Hub City Blues

The Future is Unsustainable

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  • Hub City Blues

Hub City Blues (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 10, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: .40 caliber, Calorie, cars, data feed, ebonstorm, encryption, Herald Tribute, Hub City, Hub City Blues, Military drone, MP-40, municipal script, nature, news distribution, outdoors, prowler, pulse rifle, Ralos Franklin, RFID, State Patrol. 1 Comment

Hungry Secrets

a tale of Hub City

Carol, I have been on the road for several weeks after leaving Buffalo. I tried to go toward New York but the flood of refugees tell me that it is only a matter of time before New York is under water. I am glad I listened to you when you suggested we move to Buffalo. I am following what’s left of Highway 80. The road is in bad shape and only the specialized tractor trucks with their tank tread modifications can make the trip between the large transit hubs. Good portions of the road are impassible to cars anymore.

I see more people on the road daily. I heard that an evacuation of several coastal cities started a few months ago and some of the ones with less effective water management systems have begun to flood. A lot of the people are sick. They are staggering down the road, feverish and barely mobile. Most are showing signs of AB432 infections. This means few of the countermeasures that were talked about late last year are working.

I want you to make sure the farm security is running and that Stan and Marian are keeping up with their gun training like we talked about. I even want Freddy to be able to shoot by the time I send for you. Yes, I know he’s eight. I think the road is going to be even more dangerous by that time. I have still been uploading photography along the route to the video promotion agency who has continued to pay me in Calories. I have been transmitting all but the tiniest ration to you and the group and trading them when I find a few Outliers who might need some corporate script to supplement their farming income. To be honest, I have seen most of these farms, they are barely sustainable even with the hard labor being poured into them by the state sponsored shareholders.

Speaking of the State, I ran into a patrol two nights ago. They scared the hell out of me. I was sitting down with my covered fire, barely visible from the road. I was looking through the vid-feed trying to decide which shots would have the most market value. I never heard anything, they were just there, pulse guns flashing, and prowlers who were all around me, about to attack were lit up by their flares. I didn’t know what to do, so I ducked for cover and filmed the entire thing. Except for the one time when a prowler managed to get a drop on one of the State Patrol boys. He went down hard. I never realized how dangerous the prowlers were. The media stories don’t do them justice.

They were all fangs and claws and eyes that look like something straight out of hell. After ripping out the throat of the Patrolman, he looked at me and I dropped my camera. You’ll know the spot, I didn’t want to try and edit it here with my PADD so I sent the entire feed to you. I pulled out my MP-40 pistol and armed it. The pistol’s arming sound seemed to take forever as the prowler turned toward me and crouched down for a sprinting run.

I had not even thought about the MP-40 since I left the farm. For the first time since I left home, I wondered, would the damn thing even fire? I kept it sealed as Stan told me and when I activated it, I could feel the seals folding back and the gun priming itself. I admit two strange thoughts went through my mind as I pointed the fired .40 at a living thing. I remember what Stan told me when he gave it to me. “We don’t hunt with this weapon. It only has one purpose. To kill people. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, there is no point in giving it to you.”

I remember the damage the weapon made when it struck a tree and hoped I would never have to shoot anyone. I didn’t think I could look at anyone after they had been literally blown apart. I had never seen a prowler until now. All I could feel now was an overwhelming urge to shoot until the .40 was empty. The prowler could see my hand shaking and its predator’s grin grew wide, showing off its horrifying array of spiked teeth. I am not proud. I think I wet myself. With less than twenty yards between us he ran at me, screaming that sound they all seem to make when they attack.

“Armed,” the .40 chimed as the charge was stabilized. I waited just like Stan said. “Out there, you are only going to get one shot. Breathe. Hold for it. Look at my neck. You see these scars. I rushed. I fired too early and a prowler nearly took my head off. I was on patrol and I had help. You’ll be alone. You can’t afford the luxury of missing. They will come right for you. Wait for it.”

I could see you Carol. And Freddy. As the prowler ran toward me screaming, I screamed back because all I could see was you and how much I wanted to get back to you. He jumped, my god they can jump, and as he came out of the darkness, I pulled the trigger. His claw raked across my forehead just over my right eye. The .40 boomed directly into his chest, tearing a hole I could see stars through. He hung there in slow motion to me, our screams both cut short by the echo of the .40. The recoil knocked me back. I realized I hadn’t braced myself properly. The Patrollers had backed up to each other and waved to me. I ran to them and we waited together. I emptied the .40. All sixty rounds of it. The video quality is poor because I switched to a button cam but you can see just how fast and dangerous prowlers really are. Once I ran out of ammo, I switched back to my hand-cam. You will have to edit and correct once you get it.

Of the sixteen State patrollers only four survived the night. One died the next day. I filmed all of it. Come dawn we counted over eighty of the prowlers. One still had clothing on. They had never been seen to wear clothing. They ran an RFID scan and tracked it back to a medical patient in Virginia. No one was sure how prowlers came into being until now. I think prowlers are recipients of the first serum used to cure AB432! Don’t repeat that. I am not getting sued.

The first serum was suspected of having a genetic side-effect. The claim was “undesired sterility.” You remember our report early last year. It was the serum they abandoned after its efficacy was questioned. We thought it was over until we were reviewing some secured police records when the feed was interrupted. One of the Patrol said he was receiving IFF telemetry from an unidentified heavy drone on the scanner, likely a military one. One look to each other and my news-sense kicked in. Without a word, we ran back to the patrol cars and took off.

In our rear views we recorded all the bodies being vaporized by what appeared to be a long range missile strike, right where we were. I caught everything on film in HD. Less than two minutes later we ditched the vehicles and hid as other armed drones blew up our cars with cruise missiles. We stayed under cover until dawn and the drones had to pull away to refuel. It was hotter than hell today and we didn’t cover much ground. We were also forced to spend a lot of time dodging unmarked drones. Our only saving grace was our electronic jammer that kept them from getting satellite locks on us.

I am sending this video feed to you via our encrypted drops. Use the anonymous drop and release only the clips up to me embarrassing myself. Edit, correct and caption everything else. Store and hide the rest. Scrub any payments for backtracing and take only properly anonymous payments. I will head directly to Hub City, yes the first one, and find the Herald Tribute data feed. Once I am on the payroll, I will find a way to get you here.

I do not want you or the family to be walking now. Something is wrong and no one is telling us. I trust Stan to be brilliant and shoot straight but this is something completely different. Its not just about prowlers anymore. Someone is making money on this. And they are not delivering the cure we were promised. You all stay safe. Keep the kids away from people and keep this feed safe. We will be in touch soon. I promise.

Ralos Franklin

Freelance Investigative Reporter ID #NY3296-173
(seeking employment)

Hub City Blues © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Proceed cautiously to Hub City Blues (2)

Hub City Blues (4)

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 7, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Hub City Blues, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: demon, fantasy, great collapse, Hub City, Japan, mirror images, modern, monster, Oni, shadow, the Harrowing, urban. Leave a comment
Matte_paintings_for_musik_vide_by_sven_sauer

The Host – The Gates of Perdition (2)

a tale of hub city

Derdekea’s paper sword squeezed tightly in her left hand throbs as the darkness consumes all the light in the room.

Only the sputtering glow of Guthriel’s flaming sword and the weak light of the paper blade remain. Snarling Face walked toward them and the souls of the other two damned souls followed closely. One, whose face is twisted in fear, the other in an abject sadness and despair. Fear looked over the shoulder of Snarling Face and whispered “Which one of these are we keeping, Brother?”

Despair walked over to Derdekea, slowly, tentatively as if he expected her to strike out at her. In truth, she wondered why she hadn’t. Normally, she would have had no problem destroying the reawakened souls of the departed, they were beyond redemption and that was why the Harrowing was able to take them in the first place.

But this creature seemed different, more pitiable and this stayed her hand, for a moment. Despair looked at her, into her eyes and his sadness revealed the rigors of his life, a split second that encompassed the despair of a life, barely lived.

Charles Dempsey, store clerk, marginally employed at a supermarket down the street for ten years. Failed to graduate high school, dated a girl who got pregnant and decided he was not good enough to be a father and took his baby to another city, possibly New York, she never told him.

He started drinking and for a moment it was okay. One drink lead to two, two lead to four and after a while he could drink a six pack in an evening after his shift. Then a twelve-pack. He got hooked on painkillers, hoping they would help him sleep. Never did. He lived in between his job and his painkillers, a life he wanted someone to take and relieve him of his responsibilities.

Enter Nesbitt. Bastard, drug dealer, parasite, always snarling about something. Convinced Charles to let him crash at his place in return for drugs. Nesbitt was a sadist. He hurt everyone, with his words, with his fists, with anything he could lay his hands on. Charlie and Nesbitt fought regularly once Nesbitt decided he wasn’t moving out.

Nesbitt brought some guy home with him some nights, some whiny crybaby Nesbitt would be in his room beating with a belt or whatever they used. Charlie didn’t know, didn’t care. Whiny always left in the morning when Nesbitt did. Came home with Nesbitt did. Oh, God, why didn’t I change the lock, I could have just left…

He came in this evening and was crazed, he said I was a waste of space and today he was going to change all our lives tonight. He had met some people who told him what to do. He hit me with a pipe. I could feel him cutting me but he tied me up and I couldn’t see what he was doing, then the room filled with shadows and I think I died.

In that moment, Charles Dempsey realized he was dead. Derdekea swung her sword, splitting the essence of what was the fearful, despairing soul of Charles from the Charles who struggled to find a reason to get to work on time every day.

The Charles that managed to find the address of his girlfriend and send her some money every month, even though she didn’t do anything with the money but spend it on booze.

The Charles who cooked breakfast for cruel Nesbitt and Whiny because it was the decent thing to do for the only people who were friends to him for a time. The Charles who helped at a shelter before he was too far gone in his drugs.

The Charles who tried to find a reason every day to live, she took that person and cut him from the evil and despair he had allowed to fill the holes in his spirit, and she reaped him, taking his goodness into herself and if she survived this encounter, she would release him to his reward. He had suffered enough.

Snarling Face, formerly known as Nesbitt looked on and said nothing. Whiny turned away from Charles as he slumped to the floor. Nesbitt had locked eyes with Guthriel and the two of them were locked in some private hell that Derdekea could not help her sister battle.

It took all of her will power to hold the darkness at bay so they could confront these wayward souls tapped by evil to a darker purpose. Their first goal, to close the gate to the Harrowing. The second to save the souls of those who might be trapped or damned by it. Baring that, destroying any evil that might attempt to escape and create more suffering. Charles had to die first.

The Harrowing draws its power from Despair and Charles was the focus here. Nesbitt is a sadist and Whiny a masochist, their energies bound together both in life and death. Guthriel is not battling one soul but two.

The shadows began to shift toward Guthriel and Derdekea moved closer to her sister to offer her cover. There were five or six, they shifted in the light of their swords and lapped tiny tendrils of darkness toward them, tasting them like a serpent tastes the air around it for the scent of a succulent snack, just out of reach.

This gate was different. It was crowded with a variety of different Harrowed souls. Shades were the souls of people who died in a place but could not move on, this place was rife with them. The newly dead, whose life force especially when spent violently was bound to a place and could harvest energies they spent there as living creatures for their own undead purpose. And there was one more here. One who had not revealed itself.

Nesbitt was sweating. The dead don’t sweat, but his soul exerted effort and that manifested as a sweat, like it would in life. Guthriel was winning. She was beginning to smile. Nesbitt fell back, expecting to be caught by Whiny, who stepped out of the way and left him to fall. Guthriel, now free walked up to Whiny and raised her sword.

“Gurthiel, no!”

“Trust me, sister.” Guthriel reached out and grabbed Whiny and pulled him to her. She kissed him gently on the lips. Nesbitt howled, in rage and frustration as Whiny slowly melted away in a few seconds into a puddle of blood at his feet. For the masochist, kindness was his poison.

“This wasn’t the power you promised me. You said they would be no match for the three of us. You lied to me!” Nesbitt shouted into the air in the room, screaming, spittle flying everywhere.

“I said they would prove resourceful. I said you would be challenged. You were simply not up to the task.” A silky voice whispered from the surrounding darkness. “But no matter, we will still be taking one of them with us this evening. Now get up off the floor, you worm.”

This was the thing they both felt from the moment they entered the building. A nameless evil that has coalesced into this one room, summoned by this idiot. Guthriel began to chant and her sword glowed brighter. Derdekea readied her weapon and reached into her coat to pull out several other small shapes.

“Now ladies, your host… well soon to be my host, will be recruiting one of you for our unholy army. Your choices are simple. You both die, or one of you serves us and the other gets to live until we hunt you down and destroy you.

Guthriel laughs and looks around the room at the twelve shadow forms surrounding them. “Not today, demon. Today, you decorate bottom of my shoe.” Guthriel made only the smallest of gestures and her Patron of Fire, illuminated the room as she breathed a wall of flame toward one side of the room, burning all of the shadows there.

Those that were not destroyed immediately were bound by the flames unable to break free. Derdekea swung her hand out across the room and her tiny paper objects flew out and pinned shadows to walls as each of the tiny stars became glowing beacons trapping the shadows on the other side of them. With the way now clear, shadows pushed back, only Nesbitt remained in the center of the room.

“This hardly seems sporting. Don’t you have an honor code or something? Two against one seems hardly fair.” Nesbitt voice had begun to take on the sound of the silky menace in the dark.

“Take it up with our union steward,” Guthriel hissed as she leapt toward Nesbitt, fiery sword whirling about her head, coming in for a killing blow.

Nesbitt parried using an arm swathed in darkness, he moves and striking her full in the chest, she is thrown across the room into the far corner of the house. Guthriel rebounds almost immediately and returns to the fray.

Derdekea has already engaged Nesbitt, her sword of force, bounding from his flashing hands, parrying her attacks. Guthriel adds her sword to the attack and Nesbitt appears nonplussed by her appearance. The three of them, dancing through the apartment, testing, probing, taking the measure of the other.

Nesbitt catches Derdekea off guard, and a barely blocked attack drives her to her knees. Turning his full attention to Guthriel, he gathers a sphere of shadow and repels her backward driving her embedding her into the wall of the apartment. She hangs there for a moment and then slumps to the ground, unmoving.

“You, my dear, seem to be a bit more thoughtful than your sister. Perhaps I can convince you to join us and save her life. What I have done to her cannot be undone.” Nesbitt’s previous rabid screams had been replaced with the slick sound of the demon’s voice. Nesbitt was dead now.

Whatever good might have been able to be salvaged was now absorbed and replaced with pure evil. There was no redemption for him now. Derdekea reached into her pocket again and scattered some slips of paper onto the floor and turned to attend to her sister.

“Don’t turn your back on me. Do you know who I am?”

“No. And in a minute, neither will anyone else.” Derdekea reached down and grabbed Guthriel, and slung her over her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow and labored.

The demon turned toward the shadows on the wall and waved them free of their burning or star bound prisons. He absorbed them into himself and Nesbitt’s pitiful form was transformed in a swollen dark shape, dripping ichor from its over-sized fangs. Its blue-black skin shown with a sickly hue and its eyes burned with a terrible fire. Derdekea recognized it as an oni, a terrible spirit of malice that hailed from Japan.

“We have come to your lands her and found the despair here richer and deeper than anything where we have lived before. Many of us have already come and many more will be following. In the days to come you will regret your duties to this city in ways you cannot imagine.

Look within you. You can no longer hear the Source, can you? That was our influence here. We have made the Harrowing strong and you are now alone. There is nothing you can do to stop us. So I say to you again, which of you will stay so the other may live? We are honorable and will keep our word.”

Derdekea turned her back and strode toward the open hole where a door once stood. “Personally we don’t care who you are, or how far you have come to be here. If you did your homework and it sounds like you did, you would know we have protected this city for a hundred years, through times that make today’s despair seem quaint and old-fashioned. Through times when Old Powers strode the Earth like giants. There may be many of you and only two of us, but do not confuse numbers with potency. You will find yourself falling short. Take this message to your masters. Get out of our city before we drive you out. This is your final warning.”

The tiny stars, carefully folded so that thousands of bits of Derdekea’s essence was bound into every folded corner, each star unfurled, flinging her power across the room, each tiny fold sprinkling the tiny bit of sparkling power as the paper reversed itself from a folded to a flat state. The oni looked on, touching the tiny sparkling fountain of light as it covered the entire room.

“Is this it? A child’s toy? My masters oversold your abilities greatly. I shall enjoy wearing your skin as a decorative belt. Wha? What’s happening?” The tiny sparkles began to burn, no matter where they touched in the room, a fire started, a white fire, that filled the room with light, a thousand tiny flames joining together covering and destroying all of the darkness and any spiritual presence within it. The house would be purged of all the despair and negative emotion that had taken up residence here.

The oni’s screams as its hand that it waved through the sparkling lights caught fire and any effort to put it out, only spread it. The sound was like that of a dozen baying hounds, long and mournful. The crackle of the flames behind her fill the apartment transforming from supernatural to a natural and cleansing fire. Sirens sound in the distance, creeping closer.

Derdekea looked back, gathered her power and closed the Harrowing gate behind her.

The Host © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Hub City Blues (3)

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 4, 2012
Posted in: Hub City Blues, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: demon, fantasy, great collapse, Hub City, Japan, mirror images, modern, monster, Oni, shadow, the Harrowing, urban. 2 Comments

Matte_paintings_for_musik_vide_by_sven_sauer

The Host – The Gates of Perdition (1)

a tale of hub city

A cold, grey night in Hub City, a night where everyone walks a little faster to get home, looks over their shoulder a bit more often and prays they won’t be one of the many who never makes it home.

Two women stride confidently down the darkened streets of Southside, unconcerned about the threat and menace standing on every corner underneath the train tracks. Urban predators are not their concern this evening, they have their eye on more dangerous prey.

Sniffing the wind, the first woman, a blond with her hair plaited back into a single braid, turns left, then right and then strides purposefully into the night. The second woman, her tightly dread-locked hair, hangs about her shoulders, follows closely, matching her stride.

Both move with a sinuous grace, panthers moving through a city of gazelles. Both wear utilitarian clothing, a military uniform, close-fitting with a long dark coat. They were both of medium height and except for their skin and hair could have been sisters. Anytime they stopped, they appeared to move as mirror images of each other, reflecting and watching over the shoulder of the other; two moving and thinking as one.

Ahead of them, their target looms high in the sky, a series of projects made when Hub City was young and filled with promise. A place that promised to house the hundreds of families who would work in the factories, piers and industrial areas of the city.

For a time, these buildings did what they promised, giving hope to the masses that flocked here from neighboring towns that suffered after the Great Collapse. Ten decades had not been kind to the Border Towers. Refit and often rebuilt, the promise faded and it slowly turned into a slum.

Where it was once only three towering buildings it was now a series of mazes of over twenty primary structures, each fifteen to thirty stories tall. As the economy of Hub City fluctuated, the services supplied to the area did too. And eventually when crime came to Hub City, it came to the Towers as well. The last two decades were the worst.

Walking toward what was once the crowning jewel of The Towers, Building 1, the two women stopped and looked up at the cold and impressive edifice. Where it was once a jewel and shone with hope, it now radiated a dark and sinister menace. The lights from open windows felt like eyes and they could sense what they were seeking was also aware of them.

The two women named Guthriel and Derdekea barely pause to notice the windblown litter and empty beer cans scattered in front of the building. They seem out of place here, these beautiful women, but they attract no attention from the young men standing out front talking trash and furtively smoking cigarettes in the cold winter air.

Conversation pauses as they walk by the group but starts up immediately again as if nothing has happened. The security of Building One, once included a doorman and desk has fallen away to a locked security door and bullet-proof glass. Guthriel tugs the door and it resists. Setting herself, she tugs again and the door yields, complaining but allowing them to pass. The lock snaps quickly behind them, as if to remind them who was in charge.

Once inside, Guthriel turns down the corridor in the old tenement, her braid swinging as she turned the corner. She paused to get the scent, a salty stink, like burnt Chinese, upstairs. “Kea, keep up.” Once she sees, Derdekea she runs up the stairs.

Derdekea whispers, an old Word, and the young men scatter from the door, all remembering a previous appointment, something pressing, something that can’t be missed. Satisfied, she turns into the building and picks up her pace even as the sense of foreboding grows stronger.

Derdekea takes a sheet of paper from her pocket and begins folding it even as she leaps up the stairs three at a time. Her hands are blurring and the sheet of paper begins to glow, illuminating the poorly lit corridor, its cracked marble stairs stinking of urine and spotted with well-stomped chewing gum. She can hear Guthriel ahead chanting, connecting herself with the Source. They climb the twenty floors without pausing until the stink is overwhelming.

As they open the door to the floor they hear the sound of someone running down the hall in the dark. Guthriel steps into the hall as the young man slams into her. She does not move and he bounces off her on the floor. He stinks of fear and Guthriel pauses as she realizes he is not a threat.

“Dammit, kid, get the hell out of here, are you trying to get yourself killed?” Guthriel smacks a young man in his early twenties in the head and pushes him down the stairs. He is wearing a backpack and what looks like an kitchen apron. He is carrying a frying pan. As he runs past Derdekea she can sense the Harrowing on him.

He must have just passed the doorway! He runs past Derdekea like he was on fire. Guthriel pauses and smells her hand. With a sneer, she turns and reaches into her pocket. She pulls out a lighter, an ornate thing, silver and covered with embossed images and sigils. She makes a handsign and waves Derdekea up the stairs. Derdekea finishes her last piece of paper, folding something that resembles a tiny sword in the palm of her left hand. “Ready?” Guthriel nods.

Before either of them can take a step, the door at the end of the hall explodes and the sound echoes along the hall. Splinters of metal and stone precede the door as it whips toward both of them.

Each whispers a single Word. Sparks strike them and flash away. A split second later, the door whirls past both them. Where they were both once standing, there was nothing but space. It misses each of them by mere inches. The two of them, nod in acknowledgment as the door reaches the other end of the corridor and blows the window out like a bomb, complete with a fiery explosion.

Guthriel flicks her lighter and a sword of flame forms, crackling, sizzling with the sound of bacon frying. Derdekea waves her hand over her paper sword and a barely visible form of a sword forms in her left hand while her right hand shimmers with hidden power. They streak up the hall to the apartment door toward the manifestation.

Guthriel points her sword into the darkened aperture and the whoosh of a flamethrower sounds, attempting to light the darkness. A doorway absorbs the flame as it disappears from view.

Derdekea draws a sigil, one of the first Words of Closing in the air before the door. “Something’s holding it open. Something strong.” She drops her hand and the power gathered there fades. She then takes Guthriel’s hand and both step into the darkness.

There are no words for the Harrowing. It is the opposite of light, it is the opposite of warmth. Where you expect to see shadow there is something darker. The room is still the same, but this room is across a threshold showing you the shadow of a room, each item billowing with the essence of the real world, tainted with hate, fear, loathing, the room if you could see the secrets of a place, know all the violence, the anger the frustrations, fears, hurts, all the darkness a place might know. This was the Harrowing. A place right next to everything you know and secretly fear. The two of them walked into the apartment into a scene of carnage.

There were three bodies, all torn asunder, blood everywhere, but the blood shown on the walls, a luminescent red, slowly cooling as the bodies did. The Harrowing lit the world in black and white and shades of grey, only the vices of the world had color here.

Sitting in the corner of the room were three forms, the three bodies looking like they did once in life, but without their masks. Each face twisted into a rictus of hate, fear, sadness.

“You ladies look lost.” Snarling Face turns toward them and does not seem afraid. Most upon their death seem consumed with the idea of passing. He looks joyous. “Don’t mind the decor, we were thinking of sprucing up the place.” He turned toward them and as he approached the room grew darker, more oppressive, the very air, heavy in their lungs.

Derdekea’s sword began to glow brighter trying to counter Snarling Face’s essence. Guthriel took her flaming sword and swept it in front of them, a sheet of fire flashed across the room and arched toward Snarling Face. He turns his head and puts his hand up to shield himself.

The fire fills the room with a righteous glow and for a moment, the apartment returns to normal and the poverty of the people who lived there was evident. Food containers lie scattered, an old television with a hanger for an antenna sits across from a tattered sofa, missing a cushion.

“Tut, tut ladies. Is that anyway to treat your host? You realize we have other guests?” Snarling Face looked at them and then pointed. His smile was one of triumph. Behind them, a sense of threat manifested as shadows peeled themselves from the walls to stand behind them.

The shadows thickened and the weak light from the hallway went out.

Continue to Hub City Blues 4

The Host © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Brothers – The Bridge

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 26, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: African American, Black, ebonstorm, fiction, Hub City Blues, male, prison-industrial complex, psychological warfare, social issues. Leave a comment

The Bridge

The room speaks of a bygone age, with vaulted high ceilings and crenellated baseboards, heavy curtains and floral wallpaper faded from the light of many summers shining through the large, open windows. The summer air comes in with the slight breeze, bringing with it the scent of eucalyptus trees that surround the nearby lake. There is the hint of ozone teasing the air, perhaps with the approach of a thunderstorm in a few hours. It is late in the day and the sun, low in the sky, creates an orange luminescence in the room highlighting flecks of dust floating lazily in the early evening.

The floors, old and wooden, shimmered with a wax that made them sparkle and were buffed to sheer perfection by Red. They made from strong wood, carefully chosen by men who cared how their work would be seen. They were craftsmen of old who did the kind of work rarely seen today. The kind of work a man did when he could be proud of his efforts, when he made something that would last. Once these floors were shined, that work could be enjoyed by all. And it was for more than six decades. While the building is old, it is still cared for by Red, whose relationship with it is more like a lover, providing tender ministrations, and helping the ballroom maintain a quiet dignity as the decades pass.

Coming to work here more than five decades ago, he and the ballroom have aged together, each retarding the forces of time on the other. Red, a large and still vigorous man moves lightly on his feet, as if he was listening to a music only he could hear. He always bustles about the place, and becomes invisible after a few trips to the building. He knows all there is to know about the place and manages to get two salaries due to his historical knowledge of the building. He is a curator of the many object de art that reside here and has personally taken a third of the photos that make up the photo gallery on the second floor. His work has been compared to the greats but he has remained a humble man, giving thanks to his old camera, his blessings of a sharp eye for the right moment to take a picture and the grace of God to allow him to keep taking pictures of things that mean so much to so many.

In the middle of the main ballroom, on the first floor are a bunch of folding chairs, looking out of place, small, insignificant, misplaced, lacking the elegance to even be here, splayed out in a circle, reminiscent of something out of an AA meeting or a psychologist’s encounter group. The ballroom, once a place for socials and dances, had sat quiescent for many years, until the city turned it into a community center. The building and her janitor are now, happy to be of use to someone, one more time. The room is scented with the subtle aroma of vanilla, designed to boost attention, without distraction. The ballrooms lighting is diffused with a slight manipulation so that it intensifies and overlaps in the center of the room. These lights, added later in the ballroom’s existence, could be directed to alter the appearance of the room, diversifying its potential uses.

The chairs were the hard and cold metallic ones you remember from church or from your prom. These happened to have the padded back and seat with a swirling pattern I was never fond of as a kid. They are arranged in a circle, two layers deep and has only a small pathway through the center of it. My beautiful assistant, chosen exactly because she is beautiful and secretly intelligent, thought this might be a better way of promoting equality and brotherhood. With no single point of focus, this would be a circle of potential energy. I liked the idea, the only thing we were missing were armor, swords and a Round Table.

Each chair is filled with a man. But not just any man. He is a man that has been recently released from the prison-industrial complex. I do not know their stories yet. But I will. For me to do this thing, I must. They sit, some twisting, twitching, stirring, never still, some have turned their chairs around to lean on the back. I do not discourage this. I want them to be as attentive as they can, so they are allowed to sit in whatever fashion facilitates that. They have been asked to remove their hats and their coats.They are all eating something. My assistant, Carolyn, arranged to have a variety of crackers, fruits, vegetables, nuts, cheeses and a few assorted meats available so that if anyone came hungry, they would leave full.

I let them eat for a few minutes. Most don’t know each other but I can see them sizing each other up, and they are at least aware that everyone here is a recently released felon. They were informed of that from their parole officers. At the moment, everyone is content to let any issues go, while they decide if this is worth their time to continue. At exactly 7:30, Carolyn leaves the room and heads home, her work done. Cleanup will be done by Daniel and Peter, two of the programs support staff who will be part of the training, should these gentlemen wish to continue.

While Carolyn is leaving, I enter the room at the same time. It is not an accident. I timed this to transition their awareness from her to me. I can leave nothing to chance. I walk in and move down the path to the center of the room. At the center of the room is a small table and a bottle of water, nothing else. No microphone, I want them to hear my voice, just as it is, not amplified or distorted because I want the message to resonate with them. They are used to tuning out those types of messages, they have had plenty of practice.

“Brothers,” I intone. “I call you Brothers, because that is what you are to me. Not in the filial sense, because we do not share parentage, brothers in the spiritual sense in that we share a common history, a common sense of the system, of the absurd, of the idea that we have been told that we are less than men, less than fathers, less than brothers, less than family. We have been told that there is no place in this society for us. That we can never pay our debt to society because we have been and will always be failures.”

I sense their bristling, some turned on, others turned off, but I know that I have their attention now. “What if I told you that no one expects for you to do anything with your life. What if I told you that ultimately the system has only one agenda for you; that you return to prison as quickly as humanly possible. Would you be surprised to know that? I am betting you are not. I think for some of you that will be not only likely, it will be inevitable. You will not hear what I am saying today. You will assume that I am just another crazy do-gooder, trying to keep you from making your money and getting back into the game. If you think that is the case, you should leave now. Feel free to get some food on your way out, tell your parole officer, that you could not be bothered with that crazy man, and you will get back to your life as a parolee, looking over your shoulder, making your appointments and hanging with the homeboys until you end up making that mistake that sends you back to the Big House or gets you shot by some police officer with an ax to grind and uses your back for target practice. I can wait while you collect yourself.”

I see them looking me over, trying to find out something about me. Trying to size me up, figure out my weaknesses. I am a black man of modest build, formerly military, so my statue while under six feet, still has the impression of size, and compact power. I am dressed in all black from head to foot. A black hat, not quite a Stetson, but not quite a fedora, something from the Australian outback. A pair of casual black slacks, a black mock neck long sleeve shirt, a long black coat from China, one of my favorites, a pair of black shoes, recently shined for effect. I have on my wedding ring, no watch and a pair of stylish but dull wire-frame glasses. My goatee, clean and trimmed was recently touched up by my wife, so I am crisp and flaw free. I take this time to take off my hat and show that my head is completely bald so they get a feel for me. This is also done to let them know that the warm and fuzzy conversation is over. Now it’s time for business.

Nobody moves. My opening gambit was good.

“I assume that by coming here, you decided that you wanted more out of your life than you have gotten out of it to date. To do that, we must change your habits. Your life is comprised of your habits. You may not realize it, but your habits are what made it possible for you to be here, and will make it possible for you to be anywhere you want to be. We are the sum of our experiences, gentlemen. Never forget that. For most of you, that means your experiences sucked. Some of you come from broken homes, some of you are just not educated and for a few of you, you just don’t give a good goddamn. That’s okay; because today is your birthday. And the present I have for you, is one you have not had for a long time. It is a chance to live your life the way it was meant to be lived. A chance to make right what is wrong with your condition. You are not your condition. Your condition is where you ended up when you made poor decisions without thinking about the consequences. Today, I want you to let that go. I know it will not be easy because you are sure that you are everything that you are supposed to be and there is no way for you to be better. That is what you believe. I tell you that you are wrong.”

I point toward a section of the room that has a set of free weights and a bar bell already set up on the floor. There is also a small wooden triangle and a number of pieces of wood in varying shapes and sizes. Peter turns the light on near the setup and backs away. “I will pay anyone who can lift that bar twelve inches off the ground, one hundred dollars cash money.”

And they do. No one, not even the strongest of them can move the bar even a tiny bit. Many try stacking the wood in a number of fashions but nothing that will get the weights off the ground twelve inches high. The bar and wheels weighs seven hundred-fifty pounds. After everyone has exhausted themselves trying to lift the bar, there is an energy in the room, palpable, even a bit angry. I can hear the muttering, why did he bother to put that there if none of us could lift it? I don’t see the point. I think he was trying to make a fool of us. I am getting out of here. It’s impossible to move that thing…

Now it was time for phase two.

“I can lift the bar 15 inches off the ground. And so could any of you. I told you this was your birthday and I was going to give you a gift. And here it is.” I walk over to the bar and take the triangle and the piece of wood to it. I place the triangle and wood into a lever and fulcrum position. After a bit of adjusting for placement and getting a yardstick from the corner, I ask Daniel to stand near the bar with the yardstick for measuring. The board are strong, and I had tested this earlier so I knew it would work. With only the most modest of effort, I am able to raise the bar off the ground the requisite twelve inches. I hold it there for a few minutes and direct everyone to head back to their seats.

“I bet you think I cheated, huh? How many of you think so? A few hands went up, maybe a bit less than half. Technically, I raised the bar twelve inches from the ground. I obeyed the letter of my request. The results are what mattered. No one was harmed by my feat. No cheating took place. It was an adaption of a scientific principle called leverage. I know most of you have heard the word, now you have seen an application of it. And to quiet the anger I see in some of your faces, no, this was not done to make fun of you, it was not done to show you that I am smarter than you, no it was not done to make you look bad.”

I look around the room at them. Their faces, in various states, from bewilderment to outright frustration. But they sit and wait a bit longer. “To be fair, if you are angry, it was not about you at all. But it was. Because, this is how you ended up here. You listened to other people tell you about yourself. You listened to your teachers, your friends, your guidance counselors, your parents, and you did what they said, whether you realized it or not. I noticed that once one of you decided it was impossible to move the weight, most of you stopped trying to really move it. You are all reflective of a mindset that defeats you before you even try. I want to change that. I want you to believe that it is possible for you, despite all of the things that you have learned to date to do things you did not think was possible. Now lets be real for a moment, after all of you had tried to move that weight, when I said I could do it what did you think?”

There was polite laughter in the room. “And after I did it what did you think? I know what it was. ‘I could have done that.’ And you would be right. You could have done that. If you knew that was a choice. The work we will do in the coming weeks will be about learning about your choices, learning about the choices you really have and the choices you must learn to make if you want a life different than the one you have had to date.”

I go back to the center of the room, because up until then I was moving around, to make sure I had their attention, focusing my eyes and my will upon them. I wanted them to feel my intensity about this and to have it burn into them. “But just so you know, I have sat where you are sitting today. I was once smarter than everyone around me. No one could tell me a damn thing. I knew it all. But I never took responsibility for anything bad that ever happened to me. I always blamed someone else. When I got caught stealing, it was my friends idea. I could always lie and blame someone else. And I lied like a dog. Because it was easy and I felt like I was getting over on people. And I would have kept on doing it. Except that someone precious to me paid the price. They died because I lied. And then reality caught up to me. I had to learn a new way of doing things. And I resented it and the man who taught it to me. And I resented the way he taught me, he cut me to the quick with his words, his cruel words, his truthful words. And I learned from him. Twenty years later I have everything I could want from my life and then some.”

I directed my will into the center of the room, focused my voice, softened it, to make them strain just a bit to hear me.” But this is not about me. This is about you. This is about your chance to do all those things you never knew you could. But I am going to need something from you. And you will think it is a small thing at first, but you will realize with this thing I ask, it is the greatest thing you could do for yourself or for anyone else. If you can’t do this thing, I will understand. You can leave right now and no one will fault you for it.”

I pause, waiting to see if anyone is going to leave. I know they won’t they have not heard the pitch yet. “In every interaction that you do from now on, I want you to tell the truth. I want you to be honest in all of your dealings with everyone you know. This means if you know you should not be doing it, don’t. If you know that it will hurt someone if they knew it was happening, then don’t do it. If you have kids and you have not seen them and do not want to because you are not ready to do so. Say so. Know that it will come a time that I will expect that you will want to see your kids, meet your families and stand before them, as new men. But for right now, I ask for this simple cornerstone of character from you. Tell the truth, all the time. And yes, I know. In the beginning, no one will believe you. Why should they? Tell them you are starting over, you had a birthday and you want to make your next birthday something you can be proud of. To tell the truth in a world filled with lies and liable, is an act of rebellion. This will be your first most important act of rebellion in your new life. Telling the truth will be the key to your new life. Will it be easy? No. Especially if you are not living a life above reproach. But if you are going to be telling the truth, tell the truth to everyone, including yourself.”

“There is one more thing I wanted you to think about before you go. There was one other way to get access to that one hundred dollars. Daniel, Peter, if you please?” Dan and Pete are both strapping lads who work out every day. Together, they walk over to the weight and each takes a side and together they lift the bar bell more than twelve inches off the ground. I walk over to them and give them fifty dollars each.

“Think about the idea that you are no longer in the world alone. For you to make the next steps toward success, you will need to learn to work together. We will be starting the program next week for anyone who believes that they can learn something useful here. When you come back next week, I want to hear your adventures in truth-telling. Take all the food you want, and if you find yourself in need, there is local soup kitchen open every day down the street.”

As I put on my hat, someone said to me that I did not tell them my name. “Paul, you can call me Brother Paul.”

Brothers © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved


Equinox: The Last Scion (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 23, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Equinox: The Last Scion, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: divine, Equinox, Equinox: The Last Scion, Gaia, Hart, magic, powers, science fiction and fantasy, shapechanging, Umbra, urban fantasy, YA fantasy, young adult. 2 Comments

equinox – the last scion (part 1)

Did I mention that I hated my father?

No, I probably didn’t. Lying face down in an alley would not give me much time to explain that. Since we have a minute, I think I can give you the Reader’s Digest version.

Okay to be fair, until today, I knew almost nothing about him. Not really. For the longest time, I thought my father was a demon or something. He did not explain what he was. Okay, he didn’t explain anything. I learned to accept the impossible as a lifestyle choice.

He and I had not always had the best relationship, most would barely classify it as a relationship at all. Unless you consider pain a relationship. That was something we had in common. From as far back as I can remember, we did painful things together. I learned to walk in a week, and I remember it vividly. The whole time, he was right there pushing me. Things did not get easier as I got older. He was constantly there drilling me in everything. I didn’t get to learn one language when three was better. I spoke six well by the time I was ten.

I worked out physically every single day of my life. Every day. I could do a hundred push-ups at a sitting, by the time I was six and did nearly five hundred a day by the time I was fifteen. Once he decided I was really fit, he began teaching me to fight, dance, sing and kill.

On days when he was not home, he left me in the capable hands of my governess, Ms. Hart. Don’t let the name fool you, she did not have one. She was even more cruel than he was. She would enhance my fighting skills, endurance training, rock climbing, mountain biking, from sunrise to sunset. When he came home, battered, and bruised, she would bandage him, talk with him and once he was covered in bandages, he would see how much I had learned. By the time I was thirteen, I had broken nearly every useful bone in my body.

Here is where it got strange. We never went to the hospital. They would take me into the basement, put me on a table covered with cuniforms. They would wrap my wounds and leave me there during the night. Come the dawn, I was whole again. He had no problem breaking me again the next day and would leave me with my pain until sunset. We would fight while I was broken, punishing me, pushing me until sometimes I think my mind would break as well. The Slab did nothing for that.

We trained, he broke me, he left, she trained me, she homeschooled me. He came home, broke me, repeat. I never went to a real school and rarely met the neighbors anywhere we ever lived. We would move every two years, so it was just as well I never met anyone.

When I turned eighteen which was only a few days ago, we had been settled in New York City in the Bronx, hidden away in the poorer neighborhoods, where we were seen but not noticed. People avoided us and we avoided them. But not for the same reasons. I did not know what my father did for a living, but I began to realize it was more dangerous than I knew.

I always imagined he was a secret agent or something but I never gave it much thought since we seemed to have everything we needed and while Ms. Hart was not my mother, she was the closest, scariest thing I had to one. She would occasionally even talk to me, when she was not trying to kill me or teach me to read Erdu. Life was relatively good and while my father and I rarely had long conversations, I did not think anything was out of the norm.

Until today.

He came into the house and locked the door. But when you lock our doors, we had a variety of mechanisms that needed to be activated. Deadbolts that covered all four corners of the door. Steel reinforced doors, covered in sigils. Each window was also able to be sealed with lightproof, bulletproof and layered glass.

He was hurt bad. I had never seen the kind of injuries he had today before. Once he locked the door, he turned around and looked at Ms. Hart and she grabbed me and pulled me into the safe room below the primary household structure. This room also doubled as our weapons room and the walls were festooned with a variety of hand to hand and ranged weapons. A Special Forces operative would think he had died and gone to Heaven.

“Take this.” She handed me a beautiful handgun, covered in silver except for the black metallic handgrip. She pulled the clip and I saw the silver bullets, all fourteen gleaming in the clip. Driving the clip back, she pulled the slide and armed the weapon. “Take your time. Make every bullet count.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You were my best student. Don’t you dare die.”

She closed the door behind her and I could hear the muffled sounds of combat, bullets flying, explosions, and the sounds of something I have never heard before, a scream of unnatural proportions, it filled the room despite the fact it was outside of the locked space. The battle lasted for several minutes. Then it was quiet, but only for a moment.

Then the door was being shaken. I could see the sealing sigils on my side of the door glowing brightly. And then one by one, they went out. When the last one died, I could hear the door being ripped off of its hinges by a hideous strength. I heard the footfall of something touching each step. And with each step, a flare of a sigil would flash and the creature would release a terrible sound, but it did not stop coming. As it approached I was less than fifteen feet from it. I could see it had been injured and I remember the first rule of fighting. If you can injure, you can kill it. So I waited.

As it came down the stairs, and more of it came into view, the room grew brighter. I had always noticed, night had never been a hindrance to me. I never had a problem with darkness of any kind. When this thing came into the room, it was as if my vision was being blocked by its brightness. Would not stop me from putting a bullet in it.

The creature saw me, turned its head as if it were surprised, roared and rushed toward me, with its strange wings flashing light, its wicked claws outstretched, its muscular but strangely proportioned body causing the ground beneath its feet to crumple with its weight.

To me: it appeared to be moving in slow motion.

Each shot was perfect. One in each eye. two in what ever passed for a brain, two in both sides of the chest, two in each knee. The gun was a thing of beauty, the shell casings flew through the air, hanging there as each bullet struck home. I dove to the side at the last second, holding my last six rounds. Each bullet struck the creature and when it hit, a black blood stood out against its radiant body and rained around the room. Where each drop of that blood struck, the object simply disappeared into a cloud of dust. The creature struck the wall on the other side of the room and lay still.

Not dropping my guard or my weapon, I backed out of the stairwell and climbed to the top of the stairs. At least two dozen of these things were all over the building, ripped to shreds by bullets, or weapons or magick. I did not feel anything for them. Even dead, they caused revulsion but they reminded me of something. I just wasn’t sure what. When I got to my father’s study, I found him barely alive with six of the creatures lying around him.

“You have to go. They weren’t here for me. They were here for you.” His breathing was ragged. His chest was ripped by the claws of these creatures down to the rib cage. I could feel his body’s heat, he was like a furnace. “They were here for this.” He points at his chest.

“What?” I didn’t see anything.

“Equinox.” He spits up blood.  “You have to find her. She is still alive. They can’t kill her.”

“What is Equinox? Ms. Hart? I don’t understand.”

“I thought we would have more time… Please forgive me. This will hurt.”  He reaches into his chest, ripping past his ribcage with both hands. His scream fills me with more terror than anything I had heard this evening. Until today, I had never heard him make a sound related to pain. He pulls out a blob of darkness from his chest where his heart should have been; it felt sinister, terrible and alive.

He grabs my neck with one hand and with the other presses the darkness against my chest. No pain I had ever felt even came close to this. It was as if everything I had ever lived though was happening at the same time. Every injury flared with renewed trauma, every break screamed a vigorous shout as if to say, “I’m back!'” I wanted to run, to push away, but there was nothing that could be done. I screamed until my voice broke and nothing but my whimpering filled the room. The last thing I remember was his warning. “Stay away from the Light.”

And that was the last thing I remembered until I woke up in this alley. The building I was in was still within my line of sight and was currently burning down. In my hand was a small black stone covered in cuneiform. It felt heavy as hell.

*  *  *

“Get up, boy.” His voice was rough, like a heavy smoker, husky with a slight country twang. “Get up, we have to go now. Where is your father?”

“He didn’t make it. Who the hell are you?” I tried to sound tougher than I was. Then I threw up. He moved.

“It will burn all night. The Light makes for fine kindling. Gives us cover.” He wore a black trenchcoat made from some strangely slick matte-black leather. It was thick, coarse and had a weird animal smell. His clothes were hard to make out as if they defied my ability to focus on them. His shoes were a serviceable boot with hard metal studs all the way to the kneecap. “Get it out, because in two minutes we will be in the wind.” The firefighters gathered around the fire were not having any luck putting out the fires.

“They have my governess. My father said I had to find her.” I started to feel a bit better.

“I don’t care two bits about your nanny. Your father called me and told me to come and get you. I got you. My job is to keep you alive. You are my priority now.”

I did not appreciate his tone. I grabbed his jacket and pulled myself to my feet. I leaned in close. “She is the closest thing I have to a family. I don’t know you and couldn’t give a damn about what your job is. So you help me or I will do this by myself.” My chest hurt but I could feel this strange power trying to gather itself.

“Alright, there is no need for that kind of talk. Do you have anything that belongs to her?” I thought about it and reached into the holster on my hip.

“This was hers.” He took off his jacket and threw it to the ground.

“Give me that.” He snatched the gun from my hand and released the clip. Then he threw the gun on the jacket. I watched him move his hands and with a ritual movement he touched his jacket. It became dark, shrouded in shadow and then the shadow stood. It had the shape of an alligator or crocodile, low to the ground long and masked completely in shadow. Except for its exceptionally white teeth. The gun was in front of it and it was sniffing the gun. It turned as if to smile, showing off its teeth floating in a shadow body, then it shot off into the dark. “If she’s still here, he will find her.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“We hope they don’t find us first. How much do you know?”

“About what?”

“The Life, boy. How much did your father tell you?”

“Nothing he didn’t have to. Which was basically nothing at all.”

“Did you get any schooling at all?”

“Yes, I got plenty of education, can speak a dozen languages, can use basic magic signs and sigils. I can fly anything, drive anything, fix anything and shoot anything.”

“Okay, so you’re not a complete idiot.”

“Are you going to tell me what is going on?”

“Eventually, but now is not the time. I reloaded your gun. Do not shoot unless I tell you so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go. He’s found something.”

“Your jacket?”

“Yeah, kid, my jacket.”

We ran out of the alley away from the fire and the only home I would ever likely care about. Once we got to the street we didn’t run but maintained a brisk pace as we headed toward the local boulevard. I could feel the tension draining out of me and I felt suddenly tired.

“You know, I don’t even know your name.”

“Umbra, kid. Keep up, pay attention. If you see anything out of the corner of your eye, you tell me, right quick.”

“Okay, Mister Umbra.” He pulled up short and turned toward me. He towered over me and looked me in the eyes. His eyes, previously hidden under his hat were suddenly visible. There was nothing but darkness in them. No iris, no sclera, just an sense of a never-ending night with tiny glimmerings of light.

“Umbra, no mister, no title. Just Umbra. I know you are working with a lot of stress and handicaps right now but I need you to focus. You are a man now, and you are one of us. We don’t take titles, we don’t use ’em. We have our name and that is the most important thing about us. Your father was Equinox. And now, that is your name. Whatever he used to call you is not important.”

He turned and kept walking up the street, focused on something far away. “He didn’t used to call me anything but Boy. I think I may have had a name we used when we introduced ourselves but it changed every time we changed towns.”

I was about to say something else when I saw it. There was a flickering in the corner of my eye. When I turned my head, I couldn’t see anything, but as soon as I stopped looking at it, I felt a distinct awareness of something on the side of my vision. The boulevard was almost completely quiet, with only a few people coming home from their night jobs, heads down, focused on getting home.

“Umbra…”

“Good, you saw them. Get ready, they are surrounding us. She is up ahead and still fighting.” In this section of the Bronx there was an overhead train system and there were pillars of steel holding the train above the city streets. I was able to ride the trains a few times. It was noisy but fun. There was a station ahead and she was still alive fighting there, but I could not see her, directly, only sense her. No one else seem to see or hear her either.

“You can’t see them can you?” He stared at me and then grabbed my head. He turned it left, than right, looking into my eyes. “You have not had it long enough.” He turned and bent over to pick up his alligator-cum-jacket. “Put this on. Its the only way you will be of any use to me. Don’t take it off for any reason.”

I gripped the jacket like I expected it to come to live in my hands, but it seemed to have returned to its jacket state, inert and still creepy. As I slid into it, I noticed its coldness, its seemed to suck away my heat and sweat and re-sized itself to fit my much smaller proportions. It was only then I noticed how big Umbra was. I was also aware, I could no longer see anyone on the street. Okay, that wasn’t true. I couldn’t easily see anyone on the street. It was if I was seeing them through a gossamer veil.

“Stop gawking. Get your head in the game.” With just a few more seconds. I became aware of them. Then I wondered how I could have missed them. They were massive, much bigger than the things that attacked the house. They had that same alien feeling about them, but they did not have wings. They made up for that by having two sets of arms. They were also surprisingly fast, much faster than their size would have you think. Their bodies had that same luminescent mother-of-pearl look to them and they did not have any kind of clothing, armor or weapons, save their wickedly clawed arms; all four of them.

Then I saw her; Ms. Hart. She was beautiful. And she was still fought with the creatures. She wore a silver body suit, similar to the one she trained me in. While she had it on, she was faster and stronger than she had any right to be. I had never seen her as fast and as deadly as she was tonight. I realized she was always taking her time with me. She could have destroyed me, at any time during our training

She looked tired. She was covered in blood, some bright red, some black. The blood of the creatures splashed on a nearby shadow person and they dissolved into a green and gaseous cloud, accompanied by a baleful scream of sheer terror.

She was using a metal shod spear made of the same shiny silver, with a blade at the tip and whipped it around her slicing away the limbs of the much larger creatures. But the loss of an arm did not seem to incapacitate them as well as I thought it should. But they were not asking me. I would have suggested rolling around on the ground.

She saw us approaching and instead of looking relieved she appeared to be far more angry. Her rage cost three of the glowing giants their heads. She vaulted over their bodies she strode toward us as the creatures used her break to completely surround us.

“What do you think you are doing?” Her voice was sharp like a knife.

“Rescuing you,” I began.

“You stupid boy, I lead them away so you could escape.” Her emphasis seemed to focus her will. Her words cut me. Literally. A slash opened on my cheek. Using my sleeve, I wiped away my blood and her rage. Where Umbra’s jacket touched, the injury was just as easily healed. But it hurt.

“And you, you ought to know better.” Her gaze fell on Umbra, who lit a cigarette and apparently ignored her.

The circle closed around us. The giants began to move toward us, a light in their eyes. The streets were clear, and a chill wind blew past me. I drew my pistol.

“Feel free to start shooting any time, kid.” He blew out his match.

Equinox: The Last Scion  © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

(Jump to Dancing in the Dark, part 2)

Spleen Rupturing Time

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 22, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: child, fantasy, hot @ebonstorm, rifle, science fiction, sun, Twilight Continuum, two eyes, two headed aliens, Voodoo doll, watering hole. Leave a comment


How could she leave me here? She knows I hate the sun. It so hot, I think my stuffing is melting. It’s been hours. I think she’s forgotten me. Feel myself getting weaker. What is that thing coming toward me?

Shoo. Go away. I am a mighty voodoo doll and I will make your heart explode or your feet fall off or, what else was I supposed to be able to do? 

Oh, yes, I will make your spleen rupture! That is what her father always says when he is lifting a water condenser or something heavy. So Jenel says that is one of my powers, too. Making spleens rupture. Whew. It’s going away. Think pleasant thoughts, she’ll be here soon.

Night. I have never been out at night. I am not sure I like it any more than the day. Jenel is usually tucking me in and telling me stories about The People and I used to ignore them. Now I would give anything for one. What’s that sound? Is it another animal? It’s huge and its reaching for me…

“What is it?”

“I think its a humie.”

“Stupid. They say ‘human’. Besides it’s too small to be a humie.”

“Are you sure? I have trouble with language. Humies are awful small.”

“Does it look like a humie? Does it smell like a humie?”

“Yes it does, it has one head, two eyes, two arms and two legs. And it does smell like a humie, too.”

Get your finger out of my eye, you clumsy oaf. Those buttons are very rare, thank you.

“Let me smell. Hmm. I think your right.”

Stop that, get your nose off of my head.

“Do you think they will miss it?”

“Of course they will. We will keep it safe until they come back.”

Oh, my. What is this terrible creature? Why is it lying down and clutching me? That sure does feel nice. Oh, wait, ouch, squeezing me too hard. I can’t believe the things I have to go through for that girl. What is that smell?

*   *   *

“I can’t believe you have me out here looking for your doll.”

“Please, daddy, I know I lost Jesque at the watering hole.”

“Okay, we still have a bit to do before the festival, so I need to get back.”

“I promise, if Jesque is not here, I will help you with whatever needs doing.”

“Fair enough.”

Beast! Wake up. I hear my girl Jenel. Get up, I tell you. I will rupture your innards this instant.

They see the creature lying down curled up in a ball, near the watering hole. It’s large, even from this distance, its size is stunning. Tucked in its arms is the small voodoo doll. The most amazing thing is it has two heads, sitting on top of its wide and powerful chest.

“Daddy, I see Jesque.” Jenel runs toward the creature heedless to any concerns except for her doll.

“Jenel, stop!” He raises his rifle that he never leaves home without. Karis III was not a planet you traveled unarmed. Having lived here for many years, they were familiar with most of the animals but not all. This was something he had never seen. It’s movements were slow and deliberate. His finger hovered over the trigger. He hoped he was making the right decision.

“Get up.” A hand smacks the other still sleeping head. “I smell humies. And boomsticks.”

Opening its eyes, the second head, was closer to the ground. “Look at that, its a tiny humie. And she is saying something. I wonder what it is? She is holding out her hand…”

She is saying give me back you dolt. I belong to her. I knew she would come and get me. Release me this instant.

“Do you see the second humie with the boomstick?”

It’s her father. He’ll fix this, right now. Yes, shoot this beast so I can come home. I have been out here all night.

“Oh, there’s another? See I told you they would come back for their kin. Just like we would do.”

“So give their kin back and let’s go.” The giant turning over and rising slowly to its knees, hands the doll back to the girl, Jenel.

She hugs it fiercely and reaches out to touch the hand of the giant. “Thank you.” Looking at the voodoo doll, she holds him out “Tell the nice giant, thank you, Jesque.”

I will not. Just look at them, two heads, scary eyes, rock-hard skin. And did you notice that smell? What’s there to be nice to? 

“I’m sorry. He has bad manners. He is a reformed voodoo doll. He still thinks rupturing spleens is good. He still has anger issues. I thank you in his place.”

Letting go of the giant’s finger. She turns and runs back to her father. He hugs her and warily backs away.

“What were you thinking girl? You could have been killed.”

“They seemed real nice. How come we have never seen one before?”

“Maybe they are very private.”

“We should do something nice for them.”

“We will talk about this when we get home.”

The giant gathers up its belongings, fills its water skin and sets off toward its home in the nearby mountains.

“Not so different from us.”

“Nope. Except for that one head.”

“I know. How do they handle the loneliness?”

“I can’t imagine.”

Spleen Rupturing Time © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

Insurrection: The Gentle Art

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 18, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: animal symbiosis, Corva, Essver Dream-singer, Galtan II, great trees, Humans, insect life, massive jaws, Resurrection Armor, science fiction, Sjurani, space opera, The Gentle Art. 2 Comments

Sitting in his personal tower, the Rex looked out over his wife’s domain and for a moment, smiled. A smile filled with sharp teeth and massive jaws, his wife’s favorite feature. The scent of wild life was rich and abundant and for a moment, he felt the urge to leap from the tower and stalk a wild surbuck, just for the thrill of it.

He turned his back from the open window hesitantly, regretfully before making his way into the keep. Smelling the hyper-oxygenated air of Galtan II, one of the twenty Gaian super-moons of the Toranor System, the sting of bitter ozone reminded him, while this was where he now resides, it was not home.

It was the primary enclave of the Pan-humanity and Sjurani governments. It is also home-world to the Beteans, a plant and animal symbiosis, strange even by galactic standards. On this world of forests, whose great trees rivaled the skyscrapers of modern worlds, both in  size and complexity, the ambassador to the Imperium contemplated leaving home again under less than ideal conditions.

While not exactly family-oriented, he had promised the Queen-mother once he had been awarded his genetic viability rating, he would have children to help perpetuate his beleaguered species. Entering deeply into the lair of the duchess, the hot air was still and smoky. This, of course, was the desired effect. One’s home should reflect the nature of the revered Homeworld’s beautiful tropical forest.

Insect life flew abundantly through the air and were fed upon by the various primitive house lizards, which occasionally became a snack for one of the children in the middle of the night if there were no adults nearby. The Rex moved though the household, which had the appearance of an old-world Sjurani castle estate made with the most modern equipment. And while it looked primitive, the security systems of the building were state of the art. The Rex marveled at how well organized the household appeared to be; almost military in its precision.

The lights of the audience chamber were kept at a low level allowing the eyes of the Family to maintain their hunting sharpness at night. The air was redolent with musks and other scents from dangerous animals of the local forest near the ducal estate of Shishe and the House Su-xing-qu. The Duchess insisted the surrounding countryside retain some of its wild nature and forced her hunt squads to travel deep into the nearby forest for prey.

She sat amid a variety of cushions covered of various silks from the Qiandong Human province on the continent of Chen. The silks from the region were some of the finest in the quadrant and even though mechanically created silks seemed as good in quality, all Sjurani preferred the organic nature of true silk to anything created by machine. The claim was an awareness of the true nature of silk to their enhanced senses. The silk trade was one of the great businesses of the the House of Su-xian-qu.

The walls were covered with a variety of wooden reliefs painstakingly carved from the dense hardwoods of distant forests and each window was shuttered with doors of exotic corals from the deep seas. The house was arranged with an artist’s eye, with each element enhancing everything around it. A perfect balance of space, dimension, color, and art. The eye of the Duchess ensured the natural energies of her estate flowed freely enhancing reproductive fecundity. The household boasted three clutches in fifteen years, an extraordinary number considering the state of Sjurani reproductive politics.

There was a quiet hum of activity until Essver entered the chamber and stood awaiting the attention of the Duchess. As he strode into the room, the lesser males quieted the children they were attending and retreated backward into the room. As he approached, Duchess Su-xian-qu spoke and the room grew silent. “Greeting beloved, I understand you are making plans to depart the system. But I say to you, nay I implore you to reconsider your plans. Your duties lie here, my mate. Your clutch is barely three standard years of age. They need thy strong influence for them to imprint properly. Thoomas can take care of himself. Your days of constantly gating all over the galaxy are over. I regret being the one to say these things to you. I know you value your freedom and I have done all I can to allow it.”

With a smile on his face and a light tone, Essver looked at the duchess, deeply into her terrible green eyes. “I say to you, dear Duchess, these tiny hellions can take care of themselves. The Nine Devils pray daily none die before they are able to evacuate the Seven Hells for these beasts to roam free in. Imprint on me? They are more likely to feast on me whilst I slept.”

Undeterred by his commentary on the strength and beauty of his children, she continued, “We have a duty, Dream-Singer, our people have been devastated by plague, war and now a pestilence of our own devising. Your genome is strong and produces healthy and viable offspring. There are too few Rex remaining who are able to do that in these days. The Gene Council has begun to consider taking samples of our clutches for gene bank profiles. The time for saving the galaxy one world at a time is over. You must save our people too.” When she finishes her statement, one of the second husbands brings a youngster to the Duchess and she gives the child some meat from a nearby platter. The child, beautifully formed with scales of a glittering greenish gold, hungrily stuffs the food into his mouth and chews noisily.

Essver watching this bonding ritual is only mildly repulsed and continues, “This is not about Thoomas, my lady, this is about our contractual obligations to the Imperium. We would be poor citizens if we did not employ our capabilities to the benefit our families as well as the Triune Council. My Queen-mother, three starred general, though departed, would be unhappy to know her son turned completely away from the Gentle Art before his two hundredth birthday. Would you be the cause of such personal shame for me?” Essver paused for a second, before making the next pronouncement. “I will consider turning fully toward the First Trade upon the completion of this assignment.” Essver was actually very good in the First Trade, and had made several fortunes even as he performed his work in the Gentle Art, or working with Thomas Wilks and his human interpretation of the Gentle Art.

A look of deep sorrow crossed the reptilian face of the Duchess and looked as if she wanted to say something that would sooth her mighty Rex but knew no words for what must come next. The Duchess raised her arm and several distant doors opened and some shadowed forms had begun to move into the room. Their scent and their movement indicated their youth. The glinting of their scales reinforced that supposition.

Strong forms in a variety of colors, golden, red, green and teal scales approached him and he recognized them as they came into the light. They are all dressed in ceremonial armor and weapons. Essver knew this was his first clutch with the duchess. These were the survivors. Of the original twelve, seven survived to adulthood, the others lost to disease, weakness, carelessness or put down by the Duchess herself, if they were unfit.

They were approximately fifteen cycles and ready for their final adulthood rites. Several of the middle clutch and almost all of the youngest were upset as the seven surrounded their Rex in the center of the audience chamber.They would be forced to watch as their siblings became adults. “They need you, my Rex,” she began, with her voice louder and more angry, “today you are here for their blooding and passage into adulthood, but your next brood will need you again. You cannot risk being lost before they are adult. They will need you to provide for their genetic stabilization and their social status. We are slaves to our genetics. Without you, your children may not be able to become parents themselves, should they survive.”

The children moved gracefully as they gathered their weapons together. Sword, spear, axe, ranthip, each chose weapons according to their body types, mental prowess and physical power. They were all graceful killing machines, trained since they were five to be the best warriors the next generation of Sjurani could want.

Ten years of vigorous and aggressive combat, tactics and military education was their birthright. Essver was proud of his children as they surrounded him and prepared to show him their fighting skills. He would try his best to kill as many as possible. It was the Sjurani way. Only a fight, where they believed they might die would galvanize their genetic potential into actuality.

As he dropped into a combat stance, he activated his force shield and flex sword and whispered while the blood-fury filled his veins “Show me, my children, your Gentle Art.”

* * *

When Essver received his summons, he had already said his goodbyes to his mate, her lesser husbands, and his clutch and was already at the spaceport making the final preparations and checking the dossiers of new Pilots recently released from the Universitas Magistrorum et Humanitas.

He had a slight limp from a deep cut his first son had made in his leg. It was a minor inconvenience he would heal on his way to the Lorissi system. He had a number of other smaller, less challenging injuries. A day of bacterial cellular regrowth and he would be fine. Four of his first clutch would be able to become parents. Their injuries were serious, however, and would require weeks in regeneration chambers. But the genetic activation took place. Two died and one would become a sterile male. This group was considered wildly successful by Sjurani standards. The Duchess was already considering to which families they would become affiliated with.

The University was the final training facility for homo sapiens conscientia, mechanical sentients of the highest order capable of being created by the combined sciences of the Triune governments of Pan-Humanity, the Sjurani and the Beteans who initially inhabited Galtan II. These mechanical humanoids work with soldiers of the Resurrection Corps and using modern psychometric tools maintain their humanity after the rigors and trauma of dying, potentially repeatedly in their line of work. These mechanical sentients function as Pilots, technologists, scientists and companions to their Soldier. Fully aware of themselves and their work in the Imperium, the Conscientia are highly paid and highly regarded in their own right and have made significant advances to the program during their long term study, analysis and support of the Corps.

There were several promising Pilots but only a few would be ready in time and none would have been assigned a ship in time for this trip. Essver did not let this deter him and had several ships of his own to draw from during his time as a mercenary. All had been kept fit and ready in case of need, so he would use the most heavily armed of them, Glorious, as a base while he and Thomas sought the stolen Frame. It could also be refit to mount the Frame facilities in less than a day. He made several calls and the Glorious would be ready in time to transit to the fleet. He also made a request to the University’s dean to have several of the more promising students prepared, reviewed and the best of them made ready in a week to send to Lorissi, once issues had been settled there.

The communique arrived by an Council messenger while he was checking the Glorious and the messenger was officious and upon delivery retreated without much pomp, but surprising all the same, since Council messengers were rarely seen at the space docks of Rekein. His wardrobe had already been delivered to the Glorious and he chose his most impressive uniform, which was festooned with medals from his time as a leader of both a Sjurani ground assault team and as a mercenary commander in the employ of the Sjurani Council. Armed with his tribal weaponry, as effective as their modern equivalents but covered with more ornate and beautiful constructions, he arrived at the Council headquarters in the center of the Triune City of Rekein at the required time.

Led into the council and announced it was a long time since he had heard his full title: Triune Ambassador to the Imperium, Essver Dream-Singer, of the People of the Sjurani, son of Minru, son of Daor the Terrible, warrior-poet of Galtan II, Sjurani Rex, mated to the nugongjué, the Glorious Pielienhis (pe-le-en-hiss) seeking the audience of the Phoenix and the Triune Council.

The room was ornate, as is the habit of the Sjurani, covered with a variety of artworks, metalcraft, stonework reliefs reflecting ancient heroes of legend, of every caste and every race. The chamber had been held on one of the Greatships of the Sjurani fleet that landed here and was over twenty thousand years old. It had been moved to this location as the center of government for the Sjurani, Pan-Human and Betean Councils. The Phoenix stood and her august plumage was in full release with her arms outstretched. Her coloring was brilliant and each feather a work of natural art and genetic manipulation blended perfectly. Her proportions were strong and even indicating her supreme heritage and likelihood of descent from the greatest heroes of the Phoenix line, the Flame King and the Summer Queen, the first of the Line of the Phoenix. While she was a Phoenix and he a Rex, he felt some level of attraction at a subconscious level. He could also feel her powerful operant psychic presence even though his psychic potential was limited to physical expressions of power.

The Phoenix was small in comparison to Essver, but it did not stop her from being physically imposing. Her two Raptors, armed with dual pulse pistols, flex-swords and the highest quality flex-field armor stood vigilant even though they were actually more ornamentation than true defense. The courtroom, was liberally sprinkled with a variety of defensive technologies, mechanical sentience, and a good portion of the Sjurani council were capable and armed warriors themselves. She stood nearby as she paced in front of Essver who was in a supplication position on one knee in the center of the council chambers.

As he had entered she had been speaking about the Corvan government and their recent loss of a squadron of Resurrection soldiers and their support troops due to poor intelligence. It was bad enough to have been using them against the Dalrothi on the edge of the Imperium, but to irrevocably lose nineteen to the True Death was unthinkable. Now they wanted to take the one survivor, who had lived for two years in completely inhospitable surroundings and through over twenty deaths without a Pilot and accuse him of treason?

This soldier, Wilks and his Frame were a treasure trove of data that simply must be recovered. He was sent to Bel-ha to allow his suit’s information to be downloaded and for him to experience psychological support of the type the Bel-ha’s superior technology could provide. He was the perfect example of the superiority of this program and why we must be allowed to continue to develop it further. The Imperium was the primary client of the Resurrection Corps, but the technologies created allowed this group to manufacture something of lasting value to the Imperium and take their rightful place as quality sentients in the eyes of the elder galactic races, who considered Pan-humanity to be upstart races at best and vulger abominations at worst.

She turned her sharp eyes toward Essver and he could feel her psychic might pressing against him. “You must recover that Frame, there is no alternative. Use all means at your disposal to discover what has happened to the technology. We sent a recovery team to Brennan 326 and nothing remained of Those That Served. In the proper procedure, Majoris Wilks disposed of any remains that survived the crash, and the normal automated self-destruct procedures. We must continue to maintain our patents and you will see to this, Ambassador.”

She paused, considered a data-tablet handed to her by a minor functionary and continued. “On another note, since you are making a trip to the Bel-ha Collective’s main planets, we would like you to establish a connection to the planet and see if it will be possible for us to establish a more solid trade arrangement. We already get many of our nanite programming from their world but the distance simply makes it difficult for us to maintain our relationships. We would like to establish one of their facilities, complete with scientists, on Galtan II near the Resurrection facility. That mission is both a cover and a secondary objective. Recover that soldier and that Frame.”

She stopped for a moment and shuddered, her feathers fluffing and spreading. “I understand he is your friend as well,” she began, “I am happy to hear he has survived his ordeal and I have reviewed your service records together and find that you have both been extremely successful and fruitful as agents of Pan-Humanity and the Sujurani. We are at your disposal. What would you ask of us?”

Essver considered himself and then raised his eyes. “Your greatness, the Corvan Fleet is leaving today and will arrive in four days in Bel-ha space. The Corva are going to expend a considerable amount of energy to make the jump in that short a time. The fleet commander, Admiral Lolikai has requested an opportunity to speak with me, in regard to our people and continued good will between the Imperium and our tiny piece of the Empire.”

Making eye contact with the Phoenix, he declared, “I believe the Imperium values the durability, accessibility, and resourcefulness of our agents. I do not think this Admiral will want to do anything that will risk that relationship considering the quality of the success of our operations in Imperium Space. I have all that I need, save a new Pilot. One will be selected, outfitted and sent to Lorissi in less than a week. Thank you for your generosity and I will return with our technology and our Soldier. You have my word.”

Insurrection: The Gentle Art © Thaddeus Howze 2010. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

HYDE (3)

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 17, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Hub City Blues, HYDE: Portrait of a Modern Monster, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: assassin, Carlucci, crime boss, dentist, Dodonovich, ebonstorm, fantasy, Hyde: Portrait of a Modern Monster, mobster, murderer, pulp, science fiction, sociopath, triad, Zoot Suit. 1 Comment

Measure of a Man

a tale of hub city

“I want him dead.” The flamboyantly dressed man wearing the sharkskin suit has new teeth, implants to replace his own which were rotting away. Being a Russian immigrant to Hub City in the late eighties when the city was still new, Dodonovich had established himself as one of the first of a new group of criminal enterprises in a modern metropolis in America.

While his suit may be tacky, his mind and body were supremely-honed. Dodonovich neither drank nor smoked and rarely abided anyone who did. He fought regularly in all forms of hand to hand combat, hiring the best teachers and trainers possible. His former life as a mercenary gave him an awareness of all kinds of weapons and their uses.

But what served him best was his understanding of the criminal mind. He knew men’s minds, their fears, knew how to dash their hopes, knew what they wanted and could manipulate a man for his own needs. But he was both a sadist and a masochist, taking his love of pain and pleasure to extremes.

His mouth still hurt because he had insisted his oral surgeon replace all of his teeth on the same day. He wanted a mouth filled with the beautiful teeth he saw on his television. He heard actors and models replaced their teeth when they became famous. His surgeon had advised against it. After throwing quicklime on the first surgeon in a new Hub City landfill, his new surgeon was only too happy to perform the surgery to his specifications, terrible though they may be.

The second surgeon was paid handsomely to forget Dodonovich’s face and the threat of his children ending up in a wood chipper ensured his lack of memory. The pain made him angry and it made him focused. Pain can be wonderful for focusing the mind, sharpening one’s awareness to what is important. As he sat looking at his lieutenants, his face swollen, wrapped and drugged out of his mind, their terror was absolute.

His two bodyguards stood at the door to the loft they were using as a headquarters. Massive terrifying specimens of humanity, their shaded eyes were never seen behind their black as night sunglasses. Both seemed to have a preternatural awareness of danger, only adding to their mystique. But the lieutenants knew one thing. They were loyal to Dodonovich and could not be bought for any price.

The loft apartment they were meeting in was a place his lieutenants did not come to often, and so did not worry much about being followed. After Dodonovich’s bodyguards swept the place, they came in, turned on the lights and waited. Contemporary and modern, none of the lieutenants wanted to be here, because meetings in unknown places sometimes meant fewer people would be leaving it. The two men finished their sweep, even checking for electronic listening devices, but they never spoke unless they were spoken to by Dodonovich. Each seemed to know the thoughts of the other and it was thought they were twins.

“Boss, we don’t know if its Carlucci.” Samuel was a weasel-faced man with a nose too long and eyes too close set together. Both flaws together enhanced the overall effect of a man who had been converted from a weasel by an unknown means. It was not true, but it never stopped the rumors. Samuel’s nature was also a survivor, so when lesser men had played their hands and come up short, somehow Samuel outlasted them with an almost animal cunning. Right now, he was doing his best to deflect the wrath of his boss of ten years. Being alive this long meant he knew the ropes of stating the facts, without making excuses. Dodonovich did not abide excuses well.

Slurring and spitting, Dodonovich did not let up. “What do you know?”

Flecks of blood-laced spit landed on the table and the lapel of Oron, the bulldog of Dodonovich’s lieutenants. Ugly, would have been giving him a kindness to describe his features. But he was not hired for his looks, he was hired for his tenacity, his dogged determination, his un-killability and his legendary sense of smell. His suit, custom-made for his stocky frame was impeccably cut and his grey shirt and tie seemed perfectly designed to match.

“I have never smelled anything like it. Ever.” Once Oron locked onto a smell, he never forgot it. He was a bulldog in human form. Short, squat, powerful as any three men, his arms were as thick as another man’s thighs, his chest a barrel with bands of muscle rippling through it. When Oron was not at work, he was working out, testing his strength by ripping telephone books in half, or tugging trains with his teeth in his spare time. “I looked at the scene when police left. I saw clawed feet in tar up to scene. Forklift needed to remove rest of car.” Oron looked visibly shaken.

Oron was a terror in and of himself. He had been shot at least two dozen times, seen without a shirt he was a patchwork of scars and back room surgeries, resembling Frankenstein more than a man. No one knew where Oron was from and no one was going to ask. He was the first of Dodonovich’s men and no one knew what kept Oron in the employ of Dodonovich. Whatever it was, if Oron was afraid of it, it was something best avoided.

“My connection in the Sixteenth, said their preliminary workup had revealed no clues as to what did this, other than what appeared to be hand prints in several sections of the vehicle that had been torn apart.” The third speaker was as beautiful as the first two were hideous. But his was the beauty of the coral snake. Lovely to look at, but you somehow knew not to touch it. Dai Lung was from Korea and had worked with Dodonovich for only five years. He was a recent addition but rose through the ranks swiftly.

“The only thing that comes to mind is a government project I might have helped coordinate in Guatemala a decade ago. Some kind of super-soldier project.” His sharp mind, and ability to convince others of his sincerity had made him a legendary con man, but he was more than that. Skilled in martial arts, quick with his hands and his mind, made him a thief, pickpocket and all around acquisition-based criminal mastermind. He and Dodonovich were once at odds, but Lung agreed to work with him when Lung’s operations were compromised by the Sixteenth. Since then, Dai Lung brought his considerable criminal expertise, technical skills and overall terrifying beauty to work with Dodonovich. Both prospered. So their alliance endured. “This can’t be that project, though. Their goal was to create soldiers who were powerful and could pass for human. Clawed toes, does not a human make.”

“So what we are looking for is a man. And if it is a man, we can kill him. What I want to know is what you are doing about this? He killed my son. No, I am not weeping, no one hated him more than me. Spendthrift wastrel. But he was my wastrel and no one gets to kill him but me.”

“Boss,” Samuel began, turning his nose like a radar dish, “I looked into Carlucci first, and I heard he lost a gang last month in a similar incident. They were torn limb from limb and turned into a pyramid of parts. Carlucci was mad as hell.”

Dodonovich’s color began to change from the furious red he could become to a blushing pink, meaning the worst of the danger was over. His lieutenants leaned back in their chairs, just a bit, sphincters releasing, and their breathing reconvened more regularly. “Lung, didn’t the Triad lose a group recently as well?”

“They did. At first we thought it was some rival mob, but now that I think about it, it seemed harsh even for a mob hit. Their men were electrocuted in their car by a power line that happened to fall on them on a back road. The coroner said they did not die right away. There was smoke inhalation and lung damage from breathing in heated air from the forest fire that started around them. Now that I think about it, there were missing door handles and each door had been forcibly broken so they couldn’t be opened. There was a kind of art to the hit.” Lung seemed to retreat into himself, perhaps musing more on the artistic nature of the hit, or simply jealous that he hadn’t thought of it himself. He fancied himself a superior kind of assassin making death an art form. He prided himself on never killing anyone the same way in any given year.

Dodonovich sat down and wiped away his drool with his sleeve. None of his men looked away for even a second. This was the time when he was most dangerous, when he made up his mind to do something. “I want everything we can know. About this person, thing or whatever the hell it is. I want witnesses, I want science, I want your people to do whatever they can, Lung, to find a way to kill it.”

Looking at Samuel, “Get my boy’s flunky out of jail, pay his bail and keep him comfortable until he tells you everything that happened. Treat him good, be his friend and put him to work in your gang. Learn everything they did that night. I want to be able to figure out what this thing wants and why. While you are at it, I want to meet with the other Bosses. Arrange someplace nice, public, big where everyone can be comfortable bringing their boys. Two weeks.”

“Oron, I want you to find him. That is what you do. But I don’t want him caught, I want him alive. Go to the Sixteenth, use that fabulous nose of yours and find him. No need to tell you to use discretion in your work. I don’t want him to have any idea we are looking for him.” Dodonovich never gave Oron too many instructions, his methods were inscrutable but effective. Oron had never spent any time behind bars or had ever been caught in any criminal activity.

Dodonovich’s head seemed to droop forward for a second, and a line of drool streamed from the corner of his mouth. His lieutenants did not move because they had not been dismissed. Lesser men had made that mistake, once.

Suddenly his head snapped up, and his eyes burned bright with the characteristic madness they had come to know. His mild and musical Russian accent magically reappeared “Get out there gentlemen, crimes won’t commit themselves.”

Hyde © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm] 

HYDE – Dinner and a Show (4)

Creche

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 14, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: alien invasion, creche soldiers, ebonstorm, exo-armor, genetically-engineered, maser, science fiction, stealth armor. 4 Comments

“Don’t you die on me!”

Her breathing was shallow and slowed. I wasn’t sure whether the patch would hold. The round had gone clean through but the bleeding was terrible. We had already lost our heavy exo-armor on the infiltration, and were down to our stealth suits, a black under-armor with a low radiation profile and anti-ballistic properties.

We were fifteen miles behind the Henrenkai lines. Our dropship was shot down and we were hauling the Henrenkai hive pupae in our ruck-sacks. Our orbital bombardments had worn this world down, but there were still too many worlds that we had lost to the Henrenkai and this was a vulnerability we could not lose. They only spawned once every two hundred years on a tiny number of their inhabited worlds.

Intelligence reports gained through psychic torture revealed which worlds were spawning and how soon. In an act of desperation, Command bombed five of the six worlds and destroyed them completely, kill untold billions of humans and Henrenkai. On this one, they planted us. An extraction team, trained for infiltration.

There were ten of us. We were creche-raised, five males, five females. Genetically created from the best DNA humanity had to offer, we were stronger, faster, smarter and trained as commandos. We were given psychic gifts to bind us together. We could sense the presence of each other over vast distances, we could read each other’s thoughts, when allowed. It multiplied our fighting prowess by coordinating our attacks. We had the firepower of a regiment; perfectly attuned. But it also made it so we could never touch each other without protective clothing. The fusion of our minds could destroy us both.

We were raised together, Califer and I, and I loved her more than anything. But she could never know. It was forbidden. Creche-commandos were allowed to intermingle with any other military forces except other commandos. This was for our own protection.

In all other ways we were as close as two people could be. We trained together, worked together, and have been on nearly twenty sorties without any incident. Our team was one of the most highly decorated commando units in Creche-Command history. Now except for me, High Sergeant, Doro Vanimen and High Sergeant, Califer Prin, our tactical squad is dead. We had never infiltrated a Henrenkai hiveworld before. Our intel was simply insufficient to the task.

“Calli, you have got to get up. We can’t stay here. There is another LZ thirteen miles from here, but they are shelling to keep our pursuit down. You have got to get up.” Her eyes are flickering. She must be glanding a dopamine derivative.

“Ugh. Pupae?”

“Got ’em.”

“How much time?”

“About twelve minutes.”

“There is no way… I can make it like this. You have to complete the mission.”

“I am not leaving without you Calli.” I was trying to sound casual.

She looks at me with those beautiful green eyes and I knew I would do whatever it took. If I had to carry her myself. We are getting off this rock. “Set the pace.” She picks up her maser, and stumbles.

“Leave it.” If it comes to us having to fight again, we’re done, anyway.” She drops it, relieved. I set a brisk pace and I can hear the status reports in my earbud. They are about to begin shelling again. She is keeping up, but her pace has lost the light step I loved so much about her.

When we were young, she was always the best of our battle-sisters in fighting and dancing and I knew right then, there would never be anyone else for me. We would train in our nightsuit armor, skin tight and I marveled at her perfection, her essence and her ability to totally kick my ass, even though I outweighed her by thirty kilos. When we were done, we would sit back to back and rest and talk, her hair tickling my neck, smelling of sweat, and nothing was ever better than that.

Her nightsuit had sealed up around her wound and pressure sealed the injury. It was a railgun round, so fast it simply overwhelmed our bulletproof nightsuits. We got hit by one of their skyships and we lost Carlto, and Marina then. Multiple hits tore them apart. She got hit as we jumped the last wall and then ran to the first drop point. I covered her when the wreckage of the dropship fell down around us.

“Calli, I have something I want to tell you.” I could feel the larvae moving around in my pack. It distracted me and I almost lost my nerve.

“Not now. Have to focus on running.” Her temperature was elevated. Her body was going to go into shock. She is running on pure will.

I have to tell her now. “There has never been anyone else for me but you. Do you understand that?”

“And you know that’s forbidden. It is the only rule we have never broken. I have had others, haven’t you?”

“No. Never.” She seemed almost shocked at my words.

“What do you expect me to say?” She stumbles and falls to the ground. “That I am happy that you love me? That I am willing to die for you and I to be together?” She gasped in pain.

I reach down to help her to her feet. She slaps my hand away at first.

Then she takes it and I heave her to her feet. She throws her arm around my back and I put my arm around her waist. We start running again. The sound of the shelling has begun and is slowly creeping up behind us. The explosions echo around the strange rock formations common on this world.

I look back over my shoulder and my optical enhancer detects movement about three miles behind us closing fast. The shelling is slowing them but they are not stopping. I think they know what we are carrying. Their larval Queen. The fate of their Race. The only ransom that they will respect.

“We have to move, Sergeant. Dammit, run for all you’re worth. We can fight about this when we get home.”

“Okay.”

And for six long minutes we are running. She has let me go and seems to have found a second wind. For a few seconds, I am struggling to keep up with her. We are getting close to the dropship coordinates. Less than two miles.

Ten thousand steps; we’re going to make it.

Then I hear the buzzing. Their skyships, giant insects with forty foot wingspans, carrying two of them on their backs. They are using their chemical weapons and splashes of acid rain down around us.

I look back for a second and I can still see them coming. Its half a regiment now, and a shell destroys thirty or so, but they do not stop to care for the dead. They are here for their Queen.

“Bravo Six, we are nearing the extraction point.”

“Understood, we are inbound in two minutes. The area is hot, we will not be landing.”

She looks at me. And then looks around. “You have to go. I can’t do a hot pickup.”

“I’ll carry you.” I was past pride. I pleaded.

“All of the Human Worlds rest on your back now. What’s more important, me or them?”

“I would let them all burn for you.” I meant it.

“Well, I won’t let you.” She snatches my maser from my arm and kisses me on the lips.

“GO!” Her telepathic command blasts through my mental shields like they were not there. She was my entire universe in that infinitely long second. All that she was, all that should could be was inside of me.

She ran to a rock for cover and I turned and ran faster than I had ever run, tears flowing down my face. I could hear the maser, one of the fliers goes down. Then another. And another. She was decimating them. Then it fades. And soon after stops.

I see my dropship coming in dragging a line and it’s gunners shooting in every direction. I have to time this just right. They will not be able to come back. They are being pursued in the air. Acid rains down around me but all I can do is see her face. The dropship pulls up to avoid a missile and the line leaves the ground. I leap and I feel her directing my movement, arching me.

I hit the line, grab on and the dropship rises fast, speeding away from the planet’s surface, nearly tearing my arms from their sockets. They don’t dare shoot us down now.

I am tempted to hurl the pack from the ship as we pull away. She stops me.

Save them. You can save them all.

But I couldn’t save the only thing that matter to me; you.

I will always be here with you.

As our ship streaked away into the armada, I looked at the planet. The final resting place of all that I loved, my family. My creche. My Calli.

I wept.

Creche © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

The Arrivals: Tales of The New Earth (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 12, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: alien invasion, biological alien invasion, ebonstorm, flamethrower, Rhino, science fiction, Thaddeus Howze, The Arrivals, vampire trees. 4 Comments

Summer is Coming

Waiting was always the hardest part. Marcus found a way to keep busy between shooting wayward tumblers and the occasional vampire-leaf fly by. He cleaned the solar cells on the side of the Rhino, maximizing the effective sunshine. Living on the road has given us an eye for the little things. I picked off two more tumblers wandering around with my rifle and he didn’t even look up. It took a long time to get that kind of trust.

I can smell the hot wind blowing down the freeway, and it tells me this summer is going to be a beast.  The climate is getting worse and the seasons more pronounced and brutal. I wish we could blame this on the Arrivals too, but humans had already screwed up the planet’s weather before they got here. They only made it worse.

Woody said we should have gotten started earlier from Philly but the kids needed the downtime. I think he forgets we are all not ex-military trained and forest ranger hardened to the environment. He wants me to tell the kids to stay in one of the better protected cities but they are just like he is. Unable to sit still for more than a few days, maybe a week at the most. Then they get antsy and start wandering.

I checked the status display on the Rhino’s upper turret controls and the vehicle’s status was mostly in the green, except for two critical areas. Our water supply, while renewed in Philly was starting to get uncomfortably low. If we did not find water soon, we would soon have to start serious rationing.

From what we picked up on the radio, there was an incident and we would not be getting any serious supplies from the Pentagon without great risk. While water was critical, what worried me more was the satellite image data. It showed nothing but clear skies for the next two weeks. The temperature was going to be unbearable. We will start seeing days of 110 degrees starting by nine in the morning.

I laughed to myself. Woody hates computers and can tell the weather just by looking at the sky. That’s okay too, gives me something to do. Computers were once something I was very passionate about. Then they came. Computer are now almost an anachronism, something wonderful, if you can get them to work and someone who knows how to use them. There are still people out there using them too. Places with stable solar or wind power facilities still have something of a grid and we connect when we can to trade information, maps and news. But its nothing like before. I try not to think about it.

Marcus took his turn on the turret in the next hour so I could get out of the sun. Taking off my head wrap, I am grateful I keep my hair short. Just as well, it was coming out in greater quantities every day now. Taking an inventory of the gear we gathered from the military vehicles, it was mostly ammunition. And while that’s great, I would have preferred more food, or filter masks or higher-quality medical supplies. We will keep the best of these weapons and leave the rest. Ours is a juggling act between weight and mileage from our solar charged power plant.

When I was finished sorting and transporting the gear, I heard two clicks from Marcus. He could see them. Climbing back into the turret, I took the telescope and dialed its maximum settings. I could see Woody and the kids and they were plus one. A female from the look of her. Sarah was helping Woody, when he was not smacking her away for trying. I tried to hold down the urge to use the radio. We had learned the lesson of unnecessary radio use, and it would be meaningless at this point.

We gathered up our two short range sentry bots and slid them into the housing on the side of the Rhino. They maintain their charge, add a short range defense and double as external batteries when power gets low. I am happy to say they have spent most of their time lately as batteries and barely any time doing that. We have gotten our moving, charging and timetables down to a clean and effective schedule.

I tried not to worry and I took the turret, while Marcus made ready to move out. He activated only the electric engine which was very quiet, but very slow. We began to close the distance between us, shortening their walk. Other than the occasional tumbler, nothing seemed to be stirring. They looked terrible as they approached. I wanted to rush down and check on Woody and the kids but Marcus was the doctor.

Lucas took the wheel and eased us back on the road while Marcus checked everyone out. I kept an eye out but did not activate the .50 cal because we were running low on ammunition. My M16 would be enough for anything we could expect. We crept along at twelve to fifteen miles per hour and this was the ideal speed if we wanted to maintain this pace even through the night. There was a safe spot in Wilmington but it was over five hundred miles from here.

“Mama, I need your help.” Marcus was hunched over Woody’s reclined chair. The president and Sarah stood to one side watching.

“Sarah, honey, I need you to go up top. I will help your father. Talk to me, son.”

“He has a fever. Likely an infection. In the last hour, he fell asleep and I though it was exhaustion. He seemed okay other than a nasty cut on his hand, and I took care of that. During the VSE, I discovered he has two fire ant heads still embedded on his back leg.” After any time in the field, a visual study of the extremities is done for all members of the field team. Since Elwood was hurt, he was checked first. Once we stop somewhere, the others will also be checked, along with anything they brought back with them. All of that gear is stored in an outer compartment in case it was compromised.

Elwood was stripped down to his shorts and we could see the tiny flow of blood from his calf and the two ant heads tightly clenching his skin. The ants bodies were atrophied, likely from being burned and they reflexively locked their jaws. Nothing is going to be able to pry them open, so we are going to have to cut them out. “Okay, Lucas, can you find us someplace for us to settle down for the evening? We can give you an hour, and then we have got to start working.”

“Yes, Mama, there is a small town on the map and its marked as a low infestation spot. I can do an uplink and see if its status has changed.”

“Sarah, once he’s connected can you update the Pentagon on the map to…” I look at the president.

She gives me a look filled with the horror of her experience. I want to tell her it will be okay, but right now she needs her tension to keep it together. “Mark it a category five. No one is to approach it for any reason without superior technology and flamethrowers. Of which there is entirely too little of these days.”

“Have a seat madam President. You’re safe with us.” I tried to sound confident as I went over to her and took the flamethrower from her. It was empty but it was always better to stow equipment. She was reluctant to let go of it, as if it were a talisman. I did not rush her. We sat quietly and the hum of the electric engine, and the uplink connections were all we could hear for a few minutes.

Marcus busied himself prepping the cargo bay for surgery and had gather the supplies we were going to need. Woody’s breathing was shallow and he was sweating. Marcus fanned him once he was done and opened the vents to allow a breeze, such as it was, to pass through the vehicles interior.

This little town was going to be a quick respite for us to perform the surgery on Elwood and then we would have to get on the road and move as fast as we can. While I was trying to be upbeat, I knew unless we got someplace protected soon we would be caught outside during the worst of all seasons.

Summer was coming.

*  *  *

“I can’t see the road, Mama. We’re going to have to stop.” Lucas was driving into the early dawn. We had planned to find someplace to stop during the night but we were unsuccessful. We were trying to make it to Norfolk. There was a military base there and were hoping to drop the president there with a dedicated military contingent. She would safer there than with us.

We stopped on the side of the road, closed the vents and activated the filtration system. A layered scrubbing filter system, it has both mechanical and human cleared sectioned filtration systems, which could be maintained internally. Thus allowing us to clean the air, as well as the filters and not depend entirely upon a non-renewable filter resource. Only the final layer of the filtration system needed a material which required replacement. We had enough of the fiber foam to last six months with careful use. One more reason to get out of this weather.

The two defense robots were activated and their point defense systems would keep anything that could move in this weather, away. Despite the dangerous and inhospitable environment, dust storms were still a viable environment for the Arrivals. Those things seem to be able to live in just about any environment the Earth could throw at them. Some Arrivals traveled with the storms.

We turned off the solar array and activated the voltage induction units. The vehicle was capable of absorbing the electrical current that built up on its hull from the storm and but couldn’t move under the charge generated. Depending on how hard the wind was blowing, it could generate upwards of one thousand volts of electricity per second. Unfortunate the electricity was only usable for charging secondary power systems and the defense bots.

The sky was black with dust blowing in from the Midwest. A surprise storm, it did not show up on the satellite imaging. It covered the sky from edge to edge and darkened the day into night. Only a good watch could tell you the difference right now. But these were small dust storms compared to what we would see in a few weeks if we were still out here. The sky would blacken for days, maybe weeks. We could starve to death waiting for the weather to clear. The satellite images said this was a small storm, just a day or to long and we would be back on the road. As far as I was concerned this could not come soon enough.

During the two days we sat with Elwood after his surgery, but before we detected the approaching storms, we explored the small town, Herrington, whose population was once over two thousand. We found not a single soul in the town. The Arrivals were there in small numbers. They were subsisting off the local animals or had rooted in the rich dark soil. Those that were mobile had moved on when they could no longer find human prey.

We found a few starving vampire trees, whose leaves made a half-hearted attempt to chase us but could not move more than a few hundred feet before returning their host trees. They simply did not have the energy to follow us for long. This meant we would probably be able to scavenge the town, and see if anything was missed. Herrington was off the beaten path and might have been overlooked by large Mover bands who stuck to main roads. Our forays into basements and storm cellars netted some canned pickles, jellies and jams. Not much, but good for trade and it kept well.

Elwood slept most of the time. He could be given a bit of fluid and helped to the bathroom but as soon as he was lying down, he went back to sleep. He muttered incoherently and kept a low grade fever. Everyone looked at me once he was sleeping.

They did not realize how much I depended on his intuitive knowledge of road, weather and nature. His education on the Arrivals was positively encyclopedic and all first hand. I was a poor substitute. Yes, I was his wife and yes, I had been on the road for the same two decades he had, but I have to confess a certain reticence to learn as much about the Arrivals as he did. In those early years, all I wanted to do was burn every one of the damn things we came across.

I sat down with him, everyone doing what ever they could do within the tight quarters of the Rhino. That mostly consisted of sleeping or resting. Marcus was checking our firearms and inventory. Lucas was trying to reach an uplink connection for more information on the storm. Sarah and her mother, talked up in the covered turret, not able to see much, but keeping an eye out anyway. The president and I sat in the main compartment with Elwood, but she was fresh with the fatigue of her ordeal, so she spent as much of her time sleeping as possible, trying to heal and cope with her losses.

As I sat with Elwood, fanning him to keep him cool, I remembered the Awakening.

Everyone remembers their first day differently. The first time we became aware of the Arrivals and their simultaneous attack on humanity, world-wide. I remember mine because of him… I remembered the horror personally, the first day we discovered they had been living among us for decades, mimicking trees and plants, growing next to our homes, in our parks, taking residence in all of our cities, on our farms, sitting on our paths, waiting until the day the meteor storm came. Weeks before the storms, they had begun abducting people off the street, some to eat, others to implant with seeds they would use to control those humans.

There would be humans who would block roads, crash trains or otherwise make it impossible for people to escape cities. On the day of the Awakening, our cities were blockaded with wrecked vehicles, broken transit systems, burning hospitals, exploding gas mains, havoc on an epic scale. Under any other circumstance we might have been able to handle the catastrophe, but adding insult to injury were fast growing, hyper-aggressive plant attacking cities in waves. Some flew, some crawled, other rolled, some release gases. We died by the millions before we even knew what was happening. By the time we could coordinate anything, humanity was on the ropes.

They struck our power stations with meteor bombardments, they struck our military bases, they struck our dams, they damaged infrastructure systems all over the world. Systems stretched so tight, just a few well placed strikes caused everything to fall, like dominoes. It was so perfectly timed, we were certain at the end of that week we would see our new alien masters standing over our broken cities. But they never came. Only the horror that was the Arrivals.

On that last day of my real life, I was on the road coming from the office, after working a night shift installing the last parts of a new data system. It was five in the morning and I was just happy to be heading home. I had heard about the meteor shower, but we were nearly a quarter mile underground so I wasn’t going to take the time to stop and look at some meteors. I figured I would see them on the news. I called Ken, my husband at the time, and left him a message, that I would be there to make breakfast for him and the kids before going to bed. I would never make breakfast for them again.

As I drove into my neighborhood, I noticed the streetlights were out. If I had been really paying attention, I would have realized all of the local trees had shadows that moved. I would have seen houses which were covered in vines, that were not before. I would have driven faster. I might have gotten there in time, if I had been really paying attention to what was going on around me. The road grew bumpier as I approached my house and I could see large cracks in the ground and what looked like roots bursting through.

As I turned my high beams on, I noticed there was a tree in the road. A tree with moving roots! I assumed I was tired and hallucinating until I realized I was home and saw there were three or four of these trees surrounding my home. I got out of my car, in complete disbelief of what I was seeing. There was both silence and sound. As the trees moved, there was a strange stop action movement, flickering, sputtering, flashing movement. Both slow and fast, their roots moved with a slow and steady movement, while their leaves lashed about with whip-like speed. I don’t know what I was thinking, I just wanted to reach my family. I could hear the sounds of wood crackling like in a fire under the assault of plants crushing homes looking for the tender flesh within. I could hear the screams and the flash of the occasional shotgun or pistol. Then it was silent again.

I stopped for a moment and looked around at other houses and saw each one of them being covered in plants, some growing from within the houses themselves, spreading out of opened windows and doors. I was outside of myself at that moment. I experienced a clarity that probably saved my life. I could see my house collapsing inward under the weight of the deadly kudzu vines, whose tendrils are like corded steel and could cut cinder block apart in seconds. I hesitated.

Three of the largest predator trees were already reaching into the house and pulling out my daughters and ripping them apart before my eyes. My husband, dangled in the trees grip, struggled and saw me approaching the house. He screamed, Run! Then the creature tore him in half. In shock, on autopilot, I did what he told me, I ran back in the car as a deadly acid-like venom splashed my car and where I was standing seconds ago. The trees had crept up behind me and were trying to box my car in.

At that moment, I thought I had waited too long, the trees were already crushing down on the back wheels of my car. “Get out of that car, lady.” A face peered in my passenger window, lighting a rag dangling from a bottle. I got out of the car as he threw the bottle. The fluid splash and burned and for a moment the trees halted their advance as the more flammable members caught fire. It did not burn long as natural fire retardants were secreted from ducts and portals from the creatures. “We need to keep moving. Cars and loud noises attract them. Move quick and quiet, they notice us less.”

I couldn’t put the image of my house out of my mind. I went with him, unable to speak and barely able to breathe.

“Don’t worry miss, I’ll keep you safe. Name’s Elwood.” We ran off into the night; into a whole new world. He’s been keeping his word for me and his family for nearly twenty years.

Wake up, old man. I need you, now, just one more time.

The storm darkened the sky, reduced visibility and when night came, the stars were out. Along with the stars, came the predators.

A convoy of lights could be seen coming up the road. Slow moving, careful. Likely Movers who either got lost or are scavenging off the main road. Either way, company is the last thing we needed right now. Parked off the main road, we are mostly covered by the black blizzard, so it’s possible we could go unnoticed.

Marcus starts passing out gunbelts and ammo clips, just in case. Despite the heat, we get our bullet-proof vests and keep them handy. Sarah checks the loads on the .50 but does not raise it into the firing chamber.

“Lucas, turn off the drones, they should have some scouts coming along in a few minutes. Let’s see if we get lucky.”

“I put them in standby. At the first sound of gunfire, they will activate and shoot everything within range. Make sure you are wearing your ID badges.”

The president looks at me and I tap the badge on the outside of her jacket. I gave her one an hour after she got here.

“Mama, they are sweeping the area in a search pattern. They are looking for something.” Marcus starts passing out M16 after Lucas’s pronouncement.

He looks at the president. She smiles, “Marine. I’ll take one of those.”

We wait, hidden by the sand and passively scanning from a remote spy eye, released in the darkness. The convoy is a mix of civilian and lightly armed military. But the direction they came from indicated a northern route. No way they are from Norfolk. But they are looking for something. Eventually they find it. They slowly surround our vehicle despite being completely hidden.

“Ho, the vehicle. We know you are there, President Marva Chang. You are hereby placed under arrest, by the President of the Western United States. The charge is treason. Anyone in the vehicle with you, who does not force you to exit will be considered aiding and abetting a fugitive and will share your fate; death. You are completely surrounded.”

There was a pause. And a momentary static-filled whispering. Then a different voice came over the loudspeaker. “You have until sunrise.”

Tales of a New Earth © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

The Arrivals – Tales of a New Earth, Part 3

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