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."

Into The Dead (Original Short)

June awoke slowly, the smell of burning petrol and whatever the flames touched filling her nostrils and lungs. The world was a haze of pain, blurred colors and moaning. Of all the things streaming into her senses that were working, it seemed  the moaning was more important than even the smell of burning human flesh. Why? Why was the sound so important? 

For now, however, the most recent memories were of her flying her helicopter over the remains of an encampment that, until very recently, seemed to have been working just fine. She remembered noise, fire and her copilot screaming. Then the bone-shattering impact of her helo hitting the ground. She didn't remember what went wrong. 

June's fingers worked in her gloves to get the flexibility back, but they were sticky with drying blood, and coarse with the dirt she was laying in. She was finally able to focus her vision, and what she saw jarred her to the soul. Her chopper was down. They were coming! She looked to her left, searching for her copilot Evan, and found him. Well, most of him. 

Her head swiveled, taking in the rest of the chaos: the blades were barely settling, there was shattered glass everywhere, and the fuselage burned a bright yellow, painting the column of smoke twisting its way into the blackening sky. Panic started seeping in, chilling as a bucket of ice water running through her veins. Her hands fumbled with the many buckles, trying to release the grip upon her, as her eyes continued to scan. 

Then she saw it: the first ambling shadow through the smoke. A panicked moan escaped through her gritted teeth as she struggled. June had seen what those rotted hands could do to a person, what broken teeth and ragged dried tongues did to flesh. She had no desire to be a number in the ever-growing army of the walking dead. 

"Click!" As fast as thought, June's hands threw open the tough nylon belts, her legs scrambling to the back of the cargo hold where her trusty assault rifle and five or six magazines waited for her. The cold turned her rapid breathing into clouds of air colored the same as the fires burning outside her broken and shattered helicopter. The last thing she packed before throwing herself out of the wreckage was a survival knife. 

June hit the ground running, literally, stumbling with the first three steps, the soft ground softly announcing her landing to the ones listening. Shock took her breath away when she finally saw how many of the dead were surrounding the downed helicopter. With her breathing still halted, she launched into a dead run, aiming for the first space in the gathering crowd. Stiff fingers covered with dry, rotted flesh snatched at her uniform, but she pushed through, fright driving her. 

The moans were all around her, like a blanket of snow laid heavily and thick over the world. She could hear her own wheezing as she ran, joining the symphony that was building. Her rifle rattled off rounds, helping clear the way. A field gave way to a corn field. It was a maze of death. The stalks reached a good two or three feet above her head, blocking out what little light the moon provided. 

At her speed, she couldn't determine what were thick leaves and what were hands trying to grasp at her. Several times, she found herself lashing out with the butt of the rifle. Clumps of dry dirt threatened to trip her, but she kept her footing. Twice she had to open fire, downing walking corpses in her path. She hated using the rifle, knowing it would only attract more of them, but she would deal with that later. 

It seemed like hours had gone by when she finally broke through the last of the corn rows, and onto a small clearing that lead to a pitch-black forest. Shadows walked steadily in the pale moonlight toward her, hands out, dried lips peeled back, moans dripping out along with black blood and viscera. June panted in place for a moment before committing to trying the forest. 

The only solace she had was the fact that her mayday had gone out, and there would soon be a car full of unpleasant individuals with firearms  to come and find her. She pushed on, letting her rifle clear more pathways as the first of the trees flew past. She was so tired, so panicked, but she couldn't stop. She had begun running into the world of the non-living. Into the dead.