Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Marcus Johansen was the leader of the House of Roue, the most powerful human alive, but he cowered in the corner of his panic room, staring at the monitors that quietly screeched static at him. The room shook with each pounding explosion, shaking loose dirt and debris from untold nooks and crannies. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as his breathing was rapid and ragged, his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Another pounding came, a monitor shook loose and crashed to the floor. He shrieked, and clutched at himself tighter and tighter, terrified at the things at his doorstep. 

Silence finally fell, even the gentle hum of gunfire was gone, something he only just noticed. Slowly the dignitary stood, his back still pressed to the wall, his eyes locked on the solid steel door. He prayed they had relented or had perished, prayed whatever was out there causing chaos and destroying his home were gone. He felt hope well up in him, maybe he was safe. The whole house shook again, metal from the door groaned and creaked. Terror took the sounds from him before he could make them.

The door deformed, degree by degree, inch by inch, pieces that were welded shut popped open, rivets sprang out. All he could do was watch in abject horror as his last line of security finally screamed a metallic cry and was wrenched from the frame outwards. The human leader felt his bladder let loose its contents as his eyes made out two figures in the dusty hole in the wall; one massive, one much smaller, but seemingly much more lethal. A voice slithered through the wreckage, dark and violent, "Marcus Johansen, Leader of the House of Roue, your presence is requested." 

The human tried to answer, but his voice was still locked from sheer and utter terror. The giant shadow remained in darkness, but the smaller one stepped through the frame, a vision out of a nightmare. Eyes glowing red, skin beyond pale with ribbons of purple and black veins, fingers longer than any humans, clothes tattered from fire and bullets, and awash in blood, it dripped from long fangs and claws. The crimson liquid made small trails in the dust and debris as the vampire walked forward. "Forgive my rudeness. I'm Michael, that's Raecien. And you will be coming with us."

As Michael got closer to Marcus the human could feel his world go dark, his vision narrowed, and finally his breath sigh out as he fainted. For a long time the world was darkness with flashes of the outside world making it's way through the fog. He caught a glimpse of his home, torn asunder, pure, white walls now stained red with blood and viscera, a man begged for his life only to have his skull crushed, his brains adding to the gore, a car, and finally large glass windows. He slept for a time, the horror of the world gone, for now.

Marcus knew he was upside down, knew he was swaying, but he couldn't figure out why. A soft, gentle, almost musical voice cooed to him, "Marcus. It's time to wake up. Oh, Marcus." Finally the human opened his burning eyes and saw the vampire with the purple eyes, his shoulder length black hair, and chiseled, perfect features. "Oh dear God. I'm going to die, aren't I? You're going to kill me!" There were more words, but they all became a mess of blubbering. Michael smiled at him, almost sweetly, "No, Marcus, no. You'll live a long and happy life, as long as you help us." 

The human sobbed, but tried to ask how, the vampire answered the question, "You're going to tell me where to get as much gold as I can. All the gold to fund an army. And if you do that, you'll live." Marcus' blubbering had slowed enough to speak, "You promise me you won't kill me. I'll tell you how and where to get everything you need." Michaels hand rested on his ribs gently and the swaying stopped, "I promise." The leader of the house of Roue extended his hand, it shook as it waited confirmation from his captor. The vampire's hand was like ice, but they shook on the deal.

The giant wolf that was with him at the house appeared and dropped Marcus down gently as he sobbed his thanks. It took hours for all the information to be conveyed, all the layouts of safe houses, all the caches of personal wealth, every ounce of gold accounted for. After the plan was concocted Raecien was silent as he escorted the human to a small room with no windows, the door locked behind their human guest. Mixed feelings ran through him as he thought about his betrayal. He had bought his way to life with the money and lives of others. He dismissed the entire thing and slept.

It felt like days, but he doubted it had been that long, he was fed a few times, so that was no successful measure of time. Then the door opened and Michael entered, "Well, my dear friend. Everything was successful. We have the gold, we will raise an army soon. And I just wanted to thank you, personally, for all you've done. But our friendship is at an end, and I'm afraid you must be added to the list of casualties." Panic flooded through the human, "But...but you said you wouldn't kill me!" The vampire had stood and was nearly at the door before he turned back, "I did. And I'm not."

Raecien replaced the small, thin, vampire. All words had left Marcus and he could only repeat 'Oh, dear God!' Over and over, as he watched the wolf change into something even more frightening than his already gigantic stature. Before long the giant wolf was just that: A giant wolf. It loomed over him, his steps thudded in the quiet room, drowning out the prayers. It roared a triumphant call. The last thing Marcus heard was his skull being crushed between the massive jaws of the beast as his scream echoed.

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael woke early. To his right was the window to his second story bedroom, to his left was Balthezar, in a deep slumber and naked. He ran his hand through his hair, surprised to find it almost shoulder length, but it had been a busy few months. The guerilla war they'd been fighting had taken its toll on all of them, even Master Raecien was slumbering in the next room, dreaming of something that made him mutter in his sleep.

Michael wondered why he woke up, searching his thoughts as the rain drummed away at the dimly lit window, dusk or dawn was irrelevant, the pane was painted a placid orange. Waking without purpose was something that had always annoyed Michael, even when he was human, so the search for a reason intensified as he swung his bare legs off the side of the bed, taking a deep breath while stretching. He had received his shipment of weapons from Phil just a few days ago, the last internal email from The Community had been intercepted and hacked, the last kill count caused by the three was in the triple digits. He couldn't figure it out. The only one awake in the house got up and decided to take a shower, no point in wasting energy.

The vampire couldn't believe that the giant man standing next to his bed had gone unnoticed this entire time. Michaels purple eyes met with the man's perfect emerald ones. The intruder was near as big as Raecien, in height and muscle, tattoos ran across his flesh like twisted vines, interrupted only by scars. The vampire wasn't fast enough to stop the kick that knocked him across his large room and through a concrete pillar, turning it to dust and pain. He cried out from the broken ribs and heavy landing, it was enough to wake his slumbering lover. Balthezar leapt from the bed and rammed his shoulder into the massive man, but the effect was minimal. As soon as his bare feet touched the floor the curly haired vampire opened up a flurry of punches and kicks, putting everything he had into it. Again the man was unimpressed, using his massive arms as a shield against the volley of attacks. Balthezar brought out his claws as Raecien joined the crowded room, looking for the trouble. He saw it, and the attempts Balthezar was making, and knew what the assassin was, "Balthezar don't touch him! He's an alchemist!" But his warnig came too late.

With deft speed the alchemist shot his hand out and grabbed the older vampire by the throat, whose skin began to smoke and burn, his usually deep and majestic voice turned into a scream. Michael called out, trying to move and join the fight, but the massive wolf had already scooped him up like a handbag. Raecien made for the nearest exit, which was a window, looking out on the river. Michael was able to look into Balthezars eyes just before the Alchemist plunged his free hand into the vampires chest, silencing the lingering scream.

The massive assassin tossed aside Balthezars already smoldering body and turned his attention to the two fleeing, but it was too late, Raecien and Michael were through the window and into the dusk. Michaels heart was torn apart, wanting to transform and rip the assassin to shreds, crushing agony, bleak sorrow. He hadn't noticed that the setting had changed from his cold warehouse to the woods behind it, nor did he notice his bruised ribs, or his lack of clothing.

The wolfs deep voice broke Michael out of his stupor, "Can you walk?" The vampire nodded and was put down, finding his own feet touching the ground felt alien. Raecien bowed his massive head, "I'm sorry we lost him. He was a good man." Cold fury was coiled inside Michael, begging to be unleashed, but it wasn't his companion that deserved the lashing, "Thank you, Master Raecien. He was a good man. And we'll carve his name into every single person from The Community, I swear it."

"You're a formidable foe, Michael, but this is something different. That was an Alchemist. They're the worlds oldest assassins. Their touch is lethal to you and I, our heightened senses don't work with them, and their strength is more than even mine." Every word was like a droplet of water falling upon a white hot rod of iron, doing nothing to quell the fury of the temperature. "How do we beat them, Master Raecien?" The wolf sighed deeply, "We don't. We buy them." Michael nodded, "We hit the humans, take their gold, and build ourselves a silent army. Except for the one that killed Balthezar. I want his heart."

An Immortals Tale (Original Series)

An Immortals Tale

The March to Heaven

Chapter 2: The Rumor of God

Two men sat in a diner down the street from a destroyed building, one with short cut blonde hair and green eyes, the other with hair bordering the long end and grey eyes. They were still and silent for a long time, staring into their cups of coffee, soaked to the bone from the rain. The restaurant buzzed with noise and life, flowing all around them, but the two paid no mind to it. Even as the waitress came back for the the third time, asking what they wanted to eat, did they barely respond. Through the sky was already dark from rain the night managed to make it even darker, hiding the moon behind thick clouds, lightning brightening the world when it felt like it.

Jon broke the silence, finally, "Bob? What happened?" Without looking up the angel responded, "Before I answer that I have to ask, Jon: Have you heard the rumor?" Lucifer's words rang through his head, but the rumor was left out, "No. I heard there was one. Lucifer-" Bob scoffed at the mention of the name, "Him. Oh, I bet he enjoyed playing out that tale for you." Jon shook his head, "He didn't tell me, Bob. He said I wouldn't believe him." Green eyes stared in disbelief for a moment, studying the Paladin's face, "He's up to something, I know it. You mustn't get caught up in-" It was Jon's turn to interrupt, "Bob. Please."

It took some considering, and another bit of time, but the blonde man answered, "It's...they say...God is no longer in heaven." The words were as confusing as they were disheartening, and it was Bob's turn to sit in silence and await a response. Jon's mind raced through all the reasons that the rumor would exist, but he couldn't narrow just any single reason down. When he looked up to his friend, he answered without being asked, "Jerusalem. The rest of the world's memory was wiped away, the horrible things never happened, all those people didn't die, but the rest of the world. The Angelfolk, Demonfolk, the Attuned, we didn't forget. And some of them took it as a sign that God no longer is in his throne." 

The idea was suddenly very clear to Jon, "And now everyone wants to occupy it." Bob nodded, "By sword or by favor everyone wants to claim it." Once again the scale of the problems of the world was more than any one man could combat against, but he wouldn't be alone, Jon knew there were other Paladin. "So that's why I was woken up? To join the others of my kind and try to keep the peace?" Bob emptied his cup and shook his head, "You're the last one, Jon." The immortals cup was already empty, so there was no buffer, "What? What do you mean I'm the last one?" The angel's perfect features wore a scolding look very well, "Who do you think they killed first?" 

"Who is they, Bob?" The moment paused while Lily, the waitress, filled their cups again. "The Angels. They knew that it was you and your kind's job to restore balance. The logic is easy to follow. After they were gone the next targets were our kind: The Seraphims that arm you guys." Bob touched the shoulder where his arm used to be, "I only survived because I was on fired and covered in blood, I'm sure I looked dead. My brothers didn't make it." Jon offered his solemn condolences then asked why he was still alive. "No one could find you. It was like you'd disappeared off the face of the Earth. When they couldn't find you we all assumed you'd died in Jerusalem." 

Jon wondered about how he kept hidden, not aloud, but trying to think why he would be hidden, and then something tripped up his thought process, "Wait. You said 'We'." Bob kept his gaze upon the cup in his hand as Jon spoke again, "What did you mean 'We'?" The Angel's brilliant green eyes were shimmering with tears, "I'm sorry, Jon. They said they'd let me live." The world exploded, cacophony and fire were everywhere. Jon's ears rang, but his grey eyes worked perfectly, he checked his surroundings. The tiny restaurant was in shambles, lights hung from the ceiling, flashing on and off, sparks were spitting from exposed wires. Sterile white walls were covered in dust and blood, gore clung to the moldings, people were gasping and choking. 

The ringing died down to a voice, so pleasant it was almost musical, "Jon. Oh, Jon? Did you live through that?" There was nothing too painful for him, so he stood, brushing the dust and dirt off his suit, "Yeah. Yeah, I lived. And who's asking?" The beautiful voice replied, "Step out of that mess and let's introduce ourselves properly, please." The immortal decided to comply, walking over body parts and bodies to the blown in front, and out into the night. The orange streetlights illuminated the chaos and the single man that stood outside, wearing a smile, dark jeans, and a button up black shirt. Long blonde hair that curled in places reached the middle of the mans back, his body was in perfect shape, skin was like porcelain, and with eyes a shade of blue that was too perfect to describe.

The man stood in the middle of the street, Jon on the sidewalk. "The Paladin Jonathan Ross, I presume?" "And you are?" The blonde bowed deeply at the waist, "I am Epoch, member of the first Choir of Angels, enforcer of the word of Michael. I'm also your executioner, and for that I'm very sorry." He stood back up, still smiling, to his full height of around five and a half feet. Jon knew better than to engage an Angel head to head, so he had to delay to think of something, "So, Epoch. Why did you kill the people in the restaurant? Why kill Bob?" It was enough of a question to intrigue his opponent, who looked back at the smoking wreckage he'd created.

"The humans and the Seraphim? Innocent? Please, Paladin, don't make me laugh. Those people are all sinners, and two of them are atheists. They don't even believe God exists. As for the one known as 'Bob', well...The weak must be culled. Chaff from the wheat and all that." Jon's temper flared, but he was still thinking of what could be in his repertoire that could possibly take down an Angel. "If you're trying to buy time until the police show up, don't bother. I've put this entire city to sleep. Unfortunately, your time has come." Pain took Jon's words before he could speak them, his vision white from the impact he never saw coming.

His head went through the back window of the car, his body crushed the trunk. When Jon lifted his head he was twenty feet or so from where he was standing previously, the Angel was on the sidewalk, strolling towards the wreckage Jon was now a part of. Anger now flooded through the Paladin, all his powers awakened at once and begged to be unleashed, and he did not deny them. He opened his mouth and let forth a blast of energy, as much as he could expel at once. Epoch held out his palm and the blast impacted and dissipated almost instantly to nothing. Jon focused his vision and let forth another blast of energy as he pulled himself from the wreckage of the car, but it got the same treatment and the angel kept walking forward. 

"Please, Jon, don't embarrass yourself. Just die with some dignity." Anger was a haze clouding Jon's thoughts, but he tried to think. The immortal smiled, his teeth red with his own blood, "There's an issue with me, there Epoch. I'm older than most other Paladins. So I got a few more tricks up my sleeve." With a shaky hand Jon reached into his pocket, where he always kept his vials of holy water, and withdrew one. The smug look never left the Angel's face, even as Jon began to speak a language that had been dead for more than a thousand years. Jon rushed the words, pressed to hit every syllable. As the last of the words fell from his lips the Angel Epoch stared down at him.

Jon shook the vial, the cue for the liquid to do something in reaction to the spell he'd just spoken, then glared angrily at it when nothing happened. The angel reached into the wreckage where Jon was and began to pull him out, prepared to deliver the final blow. Epoch lifted the immortal, his free hand forming a blade, fingers pressed together. Jon shook the vial again, ignoring the immediate threat, a last resort. "Goodbye, Paladin Jon." The liquid finally changed, the vial's clear contents turned black, and with that Jon met Epoch's smile, "Goodbye, Angel Epoch." Jon's hand flew as fast it could and smashed the glass container on the angels head. The scream that filled the air was unearthly, shattering windows and glass doors for blocks.

The Paladin was released as Epoch reeled away, he clawed at his smoking face in agony, dropped to his knees by the pain, his screams now just choking sobs. The black fluid melted away the holy beings flesh, sloughing off in chunks. Jon stood over Epoch, adjusting his suit as he spoke, "Black water. Deadly to Angelfolk. Luckily, though, this isn't enough to kill you. This, however, is." The immortal plunged his knife into the heart of the angel, twisting the blade. The world went silent again, but so did Jon's hope. Angels were hunting him, and now, even friends weren't to be trusted. With Epoch dead people began to wake up, and that was the immortals cue to leave the scene and try to regain a sense of self.

Half a block from the dead angel and the chaos that was left behind something happened that Jon couldn't believe: A woman walked into his path, fully awake, and seemingly unaffected by the sleep spell Epoch had cast. She looked one way, then the other, and laid eyes on the immortal walking her way. Both paused, staring wide eyed at each other, both just as confused as the other. Jon broke the silence, "Attuned." She startled and turned away, and began to walk quickly, muttering to herself, "Oh, my. Oh, no. Oh, goodness." Jon began to give chase, "Hey! Hey! Come back here!" 

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael sat still, watching the rain pour out over the night, making everything shine. The moon was particularly beautiful, its shape reflected in the pools of water on the empty street. Crouched like a gargoyle overlooking its domain, the vampire let the smells of the world wash through him, bringing back beautiful memories, and memories that filled him with rage. 

Atop the pointed roof of his warehouse, soaked to the bone, he waited. The place was empty now, as Phil's workshop relocated to a nearby suburb. He wasn't happy about it, but it had to be done. Michael stayed behind, sending his new partner in crime to retrieve his sire, after letting him experience the pleasantries that were doled out by The Community. They'd all be hunted, no doubt, but Michael wanted to make sure that their world burned before he gave his final breath. 

The plan, as long as it would take, would be executed the way he wanted it to be, no other way. As the details of it began to sprint through his mind, a scent caught his nose: fresh human blood. He knew his sire was near. He stretched and stood, waiting for the arrival of his old friend, and his new wolf one, the night still washed with  rain. Lightning flashed across the sky, turning the night to day just for an instant. He didn't need the assistance, but Michael easily spotted his compatriots coming in from the edge of the forest line.

Balthezar was naked as the day he was born, his muscular body and thick curly hair soaked, parts of him swinging back and forth with his gait. Raecien was just as drenched, but seemed nowhere near as jovial as the nude vampire, a grimace firmly affixed to his bearded face. Their pace slowed as they approached the warehouse and the waiting vampire, who smiled and growled their greeting, "Welcome home, friends. Let us plot the end of the world." 

Inside, out of the rain, Michael led his little company to the office, where clothes awaited Balthezar, and a reward for Raecien. Talks and planing were held off until the old vampire was dressed, and the wolf had consumed his leg of beef. Michael watched his sire dress, remembering nights they'd spent together, vivid and gentle. But it wasn't time for that, now. "I can always tell when you stare at me, Chell." Balthezar's voice brought the young vampire out of his thoughts. 

Michael could feel his face heat, "Don't call me Chell, you know I never liked it." Raecien paused his noisy eating and rolled his eyes at the whole exchange, choosing to turn his back to the other species and continue his delicious meal. "So what is this grand plan, Chell? Do we burn down the capital? Assassinate all the officials? Expose a corrupt system? Or simply take them all to war?" the sire asked, pulling on his shirt and freeing his wet hair from the collar. 

His purple eyes faded to the gold of the Fire of the Night, conveying the deep conviction and hatred Michael felt, "No. We start a civil war, watch them kill each other off, and then burn what's left of them. We light a conflagration so immense that only ashes and blackened bones will be left for us to crush underfoot." Balthezar's demeanor darkened with the words, his jovial nature nearly completely defeated. "And the innocent, Chell, what of them?" Michael's eyes still burned as he answered, "There are none." 

The old vampire was afraid to ask, but he didn't need to. "After they came for me, they went for Aviel. She didn't go down easily, so they took their time with her." Images of her body flashed through Michael's mind, her naked form in the throes of both pleasure and unbearable pain. "After Aviel, it was Maris, then Julia, David, Eleanor, Rebecca....Shae." The last name made all the difference. Balthezar hadn't talked to his sister for a few years, since they'd both left the house of Tor, hoping to start over. 

"Did...did she..." Balthezar couldn't finish, but Michael answered, "No. She suffered the worst. I'm sorry." The old vampire put his fists on the metal desk that held his clothes, trying to choke back the fury gathering inside, aching to be loosed on anything, and violently. He didn't hear the desk creak and groan as it bent under his strength. Testing his voice wasn't an option, not for a few more moments. Even Raecien's noisy meal had halted, though his back was still turned.

Michael waited, knowing how much it hurt, feeling the pain emanating from his sire in waves. Balthezar's silence broke. He spoke only two words, "What's first?" The young vampire placed a sympathetic hand on his sire's shoulder, "Markov." Raecien stood slowly and turned to face the vampires, his face contorted with confusion, "The human second in command?" 

Michael's brow lowered into a stern look, "Is there an issue, Master Raecien?" The wolf growled, anger in his voice, "Not an issue, but a request." Both the vampires waited, "I get to eat his heart."

The vampire with the purple eyes couldn't help but smile. He went to his wolf friend and wiped away some blood from the wolf's lips, left over from the meal. 

"Of course you may." 

Life After Death (Original Series)

Chelsea was warm. She loved waking up to that feeling, even if she didn't open her eyes, even if she didn't move for a little while, she loved waking to being warm. It was like remembering something so important that you want to memorize it, again, just to make sure it's always there for you. She kept her eyes closed, but felt M's arm draped over her, keeping her safe while he slumbered next to her, his even breathing nearly music to her, no matter how many times she heard it.

It'd been a rough time for him since he'd gotten there. He helped retrain people in their town, helped gather supplies, and even came up with new safety procedures for some of the crews. He even trained her, intensely, and she became an even better shot, and even added skills to her repertoire like survival and hand to hand combat. She remembered those days fondly, the way he was so happy teaching people, even though there was a dark torrent of emotion underneath. She bit her lip as that scene, in the cafeteria, played out in her mind.

So many people were pestering him for his story, they offered up theirs, some even offered the stories of others, trying to coerce the young man that was so knowledgeable in surviving in this world. He resisted for as long as he could, until one day a rumor started that he was a spy for some other settlement. M wasn't hurt about the accusations, in fact he understood them. He asked that as many people be present for his story to quell the little fire that'd sprung up.

Chelsea remembered being infuriated with the rest of the people, she reminded them how much he'd helped, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She remembered seeing him sit at the back of the room, in a single chair, holding a cigar box, her heart ached for him. She wanted to stand by him, comfort him as he spun his tale to the people that had demanded it. She counted the people that walked in, nearly the entire population of their little town, staring at the man with the long, black hair, dark eyes, and a beaming smile. When he was sure they were ready he began.

She felt herself tremble as he began his story, opening the cigar box at the same time. He spoke about his three brothers, taking out tiny trinkets from the box as he did. He was the oldest, the next brother in his teens, the one after had only turned eleven, the last was barely learning to walk. He talked about his father, who was in the special forces before the world fell apart, and how he trained him. He went on to tell how his father died fighting to restore the world. The entire time he spoke Chelsea's hands were balled into fists of fury and worry. He got to the part about his mother. For the first time in his tale his voice shook. It felt like the world trembled beneath her feet.

M explained how his mother was an alcoholic, even into the fall of the world. He told everyone how he would have to include liquor in his daily runs, just to keep her functional. It was then that he pulled out a tiny bottle, the label faded and nearly scratched off. Tears flowed down his cheeks, her cheeks burned with tears, too. She'd fallen asleep drunk one day while he was out looking for food, his brothers couldn't fend off the dead that had heard the youngest of them crying. Chelsea started pushing her way through the people, trying to get to him, to comfort him. He had placed the bottle back in the box, then told them all about the last settlement he was in and how it fell. Even how he ended up here.

He met her eyes and smiled, through the tears, he smiled. She rolled over in their small bunk and put her arm around him, pulling herself closer to his warmth. He didn't stir, but she felt he knew she was there. Their relationship was quick to start, but slow to elevate to anything besides sharing a bunk and the title of a relationship. She stared at his face for a while, pondering the idea of going further, but it didn't last long. The small, red lights at their door began flashing, an emergency was at hand. A cold chill went through her as she shook M awake.

He came awake with a start, like always, instantly asking if she was okay, she nodded her answer. “We need to move. There's an emergency.” He looked at the light, then back to her, but she already knew the process. Within a few minutes she had her pack on, her rifle, and a few knives that he had given her, all ready as she ran out with him in tow. The young woman paused outside her door, the town alive with shouted orders, which raised the hair on her neck. The constant word was 'Raiders', each time it was said with more and more panic. Chelsea knew her role, M knew his, and they raced off. Luckily her bunk wasn't too far away from her post on the wall.

Chelsea's thick winter clothes made all sorts of sounds as she ran to the tiny stair set and began climbing up. Her rifle was over her shoulder, her legs pumped as the name of the man that was replacing her for the moment escaped her. She was about to call out to get his attention when a spear plunged through his chest, a spray of blood jetting out from his back, coloring the metal sides of the small roost. She tried to react, but the man was pulled over the side of the wall, screams of triumph erupting from the outside. The only thought on her mind was if M was okay.

Her eyes scanned the wall, frantically looking for him. She found him, just as he ducked a circular saw blade that had been launched at his head, missing by inches and sticking in the ground behind him. In her head she was furious at the attempt, but the rest of her was acclimated to violence. Quietly she climbed to the top of the stairs, poking her head over the edge to see who was attacking her settlement. What she saw drew a gasp from her.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

In a dark room, deep in the center of The Community headquarters, sat three men and one woman. All dressed to impress, all with faces as stern and strong as rock. Within The Community the three men were easily identifiable, the female too. At the round table made of the tree that hung Judas Escariot sat the most powerful men in all the free world: Viktor Taelrith of the House of Lee, the vampire lord, Marcus Johansen of the House of Roue, the final say in the human side, and lastly Eiren Fenris of the House of Lucian, lord of the Lycanthropes. Last was Monica, new Mediator, elected after Lola's tragedy.

It was a tense silence, each lord measuring the other, gauging the other royal members of their race. This was the first meeting between all the races in over 500 years. The last time they'd all come together was to decide the fate of individuals that would do anything to usurp the rule of The Community. It seemed they met again under similar circumstances, though quite different, where the last time it was a group, this was a single man. None of the trio wanted to be the one to speak first, it was seen as an act of impatience and rudeness to the others.

"These are not the acts of a Lycanthrope." Eiren offered to the silence, breaking it, finally. "They are made to look like they are, but the evidence is far from the truth." The other men took a moment before answering, Viktor speaking first, "Clearly they are. We've found sigils of your clan at every attack. If not done directly by a wolf, then they certainly are an accomplice." Marcus followed, "There is no way it can be just one individual as we've been lead to believe. This vampire..." He picked up the notes before him and read for a second before going on, "Michael. Does not have the capabilities to do the things he's done all by himself. It's just not physically possible."

Silence had once again reclaimed the room. But only for a short time whilst Eiren stroked his strawberry red beard in thought with his huge hand. "He could. If he were of the House of Tor." The statement sat ill with the two men across from him. Displeasure at mention of the name sat heavy onViktor's thin face, deepening the shadows on his pale skin. Marcus shared the look, frowning in anger, his perfect skin stretched over his features, betraying his age. "The House of Tor is fallen. There is no one left with those...gifts." The vampire lord sat back in his chair, as if to dismiss the entire thing. Marcus agreed with a nod and turned his attention to the papers in front of him, trying to further the inquiry, when Monica's voice chimed in, "That is incorrect, Lord Taelrith."

Monica sat in her chair, the one designated for the Mediator, in her grey suit, young face and short, black hair. "One of the House of Tor is still alive. And he also sired Michael. You know him as Belthazar. His real name is Amon. He is not the age he says he is, but he did join the House of Lee near 800 years ago." As she spoke the trio of men were fixated on her, hanging on every word. "He now sits on the council in the House of Lee. It is unclear if he has the dark gifts of the Tor, but it is suspected that he does." Marcus and Eiren both turned their angry gazes on Viktor, who stammered his words out, "I wouldn't have known! I've only lead the house for 500 years. This was beyond my time!"

Marcus sighed with disgust, "It seems your house has again let The Community down, Viktor. Remind me, again, of the shining victory over the Tor. How the mighty prevailed and the wicked were vanquished. What was their crime, again?" The vampire shot a look of pure fury at him, the Fire of the Night burning bright, "They were murderers, thought themselves the law keepers of our kind. They were one of the elder clans, but could not conform to The Masquerade, before The Community was founded. Once The Community came along they wanted even less to do with it. This also proves the point that he has an accomplice in the wolves. One of their dark gifts was to control your kind." A scowl was shot the way of the Lycanthrope lord, who growled deeply in response, before answering.

"I am the oldest of the free wolves, last living descendant of Lucian! If he were to be able to control anyone it'd be me." He rose from his seat to tower over the table and the others sitting at it, "Would you care to be more specific with your accusation, bat?" Before the other could answer Monica's calm voice chimed like a bell "Gentlemen. This is an inquiry. Not a battle royale. Sit down, Lord Fenris. Lord Taelrith, be careful with what you choose to say." With reluctance the leader of the Lycanthropes sat back down, Viktor's fire also fading, extinguished by the Mediator, "I accuse no one, Eiren." Both conceded to each other with a nod.

Marcus had grown impatient with the show, "Look. All we know is that there is a murderer, going after all but the wolf kind. I don't know about controlling other species or the such, but I do know that this man comes from a long line of assassins and political powerhouses and is gunning for no one in particular. His random pattern of murder and chaos, accomplice or not, is costing us all. We need to stop him." Eiren pointed a thick finger at the head of the House of Roue, "Wasn't it YOUR hunters that let him go in the first place? Why has no one questioned the men that went after him in the first place?"

The human leader shook his head and dug a handful of photos from his leather bag, sliding them over to the Lycanthrope, "We did. In fact we went this morning to try. This is how we found them. All of eight of them. No matter how creative we humans are we can't recreate that kind of violence." Eiren slid through the pictures, flayed open bodies in almost each one, their faces frozen in terror, or in mid scream, throats torn out, limbs severed, and in the last one another sigil of the House of Lucian on parchment, thrown upon an opened rib cage. The brown paper was soaked red, the sigil barely recognizable. The giant wolf pushed the pictures to the vampire, who refused to look at them. Marcus took them back and asked, "Are you sure you're the only living descendant? Is there another?"

An answer was a long time coming, "I am. During the last great war all my brothers and sisters were killed." Even after answering, he still thought for a time. Silence came back to the room, heavy and lasting. Monica's perfect voice chimed again, "If there is no more lines of questioning then I shall declare this inquiry closed. Any final thoughts or questions?" She looked at Marcus, he shook his head, Viktor did the same, Eiren spoke, "They said they found a piece of paper at the first murder scene with a single word on it. What did it say?" The other two lords didn't know, but Monica did, "It said 'Praelior.'"

The three most powerful men sat in confusion at the word for a while, until Marcus asked, "What does it mean?" Monica once more had three sets of eyes keenly tuned directly at her. With that same congenial smile she'd worn this entire procedure she answered, her body language betraying nothing, her perfectly blue eyes sparkling with life, "It's ancient Latin. Almost as old as Aramaic. It means 'War.'"  

The Burnt World: Part Two (Original Short)

Even with sunglasses on Job had to sometimes shield his eyes from the harsh sun above and the even harsher winds that blew across the sand laden landscape that he was walking through. Above him the sky was turning a dark purple and the horizon still shone white with a heavy tint of yellow at the edges, the clouds above crackled with blue lightning and thunder that shook the very earth beneath his feet. He'd been walking for two days since his run in with the three cannibals. He hadn't stopped. He didn't think he could.

The road before him must have been a freeway when the world was still alive. Sand had blown away in several spots, revealing the pavement and even a little bit of paint every now and then. The black pillar of smoke still rose off in the distance, his destination. Through waves of heat that danced up from the floor he could see creatures off in the distance, dark silhouettes that seemed to be twisted physically past anything he'd recognize. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he was still too leery to try and take anything down, despite his new collection of knives.

There was no way to tell time, but Job knew that the day was waning. As he continued a billboard confirmed that the road beneath his feet was a highway. It was metal and bent in half from the winds, solid for the most part, but the writing had worn off except for a letter or two. With all the weathering the sign had been shaped into a pseudo cave. Behind the sign he studied loomed clouds that were pouring rain out on the horizon, but heading for him. The sign would provide adequate shelter for the storm. It seemed that nature chose for him to rest, after all.

With a great amount of caution Job approached the edge of the structure that stuck over the edge of the road. 'No impulses, this time.' he thought to himself as he thoroughly checked for booby traps and any kind of pitfalls. After a few minutes more than he thought were necessary the search was complete and all was safe. As quietly as possible a bed and a trap for the only way in was quickly put into place. Job considered a fire, but then reconsidered when true darkness fell and things began crawling out from hidden crevices and places safe from the rays of the sun.

Though night had fallen and the world was near pitch black the lightning that never seemed to stop lit the landscape rather well. Outside Job could see the things that crept in the night. Insects close to four feet tall, four legs on it's back end, two large ones on the front, skin as pale as the sand. Each one clicked and brayed as they combed over the soil, their mouths looked like the mouth of a bass lined large, white, sharp teeth. There were about a dozen, maybe more, littered across the highway, the closest to him less than thirty feet away. Job watched closely as the thing found his faint footsteps with it's eight eyes.

Silently a knife was pulled from a cloth sheath, ready for what may come. It kept sniffing, braying and chittering as it followed the path to the bent sign he was hidden in. His eyes went as wide as they could, trying to let more light in to better judge the distance between him and the creature. Ice was running through his veins, muscles hard and ready, panic trying to creep into the back of his mind as the thing raised it's terrible snout at the very spot he was at. 'This is it. Fight for your life.' Job thought as the creature opened it's double hinged jaw to spoil his hiding spot. As it's grotesque sides inflated with air to sound the alarm a long, black, slimy tentacle speared it.

The appendage descended from above, thick as a man's waist, covered in what seemed to be mucus, and black as the night, except for the bioluminescent strings of purple and blue light pulsating just beneath the glossy surface. Job's eyes didn't close a bit as the thing screamed and writhed at the end of the terrible spike. The sound caused the rest of the smaller monstrosities to flee. Job was at least grateful for that. With as little movement as he could he crept to the opening and traced the ascending one that had been caught.

Up and up and up his head tilted, following the inevitability. Four long, giant legs with knees that bent like an ostrich's hoisted a body that was also black save for the bioluminescence. It was hard to discern the creature from the sky, but the pulsing lights made it at least possible. The body looked like a gigantic fish with no tail, the mouth made of four muscular flaps that opened up to reveal a row of shark like teeth which proceeded to bite the thing it had captured in half once, spilling purple blood everywhere. Again it bit down, leaving only part of the head and jaws to be discarded as another tentacle zipped down after the fleeing horde to get another.

The slimy tendrils seemed to come from an orifice just beneath the thing's mouth, seven in all. The giant walked slowly, covering massive ground, the thick body swaying some forty feet in the air as it went. It trumpeted a triumphant blast, that sounded like a foghorn, as it scooped another piece of prey, the sound so loud Job had to cover his ears. All the things gone, for now, he slid back into his makeshift cave, panic replaced with genuine fear. 'Dear God what has the world become?' he thought to himself as his eyes closed slowly.

Unsure of the time that had passed Job opened his eyes to the pitter of rain on his cave roof. Ache still resided in him from walking and not eating, but he forced his burning orbs open as the rain moved past the mouth of his shelter. A fantastic opportunity had been afforded to him, he thought, as he grabbed an empty water bottle and began to crawl towards the falling water. He paused when he saw the droplets begin to hit the severed head of the creature that had spotted him. Another crushing feeling as his heart sank lower and lower as he watched.

The light brown skin and shell began to bubble and boil with each drop, in a matter of a minute or two the first layer sloughed off, smoldering to nothing in a small pool. Next the muscle beneath, following suit, as it smoked and roiled, then fell off or dissolved completely. The bone lasted the longest, after all the soft tissue had been washed and burned away, it soon would smoke and eventually pool into marrow and bits in the acid rain. 'No wonder there are no bones out there.' Job thought to himself as he resumed sleeping.

Heat made sleep impossible and a few hours later Job was on the move again. The sun shone harsh and the winds were dry again, as if the rain had never happened. Not being able to collect water made him wonder where the water he'd gotten from those cannibals had come from. Deciding not to worry about it he concentrated on moving towards that pillar of smoke off in the distance. He wasn't a scientist, but he tried to use logic to try and figure out what animals those things had come from. It helped pass the time.

Walking seemed to be the best way to cover ground, not too fast, not too slow, and at a pace where he didn't get thirsty. Though hunger was now an issue. In his pack he had a couple of cans with no labels, he was unsure of the contents and was hoping to save them for emergencies, but he was hungry now. The end of the freeway he was walking on presented itself, and an opportunity to rest in the underpass of the broken structure. It looked like he had hit an overpass and another highway lie beneath it. A line of skeletal cars stretched for a while in each direction, all abandoned, all rusted to near nothing.

Using a knife he cut open a can, smelling the contents. Job's face twisted as the aroma of what smelled like dog food assaulted him. It took a minute, but he decided it was better than nothing. To avoid a gag reflex he finished it quickly, cleaning the can and putting it back in his pack for further uses. About to give up his shaded spot to continue his journey he saw something he didn't expect: other people. They didn't seem to have seen him as they continued to walk right past his spot. The concrete between him and them, in a pile and rubble, had given him a vantage point.

It was a man and a woman, both dressed in tattered rags, each had a bag slung over their shoulders. Job stayed low and watched them, looking for weapons of any kind. The people moved slow and checked the cars for any supplies. A knife slipped it's sheath and was ready for anything that may come Job's way. It never did. Movement and screaming erupted in the valley he sat above, followed soon by violence.

The people were ambushed by four men brandishing clubs made from various materials, dressed in nothing but strips of clothing like native americans, and all four grotesquely misshapen and mutated in one form or another. They descended on the couple like a pack of dogs, whooping and crying at their new found prey. The two tried to flee, but it was too late, their pursuers moved way too fast. The male had his head bashed in and his clothing stripped away by two of the pack. The woman was not as lucky.

The other two of the pack tackled her to the floor and ripped off her rags, exposing her lightly tanned skin and healthy body, then she was held down. She pleaded with them, right up until the moment they began to bite at her flesh, ripping and tearing chunks away. Pleas became screams. Screams became strangled choking and gagging sounds as they tore open her abdomen, pulling out things to eat. Job couldn't look away from the carnage. Blood flowed from her mouth as she still tried to form words, but only made wet gurgles of pain. Her brown eyes locked with Job's for a moment. He watched the life leave them.

Job stayed a long while, as long as it took, for the cannibals to strip the woman's body down to nearly the bone. He stayed as still as the rocks that hid him, his eyes glued to the travesty that had happened right in front of him. The four left, laughing and wiping their mouths, tied the male up and dragged him along. One final look confirmed the man was still alive. There was nothing to be done. He was sure they were gone, but Job waited a bit longer. The climb down the small pieces of concrete was easy. He walked between the still cars, to the clearing where the woman's remains were.

He knelt and said a prayer for her, wishing her soul an easy journey into the next life. The want to search the cars was gone, the want to stay was gone, now he just wanted answers. The thoughts came like a torrent. If he'd known what would have happened to the world or what he would have woken up to he would have never volunteered for the program. He was only a convict by name. Court marshalled for killing killers that wore the same uniform as him. 'You don't have to be executed. We can make you part of the Cryo program.' they told him. He cursed their names. He'd sleep for 80 years and be reawakened and reintroduced into society. If the process was successful.

What went wrong? How long was he asleep? Why only now did he wake up? What happened to the world? His head swam with all the things that needed answering. Some noise nagged at him from the outside world. A clicking type noise. He couldn't be bothered with it right now. It persisted. Click click click click. The hiss is what brought him out of his thoughts. His body stopped and straightened, his head whipped left and right trying to find what made the noise. He found it. To his left, in the sand, and just a few feet away.

It looked like a centipede, but near twelve feet long, a deep red body with black spikes protruding randomly, eight black eyes, and long pincers coated with venom. It stood the first portion of it's body straight up, already the size of Job's six foot body. It hissed again and he slowly started to back away, moving in a deliberate retreat. Another hiss and he sped his retreat. Job guessed it wasn't satisfied as it gave chase. He ran towards the black smoke, hoping it would be another person, even cannibals would be acceptable at this point. Clicks and hisses from the angry insect were right behind him.

The pavement beneath his feet ended somewhere underground and now there was nothing but soft sand, which made running harder for him, but not his pursuer. It was gaining. Quickly. Options sped through Job's mind, all of them ended in his death. His legs pushed harder as he dared not look back, but let fear fuel him. Ahead of him, in the sand, was a sinkhole about six or so feet across. A plan formed quickly. He bee lined straight for it, hoping it would trip the creature up enough to let him escape. He was struck in the back, his pack absorbing whatever damage had been dealt. At the edge of the hole in the sand he leapt.

He rolled with his landing, but the sand was too soft for him to recover. He drew a knife and flipped onto his back, ready for the giant thing to descend upon him. Half it's body made it over the sinkhole, then it stopped dead in it's tracks and started screeching in pain as it suddenly folded in half. Something was living beneath the sand and was now making a meal of the insect chasing him. It's sharp claws dug at the sand, trying to get away, but to no avail. A plume of soft sand shot up as it got pulled further down into the sinkhole. Then another. It disappeared and the shrieking stopped.

Job panted for a moment, catching his breath and laying very still, watching the place where the centipede had been taken. Whatever lived beneath the sand was happy for now, he guessed. Cautiously he got up and moved further away. As he wiped sweat from his brow he began to wonder where the black smoke was coming from, but his question was answered before it was finished. Just ahead of him sat a church. A full, intact, church. It had it's bell, it's doors, and a fence around it meant to keep out invaders.

Black smoke came from the small apartment's chimney attached to the side of the structure in a steady pace. The fence looked to be made of sticks, barbed wire, razor wire, and whatever else might fit. Job didn't sheath his knife as he called out, taking a very big risk. "Hello?" It was a while coming, but someone responded, "Hello!" A man stumbled out of the doors, a cane in hand, sunglasses on, and clothed like a priest. His skin seemed normal, save for the left side of his face that looked like he'd been in a fire. The man looked around, craning his neck to listen better, his white, stringy hair waving around as he did. He appeared to be in his late sixties.

"Hello?" The man called again. He was blind. "Hello." Job responded. "Who is that? Who are you? I've not heard your voice before." The old man looked nervous and clutched his cane, ready to defend himself. "I'm not from here. My name is Job. I...I don't know where I am." Though the man approached, Job stayed very still. "Job? Like the Book of Job in the bible? Oh, good fortune. Oh, good fortune, indeed. What are you doing back here?" he asked as he hobbled forwards. "I've been travelling for a few days from back that way. I was following your smoke from your chimney."

The man looked very confused, "Back that way? That's the nethers, my good boy. There's nothing out there but death and fall out." Job looked over his shoulder and nodded, "Yeah. Tell me about it. Look. I woke up a few days ago in a facility a while back that way. I don't understand what's happened. Can you help me?" Suspicion creased the brow of the blind man and after a moment he spoke, "My name is Jebidiah. You'd best come inside if you're to learn, my son." Job thanked him and ducked through the fence, managing to dodge all the sharp metal.

The church was empty, save for a few pews made of rotted and rotting wood, a giant cross, and a few shelves with candles burning on them. Job sheathed the knife he had in his hand and followed Jebidiah to a pew at the front of the church. "Sit, my boy, sit. Tell me your tale." Job complied and did just that, explaining his military career, his imprisonment, and the things he'd seen. Jebidiah sat still, listening intently and carefully, only asking a question when he didn't understand something. After Job was done there was a long silence, which he broke, "What happened, Jebidiah?"

The priest nodded and sighed before he began, "Two hundred and thirty years ago there was a great war. The last great war. Not for politics, or land, or oil, or any other reason that had plagued mankind back then, but for religion. The economy had fallen to shambles and people sought answers, so they turned naturally to their churches. Each one claimed to know, claimed that they would fix all, claimed all would be well. Soon so many factions turned into just three. Christianity, Catholicism, and Trinidites. The Trinidites were a new church, founded by those with money and power, seeking to reclaim their throne atop the world. It didn't work. They all went to war."

"Holy money funded new weapons, new forms of killing, and in the end, the final weapon. The Christians wielded it, claiming to save mankind from itself. The thing was a double edged sword in the guise of a series of bombs dropped from orbit. 'Michael's Wrath', they called it. The first series of bombs were high impact EMP's, destroying all electronics. The second series....well." He sighed deeply before going on. "They were the real wrath. Hydrogen by design, but in the end nothing more than napalm fueled by nuclear power. They scorched the earth. Burnt it." Job sat back in a cold sweat, taking in the brief history of life after he'd been frozen. He felt sick and dizzy, lost and abandoned, speechless.

"I need to lie down. Is that okay?" was all Job could manage. "Lie down, son, lie down. You're safe here." Job stretched out on the pew as Jebidiah got up, but had to ask one last question, "Jebidiah, if the church did that why would you build one?" The old priest stopped and turned around with a gentle smile, "This isn't a church of God, son, it's a church of mankind. God and his followers promised us all would be well, all those years ago. It ruined us. Mankind had to build itself back up, find faith in something else. And because of them...all did not end well. Despite their attempts. All did not end well." Job was almost asleep as the priest left the room, but he had to repeat those words once more, they felt like the truth of his entire situation was distilled down to them, "All did not end well..."

Not Tonight (Original Short)

Adrian ran with all his might, towards the path that the SUV that nearly ran him over had cut through the corn stalks, to what might be his salvation. 'I'm not gonna die tonight.' he repeated to himself in his head, over and over, forcing him to keep running. He felt weak from loss of blood and hunger, limping towards the potential for being saved. He hadn't been bitten, but two of those ghouls had torn up his leg pretty bad, their broken and jagged fingernails had made a mess of his calf. He returned the gesture with a hammer to their skulls.

Because of Adrian's height he thought they could see him as they drove by, but they didn't, they drove like they were in a hurry. Now after two gunshots that got the attention of the ghouls it seemed the world had a common goal: get to that shed. He'd spent weeks in that shed, biding his time, keeping warm with leaves from the corn around him. He came back to it after trying to hunt to find it surrounded by the dead searching for their next meal. He tried to walk away and that car howled right past him.

'I'm not gonna die tonight!' he repeated as he pushed on, the red lights on the back of the vehicle marking his destination. Several of the dead noticed him at the same time and turned their out stretched arms towards him, moaning that moan that they all seem to emit. The four of them went down quickly, Adrian's improvised hammer splattered their skulls with ease. He had to keep going. Not much farther now, not much farther at all. The pain that was shooting through his leg, begging for his attention, was trying it's best to hobble him. He didn't know what was torn or if he could even keep his leg if he lived through this, but he had to try.

Being over six and a half feet tall and just over two hundred pounds allowed him to shoulder his way through the gathering horde with a lot of ease, but the difficulty wasn't throwing bodies around, it was throwing so many around that made the task slow going. The brake lights were still bright, they were still stopped, he had to hurry. Adrian wanted to yell, try to get their attention, but he knew the second he did they might not notice him, but the ghouls he was contesting for walking space would. He wrestled with the thought. He calculated his risks.

His backpack would provide minimal protection, his pant leg was shredded, his boot soaked with blood, his shirt still in tact, he had his two hammers and a pistol with a couple of shots left. 'Screw it. I am not gonna die tonight.' A couple of more skulls exploded under his hammer and he shoved himself forward, waving his arm that didn't have a weapon in it. "HEY! HEY! BACK HERE!" The lights were still lit, the car didn't move. In the eerie drone of the moans it felt like the world had gone silent. More than two dozen heads, mouths agape, dry, cracked lips peeled back over broken and rotted teeth, dried eyes that were bleached from the sun, all turned towards him. The moans went from a low drone to a chorus of bloodthirst.

He thought for a split-second that this might not have worked out the way he planned. They almost all turned in unison towards him, arms ascending towards their meal. Adrian raised his impromptu hammer and began to strike them down one by one, his other hand held jaws closed until he could bring down the couple of pounds of steel upon their crown. He inched forward, but continued to yell, "HEY! BACK HERE! DON'T LEAVE ME!" The lights were a mere ten feet away. He'd almost made it. Then they dimmed, the vehicle began to move forward.

It felt like ice water had been dumped over his entire body as the lights began to move away. 'I will not die tonight!' the thought popped up again. He threw his weight around just enough to allow him to get his second hammer out and with all his remaining might threw the thing at the back window of the SUV currently trying to pull away. It shattered with a glorious sound and he screamed again, "DON'T LEAVE ME!" The brake lights came on again and three men piled out of the vehicle, assault rifles at the ready. Like strobe lights the muzzles lit the night in bursts, nearly blinding, but all making Adrian hope he could live.

He continued to use his hammer to fight off the still advancing horde as they closed the distance to him, shot after shot they cut a way to Adrian. At long last the final ghoul for a dozen feet fell. "I ain't bit! I ain't bit! Please help me!" The three men from the car looked at him then at each other. The thin one to Adrian's right spoke, "What happened to your leg?" The man with the bloody hammer had all but forgotten his injuries, but answered between gulps of air, "Two of them got me with their hands. They tore me up. But they never bit me." Again the men exchanged glances and the small one spoke again. "I'm sorry, friend. You're infected."

Adrian's body went numb. "What? What you mean I'm infected? They never bit me. It was their hands that got me." A flashlight clicked on at the end of one of the rifles and shined upon the spot that was supposed to be throbbing with pain, but was surprisingly numb. Adrian followed the beam, to the circle of light on his injury. It felt as if his soul had died, like everything good in the world suddenly perished, as he stared at three nearly perfect white teeth, all spaced out, but all lodged in the flesh of his own leg.

The makeshift hammer hit the floor moments before Adrian's knees did. "I'm not gonna die tonight..." was all he could whisper. One of the larger men leveled his rifle, "Do you want us to take care of you?" Adrian looked up with hollow eyes, thinking as the moans of the dead began to close in again. "No. No. I'll take care of it. I'm sorry about your window." The men all nodded their agreement and ran back to their vehicle. The doors slammed shut and the engine roared and kicked up dirt as the tires spun in place before propelling them away. "I'm not gonna die tonight." Adrian whispered again.

He found his feet once more and began to limp away from this whole scene. It was dawn before he reached the hill where he'd buried his wife and daughters, not four days ago. There was a line of ghouls that had followed him, but he didn't mind. It'd be done by the time they stumbled up the hill. He ran his hand over the smooth dirt that covered his family and hummed the song he used to when he would put them to bed at night, before all this started. The small pistol sat between his legs, waiting it's turn as he said his final goodbyes, "Well, Barb, girls. Daddy's home. And we're gonna be a family again." The last ray of sunshine that broke over the distant mountains was welcomed with a gunshot.

The Burnt World: Part One (Original Short)

The sun was all but blinding. Without sunglasses or some sort of eye protection, one would be rendered blind in minutes. He sat at the edge of the now destroyed compound that housed him in his slumber for years and years. It was confusing. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, how long the world had been like this. But it worried him. A lot. From the last readable piece of written parchment that he came across he only could guess it had been centuries.

The wind was harsh and moved fast, unaffected by the little pieces of civilization that poked above the dirt floor. What could only be four-lane highways were now littered with rusted and empty cars, their occupants bleached bones or worse. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of humanity, any proof of life that might be able to help him piece together this mad world. Then he saw it: A smeared inkblot on the white skyline. Smoke. He wrapped the scarf he'd scavenged from inside the compound around his mouth and set his destination.

The building he was in was barely rubble now, but had probably been the earmark of an architect many a year ago. The world was a desert now and it was unforgiving. The sand had laid claim to all, the living and the stone monuments they had built. His walk was a steady pace and he took the time to drink in what his world had become. Where he imagined skyscrapers and blue glass were only broken stones and blackened skies. Every mile he walked he could feel hope slipping away, feel life abandoning him and never turning back. He steeled his resolve and kept forward, night falling and stealing away the sun’s harsh rays and replacing them with dark purple clouds filled with blue lightning that never struck.

He'd slept for too long. It was time for action. Time to get answers. Creatures he no longer recognized howled and screamed their cries just out of his sight, once finding something to eat. They ravaged the panicked animal and brayed joyfully. He stayed his course, worried only about being unarmed. He'd have to change that soon, if he could. The barely intact skeletons of cars rarely held anything worth taking, except once he found a military backpack. It had one or two useful things in it, things designed to be all but indestructible: matches and a foil solar blanket made as well as a bottle to carry water in, though long since emptied. And the pack, itself, of course.

He hoisted the empty carrier and kept going, the bones of a small town not too far in the distance. It was hours and dawn came quickly, bringing back the beating sun, but driving back whatever was in the dark devouring other creatures. He was grateful, but hungry, and wondered how hard it would have been to have taken down one of the beasts. Then he figured it was hard enough that he couldn't do it unarmed.

Sand and rocks crunched under his boots as he entered the dead town. The sand and wind had worn down the buildings to nubs and smoothed the wrought iron to a polished finish. No glass remained and the one or two doorways still standing were hollow. He kept moving, hoping that he could spot something to eat, or some water to drink, but there seemed to be nothing in sight. Then like a tomb it appeared a street over: an intact building. He thought long, deep and hard about the dangers that could possibly be lurking in the shadows of the one-story building. The idea of shelter and maybe food won over the scary thoughts of monsters and creatures waiting with teeth bared.

On his walk over, he stopped and picked out an arms length of rebar and made sure it was steady, swinging it around to get used to the weight. The small concrete shelter was near; he took a deep breath and sighed it out. The rickety door barely clung to the rusted hinges and swayed slightly in the breeze. He tried to listen for movement inside, but the wind made it impossible. His shaded eyes couldn't see clearly into the shadows with the sunglasses he wore. He approached the door and tried pushing it open with the bar, but it wouldn't budge. He fought with the possibility of a trap and decided shelter was worth it.

With another sigh of resolve, he kicked the door open. The cacophony drowned out the sound of the tripwire, the pulley, and the weight dropping. Wire coiled itself around his ankle and gripped tight. It pulled fast, so fast he couldn't react, and only had a split second to hear the sound of his head hitting heavy on the concrete below. Blackness took over.

Coming awake was painful. The back of his head hurt, the ankle that the cable had wrapped itself around stung, and his eyes were still adjusting to the low, amber light. Voices came through the fog that hung heavy on his senses. “What are we gonna do with him?” “What do you think?” “We’s gonna eat ‘im!” There were three of them. He was hoping for one, but luck didn’t think that would have been fair.

He wasn’t upside down anymore. He was tied to a pillar, another wire around his wrists, his back against the concrete and his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes finally adjusted and he found himself in a dark cellar, probably underneath the one-story building. The walls were concrete like the single pillar in the middle of the room, giving nothing away and nothing to get himself loose with.

He twisted his hands in the makeshift wire shackles and hoped that they would creak or bend, telling him that the metal was old and rusty. WIth a little effort the wire did just what he hoped and popped a few strands. He smiled to himself; he had not planned on becoming someone’s meal. If he could work his way out of this, even if it cost him a few layers of skin, he would do it and get out. Above his head the floor creaked with motion from above and he knew he had little time. He gritted his teeth and began to twist his wrists.

The pain was slow to come, but it came. First it burned, then it grated like sandpaper on raw skin, but he kept at it. Working his hands back and forth in the wire restraints, he felt one fiber after another give way. Each second he was at it was another second of pain that was building toward searing. He kept his eyes up, searching the room for something to distract him from the growing agony, searching for a hatch or a trap door leading upward. He couldn’t see one, so he assumed it was behind him. Another pop, another level of pain. Now the snapped wires were biting into already sensitive flesh. Beads of sweat ran down his brow, his cheeks, and the back of his neck, making his brown t-shirt stick to his skin.

It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity, that he was able to slip his wrists out and comfort them in the low light. He turned to see where it was coming from and his suspicions were correct: A badly built trapdoor at the corner of the small room was letting light through the planks and illuminating his temporary dungeon. The skin on his wrists was broken, but he couldn’t pay too much attention to that right now. The floor creaked and moaned as one of the denizens upstairs began to walk to the wooden planks held together with nails and such to imprison their meal. He had to think fast, so he stayed seated and put his hands behind the pole again and hung his head. Not a second later, the hatch was pulled open.

A ladder was thrown down and heavy feet carrying a heavy load thumped onto the dirt covered concrete floor behind him. Slowly the the footsteps made their way to the front of him. The man before him could, at one point, be considered human. Now he only bears the slightest of resemblances. The skin that was pulled taught over warped muscles was brown and leathery, hair was no longer covering, it came in blotches all over. Teeth were gaped apart, lips peeled back and split in some places, dark from recent openings. The man’s body was a practice in inhuman, gnarled and warped limbs clung to a frame that was human only in the most basic sense.

The man on the floor could feel rotted breath coming down him as the creature that was barely human inspected him. It was now or never. The man on the floor opened his eyes and tucked his leg back underneath himself, his captor barely had enough time to draw a gasp by the time his leg was kicked out from underneath him, the knee breaking with a muffled ‘crack’. The hostage wasted no time and pounced, letting his fists come down on the side of the face on the floor three, four, five times, making his captors breathing ragged. Then with slow and practiced precision the aggressor reached under the barely breathing head on the floor beneath him and wrapped his fingers together, pulling up, against the natural curve of the spine. Quiet grunts of effort escaped as quick, panicked pants came from the man on the floor. He pulled harder, things popping and giving way to the pressure, causing flailing arms to kick up dust around them. With a final, vicious ‘Pop’ the body beneath went limp. The captive pulled once more, making sure, letting out a long breath, trying to get the adrenaline out of his body so he could think clearer. He let the head thunk to the floor, watching as thick, dark blood seeped from orifices and began to pool beneath.

A voice came from above, the same thick accent as before, “Where’s the food, boy? We’re gettin’ hungry!” Mismatched footsteps that gave away a limp, more than likely from deformities, made their way to the hole in the ceiling above. For the first time the prisoner took into account what he had on: His dark brown cargo pants that he had pulled off a dead soldier, long rotted and gone, and the same colored tee shirt, his socks and boots were gone.

The thing above him dropped to its knees at the hole at the same time the captive decided to make a move: He got to his bare feet, ran the three steps and used the bottom rung of the ladder to launch himself upwards, his hands meeting the grotesque head that was now peering down. With all the strength he could muster he grabbed and twisted his body and the head in his hands with it. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Both bodies, one standing, the other slumped in a heap fell to the floor at the same time. He found his boots and socks.

After lacing up his reacquired boots he stayed down, listening for more footsteps or voices. None came. With all his muscles he made quick work of the ladder and hopped up and into the house he suspected he’d been captured in. Orange light from candles placed here and there upon old, broken furniture and fixtures lit a dusty room, it seemed like a basement. Three corners of the room were all but bare and one was more than gruesome. He stared for a moment.

Chains hung from the ceiling above the small corner, hooks up and down them, each with body parts that were easily identifiable as human. The world was new and harsh. People survived however they could. He heard the movement before he felt the impact. The piece of wood he was just struck with splintered into a thousand pieces, he moved with the momentum and rolled across the floor, finding his feet again, before another strike came.

“Ya killed ma’ kin! Ya bastard!” The escapee faced the biggest of the three monstrosities. Well over a foot taller than him, twice as wide, melted skin here and there, warts speckled throughout, one eye looked like it had fallen from place and found a new one in it’s cheek, lips that were cracked with thirst and twisted to expose yellowed and rotted teeth. “I’m the last of ma’ clan, now! Who are ya?” The monstrosity stopped just out of arm’s reach.

The man that was crouched down, staring up at the mutated thing, thought for a moment, then spoke, “My name is Job.” The entire basement echoed with a scream as the thing brought down another strike, but missed, as Job dodged easily. Legs that weren’t twisted kicked out the legs that were. Job pounced, raining down punch after punch upon the warped head of his captor. With a roar the man threw him off, Job rolled again. This time his hand landed on a blade that was covered in dirt on the floor next to him.

He gripped the handle and made quick work, pushing all his muscles to exertion. There was one more scream in the basement. Job stared at the new morning, the new world, everything in it, through sunglasses. His pack now had bottles of water, a couple of cans, and now he had more than a few knives. Someone had to know how the world ended up like this. He intended to find his answers.

An Immortal's Tale

An Immortal's Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"

The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.

This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.

The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.

The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.

As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.

Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.

Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.

With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"

With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.

The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.