Life After Death: Epilogue

It had taken the entirety of what was left of the armed forces, police, and every able-bodied person with a gun that could follow orders; but after five long years the dead were finally defeated. It had been bloody, horrifying, and costed many lives, and some would say it was all worth it. Oddly enough the revolution of the fall of the zombies began in the west, what used to be California. Small bands of people that had dared to own guns, despite the states laws, began to group together and started to clear out the state at the end of the first year of the apocalypse. It was a slow, arduous process, but it was continuing.

By the second year societal measures and pleasantries had all but died out, leaving the living with a survivalist mentality. Most people through the world had boiled down to the three types of survivors: The ones that created settlements, the ones that were loners, and the raiders. From what had been seen so far, with the effort of the restoration of the modern world, was that the raiders tended to outlive others. All of this was rhetoric at this point, none of the information was new to them, but they still had to remind themselves every now and again.

Dale had traveled so much of the country his head was unable to keep up. After he went to Florida to reunite with his family, and only meeting disappointment, he decided to continue his fight against the dead the best way he knew how: Violence. And he’d done a good job of it, racking up more kills than anyone in the “New Militia.” It had been tough to get everyone under the same roof and to fight for the same cause, but it was done. Old prejudices had tried to flare up anew, but they were quickly snuffed out. He stood in the frozen north, his new job was to find survivors. Luckily it was the middle of spring, nearly two years after he’d parted ways with that M kid, the last person he’d actually liked after all this began.

He wondered why he’d thought of the kid, but then remembered they’d come from that settlement a few hundred miles or so to the East, and they had talked about him with nothing but praise. Maybe they’d meet up again, maybe they would go back to protecting the world together. As he walked up the hill to this lone gas station in the middle of a high end neighborhood that was now awash in soldiers and gunfire, pillars of black smoke where the bodies were burning en masse.

Dale and a few other soldiers approached the small, boarded up establishment with caution, though nothing seemed out of place. Of course, that thought almost always precede some kind of tragedy. One of the soldier’s foot hit a tripwire, something above them in the canopy of the building made a ‘twang’ noise, and three arrows rained down upon the unknowing man. The first arrow missed his head by inches, the second buried itself in his bulletproof vest, the last one was the lucky one, it pierced his shin, going clean through. He screamed and clutched at the shaft, not sure what to do, screaming in pain. The rest of the crew paused, “We have an active trap situation!” The cry flew back in the ranks, the fifty or sixty soldiers behind Dale repeating it.

It took hours and three more injured soldiers to undo all the traps surrounding the tiny building. It put the entire party in a foul mood, Dale matched their dark outlook, and everyone was eager to get at the doors and take a look at who was inside. Crowbars pried off planks of wood, several windows at a time, and tear gas was thrown in. It was time to wait, again. After the billows of white had settled the team planned to enter, tossing in flash bangs before they kicked in the door. Cries of ‘Clear!’ Began to come from inside, then one of the senior crew stepped out, “Dale, you might want to come see this.” Confused, he checked to make sure his weapon was loaded and ready for use.

Inside the store it stunk, even past all the smoke and countermeasures that had been thrown in. Rotted meat, spoiled milk, molded bread, all their smells made the air thick with disgust. Dale walked in, grimaced at the overload to his senses, and followed the column of body armor and rifles to the back of the store. He was genuinely surprised when the room past the feces smeared door was pristinely clean. The manager’s office was almost perfectly cleaned out to make a shelter, a bed room, and even some kind of medical supplies were neatly stacked on a shelf. Now that the smell of the outside room was fading, it was being replaced by another smell: The dead.

In the tiny room there was no where to hide, even the rolled up sleeping bag was laid open, it’s bare interior open for inspection. But the door to the small bathroom was closed, a seal for whatever was behind it. Two men sidled the door and meticulously opened it, their weapons pointed at whatever, or whoever was inside once it had been flung aside. Dale watched their shoulders go lax and their weapons returned, and they parted to give Dale a look inside. It was probably the first time in a few years that he’d felt something, despair trickled down his body like cold rain drops. The corpse inside, still holding a blade was M’s.

Dale groaned softly as he approached the dead body, inspecting it. The young man’s muscles had withered, his thick chest now sunken, ribs protruding through the taught skin, his waist tiny, now. Dale kneeled before the shirtless cadaver that used to be his friend, looking up at his face through the waterfall of curled hair. The charming looks were gone, replaced by taught skin, sunken eyes, and all the color gone. In the hand opposite the knife there was a rolled up piece of paper, Dale took it with a quiet apology, “I’m sorry, buddy. I really am. Rest in peace, now.” Dale stood and addressed the men behind him without looking at them, “He gets a proper burial, you get me? He was a good guy. And whatever deity you believe in help you all if I find out anything otherwise happens.” A quiet respectful ‘Yes, sir.’ came from back.

Dale left the market, hearing the cause of death was starvation right before he hit the daylight again. Sentiment was the last thing he was good at, but he knew that kid deserved more, he belonged amongst the living. A curse blew the first plume of cigarette smoke out of Dale’s mouth. It had been the first time he’d smoked in more months than he cared to remember. The soldiers brought M out in a body bag, carefully, and set him aside for the burial. Dale could only shake his head as he unrolled the note that was in his friend’s hand. It was short, but it pained Dale worse than any other goodbye letter he’d read. He went over it twice and folded it up, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. Despite his loss he needed to get back to work. But those words haunted him, even after the world was fixed. It read:

“Dear Chelsea, I’m so sorry. I tried. But, it changed me, after all.”

An Immortals Tale (Original Series)

An Immortals Tale

The March to Heaven

Chapter 1: Everyone has One.

Jon drifted through the void, black, endless, nothingness. His body weighed nothing, his senses were non-existent, nothing mattered. He was finally comfortable and at peace. For a long time he remained there, happy to be a part of the void. Then something disturbed the emptiness,  buzzing like an angry fly in his ear. It was a voice, pushing through the thick shell of his sanctuary, saying something he didn't recognize. 

The voice repeated over and over, but as moments passed, it changed its tone. The annoyance that it carried fell away. The words were soothing, sweet, soft, and comforting. With every repetition they made more and more sense, revealing themselves to not be words, but a name. 'Jonathan Ross...Jonathan Ross...' it was so familiar, yet so distant. Slowly the name began to pull the immortal from the nothingness, towards the light, the pain, the world outside.

The smells of the world came first, soft and serene. Wood, books, a leather chair, and somewhere in the distance: gun grease. His body ached, each movement was met with resistance, his muscles complained. Finally sight came in, slow at first, then blinding, all at once. Still the soft voice cooed his name, gently, softly. The name. It was his name. Jonathan Ross, the immortal, the Paladin. And this was his home. He craned his sore neck around, took it all in. He stopped abruptly when the source of the voice revealed itself. 

There he sat, on the arm of Jon's chair, as the immortal lay on the floor: Lucifer, himself. He was tall, with perfect skin, a perfect smile, and long blonde hair, dressed in a gray suit with a red shirt and tie. While Jon struggled to get his body moving Lucifer smiled down at him with glee. "Good morning, sunshine! The earth says 'Hello!'" The groan that Jon emitted was unclear if it was from disgust or from the pain he was feeling. "Oh come on, Jon. Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Another groan came as Jon sat up on his floor.

The immortal worked his mouth, trying to dispel the dryness making it impossible to speak. His hand bumped into a glass of water, sitting next to him. He picked it up and shot the only other person in the room a look, waiting for an explanation. Again, the former angel smiled and tapped his throat. "Sleeping for two years tends to dry one out. I know, trust me. But, having your soul nearly sucked out will do that to a person." Jon sipped the drink, trying harder to make the roughness dissipate. "A 'thank you' would be nice, there, Jon." The immortal nodded and croaked one out, his throat still dry, as Lucifer continued.

"That's better. Now..." The immortal chimed in before the former angel could continue, "What are you doing here?" Lucifer's face wore annoyance, but with a hint of grace, said, "I was getting to that, Jon. Let's get you all woken up and fed before we continue, yeah? Chinese or hoagies?" With a spry hop, he left the chair's arm and helped Jon off the floor and to the chair. The Paladin's body was still waking up, pain throbbing through him. He knew he couldn't do anything against his visitor, so he could only answer, "Uh...Hoagies." 

Lucifer clapped, "Yes! I guessed right! Hold on a second." Jon watched him leave the room, and examined his surroundings. The single room apartment was not as he'd left it. The windows were back, the walls repaired, all the damage that had happened during that fight outside had been made right. He turned his gaze to his own body, checking for grievous wounds, but found none. He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was utterly naked, just as the blonde angel returned. Jon's hands instinctively went to cover himself as his guest returned, gently bumping the door open with his hip.

The blonde angel had two white bags clenched in his perfect teeth, a folding chair and a small folding table under each arm. He placed them in front of the immortal, setting up the dinner, when he noticed the self-censorship of the holy man. With a scoff he smiled at Jon, "Oh, please, Jon. I've been waiting a while for you to wake up. There's nothing I haven't seen at this point. And if it makes you feel better I can get naked, too." Rising out of the chair he began to undo his tie, but the immortal objected, "No, no! It's...it's fine. Just a reaction." Lucifer shrugged and sat back down, doling out the stuff in the bags. "Suit yourself. Let's eat. We've got a lot of catching up to do." 

Jon ate in silence, enjoying the beef hoagie as best he could. Lucifer, however, commented often about the taste of the sandwich, and the fries, following it with a sheepish smile. "Hey, I hardly get to enjoy things like this anymore. Usually it's all work, work, work." Jon smiled politely as they both finished their meals, giving another 'thank you' for the food. The tall blonde man smiled brightly and gave an enthusiastic, "You're very welcome, Paladin." Still wearing the same smile, Lucifer cleaned up the meal and returned from tossing the empty remains with two cups of tea, placing them on the table.

"I love tea. Such a wonderful concoction. I was there when they invented it, you know. Humans. So inventive. Feel better, Jon?" Though he was on high alert in the presence of the first fallen, Jon had to admit that he did feel much better. Lucifer nodded, "Good. Let's begin, shall we?" The immortal nodded his agreement as he sipped his chamomile tea. "You've been asleep for two years, Jonny boy. And, believe it or not, almost nothing has happened. Demonic activity here on Earth has fallen to microscopic numbers, all because of the example YOU made of that cult.

"But on the two-year anniversary of your little escapade, things have begun to heat up. Angels are coming down here and making a mockery of your work. Have you ever met an angel?" Jon wanted to reply, but he kept talking, "They're...well, for lack of a better term, dicks. They're so black and white, it's infuriating! Innocents have died in their little crusade - on both sides, mind you. And I thought I'd be here to lend you a hand for what's going to be coming up, there, Jon." Jon was reeling. The news that he'd been asleep for two years was a serious blow.

"What's coming up?" was the only thing Jon could get out. Lucifer looked surprised at the question and finished his sip. He answered as if his host was supposed to know. "The end of the world, of course." Another shock to Jon's system left him, once again, only able to utter a few words, "What do you mean?" The fallen angel finished off his tea, and sat it down before turning to Jon once more. "There's been a little rumor circling the world, and it's caused massive tremors. And now, unlike last time, there's a single entity leading this entire movement."

"No one knows who they are or what they wants, and truthfully I find back stories boring. Everyone has one, Jon, everyone. And they're all so cliché. Momma didn't blah-blah, daddy was yadda-yadda. I'm just no longer impressed with them. Anyways. Demonfolk and angelfolk, alike, have all begun their march to the Pearly Gates." Jon looked confused, by more than one thing, but asked, "What's the rumor?" Lucifer smiled, "Now, THAT I can't help you with, Jon. But I can tell you where to begin."

The angel got up, folded his chair, adjusted his suit, and walked toward the door. He turned around as he opened the door, a mischievous smile on his perfect face, making his green eyes shimmer, "I'd tell you what the rumor is, but, the question is: Would you believe me? Oh. How long has it been since you've been to Constantinople?" With that the door closed, and Jon was left to ponder if this bizarre meeting really happened. With a bit of resolve, the immortal found his feet and walked to the shower, taking his time to get himself back in order. After shaving, showering, and donning one of his black suits, The Paladin walked back into the world, unsure and unready for what was going to happen next.

After a short distance, getting his stride back, Jon found himself not wanting to take a cab, but to exercise his muscles. The afternoon was waning on, the sky darkening, both with rain and night. The immortal kept going, none the less. What was a forty minute car ride turned into a two hour walk back to his old friends' place: The the three angels. Hope swelled inside Jon at the sight of his destination, then was dashed to nothing as he saw something he didn't expect: The Angels' building was destroyed. It looked like a bomb had gone off, taking apart the structure like a cardboard box that a firecracker had gone off in. 

Jon's hand pushed through the yellow tape sealing off the entrances to the place, worry deep in his mind. His new senses didn't smell or see any real reason for the demolition, but he knew the reason almost instantly: Divine Fire. On what was left of the floor where the angels stayed was almost nothing but debris, pieces of the giant metal door that protected them scattered throughout the ruins. The immortal prayed silently that his friends escaped the conflagration intact. As he finished his 'Amen' the clouds above roared and opened up, pouring their contents upon the world. And in that moment Jon felt truly lost in a tumultuous sea.  

As he stood there, in the cool rain, another voice rang out, a familiar one. "Oh Jon. What a mess of the world they've made." The immortal looked down the alley way, his eyes resting on a sight he'd never expected to see: A man with blonde hair that had been shaven to the scalp, beautiful green eyes, perfect skin covered in grime, and missing his left arm. "Have you come to help, Jon, or to finish what my brethren started?" The soft British accent, which was so nice to hear, before, was heavy with pain and hopelessness that left Jon all but speechless. When their eyes met Jon could say but a single word: "Bob?"

Let Them Dance (Original short)

Michael walked through the club, feeling the pounding bass coming from giant speakers at the other end of the establishment. Lights flashed and strobed along with the heavy beats as highs squealed and lows churned the bodies around him into a dancing frenzy. None of them knew the danger that lurked there, between them, the immortals of bloodlust. Vampires. He was one, too, but his goal was clear: Kill them all. Or as many as he could. Seven months ago he was set up. An old man begging to be released from misery, a high payout for his family, and all that doomed a vampire who vehemently refused to join a house.

Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.

Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.

He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.

He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.

The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.

Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.

He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.

Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'

An Immortals Tale: Part 10

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 10
"The Children of Dust"

Jon's empty fist was clenched against the tiled wall of his shower, helping him deal with the pain of the hot cascade playing down his aching and bruised body. Ricky's death was still fresh in his mind, watching him reduced to ash. Another bone in his body, somewhere, healed itself and popped back into it's proper place. It didn't even bring a grunt forth, he'd been dealing with the same thing for about two hours now. The only thought that eclipsed his friend's death was being called the worst name in all of history: Judas Iscariot.

The creature from the bar had told him he'd been named before. That awful name. Why? Then almost immediately after he received his only clue in the form of a text describing an ancient cult. He knew the name that was in the message, The Circle of Altu'Rang, he knew them well. He leaned his head against the tile, joining his still clenched hand. They were a small sect, hell bent on destroying the world, not because they're evil, but because they believe they're the utmost and purest form of good. They felt it was their duty to bring hell unto the heathen masses of human kind. He'd dealt with them once before when they caused one of the ugliest wars in history: The Civil War.

A muscle in his shoulder righted itself, feeling like a burning slug under his skin trying to find a home, he gritted his teeth. If the cult was back then that means that, now, as a Paladin, Jon's duty was to stop them. He had already declared death upon them in God's name. He passed their sentence as judge. Now he needed to be executioner. He finished his shower, putting mental effort for the rest of his body to heal itself, before letting his usually jovial mind sink to thoughts of war.

Even as Jon dressed and made plans of action the name kept playing in the background, like static, and instead of letting it distract him he used it. Turned it into anger, hate, power. Words slipped forth through the fog of planning, giving him new abilities, 'Michaelis Gladio' turned his hands into orange blades of fire. 'Illuminas Aureos' was a mistake to say inside, shooting a solid beam of orange power, flame, and anger forth from his eyes, blowing out four or five of the giant windows in his apartment. 'Pessulum Custos' was the last of them, and it left the immortal in awe. He watched in wonder as blue lightning danced across his hands, his extended fingers, arched between the two appendages, slithered over him like snakes made of pure energy.

As amazing as his new found powers were, though, his last encounter with the hooded figures proved they weren't enough. He donned his familiar black suit, but added things to it: A double holster for twin pistols at the small of his back, a knife with ancient relics carved into the steel and an ancient leather sheath joined them, four vials of holy water, two extra clips for the pistols, and his Bible. He left his apartment, dropping off a hefty amount of cash and an apology note to the landlord on his way out, armed to the teeth. As he descended the stairs some old saying came to mind, he couldn't remember where he'd heard it: 'Demons run when a good man goes to war."

The night had a chilly bite to it and he liked it, taking in a deep breath as his new eyes surveyed the city blocks around him bathed in the amber glow of street lights, the symphony of the people that came alive after the sun set played around him. He enjoyed it. Jon started to turn down the street when his eyes caught on something he didn't expect: two hooded figures standing on the street corner opposite him. The world exploded into chaos. Behind him the wall of his apartment building blew apart, sending a cloud of dust and Jon flying to the street with rubble to decorate both.

The immortal quickly found his feet as the two raised their hands, preparing for another attack, he reacted and leaped forward. The ground where he was just a moment ago tore apart with invisible power, as he advanced the two beings separated and began to run in a circle around him, an attempt to flank, but Jon was ready. As quick as thought Jon opened his mouth in a silent scream and unleashed a bolt of energy at the one on his right, not expecting to hit it, but giving it enough reason to have to evade and interrupt the attack. As soon as the geyser of power had left him he dashed as fast as he could towards the one on his left.

The hooded one Jon was now running at reacted by throwing invisible balls of air at him, but he could see them, now, and dodged easily as he closed the gap. The figured wheeled back, it's attack failing, as soon it found itself within arms length of the immortal. At the last possible second Jon jumped as quickly as he could to his right, just as a ball of air flew past him and hit the figure he was about to grab, knocking the robed attacker off it's feet. The immortal spun on the other assailant, now double the distance they were when they began, and stood tall. For a moment the world was silent as the two left standing in this confrontation, each staring the other down.

The figure broke the silence, "We underestimated you, Paladin. It won't happen again." The voice was elderly, and had it not been for the threat laced through the statement, would have easily belonged to a kind and fatherly type of grandparent. "Oh, yes, you will." Jon shot back. The head with the hood upon nodded in a show of supplication. Instead of throwing hands out, like before, the hooded one's hands began to roll something between them, like packing a snowball. Quickly orange light grew from just a spark to a sphere the size of a basketball between them, and then the thing was flung forward. Jon had plenty of anger left and he focused his eyes, his new ability, and let forth a beam of fire and power at the ball.

The beam and the sphere collided, sounding like a crack of lightning and a belt of thunder, lighting up the street the way the lights above could only dream of doing. For a good, long moment, the two powers raged against each other before finally dispelling in a shower of sparks and flames and a chest thumping explosion that shattered all the windows of the cars and buildings lining the street they were on. Hands that had thrown the sphere went up to shield from the cacophony and in doing so made the mistake Jon needed. As they came down Jon's came up, a pistol leveled, and a shot rang out. The hooded figure collapsed as the bullet tore through the hood itself, carrying blood, bone and bits of grey with it.

"NO!" A shriek erupted behind Jon. Without hesitation the immortal spun and leaped, turning his free hand into a glowing blade, plunging it into the middle of the figure on the floor. A grunt came from the mouth hidden by the robe as the garment fell back, revealing something that would have shocked the immortal, had he not been in the white hot grip of rage: a woman in her late fifties, gray hairs streaking through the black curls upon her head, soft skin, and blue eyes. She coughed up a gout of blood upon the immortal's face as he bore down on her, his fingers touching the pavement below the body.

Her eyes were wide with pain and alarm, her pale face decorated with webs of the blood she had just expelled. She began to shake under the power burning in the middle of her body as she stared up at Jon. She looked down at the hand that had been her impending death and back up to his face and reached up. Jon expected pain or a strike of some kind, but he received instead a caress and a smile. His anger faulted for a moment as she spoke her last words, "You haven't...changed a....bit.....Judas...." Her hand fell away and her body shook one last time then became still.

Sirens began to play somewhere off in the distance as Jon stood, holstering his pistol and looking down upon the woman in the robe. He couldn't let this get back to mortal eyes and ears so he ignited his power once more and burned her body, bones, clothing and all, leaving nothing but a bit of ash. With urgency the immortal ran over to the other body and began to search it. In the frenzy of dipping in and out of the robe and it's small pockets only one thing was produced: a note. He took it and burned the body, as well, making a quick departure from the scene.

Many blocks away he took the paper out and began to read. 'When the worst of the sinners becomes the last of the paladins darkness will fall. Fire will rise and the sky will bleed. Unbiased judgement will be passed upon all. Chaos will arise and become the crooked beast. The Children Of Dust will arise and take back their land. When the worst and the last begins Slouching Towards Bethlehem." Jon didn't realize he'd stopped walking, or that it had started raining. 'Child of Dust' was an ancient moniker for an immortal. He wasn't the only one.

He began walking again, not caring about his destination, the note tucked back into his pocket. Words whirled in his head like a tornado out of control. The name Judas, the Children of Dust, and the one that sent chills down his spine, the one phrase that confirmed his fears: Slouching Towards Bethlehem. It meant the end of days.

An Immortals Tale: Part 9

An Immortals Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 9
"Technically"


Crunch. Jon's head was killing him, even with his eyes closed. Crunch. That sound was determined. Crunch. The solid wood chair under him cradled his body with ease, the smell of the world outside of his closed eyes was waiting to be discovered. Crunch. With a groan and a lot of effort Jon brought his head up, forcing his winced eyes open. The world first seeped in, then poured in, then flooded into finality.

Jon was in his old chair, in his old monastery, sitting at his old wooden round table, with his old friend sitting across from him, a wide, goofy smile on his face and an apple in his hand. Jon's friend was thin, very thin, but handsome. All the girls around the village would nearly faint with his easy smile. Wide eyes, a broad, warm smile, and brown hair that stuck up made up his clean-shaven features. The smile never left his face as his jaw worked the apple and with a thick British accent drawled, "Good morning, sunshine!" Jon's face must have been twisted with displeasure because he went on, "Oh come on, now! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The immortal's head swiveled around, taking in his old place.

Brown clay walls accented with wood surrounded him, torches hung in iron brackets, a fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, the smell of burning pitch was heavy, black, greasy stains ran up the walls above the many torches. Iron accents and a heavy oak door made up the rest of the decor, along with crosses and a single picture of the Last Supper. Finally Jon's tired eyes came back to rest on his friend. "What am I doing here?" he croaked out in an accent he'd worked to get rid of many years ago. His friend waved the apple around and scrunched up his face as he began his explanation, the first word drawn out, "Well. Technically you're not here. Technically, you're still in the bar where you were knocked unconscious. Technically, I am a manifestation of your newly formed powers trying to find a better way to explain themselves and their uses to you. Technically." With a satisfied nod, he crunched the apple again, looking at Jon for his response. "I'm...dreaming?" The hand without the apple came up and gave him the 'so-so' gesture, "You're not really dreaming. I'm just a conduit that your mind is using to give you the easiest path to understanding." Jon was having a hard time understanding, "So you're just a figment of my imagination? This place isn't real and I'm still on the floor with people standing over me, attempting to steal my soul away?" With wide, brown eyes, his friend nodded confirmation.

Jon sat up, pulling straight his old robes, adjusting himself for the drawn-out explanation. Just as the first words began to form in his mouth, the room started to suddenly darken. The torches and fire in the hearth still burned their amber color, but the light seemed to be dying down. His friend sighed and tossed the apple over his shoulder, "Well. Looks like we're out of time, Jon. But before you go remember this: Words are very, very powerful. The reason your powers chose me is because you remembered I was a Wordsmith." Jon suddenly began to feel very panicked, cold started to creep into his body, "Yeah, you were a Wordsmith, so what?" Darkness crept on, strangling the light. "I gave normal words power, not magic - Power. With your new abilities you got certain perks. Remind me. What's the Latin translation of 'The Voice of God'?" That big, toothy grin was the last thing that Jon saw before the darkness took him.

He was back in the bar now, not twelfth century London. All the old smells came back: wine, cigarettes, whiskey, the still smoldering ashes of his friend Ricky. Jon could barely perceive the hands above him, glowing orange, the bones black in contrast. His lips struggled with the words, the final clue that his old friend had given him. "V..ox....d..." soft syllables were strained past near-paralyzed lips. Murmurs above him tried to figure out what he was trying to say. Jon tried with all his might, this time, "Vox....Dios....."

Jon's eyes were suddenly wide open, his mind no longer in a fog, but racing. Power suddenly flowed through him like water sluicing off a person lying in a river. The words made sense. He said them again, his voice driven with fury and intensity, "VOX DIOS!" A bomb of orange light went off, a ring of it pushing outward, the cloaked bodies standing over the immortal on the floor sent flying. Some crashed into tables and chairs, others smashed the mirrors on the walls. All of the energy that had been stolen away slammed back into Jon, and once more he was a raging inferno of justice, on his feet again.

A cloaked figure stood and threw its hands out, sending gouts of flame at Jon. He didn't need the words, anymore, the power had been awakened. Jon could see the glow behind his eyes as he gathered the power in his throat and released it in an instant. The fire was extinguished, the clear, but visible geyser of energy kept going, taking with it the right arm of the caster and a chunk of the concrete pillar behind them. With a shrill scream and a spray of blood, the hooded one crashed to the floor, clutching the stump where their limb once was. A call for retreat sounded behind him and the other figures all dashed for the door, bypassing Jon. The Immortal could only glare at them as they moved faster than he could track, even with his newfound powers.

The last one up and to retreat was the one missing their arm. It limped as it went, but before reaching the door turned back, "We are not done with you, Paladin! You may think yourself righteous! But you've been named before! Judas Iscariot!" The hood fell back and revealed a face that only a nightmare could describe: green reptilian skin, pulled tight over a deformed skull, no lips, sharp rows of teeth lining a mouth filled with black saliva, yellow eyes. All the features, though alien, conveyed femininity.

Jon was already gathering another bolt of energy when her words struck him. With a hiss, the creature disappeared out the door. Jon was more than perplexed; his muscles and bones still ached from the wallops of air that had struck him earlier. Without another sound or thought, Jon righted a toppled chair and sat down, grieving for his vampire friend, letting his mind dance over the creature's final statement. As his thoughts went to sorrowful and dark places, the cell phone, that had miraculously survived the entire endeavor, went off. With hot tears stinging his eyes and a long sigh, Jon retrieved the vibrating thing in his pocket and opened the message. It was an anonymous sender, but the message was not encrypted. It said one thing: "The Circle of Altu'Rang."

The Blade of The Princess: Part 2 of 2

K'anda sighed deeply as she walked away from the shore of the lake, hating that she couldn't help more, but at the same time grateful for the sight she'd seen below the glassy surface of the lake. It was slow to begin, but her legs fell into the walking rhythm she was now used to. It felt like ages since she'd left her grand palace back in Zhu'ul, but the truth was she'd only been gone near three weeks.

She was glad, in a way, that she was traveling alone. She'd said less than a handful of words, not sentences, but words since she'd last seen her home land. It was a relief. From all the servants, cooks, tutors, trainers, her nine sisters, she thought she'd never know a moment of silence in her life. But the woods were silent, engaging, and all together deadly. K'anda didn't mind. She saw the beauty in all of it, even the black, twisted, dead trees that had fallen over years ago. Their rotted trunks were now home to a thousand more things hidden from sight.

The morning sun blazed high in the sky, only a few skinny clouds hanging around after the heavy rains last night. The air smelled sweet, like flowers and fresh grass, as the heavy dampness of the lake and its humidity grew further away with each step. The Princess followed the path back to the main road, quietly admiring the trees, the bright leaves, purple and yellow flowers, and all sorts of creatures that had made this place their home. Her golden eyes focused on nothing, letting time pass as she took her time getting back to the road, making her walk more than scenic.

At the main road, her boots kicked up small puffs of soft dirt, the Agaden Mountains her only landmark as she began to push her now experienced body toward them. Mid-morning had come, and with it, hunger. On the road there were no other travelers, and the woods cut back a few hundred paces to protect those on the path. It was a situation that would be troublesome, even to the most experienced travelers, but not to her.

As she walked her steady pace, K'anda bent down and scooped up a handful of rocks the size of her fingertips. They were black and smooth, ringed with sediment. She thought them to be pretty. As she walked, she discarded the few that weren't smooth enough, leaving only four from the bunch. Her long legs carried her at a measured pace, and just like her, things were alive and scampering about. She slowed her steps, studying the waist-high grass around her, looking for movement.

It only took a moment before she spotted her lunch: a Grassling. They were like rabbits, but a bit larger, and instead of white, fluffy fur, they were covered in thick, coarse, green, flat hair that gave them the appearance of grass when they laid flat. Apparently this one was unhappy at the proximity between it and her. It was a terrible mistake, on its part. The princess froze, her boot puffing up one last dust cloud as she made the decision to get her meal.

With practiced precision guided by her magic, K'anda pinpointed where the Grassling would be. She lifted her hand with the stones in it, keeping her golden eyes wide open, and flattened her palm and fingers. Her wrist was right before her face as she let her power awaken, focusing on one of the smooth stones and then drawing a slow, deep breath. Upon a cloud of air she had created, one of the stones floated, aimed and ready, then she blew a puff of air, which she magnified, accelerated, and pushed forward to a blinding speed with magic. The stone left so fast she could no longer see it past the line of the grass in front of her. An arrow could not have been quicker, had it been shot from the strongest bow pulled by the mightiest of archers. Nor could it have been more accurate. Without having to go see for herself, the Princess knew the stone had hit, and gone through, the head of the target. With a small, satisfied smile, Ka'nda lowered her hand and went to retrieve her lunch.

Noon had come and gone. The now full princess sat a few yards away from the road, licking the grease of her recently finished meal off her fingers. Using her powers and her sword, she'd divided the Grassling into what she would eat now and meat that she had dried and would store in the already tanned hide from the animal. She was grateful for the gift of her magic, and the things it allowed her to do. Now with a tight and tidy bundle at the back of her hip, K'anda pressed on.

Suddenly she was running. She hadn't paid attention to the sun and it set on her before she could find shelter. The heavy paws pounding behind her, coupled with hungry growling and frantic panting, let her know how close the Moon Wolf was. K'anda chanced a glance back and in the darkness only saw two red, bobbing eyes as it chased her and threatened to close the gap between them. She'd heard tales of how fast the creatures were, but until she had tried to launch a liquid ball of fire at one, she never knew. Tall grass whipped at her exposed thighs, stinging with each oncoming hit. In panic she'd lost track of the road.

K'anda's legs made for the nearest line of trees, hoping that the hungry thing behind her would be lost, but it kept up. She balked left, so did the wolf, she leaped over fallen trees, so did the wolf, she pumped her long, muscular legs as hard as she could, the wolf didn't care. Its pace was steady, keeping with her. Inch by inch, it gained. She could feel the oncoming attack, the animal letting loose a triumphant cry. K'anda's mind tried not to imagine what the final fight between them would feel like. Tried not to imagine the long teeth rending her flesh asunder. A low branch whipped her face, blurring her vision, another, another. She lost sight of the ill-lit woods ahead of her through the tears in her eyes. She saw the log, lying across the ground at the last second and leaped.

The ground gave way. She was only vaguely aware of the feeling of falling; the panic had driven her almost numb. As soon as she realized what was happening she hit the wall of the hole she'd just plunged into. With a flash of pain and a heavy grunt, the air was driven from her lungs and she was unconscious. She didn't know for how long she fell, or the time that had passed since she'd landed. Her body seemed a vague memory of a lifetime ago. All her senses crept back into her in waves, like things being washed ashore by the great oceans near her home of Zhu'ul. Her eyes saw nothing but dark, she tasted blood and dirt. She tried to breathe, but her nose was stuffed up with dirt and blood, too. Now her body was a rack of ache and pain as she fully came to, all her senses in place.

Before she moved she checked her body, sending tendrils of magic down her length to see if she'd broken anything. She was okay. It seemed the Moon Wolf was not hungry, or foolish enough, to follow her down the hole she'd accidentally discovered was hiding beneath a bed of twigs. She was lying atop something metal, the thin material scraping and sending echoes out into the cave she was in. With a moan and wince, she held her hand up, released her restraint of her ability, and created a ball of bright, yellow fire.

She sat up, trying to survey what she was laying on. She'd never seen anything like it: a carriage but squatter and longer, made of metal with glass windows and what looked like iron discs as wheels. Her face bunched with confusion as she stood, using her other hand to wipe away the blood and dirt from her face. She fed more of her gift into the ball of flame, letting it grow and brighten to the point where she could no longer hold it, even at arm's length. With a grunt of effort, she threw the ball up. It howled and turned and kept going, fed by her until it hit the roof. K'anda's golden eyes were as wide as saucers when it finally hit the ceiling, an impossible distance, and ignited to four times its original size. A prayer to the good spirits fell from her lips.

The cave was more than massive; the ceiling had roots hanging low from the earthen material it was made of. As far as her gifted eyes could see, there were rows and rows of the same kind of grey structure that was under the lake. It stretched for what seemed an eternity. Everything lit by the fireball above was grey with dust or orange with age. More of the short carriages lined veins of what seemed to be roads, their smooth surfaces cracked and broken. The taller boxes were barely standing, pieces of them hanging by wires to a skeletal frame. Metal poles, twisted and bent with age, punctuated the many lines that made up the grid where the rest sat. Flashes of yellow and red reflected off dirty glass sitting in the gaping mouths in the faces of stone towers. Even her entire land of Zhu'ul could not have compared to what was in the cave. Not the size nor the expanse of the dead world she'd fallen upon.

She wanted to bound through it, see and study every crack and crag, but caution crept into her. Apprehension wrapped cold and tight around her, freezing her muscles and pushing them to flee. She looked up to the hole or the direction she though it was and spotted a tiny yellow blotch of light. The wall next to her had been fixed with metal rungs, leading up and out. With a final look she limped toward them, her mind reeling with what she had seen.

It was now, and only now, that she wished she wasn't alone. She wanted to know about this dead world and what it was, why it was, and when the final flicker of life in it had extinguished. She vowed, after she obtained a mate, to return to this place and speak with the dead. Her hand gripped the first bar and aching muscles started pulling her up, toward the world she knew.

An Immortals Tale: Part 8

An Immortals Tale
The Man in the Black Suit
Part 8
"The Day The Sun Died"

The change started in the cab home. Jons body became hot and bursting with energy that was slowly building to something he was dreading: Rebirth. The driver didn't bother asking questions and Jon liked it that way. The night was cold, vapors of heat rose from his overheating body in the backseat. It would take another few hours for the transformation to be complete, but before that he had to deal with the pain of it. Like a mother giving birth he had to take it all. The cab pulled up to his apartment and Jon threw a wad of cash at the man behind the wheel before fetching his impossibly heavy bag from the trunk, lugging it up the stairs while waves of pain crashed into him with no mercy or sign of relenting. His fingers fumbled with keys and after an immeasurable amount of time found the right combination. Inside the bag was tossed aside, thunking like a thousands pounds of metal against the hardwood floor, but he didn't care. Midnight was upon him and the worst of this pain was yet to come. In the middle of the room, near his comfortable chair he began to strip, losing his clothing with gusto, as if it were the fabric, itself, that was on fire and not his own skin. Soon he was naked upon the floor, panting heavily and trying to deal with the oncoming agony that seemed endless.

Invoking the powers of a Paladin for a holy man as he meant that new things would come to light, new powers, new abilities, new sight, new strength, but there was a price to be paid. Paladins were the purest of the holy hierarchy of the order, bringing judgement to humans, demons, and angels, alike. Jons perfect teeth gritted against the new wave, his eyes shut tight, every fiber of muscle like stone, as more of the pain come forth. Screams tried to escape him, only to be choked off by the rigidity of his own body. His mind was being torn apart as his body was rebuilding itself into something different: A Soldier. He clutched at the wooden floor beneath him, his knees on ground with his clenched hands. Hands so tight he was sure he was cutting into his own skin. Knowledge that had been tucked away come screaming forward, incantations, weaknesses, spells, and all the things that he never needed before, once so trivial, now impossibly important. The world drowned itself out in his suffering, the night outside the windows of his small residence reflecting a world that right now didn't matter. Then a break came. Just long enough for him to draw cold air into his lungs, right before the newest assault on his senses came, the first wave of the change complete. He screamed as he arched his back, so hard he was afraid, somewhere in the back of his tormented mind, that he had broken it. Legs stiff with pain could not support him and he fell back, his head meeting the floor along with his shoulders. And that's where he stayed, for hours, until the change was done with him. 

Midmorning was already singing its song by the time Jon came around. He was where he was before: On the floor, naked, twisted in an uncomfortable position. New energy flowed through him, new knowledge screamed in his mind. He stood up, slowly. Muscles had ripped apart, only to be rebuilt anew, adding and subtracting to perfect his new soldier body. Legs, though sore, carried his half limp body to the bathroom where he saw himself for the first time. His bland physique was gone, replaced with tone and bulk, his soft jawline now hard with muscles. But it was his eyes that frightened him the most: Still grey, for the most part, but now with a ring of red along the outside. Jon stood, mesmerized by his new body, as he quieted the new things in his head screaming for attention. He needed a drink. A shower later the immortal stood before his wardrobe and hoped upon hope that they still fit. With a giant sigh of relief he donned a black suit that hung perfectly off his rebuilt frame perfectly. In fact, it looked a little better, now. With little regard he lifted the now, almost lightweight, bag carrying all sorts of arms, into the closet to get acquainted with his wardrobe. But before he stepped outside he surveyed the world with his Paladin eyes. All of it, every single thing, seemed different. The buildings, the sun hidden behind the clouds, the people, all resonated something different. His reborn sight now was able to pick up the things that were lost behind a cloud of comfort.

Legs, that seemed to carry him with a lot less effort, made the walk to his favorite pub shorter. Along the way he had stopped and eaten three times, intake to fuel and maintain the power within himself that demanded more than what he was used to eating. Thoughts and deeds poured off the people he walked by, audible to him, now, like heat waves radiating off a hot coal. Some disgusted him, calling forth the fury waiting beneath the surface, others almost screaming for him to judge them. But he fought the instinct. He didn't want to pass judgement on them unless he had to. As he walked, though, he found he felt his usual smiling demeanor replaced with a frown, almost scowling at the things he now heard. At the things his new paladin powers allowed him to hear. He decided, then and there, at the thoughts of a man who wanted to murder his wife, that this new frown would be the face he would wear on this new body. Blocks passed, people passed, all the more disturbing to him. Sometimes his hands would clench so tight, trying to control the fury inside him, that they shook. He wanted a little peace. A bit of his old life back. And before he could lose control the door of his pub stood before him, welcoming, promising. He pushed it open. Inside sat the same old bouncer, with the same old look, but his reaction was different. Upon locking eyes with the incoming immortal he blanched pale and almost white, pushing the door open while he looked away from the judging gaze.

Ricky, the vampiric bartender, was at his usual station, staring at his phone and clicking away. The bar smelled the same, but now it was laden with something that had never been there before, and was as palpable to Jon as the brews being served to the patrons: Sin. Jons mood was too foul to play a prank on his favorite bartender and he made a beeline to the heavy wood counter. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted new patrons, all heavily robed and all drinking sacramental wine out of crystal goblets. He decided to ignore it as he took a chair and waited for Ricky to notice him. After a few moments the vampire looked up and saw the immortal patron and smiled, happy to see an old friend. Ricky made his way quickly, and fluidly, like he was floating on air to Jon. Jon had never paid attention to the way his bartender moved, but now it seemed almost alien, too fluid for a human, but ignored it, as well. "Jon! My favorite......" Rickys eyes met Jons. The already pale face of the undead bartender lost even more color, "What....did you do...Jon?" Rickys eyes were locked on his patrons, studying, and in pain. It gave the immortal pause to see such emotions flowing through his old friend, but he finally answered, "I'm a Paladin, now, Ricky." The vampire held his gaze, but 'No' kept tumbling off his trembling lips as he reached out a thin hand to touch a face he thought he knew. An audible hiss and a stream of smoke emitted from the outstretched fingers as they made contact with the new skin Jon wore. Slowly and trembling Ricky withdrew his hand, shaking with the pain of touching his friend.

"Oh dear God, Jon, no. A Paladin?" Jon could only nod as Ricky went on, "No, Jon, no! God have mercy. For the rest of my undead life I will remember this as the day the sun died and the world became a darker place." Watery eyes begged for an explanation. Jon began forming the words when the first blow came from behind, knocking his head into the heavy wooden counter and turning the world into a blur. Ricky gasped and suddenly ignited, like he'd been set on fire from the inside, flames seeping through cracks on his now burning and blackened skin, before he collapsed into a pile of smoldering ash behind the counter. Jons head came back up, but so did his anger, awakened and at the ready. The immortals hand shot behind him and grabbed thick robes, pulling the weight into the bar as he stood, knocking the wearer out. With unearthly speed Jon turned to face his assaulter. Before him stood six hooded figures, all near the same height as him, their faces hidden in shadow, their bodies hidden beneath thick fabric. Jon let his new power flare and flow to his fists that glowed orange, showcasing his bones through the illuminated skin. His voice was low, a growl, a hatred he'd never heard come from himself, "Your lives are now mine. FORFEITED IN THE NAME OF GOD!"

His left hand, burning with burning hot power, moved on its own, slamming down upon the figure on the floor, releasing the captive energy into the receiving body, reducing it to a flash of golden flame then ash. Powerful legs launched him from his half-crouched position towards the rest of the figures, a primal, guttural scream erupting from Jon the newly born Paladin. His movement was so fast that it slowed the world down to a crawl and for the first time since entering Jon saw the usually busy bar was empty save for the now seven occupants. Glowing fingers raked through the air, seeking a target in the hooded figures before him, begging to be released. He caught only fabric, that burned away into cinders, as the figures dodged his strikes. Jon wasn't connecting. He knew why: He wasn't utilizing his new knowledge. So he brought it forth. All the new methods of using his now muscular body joined him and now it became as easy as breathing. Thick fabric ripped and Jons extended limbs now connected. Although they tried to avoid him he was ripping into them. Every time one of the figures would try to mount an offensive against the immortal it was met with swift and aggressive action, interrupting the motion before it could be completed. Soon he had them on the ropes, his punches and kicks colliding with solid bodies. It only served to fuel his want to reduce them to nothing even more. 

The sound of splintered chairs and tables as Jon chased his aggressors around the bar joined the grunts and yelps of pain he elicited with his attacks. Finally he'd chased them into the back corner, six figures trembling and looking to one another from behind hooded cloaks. "ENOUGH! YOU DIE NOW!" Jon's throat burned with the scream as he launched himself again at them. Then his body came alive with pain. The robed figures threw out their hands, aimed at Jon, each sending an unseen knot of air at him. He was too committed to his own attack to dodge them. It felt like he was being shot with a machine gun, each knot smashing into him with unforgiving force, driving the air out of him, one or two cracking his ribs, and the last of them catching his extended limbs and rendering them useless. He fell, in a heap, to the floor before the six figures, his consciousness threatening to succumb into passing out. He realized, as he lay on the sticky bar floor, the hands that had reached out of the robes were something he had not expected: Human. Above him a voice spoke, gentle and wise, "You've come to the fold, Paladin Jon. You've proven yourself to us. And we are thankful. But now. Your power is ours. As is your life. Go with God, Paladin Jon."

The world around him was beginning to fade to black as he looked up and saw six pairs of hands stretch out of those heavy, brown robes above him, and begin to glow the same color as his own. His vision continued to fade, tunneling into a long, dark spiral. The hands glowed brighter and some ancient language he thought he recognized began to drone. Jon fought to stay awake, seeking that last glimmer of light at the end of the black corridor that had become his vision. The last thing he saw was those hands above him, performing a ritual he was unfamiliar with, but he felt the effect: His lifeforce, itself, was beginning to drain away. Blackness took over and the newly born Paladin fell unconscious.

This Isn't The End (Original Short)

He didn't remember the shell exploding. Didn't feel the explosion take his arm and legs below the knee. He didn't remember the trip to the hospital. He did remember the ride, the cold beach, the sounds of the machine guns like drums in the air.

He remembered his rifle kicking in his hands, the clip's 'Ping' as it flew out before his eyes, telling him he'd spent that one dry. He didn't know if he'd hit anything or anyone, but he was trying. The training they gave him only took him so far and the fear was heavy in his veins, fueling him to run through the foamy surf turning more and more red with each passing moment. The giant steel crosses on the beach meant to overturn tanks provided him with minimal cover from the enemies heavy fire blanketing the beach. He adjusted his helmet to take a look at how far he was from the bunkers that had been created from the shells falling periodically on the black sand. He was far and his uniform was heavy from the water he had to wade through. Although he was grateful for the opportunity, most of his squad had been hit heavy and the back of the transport was red with their remains.

With the decision fresh and pulsing in his mind he ignored the steel behind him's constant ringing from rounds and ran, towards his captain and the remainder of his squad. The leather strap under his chin bit and chaffed his skin, but he ignored it. Bullets flew through the air and at him, some bright orange, like lethal fireflies screaming at speeds too fast for him to comprehend. His boot caught something and he fell face first, tasting the black sand mixed with blood and salt water. He looked down at what could've tripped him up. What he saw would forever change him: Another soldier, ripped open, his entrails spilled. Thick, red blood ran down the beach towards the ocean. The man was no older than 18, the age of his brother, but where life should have been in those baby blue was nothing but pale death. The boy's skin was now pale and lacked pigment, his eyes were sunken and mouth hung open. Eyes stared at nothing, through the man that had tripped on his body, and into the sky and beyond.

Still shaking from the shock he stood up and ran again, trying to make it to the rest of his squad. That's when the shell hit. Percussive and heavy, right next to him. There was a moment of silence and clarity as he waited for what he knew was the next thing to come. Then it did. He was blinded and deafened. He knew pain should have ran through his body and driven insane by the intensity of it. But it never came. Nothing came. Nothing at all. Blackness and silence. Then his eyes opened. And hovering before his face was a blonde beauty with a big smile and gorgeous blue eyes. He could barely feel the gauze that was keeping him together. Then she noticed his eyes had opened and gave him a beaming smile, "Hi, there, my name is Nurse Nightingale. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."

The Lady or The Rifle? (Original Short)

She remembered watching them as they entered, guns ready, masks drawn down, voices powerful. Watched as her workers ignored her, she was just an innocent bystander which they'd take hostage, after they'd robbed the bank, of course. All according to plan. The four of them all pushed and bullied the rest of the bank tenants to the floor and her as well, gathering money and getting ready for the final phase: Escape. She remembered the bags so heavy, the M-16 rifles they had, unfired, the entire crowd terse and cooperative.

Then she remembered HIM. He rose from his knees, like a shadow rising during sunset, clad all in black, hands still above his head. She remembers her worker grabbing her and forcing her to her feet, but she couldn't take her eyes off HIM. Then one of the other men approached him and told him to stay down. Or he would have if he had been able to finish the second word. She remembered the speed, the veracity, the power which the man in black moved with. One second her four guys are in control and the next He is attacking like a well trained warrior, wise to the chase. 

The first of her men went down in a flurry of limbs as the magazine from his rifle struck the man holding her in the face, she swears she remembers bones cracking before he slumped to the floor, screaming. The third took aim, but didn't have a chance to fire, the man in black whipped his hand out and with a flash of metal there was a knife stuck through her third man's hand, which gave Him the opportunity to close the gap and put her third down and retrieve his knife. Her fourth man rushed over and grabbed her arm hard, she didn't notice because she couldn't stop looking at Him, he made threatening remarks and brandished his rifle every which way. 

She remembered the tip of the rifle being pushed against her ribs, then she remembers the warm spray of blood across her face. His long arm gently and swiftly lifting and turning her away from the grizzly sight he had just created as the body of her man fell to the ground. It was then and only then she was able to look into his eyes, light blue, sad yet jovial, gentle and fierce all at the same time, aged years beyond his youthful face. She plopped down on her bottom when he ever so gently set her down, right before he smiled and rendered the last of her men unconscious. Weeks later she'd found out everything about him. He was a no one. In the bank that day by accident, he disarmed the whole situation and killed one of the masked robbers, essentially saving her life. Not knowing that she was their ring leader all along. And not knowing He'd just cost her hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Still. She couldn't stop thinking about Him. The way he moved, the violence he wrought with the same gentle hands he used to cradle her away from the horror. She was a professional thief and Violence was a regular part of her life, but He was different. Then the weight of the money came into mind, a single job with a very large payout all gone in His swift actions. Her men demanded freedom and pay. So now she sits in her office staring at a text message, unsure of her answer, "Do we kill him or bring him to you?" She tried so hard to figure out why she kept thinking of Him, why her mind kept returning to that moment when she was in his arms, why she could remember the way he smelled. She looked at the screen and typed an answer then hit send. She gently put her phone on her desk and sat back, deep in thought and waited.

An Immortals Tale: Part 3

The Man in the Black Suit
Part 3
“Nobody Gets It”

Jon’s gray eyes watched as the massive hand arched at him, the thick claws long as kitchen knives and thick as three fingers at the end of each digit, the grotesque and overgrown muscle on the arm that drove the entire thing at him, all of it, moved like it was in slow motion. Options ran through his mind, drawing out different conclusions and possibilities. Each option drew its own line of reasoning and consequences. None looked good for the preacher in the midst of half a dozen demons and a satanic priest with a really high pitched voice. Each conclusion saw itself finish and each time there was bad at the end of it, nothing complex to a being of his age at this point. It was like math to him, simple addition and as elementary as he made it he didn’t seem to like the outcomes. He was running out of time to devise a good one that he could use and live at the end of it. The beasts before him were almost a foot taller than him and near twice as thick as him, all muscle, piss and vinegar. Vinegar. A smile crept onto the face of the immortal in the three piece suit. He found it.
Near his face the arm of the demon before him stopped. Hard. Like it had struck concrete and stone. Suddenly as the stop a silent and invisible explosion sent the heavy, clawed hand spiraling into the darkness out of reach of the candle light, purple blood painting circles on the ceiling and floor as it flew through the air. The heavily muscled demon clutched at its bleeding stump where a hand used to be and howled in pain, dropping to its knees and staring at the man in the black suit with a small smile on his face. The five heavy feet behind the first pair stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the small and confusing incident, their eyes collectively going from the leader of their pack to the outsider. The thick blood dripping freely from the wound could be heard clearly, every being in the room silent as the grave. Jon’s gray eyes came down and met with the demons at his feet, he lifted his hand as if to brush away dust from a counter top, his left bicep the peak of the fore swing. The demon gasped as it finally realized what was about to happen. Jon swept his hand across the beast.
Purple blood and dark flesh were violently torn apart in a torment of violence, all of it sweeping in the same direction as the preacher had moved his hand. The powerful, muscular demon was no more but a stain and collective pieces of skin and internal organs lying to the right of the man in black. Jon looked back at the other five and the skinny guy holding the spear of Tristen and let venom and menace crawl into his voice as he spoke this time, the friendly, kidding nature gone and vanished, “I’ll give you one last chance to do this quietly and without further incident. Give me the spear and you all walk out of here.” Jon advanced forward on that bitter note of threat, his power demonstrated and one of them felled with a simple gesture took the fight out of them, reduced them from brooding beasts to cowed servants the master of the house is angry at. The sea of muscle parted and he stepped through them, untouched, unchallenged and at his own pace.
He reached the altar, the girl exposed from the waist up, the rest wrapped in white linen, and snatched the spear from the conductor of this Ludacris symphony. Jon stared the young man down until he, too, cowed away from the man in the suit, and then spoke in the same menacing voice, “Next time you get the idea to have monsters guard you whilst you play with toys that you don’t understand think about the consequences that are imposed upon others.” Jon motioned to the purple mess on the concrete floor that was a guard, and the young man could only nod his agreement. Jon considered leaving the girl behind, but instead took the book that was being read and wrapped the girl in his coat, carrying her past the guards, their flat, broad; pig-looking faces staring daggers at the preacher. The walk down to the street was longer than he remembered, his nice shoes clopping along at a nice pace until the thin girl with the small frame became too much the package. He went to his own knee and laid her on the floor gently, shaking her to wake her.
After a few minutes of trying to wake her his efforts paid off and she came to, her big brown eyes matched her hair that traveled down to the small of her back, her skin soft and lily white with freckles here and there, “Where am I?” Jon did his best not to frighten her and not to look creepy, “Well. You’re in an abandoned warehouse on the Southside and were about to become part of a very unsuccessful ritual that would have probably ended with you dead.” He did his best to smile to try and soften the impact of the blow. She looked at him for a moment and then looked around at her surroundings before responding, “Uh. Okay. Can I go?” Nothing prepared Jon for that shock and he nodded before taking his coat back. As she reached the exit, wrapping her top half with the linen that the rest of her was wrapped in Jon couldn’t help but ask, “You do get that you almost died up there right?” She looked back and answered as a cab stopped to pick her up, “Uh. No. But…bye.” She climbed in and the cab sped off.
Jon shook his head and put his coat on muttering under his breath, “They never get it.” The afternoon was here now, sun pounding through the clouds and infecting the rest of the earth with its rays. The world was alive and unaware that they dodged a huge bullet today, and because all of this happened in the shadows there will be no parade, no celebration, no names added to the list of heroes, no, this day will simply be another day in the week. With his new additions to the long growing list of stupid things that can do bad things in stupid hands he decided to take a cab home. An hour later his door swung in and he was welcomed by the musty and dusty smell of a thousand or so books, over head lights clicked on, the large studio apartment with one chair in the middle of it and a table next to it sat still and waited for its only resident to interact with either. A bookshelf was set aside for items collected and so the book the kid had and the spear of Tristen took up new residency for now. A single door sat in the back of the apartment and that was his closet, filled to the brim with suits and their matching ties and shoes.
The immortal sat down and sighed long and hard, remembering the simpler days of the church and its enemies. He let the day go, melting it away into the steno pool with all the others. As he relaxed he looked over at his new pieces and knew there was something bothering him about them, the spear of Tristen and a black bible. But that didn’t look like a black bible. Jon got up and walked over to the shelf that held the two newly collected items and flipped open the cover to the book. Blank first page. To be expected, it’s a book after all, he shrugged and then with a ginger finger flipped the next page. The words on the page flowed into his eyes, each letter leading to the next, building words that were as heavy as bricks, the paragraph a solid ton and the bold title at the top was the rope that was waiting to be cut to let it all come down. Jon closed the black leather cover and stepped back, running his hand from his chin up his face and through his hair, mussing it, his hand lading on the back of his neck and staying there, as if to contain the news he’d just come across.
Jon’s legs carried him numbly back to his leather chair and table that sat still and idle for him as he shakily came down into the seat. He took a deep breath and let it out again, trying to process the information more slowly, but it kept coming back the same. That book should not exist on this planet. It should only exist in hell. As God has the holy bible and other such scripture, so does the Devil. This was the Devils bible. The barrier between the three kingdoms has been breached.

An Immortals Tale: Part 2

The Man in the Black Suit
Part Two
“In the Balance”

What felt like steel wrapped in dried and cracked leather were wrapped tightly around Jon’s neck. Rotten breath cascaded over his shoulder as the wraith held tightly to his trachea as it kept speaking, “You think your God will welcome you with open arms or with damnation and fire?” The raspy voice laughed. Jon’s nervousness peaked when he felt that skin of the fingers begin to crack, then he could hold back no more, “Very funny, Sah-Jan, now let go before you get skin flakes all over my suit again! You know how hard it is to get that stuff out? Impossibly hard.” Again the raspy voice laughed and the fingers released, the seat next to him pulled aside and the Wraith named Sah-Jan sat down, a grey suit with a black shirt and red tie were draped over his thin and very bony frame, darkened skin and sunken eyes complimented lips that had dried up and had been pulled back to reveal stained and yellowed teeth. It was a sight to see, horrifying in almost every way, but still a sight. The Wraith laughed a bit more as it settled in and it finally addressed Ricky, the vampiric bartender, “Skin flakes! Right! Ricky get me some bile.” The thin man behind the bar got to work as Jon picked up his drink and inspected his suit for those pesky skin flakes he’d been nervous about getting on his suit. A cup of bile and a cup of sacramental wine were lifted and both sipped out of. Sah-jans wide eyes stared without blinking and thin hair swayed when he moved, neither his fault, being dead takes its toll on people. “I suppose you heard the news, eh, preacher? Some dumb schmuck has gotten their hands on the spear of Tristen.” Jon nodded and watched the wraith carefully as he spoke, “Yeah. Quite the little dilemma we got going on here. I doubt they know how to properly use it, though. All those proper texts are in such in an archaic language that these youngins don’t have a real chance to get into all the real problem causing stuff.”
Another sip of the bile was taken before the dead man spoke again, “You know google does this marvelous thing called uh….translate.” The smile was impossible for him to do due to his skin being dried and tighter than a tourniquet on those bleached bones, but it was implied. Jon simply smiled back at the Wraith and sat his cup down to respond, “You know what google doesn’t do? It doesn’t give you Nordic or Hebrew ancestry or the correct correlation of runes and such to get the proper rituals done for anything big.” Ricky was finally feeling the tension between his two patrons and decided to step in, “Hey Jon, don’t you have somewhere to be? And Sah-Jan, isn’t there somewhere else you can haunt with your poor prophetic crap?” Jon nodded and downed the rest of what was in the goblet and proceeded to pay his tab, the Wraith deciding to stick around and consume more bile. “Email me the rest of the details of what you know, Ricky. It’s been good seeing you.” Jon stopped by weekly at the little tavern to check on things and rumors from the underworld. This little piece of information regarding the spear of Tristen was just too juicy and dangerous to pass up.
Afternoon tried to shine through the still overcast skies, but failed to penetrate the thick layer of clouds that hovered above the city, keeping the two o’clock hour nice and chilly, the slight breeze that wafted between the thick concrete buildings that hid away the skyline of the world. Jon’s pace was quick and direct, knowing where he needed to go and how to get there the quickest route. Nameless faces streaked by as his pace was steady and unfaltering, buildings with their names proudly displayed on the front were merely veneers between him and his destination. As he walked he tried to imagine all the horrible things that could come from having such a powerful and dangerous object thrown into the hands of bumbling idiots who probably didn’t understand the first thing of the paranormal or its consequences. He said a small prayer in his head, hoping to God that he wasn’t too late. Options played before his eyes, most he didn’t like, but a few he could live with. Suddenly, and as if on purpose, his cell phone chimed to tell him he had an email.
Guided by repetition his hand quickly found the phone, clicked on the screen, opened the program, and then selected the new email to read. Information got read quick and precisely, as to not make any mistakes, and then memorized with daft precision. The name of a satanic church, a man responsible for the item not being in quarantine, an address for both, and a warning to be careful. Apparently their goal is to raise a small squad of Gollum. Rock monsters that love to squish human skulls for fun. Luckily he was already on the path to the church, originally to seek some counsel, but now to give it. Jon liked walking and could get places in moderate time, not that he really cared about time or how late he got there usually, but this time it was a bit pressing. Blocks went by and by, none making their names known, just the general direction as his expensive shoes clopped on the sidewalk. It was easy for him to get lost in these streets, not because he didn’t know his way, but because he liked discovering new shops and such, however today he didn’t have the time.
In his inner coat pocket there was a tiny copy of the bible. One he always kept. In the other pocket was a single vile of holy water that could be used as a weapon in the right circumstances. And worse come to worse it could be a bomb strong enough to level a building. Soon the church was before him. Or the abandoned warehouse that these cretins called a church. The door was open and so he let himself in, Jon the preacher in a satanic church, this will be one for the books. The dark halls and low ceilings were easy to navigate as he searched for the proper hallway and room combination, graffiti covering the stone walls with satanic labels and pictures and such. It was idiotic, he thought, but to these morons it was a place of worship. Soon chanting came wafting down the halls like a breeze that carried the smell of rotted flesh and cigarettes with stale beer, all unpleasant to the human kind. He sighed deeply as some of the words rang true and so did the smell of burning candles. This was bad and he was about to step into it knee deep and fast.
In the center of the large room there sat a girl with long black hair, pale skin, and no clothing on an altar, six men around her in black robes with hoods, candles lighting the whole situation, and one tall and skinny male leading the chants with the spear of Tristen in hand. A virgin sacrifice. The skinny leader raised the spear as he continued chanting and reading from the black leather bound book he had in the other. With each passing verse the spear raised higher above his robed head, the girl on the altar before him seeming to be awaiting the fall of the blade. They hadn’t noticed him yet so Jon decided to make his presence known. He cleared his throat hard and loud. The chanting stopped and all the heads that were not his turned to regard the man in the black suit that was invading their sacred ritual. Jon stood tall and smiled the best charming smile he could as he stepped forward. “Hi. My name’s Jon. I’m here to confiscate that little butter knife you got in your hands, there, junior, in the name of the Church and God, himself. So if you’ll kindly hand it over I’ll be on my way and you guys can continue to…drink your sacred kool-aid.” Again he smiled and took another three steps forward .
The one holding the spear was still staring at Jon like he had three heads and all three were speaking greek. Jon let the awkward moment pass and still waited when suddenly the one in charge pointed the spear at Jon like a teaching rod and declared in a loud and high pitched voice that bordered prepubescent, “Defiler! Remove him!” Jon chuckled a little and stepped forward. “I’m not a defiler. Just like…a repo man.” The six men all stood at the same time and faced Jon, their robes coming off in the same unison as they stood, revealing the true nature of what was beneath them: Six very large demons. Built like body builders with horns protruding every here and there to accentuate their already disturbing and intimidating manner. “Huh.” It was all Jon could manage as the six beings snorted their discontent at him being there and began to close the distance between them and him. The tall man behind the altar that held the spear watched as the demons proceeded towards Jon the preacher, their ritual disrupted for now.
Jon took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he prepared for the fight that was coming his way. Large demons, a closed space, a virgin sacrifice, and the spear of Tristen sitting at the end of this soon to be blood rainbow. The first demon was within its arms reach of Jon and raised its monstrously huge hand decorated with equally large talons and targeted the man in the black suit.

An Immortal's Tale: Part 1

An Immortal’s Tale: The Man In The Black Suit

My name is Jonathan Ross and I’m here to tell you about the time I almost died. Not much of a tale normally, I know.  But here’s the twist that makes it interesting: I’m immortal. Now before you ask the obvious question let me start as near to the beginning as I can.
I was born in the middle of the dark ages in history, back when even calendars were ‘a work of the devil’, so guess who doesn’t know their birthday. I was born as the result of a need for people to combat the evils that were entering this world and stealing away the goodness of mankind, the innocence of the good people. So a deal was struck, a ritual performed, and out popped a vessel for the clergy to fill with the goodness of the church. I grew up in many a monastery hearing many renditions of many passages of many books of the bible. And to this day, some hundred and odd years later, I can still recite each and every single one by heart. Now this was no ordinary education, no, I had to learn spells, incantations, exorcism rights, demon banishing rituals, the fundamentals of physical combat with the dead. Oh, and Latin.  From the time I could understand the King’s English I was told I was destined to help rid the world of all evil. Didn’t pan out that way.
You see, these folks that cooked me up didn’t count on three things: That the demonic threat they thought was so imminent was actually just a nuisance barely constituting any attention from anyone, the second being the dark ages ending and the church denouncing all their ‘barbaric rituals’, and the fact that I’d be immortal. Though I’m over a hundred years old I still look like I’m thirty, and if I don’t say so myself,  in relatively good shape. Despite these fantastic and mind bending facts I’m as plain as vanilla. I’m of average height, average build, average complexion, with short, brown hair and no visible scars. The only notable part of me is my gray eyes, but that’s about it. It’s really a downer when the supposed ‘Combater of Evil’ looks like your neighbor that mows his lawn every Sunday. With that said the ages have been kind and interesting to me, as have the people and the monsters I’ve encountered.
That’s right, monsters. Vampires, werewolves, zombies, ghosts, poltergeists, ghouls, demons, imps, creatures from black lagoons, pixies, bigfoot,  lawyers and the lochness monster are all real. Don’t let the movies and bed time stories fool you, though, ninety nine point nine percent of them are actually harmless and avoid humans like the plague. Remember that threat I mentioned earlier? Exactly. Turns out that the church and many, many cultures before the guys who created me have had a steady and peaceful truce with the non-human kind, making someone like me irrelevant. The only thing that I can do is help police those who step out of bounds and break the truce that has been in standing for so long. Truth be told, though, the incidents are less than a dozen in the whole of my existence. Disappointing, I know.
But I’m here to beguile you with a tale of danger and revelations so deep you’ll question the moral fiber of the world we live in. Now I could narrate all that happened to you, but I believe the ebb and flow of time is best observed from another vantage point. Welcome to my tale.

The Beginning of the End

October was a special month for Jonathan because he believed it was when he was born. He remembered the old priests talking about how the weather was cold, but it hadn’t snowed yet, and how they had to wrap his small frame in extra blankets to fight off the chill in the air. None of the details of his birth were ever really discussed, but he knew and didn’t really mind, the life they gave him was beautiful and so was the world they brought him in to.  He also liked October because of the way the color seemed to drain from the world and leave it gray and made the faces on the streets he walked uniform. Seattle, the city he called home, was beautiful when winter started to settle in according to Jonathan and his macabre tastes. Maybe it was due to the time in history he was born, or maybe he just like winter. Either way, the pavement below his feet moved at a steady pace and the cold concrete buildings smiled faceless grins at him as he passed.
The overcast sky was wonderful on such a cold day because it muted the sun and didn’t make his black suit so hard to wear. Another piece of average applied to him, but this one he didn’t mind, a black suit with a white shirt and a plain, red tie, his shoes plain and black leather. He had grown up surrounded by priests drabbed in black and white with the occasional red sash, so his suit was a bit of a tribute to the men that had brought him into the world. It was funny to him to walk the streets and compare the times of now and the times of old. From folks toting bibles and speaking the good word to people toting ipods and shouting their personal situations into cell phones with no regard for the ones around them.
City sounds played into his ears like a symphony of concrete and engines being conducted by the voices of millions speaking at once, and he loved every single second of it because it meant life. He guessed the time was around eleven in the morning due to the smell of hot dog stands being opened constantly and thousands of grills firing up at the same time making the small breeze a scent to remember. Luckily the place he was on his way to was open all day and night to cater to all sorts of customers and their cycles. It was an intelligent way to run a business that served both humans and non-humans. And he’d always like the place because they served sacramental wine and he could drink that. He wanted to know the time, but he didn’t wear a watch and all the signs on the street he was walking were off, he was immortal and time meant nothing. That and he wasn’t very punctual.
After a time and many a turn he arrived at the place he was going, the faded red paint on the thick door marking his final destination and announcing his arrival with a loud and heavy squeaking of the hinges. He stepped into a front hall that was dark and had a single man sitting on a stool next to another door with faded red paint, the real entrance to the bar. The man was thick with muscle and bled the stereotype of tough doorman in every stitch of clothing and in every muscle that made up his scrutinizing scowl. A skin tight shirt, black slacks and a bowler hat, complete with toothpick in mouth made this doorman the epitome of ‘tough guy’. Even the way he regarded Jonathan with a nod, indicating it was okay to enter. Jonathan returned the nod with a smile and pushed the heavy door open and stepped through.
The bar was dark and barely lit, the walls a dark red with mirrors every now and again decorating the dark paint with windows of reflected light. Some old song played on the jukebox in the background, covering conversations and lending an air to the place that was supposed to comfort all who entered. Occupants were scarce and mostly human at this point in the day, giving the bar it’s cast of ‘normals’ for the day. The bar, itself, was pressed tightly against the wall to his right, heavy wood with an oak smell and leather bumpers. Various stouts toting various names of beverages stuck up from one part while behind the bartender glass shelves were filled to limit with glass bottles of liquor and various other concoctions that were ordered by the less than human customers. The bartender, himself, was a short and thin man, tshirt and jeans clinging to a bony frame that was covered in pale flesh. Vampire. Despite what he was by nature, he was friendly and always smiled to his customers, carrying on conversations and serving drinks with a flair. Short cropped black hair sat above thin eyebrows and below them were a pair of light brown eyes, a pointed nose and thin lips below them. And as Jonathan approached those features were concentrated deeply on a cell phone.
Jonathan couldn’t help himself and decided to slink his way around the place, skirting tables and booths alike, making his way slowly to the bar as silently as possible. It worked, he had him. “RICKY!!!” Jonathan shouted while at the same time slamming his open hand on the heavy wood right in front of the unsuspecting bartender. The poor vampire was so startled his cell phone flew out of his hands and skitted across the floor as he screamed an obscenity. “Jesus, Jon! You trying to give me a heart attack?” The two men stared at each other for a moment and then began laughing. “How you been, Ricky?” After retrieving his phone he answered, “I’m fine. How ‘bout you, preacher-man?” It was a joke they shared and if anyone else tried to make it there’d be trouble. “I’m living life to the fullest.” Jonathan spread his arms wide in a show of good health. “Uh huh. And by that you mean you’re still locked away in that stuffy library you call an apartment, right?” Jonathan let his arms flop down, “Yeah. But that’s my life and it’s full.” He said with a grin.
Ricky shook his head and stuffed his mobile device in his pocket while carefully deciding what to say, so instead he asked, “The usual?” Taking a seat and unbuttoning his coat the plain looking immortal nodded his head while taking a quick look around the dark room that smelled of spilled alcohol and cigarettes. After a moment a crystal goblet filled with sacramental wine appeared in front of him along with Ricky, resting his thin arms on the bar and leaning in to start a conversation. A long sip was taken and it seemed that his vampiric friend was having trouble finding the words, so Jonathan spoke first, “So what’s bothering you?” Ricky looked a little surprised, but then let it quickly pass, knowing it was pointless to lie to Jonathan. Not because of the clergy, but because Jonathan always found out the truth. The bartender leaned a little closer and spoke in a low tone that was barely audible over the juke box warbaling away in the background.
“The end of the world is coming.” And with that simple phrase he withdrew himself and stood straight to evaluate the immortal’s reaction. Jonathan thought about all the prophecies and the letters and the various futures told and tried to come up with a date near the current one. Nothing came up and he knew that his friend wouldn’t be spooked by some nutjob in a purple robe handing out fortunes for five bucks. “What does that mean?” he tried not to sound harsh or unbelieving, but it came out that way and it seemed his friend was becoming less and less talkative as the seconds burned away. “Ricky. You can tell me, man. You know that.” The bar tender considered his friend with the goblet of wine before him for another moment and finally nodded, giving in and leaning forward again. “Look. It’s nothing I’m sure of, but it seems that some guys are stirring up stuff with some ancient texts and such that got a lot of people on edge. It looks like they might have gotten their hands on some serious voodoo and have been having a good ol’ time releasing this and that. Well, with that little taste of awesome it seems that they’ve been talking to some folk about bringing about the apocalypse.” Jonathan kept a small smile on his face and waited for his friend to finish before presenting the obvious holes that were always in these ‘plots to end the world’, “Look, Ricky, they’re probably just some wackos that got their hands on a legitimate copy of something that is harmless. So they’re going to raise a few demons, spit out a few incantations, and sacrifice a goat or two and realize that it takes some major mojo to even try to start the doomsday clock. So don’t worry about it, okay?” He gave a reassuring smile and began to take another sip of wine when his friend said words that chilled him to the bone. “They say they have the Spear of Tristen.”
The glass froze on its way to his lips and suddenly some wackos had become some major issues.  There are few holy relics that are the real deal around, and there are even fewer unholy ones, most of them locked up by the Vatican and kept under lock and key and guard. The Spear of Tristen was one of those relics that had fallen under the radar, being lost in time and history. It was the spear given to King Constantine by the church and used to slay thousands upon thousands of people by Constantine, himself. In the wrong hands with the right book this spear could also unleash some very ugly things upon an unsuspecting world. The glass filled with wine found the wooden bar again and Jonathan tried his best to not be alarmed. “Ricky, I’m going to need all the information you have. And if you don’t have it I need to know who does.”
The pale vampire nodded and then suddenly froze, his eyes fixated on something behind Jonathan. The immortal sensed it before he felt it and it came suddenly. Icy fingers slowly wrapped around his throat and began tightening as fetid breath joined a raspy voice coming from behind him. “Enjoying yourself, Preacher?” The voice, hands, and horrid breath belonged to a creature that was terrifying to imagine: A zombie with a lot of intelligence and drive called a Wraith. And now one of those creatures had its rotting fingers wrapped securely around his throat, “I hope you are, Preacher, cause this was your last drink. Now I send you to meet your maker.” For the first time in a long time Jonathan got very, very nervous.