Chelsea Atop The Wall (Original Short)

Chelsea sat at her post, watching the snow fall out on the abandoned freeway. The SUV packed to the brim with trained rescue guys just flew out of the gates that were promptly shut, entrapping her in her peaceful little world. Atop a twenty foot concrete wall Chelsea sat in her make shift crow's nest, watching the world below her, beyond her. Skills were bestowed upon her by her father, the last good hunter in the community meant she got duty of long-gun. Nobody took her seriously because of her age, but her targets and their constant holes where the bulls-eye should be, would command respect and often silence.

Winter had come in heavy this year, and she knew that she should be out hunting, trying to gather enough food to keep the ever-shrinking community fed, but after the helicopter went down a few hours ago, she got put on snipe duty. Her commands were easy: if it isn't alive shoot it. If they aren't from this community shoot them. No exceptions. At only 19 years of age the weight of having to take another human life was now a reality and she didn't like having to contemplate putting a living, breathing, person in her crosshairs.

Her eyes spanned the dead landscape, lingering for a moment on the black barked, leafless trees that surrounded their encampment. With not much imagination at all they looked like skeletal hands reaching up from the blanketed ground, stretching towards heaven to infect the good souls, that had left this wretched earth, with their disease and filth. Her thoughts went to her father, the summer, and having to run away while those things dragged him down and....She couldn't finish the thought. Suddenly the world around her looked like a painting that had been left out in the rain, swirls and waves distorted everything, until she closed her eyes, forcing the tears to run hot trails down her frozen cheeks.

With a gloved hand she wiped away the tingle on the tip of her nose, then checked to see if anyone saw. No one did. With her vision cleared she swept back over the desolate world outside, looking for a target. She found one. She found a few, no doubt rustled up by the opening and closing of the gate and the car that had left. The scope on top of her Remington 30-06 went to her eye, the red cross, vivid against the snow and the things, themselves, found the first head. The homemade silencer made a whisper of the shot and the slug made a mess of the zombie's head. Quickly and silently she caught the shell as it crept out of the chamber while she slid the bolt back with patience and precision. She found out the hard way they could hear a shell drop, even from twenty meters away. In a few minutes the eight dead things that had shambled out of the woods were nothing more than red smears on the porcelain white.

A row of clips sat upon the window ledge she looked out of. She didn't have any kind of disorder that made her put them in such a perfect row, but it did help to pass the time. She sipped at her barely warm cocoa and reloaded the freshly spent clip, placing it at the end and moving up the others, all filling in small indents in the snow. Boredom was nothing new. Boredom in this world, though, could get you killed. So she fought it with menial tasks, cleaning her 9 millimeter pistol and making sure the magazine ejected smoothly. She sniffed again, wiping away more tingles at the tip of her nose. She had to stay up there until the rescue team came back. It could take days.

She didn't have much room to wiggle about, but she made the effort. With a big sigh of relief as her stiff muscles had gotten just a taste of movement she settled back down in her tiny hammock type chair. She glanced at the community to her back, and all was well, it was when she looked back out to the road that surprise threatened to make her choke on her cold cocoa. There was a V formation of zombies heading towards them. At least thirty or forty of them. They didn't seem to changing course, they were coming for this community, like they probably had many others before. She slammed on the button that was rigged to an alarm system some computer guy built for them. Red lights lit the compound and hushed orders were passed along, the still community was now silently bustling for the impending attack.

The horde was a ways out, a good hundred and fifty to two hundred yards, enough to tell the numbers, but not close enough for detail. Chelsea brought her rifle up, took a deep breath and let it out slow as her finger squeezed. There was no need for stealth, now, her bolt flew open and closed like a veteran shooter. Each time her weapon jumped a head exploded into gore and red mist. A thought nagged her as she dropped her first clip and slammed in the next: 'Why are they in a V formation? They've never done that before.' Without thinking she aimed at the point at the front of the heard and what she saw jolted her: a young man was jogging ahead of the hoard, swaying left and right from exhaustion. His head was down, but there was no doubt he was alive.

Suddenly she realized this man's life was in her hands, he needed her, and if she didn't help him he'd end up just like her father. She had to do, now, what she couldn't do months ago. She had to save him. Through the glass and inch from her face she saw a rotted hand reach for his shoulder. She turned it's head into mush. She gritted her teeth and swore to herself that he would make it to these gates. Even if she had to go outside the wall and carry him. Soon other silenced rifles began to thin out the herd, dropping ghoul after ghoul, but no bullet coming near the young man. Less than 10 zombies and the young man made it to the red zone, fifty feet from the front door, and Chelsea had just spent her last bullet. She dropped her rifle against the edge of the window and ran down her tiny set of stairs.

Her snow pants and jacket made it hard to be as quick as she wanted to be, but she tried, anyways. She found herself yelling at the top of her lungs to open the door at the guard, Gary, but he wouldn't budge. She brought her pistol up and aimed it at his head, ordering him to back up. She hefted the steel bar herself and pulled it open. The last of the ghouls was down and the young man with long hair, covered in blood, his jacket torn like his pants, stood with his arms up, clouds of breath huffing out. He was trying to catch his breath, but managed, "I'm....I'm not bit! My name is M!" Chelsea didn't realize she was running towards him, towards the idea that other people were alive out there.

He dropped his pack and his pistol, which was empty, anyway and stared at her. She suddenly got very self conscious and stopped running as she holstered her own pistol, just in time to stop before him. She was a bit winded herself, but she tried her best to smile, "Hi. My name is Chelsea. You said your name is M, right?" He nodded, but his eyes kept darting over her shoulder to the other snipers that had the same orders as her, but she kept herself between them and him as she took his hand and started walking him into the encampment, his bag dragged with her other hand. "Welcome." It was the only thing she could think to say as they crossed the threshold. They were greeted with protests to another being brought in.

Chelsea could only level her blue eyes as best she could at her co-inhabitants as she spoke, "We're not animals. And we're alive. So is he. If we don't take him in then our name for this place is a lie." One by one people backed off and finally M asked her before they went on, "What's the name for this place?" Chelsea turned and could only smile as she looked up into his exhausted and stained face, "We call this place Hadley's Hope." She was confused as he started chuckling, and figured that exhaustion had caught up to him as he fell to his knees and then sat on the floor, laughing the whole time. She had to ask, "What's so funny?" He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears, "I found hope. In a dead world. I found hope." His smile looked so out of place, but she could only return it, in kind.

An Immortal's Tale

An Immortal's Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"

The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.

This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.

The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.

The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.

As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.

Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.

Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.

With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"

With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.

The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.

Three Cheers... (Writing Competition Short)

The engine of the car James was in roared with each press of the gas pedal. It gave him a much needed boost to the adrenaline that was fading fast. He’d never bought what they did in the movies, chugging vodka to kill the pain of the gunshots that the character was feeling, but he knew, now, why they did: it worked. The several holes in his body oozing precious red were now only a numb thought. The road ahead was endless and he didn’t mind. While his engine was moaning and groaning the three behind him were doing worse trying to keep up with him. James was going numb, the only thing he felt was the ring on a thin gold chain that occasionally bumped against his chest when he went over a bump. In fact. The only reason he’d wipe the blood from his brow is because it would temporarily turn his vision red. He smiled. The last smile he’d ever put on and spoke his final words, “For you, Julie. When they’re dead. I’ll cheer.” He jerked the wheel to the left and grabbed his pistol, throwing the car into park, and flinging the door open as the other three cars screeched to a hault. His barrel found them. And their barrels found him.

Five and a half months ago Julie and James were all but strangers. He was single, she was married, and a chance meeting turned into a water cooler romance. Their relationship flew fast and bloomed quickly. Going almost immediately from casual lunches at the dinette down the street to renting a hotel room for an hour or two. Her husband never suspected a thing until one day she forgot her phone at home. Usually she locked it, but he was a clever man. There wasn’t a lot there, but enough to make him suspicious. At the dinette James and Julie sat at their usual spot, away from the window, and had lunch. Her husband nearly let the whole thing go until he watched the man and his wife share a deep and passionate kiss. Money was no object and he would make sure that they would both pay. She would suffer. He would watch.

James did watch. As four men beat and raped Julie. He screamed her name as her husband did the same. He lost his voice from all the screaming he was doing. She almost never said a word during the whole thing, only whimpering James’ name every now and again. The eye that wasn’t swollen shut from the beating still shone emerald green as she pleaded silently to him. One moment her lips are quivering, her eye shimmering, then they were still and glazed over. The shell fell right in front of her face, ejected from the pistol in her husband’s hand. Then the silenced pistol turned to James and again a bullet flew. James grunted with the impact as the nine millimeter bullet tore through his body and shattered the handcuffs holding him captive. James took the opportunity and escaped, letting fury fuel his violence, he bashed in the head of one of the men and injured the other three, including Julie’s husband. He snatched a set of keys off the floor, slipped Julie’s ring off her finger and onto the chain around his neck. He kissed her once more and another bullet tore through him.

The car he stole was a newer model luxury sedan and in the front passenger seat was a cache of pistols and a bottle or two of alcohol. James could only imagine what for. He had chugged half the bottle of vodka that he’d found, driven the car as fast and as far as he could. Cuts and bruises and probably broken bones all were just a numb memory. Now he faced the bastards that hurt Julie and him. The pistol in his hand jumped over and over, the air filling with the concussion like reports of the many guns now being fired. Soon it was silent. Julie’s husband lay near one of the cars, his brains on the floor next to him. The other men were gone, as well. James leaned against the car he stole, panting and gasping his last ragged breaths, cold creeping deeper and deeper into him. There were a few more bullet holes, now, and he had precious little time. With a shaking hand he picked up Julie’s ring, held it to his lips for a kiss, and gave no one a blood stained smile, “Hip...Hip...Hoor…..” He slumped to the ground, silent.

The Blade Of The Princess: Final Chapter

Days passed since K’anda had fallen down a hole that was a portal to a dead world. She’d stopped walking with a limp by the time she’d rejoined the main road, following it to her destination: the village of Vit’ae. She reached the great gates just as the sun began to sink from the sky, bruising the horizon with its exit. Two giant faces of a mountain, carved out to house the giant wooden doors, stood to each side of her. As she approached, shouts, calls and all sorts of movement sprung to life to allow her safe passage. With a well-practiced groan that made the ears ache, the magnificent monuments adorned with polished brass and workings of the name of the city, itself, began to part.

Behind them stood a testament to consumerism that was nothing short of breathtaking. A market, twice the size of her kingdom, lived and breathed and moved with purpose. As far as K’anda’s golden eyes could see, there were shops, inns, taverns, trading posts, callers, and preachers of a long-dead religion. The princess of Zhu’ul could barely believe it all. Women of all manner of dress roamed the safe streets, none paying heed to the opening or closing of the gates, most with servants in tow. Poor women had ropes tied from their rags to the necks of their slaves, while the more financially blessed ones had things like fine gold chains attached to ornate leather collars.

Smoke, smells and lanterns filled with fire lighting the whole city overwhelmed the rest of the senses. Burning pitch and cooking meat wafted through the loud streets as K’anda pushed forward, seeking the middle of the town: the slave auction. Commerce never ceased; not at any time of day or night. Although she was dead tired from her journey, the princess knew that the sooner she began conducting her business, the sooner she could be away from the noise in which she’d been thrust.

The giant market - that stretched the entirety of the chasm left in the mountains, themselves - was built like a circle. In the middle was the auction block and circle of testing. That was her destination. K’anda moved her sore legs, ignoring peddlers who shoved charms, armor and weapons at her, promising immortality and the ability to slay any and all beasts with one fell swoop. All she did was smile in response, not acknowledging any of them. As she got closer to the epicenter, the spectators went from sparse to standing-room-only as an auction began.

Upon a giant stage taller than K’anda, a woman wearing a leather vest and linen pants held a whip in one hand and a ledger in the other. Next to her were three fine specimens of men, all tall and muscular, chained together by the neck. Numbers were called out as the bidding reached a fever pitch; women in the crowd were gnashing teeth and throwing curses at one another, like they were fighting for the best cut at a butcher’s shop. But those being sold were not for a princess. Then K’anda saw her: Mistress Holtz, self-proclaimed queen of the auction square, commanding almost all the slave trade, and sorting the fodder from the prizes worthy of a princess. Tired feet made a beeline for the woman in charge.

Mistress Holtz stood a good foot shorter than K’anda. Her hair was done up in ringlets, face painted in the latest style, sporting a dress packed to the seams with frill and pomp that hung loosely upon her thin frame. In her dainty hands, lay an ornate rod of hard maple adorned with a gold and silver handle. A fine gold chain swayed between the mistress and her man, half the age of the woman reaching her late 50s. The barefoot man was thin, and dressed in a simple shirt and shorts. He was decorated with new and fading bruises bviously dealt from the rod his mistress carried. None of this concerned the princess of Zhu’ul, for she was here on business.

Holtz tore her aged eyes away from the auction block just in time to catch K’anda moving toward her. “Ah, Princess K’anda! Is it finally time for you to pick a mate?” Her tone was snobby and carried her pomp. “Yes it is, Mistress Holtz. And I’ve traveled a long and weary mile. When can I begin the process?” The imperious woman smiled and bowed her head, “Well, Princess, as soon as you’d like. And you came at an extraordinary time. Another princess has come, too, to choose a mate. So we will be having a grand spectacle… now that you’re here, of course.” K’anda did not return the smile. She knew that this meant a new set of games for the slaves to play.

“I’ve no stomach for ceremony, Mistress Holt,” K’anda said. “I’d like to choose my mate and go on my way. If that suits you, that is.” K’anda smiled insincerely and the woman picked up on the tone. “But of course, dear Princess. The holds are this way, if you’d follow me. Pick up the pace, Anry!” Quick as her aged arms allowed, she cracked the rod across her man’s face, pulling the chain and collar taut. As she turned to lead, the man didn’t even reach up to comfort the new bruise as he turned and nodded. The princess following the pair ground her teeth and hid her disgust as they trekked to the higher priced pens.

It was dark when K’anda entered the market in the niche of the mountains, and it grew even later as she walked behind Mistress Holtz and Anry. Thoughts played slowly, like a bard’s stringed instrument, of how her mother loved her father, that taboo and of how the impossible existed between them. She remembered smiles and companionship. And how when the palace would quiet, her mother would remove her father’s collar in their bed chamber and kiss his neck gently. Love was possible. She hoped that one day, she, too, would love her mate. Near midnight they reached their destination.

Anry stopped sharply behind Holtz, so much so that K’anda nearly knocked him over when she absent-mindedly ran into him. Before the princess could apologize, a chiding of ‘Clumsy oaf’ was growled and another crack from the rod came, this time on the other side of his face. Torches were being lit in their newly arrived presence to show off the stock, and Holtz turned to her customer. “Here we are, Princess. The best I have to offer. Please, take your time.” With a grand gesture, the woman pulled back a leather curtain and ushered in K’anda.

To the surprise of the princess of Zhu’ul, it didn’t stink. It wasn’t dark or dismal. In fact, it was rather clean. The stalls themselves were huge, numbering four in total, with bars between the observer and the men. Though the spaces between said bars were wide enough for even the broadest shouldered one of them to slip through, none even dared to try. They knew better. The spaces were there as windows to look at the merchandise unabated. Standards that her mother had instilled in her ran through K’anda’s head as she walked by each stall, her golden eyes taking in each man carefully. At times, her gift came forward and helped her perception. By the third stall, she’d given up almost all hope, settling for the fact that she’d have to wait for the next batch.

But there, in the fourth stall, a pair of eyes caught hers, and stopped her breath in her throat. Deep purple eyes sat in a tanned face that was as intense as the glare it wore. She peered into those eyes and nearly lost herself, having to force her gaze away as she took in the rest of the man. He was large, much larger than her, and even more so than most of the men around him, though he sat crouched in a corner, shrouded in a cloak made of tattered and torn pieces of black cloth that hung off his broad shoulders. Long, black, wavy hair that curled here and there fell from his head. Before she could think she pointed and spoke, “You. Step forward.” His gaze never wavered, but he pretended not to notice her command.

The Mistress’s voice came suddenly from beside K’anda, “Oh. You don’t want that one, Princess. He’s diseased and scrawny .” The words shook her out of her concentration and she looked at the pompous woman, “Describe that slave to me.” At first, the woman tripped on her words then came forth with a sentence. “Well. He’s...skinny. And his skin is covered in lesions. He’s pale and dirty.” K’anda’s eyes went back to the man and she sent forth a bit of her power and nearly gasped when it neared the man. The air around him was nearly aflame with his own power, the glamor he wore to make himself seem less than what he was. She knew in that instant: he possessed the gift of magic. Holtz spoke again, “Surely, you wouldn’t be interested in such a...waste of fle-” K’anda’s royal temper flared, “You mean to advise me on my choice of men and possible mate? You deem your words worthy enough to question mine, Mistress Holtz?” Golden eyes came to rest upon the thin woman and she blanched at the fury and cutting nature of the tone.

“Why...no! Of course not! Forgive me! I lost myself for a moment...Uh….slave! Stand at once and present yourself!” This time the man obeyed. K’anda watched as he unfolded himself, standing nearly a foot taller than her, his tanned skin stretched tight against muscles that looked hard as steel. The scars, some fresh and some old, moved with him as he strode forward, closing the distance in two strides. The Princess of Zhu’ul was in awe of the man, not knowing what the others saw, but in total admonition of his dangerous nature, herself. “What is your name, slave?” K’anda’s voice had not cooled, but neither had his eyes. “Xelga’dis, Mistress.” His voice was deep and as strong as his physical appearance, and yet it carried intelligence and power with it, as well. “Your form is appealing to me, Xelga’dis. What think you of mine?” For the first time his eyes left hers and moved quickly up and down her body. She could feel her face heat with the action.

“Forgive me, Mistress. But you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes upon.” Despite her power, training and all her abilities, K’anda felt very much exposed at that moment. Seeking to put herself back in control, she drew her sword, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard, and she presented the handle to him, “Do you think yourself worthy of carrying my blade tomorrow at the trials?” Near every living thing within range of hearing the weapon being drawn cowered away, including Holtz, but not him. He took the handle and held the blade up to his face, turning the instrument between his long and powerful fingers, examining the weight and the balance. “Mistress. I do not believe I am.” He offered the handle back to K’anda and bowed his head. For a moment she let her eyes linger on his hands and fingers; flashes of things that she would never discuss aloud played in her head, but she returned her attention to his face. She studied him for a while before she spoke. “Yes, you do. And you will. In the morrow, you will carry this blade in my name. And you will be my mate.” His eyes came up to meet hers, though his head stayed bowed, “If the Princess wishes.” There was the ghost of a smile on his lips. One she returned. “I do.”

He bowed his final subjugation to her will as she took back her blade, him returning to his corner, her standing proud and tall before the cell. She watched him, like a cat eyes a mouse, all of him, the way he moved, his muscular form, the way his eyes watched her back, and it all made her feel a few degrees warmer than the air around her. As they exchanged one last look, he smiled, a tight, half smile, with only half his mouth, and she returned it, letting her imagination drift again. She turned to the short woman, “I need a place to stay for the night. I expect you will have a room ready for me by the time I reach the pagoda, Mistress Holtz.” Several agreements and curtsies later, Anry was sent forward to make preparations for the Princess. K’anda felt new feelings well up inside her. Things she’d never felt before.

In the cozy room, four times larger than any wayward shack she’d spent many a night in lately, K’anda’s armor was peeled off her skin, and underwear cast off, as she strode toward a large tub. Steaming water had been brought in, but it had already cooled. Since she desired a bath more than she wanted to yell at her host, with a wave of her hand, her power sprang forth and heated the tub to her liking. She sank in, letting her days of travel melt away and be replaced with her encounter with Xelga’dis. She imagined his powerful hands and what they would feel like on her bare flesh, or how his lips would taste. Slowly she let herself get lost in the fantasy and soon her hands mimed the ones in her vivid visions. The tub was barely lukewarm by the time she climbed out, and she was suddenly grateful for the privacy of her own wash room. She laid down upon the soft mattress and was asleep in moments.

Noon found K’anda sitting at the forefront of the stadium, set prominently in the middle of the mountain town. Nearly ten feet below was the arena’s earthen floor, girdled by giant, thick walls of wood, decorated with iron gates here and there. Bells sounded the hour, and then Mistress Holtz stood up, her chair a story higher than everyone else’s, a new dress and hairdo to help set her position of authority. She spoke loudly to counteract all the noise of the women of the town shuffling in to get their seats. “Here, today, we have a treat. A rare treat. Two princesses, one from Zhu’ul, one from Tchottle, have chosen mates at the same time. So we will see not one, but TWO feats of proving today.” The crowd cheered with a glee that K’anda had never heard in her life. “We all know the rules. For their mates to go home with their princesses, they must survive the trials. And now, let the games … BEGIN!” Holtz sat down to the roar of the colosseum.

Across from K’anda sat the other princess, not armored like her, but in a frilly blue dress, rented slaves holding shade over her and a venomous look in her eyes. Raven hair down to her back was done perfectly, face painted to highlight sharp features, with fair skin and small lips making her look much younger than she really was. K’anda let her gaze drift to the arena as she saw Xelga’dis and the other chosen mate brought out and their chains released. The sickle blade of Tchottle was tossed in the dirt at the same time that K’anda’s sword was, each at the feet of the chosen. The other mate was tall and also muscular, with a shaved head and wearing nothing but a pair of leather shorts. Xelga’dis was still shrouded in his black, tattered cape that looked like crow’s feathers from this distance. Each weapon was retrieved as another gate opened, and the whole crowd quieted. A bellowing roar tore from the blackness beyond the raised iron bars.

The Kerroc stepped out, ducking its full height under the nine-foot-high gate. Green, scaly skin moved easily with the mass of muscle beneath it. Razor claws decorated four digits on the end of sinewy arms, matching the ones on its feet. Clear rivulets of saliva dripped freely from the elongated jaws lined with long, sharp teeth. Black eyes burned above a squat head, supported by a thick neck. Iron bars slammed closed, barely missing the tip of the tail trailing behind the creature, cutting deep swaths into the white dirt floor. It roared again, and then locked its glassy midnight eyes upon the two men sharing the arena. As the last of the bellow rumbled out, the thing charged the two humans, heavy footsteps shaking the wooden rafters. K’anda’s eyes widened with amazement, wonder, and most of all: fear.

K’anda watched with the rapt attention of a child, staring as the man with the sickle spread his beefy arms, and shouted challenges at the creature. Xelga’dis stepped back a few paces, keeping a distance between him and the beast. The monster’s attention focused on the shouting one, missing the man in the black cloak as he quickly circled around to the side of it. The bald one charged forward, screaming and swinging his weapon. The curved blade caught the Kerroc’s bottom jaw as it snapped at the man, deflecting its head for a split second. Xelga’dis saw an opening, and quickly closed in and buried the sword deep into its side. Another cry sprang forth and the giant arms swung, missing the bald one, but caught the black cloak that shrouded Xelga’dis in his glamour, tearing it to shreds as it ripped away.

An apocalyptic crescendo of lightning and thunder joined a ring of power that pushed air, dirt and debris out from the center that was Xelga’dis, standing in the arena of now flowing blood. He stood like a pillar of power, his illusion shattered, the force of what had just sprung forward even knocking the Kerroc back a few paces. K’anda’s eyes feasted on her chosen. He was beautiful and primal: broad shoulders and back, scars criss-crossing here and there, tense muscles, a dark glare, with her blade in his hand.

However, the battle waited no longer. The creature turned back to the still-suffering mate of the princess of Tchottle, and this time the man wasn’t able to avoid it. With a heavy snap of its jaws, the giant creature caught the soft middle of the bald man, closing quick and hard, spilling blood to and fro as it thrashed. The crowd responded with deafening cheers.

With the creatures’ attention on the meal in its jaws, Xelga’dis used the momentary pause. With speed hard to track with the naked eye, he moved in and slashed at the monster’s body, aiming for weak points. Tendons, muscles, soft tissues; all were severed without hesitation, viscera and intestines spilling forth. The body of the other man still in its maw, the creature fell to all fours, the damage that had been dealt taking its quick and sudden toll. The surviving mate didn’t allow a moment to pass. He hopped atop the crocodilian monstrosity and quickly buried K’anda’s blade through the thick skull, killing it instantly. A death rattle and a huff of white dust later, Xelga’dis stood above the grisly scene, victorious. The crowd’s roar filled with whispers of magic and its uses, and the fact that he was, indeed, a gifted man. K’anda could only smile as the competing princess huffed and stood, making a quick exit.

K’anda couldn’t help the smug feeling coursing through her, and stood, clapping and joining in on the cheers from the women next to her. She barely noticed when Mistress Holtz stood and announced a quick break from the festivities. K’anda beamed with pride as other women passed her and touched her shoulder with congratulations and well wishes, so much that she hadn’t noticed Holtz’s hand on her shoulder. “Princess K’anda, we must talk before the next round of the trial.” The statement was said with a mix of nervousness and opportunity ringing through every syllable. Not a half hour later, the Princess of Zhu’ul stood in the office of the one running the show. Each wall was decorated with commendations and letters of thanks, to help boost the sales of the slaves. And behind a giant desk littered with papers sat Mistress Holtz.

“Congratulations on your mate’s victory. It seems Tchottle will be without a breeding stock this year. Now, as a matter of price, I think we must delve into the subject as quickly and fully as possible. Please sit.” K’anda stood, facing the aging woman with nothing but contempt and ire. “Price, Mistress? I didn’t know that such a thing was up for change, due to a fact like a simple victory.” Holtz spread her arms in an appeasing manner. “Well, Princess, we’ve never actually discussed the price. And with such a new trait and … appearance of your chosen...” K’anda’s tempered flared and she’d had enough of the game, “Do not attempt to blindside me, Mistress! Just because I am young does not mean that I am ignorant or uneducated. I will not pay for traits you didn’t know were there. And so, you will get your original asking price, but, just to end this discussion before it angers me any further, I’ll double it so Xelga’dis can get on with this farce of a trial and I may return home!” Mistress Holtz was more than shocked at the outburst, her wrinkled jaw hanging open, lips quivering to find words. Before the woman could retort, K’anda stalked out of the office, using her power to control the wind to slam the door hard enough force to crack the frame.

K’anda returned to her seat far before Holtz, with Anry, her manslave, accompanying her, showing a few new bruises shining brightly in the afternoon sun. In the arena below, Xelga’dis was escorted back to the center of the arena, sword tossed at his feet. Mistress Holtz stood and announced, “And now...THE RING OF STEEL!” Again the women attending kicked up excitement and noise, cheers and screams. All of the arena’s metal doors shot up and out poured more than fifty men, with shields, armor and swords. Xelga’dis stood mute, watching without interest, kneeling down casually and scooping up a handful of white dirt, He rubbed it into his palms, in preparation for all the blood about to stain the blade and into his grip. As he stood, there could be no doubt of what kind of man he was to K’anda.

The men, safe behind their steel armor, were hunch-backed, hiding their stomachs and chests, shields held before them in fear of an impending attack. And there stood Xelga’dis: tall, chest out, wearing black shorts to just above his knees, K’anda’s blade in his big hand. The air was thick with tension, each of the fifty combatants measuring their would-be slaughter. One man screamed and charged, breaking the silence, running at full speed toward Xelga’dis. The armored one took a giant, reckless swing at his target and was quickly cut down, blood spraying and tainting the white sand. More poured forth, their battle cries becoming as loud as the crowd sitting above, and they all began to fall before the dark man with the mass of wavy hair and K’anda’s blade in his hand.

There was no grace to him, no fluid movement. He was a hard line drawn through the soft and waning circle of bodies closing in on him. Each cut was brutal, solid, and cleaving, driving through the lines. Each time he turned, he answered a new threat and quickly ended it. Soon, though, the numbers became overwhelming, and he knew it. Wildly swung blades got closer and closer to him, while his body clashed with others, knocking them off balance, all closer than any fighter would deem acceptable. A blade bit his flesh, then another, and pain took over. K’anda could see how the battle was going to go in very short order. The yellowing sky was lit blue for a second, making all but the princess of Zhu’ul shield their eyes. Xelga’dis stood with an arm stretched out, and blue lightning danced from his shoulder to his wrist. The battle had just turned.

Without pause, the wielder of the blue lighting began cutting more opponents down, sending bolts out to make men in their armor explode, like sacks of red liquid dropped from a tall building. Bolt after bolt, swinging cut after another, the number of opponents fell. The last of the armored men deduced the battle was futile and threw down his sword and shield, running for the iron gate. With a bit of power, Xelga’dis lifted a blade from the ground and launched it at the fleeing man. The sword found its target and buried itself to the hilt, knocking its target forward and off his feet.

Once more in the middle of the arena, Xelga’dis stood triumphant, panting with effort and exhaustion. A sweep of his dark eyes surveyed the chaos in front of him, then settled upon hers. She felt her face heat as they shared a look; a ghost of a smile came to his face, the same kind of smile appeared on hers. His big arm shook her blade, sluicing the blood off, then he held it up, and upon a cloud of air the blade floated effortlessly to her, from whence she plucked it. She saluted with it, before returning it to the sheath at her hip.

Now dusk had come and gone, painting the fading day with its mirage of dying colors, but K’anda cared not for spectacle. She paced her room; large as it was, it seemed tiny, a prison cell. Her mind was busy with her mate, and what they’d done to him. Her armor, freshly polished, sat in the corner, with her boots. Her skin was clean, her hair brushed. She was anxious. A knock came that startled her so badly she let out a tiny yip. She ran to the door to see three guards and her mate. He had finally been delivered. As she stood there and the three other slave men disappeared, she felt suddenly exposed wearing nothing but her underthings. Xelga’dis stood tall and proud, shoulders back and a small smile upon his lips. With a flourish of her hand and a silent invitation, he stepped in, ducking the door frame. They smiled at each other for a long moment, taking each other in, her in her underwear and him in nothing but his black shorts.

Silently she took his hand, closing the door, and led him to the bedroom. She found her voice after placing her hand upon his hard, muscular chest. “Now. We must….finalize….you being my mate…” Her golden eyes met his with meaning. Slowly his thick, calloused hand found her cheek and with a gentle movement, his lips met hers. Passionate, heavy and wanton, they went on, each other’s hands finding new places to explore. She tore away with a look on her face and feelings she was unfamiliar with, but she wanted them, and breathlessly she spoke. “Do not be gentle with me. For I will not be with you.” She steeled her will and body and so did he. Together they hit the bed with heavy need, her underthings ripped asunder and his shorts burned off in a blaze of magic fire. It would be near dawn before they fell asleep in each other’s arms, talking of their pasts and wants for the future, both falling deeper in love as the seconds passed. Nothing was gentle during that night except for their tender embrace, lying together under soft blankets with the golden sun leaking into the room and coloring everything in its gentle, yellow glow.

Near noon and with little sleep, the giant gates closed behind K’anda and her new mate Xelg’adis, bidding them farewell with a loud metallic clank of the locks. Both smiled contently as they walked, parts of them sore and other parts simply bruised and tired, but in whole satisfied. Near the setting of the sun, the sky darkening into purple and pinks and reds, they found their first wayward home. As they both disrobed to share the tiny bunk inside, the princess of Zhu’ul smiled at her new love and asked a simple question after the door was locked. “Have you ever heard of the city of the dead below the earth?” Xelga’dis gave her a puzzled look and answered ‘No’. She beamed brighter and asked the last question before their new life and adventures with each other began: “Would you like to?”

Into The Dead (Original Short)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.