Zombies - Ignition

Ignition

Mel talked as he drove and I listened as well as I could over the growing pain in my leg. As overwhelming as everything was, it was nice to have somebody explain the situation to me for once, instead of having to figure it out for myself.

"They say the virus hit sometime last night," he said, eyes fixed straight ahead, voice devoid of emotion. I got the feeling he was relaying the information purely for my sake, so I sat in grateful silence and listened. "All of the important sources are saying it's a freak of nature and nobody is responsible for it." He turned to me. "Of course, those are all the media sources that have ties in the government. Our smaller, more independent and trustworthy people said it was man made until they got shut up." His expression hardened and he returned his attention to the road before he continued, "But that doesn't matter now. We gathered together as many people as we could--the ones that were...safe..." Here, he trailed off, unable to continue perhaps because of emotion. I wasn't sure.

Buildings passed by, looking oddly ethereal. Golden bars of light reached past them almost horizontally now, casting long shadows across our path and onto the city as the Humvee's shadows flitted across uneven terrain beside us. Mel paid the scattered bodies no attention, but I stared in horrified fascination at the various death poses, some lying in dark stains of their own blood. How many people were dead, I
wondered, but forced my thoughts elsewhere. Thinking too much would just break down the damn I was so carefully holding up.

"You look like you've had better days," he finally said wryly.

"Can't think of a worse one," I muttered. Then, after a moment of recollection, "I had a normal life just this afternoon. I was eating a pizza..."

He smiled, but it carried no mirth; only sadness. "We all did, Jimmy. Goddammit, we all did."

"You seem to have expected all this, though," I ventured and reiterated, "I mean, you seem prepared."

He barked a laugh. "Prepared? No. Everyone has that fight-or-flight instinct, though. My group is just one of those who chose to take a stand instead of run. The only real difference between people like us is the amount of time it takes to make the decision. We--" he paused to gesture at himself, "--just made that decision quicker than most." He glanced at my leg. "Though not all. How does it feel?"

"Like hell on fire," I grumbled.

The Humvee jostled almost painlessly over a curb and pulled to a stop in the middle of a square, empty but for the dead bodies strewn about one side. The rest of the pavement had already been cleared, the bodies piled several feet high in one corner. A group of men in orange construction vests worked with the remainder.

"We're claiming this part of the city," Mel explained. "Judging by your leg wound and a few radio transmissions, we're not the only group of survivors." His face darkened. "Seems not every one of us shares the same sentiment, though." He continued in a lighter tone. "But, those are only rumours. Nothing to propogate just yet."

I nodded, but my mind was begin to cloud over with pain.

Mel noticed. "I can send for someone to take you inside. I'll wait out here until my men come back with your friend, though. I'm still not confident of everyone's abilities around here."

"But she'll be safe, right?" Sue me, but we'd been through quite a lot together in the last few hours.

"She's in as good a group of hands as I can manage right now, I can assure you. Who knows? In a couple months, the rescue teams I send out could consist of these same men. I'm holding bets until I can see my cards is all."

I nodded. "I'll wait with you if that's alright."

He grinned. "That's what I hoped." He reached into his coat with a creak of leather and produced a paper bag. "Normally, I don't encourage drinking to ease pain, but given what's happened today, I think this is a damn good time for a stiff drink." The paper bag pulled away to reveal a bottle of whiskey. "Hope you're not a germ freak." The cork squeaked free of the bottle and he sloshed back a sizable amount, then offered me the bottle.

I took it with less enthusiasm. Not that drinking myself out of my own mind was unappealing; I just felt that the time wasn't right. Something was nagging at me. I turned to Mel. "Who was that in the car down there?"

He scanned the square. "Down where?"

"The hillside. The person Lynette was helping. Who was that?"

He shrugged carelessly. "Fucked if I know. Probably just another casualty. Why?"

Now it was my turn to shrug. "Not sure..." I tried to brush away the nagging, but returned to it a moment later. After all, had there been someone alive in that car, wouldn't they have freed themselves somehow? And if not, what about the undead? I had yet to see how quickly they responded to fresh meat, but it seemed like a long time to leave it untouched. "She'll be back soon, right?"

"Should be back already," he enthused. "Nothing to worry about. Have a drink."

What was he hiding from? I took a small swallow and let the drink burn down my throat, warming my stomach. "The sun's setting."

He took the bottle back from me. "Give it another fifteen minutes. If they're not back by then, we'll go looking."

I nodded uneasily. The pain in my thigh had plateaued now, though it still hurt like hell. Spots were starting to dance at the edge of my vision and my limbs felt weak.

"You okay?" Mel asked, voice twinged with concern. I nodded weakly, but nausea was starting to twist my gut into pretzel shapes. The bottle sloshed back into my view. "It'll help dull the pain at least." Now he was just pitying me.

I waved it away. "Frankly, Mel, now is not the time. But I think I need to get to a doctor. I must have lost more blood than I thought." I fumbled with the door handle. My fingertips felt kind of numb. Things were starting to get a little blurry and my movement was sluggish. "Shit..."

And then I lost all motor function and fell against the dashboard while my eyes closed of their own accord. Sleep swept over me gently and I let it carry me away.

A Fuse Ill Lit

I woke up under white sheets in a white room with a woman dressed in white bending over me. She wore a white mask. I felt no pain. On the contrary, I felt right as rain. I giggled.

"He's awake."

Another masked face appeared beside the first. I could tell this one was a man because he had no breasts and his eyes were more manly somehow. "Sure took him awhile," he muttered, gruff voice confirming my perception.

"Doc..." my voice came out slurred, which struck me as funny, and I continued amid stifled laughter, "some things just can't be rushed, like steak. If you're gonna cook a steak, you have to cook it right. And I, sir, am no steak." My composure dissolved into fits of laughter that only intensified when he glanced at the woman, rolled his eyes and muttered an irritated oath before vanishing from my sight.

"Shh," said the woman. "You need your rest. You lost a lot of blood."

"Blood," I deadpanned when I could compose myself. "It's in you to give."

She shook her head, but I could see the smile in her eyes. "Just lie back. I'll be back to check on you later." She left.

That left me all by mysel in a room I saw as I twisted to take in my surroundings. I didn't know where they had found a room so white, but it was no hospital room. I could tell by the lack of medical equipment. "They are ill equpiped," I informed myself morosely. "Well, better that than illy quipped." I snorted a laugh.

Somebody knocked on the door and stepped inside a second later. It was Lynette.

"Lynnie!" I cried. "It's so good to see you again!"

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder hesitantly. Then she seemed to draw herself up resignedly and approached my side. "They told me you passed out in the truck, waiting for me."

"Lying in wait."

"Yeah. Well, thank you. You really should have been here instead, you know."

"I was just in the right time at the right place, baby."

She rolled her eyes. "How high did they make you, Jimmy?!" But she was smiling. "They did manage to confirm that you are immune to the virus, for which we can be grateful, I guess. Apparently, open wounds are much more vulnerable than the lungs."

"Always wear a condom," I snickered.

She stood. "Well, with that, I have to go. Mel said he'd be by to see you later." And then she, too, was gone. I lay there in the quiet muttering to myself every now and then. Maybe being drugged up wasn't such a good thing. But then I thought about how it must seem to everyone else and I giggled again. It was worth it.

Zombies - How To Kill Stuff and Annihilate Zombies

I was curled in a fetal of agony on the floor of a Humvee that loomed vertiginously off the ground, watching blood spurt from between fingers clenched in a death grip around my thigh. The shooting had stopped courteously, though something told me it had nothing to do with the intention of any kind of apology. They owed me a hell of a good one, though.

A clatter. Then, Lynette was leaping over the back of the driver's seat and stomping on the gas. The truck roared into action, churning its tires into black swaths of rubber on the asphalt with a hula motion and rocketing down the street like a Humvee being driven by a damsel in distress. With her knight in shining armour curled in agony on the floor beside her. I could almost taste the poetry.

The engine screamed. My blood spurted. Reinvigorated gunfire faded into the distance.

Then, without warning, we lurched to a halt, the truck's door opened and closed, then somebody was shooting again. I counted, twelve rounds, then a pause. Then twelve more shots, after which silence dominated. A fan ticked under the hood. Something howled.

Another shot.

More silence filled with ticking, but no more howling.

The door opened again and Lynette clambered inside with a paper bag in hand. Quickly, she dumped out the contents with a clink. Everything seemed to strangely quiet. There should be music playing or something. My blood was still forcing its way between my fingers. The pain in my thigh seemed to have spread to the rest of my body so that even my toes throbbed as they grew numb.

To grant Lynette a bit of charity, I did hear her pull the cork from the bottle, although I was too delirious to put two and two together even when she ordered me to remove my hands from the wound. But I caught on like flies to a dung heap when she tipped the bottle and set free a gout of amber-coloured liquid directly onto my profusely bleeding leg.

I don't faint often. And I find it ironic that alcohol was what did me in, but maybe the blood loss factored in there somewhere, as well. Whatever the case, I woke up a few minutes later to find my pant leg cut off and my thigh wrapped in clean white gauze. It throbbed with pain, but only slightly as if muffled somehow. I blinked and shook my head to clear it of the cottonballs that stuffed it.

"Oh thank God," Lynette breathed. "Here, drink some of this." She handed me a water bottle, which I took and sipped at obediently. After a moment, she spoke again. "I was worried you'd lost too much blood. How is the pain?"

We were still in the truck. I sat in the passenger seat now, reclined back as far as it would go, and Lynette sat, shoulders slumped, behind the steering wheel. The woman looked exhausted. Deep shadows rimmed her eyes and her hair was a mess. I nodded thankfully. "Better."

She seemed to take this in with some amount of satisfaction. "I injected you with morphine while you were asleep. It should keep the pain at a manageable level for a while. The bullet just missed your femur, for which you should be glad, but it hit an artery. I've stitched you up as well as I can out here. I'm not sure when we can get you proper medical treatment, though."

She watched me ponder all this for a moment. Then, answered the question before I could ask it. "I'm a nurse." She fidgeted for a bit before coming to some silent conclusion. We admitted the first infected case last night. It only took a couple hours before the hospital was overrun. I...don't know what happened to everyone. I just left." She finished her confession with her head bowed, in shame I guessed. And who could blame her, on both counts? Her duties as a nurse would be to keep people healthy and ensure that no condition grew worse on her watch, so watching a sterile hospital environment deteriorate into a chaotic, brain-munching orgy, not to mention fleeing the scene in a desperate attempt to save her own life, would be the ultimate self betrayal. But to her credit, here she was, alive.

I started to speak, to try and comfort her somehow but shut my mouth and sat mutedly. Some wounds have to be dealt with in silence, or risk being aggravated with insensitivity. I pushed myself into a sitting position as carefully as I could and took in our surroundings. The Humvee was parked in a rarely used lot somewhere along the river. Autumn leaves blanketed the pitted asphalt and lush, green grass that surrounded it. We sat facing the river which glided past several hundred feet below at the bottom of a gentle slope that arced away from us until it plunged almost clifflike into the gray-brown depths. A single ribbon of road lined by black lampposts cut through the hillside ahead and below us.

Lynette gasped, catching and drawing my attention a bit further down the roadway below us where a troupe of zombies ambled nonchalantly in the direction of an overturned car halfway up the slope. I squinted, straining for a clearer view. Sure enough, an arm hung limply through a broken window in the crumpled fuselage. The zombies drew closer.

What if whoever was in that car was still alive? I frowned and watched for movement but saw none. Still, the zombies were advancing. I had to make a decision.

"Fuck me," I grumbled as I loaded my shotgun, then my handgun.

"Jimmy?"

I glanced at her with a blank expression on my face. "Whoever's in that car may still be alive," I explained simply. "I will go save them."

She blinked. "Your, um, leg?" But I was already opening my door and hurling myself onto the pavement.

It didn't hurt, but my leg felt funny. Like it wouldn't hold me up or something. It carried me as far as the grass before I sprawled facedown, again without pain. There was just a dull sort of numbness that spread through my body when I landed. Another door slammed behind me and Lynette was helping me to my feet, leading me back to the Humvee where I could lean against it. I shook my head to clear it as she snatched the shotgun from my hands and replaced it with an assault rifle.

"It's loaded," she snapped brusquely and slapped a few extra magazines onto the hood of the truck. "Just don't blow my head off." With that, she was tacking down the hillside, shotgun at her hip. I noticed how she gave the zombies a wide berth before closing in on them and opening fire, allowing both for me to get a clear shot and for the shooting to come from more than one direction.

It was a passing thought, though. I sighted through the small scope on top of the rifle and pulled the trigger. My first few shots went wide, but I soon got the hang of holding the crosshairs on my target until the bullet was fired. The group started out with eight leering undead, two of which I dropped before Lynette got within mulching range with her shotgun and began cutting the things down like a madwoman. I was only able to drop one more, this one right through the skull. It rained brain matter back onto the grass as it flopped onto its back reluctantly.

I watched as Lynette approached the wrecked car tentatively. She held her gun ready to fire, but seemed to lower her guard as she neared the wreckage. Then, with a cry, she hurried forward and knelt in its shadow, working hurriedly at something I couldn't see.

I was so focused on her, in fact, that I didn't notice the newcomers until a group of men was hurrying past me, presumably to assist her. One of them stayed back to lounge against the truck with me.

Strangely, he seemed almost as if he'd expected the zombies. That, or he just knew how to adapt really quickly. The newcomer was taller than me by a few inches and adorned in heavy jeans stuffed into big, black boots. He wore a simple black t-shirt with the words 'Anarchy or Bust' in white flanked by a thick, leather duster. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail over a smooth face with a pointed nose, accented only by a day of stubble. He held out a hand in greeting.

"Mel Henson," he spoke in a rich, deep voice. "You look like a natural."

I tucked the assault rifle under my other arm to take his hand. "Thanks. Jimmy." I don't give out my full name unless I absolutely have to. Mel nodded and returned his gaze to where the men were helping wrestle someone out of the car. I opened my mouth, hesitated, then asked the question. "How bad is it?"

He grimaced. "It's a clusterfuck. We're not sure how it hit, or why, but the whole city is cut off. There's no way of knowing of anyone else in the country--or world--has been hit." His expression darkened. "We do know that we've been quarantined, though."

"Quarantined?"

He grimaced again, apparently displeased by the thought of it. "They've blocked all the major roads. The smaller ones might offer some kind of escape, but you can only go so far before you run out of gas."

"I'm sure there's a way to get to at least one," I insisted. "We're not in the middle of nowhere."

He shrugged and reached into his pocket for a cigarette with a creak of leather. "Like I said, there's no telling how far this has spread." He lit it with a flick of a lighter and puffed once. "I'd rather take my chances where I know I've got supplies. Wouldn't you?" He drew deep and exhaled a stream of smoke.

I had nothing to say to that. If it was true, if a virus had really caused all this and had spread to the countryside, then we were truly better equipped to stay in the city. For the time being, at least. The pain in my leg was returning so I hauled myself onto the hood with a grunt and sat there, resigned for the time being to watch the work further down the hill in the light of a setting sun. Though, I did glance over my shoulder time and again to check for more undead. They gave me the willies.

"You need a doctor," Mel noted.

I nodded, but said nothing.

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt on the ground, then drew himself up with that same creak of leather. "We should go, then. My men will take care of your friend and whoever's in the car. Can you walk?"

I shrugged. "Last time I tried, I nearly broke my nose."

He grunted in reply "We'll take your truck then. I look forward to finding out how you got one of these."

I forced a crooked smile. "Long story." I hobbled around to the passenger side and got in clumsily. My thigh was starting to throb with surprising vigour. I case one last glance at Mel as he started the truck. I had no reason to trust him, but nothing had presented itself to the contrary, and I had a feeling we both needed the companionship. After all, a disaster like this would no doubt bring people together, probably solve a lot of differences in light of higher necessity. I could at least be thankful for that.

Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

This one's shorter than most. I figured I'd end it here, though, since it seemed appropriate. Watch for more next week.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --

Zombies - What The Cat Dragged In

We drove. The river dragged its way through the city in a meandering, whimsical path that only allowed for bridges at the least opportune places. After about half an hour of U-turns and confusing, hilly streets, we found one that hadn't been completely destroyed. The sign, now hanging askew, claimed it was the High Level Bridge. It was named appropriately enough, a shaft of I-beams that spanned the area between two hills on either side of the river. At almost exactly halfway across, the pavement smoked at the edges of a crater, allowing just enough room for us to squeeze past. Below, the murky water crawled.

"What happened here?" Lynette's first words since the battle site.

"Damned if I know," I said blandly. I didn't want to know. Something had exploded and now the bridge was half gone! What was left to wonder?

"I don't see any bodies," she kept peering at the rearview mirror, watching the crater retreat.

There, I conceded, she had a point. I could still taste a bit of the vomit from the last time I'd seen bodies, though. The smell of it would linger in my nostrils for hours, too. The fewer bodies, the better.

"Might have just been an accident..." Now she was just musing, talking to keep the silence at bay. I gritted my teeth and focused on driving. There had been enough dying for one day--hell, for a lifetime!--and I'd be happy to blame it all on the undead. At least I could take my anger out on them. Later.

The bridge came to an end, the sky sprung into view again--sunny with a patch of clouds--and we crested a small rise in the road. Apartment buildings rose on the left side of the street here, and a few other roads converged in an awkward intersection I paid no heed to. The lack of traffic was creeping me out.

Ahead, the condos gave way to body shops, restaurants, furniture stores and whatever else mankind had seen fit to make money with. After the towering skyscrapers of downtown, I was thankful for a break in oppressive scenery. It's easier to see an enemy when you have a line of sight on it.

Lynette twisted in her seat to look at me. "Did it look to you like they tried to blow up this bridge, too? Dawson was no accident."

I thought back to where we had made our brief acquaintance with the mercenaries. It sure hadn't looked like a battle scene. Maybe they were trying to contain the undead to one side of the river. I wondered how long that would hold out.

"We're lucky we got across!" Now she was indignant. "Those bastards almost got us--hey!" She pointed at a figure disappearing behind a building. I squinted and slowed the truck.

"Looked alive..." I muttered. And it had. None of this reanimated dead person lurching business. That had been a kid seeing us and running, possibly to go find an adult. I pulled the vehicle to a halt.

"We're stopping? It might be nothing."

I held up a hand distractedly. "He's going to get someone. Watch."

The kid never came back, but the message had been delivered. A group of men, all of them armed with scowls and weapons, emerged from the alleyway. Then, they took aim and opened fire on us. Wildly, I thought about taking cover and shooting back, but I was too busy cowering and trying to find a place in the vehicle where their bullets couldn't get to me. Lynette had somehow wriggled into the back between the gun case and the wall, which left me the entire front of the truck where there was no cover. Glass exploded all over my back. More bullets pounded into the fuselage.

And then I was shot. My gaze was just passing by my leg and I saw the blood erupt from a mini crater in my thigh. I felt wind on my forehead and then I was screaming, rolling into the space between the seats and the dashboard. Nothing existed but pain and safety glass.

Zombies - High and Lonesome

A third entry into what I'm building into an ebook. I hope you enjoy, and leave comments. I am, it seems, susceptible to critique. And I'd love to hear what you think in whatever case.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Gunfire erupted in a muffled clatter that came from up ahead. The convoy sprung into action, vehicles spreading into battle formation; tires squealed as trucks maneuvered into position and slid to a halt, spilling their payload of soldiers onto the ground in a chorus of booted feet on asphalt. More gunfire joined the ruckus as the men took up tactical positions wherever they could find cover.

"We have to help them!" I exclaimed urgently, fueled more by a need to do something--anything--other than sit still while the undead swarmed us from God knows where. Hastily, I fumbled for my seatbelt, fingers slipping on the catch in their hurry. A hand on my arm stopped me.

"Wait." Lynette's face mirrored her tone of perfectly calm determination. "Let's see how this plays out."

I met her gaze for a moment longer before panning to watch the still mostly motionless backs of the mercenaries ahead. They seemed to be handling things. My gut still clenched with anxiety though. "We could help," I offered.

She shook her head. "We'll just get ourselves killed. We wait."

I bristled at taking orders from her, but shoved the emotions aside. I had dealt with power complexes before and fighting it was not the wisest way to go. She had a point, anyway. I wasn't bad with a gun, but I was no trained merc. I settled back a little, easing both her tension and mine.

The radio screamed to life. "Jim! Get your ass out here! Bring the woman!"

I picked up the radio and paused to lick my lips before thumbing the comm. "What's that, Sarge?"

"That's General to you, soldier! Get in line!"

"Sorry, sir, you're breaking up. Can't hear ya." I redocked the handset.

"Goddammit, private, you are under my command, you hear me?" The radio feed broke up a little, then returned in a panicked scream that was much more animal than it was, well, words. It drew itself out into a thinned warble and gurgled from life.

I glanced up at the wall of trucks again. Most of the men had disappeared around the other side, followed closely by the rest. A grenade went off somewhere, throwing a sluice of shrapnel straight through the canvas of a transport. Wind tore at the wounded truck, and for some reason it felt eerie. The gunfire died down to an infrequent sputter. Somebody screamed.

My first thought was to glance at Lynette again to see what she thought about the situation, but she was already checking her gun as best as she knew how and working the latch to the door. I followed suit, grabbing my shotgun, a belt of ammunition and the closest handgun, which turned out to be something made of polymer. I fumbled for a few mags before tumbling from the vehicle in a sprawling heap. I staggered to my feet and collected my things sheepishly.

"Forgot it was so high," I muttered at Lynette's haughty look. She turned wordlessly and made for the barricade in an awkward crouch. I followed more smoothly. I, unlike her, was used to holding a gun. I'd even gone hunting a couple of times. Though, I made it a habit to hunt things that hadn't died already. Fewer complications that way.

Unwilling to go first, we both stepped out from behind cover at the same time. One of my knees gave out, then, and I settled into a sort of half crouch as the world swayed weirdly and a buzzing sound filled my ears. My stomach was doing flips somewhere, twisting and wrenching to get that pizza out. I swallowed heavily to keep it down and lowered my head to block out the sight but got a nice closeup of a pool of blood with little pieces in it.

"Oh shit," I groaned and vomited. I wiped my mouth and forced myself to stand up.

"You okay?" She actually sounded concerned.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Fine."

Bodies sprawled everywhere, most of them dead for the second time. Decayed, mutilated zombie bodies lay in every conceivable position, plus a couple extra, joined here and there by a mercenary, usually with a zombie or two attached to a limb or neck. The carnage stretched before us until the crest of the hill, and beneath it all spread a huge crimson stain. Zombie and human blood mixed into one gigantic stain. I thought hard about how the food still in my stomach wanted nothing better than to stay there.

Somebody moaned. I whirled.

Lynette pinpointed it first. "That came from inside that truck." I followed her.

I recognized the vehicle from its torn canvas, but it lost all form of familiarity when a pair of bloodied hands dove at me, followed by a body that was definitely missing a rib or two, as made evident by a lack of substance in the spleen area. I backpedaled as the undead met the apex of its flight just short of me and careened teethfirst into the asphalt. Before I knew it, I had dropped my handgun to the back of its skull and pulled the trigger. Twice. Crimson pounded into the ground, courtesy of a pair of .45 ACPs.

"Oh dear God," Lynette gasped. "That...you--oh shit! You killed that thing."

I straightened and glanced at her. "It was already dead."

She swallowed. "Right. Yeah, already dead..." She brought her knuckles to her lips, shaking.

Now it was my turn. "You alright?" She didn't respond. Uh, damn? I wasn't good with women. I moved to put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, we need to get back to the truck.

She nodded without a word and followed me. I even held the door for her and helped her climb in. The Humvee really was way too high off the ground.

I pulled the Humvee around the barricade and drove, cringing, over the wreckage that marked the first fight of what I forebodingly felt would be many. My entire world had just fallen apart and the only thing I was still sure of was that we absolutely had to get out of the city as soon as was possible. Maybe it could still be safe elsewhere.

The Problem With Gun Control

This past Friday, an unsuspecting man was slammed against a wall at gunpoint and had his belongings searched for what was supposed to be a firearm. 29-year-old Jeremy Bell was reported to have been sitting at his desk behind a closed door in downtown Toronto's teehan+lax, a user-experience design firm, with a handgun earlier that day, as reported to the police by a keen-eyed neighbour in a nearby building. What the report neglected to indicate, most likely by fault of the whistle-blower, was that the gun was made of Lego.

This is just sad. In a country where the possession of an easily disguised firearm is in almost all cases a felony, the handgun has become somewhat of a taboo item reserved for cops and Briggs drivers. And the sight of such a weapon in any place other than on the hip of a well-uniformed, straight-shouldered suit sets off the alarms quicker than a druggie with a butterfly knife.

We should be insulted. How stupid does a person have to become to criminalize the weapon instead of the weapon-wielder. Oh, the guy holding the toy Lego gun gets a mouthfull of drywall, sure, but for what? A failure to keep the deadly weapon stashed properly inside his jacket?

Now, it's understandable, possibly even acceptable, that a dignified human being, however paranoid, should be reluctant to accept his fellow man as the culprit and assign the blame, instead, purely to whichever object obviously caused the damage. But then, it's also understandable that the man who loses his wife, kids and job in a single day would drink himself into a stupor and drive into oncoming traffic. What we easily forget is that understandable does not mean tolerable, and that no system is smart enough to do our common sense-related thinking for us.

We have brains, people! Bringing a Lego gun-lookalike to show your friends is as much a crime as eating too much cake at the monthly work birthday party. Bringing a real gun to work to blow your coworkers' brains out, on the other hand, equates roughly to that of soiling the cake before anyone eats it. The difference, it can be hoped, is obviously that of intent. The end result may be similar--comparable, at least--there definitely was a gun at work, or there definitely was not enough cake for everybody, but the outcome, and the planning beforehand, were galaxies apart.

The point here is that our lazy thinking is putting us out of shape. We can as much fault a man for bringing a bunch of Lego to work as we can a video game for a teenager hanging himself. Although, it seems we've started doing that, too. Let's open our eyes and get with the program, shall we?

Rattown - Part 1 (or, Three's Company)

Every so often, I get so frustrated with my writing that I throw out whatever I'm working on and start something entirely new in a genre I either never touch or simply hate, and see what I can build from there. I like to believe this makes me a better writer; in truth, it might just make me look like I'm trying to be a better writer. Either way, somebody can learn from this, I'm sure. And for what it's worth, I hope you enjoy the next bit. I focused on dialogue more than anything because, let's face it, I could use some practice.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --

Three's Company

In 1987, the Ratwater city council held its Christmas ball in the manorhouse of one George El Tuckett. The famously rich man had become so through a litany of daring and careless investments. He'd spent as much time as a defendant in court as he had the aggressor, although he never lost, either way. Something was off about the man, but he was, as mayor Rosswell put it, "so damned chivalrous, it doesn't matter." And he was quite right.

As the orchestra picked up a slow waltz and the men and woman on the dance floor began their graceful stepping to the tune, bathed from above in the warm glow of candlelight, refracted a hundred times over by the crystal chandeliers in which they nested. All around then, reflected perfectly by the polished wood floor, sat round tables draped in ebony silk covered in a grandose representation of food in the form of a platter tower where each course had its own tier. People sat around these tables, happily chatting and eating, heedless of the cold outside despite the majestic windows that fronted each end of the ballroom, flanked by gigantic conifers heavy laden with the snow that fell in near sheets.

Along a far wall beneath one of the windows there was a bar that ran from one wall to the next in a giant, swathing curve. Behind it, dressed in brilliant white livery were six bartenders ready at beck and call. Seated at this bar sat a man and a woman, he in a three-piece suit that looked as if it had been cut and tailored that very day and she in a gown of deep indigo cut to show a flattering amount of cleavage without insulting her dignity. White lace cloaked her arms from fingertip to mid-upper arm where bronzed skin showed up to the shoulder. She wore her auburn hair loose in waves that spilled halfway down her partially naked back.

"Tell me, Richard," she sang, "what brings you here? I thought you were specifically banned from this event."

"Yes," he conceded with a dip of his head. "Yet here I am, drawn inevitably by your beauty and this," he indicated the room with an all-encompassing gesture, "event."

He spoke the truth. She was indeed beautiful. Hazel eyes sparkled beneath heavy lashes in a face that was both exotic and homely. Her lips, wide apart in laughter, shone ruby and her fair skin was soft in the careful light. She brought a drink to her lips with dignity and returned the glass, wide bowl on narrow stem, to the glistening marble bartop.

"Besides," continued Richard. "What was I to do two nights shy of Christmas Eve without you to tease with my ever irritating presence?" He, too, lifted a glass to his lips with a clink of scotch-drowned ice against crystal and replaced it beside her cocktail with a grimace of satisfaction. "I am, however, surprised to not see your boyfriend here, Mizz Tuckett."

"Oh, Richard, he's not my boyfriend! You know that." She took another sip, face stark with affront. "And don't call me that. My name is Olyvia."

"Well, Olyvia," he ventured. "God knows the man would like to be. Thinks he is, even, I dare say." Another sip of scotch.

"That's ridiculous." But she clearly didn't think so. Her cheeks burned a complimentary rose and her gaze dropped to the black marble.

"You don't like him, do you?"

"Richard!"

Quickly, he backpedaled. "I'm sorry! I just don't trust him is all."

"He can be very nice when he likes to."

"Which is never. For God's sake, Olyvia, end it with him. There are plenty of men who'd die to shake your hand." This was true, and it made her blush all over again, but she didn't reply.

At last she spoke, eyes still averted. "There was never anything to begin with, Richard. He simply wants to believe there was."

This was accepted in silence but for the rattling of ice. The band began to play some fast-paced rendition of another Christmas carol much to the delight of various couples around them who quickly vanished to the dance floor. Richard turned to watch but a shadow soon passed over his face and he spoke.

"Ah. There he is."

Sure enough, Olyvia's unwelcome, overprotective companion was now striding toward them, heedless of those dancing around him. He looked to have come inside recently and had yet to remove his coat. He stopped before them, the smell of crisp leather and cold snow wafting from him slightly. His eyebrows were knit together in a fierce scowl outdone only by the tightness of his fists at his sides.

"Olyvia."

"Will."

"Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Richard." A beaming smile.

"Hi."

"Richard."

"Bill."

"That's Will to you."

"Will." Then, "Have a drink, Will."

"No, thanks, we're just leaving."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "You're here with somebody?"

"Come, Olyvia."

"She's not yours to beck, Will."

"She sure is. Aren't you, Olyvia?"

"Well, I..."

"Yes, I know you are. See?"

"Actually, I'm afraid I don't, Will. 'Fraid I don't at all."

Will fidgeted, obviously not expecting any resistance. "Well, who the hell are you then?"

The eyebrow raised again. "It's not nice to swear in front of the lady, Will."

"C'mon, Olyvia."

"Will, I--"

The first word came out in a bark, hastily replaced by a hushed tone after, "Just! Look, let's just go, back to my place. Then we can talk all this over. I have a Christmas present for you, Olyv."

"She's not with you, Will."

"Stay out of this, you!"

"I'll stay out of whatever I damn well please--sorry, Olyvia--and the lady isn't here with you, so back off."

"What, she's with you?" Will scoffed.

"Ah, no, not as such, but--"

"Hah! See? C'mon, Olyv."

"And she's not a prize to be won, you chauvinistic--"

"I'd like to stay with Richard, Will."

His next words came out in a shout. "It didn't have to come to this!" And he reached within his long, leather jacket and withdrew a handgun which he levelled between the eyes of Richard. "Everybody get down on the floor!"

Zombie - Uncle Sam's Nephew

A continuation from the last entry. Watch for this as a recurring theme to be compiled into an ebook in the future. For now, enjoy the snippet.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --

I stopped the car and got out as the woman followed my lead. The street in front of us was blocked by a massive hulk of a tank and a similar beast cut off any exit in the reverse. Canvas-draped trucks flanked us on both sides, creating a nice little cocoon of military green. One of the vehicles, a Hummer, caught my attention and I strode toward it, cradling my shotgun in both hands. I didn't want to look scared. Not when it looked like we could just as easily be gunned down as eaten alive.

Apparently, I chose the right vehicle. As I drew closer, a sunglassed George Clooney lookalike emerged. Well, his face looked a bit like Clooney's; the guy was ripped, though. I quit walking and waited for him to come to me. He didn't.

"General Eddie Howard, God's Talon Private Military Corporation," he barked in greeting.

Ugh, mercenaries. Great... "Hi."

He seemed a little taken aback but pressed forward anyway. "Who the fuck're you?"

He had such a way with words. "Jim," I said. Then, gesturing behind me, "and this is my car. And..." I twisted. "Sorry, didn't get your name."

"Lynette," replied the woman from back where she reclined against my car.

"...Lynette," I beamed at the general. "Can we help you?" Maybe if I made it look like we were graciously accepting his inconveniencing us, the military-whore would let us go.

I watched as he tapped a cigarette into his palm, retrieved a Zippo from somewhere, lit the cigarette while lifting it to his lips and repocketed the lighter. Then, after a couple of pulls on his vice that lit the end a bright orange, he withdrew it and spoke again. "This area is now under my jurisdiction." He indicated "area" with a wave of the cigarette. "And you just happen to be the only intelligent thing we've come across so far, which means you are either going to cease being intelligent soon--once one of those things catches you--or you will join us and stay intelligent until we're far away from here." He reclamped the cigarette between his lips and looked at me.

Uh oh. A military man--worse, a merc--who thought he was clever. Shit just keeps piling higher and higher. I shifted the shotgun in my hands a little before replying. "Uh, nah, thanks but I think we'll be fine. I'm more of a freelance type anyway, y'know?"

His laugh came out in a wheeze. "Listen, Jim." He hacked out a bit of a cough, then took off his mirrored shades and met my gaze with the kind of leniency you find in steel cable. "I'm not asking. You will die without my help and we could always use an extra hand." Another haul on the cig.

I caught the veiled threat and it pissed me off. This bastard was used to pushing and shoving until he got his way. Well he wouldn't get it this time. I opened my mouth to retort when an elbow rammed me in the ribs and Lynette appeared beside me. She spoke, quietly and calmly but not without her own brand of fury.

"We'll go as long as we get a vehicle to ourselves, with weapons."

General Eddie looked surprised. He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded with a sideways glance at Lynette. I still wasn't sure about her trustworthiness. I'd go along with it for now, though, I decided. No use getting all shot up over forced employment.

Fifteen minutes later, Lynette and I had our very own Hummer, complete with mounted chain gun and a hatch full of ordnance. The only requirement was that we stay in line with the rest of the vehicles. Eddie had made it very clear that he did not consider the loss of one vehicle as much compared to troops that deserted him. He'd made his point with a nod at one of the tanks, so I'm pretty sure he meant it. Some people are very good at meaningful nods.

We'd sunk my car in the river. Apparently, they had come across some zombies that could drive and Eddie was still a little shaken up by it. Not that he admitted anything remotely of the sort; I just saw it in his eyes. Interesting fella.

As I drove, and Lynette rummaged around for a gun she liked, I let myself reminisce a little. The day had started out alright, for a Saturday. The late October air and bright orange leaves everywhere had begged me to go for a walk, so I had. I'd taken a little jaunt through the river valley, where you hardly notice the city's presence around you. Nobody else had been out that early, although now that I thought about it, not being out and about by ten in the morning seemed a little odd. In fact, the only sign of life along the trail had been that of a dog, chained to a pole on its lonesome, that growled and barked at me until I was long gone. Most dogs like me...

The radio crackled and Eddie's voice burst forth. "We're headed downtown to clear out the government buildings. You'll be part of the group that does the Legislature Building, alright?"

I brought the mouthpiece to my lips. "Yeah, okay."

"Hit the button," Lynette muttered.

"Yeah, okay."

"Good. After that, we're hightailing it out of here. Might come back in a couple days to check for survivors. Health people are going nuts in search of a cure and it might be our job to find out if anyone's immune so keep an eye out."

"Okay."

"General Howard, out."

"Uh. Yeah, out."

"It won't bite you, Jim," Lynette smirked.

"Actually, my name's not Jim. Nobody calls me that," I confessed, eyes still locked on the road and the back of the drab green truck in front.

"Oh?" she sounded politely interested at best.

"It's Jimmy," I said, and when she snorted, "I mean, Jim's technically my name, but my friends haven't called me that since before I started school. Do you know how much power someone has over you when they know your name?"

I saw her shake her head in my peripheral, clearly writing me off as a nutjob. Fine, let her be that way, I thought. She didn't have to believe me for it to be true.

The radio chirped again. "General, we've got contact up ahead. I think you'll want to have a look at this."

"Be there in a sec, Murph." Ahead, a Hummer broke free of the line and sped past the other vehicles as the caravan slowly crawled to a halt.

"We've got multiple contacts," the voice tensed from calm to worried as it spoke. "Oh shit! Contact! Contact! Get everyone up here! Oh God, General!"

I glanced at Lynette. She looked worried. This had just gotten bad.

Zombies - Conscripted (And An Update)

Okay, I'm re-opening this blog for good. I have, in the past, treated it as a portfolio of achievements. No longer. This is now, indefinitely, my official blog. Here, I will be posting whatever writing doesn't fit into a more professional folder somewhere in the bowels of--well, actually, I'm cloud-sourcing all of my work right now. Google Documents has been a lifesaver after the very premature death of my new-ish laptop. I am now using my old-ish laptop, which has no RAM. Yes, scary.

Anyway, here's the first part of my most recent try in Deadmonton, title pending investigation. I hope you enjoy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --

The zombie apocalypse started three minutes before I realized it, but there was no time to celebrate my near-clairvoyant response time because my front door exploded and I laid my eyes on the first zombie to ever to be killed by an angry woman with a spud gun. I had somehow gotten from a sprawled position on my couch, pizza, chips and beer carefully positioned in an easy-to-reach array across my torso, to standing, staring with a mixture of awe and horror at the fragments of my door now laced with zombie goo when the woman wheeled about and fixed her sights on me.

"Oh shit no, I'm still--" A zombie morphed into existence from behind the woman and faceplanted her back, throwing her forward and off balance.

I own a shotgun. It used to be my badge of manhood, my certification that I was somebody important. I bragged about it at bars and at work. That is, until people got tired of hearing about my Remington 870 and I had to learn to keep my mouth shut about the beast. Not every shotgun can load three-and-a-half inch shells, you know.

I was in my bedroom by then, flinging my closet door open and hauling the gun out. Call me stupid, but I keep it ready to fire. Not loaded. Not really, anyway.

I pumped the action and hurled myself back into the living room where my unwelcome visitor was using her feet to fend off a man in a suit. It had half a head.

"Back away from it!" I roared as I levelled the gun at my hip. The woman flung a panicked look in my direction and rolled behind the counter. I took a few hurried steps forward before I pulled the trigger and sluiced zombie matter all over my fridge before it could dive after her. Frantically, I limped around the counter to find the woman levelling the spud gun at me.

"What the hell? I saved your life, woman!"

She fired.

The speeding potato of death whizzed past me and landed with a squishing sound. I turned and saw another undead toppling backward with a mouthful of McCain's finest.

"Oh," I managed. "Thanks." Then I turned and really saw the woman for the first time. She wore navy blue jeans that hugged her thighs nicely, done up with a simple black belt followed by a bit of stomach soon covered by a black, very flattering t-shirt. Her dark brown hair fell in waves down past her shoulders and she brushed some away from her face with an irritated flick.

"Are you going to help me up?"

"Oh." Awkwardly, I clamped the shotgun under one arm and helped her up with my free hand.

"Nice," I said, gesturing to her weapon of choice.

She glanced at the weapon in her hands, constructed mostly of plumbing pipe. "It's borrowed, but thanks." She looked out the door anxiously and seemed to loosen up a little when the street proved to be empty. "Hi, I'm from down the street. Sorry about your door."

I shrugged. "You alright?"

Now she walked over to peer through the opening. "There will be more of them. We should go."

My first instinct was to resist. This was my house. I couldn't just leave. But then, the woman couldn't stay either. At least, I doubted she would take an overnight invitation from a complete stranger very well, especially with a gaping maw where the door should be. Instead of answering, I moved over to the opposite side of the door frame and looked outside, too. "How bad is it?"

I saw her shrug in the corner of my eye. "Channel Seven newscaster got attacked on live TV," she muttered. "I think it's safe to say it's bad."

I pursed my lips in a silent whistle. Yes, that was bad. That meant nobody was in control anymore. Damn. I was silent for a moment, searching through my options.

"Okay, we'll take my car," I finally said, expecting some kind of protest. I couldn't blame her. After all, what kind of woman accepts a ride from a total stranger?

Instead, she nodded without comment and looked at me. She looked tired. And I don't just mean went-for-a-jog tired; I mean bone-weary, exhausted to the point of almost passing out tired. But before I could allow myself to be concerned, we had to get to safety. I led the way to my Jeep, going around to her side to hold the door for her first, and we were soon on our way.

As we drove, the extent of the city's miserable state really made itself clear. Undead roamed the streets, stopping now and then to snack on the numerous dead bodies scattered in the streets. I tried not to notice, tried to keep my mind from accepting what it was seeing, but it was impossible. People were killing and eating other people, and not necessarily in that order. My stomach turned over violently.

My destination was based on the hope that my brother was still alive, since if anybody had a chance of living through something like this, it was him. He lived in one of those massive houses that people only build on hills and that has the mandatory fortress-like set of walls around it. Except, instead of having the house and walls to complement his ego, Chuck had them for self-preservation purposes. He was a bit of a nut.

And to get there, all we had to do was cross the river on one of the many bridges spanning it, drive up the hill, right to the very top, and ring his doorbell. Without getting eaten, preferably. I had a feeling things would not go according to plan.

He rounded a bend and the bridge came into view, a latticework of I-beams holding up a thin strip of asphalt all the way across the flat, gray river beneath it. On normal days, I would have just driven across the bridge and we would have been on our way. But now it was on fire.

See, that's what I love about being a cynic. You get to be right all the time. Plan A, discard.

You can't win 'em all, though. Just as I was easing on the brakes, a tank roared onto the road ahead of us. A glance in my rearview mirror showed the same thing behind us. Then a military-green truck screeched to a halt beside my Jeep and a tall man in fatigues and sunglasses stepped out.

And that is how I got conscripted into God's Talon PMC.

The Bar

I'm not sure what I initially intended this to be and I'm not sure how to classify what it eventually turned out as, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. It's just a bit of loose writing on the side that I think ended up as something readable, but you tell me.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was one of those bars where everyone sitting up by the counter are regulars, the ones who cast sideways glances at any newcomer who tries to take a seat nearby until he feels so out of place that one of the booths looks comfortable and soon proves to be, at least as far as cushioning goes—the window seats were cold in the winter due to a draft let in by a bad seal. The owner and bartender, Stu, had never heard a word about drafts, though, since nobody who complained ever sat by the windows, although they knew. The hardwood bartop was kept mostly clean, although there were the ever-present rings of condensation from the iced mugs and maybe a bit of food here and there, but really, the place was clean. It felt clean in the way that well-loved places do, and nobody paid mind to the thin layer of dust on the jukebox nobody ever used, or the salt packets scattered over the far table, the one where the draft was the worst.

It was winter, and that made it okay to be out drinking on a Thursday night. The blizzard outside wouldn't let anybody get to work the next day anyway, big city though it was. And so the men drank. The big screen TV above the bar was playing a hockey game, but nobody was paying attention anymore. Not since the newcomer had come inside.

In fact, the whole place was dead quiet.

He wasn't dressed unordinarily; in navy jeans and black coat, both of which fit him well, and a matching fedora, justifiable with the falling snow. His face bore a few days' scruff, although it looked as purposeful as his heavy, snow-blown, shoulder-length hair. Really, to a newcomer, the patrons wouldn't have seemed abnormally silent at all had the newcomer's lit cigar been politely acknowledged with directions to the nearest ashtray. But the glowing ember beneath the hat, pulled a bit low, remained a silent guest.

His voice had a laziness to it, authoritave, yes, but content to be so on its own time. “I'll have a beer,” he drawled as he took the bar stool nearest the door, oblivious to the silent looks wafting in his direction.

Stu looked a little flustered. “Uh, what kind?” he managed.

The newcomer's head tilted back up just a nudge. “Beer.” He didn't seem to feel the need to be more specific, not aggravated but certainly not feeling particularly generous either.

Stu glanced at the other men, all of whom raised eyebrows or pulled their lips taut silently, signalling that they were as stumped as he. If the man wanted a beer, a beer it would be. Nobody seemed very eager to start a new conversation with that dark, massively assertive, if a bit unspecifically so, apparition down the bar. The tap fwashed a pint glass full of ale, Stu wiped it down and placed it on the bar before the newcomer gingerly, waited for a brief moment, then pushed it forward into a waiting hand.

Then, the glass lifted, tilted back and drained its contents into the man's mouth. He set it down quietly, let out a barely audible sigh of contentment, withdrew a ten dollar bill from his pocket, set it on the hardwood, careful to keep it away from any condensation from the glass, stood up and left the building.

Silence rang loudly for a brief moment before one of the men spoke. “The hell was that about?” he muttered and threw the rest of his beer back as well. “Another, Stu?” Stu complied and conversation started up again.

“What a nutcase, eh, Sam?” a wiry man with glasses leaned forward, elbows on the counter and searched for Sam at the end of the row. “Sam?”

And Sam, the biggest of the bunch, toppled forward, forehead bouncing off the hardwood with an echoing smack, slipped sideways and crashed to the floor, unmoving. The entire bar erupted in leaping men, each doing their utmost to free themselves of their bar stools as quickly as possible to get to his side.

Oddly, Stu was the first at the big man's side. “He's dead.” He spoke matter-of-factly, his voice shook with a slight quaver, but also rang clear through the room like something that shouldn't have just happened. He raised a hand clutching a knife cloathed in blood up to the hilt where it dripped onto the unmoving man's arm.

With a bellowing roar, two of the group rose to their feet, both with matching looks of rage. They were not the biggest of the bunch, but they were the most formiddable, and seemed to be accepted as such. The others stayed back as their silently chosen defenders ran out the doors.

“Get 'em, Roger! Beat his face in, Jared!” were the last things they heard before the doors shut behind them and the world dissolved into a blinding flurry of snow. Circles of light glowed in the labyrinth of white flakes, street lamps obscured entirely but for the light they gave, which was amplified by the storm.

Their quarry was nowhere in sight, but that didn't stop the Morris brothers. Without hesitation, they both stalked to the side of the bar, where an alleyway cut its way between buildings. There was much less snow here, but less light as well; all they could see of the murderer was the glowing ember still in his mouth, a spot of orange against an otherwise nondescript shadow.

“You son of a bitch!” spat Jared as they slunk closer.

The shadow didn't flinch even when they got close enough to make out a deeply shadowed face beneath the hat. Either the man was incredibly competent or incredible stupid, both of which were unnerving when hidden in shadow the way he was. A bit of darkness reached up and removed the ember from beneath the hat.

“My mother was a good woman, thank you very much,” he drawled.

Roger and Jared exchanged confused looks. Then Jared spoke. “You killed Sam.”

The ember went up, flared, then retreated down to the shadow's hip. “The hell would I kill Sam?” he asked conversationally, not demanding but certainly not allowing room for further accusation either.

Then Roger spoke. “I don't know, but he's dead and you're the only one who could've done it. You've killed before. I can see it in your eyes.” And he could, he realized a moment before the words left his mouth. They glinted in the dark; cold, hard, merciless. Damned unnerving.

Then the alleged killer stepped forward into the light. A flurry of snow flung itself from a nearby roof and showered his hat and shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, though. “Let me give you boys a bit of advice.” His tone had changed to something matching the icy shards dusting his figure. “Don't you ever go around accusing men of killing unless you're damn sure you're right, especially,” he paused to suck on the cigar for a moment, “when you're sure they're capable of doing it.” He gestured around him. “We are in a dark alley, boys. Neither of you two have so much as thought about killing a man before, yet you march out here and accuse me of worse. Well,” and he took comfort in the cigar one more time, “you two have made a very, very poor choice. I'll let it pass, though. You've probably had a beer too many to think clearly and we'll let that stand in your defense, shitty excuse though it might be. Follow me inside. We'll figure out who did the killing 'fore the night's over.”


Left without much choice, they followed him, as much to escape the frigid air as to find the answer to their problem. At least they could have him in a room with all the other men. Nobody was foolish enough to fight so many single-handedly.

They entered the bar again to see their friends still gathered in a semi-circle around Sam, but now they were all standing, warily watching the returned stranger. Nobody seemed sure of what to do.

The stranger chuckled, his voice dry and loud now that the screens above the bar had been turned off. It was an insult to the dead man onthe floor, and deliberately so, because the laughter carried only disgust. Then he turned to the brothers behind him.

“Come 'ere,” he invited them to an open space at his side. They acquiesced warily. Then, with a pull on his cigar, he placed an arm around the shoulders of Roger, who was closest, and looked him square in the eyes as he exhaled a plume of stinging smoke. He addressed the room without turning his head. “You've got almost ten men in here, one of 'em dies and what do you do? You send two after me. Now I've got to admit, I'm a little hurt, boys. What did you think they would do, outnumber me to death?” He shook his head. “Shame. It's a bloody, crying shame.”

And then he moved so fast nobody could have stopped him, stepping in front of Roger without removing the arm which was now hooked around the staggering man's neck, and grabbing Jared with a giant hand clamped aorund his throat. Then he heaved the brothers together, stepping back in time to watch their heads collide with a resounding crack and they crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

He turned to the rest of the men as he stilled his quivering limbs with effort. “Now!” he barked. “Does anybody else care to accuse me of murder or is the killer obvious enough?

He was answered with simpleton eyes, uncomprehending. Then the bartender spoke.

“Did you kill them, too?” His voice shook with fear.

“No, you stupid sonofabitch!” cried the stranger in frustration. “Do I have to spell it out for you, you daft bunch of fools?” He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched, bowing his head to regain control. Then he raised his head as he inhaled sharply through his nose. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to lose my cool. It's all just so simple.” He was shaking a little.

Straightening and squaring his shoulders, he proceeded to march around the bar, push his way past Stu, reach into the cooler and pull out a beer, seemingly at random. He twisted the top off vigorously, letting it fall onto the bar where it bounced, spun and slid off the edge while he brought the bottle to his lips and drank it all. Then he slammed the bottle back down

“I'm going to dumb it down, because I think it's the only way you'll ever realize what happened. I thought,” he took a moment to look them each in the eyes, “at least one of you would be smart enough to figure it out, but I guess not. Where's the knife?”

One of them handed him the bloodied blade. He took it gingerly between two fingers and moved to where Stu kept all of his cooking utensils. Then, he slid one of the knives out of the wooden block where Stu kept them and returned to the bar.

He set them down and stepped back, visibly relaxing for the brief moment before Stu unleashed an unearthly scream and flung a hand toward the stranger. Both knives swept into action as the outstretched hand whirled past, sailing through the air at near-invisible speed and slammed themselves deep into the black-swathed chest that was their target.

The man in the dark coat, face still shadowed beneath his hat, grunted miserably and staggered back and down to one knee. Blood pooled beneath his hunched form as he inhaled deeply and lunged back to his feet. His hands had not moved from his sides, but both knives clanged onto the hardwood floor, sprinkling red droplets onto his boots. His face was visible now, a disgusted glare easily visible in his dark eyes hooded by heavy eyebrows. His lips were drawn tight together, and his unshaven chin acted as a permanent shadow. Even the placement of his feet exuded danger. Stu took a step back.

“Stu killed your man, boys,” the stranger growled. “And now he tried to kill me. Unfortunately for him, I am one of his kind.” And then he added in a voice pitched slightly higher out of contempt. “And I'm far better at it.”

With these words, he thrust both hands toward the floor which the knives left eagerly and hurried into the embrace of each hand. Then, he threw a foot forward and flung both knives with a cycling motion of his arms so that one hand was above his head and the other suspended just above the floor.

For a breath, the bar was silent but for the whistling of the two spinning blades, and then they sunk themselves deep into his frightened eyes, throwing his head back against a row of wine glasses, which shattered, before the fat man thundered to the floor. He lay unmoving as a halo of crimson spread around his skull, eyes replaced by knife hilts. But the stranger did not straighten from his twisted crouch, but watched warily, waiting.

His suspicion soon proved itself wise. The bartender lurched to his feet, drawn by an invisible force so that he stood upright, head still lolling on a limp neck.

“Pathetic,” spat the stranger. I have separated your spirit from body. You are compelled to leave this place, black mage!”

The room filled with a cackle without a source. The men, still gathered around the body of their dead friend, unfroze and cast terrified glances around the room to no avail. None of them spoke, but a whimper of fear escaped the group.

“Demon! Vermin! Scum!” roared the stranger. “I command you, by the authoirty given me, to leave this place at once! If you do not obey, your punishment will be far, far worse, I warn you.” His voice had abandoned the drawl, the ease of use, and had adopted a harsh, tense tone that spoke not of fear or insecurity, but of tremendous exertion of will.

The body lurched toward him, drawn as if by a string around its neck. A look of dismay flashed once through the stranger's eyes before he twisted and threw a fist into the spectre's mouth. The dead man's skull disentigrated in an explosion of crimson and the body dropped to the floor at his feet, but it did not stay down. The grotesque corpse rose to its feet again, knife in hand.

“Die, warrior!” the disembodied voice crackled, distant but present.

The corpse slashed with the knife, was narrowly avoided by its aggressor, and stabbed forward, moving faster than anything alive. The knife nicked the stranger's ribs this time, and he grunted, but did not waver. Instead, he grabbed the thing's wrist, forcing it sideways, and drove a knee into the body's ribs with a loud crunch. Then, he brought his free hand around and plunged it completely through its torso.

This time, the body writhed and dropped to the floor, a deadweight. The stranger straightened and dropped its heart onto the floor.

“I have severed all link with your past body, demon,” he spoke calmly but loudly. “You have nothing here. Leave now.”

The voice spoke again, but was accompanied by a whooshing sound as it faded away. “Next time, warrior...”

The warrior was shaking now, soaked with blood and bleeding badly from several wounds. “Go home,” he said to the men. “Make love to your wives and take comfort in the knowledge that this thing will never bother you again. He placed his elbows on the counter and bowed his head as he continued to speak. “I am...sorry...you had to witness this. I am sorry for your friends...” He wavered slightly. Then, when nobody moved, he barked, “Go!”

When he looked up a moment later, the room was empty, the last of the men just visible through the flurry of snow outside. In the distance, a strobing red and blue glow announced the emergency vehicles. They would take the bodies away.

Summoning the last of his will, the warrior straightened and limped to the back door, the one that led to an alley, where he returned to the place he had prepared before. Taking the now dead cigar from his pocket, he placed it between his lips and lit it with a shiny lighter that disappeared into his pocket when it had expended its usefulness.

Then, as he took another long pull on this vice, his shadowed figure, twisted in upon itself and vanished, leaving behind only a blood stain in the snow as evidence that he had ever existed. The police would find an unexplainable mess but it was better that way.

For now.

Excerpt from A Broken World

I thought I'd hand out a bit of my novel here. It is, without a doubt, prone to some kind of change at some point, especially considering that it's the first draft, but I think it's worth reading anyway. Please don't hesitate to tell me how awful it is. ;)

And I do mean that. Tell me, truly, how awful it is. For as Sinclair Lewis said, "It is impossible to discourage the real writers - they don't give a damn what you say, they're going to write."

And here is the eighteenth chapter, subject to critique, rewriting, rethinking, rescribbling, and other various forms of redoing until it lies limp and devoid of any enthusiasm.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The true valour of a man is best seen when nothing else will do; when all that's left of a world is fire and rubble; when bones are as numerous as the ashes they hide within; when the only thing one can do is strive forward because giving up is no option. It's at these times when responsibility is not delegated, but rather thrust upon whoever is in its path. The crown set on the head of a reluctant prince who never had a choice in the matter.

Jehoyl did not feel like a prince. He didn't feel like much of anything, really. It felt like this newfound duty had consumed and purged him of anything that might argue against it. Not that he minded. It was almost a nice feeling to not have anything to worry about for once.

Kirah, on the other hand, though it was obvious she longed to support him, was adamant.

"It's somebody else's problem, Jehoyl!" she insisted. "There's absolutely no use in running off and getting yourself killed. Let them do the work."

He fixed her with a gaze both frustrated and determined. "An army cannot punch through an enemy the way a small group—or even one person—can. We know Foul better than most, Kirah. That's the difference between us and soldiers. We fight; they defend. We hunt these things. You can't send a rabbit to find the bear."

She took in his words quietly, obviously fighting within herself. The battle behind those hazel eyes must be more vicious, even, than the one he was going to fight.

Not that he needed her approval. He knew he would go regardless and that she would forgive him for his choice, because they needed each other, but he was growing to love her more fiercely than life itself. What would happen to her if he never made it back? He suspected this was exactly what was going through her mind, so he sat quietly and waited.

Finally she spoke, teary-eyed and weak-voiced, "Okay. But I'm going with you."

He nodded. The words had been expected, dreaded; he would do anything to keep her safe and away from the fight, but he didn't even need to look into her eyes to know the determination he would find there. But then he looked anyway, because they were beautiful, and because he wanted her to know how he felt.

It wouldn't be long before they left, something they both knew and acted upon without much deliberation, and set out to do as quickly as possible. There were things to gather together, plans to draw up, maps to study. For the first time in his life, Jehoyl was not hunting just any Foul, but had a specific target in mind, a reason to avoid the rest. He tried not to think about it much, afraid that this change could be enough to finally upset the delicate balance of life and survival, emotions that threatened to brim over and spill. It would upset everything and he simply could not afford it.

One again, he couldn't stop gazing at Kirah. How strong must a woman be to bear this much of a burden? This life, though it suited her well, was not fair on anybody, especially her. He bit back a wave of regret. There was work to do.

* * *

Unconsciousness is like being submerged in a deep, dark pool where there is neither up nor down, but the surface needs to be found nevertheless. Andre had been here so many times that he hardly needed anything more than his fury at the claustrophobia to help him claw his way to the exit and emerge into a world of light and pain once again.

He groaned. "At least it was comfortable in there, if a bit stuffy," and struggled to sit up. A startled yelp, also not unexpected, came from one side. He turned his head, which felt waterlogged, in the direction and saw Jenna, kneeling by the fire, twisted toward him, expression of surprise on her face.

"You're awake!" she remarked, a little too dumbly to be held against her. Shock was funny.

"Hungry, too," he muttered and, when he caught sight of the clothes he was still wearing, "And in need of a shower, it looks like. My blood?"

"Most of it, if not all," she replied, having recovered from her shock and returned her attention to the pot over the fire. "Scared me half to death."

"Well," he grinned at her back, "I didn't see you there."

She snorted. "Melodrama does not become you. Have some coffee if you can move."

He stood, though his body threw up a dozen flags of protest, and joined her, squatting to stare into the pot and ignoring his aching knees until they gave up and the pain slowly faded. Accelerated healing was a very convenient thing to have, although it seemed to attract more injury somehow.

"So you're one of us, too?" she finally asked.

"One of who?" He looked at her, puzzled, fighting back a small, nagging thought.

She shrugged in a nondescript way. "Hybrids, Mutts, people who aren't animals, whatever the hell you want to call us. You heal just as quick."

Now his legs gave out, dropping him onto his backside. "Uh," he said. His mind was whirling. Then what did that make him? Neither hunter nor hunted, certainly. Wouldn't they have tested him to make sure he wasn't a Mutt? His quickened recovery, he'd reasoned, came from the augmentation, did it not? But then, that wasn't possible, was it?

She looked at him, interest showing more dominantly than concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he said distractedly. He was supposed to hunt others like her? But what of the Mutt in the basement? It hadn't been human, had it? He cursed silently.

It dawned on him then. The people they'd run from in the Compound, they had been other hunters. "Oh God..." he moaned and rubbed his face with both palms.

Now Jenna was concerned. "What's wrong?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "You need rest, Andre." She moved to help him.

He shook her off a bit more fiercely than he intended. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just..." and he trailed off because he couldn't tell her. A beautiful woman like this could not possibly be a monster. What was wrong with Tank? And speaking of which, what the hell was wrong with the people in charge?

What a fool he'd been! Believing the words of a man without question, a man who killed Mutts for no reason other than that they presented a potential threat. It was ridiculous, closed-minded thinking. Something else occurrsed to him and it washed chills over his entire body. The hunters in their sick, single-minded attack on mystery would not stop until they found her.

He stood. "We have to go."

"But what about the others?" She looked frightened by this change in him.

The previous night came back to him in sporadic flashes of memory. He cursed.

"They went to get their vehicles and supplies," Jenna offered as she, too, stood.

Another moment of fierce decision-making and Andre was decided. "Forget them. We have to go."

She looked at him, searching his eyes and saw something there. "Okay, but I expect you to explain why on the road."

They hurried to his car as he struggled to come to terms with his newfound respect for this woman. So quiet and seemingly fragile, yet she fought fiercely when need arose. He regretted leaving the others behind; they had seemed like a nice group of people.

The air felt so quiet as he opened the car door, like the solace offered by the hillside was exactly what he needed. A short break, a moment away from all of this—from life—was so incredibly appealing. Valiantly, he banished the thought and got into the car, slamming the door shut and exhaling heavily. They pulled back onto the road without a word, both aware that they could very well be leaving behind the only companionship to be found in this desolate part of the world, a comfort abandoned for the sake of responsibility.

Angel

An excerpt from my short story, The Final Peal of the Dead, A Floundering

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The dripping sound hadn't stopped when I woke up. Well, my mind flickered to consciousness in the way the mind does when the eyes don't feel like opening yet. I'm not sure if that counts as waking up or not.

Drip, drip drip...

I tried not to think about what had just happened; a part of me—hopefully the smart part—seemed to have decided that I wouldn't like it when I realized. So for the moment, I hung there, eyes closed, motionless with lethargy and waited. I knew I was still in the truck, because I was hanging from something that felt an awful lot like a seatbelt.

I think it was the breeze that fucked up my careful application of not thinking about my surroundings. It whistled in my ears loudly, thickly. The city was too quiet somehow. Not that it hadn't been quiet ever since people quit bustling and started shuffling without much enthusiasm; it just felt different now. Worse, somehow.

My eyes opened reluctantly, giving grandose entrance to the sight of a thousand fires and a looming mushroom cloud where a city had once stood and it dawned on me: I was in a fallout zone. I was slowly, surely, being radiated to death. I would die of something bizarre like uvula cancer and nobody would ever know. I cursed my birth and shut my eyes again.

God did not exist and I was in hell. That, I decided, was the most intelligent solution to this whole fuckup. People didn't become zombies in real life. God didn't let them. But they had, and so He must not exist. And now the world around me was burning with fire and radiation just like hell must be. This was hell and God did not exist.

I fought back a wave of guilt at the thought, as if I had been caught in the act of doing something I shouldn't have. God didn't exist, right? So it didn't matter. It couldn't.

Eventually, I had my wits about me enough that freeing myself from the remains of the truck cab, which—I swear—looked a hell of a lot more like curly fries than any kind of vehicle. It was smashed and driven into the concrete wall that sided the freeway. I wasn't sure how I'd lived through this curious ordeal, but decided not to give it much thought. Some things are best left uncontemplated.

“Hello.”

My eyes opened almost hard enough to make my head rock back and forth. I couldn't move much, but gave a valiant effort to twisting and turning to see where the voice had come from. Nothing assauged my panicked curiousity.

“Would you like some help?” The voice was coming from somewhere nearby, but my ears were ringing for some reason, making it difficult to distinguish. It was deep, adult male, but carried a sort of wisened innocence that belayed anything I'd ever learned about anyone. Maybe it wasn't innocence, but a sort of willingness to help. That made more sense, at least.

“Sure,” I muttered. My throat felt raw for some reason. I didn't bother to think about it much.

My seat belt clicked free, leaving me free to flail before hitting the pavement spread eagle. It was warm and gritty and I'd skinned a knee. Reason enough to direct my slowly accumulated anger at the invisible voice.

“The hell? Hey, genius! What, do you have wings or something? 'Cause I don't. That hurt!”

He stepped out of the truck cab, which, I had to be impressed, was suspended a few feet above the pavement, embedded so firmly in the wall that it couldn't fall to the ground, and landed easily, bending his knees only a little to absorb the impact.

Swathed in dark jeans, black t-shirt and a coat the exact same hue, his face was framed in long, black hair that blanketed his shoulders in a messily tidy way and a decent beard framed his mouth. He looked like Jesus, only...darker. No halo on this mysterious figure. He wore a rifle slung over his shoulder and carried a handgun that slipped behind his coat before I could make out the model.

“How'd you get in there? Where did you come from? Who are you?”

“My name is Jacob. What's yours?”

“Call me Buddy. My name is no concern of yours. Who are you?”

“Okay, Buddy. I am an angel.”

I barked a laugh, couldn't help myself, at his words. “Like hell you are. Fine. What do you want?”

“I saved you.”

“Did you now? Last I checked, I just got nuked into a fucking wall. That's not what I'd call saving, Jake.”

“Jacob. And I did save you, but you don't have to believe me.” He started walking away.

“Hey!” I called after him. “Where are you going?”

“We have to leave now. Before they find us.”

I assumed he meant the zombies. “We? Why would I follow you?”

“Because I'm your angel.”

“Again with this angel shit!” I sputtered. “Look, delude yourself all you want, but don't try and suck me in, too. I'm fine with whatever just happened.”

“Obviously.” He continued walking as I hurried to catch up.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Where are we going?”

He looked over at me. “Wherever you're going, Buddy.”

I watched him for a moment, puzzled. “Uh, okay. Well I was looking for some friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Yeah, I—well, kind of. Come on.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(Like what you see? Look for an update in the near future for more information on where the rest of this is going.)

Of Drunken Men and Pinatas

A blog entry written not too long ago, though it has faded in my memory enough that it could be years past.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

As my life has progressed, I've faded in and out of a blogging habit. There was a time when I wrote ranbling, drawn-out stories of how my day had gone in some futile effort to garnish some form of attention from the few friends who read it. But the desire to share my life so fully with random people left me to return some months later as a stronger desire to write about things abstract or to wander my way through subjects I thought were interesting. But, in the end, this, too, simply left.

But now I am jobless, and in dire need of something to do with my time. So I do the one thing that comes naturally to me. I write. And, sad though it is, the writing that comes easiest is not always fictitious. I wish it were.

Today, I've decided to tackle the subject of people and socialising. Because it fascinates me and because it's been on my mind. I'll start with a short story.

Early this morning, not much past midnight, as the Canada Day revelries wound to a close, I found myself squeezing aboard an LRT in one of Edmonton's train stations. The car was packed with people and I made a comment to a few of them that if the train were to collide with anything, we would at least be safe, since our close proximity didn't allow for much jostling.

As the train pulled to a stop at another station, the door directly to my right slid open, revealing a leering, drunken man. Rude and abrasive, he called into the car with an offer to “cop a feel” from anyone inside. Naturally, this struck me as repulsive, but his drunken state also awakened a bit of humour and I tried to keep a straight face as I drilled a look into his eyes that spoke clearly of his need to back away.

He noticed. That is, he noticed me. And proceeded to direct his offer directly toward yours truly. Words failed me and a small grin found its way through. Thinking that it would provide him with more entertainment, I pointed out to the platform, where a trash can sat, rather artistically I might add.

His reply wasn't much more than a slurred, “fuck you,” but again, struck me as vastly hysterical as I bid him a good night. He got the parting shot, though. As the train pulled away, the people inside the train car burst into laughter at the sight of his drunken, rude gesture.

So this long and possibly arduous story brings me to my question. People, in general, when seen face to face, are usually quite polite. Go to any social gathering and you're bound to run across someone who's having a bad day but nobody even notices because it's so well hidden.

People are fantastic at creating masks for themselves. Masks that look so much like themselves that hardly anybody can see through it, and that at great effort. It makes me wonder. After all, isn't life a more joyful experience when we can be open and honest with one another? Not with every subject, mind you, but it seems to me that hard times call for assistance. And what are friends for if not to haul their comrades through the mire of life and back onto the green grass?

But it isn't “socially acceptable,” is it? The only times when people are treated with forgiveness for being rude or indecent is when they're intoxicated somehow and that's only because they can't control themselves any better.

I'm not saying it would be better for us to do shots until the dam breaks, though I'm sure there's a place for that as well, but I am curious as to why we build these walls around ourselves. Seems to me that life would be much simpler without all this red tape and pretense.

After all, isn't the castle the marvel of architecture and not the walls that surround it? I can speak for no one but myself, but I say what's on the inside is always more beautiful than the paper mache that surrounds it.

Unspeakable

My attempt at writing something akin to Rudyard Kipling's collection of darker short stories.  This was definitely more of an experiment than an actual attempt at writing something publishable, but sometimes it's best to try painting with your off-hand.  It's educational, at least.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

I met him per his request in a dingy bar on the north side of town. The once-polished wooden bartop was etched in swirling patterns from numerous beer mugs and bottles, sent and received, tender to patron and vice versa. Dim lighting, having once created a calm atmosphere, now served to conceal, if badly, dirt in the corners of the room. The tavern was dark enough in some places that its few occupants, whom I assumed to be regulars, stood out as little other than hazy forms, for there was smoke in the air. Apparently, non-smoking laws did not apply here.

I returned my gaze to my acquaintance who was also smoking a cigarette. It wasn't his first, either, judging by appearances, for a boquet of the things already occuped the nearby ashtray, fresh enough to avoid the mashed, ashy look of their comparts. His face, though white, was still handsome, or had once been, as it was now lined with age. I took his appearance in with a start, for the last time I had seen him, he had been dressed in a well-cut suit, with hair well-arranged and his shoulders square.

But now before me sat a man defeated, it seemed, by whatever ordeal he was about to reveal to me. An ordeal, I hoped, would be false, for a tale with such an impact would undboutedly excercise some of its power upon me as well.

And, though it has, I record the following for more to read. Not to invoke fear, though I am without a doubt that it will, even, terrify some, but to inform. Because no man should have to suffer as this man did, mentally and emotionally, that is, for he emerged in better health than would be expected. But that is cutting in near the end of our story and I have yet to begin, so without further adieu, I shall write it.

And I do hope my tone echoes his, for, though I have replicated his words as accurately as I can, I fear that my own voice speaks these words in my own way. He was no storyteller, of course—which is why he asked me to accompany him through his memories in such a manner—so some aspects may have changed, but only in form and not in fact, I assure you. Although he did resort to pen and paper near the end, for his voice quaked so. That writing is his own.

- - -

It was a hot, August day and I sought to escape some of the many duties afforded me by my home. I had allowed the tidiness of the place to escape my day-to-day control and it cried out to be thoroughly cleaned, but I could not bring myself to do so as the sky was so beautiful. I am not a lazy man, I will have you know, but summer is so short-lived in these parts, it seemed ludicrous to miss it.

On this particular day, I had taken it upon myself to venture out to the foothills of the mountains and I took my time preparing my lunch, which I had brought with me, upon a blanket I had also brought, while I took in the vista. Before me, rolled out far into the distance on many moguls, stood the mountains, their grandeur naught but complimented by the array of lush, green landscape before them. Hay bales scattered the land and a stream cut its way at the bottom of the nearest valley. A breeze was singing through the grass, harmonizing with the birdsong and putting me in a fantastic mood.

Not long after my lunch, I was finding my way through the grass; it was tall, you see. Up to my waist at places, in fact, and filled with brambles and thistles, though I did not mind much, being far too caught up in the beauty of the place. In the distance, I heard the starting of a chainsaw, but paid it no mind because it did not concern me. I wondered, if only briefly, who would find it in themselves to fell these trees, but dismissed that, too, as none of my business and returned to ambling without purpose.

In time, it became evident that I was drawing nearer to the source of that one sound that was not natural. The roaring of this tree-felling instrument. From my vantage point, I could see no trees falling, nor could I hear them, so I assumed the wielder must be clearing a path somewhere, perhaps reducing a tree to something more easily managed. I gave it a mental shrug and, for what I hoped was the last time, allowed my mind to wander about. This was my day off, my hooky from responsibilities unimportant in comparison. It did me little good to worry about things out of my control.

But I drew still nearer, for I did not wish to cross the river and it was winding toward the copse of trees from which came the sound. Reluctant, for I am not an outgoing man, I decided against attempting a crossing and proceded, instead, to convince myself that, were I even to cross the path of whoever was behind that shroud of wood, it would be a mere passing greeting, perhaps a small, polite exchange, nothing more.

Thus satisfied, I pressed forward a bit more quickly, now eager to get it over with. The trees drew near; I could see between them now, make out the occasional glimpse of the man inside. He seemed intent on his work, however, unaware of my presence. Ahead, I spied a small opening between the trees and river, a place where I was sure I would be able to find solid footing. Grateful to avoid unnecessary confrontation, I made my way forward again.

But my reverie, and I will admit some relief as well, was shattered by a scream. I whirled about as the sound of the chainsaw sputtered and died. It seemed as if the scream was still echoing through the valley, so clear and anguished it had been. Hesitantly, I turned toward the copse and made quavering effort to call forth, but it stuck in my throat. It could not have been a wild animal, I concluded as I passed through the first few of the trees; the birds had taken up singing again.

It amazed me how little sunlight filtered in through the trees, even when I entered the small, recently created clearing. Why someone should choose to work in such a setting, especially on a beautiful day like that day, was beyond me, though I soon saw the reason for the clearing.

In the very center of the felled trees and branches gaped a maw, which just happened to take up most of the space where a long ray of sunlight penetrated the cover overhead. Tiny particles of dust swarmed in swirling patterns at the mouth of the hole, illuminated by the golden beam.

Cautiously, though I did not know why, I approahced the opening and peered downward, then pulled back with a gasp that seemed murderously loud in the quiet. The birds had stopped singing now; I looked around for a source to their fear but saw none and returned my stare to the chasm at my feet.

The man was lying facedown, legs obscured in darkness though the sunlight displayed his plaid shirt quite clearly. His arms was splayed on either side of his head as if they had meant to catch his fall, and perhaps they had, it was hard to tell. I called down once again, but got no reply.

Then the thought occured to me and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out at the idea that he might be dead. Furiously, I settled down to my haunches and extended both feet over the rim of the abyss, determined now that the unnamed, yet faceless man be proven alive and well.

- - -

And the rest is told not by me, but by the man who experienced it. He is not so accomplished a storyteller, but perhaps the rawness of his words will help convey the message better. I will admit that the tale seems extraordinary, for it is, but implore the reader to continue on.

As written by the man who experienced it:

- - -

Then I felt myself slipping, cos of the grass you know, it was long-bladed and slippery, and I fell forward. Miraculously, because I cannot think of another reason for it to have happened this way, I landed upon my feet and fell to my hands, unhurt.

For a moment, I was unsure as to why I was uninjured but soon found the source, and this shames me almost as much as it horrified me—my feet had landed directly on the back of the man below me, pressing him further into the mire that was the bottom of the pit.

And then my worst fears were confirmed, for he had not uttered a sound. I was forced, then, to come to terms with my situation. I was trapped at the bottom of a pit with a dead man lying facedown in the mud.

I was suddenly taken by a desire—the need—to see his face, for I didn't think I could ever be sure there was no hope for him if I didnt lay eyes upon his, if only for a moment. I fell clumsily to his side, getting mud all over my pants, and made to heave him onto his back as I gripped his shoulder.

I was surprised, then, to find that he would not move as easily as I had expected, but was stuck on something. Puzzled, I gripped both of his shoulders firmly and pulled one, to no avail, and again with all of my might.

Something popped, I heard a sound like liquid pouring onto dirt, the body came free of the ground and turned over with a ragged gasp that sounded more of a roar. I screamed then, I think, but I'm not sure. I did scramble backwards as fast as I could, though, because the dead man was sitting of it's own akkord, to my great disbelief.

The sight of him sitting like that has been burned into my memory forever, I know I will never forget it. Mud dripped from it's face, lining the wrinkles and forming them to be darker. It's white eyes stared at me from a gaunt face, they were rolled back so that I could hardly see m. Blood gushed from it's chest, too, where a big chunk had been tore free and when I looked to see what had done it, I saw a hand made just of bones sticking up out of the ground and holding something like meat.

And then he reached for me. I cant explain it, what happened next, but to say that I panikked. And wild as my eyes were, I laid them on the chainsaw that had also fallen in and made for it as quick as I could but he caught my ankel so that I tripped. My hand closed around the handle of the chainsaw as I landed so I pulled it toward me and pulled at the black handle on its side.

The thing almost sputtered to life on the first try and I should of been happy about that but the dead man was crawling towards me, his hand still firm about my ankel. His mouth was gaping, like it wanted to bite me. I think I was screaming the whole time.

Finally, the damn thing started up and I pulled the trigger as hard as I could, swinging it at him with all my might. The chain hit it's head, I don't know why I was watching still unless it was just to see that I didnt miss. I swung again and again, the chainsaw screaming and spraying more mud than blood, but there was plenty of that too, I can tell you. It covered my clothes.

Pretty soon, the body was lying still in the muck. I don't want to go into detail of how it looked now. I threw up more than once before I realized that the hand in the middle of the room was moving from side to side, seeking, I thought, to escape. I was horrified, all of a sudden, to think that it might be attached to another body.

And then I began to search for an escape in ernest. I could not see how far the walls of the cave extended, only one side was visible to me and I put my back against it, terrified of what might present itself from the shadows.

My searching gaze soon revealed to me a way out, but the hand in the middle had created a bit of a depression already and it's arm was revealed up to the elbow, which had enough room to bend now. I cursed, and there were tears falling down my face, returning my gaze to the beam that held up the roof.

The chainsaw was still rumbling in my hands, spattered with muck though it was, so I raised it to the ceiling support and cleaved it in two. Immediately, dirt began to sift from the ceiling, but did not fall. The beam had slipped down a few inches, but had enough support still that it was resting against itself at an angle.

A sound from the rapidly emerging skeleton brought my attention back around and I saw that it was now struggling to free it's last leg from the murk. My voice was nearly gone by that time, I am ashamed to admit that my breath had been coming out in a most unmaskulin way, but I managed a roar of fear as it took it's first step towards me.

I cannot say how or why, but I turned the tool in my hands not toward the enemy, but once again to the ceiling supports, this time directed at the vertical beam which supported the quivering one over head. It cleaved in two without much effort, the wood was old and brittle though damp as the rest of the pit. With a thunderous noise, the ceiling support crashed into the mud, crushing the skeleton a moment before it reached me. Still whimpering and drawing breath hastily I scrambled up the beam, which was now angeld into the hole so that I could make my way up to the surface and soon found myself panting for breath on the cool grass.

- - -

Thus ends the words of this unfortunate soul, safe though he may be. I shan't think the man will ever be the same for the things he has seen, whether they are believed or not, but there seems to be a twinkle in his oft glazed eyes, perhaps a joy found not in the memory of horror, but in thankful realization that it is over. And while I cannot support his story with any facts whatsoever—the pit seems to have been filled in—I can attest to the look in his eyes when he first revealed it to me, the look that did not vanish even after I had bought for him far too many drinks. Let his tale remind us all that an evil exists, not undefeatable, but exists nonetheless.