Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

Balthezar stared at the wall across from the one he was chained to, wishing the sun would set, already. The thirst during the day was far worse than at night, he discovered. Though none of the sunlight that came in from the giant windows above him touched his skin, it was reflected harshly by the slathered on white paint, making it harmless, but still very painful. Cuffs made of a mix of steel and iron were clasped very tightly around his wrists, sapping his strength and causing him constant pain, suspending his arms above his head with nowhere to rest his body, he'd dangle in agony while he tried to let his legs rest.

The thirst was only part of his pain. He hungered intensely, his stomach at war with itself constantly, growling and moaning. They'd denied him blood thus far, but he wouldn't mind other food, either. He tried not to imagine all the good food he'd eaten in his long life, it only made his pangs worse. Being a prisoner of The Community was not the way he'd envisioned his days ending, that was for sure. He knew, now, why Michael had done what he did, and as much as the ancient vampire wanted to be angry, he couldn't. It had taken weeks of torture, starvation, beatings, and ceaseless questions to open Balthezar's eyes. He swore he'd never close them again.

Pain was nothing to the vampire, but the thirst was all but unbearable, cracked lips split open every time he moved. His mouth was coated with sand, his throat felt like paper, even the memory of a drink was something he could barely recall. The iron restraints sapped his abilities, the reflected sun weakened his already waning will, and the news he'd learned made the dark nights an enemy, instead of his home. Balthezar swore vengeance upon the ones who did this, silently, over and over. It became a mantra of hatred and pain, etched in his mind forever. He counted, in his mind, the ones he needed to kill, then counted the ones that he'd kill for sheer pleasure.

Quietly the sun set, the white paint reflecting orange for just a few moments, then darkness fell. Balthezar sighed with relief as his naked body no longer felt like it was on fire. He didn't care if the cuffs bit to the bone, again, he sagged against the solid concrete wall, letting the coolness of it drop his body temperature. It was a painful, but easy, decision to stay there, hanging like that, for a while. Suffering was but a distant memory for a while, and sleep came. Dreams were a luxury, comfort a tax, peace of mind a wish, the vampire in chains could afford none of them, even tears were too much to ask for.

Blood, or at least the scent of it, brought him awake, slowly he came around, his nose working to find the source. 'Another cruel trick, another form of torture.' he thought to himself. But the smell was strong, and fresh. Curiosity and hunger finished waking up Balthezar, his senses on high alert, on his aching feet, he tried desperately to find the source, but the iron wouldn't let him. Another splash came, this time so strong he nearly lost control, the blood seemed to be right outside his cell door. He fought back every instinct inside himself, no matter how loudly it screamed, and waited.

The world seemed so still, but his thoughts raged, 'Who was outside? Why did they spill fresh blood? Was it his executioners? Did they finally come to collect? Were they baiting him? Were they wishing for him to give into the beast within?' If they were, they were near their goal, his control was slipping quickly. His vision was blurring, the edges of the world were beginning to tint red, even the iron restraints were just a buzz at the edge of his perception. Tired, ached muscles began to awaken, straightening and straining themselves against the crippling cuffs. Somewhere, in the misty fog of his mind, Balthezar bade farewell to his sanity.

The entire room shook so hard dust was knocked out of the creases in the stone walls, the vampire lost his footing, the chains bit deep and pulled him away from the edge. Balthezar stared at the thick iron door in confusion as another shock rocked the small cell, causing more debris, and even a heavy stone to crack with an earsplitting report. It seemed like gravity was distorting the door, twisting and pulling it here and there, misshaping it. The metal screamed and collapsed upon itself, the door vanishing in a plume of dust and concrete. The vampire prisoner stared with wide eyes, not knowing what would come through the hole.

A man stepped through, ducking his head beneath the top, thick with muscle, a beard, piercing eyes, and hair down his back. In one hand he carried the keys to the restraints, in the other was a human guard, barely conscious. This was no man, but a Lycan, Balthezar noticed. With a flick the man was tossed into the center of the cell, then the wolf focused his attention on the captive, “Good evening. I am Raecien, Guardian of the Word, and my master asks you to join him for dinner.” He gestured at the moaning heap in uniform on the floor, “Consider this an appetizer.” With a single step the distance from door to restraints was closed.

As gentle as a man his size could be, Raecien undid the cuffs, then stepped back as Balthezar fell to the ground in a slump. Abilities began to come back, like opening shutters for the sun to come in, slow at first, but then all at once. The vampire stared at the giant man, his emerald green eyes fixated, but the rumbling in his stomach and the burning in his veins made the human too appetizing to ignore any longer. It was the most savage bite Balthezar had delivered in a very long time, but it made draining the man quick. Reinvigorated he stood and faced the Lycan, wiping his chin of the excess, “And who is your master, Raecien, Guardian of the Word?”

A low growl came from the wolf and he hesitated, but answered as if someone were twisting his arm to do it, “Master Michael of the House of Tor.” Belthazar's eyes went wide as saucers with the realization of what this meant. “And how do you propose to get us out of here, Master Raecien?” All the wolf answered was “Hold still.” as he wrapped his giant arm around the vampire's waist and leaped through a giant window above where the cuffs were chained to the wall. The back up arrived at the cell just as the remnants of the glass window danced across the concrete floor and their drained comrade, their arrival too late.

As they ran through the woods, in the rain, under the bright moon, Belthazar smiled at the feeling of dirt under his feet, leaves and all of nature against his naked body. He vowed he'd never complain about the rain again.  

The Burnt World: Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Life After Death (Original Series)

Chelsea was warm. She loved waking up to that feeling, even if she didn't open her eyes, even if she didn't move for a little while, she loved waking to being warm. It was like remembering something so important that you want to memorize it, again, just to make sure it's always there for you. She kept her eyes closed, but felt M's arm draped over her, keeping her safe while he slumbered next to her, his even breathing nearly music to her, no matter how many times she heard it.

It'd been a rough time for him since he'd gotten there. He helped retrain people in their town, helped gather supplies, and even came up with new safety procedures for some of the crews. He even trained her, intensely, and she became an even better shot, and even added skills to her repertoire like survival and hand to hand combat. She remembered those days fondly, the way he was so happy teaching people, even though there was a dark torrent of emotion underneath. She bit her lip as that scene, in the cafeteria, played out in her mind.

So many people were pestering him for his story, they offered up theirs, some even offered the stories of others, trying to coerce the young man that was so knowledgeable in surviving in this world. He resisted for as long as he could, until one day a rumor started that he was a spy for some other settlement. M wasn't hurt about the accusations, in fact he understood them. He asked that as many people be present for his story to quell the little fire that'd sprung up.

Chelsea remembered being infuriated with the rest of the people, she reminded them how much he'd helped, but her cries fell on deaf ears. She remembered seeing him sit at the back of the room, in a single chair, holding a cigar box, her heart ached for him. She wanted to stand by him, comfort him as he spun his tale to the people that had demanded it. She counted the people that walked in, nearly the entire population of their little town, staring at the man with the long, black hair, dark eyes, and a beaming smile. When he was sure they were ready he began.

She felt herself tremble as he began his story, opening the cigar box at the same time. He spoke about his three brothers, taking out tiny trinkets from the box as he did. He was the oldest, the next brother in his teens, the one after had only turned eleven, the last was barely learning to walk. He talked about his father, who was in the special forces before the world fell apart, and how he trained him. He went on to tell how his father died fighting to restore the world. The entire time he spoke Chelsea's hands were balled into fists of fury and worry. He got to the part about his mother. For the first time in his tale his voice shook. It felt like the world trembled beneath her feet.

M explained how his mother was an alcoholic, even into the fall of the world. He told everyone how he would have to include liquor in his daily runs, just to keep her functional. It was then that he pulled out a tiny bottle, the label faded and nearly scratched off. Tears flowed down his cheeks, her cheeks burned with tears, too. She'd fallen asleep drunk one day while he was out looking for food, his brothers couldn't fend off the dead that had heard the youngest of them crying. Chelsea started pushing her way through the people, trying to get to him, to comfort him. He had placed the bottle back in the box, then told them all about the last settlement he was in and how it fell. Even how he ended up here.

He met her eyes and smiled, through the tears, he smiled. She rolled over in their small bunk and put her arm around him, pulling herself closer to his warmth. He didn't stir, but she felt he knew she was there. Their relationship was quick to start, but slow to elevate to anything besides sharing a bunk and the title of a relationship. She stared at his face for a while, pondering the idea of going further, but it didn't last long. The small, red lights at their door began flashing, an emergency was at hand. A cold chill went through her as she shook M awake.

He came awake with a start, like always, instantly asking if she was okay, she nodded her answer. “We need to move. There's an emergency.” He looked at the light, then back to her, but she already knew the process. Within a few minutes she had her pack on, her rifle, and a few knives that he had given her, all ready as she ran out with him in tow. The young woman paused outside her door, the town alive with shouted orders, which raised the hair on her neck. The constant word was 'Raiders', each time it was said with more and more panic. Chelsea knew her role, M knew his, and they raced off. Luckily her bunk wasn't too far away from her post on the wall.

Chelsea's thick winter clothes made all sorts of sounds as she ran to the tiny stair set and began climbing up. Her rifle was over her shoulder, her legs pumped as the name of the man that was replacing her for the moment escaped her. She was about to call out to get his attention when a spear plunged through his chest, a spray of blood jetting out from his back, coloring the metal sides of the small roost. She tried to react, but the man was pulled over the side of the wall, screams of triumph erupting from the outside. The only thought on her mind was if M was okay.

Her eyes scanned the wall, frantically looking for him. She found him, just as he ducked a circular saw blade that had been launched at his head, missing by inches and sticking in the ground behind him. In her head she was furious at the attempt, but the rest of her was acclimated to violence. Quietly she climbed to the top of the stairs, poking her head over the edge to see who was attacking her settlement. What she saw drew a gasp from her.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Blood Runs Thin (Original Series)

The house creaked and moaned around Raecien and Michael, sharing a look, for the moment. The giant wolf's muscles were still tense as they could physically be, straining against the commands that the skinny vampire had given him. No matter how much he pushed and wished, thought, and searched his memory for a loophole or a way out, it was all futile. He was a prisoner. Michael patted his chest with reassurance, trying, he guessed, to comfort him, then walked away, admiring the decaying house.

"Do you know why I chose this place, Master Raecien?" Michael knew the wolf couldn't answer, but he wanted to be somewhat polite before he delved into the history of the rickety structure that was on it's last legs. "It's where a nest of ferals lived, not too long ago. Well. About a hundred years ago. Despicable lot, those things were." The vampire with the purple eyes walked slowly, studying his surroundings like he was back in the past, witnessing the alabaster paint splattered with red sprays, again.

Raecien listened closely, the members of the House of Tor never told a story without a point, he watched the vampire study and walk slowly, each step measured. "It was one of the few times, in our long history, that our kind agreed on something. The feral vampires that lived here were feasting on little girls, not stopping at draining them, but consuming their flesh, as well. Most of the victims were from the elementary school down the street, just trying to make their way home. If you smell carefully you can actually pick up the traces of blood that are still stained deep in the wood."

The frozen Lycan did just that, inhaling and finding the smell atrocious, and he couldn't wait to forget it. Michael continued, making his way back to his audience, "There were more than we had anticipated, you know. Lost two wolves and five vampires. The battle was quick and nasty, and they suffered. The ferals, that is, not our kind. After all was said and done; we worked together to eliminate a threat to the innocent." Raecien hadn't noticed that he was eye to eye with the vampire, peering deeply into those endless purple eyes.

A bead of cold sweat ran down the wolf's neck, he felt the chill touch his very bones, staring into those violently beautiful eyes. The vampire smiled, "Now we do the same, Master Raecien. We will wage war against the monsters snatching away the lives of the innocent, feasting on their flesh for their own selfish gains. We will destroy them. Rend their flesh from bone. Spill their blood upon the mantles of the privileged. We will walk our path under the burning flag of revenge."

Each word made images flash through the mind of the Lycan, each one more graphically violent than the last, bodies, puddles and pools of blood, gaping mouths, eyes so open they tore at the creases, skin ripped open, exposed muscle. As a Werewolf he was supposed to be numb to these images, but they made something in him cringe, stir, and want to look away. It was the vampire's voice that came through the fog, commanding him, again. "You may move freely. You may not attack me. You must not let harm come to me, either through action or inaction. You may speak your mind to me, but to others you are silent. And you will kill whomever I say."

Raecien felt his whole body relax, his wounds had healed, his mind was much clearer, "You will fail, Michael. This is my own free thought on whatever it is you're planning." The vampire was looking away, watching the sun cast it's last golden rays through the clouds hanging on the horizon, smiling. "I only serve you because you've enslaved me, but I will try my best to find a way to escape this power, you can bet your throat on it." A deep, rumbling growl, made the very air vibrate with it's volume. The wolf was getting very tired of being ignored. Though he could not attack, he could spin his words into venom. As he thought of an insult that might make the blood sucker's temper rise he was interrupted by quiet words.

"Oh, Master Raecien. You weren't enslaved. They sent you to me. To see if the rumors were true. To see if I really was of the House of Tor. You were merely a guinea pig, sir. See for yourself." The Lycan's long stride took him to the door quickly, just in time to watch men, dressed in black gear emblazoned with the patch of the Lycans, holding binoculars, walk away, smiling. Raecien was struck speechless, his bearded jaw hung loose, his brow brunched in confusion. He was so confused he didn't notice the flash of the barrel from a few roofs down, nor did he feel the impact of the bullet.

He looked down, expecting to see a gaping, bleeding wound. Instead, he saw Michael's hand, bleeding, the silver bullet pierced through it, the tip of the slug showing out the back. The two met eyes and Michael spoke again, "And it seems they didn't want you to live through the ordeal, Master Raecien, Keeper of the Word." The Lycan went to a knee, feeling his world crumble around him. After a few minutes it was his turn to speak, "I will help you, Michael of the House of Tor.....Master."

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."