoyle was raked by dozens of slugs. It pitched and veered for a moment before going into a dive towards the mercenaries. “Break!” Warrant called out, rolling back towards the church wall. Jack threw himself farther back and rolled around the corner of the building, using the massive stone structure as cover. By the time the pair got their bearings, the beast had disappeared again.<br /><br />“The fuckin’ thing’s airborne! It could have gone anywhere!” Jack called out.<br /><br />Warrant flattened himself against the wall and kept an eye on the sky. The light worked against him now and was throwing a soft glare in his eyes, taking away his night vision. He held his machine gun tight against his chest with the muzzle pointing up, waiting for any sign of the creature.<br /><br />“I’m going for the .50! Cover me!” Jack called out from the corner.<br /><br />“No! You don’t know where the damn thing is…” Warrant said. Jack burst from the shelter of the corner and threw himself at the big gun. Warrant stepped out and scanned the sky intently, waiting for the monster to appear above them. Jack got to the rifle and grabbed it, but it refused to move. He tugged at it for a moment before he realized that a large, stone hand has holding the barrel flush with the ground. There was no creature, only a hand that seemed to sprout from the stone courtyard.<br /><br />“What the…” Jack muttered.<br /><br />“Jack! It’s a trap!” Warrant’s warning came too late as the beast’s other hand flew up from the bricks, the razor–sharp claws impaling the mercenary from the abdomen up into his chest cavity. Jack made to scream but only produced a gout of thick crimson that rolled down his chin and bathed his chest. The monstrous hand suddenly twisted, and even Warrant had to flinch as he imagined the absolute destruction the claws were doing inside Jack’s body.<br /><br />The creature continued to rise up from the bricks until it stood at its full height, easily dwarfing Warrant. It shook Jack’s corpse off its claws and hissed as the body slid onto the bricks, the blood seeping between them.<br /><br /><em>DRINK DEEP<br /></em><br />It dropped the Browning and glared at Warrant displaying its gore–stained, stone fangs. Warrant kept the wall to his right and started to fire at the thing as he backed along the wall. The bullets slammed into it and sent slivers of stone flying, but still the gargoyle kept coming.<br />Warrant continued to fire bursts at the gargoyle as it advanced. He knew it was toying with him. With its long legs and reach, not to mention its wings and its obvious ability to move through rock itself, it could be on him in a heartbeat. This wasn’t an animal or even a human they were dealing with. He accepted, at least temporarily, that it was just that; an <em>it</em>. A deadly it.<br /><br />The gargoyle leaned forward and shrieked, the sound so powerful and cutting that he could almost feel its ferocity wash across his face. It was close enough now that he could smell the blood on its breath. Warrant’s machine gun was of no use so he let it hang on its sling and increased his pace. One broken brick or misstep and the thing would be on top of him. If he could make it to the corner, he could buy a second of free movement, maybe even make it to the door. Warrant gave up hope that the men inside would have heard their battle. If the stone was too thick to hear such sounds inside, he doubted they would carry from the outside. He kept backpedaling, waiting for either the thing to pounce or the corner of the building to materialize behind him.<br /><br />The gargoyle was intelligent, even if it wasn’t much one for conversation. It sensed its victim’s apprehension, could smell the adrenaline pumping through its tiny heart.<br /><br /><em>FEAR… SWEET…<br /></em><br />Nothing living, dead or otherwise knew the church as well as it did, and it knew exactly where the corner was and what the human intended to do. It had killed dozens of humans over the course of the years, and it was always the same. Humans were so predictable, so absolutely soft. If not for the Pact, it knew the mortal world would fall easy prey. The gargoyle leaned forward slightly and tensed its powerful legs, ready to pounce just when the human thought it would gain salvation.<br /><br />Warrant could almost sense the corner coming up behind him. He blinked and realized that the gargoyle was ready to strike. It crouched, and Warrant knew that in less than a second it would have him on the ground beneath its crushing weight. Suddenly, thunder sounded in the night. The beast was backlit in staccato fashion as the big .50 caliber opened up from behind. The gargoyle spun and roared at the gunner, attempting to swat away the slugs like they were mosquitoes even as it started moving towards the shooter.<br /><br />“Down!” a voice screamed over the roaring of the heavy machine gun. The word was the single best Warrant had heard in a long time. He dropped to his chest instantly as Bob Browning’s rifle opened up from behind him opposite the other gunner. Battered front and rear by .50 slugs, the gargoyle roared and pitched back and forth between them, finally taking to the air with a massive down draft from its stone wings. Both guns quieted as Warrant got to his feet and rushed back towards Jack. He couldn’t see how the man had lived through the attack, let alone had the energy to pick up the heavy machine gun. But he didn’t find the gun in Jack’s hands. His body was where the thing had left it.<br /><br />Gina stood over him, the big smoking rifle in her hands and blood caked to her face. She swayed slightly under the weight of the weapon and her injuries but was at least coherent enough to tell friend from foe. Warrant pried the weapon away from her fingers and shined a flashlight over the rest of her body to check for injuries, taking care not to hit her eyes and rob her of her night sight.<br /><br />“You’re going to be okay. Let’s get back inside. Can you walk?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />She nodded weakly and stumbled forward, too proud to ask for help from her commander. Warrant readied the big gun and trotted along behind her, constantly scanning the surroundings for the gargoyle. They regrouped and moved to the front of the church quickly until Gina stopped them and pointed up to the upper reaches of the church’s wall. “More… than one…” Gina gasped.<br /><br />“We know. One’s in the basement. We took care of it,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“Four…” Gina whispered, causing a fresh trickle of blood to roll down her shattered lip. Warrant’s eyes went wide as he followed her trembling hand and looked up at the wall. He took his light and shined it up into the night, then passed it along the uppermost floor. Each corner had a small alcove that was obviously built to house something large; something that wasn’t there now.<br /><br />“Nobody’s home… fuck!” Warrant said. They ran past the mute gargoyle guardians at the foot of the front stairs and burst through the front doors. Don waited inside for them then barred the door with a heavy, oaken beam once they passed.<br /><br />“Sanctuary, <em>now</em>!” Warrant ordered. “Bob, help Gina get in there. See what you can do for her.”<br /><br />“Boss… Jim?” the big man asked, nodding to the gun in his hands. Warrant gave him a look that answered all questions.<br /><br />“He went down fighting like hell.” Warrant said.<br /><br />Bob nodded solemnly and leaned down so that Gina could brace her battered body against his. In the electric light of the foyer, Warrant could only guess at what strength was keeping Gina alive, let alone conscious. Her face was covered in caked and drying blood, but he could see enough to know that it would never be the same.<br /><br />The rest of the unit filed past him and into the sanctuary. Warrant glanced back at the door and almost expected them to burst apart and spew gargoyles into the church. But then, they wouldn’t have to, would they? They could just come out of the walls after them.<br />Warrant charged into the sanctuary, rejoined his unit took a headcount. Five were dead, and Gina could still be before the night was through. Manny could easily turn into a liability at any time. What was he left with? A cowardly thief and a kid that only needed to shave once a week. If it wasn’t for Bob Browning, the Scooby–Doo bunch really would be better equipped for this mystery.<br /><br />“We have to get out of here,” Don said in a low voice.<br /><br />“That’s enough, soldier.” Warrant said without looking at him.<br /><br />“Soldier? If you haven’t noticed, <em>commander</em>,” Don said, letting the rank drip from his tongue like poison, “we’re just a little bit fucked here. We’re hiding. Don’t give me bullshit that we’re ‘regrouping’. We’re fuckin’ <em>hiding</em>! But those things can just come out of the fuckin’ walls and floors whenever they want. So we’re holed up in a place that they can just pop the fuck in any time they want!”<br /><br />“I said that was enough!” Warrant barked, his hand straying to his sidearm.<br /><br />“Oh! What are you going to do, Henry? You gonna’ shoot me? If you ain’t noticed it yet, Sparky, we’re all gonna’ die anyway! I’d rather be shot than get crushed or chewed up by one of those god–damn things!” Don said.<br /><br />“Keep talking and you may just get what you want.” Warrant’s voice washed through the room like ice water. The rest sensed the tension and gripped their weapons or looked around at anything but either of them.<br /><br />“Fuck you. I’m out of here. Shoot me in the back then,” Don said.<br /><br />“You walk out that door, Don, and I’ll be the last of your worries. Just ask Gina,” Warrant said.<br />Don chanced a look at the woman and sighed heavily. “Okay, then. So what’s the fuckin’ plan, oh great and fearless leader?” Don asked.<br /><br />Warrant made a mental note to have a long discussion about discipline and unit cohesion with Moore in the morning. Provided they were all still around in the morning, of course. “I just need to think for a minute.” Warrant walked across the front of the room and went to one of the large stained–glass windows set into the masonry. He lit a cigarette and was quiet for several moments, the sound of his fingers rapping against the butt of his pistol the only sound to be heard in the sanctuary.<br /><br />Manny sat and stared around the room then stood up in a panic. “Where’s Jack?”<br /><br />“He’s dead,” Don offered. “Just like Kyber and DeSade and Moe and Jim. Anybody else see a pattern developing, here?”<br /><br />“No. Jack was just here,” Manny said.<br /><br />“And now he’s fucking <em>gone</em>, okay? Gone. Deal.” Moore lit a cigarette and leaned back against one of the pews with his eyes closed. “And G.I. -ucking-Joe over there is going to tell us how it is that we won’t be joining him. Right, <em>generalissimo</em>?”<br /><br />“I’ve had about enough of this shit,” Warrant growled. He spun and drew his pistol on Moore.<br /><br />The thief’s eyes went wide as his hand strayed to the butt of his own pistol jammed in his waistband. Warrant was a lot of things in Don’s eyes, but if nothing else he was predictable; predictable enough for Don to know that if he so much as flinched in the next few moments Warrant would think nothing of gunning him down where he sat.<br /><br />“Wait!” Kevin spoke up. He was shaking slightly, but his voice seemed stronger than it had since the start of all the excitement. “Everybody, please, just hold on a minute. Commander, we’re going to need every body we have. Don, we’ve got one badly injured and another one that has about two fingernails left to hold on to reality. You’re really not helping,” Kevin said. He waited for a moment, half–expecting either one of them or perhaps both to turn their pistols on him. Surprisingly enough, Warrant nodded slightly at Don and slowly lowered his weapon. Moore returned the favor and let his hand fall away from his own. Warrant holstered his pistol and took a long drag from his cigarette. On one hand, he needed to backhand him for getting in the way of discipline. But on the other, he was glad to see the kid develop some backbone.<br /><br />“The kid’s right,” Bob Browning spoke up, a rare occurrence from the usually quiet man. He’d picked up his brother’s weapon from where Warrant had dropped it and held one of the guns in each arm. “Question is, what do we do about it?”<br /><br />Warrant stared at Kevin with an expectant look. “Okay brainiac, you got our attention. What’re you going to bring to the table?”<br /><br />Kevin swallowed hard. Everyone capable of looking was doing so and in his direction. “Well, what do we know about the gargoyles already?” Kevin saw Warrant roll his eyes and stare back out the window at the mention of the legendary beasts. “Or whatever they are.”<br /><br />“They can fly, they can come out of the walls and floors, they slice, they dice and they make thousands of fuckin’ Julienne fries. Christ! Can we just <em>go</em>, please?” Don said.<br /><br />“We don’t have anything that can kill them. We put maybe a hundred rounds of .50 into the one outside and it just flew out of range,” Bob countered.<br /><br />“Seemed to do a pretty good job on the one downstairs, though,” Warrant mused. “So, what’s different?”<br /><br />The room went quiet for a few moments. A soft pattering of rain had developed on the stained glass window as Warrant looked on.<br /><br />“Light,” Don suddenly said, breaking the quiet and making more than one man jump. “The light; don’t you get it? Downstairs, the thing came after me until the lights went up.”<br /><br />“What the hell does light have to do…” Warrant started.<br /><br />“Wait a minute, er, sorry commander,” Kevin corrected himself. “But Don may have a point.”<br /><br />Kevin got up from the pew and paced around the front of the room. “We saw it downstairs. We can only believe that what Don said happened down there did, in fact, happen. The one outside proves that. But why is the one downstairs not coming after us? Why was Jim able to break it up with the .50? Why aren’t they just coming in here right now and killing us?”<br /><br />“What about the rest that have been through here over the years, then?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“That one I know,” Don added. “We found the problem with the electric downstairs. One of the main lines had been severed. Ripped apart, actually, and hid behind a bunch of crates. I’d bet your life that those things ripped the line out to make sure that the lights couldn’t come up.”<br /><br />“You just <em>now</em> thought to bring this up?” Warrant growled.<br /><br />“Hadn’t come up in conversation before, general. Been a little busy trying to save my ass. Sorry,” Don said.<br /><br />“Okay… let’s say that all this bullshit is real. Let’s say we’re facing… <em>gargoyles</em>. All things being equal, they won’t be able to come into a lit–up room or they’ll turn to stone, right? Is that why we aren’t squaring off in here right now?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“Allowing for all that, it seems the only explanation,” Kevin answered. “But I’m no scholar on this stuff. I’m only guessing,” he cautioned.<br /><br />“Then our objective is to keep the power on and stay in the lit areas until morning. Then, we take a sledgehammer to every gargoyle we find in the light of day. Simple.” Warrant beamed a genuine smile. Finally, some control. “Bob, you and Don go downstairs and post on the electrical panel. Make sure that nothing happens to it. Kevin and I will relieve you in a few hours.”<br /><br />“Downstairs? Oh, <em>hell</em> no! I’m not going back down there for love or money!” Don said.<br /><br />“Don, would you do it for your life?” Warrant countered. The steel in his eyes matched his voice as he stared him down. “We’re down too many for you to get squeamish. Besides, I can’t vouch for your safety if I’m left in a room with you for any length of time right now.”<br /><br />“Oh, fuck me. Gargoyles outside, lunatic inside. What the hell did I do to deserve this?” Don gathered up his gear and nodded to Bob. “Let’s go before Commander Cody over there gets an itchy finger,” Don said. Bob simply nodded and stood. The pain of his brother’s death was evident in his eyes. But like Warrant, he was a professional. There would be time to grieve when the sun came up.<br /><br />“Bob, we’ll look for him tomorrow. You can even have the privilege of chunkin’ up the first one we pull down,” Warrant said. It was the only real solace he could offer. Bob nodded again and followed Don out of the room then Warrant turned his attention to Manny. The merc’ just sat on the floor, staring at his friend’s body. Someone had pulled down a small tapestry from one of the walls and had covered Moe’s body. “Manny? <em>Manny</em>! You in there?”<br /><br />“Huh? Yeah Boss. Me and Moe were just talkin’ about what we were gonna’ do with the money from this gig. Nothing personal Boss, but we’ve been thinkin’, well, Jack too, that we would retire. You know, maybe get a little ranch or something. Gentleman ranchers… yeah, that would be a nice way to live. Don’t you think, Boss?” Manny said.<br /><br />“Yeah Manny. I might even join you on that deal. Why don’t you get… why don’t you <em>two</em> get some rest now, might need you to pull a turn at sentry later,” Warrant said. Kevin stood by, witnessing the exchange. He’d known Warrant the better part of a year, and he didn’t think the man was capable of compassion. Kevin shook his head a few times to clear the image and went to check on Gina.<br /><br />“You’re right Boss. I am pretty tired. I was trying to wait for Jack, though,” Manny said.<br /><br />“Jack’s on sentry right now, Manny,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“Okay.” The mercenary stretched out beside Moe’s body and threw an arm over his eyes. “Think we could turn down the lights a little, Boss?”<br /><br />“No. Sorry,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“s’okay,” Manny said sleepily. “I won’t be awake much longer, anyway. That Moe, though, he can sleep through anything.” Manny lay flat for a moment, then curled up into a fetal position and used his forearm for a pillow. Warrant sighed and walked away, the weight of a commander squarely on his shoulders. Kevin met him halfway across the room.<br /><br />“Gina’s still conscious. I don’t know how she’s doing it, though,” Kevin said.<br /><br />“Probably because she knows she’s either in shock or isn’t far from it. Falling asleep now would be the same thing as slitting her throat. She’s a pro. Not likely that she’s going to go down without a fight.” Warrant pushed past Kevin and kneeled down beside her. “How you doing?” Gina opened her mouth to speak and grimaced through a fresh pang of agony. “Ssshhh. Don’t worry about it. I’d offer you some reds, but I don’t think you could swallow them,” Warrant said.<br />Gina looked up at him and smiled through her eyes. She flexed her fingers several times, giving Warrant a glimpse of the meat of her palms. She’d been digging her fingernails into her hands, letting the fresh pain keep her from sinking into death’s sleep.<br /><br />“Just hang on till morning, girl. There’s got to be a medicine man in this town somewhere. We’ll find him and get you patched up. I’ll personally pay for whatever work you may need after that. Can’t be seen running around with a lady that looks like a gargoyle hit her, now can I?” Warrant said. Gina brought her hand up and weakly slapped his knee. “Now that’s the Gina I know. You cold? A blanket or something?” Warrant asked. She shook her head and adjusted her body slightly to a more comfortable posture. Then, she pointed to her empty holster and looked at him expectantly. Warrant put a hand on the butt of his pistol and paused, reluctant to give up his personal sidearm.<br /><br />“Here.” Kevin offered his own pistol to her butt–first. “It’s not like I’m going to be using it much, anyway.” She nodded her thanks and pulled the slide back just enough to make sure there was a round in the chamber. The two men stood up and walked away to the far corner of the room.<br /><br />“That was your only weapon, soldier,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“I’m not a soldier. Neither is anybody else here. Hit me, shoot me, whatever, but it’s the truth,” Kevin said. He waited a moment for the fist that should come for his chin. After a few moments, he realized the assault wasn’t coming after all. “This military shit works fine for your everyday bit. But we’re not dealing with that here. Nobody’s used to shooting things that don’t fall down and die. Everybody will work together a lot better if you can just ease off on the structure a bit and recognize that this isn’t your standard job.”<br /><br />“That <em>structure</em> is what has kept all your asses alive so far, kid. Discipline is needed in this situation more than a lot of others I’ve seen. We do it my way, we do it by the numbers, we all live,” Warrant said as he started walking away, then stopped. He leaned close to Kevin’s ear and said in barely a whisper, “I can understand that you’re young, and scared. And I respect the fact you had the guts to say what you did. Now, you’ll have to respect the fact that if I even so much as <em>think</em> you’re going to speak to me again in that manner or will disobey my <em>harsh discipline</em> and <em>structure</em>, I <em>will</em> be forced to rip off your fucking head and shit down your neck. Are we clear, <em>soldier</em>?” Warrant waited for a moment then placed an open hand to the left side of Kevin’s face. “A response in the affirmative is not an option, son.” Warrant said. Kevin nodded his head weakly and looked away from Warrant’s piercing gaze. “Good. I’ll make a man out of you yet.” He slapped Kevin’s face lightly, though there was no trace of playfulness in the gesture. It was a solid connection, one that told Kevin that he was on as thin ice with Warrant as the rest of them were with the gargoyles.<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br />Don paced back and forth where the steps met the basement floor. He wasn’t budging anywhere that he couldn’t stick out his foot and feel the stairs underneath. Bob sat on a crate nearby and stared past the demolished gargoyle, past the electrical panel and back in time, remembering his brother.<br /><br />Don pulled out a cigarette and lit it slowly, carefully and totally contrary to his near frenetic pacing. “Bob, I’m real sorry about Jim. He was a really nice guy. You don’t find that much in this business,” Don said.<br /><br />Bob nodded absently and continued playing his own home movies. But in the back of his mind, in the darkest spaces, he was harboring something even darker; vengeance. Pure, sweet, simple vengeance. Bob almost wished one of them would burst through the wall now. He was ready for it. He would show it what a Browning boy could really do.<br /><br />“Bob? You in there?” Don asked. Again, Bob nodded. Don Moore had not gotten this far in life by aggravating large men with even larger guns, so he let it go at that. He continued pacing and smoking, doing both with equal fervor. “So what do you think of all this, huh? This is some fucked–up shit here. ‘Become a mercenary, see the world, make lots of money, get bitch–slapped by a gargoyle’; wasn’t in <em>my</em> fuckin’ brochure, let me tell you. I think after this gig I’m gonna’ go live in south Florida and be a gigolo or something. Screwin’ rich, 80–year–old women has got to be more conducive to a long and healthy life than this shit.” He paused for a moment and watched for Bob’s reaction. Nothing, not even a nod. “Right. I’ll shut up now,” Don said.<br />Don sat down dejectedly and crushed his cigarette out on the wooden step. Good old wood. At least you could trust it not to spit gargoyles at you. At least he hoped he could. If nothing else, he could say that he had a real reason now to never set foot in a church again.<br /><br />They sat in silence for awhile, broken only by the light, incessant tapping of Moore’s left foot. Bob didn’t seem to notice, but after a time Don even started to annoy himself. He pulled off his small pack, rummaged around for a moment and came up with a personal compact disc player and headphones. He put them on and touched the power button. Nothing. He tapped it a few times and waited expectantly for the light to come on. Still nothing. He sighed and pulled the headphones off. Just his luck. He could be killed at any moment by crazed stone gargoyles and he couldn’t even listen to a little Garth Brooks. Don looked around and spied an electrical outlet on a nearby wall. “Well, there. What do we have here?” Don said. Bob shot him a look and started to bring his weapon to bear. “Whoa there, easy tiger. Nothing important,” Don said. Bob went back to staring at the past.<br /><br />Don got up and went across the room, giving a wide berth to both Kyber and the gargoyle’s remains scattered across the floor. He picked up Kyber’s discarded toolkit and returned to his perch on the steps. Don was no Kyber, but he was an American, by God. A little American ingenuity could go a long way. He found a length of tightly–bound electrical cord in the bag and played with several different adapters until he found one to fit his player. He spliced them together and plugged it in to his music machine. The other end of the cord he stripped to expose the bare wires and looked around the bag for a plug. After a few minutes of looking, he put the bag down on the steps and stared at the bare wire ends. Don brightened after a moment and got up, spooling the wire behind him and went to the wall socket.<br /><br />“No reason why this shouldn’t work,” Don mumbled to himself, careful not to spike Bob’s attention. He kneeled down and spread the two wires apart, then gently shoved them into the outlet until they stopped. He looked back on the steps and saw the green power indicator alive and staring back at him. “At least something’s going right,” Don mumbled and went back to the stairs. He sat down and put on his headphones just as a thin, airy buzzing noise filled the room and echoed off the stone walls and floor. Sparks leaped out from the wall outlet, the elderly fixture unable to handle Don’s MacGyver–like skill. The lights in the basement flickered for a moment then died. “Oh, fuck me…” Don pulled off the headphones again and put everything down on the steps.<br /><br />“What did you do, Don?” Bob asked quietly, a flashlight beam already emitting from his seat.<br /><br />“Okay, so I’m not Bob Villa, all right? Probably just a fuse. I’ll check. We found extras.” Don pulled out his flashlight and walked towards the electrical panel. “You’ve got my back, right?”<br /><br />“Yes,” Bob answered.<br /><br />“Right.” Don went around the gargoyle once again and shined his light on the electrical panel. It was all Greek to him. “Think maybe you could give me a hand over here?” He saw Bob’s flashlight move around for a moment and heard the belted cartridges clink against the receiver of his machine gun as he walked across the room. Bob leaned his weapon against the panel support and added his light to Don’s while they opened various panels and boxes looking for the culprit fuse. After more than a minute of looking, Don spied one of the old glass fuses with a blackened copper element leering at him. “There you are. Found it, Bob. Hand me one of those fuses there.” Fresh fuse in hand, Don put his fingers on the blown fuse to remove it and yanked them back with a yelp. He dropped the fresh fuse in the momentary shock and sucked on his fingers.<br /><br />“Hot?” Bob asked.<br /><br />“Oh, no, not at all. Everybody knows that glass is a piss–poor conductor of heat,” Don said. He grabbed his flashlight and started scanning the floor for the dropped fuse. He only hoped the glass casing around it hadn’t broken in the fall. Don scanned the floor closely and caught a glint of light reflected back at him. The fuse had rolled up against a large chunk of the demolished gargoyle’s head. He went to it and hesitated a moment as the sightless eye stared up at him. As Don reached for it, he paused for a moment with fingers extended. Did the eye just blink? No, couldn’t have. A sound like tires on a gravel road suddenly started around the room. “Oh shit… this can’t be good. Bob!”<br /><br />The two mercenaries trained their beams on the remains of the stone killer. The pieces were moving, their rough edges scraping across the stone floor. Large chunks and small slivers slid across the floor at various speeds and directions. As pieces were drug nearer the rest by unseen forces, small slivers and large bits grafted together in their original order and way, rapidly reforming the beast in the sculptor’s intended image. The pair backed away from the regenerating gargoyle and put the electrical panel to their backs. Neither did so much as draw a weapon as they watched the spectacle of their impending deaths form on the floor before them.<br /><br />“<em>ohfuckohfuckohfuck</em>…” Don babbled softly. The assembled pieces rose off the floor and attached to the torso in their proper places until finally the head spun up from the floor and sat itself back on the thing’s stumpy neck. The large eyes blinked several times as the creature’s skin took on a lighter grey color. It flexed its fingers and arms a few times, then glared at the mercenaries and let out a long, low hiss.<br /><br />“Bob,” Don whispered, “get the .50…” The gargoyle was obviously possessed of the same perfect sight as his kin. It had already been cut to pieces by the weapon before, and it certainly wouldn’t permit the same thing to happen twice. It half–shrieked, half–roared and shot out a hand to catch the big man’s arm in a fist nearly as large as his head. It squeezed its fingers and hissed as muscle and bone crushed together in its grip. Bob’s scream galvanized Don to action. He darted to his right and went in a dead run for the stairs as the thing tried to grab him in its other hand. Don could feel the claws as they grazed his shoulder though he didn’t let the pain stop his feet. There was nothing he could do for Bob now except die with him, and he didn’t like anyone that much. He wasn’t about to sacrifice his life for the sake of unit cohesion. Don crossed the room and made the top of the stairs without feeling a single tread along the way.<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br />Warrant had just finished taking stock of their remaining weapons and ammunition when the lights overhead suddenly surged then died in a bright flash. Several of the old bulbs couldn’t handle the surge of power and burst apart, showering the sanctuary with tiny slivers of glass.<br /><br />“This can’t be a good sign,” Kevin muttered from somewhere in the darkened sanctuary. Only a soft glow made it through the heavy, colored windows. They both turned their flashlights on as Warrant went to wake up Manny and Kevin went to sit with Gina.<br /><br />“Kevin, you with her?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“Yeah,” his voice quavered slightly as he avoided shining the light directly into Gina’s face. Kevin felt her neck and found a surprisingly strong pulse. Her hand shot up and closed around his wrist. “Sorry, just checking,” Kevin whispered.<br /><br />“Stay there, we’re coming,” Warrant called out from the darkness. Kevin watched his flashlight play over Manny and the tapestry that covered Moe.<br /><br />“Just where the hell would we go?” Kevin mumbled. He heard Manny and Warrant arguing about bringing Moe with them. Warrant finally told Manny that Moe was going to take point and keep watch over a nearby side door. Mollified, Manny and Warrant slipped over to Kevin and Gina. They heard Moore calling out and brought their lights to bear on the main entryway into the sanctuary.<br /><br />“<em>Don’t shoot</em>!” Don called out as he slid through the entryway. He followed their lights and threw himself down breathlessly beside them.<br /><br />“What happened down there?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“I don’t know, the power just cut out. Kyber said that could happen with the building being so old and all,” he lied. No point in making the situation worse by playing the blame game.<br /><br />“Hell of a time. We still have hours before dawn,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“Now do we get the hell out of here?” Don asked. “We can come back in the morning with sledgehammers… hell, a jackhammer if you want, and turn ‘em to dust. Besides, I don’t think I’m the only one here that could use a drink.”<br /><br />“Guess you left Bob to die down there, huh?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“He was dead before I left,” Don lied again. “I <em>am</em> a human being too, you know?”<br /><br />“No. I <em>don’t</em> know that. Okay, we need to travel before these things realize the lights aren’t on and somebody is home,” Warrant said.<br /><br />“Let me go get Moe,” Manny said.<br /><br />“Moe’s rear guard, Manny. He’ll be okay. Trust me. He knows what he’s doing,” Warrant said, ignoring the dark look Kevin threw his way.<br /><br />“Too late…” Gina croaked. The beam of her light caught a large lump moving just underneath the surface of the stone floor, like muscles under skin.<br /><br />“Does it know where we are?” Don whispered.<br /><br />“Does it matter?” Warrant said.<br /><br />The lump moved towards Moe’s body. As it neared, it started to rise like a submarine breaking the surface. The gargoyle paid no attention to their flashlights and lifted Moe’s lifeless body by both ankles. Manny issued a stark battle cry and burst up from the floor at a dead run, his machine gun chattering all the way. The others could see the bullets strike the gargoyle but the slugs did little more than leave angry, red welts and an even angrier gargoyle.<br /><br />The gargoyle turned its head and roared. After a few more steps Manny’s weapon went dry. He dropped the empty gun as he ran and threw himself into the air, meaning to ram the gargoyle with his own body. But as Manny went airborne the thing swung Moe’s body around in a wide arc and intercepted the flying mercenary. The sound of bones snapping echoed across the sanctuary as Manny went down hard. He didn’t get back up.<br /><br />The gargoyle stared into the flashlight beams for a moment then turned its head away. From out in the hall they could hear a heavy, steady tread coming for them. “That would be the one from downstairs. I’m outta’ here,” Don said. He pulled his pistol and plastered himself against the wall at the edge of the entryway, hoping that he would escape the gargoyle’s notice for a few precious moments after it walked into the room.<br /><br />Warrant cursed under his breath at Moore and leveled his weapon at the traitorous thief. In the tension, no one had noticed the footsteps had stopped. Just as Warrant was ready to kill his own man the wall behind him bulged inward, pushing Moore away from it. The gargoyle slipped out of the wall as if he were walking through rice paper. The stone behind him rippled for a moment after his passing then returned to its smooth, unmarred state.<br /><br />“Move!” Warrant screamed and waved his light in the direction of the stained glass windows on the other side of the room. Kevin and Warrant helped Gina to her feet and lagged back with her to keep her from falling. A third gargoyle dropped from the ceiling and came to earth where the group had been standing a scant few seconds before. As the group made the wall the three gargoyles slowly advanced from their points in the room. They didn’t need to hurry; their prey wasn’t going anywhere.<br /><br />Warrant reached up to the shoulder–height sill of the nearest window and pounded it with his fist. The glass barely shook in its lead moorings. He raised his machine gun awkwardly over his head and pointed the muzzle at the glass then pulled the trigger, barely able to keep it down as the gun bucked and jumped in his unsteady grip. He could hear the glass crackle and break, but when he looked up at it there were few true holes through it. Gina and Don gauged their distance from the gargoyles, then followed Warrant’s example with their handguns, aiming for the areas that were pocked and cracked from Warrant’s attack. Several large pieces of the glass broke away, but not nearly enough to allow a body to pass.<br /><br />“It’s weak now,” Warrant yelled.<br /><br />“Not weak enough,” Don returned as he slammed a fresh magazine home. Gina grabbed the thief and rummaged around in his pack as the gargoyles neared and pulled out two grenades.<br /><br />“Gina! No! They’re too close!” Warrant screamed. “You’ll get us, too!”**<br />The woman paid him no heed and pulled both pins then reached up over her head and placed the grenades on the deep window sill before dropping to the stone floor with her arms laced over her head.<br /><br />“Oh fuck me,” Don cried out and threw himself down as Kevin and Warrant figured out her intent. The four crowded as close to the stone wall as they could just as the gargoyles came within arms reach. Suddenly, the world went to hell.<br /><br /><em>NO</em><br /><br />Both grenades went off at the same time. The sheltering stone kept the worst of the fallout from the four mercenaries while completely destroying the two–story–tall window. Thick, sharp shards of glass and chunks of stone blew out in all directions. The explosion caught the three gargoyles off–guard, the intense flash of light causing them to shrink away and throw their arms up over their faces.<br /><br /><em>LIGHT</em><br /><br />Even before the smoke cleared, Warrant was rousing his people. He sent Kevin onto the sill and handed Gina up to him then reached down to Moore and discovered a long, jagged shard of blue–tinted glass had pierced the back of his skull to exit where his nose should have been. Warrant accepted Kevin’s hand–up just as the gargoyles regained their senses and had started for them again. The claws of the lead gargoyle sank almost up to their length in the stone beneath the window just as Warrant’s legs cleared the sill. The mercenaries jumped from the window ledge to land on the debris in the courtyard below.<br /><br /><em>NO ESCAPE… NO…<br /></em><br />The trio wasted no time and didn’t bother to look back as they helped each other run across the courtyard towards town. Just ahead, they could see the fourth gargoyle in the dim light. It lay on the ground, shaking its head and trying to get to its knees. Warrant assumed that it had been in the air when the blast hit, and the resulting shockwave and flying debris had given it something to think about.<br /><br /><em>PAIN… KILL…<br /></em><br />Had it not been for the blast, Warrant figured the gargoyle would’ve crashed through the window and been on top of them while the rest closed in for the kill. As a group they skirted around the gargoyle just as it got to its feet and kept running. They could hear the thing behind them, and it was gaining ground fast. If it would have flown, it could have easily caught up with them and rained death on them from above. Warrant only hoped it was still too stunned to think clearly enough for that.<br /><br />The mercenaries hit the edge of the courtyard and stumbled over a knee–high decorative stone wall made nearly invisible in the darkness and landed in tangles of arms and legs, sliding on the rain–slicked grass beyond the courtyard. Warrant drew his pistol and aimed it back towards the church, expecting to see their pursuer standing over him. Instead, the gargoyle stood on the opposite side of the low stone wall and hissed at them. He could hear the others flying in on their wings of stone. These, too, alit on the opposite side of the wall. The four creatures regarded the mercenaries almost indifferently and alternated between hissing and low growling.<br /><br /><em>GONE</em><br /><br />Warrant risked a look to the side and saw Gina in his same posture. Kevin had already got up on his haunches and had pulled a small disposable camera from his pack. He touched off the shutter and the resulting flash caused the creatures to take a step back and hiss.<br /><br />“They can’t go past the wall,” Kevin said. Warrant holstered his pistol slowly and regarded the quartet of monsters just a few yards away then reached down to help Gina to her feet. She swayed slightly and stared intently at the gargoyles. It was like looking into a different world. Gina raised her weapon and fired several rounds into one of the things. It rocked back a few inches and hissed at her but wouldn’t budge past the wall. After a few moments the gargoyles spread their wings and vaulted into the air, pitch silhouettes in the ebon night sky.<br /><br />“Drink,” Warrant said. It wasn’t a question or a request. They turned their backs on the Corduva Church and walked away, knowing without speaking that they would return. Next time, they would know their own weaknesses as well as those of the gargoyles. Next time, they would find the vault.<br /><br /><em>ESCAPE<br /></em><br /><em>GONE<br /></em><br /><em>THIEVES… MOLESTORS… KILLERS<br /></em><br /><em>IT IS SAFE<br /></em><br /><em>SAFE<br /></em><br /><em>SOFT… AFRAID… FEAST<br /></em><br />The gargoyles flew straight into the western wall of the Corduva Church and emerged within the sanctuary. They regarded the damage to their charge for a moment then separated. They entered the walls and coursed through their sheltering stone. Everywhere they passed, stone and mortar were returned to their previous condition. Chips and slivers from the humans’ weapons were instantly healed and the shattered stone sill was repaired in moments. The glass had been made by the hand of man, nothing to be done for it. The pews of wood that had been damaged by the humans’ fearful fire were removed and taken to the basement. The bodies of the humans that remained provided a blood feast for the creatures and left each corpse drained of the stuff. They had no real need to eat, but that made it no less sweet.<br /><br />They left the broken and battered dead in a neat row before the altar and entered the walls as one. They slipped through the stone as easily as they cut through the air and emerged in the hallway of the fourth floor. Reverently, gently, the largest of them brushed a stone finger against the corner of the tapestry that the weak human had dared to touch, correcting the nap of the felt so that it returned to its perfect state. The four stood and regarded the tapestry for several moments, their thoughts and words communicated through the very stone under their feet for all to share.<br /><br /><em>SAFE…<br /></em><br /><em>SAFE…<br /></em><br /><em>SACRILEDGE… TOUCH OF MAN ON THE GATE<br /></em><br /><em>DEATH<br /></em><br /><em>OTHERS COME… DIE… GO… NOT RETURN<br /></em><br /><em>EYES… EYES OF STEEL… NO… WILL RETURN… WILL RETURN WITH THE LIGHT</em><br /><br />The gargoyles each placed a hand on the tapestry before melding with the stone at their feet and coursing through the walls of the church to the roof. Two of them grabbed a large slab of loose stone that sat there and brought it back through the walls to the sanctuary. They lifted it into place and melded with the stone. The slab stretched and changed, filling the space of the shattered window and grafting with the stone window box. When they emerged, it appeared that there had never been a window in the spot, only smooth stone. The rest of the cleanup would be accomplished by the faithful in the morning. They would come. The wood had been removed from the door. They would come. They would provide life to the church again. They would make sure that any that came in search of the gate would be hard pressed to enter so easily. But the one with the eyes of steel… that one would return if no other.<br /><br />RETURN…<br /><br />YES… STEEL… <em>RETURN</em><br /><br />They melded with the stone once more and slipped up through the levels of the church, each emerging in their respective alcoves at the four corners on the fourth floor. They took up their eternal positions and made ready to rest just as the light of the new day touched the spires of the Corduva Church.<br /><em></em><br /><em>PROTECT…<br /></em><br /><em>WATCH…<br /></em><br /><em>KILL…<br /></em><br /><em>WAIT… </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Thanks again for spending some time with me, and I hope you enjoyed "The Vault" parts I and II. I appreciate your readership, and I hope you stop back again for more free fiction from my twisty little mind. So, until next time, just write damn it. - </em>AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-6537399498341609942011-01-31T07:35:00.002-08:002011-01-31T08:16:55.874-08:00The Vault (Part I of II) - Fiction<em>I originally wrote this story way back in 2005, when I was just getting back into the hobby and eventually the semi-amateur business of writing. While going through some olf files last week, I blew the dust off this one and found that with some severe editing and polishing I still liked it. I hope you will, too. Make sure you come back next week for Part II, and as always, thanks for your readership</em>. - Author<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Rough hands closed the blood-stained journal that read like a history book about the Corduva church and mission. The journal’s last date was little more than a year ago, compiled by some unknown author with a penchant for researching the church’s bloody past. Governor Martinez’s tenuous hold on the Corduva region had gone to hell over last year, when the cartels tired of paying for their safe haven and staged this bloody coup to remove him from power. And while Corduva’s local blood had supplied the cannon fodder for the staged rebellion it was professional soldiers like Warrant and his men that drove the thing home. They’d been hired to lead the locals against Martinez’s forces, but Martinez had been an even worse general than he was a governor, and his soldiers died fast and ran even faster. As a bonus, the cartel had allowed Warrant and his crew all the spoils they could find in the abandoned church, and in fairness they’d even told Warrant about the reputation of the mission. But Warrant and the rest of his merc’s had been in Central America long enough to know there could be valuable antiques and relics in such places. From Cortez all the way down to the Nazis, their forgotten treasures could be found in equally forgotten places.<br /><br /><br />The few locals they’d encountered at Corduva’s only cantina said little and even avoided eye contact with them, not an unusual thing from what was essentially an occupied town. With a little coaxing, though, Warrant was able to get some of the legends about the Corduva church as well as the journal the locals had found on one of the bodies last year. He and his men had laughed about the stories over bottles of weak beer, and the dire warnings some of the more eccentric residents gave only added to their merriment. The merc’s were still laughing as they pried the rough boards from the wide double-doors of the church. Though he didn’t believe the stories, Henry Warrant’s mother hadn’t raised any fools. Ten years in Force Recon’ and another ten as a soldier for hire had taught him that stories and rumors often held a grain of truth in these little backwaters. Like as not at least of few of the slayings were real, though it was far more likely the murders were the work of locals that snuck into the church and did away with the drug lords, gangs and military occupiers that dared violate their holy place.<br /><br /><br />The team swept through the church as if it was an urban assault then spent the rest of the daylight hours searching every inch of the place for hidden doors, windows or other ways that someone could enter. The few vulnerabilities they found actually made Warrant feel better and went a long way towards proving the theory that the mysterious slayings really weren’t all that mysterious. The search also proved the mission was, indeed, loaded with valuables. Warrant could only shake his head as he compared the wealth of the church and the utter poverty in which the people lived. He had faith in nothing more than himself and couldn’t respect a people that would let their children starve rather than clear out the mission and sell the contents to feed their families.<br /><br /><br />“Kevin? What do you make of it?” Warrant asked the gaunt young man seated a few pews away. Kevin barely heard him as he turned a finely-engraved gold chalice over in his hands.<br /><br /><br />“I’ve never seen anything like this place. There’s got to be at least four or five million worth of stuff in here. It’ll take days to get it out of here and weeks to get everything appraised. Frankly, there are a few things around here that I can only guess at. That’s not mentioning the stuff we’ll find in the vault.” Kevin said.<br /><br />“Vault?” Warrant leaned forward and rested his elbows on the pew ahead of him. Even the benches were elaborately carved, though they were no more comfortable than those he remembered from the church of his youth. “What vault? I didn’t see any vault.”<br /><br /><br />“These old churches always have some sort of hiding place for the really valuable stuff. What we consider valuable antiquities and art to the original inhabitants were cups and pictures on the walls. There’d have to be something of real value somewhere in this church. They put a lot of time and money into the place, a lot more than one would expect to find in area that even in its heyday would have been a shithole,” Kevin said.<br /><br /><br />Warrant scratched at the stubble on his chin. It would only make sense. The church would’ve been incredibly expensive to build and maintain in this corner of the world, and many of the materials looked like they were imported; far too much cost for a simple church. It was obviously intended to stand forever and Henry doubted the sole goal in its longevity was for a few goat herders and tequila-swillers to have a place to pray. The legends surrounding the place and actual proof to be had of its deadly nature only strengthened his belief that the boy could be right.<br /><br /><br />“Just one thing bothers me,” Kevin said quietly as he looked around the vast sanctuary. “It’s probably nothing,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Forget I said it.”<br /><br /><br />“Report, soldier,” Warrant ordered. Kevin Daniels wasn’t a soldier and had never wanted to be. He wanted to be Indiana Jones; a dashing hero with a penchant for lost artifacts and whips. However, he had a use in Warrant’s merry men, and if he was going to be along for the ride he had to be as accountable to Warrant’s commands as any of the rest of the team.<br /><br /><br />“It’s just that the place is so… <em>clean</em>,” Kevin said.<br /><br /><br />“Clean?” Warrant repeated.<br /><br /><br />“Well, yeah. This mission is older than dirt and it’s been boarded up for years besides. Isn’t it odd that there isn’t a layer of dust and cobwebs over everything in the place?” Kevin said.<br /><br />Something had been tickling the back of Warrant’s mind since they walked in but he’d put it out of his mind while they made sure there weren’t crazed zealots waiting inside. He had realized the same thing, but it hadn’t registered till Kevin pointed it out. Warrant panned the room to confirm what he already knew. Kevin was right. The church looked like the ladies auxiliary had just finished their Saturday afternoon cleanup.<br /><br /><br />“Any ideas as to why this is floating around in that college brain of yours?” Warrant asked.<br /><br /><br />“No, sir,” Kevin said.<br /><br /><br />“Well, I do; it’s the locals. There are other ways into this building, and I doubt we’ve found them all. They come in here and keep the place up at nights, keep the legend alive. They did a pretty good job of scaring away the governor and a lot of other assholes. Know what I think, Kevin? I think this is one big fuckin’ Scooby Doo mystery. I think sometime tonight, maybe tomorrow night, we’re gonna see a beaner with a sheet over his head and a machete in his hand looking for drunk mercs’ to slaughter to keep their little haunted house alive,” Warrant said.<br /><br /><br />“So what do we do about it?” Kevin asked.<br /><br /><br />“<em>You</em> will continue cataloging everything we find. <em>We</em> are going to make sure there are no drunken mercs for them to find; only very sober and very ready ones. Get everybody in here; we need to have a little meeting,” Warrant said. Kevin nodded and left the sanctuary while Warrant lit a cigarette and threw the match down on the marble floor. “<em>Scooby-fuckin-doo… where are you</em>…” Warrant mumbled. A mental picture of a local in dressed in a dirty bed sheet with even dirtier sandals sticking out from underneath slipped into his mind and made him chuckle. He had to hand it to them, though. They used minimal effort to maximum effect.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><em>###</em></div><br /><br />Warrant regarded his force as they came together from his perch at the high altar like a priest watching over his flock. Each was good at what they did and wholly dedicated to his leadership and the money he was always able to find to pay them. Some he’d served with while he was in the Corps and the others he’d picked up along the way through various jobs and assignments.<br /><br /><br />Jim and Bob Browning were brothers, often mistaken for twins. There was barely a year between, and their exact same flat-top haircuts and similar personalities didn’t do much to avoid the label. Both were larger than most mobile homes and had a penchant for the weapons that shared their name. Each had a massive .50 Browning machine gun that they could use to devastating effect, especially in tandem. But then, each of his men had their peculiarities. Take Gina for example.<br /><br />That was Gina; <em>just</em> Gina. She’d never volunteered a last name. Considering she’d once pulled out a man’s eyes with her bare fingers and ate them in front of a packed bar most didn’t press her for more. She was neither plain nor attractive, neither fat nor thin; she was simply Gina. There was no other way to describe her. And Gina was all about the money. No one knew what she did with her considerable pay from their adventures. No one cared to ask. But she could be counted on in a fight and to follow orders. Past that, Warrant didn’t care.<br /><br /><br />And then there was Fernando DeSade. Everyone knew that DeSade wasn’t his real name. But like Gina, no one cared. At least he was true to the name, and that was all that mattered to Fernando. Fernando had a thing for computers as well as being a capable soldier. In today’s world it never hurt to have someone around that knew their way around a computer and could neutralize security systems from miles away. Fernando also had a thing for young boys, but the rest of the group chose to overlook it as long as they didn’t have to see it.<br /><br /><br />In contrast to DeSade was John Kyber. Kyber was staunchly religious and tried to be morally upright. After bombing several abortion clinics in the States he came south of the border to escape the “unjust prosecution” from the “liberal bastards”. Kyber had learned his trade alongside Warrant and had been one of the Marines’ premier bomb makers and breakers. Forced into a life of running, he fit perfectly into Warrant’s plans. He was also an unrecognized authority on all things theological, and it took every bit of convincing Warrant could muster to get him to come into the church in the first place. His only condition was that he would give up any money they made from fencing the items they found so long as they left alone anything used directly in the rites of the church. Of course, Warrant wasn’t going to live up to his end of that deal. He would simply have well-paid locals remove the more sacred of items after they’d crushed the myth of murderous spirits and righteous vengeance upon those that entered the Corduva church.<br /><br /><br />And he couldn’t forget Manny, Moe and Jack. Like so many others in the game, they’d abandoned their real names long ago. Warrant had never known them by any other name, but he knew enough about them to know that they functioned well as a team and even better when left as their own tactical group. They excelled at scouting missions, and their plain features and love of anything with four wheels made them perfect for trailing and surveillance work. And like the rest of his team, they could always be counted on when things got tight.<br /><br />Nimble of finger and quick of mouth, Don Moore was the runner, lover and scoundrel of the group. Don had never met a safe or a purse he couldn’t open or a penny that he wouldn’t pick up, so long as someone else had earned it. Built much like young Kevin but hardened in the fire of experience, Don was the type of man that could smile to your face while one hand lifted your wallet and the other buried a blade between your shoulders. He only carried a pistol at Warrant’s insistence and was far more partial to his cache of knives stored liberally yet discreetly about his person. But Don also possessed a charm that belied his morals and never lacked for company when he could find it. More than once Warrant had found himself separating the ne’er-do-well and Gina after one of his flippant remarks or thinly-veiled passes. Though she swore she would kill him someday, Warrant and the rest thought she secretly liked the attention. Such antics made Gina seem almost human at times and were always good for morale. He was an asset to the unit, so long as he was watched carefully to make sure he didn’t take too much from the spoils of the unit while no one was looking. To many, his men were a rag-tag bunch. They wore no insignia and held no inane traditions or other traits that would mark them for what they were. Let the amateurs have their secret handshakes and code names. He preferred the quirks over the symbolism. Besides that, they were good; <em>very</em> good.<br /><br /><br />As soon as they were seated, shuffling noises and hushed conversations died away. While each was a force to be reckoned with, this cadre of killers, thieves and plunderers gave Warrant their respect as commanding officer. Most of them had served under him long enough to know Warrant was as fair as he could be to his mercs’ and did everything he could to keep his unit together and get everyone out of their jobs in the same health with which they’d started. But deep down, they also knew that Warrant wouldn’t hesitate to kill any one of them that tried to cross him or placed the unit in jeopardy. For all their abilities and skills, crossing Henry Warrant would only lead to their own extremely uncomfortable ends. If they didn’t respect him for his leadership and his knack for finding the best paying jobs they would do so out of his willingness to kill them before they could do harm to him or the unit.<br /><br /><br />“Have we secured the building?” Warrant asked the group.<br /><br /><br />“Yes sir; all four levels and a smaller sub basement have been swept and cleared,” Gina said in her plain, monotone voice.<br /><br /><br />“What about breeches in the integrity of the building?” Warrant asked.<br /><br />“Negative, sir; all doors and windows were secured from the inside upon our arrival and the two lowest levels have also been boarded up and nailed shut from the outside. The only known access to the building interior is through the front doors,” Manny reported.<br /><br /><br />“I think you’re wrong,” Warrant said. The words couldn’t have stung Manny, Moe and Jack harder than if he’d punched each of them in the gut. “I think there’s another way into this place. As a matter of fact, I know there is. There has to be. People have been coming in here for years, some to pray and some to take over the place. Why would the ones that come to pray be safe while the others weren’t? Because the ones that come to pray kill the other ones. Pretty obvious, ain’t it?”<br /><br /><br />The unit glanced around at each other with most nodding their heads in sage agreement. It made perfect sense. They were each solid and practical to a fault and kept little room in their heads for legends and stories about the unexplained. Even the unexplained could usually be shot dead if you knew just where to aim. If any of them held any silent court with the idea of nameless, faceless boogey-men, Warrant’s simple explanation washed most of it away. Most that is, except for Kevin and John. The two found each other’s eyes in the small gathering and instantly knew the other didn’t completely buy Warrant’s explanation.<br /><br /><br />“Good. The way I see it, the other assholes were undisciplined, untrained and couldn’t fight their way out of the shitter. We’re better assholes than that. From now until we find out who has appointed themselves the caretaker, no one goes <em>anywhere</em> alone. Everyone is to be armed at all times, and that includes going to the can. First order of business is to secure a perimeter and a safe room on each level, a room with only one door that can be barred. Store an extra weapon or two in each, just in case something happens and somebody gets separated. We may be pros, but the yokels have had years to learn every nook and cranny of this place. No drinking, no drugs, and <em>no bullshit</em>. I want this done by the numbers,” Warrant said as he stepped down from the altar to the floor of the sanctuary.<br /><br /><br />“Okay then. Kyber, you and Moore get to restore power to this dump. The service is in the basement. It’s old, but at least most of the wiring I’ve seen is ran on the outside of the walls. When you’re done, come back to the rectory. There’s carpet in there for the bedrolls. One sleeps while the other watches. Gina, you and DeSade will take first patrol outside. See if you can catch the little buggers coming in. Come in at three and wake up Kyber and Moore to replace you. Jim, you and your brother will take up positions right here and watch the front door. You figure out who sleeps first. You three,” Warrant said with a wave towards Manny, Moe and Jack, “…one of you sleeps here with the Brownings, the other two are on constant patrol inside. Trade off after a few hours, one sleeping and two walking at all times. I want you people to look alive tonight. Kevin and I will be floating around checking out the inventory, so make sure who you’re shooting at. Fire up the radios, I want checks every 30 minutes. Move out.”<br /><br /><br />Whether they were happy with their assignments or not, the unit moved out in their separate directions before Warrant’s echo could die in the cavernous sanctuary. Kevin approached Warrant and waited for his commander to recognize him.<br /><br /><br />“Where do we start?” Kevin asked.<br /><br /><br />“You’re the expert, you tell me. Where would they hide their best stuff in a place like this?” Warrant asked.<br /><br /><br />“You mean the vault? It could be anywhere. It could be underground, off the basement. It could even be in the walls, maybe even in the altar,” Kevin said with a nod towards the large marble and wood structure on the platform above them.<br /><br /><br />“The altar’s out, for now at least. Kyber would have a fit if he saw us messing with it. We’ll start at the top and work our way down.” Warrant picked up his light machine gun, strapped it over his shoulder and walked out of the sanctuary. He didn’t have to look to know that Kevin would be right behind him. Warrant was warming up to the kid. Kids could be impetuous and unpredictable, and he knew the young man’s morals and thoughts weren’t that of a mercenary. If he followed orders, he would have all the money he would need to go back to school or travel the world or whatever it was that archaeologists did with their lives.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /><br /></div><br />The basement wasn’t as large as the other levels of the church and looked to be more for storage than worship. Stacks of bibles, hymnals and wooden crates looked on as Kyber and Don examined the room, flashlights and pistols at the ready. They swept the room, clearing it before turning their full attentions to the ancient electrical panel. The church had been built long before electricity came to the area and they found several of the large metal boxes mounted on a piece of upright plywood on two metal poles. Don held both lights while Kyber opened his toolkit and went to work.<br /><br /><br />“It’s funny…” Don whispered.<br /><br /><br />“What is?” Kyber asked.<br /><br /><br />“You ever notice when people are in a real quiet place, they talk real quiet, too?” Don asked. Kyber frowned at him and continued checking the various fuse slots with a voltage tester.<br /><br /><br />“It wouldn’t hurt you to have a little more respect, Don,” Kyber said in a low growl.<br /><br /><br />“Like looting a church will get you to heaven any faster?” Don said. Kyber shot him a dark look then continued his work. “You know, there’s something else funny. Have you noticed this place is absolutely clean? I mean, not a mote of dust anywhere. Even the basement doesn’t smell like a basement. Know what I mean?”<br /><br /><br />“It’s like Warrant said. The locals keep the place up. I admire them for it,” Kyber said as he pulled several wires out of a large bunch and checked them for breaks. “I just hope they’re smart enough not to come while we’re here.”<br /><br /><br />“Well, it didn’t stop them before. The way they tell it there were a lot larger units in here than us that never came out,” Don said.<br /><br /><br />“Those were drug dealers and thugs. We’re professionals. I don’t think they want to mess with us. Besides, they know we aren’t here to stay. The others were. They’ll probably just let us do our thing and wait for us to go away,” Kyber said.<br /><br /><br />“I hope you’re right,” Don said as he wedged Kyber’s flashlight between two junction boxes and made sure the light was on his work. “I’m gonna’ take a look around. Yell if you need me,” Don said. Kyber grunted a reply as he tried to pull an old fuse from the panel.<br /><br /><br />“See if you can find any fuses or tools or anything lying around while you’re at it,” Kyber said.<br /><br /><br />The thief started moving in small, overlapping circles from the center of the room. The floor was free of dust and the marks of age, and even the wood-beamed ceiling lacked any trace of cobwebs. “Do you really think they’d clean so well down here, too? I haven’t even seen a spider,” Don said.<br /><br /><br />“No food for flies and bugs, no spiders to eat the flies and bugs. The place is locked up tight and animals and bugs don’t have a reason to stay in a place with no food,” Kyber answered from the darkened recesses.<br /><br />“Makes sense, I guess.” Don said as he approached a stack of bibles. They were printed in Spanish with the heavy, dark type typical of their era. He flipped through a few pages then ran his hand down a corner of the stack. “No mold, no curling; the paper hasn’t even turned yellow,” he mumbled. He’d seen programs on education channels that talked about Egypt and other places where the climate and geography delayed the decomposition of everything from paper to flesh. Perhaps Corduva was one of those places. The air in the basement, while only slightly stale, was cool and dry, much like that of most every other area of the church. His rationalization firmly in place, he wrote off the odd environment and continued his search.<br /><br /><br />In his usually stealthy manner, Don had overheard part of Kevin and Warrant’s earlier conversation and was also very interested in the suspected vault, and it was his experience that such features were almost always on the deepest floors. He inspected several of the wooden crates and found most contained textbooks and more bibles. Early missionaries taught more than just their faith and had a healthy respect for the general education of their heathens. Most also acted as school teachers and trades instructors where they could instill their parochial mission even when not discussing Christ directly. The mission must’ve done a lot of good for the area in its day. Don examined other crates and found some full of clothes and bolts of fabric. Others couldn’t be opened without a pry bar. Besides, the noise that would make would be deafening in the quiet broken only by his soft footsteps and the occasional muttered curse from Kyber as he worked with the old electrical system. Don found several heavy, glass-covered fuses and a pair of crude pliers in an old cabinet behind the stairs and took them over to Kyber. He left them at Kyber’s feet then continued his methodical search. Don had a lot more respect for Kevin’s body of knowledge than even Warrant did, and if there was such a thing as a vault in the church, he wanted to make sure he was the first to find it.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br /><br />Gina shrouded her eyes against the still-harsh glare of the setting sun. She wasn’t a particular follower of architecture or art, but she knew what she liked. She pulled out a small digital camera and started taking pictures of the church and its odd features. Aside from the heavy, stained glass that seemed to be everywhere on the second floor the building boasted spires that would easily make it more than seven stories if their height were included into the equation. She continued to snap pictures and finally turned her attentions to the oddest features of the church.<br />They’d seen the massive stone gargoyles when they came in the front doors this afternoon. Two of the brutes even stood silent and eternal guard to either side of the great doors leading into the sanctuary. But these were not the downspouts of yore. These were easily larger than either of the Browning brothers and had deeply-carved faces that even their own mothers could never love. The one to the right was carved into a heavily-muscled caricature of a man. Great, spiked horns jutted from its forehead while a mouthful of fangs drew back into a wicked smile. A large pair of bat-like wings was pulled tightly against its back, never to feel the winds. She took several pictures of it and then its partner. This one was as tall as the other sentry but was far ganglier, almost emaciated. Its horns were much shorter, almost stubs in comparison to its comrade, and its wings were nowhere near the same size. But the leer that had been etched into its face for the ages made Gina shiver, and that was something no living creature could ever claim. If madness and lunacy had a face, it would be here at the Corduva church in the form of this leering abomination.<br /><br /><br />Why a church would have such things at ground level amazed her. Gargoyles were standard fixtures in European architecture, but they were usually incorporated into the general structure first from superstition and second as rain spouts or structural supports. The honor of guarding the front doors was usually reserved for the stone lions. Gina snapped a few more pictures then went around to the back of the church to find Fernando. She came around the corner and found DeSade standing at another, smaller set of doors carved in imitation of the great doors in front. The light from the setting sun had turned red and bathed the back of the church in its garish hue. DeSade had his own camera and was taking pictures of another, smaller pair of gargoyles positioned at the rear door.<br /><br /><br />“Ugly little bastards, huh?” he said as she joined him and snapped a few pictures of her own. These two were noticeably smaller than their brethren around the front of the building but were no less intimidating. With the light behind her, she looked up at the rear of the church and found two more gargoyles perched on ledges on the fourth floor directly above them.<br /><br /><br />“I don’t know about that. They have their own beauty, I guess,” Gina said.<br /><br />“You getting soft on us now, chica?” DeSade asked. She punched him hard on the shoulder while he smiled at her. “I love it when you’re angry,” DeSade said in a breathy tone. Gina shot him a look then left him to go back around the front of the church.<br /><br /><br />“I’m going to check the lower windows. When you’re done being funny, get your ass around front,” Gina said. There was only one authority, one leader for their unit. But the men had learned when Gina barked at you, you could either do what she said or get ready for a fight. The men often forgot she was a woman, and she made every effort to keep the thought far from their minds. But every once in awhile there would be the sniff of a rose or the hint of some perfume. She’d known other female mercenaries, and each she knew had a rape story to tell. She’d had enough of that at home before she’d headed south to build a new life. To date, no man had touched her that she didn’t invite to the task. If a rough demeanor and no-nonsense dedication to her job kept it from happening, so be it.<br /><br /><br />Night fell quickly in Corduva, plunging it into an almost unnatural darkness. There were a few street lights, though, and the ones several dozen yards from the church at the end of the bricked courtyard seemed to be working well enough. Gina had just finished checking the boarded windows when full night slid into place. She pulled out a long-barreled flashlight and held it over her shoulder while her free hand rode on her holstered pistol. It was a practiced posture that she could maintain for hours without her arms becoming numb. Fernando had finally joined her and they started their rounds around the perimeter of the church. The quiet night air carried the soft sounds of music and voices from the cantina a few streets away.<br /><br /><br />“Nice to see there’s still a bit of nightlife in town,” DeSade said as they rounded the corner to check out the western side of the church. “Maybe we should go and see if the locals are there and plotting to come around tonight?”<br /><br />“And abandon our posts? Warrant would shoot us dead before sunrise,” Gina said. She couldn’t resist passing her light over the gargoyles as they went. They looked different, somehow more sinister in the deep night shadows from behind and bathed in the light from her flashlight. She shivered inwardly and continued their patrol. They made several circuits before they agreed to meet every hour for a few tours around the building. In the meantime, Gina would post at the front of the building and Fernando the back. Gina would be responsible for keeping watch over the northern face as well, while DeSade would watch over the south. For all her bluster, DeSade often made her uncomfortable, especially when they were forced to work together. The less time she spent with him, the better for the both of them. If she thought about his unspoken proclivities for too long she would never be able to serve in the same unit with him. The two took up their respective posts and settled in for a long night, blissfully unaware that they weren’t alone.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br /><br />Kevin ran a hand over a tapestry that hung in the long, darkened hallway. While it may be valuable to someone, he didn’t think it was of any real monetary value.<br /><em>VIOLATORS</em>!<br />He jotted it down on his list anyway and continued on while the rest answered Warrant’s radio check. He had almost half a sheet of notebook paper filled with various items they’d found. The most remarkable thing was that even the papers and furniture, usually the first victims of age and neglect, were as perfect and crisp as the day they’d been made. He’d already cataloged dozens of silver service sets from the kitchen<br /><em>THIEVES</em>!<br />as well as quite a few religious icons and items that were encrusted in jewels and made of precious metals, a common practice of the Church that allowed them to keep veritable fortunes under the noses of their patrons and governments alike. The only real question now was if the items had more value in their present forms or melted down and sold raw for their components.<br /><em>AWAKEN! DESTROY</em>!<br />Kevin looked down the hall and saw Warrant’s light slip off into one of the many rooms. He followed and found the door still open.<br /><br /><br />It appeared to be a small office. A long table with a large, heavy chair behind it sat at the opposite end of the room, illuminated by the sparse light that made it from the streetlamps through the windows behind the table. Large stacks of papers sat on the table. Books that had once rested on several shelves and cases around the room had been pulled out and stacked around the room. It had the appearance of someone looking for something, and looking hard. Warrant was already seated behind the desk, shining his beam over various documents and scanning the pages quickly.<br /><br /><br />“Someone’s been looking for something,” Warrant commented absently. “As orderly as everything else in this place is, I think one of the other units that have been through here had the same idea we have.”<br /><br /><br />“But why would this room not have been put back together?” Kevin asked.<br /><br /><br />“Simple. I think that not all the locals are in this for the love of their church. I think a few of them have been mining for treasures of their own and haven’t found them yet. Know what else I think?<br /><em>FIND THEM! KILL THEM</em>!<br />I think that the whole ruse and legend of the murdering church is just a front. I think someone has been looking for the same thing we’re looking for and is using the cover of the stories while they do it,” Warrant said.<br /><br /><br />Of course, everything the mercenary said made perfect sense. It was a perfectly reasonable, logical and rational train of thought. With that said, Kevin couldn’t understand why he still felt something wasn’t right, that there was a piece of the puzzle he simply didn’t have yet. “What was that you said about Scooby Doo earlier? I think I saw this episode,” Kevin said. He hoped he sounded far more amused than bemused.<br /><br /><br />“Me, too,” Warrant said. He put down the sheaf and shined his light on the other stacks then moved to pick up another bundle and inadvertently knocked a small stack of the papers to the floor. Warrant leaned from his chair to gather them and shined his light down. The floor directly in front of the chair had dozens of deep, smooth gouges carved into it. He put the papers back on the table and slid the bulky chair away. On closer examination he found hundreds of smaller, smooth slices dug deep into the thick wooden boards. He ran his hands over the gouges and tested their depths with a fingernail. Someone with a thick knife had a nervous habit.<br />“What is it?” Kevin asked as he added the beam of his light to Warrant’s.<br /><br /><br />“Just some scoring,” Warrant said. He got up and dusted his hands off on the front of his black shirt. “Kyber!” he barked into the boom microphone resting against his cheek, ”Are we going to have power in this dump or not?”<br /><br /><br />“Still working on it, Boss. The system’s pretty old.” The mercenary’s voice came back soft and full of static, just barely audible. The thick stone of the place wasn’t going to cooperate with their radios it seemed.<br /><br /><br />Kevin let his light slide over Warrant’s chest for a moment. “Boss?” Kevin said softly while pointing at his shirtfront. A fine, grey dust lay on his shirt where he had wiped his hands.<br /><em>DESTROY THEM BEFORE THEY FIND IT</em>!<br />“Now why would there be dust here and no where else in the whole joint?” Warrant mused. He pulled his shirt away from his body and examined it closely, pinching it between two fingers and rubbing them together to feel the coarse, gritty dust through the calluses on his fingertips.<br /><br /><br />“Maybe it got tracked in and then stuck in the cuts in the floor. Unless they really got down there, they wouldn’t have known it was there,” Kevin offered.<br /><br />“Solid thinking. There might be hope for you yet,” Warrant said. The dust forgotten, he looked around the room at the stacks of papers and books. “It seems whoever was doing the looking didn’t have any luck with the stuff. No sense wasting time covering ground they already did right now but it goes to prove my point. Someone else that cares about the stuff around here has been in here, probably recently. Maybe they’re on to something. We may have to spend a lot of time going through the documents and books we find. Nobody hides something without a trail to find it again,” Warrant said.<br /><br /><br /><em>AWAKEN! KILL</em>!<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Moe backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. He and Manny had covered the fourth floor earlier, had set up the safe room that Warrant had ordered and had found nothing of note. If the locals were coming after them, it certainly wouldn’t come from this floor. They would have to use ladders or climb the walls of the church to enter through a window, something that either of them doubted would happen anytime soon, and the ones they met at the cantina didn’t seem to be that motivated.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“What do you make of all this?” Manny asked. His long–time friend and fellow adventurer stood out in varying shades of red in his heat–vision goggles. The trio used nothing less than the best equipment, and he was more used to seeing his comrades in the guise of their heat signatures than in the flesh. If there was anyone else anywhere in sight, their own biology would give them away.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Pretty good deal if you ask me,” his partner replied in a slow, deep–south drawl. “Stuff is just sitting here. Kevin seems pretty worked up about it, too. Must be some good stuff or Warrant wouldn’t be wasting our time here.”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />They moved out together with pistols drawn. Neither of them believed the locals were stupid enough to try and roll through here with a group of hardened mercs’ strolling around, but if Warrant thought there was a chance of it happening they would take it seriously. Their commander’s instincts had not only kept them alive but had made them fairly wealthy men besides.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />They came to the next door and posted to either side. Manny pushed on the door and let momentum swing it the rest of the way open. They both spun, one kneeling and one standing and scanned the room. Moe slid into the room and put a wall to his back while Manny looked on, watching the room for hostiles while his partner checked under tables and inside closets. The room resembled many that they had already seen and appeared to be Spartan living quarters, probably designed for the priests and missionaries that once called the church home. Satisfied that his friend was in no danger, Manny stepped back and casually scanned the hall for any signs of life while Moe finished checking the room.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Moe stepped lightly across the floor and came to the only window in the small cell. It was a moonless night and the best the streetlamps below could do was to cast a thin light on the heavy glass panes. Far below, he could see Gina’s heat signature moving around at the front of the church. Suddenly, the heat of her body disappeared. He fumbled with the controls on the goggles, then finally lifted them. Gina <em>hadn’t</em> disappeared. Something had blocked his view through the window from the outside. He raised his pistol and flashlight in the same breath and took an involuntary step back from the window. His beam fell on a man’s bare chest, the image distorted by the thick glass as it reflected the powerful flashlight beam back into his eyes. He fired three rounds through the window and called for Manny.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Manny had ranged a few yards down the hallway when the shots rang out. He turned and sprinted for the room as he pulled his machine gun from his shoulder and was in a crouch even before his feet stopped moving. He nearly slid past the doorway as he trained the muzzle into the room. “<em>Moe</em>!” Manny could see his friend’s heat silhouette at the opposite end of the room but could find no other living reason for the alarm. Manny spared a hand to rip the goggles away and braced the butt of the machine gun in the crook of his arm to steady it while he pulled his flashlight. “Moe! Report!”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />He sent the beam of light into the room and found his friend standing just to the side of the window. He could see something moving on the ledge outside but couldn’t clear Moe to fire. “Moe! <em>Move</em>!” Manny called out. Moe didn’t respond but fired several more rounds before he went into a sudden, violent spasm. His arms flew back then fell limp to his sides, the flashlight and pistol dropping from his nerveless fingers as a gurgling cry sprayed blood across the window. Manny watched in mute amazement as a large hand burst from Moe’s back. The hand was empty and bare and had been able to ram through his partner’s chest and body armor. Warrant’s voice crackled and spit in his ear as the cold stone muffled his demands for a status report.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Manny rolled into the room and fired into the window as he went. The sound of shattering glass couldn’t mask the unearthly shriek from beyond the window, though it sounded more like a cry of victory than of pain. Moe’s body was lifted from the floor by the hand that impaled it and was pulled hard against the wall, his lifeless form hitting it then slumping to the stone floor in a rapidly–forming pool of his own ichors. Manny kept firing bursts through the window and relaying his position over the crackling airwaves to the others. He dropped down beside Moe and kept his weapon on the window. Manny’s flashlight beam revealed a gaping and ragged hole in his friend’s chest. Blood still oozed through the wound and from the dead mercenary’s mouth.<br />“<em>Fuckers</em>! What the fuck!” Manny hissed.“Moe’s down… I repeat, Moe’s down!” he barked into his microphone. Static was his only response. He took a panicked look around the room then tried the radio again; nothing. Outside the room he could see flashlight beams swinging through the hallway and hear Warrant’s voice barking orders to Kevin. Manny called out to them and sat back on his haunches. He pointed his flashlight to the wall and found a large smear of gore at chest–level. “What the fuck…”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Beams of light danced in through the open doorway as Warrant and Kevin took positions outside the room. “Manny! Report!” Warrant demanded.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Moe’s dead,” Manny said flatly as he stared at the blood stain on the wall.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“What the hell happened in here? Kevin, cover the hall,” Warrant said as he came into the cell. Nothing looked out of place save for the demolished window above his men. He went to the pair and leaned down, locking his gaze on the wall to cover both the window and the bloodstain. “Manny, <em>report</em>!”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Moe was sweeping the room…” Manny started, his voice low,” we’d already been in here once tonight. Nothing was here. He came in here for maybe a minute. I heard the shots before I heard the radio. By the time I got in here I could see someone outside the window, but Moe was blocking my field of fire.”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Warrant shined his light on Moe’s chest and stared. He’d seen wounds in all varieties and death in all its forms. The closest thing he’d seen to this was when one of his men took an RPG to the chest at point-blank range. The explosive didn’t go off when it impacted his man so the rocket simply punched through him and out the other side.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Manny? What did this to him?” Warrant asked.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“It was a hand, boss. A big fuckin’ hand,” Manny said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Get it together, soldier!” Warrant barked. “You know there’s no way one of these beaners could shove their hand through a man’s chest!”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“That’s what happened,” Manny continued in a monotone voice. “I saw the hand come out his back, so I pushed into the room and went to the side to get a shot, must’ve pumped a dozen rounds through the guy. Think I hit him. He screamed pretty loud. Then he pulled Moe up against the wall and was just gone.”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“What do you mean he pulled him against the wall?” Warrant got up and examined the bloodstained wall more closely. No window, vent or other opening sat in the gore. “He must have reached through the window…”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“No boss, the hand came through the wall and then went back into it. The guy outside had to have reached <em>through</em> the wall.”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Not possible, soldier. There’s no opening. He must’ve used something through the window to get him,” Warrant said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“I know what I saw, Boss. He… it… reached through the wall and ran its fist right through Moe’s fucking chest,” Manny said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Warrant knew shock when he saw it. The three of them had served together for many years before they’d thrown their lot in with Warrant. If they weren’t brothers by blood, they were by experience. He adjusted his microphone and opened a channel. “Gina, DeSade… check around the west side, see if there’s a body. We made contact in here, there might be one down near the center–west side. Report.” Static buzzed and cackled in Warrant’s ear, the voices of his unit fading in and out. “Shit!” Warrant said as he stepped to the window. He chanced a glance out it then stuck his head through the large hole made by Manny and Moe’s fire. The glass was old and thick, similar to the glass blocks used in more modern structures. Opaque and insulating, it would also resist shattering unlike panes would do under the same circumstances. Warrant couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He looked down and shined his powerful beam to the ground level. All he could detect were bits of shiny glass from the broken window reflecting the light back at him. At least that much was real.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Warrant shined his light above and to the sides and found only one peculiarity; just to the left of the window he could see a faint, red circle. He put out a gloved hand and touched the area and it came back with traces of fresh blood, as if Moe’s life had seeped <em>through</em> the stone wall. That wasn’t possible, either. It simply <em>wasn’t</em>, and he couldn’t start thinking that it was. Warrant came back into the room and continued to try and reach his people on the outside. The reception hadn’t changed.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“All right, let’s regroup. Kevin!” Warrant bellowed over the nearly–useless radio, “Get in here.” The young man was in the doorway almost immediately, his pistol leveled in response to the perceived tension in his commander’s voice. It lingered for a moment before Kevin lowered it then shined his light on Moe and almost lost his gorge. “Keep it together, kid. Help Manny carry him back down to the sanctuary. We’ll regroup there,” Warrant said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Kevin swallowed hard and holstered his pistol. It took several moments for Manny to stand and a few more before he could reach down and help Kevin pick up his friend’s corpse. They each put a shoulder under one of the dead man’s arms and started to move with Warrant just ahead of them.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“It’ll be okay, Moe… we’ll get you fixed up, good as new…” Manny whispered to his dead friend. Kevin nearly said something to the grieving merc’ but decided to wait till the man had a chance to accept his friend’s death. None saw the bulge grow in the stone wall and glowing eyes that formed to watch their escape. The stone smiled.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />DEATH.<br /></div><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">DeSade tapped at his headset and adjusted his radio. All he could make out was that something happened on the west side. He slid around the building from the south and peered around the corner, relying on the dim glow from the streetlamps instead of giving away his presence with his flashlight. He could see a few pieces of broken glass glinting on the ground, but that was all. “Probably the kid shooting at ghosts…” DeSade murmured. He looked up the side of the building but couldn’t make out details in the dim light. “Gina… Gina…” he whispered into his boom mike.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Go ahead…” Her voice was fuzzy but clear enough.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Something’s happened on the west side. I’m going to check it out. How about some back up?” DeSade asked.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“I’m on my way,” Gina said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />DeSade slipped around the corner and threw on his light. Nothing but broken glass revealed itself on the ground ahead of him. He stepped away from the shelter of the wall and shined his light up onto the western side. Nothing seemed out of place. DeSade moved slowly along the ground and used his light in a methodical pattern to examine the entire side of the church. The sound of stone grinding on stone caught his ear and he turned his light in its direction just as an inhuman screech pierced the night. Something big had broken off the building and was falling. He caught the movement and trained his light on it in time to see one of the gargoyles from the upper floors fall to the ground. It landed upright in the beam of his light and looked for all the world like its earthbound kin stationed by the back door of the church.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />DeSade breathed a sigh and went towards it. Perhaps the church wasn’t as solidly built as they’d been led to believe. It was only a matter of time with a place like this, though. He was surprised that tons of the stone hadn’t crashed to the ground from simple age. DeSade got up-close and started examining the thing’s features. It was an ugly brute, a mirror image of the right–facing one near the back door. But the facial expression was different somehow. “Gina…come easy. Looks like just a bit of this old bitch broke off and hit the ground. No emergency,” DeSade said into the radio.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Got it. We’ll run a patrol around to the front and see if we can get Warrant’s attention to report,” Gina said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />DeSade kept staring at the gargoyle’s features. There was enough difference<br />PREDATOR… <em>MOLESTER</em><br />in the gargoyle’s posture and expression from its mate to pique his curiosity. DeSade did his best to memorize the features then took a picture with his camera. He went to the other at the door and shined his light on it. There were definite differences in the two, but only the type when one twin smiles and the other doesn’t. He flashed his light back to the other and found it had disappeared. “What the…” Something large and heavy landed beside him on the floor of the stone entryway. DeSade turned a moment too late. The shriek was the last thing he heard as a powerful, taloned hand hit him across the face. Claws as long as DeSade’s own fingers ripped through his muscles and bones alike, cutting off his own death-scream as easily as it cut out his tongue as it passed. DeSade hit the unyielding stone floor, his face one even his mother would never recognize.</div><br /><div align="left"><br /><em>DEATH</em><br /></div><br /><div align="left">Gina knew something was wrong as soon as she rounded the corner. DeSade’s flashlight lay on the ground at the base of the steps, its beam pointing directly at her and robbing her of her night vision. She blinked it away and stepped out of the path of the beam. “Warrant… Warrant… can you hear me?” Gina whispered into her radio. Static was her only answer. “Shit…”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Gina started moving slowly towards the steps in a random pattern and staying low to the ground. She didn’t dare use her own light. In the open common at the front of the church she’d show up like the sun. Gina continued on until she felt her foot drop into a hole. The common was done up in brick, and she knew from previous passes that no such hole had been there. She crouched low and ran a hand over the rough brick. The dim illumination from the street lights showed a large depression made up of several broken bricks. Something had to have fallen from a considerable height to make such an impact, something large and very heavy. It fit with the details of DeSade’s earlier transmission, but where was the debris? Gina doubted DeSade would have moved it or even could have if it was as much as she thought it would be. She tried the radio again unsuccessfully then continued on using the beam of DeSade’s cast–off light as her beacon.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Gina found DeSade lying on the raised entryway before the rear doors. She crept up and looked down at his blood and gore-coated flashlight. With a new appreciation for the situation, Gina got to the side of the steps and used them as cover. Crawling one at a time, she gained the top step and made it to DeSade’s body, her small pen light revealing the mercenary’s mangled face. She let the sight shock her only for a heartbeat before she rolled away and put a small stone flower planter at her back. “Warrant! Warrant!” she hissed into her radio. “DeSade’s down. If you can hear me, DeSade is down… west side. I’m coming around the front to regroup… Warrant…” Nothing except static. Gina cursed herself and pulled her legs up under her<br /><em>FEMALE… SOFT… WEAK</em><br />and with her small machine gun in one hand she pulled her pistol with the other. Whatever had taken out DeSade was probably still watching from the shadows. Stealth would have to take a back seat to speed. She knew the grounds around the church well enough from her patrols and after a quick mental calculation figured she could reach the front of the church in less than a half minute. Gina made a mental countdown from three then shot away into the night.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />The shriek was piercing, jagged, ripping through the night like nails on a chalkboard. Gina damned herself for slowing and turning in its direction even as she did so. She leveled her weapons and let off several bursts from the automatic in the direction of the sound. In the quiet of the night she could hear the lead slugs strike the stone wall and nothing else. The shriek came again, but this time from above. Gina cast a glance skyward then broke into a full run. The silhouette of something large cut through the night air, a dark image against an even darker sky and coming fast. It disappeared from her sight and flew over her, her mind screaming at her feet to keep moving. She’d worry about what it was when she was safely inside behind the twin’s Brownings. Gina had just shifted her weight to turn the corner when something large slammed into the ground a few feet ahead. The silhouette of a man was suddenly before her, a very large man with huge wings that fanned out from his shoulders and far too close to avoid.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Gina’s first thought was that she’d imagined the man and had instead misjudged the corner of the building. She bounced off unyielding stone and felt like she’d run headlong into a boulder. Gina hit the ground with no air in her lungs and blood pouring from her shattered nose, gasping for breath. More than one rib was bruised if she were any judge. With the last of her strength, she raised the automatic and held down the trigger, sending dozens of rounds into the now very real silhouette. The sound of bullets bouncing off stone and another, lesser shriek akin to what she’d heard before sounded over the blood pounding in her ears. Heartened from the shriek Gina let loose with another barrage. She threw open her eyes as her breath returned but found only empty air ahead of her. Panicked, Gina stayed on her back and cast about wildly, throwing the muzzles of her weapons in great sweeps around her but the impact had left her vision starry and blurred. She rolled over and got to her knees while her ribs screamed and her mind threatened to black out.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />A sudden downdraft of air announced another earth–jarring tremor. The thing was back in front of her again, looming over her in the darkness. Gina kneeled there, open–mouthed and stunned as the dim light revealed a horrid, leering face hovering several feet above her.<br /><em>FEAR… SWEET</em><br />Reflex turned her weapons to bear but they were swept away with one swipe from her assailant. Gina’s hands vibrated and ached from the strike. Judging from the sounds her weapons made when it hit them, the many tiny metallic parts that made up the works would be useless now. Her attacker backhanded her across the face, the impact lifting her off the ground and throwing her against the wall of the church. Pain scorched through her body as she hit the stone wall and slid down it like a rag doll. Merciful blackness stole over her then, her last sight the creature shaking its fists into the night and shrieking to the heavens. </div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"><em>Be sure to come back for the final installment of "</em>The Vault<em>". And while you're waiting for that I invite you to take some time and poke around at the other bits of madness and mayhem I have around here. With more than 20 works of fiction and a few articles there's bound to be something to pique your interests. And so, until next week, just write, damn it...</em> - Author</div>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-4781661479064183632011-01-24T17:45:00.000-08:002011-01-25T13:55:21.329-08:00Hell Hath No Burritos - Fiction<em>Welcome back to my little corner of the web. This week's tale is something I've kicked around for awhile, and though I'm sure there are plenty of bugs to work out I thought I would throw it up to the slings and arrows of you, Constant Reader, and see what happened. I hope you enjoy.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br />“You <em>sure</em> this is the place?” Mike asked.<br /><br />“You mean you cannot feel this is the proper place?” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Tim-” Mike started.<br /><br />“Timothy,” the angel corrected. Mike spared him a glance then went back to scanning not only the run-down two-story house before them but the many other similar dwellings up and down the street around them.<br /><br />“<em>Timothy</em>, we’re in crack central, here. Do you have any idea what I’m feeling from any one of these places? We’re not in the best part of town,” Mike said. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands then took a deep breath. “I don’t want to get the wrong place again,” Mike said.<br /><br />“You still blame me for your error last week? While I am sure that gives you great comfort it is far from the truth of things,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“For you, it was last week. For me it was yesterday.” Mike said.<br /><br />“You were still of assistance to that young girl, even if it was not the one to which you were sent,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Yeah, but now I have to play catch-up and find the right one. I don’t get credit for philanthropy,” Mike said.<br /><br />“That is why you do this?” Timothy asked.<br /><br />“Tim, you have no idea what <em>this</em> is for me. By the grace of God, you’ve got a get out of jail free card. You’ll never have to go where I go,” Mike said.<br /><br />“Timothy.” the angel reminded. Mike sighed and shook his head.<br /><br />“Don’t they have nicknames where you come from?” Mike asked.<br /><br />“No.” Timothy said. Timothy had been assigned to Mike after the Powers That Be realized there were certain impracticalities to having Mike work alone. The angel was nothing much to look at and had no real memorable features save for his propensity for white suits over black, high-necked shirts. Aside from his wardrobe choices, Timothy was one of those men you could see every day and never give a second glance. Mike knew the angel was oh-so-much more, but the only ones that would typically see him as anything else would have that be the last thing they ever saw.<br /><br />“How do you want to do this? Maybe slip around the back, see if there’s a low window or something…” Mike said as Timothy moved across the weed-choked yard without a word heading for the front door. “Oh, yeah… the direct approach. That always works so well for us,” Mike said as he hustled after the angel.<br /><br />Timothy was a warrior angel, an Old Testament badass. If this one owned a harp and sat around on a cloud, it was only because the harp played death metal while he rained down destruction from above. Mike caught up to him but stayed a few steps behind as the angel brought up his fist and pounded on the door. “You might want to step away from the door. We don’t want a repeat of Yonkers,” Mike said. Timothy ignored him as he pounded on the door. Even over the loud, pulsing urban music Mike could hear a flurry of activity from within the house. A few seconds later a young Latino man opened the door a crack and peered out at Timothy. His eyes went wide in surprise for just a moment at Timothy’s stark-white suit before a broad smile revealed his crooked teeth.<br /><br />“What the fuck you supposed to be, <em>baboso</em>? It ain’t Halloween. You about to get that pretty suit all fucked up banging on my door like that, <em>ese</em>,” he said. Mike shook his head again at the metallic pops and the unmistakable sound of the pump action of a shotgun chambering a round coming from within the house. Why was this never easy?<br /><br />“We are here for Carmalita Eskeban.” Timothy said. At the word “we” the man looked past Timothy to see Mike standing off to the side. Mike shrugged, making sure to display both his empty hands in the process. The man’s eyes narrowed under his wide bandana.<br /><br />“So that’s what you want, eh <em>gabo</em>?” he said as his smile turned to a leer. “Yeah, she’s a sweet little mamacita, but Carma ain’t up to workin’ tonight. Come back tomorrow.”<br /><br />“Adán Garza, you will take us to Carmalita Eskeban. Now,” Timothy said. Adán moved just enough to allow his pistol through the narrow opening.<br /><br />“Great. Here we fucking go again,” Mike muttered. He’d learned the hard way that though he was virtually immortal in his current position he hadn’t been given anything else to go with it. Timothy had the power of Heaven while Mike’s only specialty in the mortal world was to heal wounds quickly and painfully.<br /><br />“I don’t know how you know my name but you need to get your ass out of here before I make your suit red!” Adán said. The muzzle of his pistol was less than six inches from Timothy’s chest and even Mike could see his finger tensing on the trigger.<br /><br />“Look, Adán… I wouldn’t do that. All that’s going to do is piss him off. We just need to see Carmalita for a few minutes and we’ll be on our way, okay? No trouble, no fuss. Okay?” Mike said.<br /><br />“Shut up and get your friend outta here before you get hurt!” Adán said. Several shouts in mixed Spanish and English drifted through the open doorway. Timothy closed his eyes for a moment then slowly opened them to stare at the crucifix around Adán’s neck.<br /><br />“You wear a symbol of our Lord, Adán Garza, yet you are a thief and a murderer. That will not do,” Timothy said. The small crucifix started smoldering and bubbling against Adán’s chest. He howled and brushed at the molten gold with his free hand and managed only to smear the dripping metal across his body and hand. Adán screamed again and fired several rounds into Timothy’s chest before another hand from inside threw the door completely open. Mike dove from the porch and tucked himself against the house as several more pistols and a shotgun opened up on Timothy. The angel jerked violently with each point-blank bullet until the roar of the shotgun blasted him off the porch and onto the rough lawn just a few feet from Mike.<br /><br />“It’s gonna be the hard way again, huh?” Mike asked. Timothy turned his head slowly, allowing his left eye to slide out of its socket and down his cheek. Adán had held good to his word. The angel’s white suit was indeed red now, dyed from the blood that seeped and poured from his various wounds. The center of his chest was laid completely open from the shotgun blast and his face had been mangled from the bullets that had torn through its unremarkable countenance.<br /><br />“I have been given the authority to accomplish this task as I see fit,” Timothy wheezed.<br /><br />“Yeah, that always fills me with such confidence,” Mike said as Timothy slowly gained his feet. There were five men and two women on the porch now, and all the men were armed. Timothy fixed his gaze on Adán and spread his arms wide as his wounds first stopped their bleeding then slowly mended, the great wound in his chest knitted itself back together as they watched. Some made the sign of the cross over their chests while the rest could only stare at the angel as the blood that had permeated his fine suit rushed from it to land in fat drops on the cracked cement path leading to the porch.<br /><br />“<em>Madre de Dios</em>…” the large man holding the shotgun hissed.<br /><br />“Yeah, not so much,” Mike said as he stood up from his cover. He looked at both women present and decided neither was Carmalita. “Guys, please… trust me when I say we just need to see Carmalita. We don’t want to hurt her…”<br /><br />“<em>El Diablo</em>!” another of them said. The exclamation roused the rest from their awe and more shots rang out. Mike took a round to the shoulder and grunted as he hit the ground. Timothy calmly reached into his coat as their bullets struck him again, though this time each simply melted as soon as it struck him. Like a magician with a line of scarves, Timothy drew a long, heavy sword from his coat. As soon as it was clear of his lapel the blade came to life in a burst white-blue flame that drove the rest back into the house.<br /><br />“I don’t care about the sword, but you have <em>got</em> to teach me the bullet trick,” Mike said as he got up from the ground. His shoulder hurt like hell but most of the pain was coming not from the injury but from the healing. “Fuck that hurts!”<br /><br />“Language,” Timothy warned. His voice had a hollow, resonant quality to it now. No matter how many times Mike heard that voice it still ran chills up his spine. If God was anything, he was a showman. “Are you well enough to accomplish your task?”<br /><br />Mike looked at the blood seeping around the bullet hole in his leather jacket. The wound still burned and he’d have to replace the coat but he was otherwise well enough. “It’ll hurt like a bitch in the morning, but yeah, I’m good. You need to teach me the suit trick, too. This is the third jacket I’ve gone through.”<br /><br />The pair went back up the steps but this time instead of knocking Timothy launched a foot at the door that took it off its hinges. Mike peeled off from Timothy and crouched against the wall beside the destroyed doorframe to avoid the predicted barrage of bullets that met Timothy. He waited until he couldn’t hear shots, screams or the whoosh of Timothy’s flaming bastard sword before getting up and coming into the house. The men that had accosted them were laying about the room in parts and pieces while the two women cowered in a corner before Timothy’s holy rage. For all the carnage around them there was a decided lack of blood. Timothy’s sword burned with such fierceness that it instantly cauterized the wounds and severing it caused, keeping the prey’s bodily fluids packaged neatly inside.<br /><br />“Nice work,” Mike said.<br /><br />“Michael, death is never so flippant as you make it. I gave each the opportunity to quit the battle and they chose to fall before me. That does not mean you or I should find pleasure or humor in killing such inferior foes,” Timothy said without taking his eyes off the terrified women.<br /><br />“It’s <em>Mike</em>,” Mike said. He’d only been in the employ of Heaven for a few months but he’d already seen enough to desensitize himself to the violence they were often forced to leave in their wake. He kneeled down beside Timothy to face the women. “Look, I’m sorry about this. We didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I just need to see Carmalita and then we’ll go. Now, where is she?” One of the women raised a trembling hand and pointed to the stairs at the other end of the room.<br /><br />“Is there anyone else in the house?” Timothy asked them. Both women shook their heads slowly, their eyes on the sword that still burned white-hot in his hand. “Leave here now, both of you. Tell no one what you witnessed here tonight.” Timothy said with a wave of his sword towards the door. The women wasted no time in scrambling across the room on their hands and knees before they felt safe enough to get to their feet and run out of the house.<br /><br />“You can put the feathersword away now, Conan,” Mike said as he headed for the stairs.<br /><br />“Why do you keep referring to my blade like that? And my name is Timothy. I do not know this <em>Conan</em> of which you speak,” Timothy said. Mike smirked as the angel followed him up the stairs.<br /><br />“You need to watch more TV,” Mike said.<br /><br />“That is the last thing I need to do,” Timothy said as they reached the top of the stairs. Garbage and random detritus was strewn down the length of the hall. Most of the rooms had had their doors removed, allowing them to see the filthy piles of clothes, blankets and more refuse decorating each room. They reached the last room and paused for a moment before going inside.<br /><br />“Remember, a bottle of water and a burrito. Is that too much for you to remember or should I write it down this time?” Mike said. Timothy frowned and gave Mike a gentle shove into the room.<br /><br />“I am not your servant,” Timothy said. Mike tried the room’s light switch but nothing happened. He stepped gingerly through the mounds of filth until he reached a small, shade-less lamp on a milk crate and flipped it on. The glare from the naked bulb made his dark-adjusted eyes flinch for a moment and revealed a painfully thin young woman curled up on a vomit-stained mattress. Mike took one of her arms in his hands and turned it over. Half a dozen tiny pockmarks looked back at him from the crook of her elbow and down her forearm.<br /><br />“Is this Carmalita Eskebar?” Timothy asked.<br /><br />“You’re the guy that knows anybody’s name that he wants to know, why don’t you tell me?” Mike said.<br /><br />“They have to be awake for me to discern that information,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“The one last week was awake,” Timothy said with a bit of bitterness.<br /><br />“Yes, but you were so certain she was lying about the name she had given and that she was in fact Carmalita that you did not ask me to verify,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Great. The one time you decide not to second-guess me,” Mike said. He put her arm down then gently turned her face up to him. She was a pretty girl, or at least she would be much prettier if not for her sunken features and the cracked skin across her lips. “Carmalita… hey, Carmalita… wake up.”<br /><br />The girl’s eyes fluttered a few times then stayed open though only as slits. “Wha…” she managed to squeak before her head lolled in his hands.<br /><br />“No no, little girl. Come on, I need you awake for this. Come on now,” Mike said as he tapped her cheeks lightly. Carmalita roused again and turned her face back towards his voice. “You in there, Carmalita? You awake?” Mike asked. She gave a shallow nod, and though her eyes fluttered a few times more she remained at least semi-conscious.<br /><br />“Go away,” Carmalita managed to say. A spot on her bottom lip cracked open from speaking and a tiny drop of dull blood welled up there.<br /><br />“Carmalita, you’re killing yourself here. Don’t you want to get better?” Mike asked. A tiny wink of light reflected off the silver chain around her neck. He used his free hand and rooted around under her neck until he fished out a tiny silver crucifix similar to the one Adán had worn. Mike ripped it from her neck, the jolt of which causing Carmalita to wake up just a little more.<br /><br />“What are you-” Carmalita started to say.<br /><br />“Look, I don’t have a whole lot of time here,” Mike said as he brought the tiny cross and it’s tinier Savior up to her face. “Do you believe?” Mike asked. Carmalita stared at the crucifix for long moments before finally turning back to him.<br /><br />“Yes,” Carmalita said.<br /><br />“Okay, first hurdled jumped,” Mike said.<br /><br />“You need to hurry, Michael. I am certain one of those women will contact either the police or more of their gang,” Timothy said, putting a great deal of disgust into the word “gang”.<br /><br />“Yeah, okay, and it’s Mike, damn it,” Mike said. Timothy ignored him and went to the window to check the street below while Mike got back to Carmalita. She was fading again, looking for her solace in whatever concoction she’d pumped into her veins. “Shit! Come on, honey, stay with me,” Mike said. Carmalita gave as much attention to Mike as the angel had and was falling back into her haze. “Shit. Carmalita, listen to me… you’ve got to listen to me, here,” Mike said as he gripped her chin and fought to hold her head still. Her eyes were as wide as her lids would allow but only a low groan escaped her lips. She struggled like this for nearly a minute more before her body finally, thankfully, went limp in his arms.<br /><br />“You must go <em>now</em>. If she dies before you-” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Damn it, I know!” Mike interrupted him. He put a hand to her chest then sat back on his haunches and closed his eyes. “You have no idea how much harder this is when they don’t consent,” Mike said.<br /><br />“We all have our crosses to bear, do we not?” Timothy said.<br /><br />“For an angel, you sure are a fucking prick,” Mike said.<br /><br />“If you desire civility, go to a cherub. I am here to perform my duty. It is now time to do yours,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Bottle of water and a burrito, okay?” Mike said to Timothy as he closed his eyes again and tilted his head back. A heartbeat later, both Mike and Caramalita were screaming.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />The first thing to hit him was the sensation of falling; a wild, tumbling drop through nothingness so hot it felt as if his skin was searing off his bones. Each time his aerial thrashings pointed his face towards the bottom the flickering light of roaring flames burned closer and closer. With every moment the light became brighter and brighter, eventually illuminating the rough, rocky walls surrounding him. He reached out to touch the sides of the cylindrical chasm and was rewarded by such white-hot pain that he nearly lost consciousness. That is, if he was even truly conscious now.<br /><br />The rocky tube suddenly gave way to absolute nothingness save for the heat of the massive, boiling fire beneath him. Those flames filled his vision now as they reached up to reel him down even faster into their embrace. Everywhere the flames lapped at him burned deep. He could not remember who he was, or where he was, or even why he was, but some long-buried memory told him the flames sought not his flesh; they were looking to burn away at his soul. He was nearly into the pit when he started making out the shapes and forms writhing within it.<br /><br />Bodies in the thousands and more filled the pit. They were naked save for the flames that constantly shrouded them as they slithered and crawled over each other like a roiling pile of maggots in a deep wound. His body hit the pit of flames like a stone breaking the surface of a calm lake. The figures rushed away from him in ripples and waves at first, but as the friction from his body and theirs slowed then finally stopped his descent they pressed in on him, crushing him in wave after wave of moaning, screaming bodies.<br /><br />Hands caressed his sudden stiffness and mouths set to work across his body. He responded in kind, his mind so suddenly full of lust and desire for these nameless, faceless souls that nothing else mattered. Tearing pain from his rectum told him a man from somewhere in the pile had entered him while he turned his head and lowered his mouth onto another member. He could see neither man’s face, and frankly he didn’t care to. Faces, names… titles and recognition meant nothing here. Here, there was only pain and pleasure made all the more sweet by its anonymity.<br /><br />He bucked his hips into the throng and was rewarded with a hot sleeve slick with dripping juices and lost himself in the group rhythm of the throng. He could feel himself growing thicker and harder inside the nameless woman. He couldn’t pick out her moans with his ears, locked as they all were in such a horde of pleasure, but he could feel them reverberating through her walls and across his cock. His pleasure turned to pain though as his body tried valiantly to reach its climax. The penis in his mouth bobbed and thrummed violently against his tongue and he thought for just a moment he could hear its owner’s screams of rage and frustration at his inability to complete such a simple act. The one at his backside thrust even harder now, and he could feel his insides bleeding from the abuse. But try as that one might he could no more climax than any other in this orgy of fire and souls.<br /><br />Suddenly, the tight, dripping walls cradling his member lessened their grip and began to pull away, like as not to try her luck on some other faceless man. “<em>No</em>!” he both thought and screamed. With strength born from the madness of an unachievable release he thrust his hands into the press of bodies before him. Though he still couldn’t see their owner, he found the hips containing those sweet, glistening muscles just before they were lost to the fray and forced them back over his painfully-throbbing erection. He bit down hard on the cock in his mouth and it instantly pulled away. He forced his mouth and eyes closed and poured every ounce of his will into fucking the unknown woman in his grip.<br /><br />The woman he serviced bucked and thrashed violently under his single-minded assault, and he was suddenly aware of the blood that ran from under his fingernails were they’d bitten into her soft hips. For him the blood neither added to nor took away from the act. He would achieve climax, if for nothing else but to make the pain ebb. He would fuck this woman until he finally emptied himself into her, until he could finally be free of the sheer agony. “<em>I am a man! I am not an animal!</em>” he screamed again both inside and outside his mind. “I am… <em>I am a man</em>…” he screamed again. The muscles in his body clenched suddenly and all at once as his orgasm blasted through his being. He screamed in agony and pleasure as it rolled through him and continued pummeling the faceless woman until every last drop of his seed had been lost in her.<br /><br />“I… I am <em>Michael</em>… Mike Fuller…” Mike said though his voice was muffled by the sea of bodies still writhing about him. But the bodies weren’t faceless anymore. He could see them all in detail now; old and young, corpulent and emaciated and all manner in between. These were the souls of men and women whose beliefs in the stains on their souls had brought them to this place, to continually act out their sins of the flesh yet never being able to complete the act that drove them here. Their hell was to be locked in the flesh for eternity with no hope of climax. They would never know themselves and would be reduced only to their nameless, faceless base desires.<br /><br />“I <em>am</em> Mike Fuller.” Mike said again, this time stronger. He remembered who he was and remembered now how he’d come to be here. He remembered the half-dozen other times he’d made this trip and each of the souls whose stains he’d taken on, suffering the punishments of those sins as if they were his own to allow the sinner to begin anew, their slate cleaned before Heaven’s eyes. Mike didn’t know how or why the Powers That Be chose the recipients for his special brand of absolution. Truth be known, he didn’t care past the normal levels of human curiosity. He only knew he had a lifetime of bad karma to burn away and the unique ability to remember himself, to retain his identity, when in the pits of Hell. It was a rare soul that could rise above the anonymity of Hell, and rarer still for one to crawl its way back through the pits and fields of brimstone and fire and sin with willful direction and purpose. And for every sin he expunged from those chosen ones, some of his own stains were lifted as well.<br /><br />“I <em>am</em> Mike Fuller,” Mike kept repeating through his clenched jaws as he crawled his way up through the pile of maggots. He batted furiously at the hands, legs and other limbs, parts and pieces that were thrust against and inside him as he crawled ever upward. It may have been only a few moments or a few decades that he’d been here this time. It was always so hard to tell the passage of time in eternity. But whether the time was short or long before his head finally crested the sea of souls didn’t matter. It only mattered that he had once more been able to keep his mind and soul together, that he had once more beat Hell at its own game.<br /><br />Mike pulled himself completely from the pile and crawled across its pulsing crests like a crab scuttling across the backs of a school of hatchery fish. The heat beat at him with a thousand invisible fists while just as many visible ones came at him from below, seeking to pull him down and have him rejoin their eternal orgy. Small blazes broke out all over his body as he crawled and wide, open blisters replaced his hair and most of his scalp by the time the edge of the pit was in view. With the last of his strength of will and body he threw himself at the side of the pit. He ignored the pain from the red-hot, jagged rocks surrounding the mouth of the pit as he dragged his body up and over them to the only-slightly cooler, ash covered ground beyond. Mike lay for time untold with his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin against his chest. The pain this time had been unbelievable and nearly unbearable, but once again he’d managed to drag himself from one of Hell’s many eternal rewards.<br /><br />“You again, Michael Fuller?” a grating, hissing voice said from somewhere high above him. Mike recognized that voice and braced himself for what would come next. As if not to disappoint him, something searing and sharp cracked against his shins. The blow threw him back against the thick rocks surrounding the pit and momentarily threatened to send him back into its embraces. Mike rolled away from the rocks and tried to put distance between both it and the demon at the same time. “This is becoming a habit. Back you go!” the demon said as it reached down and with burning hands raised Mike high into the air over its head.<br /><br />“Fuck you!” Mike managed to wheeze as he looked down at the tops of the demon’s long, serrated horns. It looked up into his eyes with its own reptilian ones and gave him a smile full of far too many sharp fangs.<br /><br />“Considering where you are going, that is exactly the eternity you can expect,” the demon said. It walked closer to the edge of the pit, allowing Mike a good look over the edge at the ever-boiling pot of sins of the flesh.<br /><br />“You can’t do this! I know the rules! I beat you! You <em>lose</em>!” Mike said as he found new strength with which to struggle against the demon’s grip. His straining was all for naught, though. The demon simply shifted its grip so that one huge, talon-flecked hand wrapped around Mike’s neck. The demon held Mike over the edge of the pit by his throat, just low enough where the longest fingers of the damned below could caress the soles of his feet.<br /><br />“It seems you are the one that has lost, Michael Fuller. There are no rules in Hell save for those of my Master, and there is no one here to enforce any other code. It is just you, me and the rest of the damned. Relax, Michael Fuller. We both know this is <em>exactly</em> the eternity to which you belong, though I would be lying if I said I did not gain great pleasure in being the one to finally keep you in your rightful place. My Master will be very pleased,” the demon said. Mike tried to speak but the demon’s crushing fingers around his throat removed any chance at forming words or even drawing a breath. He beat furiously against the demon’s extended arm and swung out with his legs at its chest while the thing laughed at him.<br /><br />“Ah! A fighter to the end! I like that in a soul,” the demon said as it reeled Mike in so that their faces were almost touching. “Perhaps after a few centuries I will fish you out and dine upon your essence. Once in the belly of a demon you will beg to return to this flesh pit. Goodbye, Michael Fuller,” the demon said. Mike closed his eyes as the demon held him out over the lake of flesh once more and released its grip. Mike clenched his jaw and hissed his own name over and over, keeping it at the front of his mind. If he got out once he may be able to do so again, though his soul was weary and scarred from his last escape. Mike waited for the feeling of falling, waited for the groping hands and grasping fingers of the damned to pull him back into the pit to make him one with them again but neither happened. He remained where he was, suspended just over the masses and knots of flesh below him.<br /><br />“You have violated the Law, demon,” a flat, monotone voice said. Mike opened his eyes slowly to see a voluminous grey robe a few feet away from them. Its folds and billows seemed to be filled by a body yet one look into its cowl showed only two floating, grey eyes the same shade as its robes and cape.<br /><br />“I have not! I found him outside of the pit and was merely returning him to his damnation,” the demon said. A large tome appeared before the wraith’s empty cowl. The pages flipped furiously from one end of the book and back again before it slammed shut with a clap louder than thunder then disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared.<br /><br />“The Law is clear,” the wraith said.<br /><br />“This is no ordinary soul. It is a combatant in this war and I do nothing more than claim my spoils. You have no right to-” the demon said.<br /><br />“I have no rights, I am of the Grey,” the wraith said.<br /><br />“Your interpretation of the Law is suspect, wraith,” the demon said.<br /><br />“I do not interpret the Law. I am powerless so long as the Law is followed. If you are within the Law, you have nothing to fear,” the wraith said.<br /><br />“I fear <em>nothing</em>, wraith… least of all an empty robe,” the demon said. The wraith extended an arm and a ghostly, pale hand materialized at the end of the sleeve. A wide shaft of cold, pale light blasted from it and struck the demon in the chest. The force of the blast sent it reeling. It wind milled comically against the raw power for a moment before its scrabbling feet met the rocks surrounding the chasm. With a roar of impotent rage the demon pitched backwards, over the rocks and into its own pit.<br /><br />“You are once again narrowly on the side of Law, Michael Fuller,” the wraith said as Mike’s body moved away from the pit and back on the solid, scorching ground.<br /><br />“It’s Mike, actually,” Mike said. He was scabbed and sore, burnt and blistered and felt as if the slightest breeze would be enough to lay him low forever. At least all his parts and pieces were still with him this time. “Can I go back now?” The wraith hovered closer to him as the demon’s hands appeared over the edge of the rocks to pull his huge, scaly body from the pit.<br /><br />“I will see you burn, Michael Fuller! I will flay the flesh from your bones a thousand times and make you watch as I consume you over and over again!” the demon said.<br /><br />“You may, one day…” the wraith said,”…but that day will not be this one.”<br /><br />Mike felt his feet leave the burning, ash-covered ground once more though this time he kept rising slowly and steadily towards the unseen ceiling of the cavern.<br /><br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Mike had to force his eyes to open then wished he hadn’t. Even the mild light from the small lamp on the other side of the room hurt. He gripped the bedclothes as his world spun out of control for several moments and fought against his empty stomach’s threat to spew its bile from one end of the dingy hotel room to the other.<br /><br />“Finally,” Timothy said. Mike focused on the angel’s face hovering over his and used it as a stagnant point of reference to eventually stop his world from spinning.<br /><br />“How long?” Mike croaked. His throat burned and his lips were painfully dry. He imagined his now looked and felt the same as Carmalita’s had. Timothy nodded towards the bedside table. Mike turned his head to see a bottle of spring water and a large bundle wrapped in wax paper imprinted with a fast food logo. He slowly released his grip on the thin blanket under him and took up the bottle.<br /><br />“Nine days,” Timothy answered. Mike struggled for a moment with the plastic cap before it gave way then took several long, slow sips from the bottle. His lips burned from the water but he welcomed that sort of burning in place of that which he’d just left.<br /><br />“<em>Nine days</em>,” Mike repeated after a few more sips of water cooled his throat.<br /><br />“It is better than last time,” Timothy said. Every time Mike’s soul took a trip to hell, his mortal body dropped into a sort of coma. Timothy’s job was to make sure that not only did Mike use his dubious “gift” for the right side but also to make certain Mike had an earthly shell in which to return. Coming back again would be nearly impossible without such an anchor in the mortal world.<br /><br />“What about Carmalita?” Mike asked.<br /><br />“I know not of the girl. That is not my duty, nor is it my concern,” Timothy said. Mike looked at the greasy bundle on the nightstand then picked it up and pulled down the wrapper.<br /><br />“This isn’t your duty, either,” Mike said with a wink. “Does this mean you like me?”<br /><br />“It means I recognize your mortal body needs sustenance, and it means my desire to <em>not</em> hear you whine and prattle on like an infant is greater than my disdain at having to go to that deplorable taco stand,” Timothy said.<br /><br />“Well, thanks all the same, Tim. I really appreciate it,” Mike said. He opened his mouth and jammed the burrito into it, bit off a hunk then chewed a few times. His mouth suddenly flew open again and he involuntarily wretched the wad of half-chewed food on the floor. “<em>Eww</em>! Tim, what the hell is this?”<br /><br />“It is a burrito,” Tim said in the same tone a tired mother would use on her precocious child. Mike poked a finger into the cold layers of refried beans, cheese and meat.<br /><br />“Oh, ugh! This thing is half-rotten! When did you get this?” Mike asked.<br /><br />“On the way here,” Tim said. Mike shook his head and couldn’t help but look back inside the burrito at the rancid meat and molding cheese. The angel had no need for food, water or sleep. This made him the perfect guard for Mike’s shell while he was in Hell, but it also meant he had no conception of what it was like to be mortal.<br /><br />“<em>On the way</em>… you bought this nine days ago?” Mike asked.<br /><br />“You requested a bottle of water and a burrito. I fulfilled your request. Is that not a bottle of water and a burrito?” Timothy asked.<br /><br />“Yeah, yeah it is,” Mike said. He couldn’t help but give the angel a genuine smile even as he dropped the offending meal in the trash can beside the bed. “You haven’t been around mortals much, have you?”<br /><br />“As little as I can possibly manage to be,” Timothy answered in that same, tired voice.<br /><br />“Well, you’ve got a lot to learn,” Mike said as he got to shaky legs. He teetered for a moment before finding his center then picked up his jacket from the chair by the door. “Let’s start by grabbing a burrito that <em>isn’t</em> rancid and work backwards from there, okay?”<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Just write, damn it. </em>- AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-40328983843860484352011-01-01T18:31:00.000-08:002011-06-16T02:49:48.225-07:00A Little About Me - ArticleSince I’m currently suffering a bit of the fiction block, I thought I’d start out the New Year by going over some of the questions I’m asked on a regular basis by friends, enemies, loved ones, hated ones, relatives, readers and writers on a variety of topics.<br />
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<em>Why are you such a sarcastic prick?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. Sarcasm is, in fact, a skill that is difficult to learn and even harder to master. Before anything else, thanks for recognizing all the hard work and years of practice it’s taken me to develop it.<br />
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You would be hard pressed to find a writer of fiction that isn’t sarcastic (and even cynical to a degree) at least some of the time. It’s a skill we develop. If you don’t have a working knowledge of sarcasm you won’t be able to write a sarcastic character for shit. We also need that sarcasm when we look at our folders of dozens and dozens (or more) of rejections. The problem is; it’s hard to turn it off and on. After almost 40 years on this planet, I’ve found I rely on sarcasm as a way to laugh off the stupid things I see and hear on a daily basis. When you use sarcasm, you’re giving someone the out to laugh along with you at the silly thing they just said or did instead of coming right out and telling them just how silly the thing they just did or said was. Sarcasm also makes a great defense mechanism, and when you’ve used it for as long as I have it just goes off automatically. This has gotten me into more arguments than I care to count, and I do try to control it in certain situations. To friends, family and loved ones; I really am trying to control and mellow the sarcasm where it concerns you. Please, bear with me. To my enemies, hated ones and the reading public trust me when I say you want me to be sarcastic. You’d much rather me point out silliness and idiocy with humor than you would for me to come right out and be straight on the matter.<br />
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<em>Why do you write horror, dark fantasy and zombie stories?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. I should clarify, though, that writers never, ever ask this question. Writers know the answer to this one already, and that answer is; because that’s the story we have to tell. It’s what interests us and by extension it’s what we feel most comfortable writing about. Nobody asks the people over at the Chicken Soup books why the publish tons of feel-good, heart-warming tales. Aside from the dump trucks of cash they make from them, they do it because somewhere within that company are editors and moneymen that want some good news for a change. I write horror and spec fic because the subject matter has interested me since early childhood, back in the days where my brother’s dog-eared copy of the unabridged Dracula and Channel 11’s Chilly Billy Cardille kept me up into the wee hours of Sunday morning with Chiller Theater’s double features. When you write fiction, you can pretty much do what you want within the realm of the real world. When you write horror and spec fic, you’re not just writing, you’re literally creating the entire world of your characters and not just writing about people in our own reality. Pretty heady stuff, though not so much when you consider that writers secretly (or not so secretly, depending on the writer in question) love playing God. By the way, if you ever attend an author’s reading, meet-and-greet or other function where you’re able to ask direct questions of the writer, don’t waste your one question with this one. They’re just going to give you some pat, rehearsed answer that they give to everyone that asks it. Ask them about their dog, or what music they like; anything except “Why do you write X?”<br />
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<em>Okay then, just the zombies. What’s with the zombies?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. A part of it is still my answer from above, but since it seems the walking dead do pop up in a lot of my stuff, I’ll consider it a separate question. I like using zombies because they’re just so damn versatile. They can be shamblers or runners, they can be really, truly dead or just “infected”, they can be dumb as rocks or intelligent, they can speak or be mute… really just great fiction clay. They can also serve as a metaphor for pretty much anything you want; rampant consumerism, plague, rapid social change… you pick the situation and I can tell you how properly-applied zombies would improve the story. It’s also a great way to breed a huge number of enemies in a very short amount of time and serve not only as the enemy but a very, very creepy enemy indeed. But the best “zombie” stories aren’t really zombie stories at all. The best ones use the zombies to forward the real story the author’s trying to tell.<br />
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<em>What’s with the name? How do you pronounce that?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. My name is often mangled, though I’m not exactly sure why. It’s “Lowther”. Think of it as the word “allow” minus the “al”(LOW…) and “father” minus the “fa” (THER). “Lowther”<br />
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<em>When did you start writing?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. I’ve written for as long as I can remember, really. I also used to draw and sketch and wasn’t bad at that, either. I stopped writing and drawing almost completely through my twenties, and the only reason I picked it back up again was from being involved in a LARP (Live Action Role Playing) system. I started writing plots and character race concepts and got the bug again. I didn’t submit my first story for publication until I was 33 years old. It was a 10,000 word short for a zombie anthology. For that 10,000 words, I received my very first rejection e-mail. It was two words with no capitalization or punctuation, it wasn’t even a sentence; “no thanks”. That was it. “no thanks”. Luckily, I’m a bit more stubborn than that. Shortly after that rejection, I got my first acceptance for an e-zine called “Blood, Blade and Thruster” and from there I started picking up acceptances. Nothing big mind you. All of my successes have been in the small press. That’s not a bad thing though, and it’s something that any writer just getting his feet wet needs to do. If you’re reading this and you’re an unpublished writer that has been banging their heads against the walls of Tor, Viking, Cemetery Dance and the rest, I heartily recommend you take a step back, polish up your manuscripts and start checking out the small press. They’re always looking for stories, and though you won’t get the instant acclaim and paychecks of the big guys you’ll be able to build a good portfolio you can take to agents and publishers to show your work is indeed saleable.<br />
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<em>So what’s the deal with your novels?</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. I have two novels, Area 187; Almost Hell and Area 187; Almost Home that are with Library of the Living Dead Press. We were originally looking for the first book to be published in late fall, but due to circumstances out of my control over at the Library the date has been pushed back. I’m told now that Almost Hell could be out as early as late January 2011, and we’re in the final stages of getting the cover ready as we speak. The second book should be out shortly thereafter. The two books were originally written as one, but the damn thing just came out too large to be a single novel from a first-time published novelist, so after shopping it around as a single project for awhile and getting no response I broke the book into two. You’ll be able to read one or the other and get your fill, but you’ll want both to get the whole story. After I get a firm publishing date, believe me, you’ll be hearing about the books so much from me that you’ll get sick of it. I have other projects in the works as well, including an audio anthology I’ll be releasing for free sometime this winter.<br />
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<em>So what about family and personal junk?</em><br />
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I'm glad you asked that question. Like many writers, I don’t choose to talk about my personal life. It’s nothing against you, Constant Reader, but I don’t feel the details of my personal life are necessary to either enjoy or revile my body of work. You could care less about my children or what color underwear I prefer as long as the stories I write don’t make you want to burn out your eyes with a curling iron. I’m a private person by nature, it’s just my way.<br />
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<em>Why aren’t you active on Facebook? Come… join us…</em><br />
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I’m glad you asked that question. I do have a Facebook page, but I maintain nothing more than a name and a page. Quite frankly, I loathe Facebook and I only keep a page there so that I can visit the pages of various people and publishers that put information on their Facebook and only on their Facebook, though I did make a vow a year ago that any publisher who uses only their Facebook and not their own, professional site will never get another submission from me. I don’t have anything witty to say in the confines of Facebook speak, and as much as I may like my friends that use the site I have no desire to know what cute thing their cat did today or what the consistency of their last bowel movement was. More than that, though, is my problem with how people use Facebook. I have no desire to interact and really don’t want to be there, but because others want me to join the cult I’m constantly receiving friend requests and other errata even though I have a very frank and succinct disclaimer to the contrary right there on my page. If you’re my friend, you already know how to contact me. If you want to be my friend, I’m not hard to find even without Facebook. People also tend to be irresponsible with what they post and the pictures they put up. It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to be involved with Facebook or not, people will eventually force you to be.<br />
<em>So now you’re doing movie reviews on a podcast. Why not do your own damn podcast and stop riding everyone else’s coattails?</em><br />
<br />
I’m glad you asked that question. I’ve been helping out with some movie reviews for the Witch’s Hat podcast and blog because Root Rot, the blogmaster and host of the Blogcast, is just a fantastic individual whose tastes in movies and humor run with my own. I love horror movies; good, bad, ugly. And since I’m a very opinionated SOB, reviewing movies seemed to come naturally. As to why I don’t do my own podcast, the reasons are many. First, I like what I’m doing at the Hat, and I’m told my spots hold up well with the audience of both the blog and cast. Second, I really like being part of the cast Mr. Rot has assembled. We all compliment each other well, just different enough so that when you put us all together we make something better than what we could do individually. Lastly, I just don’t have the vast amount of time running a regular podcast demands. So I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing. I enjoy it, and I hope you do, too.<br />
<br />
<em>Okay, okay… last question; where the hell did the nickname biguglyhairyscary come from, anyway?</em><br />
<br />
I’m glad you asked that question. As I said before, I used to help run a LARP group. One of my responsibilities was running the plot for our “undead town” and my Halloween events were highly anticipated affairs, if I do say so myself. I am also quite well known for needing coffee to function. Now, a lot of people say this. “I’m just a bear if I don’t get my coffee” kind of things. When I say I need it to function, that’s exactly what I mean. If I don’t have caffeine within the first hour of waking up, I will eat your children and make you watch while I do it. Knowing this, my players and staff would always make sure to send a staffer into the kitchen area to get coffee for me. A friend of mine’s wife was in the plot cabin one morning and witnessed me getting up and scrounging for anything that had caffeine, so she sent one of our younger players to go get some with the words, “Go get his coffee or he’ll get all biguglyhairyscary on us…” From then on, it just kinda stuck. It’s also very descriptive in that I am all of those things, and I have yet to have the need to add a “2” or other such nonsense when I use it as a screen name or an e-mail address.<br />
<br />
Well, that’s enough soul-revealing for now. I’ll try to be back next week with some new fiction for you to chew on. So until then, just write, damn it.Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-82244424155772703892010-12-27T09:50:00.000-08:002010-12-27T10:18:10.721-08:00Group - Fiction<em>Well, kids, it looks like we made it through another Christmas. Now we just have to contend with the end of 2010 and the start of 2011. Things don't look too good for me going into the new year, so I hope they're looking better and rosier on your end of the screen. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Keep watching right here for more info on my novel releases, </em>Area 187; Almost Hell<em> and </em>Area 187; Almost Home <em>from</em> The Library of the Living Dead Press<em> and a few upcoming audio fiction projects. Things have finally started to inch forward again on my novels after situational and unavoidable delays with the publisher, and if you keep watching here you'll be the first to know. Also, I've recently been added to the staff of the Witch's Hat blog and podcast, so be sure to check out my movie reviews both on the blog and in live, vibrant audio over at </em><a href="http://thewitchshatblog.com/"><em>The Hat</em></a><em>. Until then, here's a little diddy to keep things rolling. I hope you had a Merry Christmas and hope you have a most excellent New Year.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br /><br />“Where’s Dr. Harvey?” Luna asked as the short, balding man in a sport coat and tie walked into the room then closed and locked the door behind him.<br /><br />“I’m Dr. Reynolds.” the little man said. The rest of the therapy group looked at one another in concern as the intruder simply walked through their circled chairs to take up what had been Dr. Robert Harvey’s customary seat among his patients.<br /><br />“Where’s Dr. Harvey?” Luna repeated. This time her voice came out in a panicked rush, causing her ample bosom to rise and fall in rapid bursts and her bright green eyes to flare Manga-like. “I <em>need</em> to see Dr. Harvey!”<br /><br />“Is Dr. Harvey sick?” Aaron asked while concern etched itself across his smooth, handsome, pale face.<br /><br />“This isn’t a gym class, you idiot.” Gary growled at Aaron. “If your therapist is sick they don’t bring in a substitute.”<br /><br />“Gghhnnr…” Timmy interjected as he tried to focus on the new man in the room.<br /><br />“Let’s have some calm here, shall we?” Dr. Reynolds said without looking up from the yellow legal pad in his hands.<br /><br />“Idiot?” Aaron shot back at Gary. “That’s big talk coming from a son of a bitch.” Gary let loose with a string of expletives and roared out of his chair in Aaron’s direction. Aaron started to get up to receive Gary’s charge but stopped short when Dr. Reynolds’s foot suddenly shot out, tripping the much larger and meaner Gary onto the thick carpet. Gary slid a foot or so before rolling over and practically leaping to his feet.<br /><br />“I’m gonna kill <em>you</em> first!” Gary said to Reynolds. The doctor pulled his foot back beneath his chair and flipped over a page on his notepad.<br /><br />“Sit down, Gary.” Reynolds said. The simple command seemed to take Gary aback for a moment before he stalked slowly to the doctor’s chair to lean menacingly over him.<br /><br />“I barely tolerated Dr. Harvey. I don’t even know why the fuck you’re here. What’s to stop me from just tearing your fucking head off?” Gary said. This time Reynolds did look up from his notepad. The doctor sighed heavily then pulled a small, thin silver cylinder from his breast pocket and held it where Gary could see it. Gary took a step back and emitted a low, almost growling noise from deep within his throat.<br /><br />“I said <em>sit down,</em> Gary.” Reynolds repeated. Gary shared his look of scorn with both Aaron and Reynolds before he stomped back to his seat and fell into it.<br /><br />“That’s a good boy.” Aaron said. Before Gary could react to Aaron’s smugness, Reynolds reached inside his shirt and let the crucifix he wore around his neck ride atop his tie instead of beneath his shirt.<br /><br />“<em>No</em>! No religious symbols of any kind are supposed to be displayed in group!” Luna said before Aaron could react. “This is supposed to be a nurturing, safe environment, free of religious symbols and judgments!”<br /><br />“Uggrhmph kclrrg…” Timmy added. Dr. Reynolds slid the legal pad between his thigh and the chair arm then put away his jewelry before leaning back into his chair to regard the room.<br /><br />“Dr. Harvey has taken a sabbatical… a sabbatical that this very group has made necessary.” Reynolds said. The members of the therapy group looked around at each other while Reynolds did the same to each of them. “He has explained to me in great detail the various conditions and issues that brought each of you to him and has asked me to take over your sessions.” The room was quiet for several moments before Aaron finally spoke up.<br /><br />“Dr. Reynolds, we appreciate you stepping in for Dr. Harvey. But you have to see that we’re simply not… <em>comfortable</em>… sharing with a new therapist.” Aaron said.<br /><br />“I was on the verge of a breakthrough!” Luna interrupted Aaron. “Where’s Dr. Harvey? I <em>need</em> to see Dr. Harvey!”<br /><br />“Grsgrscaaak.” Timmy said. For reasons unknown, Timmy’s outburst was the catalyst for each member of the group to start talking at once. Reynolds let them go on for a few moments before loudly clearing his throat. The gentle signal for quiet went unheeded though and the group continued talking and arguing among themselves while they threw half-questions at Reynolds.<br /><br />“If we could all calm ourselves and behave like rational adults…” Reynolds said. This had the opposite effect and even seemed to spurn the group on to new heights when Aaron and Gary got up from their chairs and once again started for each other. They stopped short just a few feet from each other though, and instead of coming to blows started hurling insults at each other like two playground bullies trying to see who would win the monkey bars as their territory.<br />“People… we all need to remember why we’re here, and that these outbursts aren’t helping…” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“I <em>must</em> have Dr. Harvey!” Luna screeched as she too came up out of her seat and flew towards Dr. Reynolds. Her hands were stretched out before her, her lacquered nails like tiny poisoned spears as they shot towards the psychiatrist. Reynolds ducked low into his chair and Luna sailed over him, the look of rage and hate turning suddenly to cartoonish confusion as she slammed against the bookshelf behind Reynolds. Volumes and tomes were still raining down on her as Reynolds stood and spun on the room.<br /><br />“<em>Listen up</em> you bloated sacks of testicular puss!” Reynolds said. His voice boomed through the room, reverberating off the walls, the floor and even the group members. Gary winced and cupped the ear pointing towards the doctor as Luna separated herself from the books that had piled atop her and got to her feet. Her chest heaved and her eyes turned red as she took a step towards Reynolds and let out a shriek of rage. Reynolds pulled a small bottle from his jacket pocket and flicked his wrist towards the woman before she could take another step then turned his back on her as her fit of seething anger turned into moans of pain.<br /><br />“No holy relics! We all agreed!” Luna said from behind the doctor as the holy water burned tiny blisters into her skin where they’d landed.<br /><br />“Dr. Harvey agreed to that.” Reynolds said. His voice had taken on a hard, cold edge and eyes that had at first appeared soft and haggard to the group now narrowed to decidedly angry slits.<br /><br />“You…” Luna started again. Reynolds flicked the bottle again, this time removing his thumb completely from the opening to give her a good dose of the blessed water. Luna slammed her back against the bookcase to avoid the stuff, smashing her head against the heavy wood but at least avoiding the worst of the spray.<br /><br />“The power of Christ compels you, you Satan-loving excuse for a cock-hungry whore.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“You can’t…” Aaron said as he advanced on the doctor.<br /><br />“Oh! <em>You</em> want some of this too, do ya?” Reynolds said as he spun and held the bottle out towards Aaron. The man actually hissed before backing off a step, revealing the points of his small yet obvious fangs. “Now, you are all going to sit the fuck down so we can get your shit <em>together</em>!”<br /><br />“That water don’t mean shit to me!” Gary said. Without a word, Reynolds pulled a Colt automatic from beneath his jacket and fired. Gary’s foot didn’t even slow the bullet as it burned through to bury itself in the wooden floor. Gary howled… literally <em>howled</em>… before stumbling backwards into his chair. He drew his foot up into his lap and started pulling off his boot as Reynolds swept the room with his weapons.<br /><br />“Now, you miserable sacks of human excrement, I said sit the fuck down!” Reynolds said. Timmy simply sat in his chair, taking in the scene as the rest of the group regained their seats and stared at their new doctor with wounded expressions.<br /><br />“You didn’t have to shoot me, asshole!” Gary growled.<br /><br />“Yes, Gary. Yes I <em>did</em> have to shoot you. Do you know why, Gary? Do you know why I had to shoot you?” Reynolds asked. Gary opened his mouth but Reynolds kept going. “There’s a couple a reasons why I had to shoot you. First you need to blame your mama cause she didn’t teach you any better manners. That’s all right though, Gary, cause if you try that again I’m gonna go fuck your mama and your sister’s gonna lick my asshole while I do it. You got me, fleabag? One more outburst from you and that’s just how it’s gonna happen. Do I make myself <em>clear</em> to you? Are you God-damn <em>hearing me</em> you God-damn mongrel?” Gary’s face contorted with rage, but when his mouth opened Reynolds covered the distance between them with surprising speed and rammed the barrel between Gary’s rapidly-expanding jaws. “You better belay that shit! You better just calm yourself right the fuck down before I make like Old Yeller and blow out the back of your fucking skull! Do you read me, furball? Huh? Am I getting through that mange-spotted hide of yours?”<br /><br />“Dr. Reynolds, please…” Aaron said.<br /><br />“And <em>you</em>, you poor misunderstood God-damn crybaby…” Reynolds stopped talking suddenly and just shook his head. He pulled the gun from Gary’s mouth and walked to the center of the group’s circle. “You people like Dr. Harvey so much, huh? You think he’s just the savior of your fucked-up existences, don’t you? Well let me tell you a little something; Dr. Harvey is spending some time up-state, in a nice, quiet place where he can try to screw his head back on tight again after dealing with you miserable pukes!”<br /><br />“But… but Dr. Harvey is the only one that’s ever been able to help me. I’m going to lose Chad if Dr. Harvey doesn’t finish my therapy. I don’t have the time to start over with a new therapist. It happened <em>again</em>! I have to stop doing this before I lose Chad, and I can’t lose Chad! I just <em>can’t</em>!” Luna said.<br /><br />“Me me me…” Reynolds said to Luna while he shook his head in disgust. “That’s all it comes down to, and that’s why Doc Harvey’s under heavy sedation and drooling all over the orderlies. You people dumped all your bullshit problems on the man so much and so long that he just couldn’t handle it anymore.”<br /><br />“He’s our therapist. That’s his job.” Aaron said.<br /><br />“He’s a <em>human</em> therapist.” Reynolds said. “He wasn’t prepared to deal with the heads you people brought to the table. But did any of you have the basic human compassion to realize the day and night calls, the forced sessions, the constant need for validation… you just didn’t care what it did to the man. As long as you pieces of shit were getting what you needed from him it didn’t matter to you, now did it?”<br /><br />“Where’s Colonel Parks?” Aaron said. “I want to see Parks. This wasn’t part of the deal…”<br /><br />“Colonel Parks has been reassigned.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“We all volunteered to be studied. Counseling was part of the deal. We don’t have to be here.” Luna said.<br /><br />“Didn’t I tell you to sit the fuck <em>down</em> and shut the fuck <em>up</em>?” Reynolds said to Luna.<br /><br />“I refuse to be treated like this! I am…” Luna started.<br /><br />“You are <em>nothing</em>!” Reynolds said as he grabbed the seat he’d been using and threw it across the floor before advancing on her. “<em>You</em> are a disease! <em>You</em> are a cancer on the body of Man! <em>You</em> are a worthless piece of maggot-ridden garbage! <em>You</em> are the only piece of rotting pussy I have ever met that could even fuck up a wet dream!” Less than a foot of empty space stood between Reynolds and Luna now. Luna’s lips screwed into a snarl as she raised her hand towards Reynold’s chest. Reynolds didn’t wait for her to make contact and instead grabbed her wrist and twisted it counter clockwise. The suddenness and force of the movement spun Luna in a half-circle until Reynolds had her arm jammed into the small of her back. A violent shove then sent her lithe form hurtling across the room until she crashed into her own chair.<br /><br />“I’m going to eat your soul…” Luna said as she spun around to face him.<br /><br />“And if you try that shit again I’m gonna dip my wick in holy water and skull-fuck you until your tits melt off.” Reynolds said. “I’ve got Christ in my heart and a stripper in my bed, you netherworld slut. You’ve got nothing to work with here.” Luna didn’t charge the doctor again, just simply slumped down into her chair and rubbed at a few of the angry spots that hadn’t yet healed from Reynold’s first use of the holy water.<br /><br />“This is supposed to <em>help</em> us?” Gary said. “You attacking us, violating every rule of our group and going back on the deal we made with the military… this is supposed to help us?”<br /><br />“Yes it is, you little fucking leech.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“Hrrnghaaa.” Timmy said from his chair.<br /><br />“That’s probably the most intelligent thing that any of you have had to say so far.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“Dr. Reynolds… what <em>exactly</em> are your qualifications? What medical schools did you attend? How long have you been a psychiatrist?” Aaron asked. His eyes were glinting now. Not the hellish red glow that Luna had displayed, but just enough to cast the rest of his face in an eerie yet somehow flattering glow.<br /><br />“Turn off the headlights. I’m not some teenage necrophiliac. As for my qualifications, I’m a highly regarded expert in the field of straightening up little pukes that think they’re the center of the God-damn universe.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“That’s it, the deal’s off!” Gary said. “You get Parks’s replacement in here right now or so help me I’ll slaughter you then blow the lid off this whole fucking program!”<br /><br />“That sounds like something a man that wants to get shot in the other foot would say.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“You do know what we could do to you, don’t you?” Aaron asked. Timmy grumbled as the rest nodded towards Reynolds.<br /><br />“Oh, I know all about you people. And that’s exactly why I’m here. This is the last group session, cause I’m gonna solve all your piddly little fucking defects right here and now.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“And what makes you think you can do that?” Luna asked.<br /><br />“Because none of you actually <em>have</em> any problems, you fucking morons!” Reynolds said. “Now, let’s look at you, Luna. Pretty little Luna… got a little problem with sex, don’t ya? A little nymphomania that keeps you from…” Reynolds snatched up his legal pad and flipped through a few pages. “…progressing in a monogamous relationship.” The last few words he said in a cold, robotic manner.<br /><br />“If I don’t talk to Dr. Harvey I’m going to lose Chad…” Luna screeched again.<br /><br />“There <em>is no Chad</em> you idiot!” Reynolds barked back. “If you were some bar whore somewhere I’d tell ya to close your legs and buy a vibrator, but you’re not, are ya? You’re a God damned succubus! Fucking men is what you do! It’s the only thing you do!”<br /><br />“It’s not the <em>only</em> thing…” Luna said softly in her defense.<br /><br />“Yes it is!” Reynolds said. “You don’t have nymphomania, you’re just hungry you stupid slut! And you know how I know that Chad isn’t real? It’s cause you live right here with all these other pukes! You’re here… you’re <em>all</em> here… cause you got caught and agreed to be studied instead of getting exorcised or staked or whatever the hell else it is we humans normally do to you beasties.”<br /><br />“But I want to change!” Luna said.<br /><br />“You <em>can’t</em> change! None of ya can! You are what you are. Luna, you’re a netherworld whore that fucks men’s souls out of them. You’re here because you prove that God and the devil and Baby Jeebus are real things. And you, Gary, you’re here because you prove that some superstitions are real things. Now I hate werewolves, but I hate cats more so I’ll give you a pass here. You don’t have anger management issues… you’re a god-damn wolf, boy. Pretty simple, huh? Problem solved.” Reynolds said.<br /><br />“I didn’t want to be part of this pansy group anyway…” Gary growled as he massaged his wounded foot.<br /><br />“And you, Mr. Oh-poor-pity-me-I’m-a-vampire-but-let’s-fuck-anyway…” Reynolds said to Aaron. The vampire looked up at him with a wounded expression. “Jesus H. Christ boy but you make me sick! Eternal life, fucking all the barely-legal pussy you want and you’re sittin’ in here lamenting and bitchin about being a vampire. And don’t you start all that sparkly bullshit in here. There’s other vampires, you know? The project could get another one in here real easy.”<br /><br />“I don’t want to harm anyone…” Aaron said.<br /><br />“Yeah you do, cause like Satan’s whore over there it’s what you do! Don’t you people get it? You don’t have mental conditions or anger management issues. You just can’t accept what you are and get the fuck on with it. Well I’m here to tell you this bullshit stops here. Attack a guard once in awhile, seduce a janitor just coming through and mopping up the cell block at night. Turn into a bat sometime.”<br /><br />“Vampires can’t turn into bats. It’s a common misconcep…” Aaron started.<br /><br />“<em>Shut the fuck up</em>!” Reynolds said, annunciating each word clearly, precisely and loudly enough to be felt by all in the room. “I’m trying to make a point here!” Timmy growled and sighed from his chair at that and seemed to nod sagely at Reynolds’s words. “Now, you people are gonna march back to your wing, and you’re all gonna be good little boys and girls while you do it. Tests will commence at 0500 hours tomorrow morning, so I suggest you all get some beauty sleep.”<br /><br />“I don’t sleep at night…” Aaron started.<br /><br />“Boy, one more word outta you and I’m gonna ram a wooden stake up your ass and <em>then</em> plant one in your chest. You read me, son? Are my words getting through to you?” Reynolds said. Aaron swallowed hard more from reflex than from need and nodded. “Good. Now all of you get up out of here and get outta my sight.”<br /><br />“What about Timmy? Doesn’t he get slammed, too?” Luna asked. Reynolds turned to regard the grey-mottled, rotting corpse in the chair. Timmy locked eyes with him and moaned softly. Reynolds leveled the pistol and fired, sending one of the silver bullets it contained through the zombie’s forehead. The dim light in Timmy’s eyes died out as the back of his skull exploded.<br />“We got more zombies in the basement. Besides, it was the least I could do for the poor bastard after all this time forced to sit in a room and listen to all you pussies whine and bitch.” Reynolds said as he waved the gun towards the door. “There’s a contingent of guards waiting for you. Sleep tight, you fucking pansies. I’ll be seeing you in the morning.”<br /><br />“You? <em>You’re</em> Col. Parks’s replacement?” Aaron asked.<br /><br />“Yeah…” Reynolds said with a smile, “…ain’t life a bitch?”<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br />“Do you think this was the right approach?” Col. Cheavers asked as he and Capt. Warner watched the various supernatural creatures file out of the room on the CCTV screen.<br /><br />“Sir, we’ve been through four therapists now. It's clear that approach isn't working.” Warner said.<br /><br />“Yes, but they wanted this therapy. It was a bargaining chip for their cooperation so we could study them. I think Luna was making some real progress under Dr. Harvey.” Cheavers said. Warner rolled his eyes while the Colonel was occupied with the monitor.<br /><br />“Gunny Reynolds is the best of the best, sir. He’ll make sure they stay in line.” Warner said. Cheavers tapped a pen against his small notepad for a moment before he jotted down a few notes then slipped it into the inside pocket of his dress green uniform.<br /><br />“A bit heavy-handed, isn’t he?” the Army officer said as he picked up a manila folder and flipped through it. “Reynolds isn’t a psychiatrist. He’s not even a therapist.”<br /><br />“No sir, he is not.” Warner said as Cheavers continued flipping through the dossier.<br /><br />“He’s… this man isn’t even an <em>officer</em>!” Cheavers said.<br /><br />“No sir, he isn’t.” Warner agreed.<br /><br />“Then just what the hell makes you jarheads think he’s the man for this?” Cheavers asked.<br /><br />“Sir, Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds did two tours of Force Recon and has since turned thousands of miserable excuses for men into Marines for more than twenty years. I think he’ll be more than capable of keeping this lot in line.”<br /><br /><br /><em>...just write, damn it.</em> - AuthorEric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-48004417564850051872010-12-19T08:17:00.000-08:002010-12-20T04:29:18.928-08:00We Three Kings - Fiction<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMI0X9wrA3n_F2ysGt3j_mZ9DzHI3PIBJCzV7FRd9WaSbc0Y_CHarqsKBb4Y9bSEz6ydfFfp8gM_Gi_Y3FuxnibH3s6BnWRD4VlE8UBSLgMZNPzRQHTzWUEATb69cW3TLtuIp6Bz12aw/s1600/detail.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 99px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 140px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552736803887346322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMI0X9wrA3n_F2ysGt3j_mZ9DzHI3PIBJCzV7FRd9WaSbc0Y_CHarqsKBb4Y9bSEz6ydfFfp8gM_Gi_Y3FuxnibH3s6BnWRD4VlE8UBSLgMZNPzRQHTzWUEATb69cW3TLtuIp6Bz12aw/s320/detail.jpg" /></a> <em>This tale originally appeared in</em> Theaker's Quarterly<em>, of which constant reader has heard me refer to on more than one occasion as a small-press fiction publication worthy of your time.</em> We Three Kings <em>is not only a favorite of mine, it's also the only piece of my anthology short fiction to garner cover art for the issue in which it appears. It is another of my "alternate history" stories featuring characters of legend and lore in a bit of a different light, which seems to carry some bit of popularity with those familiar with my fiction. I hope you enjoy it. </em>- Author<br /><br />“That was <em>not</em> a good idea,” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“The king invited us back, never a bad thing,” Balthazar said as he shifted his muscled bulk on one of the stone benches ringing the town fountain. “Stop complaining. If you want the highest help, go to the highest source. Not only will we be well–paid, we have the king’s seal of approval.”<br /><br />“There are higher sources,” Menchoir said as he watched a green flame dance across his palm. “And I must agree with Caspar. The king has other ideas concerning our task; ones I fear will not be in line with our own.”<br /><br />“Put that away!” Balthazar swung at the mage’s hand. “Your slant little eyes already draw attention! Do you want us locked away as warlocks? Besides, we do not even know why this babe is so important or even what we may be facing in finding it. Do not forget it was <em>your</em> idea that put us in the king’s court! We would have found a babe far easier by questioning the midwifery than by seeking out a mother with child. Now all of them are suspect, not only ones that have just given birth! We shall need the help of an army if we are to find this needle in straw. Place the blame at your own door and no one else’s.”<br /><br />“I only mentioned we could better guarantee the safety of the child if we found the mother before she would give birth,” Menchoir said as the flames died.<br /><br />“Why was I saddled with the two of you? I could have done this with my eyes closed.” Balthazar said.<br /><br />“As I assume you do all else in your world,” Menchoir said.<br /><br />Balthazar shot him a warning look and wagged a scarred finger. “I have killed over less insult, magi…”<br /><br />“Of course, you will not. First, you seek your precious gold. And second, you would die before your steel could clear your sash. You would not accomplish the first and would find the second in the merest wave of my hand.”<br /><br />“Gentlemen!” Caspar hissed then went into a sneezing fit. Warrior and mage chuckled at him softly as he regained his composure. “This is no help!”<br /><br />Balthazar cleared his nose into the well, enjoying the grimace of distaste from the mage. He was known far and wide, the survivor of countless wars and as hard a man as had ever been. Men of his caliber did not come cheaply. He’d been hired to protect them and use his sword as he saw fit to accomplish the task. It mattered little to him that their task had yet to be as defined as he would have liked, but mercenaries were well-used to the shifting goals of their masters. Those that couldn’t adapt ended the day with rust on their swords.<br /><br />Caspar was a man of science and reason, an ink-stained scholar that left no subject from his purview. Architecture, mathematics, the arts; no pursuit daunted the small, constantly sneezing man. Chief among them was cartography and astronomy, though the latter had a penchant for buying him more trouble than worth when his predictions came to disastrous truth. He had been hired to watch for, of all things, a new star and to guide the rest in its path to some unknown destination. Truth be known, Caspar was little interested in gold and silver, save to sustain him to the next idea. The task had come with the promise of seeing what no other had seen, and it was this more than coin that signed him on with this lot.<br /><br />Of the three, Menchoir was the most mysterious. His manner of dress, slight yellowish complexion and the glaring absence of a facial hair in these lands certainly marked him as a man of the East. The fact he was true Magi made certain those less-enlightened in these desert lands gave him little issue. His full purpose among them hadn’t been divulged by their employer, much as most anything else about their mission, though both Balthazar and Caspar knew with certainty the mage was well aware of his place. Their promised payments more than made up for their annoyed curiosities, though it didn’t mean Menchoir’s smug looks and slight smiles gave them any less grief.<br /><br />“We need return to the inn,” Caspar said. The others grimaced. The only thing that seemed to calm his nose was his incense. The scholar had developed its burning into a medicinal treatment, breathing the frankincense fumes the others found noxious in the close confines of their tiny rented room.<br /><br />“Let us stop for a bit of tea to fortify ourselves against your vapors,” Balthazar said. He held his head to the side for a moment then turned towards the path they’d just used.<br /><br /><br />“What is it?” Caspar asked, his finger under his nose to ward off another attack.<br /><br /><br />“Sandals and swords…” The grizzled mercenary’s hand fell to the huge scimitar at his side.<br />“Well, they should not be coming for us, we have the approval of the king,” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“Precaution is the better of bravery,” Menchoir said as he slid around the side of the well. “I would suggest you invest in it.” Caspar struggled off the bench, scurrying behind the mage. Balthazar took turns looking at them and the path. The sound of marching feet was easy to hear now over the low din of the market. Balthazar cursed to himself, his mind whispering that perhaps the magi had a point and came around the well to join them. Moments later, the head of a column five–deep entered the marketplace.<br /><br /><br />“By order of King Herod, all women with sons born since three days past will come forward!” the officer announced, his eyes scanning the crowd as he spoke. A moment later the crowd parted as rough hands expelled a young couple forward.<br /><br /><br />“What is it you seek?” the young husband asked, pulling his wife close. The infant in her arms squealed as his mother held him tighter to her breast.<br /><br /><br />“By order of King Herod, answer my questions,” the commander ordered tersely. “Good wife, did you bear a son these past three days?”<br /><br /><br />“I… yes…” she answered hesitantly.<br /><br /><br />“Is this that child?” the commander asked. She nodded mutely, turning her torso so the babe was between her and her husband. “Turn the infant over to me; now.”<br /><br /><br />“I do not understand!” the young man stammered, squeezing the infant more fully between them.<br /><br /><br />“God has spoken to our king. He has decreed that evil has been born in the form of a son. You will turn your son over to me.” Three soldiers advanced on the young couple. The father took a step forward, placing himself between his wife and the soldiers. But his youthful bravery was no match for a spear. His last breath brought Balthazar’s sword half out of his sash.<br /><br /><br />“No…” Menchoir said softly, his hand like iron on the pommel. Balthazar struggled a moment against the unnatural weight.<br /><br /><br />“Stop your tricks! They are going to…” Balthazar started.<br /><br /><br />“We cannot help them. To do so will only have us killed, and then we are of use to none.” The three slipped off silently around the well and down a side street. But even the distance couldn’t mask the screams of the boy child, or the horrendous, sudden silence after.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Back in their tiny room, Caspar slumped to the floor, his charts scattered about him. “They… they killed that child…” he whispered, his bottom lip quivering. “Because of us…”<br /><br /><br />Menchoir sat at a small table, a cup of hot tea before him that had not been there a moment before. He sipped then handed it to Caspar. “Drink, it will help.”<br /><br /><br />“<em>Nothing</em> is going to help!” Caspar barked on the brink of another fit. “They killed the child because of us! We killed it… his parents…”<br /><br /><br />“Soldiers killed them,” Balthazar said, his hand on his sword, “the act of cowards, using cowards’ weapons.”<br /><br />“It seems this Herod does not like challenges to his divine rule,” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“I cannot do this… I do not care what the pay…” Caspar breathed.<br /><br /><br />The three fell silent for a few moments, listening to Caspar’s labored breathing. Menchoir rose and fished about in Caspar’s bag, finally coming out with a bit of his incense. He lit the brazier and watched as the thin smoke lifted into the air.<br /><br /><br />“Caspar…” Menchoir began, “…that is the precise reason why we <em>must</em> <em>continue</em>. Our task is obviously far greater. That a king would set about killing infants in the street says as much.”<br /><br /><br />“But more will die...” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“More will die, if we continue or not,” Balthazar said. “That father stood before soldiers with nothing more than his courage and was slain like a dog. If we do nothing, that man, his wife and their son will have died in vain. Every father, mother and child that dies this day in this city will die in vain.” He turned suddenly from the window, his eyes glassy and dangerous. “I will continue, with or without you. There is honor and there is gold. I will not deny the first nor give away the last.”<br /><br /><br />“As much as it pains me, you are correct,” Menchoir said. “I will continue as well. I feel something in the air… power… change… there is much more than meets the eye this day.” He looked down at Caspar. “We need you, Caspar. Somewhere there is another mother, another father, another child that may yet be born that needs you…” Menchoir’s eyes suddenly rolled back in his head. He stumbled then fell as a long moan slid from his throat, just missing Caspar as he crumpled to the floor.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />Menchoir’s knew this room, every corner and crevice, every inch of the thick padding that covered the floor. A smile crossed his lips as he turned and looked to the back of the room. The old man was there, a long scroll laid out on the floor before his cushion.<br /><br /><br />“Master,” Menchoir said then dropped to the floor in supplication.<br /><br /><br />“Rise, my student,” the old man said warmly. The voice that had once been so strong had become weaker, softer. Menchoir rose slowly and approached, seating himself on the floor.<br />“It is good to see you again,” the old man said. Menchoir’s smile faded. The old man’s eyes had taken on the milky pallor of blindness. It had been ten years since Menchoir last saw his master. He’d grown much in those years, but it seemed as much as he’d grown his master had faltered.<br /><br /><br />“As it is to see you…” Menchoir returned.<br /><br /><br />“Ah…” the old one said. “You seem troubled.”<br /><br /><br />“No, master. It is only…” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“It is only your master’s appearance? All age, Menchoir. All die. Everything that lives, dies.”<br /><br /><br />“Are you sick?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br /><br />“Your master is only what you see. Nothing more or less. Nothing is as it was, or again.” the master said.<br /><br /><br />Menchoir cocked his head at the cryptic statement. “I do not understand.”<br /><br /><br />“There is little to understand and much needs learned. You embark on a new quest, while your master finishes his.”<br /><br /><br />“You speak in riddles.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“Is that not what life is? What magic is; the greatest riddle, the most intriguing of enigmas? Knowledge gained leads only to more questions, with each answer leading to still more questions. Is that not so?” the master asked.<br /><br /><br />“You taught that long ago. You also taught life was never-ending, that death was only another step towards knowledge, the same path in a different land.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“In that, there is truth. Life is never–ending. The vessel that carries us may change, but we all go on. Have you followed a path, my student? Have you sought the magic… the knowledge?” the master asked.<br /><br /><br />“I have.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“There is a force at work,” the old man said softly. “The magic your master has lived is dying.”<br /><br /><br />“That <em>cannot</em> <em>be</em>!” Menchoir stammered. “Magic holds this world together! It binds everything…”<br /><br /><br />“In that you are correct. It holds <em>all</em> worlds together,” the master said, holding up a spindly hand to interrupt Menchoir. The sight of his palsied hand struck Menchoir like a stone. “Magic does those things, more. But man has been going about it the wrong way. Magic does not come from the land, from the animals, from the people. It was given to all, to everything. There is a benevolent force that controls this power. That force has decided to change all that we know.”<br /><br /><br />“Is it... a <em>god</em>?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br />“<em>A</em> god?” the master asked whimsically. “For thousands of years men have made them, broken them. Those that chose to study the true power, the true knowledge of our existence though, those who call themselves magi… always knew, yes? Ever knowing truth the idol–worshipping masses could simply not fathom, eh? That there were no gods, only magic that thrived on the power in both the living and dying of all things. Truly enlightened and learned magi knew this.”<br /><br /><br />“Of course we did!” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“The magi knew <em>nothing</em>!” the old man roared. “Denying the simplest of explanations for power they believed the magic ethereal, unconnected from most yet prevalent in all. The most simple and basic answer was ignored, played away as the ramblings of an ignorant world, and in so doing the greater question was ignored. There is only <em>one</em> God, Menchoir. It is He you have to thank for the magic.”<br /><br /><br />The master’s words slammed through Menchoir’s mind, his way of speaking grating against his senses, all Menchoir had ever known challenged by the only man he’d ever truly believed his superior. “Magic has died?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br /><br />“As you have known it, it dies by the moment. It trickles away and back to Him. Your magi have always known the power. But it was guarded secretly, jealously, even among your own. You believe in it because you can see it, manipulate it. The rest, the brotherhood of man, is not so lucky.” the master said.<br /><br /><br />“You no longer count yourself among us?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br /><br />“Your master has joined with the true magic, Menchoir. He has found that which he has sought.”<br /><br /><br />“If you have become one with the magic, how is it that it dies? You speak to confuse me.”<br /><br /><br />“You have answered your own question.” the master said. His face seemed to grow even more haggard, tired. “God never intended for the knowledge, for magic, to be so elusive to His children. But we are far more frail and fragile than all that. When the magi made the study of magic so elusive and elite to the masses, man became more interested in science and their own selfish natures than in His gifts. And in so doing, they made the study of magic a game at best and an affront to humanity at worst. How many times have mothers hid their children from you as you made your way, eh? They whisper about you, worried you will turn their camels to straw. He never intended magic to be so. He intended it for all. Perhaps the magi have their own natures to blame. Perhaps if they would have freely shared the knowledge.” the master said.<br /><br /><br />“I do not see how we can be held to fault,” Menchoir said. “Men are ignorant, savage. They choose not to believe. They are incapable of understanding true power.”<br /><br /><br />“You are different?” the master asked. “You are a man just as the shepherd or king. Magic is changing, growing in use but diminishing in selfish desire.” He stopped speaking and slowly closed his eyes.<br /><br /><br />“What is it?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br /><br />“You have important work. You are young and strong, a man of good heart. You can learn the new ways. Your master’s life is too closely wrapped to the old. This task you have undertaken, it is far greater than the coin the brute seeks, the curiosity your scholar looks to slake or your own desire to understand. Your task will change the world. It will change all knowledge. And, it will change magic at its very core.” the master said.<br /><br /><br />Menchoir had forgotten his quest, his party. Even now he could hear the ghosts of their voices calling to him. “Then… please… thank this God for this moment He allowed us.”<br /><br /><br />“The key to unlocking the magic requires you to tell Him that yourself. If you seek the knowledge, if you seek the power, you must now ask it of Him. Follow His words and ways. Sometimes, the magic will work. Sometimes, it will not. You will not always see it, feel it. But, you must always have faith in it. If you have such faith, you and all others that follow will be rewarded.” The master rolled the scroll before him tightly and regarded it as if he held a child. “To spread the word of the new magic, God has sent His only Son, to be a beacon to those without faith or cause, for all to use their faith to unlock His magic.”<br /><br /><br />“The mother we seek…” Menchoir started.<br /><br /><br />“God has deemed His Son be born and grow as all men, so He may know their pains and trials. The woman you seek carries the child of God. You must protect and keep them from harm until the babe is born. Tell your scholar to cast his eyes eastward this night. Now go, and be wary. Just as there are forces for good there are forces that keep the birth of the Son as ill omen for their cause.” The master handed Menchoir the scroll. “Your master’s last spell; it will require more than your voice to release it.”<br /><br /><br />“I shall never forget you,” Menchoir whispered.<br /><br /><br />“Do not mourn your master, Menchoir. Have faith in the one God, and know that He watches over you on your quest.”<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />“Menchoir! <em>Menchoir</em>!” The mage’s eyelids fluttered open to see the large glob of water fall from the pitcher held over his head. He sputtered, gasping at the sudden cold. Balthazar smiled like a child caught in a prank.<br /><br /><br />“I am awake, brute!” Menchoir gasped, shaking his head to clear away the last of the cobwebs. Caspar helped him to unsteady legs. “How long…” he started to ask, the taste of sake still strong on his lips.<br /><br /><br />“A few moments, Menchoir.” Caspar said. The scholar started fussing with his eyelids, lifting them and looking deep into his pupils. “Are you well?”<br /><br /><br />“I believe so."<br /><br /><br />“Menchoir…” Balthazar said. The mage looked at him then back to the scroll in his fist. “…you were not holding that before you fell.”<br /><br /><br />“You are as observant as you are oafish, Balthazar.” Menchoir said as he slid the scroll inside his robes.<br /><br /><br />“What happened?” Balthazar asked.<br /><br /><br />“My master called for our spirits to meet,” Menchoir turned to Caspar. “We are to look east this night.”<br /><br /><br />“And what are we looking for?” Balthazar asked, annoyed. “We should be seeking the mother. Herod’s proclamation will have spread, and any with a male child will try to leave the city.”<br /><br /><br />“I fail to see the worth in going out to traipse across the desert with no real direction, either. We could easily go one way while the woman goes another. But I have been told east, and east is where I shall go.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“That would be better than standing in this room doing nothing at all!” Balthazar added angrily.<br /><br /><br />“A thousand pardons…” Caspar said, “…but we should be on our way; <em>east</em>. If that is the direction we are to look, logically that is the direction they will go.” The mage and warrior turned and regarded the scholar. Caspar shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes, the simplest answer is the correct answer.” he said.<br /><br /><br />“And sometimes, the correct answer is not so simple a thing.” Menchoir said, his traveling satchel full of the bits of flora and fauna for his more powerful spells suddenly at hand.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />It had taken more than two hours for them to leave the city, Herod’s proclamation having clogged the various egresses as soldiers inspected every bundle and cart. During their waiting Menchoir explained his meeting with is master. Caspar hadn’t placed matters of faith high on his list and continued to question and probe long after Menchoir was forced to repeat himself. For Balthazar, Menchoir’s tale was just that. The warrior held no god and had faith only in his sword and the arm that carried it. It was enough for Balthazar to know in the end he could gain some measure of satisfaction and not a small amount of gold by seeing their quest through. He patted his coin purse each time he spoke, the purse that contained one-half his fee paid to him by their mysterious employer.<br /><br /><br />They had spoken little of that shadowy figure in their time together. Each had been hired separately and each could vividly recall their meeting. But just as each knew these things, each drew a blank when they tried to picture the man’s face. Caspar attributed it to a life–long inability to remember faces, though he knew it to be more. The loss of the man’s features had actually been one of the reasons Menchoir had stayed with the quest, knowing that such things were rarely the fault of the observer and more likely done by intent. And it was painfully clear that Balthazar could care less on the face of their employer so long as his coin could be seen. Such uncertainty of the mind made for uncomfortable talk, so each decided to avoid it as much as possible. Now in light of Menchoir’s vision, each had come to the conclusion it was perhaps best not to dwell on it further.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />The sun had set by the time they found a discernible track in the shifting sands. They continued east, heartened by the tracks; those of a man and a mule walking side by side, the latter leaving deep impressions as if weighted. While Balthazar kept his eyes to the ground and Menchoir kept his to the horizon Caspar cast his gaze where it was most comfortable; to the stars. The pinpoints had finally started to show through night’s curtain. Every few feet the astrologer would hold his lantern to his charts, mumbling or making slight changes in their course. They kept on this way for a time until Menchoir looked behind them to see the scholar had stopped. Caspar stared, mouth agape, into the sky.<br /><br /><br />“Looks like stars to me.” Balthazar said.<br /><br /><br />“Caspar…” Menchoir gently shook his shoulder and squinted up, hoping to see what enthralled the scholar.<br /><br /><br />“There…” Caspar whispered. He dropped his prized chart and pointed to the sky. “Do you see it?”<br /><br />“I see only stars. I need you to give them meaning.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“There is a new star.” Caspar’s arm remained stock–straight, his finger jabbing into the night. The warrior held his hand up as if to shade his eyes and squinted.<br /><br /><br />“Looks the same to me as it ever has.” Balthazar said.<br /><br /><br />“The stars have remained unchanged for a thousand years, Balthazar,” Caspar said, “and yet, there it is. A star that was not there just last night…”<br /><br /><br />As they looked on, thin tracers of light suddenly shot from the star in all directions, their paths bringing them low to the ground. Several of them sped over their heads, illuminating the night. In the sudden light, the warrior’s eye caught movement just ahead. He squinted hard at it and let out a grunt. “There… due east; large enough to be an animal.”<br /><br /><br />Caspar peeled his eyes away from the sky and pulled a small cylinder from his robe. He pointed it east and peered through it. “Not a camel… a donkey. And it is burdened.” The trio set off over the sands moving towards the shape as the sky dimmed back to night. Without warning, Balthazar stopped.<br /><br /><br />“What…” Menchoir whispered. Balthazar pointed several yards ahead where a large shape moved just below the surface of the dune.<br /><br /><br />“Caspar…” Balthazar whispered, pointing at the scholar’s lantern. Caspar moved a plate affixed to its side, forcing the light through a small hole. When the beam of light hit the mound it stilled.<br /><br /><br />“Whatever it is, we have its attention…” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“Keep the light on it,” Balthazar said. He slid his scimitar from his sash and crept across the sands, taking a less than direct approach towards the end of the light. The warrior closed to within a few feet of the mound then stopped short, the sound of shifting sand hissing from behind. He strained his ears, his arms spread out in anticipation until suddenly he spun his sword and sank it into the sands.<br /><br /><br />The world went red and hot in that instant. Balthazar screamed as a geyser of flame shot up around his sword like wine past an ill–fitting cork, the force of the eruption throwing him into the air to land several feet away towards his companions.<br /><br /><br />The shape of a man covered in flames rose up from the sands. Easily half again larger in all dimensions than Balthazar it towered over them. It was smiling. Caspar took in its massive horns and cloven feet and dropped his lantern from nerveless fingers. Menchoir heard Balthazar groan. He was a short distance away from them, between them and the monster. His hair reduced to a smoldering clump, the warrior slowly rose to his feet. Steam and smoke wisped away from his body as he raised his sword and let out a hoarse cry for battle.<br /><br /><br />“Balthazar! <em>No</em>!” Menchoir cried, his feet already moving. Balthazar seemed not to hear or care. Menchoir’s lips moved soundlessly, his hands crumbling a bit of dried ginger. He grabbed the warrior about the shoulders, his hands glowing in a soft blue light. Aided by magic, his strength was enough to throw the warrior behind him to land at Caspar’s feet. The creature opened its mouth, sending a stream of flame towards the mage. Menchoir flipped backwards and let his momentum carry him back as the flames blasted the ground he had occupied.<br /><br /><br />“I should kill you… magi…” Balthazar groaned as he got to his feet.<br /><br /><br />“It would have melted you as easily as it did that!” Menchoir said, pointing to the warrior’s hand.<br /><br /><br />“Look at your sword!” Caspar said. The flame had warped and melted the blade, making it little more than a steel club. The demon laughed then looked down at its feet. There in the sand was Balthazar’s coin purse. It plucked the pouch from the sand, sniffed it then leered at the group.<br /><br /><br />“Gold…” it hissed. “So precious…” The demon made a show of licking the leather pouch with the tip of its forked tongue. It cupped the bag in its taloned hand and laughed as flames consumed both bag and metal, gold dripping through its fingers and hissing into the sands. “…and so fragile. Just like man.” The demon folded its arms across its massive chest and stared down at them. “The Son of the Accursed One is to be born, the hope of all His weak, insignificant children, and <em>this</em> is what they send? Against <em>me</em>? It is good my master did not come. To me, you are nothing. To him, you would have been insult most foul.”<br /><br /><br />“If we are so small, why send you at all? Why not simply have the desert swallow them?” Menchoir asked. He knew such conversation would do little for them, but the longer they kept the demon occupied the more time they bought the blessed couple to get further away.<br /><br /><br />“The will of my master is not subject to the question of worms,” the demon said.<br /><br /><br />Menchoir shot a look behind him. Caspar stood only because his legs were locked by fear, his eyes set open as he watched the demon start slowly towards them. Menchoir said a small, silent word of introduction to this new God.<br /><br /><br />“Prayer?” the demon growled as it stalked near them, sensing Caspar’s silent plea then turned back to Menchoir. “You are of the East, magi. What would you know of the Accursed One, eh? He will not listen to heathens and fools. You are godless, worth even less than these other maggots.”<br /><br /><br />Menchoir shoved his hand into his satchel and pulled out a small glass globe, a faint blue mist swirling inside it. He crushed the globe in his hand, wincing as the tiny, razor–like shards sank into his palm while he called out a word in a language long–dead. The swirling vapor mixed with his blood, turning the mist to its color. It hung in the air a moment then expanded, roiling as the demon neared to cloud the party in its haze. The mist colored their vision crimson, making the flames from the now-enraged demon seem all the more hellish. But the sudden respite from the site of the demon was enough to snap Caspar out of his terror–induced coma, bringing him back to the world no less terrified but more or less in control of his senses. Balthazar kept glaring at the hazy shape of the demon through the mists, his near–useless sword clutched at his side.<br /><br /><br />“I could have…” Balthazar began angrily.<br /><br /><br />“Got killed?” Menchoir supplied helpfully. “Yes, and us with you.”<br /><br /><br />The demon roared outside, pounding on their now-solid, misty shell. “What are we to do? Wait until it tires and goes away?” Caspar asked.<br /><br /><br />“The mist will not last long. At best we have a moment to collect ourselves,” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“It has already taken my gold! I will be damned if I will allow it to slaughter me without battle!” Balthazar said.<br /><br /><br />Menchoir kneeled as the demon raged outside. He pulled the scroll from his robe and placed it unopened on his legs. “If you have not noticed, your sword is wasted and the only thing keeping your legs under you is stubborn nature.”<br /><br /><br />“Then what are we to do?” Caspar asked, flinching with each blow to their shell. “The mists are already starting to fade!”<br /><br /><br />“I suggest we call upon a new weapon.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“Bah! Do something useful with your magic and make my sword whole again! I will make the demon rue this day!” Balthazar said.<br /><br /><br />“What do you mean?” Caspar interrupted. “The faith you spoke of, to the one God?” Menchoir nodded and folded his hands over the scroll. Caspar traded his glance between the seething warrior and the mage before settling himself beside Menchoir. “I will regard this as an experiment.” he whispered softly to Menchoir.<br /><br /><br />Several of the demon’s fingers poked through the mists, hissing as they sliced through the ethereal barrier. Balthazar roared and pulled a curved dagger from his sash, bringing it around to slice through the offending digits. But as soon as it hit the demon’s skin it melted in a dull red flash in his hand, bits of melted steel dripping onto him. He screamed and dropped to his knees, cradling his hand.<br /><br /><br />“Nice of you to join us, Balthazar,” Menchoir said wryly. Balthazar looked up, pain mixed with hate in his eyes.<br /><br /><br />“May your gods burn as I do!” Balthazar spat into the sand. “If your god is so powerful, why has he not come to our aid? Eh? If he is so great, why does he allow his son to be in peril?”<br /><br /><br />“Perhaps we have not <em>asked</em> for His help.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“Perhaps it is because he <em>does not exist</em>!” Balthazar shot back. He was looking less like a man and more like an over–baked loaf with each passing attack.<br /><br /><br />The demon’s whole hand breached the barrier above them, clawing and reaching at the air over their heads. Caspar sat transfixed for a moment before he caught Balthazar’s wounded gaze. “Balthazar, is the demon real?”<br /><br /><br />“Fah!” Balthazar exclaimed and spat, ducking his head. “As real as my sword when I cleave you in two…”<br /><br /><br />“If the demon is real, logically there is a hell from which it sprung. Yes?” Caspar interrupted. Balthazar kneeled more deeply in the sand to avoid the probing hand and nodded just slightly at the scholar. “It would stand to reason for hell to exist there must also be heaven. And if there is heaven, a God rules that heaven, just as the demon claims a master in hell, yes? The presence of the demon supports the existence of both hell and heaven. I would suggest we seek it… quickly.”<br /><br /><br />Balthazar grumbled on his weak companions and tried to mimic the posture of the mage as best his singed body could. Each fell silent in counterpoint to the still–shrieking demon outside.<br />“Show yourself to me! Show me you are worthy of my worship!” Balthazar challenged at the corners of his mind.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />Balthazar found himself on a lone dune under high sun. He was shirtless and armed with his scimitar, both of them whole and new, the sting of windborne grit on his heavily scarred and tattooed flesh. A warrior that would’ve made the demon a dwarf stood before him. He was dressed in a robe of white that shimmered so brightly Balthazar couldn’t make out his face. The chest of his robe fluttered open in the desert breezes, revealing the tattoos of a chieftain. Each hand held a scimitar larger and finer than any Balthazar had ever seen.<br /><br /><br />“It is you that must prove yourself worthy to receive <em>my</em> blessings, warrior. Come…” his opponent said. Balthazar smiled and brought his scimitar to the fore as the two crashed together in glorious battle.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />Caspar looked about. The workshop was vast, endless. Tables full of odd contraptions sat everywhere. Massive sculptures and tiny portraits sat haphazardly about the place. There were no windows. In their places stood shelves that ran down the length of the room and out of his sight filled with all manner and sizes of tomes, scrolls and reams. His eyes followed up one of the shelves until it ended in an inky blackness across the ceiling. He gasped and stumbled backwards as he beheld a perfect map of the night sky where the ceiling should be. Many of the stars he recognized, but there were many more he’d never seen. In awe of such perfection, he failed to notice the small, bald and bearded man threading toward him from the depths of the laboratory.<br />“You like the stars?” the man asked, smiling. The sudden words snapped Caspar’s head back to regard him.<br /><br /><br />“This is… incredible! How…” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“That is a story for which you have not the time, nor the comprehension.” A stool suddenly appeared and the old man sat.<br /><br /><br />“Are you… ah…” Caspar started. The man smiled warmly and picked up a small, half–assembled clock from a table.<br /><br /><br />“I am all and yet nothing, childe,” the man said. “You could consider me a creator, an inventor, an architect like yourself. You could consider me more than that, or less. But in all things, I would at least warrant consideration.”<br /><br /><br />“What is this place?” Caspar asked.<br /><br /><br />“What you see here is what man is capable of achieving.” the man said.<br /><br /><br />Caspar looked around the room, trying to memorize everything he saw. A thought struck as he looked in all directions. “I see no walls here… it seems to just… go on…”<br /><br /><br />He smiled at Caspar. “There are no walls… man was conceived to be limitless in potential. The ceiling is nothing but the heavens since that is where man can reach. Some projects in this room are of my design. You, for example.” the old man chuckled softly. “Some represent knowledge man has discovered. As he seeks knowledge and truth, more tomes are written, more inventions are born… and the workshop grows. You sprang from my knowledge, crafted in my image so that you too could seek knowledge.”<br /><br /><br />“Could you not simply <em>give</em> man such knowledge? There would be no war, no kings… if all men would have such knowledge…” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“If I did what you suggest, man would never strive, achieve. He would never be forced to a moral choice and he would never develop the curiosity so vital to his existence.” He stood slowly, the stool gone. “A question; what would you do if you knew <em>everything</em>? All the knowledge world and stars have to offer. I know you as I know all my children. You would shrivel away to nothing. With nothing left to learn, no curiosity to slake? I have placed knowledge throughout this world and these stars, in the hopes that man would seek it, better themselves… to learn. Consider it my own great experiment.”<br /><br /><br />“But that very thing makes proving your existence all the more difficult. Science does not allow for what cannot be proven. If you cannot offer yourself up to study, how do you expect man to follow you, to worship you? You have created paradox.” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“I guess I have, eh?” the man said. “Faith, my child. Science, technology, crafting… I have given these as tools. Valuing them is of no affront to me. But the intricacies and exacting natures of these things must be placed in balance if they are to lead to true enlightenment. That balance is <em>faith</em>. If a man can balance faith and science, there is nothing he cannot achieve. You have been a teacher, Caspar. Why? Why take the time to teach others?”<br /><br /><br />Caspar was quiet for a moment. “I enjoy it.”<br /><br /><br />“Why, Caspar?” he asked.<br /><br /><br />“I take pleasure in seeing others learn.”<br /><br /><br />“And in the process, do you learn as well?” the old man asked.<br /><br /><br />“Yes, I suppose I do.” Caspar answered.<br /><br /><br />“Our philosophies are not so different then. I take pleasure in teaching my children. And, just every so often, even I learn something from them.” He chuckled again, this time turning and moving off between the tables.<br /><br /><br />“Wait!” Caspar said, suddenly remembering the demon. “I have more questions!”<br /><br /><br />“Then you should seek their answers.” the man answered over his shoulder.<br /><br /><br />“What about your Son? What about the demon?” Caspar asked.<br /><br /><br />The old man stopped. “My Son is also a crafter and scholar, much like me and much like you, much as He will be in the world of men. He will have important knowledge for you all one day.” He started walking again and the room began to swirl around Caspar. “As to the demon, they absolutely despise silver… silver and myrrh.”<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />Menchoir sat in meditation. He called to this God but nothing would come. He asked over and again; no sign, no vision, no voice from beyond. He had done as his master had told him and still no answer would come, no proof of His presence. Balthazar’s sudden, pained gasp broke his trance just in time to flatten gracefully as the demon’s whole arm broke through the barrier and swept over him. A bright flash of light suddenly flared from the warrior’s body, destroying the tattered remains of their protective shell and hurling Balthazar several feet through the air to land behind Caspar, his useless sword burying its blade in the sand nearby. Menchoir pulled his legs beneath him, rolled in the same direction and spun to face the demon in the same motion, nearly bowling Caspar over in the same instant.<br /><br /><br />“That was a pointless and deadly waste of time!” Menchoir whispered to Caspar as they both looked up into the grinning face of the demon.<br /><br /><br />“Was it? I found it enlightening.” Caspar said. Menchoir took a look behind them at the warrior face-down in the sand.<br /><br /><br />“The demon has claimed Balthazar,” Menchoir reached down and picked his scroll from the sand where it had dropped. “And God has not deemed to aid us. I only hope there is enough magic left to power this.”<br /><br /><br />“Your prayers have gone unanswered!” the demon hissed. It extended its neck, gnashing its teeth at them. Menchoir opened his master’s gift. The scroll was blank. He flipped it over several times, trying to find the spell captured in the skin. He found no words, no arcane symbols.<br /><br /><br />“It seems they have,” Menchoir said, still clutching the empty scroll. He stood quickly and raised a hand as thin, spidery words of magic crawled from his mouth. A glowing ball of bright red energy shot like an arrow and slammed into the demon’s chest. It fell back only a few yards, still on its hooves. Caspar stood up beside the magi and calmly slid his traveling pouch to its normal position across his chest. Menchoir’s mouth opened slightly, whispering another string of powerful words.<br /><br /><br />Caspar leaned over to Menchoir as if they were seat mates at dinner. “Demons hate silver and myrrh.” he said, as if talking about the dry meat at the table without the host overhearing.<br /><br /><br />“<em>What</em>?” Menchoir exclaimed, the banal statement enough to break his concentration from the spell he had been weaving.<br /><br /><br />“I have it on good authority that demons hate these things. Do you have any?” Caspar’s nonchalance fueled a dark look from the magi as the demon spread its arms wide and roared at them.<br /><br /><br />“I have no silver!” Menchoir screamed above the demon’s cry. But the seemingly careless manner of the scholar had jolted his mind away from the absolute terror of the moment. He shoved his hand into his satchel of magical components and came up with a fig leaf–wrapped bundle. “I do have myrrh…” He offered it to the scholar along with a look of sheer confusion. They were about to be incinerated in a burst of hell-fire and Caspar was concerned with spices. It seemed a fitting end.<br /><br /><br />Caspar opened the leaf and palmed the pile of powdered, pungent spice. The demon bent towards them and started to inhale, the breath expanding its chest as the smell of brimstone rushed at them. Tiny flames started to dance from its nostrils as Caspar flicked his wrist, sending the powder into the air. The tiny flecks followed the demon’s inhalation deep into its chest. The demon ceased its breath, its eyes growing wide as it took first one then another step backwards. A taloned hand wrapped itself around its neck as if it were choking. It dropped to its knees, coughing great gouts of flame that turned the sand under it to glass.<br /><br /><br />“We have learned something this day, eh Menchoir?” Caspar said, completely unaffected by the sickened demon expelling fire and ash just a few yards away. “Though I feel we should do something else… he will be rather displeased with us once his wind returns.”<br /><br /><br />“How did you know about the myrrh?” Menchoir asked.<br /><br /><br />“God told me,” the scholar said simply. “Did he not speak to you?”<br /><br /><br />“No.” Menchoir answered.<br /><br /><br />“It was you that told us of Him,” Caspar said. “If any of us were to find Him, I would have thought…”<br /><br /><br />“It was not!” Menchoir said. “My spell was not nearly as powerful as I had designed! As my master said, magic is dying!”<br /><br /><br />The demon ceased its heaving and rose menacingly to its hooves. “Your deaths shall be slow…” it wheezed, “…you will feel the flames of hell on earth before you are consumed by them in the domain of my master!”<br /><br /><br />“I must concentrate…” Menchoir said, placing his feet wide apart and lowering his head. “I have no spell that will slay this demon. I only hope we can slow him more from his pursuit.”<br /><br /><br />Caspar watched the demon for a moment before his ears caught the pained moan. With his lantern half–buried in the sands behind them, the only light in the desert was from the demon’s own flaming skin, enough light to see Balthazar stir behind them. “The warrior lives!” he whispered, more to himself than the chanting mage beside him. Caspar turned back to the demon and watched as it started to close across the sands, though more hesitantly than before. Had the myrrh given it pause? “Menchoir!” Caspar whispered. The mage did not respond, only kept to his chanting. The magi’s body had started to glow softly, though Caspar had the notion that in another time such a fete from the talented mage would have lit up the night sky. Already, even the glow he had achieved was fading from him though his chanting came more feverish with each passing moment.<br /><br /><br />“It dies, mage,” the demon hissed, “I know it dies. It is fitting that you die with it!” Caspar took the measure of the demon’s stride. He was toying with them, moving with deliberate ease to intensify their fear. For all his new-found confidence Caspar was no fool. Their deaths were imminent. Perhaps God had need of a laboratory assistant? He supposed he would find out soon enough. A sudden notion took hold of him, powerful enough to risk grabbing the mage to shake him from his casting. As he grabbed Menchoir’s shoulders and broke his concentration the magical energy he’d been forming released instantly. With no will to control it the power exploded, the shockwaves throwing the pair apart by more than a dozen yards. The demon was taken by surprise as much as the mortals at the explosion. Powerful, but only enough to give him pause.<br /><br /><br />“Caspar! Damn you to the abyss!” Menchoir said as he struggled to his feet, hand still clutching the useless scroll. “If you would have let me finish the spell…”<br /><br /><br />“The demon stands! The magic would have done nothing then as it did now!” Caspar shot back as he half–walked, half–crawled towards the magi. “That power is gone, Menchoir! Even I could see it failing.”<br /><br /><br />The demon stood laughing at the mortals as they crawled across the sands. “I have had my fill of this, however amusing it may be.” It breathed twin gouts of fire through its nose and started at them, its pace far quicker than before.<br /><br /><br />“Menchoir!” Caspar yelled. “You didn’t visit your master! <em>That</em> was your vision! Menchoir… God <em>did</em> speak to you! What did he say?”<br /><br /><br />Menchoir thought back. It had not truly been his master, at least not his mortal master, had it? He cursed himself a fool. There were so many questions he’d have asked. The new magic was faith, faith in the one God; unseen and untouchable. He’d been given the scroll, but his own words alone were not enough. Was the magic he held in his hand the last vestiges of a dying power? Or was it the first spell of this new magic, gifted from the one God?<br /><br /><br />He held the scroll up before him and turned to face the demon. Closing his eyes, he spoke first to himself then to the one God. His vision explained if to no one other than himself, he found he did have faith in this One God, and that he could believe in His power. He’d sought to fight the demon with what little remained of the old magic when he should’ve had faith enough to embrace the new. He prayed there to the one God, acknowledging Him and the power that faith in Him could unleash. When he opened his eyes the scroll had sprouted a single word in its center.<br /><br /><br />The demon stopped there in the sand just as Menchoir’s eyes shot open, feeling the power of the magi's prayer. More importantly, it <em>knew</em> there’d been an answer. Its face a mask of hate it turned in mid stride and went straight for him. Caspar cried out and tried to get to the Menchoir before the demon did and knowing he wouldn’t make it. But just as Caspar had been upon awakening from his own prayers there in the desert Menchoir had become now. His face was peaceful, unlined and seemed to glow with an inner light visible in the desert gloom. The magi raised his hand as the demon let out a tortured roar, the horrendous sound drowning out the word he spoke off the scroll from Caspar’s ears.<br /><br /><br />A beam of intense, white light shot from the magi’s hand, the same light that’d tossed Balthazar away when their magical barrier had been shredded. The light slammed into the demon with the force of a thousand suns, shoving it backwards through the sand and washing out its own hellish light. The glow around the demon slowly faded, leaving a softly–glowing yet solid chunk of ice where it had once stood.<br /><br /><br />“By God…” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“Yes,” Menchoir said as he walked to where the scholar had stopped. “By God.”<br /><br /><br />“Are you… well?” Caspar asked, tearing his eyes from the confined demon to examine Menchoir.<br /><br /><br />“As well as I have ever been friend Caspar, perhaps more. We should go to them now. Mark your map so that we may return for Balthazar’s body…” Menchoir started then stopped. A tiny red glow had started in the center of the ice, a glow that was intensifying by the moment. Great cracks formed and just as quickly as it had been imprisoned the demon was free in a shower of icy slivers. It stood a moment, its chest heaving violently as it shook off small bits of ice and water from its crimson skin as if they were acid.<br /><br /><br />“So much for that,” Caspar said. “Would you happen to have another scroll?”<br /><br /><br />“No.” Menchoir answered. He looked down at his empty hand, the scroll no longer there.<br /><br /><br />“Well, he does not look happy with us...” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“I would think not.” Menchoir watched the demon remove the last bits of steaming ice and start for them. But it didn’t shine with firelight as it had before and with each step it took its flaming skin faded that much more. “He is… weaker.”<br /><br /><br />“But he is not weak enough for the likes of you two!” a deep, growling voice called from behind them.<br /><br /><br />“Balthazar!” Caspar exclaimed. The warrior stood over his plunged sword as his savaged skin reformed and his hair grew back to its wild and proper length before their eyes in the dimming light of the demon’s form. He reached down and gripped the now-jeweled pommel of his weapon and yanked it up into the air, catching it as the hilt swung back down to him in a graceful arc. The worthless blade glowed with that same light, restoring it as if fresh from the forge.<br /><br /><br />“Demon!” Balthazar roared, exulting in his healed body and perfect sword. “God has granted His favor! I am His sword, His enemies mine! Face me and die honorably! Turn from me and die a coward!”<br /><br /><br />The demon regarded the warrior only a moment before taking a breath and roaring fire at him. But instead of jetting across the sands the flames shot only a few paces away and disappeared. The demon tried again and was rewarded with only a gust of sulfurous air. Balthazar smiled wickedly and charged across the dune, his battle cry ending only when he came within his sword of the beast.<br /><br /><br />It raged at him, massive claws searching for a chink in the warrior’s spirit. With each attempt Balthazar was able to find the demon’s own weaknesses. With each rage-fueled attack, Balthazar snaked his scimitar past the demon’s fury. Caspar and Menchoir watched their dance of death as the demon’s blood sizzled like fat on the warrior’s blade. When finally the demon managed to land its claws across Balthazar’s chest he paused only for a moment to watch the flaming scars before launching his own attack, his laughter chilling the onlookers almost as much as the demon’s had done.<br /><br /><br />“He is… not <em>right</em>, is he?” Caspar asked Menchoir quietly, nodding towards the berserker warrior. Menchoir didn’t even look away from the battle and gave only a slight nod in reply. Moments later the beast made its last mistake. With a cry of victory Balthazar ran his scimitar into the demon’s gut and shoved upward, slicing the demon’s heart in two. The demon opened its mouth but was cut short by an explosion that made the desert night as day. Caspar and Menchoir shielded their eyes against the sudden glare, and when they looked again the desert night had returned.<br /><br /><br />“Balthazar?” Menchoir called out quietly into the suddenly still night.<br /><br /><br />“Do not fear, mage. I am still with you. Someone needs to protect you weaklings,” Balthazar answered from the gloom. Caspar scanned the dune until he found a pinprick of light winking back at him. He walked to it and plucked his still-burning lantern from the sands. Caspar turned the shutter completely open and held the lamp in the air, revealing nothing more than their tracks. No trace of the demon was left save bits of glass from its myrrh–induced sickness glinting in the lamplight, that and something that glowed metallic on the spot where the demon had met its fate.<br /><br /><br />“What is that?” Caspar asked, focusing the shutter on the lump in the sand. Balthazar reached down, picked it up and bit at a corner of the roughly–shaped brick.<br /><br /><br />“Gold!” Balthazar said breathlessly. “Demons turn to <em>gold</em> when they are slain!” He held the bar aloft in one hand, his perfect sword in the other. “You are truly a just and great God!” he exclaimed to the heavens.<br /><br /><br />“Well, that is one way to ensure Balthazar’s sword in His service.” Menchoir said.<br /><br /><br />“I would not want to be a demon within a thousand dunes of Balthazar,” Caspar said. He produced one of his maps and after a few moments and several glances to the new star he nodded. “Still East.”<br /><br /><br />“What lies that way?” Menchoir asked as they started their trek across the dunes once more.<br /><br /><br />“There is a small town. Bethlehem, I believe they call it and not so far from here. If she is heavy with child we should seek there first. Perhaps they have taken refuge.” Caspar said.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br /><br />They found the inn almost immediately in their path at the edge of the town. Men both rough and refined, scholars and shepherds and all manner in between and animals by the score littered the ground outside the stables. They picked their way through the crowd and stopped where a young boy sat on the ground, a small drum made of stretched goat skin over an earthen pot on his folded legs.<br /><br /><br />“Child… what is all this?” the mage asked.<br /><br /><br />“You were not called here? Did the angels not appear before you? The son of God has been born this night, there in the stables!” the boy said, his face alive with joy.<br /><br />“It seems we have found the proper place and all is well.” Caspar said.<br /><br /><br />“We should see for ourselves. We have not come this far to take the word of a child.” Balthazar said.<br /><br /><br />“Agreed.” Menchoir said. The crowd parted as they continued on, the warning whispers about the approach of the magi and the warrior leaping yards ahead of them. By the time they made their way into the stable most of the people had respectfully thinned, giving them access to the stall where the Son had been born.<br /><br /><br />“Who are you?” the new mother asked, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the huge sword at Balthazar’s hip.<br /><br /><br />“We are…” Balthazar started before Caspar stepped up between the warrior and mage.<br /><br /><br />“We are from the East,” Caspar interrupted, nodding towards Menchoir as a way of explaining his facial features little seen in these lands. “We have heard the call and have come to give our good tidings to the Son of God, King of all men.”<br /><br /><br />“You are magi?” a tall, bearded man asked from the other side of the cradle.<br /><br /><br />“Uh, yes. <em>Magi</em>.” Balthazar said, awkwardly sliding his robes to cover the hilt of his sword.<br /><br /><br />“Gifts we bring to the newborn Son,” Caspar said, trying to cover Balthazar’s weak explanation. “Tokens, really,” he added to the dark looks his companions gave him. He fumbled in his pouch and came up with another, smaller pouch. “This is frankincense. It can aid in clearing congestion and bad humors of the lungs.” He handed the pouch to the mother and stepped back, avoiding the eyes of his companions.<br /><br /><br />“Yes… hmm…” Menchoir mumbled. He rooted around in his own satchel and came out with another fig–wrapped parcel. “This is myrrh. Among other things, it has the power to… ward off evil spirits.” He handed this to the father and stepped back respectfully from the cradle. The babe slept peacefully, far more peacefully than he would’ve expected one so fresh from the womb.<br /><br /><br />Balthazar kept looking between the parents, the babe and sidelong at his companions. “I have nothing to give!” he whispered harshly. “I have only my sword! My gift of slaying the demon should be <em>more</em> than enough…”<br /><br /><br />“You have more than your sword.” Menchoir reminded him. Balthazar’s eyes went wide, his sash suddenly heavy where the glob of gold hung inside it.<br /><br /><br />“You cannot mean… I will be left with nothing from this!”<br /><br /><br />“<em>Nothing</em>?” Caspar asked. “You saved the life of the Son of God. That would be something I would think.”<br /><br /><br />Balthazar’s eyes narrowed as he swore ever–so–softly in his native tongue. At that, the child’s eyes flicked open to regard them. If he hadn’t known better, Menchoir would’ve thought the baby was amused by Balthazar’s inner turmoil. The warrior sighed heavily, reached up under his sash and pulled out the fist–size bar of gold. “To help provide for the Son.” he mumbled roughly. The father exchanged looks with his wife as Balthazar set the gold down beside the makeshift cradle.<br /><br /><br />“Magi… it is too much! We cannot accept such…”<br /><br /><br />“<em>Please</em>!” Balthazar said through clenched teeth, a sidelong glance to his snickering companions. “I <em>insist</em>.”<br /><br /><br />The parents nodded gratefully. “You have our thanks for your fine gifts. I am sure they will all be put to good use.”<br /><br /><br />“It is we who should thank you, for bringing the new King among us.” Caspar said earnestly.<br /><br /><br />“We should go now. I am sure the family would like a chance to rest.” Menchoir said. The three said their goodbyes and left the stable, passing among the growing throng and back into the cool desert night, walking to the tune of Balthazar’s grumbling.<br /><br /><br />“<em>Gifts we bring</em>…” Balthazar whined in imitation of Caspar. “<em>Tokens, really</em>…”<br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center">***<br /></p><em>To you and yours, I wish a Merry Christmas and the best of the season. If you're not of a sort to celebrate Christmas per se, then insert your preferred holiday here. And please remember; you don't have to be of a certain religious faith, or have any particular sort of faith at all, to be a decent human being. So live, love and laugh, no matter what you may follow or who you may lead, and enjoy the Yule for what it may mean to you. </em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em>Oh, yeah... and just write, damn it.</em>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-72939673600855812742010-12-13T07:18:00.000-08:002010-12-13T07:59:15.216-08:00Monsters - Fiction<em>I've been toying with the idea for this story for awhile, and now, Dear Reader, I need</em> your <em>help. Your thoughts would be appreciated and each will be valued just as highly as I value your readership. So what say you? Does the story end here, or does it go forth?</em> - Author<br /><br /><br />“Daddydaddydaddydaddy a <em>monster</em>!”<br /><br />Frank pried his eyes open and looked at the clock on the bedside table; two-ten a.m. “She’s calling for you.” Brenda, his wife, groaned from her side.<br /><br />“I did it last time.” Frank said with a sigh even as he pulled off the blankets and swung his bare feet onto the cold floor. It was a moot point, really. Brenda had tried to soothe little Karen’s irrational monster-fear a few times over the last month, but their little girl had made it perfectly clear that monsters were 100% daddy’s department. “I’m coming, honey.” Frank called out as he stood and headed for the bedroom door.<br /><br />“Don’t forget the bat.” Brenda said from the lump under the blankets. Anytime Daddy had to come chase the monsters away Karen insisted he come armed, and there was no arguing the point. Frank nodded and grabbed the Louisville Slugger from the corner by the door before going down the hall.<br /><br />“It’s all right, Karen.” Frank said as he pushed open her door. He stopped just inside and held the bat up in one hand to show he’d come prepared. Karen sat huddled at the head of her small bed with her stuffed lion, Harry, clutched to her chest. Frank took in the real fear in her eyes and the sheen of nightmare sweat on her brow in the dim light of her happy-clown nightlight then came into the room and sat on the edge of her bed. “It was just another nightmare.” Frank said. Karen launched herself at him and curled up in his lap to bury her face in his chest. Her hot tears soaked through his white t-shirt as his free hand alternated between smoothing her disheveled hair and patting her back.<br /><br />“No it wasn’t! They were real!” Karen said. <em>They</em>? Frank thought to himself. <em>Great. Now there was more than one?</em> The therapist had told them it was good for Karen to talk about her experiences with the “monsters”. The more irrational details they could draw out of her, the more ammunition they would have to show her what she saw couldn’t possibly be real.<br /><br />“There were two of them this time?” Frank asked. Karen’s breathing was slowing to a more normal rate now and her trembling had almost ceased in her father’s protective arms.<br /><br />“Uh huh.” Karen said, a tiny hitch in her throat giving the syllables an odd separation. “But I <em>saw</em> them this time! They weren’t just all black and shadows! They were <em>really</em> real!” Frank’s eyes narrowed a bit as he gently pulled her away enough to look at her. This was the first time Karen claimed to have actually seen her monsters in any sort of detail.<br /><br />“Karen… what did they look like?” Frank asked. Karen swallowed hard and made a visible effort to calm herself.<br /><br />“The one from under the bed… he’s a… a lizard-man! He was big and all green and scaly with these really big claws and teeth! He was so big I don’t know how he fit under my bed!” Karen said. Frank nodded, but he could already feel his features hardening. “The other one came from the closet.” Karen continued, “He was… he was a man, but his skin was gray and icky and he stunk really bad and his eyes glowed all green and…”<br /><br />“Ssshh. It’s okay, Karen. It was just a bad dream. Remember what the doctor said?” Frank said. He was trying very hard to control his voice and hoped the dim clown-light would help hide his grim facial expression from his daughter.<br /><br />“<em>No it wasn’t</em>!” Karen screamed as her tears started flowing again. “When they came too close, Harry fought them and chased them away!” She held the stuffed lion out to him as if to demonstrate its fierce power. Frank glanced at the toy then did a double-take. The lion had several small gashes opened on its flanks, allowing tiny bits of fluff to poke through.<br /><br />“Is everything okay?” Brenda asked from the open door, the sound of Karen’s last exclamation bringing her out of their warm bed. Frank didn’t bother looking up at her and instead tried to peel Harry from her grip.<br /><br />“No, daddy! I need Harry! He protects me!” Karen said.<br /><br />“I know honey, but he needs to get all sewn up so he doesn’t lose his stuffing. You don’t want that to happen, do you?” Frank asked. Brenda stiffened noticeably as the last bits of sleep cleared from her eyes and she saw the line of her husband’s jaw and the tense chords that were beginning to form in his muscles.<br /><br />“What’s going on?” Brenda asked.<br /><br />“It’s nothing, just another bad dream.” Frank said as he turned to her. The look in his eyes told her a different story.<br /><br />“You told me this wasn’t going to happen…” Brenda started. Frank silenced her with a look then got up with Karen still in his arms.<br /><br />“You’re going to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s room tonight, honey.” Frank said to Karen. “Now, I want you to leave Harry here so I can fix him, okay? The monsters can’t get into Mommy and Daddy’s room.” Karen gave him a dubious look but reluctantly dropped the lion onto the bed. Frank dropped his bat there as well and pushed past Brenda to return to their bedroom.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />“What the hell is going on, Frank?” Brenda whispered into her husband’s ear as they stood over their bed and watched Karen sleep. “You told me this wasn’t going to happen! You promised me all of that was over with!” she hissed. Frank moved into their closet but she stayed on his heels and closed the door behind them as Frank pulled the chain dangling from the overhead light. Both blinked against the sudden glare but Frank ignored it as his hands slid along one of the walls.<br /><br />“Damn it, Frank! This is Karen’s <em>life</em> we’re talking about here! You <em>said</em> all of that was over with, you <em>said</em> there was nothing to worry about, that you were mine for a lifetime!” Frank ignored her as his hand continued to slide along the wall until a small piece of it popped open on hidden springs. Frank pulled the small leather bag from its concealment and examined it while Brenda fumed. “Oh no!” Brenda said when she saw the bag. “I knew it! I just <em>knew</em> this was going to happen! I should’ve known when she started seeing monsters that it wasn’t just a phase. We knew better!”<br /><br />“No we didn’t, Brenda.” Frank said over his shoulder. “All kids see monsters at some point. She never saw them clearly. I know what to look for, and I never found any evidence that it was more than the usual kid fears.”<br /><br />“Apparently you <em>don’t</em> know what to look for!” Brenda said more loudly than she’d intended. They both quieted and listened at the closet door to make sure her outburst hadn’t roused Karen before Brenda continued. “How could you not know this was really happening?”<br /><br />“Has to be rouges.” Frank said absently as he regarded the pouch.<br /><br />“No, Frank. You are <em>not</em> going back there!” Brenda said.<br /><br />“I have to, Brenda. It’s the only way to stop this.” Frank said as he tried to push past her. Brenda braced an arm against the walls to either side of her, effectively blocking his path in the small confines of the closet.<br /><br />“How do you know that? What if you get trapped there and can’t come back? What if you get hurt or killed or… worse? We were supposed to have a lifetime together.” Brenda paused a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes. “We can just move her room… or just have her sleep with us until the whole thing passes! Or just use the dust to protect us! They’ll get bored eventually when they can’t get to her…”<br /><br />“No, they won’t get bored, and eventually I’d run out of dust. I know them, Bren’. This isn’t about keeping energy flowing into the Realm. It’s personal with these two.” Frank said. Brenda opened her mouth to speak but stopped when she realized Frank was already beginning his transformation. Frank nodded at her and she dropped her arms to her sides and stepped away from the door. She couldn’t have physically stopped her husband if he’d really wanted to push past her before he’d had the tiny bag in his thickening hand. Very soon, she’d be less effective than a gnat at stopping him from doing anything.<br /><br />“I have to go.” Frank said as he leaned down and kissed her. Brenda’s lips tingled at his touch and her body felt instantly warm. She grabbed him by his suddenly too-tight t-shirt so that his kiss lingered just a moment longer on her lips. When they separated, the anger in her eyes had been replaced with both fear and love.<br /><br />“I know.” Brenda said, defeated. “Be safe, and come back to us.” Frank nodded at her again then exited the closet. Brenda followed him out then crawled into their bed beside Karen. Frank carefully opened the pouch and dabbed a finger into it. When he pulled it out it was covered with tiny, glowing crystals. He held his hand over his family and snapped his fingers, allowing the dust to drift down onto the bed. The tiny bits continued to glow for a few moments more before finally fading away, leaving the two women in Frank’s life completely protected from anything that may come from the other side.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />By the time Frank stepped into his daughter’s room and closed the door his shirt and pajama pants had become rags on his enlarged body. He absently pulled the tattered remnants away as he crossed the room and regarded the stuffed lion on Karen’s bed. “Time to go back to work, Havoc.” Frank said. His voice had become much deeper in tone and darker in spirit. It was his true voice, not the softer, quieter tone his human form had forced him to adopt. He smiled a little at the feeling of power that now coursed through him then sprinkled a bit of the glowing powder onto the toy and watched as the lion’s plush fur and thick mane filled with the stuff. The tears in its flanks slowly knitted themselves back together even as the thing began to grow. Frank watched as the toy’s limbs shifted and moved of their own accord and it’s glossy, plastic eyes turned to real, glistening ones. It opened its mouth, a mouth now filled with sharp fangs, and let out a low, throaty roar as its body continued to grow and change. Gone was the plush, artificial coat. In its place was a new coat, one just as smooth yet attached to a thick, living hide.<br /><br />“Quiet! And get off the bed before you break it.” Frank said. Havoc stepped away from the bed and shook his great head, allowing his mane to flow free and long for the first time in a human’s decade. The massive lion growled low in its throat as it locked eyes with its master, companion and brother-in-arms. Less than a moment passed, but in that wisp of time Frank saw the events that had occurred in the room less than an hour before through Havoc’s eyes.<br /><br />The beast growled again and padded to the closet door while Frank withdrew a palm-full of the glittering dust from the bag and tossed it into the air above his head. The sandy bits immediately clung to his form as they fell, and by the time the glow faded away Frank stood in the full and stately armor of his true post, his first calling… the armor of a Dream Lord. He picked up the baseball bat from the bed and touched it to the visor of his great helm in the traditional warrior’s salute. As soon as the wood touched the mithral helm the bat first stretched to half again its length then burst into flames, burning away the wood until, like Havoc and even Frank himself, its true form was regained. Frank slipped the gleaming bastard sword into the sheath on his back and joined Havoc at the closet door. The lion growled again, a sustained rumbling that Frank could feel reverberating across his chest plate.<br /><br />“Yes, Havoc. I know. But if you ever want to sleep soundly in Karen’s arms again, we need to do this. Gilth and the Dead One have found us. Now that they have, none of us are safe in this world.” Frank said. Havoc’s growl changed ever so slightly in its pitch and tone for a moment. “I do not know how they found us or why the rest of the Dream Lords have not discovered and dealt with them. It seems it is up to us to ensure Karen and Brenda’s safety. You are not bound to this task, old friend. If you choose to remain I shall not hold it against you…” No sooner had the words left Frank’s lips than the lion coiled itself and sprung at the closet door. The wood exploded into shards and splinters under the ferocity of the beast’s charge, the sound of tearing wood and Havoc’s throaty roar echoing beyond the threshold giving Frank his answer.<br />Frank looked through the opening. In his natural form he saw all as it truly was. Where Brenda would see and a rack of Karen’s coats and dresses and forgotten board games, Frank saw nothing but an inky, swirling darkness on the other side. “You did not have to destroy the door…” Frank said under his breath as he ducked his head low and stepped through the ragged portal.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Once through the void and into the Twilight Realm, the human known as “Frank” sloughed away from him. Just as the veneer had turned to ashes from his beloved blade, Harvenger, just as Havoc had thrown off his mortal guise to reclaim his noble, savage form, this Dream Lord had regained his true identity. “<em>Bastion</em>” the night wind whispered through the lush, dark trees surrounding them. “<em>Lord Bastion returns</em>” the rustling leaves agreed. He walked across the black grasses and up a small hillock. Havoc was already at the top, surveying the land that they had not so long ago both served and lorded over. Havoc threw back his head and let loose with a roar that silenced the leaves and reminded the wind that not only had the Realm’s greatest Dream Lord returned but its greatest predator once again roamed the darkened land.<br /><br />“If any missed the whispers of the wind they certainly know now that we have returned.” Bastion said. Havoc snorted through his wide nostrils and continued surveying the Realm. Here the magic was dark and the land caught in a perpetual state of twilight; no sun or moon, just that shade of light and night between them. Some of the creatures here could only exist under the moon, while others came to be in the sun’s rays. The constant twilight condition allowed for both to exist together, to share their mutual need for the dark energies from the mortal planes. Fear, anger, hatred, lust… these things fed them. But most were no more evil than they were good. Without the creatures of the Twilight Realm, those dark energies that burned so brightly in the fleeting lifespan of most mortal creatures would build until they were consumed by them. What humans that truly knew of them called them monsters, when in fact without them humanity would have imploded from its own carnal desires and would have ceased to be millennia ago.<br /><br />“Come; let us find the other Lords. It is for them to deal with Gilth and the Dead One.” Bastion said. Havoc growled again, this time a softer though menacing rumble. “We are but guests here now, Havoc. Our return is not due for another 75 years by human reckoning. Our presence is suffered here now only because of our power and past glories. It is for the others to police the denizens of the Twilight Realm.” Bastion said as he and Havoc started down the other side of the hill towards the wide swath of meadow below. “But that does not mean we will not respond in kind should those two find us before we find my kin.” Bastion added.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />The human concepts of measuring time and space held no power in the Realms beyond mortal ken. What was a moment in the Realms could be a week by human standards, and what passed for a mile in the waking world could stretch beyond imagination in the Realms. Bastion and Havoc had crossed either an immeasurable distance in a short amount of time or had made only a few steps in a month. Nothing had stepped forth from the great forest they now trod to accost them, the whispering wind and Havoc’s occasional roars reminding the rest of the beasts he had returned ensuring that any who would have at them knew they would be run through by the bastard sword Harvenger or devoured in Havoc’s toothy maw. There were few here that could stand against the trio and even fewer that would even try.<br /><br />As a Dream Lord, Bastion had been charged with keeping the creatures of the Twilight Realm in check. It was the duty of he and the other Lords to make sure its denizens kept their forays into the mortal world to a minimum and took only what was needed. It was a constant balancing act to enforce the laws that kept humanity safe from its own baser desires while making sure the individual denizens of this Realm did not gorge themselves and become too powerful to be trusted. If any of the creatures here absorbed too much negative energy or lingered too long among the humans, their power and strength could grow at an alarming rate. This would not only present a danger to the human race but to the other Twilight creatures as well. The Dream Lords had been created for the sole purpose of keeping the peace, maintaining the order and making sure that each and every one of the creatures of the Twilight Realm remained symbiotic and not despotic over the humans in their plane as well as their fellows in the Realm. The only ones that dared challenge the Lords outright were the ones that had crossed the thin line that separated living their lives from hoarding power.<br /><br />Bastion stopped them in a small clearing and extended his senses. “I cannot feel the other Lords. They should have come to greet me by now.” Bastion said. Havoc suddenly growled low and broke away from his friend and master. His powerful legs pumped once, twice before launching him through the air and into the darkened fringe of undergrowth to their left. A short, keening screech erupted from the tree line, it’s pained wailing cut off just as suddenly as it had began. Moments later, Havoc strolled out of the trees and padded back to Bastion. A small humanoid creature with green, wart-covered skin and bulging eyes dangled from the great lion’s mouth, its neck held tightly between the massive jaws. Bastion’s nose wrinkled at the smell of the thing. By the dark wetness that still dripped from the goblin’s legs he knew the little one had voided its bladder as soon as it knew Havoc was coming for him.<br /><br />“Please…” the goblin whispered. Havoc responded with a growl that vibrated its tiny bones.<br />“Release him, Havoc.” Bastion said. Havoc opened his jaws and dumped the hapless thing at Bastion’s feet before turning and going back into the trees. While it was true the goblinoids were the lowest class of creature to roam the Realm, they rarely traveled alone and could be quite formidable when encountered in large groups.<br /><br />“What say you, Yulgul?” Bastion asked the goblin. It sat up and rubbed at its neck while it regarded the Dream Lord.<br /><br />“You know Yulgul?” the goblin rasped.<br /><br />“I know all creatures of this Realm, little one; great and small.”<br /><br />“You Lion Lord.”, Yulgul said, using the name the goblins most often gave him. The goblin’s voice was still rough from Havoc’s treatment of his throat and his body still trembled gently yet uncontrollably at the feet of the Dream Lord. “You not here.”<br /><br />“It seems I am.” Bastion said as he scanned the trees again, though he had little need to do so. Bastion could both hear and feel Havoc as the lion moved through the dense brush of the forest floor.<br /><br />“No, you not to be here.” Yulgul said. The absence of the rest of Yulgul’s tribe, coupled with his odd words, troubled Bastion more than if they would’ve been charging from the trees with their slobbering jowls and rusty, poisoned spears.<br /><br />“The fact remains. And speaking of here, where is the rest of your party, little Yulgul?” Bastion said. Yulgul did his own scan of the forest and his trembling increased.<br /><br />“Not here. There. Yulgul only one here and not there.” the goblin said. Bastion’s eyes narrowed slightly and he sent a mental barb out to Havoc to watch where he stepped. They should have encountered any number of creatures on their walk through the forest. That the only one they encountered was a goblin, a lone goblin at that, told him there was more to Gilth and the Dead One’s machinations than a simple oversight by the other Lords in their duties. Even more troubling was that he couldn’t sense anyone, from the lowly Yulgul all the way up to the other Lords. He was supposed to be a master of this Realm, his mind completely in tune with any of its denizens, but if not for Havoc’s sharp eyes Bastion wouldn’t have even known Yulgul was there. Bastion thought about asking Yulgul where there was, but goblins only seemed stupid. If Bastion admitted he didn’t know where the rest of the goblins had gone, he would be admitting he’d somehow been cut off from some segment of his power. The last thing you did in the Realm was admit to weakness; <em>any</em> weakness.<br /><br />“And why are they there?” Bastion asked. A sudden roar from Havoc split the night, shocking flocks of bats and owls from the trees en masse as the echo of his savage cry was joined by thin, reedy screams of battle and terror. Harvenger was in his hand in the same instant that Havoc burst from the forest. Half of a goblin was in his jaws and another, whole one clung for dear life to the shaft of the short spear that stuck out from the lion’s left front shoulder.<br /><br />Havoc tossed the goblin torso away then whipped his head around, his thick mane swatting against the hapless goblin rider like hundreds of tiny whips before his teeth sank into his rider’s thigh and ripped it from his back. Bastion arrived at his friend’s side just as Havoc put one of his paws on the prone goblin’s chest. The lion’s blood-soaked grin was the last thing the goblin would ever see as Havoc extended his claws to pierce shoulder, neck and heart at once. Scores of goblins suddenly broke from the tree line. Most only stood as tall as Bastion’s belt, but their numbers and ferocity, not to mention their gall in overtly attacking a Dream Lord meant the time for talk was over.<br /><br />Havoc coiled and sprang at the head of the flank to their right as Bastion brought Harvenger back in both hands, dropped his stance and swung in a low, scything arc. Seeing the huge lion, airborne and coming right for them, broke the first few ranks. But instead of escaping those huge fangs already stained red-brown with goblin blood, their retreat caused those behind to crash into them in a screaming, boiling heap. Havoc landed atop the struggling goblins and set to work with fangs and claws, burrowing down through the mound of stinking flesh and bone like a dog digging a hole to hide its bone. Ichor and gore flew around the clearing in great wet chunks, coating the rest of the goblins as well as Bastion and Havoc with the stuff as Harvenger whipped back and forth among the rest of the tribe. Green-skinned heads and arms rained to the ground with each pass and adding to the mess and stink Havoc made. Those at the rear of the phalanx had finally seen enough of the carnage and threw their spears into the fray before running, screaming from the battle into the comparative safety of the trees.<br /><br />“Havoc!” Bastion barked as the lion finished off the last of the goblins in his path. The lion looked up, its fur and mane caked with all manner of thick, congealing gore and trumpeted a roar. “Follow them, at a distance. You will move faster without me. Find where they have gathered and I will find you.” Havoc bobbed his thick head once then crept off into the woods. Bastion watched his comrade move off into the woods then grabbed up half of a goblin and wiped the remnants of the battle from his blade on its already-filthy tunic, adding a mental nod to the weapon that he would give it a proper cleaning when time allowed. The sentient blade hummed in his hand, its joy at once again seeing battle dimming its narcissistic tendencies. That’s when he noticed Yulgul still sitting where Havoc had dropped him a few dozen yards away from where the battle had been fought. Bastion strode back to Yulgul and looked down at the now cowering goblin, aware that his blood-soaked image did little to allay the small creature’s fears.<br />“Why did they attack us?” Bastion asked.<br /><br />“Had to.” Yulgul replied.<br /><br />“As a Lord of the Realm, I order you to speak true.” Bastion said. As a lesser creature of the Realm, Bastion’s invocation of authority virtually guaranteed Yulgul wouldn’t lie in his answer.<br />“Not say. Cannot say.” Yulgul said. It had moved from trembling to complete, utter, violent shaking now and its crying eyes were locked on Harvenger. The blade was still sticky with the leavings of his tribe and even Yulgul could feel the malevolence with which it regarded him. The sword wanted to slice Yulgul down the center and only Bastion’s staying hand kept it from doing so.<br /><br />“You mean you will not say?” Bastion said as he dropped to one knee and stared into the goblin’s large eyes. “You <em>will</em> answer my question!”<br /><br />“Yulgul <em>cannot</em> say!” the goblin cried. He curled himself into the smallest ball possible and lay quivering in the grass at Bastion’s feet, his thin, wiry arms thrown up over his head. “Yulgul cannot say! Please do not hurt Yulgul!” the goblin said. Bastion stood and considered kicking the truth from Yulgul, but he doubted even that method would yield results. If the goblin had been bound to deny Bastion information, it meant at least one of the other Lords was working against him. He knew of no other being in the Realm that could inspire such fear.<br /><br />“Go and hide, little one. Stay to the fringes of the Realm.” Bastion said as the goblin gore bubbled and boiled away from his armor and stark white tabard and cloak, leaving both pristine and almost glowing in the continual gloom of the Twilight. “You do not want to be anywhere near, of that I can assure you.” With that, Lord Bastion turned on his heel then stormed across the clearing and into the woods beyond.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Since the first day the mortal world had winked into being, Bastion and the other four Lords had kept the Realm in check, their time forever spent patrolling and monitoring its residents. But not all of their work could be done in the Twilight or other fey Realms. Occasionally, a Lord would be called upon to enter the mortal realm to retrieve a wandering beast or make sure the creatures from the Twilight Realm behaved themselves when doing their work. In the beginning days of humanity, those jaunts had been easy enough. But the difference in the passage of time between the Realm and the Plane soon created problems for the Lords. On one visit, Lord Bastion found one of their vampires terrorizing men that lived in caves. His next visit was barely a week later in Realm reckoning, yet the humans had not only discovered how to create fire but also bronze as well.<br /><br />After that, the Lords realized the world of Men moved in leaps and bounds, their miniscule lifespans fueling innovation, science and technology at an alarming rate. The side effect of all this mortal thinking was, of course, more numerous and powerful fears. Each advance in weapons brought new fears of violence. Each time one color of human discovered another of a different color, fears and wars grew. Every new science they endeavored brought equal amounts of wonder and terror into their lives. The creatures of the night were attracted to the mortal world by the abundant and growing fears like moths to the flame, the sheer abundance of the stuff creating for them an almost irresistible urge to gorge upon and revel in the power it gave them.<br />No matter how powerful the Dream Lords were, either here or on the mortal plane, they knew that time itself was far more powerful. They had to be able to monitor the progress of the world of men or risk more surprises. What frightened Men today would not necessarily frighten them tomorrow. If the Lords were to keep their charges in check they needed to understand at all times the fears of the mortal world. Their technology, science, theology and history needed to be understood in order to know the current sources of their fears.It was decided that each Lord would take a “Sabbatical” of 85 years by human reckoning. They would spend this time living among the humans as they lived, experiencing their lives and monitoring their fears. The Dream Lords were all linked, and the ones in the Twilight Realm could tap into the mind of the one on Sabbatical whenever they wished as a way of keeping up with the mortal world.<br /><br />Unfortunately, this communication worked in only one direction. While on Sabbatical, the earthbound Lord was completely cut off from the Twilight Realm so that he could more fully experience the mortal plane. The only way to return was at the end of the Sabbatical or by using the fey dust as Bastion had done. Such a return was only sanctioned under dire emergency or the need of the Realm. It was obvious the other Lords were unable, or perhaps now unwilling, to stop Gilth and the Dead One from attempting to carry out their plans of revenge against Bastion. If the failure of his fellows to contain just two, albeit powerful, denizens of the Twilight Realm wasn’t enough justification to interrupt his Sabbatical then nothing was.<br /><br />Lord Bastion continued mulling these thoughts as his feet followed the path of crushed vegetation and broken brambles that marked the passage of the fleeing goblins through the forest. The fact he couldn’t sense any other creature save for Havoc weighed heavily upon him. He had returned early from Sabbatical, meaning the other Lords would have to allow him to regain his full measure of power in the Realm. The others had to know he’d returned, and he could see no logical reason why they would not have simply returned his power as soon as he stepped foot in the Realm. What had been designed as a safety against a Dream Lord breaking the Sabbatical was now crippling Bastion, the only Lord that may still be in defense of the Realm.<br />Bastion stopped in the same spot where the goblin-sign did; a thick mass of multiflora rose shot through with tangles of wild, light grey roses accompanied by thick, black thorns. The dull petals were flecked with bright red that oozed and dripped from them to the ground below, continually painting and repainting the forest floor that ran up against the natural wall. Many an unwary rodent, and in some cases foolish, living and sentient creatures, had attempted to pass without invitation. Those many had been allowed to enter, but none had ever been seen again.<br /><br />The Dream Lords knew the origin, life and purpose of the natural wall. They should; they had been the ones to plant it when the Realm was young. The oval-shaped wall carved out a huge swath of territory in the center of the Realm, the Dark Place, keeping the worst of the Realm’s denizens separated from the rest. Inside the confines of the wall dwelt all manner of beasts, but all had one thing in common; they were judged too dangerous to be allowed to enter the mortal world to feed. Most had been exiled there due to their own faults and failures. A precious few were enslaved by their very natures and were banished to the Dark Place by simple necessity. Aside from the goblins and on any normal day, if there was such a thing in the Realm, he and Havoc would’ve encountered scores of creatures in their trek to reach the Dark Place. It didn’t take his absent omniscience to know there was only one place they could be.<br /><br />Since their powers of perception and near-omnipotence couldn’t get through the wall any easier than a physical thing could, the Dream Lords were forced to physically patrol it. Unlike the prisons of the mortal world, these inmates couldn’t be stripped of their weapons and easily confined to cells. It was the only place in this Realm, or in most any other, where a Dream Lord could have a reasonable expectation of being truly harmed. Bastion put a hand to the uneven surface of the wall and concentrated, willing the vines and thick flora to part and allow him passage. Havoc growled impatiently at his side, the taste of the goblin blood still thick on his tongue keeping his lust for battle boiling. Three rose vines suddenly looped away from the wall and wrapped themselves around Bastion’s searching hand and forearm, their thick, serrated thorns slipping under his grieves to pierce the flesh beneath. Bastion stepped back and grit his teeth against the pain, pulling the vines taut while his free hand drew Harvenger. The wall seemed to shudder as the enchanted blade sliced through the vines, their dark, thick blood falling to the ground in fat globules.<br /><br />“It appears we are not to be admitted.” Bastion said as he stuck Harvenger into the ground by its point and worked at his armor. He removed the grieve from his forearm, steeled himself then grabbed the vines that still clung to him and ripped them from his flesh. Pain shot up his arm as the barbed, serrated thorns protested their removal to finally come free in a small spray of Bastion’s blood. Havoc growled low and turned his great head to face Bastion. The Dream Lord held out his arm and allowed the noble beast’s rough, thick tongue to lap at his wounds. Within moments Bastion’s arm was healed. He strapped his armor back into place then pulled Harvenger from the ground and regarded the wall. He could have healed himself, of course. But that required power. Havoc’s healing ability was a natural consequence of his nature and cost him nothing more than saliva. But Bastion was beginning to understand which powers he’d kept and which he’d lost. He still maintained the abilities and power within himself but was cut off from anything allowing him control over the realm and its peoples. What remained to him would have to be enough.<br /><br />Havoc tossed his head toward the wall and issued an impatient growl. Bastion pulled the pouch of dust from his belt, weighed it for a moment in his gauntleted hand then opened it. “Are you certain you wish to do this? I cannot say how long it will affect you, or for that matter if this will even work.” Havoc bobbed his head once. “Very well.” Bastion said. He tossed the sack of fey dust into the air above the lion then pulled up Harvenger and spun the blade. The sword found the pouch in the air and sliced it open, allowing the dust inside to rain down in a sparkling cloud.<br />A pinch of fey dust had a great deal of power. Just a pinch had healed Havoc’s wounds and allowed him to transform into his proper form, and just a pinch had made certain that Brenda and Karen would be safe through the night, and just a pinch had allowed Bastion himself to return to his true state. What was now falling upon Havoc was an ogre’s handful of the stuff. Bastion had never used so much at once before, but they had few options left to enter the Dark Place. Havoc was a powerful force to be reckoned with in any Realm. He only hoped the beast’s noble bearing and good heart would be able to channel the massive power that much dust bestowed without losing sight of their objectives.<br /><br />Havoc’s large eyes narrowed as the particles infused his fur, making it glow with a soft white light for a few moments. Bastion watched with some trepidation as Havoc approached the wall, stopped just a few feet from it and let out a roar that rattled around inside Bastion’s helm and made the living wall visibly shudder. That was it. Havoc had issued both warning and challenge. The wall, the creatures behind it and even the Realm itself had been put on notice. Before the roar’s echoes had died away, Havoc launched himself into the roses, vines and twisted vegetation.<br /><br />Bastion had thought to use the dust himself to see if it would allow him enough power to hack his way through. But where he had but one blade, Havoc had four sets of thick claws capable of rending a troll into seventeen distinct pieces before the first part could hit the ground. To Bastion’s relief, those claws now ripped and tore through the wall with abandon. The wall could heal, growing new vines almost instantly to replace those that had been lost. But the speed and ferocity of Havoc’s attacks combined with Bastion’s own surgical strikes as he followed Havoc into the brush allowed them to continue their push forward. Red-black blood hug in a thick cloud around them as the destroyed vines tried to heal and wrap themselves back into their defensive postures, but the onslaught was just too fast and vicious for the vines to do more than close again a safe distance behind the pair.<br /><br />In an hour or a minute, Havoc finally burst through the other side of the wall and into the cool air of the Dark Place. Bastion had only been two steps behind Havoc, but that lag had allowed enough time for the wall to catch up. Havoc turned back to see his friend and master slowly disappearing behind the rapidly-healing vines. Havoc issued a low, warning rumble and the wall stopped its knitting. It moved and rustled for a moment, the rattling of its leaves sounding like a large group in hushed, murmured conversation before a hole finally opened and Bastion was unceremoniously ejected into the Dark Place. Havoc nodded regally then turned away from Bastion, allowing the Dream Lord the dignity of picking himself up without witnesses. Bastion imagined the low, short sounds from Havoc’s throat as growling, which was better than acknowledging the lion was chuckling at his expense.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />True night ruled the Dark Place. Unlike the Twilight Realm proper, the conditions here were forever night. The bulk of the inhabitants of this Realm within a Realm were creatures of darkness, and not just in their preference for ambiance. It hadn’t started out that way, but the malevolence and evil inherent in so many of the Dark Place’s residents had acted over time to change the very landscape, plunging it into the true, pitch blackness of a moonless night. Fortunately, both Lord and lion had retained their excellent night vision. While they couldn’t see as if in the bright summer sun they could make out enough to search and, if need be, to battle. Much effort had gone into concealing the goings-on from him in the Dark Place, a place he should not have been able to enter without his full powers as a Dream Lord. Evil made strong plans and careful calculations, but it so often left room for the unexpected. Obviously they had expected Bastion to return and had retired to the Dark Place, thinking to hide from him. What they’d not counted on was Bastion’s determination and more than a ton of enraged, power-drunk lion.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Bastion and Havoc had spent the better part of a day or a moment searching through the stunted forests and blackened plains, but the lion’s fey-infused power had yet to wane. And while that was a comfort, so much power had set the beast on-edge and ready to pounce at the slightest hint of motion regardless of how many times Bastion cautioned him against such things. Whoever was behind this knew they’d entered the Dark Place now, and it was virtually guaranteed they would be led into a trap. And though they were two of the most powerful forces the Twilight Realm had ever known, even they could fall to a concerted and massive attack by the creatures here. All they could do now was search the places Bastion thought relevant and wait for their enemy to show themselves. A month or a moment later, they did just that.<br /><br />Hissing and growling suddenly sprang up from all around them; guttural, hateful noises that when combined in their cacophony sent chills down Bastion’s spine and made Havoc’s long whiskers vibrate against his muzzle. “<em>Ferals</em>!” Bastion whispered as he readied Harvenger and put his back to the lion’s tail. The sudden, blood-thirsty shrieks and pounding of feet around them cut him off, and he only hoped Havoc could contain his bloodlust and stay with him as a large group of humanoid forms materialized on the fringes of their compromised vision.<br /><br />“You are all my wards.” Bastion said into the darkness. “I am not only your keeper, but your defender from those what do not understand your important place in the weave of worlds. I give you one chance to stay within the auspices of my care and protection. To attack me now is to forfeit my grace and make you my enemy.” In better times, the feral vampires surrounding them still would not have understood his words, but the powers of his office would have at least given them a base understanding of their meaning. Their roaring, slavering charge told him this power, too, was one that had been denied him.<br /><br />The ferals were one of the saddest things in the Realm. Many of them had started their mortal lives as denizens of another realm and were the product of a vampire that had escaped into their reality. Contrary to popular myths, most vampires had no desire to fully turn another into their ilk. More vampires mean more competition. But what many were quite fond of doing was only partially turning a mortal. Their humanity would be lost, replaced by the basest of vampire needs and desires. Strong, fast and suffering only from the weaknesses of the vampire race, ferals were the perfect soldier for a vampire looking to amass power without worrying over one of them becoming too powerful and turning on them. Their loyalty was supernatural, and their bond with their masters made his will and his will alone their own. A vampire making an unauthorized stay in a mortal realm almost guaranteed that ferals would be created, and part of any mission to retrieve or destroy a vampire was to gather the wretched ferals and bring them back to the Twilight Realm for safe keeping. Bastion forced his pity for the miserable creatures aside and set his stance to receive them as Havoc moved a respectable distance away. The beast would need room to face their attackers, and even Bastion could fall and be overwhelmed by an errant swipe of the lion’s dinner-platter-sized paws.<br /><br />The sword began to glow with a soft, red light as the half-dead neared. Of all its enemies, Harvenger harbored a near-fanatical grudge against those not living yet not dead. They were an abomination to the sentient weapon, one that needed scoured from the Realms, so much so that Bastion was often forced to leave it sheathed when he entered the Dark Place. It was time to let loose the reigns that confined the sword’s true power. Bastion let Harvenger take over his sword arm and filled his empty hand with a long dagger from his belt. The enchanted blade didn’t need its master’s eye to deal its death, only his hand from which to roll and slip. In battles like these, it was as if Bastion became two warriors at once with Harvenger guiding his sword arm to thrust, slice and parry of its own accord while Bastion controlled his other arm. Both were finely-honed warriors, and both could deal death in less than a heartbeat to those foolish enough to have at them.<br /><br />Harvenger hummed with power as it punctured chests and lopped heads from necks, its magical nature enough the equivalent of holy relic and ash-wood stake enough to drop the vampiric animals in pieces at the Dream Lord’s feet. Bastion did not rest on his laurels, though. The hand in his own control had bested nearly as many of the undead as Harvenger had claimed, though he didn’t have the benefit of being made entirely of enchanted steel and mithral and as such looked a bit worse for wear. Long scratches and deep gouges from claws and fangs marked places on his cheeks, chin and thighs left exposed by the places his helm and armor didn’t quite cover and blood trickled freely from them. Havoc was fairing just as well or just as poorly as his master, but the benefits of the dust were more than just strength, speed and ferocity. Neither of them had any real worry of becoming sick or even infected by the tainted blood and saliva of the ferals, but that didn’t make the injuries burn any less. Where Bastion’s wounds would heal fairly quickly, Havoc’s would do so almost instantly, allowing him to shrug off virtually any claw or tooth that managed to slip past his furious attacks and reach his flesh. The lion had taken almost as many vampires as the combined might of Bastion and Harvenger, but where the remains left by Lord and blade were practically bloodless thanks to their natures, Havoc’s fur, fangs and claws were simply caked with steaming gore and blackened blood.<br /><br />When there were but a half-dozen left standing, the ferals pulled back from the assault and regrouped out of harm’s reach. The half-dead spread themselves in a rough semi-circle around their quarry, their lungs still remembering life and making them pant and salivate as they growled and hissed. The battle had not gone well for them, but Bastion had never known enraged ferals, especially when they had supposedly superior numbers, to back down from a fight. “Be watchful…” Bastion said to Havoc’s wide back. The lion only growled a reply and put his body low to the ground, his powerful rear legs tensed and ready to launch him back into the fray. Havoc wanted nothing more than to charge into the line of ferals and rend them into large, ghastly chunks, but even through his haze of power and battle-lust he knew to trust Bastion’s instincts.<br /><br />“Show yourselves! I make the same pledge I made to your beasts, those that you threw against me knowing you would only accomplish their deaths.” Bastion called out into the darkness beyond sight. Only the command of their masters would’ve caused the ferals to break off the attack, and that could only mean those masters were near. Bastion only hoped the concealed vampires couldn’t sense that the onslaught of ferals had accomplished at least in part what was sure to have been their mission. Harvenger was a master at combat, as was his master, but the sword cared little for its master’s physical state. Both of Bastion’s arms were sore and strained, and even Havoc as coiled and ready for battle as ever was breathing hard as he regained his wind. Bastion’s strength would be slow to replenish without the full extent of his power, and if the whelps’ vampire masters decided to join the fray in the next sortie the battle could turn in their favor.<br /><br />“You offer us your <em>protection</em>?” a voice called out. Few creatures dared speak to a Dream Lord in such a manner. “You are hardly in a position to offer anything but blood and sport.”<br /><br />“I wonder how the blood of a Dream Lord would taste.” another voice, this time feminine, came at them from the dark.<br /><br />“I will have the lion’s blood. I have heard it is both sweet and tart, with an underlying tone of primal warmth.” came another, male voice. Bastion’s eyes narrowed. There were at least three, though he was fairly certain that was the extent of their numbers. Even numbers represented harmony and were an ill omen to dark creatures. Vampires were also not known for working together, with such groupings when they did occur being short-lived. To have three banded together against Bastion proved a far greater power worked against him.<br /><br />A trio of forms stepped into their sight to stand among the ferals. Three of the beastly vampires crowded around one while a pair dropped to their haunches like obedient dogs at the feet of another. The last scuttled to the ivory-skinned female vampire and crouched down behind her legs like a beaten dog. “You are not of my Realm.” Bastion said. At his last count there were only a handful of truly powerful vampires in the Twilight Realm. Lordly vampires were rare in any Realm, and unless they made a nuisance of themselves in their home plane weren’t necessarily hunted down and brought here just for being a vampire.<br /><br />“And they said you were the dullard of the Lords.” the one in the middle said. The others laughed at the joke, their sycophants chortling along though they couldn’t possibly understand the slight. “I am Robért, the exceedingly gracious gentleman to my right is Boris, and the beautiful and delicate belladonna to my left is Val. Now that we know each other, you can die with our names on your lips.”<br /><br />“I am Bastion, Lord and Protector of the Twilight Realm and its peoples, bearer of the blessed sword Harvenger and master of all I survey. Remember my name, for you will be screaming it in hell.” Bastion said. This brought a huge bout of laughter from the undead, with Val’s high, tinkling laugh riding over the deeper chuckling of her fellows and the incomprehensible shrieking of their slaves. Havoc gave Bastion a glance that told the Dream Lord he was more than willing to fall upon them at any moment if he would but give the word. Bastion stayed the beast with a thought.<br /><br />“You are less than nothing, a Lord without a manor as it were.” Boris said.<br /><br />“You have gone to great lengths to hide from me and keep me from your plans. You fear me it seems, and for good reason.” Bastion said.<br /><br />“<em>Fear</em> you, dear, sweet, silly Lord Bastion? We fear nothing, least of which you. Like the Realms at large, our plans do not revolve around you. We hadn’t planned on you even being here, and your presence will do little to impact our designs. Your involvement only comes from a debt we owed in laying the foundation for our new empire. Despite being a handsome and tasty morsel, we are not the ones that care about you.” Val said.<br /><br />“We three were quite happy in our respective mortal realms, until we learned of your little oasis. Each of us was on the verge of greatness, ready to spread our power and influence beyond the ruling councils and vampiric laws you and your cohorts made sure were instituted.” Robért said.<br /><br />“To truly grow our power, your puppet dictators and the weak codes and rules they enforced had to be removed. If not for the ones you call Gilth and Dead One, we wouldn’t have learned of this Realm, nor would we have discovered that you, the Dream Lords, controlled the vampire hierarchy from your otherworldly perch. It’s obvious from how easily Dead One was able to get us into your Realm and the laughable defense your Lords offered that you are far better suited to politics than war.” Boris said.<br /><br />“I see.” The pieces were falling into place now for Bastion. “So, all of this is because of Gilth’s oath of revenge upon me. He and Dead One knew they could not come for me on Sabbatical while the other Lords ruled.”<br /><br />“Perhaps you’re not as dim as you seem, Bastion.” Val said as she absently stroked the matted hair of her remaining feral and shrugged. “No matter, we’ve upheld our end of the bargain.” Two more forms came out of the darkness, this time to Bastion’s rear. Havoc spun round to face the new threat to find a huge, humanoid lizard and a shorter man-shaped creature covered in tattered robes. Its hands were glowing with a dim, green and sickly light and its reek of rotting flesh carried across the air to them both. Bastion dared not turn away from the vampires, though he could tell by the Dead One’s corpse smell exactly who had joined the fray.<br /><br />“And finally the cowards reveal themselves.” Bastion said.<br /><br />“Cowards or no, it’s for them to finish you. We’ve other matters to attend.” Val said. With that, the three vampires turned their backs and slipped away into the darkness. The ferals remained a few moments longer, their desire to join the coming fight vying against their commands before they, too, slinked off after their masters.<br /><br />Bastion turned to face Gilth and the liche. Harvenger had thrummed silently yet painfully in his hand the entire time the trio of vampires had been in sight. Now that the Dead One was in sight the sword’s vibration increased five-fold to create a low, tremulous and eerie growl. Harvenger and Dead One were old enemies and had faced each other throughout history, their hatred transcending the half-dozen different names by which the liche had been known and the many hands that had wielded Harvenger.<br /><br />“What have you wrought here?” Bastion said.<br /><br />“I am fulfilling my oath of revenge upon you for the death of my mate and her clutch.” Gilth said. His voice was cold, soft and pitched in such a way as to make the hairs on Bastion’s arm stand on end.<br /><br />“And any enemy of Harvenger and its wielder is an enemy of mine.” Dead One added. His voice was wispy and paper-thin and carried with it a natural echo that was disturbing to the ear. The undead thing pulled back his hood to reveal a face that was more skeletal than cadaverous, its remaining skin pulled taut as a drumhead over the skull to give him a death’s-head smile even when there was no humor to be had.<br /><br />“You were the cause of Shik’vah’s death, Gilth. Had the two of you not conspired to infuse her eggs with pure dark energy, and had you surrendered them, she would yet live. What you did was unconscionable and against the laws of the Realm…” Bastion said. Gilth charged forward a few steps and raised his long, curved, serrated blade like an accusatory finger at the Dream Lord.<br /><br />“You would have me kill my children! We had no <em>choice</em> but to fight!” Gilth hissed.<br /><br />“Your parental concern is less than touching when you add that you fed the clutch so much negative energy the result would have been nothing more than born-evil. Do not try to hide behind moral outrage when you had none at the start. You sacrificed your offspring to create would be no more alive than a feral vampire.” Bastion said to the seething lizard. Gilth was a slave to his emotions where Dead One was nothing but cold, calculated evil. Together they were more than formidable, especially for a battle-sore Dream Lord cut off from much of his power. But if he could push Gilth to act on nothing but hatred, the lizard-man would make a mistake.<br /><br />“<em>You killed Shik’ Vah and destroyed my children</em>!” Gilth cried out again, his poisonous slobber sliding down his scaly neck in huge gobs with each word.<br /><br />“She attacked <em>me</em>, Gilth. I had no choice but to defend both myself and the Realm.” Bastion said evenly.<br /><br />“The Realm! The Realm! At least the rest of us make no bones about wanting power. You Lords are no better than we… worse even! You revel in the power you have, and in the power you lord over us! You love nothing more than to torture us for being only what we are. You are the evil here, not us!” Gilth said.<br /><br />“You came to me and tried to murder my childe. That is evil, Gilth. She has nothing to do with this.” Bastion said, his own ire rising a bit at the charge that he and the other Lords were nothing more than power-drunk despots.<br /><br />“Because you murdered my children! An eye for an eye, Dream Lord! An eye for an eye.” Gilth said.<br /><br />“And what of you, liche? Why do you throw your lot in with Gilth?” Bastion asked.<br /><br />“Seeing as your soul will soon part ways with your body, I see no harm in the telling.” Dead One said. The smugness in his reed-thin rasp of a voice was enough to set Bastion’s back teeth to grinding. “Robért, Boris and Val are indeed very powerful, but they are naïve in the ways of the Realms. I will allow them to assume control and destroy the rest of you Lords. Once they have their house in order, it will be a simple matter to control them. After all, I am death incarnate, Bastion.”<br /><br />“Lord Death will enjoy making you eat your hubris, Dead One.” Bastion said. “You are still of the Realms, and we all know that Lord Death does so hate competition for his mantle.”<br /><br />“That is a matter for another time.” Dead One said through his grin. “Another fact that we all know is that here in the Realm no undead creature can escape my control for long, and it matters not from where they hail. The bonds you and the rest placed upon me when you imprisoned me here will soon be gone, and when those three dolts finish their work I will no longer be under your geise. I will rule this Realm, and I will see that accursed hunk of metal you carry melted down into a chamber pot for the trolls to piss in.”<br /><br />It was all quite clear now. The off-Realm vampires weren’t the true enemy, and the Dead One was right; without the powerful bonds placed upon him by the Realm and the Lords it wouldn’t matter how powerful the vampires were, together or individually. The reality of the Realm would find them slaves to the Dead One just as their ferals were to them. It also told Bastion that though the other Lords may be in dire straits of their own they at least still lived. Otherwise, Dead One would already be free of his restraints. That meant there was still hope in saving them. Havoc opened his mind to Bastion. The Dead One would not enter melee combat. He would stay out of reach and use his dark magics against them while Gilth harried them. That meant the battle would have to be brought to the liche, and Bastion was now quite certain there was no avoiding tooth-and-steel combat, not when Gilth had the object of his single-minded revenge before him and the Dead One had so much to gain from the deaths of the Lords.<br /><br />In the space of a thought and with a deafening roar, Havoc sprung. Bastion grabbed up a handful of the lion’s mane as he shot forward, allowing himself to be carried through the air until he was within reach of Gilth. He let go of Havoc, allowing the beast to fly at the liche unfettered while his thick, armored body collided with the surprised lizard man. Both recovered quickly, even though greenish-black blood flowed freely down Gilth’s face and neck from his wounded nostrils. Bastion knew he had to be careful. Not only was Gilth a more than worthy opponent, his bodily fluids were either acidic or poisonous and Bastion wasn’t about to believe that even his armor would hold up to much of any of it without the true power of the Realm to sustain him.<br /><br />“You die this day, Dream Lord!” Gilth cried as he came at Bastion, his wicked sword held in both hands over his head. Had the blow connected it would’ve been enough to at least cleave his helm in two if not continue on to the ground to bisect Bastion in its wake. Bastion stepped to the side and brought Harvenger up to meet the attack. Steel clanged against steel in a shower of sparks again and again as the two traded blows, each measuring the other’s mettle. Bastion would’ve much preferred going at the Dead One first, but that would’ve left the unarmored Havoc to face this fountain of acid and poison. Besides, the liche depended upon time and distance to properly work his most wicked magic, and Havoc’s ferocity would keep him from the concentration he so desperately needed.<br /><br />Havoc had at first been faring well against the undead mage. The Dead One had gotten off several bursts of pure necromantic energy, but only a few had connected. The bulk of his fight was spent trying to avoid the lion’s charges and in putting distance between them. The liche was indeed powerful, but the sacrifice of his soul and living body for his power made it almost impossible to move fast enough to put just a few seconds between him and the beast. But Dead One had not lived so long by rushing into the fray or panicking in the face of physically superior opponents. The liche continued dodging and lashing out when he could until Havoc leaped at him again. Dead One dropped to the ground and placed both hands upon it, letting the beast pass harmlessly overhead while he channeled his dark incantations directly into the Dark Place.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />The moment the Dead One’s lips stopped their dark invocations, dozens of rotting hands burst forth from the ground all around the combatants. Bastion cursed as he avoided one pair of them only to have another grip his ankle and throw him off balance while three of Havoc’s four paws were set upon by more. The graveyard! How could Bastion have been so stupid? Even without his full power he should have known where in the Dark Place he was. The Dead One stood and flashed his permanent grin around the field of battle as scores of dead bodies made up of races from around the Realms clawed their way from their shallow graves to do his bidding.<br /><br />Havoc’s roars had no effect on the dead, their souls so long removed from fear as to make them immune to his rage. The effects of the dust were waning now it seemed, and it was all the lion could do to keep from being brought to ground by those still under the surface while those above ground tore at his mane and tail and tried to bite through his thick fur and hide. A dead troll, its thick hands and rotting arms still holding the power they’d once had in life, had heeded the Dead One’s call. It shambled the few steps to Havoc and fell upon him, pinning the lion to the ground while a cadavered elf tried to bite through one of his ears and three dead goblins worried at his thick hide.<br /><br />“Your comrade is down, Dream Lord. He only lives because I allow it. With but a word the troll will snap his spine. Surrender now, Bastion, and I will make both your deaths quick and painless. Your unlife, however, will not be so. I have so wanted a death knight of my very own, and your beast’s pelt will make quite a lordly robe of office.” Dead One said.<br /><br />“Bastion’s death will be nothing but suffering!” Gilth roared as he advanced on Bastion. The Dream Lord had managed to free himself from the grasping hands but was now being set upon by two mindless ogres while Gilth protested the Dead One’s change of their plans.<br /><br />“I need him in one piece, Gilth. This is for the greater good, you understand. There will not be enough of the other Lords left once the vampires are done with them. I need Bastion more or less intact. Kill him, but do it quickly and with a minimum of bodily harm.” Dead One said.<br /><br />“I will tear him apart and eat his heart!” Gilth said as he shoved through a lumbering mob of elves and satyrs to get to Bastion. Those that wouldn’t move fast enough lost heads or arms and a few were even sliced in two as the lizard man stalked across the field of battle towards Bastion. Bastion allowed Harvenger his head once again and the bastard sword literally sang as it sliced through rotting flesh and bones. It was all he could do to bring the blade back to his defense to meet Gilth’s steel once again.<br /><br />“Quickly and <em>cleanly</em>, Gilth…” the Dead One cautioned again, though this time his voice carried a very clear authority.<br /><br />“Yes… you heard your <em>master</em>, Gilth. Do as you are commanded like the slave you are!” Bastion said as he dodged another pair of dead hands and brought his blade across the lizard man’s chest. Harvenger didn’t sink deep, but the long gash he opened across the scaly green chest was enough to make more sizzling blood flow down his legs and to the ground.<br /><br />“I bow to no master!” Gilth screamed as he stumbled back and put a hand to his fresh injury. The sight of his blood on his taloned fingers and Dead One’s new attitude towards him combined. Seething red hatred of everyone and everything slid over the lizard-man’s eyes and he came at the Dream Lord with wild, vicious attacks. Bastion had originally hoped for such a tactic, but the battles of the day had taken their toll on his body. Now, it was all he could do to keep the wildly-flashing blade from slicing him to ribbons while still keeping the rest of the dead from piling upon him and bringing him to ground.<br /><br />“Havoc!” Bastion called out. The lion was still struggling furiously on the spot where the undead troll held him though he’d at least been able to shake off many of the smaller dead things from his eyes and flanks. Havoc let out a quick, almost impotent growl to announce his own straits, the pressure from the massive troll’s weight making it hard to even draw the breath to growl much less fight. Bastion risked a look to confirm his fears on Havoc’s condition and found Dead One surveying the struggles a safe distance away. Another undead troll towered over the liche, a most formidable guard for any occasion. Bastion knew this fight was going to end quickly, regardless of its outcome.<br /><br />“Just kill him and get it over with.” Dead One said to the lizard-man. Gilth’s only response was an enraged scream as he lunged again at the tired, scarred Dream Lord.<br /><br />“Stop giving me orders! You are not my master!” Gilth finally managed to hiss back at the liche as he recovered from a wide, missed arc of an attack.<br /><br />“It sounds to me as if he is, Gilth.” Bastion said between breaths. Bastion received the enraged roar and clumsy charge he’d expected from the lizard man. Using the last of his strength, Bastion leaped into the air before the pit that was the roughly-excavated grave of one of the risen trolls. Gilth’s roar turned to a whimper of confusion as his charge sent him crashing into the deep, rough hole. His speed, power and weight worked against him now as he plummeted to the bottom, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the floor of the grave. Bastion, still in the air, heard the snapping of bones below him as he turned at the waist and threw his long dagger at the troll keeping Havoc out of the fight. The blade spun end-over-end and sank deep into the troll’s neck. Bastion knew attacking anything but the skull wouldn’t stop the dead troll, but it was the softest part he could attack from a distance. The force the heavy dagger delivered was enough to put it off balance, though, and Havoc made full use of the distraction. Bastion had just enough time to tuck his body into a ball and use the rest of his momentum to carry him over the troll’s abandoned grave to keep from landing on top of Gilth where he lay below.<br /><br />“Bravo, Dream Lord.” Dead One said as Bastion rolled to a stop and rose slowly, painfully to his feet. Havoc was already out from under the troll’s hands and was going at the dead thing for all he was worth while simultaneously tossing the forms of the lesser dead away from him with wide swipes of his paws when they got too close.<br /><br />“Your admiration of my skills is humbling.” Bastion returned as he wiped a bit of blood away from his chin. Three more undead came shambling at him and he dropped his stance and swung Harvenger wide. The enchanted blade turned the three bodies into headless, unmoving corpses in its single pass. “You cannot win this, liche. I give you one last chance to comply with the laws of the Realm and stand down.” Bastion said. He thought he saw the liche smirk, though it may just have been a trick of the nearly non-existent light.<br /><br />“For one such as I, there is always another chance. I am eternal. I am Death…” Dead One said. He raised a hand towards the Dream Lord and started mumbling spidery, slippery words in a tongue dead long before the first human ever drew breath. His corpse-troll took one wide step and then another toward Bastion as the glow around the liche’s outstretched hand became a ball of green, roaring fire. Bastion had seen this power before, a flame that burned not the body but the soul within it. It would leave nothing more than a shell behind, a shell that the Dead One could use to his own ends.<br /><br />“And I am the law of this Realm, liche. But to show I am merciful, I will allow you audience with Lord Death himself so that the two of you may work out who controls his noble office once and for all.” Bastion said. Harvenger had started vibrating and whining in his grip the moment the green flames had crackled to life in the liche’s withered hand, and Bastion could see no reason why their eternal struggle should not finally end. With a massive heave, Bastion let loose his sword.<br /><br />Harvenger issued a roar as deafening and powerful as any Havoc had ever voiced as it flew threw the air. The last word of the incantation died off Dead One’s mummified lips and the flame snuffed itself as the blade hit home. It tore through paper-thin flesh and shattered brittle ribs to pierce the dark creature’s desiccated heart. “Lord Death is always looking for souls that have escaped his grasp, and you have been avoiding your final rewards for far too long already.” Bastion said.<br /><br />The liche looked down at the shimmering hilt and found the two diamonds set into the cross-guard staring back at him like shimmering, laughing eyes. No gasp or final epitaph escaped the Dead One’s lips, and no final bravado or whispered oath of vengeance was issued. The thing simply crumpled to the ground, an impotent sack of dust, skin and bones. As the Dead One crumbled so did his undead horde, but not before Havoc could have his final say in the matter of the troll. He trotted back across the litter of bones and skin to his master with the troll’s huge, chap-less skull clutched in his maw. The lion spit the thing to the ground at Bastion’s feet just as Gilth managed to crawl up from the grave.<br /><br />The lizard man reached the surface then simply collapsed, careful not to lay on the piece of jagged bone that jutted up through his thigh. Bastion had hoped Gilth’s drop into the ground would be enough to take him out of the fight at least long enough to deal with Dead One, but the sight of the lizard-man’s own sword jutting from his guts proved that fate had other plans. Falling upon one’s own sword by chance was no way for a warrior to die, but after the events of the day Bastion was more than willing to take what victories he could from whatever quarter they came. Bastion and Havoc went to the graveside to join the shattered Gilth.<br /><br />“Look what your need for misguided vengeance has wrought, Gilth. You are responsible for all of this, and you may well yet be responsible for the destruction of the Realm itself.” Bastion said.<br /><br />“Then <em>let it die</em>!” Gilth said. He coughed, producing a large glob of bloody spittle that sizzled on the ground. “It is nothing more than a prison, tended by obscene guards!” Bastion kneeled down beside Gilth’s shattered body.<br /><br />“Without this Realm and its protections, you and your ilk would have been hunted to extinction eons ago and across every Realm. Here, you had the chance to live as free as your own natures would allow. You may have doomed every denizen of this Realm to extinction by your selfish desires. I offer you the chance to redeem yourself… tell me what you know of the vampires’ plans. Where are they keeping the other Dream Lords? What has become of the rest of my charges?” Bastion asked. Gilth looked up at him with nothing but blind hatred.<br /><br />“I will tell you <em>nothing</em>, Dream Lord… you, I… your precious Realm… will all go to our deaths…” Another fit of bloody coughing racked the lizard-man, and only now could Bastion see that several of his ribs had been broken in the fall as well, their points sticking up at different angles through his chest. Like as not there were other jagged bits that even now cut into his lungs and organs with every labored word and breath. “For what time remains you… you will know that the beginning of the end came from your murder of my beloved and my children.” Gilth said. His breath came in short death rattles now and the blood simply rolled out of his mouth and nose, his lungs lacking the air to even expel the stuff with any real force. “My vengeance is upon you, Dream Lord… you and you all…” Gilth took one last, shuddering breath and then went still as death exhaled his soul onto the path of his next Realm.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Havoc trotted away while Bastion collected his thoughts. When the lion returned, the Dream Lord’s long dagger was in his mouth. The noble beast was moving much more slowly now and was definitely showing his war wounds. The dust had given him great power, but it exacted its toll upon being spent. Bastion wasn’t fairing much better, but he instructed Havoc to take a moment and nurse his own wounds. Bastion wouldn’t be much better or worse off at this point, but if they were going to carry the day he needed Havoc to be as healed and strong as he could be.<br /><br />While Havoc dabbed at his wounds with his tongue, Bastion walked to the sight of the liche’s demise, careful not to disturb the bones of the huge troll as he went. Harvenger was there, but its steel was now dull and lifeless, its diamonds chipped and cracked in their settings and deep pits and rust scars marred the length of the once-keen blade. Now that it had slain its lifelong enemy, had slain the reason for its very creation, the true age of its mundane parts was visited upon it. What had once been a powerful blade, full of its own life and energy would now fall to slivers if brought sharply against a tailor’s scissors.<br /><br />Bastion came back to the grave and regarded Gilth’s corpse for a moment before grabbing the hilt of the lizard-man’s sword. The Dream Lord put his foot upon the corpse and pushed, freeing the sword to his hand and the body to the bottom of the deep grave. If all ended well, the graveyard would need attention and the corpses would all need returned to their proper plots. What was superstition in other Realms was simply real here, and Bastion wasn’t about to risk everything to save his Realm just to have it haunted by the souls whose rest the Dead One had chosen to disturb.<br /><br />Bastion closely inspected Gilth’s blade. It was no Harvenger, but it would have to do. Havoc looked up at him. The great beast’s body still showed the ravages of their long day at war, but at least his eyes still sparkled with their same inner light. The lion got to his feet, shook out its shaggy mane then threw back his head. The roar that followed told Bastion all he needed to know about his comrade’s readiness to fight.<br /><br />“Come, Havoc. We have a Realm to save.”Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-56003079759828383532010-12-08T17:41:00.000-08:002010-12-08T19:16:08.446-08:00Vacation - Fiction<em>I wrote this tale many years ago, one of the first I managed to complete after deciding to come back to writing on a regular basis. It's a little rough, but I've always had a soft spot for it and, as they say, 'tis the season and all. I hope you enjoy.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br />Chris took one vacation a year. Hell, the place could burn down and the wife could be banging the mailman and he wouldn’t care till Monday. She was away on her vacation though; a week in the Bahamas. Chris on the other hand never went anywhere, claiming having his wife on one of her long Caribbean holidays was vacation enough. He squinted at the mounds of clothes, half–eaten pizza and porno tapes that littered the floor and stepped lightly through the collected mess on his way to the phone. He knew who was on the other end before he even picked up. Only one person would dare to call him while he was on vacation.<br /><br />“Boss, any other time I’m glad to hear from you and all, but come on…” he stopped short and listened for several moments. “Can’t this wait? I mean, Jes…” he listened for a few minutes then jotted some notes on the back of an envelope. “I’ll take care of it. Yeah… consider it done. Did you get the fruitcake? Great… yeah, and a merry one to you, too” Chris hung up the phone and held his head in his hands. His beard was matted and gummed with something. God knew what. “All right, damn it…” he mumbled to himself as he made his way to the bathroom, “…but I’m taking Monday off, too.”<br /><br />After a shower and a good conditioning rinse for his voluminous beard he hefted his 400+ pound frame into a pair of old, faded jeans, favorite Harley ‘T’ and battered, ancient and ever–comfortable black leather duster. Not the type of outfit that a man in his position usually wore, but to hell with appearances. Technically, he was still on vacation. These little side jobs were more a hobby for him anymore, and he only did them when no one else would do. It would be flattering if it didn’t involve risking his neck in one fashion or another. Chris rinsed his mouth from a fresh bottle of scotch hidden away from his wife in the toilet tank then walked back to the large oil painting on the far wall of the bedroom. He pressed a corner of the frame and stepped back as the painting slid up and into the wall.<br /><br />It'd been years, but he was confident his reflexes and aim were as good today as they were when he did this kind of thing for a living. He lovingly passed his hands over several small machine pistols and pulled one from its mooring, checking the action and finding it as sweet and quiet as he remembered. The weight felt good in his hand, and when he extended his arm and flipped on the laser site the red dot never wavered from its spot on the wall. Chris threw the pistol on the bed and dug through the collected arsenal in earnest. By the time he was done, ten magazines, boxes of ammo, a shoulder rig and other items were piled there. The guns wouldn’t be enough though. If the Boss was right, the bullets may help but wouldn’t solve the problem. And the Boss was never wrong.<br /><br />Chris moved down the line and pulled several long daggers and a ballistic belt lined with more than a dozen tiny shuriken. These joined the guns on the bed, along with a shortened katana and scabbard. He closed the arsenal then went to work dispersing the weapons. The pistols rode in their shoulder holsters, the custom–designed weapons barely leaving their mark through the heavy leather coat. He slung the belt around his ample girth then secured daggers to his forearms by special sheaths of his own design. The sword completed the arsenal and slid smoothly into a long, thin pouch sewn into the lining at the back of the duster by his loving wife many years ago. Chris thought about his promise to her, that he wouldn’t take these jobs any more. But right about now Sarah was sunning herself on some white sand somewhere. He should be back in plenty of time, and with any luck she would be none the wiser.<br /><br />He opened a box of ammo and struggled to pull a single shell from the plastic packaging before simply dumping the contents on the bed. For a man with fingers like sausages, loading the slim magazines was an exercise in sore digits. He reached over to the nightstand and hit the intercom. “Rex, get in here” Several seconds later Chris heard the small, tinny voice of his most prized assistant come over the speaker.<br /><br />“<em>Boss</em>? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you till at least tomorrow afternoon, figured you’d be out of booze by then” Rex said.<br /><br />“Just get your ass in here, would ya’?” The line went dead and the door swung open.<br /><br />“Yeah, Boss?” Rex was a small man but he had a temper to match his employer’s and feared nothing. Loyal to the end, he was one of the few people Chris could ever say he could trust with his money, life or wife. The diminutive aide looked down at the bed and saw the scattered shells and magazines then cocked his head at the big man. “Let me guess… don’t tell the missus, right?”<br /><br />Chris got up from the bed, his nearly seven foot frame towering half–again over Rex.<br /><br />“Technically, I’m still on vacation”<br /><br />“Sure, boss. Where you going, anyway? You know, in case the missus calls or something?” Rex asked.<br /><br />“Just tell her I’m out. I’ll figure something in the unlikely event she can leave the cabana boys alone long enough to call” Chris knew he shouldn’t talk about his wife that way. While he knew Sarah could be a flirt he also knew that a more loyal and loving woman couldn’t be found. <em>And Christ she could cook</em> he reminded himself as he absently patted his expansive middle. He felt a sharp twinge just behind his eyes and grimaced through it, chalking it up to the excess scotch mixing with the natural high of going on a job.<br /><br />While Rex finished Chris went for a bit of the hair of the dog and threw a bandana over his white hair. He marveled at the way the little man’s fingers flew over the bullets and magazines with the dexterity of a pianist. But what Chris lacked in grace, he could certainly make up for in sheer power and an animal cunning the likes of which few men possessed. “Aren’t you done yet?”<br /><br />“Almost...” Rex said without looking up. He smacked each magazine against his calloused palm and left them in a pile on the bed. “Hey, Boss… ain’t you getting’ a little, you know... <em>old</em> for this kind of thing?”<br /><br />“Rex, you know better than that” Chris said.<br /><br />“Yeah, but what if something happens? I’m not sure if the place could go on without you. Union or not, you know we think the world of ya’. And you know it would just devastate the missus” Rex said.<br /><br />Chris sighed and pulled a pair of sunglasses from his coat and adjusted them in the bedroom mirror. “Rex, we’ve been together a long time. Have you ever seen a punk that could make me turn tail and run, from the boardroom to the bar room, or make it so I couldn’t run at all?”<br /><br />“No. But I’ve never seen him call you out from vacation before, either. Is it a bad one?” Rex asked.<br /><br />“No; maybe worse than some but it’s better than others. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be home before the old lady gets back. You just make sure Greg and the guys keep their asses moving. Just ‘cause I’m on vacation doesn’t mean <em>they</em> are” Chris said.<br /><br />“I’ll call up the boys in the front office personally, Boss” Rex said. Chris nodded and swept up the magazines in his massive hands and slid them into the pouches on his belt. “Hey Boss, how you getting’ to wherever it is you’re goin’, anyway? You want the usual?”<br /><br />“No” Chris said over his shoulder after a moment’s thought. “Call the garage and tell them to get the bike ready.”<br /><br />“The bike? Boss, its winter and all… you don’t want the bike” Rex said.<br /><br />“It’s okay, mom… I’m wearing a warm coat and clean underwear” Chris said as he left the room and stalked down the long hallway. He passed Rex’s “ready room”, a converted closet that left just enough room for his intrepid aide and all the security monitoring gear he had installed in the house and plant over the years. Rex had convinced him long ago that since he insisted on having his home so close to the factory that he should at least take the same precautions he took for the factory itself. Every inch of the grounds had a camera on it at some point, and the electrified fence and guard dogs were certainly a nice touch though Chris believed the dogs were more for Rex’s benefit than that of household security. Chris had the only guard dogs he knew of that could roll over, play dead and bring their pipsqueak of a master a beer on command. He thought all the security measures were a bit much, though. Anyone that would want to come for him wouldn’t be stopped by a few dogs and volts. But gigs like this helped convince him that the missus would feel a bit safer in case his side work ever came home.<br /><br />Chris took the stairs two at a time, surprised at how good he was starting to feel. You could take the hit out of the man but not the man out of the hit, he supposed. Maybe he should take a few more of these jobs once in awhile, just to keep in shape. After all, the wife <em>had</em> been on him about his weight.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Chris checked his watch against the night sky and found he had enough time for a bite. Pulling into an alley, he stashed the bike and walked to a small diner just down the block. Several portions of steak, potatoes and eggs later he dropped a hundred on the worn table and made his way out into the full, cold Pennsylvania night. Chris rationalized the dinner stop, though his wife would have scolded him for what amounted to a heart attack on several plates. His prey wouldn’t be out and about until true night fell. No sense in wandering about aimlessly. The target wouldn’t be concerned with the warehouses and docks in this part of town; too many people and too many time cards that would wonder where victims had run off to. But the area also boasted several clubs, some with reputations that would bring his prey. The Boss’ intelligence had pointed to the area. All that was left to do now was find him.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />Chris had almost given up after the third dead-end lead when he found he could almost smell his prey as he walked through the fourth door that night; a ramshackle warehouse that had been converted into a posh, trendy club, its music so loud and forceful that it thrummed through the soles of his boots. All he had to do now was find the target through the press of sweating young bodies.<br /><br />The place was packed with dancers. Even a figure as imposing as he took some doing to get through the bodies in various stages of clothed sex. Chris finally made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. A young girl with more piercings than she had years laughed and yelled over the din that this was a juice and water bar. Scotch was a nationality here, not a drink. Chris shook his head, settled his bulk onto an undersized barstool and waved the girl away. If this was what the world was coming to, when a man couldn’t even walk into a bar and get a decent drink, he didn’t want any part of it. In this line of work it was always wise to prepare for anything, and the silver flask that had kept him warm on more than one cold night proved useful here, too. Chris took a few pulls from the flask and scanned the room with a practiced eye. Even at this hour the place showed no signs of letting out. If he was going to find the target it would have to be on the hoof. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up only to have the barmaid yell at him for the act. Chris shrugged her off and started stalking through the crowd, pushing through the largest groups of them when common sense wouldn’t do.<br /><br />He made his way to the back of the room and found thinner crowds around a doorway marked <em>CHILL</em>. He shrugged, put his cigarette out in a stray glass of juice and made his way through the heavily–beaded curtain. True to its signage, the room was cooler and dimmer than the dancehall and populated with dozens of overstuffed couches and chairs filled with young bodies stinking of perspiration, cologne and perfume. As Chris made his way to the back of the room he was hit with a sudden impression of darkness bordering on pure evil. The scent filled his nostrils and turned his head to a back corner. He pushed through the lighter crowd to tower over two figures stretched out on a sofa. With speed belying his girth Chris reached into the darkness and grabbed a too–warm pair of bare shoulders. He had to grip the young woman tightly to keep the blood smeared on her skin from loosening his grip as he hauled her from the couch and threw her into a nearby chair. A young, gaunt and quite startled man with skin so pale that it almost glowed in the darkness save for the crimson–black smear across his chin gaped up at him.<br /><br />Chris drew both pistols and started firing. Instead of screaming, the man hissed and clawed even as dozens of bullets pounded their way through his chest. With unnatural speed and grace the man rose from the couch without first standing and shot up into the air, still hissing over his shoulder at the burly assassin. If he'd had any doubts about the man being his target, they were gone in the haze of gun smoke.<br /><br />Chris tried to follow his prey as he clung to the rafters like a fly but the gunshots had caused the room to erupt into panic. Chris plowed through the crowds but his unnatural prey was simply too fast. Someone threw on the houselights and the fire alarm to aid in clearing out the club, and by the time Chris’s vision recovered from the sudden light his prey was gone. He holstered his weapons and was forced to drop several bouncers to unconsciousness as they tried to stop him at the back door. The last of them Chris spared, telling him to find the young girl he’d separated from his target to make sure she received medical attention before he kicked open an emergency door to the alley.<br /><br />He walked off, away from the sounds of approaching sirens, and crossed several streets and alleys before finding one in which to rest. He knew the bullets would do little to the thing. The intent had been to stun his prey long enough to bury a silver blade deep in his heart. But the target proved exceptionally strong, recovering from the attack too soon for Chris’ taste. He'd underestimated his target and had allowed his youthful appearance to fool him into believing the creature was inexperienced. But he dimly recognized the thing that had once been a man, and Chris never forgot a face. He leaned back against the ice–cold bricks of a building and closed his eyes, scanning his mind to match the face with a name. After several long moments, he pulled out a cell phone and pressed a button.<br /><br />“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, Boss." Rex said. "You done yet?”<br /><br />“Not hardly. Hold on a sec’” Chris pulled a small ear bud from his coat, pushed it into the phone then attached the phone to his belt to free his hands. “Target gave me the slip” He pulled his pistols, ejected the spent magazines then jammed the weapons against his belt to meet the magazine ports with the specially–designed sheaths for his clips. The fresh ammunition seated with a satisfying click. “I need you to run this guy through the database. Name’s Gerhund, Thomas Gerhund… origin early 1800’s. Definitely a bad guy. Check the Slavic lists first” Chris said.<br /><br />“Sure Boss. Hold on” After less than a minute, Rex came back on the line. “Got it Boss. It’s been awhile, though. How come this guy ain’t dead?”<br /><br />“He is, Rex. He is. Triangulate the target’s current position relative to my location. The sun will be up soon” Now that he had the target’s name, Rex could track Gerhund anywhere he went. Chris let the ashes fall from his cigarette and sent the slides on the pistols home to chamber their rounds. “Come on, Rex, I don’t have a lot of time here”<br /><br />“Give it a sec’, Boss. We have to go through some old records here. Wait… got him. One block south of your current position, 150 yards west, looks like he’s pretty deep into a big building. You sure you don’t need any help?” Rex asked, concern creeping into his voice.<br /><br />“Got it under control, Rex” Chris said.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />Chris made his way to Rex’s coordinates; an old, abandoned warehouse. It was a wonder it hadn’t been turned it into another nightclub. He found several boards pried away from a low window and removed a few more to allow for his frame, revealing the building’s hopelessly dark interior. After a few moments to adjust Chris made his way across the floor and listened as countless tiny feet skittered around him, telling him he should be on the right track. Rats wouldn’t be there if there wasn’t food. He just didn’t want to think about the leftovers they would be having here. On the other side of a ragged and splintered doorway he found a wide, open room with steel pillars every few yards to support the upper floors. Chris made a mental note to tread lightly. Old floors had a way of letting go at inopportune times. Every step he took sounded like thunder in his ears but it didn’t matter. He knew the target could hear him regardless of how softly he tread. “Rex…?”<br /><br />“Still here Boss” Rex said.<br /><br />“Gerhund… he still in the same spot?” Chris asked.<br /><br />“Yeah. Scan shows he’s not alone though. Without names I can’t get a good fix or even how many there are. Sure you don’t want me to send in the boys?” Rex asked.<br /><br />“Not necessary, they should be working anyway. They <em>are</em> working, aren’t they?” Chris asked.<br /><br />“Sure, boss. Why wouldn’t they be?”<br /><br />Chris crept across the floor and looked for a way to the basement. He could make out piles of bottles and other refuse, some old and others still relatively fresh, and the darker stains covering various parts of the floor spoke of other appetites. Judging from the size of some of the debris piles and the stains, there was no telling how many could be waiting for him. No wonder the Boss wanted this one. Apparently, no one had explained the Pact to Gerhund. Or, worse yet, Gerhund had chosen to ignore it.<br /><br />Chris sensed movement behind and spun to his right, pistols leveled. He could see the snarling faces and gleaming fangs in the muzzle blasts as a pair of young women crossed paths with dozens of his slugs. The force of the bullets changed the women’s momentum, throwing them back several feet to land in a twisted pile of arms and legs. Chris wasted no time and charged at them. He holstered a pistol and drew a long silver blade, burying it in the heart of the one on top. An unearthly shriek played counterpoint to the rattle of the auto pistol in his other hand as he placed it against the neck of the second and used the stream of lead to sever her head from her body. He waited a moment before pulling the dagger from the corpse and watched as both bodies aged years in moments, ending as piles of bones and gore. Chris sniffed away the momentary yet overpowering stench of a century’s worth of decay occurring in seconds, the smell both heartening and steeling him. Gerhund had obviously become truly naughty.<br /><br />There was no use now in being quiet now. He could hear echoing sounds of pounding feet to his far left, revealing the way down he sought as the edges of the room suddenly came alive with movement. “Boss,” Rex said in his ear, “I count 12, all room temperature. Eight from up the stairs, four more at the compass… you sure you don’t need help?”<br /><br />“Just like the old days” Chris said.<br /><br />Gerhund had obviously been busy creating an army of undead in violation of one of the primary tenets of the Pact. Chris knew not all of these could be as strong and ancient as Gerhund, and it only made sense that the least powerful of them would be used as fodder. He launched away from the stairs and ran directly for the closest one. It stopped in its tracks, unsure of how to react to the burly human charging towards it. The vampire opened its mouth to bear its fangs only to have the muzzle of an auto pistol bury itself deep in his throat. One burst from the weapon tore open the back of the beast’s head and severed the spinal column with only a few bits of skin remaining to keep the head from falling to the floor. This one had been recently-turned and simply didn’t have the power and strength to regenerate or to even keep going. With a look more of surprise than pain he crumbled to the ground and disintegrated. “One!” Chris counted off into his headset.<br /><br />Another had rushed Chris as he dispatched the last and gripped his shoulder. Chris swung his arm in a circular motion to dislodge the talons and continued the movement to land a huge hand over the face of the undead, squeezing with unearthly might to shatter the cheekbones and upper jaw. All the monster could do was screech as Chris turned his body, pulled his hand away and balled it up into a fist. He clocked the thing on the side of his head and didn’t bother to wipe away the gore when the left eye exploded from its socket.<br /><br />“Can’t die, huh? Can you feel pain?” Chris growled. The rest were approaching more slowly now, wary of the big man. Chris raised a massive boot and without looking away from the advancing horde let it fall on the one he’d just put down, reducing the head to only an inch or so thick as the other eye and a generous portion of gray matter sluiced across the floor. “Two…” Chris hissed into the microphone. He could feel adrenaline and power filling his old bones now and chose to take the battle to them.<br /><br />Chris stalked across the floor to the remaining group. Apparently bravery didn’t accompany their gifts from the grave as several of them backed away despite their numbers. Staccato gun blasts ripped through the darkened warehouse with the occasional flicker of light glinting from Chris’s gore–stained silver blade. Rex could hear Chris counting off his kills between the sounds of gunfire, shrieking and the constant tinkling of spent brass hitting the floor. Three through six came quickly. Seven, eight and nine proved slightly more difficult. Ten and eleven were destroyed in vicious hand-to-hand combat, his employer slaughtering and beheading those two with nothing more than his bare hands. Rex knew better than to speak now and break his employer’s concentration. Only after several moments of silence did Rex hazard a word.<br /><br />“Boss, you okay?”<br /><br />“Yeah, Rex, just looking for number twelve. Wait… don’t tell me” Rex could hear the heavy steps and slow breathing through the phone, Chris’ rendition of come out, come out, wherever you are enough to make him shudder. The sound of breaking wood and shattering glass burned through the phone and made the small man wince as he imagined Chris pulling the hapless creature back through a window that it thought had offered escape. “Twelve”<br /><br />“I don’t have any more movement on your floor, boss” Rex said as he watched the screen. “Heh heh… bet it must stink pretty good in there, huh boss?”<br /><br />“You have no idea” Chris said. Actually, Rex did have some idea. He’d been along on more than one of Chris’s assignments in the old days. But time had not been as kind to the Chris’s right hand man, and Rex found that just getting out of bed of the mornings created all sorts of sounds a body just shouldn’t make. “I’m goin’ in, Rex. Give me positions and a headcount as soon as you get the info. I doubt you’ll get much of it before I do, though.”<br /><br />“Boss, why don’t you wait till daylight, huh? Let me send in a few of the boys to mop up the place. I got a bad feeling about this one” Rex said.<br /><br />“This punk is nothin’ I can’t handle…” the line went dead. Rex tried to reestablish it but it was no use. He could still use the phone to keep track of Chris’ movements, and he could even see where several humanoid figures were appearing around him. But without the open line all he could do was watch, helplessly, as the screen became polluted with monsters set on destroying his life-long friend.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><br />Chris’s conversation with Rex died on his lips as he felt strong hands try to grab him from beneath the stairs. He brought his foot down on the old, rotting risers with the intention of crushing the clawing hands beneath his steel-shod boot. Instead, he crushed the step below, causing a chain reaction that brought fat man and staircase down in a heap to the concrete basement floor.<br /><br />Chris could feel their filthy claws as they tore through his coat and into his flesh. Several well–placed kicks and punches sent more than a few sprawling. Two of them managed to bite into his flesh. The pain was intense and it was all Chris could do not to black out. With Herculean effort he was able to reach his silver blade and started hacking at every piece of dead flesh he could see. The wounds he caused with the argent dagger would pain and bleed, leaving them unable to heal until the beasts could feed again. He could already feel their hellish poison coursing through his veins from their bites though as he stood and shrugged off the last few. A soft, mocking clap of applause came from somewhere in the darkened basement as the remaining creatures backed away. Chris removed a glove and felt the wound on the side of his neck and the rushing pulse of his blood as it spurted out. He could see two of the undead lick at lips now stained crimson from his blood.<br /><br />“I don’t know who you are, or even <em>what</em> you are” a voice said. It had a soft quality with a hint of an accent, one that the speaker would have tried hard to lose over the course of almost two centuries. “But I do know that you are now mine” Gerhund walked towards Chris, the crowd of the dead parting for him. “You have been infected by my children, my strong yet stupid friend. And very soon, you will be my pet.”<br /><br />Chris winced at the pain. He could feel Gerhund’s mind as the master vampire tried to establish his sickly influence, trying to control him. Chris heaved a sigh made all the grander for the rise and fall of his immense bulk. “Gerhund…” he whispered weakly, “You have no earthly clue who you are fucking with.”<br /><br />“You have me at a disadvantage. So how is it a fat slob like you would know my name?” Gerhund asked.<br /><br />“Easy” Chris smiled and spat out a wad of blood, hitting one of Gerhund’s spawn on the arm. The vampire lapped at the blood hungrily, mocking Chris with his eyes and gestures. “I know <em>everyone</em>, <em>everywhere</em> that has been naughty, or nice. You broke the Pact. That was naughty. Then you killed all these innocent people and turned them; more naughtiness.” He straightened and turned his neck to the left then right. The wounds from their fangs glowed softly then closed over, the jagged flesh knitting together before their undead eyes. “Gerhund, I have to tell you this… I absolutely, without a doubt, <em>hate</em> vampires. But more importantly, so does the Boss. You exist only because of the Pact, just like me” As Chris spoke, the two that had attacked him and the one that had so happily lapped up his bloody spittle began acting strangely. Their faces contorted and gurgling sounds came from their throats as the flesh on their faces seemed to slide down their jawbones and their mouths opened in silent screams. The rest of the host backed away from the three and watched as they melted from the inside. “Guess they ate something that didn’t agree with them. Guess that makes me one of the good guys, huh?”<br /><br />Gerhund eyed him warily as the rest of his brood circled. Chris laughed in his hearty way as comprehension slid across the ancient vampire’s face. “No… you don’t exist” Gerhund said. One of the vampires launched at Chris but the big man was far faster and caught her up by the throat. This one was stronger but her inexperience trumped her hell-born strength. Chris brought the thin body down across his meaty thigh and slammed his fist down on the back of the vampire’s neck, the heel of his hand not stopping until it smashed completely through the base of the skull. Gerhund backed away while the rest surged forward. “Kill him!” Gerhund screamed.<br /><br />Chris dropped his hands to his sides and pulled out handfuls of silver–plated shuriken then stepped forward and let fly with the dozen silver slivers of death. They flew through the space between them and him, deadly and argent, burying themselves deep into necks and cheeks. The vampires howled in chorus as they clawed at the metal. The silver burned them at the touch, causing more wounds to their hands and only serving to increase their pain. Five of them fell to the floor, writhing in agony as their flesh rotted from within at the touch of the pure metal.<br /><br />“You better watch out….” Chris belted out as he drew his short sword and spun it over his head. He let go and watched as it spun in perfect balance across the room, neatly cleaving the head from another before coming to rest by biting into a rough wooden pillar. “You better not cry…”<br />Chris crouched as the remaining three prepared to pounce. Their hesitation showed they were afraid, and rightly so. Bloodlust overtook the jolly old elf as he dove forward and produced two finely–edged daggers. The blades were nearly lost in his broad fists, but enough protruded to spell pain and anguish as he fell upon them, moving among them so lively and quick that their talons and fangs met only empty air. These were far stronger than the rest he had faced, and Chris knew that unless he took the time to bury the silver deep in their hearts or remove their heads he couldn’t completely eliminate them. But he'd already lost sight of Gerhund, and one as old and crafty would surely have planned an escape route. Chris left the trio on the floor and charged past them into the darkness beyond.<br /><br />“You better not pout, I’m a tellin’ you why…” Chris continued as he slowed his pace and found himself in a room of shelf units laid out in rows. His sight was excellent, a byproduct of working exclusively at night, but with such clutter he knew that a true creature of the night would have the advantage. He reached deep into a pocket in his coat and pulled out a handful of glittering dust. Chris took a deep breath, held out his palm and blew on it. His pure breath and powerful lungs carried the dust, and wherever it alit it emitted a soft glow producing more than enough light to see by in the old tool room. It was good to have connections within the Pact, especially with the fey and their kin. “…’cause…<em>Santa Claus is comin’ to town</em>…” he bellowed in his best ‘Jersey–tinged Springsteen. He’d grown tired of the song after so many decades, but at least the E-Street version was less pretentious than all the choral crap. “I know you’re in here…” Chris growled as he wound his way between the tall racks. “I can see you when you’re sleeping, and I sure as hell know when you’re awake” Chris said as he pulled a pistol, keeping the muzzle in front of him.<br /><br />“You’re not real.” Chris heard from somewhere in the gloom. Gerhund’s voice was soft and nearly lost in the space, making it difficult for Chris to pinpoint his location. “Who are you?”<br /><br />“You know who I am, Gerhund. I’m as real as you are. You know the Pact; it’s the whole reason why things like you and me exist. Your boss put all kinds of you in the world; vampires, werewolves, ghouls, lawyers. In return, and in His infinite wisdom, my Boss chose to allow your types to remain on the mortal coil instead of wiping you out wholesale. His way of leaving a few more options for people and enough rope to hang themselves. But He had to balance the scale. So He sent a few of us down here to act as the ‘polar opposite’, no pun intended. Whoever turned you should've told you all this. They should've also told you to lay low and keep your thing to a minimum. By creating this little hive, you’ve not only threatened the balance and violated the Pact, you’ve really pissed off the Boss” Chris hadn’t stopped moving through the room as he spoke, and more than once he could hear soft movement as Gerhund tried to shift his position.<br /><br />“I know of no <em>Pact</em>…I was never told” came from the somewhere in the room. “A deal then, fat man; I will abide by this Pact as you call it and trouble you no more if we leave this little episode as a stalemate. What do you say?” Gerhund looked up when he heard the screech of tearing, rusty metal as the shelf he hid behind was pulled from its moorings. He tried to move but hesitated a moment too long as the shelf unit crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust and motes of fairy light, pinning the vampire’s legs beneath it. The old elf perched on top of the prone shelves, adding more weight than even the vampire could move easily.<br /><br />“Sorry, sparky,” Chris said as he stood over Gerhund, “but you’ve been a very naughty boy. No deals with naughty boys” Chris pulled a long silver dagger and took it in both fists, blade down. “This is going to hurt you way more than me” Chris said as he leaped into the air, intending to fall upon the vampire and bury the silver deep in his heart. Gerhund had not lived so long by being stupid. As soon as the big man’s bulk lifted the vampire summoned up his strength and in a display of desperation pulled himself from the wreckage, slipping off across the floor like a spider. With no soft body there to meet Chris or his blade they hit the concrete floor directly, the force of the landing shattering the blade and leaving Chris with an empty hilt as Gerhund regained his feet and sneered at him.<br /><br />“Ah, no silver for the jolly old elf, eh?” Gerhund’s sneer turned into a smile as he flexed his talon-tipped fingers. “You can’t truly kill me without it, elf” From the other room, they could both hear the sudden sounds of booted feet moving across the floor. Short bursts of gunfire erupted and voices shouted for Chris. Apparently, Rex hadn’t listened. Chris took the moment and drew his two short daggers. They sailed across the room and buried themselves in the vampire’s chest and shoulder. He knew they wouldn’t be long enough to pierce the heart, but the diversion would be enough. Chris charged the wounded vampire and covered the last several feet by launching himself through the air, slamming into the creature with his airborne weight. Gerhund couldn’t even hiss as the pain from the daggers and the crushing force of Chris’ bulk slammed him against the wall. Still, the vampire would not fall.<br /><br />“I wouldn’t let you die so quickly anyway, Gerhund” Chris growled at him. He took a step back and sent a huge fist flying. It struck the pommel of the dagger protruding from the vampire’s shoulder, sinking the silver blade up to its hilt. Gerhund screamed, the sound borne of hell and with all the shrill quality of a banshee’s keening. Black blood shot from around the hilt, speckling Chris’ rosy cheeks and running down the vampire’s chest. With power ripped from damnation and desperation, Gerhund forced his hands out before him, his claws piercing Chris’ coat and the flesh beneath then tore downward. Chris roared and fell back a step, giving the vampire the chance to move. Gerhund climbed up the wall with horrific grace, still facing the assassin.<br /><br />“You will die, elf… make no mistake. I’ll drink the blood of virgins from your skull!”<br /><br />“<em>Virgins</em>? Find <em>one</em>. I dare you. Remember, I have the inside track on that one; naughty and nice covers a lot of ground” Chris stood straight, ignoring the searing pain and his blood as it ran in torrents down his chest. He was known for having the largest heart in the world, but that massive muscle betrayed him now as it pumped his life away. He would have no time to concentrate and allow his nature to heal his mortal wounds and still fend off the vampire.<br /><br />Just then, several diminutive figures burst into the room. Decked out in body armor and submachine guns, they looked for the world like the militant arm of the Lollipop Guild. Chris knew that Rex must have mobilized them in a hurry since many were still wore the green, pointy–toed and belled slippers they favored in the workshops and storerooms back at the ‘Pole. He would’ve laughed had he not known just how effective his people could be. After all, he’d trained them.<br /><br />The elves flew into the room in a standard entry formation, red laser lights dancing across the room like fairy fire. Several had already trained their tiny points of death on the vampire clinging to the wall above them. Gerhund hissed and made to leap from the wall but several of the elves caught the minute muscle movements and instinctively opened fire. Chris backpedaled out of reflex and watched as the tracers marked the paths of the bullets and smiled, knowing that the glowing rounds were capped with pure silver. Gerhund couldn’t move fast enough in his weakened state to avoid the barrage as they bore into him and burned in his flesh. He fell from the wall in a heap but was able to untangle his limbs quickly. Now more feral than thinking, his taut leg muscles tensed to spring on the big elf.<br /><br />Chris saw him move and determined Gerhund would still reach him in the micro–seconds it would take to produce a weapon. Chris also realized in that split-second his body was blocking the sight-path for most of his elves to regain their target. If he moved out of the way of the vampire’s attack it would only serve to deliver Gerhund into the press of his elves. At such range the tiny warriors could do little against the monster’s ferocity. Though their nature was nearly as supernatural as his, they were not wholly immortal. The vampire would easily slay the bulk of them before Chris could intervene.<br /><br />Chris braced for Gerhund’s impact and lowered his stance just as Rex sprang into the room, waving the big assassin’s sword he’d freed from the pillar then heaved it across the room. Chris closed his eyes and sensed the flight of both sword and monster as he moved into a spin. On the backward side, Chris plucked the sword from the air as if it were a softball, allowing the incredible momentum propelled by his girth to complete the spin. Still moving, Chris braced the bottom of the hilt with his off hand, kneeled then rose up on his thickly–muscled legs. The sword caught Gerhund in mid–air, the tanto point piercing the monster where his neck met his chest as Chris’s upward motion worked with the vampire’s momentum to run the length of the sword through the roof of Gerhund’s mouth, through his black and murderous mind to exit through the top of his skull. With a massive effort, Chris continued spinning, this time dropping his arms and bringing the monster to ground. He could feel several of his muscles as well as a tendon or two tear as they were forced to shift not only his own weight but the weight and momentum of the vampire. Gerhund hit the floor hard with a force that would have killed any mortal man.<br /><br />“Ho ho ho…” Chris growled at the creature at his feet. “Rex! Is the sun up yet?”<br /><br />“Just rising, Boss!”<br /><br />“Get out of here. I hear sirens. Last thing we need is to get caught in here and try to explain that we’re just spreading some holiday cheer. Where’s the sleigh?” Chris asked.<br /><br />“On the roof Boss… where else?”<br /><br />“Of course.” Chris said. He was breathing hard now and had to work to control the squirming, shrieking thing impaled on his blade. He kicked the vampire a few times for good measure then followed the retreating elves. The small soldiers had gained the basement by way of ropes, but there was no way that Chris could keep the vampire immobilized and climb a rope at the same time. Of course, he wouldn’t need to. After the elves had scurried up the ropes, Chris hauled the vampire into the air with one arm and held it as far away as he could to avoid the scrabbling claws then laid a finger to the side of his nose and up, up, up to the first floor he rose.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />Chris’s legs were pumping well before his feet touched the warehouse’s ground floor, creating a rather cartoon–like effect until his heavy boots found traction he was off, dragging the hapless vampire behind him. He’d dealt with vampires before, and though beheading worked in most cases this one was particularly ancient and powerful. Sunlight would leave nothing to chance. The sirens were very near now, probably on the same block. He pushed himself and angled his body towards a boarded–up window nearly as tall as he and only a few feet from the floor. He hit the window at full speed and crushing weight, dropping his shoulder at just the right moment. The window exploded in a shower of splinters and glass as he brought his legs up to avoid the wall. Gerhund’s flailing body was punished even more as it was drug over the sill through the jagged shards of glass like shark’s teeth remaining in the window’s frame to rend his flesh as Chris drug him through and into the open air beyond.<br /><br />Chris hit the street hard and was forced to let go of the sword to leave Gerhund lying a few feet from him on the pavement, the weak light of the early morning winter the first sun the vampire’s skin had seen in nearly 200 years. Chris looked around and found several police cars, their occupants keeling behind open doors, their weapons trained. The cops weren’t sure what was happening, and it took several moments for them to realize that a man lay bleeding and impaled on a sword through his head. Several of them shouted for Chris to get down but he paid them no heed as Gerhund’s body began to writhe and burn. The vampire’s flesh melted away in a ghastly display while Gerhund speeded the process, clawing at his own arms and face as the sun burned him with invisible flames. Many of the officers lowered their weapons in confusion while others kept calling for Chris to surrender between their gagging and choking at the stench of the melting body.<br /><br />“Yeah, Rex, I need an extraction. I’m not worried about discovery now. No one would believe them, anyway” Chris said into the phone’s microphone then turned to face the police and raised his hands over his head. They took his action as surrender and fanned out around him, carefully avoiding the reeking pool of gore that was once Thomas Gerhund.<br /><br />Before they could decide between them who would be the one to put Chris in handcuffs a mighty chorus of sleigh bells rang out through the chill air. The sun cast a long shadow over the alley as a miniature sleigh and nine tiny reindeer swooped down from the sky to follow the empty alleyway just a few feet above the ground. A bright red light like a solar flare erupted from the team before the sleigh, temporarily blinding the officers. The few shots that were fired went wild, more a product of fear than aim. As the sleigh passed, several small arms snatched Chris’ extended hands and hauled him onto the sleigh, the damaged muscles in his arms and shoulders letting out a final shriek as they brought him aboard. The cops recovered their sight just in time to see the sleigh pivot almost completely to the vertical then blast straight up and into the morning sky.<br /><br />“Boss!” Rex screamed over the wind, “What about the bike?” Chris shook his head weakly and pulled out a small red bag. Inside was his beloved Hog, no larger than a toy. Santa had to have a way of carrying millions of toys at a time, and it was nice that the technology could come into play in other areas. The sleigh leveled off sharply and far more violently than Chris usually pushed the reindeer, nearly sending him and several elves over the side.<br /><br />“Ease up on Rudolph, Stan!” Chris called out to the elf on the buckboard. “Putting out that much wattage makes him testy!” He saw the elf bob his head in recognition and soon the sleigh slowed to a more tolerable speed high above the clouds. “I thought I told you to stay put.” Chris said to Rex.<br /><br />“Sorry, Boss.” Rex said, his head hung low, “When I lost contact, I thought you might be in trouble. So me and a few of the boys decided to come down and see if we could help.”<br /><br />It was hard for Chris to be mad at his diminutive warriors. He watched as they spoke in soft whispers, sitting below the gunwale of the sleigh to be able to hear each other over the rushing air. He had made a promise to them long ago that he would try not to think of them as “cute”, though as they sat there, reloading magazines and wiping black blood from their little pointy shoes, faces and knives that profane word kept running through his mind. Several of them turned and caught the look on the jolly old elf’s face. He faked a coughing fit and tried to hide his face as they looked on. Rex continued to try and minister to his wounds but Chris simply shrugged him off. Now that he could rest and concentrate, the wounds would heal.<br /><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br />The next morning, it wasn’t the phone that woke Chris but the face of his dear wife. While it was true that she did sport a head of silver hair, it was merely a dye job. Sarah was much as he was, a member of the Pact with a body not much over 30 years in appearance. And, baking gingerbread cookies was only one of her talents. Sarah's face was a bit shadowed this morning as she held up an empty scotch bottle for him to see.<br /><br />“You’re back early. How was your trip?” Chris said as softly and innocently as he dared.<br /><br />“I can’t leave you alone for <em>five minutes</em>, can I?” she barked. Chris was in the throes of a full–on hang over, and each syllable raked across his soggy, aching brain like a rasp. He covered the sides of his head for a moment and waited for her voice to stop echoing between his ears.<br /><br />“Sarah, please. Not… so… loud…”<br /><br />“So, you went on a little joyride, did you?” she asked, modulating her voice to where she knew it would be uncomfortable, just not unbearable. “Even took a few of the elves with you, did you now?” Her Irish brogue, usually quite attractive and sometimes downright sexy to him did nothing more this morning than cut through his skull like a knife.<br /><br />“The Boss called, needed me to take care of something. How could I say no?” Chris asked.<br /><br />“Easy….you just say <em>no</em>. See? Not so hard now, is it?” Sarah said.<br /><br />“And you know I can’t do that.” Chris said.<br /><br />“And did He tell you to get pissed off your feet and take a few elves with you? Stan and Phil are still draped face–down outside. It looks like they were writing their names in the snow and passed out in the middle of it!” Sarah said, fuming.<br /><br />“A few got antsy and went looking for me. We were just celebratin’ a job well done…”<br /><br />“Aye, and boys will be boys, is it now? Well, I hope you enjoyed wasting the last bits of your vacation gallivanting around the world solving problems for someone what shouldn’t have any” Sarah said.<br /><br />“I extended my vacation an extra day” Chris got out of bed and found he was still wearing the same jeans.<br /><br />“<em>Christopher Kringle</em>! If you got blood all over my sheets, I’ll…” Sarah caught sight of the ragged wounds down his shirtless chest and looked him over with the scrutiny of a doctor. “What the hell did you do? Those look like they’re infected.”<br /><br />“They’ll be fine, just need to rest a bit” Chris said.<br /><br />“I just don’t understand why it always has to be you. There are plenty o’ others out there He can call on. He shouldn’t even need to bother any of us for that matter, just snap His fingers or nod His head and poof!” Sarah said. By the tone of her voice, Chris wasn’t sure if she was angrier with him or with his Boss.<br /><br />“And you know as well as I He won’t do that. You’re of the Pact, too” Chris said, letting his voice drop to a more soothing tone. Sarah sighed and placed a gentle hand on his barrel chest. The simple act made even those grievous wounds feel better.<br /><br />“I just don’t even see why the Pact is needed in the first place. He is <em>everything</em>. Why tolerate the upstarts? Just recognizing them has caused nothing but grief since the Day” Sarah said.<br /><br />“Humans have to have choices to make; good or evil, right or wrong, regular or menthol. Their side of the Pact does what it can to try and get mortals to make all the self–serving choices it can. Our side tries to show people the error of their ways and tries to enforce that good conquers all. If the Boss got involved personally, sure, the problems would go away. But that would give ole’ Beel’ the ability to do the same instead of working through his second string. Of course, the Boss would win. But the cost in mortals’ lives and the removal of their free wills when there wasn’t anything else to choose from would kinda’ defeat the purpose” Chris pulled a battered cigarette from his jeans pocket and fumbled for a light. Sarah watched him flounder for a moment before winking at him. The cigarette flared violently to life, startling him. Chris winked back through the haze and inhaled deeply. “Are you trying to say you want your wings back?”<br /><br />“No, no dear heart” Sarah whispered, “I could never leave you here alone. I mean, what would you do without me? I know why we’re here. But you do enough of the good work, don’t you? Where is Gabrielle or Michael during all this? I thought this was their forte” Sarah said.<br /><br />“Both are on sabbatical. Last I heard, Gabe snapped and tried to play in a jazz trio in New Orleans. Boss had to stop time to fix the damage. ‘Least he didn’t get to the solo” Chris said. Sarah gave him a gentle hug and pulled his face down to meet hers with a playful tug on his belt–length beard.<br /><br />“I want you to do something for me” Sarah whispered into his ear while she stroked his voluminous whiskers.<br /><br />“Anything for you, my little sugar plum…” Chris answered.<br /><br />“Something only your strong arms and…hmmm” she purred while she ran her tongue along his ear lobe, “…incredible all–night stamina can do.”<br /><br />“I’m all ears” Chris’s breathing had become heavier now as his shoulders tensed.<br /><br />“I want you to take me… take me… <em>shopping</em>” Sarah said, drawing out the words. Chris dropped his head and sighed heavily. Perhaps he deserved it. “The elves made reusable shopping totes for me, the same as your work bags” she continued, her voice back to its original quality. “They do well for making the sizes manageable, love, but they don’t help much with the weight” Chris sighed as her school girl giggles were lost in his beard.<br /><br />“But… I’m on vacation…”Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-75529400092317335872010-11-21T02:56:00.000-08:002010-11-21T05:18:28.968-08:00Rural Legend, Part III (Final) - Fiction<em>Welcome to the third and final installment of "</em>Rural Legend<em>". If you're new to my little corner of the web, I encourage you to take some time to catch up with Parts I and II further down this list. Also, I know I said this would go up on Monday the 22nd, but quite frankly holiday weeks are a bit of a pain in the ass in my mundane-world career so I decided to get a jump on the week and post a little early. I hope you enjoy the end of the tale.</em> - Author<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The woods surrounding the pasture came alive with responding howls and not a few yelps of pain as nearly a dozen creatures broke from various points in the scrub and made for the pasture. Those unlucky enough to be near the chicken coop and the northern side of the pasture found the traps Paul had laid earlier in the day in the worst way. Servants of the wolf, the silver Paul had taken from his own mouth and used to cover the jaws of the traps went to work on them, searing their flesh from the inside out. The werewolves that remained came across the pasture at a full run, some on two legs and some on all fours and broke around their leader like a wave bearing straight for Paul.<br /><br /><br />“You should all run for the house now.” Paul said over his shoulder to the family. “The boy doesn’t need to see this.” Mabel nodded mutely and started pulling her boys across the yard towards the house. Billy broke free of her grasp but didn’t move back towards the pasture.<br /><br /><br />“Everett… go get my gun…” Billy said.<br /><br />“Billy! Whatever this is, we got no part in it!” Mabel reached for him but Billy pulled away and broke for the barn.<br /><br /><br />“Get Everett inside and lock the doors!” he yelled back. Mabel screamed for him twice, then grabbed up her youngest and ran for the house as the wave of fangs and flesh met Paul.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Paul roared and threw his arms out. There were only four of them left, the traps having done their deed well. If he wasn’t careful, though, four of these overly–large curs would be more than enough. The first one didn’t even slow as it neared him, intending to bowl the giant over. It slammed into his chest at full speed and seemed to bounce off, falling to the ground in a heap. It shook its shaggy head a few times and stood up on its hind legs as the other three rushed past and fell upon Paul.<br /><br /><br />“Kill the Green Man!” the thing that was Barnhart screamed at his minions then took the advantage of the giant’s distraction and ran after the tiny unicorn. Drahkshin, still groggy from the emergence of his true nature, looked back and saw the werewolf coming for him. It turned in a slow circle as it tried to decide if it could run.<br /><br /><br />Paul let out a war cry that shook the ranch house windows as he tried to pick the smaller werewolves away. They held on with rending claws and crushing jaws as they tried to open every vein the big man possessed. They had been successful in a few places, but not enough to bring the man down. One had sunk its claws into his chest and was snapping for his neck as he darted his head back and forth. Another of the creatures had had the misfortune to be caught in his vice–like hand. Paul swung the creature around and bashed at the one on his chest with all the power he could muster. Both yelped, then the one used as his weapon went limp, its throat crushed. Paul knew the animal wasn’t truly dead, that only a bit of silver to the heart or an old–fashioned beheading would be the only way to completely destroy them. Dazed, the werewolf stopped trying to tear out his throat for a moment. Paul drubbed it again with its pack mate and finally succeeded in knocking it off his body.<br /><br /><br />Paul threw his weapon away and watched it land near Granny. The mare had struggled to her feet and stood swaying, watching her foal and its impending demise. Paul whistled for her while tried to remove one of the werewolves from his left bicep, but he knew she wouldn’t come. The mare brayed fiercely and moved to intercept the large werewolf. Barnhart was so intent on the foal that he didn’t realize the mare was bearing down on him. He caught her movement a moment too late as she rode him down. As the wolfman fell, it swiped with its great claws, opening four long, fatal gashes across the mare’s neck. Granny keened and stumbled then fell to the ground as her life’s blood seeped into the new grass.<br /><br /><br />Paul used his free hand against the side of the werewolf’s head and bashed it against a fencepost, and both it and the creature's skull cracked with equal volume as the creature fell whimpering to the ground. He turned towards Drahkshin just as another of the creatures leap onto his back and sank its fangs deep into his shoulder. He roared in pain and tried to reach behind him, but the its rear legs were already going to work on his lower back. Paul could feel the blood roll under his shirt as he got a hand on its scruff and tried to pull it free but the jaws were cinched tight, letting even more of his blood roll down his chest. Just as he was about to fall backwards and use his weight to crush the creature, a peel of thunder split the night.<br /><br /><br />Paul could feel the load of buckshot crash into the werewolf’s back. He knew the blast wouldn’t kill it, but the sudden and unexpected attack shocked the creature enough that it opened its jaws to scream. Paul reached behind his head with both hands and grabbed the thing fully by the scruff like a mother would her pup. He pulled and lifted with all his considerable strength and the thing flew over his head and to the ground, its grasping claws tearing chunks of flesh from Paul's body in the process. Paul lifted a massive boot and brought it down on the curr’s head, the results best left to the imagination. He turned quickly and saw Billy standing in the moonlight, the old shotgun still leveled at him. Billy dropped the muzzle slowly and shook his head as if clearing it of a fog.<br /><br /><br />“Thought I told you to get in the house.” Paul said off handedly.<br /><br /><br />“Couldn’t let someone do that to my best hand, could I?” Billy said. Seeing the beast on the ground had galvanized Billy. He broke down the barrels, reloaded and then flipped the barrels back into position with a practiced motion as Paul made for the foal.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Drahkshin watched as his mother fell in a gush of blood. He could see as well in the gloom as he could in the noon day sun, and the bright red and coppery smell broke his trance. The colt turned from the screaming werewolf and ran as hard as he could for the far side of the pasture with the werewolf in pursuit. Instinct took over as the colt ran in a random pattern, changing course and direction with blinding speed. Barnhart howled and slobbered as he tried to keep up and anticipate the unicorn’s next change, the odd loping and shifting making him look like a grotesque rodeo clown. After a few moments, the werewolf got lucky in his anticipation and leaped, landing immediately in front of the unicorn. Drahkshin bleated and tore off in the opposite direction, but not before the werewolf landed a long graze from its claws on the unicorn’s left flank. It bleated again and ran in a pain–filled haze for the shelter of the barn with the werewolf hot on his hooves.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Everett could just make out the combat in the pasture from the safety of the sitting room window. His mother stood at another window by the door, waiting for Billy to come back to the house. They both saw the young man fire on the wolf and Everett nearly cheered. Everett had asked his mother if the creatures really were werewolves. Her only answer had been to shush him and tell him to watch the window for any trouble. Mabel had already tried the phone and found the line dead. She was sure if they made it through the night they would find the service line out at the road slashed in two.<br /><br /><br />“Ma’! Drahkshin!” Everett screamed as he saw the werewolf bearing down on the days’ old colt.<br />“It’ll be okay Everett…” Mabel said quietly, tensely.<br /><br /><br />Everett watched in horror as the werewolf chased the young horse. He waited until his mother’s attentions were completely fixed on the events outside and slipped out of the room. Hurrying as quietly as he could, he made it up the stairs and into his room. He dug around in his “treasure drawer”, the place he reserved for all the tiny mementos and other assorted brick–a–brack of his young life. He passed by small photos of the father he’d never met, his first merit badges and several flint arrowheads before he found it near the back of the drawer. One of the main reasons he had wanted to go to the Fair last year was to meet the Lone Ranger in all his glory. Billy had used the opportunity to enter a few steers in one of the competitions, and Everett’s vaunted, masked hero served as a celebrity judge for the event. Not only did his screen idol sign the plastic grip of his official <em>Lone</em> <em>Ranger</em> cap pistol, he even gave him a silver bullet from his own cartridge belt as a souvenir.<br /><br /><br />Everett clutched the bullet tightly and ran for his mother’s room. Having been born and bred on a ranch, Everett had come to regard guns in the same way as anyone else in the area did. They were tools and not some great, evil thing. He’d been taught gun safety from the time he could walk and as all farm people did developed a healthy respect for them as well as the rudimentary skills to use them. He boy threw open his mother’s closet and drug a chair to the doorway. Climbing up, he rooted around the upper shelf at a fevered pitch until he found an old hat box. He remembered the dull red box from when he and Billy went shooting and pulled it down. He jumped off the chair and threw the lid off the box. The old Colt .45 revolver looked incredibly large in the bottom of the box. He let the box drop to the floor, stuck the gun in the front of his pants then ran for the back door.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Paul chewed up the ground as he made for the barn. It was the worst place it could have ran and robbed the unicorn of its only real advantage; speed. It wasn’t old enough yet to use its horn as a weapon and lacked any of the real strength and size it would hopefully live to gain. Paul reached the open barn door and stopped short. He pulled his knit cap off his head and tossed it into the room. A huge paw swiped at it from inside the doorway. Paul grabbed the still–closed right hand door and ripped it from its hinges with a shriek of rusted metal. The werewolf leaped from the shattered doorway and was caught by surprise as Paul used the heavy door as a shield, battering the creature with it. The werewolf bounced back into the barn and barely had time to get to his hind feet as the giant came after him.<br /><br /><br />Barnhart was nowhere near Paul’s equal in size, but his transformation had still made him a head taller than an average man. The two locked in struggle and danced across the front of the barn, smashing each other against walls, tools and anything else they could find to try and gain the advantage. Billy ran to the door then took several steps back as he watched the two. He raised the shotgun but knew that he had as equal chance of hitting Paul as he did the werewolf. He looked back to the house and saw that every window in the house was lit up. Then he saw Mabel come out onto the porch and heard her screaming Everett’s name. Mabel caught sight of Billy in the light from the barn and ran off the porch and across the yard towards him.<br /><br /><br />“Everett’s not in the house!” she screamed. “He’s gone!” she cried out as she came over the pasture fence and towards Billy.<br /><br /><br />“Get <em>back</em> ma’!” Billy shouted, his head swiveling between his mother and the supernatural battle before him.<br /><br /><br />“I have to find Everett!” she screamed. Billy met her several feet away from the barn to keep her away from the battling figures then stared wildly around them, waiting for any of the creatures to come around. The moon was swelled and impossibly bright in the cloudless sky and lent an eerie glow to the ranch. They were in the open with only the barn to block their view, letting Billy see the entire length and breadth of the pasture. Mabel continued calling for Everett while Billy stood a tense guard. The ones that Paul had put down were noticeably twitching and moving, still alive even after the giant’s assaults. Billy kept an eye on them and said a tiny prayer for his family and Paul.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Paul let the wolf’s arm slip from his right hand and dropped it, coming up with an uppercut that nearly severed the animal’s tongue. Its head snapped back violently as it let fly with a pained growl. The force of the blow made the wolf slack his own grip, allowing Paul to get both hands on the creature at once. He heaved and sent the werewolf crashing against the barn wall then took a precious moment to breathe.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Barnhart had hit the wall with such force that the thick boards cracked behind him, sending slivers of harsh electric light out into the night nearly at Billy’s feet. Billy spun at the cracking noise and leveled the shotgun as the werewolf pulled himself away from the torn wall. A flash of movement caught his eye towards the rear end of the barn. He immediately recognized Everett’s darkened form as it raced down the pasture and disappeared behind the barn.<br /><br /><br />“<em>Everett</em>!” Billy called out. “Come on ma’! He just went into the back of the barn!” The two took off at a run as Mabel screamed for her son to get out of the building.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />The werewolf recovered far more quickly than Paul had expected. It hit the floor in front of the wall and sprung through the air towards him almost as soon as its feet touched down. Paul let fly with a backhand at just the right moment and sent the beast hurtling through the air. It hit the straw-littered floor and slid like a howling puck nearly the length of the barn. It caught the edge of a stall with its claws and pulled itself around, disappearing into the darker part of the barn. The sound of its claws scrabbling on the walls and then overhead on the thick beams echoed, making it difficult to track his movements. Paul walked slowly down the aisle and opened his senses. He could smell the wolf, but with the scent of so many of them on his clothes and the collected scents of hay, animals and years in the barn he couldn’t rely on it to betray the master wolf’s direction. He spun in slow circles as he went, straining his ears to catch the slightest murmur of movement in the place. One moment, it seemed the thing was to his left, another directly above him. He kept moving until he was near the end of the barn and looked down into the stable that had witnessed the birth of the colt less than two days before. There in the far corner was Drahkshin, his head held securely in young Everett’s arms.<br /><br /><br />“You won’t let the werewolf hurt him, will you, Paul?” Everett asked quietly, his eyes full of tears. He had already found a saddle rag and was keeping pressure on the colt’s flank where the werewolf’s claw had raked it. Paul held his finger up against his pursed lips and turned his head to the side as the werewolf’s claws sliced through the air. Paul pulled his head back but couldn’t avoid the tips of the claws as they passed his cheek. Two thin gashes like paper cuts opened and bled freely as he shifted his bulk and twisted at the waist. His balled fist shot like an arrow and caught the creature in the center of the chest, briefly pinning it to the roof support he clung to. It hit the stall floor accompanied by Everett’s scream and the colt’s bleating, then coiled and came up at Paul with every ounce of strength it had.<br /><br /><br />The beast hit Paul with the fury of a hurricane, slashing violently at any part of the giant’s body it could. Paul deflected most of the blows, but more than one hit home. The creature wasn’t as strong, but it was far faster than Paul, especially with the man’s loss of blood. Paul knew the mortal world kept many of his abilities dampened, but it had been so many years since he had walked it that he had indeed forgotten just how taxing it could be. He let the beast dig both sets of claws deep into his chest to still its paws, and then grabbed it under the arms. He spun and lifted the werewolf off the ground in the same motion and watched as the beasts claws slid free of him. It hit the stall floor and flopped about for a moment before it came up in a crouch facing the unicorn and the human boy.<br /><br /><br />“If I can’t have the bastard, neither shall you!” the thing that was Barnhart growled. It coiled and leaped through the air before Paul could grab hold. Billy and Mabel came through the back door of the barn in time to see the werewolf spring towards Everett and the colt. Mabel screamed for her son as Billy raised the muzzle of the weapon and let loose with both barrels at the wolf’s back.<br /><br /><br />The werewolf felt the lead pellets tear into its thick hide. The attack did little more than anger it and did nothing to change either its course or resolve. He knew he could at least reach the soft, smooth coat and the equally soft flesh hidden under the colt’s mane before the Green Man got to him. The human boy would be less than a flick of a single claw to send his spirit to the Undermaster. They were all soft and would be so weak and stunned from the loss of both young animals that he would easily escape their grasp and make good his getaway. He howled as he went through the air, the noise stilling abruptly when he saw the muzzle of the revolver leveled at him. He had been shot, stabbed, beaten and otherwise assaulted hundreds of times before, but an argent glint caught his notice just as the cylinder rolled in the revolver’s frame.<br /><br /><br />Everett touched off the revolver, sending his hand skyward from the recoil. There was less than three feet between them as the silver bullet slammed into the werewolf’s chest and buried itself in its heart. It crashed into the wall above and behind them and fell into them as it clawed at its own chest. Unicorn and boy screeched and tried to separate themselves from the tangle of the werewolf’s limbs as it howled and yelped. Paul reached down and plucked them away one in each hand and stepped back to the stall opening while the beast thrashed and rolled on the straw–carpeted floor. He set the young ones down gently behind his thick legs and watched the werewolf in its final death throes. Fur and flesh melted and slid from it, bubbling and roiling onto the floor as it ripped pieces of itself away. After a few moments, all that remained was a very human and very dead Barnhart still wearing bits of fur and gore from his murderous alter ego. The eyes were the last to change, losing their greenish glow and fading away to dull, glassy, dead brown orbs. Paul and Everett stared into the dead man’s eyes for long moments before Mabel and Billy rushed forward and pulled him away from the stall.<br /><br /><br />“Everett!” Mabel screamed and hugged the boy. “What were you thinking? Why did you run out like that? That thing could have <em>killed</em> you!”<br /><br /><br />“I couldn’t let it hurt Drahkshin, ma’.” Everett said into her shoulder as she held him close to her again.<br /><br /><br />“What happened?” Billy asked, the shotgun held at port arms. He was still scanning the barn nervously, waiting for the next thing to leap out at them. Paul walked into the stall and toed Barnhart’s body gently. He bent over and picked up the revolver from where Everett had dropped it. He examined it for a moment and shook his head, then smelled the cylinder.<br /><br /><br />“Silver.” Paul said and dropped the gun with an air of disgust. He had no use for guns, or anything designed solely for intelligent creatures to kill other intelligent creatures with for that matter. Paul had always been reasonable himself and disdained violence committed by intelligence. He expected wild animals to fight for their survival the way nature intended them to. Violence should always be the last resort of an intelligent species. Humans seemed well–versed in ways to destroy and only precious few to create. But in this instance, he felt the boy was completely justified.<br /><br /><br />“Silver? Where in God’s name did you get a silver bullet?” Billy asked Everett.<br /><br /><br />“Last year, at the fair…” Everett said. Mabel let him go and started going over his face and hands, looking for any injuries. “Ma’… I’m okay…”<br /><br /><br />Well I’ll be… guess the Lone Ranger really <em>does</em> use those things…” Billy said softly.<br /><br /><br />“Mr. Sinclair? Mrs. Sinclair? Everett? I need you to stay here. There are still matters that need my attention that are not for your eyes to see. If anything happens, call for me.” Paul said.<br /><br /><br />“Billy.” he corrected as Paul walked towards the rear door of the barn.<br /><br /><br />“Mabel.” she added. Paul looked over his shoulder and smiled at them.<br /><br /><br />“Billy and Mabel it is then.” Paul said.<br /><br /><br />“Paul… <em>what are you</em>?” Everett asked sheepishly, childish innocence and curiosity coming to the fore. “I don’t mean no disrespect or anything by askin’…” he quickly added.<br /><br /><br />Paul stopped and hung his head for a moment. He turned and regarded them with a deep sigh but a wide smile. “Just think of me as the grass beneath your feet and the trees overhead. I am one, yet one of many, yet the greatest and yet most humble of my kind. I am the first, yet not the last. You may call me Paul.”<br /><br /><br />“Are you… are you <em>the</em> Paul? Paul Bunyon, I mean…” Everett asked. Paul laughed in a deep, warm tone and hitched his thumbs into his belt. The sight would have been reminiscent of picture books and children’s tales if not for the gashes on his face and the shredded, bloody flannel that clung to his body.<br /><br /><br />“I have been known by many names, child.” Paul said warmly. He laughed again as a soft light seemed to grow from his wounds. The gashes and punctures from his battles with the wolves shrank and closed, sealing themselves and leaving the flesh whole and unmarked. “And in many times. I walked this world in the days before memory and have walked it many times since. Now, stay and tend the unicorn, if you would.”<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Paul went out behind the barn and found several of Barnhart’s minions caught in his traps. They lay on the ground, writhing in agony as the silver continued to boil there flesh at the sight of the wound. A few had even tried to gnaw away at the trapped limb to escape, but the pain of that and the silver soon made the effort impossible. He pitied them. Most likely, they were innocent humans led into a trap that would guarantee them a place in their own purgatory. The strength of Barnhart’s curse wouldn’t die with his own death in these ones, but Paul knew after these were gone, any that they may have infected would be purged of the mark of the wolf.<br /><br /><br /><br />He went to each in turn and apologized for what he must do. Paul snapped his fingers and a woodsman’s axe made to his proportions appeared in his hand. The thick, wedge blade was made of silver and the haft of the finest oak that had ever grown in any realm. The tool glowed softly in his grip and he regarded it with a smile. The axe would not have come to him in battle, for it was even more prone to peace than even Paul himself. But it had let itself be called up from its place of honor at his hearth for this task. The battle with the werewolves had been just that; battle. But this was now a task more for mercy than violence, and it knew the purpose he had called upon it to serve.<br /><br /><br />Paul showed far more mercy in ending their curse than Barnhart would have showed bestowing it. Each succumbed instantly to a single blow from the great axe as it cleaved the head from the body, the axe head glowing with a white–hot intensity that could be seen through the cracks in the barn wall and seared both halves of the ruined bodies, keeping the blood from flowing into the hungry ground. He produced a velvet pouch from his trousers and gently placed a bit of the night–blooming wolfsbane in each of their mouths. Their curse broken, he went to the horse pasture and repeated the process with those he had defeated and stacked all the bodies into a neat pile in the pasture. He then went back into the barn and without a word removed Barnhart’s body while the Sinclairs wisely looked on in silence.<br /><br /><br />Paul carried the body out and added it to the pile made from the bodies of his minions then bowed his head and said a prayer to the Lord of All and Nothing, asking for the gentle treatment of those that had unwittingly become minions of the beast while at the same time praying that the spirit of the true werewolf be damned to the Pits for his willing service to the Undermaster. The axe head glowed with the intensity of a small sun as he placed it against the pile. White flame spread rapidly, searing the bodies within so quickly and completely not even a hint of smoldering hair could be scented on the wind. The fire burned for no more than a few minutes and left not a single trace when it was done. Even the grass beneath the horrendous pile laid untouched and a vibrant, early–spring green.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />The family had watched the burning of the creatures from the safety of the ruined barn door. They parted for the giant as he ducked through the doorway and smiled at them. He turned and spread his arms, a hand on each doorframe. With a smile and a knowing wink to Everett, the wood slowly reformed into its intended shape. The door rose up from the ground and reattached itself to the hinge works, making sure not to hit the mystical carpenter as he finished the job. Without a word, he left the family and went back to the birthing stall.<br /><br /><br />“Paul…”<br /><br /><br />“Yes, young Everett?” Paul answered as he kneeled down and lifted the colt in his arms. It looked like a carnival prize in his grasp.<br /><br /><br />“Do you have to take Drahkshin away? Couldn’t he stay here? We won’t tell anybody ‘bout it! Honest!”<br /><br /><br />Paul sighed and scratched the new unicorn’s head. It nuzzled into his barrel chest and snorted in content. “I know you would not speak of it, Everett… nor would your family. But there are things in this world that would sense the unicorn and would come for it. I could not do that to any of you. No, young one. Drahkshin and all of you will be far safer when he is back in his sire’s care, in the realm where he belongs.”<br /><br /><br />“Where… where is that?” Billy asked. “Where do you come from? What was all this?”<br /><br /><br />“There are things best left from the eyes and minds of mortals, William Sinclair. Just know that you have my gratitude, as well as that of <em>Mashorie</em>, Drahkshin’s sire.” He hefted the colt easily in one arm and tousled Everett’s hair. A soft glow emanated from his hand, almost unseen in its subtlety. “You will make a fine man someday, Everett. Like your brother.” He nodded to Billy, then a more solemn nod to Mabel. “You are to be commended for raising such fine sons in the face of your adversities, Mabel Sinclair. There are few mothers in any realm that could do as much. I thank you for your hospitality and the fine food. Your skills will be the envy to all that I tell the tale. Goodbye, family. Again, my thanks to you.” He smiled at them and walked out of the barn and started across the moon–drenched pasture.<br /><br /><br />Paul stopped and seemed to be speaking to the unicorn, though his voice was too far away to hear. He set the unicorn on the ground and watched along with the family as Drahkshin approached his dead mother. The unicorn whinnied once and tipped his head towards her. His horn touched the dead horse’s smooth neck. Granny’s entire body glowed with a soft light. A few moments later, Granny opened her eyes and snorted, getting to her feet just as the glow faded away. Mare and foal regarded each other for a moment before Granny turned away and loped off across the pasture. Paul reached down, picked the unicorn up again and started to walk away toward the far side of the pasture. But instead of shrinking in the distance, the giant’s body seemed to grow ever larger. The silhouette of a huge animal seemed to appear out of nowhere just past the pasture fence. Bovine in profile, it waited patiently while Paul secured the now tiny–seeming colt to its back and led it away into the night.<br /><br /><br />As Paul disappeared from sight, the family found themselves incredibly tired and physically weary to the bone. They secured the barn and traipsed into the house, finding their beds and falling immediately into the deepest sleep of their lives.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br /><br />Mabel slept well after the dawning sun, something that had occurred few enough times to be counted on two hands in all her adult life. She'd had breakfast finished before she remembered that Paul had left the night before for parts unknown. Mabel stared at the extra food and smiled. There weren’t many men like Paul left in the world, and she hoped the world wouldn’t kill the rest of them off out of spite. The man had only been there for two days but he had done so much to help them, from dealing with Barnhart to trapping the wolves that could have slaughtered their calves, chickens, and maybe even the new colt. She was happy the colt would be staying on with them, and not just because of Barnhart. Everett would need a horse in a year or two, and he and the colt would do a lot of their growing up together.<br /><br /><br />Mabel set the plates loaded with eggs, bacon and biscuits on the table just as her boys sat down to eat. “You boys need to eat up. I plain forgot that Paul wasn’t here anymore, think I made too much.”<br /><br /><br />“No worry there, Ma’… I’ll take care of it!” Everett said as he loaded his plate. Mabel stared at him. Had he gotten bigger?<br /><br /><div align="left"><br />“Could you believe that about Barnhart? I can’t imagine that!” Mabel said as she sat down to the table. They ate in silence, enjoying the closeness of family. Had any one of them mentioned an odd dream they each had had last night, about werewolves and the new colt being a unicorn and Paul being <em>the</em> Paul, they might have thought it odd. Mabel had gone so far as to go down to the barn before making breakfast to make sure all was as it should have been. Granny and the new colt were doing just fine, though they did seem a little skitish. Mabel attributed that to the smell of the wolf hides curing outside the barn that Paul had left. They weren't worth much, but Billy had been sure he could sell them for a few dollars to an Indian he knew. All being right with their world, Mabel and the rest of the Sinclairs would be happy to leave their nightmares behind them, and even happier to keep looking towards the future.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="center">###<br /></div><br /><div align="left">Billy walked out of the bank and took a moment to bask in the late-morning sun then adjusted the strings on his bolo tie before walking across the street to where he’d parked the brand new pick–up truck. He looked down the street to the hanging saloon sign and smiled as the memory of Paul and Ferguson’s run–in came back vividly in his mind’s eye. Billy hadn’t been back in the place since and had nearly sworn the stuff off altogether.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />Billy hated to admit it, but the Sinclair streak of good fortune seemed to have started with the short time the big hand had come on at the spread. As it turned out, Barnhart had been a con man wanted in three states, with a fat reward for his capture in each. If it hadn’t been for Paul telling Billy about it, he would never have known. The reward money from Barnhart’s capture had been more than enough to pay the balloon payment and with the ranch secure, Billy had been free to take the deal out west. No one was more surprised than he when the futures prices didn’t drop as predicted. The resulting profit allowed for an expansion of the herd and improvements to the ranch. In that short year, the ranch had become prosperous enough to add on three hands and clear away the rest of their debts.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Billy!” he heard Everett call from down the street. He'd sent his little brother to the feed store to pick up a bag of sweetfeed. The boy had grown half–again his size in the past year alone, and at just past twelve he was now nearly as tall as his elder brother. Everett ate voraciously now and had become strong as an ox in that short time, and according to his climbing pant cuffs he was due for another growth spurt any day now. Billy turned and watched the strapping boy coming down the sidewalk with a hundred–pound burlap bag of feed thrown casually over his shoulder. Everett hurried down the street and tossed the heavy sack in the back of the truck like it was filled with feathers.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Hey! Easy on the truck!” Billy barked.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Wanted to make sure ya’ didn’t forget about me. Ma’s makin’ chicken for lunch…”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Is <em>that</em> all you think about? Food?” Billy asked.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Can’t help it. I’m hungry. Let’s go!” Everett said.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />The brothers got in the truck and headed east, out of town and towards home. Billy looked past Everett and out the passenger side window as they made their way down the road. He swung the truck off to the side and pointed out the window to where more than a half-dozen, over-sized ash trees were growing a few yards from the road. “Weren’t those just saplings a few months ago?” Billy wondered out loud.</div><br /><div align="left"><br />“Naw.” Everett answered and pulled a chocolate bar from the front pocket on his over–alls. “Nothin’ grows that fast. Just must not have noticed ‘em before is all.”</div><br /><div align="left"><br />The brothers smiled at each other as Billy started the truck and eased it onto the road and back towards their lives. Had they looked closer, they would have seen what could only have been deep smiles formed into the trunks of the great ash trees. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><em>Well, I hope you've enjoyed "</em>Rural Legend<em>" as much as I've enjoyed bringing it to you. If you have, or even if you haven't, you can drop me a line via e-mail or leave a comment here. I'd also like to take this opportunity to wish all of you a happy Thanksgiving. I do hope in the hustle and bustle of the holiday week you find time to think of those things you're most thankful for, and that you're able to share the season with those you love.</em></div><div align="left"><em></em> </div><div align="left"><em>For those of you saying, "</em>Dude... seriously? <em>Unicorns</em>? WTF<em>?", let me assure you I'll be back next week with something a little more in my usual (read "</em>no fucking unicorns<em>"...) vein. So until then, enjoy the holiday, and, just write, damn it.</em> - Author </div>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-653200925216427405.post-16490488555959691412010-11-15T12:36:00.000-08:002010-11-15T14:45:29.311-08:00Rural Legend, Part II - Fiction<em>As promised, here is</em> Rural Legend<em>,</em> Part II<em>. If you like what you're reading here, please check out some of my earlier posts, and as always I'd love to hear your comments or thoughts either through comments here or via e-mail.</em> Rural Legend, Part III<em> (the third and final part), will be posted next Monday, 11/22/10. So, without further ado....</em><br /><br /><br />Early spring had brought the young ranchers and hands out in full force. The young men worked hard and long from sun to sun, and the odd occasion that brought them to town made sure that the <em>Mustang</em>, the only tavern in Hardinsberry, kept its reputation. It could be a rowdy place, especially on paydays and the changing of the seasons as the young bucks sought to spend their money and act like they thought real men should. The sheriff turned a blind eye to the place so long as the proprietor kept the noise and action inside.<br /><br />The mood inside was charged with youthful adrenaline and not a little alcohol. Beer and hard liquor were the only things served in the place, and any man that dared ask for a glass of wine would be run out as a limp–wristed dandy. The only women that dared enter the place were those that worked there or cared little for their reputations. The war had made more than a few women into ranchers overnight, and they had had to adapt to the increased presence of the fairer sex nearly overnight. The intervening years had seen more than a few women in the place, but it still lacked even a separate facility for them, not counting the rooms upstairs for the working girls that depended on a lonely ranch hand’s pay to keep her. The saloon still sported the open stairway leading up to these rooms so that all could see from the bar if their favorite girl had a ribbon wrapped ‘round the knob.<br /><br />Billy had been there for nearly an hour but had drunk three hours worth. One of the girls had seen him for an easy mark and had been working him for nearly as long as he talked and bragged to his few friends in the place. Everyone knew Billy, and most had known his father. Few ever called him on his boasts and bravado, chalking it up to a dying ranch. A few had already gone, bought up by large companies that found it far easier and cheaper to raise the cattle themselves than to work through the ranches. Even the men that worked those ranches frequented the place but there was little fraternization between the family ranches and the corporate ones, unless you counted the fights.<br /><br />Billy had his back to the bar as he sat on a stool, the harlot to his left and a double shot of rye to his right. A friend from the Arbuck place in the southern end of the county had turned the conversation to horses and Billy was regaling one and all with the birth of the new foal that morning. “White ash shnow, I tell ya’!” he said more loudly than needed even in the crowded saloon, his slurred voice betraying his condition. “Never had one like that on the shpread ‘fore. Be the fashtest in the county, I reckon’!”<br /><br />A tall, thin man in a worn drover coat to his right turned to Billy and tipped his hat. “’Scuse me…” the man said. “Did I hear you say you got a pure white foal?” Billy suddenly turned to the man and eyed him up.<br /><br />“Yeah, yeah I did mishter… but I don’t shee where it’sh any buishness a yersh’…” Billy said.<br /><br />“Don’t mean no trouble, just askin’ is all.” The stranger flagged down the bartender and laid a silver dollar on the bar with his gloved hand. “Drinks for me and my friend, here.” He turned to Billy and tipped his hat again. “Please. For my speakin’ out of turn.” He offered the drink to Billy and saluted with his own glass. Billy eyed him warily, but only for a moment. A free drink was a free drink, after all.<br /><br />“Thanksh…” Billy said and downed the rye. “You from around here?” Billy asked as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.<br /><br />“Me? No. But I do have reason for askin’ about your foal, though.” He waved to the bartender again and overpaid for another drink for Billy.<br /><br />“Whatsh that?” Billy asked, the distrust back in his slurred voice.<br /><br />“See, I work for a man that collects horses. Has a big spread out in Colorado, a real gentleman rancher. He collects odd horses, don’t have a pure white one yet. I bet he’d pay handsome for yours. If it really is pure white though. Not a fleck of color on it?”<br /><br />“You callin’ me a liar, mishter?” Billy shot back even as he took the second drink from the stranger’s money.<br /><br />“Nothin’ of the sort!” the stranger shot back. “I don’t buy drinks for liars. Just that my boss’d want me to make sure before I wired him for several thousand dollars.”<br /><br />“Thoushansh?” Billy mumbled.<br /><br />“He pays top dollar, ‘specially for somethin’ he don’t have one of yet.” the stranger answered simply. “If you’d be interested in sellin’ such an animal, that is.”<br /><br />Billy thought for a moment. They could make the mortgage without selling a single head, leaving him free to work on the Spokane deal. He smiled and extended his drinking hand. “William Shinclair…”<br /><br />“Edgar Barnhart…” the stranger returned as he gripped Billy’s hand. There was strength in the stranger’s grip that belied his thin stature. Billy paid it no mind, though. His head was firmly on the topic of money. “Think I could see this horse of yours? You know, just so’s I could tell my boss what I seen with my own eyes?”<br /><br />“Why, sure! You jusht come on over tomorrow mornin’ and…”<br /><br />“I got business in the morning. How ‘bout tomorrow evenin’?”<br /><br />Billy took a piece of scrap paper from his shirt pocket and scrawled some directions on it and handed it to Barnhart. “If ya’ can’t find it, jusht ashk around for the Shinclair place, besht damn shpread in the whole county!”<br /><br />“I’m sure it is.” Barnhart answered and shoved the paper into his coat. “Tomorrow evenin’, then.” He tipped his hat once more and walked out of the saloon. A ranch hand from one of the corporate spreads took the stranger’s place and hailed the bartender.<br /><br />“I sure hope that foal’s all you said it was. You know they can change color on ya’, don’t ya’? We had one was born white like that a few years ago, turned paint ‘fore its first month.” he cautioned Billy. Billy turned quickly, nearly knocking the whore down as he went.<br /><br />“And just what would you know ‘bout it, mishter? Huh? Or are you callin’ me a liar, too?”<br /><br />“Easy there, son. Just tryin’ ta’ help, that’s all. Wouldn’t want you to get shamed or nothin’ if the man comes back in a few months with a paint and wantin’ his money back.” The corporate hand had a few years and several pounds of muscle on Billy, but rye has a way of making a man see past these minor differences.<br /><br />“Why you sonofa…” Billy pulled back and struck the man with a rabbit punch to the side of his head. He stumbled into the man beside him, a hand from the Warner family spread a few places over from the Sinclair’s. The corporate hand turned back to Billy and swung a hard right hand without so much as a word. The bartender yelled at them, but it was too late. Though they couldn’t have heard the exchange, many had seen them trade blows. With tensions high and booze flowing free, the testosterone in the room built to a fever pitch as everyone in the place thought that a row was starting up again between the corporate hands and the family ranches. As soon as Jeb Warner turned the corporate hand around and clouted him across the jaw, the place erupted into a brawl.<br /><br />Glass broke across the room as tables splintered and waitresses and whores ran for cover. The bartender pulled out a sawed–off shotgun from under the bar and fired into the air, but even that noise didn’t quell the violence. He roared a few times and let the second barrel go with the same effect. Not wanting more holes in his roof he threw down the empty shotgun and grabbed a baseball bat from its accustomed place behind the bar. He’d worked and owned saloons all his life, and if there was one thing the old man knew it was how to stop a brawl. He waded out into the bar and started taking shots at anyone that wouldn’t break up their battles. A few of the older hands had taken his meaning and had backed out of the fray, retreating to the tables that lined the far wall to watch the young ones. Being nearer the door, they were the first to see him come in.<br /><br />Paul was well better than a foot taller than any man in the room, and probably two feet wider. He waded into the press of bodies easily, and those that wouldn’t get out of his way required only a gentle hand that covered their entire shoulder to guide them from his path. He scanned the room and found Billy, held by one man and being worked over by another. He took three long strides and knocked several dueling men out of the way as the combat in the bar died away. Most had seen the giant now and were licking their wounds, waiting to see what would happen next. The bartender had gotten into the spirit of the battle royal and was doing far more damage than a sensible man should. It served them right, though. Who was going to pay for all this damage? Who was it that was going to be up until dawn cleaning up the mess? Not the drunken bastards wreaking havoc on his place, that was for sure.<br /><br />The man holding Billy saw the bartender coming, bat swinging all the way. But he also saw Paul coming up behind the bartender. He paused a moment and slacked his grip on the young man, giving Billy the chance to push off and get free. Billy swung a haymaker at his surprised assailant. The swing, driven by fear and pain and booze dropped the man to the floor just as the bartender brought his Louisville Slugger around in a wide arc. Billy registered the bat and knew there was no way to avoid the blow headed for his temple. He closed his eyes and waited, but the shock never came. The bar grew eerily quiet as he opened his eyes and saw the bartender stopped in mid–swing like he was posing for a baseball card. There was no mistaking the massive hand that held the bloodied business end. Paul’s fingers were so large they actually came back to touch his palm around the bat.<br /><br />“Sorry, friend. But what kind a’ man would I be if I let you do that to my boss? Not much of one, I’d wager.” Paul said in his easy, friendly manner. The bartender, still fueled by blind rage, struggled with the bat. He spun in a circle and tugged, expecting it to break free of whoever held it. He stopped cold and stared. Where a man’s face should've been was a broad, flannel–clad chest. He stared ever upward until he had to crane his neck to look Paul in the eye. “Now why don’t you all just settle down and get back to what it was you were doing before all this nonsense, eh?”<br /><br />The bartender stammered for a few moments, then pulled his bat free with a violent jerk. He brought it back around in the highest arc he could against the giant. No man, no matter how big, could take a beating from a Louisville Slugger. It was a motto he'd lived by, and one that got disproved with harsh clarity that night in the Mustang. The bat struck Paul across the face with an audible crack, a blow that would have easily sent a ball sailing out of the park. The giant swung his head to the side from the force of the impact, but his feet never moved from the spot. He put the fingers of his left hand up to his cheek and touched it gently as the bartender rallied for another blow.<br /><br />“Mister, you ought not do that again…” Paul warned him quietly. His voice was even, and though it lacked a bit of the buoyant quality it normally had it still held no sign of anger or malice. “Just came to pick up my boss is all. I don’t want any trouble…”<br /><br />The bat swung again, this time accompanied by a war cry and coming from the opposite side. It struck this time on the right but with much the same result. Paul wiped at his right cheek with the back of his left hand and looked at the tiny smear of blood across his knuckles. The bartender staggered back a step and stared at Paul. His face had gone white as his knuckles as he stared up into great, narrowing eyes.<br /><br />“The Good Lord said I should turn the other cheek, but I guess some people just see that as another thing to aim at.” Paul said softly. The saloon had turned quiet as a funeral as everyone held their breath. “Mister, I like to think I follow His word best I can. And I think He tests us every day. Guess you’re my test for today.” His right hand shot out, grabbing the end of the bat firmly and lifting it up. The bartender tightened his two–handed grip out of reflex and found himself suspended off the ground several feet so he could stare into the giant’s eyes. “And, Mister, you’re gonna’ need a new bat when you wake up.”<br /><br />Paul squeezed the fire–hardened ash in his grip and was rewarded with a satisfying crack as the wood snapped and oozed out from between his fingers. Shattered as it was, the bat couldn’t hold he bartender’s considerable girth and he plummeted towards the floor. But before he could land Paul’s left hand snaked out and grabbed the man by the leg. With a swing of his arm, the bartender sailed across the room and crashed into the large mirror behind the bar. More than one hardened ranch hand cried out as the sound cut through the silence like a knife. A few of the regular patrons and hired help ran behind the counter to check out the old man.<br /><br />“Mr. Sinclair, you ready to go?” Paul asked as his smile returned. Billy looked up at him and staggered a bit from the rye and the beating, then back to one of his friends as they nursed his own blackened eyes.<br /><br />“Billy? Who the hell is that?”<br /><br />“That? That’s my new hand…” Billy said more easily than he thought he could.<br /><br />“He got a brother?” the man asked enviously.<br /><br />Paul waited for Billy to walk past then fell in step behind him. The crowd parted easily for the pair as they crossed the shredded tavern and made for the door. Billy walked out the door as Paul stopped short and motioned for one of the barmaids. The girl was understandably reluctant but was drawn by the big man’s warm smile. Hesitantly, she came over within a few feet of him. He dug around in his pocket, pulled out two golden coins and placed them in her hand. “One’s for your boss to help fix the mirror and the place, and the other’s for you ladies to divvy up how you see fit. Never let it be said Mr. Sinclair don’t pay his own way. Now there’s a good girl.” He winked a huge, bright blue eye at her and continued out the door.<br /><br /><div align="center">###</div><br />“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Billy yelled.<br /><br />“Your ma’ was worried ‘bout you. I was getting’ a bit thirsty myself, so I thought I’d come down for a drink.”<br /><br />“I can handle myself just fine, Paul…you didn’t need to come in there, throwin’ your weight around.”<br /><br />“Truth to tell, Mr. Sinclair, I just couldn’t see lettin’ the proprietor clout you like that. Wouldn’t be real honorable–like of me to let somethin’ like that happen to the man that pays my wages, now would it?”<br /><br />Billy stared at the man for a moment then almost laughed despite himself. “The look on old man Ferguson’s face was pretty funny when you grabbed that bat like that…”<br /><br />“Well, been my experience that some men just don’t know when to leave well enough alone.” Paul responded simply. “With your permission, Mr. Sinclair, it’s getting’ late. I really need to be headin’ back to the spread and check on things. I still get the feelin’ somethin’ ain’t right.”<br />Billy silently agreed with the hand. But he wasn’t sure if they were referring to the same thing. He looked at the hitching post and didn’t see the big draft he’d given Paul permission to use.<br /><br />“You walk here?”<br /><br />“Beautiful night out, thought the exercise would do me some good, walk off some of your ma’s fine cookin’.”<br /><br />“Well, hop in the back, I’ll give you a ride.”<br /><br />Paul stepped up easily into the bed of the truck and leaned against the cab. Billy wasn’t being impolite. They both knew that there was no way he could fit comfortably in the cab of the truck. Billy got in and started up the old truck in a haze of blue smoke and eased it into gear and down the road away from town. Paul felt around his palm and picked a few errant, blooded splinters from it. He smiled and tossed them out the side as the truck picked up speed and sped along the dirt road into the moonlit night.<br /><div align="center"><br />###<br /></div><div align="left"><br />Billy opened his eyes and immediately cursed the effort. Bright sunlight spilled into the room and assaulted his senses as he tried to pull the blanket up over his head. The movement produced pain that threatened to black him out. The events of the night before filtered slowly back to him. His ribs would be incredibly bruised right now, if not a few broken ones. His head pounded and his mouth tasted like cotton as he rolled over on his side and gingerly stood up. He paused once he got to his feet and swayed unsteadily as he made sure his legs wouldn’t betray him. From the sunlight in the room, he knew it to be well past dawn. He looked down and saw someone had bandaged his battered ribs. Seemed he owed a debt of thanks to Paul for that. His mother would have let him bear the pain before she would have done such a thing over a barroom brawl. Of course, he couldn’t just thank Paul. After all, that wouldn’t be the proper thing for a man in his position. He slowly, carefully put on his shirt and buttoned it, neglecting to tuck in the tails. The pain would have been more bother than it was worth.</div><div align="left"><br />He remembered clearly his meeting with Barnhart and his offer for the foal, though. The thought brightened his mood a bit as he went downstairs a step at a time. If everything went according to plan, he will have saved the farm and still left their options open. He found his mother in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes and sat down at the table. Without a word between them, she set down a cup of lukewarm coffee and a few aspirin and continued with her chores. He sipped then winced at the tepid coffee and took the aspirin dry. “Don’t do nothin’ with that check Reynolds gave you last night, ma’. I’ve got a better deal in the works.”</div><div align="left"><br />“A deal is a deal, Billy.” she said without turning away from the sink. “If we go back on our word, what are we then?”</div><div align="left"><br />“Smart is what we are, ma’. I met a man last night that’s interested in buying the new foal. Works for a collector out of Colorado and pays good hard cash for odd ones. Seems he doesn’t have a pure white horse yet, and I aim to provide him one for a healthy sum. Enough to take care of the mortgage and leave the herd out of it.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Pure white horses ain’t <em>that</em> rare, Billy. And I’m certainly not going to stake the ranch on some drunken deal you cooked up at the saloon. Man was probably just pulling your leg.”</div><div align="left"><br />“I don’t think so, ma’. He was a stranger and pretty free with his money. I’ve heard tell of men that has more money than they know what to do with, and I think I’ve just found one.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Well, I’m not ready to put the future of the ranch in those kind of hands.” she said sternly, still with her back to him. He slapped the table and instantly regretted it as waves of pain rippled across his gut.</div><div align="left"><br />“Damn it, ma’! You go around behind me and do this, and then when I do have the chance to make everything work out you still want to treat me like I’m a kid!” Billy said.</div><div align="left"><br />“If you acted the part of a man, I’d be more inclined to treat you like one.”</div><div align="left"><br />Billy felt like his mother had slapped him across the face. He stood up and ignored the pain from his ribs as he charged for the back door. Mabel stopped what she was doing and stared down into the sink. She hadn’t meant to say it that way, but she was never known for holding back when it came to the important matters in life. The sooner her eldest son realized that he didn’t know everything there was to know, the sooner he might actually learn nothing came as easy as he thought, and for the ranch to grow would take far more elbow grease and far less dreaming. Of course, that didn’t stop her from going to the back door and watching him cover the ground to the barn. She shook her head and sighed, hoping that one day he might realize that she was only trying to do what was best for everyone.</div><div align="left"><br />Billy stormed through the barn door and found the mare’s birthing stall empty. He went out the other side and crossed to the horse pasture and found mare and foal standing at the fence facing Paul and Everett. Paul had his massive hand extended and seemed to be rubbing the foal’s head while the mare looked on. Billy had been around horses his entire life, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing a foal so fearless so soon after birth. He closed with them and watched as Everett extended his hand slowly to the foal. It shied a bit, but Paul seemed to be talking to it, calming it. He was too far away to hear what Paul was saying, but he had already been regaled with the tale of the foal’s birth and Paul’s seeming ability to calm the mare. Maybe there was some meat to the story after all. He approached the gathering slowly out of reflex, not wanting to spook the animals.</div><div align="left"><br />“See? As long as you show ‘em you’re a friend, they’ll come to you every time.” Paul said to Everett. His large thumb was rubbing the center of the foal’s forehead and it didn’t seem to mind the attention. Everett had cupped the foal’s chin and was speaking to it in his best Paul–voice, telling it how beautiful it was. As soon as Billy came to stand behind Everett though, the foal ran off as if stung followed by Granny.</div><div align="left"><br />“Billy! Did ya’ see? Did ya’ see that? He let me touch his head and everything!” Everett beamed at his brother and turned back to watch the foal run and jump around its mother. The mare cast a baleful glance at Billy and went back to watching her foal. The look almost gave Billy the shivers. He shook off the feeling and stared at Paul for a moment. With the giant still kneeling, they were as near to eye to eye as they had ever been.</div><div align="left"><br />“Everett, go see if ma’ needs any help.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Aww! Do I have ta’? Me and Paul was going to go out and work on the fence some more.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Do what I tell ya’ Everett.” Billy answered harshly. Everett stared at him for a moment, cast a fleeting look to Paul and headed off for the house at a run. Billy leaned against the fence and watched as the foal cavorted around the pasture. It was truly amazing how strong the foal was. He was acting weeks older than he was. “You the one that wrapped me up?”</div><div align="left"><br />“Yup.” Paul said.</div><div align="left"><br />The pair watched in silence while the foal explored his new world and the mare looked on. “I don’t ever want to see you do that again.” Billy said quietly, his voice shaking slightly. “I can handle myself, don’t need no one playin’ mother hen on my behalf. We clear, Paul?”</div><div align="left"><br />“Not a problem, Mr. Sinclair. Just thought your ma’d been through enough what with losin’ your pa’ and all.”</div><div align="left"><br />“And what would you know ‘bout that, huh?” Billy suddenly turned on him. “You been snoopin’, huh?”</div><div align="left"><br />“Nope.” Paul said simply as he lit his pipe. “But it don’t take a dogs ears to hear all the way down to the barn, neither.”</div><div align="left"><br />“You just mind your own business, Paul. It’s got nothin’ to do with you. I’d let you go but ma’ and Everett seem to take a liking to you. That don’t mean I won’t, though.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Mr. Sinclair… a wise man once told me that you learn more by watchin’ and listenin’ than you do by talkin’. Words I’ve always tried to live by.” Paul said.</div><div align="left"><br />“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Billy asked.</div><div align="left"><br />“Nuthin’, I guess.” Paul stared out into the pasture and watched the foal. “He’s gonna’ make a right fine friend for you, Mr. Sinclair.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Might be a friend, but no friend of mine. Got a buyer comin’ out to look at him this evenin’.” Billy said.</div><div align="left"><br />“You selling him? You can’t sell him!” Paul said suddenly, then “He’s far too young yet, have to wait at least a year or so.”</div><div align="left"><br />“He’ll stay on till he’s off his mother, but no longer.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Mr. Sinclair, with all due respect, I think you’re makin’ a mistake in sellin’ him…”</div><div align="left"><br />“Well then… that’s my mistake ta’ make, now ain’t it? Make sure he looks presentable before supper. Seems he’s taken a liking to you, too.” Billy walked away, leaving Paul to stare after him. Laughing eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He needed more time; it was too early for this now. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled low. The horses immediately turned their ears then came back to the fence. He rubbed the foal’s head again and stared hard into its eyes. It was still too early to tell. The moon would show tonight, if his hunch was right. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that the moon would tell something else, too; something far more dangerous than a man–child in the throes of growing pains.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">###</div><div align="left"><br />The day passed uneventfully. Mabel and Billy had reached an agreement that they would put the check in an escrow account at the bank, with Morganstern knowing full well its intent to stave off any issues with the bank. That done, the house seemed to fall into more of a peaceful nature for the rest of the day. Everett spent his time with Paul working on an oft–patched section of the horse pasture fence to make it more presentable for the company they expected later that evening. Billy spent the bulk of his day out on the range with Surefoot. He hid the pain from his bruised body and tried to use it to create a stoic and wise air about him. Barnhart seemed a decent enough sort, but if his boss trusted him with his purse strings, it was obvious that the man would come from shrewd stock.</div><div align="left"><br />After lunch Everett lost track of the giant, a feat odd enough in itself. He searched for him high and low and finally found him outside the old equipment shed out behind the barn. A pile of tangled chains and other bits of steel was at his feet as he mumbled about his thick fingers and the comparatively small links he was trying to untangle. Everett came up behind him and stared around his thigh at the rusted, wickedly–barbed steel jaws in his hands. “What’s these for?”</div><div align="left"><br />“There’s still a wolf about. Thought I’d oil these up and see about putting ‘em out around the scrub near the chicken coop and the outside of the fence around the horse pasture. Can’t be too careful with the curs.” Paul said.</div><div align="left"><br />“Need some help?” Everett asked hopefully.</div><div align="left"><br />“Well, I don’t want you handlin’ the traps. Those teeth’re sharp and full a’ the lockjaw. But I bet those fingers of yours would do a fine job on separating these chains.” He smiled at the boy and handed him a mass of rusty links almost as big as he was. Everett sat down on the ground and started worrying at the lengths while Paul doused the jaws with bar oil. With his strength, even the most stubborn of them soon swung free and easy. Paul disliked working with metal. It was a cold, dead thing with no real life of its own. Not like wood or animals or stone. Those had a true personality and didn’t need man to be complete.</div><div align="left"><br />“I heard ma’ say that Billy wants to sell the foal.” Everett said quietly. “Wish he wouldn’t. He’s one of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen on the ranch.” Paul stopped for a moment and looked down at the boy. He could tell that the boy was upset by his brother’s plans. But you didn’t make it on any kind of farm by wearing your attachments on your sleeve. What was a pet today could be food or in an auction tomorrow.</div><div align="left"><br />“Your brother’s just doin’ what he thinks is best. Not for us to say one way or the other, though just between you, me and the foal, I agree with you.” He opened one of the freshly–oiled traps and slipped the catch over the mechanism. He laid it down on the ground and stepped back, dropping a thick stick on the pressure plate as he went. The old jaws still had some life and snapped together almost instantly, burying the teeth almost completely through the green wood with an audible crack. Satisfied, Paul threaded a bit of the chain through the catch and set it off to the side. Everett suddenly stood up and laid the chain down on the ground.</div><div align="left"><br />“Shoot! I clean forgot ma’ wanted me to help her with the chicken for dinner tonight. I better go and find her. Sorry, Paul.”</div><div align="left"><br />“That’s okay Everett. You just make sure you wash up good, get all that rust off of ya’.” He tousled the boy’s hair and watched as he ran away. Times like these Paul wished for even a small sliver of such youthful, naïve energy. He’d never actually had a childhood for himself, and deep down he almost envied them. But then, he’d never really had to experience the pain of having childhood dreams and absolute truths shattered, either. He sighed and went back to work. Within a few moments, he had arrayed the half–dozen jaw traps around him and had enough chain to anchor each wherever he would. He went to the small pump behind the shed and washed the oil and rust from his hands before reaching into an old wooden toolbox. He wiped the pliers on his flannel and examined the jaws. A bit worn, but they would do. He clucked his tongue a few times and looked up to the sun. He only had a few more hours of good light left.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">###</div><div align="left"><br />The last hours of the afternoon had turned hot and muggy. Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and hung his hat on a hook by the back door. Despite being early in the season, the spring grasses were starting to shoot up. Better for the heard and far better for their feed and hay budgets. The streams they depended on to water the herd were high and clear, fed by runoff from the winter snows. He couldn’t ask for a better start to a season, and each of these factors would play heavily on the success he was planning for the ranch this year. But it all hinged on Barnhart and his eccentric employer buying the colt. True, he would have to wait till it was old enough to be taken from his mother, but business etiquette would demand at least half the agreed–upon amount as a down payment. He looked out and saw Paul washing his hands at the old well–pump at the edge of the yard. He shook his head slowly as he watched. It was a good thing the giant was as well–natured as he was. He vividly remembered the events at the saloon and shuddered inwardly at the broken bat and fat old Ferguson sailing through the air. Ferguson had to go better than 300 pounds, and Paul had thrown him with only one arm nearly twenty feet. But the man seemingly knew his place, and aside from a scant few instances he’d done nothing to indicate he was anything more than what he seemed.</div><div align="left"><br />Mabel came out on the porch and struggled with the legs of a large, folding card table. Billy helped her set it up and stood back while she threw a clean, checkered table cloth over it.<br />“What’s this?” Billy asked.</div><div align="left"><br />“Too hot to eat in the kitchen, what with the weather and the cooking. I made extra. I suspect Paul’s been eatin’ less than his fill, what with his size and all. Man that works as hard as him shouldn’t be keepin’ modest when it comes to the dinner table.”</div><div align="left"><br />“You tryin’ to say somethin’, ma’?” Billy asked.</div><div align="left"><br />“What I’m sayin’ is that no man should go away from the table hungry when that’s what he’s workin’ for. That means you and Everett, too. Sakes, that boy’s eatin’ everything I put in front of him now. Even carrots.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Everett hates carrots, ma’. Always has.”</div><div align="left"><br />“More of Paul’s doin’ I figure. Told the boy that if he wanted to get big and strong, he needed to do like he did and eat all his ma’s cookin’.” She finished straightening the cloth and watched Paul come up the yard towards them. “Strikes me as a man that’s been ‘round children before, the way he is with Everett.”</div><div align="left"><br />“And by the looks of him, he probably ate ‘em, too.” Billy joked. Mabel slapped the back of his head playfully and went back into the kitchen as Paul stepped up onto the porch.</div><div align="left"><br />“Need to be mindful ‘round the coop and out past the horse pasture fence, Mr. Sinclair. I set some of those old foot traps you had back in the shed.” Paul said.</div><div align="left"><br />“Still have wolves on your mind, Paul?” Billy asked.</div><div align="left"><br />“Yup.” Paul caught site of the table and removed his ever–present knit cap. “Oh! Didn’t know I was in the dinin’ hall.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Ma’s idea. Said it was too hot to eat at the kitchen table tonight. Though I suspect it’s as much for your benefit as for anything else.” Billy said.</div><div align="left"><br />“Shoot! That ain’t a necessary thing, Mr. Sinclair. Ain’t too many cook shacks and long houses built for a man of my girth. I’m well–used ta’ takin’ my meals outdoors. Fact, I’ve come ta’ prefer it in a way.”</div><div align="left"><br />Mabel interrupted them with a platter holding all the best parts of four fried chickens and hefted it onto the table. “Everett!” she called out, “supper’s ready!”</div><div align="left"><br />“That sure is a lot of chicken, ma’.” Billy commented.</div><div align="left"><br />“And a lot of other fixins’ inside. Why don’t you help me bring the rest out?” Billy followed her back into the kitchen as Paul looked down at the mass of chicken on the platter. He’d been eating somewhat sparsely since he arrived, making sure that he wasn’t placing an undue burden on the family. Truth be told, he could probably polish off the platter by himself. He could fool a lot of people, but apparently a woman and mother always knew when a man was hungry. He smiled and went about collecting chairs and moving his stump around to the table.</div><div align="left"><br />Mabel had outdone herself. When the ranch was running strong, they had more than a dozen hands to feed. Mabel had done the cooking chores along with the book keeping to save money on hiring a cook. One of the things that any man that ever worked the Sinclair spread during the heyday could be counted on to recollect was the three squares a day. There wasn’t a woman alive in the county that could cook as well and in such quantity. The men of the Sinclair Ranch dug in with fervor, and even Billy was in better than usual spirits. They talked about the work they’d been doing and what was still to be done and how they would do it. But the mood darkened somewhat when the subject of the newest horse came around.</div><div align="left"><br />“I wonder if the man that wants to buy <em>Drahkshin</em> is with the circus. He sure would make a pretty horse for those acrobats like we saw at the state fair last year.” Everett said excitedly over his second helping of carrots.</div><div align="left"><br />“Drakh <em>what</em>?” Billy asked.</div><div align="left"><br />“Drahkshin. I heard Paul calling him that this afternoon out at the pasture fence. Is that a foreign name, Paul?” Everett asked innocently.</div><div align="left"><br />“It’s Dutch…” Paul responded before he filled his mouth with mashed potatoes.</div><div align="left"><br />“Don’t matter what it is. You all shouldn’t be namin’ it <em>anything</em>. It ain’t gonna’ be here long enough for that. His new owner can name him.” Billy said, irritated enough to put down his fork.<br />“Now, Billy. Everything needs a name. Don’t seem right to just call it <em>horse</em>, now does it? ‘Sides, you don’t even know that this Colorado man is going to buy it. Just don’t see the big fuss, anyway. No dime a dozen, but a white horse ain’t exactly rare, either.”<br />“Well, apparently in Colorado they are. And an all-white horse, without a speck or mark on it, is pretty far between.” Billy said, his agitation growing. “You all just do what I tell you to do tonight and I’m sure it’ll all go right.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Mr. Sinclair, beggin’ your pardon, but I still think it’s a bad idea to be lookin’ to sell that colt right now. It’s still way too early. Besides, it could get spots tomorrow mornin’. Those things take time to really show. Wouldn’t want the ranch to get a name for sellin’ what it don’t have.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Well, Paul… I really don’t see it as your place to worry ‘bout the reputation of the Sinclair Ranch. You let the Sinclairs worry ‘bout that.” Billy said.</div><div align="left"><br />“Just sayin’ is all.” Paul said. He swallowed the potatoes and looked at Mabel. “Mrs. Sinclair, this is one of the finest meals I’ve ever had the pleasure to sit down to.” Paul said to change the subject.</div><div align="left"><br />“Why, thank you, Paul. It’s nothing, really. Just wanted to make sure all my boys were fed right.”</div><div align="left"><br />“And how!” Everett remarked. At first, the boy had tried to keep up with Paul, but by the giant’s third helping of potatoes and beans all he could do was clear his plate and watch in awe as the big man devastated the table. The man was no messy eater though, just fast and hungry.</div><div align="left"><br />After dinner was cleared away, Billy paced the length of the front porch and smoked, waiting nervously for Barnhart to show. The sun was ready to set before the man came down the drive in a pick-up with a small trailer attached to it. Paul came out of the barn and stood waiting while Billy met the man at the drive and walked him over to the horse pasture. Mabel came out of the house and joined them as they stood at the pasture fence.</div><div align="left"><br />“It’s too soon to tell…” Paul mumbled to himself as he cast a glance at the setting sun. He strode over to the group with Everett in tow.</div><div align="left"><br />“Oh, this here’s Paul, Mr. Barnhart.” Billy said as the giant towered over them. Paul stared hard at Barnhart. The man stared back at him, eyes narrowed slightly. Paul sniffed the air and kept a stern look on his face, disconcerting for more than just his size. “He’s one of our hands.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Paul…” Barnhart acknowledged and tipped his hat.</div><div align="left"><br />“Barnhart…” Paul returned his nod and folded his massive arms across his keg–barrel chest.</div><div align="left"><br />“There they are!” Everett exclaimed and pointed out into the pasture. The mare and colt had come to investigate the humans to see if they’d brought the customary carrots or sugar. They came across the pasture at a gallop, then stopped short as the mare cut slightly into the foal’s path to stop it a dozen yards from the fence. The mare’s nostrils flared a few times as it regarded the group and turned to conceal the foal even more.</div><div align="left"><br />“Now what do you suppose has got into ‘em?” Billy wondered aloud. “Granny ain’t usually like that.”</div><div align="left"><br />“More like as not me.” Barnhart said easily without taking his eyes off Paul. “Bein’ a stranger and all.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Could be.” Paul said simply. Billy was too busy to notice, but Mabel and Everett could sense the tension between Paul and this stranger Barnhart.</div><div align="left"><br />“Paul… you seem to have a way with Granny… see if you can get her to come over so Mr. Barnhart can get a look at the young’un.” Billy said.</div><div align="left"><br />Paul looked out into the pasture and shook his head slowly. “’Fraid I can’t do that, Mr. Sinclair.”</div><div align="left"><br />“What? Paul, I ain’t askin, I’m <em>tellin</em>. Now get that foal over here.” Billy said sternly as if he were talking to Everett.</div><div align="left"><br />“She don’t want to come over here, Mr. Sinclair. If I make her, she ain’t gonna’ trust me again.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Paul…” Billy started. Barnhart put the back if his hand to Billy’s chest, interrupting him.</div><div align="left"><br />“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll get ‘em over here.” He hopped the fence as if it weren’t there and walked slowly towards the pair of horses. He spoke softly to them and finally got the mare and foal to look into his eyes. They continued to stare as if frozen in place as he approached them slowly. Though they didn’t move, Granny’s nostrils continued to flare and her chest had started to heave from her heavy breathing. She obviously wanted to move but didn’t seem able. The rest of them couldn’t see the foal for the mare from this angle. When Barnhart got within a few feet of the horses, Granny could take no more and suddenly leaped from her place towards Barnhart. Billy shouted out a warning as the terrified horse bolted for the man. With unnatural speed, Barnhart sidestepped the mare’s charge and lashed out with his right hand. He hit the mare in the side of the neck, the blow stunning her and dropping her to the ground.</div><div align="left"><br />The foal still seemed transfixed and rooted to the spot. Everett cried out for Granny and started to mount the fence. Paul reached out and snatched the boy up by his shirt collar and set him down gently at his mother’s feet. Billy stood and stared at the downed Granny, then at Barnhart as he kneeled before the colt and started rubbing its forehead as he had seen Paul do.</div><div align="left"><br />“Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair…I thank ya’ for the best grub I’ve had in a long time and the chance to see your beautiful spread, but I’m afraid I have to give you my notice. It’s been a pleasure workin’ for you.” He looked down at Everett, then to Mabel. “Everett, son… you stay here with your ma’. Mr. Sinclair? You, too. This ain’t for you now.”<br /><br />The sun finished its descent quickly and had cast the world into dusk as Paul stepped over the fence. Everett made to run to him but Mabel grabbed his shoulders and quieted him. “What the hell is going on here?” Billy managed to gasp as the mare twitched and jerked on the ground. The clear day had left a cloudless night, letting the moon take the sun’s place in rapid succession.</div><div align="left"><br />“This ain’t no horse, and that ain’t no man.” Paul said without looking back at the group. The colt suddenly spasmed and bleated as it reared back away from Barnhart’s touch. It bucked and started to run in tight circles, first around Barnhart then its mother. It suddenly broke from its path and ran to one of the fence posts, slamming its head against it and rubbing vigorously. Chunks of fur and flesh tore away as it frantically butted the post, spurting blood across the rough wood.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Everett screamed and nearly broke free of his mother’s grasp. Mabel’s maternal instincts were on overdrive now, making her nearly as strong in body as she was in will. She restrained Everett with a single arm and reached out, dragging Billy toward her as well. Paul changed his course and went to the foal, turning his back on the oddly–smiling Barnhart. Paul kneeled and tried to calm the young horse. It took several seconds before the colt could recognize him through its blood–filled eyes. Paul ran his thumb over the spot and nodded in satisfaction at the small protrusion that had just crested the flesh. He could feel it elongate under his thumb, growing several inches long in the space of a few moments. The horn was twisted in a tight spiral that shimmered like wet porcelain and seemed to glow with an inner light in the growing dusk.</div><div align="left"><br />“I been lookin’ for you everywhere!” Paul said to the unicorn.</div><div align="left"><br />“And so have I.” Barnhart said as he started to walk towards the giant. “This is not your matter, Green Man. You have no jurisdiction here.” The man’s voice had changed considerably as he walked, losing its homey accent and becoming far more powerful and low.</div><div align="left"><br />“Aye, and that’s where you are wrong.” Paul said as he stood to his full height and turned to face Barnhart. “One got loose and came to the World. Had a bit of a dalliance with yon dame… Drahkshin here was the result. The sire is from the Realm, hence the foal is under my protection and will return with me. Do not toy with my patience, Wolf. Be on your way and trouble these good people no more.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Hmmm…” Barnhart growled low in his throat as the full body of the moon came into view. “I think not.”</div><div align="left"><br />“Do not violate the Pact in my presence, Wolf, else I’ll have the skin of yet another of your kind to lie before my hearth.” Paul warned.</div><div align="left"><br />“You are in the <em>mortal</em> world, Green Man… you do not know how truly limited your power is here. I will take the bastard offspring with me now. My master has use for it.” Barnhart stopped and threw back his head as his skin started to bubble and change. The Sinclairs watched, transfixed by fear as Barnhart’s arms and legs elongated. His entire body gained thickness and mass as his clothes shredded off his body, unable to contain the growing ferocity within. Claws nearly a foot long sprouted in great gouts of blood and ruined flesh from Barnhart’s fingers as his face grew and stretched into a muzzle full of impossibly sharp, jagged teeth. Long, pointed ears sprouted from his head, knocking his hat to the ground as a thick coat of ragged, gray fur erupted like a spreading fire across his body. What had been Barnhart dropped to the ground and lifted his head, howling to the moon.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Later, everyone in the county would claim to have heard the horrible sound... and the answer to the call. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="center">###</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"><em>I invite you to stop back again next week for the 3rd and final part of</em> Rural Legend<em>. Until then, just write, damn it.</em> - Author</div>Eric R. Lowtherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03805430193433680540noreply@blogger.com0