The Burnt World: Finale Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life After Death (Original Series)

It was a slow night for Jerry, not another living soul outside the wall. He counted the times he'd heard a ghoul, counted the times they stumbled over something like a branch, and the times they'd see him and try to moan to others their find of fresh meat. It never lasted long. The rifle he'd borrowed from that new kid, M, was amazing. He wondered to himself how he'd gotten it, but remembered that in this world there weren't too many rules. It was funny, in a way, how that kid showed up out of nowhere, swept in with all sorts of training tactics, and managed to get Chelsea to leave her post every now and again.

Maybe it was his older age talking, but it seemed a little off how quickly the relationship between those two took off. He decided not to read into the whole thing too much. After all, he liked being on the wall. It let him think, even if he was bored as the day was long. Jerry adjusted his heavy jacket and gloves, re-positioning his beanie on his head so the small bill would help clear away some of the falling snow, it would get stuck in his beard and hair sometimes, and that annoyed him. The thermos was still hot, a wisp of steam curling up from it every now and again, and the liquid chocolate was begging to be sipped at. So the man with the fancy rifle complied with it's wishes.

The grey day soon began to fade to a bruised twilight, the sky was always beautiful during the winter days. Jerry smiled a small, sad, smile as he remembered the world before. He could still hear the noise of the cities, the constant buzz of people, the roars of engines and planes. In some odd way he missed it. Now it was so quiet, even with the generators on full throttle, and the people of Hadley's Hope at their most active, it seemed like whispers compared to the world before. He stopped thinking there, not wanting to follow the natural progression of the timeline, from his busy world to the day of the Great Panic. He didn't want to remember that day, at all.

It was easy to divert his attention to the nest of robins not too far outside the wall, the small birds were always entertaining. He picked up his scope and looked down it, spotting the little nest of twigs, resting on the branch he'd memorized. The nest was empty. Jerry let the scope fall away from his eye and concentrated, listening for any bird, at all. There were none, not a chirp, a peep, or a cry from the heavens above. It seemed even the ghouls were distracted, as even the moaning and shuffling had gone away. A cold sense of dread crawled into him, deep into his very bones. He stood up and looked down the scope, down the road that lead to his new home.

What he saw took his breath away, so much so he almost couldn't find the silent alarm to hit it. Four giant trucks were barreling down the road towards them, the men and women inside whooping and hollering. The trucks were painted red and black with fresh and old blood, bones of humans gave the things a hellish look. Half a human skeleton hung from the grill of the first truck, skin still attached here and there, the mouth agape like it was screaming. Though Jerry couldn't hear them he could read their lips clearly as they kept yelling 'Fresh meat!' Memories pushed their way through the block that was put up and now the Great Panic flooded through the man on the wall's mind.

He almost didn't hear the voices behind him shouting for an explanation, couldn't hear his own hyperventilating at the things he'd just seen, and remembered. It was Chelsea's voice that finally broke the stillness of terror, "Jerry! What is it?!?" All he could manage to do was turn to the small, blonde girl with the pretty eyes and say the only word that made sense and made everyone below him run with urgency to the armory, to their positions, to pray: "War."

Have To Know (Original Short)

Mark sat in the backseat, to his left Manuel, a medic, the man in the passenger seat was a mechanic, the driver another shooter, like himself. The blue SUV they all sat in screamed down the road, attracting more of the dead to them, but he didn’t care. Mark’s sister was the pilot of that helo. And he had made a promise to protect her. The ones he had promised were now long gone, but the promise still stands.

The snow was heavy on the ground, the last two weeks it’d been relentless. This only made Mark worry more, clutching the rails of his rifle and letting the metal bite into his flesh made sensitive from the cold. It eased the rising panic of thinking of his youngest sister, and only surviving family member, alone and running through hordes of the dead. The silence inside the vehicle was near deafening, all four of the men inside deep in concentration with the task at hand.

The drive would be easy. The roads had long since been cleared and the abandoned vehicles looted and moved aside. It made runs into towns for supplies and transport of approved survivors easier. Mark’s mind, however, was on what could have went wrong with the chopper. As far as he’d known the thing was in pristine condition, maintained and kept with careful scrutiny. He didn’t even want to entertain the idea that she had been shot down. But then that would bring the questions: by who? Why?

The answers he, himself, concocted made him uneasy so he checked his gear as the vehicle took a hard right. His pistol and rifle were silenced, the tac vest he had on was filled to the brim with ammo, and two knives completed the ensemble. Mark didn’t mind being a shooter, hell, he was built for it. Around six feet tall and near two hundred pounds of solid muscle, short cropped brown hair, with a square jaw. The other three in the car were varying builds, but it was more than obvious that Manuel was the shortest and scrawniest of the four. For some odd reason that comforted Mark.

The car took a sharp right turn. And what was the gentle hum of the street beneath the wheels was now the cacophony of dirt and sticks and the like being kicked into the wells and under chassis of the vehicle. Their journey was near an end. The four men looked to the field where the pillar of smoke climbed high into the sky, visible flames licking at the base of it. Jake, the driver began to assess the distance and started barking their orders, “Okay. Ten seconds, no more, no less. If the chopper don’t fly anymore let it burn. Find the pilots. If they’ve turned do what has to be done. If they’re alive we’ll find them.” He shot a look back at Mark, letting him know that one way or another his sister would be accounted for.

The flaming wreckage went from a small picture to just as large as life and the numbers were there, too. The dead were thick and gathered around the downed aircraft, hoping to find a meal made of living human. With some quick maneuvering the driver swung around and cleared a side of the helo for them to inspect, the bodies thunking loudly against the side of their car. Ten seconds to establish what happened. Mark let that thought take over as he let the floodgates of adrenaline fly open.

All four doors were kicked open, four sets of boots hit the ground, four minds started a grim task. The first shout was the mechanic, declaring the chopper useless, the second was announcing there was nothing but a bloody skeleton left of the other pilot, the third said that it was not June, his sister. Mark listened very carefully as he picked off ghouls that got too close to the car and the team. Their ten seconds was up. As they all made for the car Mark noticed a trail of shot zombies leading away from the crash. “She went that way!” The driver acknowledged it as they all climbed back in.

Hope blossomed like a fire with fuel thrown on it as Mark put one leg into the backseat, shifting his weight inside. Then it hit him. A set of rotted teeth came from beneath the car and sunk deep into his leg, right above his ankle. He screamed and tore free his limb, leaving behind some flesh. His door slammed closed and he looked up to find three faces staring at him. Before one of them could reach for their pistol he pleaded with them, “Let me find my sister, first! You can deal with me then. The bite is on my leg. I have at least two hours.” The other shooter began to slowly draw his pistol and Mark tried again. “Please. I have to know.”

Hands began to bang and claw at the windows and doors and the driver finally said, “Fine.” The vehicle was shifted into gear and they began to plow through the gathering horde, following the prominent trail of the dead. Mark watched intently, looking for signs, trying to think how his sister would think. Even as he did, though, he could feel his hope die more and more with every painful pulse of the fresh bite. The SUV danced over holes and small hills, making it more and more excruciating for Mark. In his head he pleaded, ‘Please be alive, sis. Please.’

Almost two miles from the site of the downed copter they found a single room shed in the middle of a corn field, the vegetables around trampled flat by the dead. More than twenty of the ghouls lay on the floor around the shack, showcasing his sister’s ability to shoot. Quietly he removed all his ammunition, his weapons, his tac vest, and had only his pistol in hand. Mark cleared his mind, felt the gun in his palm, felt the last glimmer of hope shining bright that his sister was alive. He placed his hand on the handle, “One shot means she’s alive. Two means go home.” The three nodded in silence, ignoring the dead that were currently stalking towards them as Mark left the car.

Three men watched the dark shack, eyes wide and waiting. Even the constant moans of the dead seemed quieter than a whisper. The first shot rang out, lighting the entire shack, beaming through the spaces between the boards that comprised it. It felt like an hour for the three men, watching, waiting, hoping. Another shot rang out and the shed lit again for a brilliant instant before darkness reclaimed it.

Writing Competition (Deadman Entry)

Antiquities And Ash
By: Deadman

The two men in the dusty and torn jackets sat by the window of the small cafe. The lights flickered every now and again, dust fell from the loose ceiling tiles sporadically, obscuring the view for a few seconds. Despite the obvious turmoil that they were in the two men seemed jovial. John wore a blue suit decorated with rips and tears, and across from him sat Brian, a grey suit with burn marks here and there.

John was still smiling as he wiped a tear from his eye, brought on from laughter, “Yeah. I remember her. Judy. God she was ugly. Her boyfriend tried to pawn her off on me one time. I think you were there.” Brian thought for a moment, “Oh yeah! You were so drunk and what did you say...uh…?” They both rubbed scraped up chins with dirty hands as they tried to recall the phrase. The blonde man in the brown suit snapped his fingers as it came to him, “I remember! You said 'Dude! I don’t wanna fuck a dog!'”

They both erupted with laughter again, the grey suited one with dark hair added, “Yeah! You got in a fight with him that night.” They both laughed just a moment longer while each finishing off the beer bottle before them. Another rumble made the near dozen empties rattle against each other. A sigh ended their guffaws, the two men looking at the table between them, searching for another subject to discuss.

Soon their smiles melted to despaired frowns, a pair of bottles joined the others, and another rumble came. A few ceiling tiles fell, a light crashed to it’s spark-throwing end, none of it seemed to matter to John and Brian. The dark haired one spoke so soft it was barely audible, “Never thought those guys with those signs standing on the street corners telling us to ‘Repent or die’ would’ve been right.” John nodded his agreement, slipping the stolen glock pistol from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. Brian gave a forlorn look from the weapon to it’s owner then did the same, producing his own pistol, a 1911.

“I have one round left.” Both sets of eyes went to the glock, then to the other. “Me, too.” Somebody screamed outside, long and bloody, ending in a gurgling sound. “Are you too drunk to pull that trigger?” John asked, keeping his eyes down. “No. Are you?” Brian responded. “No.” It was easy to understand what the blonde man with the grey suit was getting at. His blue eyes met Brian’s green ones. A window gave way on the other end of the diner, a sign that time was nearly up.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save Becca and the kids.” Tears cut clean swaths in the ashes that covered both their faces as emotions bled through. “I’m sorry you had to watch your mom and brother go like that.” The two men looked at each other and nodded, their condolences said. John had always been the strong one in their 25 year friendship and now he had to use that strength, “At the same time. On three.”

Unsteady arms leveled weapons that only had a bullet each. Green and blue eyes stared down the barrel of a gun. “One.” They counted together. “Two.” One of their voices broke a bit. “Three.” Fingers started to squeeze triggers. Brian’s arm dropped to the table, not firing his last round, “I ca-” John’s gun flashed and the world went deaf for a moment, Brian slumped over in silence. The blonde man with no more bullets started screaming. He asked why over and over again. As he broke into sobs the windows next to him shattered. What looked like thick, black, smoke that was alive and writhing with purpose poured into the diner.

Everything shook again. Lines danced across the screen. The video ended. The time stamp on the corner of the screen placed it 160 years ago, to the day. The day now referred to as “Armaggedon”. Some call it “The Rapture”. But the few people left on this world agree that it was a day of darkness. Now the video footage of John and Brian is being sold in a slum market as an antiquity. A hard drive whirred loudly as a few buttons were pressed. Another video began to play.

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.

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.

Fall From Understanding (Original Short)

'Everyone's allowed to slip once. Right?' that's the only thought Michael had as he stood at the broken out window on the 37th floor of a building he'd ducked into while running from hunters, staring at the expanse of night and much shorter buildings before him. The warm blood still coursed through his veins, though he'd fed over four hours ago. The door at the other end of the empty floor burst open with the help of a few bullets to the lock that had been thrown closed behind the man fleeing. Michael's short hair fluttered around in the updraft of the unhindered wind up so high, his eyes that saw better at night watered from the dry gust. Heavy boots fueled the growing panic welling up in him as his clothes whipped against his body like it wanted to escape the situation he was currently in. Apparently fashion designers are afraid of heights, too. Shouted orders to stand down cinched the decision.

With a grunt Michael threw his thin body out the window, spreading his arms and legs in a hope to steer him onto a nearby rooftop. 'Birds must be mad.' A thought screamed as he squinted his eyes against the force of the gale of wind caused by his falling. The overpowering howl in his ears wasn't enough to drown out the gunshots that rang out from the window he'd just left. None of the bullets touched him as he descended, rocking his body back and forth against the invisible force in an attempt to steer himself. As fast as he knew he was going down he couldn't help but marvel at how slow it seemed to feel. He took a minute to consider how he'd gotten here. The man was sick, beyond helping by any medical profession, and suffering. From the short conversation between them the man confessed he'd have to suffer in his condition for months to come. Then he begged Michael to end it. Michael obliged, making it quick. Even in the most profoundly intimate moments one tries to have eyes are ever watchful. A hunter had been passing by the park bench, where the man that suffered no longer, had been laid to rest for the final time. Michael was in the middle of saying a prayer when the screaming started, quick barks of orders, shouting for his compliance.

Michael tried to explain, but the laws were ironclad. One man chased by many tore through the giant park in an attempt to flee, knocking people over, kicking up dirt and grass alike. Normally Michael would've been able to outrun any normal man, but the ones chasing him weren't normal. They were bred and trained to hunt Michael's kind: Vampires. Half of downtown was in an uproar over the stray bullets and smashed windows, parking meters, cars, marble pillars, and one poodle. Although, Michael admonished, the poodle was the hunters fault. And all for an ancient law made thousands of years ago between vampires and humans dictating that any vamp that fed on humans was considered rogue and due for termination. The methods have advanced from wooden stakes with a silver tip to bullets filled with liquid silver, garlic, and a powerful anticoagulant. A single bullet in the right place could leave a vamp a smoldering, smoking, pile of ash. Thus far none had hit their mark, luckily. After near an hour of running at top speed the men chased the vampire they pursued into an abandon building. They probably thought they'd trapped him. Had it not been for the combination of opportunity and fear, they would have been right.

437 years on this earth and it might end tonight because of an act of mercy. Funny. Michael marveled at how fast his landing was upon him. With a body shattering slam he met the hard gravel roof, just missing the unforgiving ledge, of the building across from the window he'd just jumped from. His entire body was on fire. Bones were broken. He was bleeding. But with that warm blood still in him he would heal in a few minutes at the sacrifice of a few of his usual abilities. He managed to twist his body to look up a the surprising distance he'd just fallen, his eyes straining with agony. He was able to see the men pursuing him curse and go back inside, none able to do what he had just done. He let sleep take him for a minute or two, bones cracking back into place, wounds sealing, pain still present and blazing, but ignorable. When he regained his senses he stood and limped down the stairs, dark thoughts clouding his thinking. If they want a war they got a war. He was committed to the idea. War on the humans. In the name of a misunderstanding. Blood will run. Immortal and the like. He would see to it. 

The Dead March Slowly (Original Short)

A few days ago that Jersey guy and his little crew made it back to what is now being called "Haven." He'd watch the whole thing happen from behind the scope of his rifle. They called his post "The Tower" as it was the only piece of standing realty that overlooked the colony: a staircase that survived the fires and chaos, three walls and no way for a ghoul to get in on the bottom floor. He was six stories up, looking down on the world below, with the ghouls, the survivors, the fighters, the scavengers. Dale prefered to stay in The Tower as long as he could. He didn't like interacting with the rest of the crowd, except the one kid with the knives. Dale liked him. But he'd been up there for three days, and it was his end of shift. He didn't want to go, because suspicion ran heavily through him, but he had to - at least for one day. Besides, he was the only one good enough to be considered anything near a sniper. 

A rustle brought his attention to his back. He whipped around and the barrel of his .357 was in the face of the knife kid. His name started with an 'M' or something. The kid had a scolding look on his face when he spoke. "Dale, your finger isn't even on the trigger. And if I were so inclined I'd already have buried a knife or two in your back." He finished climbing in and Dale couldn't resist taking the kid down a peg, "Right. With them girly arms of yours, you'd barely even scratch my jacket. Pfft." Knife kid laughed and settled down next to the man he was to replace on the tiny platform. Both lit a cigarette, and Dale holstered his hand cannon. They shared the view for a moment and let the silence settle in. "I don't know, Dale. I'm a little worried." Dale couldn't resist, "Why's that? You're late this month or something?" "Ha! Don't worry. Everyone knows you'll be the father. No. I'm worried about Jersey and the little run-in he says they had." 

Dale remembered the tale of survival and how quickly it had spread through Haven. He didn't know why, but he was worried too. "Why are you so worried...Uh...." The kid smiled widely, "You don't remember my name!" Dale fumbled out names starting with 'M' as the kid laughed harder and harder at each attempt. "Just call me 'M.' I'm sure you'll be able to remember that." Dale shrugged and agreed. "So why you so worried, M?" After a moment of thought and a flicked cigarette, he finally answered, "Those things are tenacious. They're bloodthirsty and they never give up. I'm afraid that the little crew left enough of a trail for them to come back to Haven and have themselves a little buffet." Dale thought and decided he had the same idea. "But don't you think they'd be here by now?" M shook his head as he peered out over the city, colored orange and red by the setting sun, "Naw, man. The dead march slowly." 

After packing his rifle and the climb down from The Tower, there was only enough time for Dale to eat and sleep. He didn't mind. He hated interacting with all these hopeless morons that spat endless idiocies at him. Yet M's words kept running through his head as sleep took him: "The dead march slowly." Dawn broke and so did his peaceful sleep. With a groan, Dale pushed himself out of bed and put his jacket back on, going to get more supplies to supplement his days in his perch above the crowd. With a full pack and a full bag of ammo, he made the climb up to relieve M, avoiding all the people in Haven as best he could. They didn't even know his name, most only calling him "Sniper." He didn't mind that, either. A few of them had chosen anonymity to being quickly identified, choosing to keep ties severed. It made it easier if someone was eaten or killed out on the streets.

The city streets below were painted the same colors as the dusk when he had left, turning concrete from gray to orange and red. The air had a chill to it and he was thankful to have his jacket on. The stairs went by quickly, the last climb having to be the one to get to the top. M wasn't there, just the rifle and mat he used. Caution crept into Dale as he silently made his way onto the tiny platform, eyeing every shadow and corner carefully. "Gotcha, old man." The voice came from behind him. Dale spun and drew his revolver in the same motion, leveling it against the disembodied voice. There stood M, smiling like the Cheshire cat. "You little shit! I could've blown your damn head off!" M only laughed in response, prompting Dale to holster his gun and slug the kid in the shoulder. M laughed a lot less after that. They went about the ritual of switching out gear and mats, Dale's silenced G3 long scope rifle taking the place of M's silenced M4. 

Dale had just deployed the bipod on his rifle when the first scream came. He and M shared a look before peering down at Haven. Chaos had arrived. At the front gates was a wash of green, rotted flesh, pushing through the doors of their small community. A few ghouls had already shoved their way inside, devouring whomever they got their hands on. Without hesitation, Dale went to one knee and brought his rifle up, siting the first zombie and turning its head into a red mist. M's rifle came up and joined the fire fight. They took down as many as they could, but the dead kept coming. Screams and mayhem were muted by the distance between the events and the two atop The Tower. Both men reloaded and kept trying to reduce the numbers, but it was like smashing one ant in the middle of a colony. 

Through his scope, Dale saw mouths open and silently scream before they were taken, the muted gunfire of people trying to fight off the dead. He saw the chaos below through a cross hair, the noise never reaching him. He could only feel sorry for those below. Then he whipped his scope back to the front gates and saw the guy from the other hospital supply run, frozen in fear and shock. Then he, too, fell to the dead. Dale did the only thing he could, and put one through his head as the zombies began to rip him apart while he was still alive. The sound of heavy breathing took his eyes away from the death below and to the man sharing his perch. M stood, a deep frown upon his face, his rifle empty. M finally looked at Dale, resignation in his voice, "Haven has fallen." Dale looked back down, the dead now outnumbering the living, then back at the kid. "Yeah. But we ain't dead, yet." 

Dale knew it was a long distance to the next colony, but he would have to try. Both packed their empty rifles and descended the stairs, taking a side exit away from Haven. With a final glance, Dale and M began their long trek to the next cloud of civilization.  

Ripley's Nightmare (Original Short)

Shouted orders turned to frantic screams and pleas punctuated by gunfire and screeches that were not human. The comms distorted the voices, but they still came through laden with panic and fear. Corporal Enders ran as fast as he could, the steel grates beneath his feet clanking against the boots he wore. His armor was heavy and his rifle tired his arms, his helmet bounced as he went. He was beyond exhaustion, but the screams in his ear kept pushing him on. Hadley's Hope was lost, but they were sent in after the last squad failed to report in, not knowing the full details of the mission. Another sharp turn opened up a new corridor, far from sick bay and command, but pointed him towards the struggle the rest of his squad were having. 

He checked the counter on his rifle and it still read 99, he hand't fired a single shot in this little conflict. Another burst from the comms came in, announcing the retreat of his comrades, he had to get there. Sergeant Mack was up there, but he was newly promoted and didn't have the field experience to lead his troops. Then the door came up quick, closed and secured. Enders popped the panel and began to run a bypass when the solid steel door thumped like it had been hit by a car. His hands froze in fear. Another thump, just as heavy. He didn't bother with the bypass anymore, his hands went to his Pulse Rifle hanging against his chest. He breathed out, trying to slow the panting he'd worked up from running. His feet moved on their own, backing him slowly away from the door, but his eyes were locked on it. 

Another thump, then another. The steel began to warp and bend in odd shapes. The top left corner of the steel bent and a long, black, clawed hand shot through and started slashing at the air. He was already a good ten feet away, mentally thanking his feet for the favor. He didn't know how many of them were on the other side, but the door bent more. Nothing in his training had prepared him for what came out of the blackness beyond the twisted door: An elongated, shiny, black head, with teeth the size of his own fingers. It had no eyes, but the Corporal had no doubt that it was looking at him, then it opened it's maw, another mouth inside the giant one it already had, and hissed. It didn't sound like a hiss a snake would give. It sounded much more horrifying and it worked. Blinking was out of the question. The creature writhed and fought, trying to pull itself through the crag, claws scraping steel and leaving ragged scratches. 

The rifle was at his shoulder before he could even think. The recoil that usually bruised his shoulder didn't even register in the grip of fear. The familiar sound of his Pulse Rifle jump started his training and he yelled into the mic hanging an inch away from his lips, "CONTACT!" The rounds did their job, exploding on impact upon the creature half hanging from the mangled entrance to the corridor, bursting it apart. It died with an unearthly screech and went limp, bright green fluids fountaining from the giant holes. Everything that was touched by the thing's blood began to groan and melt, eating away at the already damaged door. He turned and ran as another set of fingers and arms began to try and make its way through the hole, he didn't wait for it to come out.

Metal walls and grates that all looked the same passed him at blinding speed, his fatigue forgotten. A left turn here, a right turn here. Then the voice of his sergeant came through, "This whole goddamn colony is a contact area! Fall back to the APC!" He confirmed the command as he kept running, mental maps and ways guiding his working legs. A ceiling grate in front of him fell and one of the creatures fell atop it. Enders didn't waste time aiming, he gripped his rifle to his side and let the grenade launcher give his answer to the thing. The shot thumped in his chest and the thing exploded, spraying green blood everywhere. He ducked the few drops sloughing from the exposed hole and jumped over the growing gape in the floor. As soon as he was past he heard more of them crash down behind him. Another turn. This door wasn't locked and slid open with a hydraulic push and then back again. He was close to the exit, now.

A square of floor popped open in front of the running Corporal and a creature leaped out. He was going too fast to stop. He was a big guy, standing six foot four and heavy with muscle, but this thing towered over him. He estimated it at about eight feet high. With resignation he did the opposite of his own instincts and increased speed, putting his shoulder down into a ramming position. He wasn't aware he was screaming in determination when he hit it. End over end they toppled, his arms and legs seeking stability and the creature's the same. The long tail of the thing whipped back and forth, thick and cutting through the air, screeches and teeth flashed by his face, claws dug into the floor and missed him. Suddenly he knew which way was up and so did it. They fought each other for a moment, his hands releasing the rifle and trying to pin down his opponent's. It writhed and kicked and hissed, making his struggle twice as hard. 

The thing got the upper hand and reared up, exposing its slick, black chest. Enders seized the opportunity. With all his strength he put both booted feet against it and pushed. The creature flew back and he was left on his back. Faster than he'd ever moved before he pulled his sidearm and took aim, emptying the clip at the upturned monstrosity, blowing holes in it, as well as taking off its jaw and a large part of its head. He came to his feet as the creature flopped around on the floor and screeched its earsplitting cry. He resumed his run, jumping over the thing on the floor and avoiding the toxic pool hissing around it. The giant doors leading out of Hadley's Hope were within spitting distance. And they slid open, into the night and pouring rain.

His breath was ragged again as he ran down the ramp. The doors behind him slid closed and he saw the sight that took his breath away: The last six members of his squad in a circle, shooting and cursing at the ring of creatures that surrounded them and the APC. Screeches, Pulse Rifles, Smart Guns, flamethrowers, pistols, hissing metal and ground, all played chaos in his ears. His sergeant was screaming into his comms mic to who knows whom on the other side, relaying commands and their dire situation. It was too much. He numbly took his place amongst his squad and began to fire at the writhing, hissing, slick, black creatures coming for them. He hadn't prayed since his first day of basic. Now prayers flowed from his lips like the rain from the sky above him. The counter on his rifle finally dropped to zero and he reached for another clip.

Suddenly the doors Corporal Enders had just exited opened. And a countless number of the nightmare creatures that had turned this colony into a living hell poured out just as a prayer left Enders' lips, "God help us..."