Sunday, February 22, 2015

The Tale of Marcus Graves (Original Short)

Marcus Graves was the youngest of 5 brothers, the smallest, too, only measuring up to six feet six inches. He was born to Jack and Janine Graves in the summer of 1935, during one of the family's most difficult times, financially. Because of his stature and size, compared to his brother's, Marcus focused mostly on reading and science, quickly climbing to the top of the schools in the area, leaving his brothers to be the workers of the family.

When he turned seventeen Marcus was offered the chance to go to school for free, a scholarship he took with serious pride, and didn't hesitate to say 'Yes.' While the young man, born from Columbus, Missouri, was busy readying his mind; he never forgot his body. He was the runt of the litter, after all, still only at six, six, and now two hundred and thirty pounds. However, Marcus was like no other academic that came through the school's doors that year: Large muscles, square jaw, clean shaven, nearly perfect smile, and atop it all a mane of jet black hair that was neatly kept.

Being away from the farm environment afforded Marcus the opportunity to grow his hair long, keep his face free of scruff and whiskers, but the curiosity never left his bright, blue eyes, no matter what. Because he studied a lot, now, his tan quickly gave way to pale skin, but he preferred to exercise at night, anyways. While he was in classes, and without warning, the war came. The second world war, it was called. Marcus wasn't allowed to go and fight, forbidden by his mother.

His other brothers, and his father, however, had joined and marched on foreign soil, fighting for their country. They died for their country, as well, all five of them. They had left Marcus and his mother alone in the world. Marcus tried to run home, to help his mother heal, to help her grieve. There was a telegram waiting for him when he stepped off the train. She had passed earlier that morning from heart failure. Marcus wasn't aware of much else, not the station around him, or the rain that began pouring down.

It was still raining during the funeral. The young man's bright blue eyes watched his mother's casket descend into the earth. He knew beneath the glossy black wood his mother laid in her Sunday finest, her make up and hair perfectly done, her arms hugging tight five neatly folded American flags. Anger crept slowly through Marcus as he tossed down the first handful of dirt while the minister droned on about heaven.

Marcus had grown bitter and began to hate the world and what it had taken from him, he withdrew deeper and deeper into his studies. All that drove him on was the single idea that he could change the world if he tried hard enough. Close to his graduation in 1958, Marcus received a letter from a man who was trying to do just that: Change the world. There, again, was no hesitation to say 'Yes.' It was an easy choice.

The plane ride was short, the boat ride was confusing. There, out in the middle of the ocean, Marcus found himself standing in a lighthouse, staring at a large brass orb with round windows built into it. A giant glass door hung open and beckoned him inside. He'd come to far to back away, now, so he stepped inside and sat in the chair that was inside the metal bubble. Audio, from some unknown source, began to play and the thing Marcus sat in began to move.

Outside the round windows, and the giant glass door, the world began to change. It all seemed like magic, now, like something out of a fairy tale, or a nightmare. A nightmare written by people that spoke of beings from another world. The ocean water became the air as he descended, the sky became the waves, deeper and deeper he went. Soon darkness gave way to a city, underwater, with lights and all.

Marcus stared in awe as the metal sphere docked itself, taking him inside the colossal structures. The audio had stopped a while ago, but the young man inside hadn't noticed. This time the speakers crackled and a man's voice came through them, speaking words that would forever change Marcus' life.

"Hello, Mister Graves, I am Andrew Ryan. Welcome to Rapture."

Monday, February 9, 2015

Life After Death (Original Series)

It was a slow night for Jerry, not another living soul outside the wall. He counted the times he'd heard a ghoul, counted the times they stumbled over something like a branch, and the times they'd see him and try to moan to others their find of fresh meat. It never lasted long. The rifle he'd borrowed from that new kid, M, was amazing. He wondered to himself how he'd gotten it, but remembered that in this world there weren't too many rules. It was funny, in a way, how that kid showed up out of nowhere, swept in with all sorts of training tactics, and managed to get Chelsea to leave her post every now and again.

Maybe it was his older age talking, but it seemed a little off how quickly the relationship between those two took off. He decided not to read into the whole thing too much. After all, he liked being on the wall. It let him think, even if he was bored as the day was long. Jerry adjusted his heavy jacket and gloves, re-positioning his beanie on his head so the small bill would help clear away some of the falling snow, it would get stuck in his beard and hair sometimes, and that annoyed him. The thermos was still hot, a wisp of steam curling up from it every now and again, and the liquid chocolate was begging to be sipped at. So the man with the fancy rifle complied with it's wishes.

The grey day soon began to fade to a bruised twilight, the sky was always beautiful during the winter days. Jerry smiled a small, sad, smile as he remembered the world before. He could still hear the noise of the cities, the constant buzz of people, the roars of engines and planes. In some odd way he missed it. Now it was so quiet, even with the generators on full throttle, and the people of Hadley's Hope at their most active, it seemed like whispers compared to the world before. He stopped thinking there, not wanting to follow the natural progression of the timeline, from his busy world to the day of the Great Panic. He didn't want to remember that day, at all.

It was easy to divert his attention to the nest of robins not too far outside the wall, the small birds were always entertaining. He picked up his scope and looked down it, spotting the little nest of twigs, resting on the branch he'd memorized. The nest was empty. Jerry let the scope fall away from his eye and concentrated, listening for any bird, at all. There were none, not a chirp, a peep, or a cry from the heavens above. It seemed even the ghouls were distracted, as even the moaning and shuffling had gone away. A cold sense of dread crawled into him, deep into his very bones. He stood up and looked down the scope, down the road that lead to his new home.

What he saw took his breath away, so much so he almost couldn't find the silent alarm to hit it. Four giant trucks were barreling down the road towards them, the men and women inside whooping and hollering. The trucks were painted red and black with fresh and old blood, bones of humans gave the things a hellish look. Half a human skeleton hung from the grill of the first truck, skin still attached here and there, the mouth agape like it was screaming. Though Jerry couldn't hear them he could read their lips clearly as they kept yelling 'Fresh meat!' Memories pushed their way through the block that was put up and now the Great Panic flooded through the man on the wall's mind.

He almost didn't hear the voices behind him shouting for an explanation, couldn't hear his own hyperventilating at the things he'd just seen, and remembered. It was Chelsea's voice that finally broke the stillness of terror, "Jerry! What is it?!?" All he could manage to do was turn to the small, blonde girl with the pretty eyes and say the only word that made sense and made everyone below him run with urgency to the armory, to their positions, to pray: "War."