*Continued from Uncharted, Part V
"Clock?" Compass' voice crackles electronically through the intercom. "The bitch with you?"
Clock glances up at the Librarian, who pretends to have taken no offense. "Yes, Compass. What do you need?"
"I need those fucking numbers, ASAP."
Clock lets go of the intercom. "You haven't given them to him?" Clock is not happy.
"I gave them to you, not that impudent pup."
"That impudent pup is a Navigator, Librarian. You, on the other hand, are not."
Clock doesn't hear the gunshot. Nor should he have, for the silencer is of the highest quality.
***
The tendrils snake towards Spyglass and she's unable to move. She tries to scream, but all she can manage is a whimper. It's cold here. Dark. Completely black. Light absent and absorbed. And it's where she's stuck.
A scaled tendril, tentacle, wraps around her bare leg and begins feeling its way up her body. Another wraps her other leg. Still more wrap her arms. They begin to constrict. It begins to feed. Her breasts palpate, her body squeezes. Something penetrates her.
She manages another whimper.
***
"So, Spyglass calls it Krueger because it gives her nightmares..." James tries to work out what's going on as he sifts through volumes upon volumes of archives. He loves libraries - always has - and the Order's is as impressive a private library as any.
"Yes," Compass confirms, hoping James will shut up. Compass is already annoyed that there's no imagery from the Jezercë Tunnel, forcing him to work with intelligence gathered from Giewont, but being stuck with James makes it worse.
"... and Sextant calls it Kracken because...?"
"Something about something that looks like an octopus."
"Krueger looks like an octopus?"
Before he lets loose, Compass decides to ignore James, concentrating instead on symbols found on Tunneler artifacts over the years. There are three in particular taking most of Compass' attention. Numbers of some sort. He momentarily recalls the previous Clock, a mathematician who successfully identified and decoded more than a dozen numbering systems used by the Tunnelers. Though that Clock took copious notes, he died of a heart attack before he could finish organizing them into something useable. Continuing that work should be the new Clock's responsibility, but as the new Clock is more time-keeper than number-cruncher, the task somehow fell to Compass.
Compass is regretting not having spent more time on it. The Order would love nothing more than to have someone who can simply read the symbols and Compass would love nothing more than to have one less thing to rely on the Librarian for. Speaking of...
"You seen the hag?"
James, lost in a some web-search, looks up from his screen. "What?"
"The Librarian. Have you seen the Librarian? She's supposed to be coming with the numbers."
Afraid to admit that he's typically unaware of his surroundings, James glances around before responding. "Ah, no."
***
Marianne sits on the floor in front of the fireplace. Though she's under the impression things should be more hectic, particularly during a Kracken Protocol, she likes that Sextant has decided to tell her stories of the Order's history.
"Pope Pius XI met with Mussolini because of the Order?"
Sextant takes a drag from a cigarette and quickly ashes in his von Braun ashtray. "Not singularly, but, yes. He had information that a fascist leader knew of the Order and was preparing his own occult forces."
"But that was Hitler."
Sextant chuckles his, by now, familiar chuckle. "Exactly."
"Hitler wasn't even power in 1932."
"Exactly." The old man pauses and stares at Marianne. Sextant is no, well, sexist, but he's generally surprised by young women with such a detailed knowledge of history. Then again, he's generally surprised by anybody with such a detailed knowledge of history. He shoots her a smile, takes another drag, and explains how each current member of the Order was recruited.
***
Her knees ache. Her ankles. Every joint in her failing body. But she has to move quickly. She's shaking, and not from frailty. The rush she experienced from shooting Clock has yet to subside. The Librarian found it... exciting. She understands now why so many in the world love firearms.
For far too long she's watched these inept fools run the Order into the ground - never mind that Sextant has been in the order for much longer than she's even known about it - but it's her time. She's the smartest. She's the most capable. The Order deserves to be hers.
***
Though the current Clock hasn't been Clock for very long, he's been associated with the Order for years. Prior to his appointment, he was the second-in-command of the Phalanx Nautikos. He'd been promoted to Clock over the other finalist candidate... the Librarian. His predecessor had also been promoted over the Librarian. Come to think of it, Derartu Kebede disappeared shortly after the Librarian was hired.
That Clock has worn a bullet-proof vest under his clothing ever since he'd been shot as a rookie cop in the Chicago Police Department allows him to connect some dots that had, until just now, not been connected. He hadn't been sure that his death throes were convincing. Thankfully, the Librarian has never shot anyone before. Nor seen anyone die of a gunshot wound from up close. She didn't even have the presence of mind to shoot him again, just to make sure.
He knows he'll have to beat Compass to it, but Clock can't wait to kill the hag.
***
Even as she experiences death in her dreamworld, she experiences life. Her heart stops beating just as she's brought to orgasm.
"Sarah..."
This time, the whimper is a scream. She throws off her covers and jumps out of bed, running blind to her bedroom door and through the haunting corridors of the manor.
***
"You ever seen drawings of Cthulu?"
Compass pauses. He knows where James is going. "Yes. It's not Lovecraft's version of Kracken. Lovecraft wasn't in the Order. He was just a creepy writer." Compass glances a James in time to see a dejected frown. "What are you doing? Googling tentacled monsters?"
"Yeah. The only things I'm finding so far are Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and this story by two weirdos about an alien soccer war."
Compass laughs. "Ah, the Garghouls."
"That's the one."
"You should read it. It's pretty funny. Authors were definitely doing drugs, though." The extended conversation is Compass' method of encouragement. He doesn't bother to see that it's lost on James, who simply takes it as extended conversation. Compass might have bothered, but his attention is suddenly diverted back to his screen.
The numbers he's been looking for. Three symbols from the 20-numeral system of the Tunnelers. 9. 8. 3. Placed in a semi-circular pattern. Like a combination lock. Trying to stifle any excitement at the possible - emphasize possible - discovery, Compass taps the print command repeatedly until he hears the printer whir to life.
Running over to it, he grabs the page before it's completely out of the machine, tearing it at a bottom corner. Compass runs for the door. As he reaches it, a sweating and obviously nervous Librarian opens it and enters. Compass brushes her, waving the paper in her face.
"See, bitch? That's why I needed the numbers!"
Letting the shock dissipate, the Librarian continues to her desk, nodding a greeting to James. There, she retrieves a backpack, an attaché case almost too heavy to lift, and exits the library as quickly as she entered.
***
Sextant is mid-sentence of an embarrassing tale - embarrassing to Marianne, that is - when the alarms begin blaring. Relieved that she'll not learn of a Portuguese woman's gyrating ass, Marianne nevertheless becomes instantly worried. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. Stay calm, Marianne. The Phalanx will have sentries outside. We've nothing to fear."
She knows she shouldn't, but she believes Sextant. Marianne's never met anyone quite so calming, even when the situation screams that they have everything to fear. As if confirming her subconscious thought, a heavy pounding on the door to the den breaks the calm instilled by Sextant. Marianne swears she sees confusion sweep across Sextant's face, but only for an instant.
Sextant stands and heads to the door. He is confident, but cautious. "Yes?"
"It's the Librarian."
Reflexively, he unbolts the door - bolted automatically when the alarms activated. "Where are the sentries?"
The Librarian waddles in, weighed down by her bag and case. "What sentries?" She looks around, grimaces when she sees that Sextant is not alone. No matter. The wheels are already spinning. Pulling a stun gun from her bag, she fires it into Sextant.
***
Clock, along with Captain Danquah and two other Phalanx soldiers, storms into the library. James jumps from his work, startled.
"Where's the Librarian?" Clock asks. There is no patience in his voice.
"She's, ah... she left. Grabbed some stuff and left."
Clock turns to Danquah. "Get to Sextant."
Danquah nods a quick acknowledgement and he and the two soldiers take off running. Clock looks to James. "This is why you're still alive, James."
James, already confused, is even more so. "What?"
Clock waves his hand, motioning to the library and everything inside of it. "This is yours now. Whether you want it or not. Deal with it."
The thought to ask what's going on doesn't have time to materialize. Clock makes eye contact with James, ensuring James heard him, then turns to leave. "But choose a new title. Librarian has been soiled."
Dumbfounded, James barely realizes that he finally utters a question, albeit one fairly useless in the current predicament. "Bibliothēkē?"
***
Compass was the first to arrive. More out of hatred for the woman than for recognition of what she was doing, Compass rushed her and tackled her to the floor. The Librarian still had her stun gun, though, and Compass doesn't remember what happened next. He never heard Spyglass yell. Never even knew she'd arrived.
Spyglass had come for reassurance. Sextant was the only member of the Order who knew - and understood - the full extent of Spyglass' dreams. He would have been the only person capable of calming her down before another vision burst. Seeing his unconscious form and what she thought was Compass' lifeless body eliminated any chance of that happening.
It was unfortunate, but both the Librarian and a wholly-freaked out Marianne bore witness to what a vision burst looks like. Its effect frightened Marianne even more, but only made the Librarian smile.
"What are you doing?" Spyglass had screamed.
Not needing the stun gun for Spyglass, the Librarian had brandished her pistol. She would have pulled the trigger, too, were it not for the timely arrival of Captain Danquah and other members of the Phlanax Nautikos.
The Librarian had, in fact, pulled the trigger, but given her lack of training, the bullet had struck harmlessly into a wall. Danquah and the PN, however, are well-trained marksmen. And the Librarian activated her door a mere moment after enduring three bullet wounds.
It was unfortunate that Compass, the member of the Order who desperately needed to see a door in action, was unconscious for the Librarian's escape.
But, as Sextant would say, such is life. Except... Sextant is dying.
***
It is a quick conference between Clock, a calmed Spyglass, and a conscious Compass. Gone are Danquah and the Phalanx Nautikos, but still present is Marianne, who cries profusely over Sextant's body.
"We need to transfer what's left of Sextant's powers, before it's too late." Clock's statement is cold, matter-of-fact. But the situation affords no time for mourning.
"To who?" Compass asks. There's been no time for a vetting process, and none of the Order are aware that Sextant had already conducted one in secret.
Spyglass, tears dry from experiencing abject fear for the past few days, finds her thoughts elsewhere. "The Librarian is working with the Tunnelers?"
Still concerned with succession, Clock answers Spyglass' question anyway. "No. She's against them, just like we are. She's just also against us."
"How much of Sextant's powers did she steal?"
Compass grabs the tube from the Lichtenstein print. "It's electromagnetic, whatever it is. It wasn't active before, but it's definitely fucking with my direction-finding."
"There's no way to tell. We'll have to study his successor."
The three Navigators know that there's a strong possibility that the line of Sextants is about to be broken. Already dead, the essence of the Sextant won't remain in his body for much longer. Seconds pass, each Navigator lost in thought.
Marianne, all but forgotten by the others despite her presence directly in front of them, continues to cry. "What are Sextant's powers? He never said."
Compass glances up at Clock. Clock's eyes maintain their steadfastness, returning Compass' look, then shifting to Spyglass.
Spyglass shrugs. "But, she's Catholic." Spyglass isn't used to being part of the decision process of the Order. Even if she were, she's still rattled by her dream.
"As was I," Clock responds. "It doesn't last long."
"Clock?" There is a overwhelming sense of urgency in Compass' voice. "Now or never."
Clock nods.
Compass turns to Marianne. "You're about to find out."
"What?"
"Lie down," Compass orders, pulling a knife from Sextant's belt. "This might hurt a little."
*To be continued...
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horror. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Uncharted, Part V
*Continued from Uncharted, Part IV
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
"Spear 6 to Aegis, we are ready to close the tunnel." Aleksandr Lermontov has been a soldier in the Phalanx Nautikos for seven years, but this is the first time he's ever seen one of the portals. Barely visible, it almost looks like a single drop of water hanging from a freshly used faucet, only larger than a man. This one, the Jezercë Tunnel, happens to be larger than a bus. According to Compass, the Jezercë Tunnel hasn't been here long.
If everything goes according to plan, it won't be here much longer.
Aleksandr's earpiece buzzes. "Spear 6, Aegis. Proceed with detonation."
He snaps his fingers and the three others with him begin moving down the mountain, one taking care to brace a detonator as they begin lumbering their way, weighed down by climbing gear. Ordinarily the team would consist of nearly a dozen - seven more wait at the base of the mountain - but these four are the only expert mountaineers in all of the Phalanx Nautikos. In a few moments, the PN will be devoid of expert mountaineers.
The drop of water shimmers, instilling a vision of a splash in Aleksandr's vivid imagination, and something comes through. Before he can react, its arms - matted in a putrid-smelling fur - grab Aleksandr around his stomach and snap his spine in half. He's already dead when it pulls him back into the tunnel.
A moment of panic causes the demolitionist to twist and pull the detonator. Snow and rock tumble through the moonless Albanian night and the three remaining mountaineers tumble to their deaths.
***
Spyglass bolts awake, sweating profusely under a blanket. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she wasn't in Reception. Merely dreaming. Another nightmare.
"You okay?"
"Oh, shit." She forgot someone else was in the room. Compass. Slaving over his blasted laptop, tinkering with schematics and spreadsheets in an attempt to design an effective system of locating the Tunnelers.
Compass stares at her, wide-eyed. His expression reveals one trying to figure out whether to offer assistance or to start laughing his ass off. Since he's crushing on Spyglass, he chooses the former. "Nightmare?"
The adrenaline subsiding, Spyglass feels her cheeks turn red. Another embarrassing moment in front of Compass. He may never ask her out at this rate. If he wanted to, that is.
She nods quickly, pulls the blanket over her head - barely tolerating the smell of her own perspiration - and tries to control her breathing. Terror and embarrassment are a difficult mixture. She hears the tone of Compass' phone and his muffled greeting.
"On the way." The phone snaps closed, then the laptop.
"Get up, Spyglass." Spyglass knows something's wrong. That's the only time Compass addresses her by title. "Shit hit the fan."
***
Captain Kofi Danquah hates debriefing the Navigators. Not that he minds their company, but given his level of autonomy in running the Phalanx Nautikos, Danquah tends only to debrief the Navigators after something bad has happened. Born in Greece - the son of a Ghanaian diplomat - Danquah finds the winters of Switzerland far too cold. But he loves his job.
Except this part of it, of course. The only thing worse than debriefing the Navigators is doing so in front of a blinding projector light.
"At 0217 Central European Time, Sergeant Lermontov's team conducted a peripheral reconnaissance of the Jezercë Tunnel..."
Clock interrupts. "Peripheral?"
Danquah nods, answering Clock's implied question before resuming the debrief. "Two members of Lermontov's team entered the tunnel, which is when they discovered this." Danquah taps his remote and the projected image changes.
"What the fuck is that?" Nobody has to ask whether or not that was Compass.
"We don't know," Danquah replies. "Permission to conduct a recon in-depth was not granted."
"Nor was it asked for, Captain," scolds Clock.
As he's not yet been made privy to all of the radio transmissions, Danquah was not aware of this. He purses his lips and attempts to hide his burgeoning anger at being left out of the loop. They were his men, after all. His soldiers. He should've been allowed to oversee the operation, even if from a remote location. But Clock had demanded oversight. One does not question the decision of a Navigator, even the commanding officer of the Phalanx Nautikos. Wisely allowing his ire to pass, Danquah continues.
"Preliminary analysis suggest a lock of some kind."
Sextant speaks this time, which shocks everyone. Such an act is a rarity in any formal Order conference. "A lock? For what?"
"We don't know that, either."
"Is there any imagery?" Compass asks.
"Destroyed in the accident."
Marianne and James, sitting unobtrusively in the back, begin whispering to each other. Though it was his idea to reveal the Order to them, Clock is annoyed by their presence in the conference room. "Something to share?"
"If it's a lock, and this tunnel is newer than the other ones, what if it's not a tunnel at all? What if it's a door?"
Sextant speaks again. "Manufactured?"
"Well, yes. Why not?" Marianne is rather pleased with herself. The pleasure doesn't last long.
Sextant snaps his fingers. "Kracken Protocols. Immediately."
Two seconds ago, there were nine people in the room. The four navigators, Captain Danquah, two PN intelligence specialists, and Marianne and James.
Two seconds later, there is only Marianne and James.
***
Marianne sprints through the corridor, chasing Compass. James struggles to keep up behind her.
"Compass!"
"What?" Compass doesn't turn to look at her. Nor does he stop jogging.
"What's going on?"
"Sextant thinks we're about to get invaded."
Marianne stops, dead in her tracks. "Invaded? By the Tunnelers?"
"No. Just one Tunneler."
***
Elsewhere, entering her dormitory, Spyglass shivers. She hopes Sextant is overreacting - he's done so before. In fact, this will be the third time the Kracken Protocols have been implemented since she's been Spyglass. But never before has it happened after a Phalanx Nautikos mission went awry. And never before has anyone even considered the possibility that the Tunnelers can make their own tunnels.
All Spyglass knows is that she's no desire to meet Krueger in person.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part VI
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Uncharted, Part IV
*Continued from Uncharted, Part III
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
The beast is a familiar one. Spyglass has seen it many times before. It spoke to her once, even as it stuffed its maw with the flesh and tissue of Leonard Cayce. Spyglass hadn't known it at the time, but Leonard was once a candidate to be Compass. Not that it mattered. The image of his devouring sort of ended any speculation that the current Compass could be replaced.
Its wings aren't feathered, but scaled. At least they look scaled, for even during Reception, Spyglass is too afraid to take a closer look. Some of these Tunnelers are reported to be psychic, after all. Proximity in dreams may be as dangerous as proximity in body. Though young, Spyglass has never been one for taking unnecessary risk.
She remembers what it said to her: "You will understand my tongue." The obvious interpretations were clear, given Leonard's body as a meal and the fact that it communicated in English, but Sextant assured her that neither was what it meant. Spyglass has taken to calling it Krueger - after the horror film antagonist - and often finds herself combating it in her own dreamworlds.
Its fingers, like its film counterpart, are blades. Its skin, depending on the angle, appears charred. But there the similarities end, for there is nothing human about this Krueger. Its mouth is tentacled, replete with toothed suckers like a giant squid and barbed tips like stingers on scorpions. And its eyes... not terrifying in their appearance... but terrifying in that they always seem to be looking at her, whether during Reception or dream.
It finishes killing someone. She's not sure who... or what gender... but that's not what terrifies her this time. What terrifies her is that it speaks to her again...
"Sarah..."
***
Compass is in a bad mood. It's enough that he has to ask the Librarian for some assistance; it's worse that Marianne tags along. Yes, she's kinda cute and, he must admit, her voice has a lusciously sultry tone to it, but the fact that she has a boyfriend obviates any dirty thoughts for her body that Compass might have. He may be a jerk, but he's got scruples.
Thankfully, he's either walking too fast or has too intense an expression on his face for Marianne to try to make smalltalk. She just follows him through the Karl Moser-designed manor, taking turns staring at him and glancing at some of the paintings and artifacts on display throughout. She's never actually been to the Library and doesn't know where it is, but when Compass pauses in front of a large set of oak double doors, inhales, then exhales, she knows they've arrived.
Compass pushes open the doors, as quickly as their weight will allow, and without even knowing if the Librarian is inside, calls out.
"You get those numbers I asked for?"
The Librarian appears behind a stack of shelves in the northwest corner. She fumes subtly. "I'm a librarian, Compass. Not a researcher. You may get them yourself."
"You gave them to Clock. He lost them. I need them."
"No."
"Pardon me?"
"I did the work once. I need not do it again."
Compass secretly wishes the Librarian were a man. He'd love to break her jaw. "He said you pulled them up on your computer. How hard would it be to, I don't know, just bring them up again?"
The Librarian returns to whatever it is she was doing. Compass' expression makes Marianne wonder if he's going to beat the old woman to death with a heavy book. That there's a dictionary on a reading lectern a few feet from where Compass currently stands makes Marianne worry.
"You do realize we're in the middle of something important, don't you?" Compass asks, a final polite gesture before, no doubt, things get ugly.
The Librarian continues her work as if neither Compass nor Marianne are in the room.
"Fine, bitch. I'll check Clock's office again." Compass bolts out, brushing by Marianne. How an order so seemingly dysfunctional manages to save the world on a near-daily basis is beyond her.
After Marianne is gone, the Librarian walks to the lectern and brushes her fingers on the dictionary. It's a vintage American Webster's, dated 1900. She flips through the pages with her eyes closed, blindly pointing at a random word. Petulant. Insolent or rude in speech or behavior. The Librarian laughs and takes a closer look. The preceding word is petunia. She laughs again.
"That'll do nicely." Closing the dictionary, she returns to the shelves.
***
The four men and two women standing before Cardinal Grant are obviously soldiers. Elite ones, at that. Their leader, a man who identified himself only as Corporal, holds out a hand. In his palm, innocently placed, are two white tablets.
"I cannot commit suicide. Such an act would consign me to Hell."
"The alternative is painful, Cardinal," Corporal replies.
"God would never forgive me."
"I don't believe in your god. I couldn't care less."
"Child." It is a defiant tone with which Cardinal Grant speaks. He looks at the other five soldiers. "Children. It matters not what you believe. Only what He believes."
Corporal fights back a smile. Despite appearances, he doesn't enjoy this part of his work, and it's merely a nervous reaction. The Phalanx Nautikos were formed to combat the Tunnelers, not conduct assassinations. The unfortunate revelation that several species of Tunnelers were telepathic made the secrecy of the Order of Navigators tantamount to the survival of the Human race. The survival of Earth, as well, for that matter. Given the incident of 1489, in which Martin Truchseß von Wetzhausen - then the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights - was almost compromised by the Tunnelers a second time, the tradition of assassinating those outside of the order who knew of the order began.
"He believes, Cardinal," Corporal begins, replacing his almost-smile with as grim a look as possible, "that if you do not consume these pills, you will suffer worse pain than your Lord and Savior did at Golgotha."
Corporal lets that sink in, then continues in a softer tone. "I can assure you that your god does not wish that upon you."
The Cardinal looks into Corporal's eyes and takes a breath. Regardless of choice, it is time for belief to be tested.
***
Clock sits across from Sextant, who is currently regaling Clock with tales of Derartu Kebede, the Ethiopian princess who was Clock prior to his own predecessor. It is obvious that, despite all that Kebede instructed Sextant, Sextant wanted nothing more than to bed her. It is also obvious that Sextant never did.
A buzzing noise interrupts Sextant's story and Clock reaches into his pocket, retrieving his cellular phone. He answers it, slowly nods, and hangs up.
"It's done."
Sextant frowns. Both men's curiosities try to determine if the pills were taken, but both men have too much respect for Cardinal Grant to ever ask. Besides, if God is real, they'll find out soon enough.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part V
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Friday, January 7, 2011
Uncharted, Part III
*Continued from Uncharted, Part II
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Excerpt 1 -
It is estimated that the tunnels have been open since the year 949. In the early part of that year, all of the planets in the Solar System were aligned in the same 90-degree arc. For reasons as-yet unexplained, the gravitational alignment of the planets resulted in a tear in space-time and doorways (what the Order refers to as the tunnels) to other dimensions were opened. These Meean tunnels (so named after Jean Meeus) weren't hypothesized until later in the 20th Century and the discovery of the first tunnel in Poland (near Giewont in the Tatra Mountains) confirmed their existence.
The Order of Navigators, leading a pseudo-military incursion, has reportedly closed the Giewont Tunnel, though Navigator Sextant has so far refused to reveal the method of closure. Lacking conclusive evidence, as well as the order's reluctance to cooperate fully with Vatican authority, I am of the opinion that there are many more tunnels and that more creatures have come through them.
Excerpt 2 -
Given legends such as the Beast of Gévaudan (and several others), I believe that creatures have been coming through these tunnels for centuries. The irony that a Pope authorized the annexation of an atheist order of "Knights" for the purposes of protecting our existence only serves to reinforce how important and real this situation is.
Excerpt 3 -
That stated, the operational and administrative status is an affront to our Catholic beliefs. That you were successful in convincing Navigator Clock to disband their military arm (along with their assassination practices) bears poorly on our sovereignty and, in my humble opinion, our very legitimacy. We are more than capable of handling these Demons using our existing assets. My appeals to do so have been denied now for the seventh time.
Excerpt 4 -
It is with great regret that I resign from my position as Prefect of the Supreme Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura.
Cardinal Jonathan M. Grant
***
"Wow. He resigned?" Marianne doesn't know what to think. Cardinal Grant was who first informed her that the Order of Navigators were even real. She didn't know him well, but she considers him a mentor.
Compass, testing an algorithm on his computer, nods. He fails to mention that the military arm of the order isn't exactly defunct and that, with the Pope's reluctant blessing, Cardinal Grant will suffer a fatal heart attack by the end of the day.
Tired of watching the computations, Compass stands from his chair and heads for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To the Library. Need some information."
"Can I come?"
Compass shrugs as he exits.
Watching from his high-backed smoking chair in the corner, Sextant - who had been frowning up to that point - lets loose a wry smile. It was strongly advised that he select a different Compass, but Sextant needed the apathetic humor that this Compass provides. Sextant recognized that his own skills and, indeed, his own discretions were falling by the wayside. While he wants nothing more than for his successor to be as empathic as possible, he needs his Compass to be as blunt and straightforward as he - Sextant, that is - used to be.
A long time ago, that was.
***
Even before Sextant became the head of the Order of Navigators, he was an accomplished navigator. Once a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, he had been aboard the HMS Repulse when it was sunk by the Japanese in the early days of the Pacific War. It was then that he'd met his predecessor for the first and only time.
Drowning in the South China Sea, somewhere East of Endau, a young British sailor prepared himself to pass through to the other side. Except... he didn't.
Prior to passing out from the lack of oxygen and the water pressure, that sailor witnessed the oddest of sights. A black man locked in a physical struggle with what could only be described as an octopus made of smoke. And a green turtle that, moments after the sailor spied it, exploded in a fissure of flesh, blood, and shell. Or, perhaps, imploded.
When he had come to, Sextant found himself lying on a beach in Sumatra, very much alive. The black man was reciting some strange incantations and carving symbols into Sextant's chest. Sextant tried to resist, but found himself too weak. And found his arms pinned by two green turtles, both of whom appeared to be smiling. To this day, Sextant swears one spoke just before he had passed out again. "Welcome," it had said. But, other than the first Clock he had worked with, Sextant mentioned it to no one.
Indeed, until he had met his first Clock the year after the Japanese surrendered - he'd been captured on Sumatra and spent most of the war in a prisoner of war camp on Hokkaido - he had no idea who that black man even was. When he'd woke the second time, the black man was lying dead beside him, and the green turtles were gone.
***
Sextant had been sleeping in his flat in London when his first Compass had knocked on his door. With him was his first Clock, a strikingly tall Italian woman with whom he'd have many sexual encounters until her death three years later (an untimely death, largely Sextant's fault).
"Who are you?" Sextant, then still operating under his birth name, had asked.
Both Compass and Clock were carrying pistols - American Colt 1911s, if memory serves Sextant correctly - and Clock had ordered Sextant to pack some clothes and come with them. In a position to cherish life as fully as possible, Sextant obeyed. By the time the DC-3 had landed in Switzerland, Sextant had learned who the black man was - the Third Sextant. He'd learned that prior to the First Sextant the position was known as Quadrant and prior to being known as Quadrant it was known as Astrolabe. He'd learned who Compass, Clock, and Spyglass were and what they did. He'd even learned that, from the time he'd been imbued by the previous Sextant to the time he'd been found by Compass, he had been growing younger and is, in fact, 12 years older than his body thinks it is.
Neither the Compass nor the Clock at the time expected Sextant to fall into line so quickly, but he had. And for no other reason than having seen an octopus made of smoke and being welcomed by a turtle.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part IV
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Uncharted, Part II
*Continued from Uncharted, Part I
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
They are at home in the dark. They are at home in the light. Myths propagated by the banal imaginations of those who wanted nothing more than control of their congregations led humanity to believe that monsters only exist at night. But what of monsters that are not? There is nothing about them in the legends of these cultures. No revelations. Could they read the languages of man they would but laugh at the explanations of what lies beyond.
For nothing lies beyond. Save for them. What is seen is what begets. And what begets is fear. The evolutions of creatures subject to biological conditions not yet imagined by the chemical reactions known as thought. Chemical reactions some mistake as a gift granted by yet another imaginary evolution.
It is these mistakes upon which they pray. It was not God responsible for the alignment of the planets on that fateful day in the 10th century. It was not gods ignorant to the gravitational pulls of celestial bodies that ripped open a small tear in the fabric of space-time. It was simply chance. One in unimaginable billions. The same chance that created life here. The same chance that created death there. The same chance that opened the tunnels.
But the myths got something right. There are great powers in the universe. And they are more common than the son of one. More common than an adversary. And the creatures from the other side of the tunnels can smell them.
To humanity, these great powers are miraculous. Rightfully the stuff of legend. To the Tunnelers... they - along with the rest of carbon-based life on Earth - are food.
***
James cuts into the rib-eye steak, much to the chagrin of Marianne. She can barely hide her disgust at James' propensity to eat rare meat. It's the blood. He's a great work partner, but she's slowly coming to realize that he's not as good a life partner as she'd once hoped. James has done nothing all that irritating in the past few months - not since the debacle at her parents in Brussels - but it's not helping his cause that she's heavily attracted to Compass. Worse, it's hurting that it is James who was assigned to observe Compass. Though Marianne is in awe of Sextant, she wishes she could spend more time with the direction-finder. Through today, she's only seen him a handful of times and has only spoken to him once... and that was merely a quick introduction and exchange of names.
"How's the old guy?" James asks, oblivious to his current station in Marianne's perception.
She looks up, nibbling on her salad - a much more sensible meal, in her opinion. "Oh, he's wonderful. Weird and charming."
James scrunches his brow. Weird and charming? "Compass is a bit of an asshole." He hesitates to mention Spyglass, fearful that Marianne will somehow notice James' attraction to Spyglass in his voice.
Marianne would have noticed no such thing, but she does notice James' disdain for Compass, which further sours her mood. "Oh, you don't even know what the Hell it is they're doing."
James shrugs, taking it as a point of fact. He doesn't know what they're doing. He's only here because he's been Marianne's - his girlfriend - research assistant. She seems to know most of what's happening, but her ability to explain it is much like the ability of any of his female friend's ability to explain anything: nonexistent.
"I wish they'd let us out of here," James mutters, recalling that his university friends are currently somewhere in the Italian Alps, enjoying some powder and, no doubt, ski bunnies.
Unfortunately for James, there's no place Marianne would rather be. Eating dinner with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend - should all go as planned - in front of a hearth in one of the many dens in the headquarters of the Order of Navigators.
As she imagines running her fingers up and down the spine of Compass, James chews on his steak, considering the irony of a religious order full of members who don't believe in God.
***
The crone-hag fast approaches - carrying a cardboard tube - and he can already smell her medicated odor. Compass has never liked the Librarian and, he's quite sure, never will. He hates people who are nothing but facades. Everyone has a facade, he knows, but it takes a dedicated faux-intellectual who grew up in faux-intellectualism to actually be nothing but a facade.
It certainly doesn't help his impression of the Librarian that she's not even an official member of the order, despite her title. He's convinced that she's only around because she's older than any of them, save Sextant. That she looks older than Sextant almost makes him pity her. Were she pity-worthy, that is.
Where's Spyglass when he needs eye-candy?
"Compass."
He also hates how she calls his name so matter-of-factly. No question, no greeting. Just blunt adjective.
"What?" Compass dropped the fake smile for her years ago.
"I need you to give this to Sextant," she states, holding the tube out for Compass to grab. "It's for his birthday."
Compass stares at the tube, not taking it. "What is it?"
"It's a birthday present."
"You said that. What is it?" He can't help himself. He loves being a dick to the hag. Particularly because she reacts to poorly to it. Almost like a child. Then again, it's not his fault she's not allowed direct access to Sextant.
"A Lichtenstein."
Compass continues to stare at the tube, then slowly shifts his gaze to the Librarian's bespectacled visage. Wrinkly and thoroughly unattractive. Probably smoked cigars for a time.
"He's a pop culture artist from America, was popular during..."
"I know who he is, hag." It's an interruption Compass will cherish for hours. He grabs the tube and turns to leave, not wanting to remain in her presence.
"Compass."
He stops, mentally shrugging. "What?"
"Just give it to him. Don't say anything; just give it to him."
"Why?" He stares into her eyes as she glares at him. She knows nothing of his combat histories and, as many professionals who've long had to discipline students, believes her gaze to make men nervous. For Compass, it just gives him the opportunity to make mental jokes of her beady little turkey eyes.
"I don't want you to dilute the gift."
"By saying something?"
"It doesn't require your voice-over."
He shakes his head, stifling laughter. "It's a Lichtenstein."
The Librarian stares, as if questioning his answer and trying to answer his question.
Compass explains. "I could take a shit on it, and it will still be a Lichtenstein."
"Please just hand it to him."
The dam breaks. "You know, for all that useless factual knowledge stuck in your head, you're pretty fucking stupid."
It's a statement Compass will cherish for days. Then, he's no idea what he's set in motion.
***
"Why do Compass and the Librarian hate each other?" Spyglass asks Sextant. She's always wondered, but never remembered to inquire.
Sextant pulls on his cigarette, savoring the smooth Turkish flavor, and chuckles his comforting chuckle. "Because she's pretentious and he's apathetic."
Spyglass frowns a bit. It's an involuntary reaction. Even she doesn't yet realize how defensive of Compass she tends to be.
Sextant taps the cigarette over an ornate ash tray made from portions of a V2 rocket's gyro control mechanism - supposedly a gift from Werner von Braun. "Sad woman, that one."
Spyglass doesn't hear him, her thoughts elsewhere. As if on cue, Compass enters and tosses the cardboard tube onto an empty chaise longue. "Happy birthday, Sex. Bitch got you a Lichtenstein. Where's Clock?"
"Late, I'd imagine," Sextant replies, chuckling again.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part III
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Uncharted, Part I
Black. The absence of light. The absorption of it. And it's where she's stuck.
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Her breath is amplified. Deafening. Despite her best efforts to remain quiet and, by proxy, perfectly still. She's being too loud. She knows it can hear her.
She also knows it can see her.
She's breathing too loud.
Too loud. Much too loud. She can't hear it approaching, but she knows it's coming.
Were there any light, she'd have seen the tendrils, wafting in the still air amid dust particles that found their place places based on density, like oil and water. Air settled only by her unwillingness to move. Were there any light, she'd have seen that the tendrils created no wind, offered no disturbance.
Were there any light, she'd have not felt the vertigo. Not been confused as to whether or not she was underwater, in spite of her deafening respiration.
But there is no light. She sees nothing. Feels nothing.
Until it rips her apart.
Oil and water. And blood.
***
Spyglass' eyes open. She wasn't sleeping, but the effect still disorients. "Damn." It's all she can mutter.
"What?"
"They got another one." Spyglass curls up, propping herself with her elbows behind her back. She winces for a moment as a lock of her hair gets caught under arm. There's a futile hopping gesture - hard to do when one is still essentially lying down - and a flinch of the neck. It's unnecessary - and, indeed, unnoticed - but she's hit by a twinge of embarrassment, thinking her clumsiness makes her appear unattractive.
"That's not good." Compass doesn't notice her stuck hair as he busily types notes into his archaic laptop computer. Not that he would've cared; he probably would've enjoyed the sight of her pert breasts jiggling atop her nubile form. As it is, he's caught up in data entry of a most unusual kind on a computer he berates under his breath. Still, he's not one to pass up an opportunity to ogle Spyglass.
Fortunately, for the both of them, there are more important matters at hand.
"Which one?" Compass asks.
"Da Silva, I think," Spyglass replies, kicking her legs to the side of the leather couch and sitting up properly. She blows some loose hair away from her eyes - probably from the same lock she caught herself on - and rubs her eyes. She's barely 25, but worry lines are starting to draw her in her 30s. "It was definitely a woman."
"Which one?" Compass is not repeating the earlier question. It's apparent to the third person in the room, James Lüpertz, that these two have done this many times already. It is not a good revelation. Even more so since he doesn't even know what's going on.
Spyglass scrunches her brow and looks to the ceiling. She pauses on the faux-Gothic chandelier - replete with ceiling fan attachment - and wonders for a moment if anything as romantic as the Phantom of the Opera could ever be real. The blades batter the air and Spyglass shivers at the reluctant memory of... whatever it was.
"Which one, Sarah?" He is repeating, this time.
She shrugs, blindly noting his use of her real name. She'd return the favor, but rumor has it Compass had his name legally changed to Compass upon his assignment. "I don't know. I've never felt that one before."
Compass frowns and taps more keys in rapid succession. Between Spyglass' admission and the outdated CPU in the laptop, Compass' frustration boils over. "Well, that's fucking wonderful."
"What does that mean?" James isn't supposed to say anything - he's merely there as an observer - but he can't help it. Confusion is rapidly disappearing into layers of more confusion.
Spyglass lies back down on the couch. Compass keeps typing. James look to one, then the other, then back to the first. It is Compass who finally answers. "It means shit's still coming through."
"How? The tunnel in Poland was closed."
"Fuck if I know, dude." Compass speaks as if a teenager, though he's well into his 30s. His lengthening hair effectively disguises nearly two decades of military service, and people often take him less seriously than they should. Then again, Compass wouldn't have it any other way. "Maybe there's another tunnel? Hello?"
James turns to look behind him - a reflex - but no one is there. It takes him a moment to realize that Compass' greeting was American sarcasm. Why can't the bastards ever give straight answers?
"Am I next?" Spyglass lazily asks, about ready to fall asleep. Reception is exhausting.
Compass shrugs. She pouts and almost begs for reassurance, but he beats her to it. "I doubt it. You're pretty low on the totem pole."
That's not very reassuring, she thinks, as she lets herself slide into a dreamworld... her own, this time.
***
Marianne Dequenne stares in awe of the two men seated in front of her. Well, one of them, anyway. The elder one. Nearly 80 years old, he is a man who has - quite literally - seen everything. Everything the stars have seen.
The stars looking at Earth, anyway.
He is Sextant. A position he's held for 67 years, longer than any previous Sextant by more than two decades. He came into the title by pure accident, the wrong place at the right time, and has held it professionally ever since. Even though his first few years with the responsibility were disastrous - the Earth was almost destroyed twice - the woman who was Clock guided him well. As did her successor, a would-be Ethiopian princess once known as Derartu Kebede.
The other man in front of Dequenne is the new Clock. He's only been Clock for two years, which is why Marianne isn't in awe of him. As of yet, he's accomplished little of note.
Publicly, that is.
She's no idea that it is this new Clock who has granted Marianne Dequenne and James Lüpertz direct access to the Navigators.
It is a gesture unprecedented in the history of their order. Previously, when the existence of their order was discovered - or strongly suspected - "accidents" were arranged. An unfortunate side effect necessitated by the enemy they face.
But there would be no accident, not this time. The reasons for their disclosure are few, but important. Marianne has no idea what any of them are.
Or how close she and James were to being erased from existence. Fortunately, for her and for James, Clock identified something useful in the two of them.
And, besides... existence is still young.
*Continued in Uncharted, Part II
The Complete Uncharted: Map One
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Blood Wood, Part II
*Continued from The Blood Wood, Part I
"You mean the The Blood Wood?" Jesse Hawthorne cocked an eye at Caleb Greene. This was certainly the strangest job interview he's ever had. Probably the only one, really.
"The Blood Wood?" Caleb hadn't heard it called that. Certainly Mort had said nothing. Caleb turned to question the laconic man, but it was clear Mort wasn't going to offer any new information.
"Yeah, that's what the Tlingit call it. I spent some time with them when I was in the Yukon." Jesse pulled out some tobacco and began packing it into a small pipe. "A colored fellow I'd been up there with claimed to have seen it once."
"You know where he is?"
"Nah. I know he spends some time in Texas and Mexico. Does a bit of wandering with the Rangers."
"What's his name?" Caleb asked, pulling out a pencil and a tear of paper.
"Nate... Belcher, I think. Runaway from Alabama or something."
Caleb wrote the name down and before he could fold the paper, Mort reached in and grabbed it. "I will retrieve Mr. Belcher," Mort stated. With that, Mort left the conversation and disappeared from the saloon.
"That's a strange friend you got," Jesse said between drags of his pipe.
"We've just met," Caleb replied as he stared out the door, catching a glimpse of Mort galloping away on his horse. He returned his attention to Jesse. "You know your way around up there?"
Jesse shrugged. "Where you want to go, not especially. But, yeah, I can get around."
Not quite the expert Caleb had been hoping for, he was nevertheless impressed with the man's candor. And he added a piece to the puzzle. That, combined with Jesse's clear skill with a pistol and rifle, was enough for Caleb.
***
"Wolf, what the Hell are you doing?" Caleb's panicked, if only because his friend is.
The Otoe is wild-eyed and muttering unintelligibly. But that's not what's got Caleb twisted up. It's the fact that Wolf-And-Hawk is holding a lit torch in each hand, setting as many trees on fire as he can.
Caleb's still not fully aware of his surroundings, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. He rushes his friend and knocks him to the ground, stepping on one of the torches to extinguish it. Wolf-And-Hawk, supine, throws the other torch into the upper branches of a tree. Caleb backhands the Otoe across the face. Wolf-And-Hawk blinks. Then again.
"She... she took her."
There's no need for questioning. Caleb scans a full circle. Allison is nowhere to be found. Caleb grabs Wolf-And-Hawk by his shirt and pulls him up. Another curse for having fallen asleep.
"Did you see her?"
"She reached for me. I could do nothing."
Caleb shuts off his emotions. "No. The Blood Wood. Did you see her?"
Wolf-And-Hawk glares at Caleb, his wild-eyes somehow widening further. "We are inside of her."
"What?"
"Don't you understand?" Wolf-And-Hawk gestures to their immediate surroundings. "This is her belly."
***
There's blood in her eyes and she can tell she's suffered several lacerations around her scalp. But she's alive. Slowing her breath, trying to control her fear, she thinks she hears whimpering. Human whimpering.
"Hello?" Allison wishes she could open her eyes.
"Shhh! Be quiet." It is a young voice that answers.
Allison can't tell if it's a boy or girl, but heeds the warning. Her curiosity killing her as much as her wounds probably are, she instead returns her concentration to slowing her breathing down. When she's stopped shivering from fear - the cold refuses to relent, however - she risks speaking.
"How many of there are you? I'm here to help."
"No, you're not." An older voice this time, definitely female. "Shut up."
Allison blinks some of the blood out of her eyes, opening them as widely as she can. It's dark and she can't see anything other than crimson-obscured silhouettes of trees. No movement, no light. Nothing.
"What are we fighting?"
"Oh, shit. It's coming."
Turning her head side-to-side out of reflex, Allison tries to scan the environment. She blinks again and again, quickly, slowly, tightly, loosely. Anything to return any modicum of the ability to see. There's a shape. Human? Maybe. The gait seems familiar. It's approaching her.
"Mort?"
She feels the impact and tries to fight the sleep.
***
Wolf-And-Hawk is gone. Not dead. Just... gone. Caleb burrows himself into the hollow of a dying tree and makes sure both his rifle and pistol are cocked and fully-loaded. He can do nothing but wait.
***
The woman approached the horses in a hurry. "Excuse me, are you the party going up north?" She's attractive, bold, and Caleb had no idea who she was.
"I'm sure there are many parties going up north, ma'am."
She coughed into a balled fist, obviously prepared to be patronized. "Into the forest?"
Caleb glanced at the others, the now party of five. Jesse didn't notice as he was too busy ogling the woman. Nathaniel turned away. Wolf-And-Hawk pretended not to see the woman. Mort simply nodded.
"Let me guess. You wanna come along?"
"My sister and niece were abducted that way. I think it's because I've seen her."
"Her?" Caleb tilted his head, then turned toward Mort, who nodded again.
"Yes, her. My sister saw her, too. We were children."
"You Canadian?"
This time, the woman nodded. "My name's Allison. I want to come with you."
***
Wolf-And-Hawk sits alone at a table in the back corner of a saloon. Feelings of guilt surpassed only by the relief of survival. It is an odd choice of saloon. His and Caleb's favorite. But Caleb is certainly long dead. Another absent friend among a myriad of absent friends.
As if on cue, two farmhands familiar to Wolf-And-Hawk enter the saloon, talking about Caleb.
"I heard they found him, dead from exposure."
"Caleb? I don't believe it."
It is enough for Wolf-And-Hawk. He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching for his hat. As he turns to drop money onto the table for his drinks, he can feel the shape approach behind him. It is unmistakable.
"You dreamt of me once."
Wolf-And-Hawk does not turn to face the voice. And he knows that no one else in the saloon will lift a finger to help him.
"You are the only left who knows my name."
The Otoe sighs. "I do not know your name."
"Well..." The pause feels like an eternity. "I shall tell you before you fade."
His eyes close and Wolf-And-Hawk finally summons the courage to face his enemy. Before he can open his eyes, he feels the kiss. It is devoid of human concept. It simply is. It's the last thing Wolf-And-Hawk remembers before he begins his final dreamwalk.
Mother. Her name is Mother.
"You mean the The Blood Wood?" Jesse Hawthorne cocked an eye at Caleb Greene. This was certainly the strangest job interview he's ever had. Probably the only one, really.
"The Blood Wood?" Caleb hadn't heard it called that. Certainly Mort had said nothing. Caleb turned to question the laconic man, but it was clear Mort wasn't going to offer any new information.
"Yeah, that's what the Tlingit call it. I spent some time with them when I was in the Yukon." Jesse pulled out some tobacco and began packing it into a small pipe. "A colored fellow I'd been up there with claimed to have seen it once."
"You know where he is?"
"Nah. I know he spends some time in Texas and Mexico. Does a bit of wandering with the Rangers."
"What's his name?" Caleb asked, pulling out a pencil and a tear of paper.
"Nate... Belcher, I think. Runaway from Alabama or something."
Caleb wrote the name down and before he could fold the paper, Mort reached in and grabbed it. "I will retrieve Mr. Belcher," Mort stated. With that, Mort left the conversation and disappeared from the saloon.
"That's a strange friend you got," Jesse said between drags of his pipe.
"We've just met," Caleb replied as he stared out the door, catching a glimpse of Mort galloping away on his horse. He returned his attention to Jesse. "You know your way around up there?"
Jesse shrugged. "Where you want to go, not especially. But, yeah, I can get around."
Not quite the expert Caleb had been hoping for, he was nevertheless impressed with the man's candor. And he added a piece to the puzzle. That, combined with Jesse's clear skill with a pistol and rifle, was enough for Caleb.
***
"Wolf, what the Hell are you doing?" Caleb's panicked, if only because his friend is.
The Otoe is wild-eyed and muttering unintelligibly. But that's not what's got Caleb twisted up. It's the fact that Wolf-And-Hawk is holding a lit torch in each hand, setting as many trees on fire as he can.
Caleb's still not fully aware of his surroundings, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. He rushes his friend and knocks him to the ground, stepping on one of the torches to extinguish it. Wolf-And-Hawk, supine, throws the other torch into the upper branches of a tree. Caleb backhands the Otoe across the face. Wolf-And-Hawk blinks. Then again.
"She... she took her."
There's no need for questioning. Caleb scans a full circle. Allison is nowhere to be found. Caleb grabs Wolf-And-Hawk by his shirt and pulls him up. Another curse for having fallen asleep.
"Did you see her?"
"She reached for me. I could do nothing."
Caleb shuts off his emotions. "No. The Blood Wood. Did you see her?"
Wolf-And-Hawk glares at Caleb, his wild-eyes somehow widening further. "We are inside of her."
"What?"
"Don't you understand?" Wolf-And-Hawk gestures to their immediate surroundings. "This is her belly."
***
There's blood in her eyes and she can tell she's suffered several lacerations around her scalp. But she's alive. Slowing her breath, trying to control her fear, she thinks she hears whimpering. Human whimpering.
"Hello?" Allison wishes she could open her eyes.
"Shhh! Be quiet." It is a young voice that answers.
Allison can't tell if it's a boy or girl, but heeds the warning. Her curiosity killing her as much as her wounds probably are, she instead returns her concentration to slowing her breathing down. When she's stopped shivering from fear - the cold refuses to relent, however - she risks speaking.
"How many of there are you? I'm here to help."
"No, you're not." An older voice this time, definitely female. "Shut up."
Allison blinks some of the blood out of her eyes, opening them as widely as she can. It's dark and she can't see anything other than crimson-obscured silhouettes of trees. No movement, no light. Nothing.
"What are we fighting?"
"Oh, shit. It's coming."
Turning her head side-to-side out of reflex, Allison tries to scan the environment. She blinks again and again, quickly, slowly, tightly, loosely. Anything to return any modicum of the ability to see. There's a shape. Human? Maybe. The gait seems familiar. It's approaching her.
"Mort?"
She feels the impact and tries to fight the sleep.
***
Wolf-And-Hawk is gone. Not dead. Just... gone. Caleb burrows himself into the hollow of a dying tree and makes sure both his rifle and pistol are cocked and fully-loaded. He can do nothing but wait.
***
The woman approached the horses in a hurry. "Excuse me, are you the party going up north?" She's attractive, bold, and Caleb had no idea who she was.
"I'm sure there are many parties going up north, ma'am."
She coughed into a balled fist, obviously prepared to be patronized. "Into the forest?"
Caleb glanced at the others, the now party of five. Jesse didn't notice as he was too busy ogling the woman. Nathaniel turned away. Wolf-And-Hawk pretended not to see the woman. Mort simply nodded.
"Let me guess. You wanna come along?"
"My sister and niece were abducted that way. I think it's because I've seen her."
"Her?" Caleb tilted his head, then turned toward Mort, who nodded again.
"Yes, her. My sister saw her, too. We were children."
"You Canadian?"
This time, the woman nodded. "My name's Allison. I want to come with you."
***
Wolf-And-Hawk sits alone at a table in the back corner of a saloon. Feelings of guilt surpassed only by the relief of survival. It is an odd choice of saloon. His and Caleb's favorite. But Caleb is certainly long dead. Another absent friend among a myriad of absent friends.
As if on cue, two farmhands familiar to Wolf-And-Hawk enter the saloon, talking about Caleb.
"I heard they found him, dead from exposure."
"Caleb? I don't believe it."
It is enough for Wolf-And-Hawk. He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching for his hat. As he turns to drop money onto the table for his drinks, he can feel the shape approach behind him. It is unmistakable.
"You dreamt of me once."
Wolf-And-Hawk does not turn to face the voice. And he knows that no one else in the saloon will lift a finger to help him.
"You are the only left who knows my name."
The Otoe sighs. "I do not know your name."
"Well..." The pause feels like an eternity. "I shall tell you before you fade."
His eyes close and Wolf-And-Hawk finally summons the courage to face his enemy. Before he can open his eyes, he feels the kiss. It is devoid of human concept. It simply is. It's the last thing Wolf-And-Hawk remembers before he begins his final dreamwalk.
Mother. Her name is Mother.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Blood Wood, Part I
"We should not go out there." Wolf-And-Hawk's tone is grim. He's only grim when he's afraid. And he's rarely afraid.
"Why not?" Caleb Greene has known Wolf-And-Hawk for years and, out of the four other men and one woman present, is the only one who recognizes Wolf-And-Hawk's fear. They are all, however, aware that the horses refuse to move closer to the trees.
"Your devil lives out there."
Caleb stares into the Boreal Forest. He's only been to Canada once before - without Wolf-And-Hawk - and wonders how his friend would know that. Wolf-And-Hawk is Otoe and, outside of traveling with Caleb, doesn't have much of a reputation for being a wanderer. Then again, Caleb's never known why he's called Wolf-And-Hawk. He'd heard a Lipan Apache once refer to Wolf-And-Hawk as a dreamwalker, but his friend refused to elaborate when Caleb asked about it later.
"You don't believe in our devil."
"Sometimes, Greene, that does not matter."
It is hard for Caleb to imagine a tone of voice more grim.
***
The party awakens with a start. Wolf-And-Hawk's demeanor convinced everyone to camp outside of the woods one final night, ostensibly in preparation for the trek. The deception fooled no one, even those willing and wanting to be fooled.
The screaming is inhuman. But they all recognize the voice. Caleb checks his pocket watch. Jesse Hawthorne should be on sentry. He's nowhere to be found. And it's his voice.
Wolf-And-Hawk and Nathaniel Belcher, the negro, are the first to shooting positions. Their identical Winchester rifles point steadfastly at the trees. At nothing in particular. Both men keep both eyes wide open, fearful of missing something. Caleb joins them, quickly followed by Allison Ware and the last man, their mystery companion known only as Mort. Caleb levers his own rifle and hands Mort his revolver, but Mort waves him off. No one's ever seen Mort handle a firearm - he objects to even touching one - but Caleb thought this moment might produce an exception. Instead, Allison grabs the gun. Caleb returns his attention to the wood-line, noting that Mort is the only one standing.
She whispers. "He sounds like... like he's being torn apart."
Nathaniel puts his hand to his mouth in preparation to call out, but Wolf-And-Hawk grabs him. "Do not," the Otoe says, his grimness as evident as earlier.
Caleb, not really sure what to make of it all, replies to Allison. "No man can survive being torn apart for that long." It's a cold, objective statement, he's well aware. It's all he could muster. He takes an improvised measurement, determining the distance to the trees. It's over 100 yards. Caleb didn't know Jesse well, but he couldn't figure why he'd go into the trees alone.
Mort offers the second theory. "Something came out."
The thought sends a shiver down Caleb's spine, though even he doesn't believe that's what happened. Mort's smile sends another shiver.
***
Caleb was groggy when the knocking started. Another night of too much drinking. Not that he was a drunk or an alcoholic, but that everyone seemed to have a reason to celebrate as of late. It was a deputy's birthday the night before and given that the sheriff had let Caleb off on discharging his pistol in town limits, Caleb felt obliged to attend. It never occurred to him not to drink, though Wolf-And-Hawk certainly mentioned it enough.
"Hang on, dammit," Caleb bemoaned as he pulled his trousers on. He didn't remember undressing, but he woke up naked. Probably explained Wolf-And-Hawk's absence, since they usually shared rooms. Caleb trundled to the door and cracked it open. That was the first time he'd seen Mort.
"Caleb Greene." There was no questioning in Mort's tone. And enough forwardness to it that Caleb resisted the typical 'who's asking' response.
"Yeah?"
"Job for you."
"Doing what?" Caleb was always being hired as a gun and he secretly hated it. Tracking was his specialty and his favorite activity. It allowed him to roam, to range. Still, even that usually involved killing someone. Just once, he'd like a job that actually helped somebody without hurting anybody else.
"Finding missing women and kids."
Caleb opened the door, let Mort in, and started gathering his things. They'd pick up Wolf-And-Hawk later.
***
Allison is the first to fire. Nathaniel's body lurches upwards and nerve impulses react with a convulsive flailing that convinces Wolf-And-Hawk that the negro is possessed. The torrent of blood that begins to rain on the three survivors - Mort had disappeared the first day in the forest - freezes each of them in place.
Caleb stays calm, forcing himself to compare the sight to that of canister shot ripping apart his former soldiers. He thinks he sees a mass of long, black locks of hair and fires into it. When the flash from his barrel subsides, he blinks. There's nothing. What he thought might have been hands clearly nothing but gnarled ends of tree limbs. But there's no question something grabbed Nathaniel. Then threw what's left of him onto the ground. Caleb turns, slowly.
"She's moving in the trees."
Allison blinks, her pale face completely covered in Nathaniel's blood. She had been the closest to him when they heard the disgusting tear that couldn't have been anything other than skin and muscle ripping apart.
"No," Wolf-And-Hawk interjects, "she is the trees."
*Continued in The Blood Wood, Part II
"Why not?" Caleb Greene has known Wolf-And-Hawk for years and, out of the four other men and one woman present, is the only one who recognizes Wolf-And-Hawk's fear. They are all, however, aware that the horses refuse to move closer to the trees.
"Your devil lives out there."
Caleb stares into the Boreal Forest. He's only been to Canada once before - without Wolf-And-Hawk - and wonders how his friend would know that. Wolf-And-Hawk is Otoe and, outside of traveling with Caleb, doesn't have much of a reputation for being a wanderer. Then again, Caleb's never known why he's called Wolf-And-Hawk. He'd heard a Lipan Apache once refer to Wolf-And-Hawk as a dreamwalker, but his friend refused to elaborate when Caleb asked about it later.
"You don't believe in our devil."
"Sometimes, Greene, that does not matter."
It is hard for Caleb to imagine a tone of voice more grim.
***
The party awakens with a start. Wolf-And-Hawk's demeanor convinced everyone to camp outside of the woods one final night, ostensibly in preparation for the trek. The deception fooled no one, even those willing and wanting to be fooled.
The screaming is inhuman. But they all recognize the voice. Caleb checks his pocket watch. Jesse Hawthorne should be on sentry. He's nowhere to be found. And it's his voice.
Wolf-And-Hawk and Nathaniel Belcher, the negro, are the first to shooting positions. Their identical Winchester rifles point steadfastly at the trees. At nothing in particular. Both men keep both eyes wide open, fearful of missing something. Caleb joins them, quickly followed by Allison Ware and the last man, their mystery companion known only as Mort. Caleb levers his own rifle and hands Mort his revolver, but Mort waves him off. No one's ever seen Mort handle a firearm - he objects to even touching one - but Caleb thought this moment might produce an exception. Instead, Allison grabs the gun. Caleb returns his attention to the wood-line, noting that Mort is the only one standing.
She whispers. "He sounds like... like he's being torn apart."
Nathaniel puts his hand to his mouth in preparation to call out, but Wolf-And-Hawk grabs him. "Do not," the Otoe says, his grimness as evident as earlier.
Caleb, not really sure what to make of it all, replies to Allison. "No man can survive being torn apart for that long." It's a cold, objective statement, he's well aware. It's all he could muster. He takes an improvised measurement, determining the distance to the trees. It's over 100 yards. Caleb didn't know Jesse well, but he couldn't figure why he'd go into the trees alone.
Mort offers the second theory. "Something came out."
The thought sends a shiver down Caleb's spine, though even he doesn't believe that's what happened. Mort's smile sends another shiver.
***
Caleb was groggy when the knocking started. Another night of too much drinking. Not that he was a drunk or an alcoholic, but that everyone seemed to have a reason to celebrate as of late. It was a deputy's birthday the night before and given that the sheriff had let Caleb off on discharging his pistol in town limits, Caleb felt obliged to attend. It never occurred to him not to drink, though Wolf-And-Hawk certainly mentioned it enough.
"Hang on, dammit," Caleb bemoaned as he pulled his trousers on. He didn't remember undressing, but he woke up naked. Probably explained Wolf-And-Hawk's absence, since they usually shared rooms. Caleb trundled to the door and cracked it open. That was the first time he'd seen Mort.
"Caleb Greene." There was no questioning in Mort's tone. And enough forwardness to it that Caleb resisted the typical 'who's asking' response.
"Yeah?"
"Job for you."
"Doing what?" Caleb was always being hired as a gun and he secretly hated it. Tracking was his specialty and his favorite activity. It allowed him to roam, to range. Still, even that usually involved killing someone. Just once, he'd like a job that actually helped somebody without hurting anybody else.
"Finding missing women and kids."
Caleb opened the door, let Mort in, and started gathering his things. They'd pick up Wolf-And-Hawk later.
***
Allison is the first to fire. Nathaniel's body lurches upwards and nerve impulses react with a convulsive flailing that convinces Wolf-And-Hawk that the negro is possessed. The torrent of blood that begins to rain on the three survivors - Mort had disappeared the first day in the forest - freezes each of them in place.
Caleb stays calm, forcing himself to compare the sight to that of canister shot ripping apart his former soldiers. He thinks he sees a mass of long, black locks of hair and fires into it. When the flash from his barrel subsides, he blinks. There's nothing. What he thought might have been hands clearly nothing but gnarled ends of tree limbs. But there's no question something grabbed Nathaniel. Then threw what's left of him onto the ground. Caleb turns, slowly.
"She's moving in the trees."
Allison blinks, her pale face completely covered in Nathaniel's blood. She had been the closest to him when they heard the disgusting tear that couldn't have been anything other than skin and muscle ripping apart.
"No," Wolf-And-Hawk interjects, "she is the trees."
*Continued in The Blood Wood, Part II
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Sunset Girl
The setting sun. Bold in its heaven-stroked colors. Welcome in its fading warmth. Much has been written of sunset, but few have heard it sing. That it remains so powerful a muse to humanity is laughable. Saga doesn't know why she finds it funny. She just does.
She laments the Akaishi Mountains, for Saga very much wants to see the sunset's reflection in the Sea of Japan, but she's been ordered to Izu for pickup. Maybe tomorrow she can catch the beginning of the sunrise over the Pacific, but the colors aren't the same. Given her situation, she'll take what she can get.
The middle-aged taxi driver asks her, in Japanese, if she would like to stop for dinner. She shakes her head and turns her attention to her package. She's not seen her American passport in years. The surprise she experienced upon finding it at the drop-off has hung around, and she relishes in its residue. Saga's not been surprised in a long time. Things have been so... menial.
America has long been a no-go area for her organization, and the fact she's being sent there means that something is wrong. She smiles, careful to keep her lips together. She's caught the taxi driver stealing glances at her - whether from attraction or curiosity is of no importance - and, though the thought has crossed her mind, she's no real desire to reveal her true identity. Any discrepancy or, Heaven forbid, interference from law enforcement might make her as-of-yet unknown mission more difficult. And Saga will be damned should Home Office decide to send someone else - someone less reckless - in her place.
The taxi driver asks politely if he may stop to pick up a snack and she nods. It is an unusual request from a taxi driver, particularly in this country, but then again, so is asking for a cab ride from Nomi - her chosen hideaway - to Shimoda. It hadn't occurred to her to request a closer pickup location. Subconsciously, and even if she had, she knew the answer would've been no. Home Office has a reason for everything. Vague though they tend to be, she trusts that she'll soon know why she's going to Shimoda.
Looking at the driver paying for a sea food box and a coffee, she catches her own reflection in the taxi window. There's nothing striking about Saga, save for her extremely pale skin. Many of her friends have asked why she chose Japan to hide in, since her appearance makes her stand out quite dramatically, but she finds that the local populace respects those who wish to keep to themselves. It's rare she notices anyone staring at her. And usually the stares come from tourists. Besides, Japanese was one of the first languages she learned, and there's something about Samurai movies that turns her on. Precision in movement and gratuitous blood. Why wouldn't she choose Japan?
***
The taxi pulls away. The driver no doubt ecstatic - in that subdued Japanese way - at the overly generous tip. Saga even gave him extra money for the fuel required of the return trip to Nomi. They hadn't talked much, but she appreciated his patience and professionalism, and she always makes it a point to reward such admirable characteristics.
"You're late," a voice says. In Romanian.
"By Japanese standards," Saga replies, in Japanese. "Not by anyone else's. What am I doing here?"
"The director," the voice switches to English, "requested your unit. We haven't located all of you yet. Any hints?"
"Legacy is in Australia..."
"We found him."
"I think Wolfe is in Ecuador. Hawke was heading to the Ukraine, last I knew. Haven't heard from any of the others. Are we being reformed?"
"Hawke's not in the Ukraine. Not as far as we can tell, at least. Wolfe was killed two years ago." The voice pauses, letting that sink in. Saga, to her credit, shows no emotional reaction. Wolfe must have really pissed her off. "And, no. Not officially."
"What am I doing here, Archangel?"
The man finally steps out of the shadows. He is even more pale than Saga, but his appearance is striking. Well over six feet tall, his is an imposing presence. Dressed in expensive suit, his strong jawline and angular features scream of Hollywood megastar. Out of the shadows, two more men dressed like him carry another, this one bound and gagged.
"We're being hunted," Archangel answers, equally as emotionless as Saga's responses have been.
Saga gestures tiredly towards the prisoner. "By him?"
"And others like him. Have you eaten?"
Saga shakes her head no and slowly allows a smile. This time, lips apart, the extended and sharpened canines of vampire unmistakable.
"We had his partner for breakfast. This one's all yours."
She glides up to the prisoner, smelling him. Definitely an American. And one who eats a lot of red meat and cheese, she gathers. He'll be tasty.
"Has he been interrogated?"
Archangel smiles. "Not yet." He's going to love watching her work. And eat.
***
The interrogation is terrifying. Saga punctures the man's carotid artery, though she does not draw her meal from there. The purpose is only to make the man lightheaded and less resistant to questioning. Instead, she feeds from his femoral. The blood is as rich, and it affords her the use of fellatio as a method of finding out what she wants to know. Create confusion, and the mind struggles to find clarity. Often by whatever means necessary.
***
Wiping her mouth clean, she makes eye contact with Archangel. Though most of the now-dead man's responses offered no new information, his dying words are cause for alarm.
"We know the Storyteller lied. We know he lied."
The fact that the man knew the name "Storyteller" changes everything. And both Archangel and Saga know it.
*To be continued...
She laments the Akaishi Mountains, for Saga very much wants to see the sunset's reflection in the Sea of Japan, but she's been ordered to Izu for pickup. Maybe tomorrow she can catch the beginning of the sunrise over the Pacific, but the colors aren't the same. Given her situation, she'll take what she can get.
The middle-aged taxi driver asks her, in Japanese, if she would like to stop for dinner. She shakes her head and turns her attention to her package. She's not seen her American passport in years. The surprise she experienced upon finding it at the drop-off has hung around, and she relishes in its residue. Saga's not been surprised in a long time. Things have been so... menial.
America has long been a no-go area for her organization, and the fact she's being sent there means that something is wrong. She smiles, careful to keep her lips together. She's caught the taxi driver stealing glances at her - whether from attraction or curiosity is of no importance - and, though the thought has crossed her mind, she's no real desire to reveal her true identity. Any discrepancy or, Heaven forbid, interference from law enforcement might make her as-of-yet unknown mission more difficult. And Saga will be damned should Home Office decide to send someone else - someone less reckless - in her place.
The taxi driver asks politely if he may stop to pick up a snack and she nods. It is an unusual request from a taxi driver, particularly in this country, but then again, so is asking for a cab ride from Nomi - her chosen hideaway - to Shimoda. It hadn't occurred to her to request a closer pickup location. Subconsciously, and even if she had, she knew the answer would've been no. Home Office has a reason for everything. Vague though they tend to be, she trusts that she'll soon know why she's going to Shimoda.
Looking at the driver paying for a sea food box and a coffee, she catches her own reflection in the taxi window. There's nothing striking about Saga, save for her extremely pale skin. Many of her friends have asked why she chose Japan to hide in, since her appearance makes her stand out quite dramatically, but she finds that the local populace respects those who wish to keep to themselves. It's rare she notices anyone staring at her. And usually the stares come from tourists. Besides, Japanese was one of the first languages she learned, and there's something about Samurai movies that turns her on. Precision in movement and gratuitous blood. Why wouldn't she choose Japan?
***
The taxi pulls away. The driver no doubt ecstatic - in that subdued Japanese way - at the overly generous tip. Saga even gave him extra money for the fuel required of the return trip to Nomi. They hadn't talked much, but she appreciated his patience and professionalism, and she always makes it a point to reward such admirable characteristics.
"You're late," a voice says. In Romanian.
"By Japanese standards," Saga replies, in Japanese. "Not by anyone else's. What am I doing here?"
"The director," the voice switches to English, "requested your unit. We haven't located all of you yet. Any hints?"
"Legacy is in Australia..."
"We found him."
"I think Wolfe is in Ecuador. Hawke was heading to the Ukraine, last I knew. Haven't heard from any of the others. Are we being reformed?"
"Hawke's not in the Ukraine. Not as far as we can tell, at least. Wolfe was killed two years ago." The voice pauses, letting that sink in. Saga, to her credit, shows no emotional reaction. Wolfe must have really pissed her off. "And, no. Not officially."
"What am I doing here, Archangel?"
The man finally steps out of the shadows. He is even more pale than Saga, but his appearance is striking. Well over six feet tall, his is an imposing presence. Dressed in expensive suit, his strong jawline and angular features scream of Hollywood megastar. Out of the shadows, two more men dressed like him carry another, this one bound and gagged.
"We're being hunted," Archangel answers, equally as emotionless as Saga's responses have been.
Saga gestures tiredly towards the prisoner. "By him?"
"And others like him. Have you eaten?"
Saga shakes her head no and slowly allows a smile. This time, lips apart, the extended and sharpened canines of vampire unmistakable.
"We had his partner for breakfast. This one's all yours."
She glides up to the prisoner, smelling him. Definitely an American. And one who eats a lot of red meat and cheese, she gathers. He'll be tasty.
"Has he been interrogated?"
Archangel smiles. "Not yet." He's going to love watching her work. And eat.
***
The interrogation is terrifying. Saga punctures the man's carotid artery, though she does not draw her meal from there. The purpose is only to make the man lightheaded and less resistant to questioning. Instead, she feeds from his femoral. The blood is as rich, and it affords her the use of fellatio as a method of finding out what she wants to know. Create confusion, and the mind struggles to find clarity. Often by whatever means necessary.
***
Wiping her mouth clean, she makes eye contact with Archangel. Though most of the now-dead man's responses offered no new information, his dying words are cause for alarm.
"We know the Storyteller lied. We know he lied."
The fact that the man knew the name "Storyteller" changes everything. And both Archangel and Saga know it.
*To be continued...
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Winter Tale, Part II
*Continued from A Winter Tale, Part I
"The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow’d memory of love!" - H.P Lovecraft, "Sunset"
"What happened here?" They were the first words spoken by either my partner or myself since we first set our footprints on this property this night. The horrible conclusion which had been gradually obtruding itself upon our confused and reluctant minds was now an awful certainty. This manor was no house, but a lair. And somewhere inside - with us - there lurked a beast.
***
My partner shot me a questioning glance, his left hand on the edge of the door. I could only reply with a nod and watched in subdued terror as he shut the double-doors behind us. The encroaching fear each of us had experienced was now fully present and it was likely only our overzealous pride that forced us to remain enclosed in the manor. There was no doubt that my partner briefly considered a rapid absconding, as I had. The consideration likely occurred a subsequent instance, as the flickering light from my hasty torch revealed blood-stained keys on the grand piano. The stains were black under the orange light, but the dried texture was unmistakable. Beyond the occasional crackle from the flame and the conventional creaks and groans of such a large structure, we could hear nothing save our own respiration.
Moving into an adjacent gallery, shadows thrown onto portraits of the manor's residents and their ancestors heightened our anxieties and almost caused me to allow the torch to extinguish itself. Painted eyes stared at us as we walked toward the hallway leading to the grand salon and the staircase to the upper levels. Though a childish notion, the eyes seemed foreboding, as if they could see the outcome of this night. Equally childish, the thought that those same eyes bore cognizant witness to earlier events bore its way into my imagination and I mentally interrogated the portraits within my own mind. That the image of a previous matriarch answered my query with mortal warning served only to reinforce my own intuition or my own insanity.
Fortuitously, most of the manor's walkways were at least partially carpeted and afforded us the ability to maneuver through the home in relative silence. Communication between my partner and myself was a necessity, but the strengthening of the odor as we ascended the staircase only motivated our taciturn mood, and we withheld our desire for vocal reassurance, preferring instead to utilize visual expressions and an expeditiously concocted language of hand signals.
It was in the second floor dining room that we found the deputy. Rather, a portion of him, identified only by the worn leather holster below what was left of a hip, for his upper torso was nowhere to be found. Neither my partner nor I were very much interested in following the trail of smeared blood that led into the next room, a room designed to fully appropriate a morning's sunlight for the enjoyment of any occupant. This disinterest was perpetuated by the fact that the deputy's firearm - a trusty Colt revolver - was incontrovertibly missing.
Our attempt at avoiding encounter with the remainder of the deputy's body, however, proved fruitless as we again encountered the trail of blood upon the staircase to the third floor. Thankfully, the revolver was located at the bottom of the staircase, likely having dislodged itself from the upper torso that was ostensibly dragged up the steps. I handed the torch - whose flames were by now threatening to expire - to my partner and collected the firearm, verifying that it contained its lethal payload. We were disheartened to learn that two bullets had been fired. Given the deputy's reputation as an expert shot, we could only assume that his aim was certain and that whatever it was that he hit simply did not die before halving the man's figure.
Not lacking want of departure, my partner and I silently agreed to hasten our search of the manor, our original intent long abandoned in lieu of solving this mystery we had unwisely decided to decipher. The horrifying discovery made upon entering the master bedroom is what caused my partner to break our self-imposed silence.
***
I had no response. Piled and protected under rudimentary camouflage were several bodies, all unrecognizable in their state of massacre. That three were women was no question - the mother, the daughter, and a servant - but the rest were indistinguishable from one another. Just before the flame from the torch died a fitful death, my partner attempted to point to the floor. I could briefly see a pattern painted in blood before we were engulfed by darkness.
Despite being able to literally see nothing, I leveled the pistol in the darkness, listening to the sounds of my partner feeling along the walls for another mounted lamp.
"Oh, Christ."
My partner inadvertently placed his hand in dried sinew that once belonged to the body of the son. That a seven-year-old boy's flesh had solidified itself to a wall six-feet from the floor was enough to finally convince us to partake in an exit. The match-strike was deafeningly loud and both of us quickly examined the symbol outlined in blood. Resembling a demon with a tentacled mouth, it bewildered our sensibilities. Sections of the image were smeared by footprints. Some human and others... something else entirely. My eyes made contact with my partner's and a cooperative decision was come to - we were to immediately leave.
Upon turning to the doorway, I became educated in what the image portrayed. My partner was never granted the same opportunity. His soul-curdling scream pierced its way into my very bones and I was once again engulfed by darkness.
Lighting my way to the corridor with the flash of gunpowder, the sound of penetrated tissue momentarily encouraged me until I accepted the possibility that I had instead shot my partner. Selfishly - and embarrassingly - I prayed that the beast would stop long enough to enjoy its feast or to preserve my partner's body with the bodies of the others. Amid the chaos of thoughts of death and the reality of blindness-induced vertigo I ran, unsure of whether or not I was even on the ground floor. Even after the fall through broken glass I could not determine how far I descended. Fainting from the impact on iced-over snow was not, I bemoaned, what I wanted my final impression of life to be.
***
In the morning, I awoke to the scrutinizing hands of a doctor and the sounds of a fire brigade quenching thirsting flames. The manor was saved and the bodies of the inhabitants were found, along with the body of my partner and, strangely, the intact - and completely nude - body of the patriarch. He had been shot three times with the gun the local police found in my possession.
It is for that reason that I have been divorced and am currently awaiting the hangman's noose. Only in facing death do I realize the truth. My partner and I invaded the home of a demon surreptitiously living among us in a man's form. A demon, perhaps in an effort to return home, that devoured its own friend and family. I attempt to take solace in the fact that the killing of such a monster might earn my passage into Heaven.
But I fear that even God will not believe my tale.
"The twilight thickens, and the fleeting scene
Leaves but a hallow’d memory of love!" - H.P Lovecraft, "Sunset"
"What happened here?" They were the first words spoken by either my partner or myself since we first set our footprints on this property this night. The horrible conclusion which had been gradually obtruding itself upon our confused and reluctant minds was now an awful certainty. This manor was no house, but a lair. And somewhere inside - with us - there lurked a beast.
***
My partner shot me a questioning glance, his left hand on the edge of the door. I could only reply with a nod and watched in subdued terror as he shut the double-doors behind us. The encroaching fear each of us had experienced was now fully present and it was likely only our overzealous pride that forced us to remain enclosed in the manor. There was no doubt that my partner briefly considered a rapid absconding, as I had. The consideration likely occurred a subsequent instance, as the flickering light from my hasty torch revealed blood-stained keys on the grand piano. The stains were black under the orange light, but the dried texture was unmistakable. Beyond the occasional crackle from the flame and the conventional creaks and groans of such a large structure, we could hear nothing save our own respiration.
Moving into an adjacent gallery, shadows thrown onto portraits of the manor's residents and their ancestors heightened our anxieties and almost caused me to allow the torch to extinguish itself. Painted eyes stared at us as we walked toward the hallway leading to the grand salon and the staircase to the upper levels. Though a childish notion, the eyes seemed foreboding, as if they could see the outcome of this night. Equally childish, the thought that those same eyes bore cognizant witness to earlier events bore its way into my imagination and I mentally interrogated the portraits within my own mind. That the image of a previous matriarch answered my query with mortal warning served only to reinforce my own intuition or my own insanity.
Fortuitously, most of the manor's walkways were at least partially carpeted and afforded us the ability to maneuver through the home in relative silence. Communication between my partner and myself was a necessity, but the strengthening of the odor as we ascended the staircase only motivated our taciturn mood, and we withheld our desire for vocal reassurance, preferring instead to utilize visual expressions and an expeditiously concocted language of hand signals.
It was in the second floor dining room that we found the deputy. Rather, a portion of him, identified only by the worn leather holster below what was left of a hip, for his upper torso was nowhere to be found. Neither my partner nor I were very much interested in following the trail of smeared blood that led into the next room, a room designed to fully appropriate a morning's sunlight for the enjoyment of any occupant. This disinterest was perpetuated by the fact that the deputy's firearm - a trusty Colt revolver - was incontrovertibly missing.
Our attempt at avoiding encounter with the remainder of the deputy's body, however, proved fruitless as we again encountered the trail of blood upon the staircase to the third floor. Thankfully, the revolver was located at the bottom of the staircase, likely having dislodged itself from the upper torso that was ostensibly dragged up the steps. I handed the torch - whose flames were by now threatening to expire - to my partner and collected the firearm, verifying that it contained its lethal payload. We were disheartened to learn that two bullets had been fired. Given the deputy's reputation as an expert shot, we could only assume that his aim was certain and that whatever it was that he hit simply did not die before halving the man's figure.
Not lacking want of departure, my partner and I silently agreed to hasten our search of the manor, our original intent long abandoned in lieu of solving this mystery we had unwisely decided to decipher. The horrifying discovery made upon entering the master bedroom is what caused my partner to break our self-imposed silence.
***
I had no response. Piled and protected under rudimentary camouflage were several bodies, all unrecognizable in their state of massacre. That three were women was no question - the mother, the daughter, and a servant - but the rest were indistinguishable from one another. Just before the flame from the torch died a fitful death, my partner attempted to point to the floor. I could briefly see a pattern painted in blood before we were engulfed by darkness.
Despite being able to literally see nothing, I leveled the pistol in the darkness, listening to the sounds of my partner feeling along the walls for another mounted lamp.
"Oh, Christ."
My partner inadvertently placed his hand in dried sinew that once belonged to the body of the son. That a seven-year-old boy's flesh had solidified itself to a wall six-feet from the floor was enough to finally convince us to partake in an exit. The match-strike was deafeningly loud and both of us quickly examined the symbol outlined in blood. Resembling a demon with a tentacled mouth, it bewildered our sensibilities. Sections of the image were smeared by footprints. Some human and others... something else entirely. My eyes made contact with my partner's and a cooperative decision was come to - we were to immediately leave.
Upon turning to the doorway, I became educated in what the image portrayed. My partner was never granted the same opportunity. His soul-curdling scream pierced its way into my very bones and I was once again engulfed by darkness.
Lighting my way to the corridor with the flash of gunpowder, the sound of penetrated tissue momentarily encouraged me until I accepted the possibility that I had instead shot my partner. Selfishly - and embarrassingly - I prayed that the beast would stop long enough to enjoy its feast or to preserve my partner's body with the bodies of the others. Amid the chaos of thoughts of death and the reality of blindness-induced vertigo I ran, unsure of whether or not I was even on the ground floor. Even after the fall through broken glass I could not determine how far I descended. Fainting from the impact on iced-over snow was not, I bemoaned, what I wanted my final impression of life to be.
***
In the morning, I awoke to the scrutinizing hands of a doctor and the sounds of a fire brigade quenching thirsting flames. The manor was saved and the bodies of the inhabitants were found, along with the body of my partner and, strangely, the intact - and completely nude - body of the patriarch. He had been shot three times with the gun the local police found in my possession.
It is for that reason that I have been divorced and am currently awaiting the hangman's noose. Only in facing death do I realize the truth. My partner and I invaded the home of a demon surreptitiously living among us in a man's form. A demon, perhaps in an effort to return home, that devoured its own friend and family. I attempt to take solace in the fact that the killing of such a monster might earn my passage into Heaven.
But I fear that even God will not believe my tale.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A Winter Tale, Part I
"Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win." - Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
It is not without depravity that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we had been engaging in one of our depraved and insufferable acts. That we are experts in our chosen occupation provides us with misplaced and obsequious senses of superiority. We are better than our fellow man - the fairer gender included - and if we cannot have we feel we deserve, then we shall simply obtain it by any feasible means.
The large house - one easily described as a manor or a mansion - stands as the lone structure on nearly 50 acres of property in southwestern New York. The plot of land appears inviting, serene - and it is most certainly peaceful out here - while the house itself exudes a melancholy aura, as if the very wood and metals it is comprised are embarrassed at their intrusion on an area so pristinely natural, save, of course, for the existence of its foundation, its walls, and its many heavily draped windows. There has been talk of the proprietors erecting other structures - a barn, a guesthouse, a separate quarters for the few employed servants - but the lady of the house, a self-professed follower of Transcendentalism, has so far won out the arguments she often partakes in with her far-too enamored spouse.
My partner and I had been observing the tenants of the home for almost four years. There is a popular utterance among the more professional of our peers that one should never, and I quote, work in one's backyard. And, in light of our own professionalism and the fortuitousness of having both married into wealthy families, my partner and I adhered to this philosophy as if we were the star disciples of Aristotle and Socrates. We had bantered about plying our trade the first winter when each of us noticed - at varying times - that the inhabitants of the manor were absent for nearly a fortnight, leaving only one retired deputy to protect the manor and the grounds, though the grounds themselves needed no protection. The second winter we had even surveilled the property, noting that the deputy, despite his aptitude with the firearm, failed to notice even our footprints slowly filling in with snow just a few feet from the kitchen door on the reverse side of the structure. By the third winter we had managed to draw plans of the house by peering in each window and, on more than one humorous occasion, even sketched the sleeping deputy while standing arrogantly in full view, had he but awoken from his slumber.
And, so, my partner and I decided that should the residents of the house take an extended leave from their abode a fourth straight winter season, then my partner and I shall break our long-held belief and alleviate the residence of its possessions of value.
Though we had both remained calm experiencing an instinctual inclination that something was amiss - there were no signs or hints that the deputy was present, and all the drapes to all of the windows, including those of the higher floors, were drawn shut - we proceeded as we had so carefully devised over the course of the past year. The bolt on the solid oak double doors of the music room turned simply enough, my partner extraordinarily adept at aligning the tumblers of a lock without the use of its appropriate key.
Neither of us were prepared for the fetid and putrid odor that each of our acute senses of smell were assaulted with. My partner immediately turned, covering his mouth, in a futile attempt at preventing his evening meal from committing rebellious upheaval. We were not murderers, though we must both reluctantly admit that we were guilty of having killed, and the familiar stench of death both alerted us to the predicament at hand and invigorated senescent memories of our most vile of acts.
Our intent upon entering the abode was to seal the doors behind us and allow our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before we began our task. The unpleasant fragrance emanating from the room - my partner theorized the entire house - prevented us from a quick entry and instilled in us an irresistible desire to see. Hastily I created an improvised torch using oil from a mounted lamp and a discarded stick from a pile of stacked firewood nearby. My partner, in the process of gathering his fortitude, queried my decision to not simply remove the lamp from the wall, but resolved himself that the handle might provide whatever creature - imagined or substantial - responsible for the odor additional opportunity to audibly track us through our exploration of the manor.
It is not without hesitation that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we hesitated for an eternity before proceeding further and farther into the darkness. That we are the only known souls within miles provides us with a misplaced and fallacious sense of responsibility. There are dead here - perhaps something else - and, like the black cat, curiosities to be sated.
*Continued in A Winter Tale, Part II
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win." - Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
It is not without depravity that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we had been engaging in one of our depraved and insufferable acts. That we are experts in our chosen occupation provides us with misplaced and obsequious senses of superiority. We are better than our fellow man - the fairer gender included - and if we cannot have we feel we deserve, then we shall simply obtain it by any feasible means.
The large house - one easily described as a manor or a mansion - stands as the lone structure on nearly 50 acres of property in southwestern New York. The plot of land appears inviting, serene - and it is most certainly peaceful out here - while the house itself exudes a melancholy aura, as if the very wood and metals it is comprised are embarrassed at their intrusion on an area so pristinely natural, save, of course, for the existence of its foundation, its walls, and its many heavily draped windows. There has been talk of the proprietors erecting other structures - a barn, a guesthouse, a separate quarters for the few employed servants - but the lady of the house, a self-professed follower of Transcendentalism, has so far won out the arguments she often partakes in with her far-too enamored spouse.
My partner and I had been observing the tenants of the home for almost four years. There is a popular utterance among the more professional of our peers that one should never, and I quote, work in one's backyard. And, in light of our own professionalism and the fortuitousness of having both married into wealthy families, my partner and I adhered to this philosophy as if we were the star disciples of Aristotle and Socrates. We had bantered about plying our trade the first winter when each of us noticed - at varying times - that the inhabitants of the manor were absent for nearly a fortnight, leaving only one retired deputy to protect the manor and the grounds, though the grounds themselves needed no protection. The second winter we had even surveilled the property, noting that the deputy, despite his aptitude with the firearm, failed to notice even our footprints slowly filling in with snow just a few feet from the kitchen door on the reverse side of the structure. By the third winter we had managed to draw plans of the house by peering in each window and, on more than one humorous occasion, even sketched the sleeping deputy while standing arrogantly in full view, had he but awoken from his slumber.
And, so, my partner and I decided that should the residents of the house take an extended leave from their abode a fourth straight winter season, then my partner and I shall break our long-held belief and alleviate the residence of its possessions of value.
Though we had both remained calm experiencing an instinctual inclination that something was amiss - there were no signs or hints that the deputy was present, and all the drapes to all of the windows, including those of the higher floors, were drawn shut - we proceeded as we had so carefully devised over the course of the past year. The bolt on the solid oak double doors of the music room turned simply enough, my partner extraordinarily adept at aligning the tumblers of a lock without the use of its appropriate key.
Neither of us were prepared for the fetid and putrid odor that each of our acute senses of smell were assaulted with. My partner immediately turned, covering his mouth, in a futile attempt at preventing his evening meal from committing rebellious upheaval. We were not murderers, though we must both reluctantly admit that we were guilty of having killed, and the familiar stench of death both alerted us to the predicament at hand and invigorated senescent memories of our most vile of acts.
Our intent upon entering the abode was to seal the doors behind us and allow our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness before we began our task. The unpleasant fragrance emanating from the room - my partner theorized the entire house - prevented us from a quick entry and instilled in us an irresistible desire to see. Hastily I created an improvised torch using oil from a mounted lamp and a discarded stick from a pile of stacked firewood nearby. My partner, in the process of gathering his fortitude, queried my decision to not simply remove the lamp from the wall, but resolved himself that the handle might provide whatever creature - imagined or substantial - responsible for the odor additional opportunity to audibly track us through our exploration of the manor.
It is not without hesitation that my partner and I live our lives. During the whole of a dark, moonless night in the winter of the year, with reluctant rainclouds scarring the field of stars above, we hesitated for an eternity before proceeding further and farther into the darkness. That we are the only known souls within miles provides us with a misplaced and fallacious sense of responsibility. There are dead here - perhaps something else - and, like the black cat, curiosities to be sated.
*Continued in A Winter Tale, Part II
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tender Are the Young
Diana hates living in the middle of nowhere. She's only 13 and, practically, is still quite adaptable, but 12 years of being a city girl is a hard habit to break no matter the circumstances. It wasn't her fault that her father was laid off, after all, so why should she be punished for it? She misses her friends, her old school - everyone here just seems like a backwards country blumpkin - and the reassuring noises of traffic and city life. Even the fresh air irritates her, though even she might admit it does so only because it's not city air. Her city's air.
Desert life does not suit her. According to those fashion magazines her older sister, Madison, reads, dry air is insufferably bad for the skin. Diana does not want bad skin, regardless of how many years of exposure it'll take to get. She can't spell melanoma, but she's afraid of it anyway. Sunscreen has replaced cheap makeup as her primary purchase. The fact that her allowance isn't enough to afford her both only adds to her irritation.
And what's up with a desert that has trees? This is not a desert; there are woods everywhere! Ever since the first time she was told Little Red Riding Hood, woods have freaked her out. And the abandoned mines everywhere - dark, mysterious recesses leading to the center of the Earth - don't help ease her anxiety any.
Shaking her thoughts, she checks on her newborn brother, Clark. Unlike her other brother, Oliver - he's 9 and currently engaged in some boring video game - she finds Clark extremely cute. The day her parents brought Clark home, she knew she was going to be much nicer to him than to Oliver. It was an arbitrary decision, to be sure, but one she felt rather mature making.
She sees that Clark's diaper is soiled and quickly retrieves another and some baby wipes to take care of him. Her parents and Madison are away at Madison's Sweet 16 birthday party, so Diana is, at the moment, the adult of the house. Diana's always loved having responsibility placed upon her shoulders, partially because she's a control freak, but mostly because she learned early on that it seemed like the only effective way at challenging the affection her parents laid on her sister.
As she fastens the new diaper, she hears a crash in the living room. After the moment of being startled subsides, she assumes that Oliver has reached another boss creature that he can't defeat. She's sure that he'll ask her to beat the level for him as soon as she's done with Clark. She really, really hates video games, but still likes being asked to do things that others cannot seem to. She grins widely and rubs the top of Clark's head, taking joy in his blissful expression. Then she hears the toilet flush and immediately realizes that something is wrong.
Oliver never flushes the toilet.
***
The television screen is cracked, the scene accentuated by the hissing buzz of static. Diana holds Clark tightly, consciously out of fear and subconsciously from a maternal desire to protect an infant that she should be too young to yet have. She debates calling out for her brother, but the smear of blood and tuft of hair stuck to the television convince her to keep her mouth shut. She's already noticed the draft flowing through the house and knows that whoever did this is still nearby.
Diana heads towards the kitchen, her hand already gently covering Clark's mouth - even at 13, she's seen too many movies in which a baby's cry or giggle gives away a victim's position. She just steps out of the living room when the power goes out. She pauses and listens, letting her underdeveloped survival instincts take over. As her eyes adjust to what little moonlight seeps into the house, she alters her destination to her parents' bedroom. Her father took great care to prepare his children for disasters and explaining that cordless phones do not work during power outages was one of the first things he made sure the children knew. The location of the corded phone - in the nightstand next to her father's side of the bed - was another.
She steps lightly, slowly, attempting to stay as quiet as possible. Though adrenaline is surging, she begins to feel the weight of Clark in her arms. She is nowhere near the point of needing to set him down, but the extra concern shakes her confidence. What if she needs to run? Madison is the runner, not Diana.
And then another sound. Sounds, really. From Oliver's room. How does the intruder know which room is her brother's? It takes her less than instant to realize that Oliver's is the only room decorated with toy guns, baseball cards, and model airplanes. It takes her less than a second instant to attribute the sounds to that of... eating. The thought freezes her and she starts repeating the phrase, "Monsters aren't real," in her head again and again in order to return motor control to her legs.
But something is eating in her brother's room. And she's no idea who is having the meal... or what the meal is.
***
There are wailing screams from a mother and helpless tears from a father as the parents wait outside. One deputy exits the house and immediately throws up. Another exits clearly already having done so. Both of their guns are drawn and neither looks to be in any mood to re-holster their weapons. A third exits, holding Clark in his arms. This deputy smiles reluctantly, but his eyes betray a mental scar that will never heal.
***
Diana saw its teeth blink. Its teeth. And it moved so fast. What was left of Oliver was placed under his bedsheets, reminding Diana of a small animal storing food for the winter. Winter was coming, and she knew that she was next. The beast still looked hungry.
It hadn't seen her to her knowledge, but she figured that it had smelled her. She was going to die and wanted nothing more than fall to her knees and cry, but she was still holding Clark. She had to do something.
***
"And the girl's body?"
Deputy Wayne coughs, clearing out some leftover puke. "Same as the boy's. Half-eaten, tucked back into bed."
Detective Allen doesn't know what to think. He's never even heard of something like this, except maybe in fairy tales. "The baby?"
Wayne grimaces and spasmodically shakes his body. "He's fine. Found him in the microwave, covered in baking soda. He had a piece of candy in his mouth."
***
Clark was safe, tucked away with his scent covered, and hopefully distracted long enough not to make a sound. It was Diana's penultimate protective act. For her final, she banged on the door to Oliver's room, yelled as loud as she could, ran to her bedroom and jumped under her sheets.
Moments later, she knew she had been right. Its teeth did, in fact, blink.
Desert life does not suit her. According to those fashion magazines her older sister, Madison, reads, dry air is insufferably bad for the skin. Diana does not want bad skin, regardless of how many years of exposure it'll take to get. She can't spell melanoma, but she's afraid of it anyway. Sunscreen has replaced cheap makeup as her primary purchase. The fact that her allowance isn't enough to afford her both only adds to her irritation.
And what's up with a desert that has trees? This is not a desert; there are woods everywhere! Ever since the first time she was told Little Red Riding Hood, woods have freaked her out. And the abandoned mines everywhere - dark, mysterious recesses leading to the center of the Earth - don't help ease her anxiety any.
Shaking her thoughts, she checks on her newborn brother, Clark. Unlike her other brother, Oliver - he's 9 and currently engaged in some boring video game - she finds Clark extremely cute. The day her parents brought Clark home, she knew she was going to be much nicer to him than to Oliver. It was an arbitrary decision, to be sure, but one she felt rather mature making.
She sees that Clark's diaper is soiled and quickly retrieves another and some baby wipes to take care of him. Her parents and Madison are away at Madison's Sweet 16 birthday party, so Diana is, at the moment, the adult of the house. Diana's always loved having responsibility placed upon her shoulders, partially because she's a control freak, but mostly because she learned early on that it seemed like the only effective way at challenging the affection her parents laid on her sister.
As she fastens the new diaper, she hears a crash in the living room. After the moment of being startled subsides, she assumes that Oliver has reached another boss creature that he can't defeat. She's sure that he'll ask her to beat the level for him as soon as she's done with Clark. She really, really hates video games, but still likes being asked to do things that others cannot seem to. She grins widely and rubs the top of Clark's head, taking joy in his blissful expression. Then she hears the toilet flush and immediately realizes that something is wrong.
Oliver never flushes the toilet.
***
The television screen is cracked, the scene accentuated by the hissing buzz of static. Diana holds Clark tightly, consciously out of fear and subconsciously from a maternal desire to protect an infant that she should be too young to yet have. She debates calling out for her brother, but the smear of blood and tuft of hair stuck to the television convince her to keep her mouth shut. She's already noticed the draft flowing through the house and knows that whoever did this is still nearby.
Diana heads towards the kitchen, her hand already gently covering Clark's mouth - even at 13, she's seen too many movies in which a baby's cry or giggle gives away a victim's position. She just steps out of the living room when the power goes out. She pauses and listens, letting her underdeveloped survival instincts take over. As her eyes adjust to what little moonlight seeps into the house, she alters her destination to her parents' bedroom. Her father took great care to prepare his children for disasters and explaining that cordless phones do not work during power outages was one of the first things he made sure the children knew. The location of the corded phone - in the nightstand next to her father's side of the bed - was another.
She steps lightly, slowly, attempting to stay as quiet as possible. Though adrenaline is surging, she begins to feel the weight of Clark in her arms. She is nowhere near the point of needing to set him down, but the extra concern shakes her confidence. What if she needs to run? Madison is the runner, not Diana.
And then another sound. Sounds, really. From Oliver's room. How does the intruder know which room is her brother's? It takes her less than instant to realize that Oliver's is the only room decorated with toy guns, baseball cards, and model airplanes. It takes her less than a second instant to attribute the sounds to that of... eating. The thought freezes her and she starts repeating the phrase, "Monsters aren't real," in her head again and again in order to return motor control to her legs.
But something is eating in her brother's room. And she's no idea who is having the meal... or what the meal is.
***
There are wailing screams from a mother and helpless tears from a father as the parents wait outside. One deputy exits the house and immediately throws up. Another exits clearly already having done so. Both of their guns are drawn and neither looks to be in any mood to re-holster their weapons. A third exits, holding Clark in his arms. This deputy smiles reluctantly, but his eyes betray a mental scar that will never heal.
***
Diana saw its teeth blink. Its teeth. And it moved so fast. What was left of Oliver was placed under his bedsheets, reminding Diana of a small animal storing food for the winter. Winter was coming, and she knew that she was next. The beast still looked hungry.
It hadn't seen her to her knowledge, but she figured that it had smelled her. She was going to die and wanted nothing more than fall to her knees and cry, but she was still holding Clark. She had to do something.
***
"And the girl's body?"
Deputy Wayne coughs, clearing out some leftover puke. "Same as the boy's. Half-eaten, tucked back into bed."
Detective Allen doesn't know what to think. He's never even heard of something like this, except maybe in fairy tales. "The baby?"
Wayne grimaces and spasmodically shakes his body. "He's fine. Found him in the microwave, covered in baking soda. He had a piece of candy in his mouth."
***
Clark was safe, tucked away with his scent covered, and hopefully distracted long enough not to make a sound. It was Diana's penultimate protective act. For her final, she banged on the door to Oliver's room, yelled as loud as she could, ran to her bedroom and jumped under her sheets.
Moments later, she knew she had been right. Its teeth did, in fact, blink.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Shadow and Sign
* a continuation of The Blinking Moon
Typically, a Beretta 391 makes its wielder feel powerful and safe. Typically, however, the wielder is the hunter. Not tonight.
The sun set over an hour ago and now twilight is fading into black. There's no moon tonight and he curses his timing. He had noticed the new moon symbol on the calendar before he left to come here, but was incensed from the local sheriff's decision to stop the search for his sister and her boyfriend. Even if he weren't, he's not sure if he'd have noticed the significance, anyway. But now, with three of his four rounds already fired from his 12-gauge and his ammunition box floating somewhere down a river - along with the rest of his pack - he's more than aware that he can't see. He can occasionally make out the silhouettes of the top of the trees, but most of the forest is too thick to navigate reliably via the stars. There was a brief consideration of staying put and walking out in the morning, but whatever is hunting him is clearly maneuvering him deeper into the woods.
Had he more ammunition, he'd fight such a manipulation. But he doesn't. And now he can't see.
He can, however, hear it growling. It seems to know the forest well, so well that it knows when sounds will bounce off of slight elevations in the terrain, almost random rock formations, and thickenings in the woods, making tracking by ear impossible. This is no surprise to him. Why wouldn't it, after all? This is its home. The old cliché applies here: the man is alien and intruder.
The river, he knows, is somewhere behind him. That he can barely hear the rushing water is good news. Without the ability to safely cross the rapids, the river is nothing more than a wall to be backed in to, and with one round left, being cornered is not something that appeals.
An owl somewhere reminds him that he's going to die.
***
All Hunting Permits Are Revoked Until Further Notice. The sign was hastily scrawled, probably by some young deputy whose usual job is answering telephones at the sheriff's station. It was placed underneath a professional sign that read No Hunting. One of those flip signs that forest rangers would drive around and open up when the season started.
His sister and her boyfriend had gone camping the week before hunting season would officially open. She was a bit of a nature lover and it was theorized that she might have confronted an early hunter, and such confrontation had turned ugly. But the blood and tissue that was found at her campsite suggested something else. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. Still, though local law enforcement has yet to release their findings publicly, something about the way they tried to describe the scene to him hinted that this was no animal, either.
He felt that they were being honest with him and was fine - as fine as he could have been - with letting the sheriff handle the search. But their cancellation of it changed his mind.
***
Sneaking past the rangers and the deputies was easy. There is just way too much land for a small sheriff's department and an even smaller forestry service detachment to cordon off. Finding the camp site had been easy, too. Investigators and rescuers had tramped their way to the tent and back out again. Plenty of foliage had been broken and stomped through. Indeed, finding the trail of the animal that might not be an animal was just as easy. Easier, probably. It had left sign everywhere.
It never even occurred to him that whatever it is had done so on purpose.
***
Its growl is terrifying. He's heard similar creatures, including wolves, but one can typically follow a wolf growl as it encircles a position. This one goes silent and reappears elsewhere, often behind him. There's been a few times that he swears he heard it coming from the trees above. Only a few hours ago, such a notion would have been silly to him, but now he's not so sure. He's not sure of anything. Including the wind.
Is it moving branches? Or is that a gentle breeze?
Were there more light he could've seen the shadow move, as innocuous or malicious at it is, but he's blind. There's only the sound of the shotgun blast. Then nothing, save an owl. The same one?
Another hoot again reminds him that he's going to die. He can only hope that the thing doesn't know his gun is empty.
***
Had he not succumbed to a heart attack in the middle of the night, he'd have discovered that he hit it. And that it isn't the only one out there. Had he made it back to his truck and checked his voicemail, he'd have learned that his other sister is on her way out to the woods. And is unarmed.
Typically, a Beretta 391 makes its wielder feel powerful and safe. Typically, however, the wielder is the hunter. Not tonight.
The sun set over an hour ago and now twilight is fading into black. There's no moon tonight and he curses his timing. He had noticed the new moon symbol on the calendar before he left to come here, but was incensed from the local sheriff's decision to stop the search for his sister and her boyfriend. Even if he weren't, he's not sure if he'd have noticed the significance, anyway. But now, with three of his four rounds already fired from his 12-gauge and his ammunition box floating somewhere down a river - along with the rest of his pack - he's more than aware that he can't see. He can occasionally make out the silhouettes of the top of the trees, but most of the forest is too thick to navigate reliably via the stars. There was a brief consideration of staying put and walking out in the morning, but whatever is hunting him is clearly maneuvering him deeper into the woods.
Had he more ammunition, he'd fight such a manipulation. But he doesn't. And now he can't see.
He can, however, hear it growling. It seems to know the forest well, so well that it knows when sounds will bounce off of slight elevations in the terrain, almost random rock formations, and thickenings in the woods, making tracking by ear impossible. This is no surprise to him. Why wouldn't it, after all? This is its home. The old cliché applies here: the man is alien and intruder.
The river, he knows, is somewhere behind him. That he can barely hear the rushing water is good news. Without the ability to safely cross the rapids, the river is nothing more than a wall to be backed in to, and with one round left, being cornered is not something that appeals.
An owl somewhere reminds him that he's going to die.
***
All Hunting Permits Are Revoked Until Further Notice. The sign was hastily scrawled, probably by some young deputy whose usual job is answering telephones at the sheriff's station. It was placed underneath a professional sign that read No Hunting. One of those flip signs that forest rangers would drive around and open up when the season started.
His sister and her boyfriend had gone camping the week before hunting season would officially open. She was a bit of a nature lover and it was theorized that she might have confronted an early hunter, and such confrontation had turned ugly. But the blood and tissue that was found at her campsite suggested something else. A bear, maybe, or a mountain lion. Still, though local law enforcement has yet to release their findings publicly, something about the way they tried to describe the scene to him hinted that this was no animal, either.
He felt that they were being honest with him and was fine - as fine as he could have been - with letting the sheriff handle the search. But their cancellation of it changed his mind.
***
Sneaking past the rangers and the deputies was easy. There is just way too much land for a small sheriff's department and an even smaller forestry service detachment to cordon off. Finding the camp site had been easy, too. Investigators and rescuers had tramped their way to the tent and back out again. Plenty of foliage had been broken and stomped through. Indeed, finding the trail of the animal that might not be an animal was just as easy. Easier, probably. It had left sign everywhere.
It never even occurred to him that whatever it is had done so on purpose.
***
Its growl is terrifying. He's heard similar creatures, including wolves, but one can typically follow a wolf growl as it encircles a position. This one goes silent and reappears elsewhere, often behind him. There's been a few times that he swears he heard it coming from the trees above. Only a few hours ago, such a notion would have been silly to him, but now he's not so sure. He's not sure of anything. Including the wind.
Is it moving branches? Or is that a gentle breeze?
Were there more light he could've seen the shadow move, as innocuous or malicious at it is, but he's blind. There's only the sound of the shotgun blast. Then nothing, save an owl. The same one?
Another hoot again reminds him that he's going to die. He can only hope that the thing doesn't know his gun is empty.
***
Had he not succumbed to a heart attack in the middle of the night, he'd have discovered that he hit it. And that it isn't the only one out there. Had he made it back to his truck and checked his voicemail, he'd have learned that his other sister is on her way out to the woods. And is unarmed.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Blinking Moon
The full moon stares at him. It seems larger than normal, its glow filling even his peripheral vision. He could be imagining things, fighting sleep as he is, lying on his back in the middle of some forgotten wood. Crickets vibrate their song in music halls among the trees, their melody a calming tune under a chilly breeze. This could be paradise, except that he is alone. He has no lover to steal an apple from a tree, not that there were any apple trees around. Just a beautiful moon and noisy crickets and sounds of a nearby river. Perhaps, in retrospect, that's why his back is wet. He knows it hadn't been raining and hadn't rained for some time, but his shirt bunches uncomfortably on his back the way wet clothes do. Is he on the riverbank? No, the sounds of water are too far away and he can't feel the bites of any mosquitoes. He can't feel or hear any bugs, save the crickets, for that matter. He is alone. Otherwise, this could be paradise.
***
It stares at the moon, so far away, with eyes of hate. If the moon were closer, it would knock it out of the sky. Pitch black was its domain, and light - the moon in particular - irritates it. Its prey had split up, irritating it further, and it chased the one with the stronger scent. Proud of itself, it prepares the body of the dead female for preservation, for it would not eat tonight. The Winter will be cold, it knows, for the wind had told it so. No water had fallen from the sky for many days and nights, but it knows that the wet was up there in the sky, just waiting. The wet would come down softly and brightly, which would infuriate it, but at least there would be something to drink through the frozen season. It licks its claws clean, tasting two different shades of blood. Had it struck the other? Memory is not its strongest suit, but one of the tastes clearly does not belong to the female. Dragging her back to its lair, it reminds itself that the hunt is not yet over.
***
He hadn't been alone, or so he is thinking. Wasn't she with him just a few hours ago? He closes his eyes, his gaze no longer transfixed on the moon that seemed to be watching over him. In its place he sees her smile, that special smile that somehow glowed in the dark. Yes, yes. She had definitely been with him. But where did she go? His mind is sluggish and he struggles to force it to remember what has happened since the Sun went down beyond the trees and the horizon. It was all planned out... the camping trip, the wine, the seduction... everything was going according to plan until she informed him that she was on her period. She had been embarrassed, but this was supposed to be their first time, and he wanted to go through with it anyway. Still, she hesitated, despite his aggressive advances and gentle embraces. He tried to blame it on her perfume, his lack of control. Yes, that was it. She was wearing too much perfume. The scent distracted him. Distracted him from protecting her.
***
Satisfied with the storage of the female's body, it heads back out into the woods, creeping more closely to the ground than it usually would do. It has lived long enough to know that the bright moon casts its shadow far enough to warn its prey of its approach. This is only one of the myriad of reasons that it hates the moon. Darkness is a comforting blanket to it, and the freedom that lack of light affords it is a drug that only primal instinct appreciates properly. With its nose to the ground, and then to the air, it decides to head to where the wet races the ground.
***
The moon is so giving, and yet asks nothing, only to watch as events below unfold in all their insignificant glory. He briefly considers a staring contest with it, wondering if the moon ever blinks. Laughing to himself, he shakes off his childish wonder and returns to listening to the crickets and the running water. But something isn't right... the water continues to rush, but where were the crickets? Reflexively, he turns his head to the side, hoping to spy some of the elusive insects, and sees nothing but the puddle of water he is lying in. More childish wonder as he ponders why the white moonlight makes the puddle appear red. This time, he laughs aloud, and decides to have that staring contest after all. He gazes intently, determined to prove once and for all that the moon does indeed blink. To his surprise, it does. The bright mirror of light replaced by a foul stench and two glowing, inhuman eyes. The celebration of victory that begins never finishes, as his Adam's apple is torn from his throat.
But at least he was not alone.
***
It stares at the moon, so far away, with eyes of hate. If the moon were closer, it would knock it out of the sky. Pitch black was its domain, and light - the moon in particular - irritates it. Its prey had split up, irritating it further, and it chased the one with the stronger scent. Proud of itself, it prepares the body of the dead female for preservation, for it would not eat tonight. The Winter will be cold, it knows, for the wind had told it so. No water had fallen from the sky for many days and nights, but it knows that the wet was up there in the sky, just waiting. The wet would come down softly and brightly, which would infuriate it, but at least there would be something to drink through the frozen season. It licks its claws clean, tasting two different shades of blood. Had it struck the other? Memory is not its strongest suit, but one of the tastes clearly does not belong to the female. Dragging her back to its lair, it reminds itself that the hunt is not yet over.
***
He hadn't been alone, or so he is thinking. Wasn't she with him just a few hours ago? He closes his eyes, his gaze no longer transfixed on the moon that seemed to be watching over him. In its place he sees her smile, that special smile that somehow glowed in the dark. Yes, yes. She had definitely been with him. But where did she go? His mind is sluggish and he struggles to force it to remember what has happened since the Sun went down beyond the trees and the horizon. It was all planned out... the camping trip, the wine, the seduction... everything was going according to plan until she informed him that she was on her period. She had been embarrassed, but this was supposed to be their first time, and he wanted to go through with it anyway. Still, she hesitated, despite his aggressive advances and gentle embraces. He tried to blame it on her perfume, his lack of control. Yes, that was it. She was wearing too much perfume. The scent distracted him. Distracted him from protecting her.
***
Satisfied with the storage of the female's body, it heads back out into the woods, creeping more closely to the ground than it usually would do. It has lived long enough to know that the bright moon casts its shadow far enough to warn its prey of its approach. This is only one of the myriad of reasons that it hates the moon. Darkness is a comforting blanket to it, and the freedom that lack of light affords it is a drug that only primal instinct appreciates properly. With its nose to the ground, and then to the air, it decides to head to where the wet races the ground.
***
The moon is so giving, and yet asks nothing, only to watch as events below unfold in all their insignificant glory. He briefly considers a staring contest with it, wondering if the moon ever blinks. Laughing to himself, he shakes off his childish wonder and returns to listening to the crickets and the running water. But something isn't right... the water continues to rush, but where were the crickets? Reflexively, he turns his head to the side, hoping to spy some of the elusive insects, and sees nothing but the puddle of water he is lying in. More childish wonder as he ponders why the white moonlight makes the puddle appear red. This time, he laughs aloud, and decides to have that staring contest after all. He gazes intently, determined to prove once and for all that the moon does indeed blink. To his surprise, it does. The bright mirror of light replaced by a foul stench and two glowing, inhuman eyes. The celebration of victory that begins never finishes, as his Adam's apple is torn from his throat.
But at least he was not alone.
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