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."

Life After Death (Original Series)

Pressing his back to the wall that refused to give, Kevin's chest heaved, though he was barely aware of his lung's attempt to get more air. His eyes were locked straight ahead, while his mind barely comprehended what had just transpired. As his body began to return to his control, he took inventory of each newly traumatized appendage. 

His head ached fiercely, and long arms felt like lead weights tied to his shoulders. Kevin's core was nothing but a knot of pain with an uncanny need to cramp. His legs were all but absent save the feeling of tingling flesh beneath his still cold skin. He finally took notice of all the sticky, grimy blood covering both his hands like macabre gloves. The webs of it tightened on his face as it dried, and his boots were almost soaked through with it. In his right hand was a bent crowbar, in the other lay a two-pound metal mallet. 

Kevin's breathing finally began to slow; his body finally relaxing. The wall against his back felt good, not only from the cold seeping through his jacket, but from the support against his ache. Just past his boots was where the chaos began. Blood pooled and congealed in large amounts, reflecting the single lantern that burned in the small shack. The last ghoul he killed lay just a few inches from his feet, its head split open, grey mush spilling from the crack.

As perception set in, the true scope of the maelstrom that he had survived came into focus. The bodies of the dead lay in almost a perfect half circle around Kevin and his spot against the wall. Everything was coated with a sheen of blood; some in rivulets, some in spray, some in gouts. He moved his head for the first time in a while, trying to count the bodies around him. Even after catching his breath, a deep sigh came out when he finished counting, and the number tallied 19. While he counted, it was the first time he'd paid attention to their faces, shocked to see the diversity. He saw teens to people in their 50s, all with lips pulled back, eyes locked in that hungry look, and all bearing a skin color that did not belong to the living. 

Deciding not to dwell on it, Kevin's eyes searched the rest of the house, finding his pack in the corner, along with several items that could prove useful, brought in by his new housemates. There was something in the back of his mind. It sounded like someone trying to get his attention in a large crowd, so he paid it no attention, for now. With a little effort, Kevin worked his hand open, his skin tacky and taut from the drying blood. Once the crowbar clinked to the floor, he wiped away the wetness on his face, trying to make his mind get things in order again. 

His other hand followed suit, then his muscular core, and finallly his legs pushed him upright. Kevin was on his feet again, his mind firing up like the motor on a monster truck, working to get the information before him in order and processed. That voice in the back of his mind kept trying to get his attention. Collecting the items he'd inventoried from the dead, the only living human in the small, one-room shack waded through viscera and gore to the pack in the corner. Stuffing the collectables inside, he only turned back to his original spot to collect his two bludgeoning weapons. His pistol sat comfortably on his hip, while his rifle nestled in a blanket tied to his pack. The first 'thump' against the door brought the voice that was in the back of his head screaming to the forefront. It said, "The noise that you just made killing those ghouls would, and has, attracted more of them!"

It was high time to leave, but there was no exit but the front door. The man in the shack leaned against his  wall and sighed, appreciating the situation. For some reason his mind fastened on a memory of something a friend of his said back in El Paso, "The definition of insanity is not the absence of sanity, but doing the same exact thing over and over again, and expecting a different result." He couldn't help the smile that came, even as the rickety door danced and shook with each new thump and crash against it from the dead outside, trying to get in. He didn't know why he said it outloud, but he did, "I'm not going to do the exact same thing." As the last word fell on lifeless ears, Kevin drew a deep breath, filling his once-panicked lungs with cold air.

The door splintered into toothpicks from the kick that powerful legs delivered. Eight ghouls stumbled, the force knocking them all back a few paces. Their eyes found their culprit: a tall, muscular, black man, with a deep scowl, and determination steeling his resolve. The first ghoul, a woman with long red hair, opened her mouth and groaned at her new prize of living flesh. It didn't last long, nor did the other seven groans. Kevin's footprints cut through snow that was now slushy, red, and a few bodies heavier. The river was close by, and even in this cold, he could get clean. The smell of what he was covered in had just begun to creep up his nose, and he didn't like it one bit. He wanted to be clean, even if it meant being cold. 

At the river, thick with ice and slush, Kevin found a nice part absent of anything that might freeze to his skin. He dropped his pack, and pulled up the jacket sleeves, vowing to clean it later, and plunged his hands into the clear water. It almost immediately began to swirl red around his wrists, as he scrubbed at them for as long as he could take it, bringing handfuls of water to his face in between. The adrenaline had yet to subside, so the cold didn't bother him. He looked around, to make sure he was safe. That's when he spotted her, on the other side of the small river, floating on her back, stuck on a rock near the shore.

Conviced that there were no dead around, Kevin crossed the river via some nearby rocks, and ran to the woman. She had a bow strapped across her back, a pistol in her holster, and short hair. He pulled her from the water and spoke softly while jostling her, trying to wake her. "Hey! Lady! Come on, man, you picked a hell of a place to take a nap. Yo!" A twig snapped in the distance and Kevin's eyes darted up, searching for the cause, only finding a stump of a tree a few feet tall. He looked back down just in time to see the woman bite down and rip off three of his fingers on his right hand. He stared in shock as he raised his hand, trying to move the digits that weren't there anymore. 

As fast as he physically could, Kevin pulled the machete free of the sheath on top of the lady's pack, and ran to the stump. Without any thought or hesitation, Kevin raised the blade and hoped it was sharp enough. With every muscle tense and his mind clear, the blade went through his wrist and into the stump with a sharp 'thwack.' The blood didn't start right away, and he took advantage of it, pulling the cord to the hood of his jacket out, and tying it around the stump where his right hand used to be. He hoped it was enough for now.

He heard the woman moan and shuffle toward him, pulling herself by her arms. Kevin figured she'd broken her back. Her mouth area was a contrast to the rest of her face, stained bright red in his blood, the rest pale and washed out. Kevin pulled the machete from the stump, and proceeded to put her out of her misery, hitting her so many times with the blade that it broke in half, and stuck in what was left of her skull. 

After carefully wrapping his wound and thoroughly searching through the lady's pack, Kevin took to the road again. He remembered he'd heard of some place east of where he was called 'Hadley's Hope.' He hoped they were still there. He hoped he remained human long enough to reach it.