The Monster Hunter (Original Short)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life After Death (Final Chapter)

M saw the saw blade that missed his head by inches bury itself in the concrete floor behind him, he ignored it. His keen eyes scanned the people that were currently running around in a panic, looking for Chelsea. A cold feeling crept up his spine when he didn't find her there, amongst the others, the cold feeling turned into a full body shiver when he finally found her: At the wall, next to her usual roost. She peeked over and shot, pulling and closing the bolt on her rifle with expert speed. M knew every shot was a kill, she was a good sniper, but she needed to get away from the wall. He screamed at her, trying to tell her to get down, but the fervor and noise of the people running and shouting drowned him out. 

He waved at her, trying to get her attention, while trying to keep his balance as others pushed by him, either trying to find their way to the fight or run from it. She began to peer over the wall while reloading, he screamed louder. She withdrew from her peek over the wall, her rifle full of bullets and ready to fire again. She finally looked at him, she drew a breath and looked like she was going to shout something. A spear, the thickness of an arm, tore through the sheet metal wall, the strut holding it, and Chelsea's chest. M's world went silent, the people around him disappeared. The people in Hadley's Hope were scurrying around like ants in a panic, but he was focused on her, and he got to her. 

Her eyes were wide, nearly bloodshot, her lips stained red, her teeth coated with blood. M was trying his hardest not to cry, not to panic, “You're okay, Chel, you're okay...” he tried so hard not to let his voice tremble, but it did. He examined the sharpened metal spear that had her pinned, looking for a way to try and save her, there was none. She looked at him, her face strained, she tried to speak, but could only get out a grunt and some wet gurgles. Tears filled M's eyes, turning the world into a melting painting as he tried to fight the hysteria that was building inside him. “Don't speak, Chel, I can fix this, I can fix this, I can fix...” She finally did speak, “Don't...let this....change...you...I love...” She went slack, her arms hung lifelessly, her vibrant eyes closed. 

M cried out, the only word he knew at the moment was 'Please', and he repeated it, over and over. It was like a bad dream, it was like finding his brothers and mother, again. He reached out for her, but her body was pulled through the sheet metal, to the world beyond the walls of Hadley's Hope. He screamed as she was jerked away, his hands finding his weapon and shouldering it. The world was covered in a red fog, no faces, no identifying marks, just bodies for his bullets. No words were said as he fired his silenced rifle through the hole that was just created, screaming at the top of his lungs until his throat was dry and raw.

Chests exploded into red, heads turned into flying chunks of grey, if one bullet didn't do the job another quickly followed. It seemed like a never ending sea of bodies, every one that fell was quickly replaced, and it wasn't until he had to reload that the attackers spotted him. Shortly after, flying blades and objects aimed to maim were flung at high speeds towards M and his perch, some flying by, some burying themselves in the thin metal next to him. His rain of fire and lead had ended and he leaped from the perch to the floor below just as two metal hooks were slung over the edge of the doors to the community.

Engines and savage voices joined together in a song of shouts and roars, the doors groaned while trying to hold on, M ran for the back of the community, unable to do anything but watch as the women and children were shoved into the awaiting cars and trucks that were setup for an escape, should this kind of thing happen. A thick red line of paint ran across the entire settlement, it was their marker, their last line of defense, but for some it was the point of no return. M joined the other men at the line, armed to the teeth, ready to defend their settlement when the gates went down. Adrenaline, liquid rage, pumped through every vein and muscle in M's body as he stared at the metal structure that would give way any second. While they waited for the inevitable others were still running around, trying to decide what to leave behind and what to take. 

Spears, sharpened saw blades, butcher cleavers, and all sorts of sharp pieces of metal were launched over the wall, aiming to harm and disarm the ones inside. They all fell short of the red line, some skipping along the pavement and spitting sparks. Somewhere to his right there were orders being barked, giving direction to the men, instructing them on what should be used first. It was all just buzzing in M's ears, he couldn't hear them, he was focused on the incoming threat. The gates gave their final metallic scream and gave, falling outward and landing with a huge thud, kicking up snow and dust alike. For a moment the world was still and silent, the view from inside the community was obscured by the plume. The young man with tears in his eyes searched for the first sign of life; to end it.

Chaos had come. The plume lit up with truck lights, what looked like dozens of them, screams, muzzle flashes from guns, and various objects thrown. All at once they came pouring into Hadley's Hope, men and women, dressed for the winter, but savage at the same time: mohawks, warpaint made of dried blood, animal hides, various bones that were easily identifiable as human. Some brandished axes, others machetes, some bats with various blades attached. The people that were still scrambling and trying to get to the evacuation point were lost. The savages descended like rabid dogs, tackling the ones still fleeing. Few were lucky, having their heads bashed in or their throats cut, others weren't. They were still screaming as the raiders began to eat them. Some cried out for help, others just screamed as they tried to fight off their would-be devourers, it was all in vain. 

M opened fire with his rifle so did several others, bottles with trails of fire flew over his head, landing and lighting several attackers on fire at a time. M finished off the few on the ground that were still alive and bleeding, waiting for a death that would've been slow coming, otherwise. More people were coming out of the settlement, some were able to dodge the gruesome savage, others were carried away, past the gates, into the outside world, still screaming and pleading. That wasn't the only form of attack, M and the line of the other men were still firing, as blades and other weapons flew at them. Some of them connected, some didn't, grunts and screams of pain from both sides of the fight filled M's ears as he kept firing, he was indifferent to them. 

The first truck grill push through the wide gates, it was adorned with lights, the same war paint, and lastly, the bones of people. Some of the decorations still had flesh attached, grizzly trophies of the past settlements conquered. Several of the other men stopped at the sight, M aimed his scope at the driver and pulled the trigger several times. The windshield turned white with the holes, then the glass was splattered with red when a bullet found the driver. That truck was pushed further in as another emerged from behind it, decorated just the same, the windshield was armored and hidden under bleached bones, except for a small slit in the makeshift protection. It was enough for M and his skills and soon the driver met the same fate as the first, the spray of blood just as violent as the last.

More of the raiders ran around the trucks, some underneath, all trying to get inside Hadley's Hope, screaming their battle cry of 'Fresh meat!' The savages were nothing but moving targets to M's angry rifle, fueled on by his untethered rage that was directed at no one, he dropped his empty magazine, replaced it and hit the bolt catch. He was concentrating so hard on taking down the incoming horde he didn't feel the three nails, launched from someplace beyond the two crippled trucks, bury themselves in his left shoulder. The marauders were easy prey for him, the ones running, the ones trying to climb the tires of the trucks, trying to gain control of them, the ones still eating citizens of the settlement, they were all prey. His mag ran empty, again, but there was no more to replace it.

The furious young man unstrapped his rifle and laid it on the ground, then ripped out the nails in his shoulder. For the first time this entire fight he felt the weight of all the blades he carried, he took stock, counted each one, planned something gruesome with every inch of steel he had. He stood and dropped his outer coat, revealing his cache of weapons to enemies and allies, alike, he delved deeper into rage as he pulled the first two blades, rushing headlong into the oncoming crowd. Somewhere behind him there were shouts, probably cautionary, but he didn't care, he wanted to use what he had in his hands. He wanted to cut through them. The other denizens, still fighting for their lives, tried to shoot around the charging young man, sometimes missing him only by inches.

His rage had given way to instincts and training, he moved almost silently, the occasional clacking of one of his knife sheaths was all that gave him away, but he doubted they were trained to listen for that. The first three he met died with a look of shock on their faces, two cleaved nearly in two, more came, M welcomed them. He never missed, never made a mistake, never paused. The raider's sloppy and wild swings left them open to be butchered, cut open, sometimes to the bone. They were fodder, he was the cannon, and he destroyed them all, just the same. When he lost a blade he simply produced another, if he threw one, he'd recover it. He moved through the small horde like an arrow fired through rain drops, unstoppable.

With only a few weapons left M had finally come upon the final truck, where he could smell the bodies of the victims trying to rot, but the cold wouldn't let them. He saw bodies laid out by the back tire, some of them dead, some unconscious, and Chelsea, herself. He had sustained a few hits during the fight and they became more and more apparent as his rage subsided, but it was all turning numb as he walked to her, wanting nothing more, than for this to be a bad dream. The baseball bat that collided with the side of his head shattered, knocking M into the snowbank next to the truck. He recovered quickly, rolling and facing the threat. The man was huge, at least a foot taller than M, muscles thickening his limbs, a shaved head, colored with what looked like dry blood. The man tossed the stump of the bat aside and roared at M, his teeth had been ground down into points, like a shark.

M could feel the blood start to trickle from the impact wound on the side of his head as he stood and faced the raider, “I got something special for you, big boy!” M drew one of the last of his blades, a tomahawk, but with a modern make-over: a longer handle, a broader head, the blade forged in sharp angles. The man produced a machete of his own, rusted, and chipped. M stood, challenging the savage, who responded by opening his arms in a threatening gesture, baring his naked chest at the smaller man. It was the opportunity M needed. As fast as he could, as hard as he could, M threw his tomahawk and buried the angled edge in the sternum of the savage. The shock of the attack brought the giant to his knees as he struggled to try and pull out the blade, but it was stuck fast.

The young man walked around the marauder, picking up the dropped machete, and stood behind the man. “This is for Chelsea.” He uttered before he focused all his energy, all his frustration, all his rage, on this man. He finally had a target to direct himself at and he planned to take it all out on the giant savage, the machete broke only a few heavy chops later. M walked back into Hadley's Hope with Chelsea in his arms, he was covered in gore, sweat, blood, and was obviously exhausted from what he'd done and the head of the giant raider was stuck on his axe. The few people left standing, more than M had expected, let up a cheer. He remained silent as his tomahawk thumped on the floor, the head a prize to put atop the gates. He made his way through the bodies of friend and foe, knowing how much they'd all lost, yet he could only think of Chelsea and her kindness.

It took hours to clean up everything, the marauder's bodies were piled atop each other and burned, family members of the fallen gathered themselves to mourn. People in charge loudly argued about how to improve the strength of Hadley's Hope. It took all this time for M to bury Chelsea in the frozen ground, so many offered to help him, but he declined every time. The remaining doctors patched him up, cleaned his wounds, and even asked if he wanted to help them even further. He appreciated their offer, their genuine care, but there was nothing left for him in this place. He packed his things, and Chelsea's rifle, and walked out of Hadley's Hope at dawn the next day. He swore to himself that it was the last time he would be around other humans. The road greeted him with a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow that danced past him. His journey began again.

The Tale of Marcus Graves (Original Short)

Marcus Graves was the youngest of 5 brothers, the smallest, too, only measuring up to six feet six inches. He was born to Jack and Janine Graves in the summer of 1935, during one of the family's most difficult times, financially. Because of his stature and size, compared to his brother's, Marcus focused mostly on reading and science, quickly climbing to the top of the schools in the area, leaving his brothers to be the workers of the family.

When he turned seventeen Marcus was offered the chance to go to school for free, a scholarship he took with serious pride, and didn't hesitate to say 'Yes.' While the young man, born from Columbus, Missouri, was busy readying his mind; he never forgot his body. He was the runt of the litter, after all, still only at six, six, and now two hundred and thirty pounds. However, Marcus was like no other academic that came through the school's doors that year: Large muscles, square jaw, clean shaven, nearly perfect smile, and atop it all a mane of jet black hair that was neatly kept.

Being away from the farm environment afforded Marcus the opportunity to grow his hair long, keep his face free of scruff and whiskers, but the curiosity never left his bright, blue eyes, no matter what. Because he studied a lot, now, his tan quickly gave way to pale skin, but he preferred to exercise at night, anyways. While he was in classes, and without warning, the war came. The second world war, it was called. Marcus wasn't allowed to go and fight, forbidden by his mother.

His other brothers, and his father, however, had joined and marched on foreign soil, fighting for their country. They died for their country, as well, all five of them. They had left Marcus and his mother alone in the world. Marcus tried to run home, to help his mother heal, to help her grieve. There was a telegram waiting for him when he stepped off the train. She had passed earlier that morning from heart failure. Marcus wasn't aware of much else, not the station around him, or the rain that began pouring down.

It was still raining during the funeral. The young man's bright blue eyes watched his mother's casket descend into the earth. He knew beneath the glossy black wood his mother laid in her Sunday finest, her make up and hair perfectly done, her arms hugging tight five neatly folded American flags. Anger crept slowly through Marcus as he tossed down the first handful of dirt while the minister droned on about heaven.

Marcus had grown bitter and began to hate the world and what it had taken from him, he withdrew deeper and deeper into his studies. All that drove him on was the single idea that he could change the world if he tried hard enough. Close to his graduation in 1958, Marcus received a letter from a man who was trying to do just that: Change the world. There, again, was no hesitation to say 'Yes.' It was an easy choice.

The plane ride was short, the boat ride was confusing. There, out in the middle of the ocean, Marcus found himself standing in a lighthouse, staring at a large brass orb with round windows built into it. A giant glass door hung open and beckoned him inside. He'd come to far to back away, now, so he stepped inside and sat in the chair that was inside the metal bubble. Audio, from some unknown source, began to play and the thing Marcus sat in began to move.

Outside the round windows, and the giant glass door, the world began to change. It all seemed like magic, now, like something out of a fairy tale, or a nightmare. A nightmare written by people that spoke of beings from another world. The ocean water became the air as he descended, the sky became the waves, deeper and deeper he went. Soon darkness gave way to a city, underwater, with lights and all.

Marcus stared in awe as the metal sphere docked itself, taking him inside the colossal structures. The audio had stopped a while ago, but the young man inside hadn't noticed. This time the speakers crackled and a man's voice came through them, speaking words that would forever change Marcus' life.

"Hello, Mister Graves, I am Andrew Ryan. Welcome to Rapture."

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."

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.

The Burnt World: Part One (Original Short)

The sun was all but blinding. Without sunglasses or some sort of eye protection, one would be rendered blind in minutes. He sat at the edge of the now destroyed compound that housed him in his slumber for years and years. It was confusing. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, how long the world had been like this. But it worried him. A lot. From the last readable piece of written parchment that he came across he only could guess it had been centuries.

The wind was harsh and moved fast, unaffected by the little pieces of civilization that poked above the dirt floor. What could only be four-lane highways were now littered with rusted and empty cars, their occupants bleached bones or worse. His eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of humanity, any proof of life that might be able to help him piece together this mad world. Then he saw it: A smeared inkblot on the white skyline. Smoke. He wrapped the scarf he'd scavenged from inside the compound around his mouth and set his destination.

The building he was in was barely rubble now, but had probably been the earmark of an architect many a year ago. The world was a desert now and it was unforgiving. The sand had laid claim to all, the living and the stone monuments they had built. His walk was a steady pace and he took the time to drink in what his world had become. Where he imagined skyscrapers and blue glass were only broken stones and blackened skies. Every mile he walked he could feel hope slipping away, feel life abandoning him and never turning back. He steeled his resolve and kept forward, night falling and stealing away the sun’s harsh rays and replacing them with dark purple clouds filled with blue lightning that never struck.

He'd slept for too long. It was time for action. Time to get answers. Creatures he no longer recognized howled and screamed their cries just out of his sight, once finding something to eat. They ravaged the panicked animal and brayed joyfully. He stayed his course, worried only about being unarmed. He'd have to change that soon, if he could. The barely intact skeletons of cars rarely held anything worth taking, except once he found a military backpack. It had one or two useful things in it, things designed to be all but indestructible: matches and a foil solar blanket made as well as a bottle to carry water in, though long since emptied. And the pack, itself, of course.

He hoisted the empty carrier and kept going, the bones of a small town not too far in the distance. It was hours and dawn came quickly, bringing back the beating sun, but driving back whatever was in the dark devouring other creatures. He was grateful, but hungry, and wondered how hard it would have been to have taken down one of the beasts. Then he figured it was hard enough that he couldn't do it unarmed.

Sand and rocks crunched under his boots as he entered the dead town. The sand and wind had worn down the buildings to nubs and smoothed the wrought iron to a polished finish. No glass remained and the one or two doorways still standing were hollow. He kept moving, hoping that he could spot something to eat, or some water to drink, but there seemed to be nothing in sight. Then like a tomb it appeared a street over: an intact building. He thought long, deep and hard about the dangers that could possibly be lurking in the shadows of the one-story building. The idea of shelter and maybe food won over the scary thoughts of monsters and creatures waiting with teeth bared.

On his walk over, he stopped and picked out an arms length of rebar and made sure it was steady, swinging it around to get used to the weight. The small concrete shelter was near; he took a deep breath and sighed it out. The rickety door barely clung to the rusted hinges and swayed slightly in the breeze. He tried to listen for movement inside, but the wind made it impossible. His shaded eyes couldn't see clearly into the shadows with the sunglasses he wore. He approached the door and tried pushing it open with the bar, but it wouldn't budge. He fought with the possibility of a trap and decided shelter was worth it.

With another sigh of resolve, he kicked the door open. The cacophony drowned out the sound of the tripwire, the pulley, and the weight dropping. Wire coiled itself around his ankle and gripped tight. It pulled fast, so fast he couldn't react, and only had a split second to hear the sound of his head hitting heavy on the concrete below. Blackness took over.

Coming awake was painful. The back of his head hurt, the ankle that the cable had wrapped itself around stung, and his eyes were still adjusting to the low, amber light. Voices came through the fog that hung heavy on his senses. “What are we gonna do with him?” “What do you think?” “We’s gonna eat ‘im!” There were three of them. He was hoping for one, but luck didn’t think that would have been fair.

He wasn’t upside down anymore. He was tied to a pillar, another wire around his wrists, his back against the concrete and his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes finally adjusted and he found himself in a dark cellar, probably underneath the one-story building. The walls were concrete like the single pillar in the middle of the room, giving nothing away and nothing to get himself loose with.

He twisted his hands in the makeshift wire shackles and hoped that they would creak or bend, telling him that the metal was old and rusty. WIth a little effort the wire did just what he hoped and popped a few strands. He smiled to himself; he had not planned on becoming someone’s meal. If he could work his way out of this, even if it cost him a few layers of skin, he would do it and get out. Above his head the floor creaked with motion from above and he knew he had little time. He gritted his teeth and began to twist his wrists.

The pain was slow to come, but it came. First it burned, then it grated like sandpaper on raw skin, but he kept at it. Working his hands back and forth in the wire restraints, he felt one fiber after another give way. Each second he was at it was another second of pain that was building toward searing. He kept his eyes up, searching the room for something to distract him from the growing agony, searching for a hatch or a trap door leading upward. He couldn’t see one, so he assumed it was behind him. Another pop, another level of pain. Now the snapped wires were biting into already sensitive flesh. Beads of sweat ran down his brow, his cheeks, and the back of his neck, making his brown t-shirt stick to his skin.

It was only a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity, that he was able to slip his wrists out and comfort them in the low light. He turned to see where it was coming from and his suspicions were correct: A badly built trapdoor at the corner of the small room was letting light through the planks and illuminating his temporary dungeon. The skin on his wrists was broken, but he couldn’t pay too much attention to that right now. The floor creaked and moaned as one of the denizens upstairs began to walk to the wooden planks held together with nails and such to imprison their meal. He had to think fast, so he stayed seated and put his hands behind the pole again and hung his head. Not a second later, the hatch was pulled open.

A ladder was thrown down and heavy feet carrying a heavy load thumped onto the dirt covered concrete floor behind him. Slowly the the footsteps made their way to the front of him. The man before him could, at one point, be considered human. Now he only bears the slightest of resemblances. The skin that was pulled taught over warped muscles was brown and leathery, hair was no longer covering, it came in blotches all over. Teeth were gaped apart, lips peeled back and split in some places, dark from recent openings. The man’s body was a practice in inhuman, gnarled and warped limbs clung to a frame that was human only in the most basic sense.

The man on the floor could feel rotted breath coming down him as the creature that was barely human inspected him. It was now or never. The man on the floor opened his eyes and tucked his leg back underneath himself, his captor barely had enough time to draw a gasp by the time his leg was kicked out from underneath him, the knee breaking with a muffled ‘crack’. The hostage wasted no time and pounced, letting his fists come down on the side of the face on the floor three, four, five times, making his captors breathing ragged. Then with slow and practiced precision the aggressor reached under the barely breathing head on the floor beneath him and wrapped his fingers together, pulling up, against the natural curve of the spine. Quiet grunts of effort escaped as quick, panicked pants came from the man on the floor. He pulled harder, things popping and giving way to the pressure, causing flailing arms to kick up dust around them. With a final, vicious ‘Pop’ the body beneath went limp. The captive pulled once more, making sure, letting out a long breath, trying to get the adrenaline out of his body so he could think clearer. He let the head thunk to the floor, watching as thick, dark blood seeped from orifices and began to pool beneath.

A voice came from above, the same thick accent as before, “Where’s the food, boy? We’re gettin’ hungry!” Mismatched footsteps that gave away a limp, more than likely from deformities, made their way to the hole in the ceiling above. For the first time the prisoner took into account what he had on: His dark brown cargo pants that he had pulled off a dead soldier, long rotted and gone, and the same colored tee shirt, his socks and boots were gone.

The thing above him dropped to its knees at the hole at the same time the captive decided to make a move: He got to his bare feet, ran the three steps and used the bottom rung of the ladder to launch himself upwards, his hands meeting the grotesque head that was now peering down. With all the strength he could muster he grabbed and twisted his body and the head in his hands with it. A sickening crack echoed through the air. Both bodies, one standing, the other slumped in a heap fell to the floor at the same time. He found his boots and socks.

After lacing up his reacquired boots he stayed down, listening for more footsteps or voices. None came. With all his muscles he made quick work of the ladder and hopped up and into the house he suspected he’d been captured in. Orange light from candles placed here and there upon old, broken furniture and fixtures lit a dusty room, it seemed like a basement. Three corners of the room were all but bare and one was more than gruesome. He stared for a moment.

Chains hung from the ceiling above the small corner, hooks up and down them, each with body parts that were easily identifiable as human. The world was new and harsh. People survived however they could. He heard the movement before he felt the impact. The piece of wood he was just struck with splintered into a thousand pieces, he moved with the momentum and rolled across the floor, finding his feet again, before another strike came.

“Ya killed ma’ kin! Ya bastard!” The escapee faced the biggest of the three monstrosities. Well over a foot taller than him, twice as wide, melted skin here and there, warts speckled throughout, one eye looked like it had fallen from place and found a new one in it’s cheek, lips that were cracked with thirst and twisted to expose yellowed and rotted teeth. “I’m the last of ma’ clan, now! Who are ya?” The monstrosity stopped just out of arm’s reach.

The man that was crouched down, staring up at the mutated thing, thought for a moment, then spoke, “My name is Job.” The entire basement echoed with a scream as the thing brought down another strike, but missed, as Job dodged easily. Legs that weren’t twisted kicked out the legs that were. Job pounced, raining down punch after punch upon the warped head of his captor. With a roar the man threw him off, Job rolled again. This time his hand landed on a blade that was covered in dirt on the floor next to him.

He gripped the handle and made quick work, pushing all his muscles to exertion. There was one more scream in the basement. Job stared at the new morning, the new world, everything in it, through sunglasses. His pack now had bottles of water, a couple of cans, and now he had more than a few knives. Someone had to know how the world ended up like this. He intended to find his answers.

A Member Of The Osiris (Original Short)

Nothing was real. Not the wind screaming in his ears as he ran, not the loose gravel type roof under his feet, not even his feet. Nothing was real. Damien had to remind himself as he came upon the gap between the building he was on and the building he was planning to jump to. Two lanes of traffic, two sidewalks, and cars and people were forty stories below. He didn't calculate. That's not how he was taught. Suddenly the end of the building was right in front of him. He jumped.

With the momentum he'd gained and the height of his leap he cleared the street and landed safely, kicking up tar and the like as his feet tore up another roof, and he kept running. His suit was restricting, but he paid no mind. His sunglasses helped him both with the sun and the underlying green tint of the world. 'Christ, they're fast.' Damien thought as he felt the whole building shudder with the arrival of his pursuer. Another ledge, but he didn't plan to span the gap, this time, he was going down. Fifty caliber bullets tore up the bricks around him as he dove over the edge and straight down.

This is where Damien felt at home, falling and sailing through the air. His non-existent body twisted and contorted to avoid clotheslines and wires suspended between two buildings. The world felt silent. He moved with practiced grace as he slipped through the obstacles coming up at him, weaving a serpentine path of flight through it all. The one chasing him had more issue trying to get through it. The dirty ground was coming fast. Damien brought his legs up and under him and prepared for the impact. He knew it would be jarring, but, he reminded himself again, nothing is real.

His impact was both violent and silent. The world around him rippled with it, holding itself together and looking like the surface of still water that a drop of water had just fallen into. Damien took a deep breath and began running again. He had to deliver the message. Failure was not an option. He hopped over cars, slipped through the people on the sidewalks, moved with ease. Even as more bullets ripped apart the world around him. They didn't care who they hit. They didn't bother to aim. One slug found Damien's shoulder. He didn't have time to register the pain.

One more block and it would be done. Only another building stood in his way. With his lungs heaving air that wasn't air he lowered his shoulder and plowed through the bricks like they were paper. Dust, debris, mortar, all went flying through the poor man's apartment as Damien tore through it, wall after wall. The report of his follower came much sooner than he expected and he had to run faster. The map of the building, the city, the grid he was on, was suddenly in his head and he could navigate it expertly. But if he had the knowledge, so did his chaser.

At speeds that could only be described as a car on the freeway Damien and the one behind him ran through the halls, bullets chewing up everything. Pain crept in, and so did fatigue, but he fought them valiantly, they weren't real. The door to the building shattered into glass and metal as they burst through. He took an immediate right, heading for the phone booth, but he had to buy time. The twin pistols in his jacket were drawn and leveled at the one behind him.

Both were fully automatic and both emptied their clips into the pursuer. They wouldn't stay down long. He gathered the last of his strength and ran. He knew he wouldn't live through this. She had told him. Even though he'd shot down the one behind him, he would still fall, but not before delivering the most important message of all time. He was going to die in a matter of minutes. She had told him. And the Oracle was never wrong. He threw open the phone booth door and grabbed the phone.

Instantly a voice on the other end picked up, "Operator." Damien said what he knew his last words would be, "The One has been found. Prepare for his coming." Gunshots took over, drowning out the response on the phone. Bullet after bullet tore through him, every limb and all his body. Consciousness was slipping fast when the man in the black suit and sunglasses stood over him, the glass crunching beneath his feet. "And who might you be, that you're so important to them?" The utter voice of authority. Damien spoke through the blood in his mouth "I'm...no one...who the hell.....are you......program?" The man knelt down and gave a kindly smile. "Me? I'm a Smith. Agent Smith."

Damien smiled as he slipped into what felt like sleep. Soon his name would be remembered. Soon all the lies stopped. Soon Zion would be free and the Matrix would fall.

The Stepping Stone (Original Short)

Michael sat back for months, watching all the infighting, backbiting, murders, and now ensuing power vacuum. He smiled. All this from three words and a little blood spilled. It was beauty. Four hundred plus years on this earth and he relished and abused, now, one simple fact: violence is in people's nature and so is the want to contradict. Now, the fever pitch was being reached, and it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan.

The streets were quiet as he walked, letting his highly tuned senses wander and take in the world around him. Orange street lights above gave everything a glow that was almost beautiful. Michael's thin frame was at home in the cold, the wind blowing softly against his designer shirt, giving him a thrilling chill. He wouldn't be cold for long. Soon he'd be soaked in blood and gore, his tender flesh would be bruised, and his appetite whet. Very soon. The block was approaching fast, and through his mind he ran the plan again, double checking for errors and faults.

Three bouncers sat outside the nightclub and asked for identification and a cover charge. Michael idly scratched his newly grown beard and wondered how his lengthening hair looked as he stepped through the door, sniffing the air for what he wanted. Pulsing music pounded his sensitive ears, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across faces and bodies, and Michael couldn't help but think of the last time he was in a place like this. A fanged smile ghosted across his thin lips.

Gently and politely he made his way through the crowd, to the bar. He didn't usually drink, but this place stank, he needed the liquor to drown out the smell. This particular club wasn't filled with vampires, no, this was a completely human place. After receiving his vodka on the rocks he leaned against the highly polished metal of the bar and expected a sting from the holster he'd been wearing lately, but it was absent. He didn't need guns for this part. This was easy.

He let the night go for an hour, taking in a few drinks to help cancel out the stale sweat stench, he even tried to enjoy the music. If random beeps and squeals and a voice thrown in every now and again to humanize it was what was considered music these days. Michael's eyes kept glancing over the second floor of the place, waiting for a certain light to come on, signaling his prey had arrived. As he waited people would try to make conversation with him, complimenting his clothes, his hair, his beard, and even asking for a dance. He smiled and politely declined them all, thanking others.

The alcohol flowing through his veins gave him a warm feeling inside, and made it all a bit more bearable. Doubt started to rear it's head as his violet eyes again played over the room he needed to be occupied. He sighed, breathing out the atmosphere, and looked again. Eureka. The tinted window lit up blue and shadows of men and women began to pile in. Michael left his drink at the bar and began to walk, now with purpose, to the staircase.

The first bouncer, human, held out a hand and attempted to stop him. Two choices lay ahead of him: violence or smarts. He opted for the latter. "I'm here for Anna. She's expecting me. My name is Jeremiah." The man reached into his pocket and drew out a paper, read it, eyed Michael up and down, then let him through. This happened three more times before he made it into the room. The door closed behind him and almost no one paid attention to him as he measured the four men in the room and his one target.

The violence was lightning fast. Michael's claws and superior strength made quick work of the body guards and now he stood before Anna, a woman in her 30's, well dressed and attractive, with blood sprayed across her face. She was the advocate and the peacemaker between the human hunters and certain political parties in the vampire world. Michael's hand, stained red past the wrist, making his hands look like they were gloved, grabbed her by the neck and stood her up.

She pleaded, clawed and kicked at him as he walked over to the window with her. Finally she asked, "What do you want?" Michael could only grin as he answered, "War." She began to protest but then he sank his fangs into her neck, shaking his head back and forth, tearing open her jugular. He drank deep. Her heart began to slow and he stopped, rearing back and licking the precious blood from his lips. "Please. Don't misunderstand. You're only a stepping stone. You had to die. But know, that in doing so, you will bring about great change."

Her glossed over eyes stared at him as her pale lips tried to form words. He slammed her head against the glass, cracking it. Again he slammed, more cracks. One last time and she flew through. Glass and chaos rained down upon the scene below. Michael walked away, enjoying the screams and the cacophony building below. With her dead the vampire houses that used her would have to do a lot of explaining to the humans, it would be obvious who killed her. More fuel to the fire. As he walked out the back door, wiping away all the crimson he smiled again.

The heavy door opened into the cool night, the smells, noise, and buzzing of the club were now behind him. Michael turned left and walked down the alley behind the place, lacing himself through the cars. He came upon another alley. He was about to enjoy his little victory when a fist collided with his chin, sending him against a brick wall. He met the floor fast, almost as fast as his assailant. With a spin Michael was on his feet, ready to meet his foe, but suddenly halted. He stared into the face of an old friend. An ancient friend. His sire. The name of the one who made him, and was now standing before him, fell from his lips, "Balthezar?"

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'.

Hope In A Dead World (Original Short)

The spindly trees were bare, their leaves fallen and gone. Against the grey winter morning they looked like skeletal hands reaching toward the heavens, pleading for salvation that would never come. The color had left the world, it seemed, and everything was grey and white. Inches of snow covered the ground the same way the thick clouds hid the sun. M's pack was heavy with cans, the latest plunder from a family that hadn't been able to stay undead hands from tearing their bodies asunder and leaving them to come back to roam the earth as moaning corpses. There was five, three of them children. M put them to rest.

After leaving the smoking and bloody remains of Haven, he had been traveling north, hoping to reach another colony, but the encampments he'd run across had all met similar fates. Dale, the other survivor of Haven, and him had parted ways weeks ago. Dale opted to go south in hope of finding something more near the coast. M didn't dash his hopes by telling him he'd been on the south coast when the Great Panic had hit. There was no one left there; no one left to recant the screaming and fires that had engulfed almost everything.

The road ahead of him was barren: no cars, no RV's, no bodies. It seemed this lost highway had been spared the burden of hundreds or thousands of bodies that the dead were sure to have left behind. M's hand checked to see if his machete and knife were clear in their sheaths, before pulling his jacket closed against the freezing wind that whipped past, kicking up swirls of white and making them dance like gleeful ghosts celebrating the fall of man.

Off to each side of the four lanes he walked were nothing but flat lands, the trees a good hundred yards past that. Though nothing seemed to move, M's eyes were keen and never relaxed, constantly searching and scanning. He had put his own hope on a trickle, preserving it, like precious water in the desert. Just as he was about to dare to let another drop of it fall, fate seemed determined to justify his greediness with the lacking commodity.

Not fifty feet in front of him a figure rose from the drift, half caked in white, half caked in dry, black blood. The front of the thing's clothes was ripped open, displaying a half frozen, ghastly wound from which it surely had died. M didn't suddenly halt - that would draw its attention - instead he moved slowly into crouching, using the flurries as cover, keeping his steady pace toward the zombie. M's hand went smoothly to the blade taped to the strap of his pack, drawing the matte black instrument.

The creature was facing just left of M's position so it didn't see him until it was too late. With practiced precision, and the distance a mere 20 feet, the throw was easy. The arm with the weapon in it coiled at the shoulder, tensing muscles and tendons, keeping the blade in a solid grip. Like a rattlesnake striking, M's arm unfolded at blazing speed, loosing the knife. The tip whistled through the air, landing with a solid 'thunk' in the undead's skull, cutting off the beginning of a moan.

Silently it crumpled into a heap upon the frozen pavement like a marionette with its strings cut. Though the immediate threat was ended, the danger was far from over. M stayed as still as the dead body with the knife in its temple for a moment, straining his hearing against the persistent wind. It felt like an hour as he waited, scanning for signs of more of them. None came. With a slow exhale, M stood and continued his walk, pausing only for a moment to retrieve his knife and return it to the sheath. Time seemed to resume its grinding pace, as soon the grey sky was bruised red, purple, and pink with the sunset.

With a rope and some cleverly placed knives, M climbed a tree and sat down to his dinner: a can of chili with a faded label. He made no fire, shed no light, and was near silent opening the stubborn can to get at its contents, eating as he secured his pack on a limb, along with himself. Night came and went quickly, the morning beating down its golden rays upon his face and waking him from a dreamless sleep. The morning routine went into effect: cleaning his blades and rifle, repacking everything, and checking the map he had to determine his location.

The silence in a world ruled by the walking dead is easily broken. As fewer people inhabited the Earth, the old, familiar sounds of life now seemed alien; so much so that the sound of an engine roaring up the abandoned highway was enough to make M grab his rifle and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance. The faded blue SUV blazed past his safe spot in the tree. The windows were tinted, hiding its driver. It took him fifteen whole minutes to recover, replace his rifle and climb higher to investigate the direction from which the vehicle had come.

The scope on his rifle revealed something he thought he'd never see again: strings of black and white smoke slithering their way up the sky from the horizon of dead trees. His breath caught in his throat, and he let a golden drop of hope fall. His hands were shaking so bad from excitement, he was barely able to maintain his grip as he scrambled down the trunk of the tree where he'd made his perch the night before.

As he landed heavily on the iced earth below, he heard something that made every hair on his body stand on end: moans of dozens of corpses. The vehicle woke every snow-covered corpse in the area, and they were all converging upon the road in search of a meal. For the first time in a long time, M ran. Headlong into the gathering hoard he dashed, unsheathing his machete and knife, ready to carve his way to that camp - to his new, possible home. Impossible seemed only a vague concept now. Another drop of hope.

An Immortals Tale: Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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