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!" 

The Burnt World: Finale Part 1

The Mayor stared at the barrel pointed sternly at his face, the man behind it determined and armored, their face hidden behind a mechanical mask. The sight was horrifying, his ego and bravado was suddenly put into check, fear taking his sarcastic comments before he could make them. Job's voice was distorted now, like the techno songs that pumped downstairs, only this voice conveyed ferocity, instead of joy.

It had been a long time since the Mayor had felt genuine fear. He almost relished the rush, watching the mysterious things that were leveled at his head. He didn't know what they could do, but a large part of him didn't want to find out. The demand was simple, but the delivery was going to be the difficult part. "Alright, thar, boy-o, calm down, now. I'll 'ave some volunteers fer yer lit'le mission. Ease up on tha' thing, will ye'?" 

Job didn't want to let up on the pressure, he wanted to push this as far as he could take it. "I'll calm down when I feel like. Do you have cars? Vehicles? Anything with a running engine?" The Mayor looked lost in thought for a moment before he commented on some old motorcycles out back that might be salvageable. "Bring them to the church before sunset. And if anyone does anything to Jedidiah or the church they WILL answer to me. Understand?" The Mayor answered silently with a smile and a nod. 

It wasn't over. There needed to be an example. The old soldier turned to the rest of the posse against the wall, waiting for them to nod their agreement. All but one did, exactly as he predicted. Muscle memory kicked in, the pistol with the silencer whipped through the air and found the man. There was barely any time to react, on anyone's part, Job pulled the trigger, sending three lethal rounds out. The man who didn't nod took all three bullets to the chest, the wall was sprayed red, viscera clung loosely for a moment and then succumbed to gravity. 

The man slumped over, his head hitting the floor with a thick thud, exposing what was left of his back. Three giant exit wounds showed white bone, a severed and fractured spine, and what was left of his internals. Every face, except the one hidden behind military grade technology, was in terror and drained of all color. Job's robotic voice came again, breaking them out of their trance. "Don't disappoint me." 

Job's exit was quick and unhindered. The church was his base of operations, for now, and then in the morning he would begin to take the steps necessary to find out if he could do anything about this burnt world. As he walked back, taking in all the information from the various displays on his Heads Up Display, the thought of telling Jedidiah he'd killed men today weighed heavily on him, for some reason. He knew the news would come, eventually, but for some reason, he didn't like the idea of the old man knowing. 

Jedidiah was sitting on one of the front pews of the church, his hands atop the cane that helped him walk. The old man looked up as Job entered and gestured for the soldier to sit with him. And he did. With a click the visor came up and the world was back to normal. There was no words coming to the soldier, so he waited. He didn't have to wait long. Jedidiah spoke with the same softness and kindness he'd always had. 

"Job, my boy, I want you to know that I will never judge you. You must do what you must do, as a soldier, and as a human. This world can be cruel, hate-filled, and violent. And one must adapt or be pulled under foot of those who have. I will never begrudge you trying to keep alive, or trying to keep others alive, by any means you deem necessary." He ended his sentence with a soft pat on Job's shoulder, smiling up at him, and nodding. The ancient soldier was grateful for the words, but he felt he was compelled to tell his benefactor.

"Jedidiah. I...have something I have to confess. I-" The old man cut him off, "You don't need to confess a thing to me, my boy. I'm no god, and I am not without my own sins. Just help, if you can, and want to, and live as well as you can." Job was taken aback. Those simple words, free of judgement, and want, made the idea of the old dogma his old life held over his head seem simply vile. Job nodded, "I will, Jedidiah, I will." With that, the white eyed old man stood up and shuffled off into his room, leaving with a smile. 

The sun started it's slow descent into the horizon while Job waited for the Mayor's cronies to show up with what he'd requested. The idea of killing all of them didn't bother him too much, for some reason. He also wondered at the nature of the vehicles they were bringing, and if they could be repaired. Memories of summers with his father and uncle repairing cars and dirt bikes seeped into the edges of his mind, playing old sounds and smells, making the memory of them being gone all the more painful. He diverted his memories to the repairs they used to do, and to his training and education from the military.

Determination started to set in as the sky was turning to the color of wine. Job would play the part of the executioner, and like one, he'd have no mercy. One last deep breath, to steel himself, and he was ready. As soon as he stood, the breath still filling his lungs, sounds of a cart being pulled up the dirt road, accompanied by shouts, started to play. Relief washed over the armored soldier and the deep breath became one of almost total alleviation. He walked out to meet them, taking his rifle and pistol with him, just in case, hoping he wouldn't need them.

Three men, all of their clothes rags and tatters, hauled a cart with what looked like the remains of five dirt bike like motorcycles. They all but ignored Job as they walked by and left the cart in the yard next to the church. The effort was filled with grunts and curses before it was finally done. The complaints continued as they walked off, stares of discontent aimed at Job only brought a smile. The soldier began to study the contents and make his assessment. The parts were all there, but it would take work to make maybe three whole bikes out of the five.  There was even some tools included, all rusted, but they seemed useable. 

Thus Job began his work. For three weeks Job slaved away, tolling almost day in and out. From dawn until the winged things emerged from the sand dunes his work continued. Working on the bikes gave him hope, igniting in him a sense of purpose. The engines were different from combustion ones of the past, but the concept was close enough for the soldier to figure out how to get them to run on some alcohol from the mayor's hall. The first time the engine sputtered to life and hummed steadily Job couldn't help but smile. It was time to collect his crew and do what needs to be done. 

Job walked to the mayor's hall, this time he walked in unencumbered. He took notice of the shoddy job that had been done to replace the lock and the mechanism on the door where he'd blasted it in earlier. He also took note of some of the men trying to armor themselves by tying pieces of metal to themselves. The old soldier wanted to smile, but kept his face straight. The door to the Mayor's office opened before he arrived, the guards all giving him wide berth as he walked.

The soldier took the lead, speaking before anyone else could, "Where are my volunteers?" The visor was down, the voice was distorted, the HUD gave him all the information, there was no wiggle room for the leader of the town to exploit. The Mayor had his hands on his desk and a nervous look on his face, "You've got them, boy-o, you've got them. When d'ya want t'get goin', thar Job?" The plans had already been laid out by the soldier, "We ride out at dawn. I need two people to go with me, that's all. No more, no less." 

Business was concluded, as far as Job was concerned, so he turned to leave, but the Mayor still had something to say, "Sorry, thar, Job. But thar is still some...unfinish'd business tha' ye need t'address." Anger began to rise, but Job kept his cool, turning back to the Mayor, waiting for the rest. "The man ye kill'd not t'long 'go had a brother. An' he wants his pound o' flesh. I kno' tha' yer not from 'ere, but thar are rules tha' must be follow'd. Ye fight 'im. Ye win. Ye get t'go on yer pilgrimage. Ye lose. An' we bury ye nex' t' tha church." 

Job strode back to the desk, his grimace hidden by the helmet. The Mayor shot up from his seat, putting his hands out in defense, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! This needs t'be done! This ball o' dirt we call home has some rules! Ye may not be from 'ere, but they are!" As much as the man behind the mask wanted to decimate the mouthy mayor, he knew that this was a situation he couldn't avoid. 'When in Rome.' was the old saying. "Where?" he growled through the electronics. "He'll be waiting fer ye outside." Job turned to leave, again, and again the Mayor interrupted, "Oi! Be fair, yea'? Leave yer toys out o' tha fight."

Out  in the dirt street of the little town there was even less people than usual. They'd all sought some kind of shelter, eyes peered out of windows, others hid behind whatever they could grab. In the middle of street there was a giant man, his body was misshapen, mutated by the radiation of this world. His body was twisted up, flesh dragged and stretched out, the right arm was huge, triple the size of a normal mans. On the opposite shoulder the arm was equally warped, but instead of huge, it was emaciated to the point of being almost skeletal. Strands of thin hair stuck out from calcified boils atop the equally warped head, the mouth going from normal to a gaping maw, drool hanging from the separated lips.

The giant arm raised and pointed at Job while the mutant man spoke, "You...murderer. Me..kill. Brother...dead! You...MURDERER!" With that the creature launched forward, closing the distance quickly, bowed and twisted legs carried the man at a rapid pace. Job reacted as quickly as he could, letting his fighting instincts take over, running towards the mutant charging him. As much as he wanted to just draw his rifle and let his bullets rip apart the goliath, he resisted, instead drawing two knives. Where Job's run was steady and straight, the giant's was awkward and stilted. It made the soldier's strike easy to plan.

While the massive limb swung back, ready to come down on the much smaller man, a roar came forth. Job's speed and frame made it easy to avoid the hammer-fall, ducking under and going to his knees, sliding between the goliath's legs. The two knives in the fight made deep and horrific cuts into the flesh of the inner thigh, near the groin of the mutant, instantly bringing huge spurts of blood, and a cry of pain. Job recovered quickly on the other side, turning around and shifting his weight back towards his opponent. Using the built up momentum the soldier jumped on the broad back of the man, burying one knife under the shoulder blade, and using it as a hoist up. Another cry of pain came forth and Job let his voice join in, a furious yell as he brought down the second knife, plunging it hilt deep into the top of the skull of the creature. 

Silence swept through the world swiftly, leaving only the slight whistle of the wind. A sickening thud resounded off the scrap metal buildings, dust kicked up from the massive weight. Job stood upon the fallen corpse, his hands shiny with blood, and looked at the denizens that had come from the club, the mayor included. They all stood in silence and in awe of the spectacle that had just happened. Job's voice broke through the silence like a pane of glass shattered in the middle of a quiet night, "We ride out at dawn." 

The Monster Hunter (Original Short)

Kaine sat in the bowels of the boat, feeling the ocean sway him back and forth, like a mother comforting a child. This would be the first hunt, the one that opens the doors for him, a nobody orphan. Those doors would lead to money, success, and eventually, revenge. Darkness helped the man think, plot, and take inventory of what he needed to do.

It had been a long journey, starting when he was only 6. His father, a kind and caring man, took him camping in the mountains of Tibet. The point was to spend time with his son, but at the same time try to get a glance at the creature known as the Yeti. Little did his father know that he'd found the creature, but the creature didn't approve of their presence. That night the creature came to their tent, ripping it open and attacking them both. Kaine's father fought, hiding his son behind him, but the creature still managed to swipe at the boy, knocking him unconscious. The last thing Kaine saw was the thing ripping his father to shreds and walking away, into the furious snow, with the remains.

He was found a week later, covered in frozen blood, wandering through the forest, unable to speak. There was a distinct wound across the side of his head: Four claw marks, three of them extending onto his cheek. His mother died during childbirth, his father's remains missing, Kaine found his way into the systems of orphanages. Years of foster homes and every sort of correctional institute for youths did nothing but feed the anger that Kaine felt. Catholic lore helped build his ambition and drive, bullies and abusive parents helped build his toughness and abilities to fight. Humanity was a luxury he could afford only in the smallest of amounts.

Night came, but so did his destination, The Loch. His first hunt was the Loch Ness Monster, and the head of every major professor that claimed that cryptozoology was a farce. The knock on the flimsy door nearly knocked it off its hinges, but the intent was clear: it was time to get to the hunt. Kaine was used to the cold, so he didn't put his coat on, he was also used to the icy rain beating down on his boat. This brought more than a couple of stares from the tiny crew he'd brought along, but he ignored them all, concentrating on the lockbox that sat in the middle of the open deck.

Off the back of the tugboat protruded a giant crane, a thick chain running through it, and a menacing hook at the end of that. The murky water bucked and rolled the boat, making the metal dance and sing with every other wave, it sounded almost like a song to Kaine as he knelt down at the long box. The key to it came from under his shirt and he opened all the locks, flinging open the lid. A collective gasp came from the tiny crew as they saw the contents: A man with chains around his waist, wrists, and ankles with a gag in his mouth. Murmurs were made static by the rain, then drowned out by Kaine's own voice.

"Your sacrifice will forever be appreciated and marked down by the men that appreciate science, instead of religion." Kaine had built his body to be strong and rigid with muscle, so picking the man up from the box, even as he squirmed and kicked, was an easy task. The chained man was dragged to the back of the boat, just under the swaying hook, which Kaine grabbed and brought down. It was only then that the crew began to object, questioning what was going on, "Hold on there, chief! We signed on for a hunt, not no murder!"

Kaine turned to face the crew, letting his amber eyes convey his displeasure of being interrupted before he spoke. He knew that he looked scary, head to toe in leather, a giant handgun hanging from his belt on his right, a huge knife on his left, and another knife on the small of his back. "You signed up for a hunt. Either you do what you're told, or you don't get paid. That's the end of it." The statement cowed them, but only temporarily, "And how is using a man as live bait hunting?" For some reason the question brought a chuckle from Kaine, his hand still on the chained man.

Kaine turned back to the crew, waving his hand in a grand gesture as he explained, "You see, my good men, the creature of the Loch was banished here by a Catholic monk, vowing and cursing the creature to do no harm to any child of God. This man here, comes from a long line of Atheists, wasn't even baptized." The smile and the gesture faded from Kaine's face, "And he's been sentenced to death for crimes that I don't really care about. And in lieu of waiting decades and pushing through appeal, after appeal, the good government has decided to donate this man to our cause."

The crew still didn't budge on their position, closing around Kaine and the chained man, "But why do we gotta use him as live bait, Boss? He'll be suffering something terrible!" Another smile graced the leader's face, distorting the scars on his cheek, "Who said he'd be live bait?" Quicker than any of the men could react Kaine drove one of the sharpened spikes of the hook through the chained man's chest; then pushed him overboard, into the icy water. The chain clinked and clinked as more was drawn out, the body weighted down with the chains, heading for the bottom.

Shocked was a delicate phrase for the look upon the crew's faces. It soon gave way to anger, then before they could decide to rush the man in leather, they all stared down the barrel of the giant handgun. Hesitation saved their lives. "Just do as your told and you'll all be very, very rich." It took a moment, but they all accepted their responsibilities. The men left him alone and Kaine took a seat on top of the canopy, staring down at the black water, waiting for a sign. Night was already closing it's dark fingers around the day and the stars began to shine.

Heavy rain gave way to a light drizzle, the bucking Loch became almost placid, and hours seemed to be grinding by. Kaine knew he hadn't made a mistake with the bait, but perhaps the location was a bit off. Calculations walked through his head, a slower pace than what he was used to, as every bit of information was checked and checked, again. That's when the first sign came. The back of the boat dipped, the chain pulling taut against the frame of the crane. The entire crew froze. Kaine waited with a wicked smile.

The boat dipped again, the chain rattling loudly, orders were shouted, the spotlights at the back of the boat were flipped on, the still night was alive with noise and movement. Kaine hopped down onto the deck, giving his own orders, and soon the chain began to be brought up. The boat creaked and moaned with the stress that was being caused by whatever was at the end of the chain, the engines running the winch complained. More and more of the chain came up, closer and closer his prize became. Kaine's voice was lost in the noise, but he shouted for them to pull, regardless.

All at once the world went still, just for a moment, then they were all plunged back into violence and maelstrom. The giant head of the creature broke the surface of the water, spraying the already drenched crew. It looked like a giant snake, the mouth open and threatening, lined with dagger-like teeth. An otherworldly shriek made several men cover their ears, shielding themselves from the piercing sound. The neck seemed impossibly long, but soon the body broke the surface, too. Deep green skin, white teeth, and yellow eyes, the trademarks of a living dinosaur. The creature fought and shook its head, trying to get the hook that was through its bottom jaw out. Kaine smiled so hard his face ached, then whispered to no one, "I knew it."

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Balthezar stared at the wall across from the one he was chained to, wishing the sun would set, already. The thirst during the day was far worse than at night, he discovered. Though none of the sunlight that came in from the giant windows above him touched his skin, it was reflected harshly by the slathered on white paint, making it harmless, but still very painful. Cuffs made of a mix of steel and iron were clasped very tightly around his wrists, sapping his strength and causing him constant pain, suspending his arms above his head with nowhere to rest his body, he'd dangle in agony while he tried to let his legs rest.

The thirst was only part of his pain. He hungered intensely, his stomach at war with itself constantly, growling and moaning. They'd denied him blood thus far, but he wouldn't mind other food, either. He tried not to imagine all the good food he'd eaten in his long life, it only made his pangs worse. Being a prisoner of The Community was not the way he'd envisioned his days ending, that was for sure. He knew, now, why Michael had done what he did, and as much as the ancient vampire wanted to be angry, he couldn't. It had taken weeks of torture, starvation, beatings, and ceaseless questions to open Balthezar's eyes. He swore he'd never close them again.

Pain was nothing to the vampire, but the thirst was all but unbearable, cracked lips split open every time he moved. His mouth was coated with sand, his throat felt like paper, even the memory of a drink was something he could barely recall. The iron restraints sapped his abilities, the reflected sun weakened his already waning will, and the news he'd learned made the dark nights an enemy, instead of his home. Balthezar swore vengeance upon the ones who did this, silently, over and over. It became a mantra of hatred and pain, etched in his mind forever. He counted, in his mind, the ones he needed to kill, then counted the ones that he'd kill for sheer pleasure.

Quietly the sun set, the white paint reflecting orange for just a few moments, then darkness fell. Balthezar sighed with relief as his naked body no longer felt like it was on fire. He didn't care if the cuffs bit to the bone, again, he sagged against the solid concrete wall, letting the coolness of it drop his body temperature. It was a painful, but easy, decision to stay there, hanging like that, for a while. Suffering was but a distant memory for a while, and sleep came. Dreams were a luxury, comfort a tax, peace of mind a wish, the vampire in chains could afford none of them, even tears were too much to ask for.

Blood, or at least the scent of it, brought him awake, slowly he came around, his nose working to find the source. 'Another cruel trick, another form of torture.' he thought to himself. But the smell was strong, and fresh. Curiosity and hunger finished waking up Balthezar, his senses on high alert, on his aching feet, he tried desperately to find the source, but the iron wouldn't let him. Another splash came, this time so strong he nearly lost control, the blood seemed to be right outside his cell door. He fought back every instinct inside himself, no matter how loudly it screamed, and waited.

The world seemed so still, but his thoughts raged, 'Who was outside? Why did they spill fresh blood? Was it his executioners? Did they finally come to collect? Were they baiting him? Were they wishing for him to give into the beast within?' If they were, they were near their goal, his control was slipping quickly. His vision was blurring, the edges of the world were beginning to tint red, even the iron restraints were just a buzz at the edge of his perception. Tired, ached muscles began to awaken, straightening and straining themselves against the crippling cuffs. Somewhere, in the misty fog of his mind, Balthezar bade farewell to his sanity.

The entire room shook so hard dust was knocked out of the creases in the stone walls, the vampire lost his footing, the chains bit deep and pulled him away from the edge. Balthezar stared at the thick iron door in confusion as another shock rocked the small cell, causing more debris, and even a heavy stone to crack with an earsplitting report. It seemed like gravity was distorting the door, twisting and pulling it here and there, misshaping it. The metal screamed and collapsed upon itself, the door vanishing in a plume of dust and concrete. The vampire prisoner stared with wide eyes, not knowing what would come through the hole.

A man stepped through, ducking his head beneath the top, thick with muscle, a beard, piercing eyes, and hair down his back. In one hand he carried the keys to the restraints, in the other was a human guard, barely conscious. This was no man, but a Lycan, Balthezar noticed. With a flick the man was tossed into the center of the cell, then the wolf focused his attention on the captive, “Good evening. I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word, and my master asks you to join him for dinner.” He gestured at the moaning heap in uniform on the floor, “Consider this an appetizer.” With a single step the distance from door to restraints was closed.

As gentle as a man his size could be, Raecien undid the cuffs, then stepped back as Balthezar fell to the ground in a slump. Abilities began to come back, like opening shutters for the sun to come in, slow at first, but then all at once. The vampire stared at the giant man, his emerald green eyes fixated, but the rumbling in his stomach and the burning in his veins made the human too appetizing to ignore any longer. It was the most savage bite Balthezar had delivered in a very long time, but it made draining the man quick. Reinvigorated he stood and faced the Lycan, wiping his chin of the excess, “And who is your master, Raecien, Guardian of the Word?”

A low growl came from the wolf and he hesitated, but answered as if someone were twisting his arm to do it, “Master Michael of the House of Tor.” Belthazar's eyes went wide as saucers with the realization of what this meant. “And how do you propose to get us out of here, Master Raecien?” All the wolf answered was “Hold still.” as he wrapped his giant arm around the vampire's waist and leaped through a giant window above where the cuffs were chained to the wall. The back up arrived at the cell just as the remnants of the glass window danced across the concrete floor and their drained comrade, their arrival too late.

As they ran through the woods, in the rain, under the bright moon, Belthazar smiled at the feeling of dirt under his feet, leaves and all of nature against his naked body. He vowed he'd never complain about the rain again.  

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

The house creaked and moaned around Raecien and Michael, sharing a look, for the moment. The giant wolf's muscles were still tense as they could physically be, straining against the commands that the skinny vampire had given him. No matter how much he pushed and wished, thought, and searched his memory for a loophole or a way out, it was all futile. He was a prisoner. Michael patted his chest with reassurance, trying, he guessed, to comfort him, then walked away, admiring the decaying house.

"Do you know why I chose this place, Master Raecien?" Michael knew the wolf couldn't answer, but he wanted to be somewhat polite before he delved into the history of the rickety structure that was on it's last legs. "It's where a nest of ferals lived, not too long ago. Well. About a hundred years ago. Despicable lot, those things were." The vampire with the purple eyes walked slowly, studying his surroundings like he was back in the past, witnessing the alabaster paint splattered with red sprays, again.

Raecien listened closely, the members of the House of Tor never told a story without a point, he watched the vampire study and walk slowly, each step measured. "It was one of the few times, in our long history, that our kind agreed on something. The feral vampires that lived here were feasting on little girls, not stopping at draining them, but consuming their flesh, as well. Most of the victims were from the elementary school down the street, just trying to make their way home. If you smell carefully you can actually pick up the traces of blood that are still stained deep in the wood."

The frozen Lycan did just that, inhaling and finding the smell atrocious, and he couldn't wait to forget it. Michael continued, making his way back to his audience, "There were more than we had anticipated, you know. Lost two wolves and five vampires. The battle was quick and nasty, and they suffered. The ferals, that is, not our kind. After all was said and done; we worked together to eliminate a threat to the innocent." Raecien hadn't noticed that he was eye to eye with the vampire, peering deeply into those endless purple eyes.

A bead of cold sweat ran down the wolf's neck, he felt the chill touch his very bones, staring into those violently beautiful eyes. The vampire smiled, "Now we do the same, Master Raecien. We will wage war against the monsters snatching away the lives of the innocent, feasting on their flesh for their own selfish gains. We will destroy them. Rend their flesh from bone. Spill their blood upon the mantles of the privileged. We will walk our path under the burning flag of revenge."

Each word made images flash through the mind of the Lycan, each one more graphically violent than the last, bodies, puddles and pools of blood, gaping mouths, eyes so open they tore at the creases, skin ripped open, exposed muscle. As a Werewolf he was supposed to be numb to these images, but they made something in him cringe, stir, and want to look away. It was the vampire's voice that came through the fog, commanding him, again. "You may move freely. You may not attack me. You must not let harm come to me, either through action or inaction. You may speak your mind to me, but to others you are silent. And you will kill whomever I say."

Raecien felt his whole body relax, his wounds had healed, his mind was much clearer, "You will fail, Michael. This is my own free thought on whatever it is you're planning." The vampire was looking away, watching the sun cast it's last golden rays through the clouds hanging on the horizon, smiling. "I only serve you because you've enslaved me, but I will try my best to find a way to escape this power, you can bet your throat on it." A deep, rumbling growl, made the very air vibrate with it's volume. The wolf was getting very tired of being ignored. Though he could not attack, he could spin his words into venom. As he thought of an insult that might make the blood sucker's temper rise he was interrupted by quiet words.

"Oh, Master Raecien. You weren't enslaved. They sent you to me. To see if the rumors were true. To see if I really was of the House of Tor. You were merely a guinea pig, sir. See for yourself." The Lycan's long stride took him to the door quickly, just in time to watch men, dressed in black gear emblazoned with the patch of the Lycans, holding binoculars, walk away, smiling. Raecien was struck speechless, his bearded jaw hung loose, his brow brunched in confusion. He was so confused he didn't notice the flash of the barrel from a few roofs down, nor did he feel the impact of the bullet.

He looked down, expecting to see a gaping, bleeding wound. Instead, he saw Michael's hand, bleeding, the silver bullet pierced through it, the tip of the slug showing out the back. The two met eyes and Michael spoke again, "And it seems they didn't want you to live through the ordeal, Master Raecien, Keeper of the Word." The Lycan went to a knee, feeling his world crumble around him. After a few minutes it was his turn to speak, "I will help you, Michael of the House of Tor.....Master."

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Michael sat stone still, watching the door that he knew would be turned to splinters at any moment, thinking of how he was going to deliver the news. It was an odd turn of events, to everyone else, but to the vampire with the purple eyes, it was just right. The community was in turmoil, the wolves were dancing to the tune that he aptly played, the vampires were suspecting of all, and the humans were racked with paranoia. Each race, ready to cut the other's throat, if it meant their domination.

Hair tickled at his pale cheek as he waited, a draft coming through the decrepit house that he was in. Fitting he'd deliver the news here, in the den of a house that so many lives had been lost in. For a moment he let his eyes wander, taking in the staircase of rotting and rotted wood, the laminate floor that had long since curled and split, the ceiling barely hanging on to the structure, the moss and fungus ridden walls doing their best to hide the skeleton of this place. In it's own way it was quite beautiful.

Scents from all the years this house has been standing still clung to the structure, telling a violent history. A pang of sorrow hit Michael as he thought about the violence he was about to add to the long and bloody list of deeds done within this place. It wouldn't be long. While still looking at the festered beauty around him he checked himself, his weapons, his clothing, all ready for the fight about to begin. Finally, the smell of wolf came through the house, carried on the breeze dancing through the holes in the walls.

As the vampire predicted, the door was torn asunder, reducing it to splinters and dust, by the gigantic hands of an Alpha wolf. He was a huge specimen of the species. Standing over seven feet tall, thick with muscle, long hair flowing to the middle of his back, a closely cropped beard decorating a strong and noble jaw. This wolf was no assassin, he was a member of the Houses. Michael smiled through the chaos still flitting through the air at his new house guest.

"Welcome. My name is Michael. Before we begin would you be so kind as to introduce yourself?" The wolf walked in the doorway, ducking the frame and bowed slightly, "I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word." The wolf stood back up to full height, "Whenever you are ready, Michael." It brought a smile to the vampire's mouth as he stood, bowed at the waist, and answered, "Thank you, Master Raecian. En Garde." With a deep breath it began.

This wolf was strong, willing, and ready for the fight. Michael's strength counted for almost nothing as he delivered punch after punch, each action lightning fast and all punctuated with kicks that went after vital points. The wolf blocked, evaded, and countered, his punches much heavier than the vampires, knocking Michael's thin frame through a wall, the chair he sat in, and part of the railing of the stairs. And all without exuding any effort.

Dust and pulverized plaster and drywall floated through the morning rays that penetrated the kitchen, missing Michael by inches as he lay on the floor, catching his breath and spitting the blood from his mouth. More crunched under the Lycan's foot as he approached the downed vampire, "Michael, I want you to know that I take no pleasure in this, but it must be done." Another stream of red spouted from already stained lips as the vampire answered, "I know, Master Raecien, I know. However, it's all happening as it must."

The vampire's claws left four red, angry cuts across the chest of the wolf, another strike aimed for the throat. The surprise angered the Lycan, and with a growl he began to change, fur growing, claws elongating, fangs and ears presenting. Michael knew the fight was about to get infinitely more difficult, but he, too, had been holding back. With speed to rival his own the Lycan grabbed Michael's waist and flung him through a wall and back to the entrance of the house.

The wolf stood confused as it watched Michael land on his feet, stand, and take a deep breath. Purple eyes turned to a burning yellow, claws appeared at the end of each digit, and fangs grew to intimidating size. A confident Raecien took a step forward, already aware of the transformations of the vampires, but stopped short of his second step as he watched Michael continue to change. Black and blue veins began to line the vampire's skin, lips turned a deep purple, and the white of the eyes became red as blood, standing out against the bluish skin surrounding them.

Power ran through Michael's veins like fire, igniting want and chaos in him. His vision turned red, every throbbing and pulsing vein in the wolf was visible to him, the smells of the world were suddenly vivid and more poignant than ever. 'This is what was necessary', a thought that was above the animalistic drive that coursed through every fiber of being of the vampire, now fully unleashed. The fight began again.

The wolf was thrown through a wall, a second wall, and through the ceiling and into the second floor of the house. Raecien lay on his side, trying to catch his breath, holding closed wounds, hoping they would heal quickly. He struggled to stand, leaving a large, bloody print on the floor. Blood soaked his fur and ran over his hand holding the ragged pieces of flesh together. He tried to listen through the pain and ascertain where the vampire was, but his head spun with the blows he'd received. He'd never fought a vampire, or anything else, for that matter, that moved that fast and hit that hard.

The Lycan's heightened hearing couldn't find the vampire. He considered his last resort, knowing that any moment that thing would burst into the small room and finish him. The creaking of the first step alerted him. The second one did the same. It was a slow and methodical pace, menacing and terrifying, even to the giant wolf. Another step. Raecien decided he had no choice and let go of his restraint, transforming himself into a full fledged Lycan. The last step sounded it's cry just as the process was complete.

A roar announced his readiness for battle, his wounds healed, his fangs bared, the Lycan waited for his opponent. And he didn't have to wait long. The door between the wolf and the stairs didn't move, no other steps creaked. The vampire flew up through the hole in the floor with an unworldly hiss. The wolf was not prepared and Michael took full advantage, digging his clawed fingers into the wolf, wrapping his legs against the thick torso, and lastly, sinking his fangs into that muscular neck.

Michael drank deep, draining huge amounts of blood from the wolf as it thrashed at him, fighting the cold and fatigue that was currently seeping into it's core. The panic subsided for a moment and the Lycan's huge hand found the vampire's leg and ripped the blood sucker away. Not to waste the opportunity Raecien slammed the undead creature through the floor, hoping it was enough to give him some time to recuperate. Slowly the feral form he was in began to slip, and soon he was back to his human form again, holding his still bleeding neck.

Michael collected himself and forced back the creature he'd become, retracting his fangs and his claws as he walked up the stairs again, dusting himself off. The red faded away and his normal vision returned, his muscles relaxed again, and rational thought returned. At the top of the stairs the vampire opened the door to find the wolf behind it on it's knees and clasping at the wounds in it's neck. Such a giant creature in such a supine position was nearly art to the vampire's eyes. Raecien's honey colored eyes met his own purple ones with hate and determination. The wolf roared and threw itself into an attack of desperation.

"Stop." An almost whisper quiet command came from the thin lips of Michael. Inches from his throat and chest were the Lycan's claws, ready to rip him asunder. The wolf's muscles were rigid with exertion, but they were frozen in place. "Stand." Another command came from the vampire. Shaking with the effort of fighting against what was happening the wolf stood tall, like a soldier ready for orders. Raecien's eyes were wide with terror and confusion as another command came, "Kneel." Grunts came with the action, railing against his own body as it did what the vampire commanded.

With one fist and one knee on the floor the wolf before Michael quivered. The vampire figured the poor thing deserved an explanation, squatting down and placing his finger under Raecien's chin. "Look at me." Panic was still heavy in those beautiful eyes as Michael spoke, "We're of the old blood, the old ways, you and I. And back then the wolves weren't free. They served the House of Tor. As you, now, will. The blood pact is complete." Rage replaced panic in Raecien's eyes as he realized what had happened, the trap he'd stepped in to, the slavery he'd brought upon himself.

"Rise." Unwillingly the Lycan stood straight, again, his eyes burning with hate. Michael's hands went gently up to the giant's face and moved away wisps of hair, wiped blood away from lips and brow, and then rested gently on his new companion's hairy cheek, "Don't worry, Raecien, I wish you no harm. And I truly regret having to do this, and you have my undying word that you will be free again. But. For the time being, my good man, we will create chaos. We'll bring about blood, death, and disorder." Michael's other hand came to rest upon Raecien's chest, feeling the heart beat so rapidly beneath it as their eyes met. "We're going to wage war. Merciless, vengeful, world rending, beautiful, beautiful war."

The Burnt World: Part 3

Job slept soundly, the smell of candles and dirt easing him, reminding him of certain childhood memories. His dreams, however, were not so peaceful. The disembodied mind of his swam and sluiced through nightmare after nightmare, exploring each one with wicked curiosity, not bothering to let one end, before plummeting to the next. Somewhere, unconsciously he was fighting back, trying to remember things from before, but couldn't. He was a victim to the abyss, falling through the void filled with horrible images and things his mind had imagined. Cascading down the ever-flowing river of terror was pain, but his mind was somehow at home. Abruptly, it all stopped. 

In the middle of the barren desert, a field with nothing, Job stood, looking around. Above him the bioluminescent creature bellowed and walked, casting long shadows. Off to his right, he heard the chittering of the smaller insect types he'd seen, and it all seemed so odd. Then it began to rain; the same acid rain as before. His skin sizzled and smoked with each drop, but he felt no pain. He watched as his own flesh cooked and peeled away, plopping to the sodden floor, becoming a soft pile of blood and sinew. Before long that, too, dissolved into the wanting floor. Purple, red and green lightning ran through the sky, leaving white streaks in his vision. 

Right after the crooked lines faded away, skeletal hands pushed their way from the mud and grabbed his pants and feet, pulling him down. It happened with terrifying speed; so quickly, he barely had time to scream before the muck he was sinking into filled his mouth and swallowed his voice. The bony fingers grabbed harder, and pulled more. Job found his knife, but the panic was too much, and he awoke. It was a few seconds, but his eyes finally focused on what he had in his hands: the priest of the church, and a blade that was firmly placed against Jedidiah's throat. The man's voice, even with a weapon to his trachea, was still kind. "It's okay, Job. You're safe. Calm down, son. Calm down." A few more seconds passed, and the rest of the world fell into view for the man with the knife.

He was inside a church, with simple grey adobe walls, and bleached-out wood benches. The smell of wax and smoke hung steady in the air. Job relaxed his grip and apologized to the blind old man. "I'm sorry, Father. It's been a rough few days." After a comforting rub where the blade was, the priest smiled down, "I understand, son. This world is something else, considering where you come from." The old man took a seat at the end of the bench, when Job sat upright and sighed deeply, "For a long time, it seems, the people who survived were calling this new world hell. Perdition. And they believed that we'd been thrust into it. But luckily a scientific mind put all that to rest."

Job was curious and couldn't wait any longer to ask, "So you do believe my story? You don't think I made all that up?" The old priest looked over with a big smile, "My son, I live in a world of monsters and rain that will burn the flesh right off your bones. Nothing is too far-fetched for me." Another question popped into the soldier's mind, but his stomach spoke first, growling loudly. Jedidiah laughed and slapped his knee, "Now that's a sound I recognize all too easily, and one I can do something about. Come, we'll eat, and I'll take you to the town later. And we'll see if we can get you some more answers." The meal was meager, nothing more than bread with some kind of gravy poured atop it, bits of sausage in the concoction. As he ate and gulped down several cups of water, Job decided it was best not to ask where the meat for the sausage came from, and so the meal went quietly. After helping the old preacher with the dishes, it was time to meet the locals and search for more information. The entire thing had Job on edge, not knowing what was going to happen, or if he'd even be welcomed. 

The afternoon sun was no less harsh, blasting Jedidiah and Job with yellow rays and heat, punctuated with sharp sand kicked up by small gusts of wind. The church stood on a hill overlooking the small town of about a dozen buildings, built from rusted and rusting pieces of metal, adobe, and whatever materials the inhabitants could scrounge up. People walked about, covered almost from head to toe, sunglasses hiding their eyes. Hardly a glance was thrown their way as they traveled, as everyone seemed occupied with their own business. 

Job finally saw their destination: what could only be described as a town hall. The closer they got, and the denser the crowd of people grew, the more nervous the stranger became. Familiar sounds began to play for him, even in this distant future: people begging, cackling, mocking laughter, moans of the suffering, or those pretending to suffer, gruff bullies, and their bullied. Smells returned in a flood as well: stale urine, alcohol, and one thing or another being smoked. Job's fingers curled around a knife handle tightly, ready for anything that could go wrong. Time was relative; the more he noticed, the more it slowed down, and it felt like hours until they reached the front door.

The largest of what could only be construed as bouncers put their hand up, stopping both Jedidiah and Job. "What are you doing here, old man? There ain't no appointment set for you in the books." Job considered the big, meaty hand connected to an even beefier wrist, following it all the way up the muscle-thick arm, attached to an equally large body. This man would've been considered a specimen of fitness in Job's day, even with all the scars, the split lip, and the flesh of his left arm burnt and melted. As Jedidiah was about to answer, the large man leaned in close to Job's face, inspecting him. "Black man. Pretty, too. We ain't got many of you around. I hope I get to go first when they start to rape you silly." Laughter and cat calls poured forth in small waves from other men hanging around the door, some even finding their feet, and swaying as they slurred sexual and physical threats. 

All the alarms went off, all the red flags raised, and Job's mind began to commit to the deed of cutting his way out of this place, if he had to. In the midst of all the commotion, it was Jedidiah's calm voice that cut through it all, and restored attention to the matter at hand. "Why would you want to harm the man that is going to save us?" Several asked the meaning of the question, but Jedidiah played it close and quiet, "Why don't you let that information come from The Alderman, hmm? Why don't you go tell him our saviour has arrived?" Sneers of disappointment set into a number of faces, and with a nod from the biggest one, a shorter man ran inside the doors. They all wore the same kind of burlap clothing, each fashioned differently, although one had a decent version of jeans. For some reason, though, this made Job grateful for his clothing, which was simple, but well-built. As they waited, the lewd gestures returned, all aimed at the one man who didn't seem to have been burned by this world, and Job's hand returned to the handle of one of his knives.

The doors cracked open and the smaller man poked his head out, whispering to the giant man, who had to bend at the waist to get his ear close enough to hear it. With a sneer on his split lips, the big man opened the doors and pushed Jedidiah and Job inside. The world exploded into color. The town hall was more of a party palace than a hall. Two stories were packed with people, some scarred, some not, but all wore very little clothing. The lights were low, and the windows shut. Colored bulbs and spinning balls painted the dance floor in the room's center, packed tight with people grinding and singing to the song playing from the two giant speakers that doubled as pillars for the second floor. It was excess, and wanton. For some reason, it upset the soldier greatly.

A man dressed in "normal" clothes - jeans and a button-up shirt, neither made of burlap - appeared in front of them. He shouted over the music for Job to follow him, but leaned in and gently took Jedidiah's hand, whispering into a cupped hand the same. The old man complied with a smile, patting the man on the shoulder. The three men cut through the crowd, finding a staircase, then strode down a hallway with another two men standing guard. Finally, they stepped into a private office, isolated and insulated from the noise outside. The doors closed, and the commotion stopped.

Behind a desk, of bleached and damaged wood, sat a well-built man with grey streaks in his short-cropped hair, and a scar running from dark hairline to jawline. His clothes denoted that he was, indeed, the man in charge of this little town. When he welcomed his two guests, a thick Irish accent came forward, "Well, come in, then. S'not every day you get t'meet the saviour of the world, is it?" He laughed as he gestured to two large chairs stationed before his desk. Jedidiah seemed to know where it was, and sat down with a huff, Job following suit. "So tell me, Jed, 'ow is it this man is our saviour, eh? You wouldn't be pulling me leg, now, would 'ya?" A small smile never left the old man's lips, his demeanor still that of a patient grandfather speaking to a haughty grandson. "Nice to see you, too, Alderman. This is Job." The Alderman's eyes darted back and forth between his two guests when Jedidiah didn't go on, then he got the hint. "Oh, fuck me! Right! Where are my manners, huh?" He stood up and gave a small bow, "I'm Jason Alderman, the would-be king of this li'l circle of dirt we call home." Job stood and returned the bow. "I'm Lieutenant Job Jordan, uh, Army Corp of Engineers, retired, I guess." Alderman and Job sat down at the same time, but this time the room went silent. It was then that Job became aware of the two men behind him and Jedidiah, standing silently, and the heavy door, locked with several measures that would be difficult to undo under duress. 

Alderman chuckled a little bit. "Are ye' fucking kidding me, father? Your church f'nally delivers on somethin'." This made the hair on the back of Job's neck stand up. "What does that mean?" Jedidiah turned to answer, but Alderman cut him off, "I take it he 'asn't told you about his little church, there, Job?" The soldier shook his head as he found another knife handle, ready for anything, as the leader of the town continued. "The Church of Humanity. Science's shining beacon of hope left to us at the end of the Holy Wars. You see, there, boy-o, we nuked the planet; God's gift to us, some say, and in doin' so, nuked that fluffy bastard right out of the heavens. But the lonely folk still needed something to believe in, didn't they? So some scientist, all those years ago, said with all the religions gone from the world, we 'ave no choice but to believe in ourselves. Believe in the accomplishments we can now do without the shroud of judgment hangin' over us. The world was still burning, ya' see, and the skies were growing blacker by the day, and they said they found a solution: terraforming the Earth back t'normal. However, they were all scientists, not builders, so their inventions ended up being a relic. And the world continued t'burn. And folks, still needing something to believe in, didn't have the strength t'shrug off the failures of yet another church."

The more Job listened, the more lost he grew, wondering what all this had to do with him, why he should care, and why his branch name sat them back on their haunches. He opened his mouth, but again was interrupted by Alderman. "Now, the trick to a religion is t'always give some kind of prophecy, some idol, or somethin' like that t'hope for. And those founders did just that, saying one day there'd be a man who could fix the machines they built. And, boy-o, you fit the bill. I dunno what an 'army corp' is, but I do know what 'engineer' means." The big man sat back, studying his two guests, dry washing his hands, as he thought. The smile on his face seemed sinister and curious, and it further put Job on edge. Finally Jedidiah spoke, "I have faith in you, Job. Do you think you can try? I'm sure The Alderman would help in any way necessary." The soldier's mind raced with questions, but only one needed to be asked. "I'll try, on one condition. I need to find out what happened to the facility that was holding me. It's a day and half travel west from the church." The Alderman laughed, hard and loud, "It's your funeral, Job Jordan. I believe in fairness, so I'll let you get a look at what you're going t'be up against. And yeah, your condition will be met, you have me word on it." With that same wicked grin, the leader turned to a man behind Job and indicated with his head, "Take him to The Spire." Jedidiah began to protest, but Alderman quieted him, "He's going t'have to know, Father! You cannot send a man out there armed with only faith! Now pipe down and let the man see his fate." 

The man and Job walked for an hour, well beyond the fences of the town. Both passed an enclosure of creatures that could only be descendants of cows, fur replaced with leatherlike skin and thick protrusions over their eyes as shields from the sun; chickens; and a giant metal tank with something sloshing in water that he didn't want to know about. As if out of the rolling dirt and sand, there suddenly stood a structure that looked like a radio antenna fortified with parts of other things, but much, much taller. There were plane parts, ship parts, car parts, other antenna, and a door that he and the silent man walked through, and onto a small platform with two ropes on either side. The man passed one rope to Job and counted off. Each man began pulling, the platform lifted a few feet, and some hidden mechanism locked into place to keep them from plummeting back down. They repeated the process. It seemed like hours and felt like they climbed miles, when the platform finally clicked to a stop. The Spire creaked and swayed from powerful winds pounding mercilessly at it. The silent man waited between gusts to open the small door, and they both stepped through. 

What Job saw took his breath, and nearly brought him to his knees: miles and miles in each direction was nothing but sand, hills, and more clouds spewing acid rain upon the world. Job felt the crippling truth of how dead this world truly was, and wondered if there was, in fact, a way to fix it all. The more he stared at the nightmarescape, the more he saw: creatures that weren't there before frolicked on the sand, and the earth undulated like water as things moved beneath it. A tear escaping his eye burned all the way down his cheek until it evaporated.

The man pointed to a black pyramid that barely peaked the horizon, the distance indiscernible. "There. Machine." Job began to remember a book he'd read when he was a kid, about aliens invading Earth and killing all of humankind. That never bothered him, but the last line of the book had stuck with him, even when he'd grown up, even while he fought overseas and witnessed horrors he'd never speak of. It was those words that came screaming forth in his mind, bubbled up from his soul, found his mouth, and tumbled out to be carried away by the winds: "Truly the world is lost, and truly we are the damned." 

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Phil didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember going to bed or even being in his own home. He just knew, now, that he was waking up. The faint sensation of swaying was also disorienting, but even more so was the feeling of being upside down. Thick ropes binded up his ankles and kept him in the air, but what he was swinging from was also a mystery. His vision was blurred for a couple of reasons, missing his glasses, and grogginess from being unconscious. 

The smell of something strange was strong in where ever he was, it was also a little cold, even through his cover-alls from work. Big windows poured in late afternoon sun the color of amber, but the finer details were lost without his glasses. He groaned a bit as he brought his hands up to his face to try and rub the film of sleep away. He froze when he heard a voice. "Oh good. You're awake. Was afraid I'd have gone too far." The voice was familiar, soft, soothing, almost. He tried to turn his body, but only managed to make his head swivel towards the owner of the voice. A blurry figure was standing not too far away.

"Gone too far with what? And, uh, who are you?" Phil knew his situation was less than ideal, but his curiosity won out. "Oh. Forgive me. These are yours." Phil's glasses were pressed into his palm and he immediately put them on. The world was suddenly clear. He was in an empty warehouse, hanging from a rafter, and the voice belonged to a vampire. A vampire he'd known for a few years, now. "Hi, Michael. What's going on?" Confusion trumped curiosity that time. Michael stepped forward, concern in his purple eyes, "Are you okay? Do you need water or anything?" 

The man hanging upside down tested his lips and mouth, but they were okay, his head hurt slightly, but it was negligible. "No, I'm okay. What's with the hanging thing?" Michael showed relief, but nodded, ready to launch into an explanation, "I'm so sorry about this Phil. I want you to know you've been nothing but a good friend to me these years. Some people know that you supply me with specialized weapons, every now and again, and I had to clean up those loose ends before they lead back to you." Michael motioned to a place where his hanging friend could not see, then turned him to witness it.

Now Phil new that smell, and the source, now, too. Half a dozen bodies were strung up, just like him, their necks slashed, and their faces a mask of glossy red, all their eyes glazed over and sleepy looking. Michael walked amongst the hanging bodies as he continued to speak, "These people were less than cooperative, but, then again, they don't know me like you do. So here's the short and ugly version of it, my good friend: I need direct access to where you get your supplies and weapons from. Due to certain circumstances I'm being forced to cut out the middle man, as it were." 

The hanging man could barely believe his eyes as they went over every gory detail of the way the others had died, some he knew, most he didn't. And now the words of his violet eyed friend were setting in at a rapid pace. Phil knew the violence the vampire could summon in a heart beat. That's how they met, after all. Phil wandering to his car in a drunken stupor one evening, three feral vampires saw him as a meal, Michael dispatched them all with efficiency that would startle anyone not used to seeing that level of decimation. He and Phil spent the rest of the night drinking together and discussing the world that existed beneath human kind's feet. 

The entire conversation was easy for Phil, he'd been a horror movie fanatic for most of his life, and his way to repay his debt was easy, considering he had an engineering degree in eight different fields. His new vampire friend had refused the help, saying there was no debt to pay, but he insisted. He wouldn't have guessed, all those years ago, that an unlikely friendship would have lead to this. He chose his words carefully, knowing Michael didn't like liars or being lead on, "There's no middle man, Michael. I do all the stuff I've sold to you myself. I have a workshop downtown where I build things for various people. And there isn't a stockpile of weapons or ammo, either. I keep it that way in case somebody gets curious and breaks in or the ATF show up."

Phil watched his friend weigh his words in silence. In the meantime he fought lightheaded feelings and a wave of nausea caused by the swaying. The vampire nodded, accepting the explanation, "Well, my good friend. Seems you now have a full time career working for me, than." With in a few seconds the rope was cut and Phil was on his feet, carried like he weighed nothing by his friend, which was odd for his six foot, two hundred plus pound frame. "I was never going to kill you, by the way, I just needed information." Michael offered with a smile and a clap on the shouler.

The nervous laughter that bubbled up from Phil couldn't be helped, "Okay, good! 'Cause you had me going for a second, with the whole bodies hanging thing." Michael laughed in return, about to say something when Phil's world went deaf. It felt like someone had just punched him a few times in the back, taking the air from his lungs. He heard his name called in panic, then other men shouting various orders, but he couldn't make out the words. His eyes went down to his chest and saw four large holes oozing blood. 

Behind him Michael roared with ferocity and men began to scream in between automatic rifle fire. Phil sank to his knees, his hands coming up to his chest to press on the wounds, hoping to do something to help. His glasses were shaken off his face as his shoulder met the wet ground, the world was silent again, but he couldn't draw a breath. As if out of nowhere his vampire friend was now above him, shouting his name over and over. There was panic in his voice, fear and tears in his eyes, as he, too, tried to put pressure on the bleeding holes.

There was no pain, but Phil felt the warm tears fall on his cheek as Michael kept asking something over and over. The world was tunneling into darkness, his lungs ached for air, but he concentrated on his friend's voice. "...I can't do it unless you say 'Yes'! Do you want me to turn you? Phil! Answer me, please!" The answer was easy, but getting it out wasn't. He forced his lungs to take a breath, bringing the pain that had been absent, screaming into his body. He could only manage a whisper, "Yes." 

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..."