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.  

The Burnt World: Part 4

Job walked away from The Spire, dizzy with the implications he was going to have to deal with. He'd heard of messiahs and saviors before, in his old life, but in this world it just seemed ludicrous. Voices were murmurs, even the threats that rained down from windows above were nothing but noise, somewhere off in some distant place. He tried not to think of the monstrosities that awaited him, tried not to think of the crippling thirst and hunger that would plague him on his journey, or of the acid rain that could fall from the sky and burn him to nothing in seconds. This was too big for him. He was just a soldier. He wanted to sit down, let the world stop twirling. Job felt like a top, spinning out of control, seeking solid ground, but unable to find it. 

He was leaning against a rusted car when he came to his senses, his shirt was soaked with sweat, his brow was slick, somewhere behind him the soft voice of Jedidiah was calling for him. He wanted to answer, but his throat was dry, his head ached from the sight atop the giant tower. He never considered himself an educated man, but certain words suddenly made so much sense, words he'd never thought he'd use to describe a single thing as long as he lived. 'Bedlam, maelstrom, conflagration' were all real and visceral now, like he could feel the weight of them on his mind and tongue if he spoke them. The old preacher's hand laid gently on his shoulder, letting Job know he was there, “Come on, son, let's get some rest, the night approaches soon and we don't want to be out with the things that go thump in the dark.” 

The disoriented soldier could only nod, following behind the shuffling old man, through the town, back to the church. The sun was diving past the distant horizon, turning the already odd colored sky into an even stranger purple. Job stopped at the steps of the small church, looking back at where the sky gave way to dirt, feeling the weight of the setting day on his shoulders. The last rays of light danced across the dark colors, highlighting the winged things that were starting to emerge, looking for whatever and whoever they could devour. Soft coos, like those of a whale, were carried on the gentle wind that wafted by the stranger in this strange land. He watched the things climb out of the dunes outside of the town, shake the dirt from their heavy fur, stretch their bat-like wings, and take to the bruised sky. Job's thoughts were dark as he stepped inside and closed the doors, wondering why he'd not encountered them before. He scoffed out loud at the though of 'divine intervention'. 

Job stayed up most of the night, after the meager dinner the father had served for them, he let his mind wander, think of all the things he'd have to face. Images played over and over again, like a slide show on repeat. It was a long time before he fell asleep, the sounds of large wings flapping and coos and their echos lulling him into slumber. The sleep was deep, but dreamless, like the world was covered in a thick, black blanket, shielding him from everything. It was comforting, time was not present, it was his own little world. Jedidiah's voice began to pull him out of his world, each word another tug, until Job was awake. The sun was pushing through the small spaces in the wooden shutters, giving the back room of the church an orange hue. Job sat up and finished waking, shaking away the deep sleep, and decided to see what Jedidiah was going on about.

The rickety door creaked open, leading into the main room of the church, the once empty pews now packed to the brim with people. They didn't notice Job, their backs to him, but they sat in rapt attention of Jedidiah as he spoke, “No, my good people. This is a Church of Mankind, not of promised messiahs, or of prophets. Job is only a man, a victim of science, as we all are, in some way. We mustn't go back to the old ways, believing one man was sent to save us.” Job sat quietly in the back, content in the shadows, as he watched the preacher take a more serious tone, “Need I remind you? Look at the world outside our walls. Where were the kind and loving sons of deities when our earth and it's people burned? Where were the miracles our forefathers were promised when our own skin was melted from the acid falling from the sky? Why can't the ones that are lost to the desert, devoured by creatures from nightmares, feel their mercy?” 

Jedidiah's hand, covered in melted skin, reached up to touch his own face, the cheek's damaged texture near identical. “The pain we've felt, the people we've lost, the world that still burns, shows us that we must never believe in a single man again. There are no messiahs, no prophets, no promised ones. Do not let hope falsely lead you into faith.” The soldier at the back of the room observed carefully, watching heads hang, either in shame, or resignation to the truth. Murmurs went through the crowd like a ripple on water, wanting answers, others seeking forgiveness for their presumption. Jedidiah's white colored eyes glanced over his congregation and went directly to Job, standing in the shadows in the back, “Let the man, himself, talk to you and qualm your fears.” He gestured for Job to come forward, “Please, my son.” Every person turned to look at him, the pews creaking in unison, feet shuffling in concert.

Job felt a bit of nervousness in his stomach, but walked forward, anyways, clearing his throat and letting his crossed arms hang loose at his side. Whispers that he couldn't make out followed him like a wake as he stepped upon the tiny stage, replacing Jedidiah. He looked out at the pool of expectant faces. He didn't know what to say, what to do; so he stood there, hands on the altar and stared blankly. It seemed like a few minutes, but a voice came through, a meager, older voice, “Will you save us?” Job felt his heart sink again, he wanted to say 'yes' and mean it, but even he didn't know if the journey was going to be taken. His mind was blank, devoid of all things clever, not even the simple words of his training were there. So he just opened his mouth and let the words pour forth, whatever they may be, they would be the truth, he decided. 

“I don't know if I can, truthfully. I'm just a soldier. I've never really been anything other than that. I don't know if I'll even take the journey to try and restart or fix whatever is out there. I'm new to this world, and it's....frightening. Where I came from the very idea of monsters and acid rain are fiction, things of nightmares. I don't know this world. I don't know any of you. And if you think that's a cruel thing to say just remember that my family is dead.” He paused for a moment, the weight of those words hit him hard, “My friends, everyone I've ever known....they're dead. You care about you and yours, and I don't blame you, you have to. I don't. They're not my family or friends, this isn't my world. But there's a chance I can get it back to good and save you. And in doing so, save myself. Understand something: No matter what I decided. I decide in my own interest. And that has nothing to do with any of you. For that, I'm sorry.” Job didn't raise his head, he didn't want to see the silent faces. He simply stepped off the small stage and walked back to the small room where his bunk was.

He spent the rest of the day in silence, staring at the sun turn the blinds on the windows different colors, then finally set. Jedidiah didn't bother him, not once, and with the words Job said earlier, there's plenty of reason not to. Job's thoughts were swimming, passing through all sorts of possibilities, all the failures that could happen, all the terrible creatures out there, waiting for a meal. His mind glided over the landscape that he remembered from The Spire, trying to plot a course where the monsters didn't roam, but the task was too difficult, he wasn't familiar enough with the territory. With his thoughts so scattered he couldn't get his plan straight, so he decided to plan it like he would a mission, back when he was a soldier. Hours went by as he tediously thought and plotted, changing variables when he could and couldn't, taking stock of what he had. Job didn't even notice that the night had passed as dawn began to break, quieting the soft coos of the creatures that flew in the night and bringing back color into the world. 

A little while after dawn Job could hear the slow shuffles of his host and the gentle placing of a tray of food at the door. Guilt crept into Job and he got up and opened the door, facing the gentle smile of his only friend, “Jedidiah. I'm...I'm sorry.” The kind old man with the half melted face smiled and patted Job on the shoulder, “Don't be sorry, son. You're only human. No one can blame you for your trepidation, even if they had the education to do what needed to be done, themselves, you bet they'd still choose not to go.” With another reassuring pat the old man shuffled off to his own room, leaving the soldier to think in the dark and enjoy his meager meal. All the motivational posters, encouraging words, speeches, everything that he'd heard in the military, came back in whispers, like lost, faint memories trying to make themselves known. They would fade as quickly as they came, leaving only traces, floating in the depth-less moat that had become Job's conscious thoughts. Luckily those didn't hang around that long, either, and soon Job gave in to sleep. His dreams were light, though they were nightmarish, none were memorable. 

The sun came again, just as harsh as before, the quiet coos of the giant bat-like creatures died out as a soft dawn became a blaze of light pounding against the closed shutters. Job cracked open his burning eyes, feeling as he'd only gotten a few hours of sleep, waiting for the soft shuffle of Jedidiah's footsteps, but they didn't come. The quiet lingered, like an unwelcome guest, uneasy and all but palpable. Sound exploded, boots trampled the soft floor of the church, shouts of 'be careful' and 'over there', came. Job hopped out of bed, reaching for his knives when the door to his room burst open, four men poured in, holding a large army crate. They dropped it beside the bed as the old soldier stared on. “Thar ye go, boy-o, tha' only t'ing we found out in tha' dump of a place ye say ye came from. Hope yer happy, boy-o.” The skinniest one, with the worst teeth, finished his speech with a kick to the heavy chest on the floor that did nothing but cause a bit of dust to rise. With sneers and whispered threats they left Job to his new companion. Jedidiah's soft shuffling came wafting down the hallway, “Job? Job? Are you okay?” The soldier answered, “Yeah, I'm just fine, Jedidiah. I'm just fine.” 

Job got to his knees and inspected the sealed crate, knocking off layers of dust and dirt around the rim, revealing a seal and a small label, 'Arms and Armament'. Job smiled, finally feeling like he'd caught a break, just as the old preacher stood in the door, “Job? What did they bring?” The soldier's fingers found the catch, pulled hard, hoping it'd give way, “An equalizer.” Jedidiah nodded and said he'd leave Job to it. The heavy latch gave and resounded with a loud 'CLACK'. The lid popped open just the slightest, allowing air to rush out from the pressurized container. The soldier hesitated, thinking that maybe he was, in fact, frozen and thawed out for the very purpose these people believed. Maybe he was supposed to save this world, maybe none of this had been an accident, after all. Hope flared up in Job's heart as he opened the lid to the box, the heavy plastic hinges creaked and complained as he did. 

Inside was what the soldier hoped for: an M4 assault rifle, a heavy ballistic vest, a Kevlar helmet with a strange attachment on the brow, a .45 caliber handgun, four boxes of ammunition for both the rifle and the pistol, clips, magazines, and silencers for both. A folder, sealed in plastic, lay at the bottom of the crate. After a brief inspection, making sure that everything worked, Job grabbed the sealed document and cut it open. For some reason the smell of the paper and plastic was comforting to him. He opened the folder, inspecting the first sheet of paper, a table of contents that gave no real information, then he turned the page, the first words sank all the hope he'd had: Long Term Storage Test #4189: Cryogenic Freezing of Equipment and Storage. He read on. 'Long term cryogenic storage, test number 4189, rifle, pistol, ammo, HUD helmet, Sensor Vest, Neptunium slow drain batteries. Test set for longest available freeze. To be thawed out and tested at date set on freezer pod. Please report results to local research agent.' The date on the papers was more than a hundred years after he'd been frozen. 

The soldier laughed, tossing the papers aside, finding the entire thing utterly hopeless, but at the same time hilarious. No predetermined fate. Rage began to build beneath the hopelessness, forcing the laughter to the wayside. A decision was made. It took him a few minutes to figure out where to put the batteries, following the overly simplistic instructions. Inside the vest was a web of sensors and wires, all sewn into the cloth of the vest, a cable coming from the top of the vest near the neck, and the pockets ready for the magazines that were in the crate. The helmet seemed to be just as heavy as the ones he was used to using, the only real exception was the strange square plate of technology on the brow and the wire on the back. The vest went on and adjusted itself, tightening snugly to his torso, the helmet and vest connected to each other at the nape of his neck. With the push of the only button on the visor the helmet came alive. It lowered an armored shield, expanding to under his chin and the sides of his cheeks, hiding his entire face behind it. For a moment the world was black, then it burst into colors and text. There were monitors for everything: Heart rate, body temperature, hydration level, injuries, the amount of bullets that were stored in the vest. He picked up the rifle and there were new displays, telling him the amount of bullets in the magazine, even bringing up a digital cross hair to let him know what the weapons were pointed at.

For the first time since he woke up in this nightmarescape Job didn't feel helpless or lost; he felt like used to: Like a man with a mission. He counted his steps, lined them up, while he loaded all the magazines and clips he had. What needed to be done was finally clear, so he would do it, and maybe he'd save this miserable world while prolonging his own life. Odds had finally shifted in his favor and he was more than grateful for it. After all was loaded, said, and done, Job stared at the noon sky, the black clouds, the blue and purple lightning, and thought of all the horrors that awaited him on his journey. He didn't feel the same dread as before, the sense of hopelessness was lost, he now had a purpose. And the first step was to get what he needed from the Mayor of this little town. Job pulled the charging handle on the rifle, chambering the first round, and putting him in a way of thinking that was all but lethal.

Most of the morning had gone, but he didn't mind, he still had time to get to where he wanted and do what he needed. With a full load of ammunition and attitude Job made his way out of the church silently, taking to the road, his helmet visor down, his rifle brandished, pistol in it's holster. As he walked down the dirt path his helmet gave him all sorts of information, even trying to recognize the region he was in, the best it could do was some small town named El Paso, but nothing else. The townspeople that saw him in his battle gear turned and went back inside their rickety buildings and homes, avoiding him as he went down the main road. His destination was that town hall of a party palace, the guards were nothing but targets, this time. His helmet counted the nine individuals for him, but he knew he only needed to take down two.

The biggest of the guards stood as Job approached, wearing a confused look that quickly turned to fear once the armored man's rifle went to his shoulder. Job didn't know what the rounds were made of, but he knew they'd be more than effective. With a short burst of three rounds the giant man's body broke apart like plate violently thrown against the wall, blood, bones, and internal organs splattered across the dry ground. The loud reports drove the rest of the mob back, the gory mess of the giant man took away their fight, and they all backed away silently. Another three rounds turned the lock on the door to shredded metal, sparks joining the barrel flash, lighting up the already bright afternoon. Inside the hall a dance track was playing loudly, the lights were low, but people were cowering away from the commotion instead of enjoying the rhythm. This was the effect the old soldier wanted.

His helmet alerted him of hostile movement from his left, the other guardian, and as quickly as his current setup would allow him, Job dropped to his knee and repeated the same process as outside, turning the man into chunks of flesh and sprays of blood, all colored oddly from the strobing lights inside. The man with the armor and rifle walked uninhibited to the main office, the door opening quietly. “Move to the other side of the room, next to the desk.” Job didn't recognize his own voice, it was projected through the digital speakers, distorting it and making it semi-robotic. Several men, that couldn't be scene from the hallway, followed the order. Job switched the rifle to his left arm and drew the pistol, the silencer making it look much larger than it actually was, but added menace to the weapon. The mayor sat with a smirk on his face, staring at the man in the armor before him, “Welcome back, Job. Seems ye' found yerself some new toys. What can I do fer ye'?” The soldier leveled the pistol at the mayor and let the menacing digitally converted voice carry the threat, “I need volunteers to go save this miserable world.”  

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." 

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. 

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..."

I'm No Monster (Original Short)

Lola fussed with her purse and her keys silently, trying to get into the car. Her day had been hectic. With everything going on between the humans and the vampires and now new politics were being thrown around. She shook her head at all the paperwork she knew she'd have to deal with come Monday. THAT was horrifying. She shut the door of her Mercedes SUV and pushed the button to fire up the engine and take her home. She hoped traffic would be light today. She could use something easy today.

As she drove she put the whole day on cruise control, letting her subconscious deal with sorting out the rest of her issues. A poppy little ballad with some woman played on in the background as Lola eased through the minimal traffic. The thoughts of a rogue vampire doing all this to disrupt the truce was almost absurd! Why would anyone want that? To go back to the dark ages, again? She shook her head as she began to quietly sing along, the train of thought still continuing. Her last thought on the highway was about Balthezar and what The Community planned to do with him.

Now the stop and go of neighborhoods replaced the long and placid freeway, her vehicle handling it all with ease. Lola considered leaving The Community, stop being a peacekeeper for two factions that had nothing but hate for one another, but they paid her well. Her law degree wouldn't have afforded her her car or her four bedroom house, which she pulled into as she finished her thoughts. As she sighed out the last of her work day she got her purse and her cell phone, which chimed about an email received. The keys with the big gold "L" attached to them jingled for a second before she pushed her door open. There was beeping and digital voices asking for a password and she complied with a sigh, pushing 'enter' to silence it all.

The voice that came from behind her was smooth and gentle with a hint of surprise, "I would have guessed your mother's birthday." Lola tried to whirl around to meet the owner of the voice, but her world became a violent blur. She barely recognized her glasstop table as she went through it, shattering it to a billion pieces. She couldn't help the moan that escaped her throat as she tried to find her hands and knees, shards and edges cutting up her palms and knees. Again the voice spoke from behind her, "I'm very sorry you're involved in this, truly I am. But things are what they are. I know you're sick and you've been waiting to be turned. That's why you accepted the job of Mediator or Peacekeeper or whatever the title is now a days." Lola crawled forward, looking for her phone or where it may have landed.

Her dizzy eyes found it a few feet away, she pushed herself towards her goal. Her world became a hurried rush of images as she flew the air once again, this time her china cabinet caught her with rigid and painful arms. She knew things had broken that time and panic took over, "Who...who are you? What do you...want?" She choked out between blood filled coughs. Her body was numb with terror, she found her feet fast and saw her attacker. He was tall, thin, hair a bit longer than the norm with a clean shaven face, handsome, his eyes shone with The Fire of the Night. Vampire. His hand shot out at barely conceivable speed and wrapped long fingers around her throat as he answered, "I want an end." She tried to fight him off, but she was far too weak, as he dragged her over to the next room with her two favorite chairs. Lola's bruised and broken body was shoved into one and he sat in the other.

She struggled to breath with the broken ribs in her chest, but she had to try to talk sense into the vampire. "An end...to what?" He studied her with violet eyes for a moment before waving his hand in a dismissing manner, "Don't worry about that, Lola. Just know that you are an innocent in all this." Her whole body pulsated with pain as she tried again, "My husband...." The vampire cut her off, "Hasn't been home for years. I hear divorce does that to some couples. What a man to leave just when you find out you have cancer, huh?" She ignored the jibe, "How do you know that?" He sat back, relaxing a bit, "It's what I have to do, Lola. Again. I am very, very sorry for all this. I promise I'll try to make the end quick. You'll have to forgive everything else up until then. It can't look like a vampire or a human killed you." She watched and began to cry softly as he raised his hand, the fingernails lengthening to claws. He stood before her, his other hand doing the same.

She still had an ounce of fight left, and she knew what they hated more than anything. She looked up at his beautiful pale face, "At least tell me your name!" She protested. "I am Michael." He bowed just a bit. She spit blood on him, "You're nothing but a monster." Michael, the vampire, didn't wipe away the spray of blood. "I'm not a monster. But I believe I can fulfill those fears rather nicely." Lola's scream was cut short.

Michael stood up and let out a sigh, looking down at the shredded remains of Lola's blue business suit and body. Now that the violence was finished business had to be conducted. After further trashing the house and leaving big, obvious clues, he went back to her body. The brand new cell phone unlocked with the birthdate of Lola's mother. He scrolled through the contacts with his still red digits and dialed the emergency line for the bureaucrats that ran The Community. He put the phone in her hand that still had fingers, and dropped a note atop the carnage. The hard part was about to begin.