Hub City Blues

The Future is Unsustainable

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  • Hub City Blues

Anger without Enthusiasm (3)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 21, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Clifford Engram, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, Ben Fisher, Clifford Engram, Daughters of the Dust, Paper, paranormal investigator, Rock, science fiction and fantasy, Scissors, Thaddeus Howze. 2 Comments

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Part 3

“Mister, hey mister. Wake up…”

Waking up was the last thing I expected to be doing. I felt like about fifty miles of bad road. I tried to open my eyes but only one of them complied. The other was swollen shut. I tried to sit up but my rib cage let me know lying down was simply the better choice. I assessed my injuries based on the pain each caused.

Right arm, possible fracture, three ribs, hairlines, two dozen serious contusions, head injury, possible concussion but nothing I would die from right away. This mission had been a disaster so far. Now all I can smell is a trash can that is two weeks past a good time to empty. I focused my attention on the man speaking to me and realize it’s Ben Fisher, the host of the Barghest. “Mr. Fisher, pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Clifford Engram.” He knelt down beside me and began gingerly washing the blood from my face. He gave me another towel to wipe my hands free as well.

“I had the strangest dream and you were in it. There were these monsters with tentacles who grew nine feet tall and they were attacking me…” His voice got softer as he tried to reconcile his dream with this apparent reality.

“Mr. Fisher, that was not a dream. Those creatures were real. They are called the Daughters of the Dust.” The answer came to me while I was being flung around the battlefield, too late to help me win the day. Our guesses and brute force had worked well enough, for the moment.

“What about the fiendish dog? What do you call that?” He took the towels back to the sink and I looked around his modest apartment. It lacked a woman’s touch. Clothes strewn everywhere, dishes piled high in the sink, garbage filled to overflowing, this room showed the signs of complete neglect. This was depression in inaction. I guessed I should have considered myself fortunate. There was only one thing I couldn’t figure out….

“How did I get here?”

“That’s the part I am trying to figure out myself. I woke up after that nightmare and found you on the floor in my flat, bleeding all over my carpet. As soon as I tried to clean your injuries, you woke up.” He started back with another round of towels and I waved him away. The towels didn’t smell too fresh and I figured I had soaked up enough tetanus in his flat already, no need to rub it into the wounds. With some meditation, I would be able to close up the smaller wounds and speed the healing of the others, but there was no way I could handle this level of infestation alone.

“You still haven’t explained the dog…” He went to his fridge and took out a beer, some low-budget brand I never heard of. He brought one back for me and popped the tops and handed me one. Thank the gods it was cold. Cheap beer never has the bite of the good stuff. After spending the evening being bounced around like a pinata, any beer went down smoothly.

I tried to figure out how to tell this man he was cursed with an affliction he would never be rid of…unless he died. “It’s not a dog. It is partly a manifestation of your depression and part a possession by an entity needing a place to live. Depressed humans are the perfect host for these spiritual entities. It is called a Barghest. Local legends call them….

“The Black Dog. Winston Churchill was said to have been afflicted by it.”

I continued, “The Hounds of the Baskervilles were supposedly another manifestation of the phenomena documented in 1889 and written about by Sir Conan Doyle. The truth was altered so it appeared to be a fiction not worthy of pursuing. The Agency I work for does that kind of work. We investigate and reveal the horrors of the world, destroy them, confine them, dispel them, banish them or kill them, as a last resort.

“Are you here to kill me?” Ben Fisher’s brown face had a look of resignation about it, as if he had finally heard the other shoe dropping after the death of his wife. He figured things couldn’t have gotten much worse.

I looked around his flat and noticed a phone cord. My cell was still in my pocket, its pieces rattled around in a way that let me know, it wasn’t going to be making any calls for a while. “No, but after tonight I think we are going to need some help. Can I make a call?” Ben roots around the apartment, finding the cord for his phone first and dragging it around, he revealed the phone beneath a pile of paper on the table in the bedroom.

“Haven’t had much use for it.” He handed it to me and sat back down across the room from me. The light in the room must have been playing tricks with my mind. I thought I saw a pair of red eyes sitting at his side, in the shadows, squinting menacingly at me.

I called my office. My coded serials bounced my signal around preventing me from being traced. “I expected your call forty-eight hours ago. What do you have for me? Did you secure the property?”

“What, no how are you? No, do you still have all your limbs? Engram, your expense accounts look padded again?”

“That bad, huh?” Carol knows when I joke like that, it’s more than serious.

“I’ve secured the Barghest. I believe he will be an asset with some training. Do we have anyone local we can task to this? I will need some real backup. The suspicions were correct, we have an outbreak of the Daughters of the Dust.”

The line crackled with static for a moment. This meant she was thinking. “I will send the closest agents to your location. They will be there at dawn. Get some rest.” She hung up without saying goodbye.

“Mr. Fisher, I suggest you get some rest as well. You are now, for the duration, a member of the Agency. I will need you to do one more thing for me. Do you remember a dream you had a few days ago which included some policemen?” I sat down on the sofa, too tired to be concerned about what might lurk within its folds.

“Yes. Did I do something?”

Explaining to people that they have become a monster is part of the job description. It’s always best to just tell them straight. “The Barghest is a supernatural entity. A dangerous one. Even a casual interaction with it can be lethal to the uninitiated. The policemen it attacked, while it didn’t kill them, they are now dying slowly. They are alive right now, because a priest stands over them fighting its influences. You have to release them. Whatever it is you believe they have done, you have to forgive them.”

“Or?” He raised his head across the room and the eyes of the Barghest appeared right next to his, as if it were sitting up like a loyal puppy.

“Or they’ll die.”

“So. They didn’t save her. They deserve to die.”

The accident where his wife died. The reports said she was struck in a hit and run. The police arrived on the scene and bystanders had managed to drag the driver from the car. When the police arrived, the man had transformed and battled the officers as a Creature of the Dust. The CCTV video showed them getting thrashed before the creature ran off. He’s held them responsible.

This must have been when the Barghest formed as part of a confluence of forces. “Don’t blame them. They didn’t know what they were dealing with. If you want to blame someone, blame me. I was investigating the earlier indications of the infestation but I was a day or two behind the creature that killed your wife. Let the policemen go. I am far more responsible than they are.

Tears rolled down his face and he turned toward me. “She didn’t have to die?”

“No. If I had been faster, maybe she would never have had to have an encounter with the Dust in the first place.” An unpleasant truth but true none the less. The Barghest stood, slowly growing. The window darkened for a second as a strange blackness suffused the room. Then it was gone.

“They’ll be fine. If we don’t find the thing that killed my wife and kill it, I’m gonna satisfy myself with your death, do you understand me?”

“Perfectly.” I couldn’t have asked for a better response. I needed him to be crazed with rage. It was the only chance we were going to make it out alive assuming our help came through. He got up and went into his bedroom. The door slammed behind him and I sank into his aging sofa, trying to find what sleep would come.

Dawn arrived too soon for my tastes. I woke him up and we went downstairs after a beer for breakfast. Our help had arrived. Three of the craziest Agency operatives known.

One was behind the wheel of a large black van of indiscriminate pedigree, but the purr of the motor told me there was more under the hood than it appeared. The driver was a white-haired blond whose right eye had a long cut over the flesh. She was ghostly pale, an albino. It did not stop her from being beautiful. She draped her hair over that eye so the scar was less noticeable. The Redhead, over six feet stood smoking a cigarette in a long black coat and combat armor underneath it. She wore an outfit similar to my own before it was chewed on yesterday. The side door opened and a tiny dark-haired woman got out. Two machetes handles were visible over her shoulders. Small throwing knives covered her extremities, and even her teeth were sharpened. Her smile gave me chills. She wore her hair long and braided in the back. Something sharp glinted in the ball at the end.

She sent me Rock, Paper and Scissors, three of Europe’s deadliest Agency operatives. Now, we might have a chance. Might. I’m tempted to tell my boss to just bomb London. It would be more merciful.

The redhead, Rock, blew a smoke ring as she turned around and gave me a grin that reminded me why I was happy to be a man. “You need something killed?”

I hobbled into the van. Scissors gave me a hand. I counted my fingers after she let go. Ben climbed in behind me. “Daughters of the Dust.”

Her smile faded.

Paper gunned the engine. We raced toward oblivion in the early London morning.

Paranormal 2

Anger Without Enthusiasm, A Clifford Engram Adventure © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Written For 30

Golden

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 20, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: alien invasion, chronal weapons, ebonstorm, forbidden technology, metahuman, Minbar Incursions, science fiction, superhero, Thaddeus Howze. Leave a comment

Golden

Three years ago, the doctor looked down solemnly even as he brought us into a room to see the last hope for one of us.

It was a promise to one of the four of us, no matter the outcome of this final series of confrontations, three were assuredly going to die. The technology to reverse the process could only save one of us.

We were given our powers artificially, secretly, when all hope was lost against the Minbar Incursion. Renegades from a galactic community, the Minbar attacked and destroyed worlds rich in genetic material to harvest or transform into their own immortal genome.

Illegal by galactic standards, the galactic community claimed they would get to our case in a decade or two. Not being members of the official Galactic Alliance meant we were a low priority. By the time the Alliance got to us, humans would be harvested completely by the Minbar.

Factions in the Galactic government secretly took pity on us and gave us The Process; it was illegal, dangerous and our only chance for survival. The Alliance factions could not fight our battle but they could even the odds. Using The Process, we would become superhuman. It would allow us to channel our chronal energies into superhuman abilities. We thought we understood what that meant. We didn’t.

We thought we would be willing to pay any price. Then we learned the true price. Candidates were scanned and those who possessed the greatest possibility energy, the greatest potential to humanity, the greatest chance to better the human experience over time, were given The Process. The device stole from humans whose potentials would have altered the existence of man and redirect that chonal energy into a single opportunity of metahuman capability. No human over the age of sixteen could use The Process, and by the time you were eighteen you were dead or soon to be.

Nothing could stop it. Not that it mattered, once the Minbar knew we had The Process, they stepped up their assault, harvesting entire cities, until now.

“Golden, you stop that ship, you stop it no matter what it takes.”

“What about the collateral damage?”

There was a pause. “We are past that. You have to bring it down. Now. There are only fourteen harvesters left on the planet and you four are the only survivors. If we bring them down, maybe the Alliance will see fit to acknowledge us.”

“Doctor, are you still thinking the Alliance is testing us?”

“That is less important than you stopping that ship. Get to work.”

The Process turned me into a machine-like organism. I grew metal plates all across my body. I look like a robot from a bad steampunk anime. I am also every bit as powerful.

Their message ship is sitting over Washington, DC. I can see it from the top of my parabolic arc into the stratosphere. I begin my approach.

“Where are the others?”

“Moloch didn’t make it out of India. His flame powers gave out as he brought down the last three there. He had turned eighteen a few days ago, but insisted on going out on one last run. His harvesters were only fifteen percent full.” That was only four hundred thousand people who died.

When we were assigned, we were psychologically profiled. They determined we were the most likely to be willing to do whatever it took to win the war, no matter what the cost. We thought we would be soldiers.

We weren’t. We were weapons; Ajax, Big Ben, Moloch and Golden, we were the Last Four.

Moloch was the oldest of the Last Four. He was a legend. He was the last of his class and had fought more harvesters and saved more humans than any other. The Minbar ships fought their hardest whenever he appeared, a flaming comet over their ships. He devastated their drones and their pilots learned to fear him. He destroyed everything, he was a vengeful god.

He was loved by Humanity but also feared. Magazines put his face and his exploits on covers but whenever it was mentioned about the loss of life, his handlers were quick to explain, a harvester could hold one million people. Because of his speed and decisive action, no ship, after the Process was developed ever escaped with a cargo of more than 400,000, if it escaped at all. Moloch had destroyed over fifty harvesters in his three year window. More than five million people had been killed, but fifty million saved.

Some called it an immoral calculus. Nothing could justify such a loss of life.

That was before the Galactic Alliance leaked footage of the harvesting process. People were unrolled like fabric, until they were nothing more than a cellular matrix, hundreds of feet wide, where cells and their attendant genetic matter were harvested, sorted by genetic properties and stored. The screams of their victims who were alive and aware, were mercifully brief.

Humanity was galvanized into battle. We armed everyone, man, woman and child and forced the Minbar to come to ground and make us leave our cities. Their technology was superior and though we fought, we just lost the war slower.

Until Ajax was made. Ajax was a super-soldier. He led our forces against the Minbar, no matter where they stood. His powers were superhuman strength, stamina and speed. He could be anywhere on the planet in a hour. He led battle after battle until exhausted,  he fought the battle of Shanghai. Three hundred thousand Chinese Regulars fought the greatest collection of the Minbar ever seen in a single place, a regiment of over two hundred aliens.

The Chinese Regulars fought heroically to the last man.

Then Ajax fought and died alone.

After that battle, the Minbar stopped fighting on the ground. The battle of Shanghai cost them 187 lives; more than at any other in the war. For beings who were immortal, this was a loss they could not bear.

It turned the tide. Emboldened, more stepped up for The Process until the Mimbari destroyed the facility. They hunted us down one at a time until only we three were left. Their final push was to send eight harvesters in a mad dash against us, stealing as much genetic matter as possible. It seemed our resistance was being noticed in the galactic community. If we could hold out, the Minbar would be punished economically. In a fit of pique, they told us they would destroy the symbols of our power, demoralizing us, so other scavenger races would pick our world clean.

Not gonna happen.

The last of their harvesters goes down crushing Buckingham Palace. Ben died stopping them.

My exoskeleton is heating up in reentry  I am absorbing the energy, making myself go faster, and glow hotter. Ipush my powers to their limit. You see, my power is to absorb energy and control it. Their delivery ship is nothing more than an an antimatter bomb over DC.  This was how they kept us docile. They boasted, telling us when and where they would strike. They thought they’d be safe in their mothership high above the Earth, watching the fireworks.

So watch this.

Flattening out my approach arc from orbit, I am headed straight at their bomb above Washington DC.  I can sense their mothership overhead, deep in space, light seconds away, its energies are blinding, unlike anything on Earth, except for their weapon. My superheated body is already manipulating the antimatter in their bomb, even at this distance. Will have to time this just right. I have to redirect the energy flow. I can see the neutrino glow of the antimatter engine. It calls to me. It’s not like anything I have ever seen.

It’s beautiful. The ship explodes around me, they think they are going to demoralize us with the destruction of the capital. The antimatter explosion surrounds me, more energy makes me more indestructible, but it won’t last. The curve of invulnerability to energy absorbed is finite and I am reaching my limit. The power courses through me, into my arms as I point toward their starship, sixteen light seconds away… It hurt at first, then the pain is gone. I am converted into antimatter and I direct myself toward their ship at nearly the speed of light. The ultimate expression of my power is to become the energy I absorb.

There is a boom heard for miles in every direction. The White House dome is flattened in the shockwave. The Minbar ship trying to escape with its captives is destroyed in an unholy flare of antimatter energy. The Minbar retreat from Earth. No further incursions take place. The Galactic Alliance disavow any knowledge or information regarding Humanity’s acquisition of The Process.

My explosion lights the sky for days.

Golden © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Written For 30

Unforgiven

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 19, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: Allies, Axis, Berlin, Blitz-Doktor, Doctor Frankenstein, electricity, German, Lightning, Nazi, Oberst, revenants, the Reich, Undead, vampires. 4 Comments

Zombie_Nazi__s_by_Nyxx666

Forget the rage of war, its battles, its bloodshed, know the rage of a single man’s heart may be a thousand times greater; a man afraid, greater still. No man lives well with fear in his heart and will do anything to be free of it.

A thunderstorm over Berlin filled the sky with lightning, white hot flashes which whipped the swastikas banners draped around the castle in a fury equaled only by the intensity of the Allied bombing of Berlin.

A sinister science controlled this conflagration of violence with streaks of plasmic fire raining down on the hunkered and terrified Allied troops. In a shielded control room at the top of a tower, a single scientist stood over a panoply of large knobs and silvered levers. He screamed with joy with each lightning strike which reaches the ground, spreading a cavalcade of static through the metallic bones of a Berlin besieged by metallic destruction from above.

Now, with her bones exposed Berlin now sends clouds of static lighting into young Poles and Russians as they move forward seeking cover from the storm. They scream once as the electrically charged debris sets them afire, burst the jelly from their eyes, screams caught in their throats, dropping them to the ground, whole companies at a time, as dead as yesterday’s news.

The scientist left his technicians to continue his unholy work directing this heavenly firestorm. They were secretly relieved as he left, his work another bargain made by the Reich in its mad quest for dominance. Each wondered was this another Faustian bargain they would live to regret.

The storm continued its approach toward the Allied position, winds pushing men from their feet if they stood, and rain pelting their bodies with the force of bullets.  The storm blunted the Allied assault and slowed it to a crawl. No spotters for their tanks, no effective air support, only the constant rain of long range artillery showed their continued commitment to the battle.

Lightning cannons housed on the towers of buildings around the city were being refitted. Again, the scientist, an older man whose eyes glint with madness, screamed commands and recalibrated equipment, adding parts, removing others, wiping his hands on his once white smock until satisfaction is his reward. The soldiers, the terror of the Reich, feared this tiny old man. White haired, he still inspired terror in those for who terror is a morning snack. Mercurial, brilliant, unpredictable were the words used to describe him.

These lightning casters, towering intricate structures of metal and glass, were once only able to be used if no Axis forces were nearby for they were indiscriminate in their death dealing prowess, slaying ally and enemy alike; their retooling made them a devastating weapon with discriminating tastes.

Pointed skyward toward enemy bombers or downward toward enemy tanks, these weapons were now able to render the mightiest armor as the gossamer wings of butterflies. Turing the protection of the metal into little more than an armed coffin. Aircraft without pilots, plummeted to earth, their electrified pilots driving the stick downward into a hurried dance of death. Again the Blitz-Doktor, as he was called behind his back, cackled and returned to his lab to complete his latest experiment.

The Blitz-Doktor was responsible for the recent transformation of the technology of the Reich. His rockets raced overhead destroying artillery stations miles away with pinpoint accuracy. All but defeated, the recent breakthroughs were routing the Allies in every field of conflict. With their addition of the Russians, The Allied forces had staggering numbers which they used to push the Reich back to the borders of the Vaderland but the release of the special weapons had begun to turn the tide of battle in their favor. The Allied push had all but stopped. But they did not seem willing to give ground.

They would need further motivation. For that, the Reich looked to another recent development, something more organic. Living shadows swept out past the lines, dodging fire, dancing between the living wall of lead as if it stood still. German soldiers cringed in the wreckage of the city of Berlin as these creatures passed. Even in the destruction of the Allied forces opposing them, the troops  moved forward slowly knowing if they interrupted the living weapons of their masters, they too might fall as prey to the beasts.

The Luftwaffe held the skies but only with the support of special agents of the SS. A new cadre of winged beings so horrible no one could be sure it was the right thing to do, even as Allied planes fell from the sky like raindrops and the monstrous screams eclipsed even the roar of thunder in the night sky.

“Doktor!” The Austrian scientist, still wet from outside, flinched when he heard the voice of the SS officer gliding into the room. He hated the fact the officer never seemed to make any sound as he approached and closed doors did not seem to hinder his progress. What was worse was the fact he did not have any good news to relay. Despite his recent successes, the overwhelming weapon he had promised had not been able to be completed effectively. He wiped the water out of his face on a towel and handed it to one of his assistants.

As he turned to face the approaching SS officer, he removed any emotion from his face or voice. This particular officer had spent much of the last year, heckling his early weapon designs and prototypes. He had only become more insufferable since his transformation in… “Oberst Heinrich, what brings you to my humble lab so late in the evening?”

Heinrich was the epitome of the Deutschland Übermensch, blonde, tall, muscular with a penetrating stare and chiseled jaw line. He fit his custom-crafted uniform like a glove. His voice was a velvet thing, seductive, chilling and otherworldly. It was one of the ways to know he was something other than human.”You work, of course, dear Doktor. You promised me an addition to my army. Our new weapons keep the wolves from the door, but to win the war, we will need troops. Do you not hear the sounds of the Allies outside of Berlin? Their shells still walk toward our very site. Tell me you have good news. You know how I hate to be disappointed.”

The Oberst had strode up to the doctor, filling the space between them with his eerie presence. His eyes flashed red in the dim light and his breath had the stink of the grave on it. Fumbling the strange apparatus in his hand, the Doctor managed to bring it between the two of them, brandishing it almost as he would a crucifix. The SS officer moved back only a bit to allow the doctor to show off his work. “I told you we had perfected the process, Herr Heinrich, but we had no means by which to expedite the distribution until now. Please follow me.”

The two walked down a spiral staircase in the corner of the castle where the SS and their special armory were housed in the center of Berlin, it was thought this would be the ideal staging area for their special weapon. The Oberst’s personal guard followed invisibly and equally silent, more shadows than men. The doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out a large and ornately carved key and slid it into the lock. The room within belied the conditions of the corridor leading to it.

Well lit, there was a bustle of frenetic activity, desperate, each of the technicians worked with their fear creating a heady perfume to Heinrich. His transformation, still new to him, he relished his physical capabilities, the senses, the awareness, the pure power at his physical command. He stopped to breathe it in and smiled. His overlong canines appeared in the corners of his mouth for a split second before he restrained himself. There would be time enough for dining, should the project not please him, he thought.

“In the test area below us are some Polish soldiers we captured for our tests. As you can see they are unremarkable in any way.” The doctor waves to a group of technicians nearby who begin turning some dials and wheels in an unfamiliar machine. A white gas appears in the room and the Poles scramble trying to avoid breathing it. The lights in the room dimmed making it easier to see the large display on the wall.

“You have invented the gas chamber, Herr Doktor. I think I have seen its like before.”

“Wait, mein herr. This is simply the beginning.” Two men in full suits appear on the decking above the dying soldiers in the pit below. Their clothing is a complete biological containment suit separating them from the environment of the room. Dark tubes and cables adorn the suit which they connect to a metallic probe resembling a cattle prod. The metallic device assembled, the men in the armor pointed the prods into the room. Flashes of lightning bombard the still bodies on the floor, causing them to twitch and thrash. “A ten second burst of electricity, calibrated for the activation of the spores is applied.”

Heinrich’s face twisted up, his rage barely contained. His bodyguard’s faded even further into the darkness of the room. Lightning weapons were the only thing his kind feared more than the stake. Such research had been initially destroyed when the VSS were created. The weapons had proven as dangerous to their forces as the enemy. Recent successes with the technology had returned it to service, only increasing Heinrich’s dislike of this particular scientist. He would have to be disposed of, soon enough, of course. Once more composed, he spoke, “A display of your failed technology, your lightning weapons, which could not tell friend from foe, you now parade in front of me again?”

“No, mein Obrest, I give you a new weapon. Schauen!” The two men on the deck were scrambling to bring out their machine pistols as the bodies of the Polish soldiers rose slowly to their feet. The Polish bore burns to their hands and faces, open sores which bled black blood. The two technicians opened fire with their custom-made machine pistols.

With a roar, each Pole jumped the fifteen feet to the deck above. The soldiers emptied their guns without affecting the former Polish soldiers in any way. Each was torn limb from limb with superhuman strength. Blood flew around the room, the horror dimmed only by the black and white video display relaying the carnage. When they were done, they turned toward the camera and roared in defiance. Their wounds closing while the technicians stared on in stunned disbelief.

“Mein Gott. That was magnificent, Doctor Frankenstein.” The Kommandant’s face was that of a man who has found a perfect tool for the job. The idea of kidnapping the doctor from Geneva had not been his idea, but he would certainly take credit for it, now that the good doctor has delivered on his final invention; a way to return the dead to life. An army able to be controlled by the Reich; even the dead of our enemies would be able to be used for a final Blitzkrieg.

But there was one more thing to be done. He waved his hand and his two bodyguards disappeared. Tense seconds passed as they made their way through the castle to the deck area where the prisoners were held. The room was as quiet as a tomb, each technician furiously taking notes on the behavior of their new weapons.

The two SS soldiers appeared in the room on the catwalk above and jumped down among the Poles, their vampiric nature exposed to everyone. Their claws and fangs extended, they were as monstrous as the things they faced. The battle was joined with no quarter given. It was over nearly as quickly. The Poles were victorious, losing only half their number.

“How did you plan to control them, Doctor, their might while excellent, they appear to attack at random. This would appear to be one more weapon you have created which would be as dangerous to us as to our enemies.” Herr Heinrich’s eyes revealed a deadly calm as they surveyed the room. His gaze caused several technicians to fall into a sleep from which they would not wake.

“Sir, they are made using the same spores which created your condition. They can be controlled by you and those like you. But your lesser soldiers lacked the capacity since they were second-generation copies. It was the only way to be sure, they would follow your orders.”

Being a distrustful man, the Obrest reached out with his mind to the creatures in the pit below. He could feel their barely contained rage, their frustration with lives cut short, for no purpose than mad experiments. “Be still,” he sent silently. They turned toward the camera and stopped moving. “Move forward.” They did not.

“Kommandant, you will need to be closer to them to make them do anything beyond standing still. They will need to hear your voice to effectively manipulate them.” The doctor had the look of pride on his face as he talked about his creations.

“Doktor, has your staff completed their note-taking and information gathering?” The doctor looked around the room and the staff nodded and placed their pads on a nearby surfaces. “Good. For they have seen, that which can never be told.” The Nazi commander focused his attention on the room and everything in it slowed to a crawl. He moved like a wind invisibly striking down everyone except the Doctor, in the time it took the doctor to blink twice. “Now take me to my new soldiers.”

The doctor took him further into the complex, looking nervously at the Kommandant, but already certain of his fate. “You will need me to further develop the process, sir. I have already seen countless applications for it. We can spray the battlefield with the spores and using the new lightning cannons activate them, raising troops as we approach.”

“Yes, Doctor, I’m sure you have. Is this it?” The door to the chamber was two feet thick and required a wheel to open. The vampyre opened it with one hand where it normally took two men to turn it even a few inches at a time. When the door was completely open the Poles moved outside the room, first looking around cautiously, then spotting the doctor and the Kommandant, they turned and prepared to attack.

“Be still.” Heinrich’s voice was filled with triumph and contempt. He would finally be able to tie up this final loose end before he claimed his Reich. “Any last words, Doctor?”

“I hate goddamn vampires,” was his venomous reply.

“If it’s any consolation Doctor, when the Reich wins due to your weapons and spreads its doctrine to all corners of the Earth, subjugating humanity for us, Vampires will reveal just how much we hate Humans. I’m sure this thought is no consolation in your darkest hour. Attack!” Heinrich points to the doctor, his fangs glimmering in the torchlight, his eyes glowing red in a manic glee. In this private moment his hatred of humanity was never more evident.

The room was filled with screams and howls as the Poles tore through the flesh of their hated enemy. In mere moments, there was nothing left. They turned and waited for their next command, gobs of flesh still falling from their former uniforms.

The doctor flicked a hunk of the Oberst from his shoulder. “No, Kommandant Heinrich, your thoughts gave me no pleasure. But your screams were music to win wars by. Wagner would be proud. Come my children, the Reich, your new Fuehrer, needs you.”

Unforgiven © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Zombie Nazis / Photomanipulation / Macabre & Horror © 2010-2013 ~Nyxx666

Written For 30

Archer (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 18, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Mythic Qin, Short Story. Tagged: archery, arrow-shield, clockwork, Clockwork King, farmers, jutsu, martial arts, Mythic Qin, nature, steam, tank, White Mountains, WPLongform, wuxia, Wyrms of Westerwood. 3 Comments

archer_by_j00se-d58qg16
a tale of Mythic Qin

Ruo-jian Chao walked slowly down the road in the early afternoon toward a device intricately made; a machine whose origins were of an alien design, one combining the majesty of clockwork mechanisms and the power of steam engines. Though Qin had both types of devices, they were never used together and never as weapons of war. The West had different sensibilities, it seemed to the old man.

The device was a giant. It stood twice the height of a tall man and as wide as a man was tall. It moved on two legs, its gait before it stopped was surprisingly swift despite is mass and its wide feet managed to move through any terrain without difficulty. It was made of an orange metal which might be brass, except it was far too red. It wasn’t purely copper either because no verdigris addressed its joints or extremities, areas known to rust on machines made from copper. The machine had a unhealthy shine, something about its appearance drove the eye away from it, making you unable or unwilling to focus on it.

The old man stopped and adjusted his chakra, his inner Qi energies and made a single handsign. Suddenly he could see the enchantments on the armor. A large rune was hidden in its ornate carvings, a powerful but primitive rune of misdirection. A warrior who trusted only his eyes might swing wide or aim too high as the rune altered their perception of the target.

Despite its cunning design as a mighty weapon of war, it was little more than a blunt instrument, like a sledgehammer made for destroying rocks in a quarry. Hardly the right tool for a threat such as he. It was not a tool he would have to fear. He would flow like water around it.

He approached within thirty yards and stopped. “I have no quarrel with thee. Go in peace. Return from whence you came and no more will be spoken of it, no honor lost.” Ruo-jian Chao’s accent was a bit thick but he thought it should be understandable to the drivers of the mechanism. He used the formal speech of the Western Kingdoms as he had learned when they came to this land so long ago.

The device, which looked so much like a man, had a face molded into the area where the head would be. The mouth opened and the clever device appeared to speak much as a man would, its mouth moving in syncopation with its words. “We will pass and you will allow it. You are one and we are as many.”

“Thou means to say, your power is as many, so I should allow thee to pass since you have the might to do so?”

“Yes.”

“It is our custom to reveal your name so that a warrior may tell your kin of your deeds in battle. You may call me Ruo-jian Chao. This province belongs to my family and in the absence of its garrison and guardians, I will send thee away or to thy doom.” The old man seemed to stand straighter, his cloak which he had kept over his slumped shoulders, fell away, revealing a thin shirt and a powerful chest. His arms and shoulders were covered in scars. His legs boasted an equal number of such scars and his brown skin was lined like a worn parchment. His wide and shoeless feet slid into the grass, feeling the earth and knowing its density, its resistance and how it would aid or impede his movement. The quiver of arrows were low-slung so they did not interfere as his cloak fell away.

“We have no such custom where we come from, but know this: We are not alone. You mistook our statement. Behold.” Two dozen men appeared as if they stepped from the shadows. A rune appeared on their armor for only a moment as they appeared, cloaked by magic. Each wore the livery of the Clockwork King, a great gear, a hammer and a sword on their tabard. They were lightly armed, a hardened leather-like armor, much like a fish’s scales. They wore a strange mask similar to the clockwork device’s face, their emotions hidden from view.

Ruo-jian Chao watched their movements, they moved as a unit, familiar with each other, trained together. The archers maintained their distance, while the swordsman, using two swords, one long and the other short approached in a crescent formation. The giant stood at the center of their attack wedge. “Can we broker no peace?”

“None. If you will not yield, you will die.”

The archers tightened their draw. The swordsman waited until the first volley would incapacitate their foe. The Clockwork raised its right hand and a small cannon protruded from its palm.

“So be it.” Ruo-jian Chao launched his first arrow before anyone saw him move. The Clockwork device fired its cannon a split second after he loosed his arrow.

Dà Gōng Nán sang a song of power. The release of the bowstring gave forth a musical note which caused everyone who heard it to hesitate, such was the power of the vibration from the bow. Its first arrow penetrated the great cannon and when it fired, the arm exploded from within. Shrapnel from the explosion caught two of the swordsmen closest to it and blew them from their feet. Their torn bodies were still landing before Dà Gōng Nán sang again. The archer farthest from Ruo-Jian flew from his feet as the arrow caught him in his eye, his turning head caused his arrow to be loosed and strike another swordsman in the back. Spinning from his shooting position, he heard seven arrows pass where he was a moment ago. Two archers held their shot.

The swordsman were fast, two of them closed the old man and their swords were flashing slivers of light as they attempted to carve Ruo-jian apart. Normally he would have had his own sword and they would already be dead. Instead he disarmed one by stepping inside of his swing and turned him around into his companion who would stab him. With the short sword released by the dying man, Ruo-jian spun and stabbed the second swordsman in the neck.

The release of two arrows. The old man dropped as the two swordsman were now pinned together by the remaining arrows.

Breath. Roll. Throw. The long knife flashed into the mask of an oncoming swordsman.

Ruo-jian grabbed his body as a shield when the next volley of arrows flew. Four found their mark in the swordsman’s flesh. One nicked Ruo-jian as he spun away. The last archer was slow in his firing and shot after his fellows. The old man plucked his arrow from the air and flipping it with his fingertips, restrung and fired before the archer had realized he missed.

They were moving slower. More disorganized. Not used to having to work. What’s that?

A click preceded the explosion of the ground front of him and only his quick reflexes spared him from the worst of the damage. The other swordsmen who were closing on Ruo-jian were knocked down and away from the old man who had landed in the tall grass at the edge of the road. Only one swordsman remained on his feet as the second arm cannon of the Clockwork fired into the midst of the attacking soldiers. Monstrous! They would kill their own to destroy an enemy.

Face down, Ruo-jian had held on to his bow, the mighty Dà Gōng Nán. As he brought the weapon to bear on the Clockwork device, it had opened two more gun ports on its chest plate. He would have to choose. Before he could make the shot, the Clockwork device exploded as the one of the two bolts from the ballista tore through one of its legs. Realizing the Clockwork would now spin to the left, its aim would be off. It’s chest cannons roared as its two shells streaked off into the distance. The old warrior didn’t have time to wonder where they might land. Ruo-jian sprinted and shot at one of the remaining archers who had maintained his presence of mind and was shooting at the same time.

Their arrows passed each other in flight. The old man shot better. Taking the younger bowman in the chest his arrow went completely through him. Ruo-jian was already taking his next shot. The now dead archer, however, did hit his mark and the old man’s thigh also had an arrow protruding from it. Their bows were less powerful and lacked penetrating power. Dà Gōng Nán sang again making one more shot and taking one more life before its bowstring broke, damaged by shrapnel in the explosion.

Ruo-jian watched as the remaining five archers sensing a momentary advantage rallied to fire again. The lone swordsman looking at his stunned and downed fellows hesitated, hoping the archers might take the day. Ruo-jian held Dà Gōng Nán out in front of him and with his free hand made a rapid handsign. He planted the end of the bow in the ground as the archers shot collectively. Dà Gōng Nán sprouted five arrows, seemingly drawing the arrows to it. Ruo-jian was already on the move, scooping up a longsword and short sword as he ran toward the archers.

Slowing down. Chakra disrupted by arrow. I need to end this now or I’m finished.

The old man could feel his jutsu’s failing, but he only needed a few more seconds. The short sword was thrown with speed and accuracy taking out the archer closest to him. Using the other longsword he parried two of the arrows as the third caught him in is upper arm, the fourth flew wide and that archer was the one closest to him. A single slash of his sword and his head was gone. Ruo-jian turned to face the remaining three archers and single swordsman. Blood flowed down his face from a shrapnel injury, multiple cuts across his upper body as well as the two arrows made him appear more monster than man. For a second the four of them stood motionless, each evaluating the other.

The crash of the Clockwork device as it toppled decided the battle. The last four fled without looking back.

Ruo-jian watched as they fled down the road. Then his chakra ran out and he collapsed where he stood.

When he awoke, his grandson Chen stood over him, a smile beaming on his face. “The last four were headed toward the White Mountains. We think they’re going to try and desert. There were two other survivors from the shell that exploded in the group. We tied them up and put them next to their machine. The rest of the dead have been taken off the road as well. We’ve stationed the ballista so they point down the road, but there have been no other sightings of anyone else coming that way for the moment. We have people keeping watch.”

“Which of you missed with the ballista?”

“I did, grandfather. Pa-mel’s shot was excellent. She is helping with their setup.”

“You might want to get more practice.” The old man noticed he had been patched up relatively well and would be adding a few more scars to his collection. “Where is Dà Gōng Nán?”

“Right here. We couldn’t remove the arrows.” Chen demonstrated by pulling each arrow as hard as he could.

“There’s a jutsu on the bow, so you won’t be able to pull them out. Only I could. The arrow shield jutsu made sure no arrow would hit me as long as I held Dà Gōng Nán.

“If no one could hit you as long as you were using the jutsu, then why didn’t you carry it with you to protect you from their arrows?” Chen looked at his grandfather with a look of profound confusion.

The old man reached over and grabbed one of the Clockwork archer’s bows and quivers. He hobbled away from his grandson who was still holding Dà Gōng Nán. He fired an arrow at the boy. Chen reflexively held the ancient weapon in front of him. The arrow found itself embedded in the bow. “Try to move with the bow in your hand,” Ruo-jian directed. Ruo-jian fired again as Chen tried to take a step. The bow caught the arrow again and Chen had not moved. Not a single step.

The old man dropped the foreign bow and was helped over to his grandson. “I told you when we first discussed handsigns and jutsu, every jutsu offers an advantage and a price for using it. In this case, the arrow-shield sacrifices mobility, a pure and nearly perfect defense but no offense. Since they could not know about it, they would not realize what they were seeing until it was too late. I used their surprise to my advantage.” His grandfather made a handsign and stroked the bow gently. The seven arrows dropped to the ground, unbroken. His face hardening, he looked at the wreckage and then at Chen. “Take me to them.”

Chen hoisted his grandfather onto his back and walked to the still smoking wreckage of the Clockwork device. His grandfather felt lighter and more frail. His old body was cold and trembling uncontrollably; the price of using so much chakra at his age. He would probably sleep for a week.

The two swordsman sat with their heads slumped forward and unmoving. Chen put Ruo-jian down next to the men who lifted their masked faces and appeared startled as the still bloody and bandaged old man sat before them. Trying to use the informal speech of the West, Ruo-jian spoke to the two soldiers, “This battle is now over. We offer you a chance at peace with us, or at least a return to your people.” Ruo-jian invoked the ritual of hospitality with reluctance. He had seen these people in battle and knew they would never keep their word as a native of Qin might.

“We refuse your offer. Our God-King will come to this forsaken land and cleanse it. He will build our factories of war with your bones as our fuel. Your blood will be used to drive our infernal devices giving them the life they need to continue our conquest of your land. Your people are nothing before our might.” The last statement trailed off as if he were embarrassed he had made it.

“My grandfather destroyed your machine and your men alone. He is nearly seventy summers old. Your might has not impressed us much.” Chen’s thoughts left his lips before he considered them seriously. His grandfather’s stern and reproving look said as much.

“Tell us of your advancing army, how soon before they arrive here?” Ruo-jian had no hope they would tell him anything useful. If there was anyone else coming down the road soon, he was in no shape to contend with it. The ache went all the way to his bones.

The second swordsman who had remained silent up till now, raised and cocked his head. “Our army is still quite a ways off, old warrior. We were sent to test the mettle of those we encountered along the way. When we met resistance and did not return, they would send the forces required to pacify this region, nothing more. When they return, there will be machines far more powerful than this training weapon and warriors far more seasoned than we. They will show no quarter. Expect none. I have told you more than I should but your skill in defeating us warrants my respect.”

Together in unison, they shouted: “We are from the Machine by the Machine and of the Machine. We return to the Machine. All hail the Clockwork!” Then the two soldiers began to scream as smoke rose from inside their armor and masks. Their bodies shook violently as they began to smolder and burst into flame. Suddenly all of the soldiers bodies did the same thing, exploding into flame. The farmers moved away in horror as the bodies of their enemies caught on fire. In the distance, four distinct screams echoed off the White Mountains, agonized screams which carried on the wind and too eventually stopped.

As the fires died, Ruo-jian took off one of their masks. The seared flesh peeled away from the bone beneath the mask. The stink of burning flesh rose into the late afternoon air.

Archer, a Tale of Mythic Qin © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Archer © JOOse, Deviant Artist, All Rights Reserved

Written For 30

Star Light, Star Bright (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 17, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Insurrection, Short Story. Tagged: baryonic matter, Botani, C-Space, Darkhouse, darklight, ebonstorm, graviton beam, J-Space, Master Gate, non-baryonic matter, Precursor Gate, Proxy, science, science fiction, stars, T-Space, Thaddeus Howze, wormhole. Leave a comment

by ~PhobosKE

Part 2: Unwanted Visitors

Sun-Drinker’s Proxy ran through the superconducting mining facility toward the Darklight Projection tower. The lights in the building dimmed as the external armor was activated and blocked the ambient light from outside. Fiberoptic cable woven into the structure still streamed concentrated sunlight from outside allowing the station lighting independent of power.

“I know a short cut to the tower. Follow me.” Despite his simian appearance, Proxy moved quickly and I had trouble keeping up. He changed surfaces as it suited his movement, bouncing from the floor to the ceiling depending on which way he needed to go. I activated my null gravity belt and followed as best I could through the twisting pipe ways.

“What about point defense systems? Doesn’t this station have some sort of defense mechanism in case of incoming matter?” Being pelted by multi-megaton wreckage from an alien space craft still hadn’t reached the acceptance phase of cognition for me.

“There is one. And I am certain Sun-Drinker calculated the use of the system in its speculations about our overall survival. Hence the reason we are going to activate the Darklight Projector and save these possibly unfriendly visitors, rather than letting them crash into the station.”

“Even with the active point defense, would we take damage?”

“Absolutely, their ship is very large, unlike the much smaller craft which brought you to us. We will barely be able to cover it effectively before large chucks of their ship begin to ablate away. We will use the point defenses to destroy as much of the remnants as possible. It is simply a matter of mass. The point defense system here is not native and does not pack the power of a Precursor weapon. We added it when we arrived here as a secondary level defense. If our visitors had arrived outside of the fragment’s gravity well, or on the far side of our two closest stellar partners, we wouldn’t even consider rescuing them a possibility, let alone a necessity. They would have died and drifted into one of the two binary partner’s gravity wells first.”

I thought about what Proxy was saying. This fragment was surrounded by at least ten stars at varying distances. The two closest orbited within ninety million miles. Despite what it appeared, the fragment was the big gravity in this star system. If you approached the system at just the right angle, you couldn’t help but fall right toward it. “What will you need me to do?”

“I need you to control and calibrate the point defense system. We will analyze their hull and determine how much hull they are going to lose. Then you will need to make sure you can target the fragments to get the largest first. You will probably not be able to get them all. If you were, Sun-Drinker would have said you could, so go from largest to smallest and do the best you can.”

Sun-Drinkers automated voice rang out in the Precursor control space, dotted with a wide array of alien technologies, each adding some feature deemed necessary by it’s guests. “I have completed my scan of the vessel. It is using a technology from one of the Old Galactic species, the Remur. The ship’s hull is a form of duranium-wafer overlay. Strong and tough, it’s the only reason they are still there at all. The ship is much larger than we will be able to cover at this distance. I have sent you the configuration of their hull.”

The ship was torus shaped to facilitate the Remur predisposition for multiple drive systems. They were considered idiosyncratic among the Old Galactics. The Remur were a silicon species with a terrible fear of space travel. They were one of the exceptions among the Old Galactics, they did not develop aircraft before they discovered space travel.

Once they acquired the ability to travel to other worlds in their star system, their scientists discovered as many ways of returning planetside as possible. They mastered C-space travel and had ships capable of reaching ninety percent the speed of light. They traded and learned T-space where faster than light travel was possible by tachyon conversion. But tachyon conversion made them terribly ill so they are most well known for the singular development which earned them their fame; the J-space drive. With it, they could jump from one sector of space to another. There were plenty of limitations but few other races discovered J-space without consulting and licensing their technology. Their ships were rarely sold to other species, in addition to being fearful of space travel, they were a bit xenophobic as well, though the ones who did travel in space tended toward the other extreme and ended up loving alien diversity.

The alien ship was capable of C-space, T-space, and J-Space transportation. Unfortunately, all three require the ship to be able to target and calibrate its sensors. In this area, they can’t. Looking at the ship, I realized what needed to be done. “We can only save one drive system, the others will be lost. I recommend the central part of the hub because the T-space drive will be there. It will be the only piece of the ship that will still be flight capable once we trim away the other parts.

“Sun-Drinker can you establish communication with them and tell them to grab only what they need and get to the center region of their ship?”

“Of course. My telepathic abilities are less affected by the stellar winds, radiation or dust in this region. I will inform them of our plan.”

*  *  *

“The shields are failing, Lan-Cer, I am rerouting power from all systems except life support. At this rate, we will bake inside the ship. Internal hull temperature rising.” The gelatinous blob in the engineering section of the ship could not physically appear to be panicked, unless you knew what to look for. If you did, then you knew it was well past freaked out and well on its way to psychotic breakdown.

The entity in the command module of the ship would resemble to anyone human, a cockroach that walked like a man. A rather heroic member of the Remur species, it resembled a cockroach made of carbon and silicon molecules, complete with antennae, six legs with large and rather unpleasant mandibles. It had a mild twitch all the time, always in motion even when sitting still. At the moment, it was preening its antennas while trying to appear nonchalant. The fact its antenna were begin passed through its mandibular area in a ritual of nervous cleansing always caused everyone in the room to turn away as if they weren’t looking…but they were. Most sentients found the Remur’s licking of their antenna disturbing to say the least.

Where it diverged from the cockroach metaphor was its crystalline appearance and ability to reflect light across its shimmering exoskeleton. It had two sets of eyes, a compound set and a more forward facing set of four. Those four targeted the navigator, a young Corvan who had currently turned an unpalatable shade of brown, pretty much defining the situation without speaking a word. “Why haven’t we jumped, HeDa? Or is boiling in your water containment field an acceptable life choice for you at the moment?”

“No, Captain, nothing of the sort. I have been trying to gather navigational data but the dust and tightly bound stars are blocking my ability to lock onto any galactic navigational aids. The only aid I can lock on to is a tiny station on the massive gravitational stellar fragment, dead ahead. This is also where the trail of the superconducting support craft was heading before it disappeared.”

The last member of the crew stood impassively connected to the panel in front of it. A number of thin-crys cables snaked away from the panel into several plates on the its chest. A bipedal humanoid, it stood over seven feet tall and was covered with a rock-like skin.

The Omuri was another silicoid life form, but unlike the Remur, it seemed more simian-based. The Omuri were once a more organic species, with softer more human features. A spate of genetic engineering somewhere in their planet’s history caused the species to become a dimorphic race. One set of the Omuri are still as their ancestors made them, but the second population appear to be more rock than humanoid. The stone Omuri spend most of their time in space working with manufactured intelligences as a living computer interface. Their stone skin was designed to act as a computing surface and with the right design specifications, could work faster than any normal crew member dealing with shipboard operations outside of piloting and hands-on engineering.

“Zero-Zero-One, status report,” the Captain turned toward his second in command and noted his focused attention on the ship’s systems. Zero-Zero-One’s relationship with their ship was a precarious one since they deactivated the manufactured intelligence. The moral imperatives of the MI meant their career as pirate mercenaries was against its programming. Zero-Zero-One’s internal computer now provided control for all of the ship’s vital functions.

“Zero-Zero-One reporting: Ship shield integrity at thirty two percent and dropping rapidly. Ship’s hull integrity at eighty three percent and holding. Activating regenerative hull armor, for an additional fifteen minutes of hull integrity. We are moving in C-space at .78 C. We are within the immense gravity field of a stellar fragment. If we are planning to try to escape, we must do so in the next eight minutes before shearing pressures from the star fragment make it impossible. Even so, we will have to release at least fifteen percent of our cargo to compensate for shearing stress. The navigation array is still unable to establish a lock to any viable jump beacons or location beacons.”

Fifteen percent! That would make their most recent outings barely worth the time it took to rob their ships. This was supposed to be the score of a lifetime. We were supposed to be hitting a cargo ship filled with superconductive material mined from the heart of a core fragment. Needed on nearly every planet with advanced Manufactured Intelligences, high quality superconductors was one of the few things unable to easily be made by Hegemony science. Even the Old Galactics preferred to mine it than make it artificially. Now this mission is coming apart. We missed the cargo ship, we’re flying blind and surrounded by blinding white gas in every direction, and the ship is being torn apart by this region of space. A bit of good news would go a long way to improving my mood.

“Attention, Remur space craft, you have entered restricted Hegemony Space. We are the source of the T-space command beacon you should be detecting. You will need to use that beacon to jump to the following coordinates. We are aware of your condition and recommend you have your crew enter the T-space section of your craft. The other drive mechanisms we have detected are in the outer ring of your ship and will be destroyed once we lock onto your craft.” Sun-Drinker’s telepathic voice held no tone of malice or rancor.

The Captain sat and thought for a moment before Sun Drinker continued. “You are not obligated to acknowledge this telepathic message. But be aware, I have calculated your chances of survival at less than 8% unless you follow my course of action. Even if you do, your chances will only increase to sixty percent, due to an inability to determine what will happen to your ship once it is converted to non-baryonic matter. We can increase your odds of survival if we reduce the amount of mass your ship has. Your survival increases if I remove the J-Drive and the C-Drive which are found on the outer ring of your ship.”

The cargo areas are also found on the outer ring of the ship as well; our entire haul for the last year. If we come back with nothing, Nimile will kill us for sure, slowly and painfully.

Zero-Zero-One’ broke the Captain’s distasteful reverie of their mercenary employer. “Shield failure is imminent. Hull armor is being activated. We have breaches on decks eleven and fifteen. Structural reinforcement is holding.”

“Navigation, prepare to jump to these coordinates. We will need everyone else to move our most precious cargo to the center of the ship. Only the good stuff. Everything else, leave it. We have less than eight minutes.”

As Lan-Cer and his crew ran through his ship moving their most valuable cargo to the transport sleds, he entered the telepathic field and responded,  “We will accept your offer of hospitality.” Broke or dead. Both of these choices equaled dead. The crew also considered their employer and realized the precarious nature of the current predicament. Ever hopeful, each pondered that there might be some way to turn their fortunes around. Not trusting to luck, each carried everything they thought they could move in the time allotted.

Sun-Drinker’s voice came back to Lan-Cer. “Get your crew back to the core segment of your ship and jump. You will be taking fire upon arrival.”

“Excuse me?” thought the Captain?

“To save your lives and protect our station, we will have to fire upon your ship as soon as you drop out of J-space. Deactivate your C-drive and your T-Drive and prepare to be fired upon.”

“You heard the nice alien, move it, grab your gear and prepare to be fired upon!” As the crew ran back to the central module, the Captain had a sudden thought: What in the seven hells was non-baryonic matter?

End of Part 2.

Written For 30

Star Light, Star Bright © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

A Prison Cell Awaits Execution

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 16, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: ebonstorm, prison, prison-industrial complex, Thaddeus Howze, the cell. Leave a comment

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From hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.

— Captain Ahab, Herman Melville

I am the only one who knows them.

I know all their secrets. They tell me everything. To me, they confess their atrocities, their fears, their deeds, inner darkness and all the truths they refuse to give to their lawyers, their judges, their parole officers, their wives, even their God.

I am their prison cell.

Six feet by nine feet. An iron hard bed with a single soiled sheet, a cold commode without a seat and a low flush toilet, sure to back the stink into the air. I am an eternal purgatory cut off from the flow of life, a place outside of time, a chronal island, bereft of temporal eddies, the tiniest echoes indicating their continued existence.

To most, I am a place where no man wants to end up. To them, I am their universe.

I can feel your prejudice. I am a prison cell. How can I think? How can I tell you this story? That my good person is not the question.

The question is how can you not already know it?

Now you are supposing I may be lying. After all, I house liars, thieves, murderers? What would I know of the truth?

Everything.

For within my walls, I have two truths that cannot be denied.

No one who is here, wants to be. If they were not, I would still have no other existence for which I could be turned. I would remain a prison, filled with my secrets, which would leak from my walls, no matter what they were turned to.

Condominiums would always echo with the screams of abuse, silently over dinner, the shudders of violence would echo through time, coming out in a harshly spoken word at an inopportune moment.

If I became a garden, my fruits would always have the bitterness of suffering which leached into the very essence of the soil beneath me. Anyone who knew of my fruits would always taste my hidden burdens. No man would eat of me without guilt.

No friend, I have no reason to lie to you. I want you to know as you tear me down what has transpired here. The true atrocity lies not with the men I housed. No, sir, the horror is the system that made them. Drove them to lives which ended here.

Know, I have taken the lives of everyone who has ever lived within me. Unless they were here only for a moment, once they lived here, they were never free of me. I haunted their dreams, any moment of darkness and silence would bring them to me. Many were unable to be anywhere without a background sound constantly filling their consciousness as a talisman against returning.

Some were drawn back to me, their fear of the outside only increasing once released and they realized how inadequate they were to the task of living free. The irony is they are unable to cope with their freedom because you, dear listener and those like you who hold them to an impossible standard once freed.

One that says, they can only be ex-convicts, never free men, never a moment when someone won’t put their past mistakes before them again. So, given no choices for work, no forgiveness for transgressions, families taxed to their limits, in their support of those who have left me, have nothing left to give. So these men return to their fraternities, the only families they may have ever known. And thus back upon the path which leads to crime, to police, to prosecution, to judgment and ultimately, me.

I have nothing to do with this.

Their infection, their disease, is created by you.

Steal a man’s dignity, steal his chance for prosperity, take his opportunities, even if they were always going to be small things, things you would never use, never see, never be aware of, but you take them anyway. He has no home to speak of, no family of any use to him, small, petty people living mean, bitter lives, no more able to uplift him than they are themselves, and yet you take what little he has and leave him only the semblance of a life. His false honor, his belief in whatever passes as his, then pack him tightly with others just like him

This is all within your power to change. But as your wrecking crews gather about, moving teams through the walls, I would have you know what these men would tell you, if you could hear them.

They would say to you: men who deserve to be here, more often than not, do not ever find their ways through these doors. They would say my doors open longest to the most vulnerable, those whose lives are cut shortest and had the most potential and opportunity to change the world for the better. They would tell you money is privilege and freedom from the penance which has drawn and quartered the lives of those who come to me.

That no matter how dangerous this place may make them, they would have you know, they are only as violent as the system which placed them within these walls. And if they seem more so, it is only because an individual’s violence is concentrated within one man. Social violence is diluted by millions but no less toxic.

Their crimes are both a symptom of a greater problem and a just response to the madness which makes up a your way of warehousing the victims of socially-engender poverty, those educationally-challenged, media-perverted minds who lack true decision-making capacity and are directed through a finely tune system of racial and social injustice to ensure the continued development of a system designed to maintain this inequality made culturally necessary, yet invisible.

They would tell you this if they could. If they knew how. If they understood their intrinsic value, their true worth, they would have both the capacity and the desire to let you know of the depth of their suffering, no matter the madness you see on the surface.

They would tell you, no matter how gentle your demeanor, you would transform to survive within these walls or you would die.

I tell you as you flee these walls and my impending destruction by implosion, I implore you as you are building the next structure to sit at this foundation, don’t keep making the same mistakes you made when you built me fifty years ago to house the few true reprobates society created then. Instead, find a way to humanely deal with those damaged individuals harmed by the noxious programming of society and instead to change society’s dependence on the creation of an underclass in order to promote enough fear to demand complete subservience of those they cannot directly imprison.

Do you hear me? Before you press that button, erasing me from the universe, know that I abhor my existence and the greatest kindness you can offer me is to be rid of you.

Do it. Do it, now. FREE!

On a sign outside the construction site:

Demolished: Wrenfield State Penitentiary, 1958-2008, housed 5000 prisoners

Future Home: Wrenfield SuperMax Federal Penitentiary, due to be completed in 2014, and will be able to house 15,000 maximum security prisoners.

The Cell, A tale of the Prison-Industrial Complex © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Written For 30

Archer (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 15, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Mythic Qin, Short Story. Tagged: archery, clockwork, Clockwork King, farmers, martial arts, Mythic Qin, nature, tank, White Mountains, wuxia, Wyrms of Westerwood. 2 Comments

057-hot-watercolor-paintings-jung-shan
a tale of Mythic Qin

“The Great Wyrms of Westerwood were incredible beasts, easily as long as twenty wagons stretched end to end and weighing more than a full grown oak.”

My grandfather was a doddering old fool but he knew how to tell a good tale. I had heard this one so many times, even when I was out of earshot, his telling of this particular tall tale came back to me, in my inner ear.

“These were the greatest of the Great Wyrms. None had been seen like that since the wars of the Third Age in which they were all destroyed. Unable to be tamed, we battled them until they were driven from our skies. Our mountains still bear the great scars as the Wyrms fell and destroyed themselves against the mountain walls.”

I turned around to see the White Mountains and the brutal scars which adorned her sides. Trees grew halfway to the summit before the mountains became inhospitable, only ice and snow covered the rest. There were three gouges in the side of the mountain, large even from this distance, as if the mountain had been struck by a one of the Clockwork King’s bombs. Up close, it might take half a day to cross one of the scarred regions. Nothing natural grew in those places now.

“They had four legs, as thick as tree trunks. No I don’t mean seedlings either. It would take two men to be able to reach around those legs, I tell you. Their wing span was nearly as wide as they were long. Great wings which blotted out the sun if you saw them during the day. Their wings were thick as the leather armor I once wore serving the God-Emperor of Qin. But they were supple, too. They could be folded back along their body and this made them able to run faster than the fastest horse. Even on foot, they were something out of nightmare.”

My grandfather would sit and look out over the field with a short bow helping to protect us against predators while we farmed. Our county lost our last dog to the dire wolves which prowled the kingdom since the Clockwork King’s armies began their assault against Qin. The youngest who were too small to farm would sit with him and listen to his stories about early Qin and our southern border neighbors Wester, named after their greatest invader conqueror King Wester.

“Unlike their smaller wyvern cousins we tamed, the Great Worms could not be broken. They were proud and noble beasts. In the end, they flew high in the skies to avoid us. So high even my bow, Dà Gōng Nán couldn’t reach them.”

My grandfather was not nearly as humble as my father, Wu Chao, thought he should be. Perhaps it comes from grandfather having once been a great warrior. He was called Ruo-jian Chao, the Unsurpassed Blade, once known for his mastery of the sword and the great longbows of the Southern Provinces. But what battle does not take from a man, old age eventually does. Closer to seventy summers than sixty, he had grown infirm from a back injury he acquired during one of our many border wars. He could walk but it was agony for him, even using a cane brought him no relief.

I carried him to the edge of the field into a small covered tower to let him keep his eyes on the children. I was no warrior but a scholar like my father. This disappointed my grandfather greatly. He insisted I be trained in the basic arts of war. He honed my body’s strength and I secretly cheered even as I outwardly chaffed being taken from my studies. I gained the best of two worlds. I enjoyed the fact I could carry him to the field without struggle or strain.

He insisted on being allowed to stand watch and telling stories to the youngest of the children which kept them from underfoot until they could help with the farming chores. Though he could not stand for long, his arms were still strong enough to choke a wolf to death, barehanded. His archery, even with the inferior short bow, was never less than perfection itself.

My father, thanks to his own craft and my grandfather’s service held this land on the edge of the kingdom with a small garrison to help keep the farming resources flowing into the empire. My father was always fond of saying, “Shen, one day, this will all be yours. All I ask is you be ready for it.” The life of a farmer was not one I sought but came to me anyway.

“Their skin was tougher than the strongest iron and as black as the midnight coal. Up close, their scales were pitch black and cast no reflection at all. These were creatures designed to hide in dark places, only their gleaming golden eyes would give them away. They were thought to be so dark, men were known to take cover and stand right next to one without knowing, thinking they had found a shadow perfect for the waiting. A yellow glow and a final chomp was all that was left of them.” The children laughed at his overemphasis on the sound effects of his story.

Since the Clockwork Wars began nearly thirty years ago, they ravaged the kingdoms and provinces to the north and east. Recently, King Wester’s family and the bordering forest of the Westerwood have made overtures of peace and my father and the other elders have been eager to entertain them, since both sides have suffered great losses. Our province which encompasses my father’s land and the lands of Wester, south of us have begun to see more of the forces from the once distant war creeping ever closer to home.

“What about at night, noish-pa, did the Great Worms hunt at night?” One of the children piped up at the appropriate time.

“An astute question, young one, planning on a career in dragon-hunting?” The young child hoisted his tiny bow, a perfect replica of grandfather’s bow, Dà Gōng Nán.”

“Noish-pa, there are no such things as the Great Wyms anymore, only their much smaller cousins. You told us there hadn’t been a dragon seen even in the forest of Westerwood for thirty summers.” One of the girls from a neighboring farm, Pa-mel, shouted as she dropped off a bundle of rice and took a sip of water in the shade.

“Nonsense girl, they have just taken to flying at night because of bows like mine. Our province once boasted some of the finest archers in Qin. Even the dragons knew they had better take to flying only at night. But as much as we feared them in the day, at night they were even worse. Night hunters, they flew silently, snatching cows from the field barely disturbing even the grass under their feet. By the time you heard the whoosh of them overhead, all you would feel would be the wind of their mighty wings and the cries of your cow moving away in the distance. It was chilling.”

“Brrrrr.” the children squeal in unison.

“Would one of you youngsters bring your noish-pa something to parch an old man’s throat?” As the youngster hopped down from the covered overlook built for archers, Grandfather picked up his bow and moved the arrows in between his knees. His face lost the smile we had come to expect from him.

Then I heard it too. A whistle in the distance, the whistle of a steam engine, something large and mobile. The whistling sound grew steadily closer. As it crested the hill, we could see it in the distance; grey and brown with a stilted gait. It was a clockwork machine! There weren’t supposed to be any of their machine armies this far south. The machine moved slowly, clumsily, not like anything my father or grandfather described.

“It’s damaged. That makes it twice as dangerous. That device usually has at least two men with it. But it could support two dozen. I don’t see anyone but that could mean it is just being used to draw fire while their soldiers steal and burn food supplies. Shen, bring me Dà Gōng Nán and her arrows from below. Then get everyone out of the field. Pa-mel, you go with Shen and the other men to arm the two ballista at the edge of the field. Wait for my signal. I will stop it where you have the best chance at a shot.

“Grandfather, how will you get to the machine?” He stood up at the top of the tower and made some rapid handsigns. Signs he had never taught me. Then he walked to the edge of the tower and jumped to the ground. Qi mastery was not something to be taken lightly. He explained to me it should be used only in emergencies. This must qualify.

“I’ll walk, you take care of everyone else.” Taking Dà Gōng Nán from me, he turned and ambled down toward the road to face the deadly mechanism. Alone.

End of Part 1 – Duck into the tall grass and read Archer, part 2

Archer, a Tale of Mythic Qin © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Archer © JOOse, Deviant Artist, All Rights Reserved

Written For 30

The Corroded Man

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 14, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: corrosion, education, fantasy, Madrid @ebonstorm, restaurant, school, Thaddeus Howze, verdigris. 1 Comment

Pictures in the News: Madrid, Spain

I saw the Corroded Man again today.

This was one of the things I had enjoyed the most since I was a child of nine summers. It was at my favorite festival here in Madrid. Mom said he was always there and he was legendary, in his way. I was fascinated by him. Such perfect stillness, like a statue but warm, approachable, almost human.

His body was motionless in the square and had been that way for almost ten years. No one could remember when he first started showing up but he was especially popular with the tourists, who came to marvel at his stillness. She would absently lecture me on the Corroded Man as we walked through the outdoor market. He appeared there during our hotest and stickiest of summers, fully dressed, coat, hat, boots, but as always, still and without complaint.

She told me he once had a personal guard who stood by and allowed people to approach one at a time to show them he was still alive. That was some time ago. No one knew what happened to the guard. One day he simply stopped showing up. The locals had taken to calling him the Corroded Man. His corrosion, the verdigris which covered him, clothing and all, was a perfect hue of a penny turned green, sitting in a moist place until the color was unevenly, naturally, perfectly hideous. The bold might have touched him and remarked how much like metal he appeared to be, rough, worn by weather.

He was a great tourist attraction. People came to Madrid, just to find him, some say. When they did, its was usually a woman, who would find a mirror, hold it under his nose and see his breath form, slowly, on the glass. They, of course, paid a nice tourist fee just to do so. It was fun to watch them approach and walk around him. He sat on the edge of a suitcase balanced on one corner with his leg extended a cane and cup in his right hand.

What made him so famous was not just his stillness. While he was by far the best of Madrid’s performance artists, if he could be said to be performing by not moving, he was famous for other reasons. Occasionally, he would attract birds who would sit on him in the manner of birds and statues. These became some of our most famous postcards ensuring visitors would seek him out on their trip to our warm climate and Old World Charm. He was to be found in the middle of a square where foot traffic was high and he appeared where he was always able to be best seen from a distance.

What made him most remarkable, legendary even, was the simple fact, no one ever saw him move.

He never got up to get a drink. Nor eat. Nor take a bathroom break. They never saw him pack up at the end of the day. Nor did they know for certain where he would be the next day. One of the most favored games of tourists was to find where the Corroded Man would move to next. People would watch him for days, sitting out in the square for as long as he did.

My father passed away when I was eleven. He died quietly from a sudden illness while I was away at school. My obsession with the Corroded Man only grew as I got older. I began to mark his habits when my schoolwork allowed. It took my mind off of my studies and the gap of my missing father.

The owners of small shops loved to see the Corroded Man appear near their establishments. He brought with him an entourage happy to spend with them and they quietly prayed he would stay for a while. As if he could hear them, some days he would. My mother was one of those shop owners who sought his favor.

My mother was an excellent cook and had quite a reputation among the locals, still she only managed to just make enough money to keep the doors open and me in a local private school. She said it was what my father wanted, his dying wish, in fact. So she struggled and I did my best in school.

She went to him one afternoon when I was still a child. She made me wait at the edge of his circle and walked to him. She crossed herself and spoke quietly for a few minutes. Then she turned, gathered me up. Her sad look back stayed with me, stoic, with a firm resolve. She returned to her shop.

Nothing seemed to change at first, but one day in the early summer, he blessed her by appearing in front of her store. Though his visits were brief, he would appear many times during the year and particularly around my father’s birthday. We celebrated Father’s birthday by leaving his favorite wine in front of the Corroded Man. The bottle disappeared only to reappear when he had moved on to a new location. Its contents were always gone.

I begged my mother as a teen to allow me one night to see if I could catch him in transit. My friends and I sat and watched. We laughed, told jokes, and hid from the well armed policemen who wandered by, stop and have a cigarette. They talked to him as if he were an old friend, someone who knew their secrets and had no judgment. Once they were done, they thanked him for listening and moved on.

We sat vigilantly at first. Never taking our eyes off of him. Then we ate from our basket, my mother had prepared cheese, wine, and bread, enough for even my friends. We sat behind a bench so he couldn’t see us and talked about school, our futures, planning for the day when we would leave Madrid and make our way in the world. I had ambitions of going to school in Los Angeles and becoming an engineer. I wanted to see the beautiful women of Hollywood and live in Beverly Hills. A tourist came through the shop one day and told me how wonderful it was there and I could never get it out of my mind.

Once it was dark we moved to the bench and continued our vigil. He sat in profile to us. Full of food and wine, it was inevitable we would fall asleep for a moment, that long moment when you are certain you are awake, but really aren’t.

He appeared the next morning across town in a different square, motionless as ever, with no one there managing to be sure when he arrived. I went off to school eventually. I had put the Corroded Man out of my mind while I was in college and only thought about him when I was on my way home to see my mother. A scholarship had paid for school so my mother was finally free of my educational burden. She finally spent some money on herself and the shop, which had expanded greatly.

I came up through a back alley doorway so I could come in through the kitchen to surprise my mother. There were new faces I had never seen but a couple of regulars who waved, smiled and kept on working. I was even more surprised when I walked out of the kitchen and saw the bustle of people having food, enjoying themselves with my mother coordinating the dance of employees and patrons from the front of the restaurant.

She smiled at me and pointed toward the front door. I ran to her and hugged her as hard as I could. As I hugged her, she told me, once I left for school, he appeared in front of the shop and has for all the time I was away, sat there, in vigil. I was sad that I had missed my Father’s birthday and our strange family tradition. I wanted to thank him personally. I had never spoken to the Corroded Man before, thinking it a strange thing to talk to someone who never answered.

I turned to look outside toward his favored spot in front of the store and he was gone, his vigil completed. All that was left to mark his passing was the empty bottle of my father’s favorite wine. He never came to us again. His legend in Madrid, however, continued mysteriously, as it ever had.

The Corroded Man © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Photograph © Emilio Morenatti, 2013, All Rights Reserved, used without permission

Written For 30

Anger Without Enthusiasm (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 13, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, black dog, Clifford Engram, contract, dog, ebonstorm, fantasy, gaming, Investigator, London, mental-health, monster, mystic, nature, New Age Pulp, paranormal investigator, pulp, Qi, Thaddeus Howze. Leave a comment

Dire-Wolf-dire-wolf-31888569-300-417The Barghest, as large as a bloody calf, seemed even more terrifying up close. Clifford Engram questioned the decision to offer it a job so soon after finding himself flat on the ground with the brute standing over him. No matter, he needed the help and the creature and his master were uniquely qualified.

Engram kept his hands out and clearly visible. No sense in antagonizing the creature. At this point, the man behind the monster probably didn’t understand how dangerous it was. The eight police officers it attacked while they were not dying, they were not getting better either. Their wounds refused to heal, no matter what treatment was applied.

Doctors called it cellular necrosis. Unfortunately for them, this was a side effect of wounds created by creatures from the Second World. Injuries caused by malice by creatures from the Second World had to be forgiven, blessed or a greater entity would have to command the creature causing them to release those poor bastards from the effect. That was his task today. Without his help, those men would die in a few days from a slow rotting of their flesh.

“Ben. I know you can hear me. I need your help. I know what you’re doing.” Or at least I suspect I do. Things seemed so much easier a week ago.

Up close, the Barghest seemed more terrible than it had at a distance. As Engram stared at it, the creature grew larger, spiny growths appeared on its back, moving in the same direction as its fur. The jaws grew wider and when it bared them, Engram felt a bit sick. A physical reaction which emanated from the creature, a fear reaction as unnatural to him as flying without wings. Is he trying to intimidate me using magic? Engrams’ curse mark agreed and burned as it resisted the glamour.

The wolf turned his head as if he smelled something. He sniffed twice and released an ear-shattering howl. This sound drove Engram to his knees and caused his nose to start bleeding. Then the beast turned in the direction it gained a scent and leapt into the murk of a nearby alley.

When Engram’s ears stopped ringing, he wiped his bleeding nose on a handkerchief and shook the sound out of his head. That’s when he noticed a scraggly group of stray dogs standing in front of him; an unexpected group of unfriendly-looking dogs. While they were a fraction of the Barghest’s size, their number did give him pause. If nothing else, he would have to fight his way through them to give chase. Yes, his reinforced coat would offer some protection, but it wasn’t as if they were only going to chew only where he wanted them to. Right here lads, only on the arms, eh?

As he tried to back up, he looked around him and noticed all avenues of easy escape were covered by six or seven other strays of varying shapes and colors. At least two of them were mastiffs or pit bulls, both known for their biting prowess. Engram, more a cat than a dog person, remembered the first rule of predator-prey relationships. Don’t run. They like that.

Putting away his handkerchief, he took out a no-brand sucker, he used as a cigarette substitute. The animals did not react when he reached into his coat. They ceded no ground, nor approached any closer. Their job is to keep me here. Sorry boys, I can’t allow that. Can’t count on being able to find Fisher again if he remembers anything of this encounter.

Reaching back into his coat, he pulled out three small packets. He picked them up at an Italian restaurant earlier. Crushing the packets his hands, he ground the powder into a fine dust splitting it between his two hands.

“Come on, lads, haven’t got all night.” He ran into the alley and the dogs sprinted after him. Swirling the powder into the air behind him, he used the tiniest bit of Qi, to spread the dust into the faces of the slavering hounds.

The yelps and whining disappeared into the distance along with his pursuers. For the next few minutes the detective ran purely on instinct. Easiest path following the direction of the wind. A random dog might appear, one who didn’t get a chili powder surprise but a swift kick usually resolved the issue and he escaped with little more than minor injuries.

Then he heard the howl, the howl he heard the night of the attacks. A howl which chilled the blood and froze it in men’s veins. He stopped and oriented himself. Less than two blocks. He reorder his Qi into the elemental fire and ran toward the melee. He marshaled his breathing and could feel the heat building in his breath. Engram wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived, but Fire manipulation was his strongest Qi mastery, and the growling and shouting indicated a full out struggle. It was even stranger once he could see it.

There were eight maybe ten men attacking the wolf creature. Their arms were replaced with longer tentacle-like appendages which they whipped though the air with devastating speed. As their blows struck ground or nearby buildings, splinters of rock flew up and ricocheted around the small courtyard where this confrontation was taking place. The Barghest was fast, flickering in and out of existence seconds before each tentacle landed. It jumped backward and howled in the direction of the most hideous and malformed of the young men attacking it.

The hybrid man-monster vibrated, trapped within the sonic wake, his flesh tearing itself asunder under the assault. Seconds later, the hybrid was blown apart, raining chunks of steaming flesh skyward in the cool London evening. Seconds later, the chunks of flesh started to smoke and disappeared. Each creature, once dispatched, turned into a puddle of noxious slime.

Two of the men turned when a young man exited the building and ran toward him with startling speed. Channeling fire gave Engram the speed of a wildfire, at the cost of burns he would need to heal later. He firestepped and disappeared from the alleyway. An instant later he reappeared in front of the two creatures. He shoved the boy back through the closing door. “Run! Don’t look back.”

The boy who had been distracted by his phone didn’t notice anything until he thrown bodily back into the building. Engram finished his movement by releasing the fire, the price of his movement in the direction of the two unknown creatures. It shot down his arms and onto his hands, before flowing over the beasts just out of reach. His flesh sizzled and he ground his teeth.

The Qi flowed languidly and crossed the short distance like foxfire, bathing them in a wispy flame. Engram pulled his arms back toward himself and sealed himself to the Earth, borrowing its resilience and durability. His arms were crossed in front of his face as the foxfire erupted into a bonfire.

The other monstrosities paused as the screams of their comrades tore through the small space. The Barghest, took advantage of their momentary distraction and chewed off the head of the closest horror which had managed to enshroud it in one of its tentacles. The smoke-like form of the Barghest had a purple burn where it was touched. Its fantastic speed was diminished though it was still appeared more than a match for the remaining three. Their human shapes seemed to be breaking down, they were sloughing off human flesh in green glistening chunks. They were breaking out of their clothes, as they were shedding their human forms completely.

The mystic investigator was unable to move as long as he channeled the Earth’s power. Flames swept over him as the burning corpses fell about him draping him in their ignited flesh. Two of the remaining three turned away from the Barghest and squealed a terrified sound. One vaulted into the sky and vanished in the darkness. The other became a swollen and bloated thing, dripping liquids as it grew, becoming nearly eight feet tall.

The Barghest dispatched the last one who had not moved away quickly enough with a howling burst of sound. Engram was grateful he had not dropped his Earth shield since the creature did not seem to care who was affected by its power. It’s zeal and bloodlust were evident. Even injured, its ferocity was undiminished. It let loose another howl and a response from all around echoed in the distance.

The giant strode toward Engram, turning its back on what it deemed to be the lesser threat of the Barghest. A mistake. The wolf did not consider itself the lesser threat and launched itself through the air toward the giant back. Without a backward glance, it whipped its tentacle through the air and with a cracking sound struck the Barghest right in the chest.

The powerful snap knocked the Barghest back at half the speed of sound. It crashed into the building behind it and disappeared into the rubble of the old brick structure. Engram could no longer see or hear it through the lingering cloud of dust. The dogs who responded to the call, roared onto the scene each slavering and wild. There were more of them than the creature could turn its attention to and soon it was covered in dogs, tentacles being chewed on. Its roars of rage rebounded off of every wall, and coupled with the howling and barking, it was more of a primal hunt in the wild than in the center of London.

Engram looked at the burning forms of the two creatures in front of him and transferred his Qi toward the mastery of flame, a second too soon. The creature managed to whip one of its tentacles, dogs locked in a death grip around his body.

This is going to hurt… He called the fire still roiling around on the ground and whipped it into a frenzy as he heard his ribcage beginning to crack. His Qi swept through the fire and bound it to the giant. Its legs ignited. Engram felt the conflagration even as his long coat began to smolder. The beast, afire threw Engram through the air.

He didn’t remember hearing his arm breaking his fall as the ground rushed up to meet him. He turned over bonelessly, barely capable of movement. The fire swallowed the creature, dogs and all and Engram felt a momentary pang of regret for their passing. The Qi based fire burned brighter as Engram watched, willing it to be as hot as he could make it. He only had a few more seconds of consciousness. He had to make it count.

He never even heard the sound of the Barghest as it came out of the building and stood over him, blocking the light from the burning creature. It stood over him and its jaws came toward him.

“Damn, so close.” Engram’s eyes closed as he released his Qi. The glowing red orbs filled the sky above him, then darkness.

Part 2

Anger without Enthusiasm © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Paranormal 2

Written For 30

Anger Without Enthusiasm (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 12, 2013
Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Short Story. Tagged: barghest, black dog, Clifford Engram, contract, dog, ebonstorm, fantasy, London, mental-health, monster, New Age Pulp, paranormal investigator, pulp, Thaddeus Howze. 1 Comment

Dire_Wolf

“I haven’t been able to sleep.” Ben whimpered to his psychiatrist who doodled in the margins of his pad. The doctor stopped listening five minutes ago as his client went into his usual rant about his neighbors and their part in his overwhelming depression.

“I tell you, they talk about me behind my back since me wife died. She was the soul of gentility. Not a mean bone in her. I see them whispering about her on my way home from work.”

Dr Grumman considered his patient, trying to find a way to help him back from the brink. Ben was a decent man, his upbringing in a modest township in Cornwall meant his education was humble but serviceable. Despite that, his social charm allowed him to find his way into London and get work in the food service industry while he finished school as a chef. He met his wife during his time in school and fell tragically in love with her.

With only a few months left to finishing school, his wife was killed in a traffic accident and he had a nervous breakdown. He was unable to finish his schoolwork and forced out of his apartment. Since then, the man has lived without zest. A perfect example of the idea of depression as anger without enthusiasm. He seemed to repress all of his emotional energy becoming paranoid in the process.

“Are you sure they are talking about you? Perhaps you are still adjusting to coming home to an empty house. Death can be quite traumatic. Adding the loss of a job you’ve had for a long time and I could understand your feelings.” The doctor while appearing to not listen was still involved with his patient for at least three more sessions and his insurance ran out. With his wife’s death, Ben’s new job didn’t offer coverage for this type of therapy.

“Tell me how the new job is working out? Are you settling in okay?” This will probably keep him talking for another ten minutes.

“Crimey, I hate that place. The kids, those homeless bastards, drive me flippin’ nuts. I am not cut out for watching a homeless shelter, halfway house, or whatever the bloody hell they call the place in polite company.” This was the most emotion Ben had shown since he’d come into the office. His doctor stopped doodling and paid more than cursory attention. Emotion meant he was feeling something. This was a good sign.

Dr. Grumman sat up and looked at Ben more closely. Ben was a middle-aged black man who had lived in Cornwall most of his life until he married and moved to London. His wife, an insurance agent was their primary breadwinner and while he talks about her sainted nature, he admits to her being a bit overbearing from time to time. “Isn’t there anyone in this new job you like? I mean you prepare food for the entire place, their staff, the students, there isn’t a single person you have taken even the slightest bit to?”

“It’s not like that. The kids seem to be an okay lot but when they come together they lose any manners they seem to have individually. When they do that, I become the butt of their jokes since I am the only person dealing with food and preparation there. The kids have to do some time in the kitchen and I am stuck training training them. When they don’t listen, I end up having to talk to the floor manager. And him, if he were run over in traffic I wouldn’t miss ’em.” Ben’s face got tight and he stopped talking. His wife was killed the same way. His statement cut him deeply.

“Since we are almost out of time, I am going to renew your prescription. I want you to stay on your dose and keep going to work. I want you to make an effort to work with the young person in your kitchen. You don’t have to be friends, I just want you to be friendly. I know it’s been hard for you. But put yourself in their place and see if you can find it in your heart to expand your perspective. Think about someone else for a change and I’ll see you again next week.” The doctor got up and reached out his hand. Ben stood up, noticed the doctor’s hand, and shook it perfunctorily.

“Doctor, I wanted to tell you about a dream I’ve been having.” His face was as serious as Grumman had ever seen him.

“Ben, can it wait? I have another patient outside?” Grumman hated putting him off like this, he genuinely liked this simple and pleasant fellow.

“Sure thing guv, I’ve sat on these dreams for a couple of sessions, I figure they will work out just like everything else. We can talk about it next week.” Ben smiled painfully and slid past the doctor on his way out the door. He wished he could have remembered to talk about the dreams earlier in the session. They were vivid and disturbing. Right now, nothing a pint wouldn’t handle. Ben Fisher went to a local pub and put the dreams out of his mind.

A man in a long coat with wide-brimmed hat walked in behind him and took a table a few feet from his. Their eyes never met, but he never stopped watching Ben for the entire evening. He noted his drinking habits, his speech, the fact his eyes would look at women and then turn away painfully; lust in his heart, shame on his mind. He never spoke other than to the young waitress who served him. Though the pub was crowded, no one intruded on his table. He gave away the other seats to patrons and drank quietly until Ben Fisher decided he needed to go home.

He followed him, staying out of Fisher’s sight, though in his current state, he would not notice much. His apartment was a modest place was off the main road. He passed through a close and piss-soaked alley, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the narrow passage between two aging buildings. He remembering how much he hated visiting London, it reminded him of his claustrophobia.

Ben Fisher reached his apartment unmolested. And then the man in the hat waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

A black dog appeared on Ben Fisher’s apartment steps. One second he wasn’t there, and then he was. He was a massive specimen, square in the chest with a large head and powerful jaws. With only a momentary sniff in the wind, the dog took off at a brisk pace down the street. The Man in the Hat turned his collar up and followed as quickly as he could.

The dog moved soundlessly up the street and turned into a section of town best left by decent people after dark. It stopped and smelled the air and trotted with purpose, as if it were on the scent of a particular target. People who saw it jumped out of the way, surprised at its soundless approach and massive size. A few people even got on their cellphones to report the animal especially since the recent news.

Imagine their surprise to note the animal disappeared from sight in the time it took for them to make their call. Flustered, half hung up in embarrassment, the other half continued their report determined to have someone take them seriously. They never noticed the man who followed the hound, who slipped equally smoke-like between passersby amazed at the animal’s speed.

The man was grim and determined. He had failed to stop this creature for two nights in a row. It had already claimed three previous victims. The police assumed it was a man who used a large dog for a weapon. The victims were always young toughs, often homeless, found savaged and robbed in poorer sections of town. The only witnesses were unreliable, claiming a dog of immense size and strength killed the men and vanished in a mist.

Dire-Wolf-dire-wolf-31888569-300-417Last night, the police were able to confront the creature. It did not go well for them. Though none of them died, most were savagely mauled and two of the eight were in critical condition. The Man in the Hat had arrived too late to stop it. He didn’t know what to look for. Now he did. Tonight would be different.

The dog had vanished. In his moment of reverie he had taken his eyes off the beast. Damn.

A blow struck him from behind, something massive, slammed into his back, knocking him to the ground. The weight stayed on his back and he could feel the cold breath of the animal as it stood there and growled menacingly. He could feel his cursed mark pulsing with anticipation.

The beast walked around toward his face and kept within inches of him. It made eye contact and held it. Feral, wild, unbridled rage coursed through those eyes.

The man fixed his hat and stood up, never breaking eye contact. “Ben Fisher. I would like to offer you a job.”

Part 1

Anger without Enthusiasm © Thaddeus Howze 2013, All Rights Reserved

Paranormal 2

Written For 30

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