Boulder, Colorado
October 14th, 2011
11: 46 P. M.
November 10, 1866
I believe my time is nearly up. All the signs I have found and clues discovered point to this. 11/11/11 shall be the end of the last free man and the beginning of the first. To anyone who finds this, my descendants or not, the hanging was false and the claims a lie. Do not believe the Fox and be wary the full moon that rises red. Godspeed.
--- William Helsing
“That’s all it says.”
“What do you mean that’s all it says?”
“I mean,” He said motioning to the yellowed parchment clutched in his hand, “that’s all there is.”
“Fantastic.” He scratched his head absentmindedly and sighed. “Well. Let’s get out of here. I don’t fancy being here when they get back.”
The other man chuckled softly as he tucked the letter into his pocket. “You don’t ‘fancy’ being here.” He mocked. “You’re such a yank.”
“Forgive me for my lack of southern drawl, ‘partner’.” He retaliated as he opened the door. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
They stepped out of the abandoned homestead and braced for the cold, lowering their heads to the howling wind and tucking their hands into their pockets. Rain blew in sheets toward them and plastered their jackets flat against their skin, chilling them within their own clothes. Shivering they looked back and forth as they made their way across the yard, boots slopping in the mud and splashing through the sodden grass.
“Wait a minute. Hold up.” They both froze mid-stride and crouched low. “Headlights.”
Two beams of light flashed across the house, illuminating every insignificant detail of the ramshackle cabin. Broken windows letting the storm in, spaces between the wooden boards creating that eerie whistle as the wind passes through, and the sunken porch that looked like a U instead of an A hanging so low it blocked the top of the doorway.
A few seconds later the rattling roar of an old motor followed and a beat up, old Chevy pulled around the line of trees and into the driveway. The lights illuminated the two patches of muddy grass where they had been standing just seconds before.
“Stay low. Don’t move, and wait for my signal.”
“Wait, what’re you—“He turned to where his partner had been to find no sign of him. “Collin? Damn it.”
One by one the inhabitants of the truck clambered out and shivered.
“Gah, I hate the cold!” He muttered as he scratched the scruff on his neck. “Why the devil did we choose this bloody state to set up shop?”
“Stop complaining, Garth. Doesn’t matter.”
“Well I mean, “Garth continued as they made their way inside. “It’s not like we would’ve found any less folks in Texas. Or Arizona.” They stooped under the low porch and shook the rain from their jackets and hats. “You know what I mean, Rob?”
“Honestly, I don’t give a crap where they come from. They all taste the same to me. In fact, what say we check in on our supper?” Rob replied with a vicious grin, revealing two rows of thin incisors.
“You know.” A third voice called from the shadows. “Those chompers are alright.. But what do you think of mine?”
The two men looked up to the dark section of ceiling across the room and inhaled a gasp. A blur streaked across the room and struck out at both of them, slashing viciously in precise cuts, slitting their throats before any oxygen reached their lungs to scream.
Both men staggered and collapsed as they struggled with fumbling fingers to stop the bleeding.
“Sorry about that chaps, but I couldn’t have you feasting on innocent people now could I?” Their only reply was to thrash about on the floor gurgling. “Well this conversation has been very enlightening, and I feel like I learned a lot today and will be a better man because of it. Thanks guys.” He walked to the door then turned on his heel. “Of course I am curious as to how you gits managed to find a page of Helsing’s journal..ah well. Too late now.”
He stepped outside back into the rain and inhaled deeply the brisk air. A young woman appeared around the side of the house with the other man beside her.
“Glad you got my signal.” Collin said as he strode over to them. “The girl’s alright I assume?”
“Hardly, there was barely a sound in there. It was the silence that set me off. And yeah, I think so. Aside from nearly being eaten by ghouls.”
“Good work, Jace. Let’s get her out of here.” Collin turned to the young woman and inspected her quickly. She was thin, frighteningly so and pale. Almost as pale as him. But it was her eyes that caught his: so light and sullen, with her face seemingly stretched beneath them; bloodshot and puffy as if crying.
“She says she has a sister in the next town over. I thought we could take—“
“Jace, get away from her. Now.”
Friday, February 3, 2012
Their Hunt - Chapter Two
Chapter Two: Sunrise
It was dusk when the boy drew into camp, his clothing frozen stiff and his limbs deadened. The sky was a mural of purple and yellow as the moon reflected the sun’s dimming light across the snowy plains of the Outland. The full moon’s evanescent glow serenaded the encampment with light leaving few lanterns lit as he approached.
His shadow stretched out before him, a beacon for all who had not noticed him before. He hung his head low and quickly walked behind the rows of tents, off the main path. The Helm Camp of hunters was one of four installments of the Outland Village. They alone skirted the snowy forests, hills, and lakes of ice and wind; hunting and thriving unopposed.
The camp was smaller than that of the Vardi warriors and the Leundeja healers, but larger than the Runeej scholars. It had four dozen hide tents and a single cabin in the center for storing kills. Six rows of seven in a square made the body of the site with the remaining six spread one to each corner for the lookouts like a hexagon.
Small markings from Thuat Root and Yew Nectar identified which tent housed who by a system of colored stripes. From the top support strut of each tent hung a unique set of wind chimes and a lantern used for dark nights and insulating during a blizzard. The ice was tramped solid and packed into slick runs of momentum inducers. Several cracks were evidence of those who had slipped.
The camp smelled of smoke as fireplaces remained roaring. Roasted venison, fresh picked wine berries, chilled rose pedal pastries, and blueberry juice awaited him, yet the boy’s shame tamed his hunger and put a sour taste in his mouth.
He hung his head in shame as he entered his small tent, laid his weapon on the table then kicked off his dripping boots with a loud thump. He hesitantly removed his drenched clothing, wincing as the chill air enveloped his bare body and wounds. Hurriedly pulling on his timber wolf fur parka and trousers, he sat on his cot and pulled his deer hide about himself, staring down into his bowl of unfrozen salt water.
The unbroken surface reflected his remorse. His deep grey eyes were sunken in and sullen beneath his chin-length ebony hair, as was custom for young hunters. His thin face seemed to stretch remorsefully across his high cheekbones and square jaw line. Bruises covered the right side of his face from the fall and his lips were cracked, white strips of paper. His brow seemed frozen in anguish and his mouth tightly closed.
He breathed in the familiar smell of leather and hickory and absorbed his home. A single table where his weapon’s corpse lay, sat beside the entrance and his cot opposite the flap. A small unlit fireplace sat in the center surrounded by stones, his boots against the stack of wood and kindling he kept inside a few feet away. The room was no more than nine paces wide and two of himself tall. The darkness felt good and mesmerized his senses as flashes of light bled through from the outside and stained his foul mood. Fires from his neighbors flickered and danced nearby, spreading and retracting a warm light show and renewed his senses.
Invigorated, he drew himself from his thoughts and soaked in the world of reality. The shuffling of feet outside grew louder as supper time arrived.
A loud crunch of someone just outside alerted him. He pushed his bowl away and released his grip on his blanket when he became aware of the strain he held it in. He stood and strode to the opening flap and waited for the rattle of his wind chimes to announce their arrival. Moments later, the soothing echo of that of a howling wolf in the distance reverberated inside his tent.
He pulled back the flap and looked into the eyes of his visitor.
The boy’s heart skipped a beat and his eyes nearly fell from their sockets.
“Greetings, Hawkner.” A young healer said in a gentle voice. Her mahogany hair was worn down and long to the middle of her back with waves that would draw the ocean envious, with the smooth face of an angel. Her piercing amethyst eyes bore down to his core and almost naturally lifted him from his guilt-ridden burden. Her body’s gentle curves would have made him blush if his face wasn’t still numb
“Hello, Kairi.” He said curtly, struggling for words.
“Did your hunt go well?” She said in her symphony of a voice. Her words seemed to dance lightly from her lips in a melody he had never heard before. “I didn’t see you come into town and I grew worried.”
Hawkner sat for a moment as he thought of a euphemism.
“It. It was good.” He paused. “For a while.”
His foul mood was quickly returning despite her presence.
“Hawkner,” She said gently, moving closer. “It’s okay. Please, tell me what happened.”
He recounted to her the story, leaving out the mystery of how he got to land, and ended with himself using the branch to support his weight against the shore.
Kairi sat silent for a moment and pondered on what she had learned. She looked up at him then back to the ground.
Hawkner wondered if she had caught him leaving out a part.
“Perhaps it was meant to be,” She said finally. “But I must question, what will happen to you now? Was this not your rite of passage?” Her eyes grew soft and looked into his. He could feel her sympathy for him and decided to confide in her.
“I’ll be tested.” His eyes locked to hers. “Severely. This will be my last chance to become a man and they will take heed of it. Elder Briar is sure to push me to my limits, then leave them far behind. I know it won’t be for a while with the winter storms brewing, but once they’ve passed it will come.”
A deep silence followed between the two, only broken by the howling wind and laughter resounding from the sup tent.
“We should get to supper. They’ll be looking for us.” He said suddenly, brushing past her and walking slowly to the ever growing conglomerate of sound and smell. He slowed to accommodate Kairi’s slower pace. They talked quietly about her experiences with a wounded fawn earlier today and how it finally gave in to her healing.
They approached the opening to the sup tent and stopped. He looked at her then remembered his manners. He opened the flap for her then followed closely behind, cursing himself for his stupidity.
Long wooden tables laden with plates and drink stretched from one end of the tent to the exit, down to the opposite with the line. Four lanterns hung from the ceiling lit the room a bright yellow against the walls and kept the grass inside green. The strong smell of mead wafted by and mixed with the aroma of crispy pheasant.
Hawkner’s mouth watered as he stepped to the rear of the line.
“Hawkner, ‘bout time you showed up!” A booming voice hollered across a nearby table as he walked past with his food. Hawkner looked up from his plate and sighed. He looked pleadingly at Kairi who shrugged and mouthed sorry.
Hawkner went back to the table he was called to and looked for the man responsible. It was Jhen, the village blacksmith. He, for some reason unknown to Hawkner, had found him very interesting and took any chance he got to speak to him.
“Come on over here boy! And sit with me. We were just discussing what’s more dangerous, a Kera or a Howler. Whaddya’ think?”
Hawkner sat in thought, watching Jhen’s gnarled beard rustle around his thick lips and fat face. His large arms were nearly as hairy as his head and his wide hands were red from constant exertion.
“A Howler is faster and stealthier, but not near the power of a full grown Kera.” Hawkner said with a bitter remembrance.
The rest of the meal went by slowly as he sat through conversations ranging from who was stronger to who had the most attractive wife. Hawkner had long finished his meal before the supper was slowly disbanded as people shuffled out, bellies full and much warmer.
Hawkner bid the men goodnight once a fist fight nearly broke out and left quickly. The warm tent left him little protection from the bitter cold of midnight. Wrapping his arms about him tightly, he walked hurriedly to his tent.
Closing the flap securely, he laid in bed and tucked the excess of his blankets beneath him. Sleep overtook him quickly from his exhaustion and dreams of what would come to pass plagued his mind.
Visions of great plains overlooking a vast ocean as black as night plagued his mind. Trees screamed and howled in torture, pleading someone to help them. His thoughts suddenly went ablaze as flames consumed the trees and terrorized his alternate reality.
He woke with a start, slapping at the imaginary flames that filled his room. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and sighed deeply.
It seemed so real.
The following morning was no warmer than the night before and windswept frost rose in swirling tendrils from the ground. Fog clawed its way across the camp on the breeze and iced over the north side of each tent. Hawkner stepped out and shuddered against the cold, watching the sun rise through the mist.
It was dusk when the boy drew into camp, his clothing frozen stiff and his limbs deadened. The sky was a mural of purple and yellow as the moon reflected the sun’s dimming light across the snowy plains of the Outland. The full moon’s evanescent glow serenaded the encampment with light leaving few lanterns lit as he approached.
His shadow stretched out before him, a beacon for all who had not noticed him before. He hung his head low and quickly walked behind the rows of tents, off the main path. The Helm Camp of hunters was one of four installments of the Outland Village. They alone skirted the snowy forests, hills, and lakes of ice and wind; hunting and thriving unopposed.
The camp was smaller than that of the Vardi warriors and the Leundeja healers, but larger than the Runeej scholars. It had four dozen hide tents and a single cabin in the center for storing kills. Six rows of seven in a square made the body of the site with the remaining six spread one to each corner for the lookouts like a hexagon.
Small markings from Thuat Root and Yew Nectar identified which tent housed who by a system of colored stripes. From the top support strut of each tent hung a unique set of wind chimes and a lantern used for dark nights and insulating during a blizzard. The ice was tramped solid and packed into slick runs of momentum inducers. Several cracks were evidence of those who had slipped.
The camp smelled of smoke as fireplaces remained roaring. Roasted venison, fresh picked wine berries, chilled rose pedal pastries, and blueberry juice awaited him, yet the boy’s shame tamed his hunger and put a sour taste in his mouth.
He hung his head in shame as he entered his small tent, laid his weapon on the table then kicked off his dripping boots with a loud thump. He hesitantly removed his drenched clothing, wincing as the chill air enveloped his bare body and wounds. Hurriedly pulling on his timber wolf fur parka and trousers, he sat on his cot and pulled his deer hide about himself, staring down into his bowl of unfrozen salt water.
The unbroken surface reflected his remorse. His deep grey eyes were sunken in and sullen beneath his chin-length ebony hair, as was custom for young hunters. His thin face seemed to stretch remorsefully across his high cheekbones and square jaw line. Bruises covered the right side of his face from the fall and his lips were cracked, white strips of paper. His brow seemed frozen in anguish and his mouth tightly closed.
He breathed in the familiar smell of leather and hickory and absorbed his home. A single table where his weapon’s corpse lay, sat beside the entrance and his cot opposite the flap. A small unlit fireplace sat in the center surrounded by stones, his boots against the stack of wood and kindling he kept inside a few feet away. The room was no more than nine paces wide and two of himself tall. The darkness felt good and mesmerized his senses as flashes of light bled through from the outside and stained his foul mood. Fires from his neighbors flickered and danced nearby, spreading and retracting a warm light show and renewed his senses.
Invigorated, he drew himself from his thoughts and soaked in the world of reality. The shuffling of feet outside grew louder as supper time arrived.
A loud crunch of someone just outside alerted him. He pushed his bowl away and released his grip on his blanket when he became aware of the strain he held it in. He stood and strode to the opening flap and waited for the rattle of his wind chimes to announce their arrival. Moments later, the soothing echo of that of a howling wolf in the distance reverberated inside his tent.
He pulled back the flap and looked into the eyes of his visitor.
The boy’s heart skipped a beat and his eyes nearly fell from their sockets.
“Greetings, Hawkner.” A young healer said in a gentle voice. Her mahogany hair was worn down and long to the middle of her back with waves that would draw the ocean envious, with the smooth face of an angel. Her piercing amethyst eyes bore down to his core and almost naturally lifted him from his guilt-ridden burden. Her body’s gentle curves would have made him blush if his face wasn’t still numb
“Hello, Kairi.” He said curtly, struggling for words.
“Did your hunt go well?” She said in her symphony of a voice. Her words seemed to dance lightly from her lips in a melody he had never heard before. “I didn’t see you come into town and I grew worried.”
Hawkner sat for a moment as he thought of a euphemism.
“It. It was good.” He paused. “For a while.”
His foul mood was quickly returning despite her presence.
“Hawkner,” She said gently, moving closer. “It’s okay. Please, tell me what happened.”
He recounted to her the story, leaving out the mystery of how he got to land, and ended with himself using the branch to support his weight against the shore.
Kairi sat silent for a moment and pondered on what she had learned. She looked up at him then back to the ground.
Hawkner wondered if she had caught him leaving out a part.
“Perhaps it was meant to be,” She said finally. “But I must question, what will happen to you now? Was this not your rite of passage?” Her eyes grew soft and looked into his. He could feel her sympathy for him and decided to confide in her.
“I’ll be tested.” His eyes locked to hers. “Severely. This will be my last chance to become a man and they will take heed of it. Elder Briar is sure to push me to my limits, then leave them far behind. I know it won’t be for a while with the winter storms brewing, but once they’ve passed it will come.”
A deep silence followed between the two, only broken by the howling wind and laughter resounding from the sup tent.
“We should get to supper. They’ll be looking for us.” He said suddenly, brushing past her and walking slowly to the ever growing conglomerate of sound and smell. He slowed to accommodate Kairi’s slower pace. They talked quietly about her experiences with a wounded fawn earlier today and how it finally gave in to her healing.
They approached the opening to the sup tent and stopped. He looked at her then remembered his manners. He opened the flap for her then followed closely behind, cursing himself for his stupidity.
Long wooden tables laden with plates and drink stretched from one end of the tent to the exit, down to the opposite with the line. Four lanterns hung from the ceiling lit the room a bright yellow against the walls and kept the grass inside green. The strong smell of mead wafted by and mixed with the aroma of crispy pheasant.
Hawkner’s mouth watered as he stepped to the rear of the line.
“Hawkner, ‘bout time you showed up!” A booming voice hollered across a nearby table as he walked past with his food. Hawkner looked up from his plate and sighed. He looked pleadingly at Kairi who shrugged and mouthed sorry.
Hawkner went back to the table he was called to and looked for the man responsible. It was Jhen, the village blacksmith. He, for some reason unknown to Hawkner, had found him very interesting and took any chance he got to speak to him.
“Come on over here boy! And sit with me. We were just discussing what’s more dangerous, a Kera or a Howler. Whaddya’ think?”
Hawkner sat in thought, watching Jhen’s gnarled beard rustle around his thick lips and fat face. His large arms were nearly as hairy as his head and his wide hands were red from constant exertion.
“A Howler is faster and stealthier, but not near the power of a full grown Kera.” Hawkner said with a bitter remembrance.
The rest of the meal went by slowly as he sat through conversations ranging from who was stronger to who had the most attractive wife. Hawkner had long finished his meal before the supper was slowly disbanded as people shuffled out, bellies full and much warmer.
Hawkner bid the men goodnight once a fist fight nearly broke out and left quickly. The warm tent left him little protection from the bitter cold of midnight. Wrapping his arms about him tightly, he walked hurriedly to his tent.
Closing the flap securely, he laid in bed and tucked the excess of his blankets beneath him. Sleep overtook him quickly from his exhaustion and dreams of what would come to pass plagued his mind.
Visions of great plains overlooking a vast ocean as black as night plagued his mind. Trees screamed and howled in torture, pleading someone to help them. His thoughts suddenly went ablaze as flames consumed the trees and terrorized his alternate reality.
He woke with a start, slapping at the imaginary flames that filled his room. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and sighed deeply.
It seemed so real.
The following morning was no warmer than the night before and windswept frost rose in swirling tendrils from the ground. Fog clawed its way across the camp on the breeze and iced over the north side of each tent. Hawkner stepped out and shuddered against the cold, watching the sun rise through the mist.
Their Hunt - Chapter One
Chapter One: Storm
Rain pounded the rocks and streamed down the cliff face like ancient tears, rivulets pooling at the bottom and pouring into the sea below. Veins of blue lightning cracked the wall of black sky, revealing deep grey clouds enveloped in its dark projection. The stars were long gone and the sun buried. The phantom sky resonated emotion. Emotions of hate, seething with rage and agony, laced by pain and writhing regret.
The projected darkness the featureless horizon emitted, plagued the land beneath its stony glare. Crops withered and died among the plains of yellow grass, watching in horror as the trees warped and blackened from the roots.
The infected soil blew in the ill wind like ash and clung to everything around it. Houses sat beneath swells of dust until the windows were stained a foreboding cement color. The unfortunate residents batted at the tainted air and stuffed cloth into every nook and cranny of their homes, but to no avail. Abating the sky’s wrath would be nigh impossible.
Refraining from watching his creation, Veon spun on his heel and closed the window a few feet behind him. He knew he had succeeded by the shudders of the tower.
He descended the spiraling stone steps in even strides, moving with an inhuman elegance and speed. His grace eluded his true intentions and bore him well. His actions always came a surprise to those who had never seen him before nor knew who he was.
It was this he enjoyed most.
He threw open the great hall doors with a reckoning force. He stepped past them slowly as the six inch thick doors as tall as the third tower window flew off their hinges collapsed with a deafening boom, kicking up great plumes of black dust in their wake.
The others in the room flinched at the commotion and stared in terror at the man in front of them. His red eyes held no compassion or chivalry, resembling lifeless glowing coals.
A thin face like that of a dead man’s, skinned and draped over the skull of a larger man. Veins bulged across his forehead and glowing orange lines spider webbed his face from exposure to dark magic. His hair was snow white and his plagued skin pale and translucent, like paper over a flame. His teeth were misshapen and fangs protruded over his canine teeth, the only enamel not blackened.
He stalked closer to the group, his midnight cloak billowing behind him like a storm driven force. His wrapped boots stepped lightly across the marble floor. He heeded no attention to the heavily armored guards on either side of the room.
A golden throne sat in the center of the room, laden with furs and velvet. Its bearer sitting high. Long tapestries hung from the high ceiling, embroidered with a griffin snapping a dogwood tree in its jaws above a star. A single wooden table stretched from the entire length of the great hall with plate after plate of a variety of meats and fruits on a dozen platters.
Veon swiftly seized a pewter goblet from the table and drained it in a single gulp. He studied the cup slowly, turning it in his hand, weighing the heavy utensil. He smiled and stepped slowly over to the small congregation, his wide toothy grin striking the group with unparalleled fear.
The guards split into two groups of six, the first on either side of the seated king, the other blocking the exit to which Veon had entered. Veon smiled wider as the clinking and shuffling of the guards ceased, his fangs glinting beneath the chandelier above.
“King Gerald,” Veon’s silky smooth voice poured forward, caressing the people’s minds with a gentle touch. “ I thank you for your hospitality, and inviting me to your most humble abodes.”
He bowed low then stood straight and tall.
The lights seemed to dim and the fire wane. A cold chill swept through the room, engulfing the room in near darkness.
King Gerald watched in awe at his swirling breath before him. He looked up suddenly into the unforgiving eyes before him.
Thoughts swirled through his mind but none he could seize. His mind’s eye was blind and its vision blank. In the near dark he swore he saw those crimson eyes glow but he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“You..red-eyed-one.” King Gerald stuttered. “Leave at once. You. You are not welcome in my home.” He swayed and rubbed his temples sorely. His head throbbed and his eyes bloodshot, bulged slightly.
“But sire, it is you who summoned me.”
The king’s guests looked back and forth, following the conversation intently.
“I have done no such thing!” King Gerald retorted.
“Oh but you have. Let me educate you.” Veon said in the most condescending voice he could muster without being directly rude. “I sent you an invitation a month ago did I not? And you, being the majestic ruler you are, deigned it unworthy of your presence and returned it, crumpled, torn, and spat on. So here I am, to ask you once more. Will you join my alliance of the Magi?”
King Gerald stood slowly and cracked his ringed knuckles and drank deeply or his wine. He stepped forward, passing his wall of guards, and stood inches away from his unwanted visitor. He stood nearly a head taller than Veon and his girth was as wide as two of the intruder. He smiled a wicked smile and leaned close to Veon.
“To hell with you and your Magi.” He sneered and spat in Veon’s face.
He roared with laughter, holding his belly and shaking with effort to control himself from doubling over in hilarity. His subjects followed suit and soon the room was full of guffaws and snickering.
“That is unfortunate.” Veon said at last, and wiped the spit from his eye. He stood silent several moments and looked upon the laughing crowd, blind from their hysterics.
King Gerald wiped tears from his eyes and straightened, still just a few inches from Veon. He smiled disdainfully and crossed his thick arms.
Veon smiled then, and lifted his goblet in the air.
“A toast then.” He paused. “To King Gerald, may he meet a quick end.” He finished, still holding his goblet high. The room was silent and the moment tense.
“Or not.” Veon said suddenly, shattering the silence and King Gerald’s skull as the pewter goblet struck his face, lifting him off his feet then landing in a heap.
Pandemonium erupted in the room as they soaked in what had just come to pass. Veon waited for them to react. The guards were first to understand.
They charged him without regard to order or formation and stumbled to get at him first. A pike man stabbed out at him from behind, catching his comrade in the throat as Veon ducked and swept to the side, dropping the goblet and brandishing his knuckles.
The guards chuckled and charged again.
Emerald flames engulfed the frontline of soldiers in a mesmerizing illumination, cooking them inside their armor and charring anything exposed. They collapsed roasting, and writhed in agony as their replacements stepped on them to get at the murderer.
Several axes and swords swung out at Veon’s torso and head, missing by an inch as he bobbed and weaved, casting out sparks of lightning at the attackers, blasting a man off his feet across the room. He reached out and caught a mace, wrenched it from the man’s grasp and smashed in his face.
The remaining guests did nothing more than scream and watch in horror, aside from dodging an air borne body, frozen by fear.
The last guard stood alone as his brother in arms thrashed about, attempting to remove his own armored hand from the inside of his belly. He backed away from his screaming comrade and assailant, quivering in his plated mail. He dropped his axe and ran away from them. He looked back at them and saw Veon still standing there, then turned quickly, into the sword held out by Veon.
His eyes bulged as he looked back at his silent friend now alone, then to the sword which impaled him. He looked pleading at Veon then to the horrified group of onlookers staring at his feet. He followed their gaze and blanched yet more.
Veon effortlessly heaved the impaled soldier into the air and jolted the sword violently, ripping the blade through the man’s side and out. The broken body dropped and slumped with a splash.
The room went silent as a church and more depressing than a graveyard. Men lay scattered about the room, some bloodied, others smoldering. Blood pools smeared and streaked the entire great hall and the stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air.
Veon breathed deeply.
The castle shuddered then with an immense power, the stones rippling beneath Veon’s hand. He smiled, bowed and left quietly, leaving all those alive in shock.
The people mourned freely now and wept over those they had lost. Screams and deep inhalations uttered through sobbing grew unanimous among the guests as they stared at the king’s body, a dark stain about his head.
Just as the cries reached a climax, a loud explosion swept through the castle, flames roaring through the halls and swelling into every room eating up all furniture and people alike, incinerating everything in its path. Growing in apprehension, the mourners stood unsteadily, watching the great hall exit flicker, just as a blinding light filled the room.
The castle imploded in a blinding flash, flames and debris filling the ominous sky with dazzling cinders raining down among stone. A pillar of smoke plumed high, camouflaging perfectly. The repercussions shook the land and blew down all the trees nearby. Burning rubble fell and cast their emerald tongues of torch across the deadened land.
The rubble and remains of the castle sat utterly destroyed, burning beneath immense flames of dazzling emerald fire. The blackened world grew even darker and all light vanished, consumed by the night.
Desolate and deprived of life, the land watched as Veon departed into the misty smoke ahead, eyes blazing.
“Invitation rejected.”
Rain pounded the rocks and streamed down the cliff face like ancient tears, rivulets pooling at the bottom and pouring into the sea below. Veins of blue lightning cracked the wall of black sky, revealing deep grey clouds enveloped in its dark projection. The stars were long gone and the sun buried. The phantom sky resonated emotion. Emotions of hate, seething with rage and agony, laced by pain and writhing regret.
The projected darkness the featureless horizon emitted, plagued the land beneath its stony glare. Crops withered and died among the plains of yellow grass, watching in horror as the trees warped and blackened from the roots.
The infected soil blew in the ill wind like ash and clung to everything around it. Houses sat beneath swells of dust until the windows were stained a foreboding cement color. The unfortunate residents batted at the tainted air and stuffed cloth into every nook and cranny of their homes, but to no avail. Abating the sky’s wrath would be nigh impossible.
Refraining from watching his creation, Veon spun on his heel and closed the window a few feet behind him. He knew he had succeeded by the shudders of the tower.
He descended the spiraling stone steps in even strides, moving with an inhuman elegance and speed. His grace eluded his true intentions and bore him well. His actions always came a surprise to those who had never seen him before nor knew who he was.
It was this he enjoyed most.
He threw open the great hall doors with a reckoning force. He stepped past them slowly as the six inch thick doors as tall as the third tower window flew off their hinges collapsed with a deafening boom, kicking up great plumes of black dust in their wake.
The others in the room flinched at the commotion and stared in terror at the man in front of them. His red eyes held no compassion or chivalry, resembling lifeless glowing coals.
A thin face like that of a dead man’s, skinned and draped over the skull of a larger man. Veins bulged across his forehead and glowing orange lines spider webbed his face from exposure to dark magic. His hair was snow white and his plagued skin pale and translucent, like paper over a flame. His teeth were misshapen and fangs protruded over his canine teeth, the only enamel not blackened.
He stalked closer to the group, his midnight cloak billowing behind him like a storm driven force. His wrapped boots stepped lightly across the marble floor. He heeded no attention to the heavily armored guards on either side of the room.
A golden throne sat in the center of the room, laden with furs and velvet. Its bearer sitting high. Long tapestries hung from the high ceiling, embroidered with a griffin snapping a dogwood tree in its jaws above a star. A single wooden table stretched from the entire length of the great hall with plate after plate of a variety of meats and fruits on a dozen platters.
Veon swiftly seized a pewter goblet from the table and drained it in a single gulp. He studied the cup slowly, turning it in his hand, weighing the heavy utensil. He smiled and stepped slowly over to the small congregation, his wide toothy grin striking the group with unparalleled fear.
The guards split into two groups of six, the first on either side of the seated king, the other blocking the exit to which Veon had entered. Veon smiled wider as the clinking and shuffling of the guards ceased, his fangs glinting beneath the chandelier above.
“King Gerald,” Veon’s silky smooth voice poured forward, caressing the people’s minds with a gentle touch. “ I thank you for your hospitality, and inviting me to your most humble abodes.”
He bowed low then stood straight and tall.
The lights seemed to dim and the fire wane. A cold chill swept through the room, engulfing the room in near darkness.
King Gerald watched in awe at his swirling breath before him. He looked up suddenly into the unforgiving eyes before him.
Thoughts swirled through his mind but none he could seize. His mind’s eye was blind and its vision blank. In the near dark he swore he saw those crimson eyes glow but he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“You..red-eyed-one.” King Gerald stuttered. “Leave at once. You. You are not welcome in my home.” He swayed and rubbed his temples sorely. His head throbbed and his eyes bloodshot, bulged slightly.
“But sire, it is you who summoned me.”
The king’s guests looked back and forth, following the conversation intently.
“I have done no such thing!” King Gerald retorted.
“Oh but you have. Let me educate you.” Veon said in the most condescending voice he could muster without being directly rude. “I sent you an invitation a month ago did I not? And you, being the majestic ruler you are, deigned it unworthy of your presence and returned it, crumpled, torn, and spat on. So here I am, to ask you once more. Will you join my alliance of the Magi?”
King Gerald stood slowly and cracked his ringed knuckles and drank deeply or his wine. He stepped forward, passing his wall of guards, and stood inches away from his unwanted visitor. He stood nearly a head taller than Veon and his girth was as wide as two of the intruder. He smiled a wicked smile and leaned close to Veon.
“To hell with you and your Magi.” He sneered and spat in Veon’s face.
He roared with laughter, holding his belly and shaking with effort to control himself from doubling over in hilarity. His subjects followed suit and soon the room was full of guffaws and snickering.
“That is unfortunate.” Veon said at last, and wiped the spit from his eye. He stood silent several moments and looked upon the laughing crowd, blind from their hysterics.
King Gerald wiped tears from his eyes and straightened, still just a few inches from Veon. He smiled disdainfully and crossed his thick arms.
Veon smiled then, and lifted his goblet in the air.
“A toast then.” He paused. “To King Gerald, may he meet a quick end.” He finished, still holding his goblet high. The room was silent and the moment tense.
“Or not.” Veon said suddenly, shattering the silence and King Gerald’s skull as the pewter goblet struck his face, lifting him off his feet then landing in a heap.
Pandemonium erupted in the room as they soaked in what had just come to pass. Veon waited for them to react. The guards were first to understand.
They charged him without regard to order or formation and stumbled to get at him first. A pike man stabbed out at him from behind, catching his comrade in the throat as Veon ducked and swept to the side, dropping the goblet and brandishing his knuckles.
The guards chuckled and charged again.
Emerald flames engulfed the frontline of soldiers in a mesmerizing illumination, cooking them inside their armor and charring anything exposed. They collapsed roasting, and writhed in agony as their replacements stepped on them to get at the murderer.
Several axes and swords swung out at Veon’s torso and head, missing by an inch as he bobbed and weaved, casting out sparks of lightning at the attackers, blasting a man off his feet across the room. He reached out and caught a mace, wrenched it from the man’s grasp and smashed in his face.
The remaining guests did nothing more than scream and watch in horror, aside from dodging an air borne body, frozen by fear.
The last guard stood alone as his brother in arms thrashed about, attempting to remove his own armored hand from the inside of his belly. He backed away from his screaming comrade and assailant, quivering in his plated mail. He dropped his axe and ran away from them. He looked back at them and saw Veon still standing there, then turned quickly, into the sword held out by Veon.
His eyes bulged as he looked back at his silent friend now alone, then to the sword which impaled him. He looked pleading at Veon then to the horrified group of onlookers staring at his feet. He followed their gaze and blanched yet more.
Veon effortlessly heaved the impaled soldier into the air and jolted the sword violently, ripping the blade through the man’s side and out. The broken body dropped and slumped with a splash.
The room went silent as a church and more depressing than a graveyard. Men lay scattered about the room, some bloodied, others smoldering. Blood pools smeared and streaked the entire great hall and the stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air.
Veon breathed deeply.
The castle shuddered then with an immense power, the stones rippling beneath Veon’s hand. He smiled, bowed and left quietly, leaving all those alive in shock.
The people mourned freely now and wept over those they had lost. Screams and deep inhalations uttered through sobbing grew unanimous among the guests as they stared at the king’s body, a dark stain about his head.
Just as the cries reached a climax, a loud explosion swept through the castle, flames roaring through the halls and swelling into every room eating up all furniture and people alike, incinerating everything in its path. Growing in apprehension, the mourners stood unsteadily, watching the great hall exit flicker, just as a blinding light filled the room.
The castle imploded in a blinding flash, flames and debris filling the ominous sky with dazzling cinders raining down among stone. A pillar of smoke plumed high, camouflaging perfectly. The repercussions shook the land and blew down all the trees nearby. Burning rubble fell and cast their emerald tongues of torch across the deadened land.
The rubble and remains of the castle sat utterly destroyed, burning beneath immense flames of dazzling emerald fire. The blackened world grew even darker and all light vanished, consumed by the night.
Desolate and deprived of life, the land watched as Veon departed into the misty smoke ahead, eyes blazing.
“Invitation rejected.”
Their Hunt - Prologue
Their Hunt
Prologue:
The pale moon shone high behind grey clouds, casting a foreboding glow across the land. The trees whispered of dark tales in hushed voices hidden by the rustling of the leaves as they followed the howling wind. Animals dug deeper into their burrows and clung to their dreams to escape reality’s harsh storm. A lone wolf prowls into the darkness.
Tonight, was a dangerous night to be out.
Eyes dug into his back wherever he went, as the stars counted down his seconds. The very forest itself seemed to hold its breath as he drew deeper into its bowels. Danger watched around every corner as he slunk from tree to tree. A beast lurked nearby, paying little attention to anything save his kill.
His eyes bored into the creature below.
Eight feet tall, three hundred pounds of hulking fury armed with a thick wooly hide and claws that would make daggers dull. Not to mention the four rows of serrated teeth capable of crushing steel. Capable or lunging to the treetops in a single bound and running down a deer before tiring in the slightest.
He moved.
Leaping from his perch atop a nearby cliff, he fell upon the demon, blade drawn, and drove it deep into its’ neck. Instantly the monster roared and lashed out about him, unable to reach the boy atop his back. Infuriated, he accepted the challenge and bounded into the air, thrashing and swirling its long body.
The boy gripped its’ blood soaked fur around the entry wound where his spear remained jutting from it at a crude angle.
The onslaught continued for several minutes in the prey’s blind fury. Though it was much faster, stronger, and an unparalleled hunter itself, it would fall to the boy as his catch, the Hunter becoming the hunted.
The struggling pair dove through the forest at an alarming rate, speeding past trees and hills in a dark, snow covered blur. The boy’s eyes burned from the chill air whipping across his face, and cracked his lips as he frowned in concentration. He squeezed his watering eyes tighter and laid his head as low as he dared to his unwilling mount’s back. The furious repetitions of thick rippling muscle beneath its hide jarred him with every step and reminded him of how dire his situation had become.
He had expected a fight, but never thought it would last a half hour. He couldn’t help but admire his fellow hunter’s endurance. He watched in suppressed awe at its’ perfectly suited body.
A flat angular head like that of a cougar, but with a large broad body of a bear cloaked in white fur to camouflage into the snow. Its’ snout was short and its mouth wide with powerful jaws and a short neck. Its arms reached its knees and its legs the same length as its torso. Thick fur protected its’ already armored hide and claws matched with superb strength and speed kept it a deadly opponent to even the most trained.
This is an adult Kera, he realized in dismay.
The boy had been tracking an adolescent recently and must have followed the wrong trail in the blizzard. His mistake would be costly if he fell or got hurt. The Elders would never allow him to trek alone again until he reached manhood in two years.
Or, he soon pictured, they might make me an advanced student and award me for my courage and skill.
In all his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the Kera was slowing down considerably, a crimson stain stretching from its neck to its flanks. It toppled suddenly, slinging the boy off his back, and both landing hard upon the ice.
The boy’s spear snapped with a loud crack, leaving only the top foot of the shaft protruding.
With a deafening echo, the ice shattered upstream and began pulling apart. The wounded Kera crawled off to land and collapsed, but the boy was left unconscious atop a small island of frost.
He awoke slowly and opened his eyes,
He saw great plains of white and a river flowing past him lazily. His kill lie peacefully in the snow and he found nothing broken miraculously. His spear shaft passed by in a gentle bob as he smiled and stood, bones aching from the cold with muscles sore and cramped from the ride. He steadied himself and grinned widely.
I’ve done it! I can’t believe it!
His high spirits quickly faded as he took in his surroundings.
Sitting alone on a chunk of ice as he floated downstream, slowly but surely approaching a waterfall, and too far from either shore to make it to land. The snow began falling in sheets, plastering to his clothes and weighing him down severely. He crouched low to his feet as the snow piled onto him.
He looked about for a way closer and found a small tree protruding from the water nearby. He readied himself carefully until he reached it and leaped for the branch. Underestimating the added weight from the snow and slipping, the branch cracked with a wet smack, and he plunged into the river.
An entourage of bubbles massed around him and squirmed as they floated to the surface. A deep darkness was about him yet the ceiling was a fluorescent golden white cast overhead.
It’s so beautiful, he thought as he floated into non-existence.
Instantly his muscles constricted and he sunk like a stone. Bright lights wavered above his head and shone like rays from the heavens. He struck out wildly for something to support him and found only the branch. His head swam and felt fuzzy. He tasted metal and his mouth felt like someone had shoved cotton down his throat. His arms and legs like lead and his eyes anchors. He could feel his lungs about to burst and wished he had taken a larger breath.
Just as he felt himself slipping away, his feet touched ground and cold air whipped across his drenched body. Vigorous shivers racked his body and his hands trembled terribly. His head ached and throbbed like a war drum. He rolled onto his side and vomited up water, shaking uncontrollably.
He hesitantly looked up expecting the stern gaze of his kin, but found no one.
He had been alone the entire time.
* * * * *
He began the long trek home slowly.
His catch was gone and his body frozen stiff. Only the remnants of his spear sat in the stained snow. He would camp soon and hope he was dry before he reached home tomorrow evening. His site was over twenty leagues from his home in the Outlands camp where his tribe remained.
The Outlands were an unforgiving place and it took four tribes of a clan to function properly. Each with its own set of skills and trades. He knew he would receive a lecture for returning empty handed and with several cuts and bruises apparent across his body.
He made a fire that night and sat nearly against the embers. His small shelter spared him the snow, but shared no sentiment against the merciless winter wind. The breeze sliced through his soaked fur clothing like a spear and kept him from all but hugging the fire.
He slept hard, wary of the cold, and woke later than he had hoped. His body protested as he stood and began to roll up his blankets and spearhead. The slightest movement sent a shock through his body, making his every movement wary and careful.
Beginning the walk home after packing, he carried the branch with the end smoldering, just in case, and cursed his stupidity in as many words he could think of; even those he didn’t understand.
The walk was a long and arduous journey as he traveled against the wind. He passed plain after plain of snow covered hills and forest. Tall, wide trees the size of mountains littered the majority of the land and life sprung from them.
Great clouds drifted by overhead foreshadowing rain and snow to come.
Almost storm season, the boy realized.
The sun was just beginning to set behind the Hinrur Mountains to the west when he spotted his home in the distance.
About ten leagues ahead, down into a valley surrounded by great woods on all sides, sat his home. The Outlands Camp it was called, though it was really a town. Different trades of all sort and merchants who dared traverse the Outland set up shop regularly and business thrived. It was just as large as a small peasant village and children roamed with parents busy working. Tents replaced houses however from whence the name Camp, derived.
He looked longingly as his home and wondered if he would be allowed back. His heart fluttered and his eyes sunk. He tried to mentally prepare himself for what was to come, but no protection did he find. His mistake was his and his only. It was only right for him to pay retribution.
He sat his pack down wearily and stared down at the bloodied blade of his ruined weapon.
Here goes nothing.
Prologue:
The pale moon shone high behind grey clouds, casting a foreboding glow across the land. The trees whispered of dark tales in hushed voices hidden by the rustling of the leaves as they followed the howling wind. Animals dug deeper into their burrows and clung to their dreams to escape reality’s harsh storm. A lone wolf prowls into the darkness.
Tonight, was a dangerous night to be out.
Eyes dug into his back wherever he went, as the stars counted down his seconds. The very forest itself seemed to hold its breath as he drew deeper into its bowels. Danger watched around every corner as he slunk from tree to tree. A beast lurked nearby, paying little attention to anything save his kill.
His eyes bored into the creature below.
Eight feet tall, three hundred pounds of hulking fury armed with a thick wooly hide and claws that would make daggers dull. Not to mention the four rows of serrated teeth capable of crushing steel. Capable or lunging to the treetops in a single bound and running down a deer before tiring in the slightest.
He moved.
Leaping from his perch atop a nearby cliff, he fell upon the demon, blade drawn, and drove it deep into its’ neck. Instantly the monster roared and lashed out about him, unable to reach the boy atop his back. Infuriated, he accepted the challenge and bounded into the air, thrashing and swirling its long body.
The boy gripped its’ blood soaked fur around the entry wound where his spear remained jutting from it at a crude angle.
The onslaught continued for several minutes in the prey’s blind fury. Though it was much faster, stronger, and an unparalleled hunter itself, it would fall to the boy as his catch, the Hunter becoming the hunted.
The struggling pair dove through the forest at an alarming rate, speeding past trees and hills in a dark, snow covered blur. The boy’s eyes burned from the chill air whipping across his face, and cracked his lips as he frowned in concentration. He squeezed his watering eyes tighter and laid his head as low as he dared to his unwilling mount’s back. The furious repetitions of thick rippling muscle beneath its hide jarred him with every step and reminded him of how dire his situation had become.
He had expected a fight, but never thought it would last a half hour. He couldn’t help but admire his fellow hunter’s endurance. He watched in suppressed awe at its’ perfectly suited body.
A flat angular head like that of a cougar, but with a large broad body of a bear cloaked in white fur to camouflage into the snow. Its’ snout was short and its mouth wide with powerful jaws and a short neck. Its arms reached its knees and its legs the same length as its torso. Thick fur protected its’ already armored hide and claws matched with superb strength and speed kept it a deadly opponent to even the most trained.
This is an adult Kera, he realized in dismay.
The boy had been tracking an adolescent recently and must have followed the wrong trail in the blizzard. His mistake would be costly if he fell or got hurt. The Elders would never allow him to trek alone again until he reached manhood in two years.
Or, he soon pictured, they might make me an advanced student and award me for my courage and skill.
In all his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the Kera was slowing down considerably, a crimson stain stretching from its neck to its flanks. It toppled suddenly, slinging the boy off his back, and both landing hard upon the ice.
The boy’s spear snapped with a loud crack, leaving only the top foot of the shaft protruding.
With a deafening echo, the ice shattered upstream and began pulling apart. The wounded Kera crawled off to land and collapsed, but the boy was left unconscious atop a small island of frost.
He awoke slowly and opened his eyes,
He saw great plains of white and a river flowing past him lazily. His kill lie peacefully in the snow and he found nothing broken miraculously. His spear shaft passed by in a gentle bob as he smiled and stood, bones aching from the cold with muscles sore and cramped from the ride. He steadied himself and grinned widely.
I’ve done it! I can’t believe it!
His high spirits quickly faded as he took in his surroundings.
Sitting alone on a chunk of ice as he floated downstream, slowly but surely approaching a waterfall, and too far from either shore to make it to land. The snow began falling in sheets, plastering to his clothes and weighing him down severely. He crouched low to his feet as the snow piled onto him.
He looked about for a way closer and found a small tree protruding from the water nearby. He readied himself carefully until he reached it and leaped for the branch. Underestimating the added weight from the snow and slipping, the branch cracked with a wet smack, and he plunged into the river.
An entourage of bubbles massed around him and squirmed as they floated to the surface. A deep darkness was about him yet the ceiling was a fluorescent golden white cast overhead.
It’s so beautiful, he thought as he floated into non-existence.
Instantly his muscles constricted and he sunk like a stone. Bright lights wavered above his head and shone like rays from the heavens. He struck out wildly for something to support him and found only the branch. His head swam and felt fuzzy. He tasted metal and his mouth felt like someone had shoved cotton down his throat. His arms and legs like lead and his eyes anchors. He could feel his lungs about to burst and wished he had taken a larger breath.
Just as he felt himself slipping away, his feet touched ground and cold air whipped across his drenched body. Vigorous shivers racked his body and his hands trembled terribly. His head ached and throbbed like a war drum. He rolled onto his side and vomited up water, shaking uncontrollably.
He hesitantly looked up expecting the stern gaze of his kin, but found no one.
He had been alone the entire time.
* * * * *
He began the long trek home slowly.
His catch was gone and his body frozen stiff. Only the remnants of his spear sat in the stained snow. He would camp soon and hope he was dry before he reached home tomorrow evening. His site was over twenty leagues from his home in the Outlands camp where his tribe remained.
The Outlands were an unforgiving place and it took four tribes of a clan to function properly. Each with its own set of skills and trades. He knew he would receive a lecture for returning empty handed and with several cuts and bruises apparent across his body.
He made a fire that night and sat nearly against the embers. His small shelter spared him the snow, but shared no sentiment against the merciless winter wind. The breeze sliced through his soaked fur clothing like a spear and kept him from all but hugging the fire.
He slept hard, wary of the cold, and woke later than he had hoped. His body protested as he stood and began to roll up his blankets and spearhead. The slightest movement sent a shock through his body, making his every movement wary and careful.
Beginning the walk home after packing, he carried the branch with the end smoldering, just in case, and cursed his stupidity in as many words he could think of; even those he didn’t understand.
The walk was a long and arduous journey as he traveled against the wind. He passed plain after plain of snow covered hills and forest. Tall, wide trees the size of mountains littered the majority of the land and life sprung from them.
Great clouds drifted by overhead foreshadowing rain and snow to come.
Almost storm season, the boy realized.
The sun was just beginning to set behind the Hinrur Mountains to the west when he spotted his home in the distance.
About ten leagues ahead, down into a valley surrounded by great woods on all sides, sat his home. The Outlands Camp it was called, though it was really a town. Different trades of all sort and merchants who dared traverse the Outland set up shop regularly and business thrived. It was just as large as a small peasant village and children roamed with parents busy working. Tents replaced houses however from whence the name Camp, derived.
He looked longingly as his home and wondered if he would be allowed back. His heart fluttered and his eyes sunk. He tried to mentally prepare himself for what was to come, but no protection did he find. His mistake was his and his only. It was only right for him to pay retribution.
He sat his pack down wearily and stared down at the bloodied blade of his ruined weapon.
Here goes nothing.
The Shepard - Chapter One
Day One
I’ve joined the Alliance and become a Walker. Basic was pretty easy for the most part but I still don’t like guns too much. Maybe if I’d grown up with ‘em I’d be better but I passed. I’ve been put on recycling detail as well, to search for anything worth repairing. I’ve been told to find aluminum to repair the generator for the hospital and glue. If clothes are found they should be brought to the HQ and reported.
--2018
Walker S-13 (Codename Sheppard)
The first rains since the Wall went up over City. Mobsters and perverts always running amuck. City has really gone down hill. Not to mention all these god damn power outages every couple of hours. It’s a constant war over at the Power Plant, three, four guys always turn up dead each week. It’s a damn shame.
Half the kids ‘round here don’t even know what a hamburger looks like. I told this kid around the block I’ll get him one ‘fore I die. Hope I can keep my promise.
My radio buzzed, crackling in a way I imagined my TV would right now if it worked. I double checked the buckle fastening it to my belt and turned the volume down. I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me.
“S-13, you’re needed back out at the Waterfront. Return a.s.a.p. and report back through Q-09.”
A short groan later, I was running down the street in the pouring rain, my scavenged combat armor consisting of a holey bullet proof vest and BDU’s found in the police dumpster, were soaked through and weighed me down, my boots dragging over the sidewalk’s cement.
Newspapers lay plastered and torn to the ground among bullet holes and random items of detritus. Clothing and small items of no value lay scattered about, the streets a hollow reminder of what once was and never will be. Windows of the tall buildings on either side stood like scripture on a tombstone. A chill breeze blew through me and carried on, uncaring to the bowels of City.
A door in an alleyway flew open then, bouncing off the brick wall its hinges called home and struck the man giving chase. A dark figure pushed past me and bounded over a park bench and rolled to a street level window, slipping into its dark recesses and disappeared.
The man stumbled to me and looked this way then that, turning on me in his rage.
“Where’d it go!? I know you saw!” He bellowed into my face, spittle washing down my face in the rain and veins bulging in his neck. His purple face beheld hate filled eyes and a beak-like nose, long, gnarled fingers like tree roots and a bald head with the palest of skin. He smelled of leather and smoke, his teeth yellowed and spotted.
“Sir?” I said then continued walking, his dumbfounded expression smoldering in frustration. A click behind me took hold of my legs and forced me to stop. I turned to find the eye of a gun studying me. A calm, steady hand raised.
“Let’s try this again, ya’ damn freak.” He sneered and smiled crudely. “Where did it go?” He said slowly, waving the gun from my stomach to face.
“Behind you.”
A sickening crack split the tense moment as the man’s head split from ear to scalp. He gasped and collapsed, the .45 clattering to the ground which I then “misplaced” into my pocket.
The dark figure stood behind the crumpled heap between us and tossed the lead pipe to the gutter, turning on its’ heel and nimbly sped off, long thin legs splashing down the cold streets of City.
I looked down to the unconscious man and found two wallets in his pocket. One with nothing but cash and a crumpled old subway pass, the other the ID of a young woman with dark hair and piercing green eyes. I took both and dropped the wallets beside the man who stirred and clenched a fist.
After deciding to leave the man there, I continued to the Waterfront and quickened my pace as the sun began to dip behind the Wall. Great shadows
I’ve joined the Alliance and become a Walker. Basic was pretty easy for the most part but I still don’t like guns too much. Maybe if I’d grown up with ‘em I’d be better but I passed. I’ve been put on recycling detail as well, to search for anything worth repairing. I’ve been told to find aluminum to repair the generator for the hospital and glue. If clothes are found they should be brought to the HQ and reported.
--2018
Walker S-13 (Codename Sheppard)
The first rains since the Wall went up over City. Mobsters and perverts always running amuck. City has really gone down hill. Not to mention all these god damn power outages every couple of hours. It’s a constant war over at the Power Plant, three, four guys always turn up dead each week. It’s a damn shame.
Half the kids ‘round here don’t even know what a hamburger looks like. I told this kid around the block I’ll get him one ‘fore I die. Hope I can keep my promise.
My radio buzzed, crackling in a way I imagined my TV would right now if it worked. I double checked the buckle fastening it to my belt and turned the volume down. I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me.
“S-13, you’re needed back out at the Waterfront. Return a.s.a.p. and report back through Q-09.”
A short groan later, I was running down the street in the pouring rain, my scavenged combat armor consisting of a holey bullet proof vest and BDU’s found in the police dumpster, were soaked through and weighed me down, my boots dragging over the sidewalk’s cement.
Newspapers lay plastered and torn to the ground among bullet holes and random items of detritus. Clothing and small items of no value lay scattered about, the streets a hollow reminder of what once was and never will be. Windows of the tall buildings on either side stood like scripture on a tombstone. A chill breeze blew through me and carried on, uncaring to the bowels of City.
A door in an alleyway flew open then, bouncing off the brick wall its hinges called home and struck the man giving chase. A dark figure pushed past me and bounded over a park bench and rolled to a street level window, slipping into its dark recesses and disappeared.
The man stumbled to me and looked this way then that, turning on me in his rage.
“Where’d it go!? I know you saw!” He bellowed into my face, spittle washing down my face in the rain and veins bulging in his neck. His purple face beheld hate filled eyes and a beak-like nose, long, gnarled fingers like tree roots and a bald head with the palest of skin. He smelled of leather and smoke, his teeth yellowed and spotted.
“Sir?” I said then continued walking, his dumbfounded expression smoldering in frustration. A click behind me took hold of my legs and forced me to stop. I turned to find the eye of a gun studying me. A calm, steady hand raised.
“Let’s try this again, ya’ damn freak.” He sneered and smiled crudely. “Where did it go?” He said slowly, waving the gun from my stomach to face.
“Behind you.”
A sickening crack split the tense moment as the man’s head split from ear to scalp. He gasped and collapsed, the .45 clattering to the ground which I then “misplaced” into my pocket.
The dark figure stood behind the crumpled heap between us and tossed the lead pipe to the gutter, turning on its’ heel and nimbly sped off, long thin legs splashing down the cold streets of City.
I looked down to the unconscious man and found two wallets in his pocket. One with nothing but cash and a crumpled old subway pass, the other the ID of a young woman with dark hair and piercing green eyes. I took both and dropped the wallets beside the man who stirred and clenched a fist.
After deciding to leave the man there, I continued to the Waterfront and quickened my pace as the sun began to dip behind the Wall. Great shadows
The Shepard - Prologue
In the event of discovery, this note should be burned or digested.
January 2nd, 2010
No contact from deployed teams. New York City has begun evacuation despite the fortifications being made.
March 19th, 2010
Military begins quarantine of New York and orders all operations through the city be shut down, and all work diverted to constructing the Wall.
August 14th, 2010
The Wall successfully separates the city from all surrounding states, leaving it open to only Lake Ontario. New York descends into a depression. Only three thousand people remain in the city with little work other than the most basic of things.
September 11th, 2010
Police forces disband as crime and rioting grow to unparalleled proportions. More and more sightings of the Mob appear as the body count rises.
November 1st, 2010
The Mob and its descendents of organized crime take over the city and run its entirety through the Black Market.
December 24th, 2010
The two largest Christian chapels are destroyed through arson, over six hundred people inside.
December 29th, 2010
Ex-Sherriff Joseph Walker finds the remnants of his police force and gathers volunteers for a new team.
February 1, 2011
The new team, called “Walkers” begin the first opposition directly enacted against the Mob’s operations with a raid on their still developing slave the Walkers to seek the New York Resistance’s assistance.
--NOTE: Battles rage almost daily between the Alliance and the Mob’s new formation as Liberty’s Tears, and leave the city war torn as more and more firepower and weaponry is found.
January 2nd, 2010
No contact from deployed teams. New York City has begun evacuation despite the fortifications being made.
March 19th, 2010
Military begins quarantine of New York and orders all operations through the city be shut down, and all work diverted to constructing the Wall.
August 14th, 2010
The Wall successfully separates the city from all surrounding states, leaving it open to only Lake Ontario. New York descends into a depression. Only three thousand people remain in the city with little work other than the most basic of things.
September 11th, 2010
Police forces disband as crime and rioting grow to unparalleled proportions. More and more sightings of the Mob appear as the body count rises.
November 1st, 2010
The Mob and its descendents of organized crime take over the city and run its entirety through the Black Market.
December 24th, 2010
The two largest Christian chapels are destroyed through arson, over six hundred people inside.
December 29th, 2010
Ex-Sherriff Joseph Walker finds the remnants of his police force and gathers volunteers for a new team.
February 1, 2011
The new team, called “Walkers” begin the first opposition directly enacted against the Mob’s operations with a raid on their still developing slave the Walkers to seek the New York Resistance’s assistance.
--NOTE: Battles rage almost daily between the Alliance and the Mob’s new formation as Liberty’s Tears, and leave the city war torn as more and more firepower and weaponry is found.
The Debt All Men Paid - Prologue
This one is a spin-off I started from Hooley's story The Debt All Men Pay. Mine is within the same story in the beginning and parallels his, then was planned to move off into the future; hence the past tense version of the title.
The booming grew louder and louder as we climbed the staircase, panting and sweating inside our Nanite Armor. I could feel the stone steps rumble and quiver beneath my feet, whether in fear or of repercussion. The red fire escape door stood at the end, the very top of the two hundred and thirty-eight story skyscraper in downtown. I was the first in the group, throwing open the red door and taking point on the roof, glassing the surrounding buildings through my sniper rifle. All was in Hell just as it should be so I waved the others on.
They filed through, covering the perimeter of the roof and returning fire only. It was all a blur. Shooting in every direction at enemy drones too far to see clearly open sighted and awaiting the big bug we knew was coming. But it seemed to appear out of thin air despite its immense size and girth. A large creature covered in head to tail in scales and spikes stood, crawling by belching acid from its serrated gullet and squealed at an alarming frequency, hundreds of windows shattering in unison. We looked to our Gunnery Sergeant, Gunny Steeles, for orders.
Steeles bellowed at us from behind his visor, even behind the black glass I knew his face was purple and that vein bulging on his forehead. I followed after him down the stairs as the Shrieker screamed in pain. The sound made my eyes bulge, slowing me on the stairs in which I tripped and fell an entire flight. Now the last man coming down, I sprinted outside to witness the Shrieker’s attack. I stepped out from the skyscraper’s dark lobby to the bright sunlit street.
Something small in comparison and gray hung from the Shrieker’s spiked back, moving and writhing with something. I peered through the scope of my rifle and dropped my gum onto my chin.
York?
There hung York, his right arm impaled on the spike, blood oozing from his armor, his left arm pulling at his chest. He ripped his grenade belt from its fasteners and slung it into the beast’s open mouth. Just then York fell, thudding into the ground with a smack and laid motionless.
All went silent. Then, in a great flash and deafening boom, the Shrieker exploded casting gore across the block, acid raining on us with the sound of a thousand footsteps. Steeles roared through our intercom, barely audible, and began dragging an unconscious York, a small piece of metal in his back. I saw the building behind the smoldering remains shattered and crumbling, great heaps of glass and metal plummeting to the road. All around us was chaos, the sounds of our running and breathing masked by the constant drone and rumbles from the destruction behind. We threw ourselves through the door, back into the dark lobby, and sat in wait.
Steeles was furious, dumbfounded, by York’s course of action. He rambled on and on about the stupidity countering his courage and mumbled to himself every few minutes. The rest of the recruits lounged about, exhausted and terrified, myself being no different. I was just another F.N.G. as Steeles called me, a number. SD-thirteen-oh-eight,’ Private First Class’ Crew, eight-hundred first Squadron.
I had it memorized by the second day of Boot and knew it by heart on the third. They prepared us to fight to the death and to die in a fight, in either order, but it was nothing like this. Nothing could have ever prepared us to fight something like the Grell. Let alone a Shrieker. No, Boot was nothing more than being stripped of your name, life, and freedom, and being given a number, rank, and squad. I had been assigned Sniper Drone-thirteen-oh-eight and told to forget everything but my training and my new brand, which was tattooed on my inner left wrist and on the back of my neck.
Real hard to remember that.
We sat impatiently, awaiting orders and the culmination of the rotting building outside. Steeles and our medic, Daringer, continued to buzz around York checking his arm and back and shaking their heads, all while muttering to each other with visors raised to cut off radio chatter. York was still out like a broken light bulb and appeared to be crippled in impact foam. But it was his arm and back that held the most attention. Both were already scabbed over and healing from the nanites in our armor, but remained open to the elements, torn straight through the armor itself.
A small, mousy recruit beside me said to leave him here, sparking Steele’s legendary rage yet once again. I lifted my visor to put my gum back in my mouth and set it back over my face to muffle their talking. At least those with their visors open. The others held a private conversation discussing whether to follow Gunny or to leave York and him here to be bait. I remained silent, knowing the pros and cons without debate.
Pros; we leave without attracting the infrared Seeking Grell.
Cons; we commit treason and make an enemy of Gunny.
I choose the Grell.
I lifted my visor once the conversation grew tedious and the uproar of the volcano that is Gunny was over and now simmering. I waited patiently as I had learned in sniper training and tried to control my breathing, counting my heart beats and taking account of my limbs for any damage.
Nothing but a few new dings and bullet holes in my armor so far. Thank God for the new models and their magnetic bullet repelling plates. I surmised as I scratched at a long thin scratch down my arm. Slowly, the men began to pull into rank and separate as Steeles commanded. I pulled back out of my thoughts and into the room.
“Crew, you and these three,” He motioned at Darian and the two men beside him, “Go downstairs to the generator and turn the power back on. Now, before the bugs come in after York’s exposed body heat!”
I stood immediately and pulled an about face to the back of the lobby. An old rusted door stood in the far corner, chain holding it shut. I gave it a swift kick and it flew open, banging against the cement wall on the other side, revealing a dark room smelling of mold and mildew.
“Here we go, boys.”
I stepped down the grimy stone, descending into darkness as the temperature grew colder and colder. I flicked on my visor’s night vision and loaded my Magnum Raider, all nine bullets in the revolving chamber glowing slightly. I relished the weight of the revolver, assuring me, as I walked deeper into the abandoned hospital basement.
Everywhere I looked revealed dripping brick walls and old cleaning items covered in thick fuzzy mold. Numerous empty cans littered the floor and floated in the half foot of black, stagnant water. We splashed through it slowly, eyeing this way and that in a V formation. Someone had to put the chain on the door to keep something out, or in.
The ripples of something ahead shook and quivered around my shins.
Just then a brief flash of light sparked the midnight basement, an intense boom echoing off every wall and surrounding us in a disheartening chatter. A bullet whizzed past my head, the vapor trail in the drenched air visible. I thanked God once again for the water-proof armor and threw myself into it, leaning low against the wall. The other followed suit and hid behind random mid-sized objects.
I opened fire, each shot a concussive boom across the basement. The dark water was cast in a festival of light with each shot like that of the lake during the fourth of July long ago. The flashes of gunfire behind me moved closer and closer and I knew we were pressing forward. I stood and walked swiftly, firing and reloading into the darkness ahead with a practiced liquidity.
The firing ahead ceased and all fell silent, the surprisingly large basement stirring only with the ripples of the dank wastes. A red tint was found in the blackness and the corpses of several grubs were half submerged, staining it yet more. We passed them, cautiously and grimaced as the water grew deeper and deeper until we were wading waist deep in it. Over a dozen corpses floated around us in the pitch black, only for our night vision could we press on.
We continued through until we were midway into the room, the two dozen corpses gliding by on all sides. Up ahead to the far right were several steps ascending from the water, another door atop them with the words Generator Room written in red words. The first sign of hope seemed to illuminate the drowned cemetery.
Time stopped.
I turned my head, the numerous grubs exploding from the water in seemingly frozen torrents and splashes. I looked at them, eyes wide and coal colored above their flat scaled face and open mouth revealing fangs and two tongues. Their armor was soaked and made of what appeared to be a natural metal like tungsten. They had great arms and stood at seven feet tall with powerful strength and stamina. Their pale skin looked like paper yet stood as tough as leather, three fingers as large as bratwursts gripped a more sentient version of our common weaponry, small changes and tweaks and a crude paintjob like that of mud.
Then my instincts took over and brought back time, causing my head to swerve to the side, a hailstorm of bullets in its place, and leaped into the water, submerging completely and kicking wildly to make as much distance between me and them.
My head swelled and my mind raced, frantic thoughts slowing me and panic numbing my limbs like dead weights. I sank and gasped for air, swallowing what last lungful my visor held in an emergency, and watched the pretty lights dance in front of me.
But even as I was ready to disappear into darkness and drift away, a hand ripped from my solitude, bursting through the surface. I coughed and sucked in the damp air, hearing once again the sounds of warfare. Gunfire and roars met my ears, drowning out any thoughts I once had. I instead once again followed my instincts, pulling my magnum out and mindlessly allowing my body to perform its functions.
I snapped to and fro, firing single rounds into each dark figure, reloading in one movement and walking forward slowly, ignoring any rounds that glanced off my armor or impacted with a thud. I shrugged off the bruises and pushed forward as what my mind told me were enemies dropped into the crimson water.
What seemed like a second later, the delusion was over, my mind suddenly cleared. I stumbled and looked about, the ruby water raised to my chest from the number of bodies. I swallowed hard and turned to my comrades.
They had a few bullet holes each but none penetrated. I was sure beneath their visors all were giving me the same incredulous expression. But I had no time to explain nor did I have an answer in which to do so. So I waved them on and ran through the water as fast I could, suddenly exhausted. I burst through the door dripping blood not my own and sighed as the generator sat covered in cobwebs as if it had never been activated once. I pulled the lever down with more force than necessary and scowled as it rumbled to life with a shaky start.
“Well,” I said curtly, “ power’s on.”
The booming grew louder and louder as we climbed the staircase, panting and sweating inside our Nanite Armor. I could feel the stone steps rumble and quiver beneath my feet, whether in fear or of repercussion. The red fire escape door stood at the end, the very top of the two hundred and thirty-eight story skyscraper in downtown. I was the first in the group, throwing open the red door and taking point on the roof, glassing the surrounding buildings through my sniper rifle. All was in Hell just as it should be so I waved the others on.
They filed through, covering the perimeter of the roof and returning fire only. It was all a blur. Shooting in every direction at enemy drones too far to see clearly open sighted and awaiting the big bug we knew was coming. But it seemed to appear out of thin air despite its immense size and girth. A large creature covered in head to tail in scales and spikes stood, crawling by belching acid from its serrated gullet and squealed at an alarming frequency, hundreds of windows shattering in unison. We looked to our Gunnery Sergeant, Gunny Steeles, for orders.
Steeles bellowed at us from behind his visor, even behind the black glass I knew his face was purple and that vein bulging on his forehead. I followed after him down the stairs as the Shrieker screamed in pain. The sound made my eyes bulge, slowing me on the stairs in which I tripped and fell an entire flight. Now the last man coming down, I sprinted outside to witness the Shrieker’s attack. I stepped out from the skyscraper’s dark lobby to the bright sunlit street.
Something small in comparison and gray hung from the Shrieker’s spiked back, moving and writhing with something. I peered through the scope of my rifle and dropped my gum onto my chin.
York?
There hung York, his right arm impaled on the spike, blood oozing from his armor, his left arm pulling at his chest. He ripped his grenade belt from its fasteners and slung it into the beast’s open mouth. Just then York fell, thudding into the ground with a smack and laid motionless.
All went silent. Then, in a great flash and deafening boom, the Shrieker exploded casting gore across the block, acid raining on us with the sound of a thousand footsteps. Steeles roared through our intercom, barely audible, and began dragging an unconscious York, a small piece of metal in his back. I saw the building behind the smoldering remains shattered and crumbling, great heaps of glass and metal plummeting to the road. All around us was chaos, the sounds of our running and breathing masked by the constant drone and rumbles from the destruction behind. We threw ourselves through the door, back into the dark lobby, and sat in wait.
Steeles was furious, dumbfounded, by York’s course of action. He rambled on and on about the stupidity countering his courage and mumbled to himself every few minutes. The rest of the recruits lounged about, exhausted and terrified, myself being no different. I was just another F.N.G. as Steeles called me, a number. SD-thirteen-oh-eight,’ Private First Class’ Crew, eight-hundred first Squadron.
I had it memorized by the second day of Boot and knew it by heart on the third. They prepared us to fight to the death and to die in a fight, in either order, but it was nothing like this. Nothing could have ever prepared us to fight something like the Grell. Let alone a Shrieker. No, Boot was nothing more than being stripped of your name, life, and freedom, and being given a number, rank, and squad. I had been assigned Sniper Drone-thirteen-oh-eight and told to forget everything but my training and my new brand, which was tattooed on my inner left wrist and on the back of my neck.
Real hard to remember that.
We sat impatiently, awaiting orders and the culmination of the rotting building outside. Steeles and our medic, Daringer, continued to buzz around York checking his arm and back and shaking their heads, all while muttering to each other with visors raised to cut off radio chatter. York was still out like a broken light bulb and appeared to be crippled in impact foam. But it was his arm and back that held the most attention. Both were already scabbed over and healing from the nanites in our armor, but remained open to the elements, torn straight through the armor itself.
A small, mousy recruit beside me said to leave him here, sparking Steele’s legendary rage yet once again. I lifted my visor to put my gum back in my mouth and set it back over my face to muffle their talking. At least those with their visors open. The others held a private conversation discussing whether to follow Gunny or to leave York and him here to be bait. I remained silent, knowing the pros and cons without debate.
Pros; we leave without attracting the infrared Seeking Grell.
Cons; we commit treason and make an enemy of Gunny.
I choose the Grell.
I lifted my visor once the conversation grew tedious and the uproar of the volcano that is Gunny was over and now simmering. I waited patiently as I had learned in sniper training and tried to control my breathing, counting my heart beats and taking account of my limbs for any damage.
Nothing but a few new dings and bullet holes in my armor so far. Thank God for the new models and their magnetic bullet repelling plates. I surmised as I scratched at a long thin scratch down my arm. Slowly, the men began to pull into rank and separate as Steeles commanded. I pulled back out of my thoughts and into the room.
“Crew, you and these three,” He motioned at Darian and the two men beside him, “Go downstairs to the generator and turn the power back on. Now, before the bugs come in after York’s exposed body heat!”
I stood immediately and pulled an about face to the back of the lobby. An old rusted door stood in the far corner, chain holding it shut. I gave it a swift kick and it flew open, banging against the cement wall on the other side, revealing a dark room smelling of mold and mildew.
“Here we go, boys.”
I stepped down the grimy stone, descending into darkness as the temperature grew colder and colder. I flicked on my visor’s night vision and loaded my Magnum Raider, all nine bullets in the revolving chamber glowing slightly. I relished the weight of the revolver, assuring me, as I walked deeper into the abandoned hospital basement.
Everywhere I looked revealed dripping brick walls and old cleaning items covered in thick fuzzy mold. Numerous empty cans littered the floor and floated in the half foot of black, stagnant water. We splashed through it slowly, eyeing this way and that in a V formation. Someone had to put the chain on the door to keep something out, or in.
The ripples of something ahead shook and quivered around my shins.
Just then a brief flash of light sparked the midnight basement, an intense boom echoing off every wall and surrounding us in a disheartening chatter. A bullet whizzed past my head, the vapor trail in the drenched air visible. I thanked God once again for the water-proof armor and threw myself into it, leaning low against the wall. The other followed suit and hid behind random mid-sized objects.
I opened fire, each shot a concussive boom across the basement. The dark water was cast in a festival of light with each shot like that of the lake during the fourth of July long ago. The flashes of gunfire behind me moved closer and closer and I knew we were pressing forward. I stood and walked swiftly, firing and reloading into the darkness ahead with a practiced liquidity.
The firing ahead ceased and all fell silent, the surprisingly large basement stirring only with the ripples of the dank wastes. A red tint was found in the blackness and the corpses of several grubs were half submerged, staining it yet more. We passed them, cautiously and grimaced as the water grew deeper and deeper until we were wading waist deep in it. Over a dozen corpses floated around us in the pitch black, only for our night vision could we press on.
We continued through until we were midway into the room, the two dozen corpses gliding by on all sides. Up ahead to the far right were several steps ascending from the water, another door atop them with the words Generator Room written in red words. The first sign of hope seemed to illuminate the drowned cemetery.
Time stopped.
I turned my head, the numerous grubs exploding from the water in seemingly frozen torrents and splashes. I looked at them, eyes wide and coal colored above their flat scaled face and open mouth revealing fangs and two tongues. Their armor was soaked and made of what appeared to be a natural metal like tungsten. They had great arms and stood at seven feet tall with powerful strength and stamina. Their pale skin looked like paper yet stood as tough as leather, three fingers as large as bratwursts gripped a more sentient version of our common weaponry, small changes and tweaks and a crude paintjob like that of mud.
Then my instincts took over and brought back time, causing my head to swerve to the side, a hailstorm of bullets in its place, and leaped into the water, submerging completely and kicking wildly to make as much distance between me and them.
My head swelled and my mind raced, frantic thoughts slowing me and panic numbing my limbs like dead weights. I sank and gasped for air, swallowing what last lungful my visor held in an emergency, and watched the pretty lights dance in front of me.
But even as I was ready to disappear into darkness and drift away, a hand ripped from my solitude, bursting through the surface. I coughed and sucked in the damp air, hearing once again the sounds of warfare. Gunfire and roars met my ears, drowning out any thoughts I once had. I instead once again followed my instincts, pulling my magnum out and mindlessly allowing my body to perform its functions.
I snapped to and fro, firing single rounds into each dark figure, reloading in one movement and walking forward slowly, ignoring any rounds that glanced off my armor or impacted with a thud. I shrugged off the bruises and pushed forward as what my mind told me were enemies dropped into the crimson water.
What seemed like a second later, the delusion was over, my mind suddenly cleared. I stumbled and looked about, the ruby water raised to my chest from the number of bodies. I swallowed hard and turned to my comrades.
They had a few bullet holes each but none penetrated. I was sure beneath their visors all were giving me the same incredulous expression. But I had no time to explain nor did I have an answer in which to do so. So I waved them on and ran through the water as fast I could, suddenly exhausted. I burst through the door dripping blood not my own and sighed as the generator sat covered in cobwebs as if it had never been activated once. I pulled the lever down with more force than necessary and scowled as it rumbled to life with a shaky start.
“Well,” I said curtly, “ power’s on.”
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