Lucas Black of Down the Lane Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Graduation

The days crawled by slowly, time passing idly like wax down a candle. Lucas, as the flame, grew impatient and burned out quickly as the hours grew into days, grew into weeks, and grew into a fortnight. He attempted to busy himself with his journal and lessons each day, taking them in stride to get out as quickly as possible. Mr. Fletcher had even given him a ribbon for his new attitude, earning him a new pen from Maynard.
“This one has ivory in the handle and writes so smooth you would think it was butter. However, I would recommend you save it for a while before writing with it.”
“Save it for what?” Lucas had asked him as he pocketed the heavy pen. “And why would I write with butter?”
Maynard smiled, something rarely seen, and clapped Lucas on the shoulder.
“You’ll see what I mean when you have nothing to write with.”
Then he had stalked off to fetch lunch for their next meeting. Lucas hurried to his room and changed from his shirt into a sweater and brushed his hair down with his fingers. The pen fell from his pocket and landed on his journal with a thump. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and splashed his face with water, dabbing it up as he was also ridiculed for not doing.
“Lucas, are you ready?” Maynard asked him from the doorway, laden with bowls of soup and buttered bread. A twitch of a smile met his lips and clean shaven cheeks.
Lucas had been invited once again to lunch with his father on very special terms. He was to meet him in the backyard. Lucas couldn’t remember the last time he had ever been let out, even to the backyard, and was riveted with anticipation. He made sure to keep his appearance clean as he strode past Maynard at the door, and through the living room and down the southern hall he had never entered. Pictures hung from each window he passed in the long corridor, completely lit by sunlight.
How have I never been back here? This is so different from the rest of the house, so much better! If things go well, I’ll have to ask to come out again.
He approached the back door, made of stained glass painted with a griffin on its hind legs. The bright crimson around it shone through the sunlight and washed the room in a sleepy red that made the end of the hall appear to shrink as you neared it. Lucas opened the door and held in a gasp.
Great trees taller than the house stretched into the sky before him on either side of the stone trail, the red-orange and yellow leaves rustling in the wind. He stepped through the doorway and the door slammed behind him. The canopy above made a sea of waving green and cast an emerald glow to the ground level as it reflected the sunlight.
“If the outside is all this good I may never go back inside.”
Lucas walked for several minutes, pleasantly surprised at the immense size of their property and absorbed all his surroundings. The new feeling of adventure and freedom radiated from him and shone in his eyes with a glitter. He could feel the weight of his previous lifetime, of work and toil seep away and replace the loneliness with a new vigor for company. His limbs were instantly rejuvenated from the long walk and felt lighter with each step.
A thin smile began to etch its way across his face.
He froze mid-stride as the forest walls split and gave way to a beachfront. Soft, white sand shifted beneath his feet in the cool breeze of the October day and kissed at his cheeks. He left the wilderness and tried to grasp the words to explain what he was seeing.
A sandbank sat resolute before him, cradling a large lake with the clearest waters. The land was smooth and windswept with large rocks laid in a Zen pattern, strokes in the sand drawn around them. Smaller palm trees littered the area in deep shade and the occasional coconut sat half buried beneath them. A small pure glass table sat beneath the largest wall of refreshing shadow. A tall, thin man hidden behind his newspaper sat there with a cup of coffee simmering to his left.
Lucas’ heart hammered against his ribcage and he was sure his father would hear it. He swallowed his fear and gulped in the fresh air. It felt magnificent compared to the musty air he was sure he had been recycling since he was born.
He sat across from his father silently and stared in shock as Maynard appeared right behind him with a tray of food.
“How did you--?”
“I was right behind you, you must have missed me.” Maynard replied instantly and set the table.
Lucas watched his father’s newspaper sit completely still as he read it. Lucas read the headline:
Disappearances Confound All Yet Again
Abductions all across the country have continued to rise in number as another body has been found. Miss Gloria Croft (47) of Birmingham, England was found in her home dead after being gone over three months. No sign of forced entry had been found nor has a suspect been identified. Officers are inspecting the house and corpse for any new evidence of what transpired those months ago.

Maynard cleared his throat and thumped Lucas’ on the back of the head.
“You may eat now.” He murmured and backed away as usual.
Lucas surveyed the plate and took a little bit of everything, surprised at his now ravenous hunger. He ate quickly as to have time to talk to his father and washed it all down with a tall glass of milk.
He brushed the crumbs from his mouth and cleared his throat.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” His father spoke quietly and just as Lucas had opened his mouth.
“O..okay.” He stammered and gave his father his rapt attention.
“You spoke to Hollow a few weeks ago did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he ask you?”
Lucas tried to recall all the strange questions the old man had listed off to him.
“Not all of them, just in general.” His father added after a moment of silence had stretched to a full minute.
“Oh, well, just a bunch of odd questions about things I could do.”
“And can you?”
Lucas seemed to lose all the air in his lungs. A cold depression had formed in his chest and weighed down his soul. He had not found anything he could do despite Hollow’s cheery outcome. He began to wonder if his father knew of what Hollow had meant by them.
“No.” He said at last, and flinched as though he thought his father would strike him. He clenched his eyes shut and peered slowly over as he sensed his father’s relief spread, relaxing his posture behind his newspaper, Lucas sighed. “Although, Hollow seemed to think I made a candle catch flame.”
Instantly the mood of the table changed. His father stirred no longer and had become a statue once again. The newspaper had ripped in two in his father’s hands and blew away in the breeze. Lucas couldn’t bear to look up at him though and stared down at his lap through the glass table. Then came what he had dreaded:
His father stood and disappeared into the wooded trail. Lucas sat alone at the table and turned to ask Maynard a question but found him to have gone as well. The all too familiar sense of longing began to gnaw at his insides. The cold depression clenched his heart and squeezed it with all its might, but no tears would fall. Lucas had decided long ago he had none left to shed after a childhood of neglect and prison walls.
He stood slowly and pushed his chair in, mouth tightly shut, and swept away from the table and into the trees. He rounded a corner and heard a rumbling groan like roots torn up. He turned and saw the sunlight around the corner he had just taken to be gone. He eyed it a second then continued, the nagging feeling that something was wrong began to grow in the back of his mind. Ignoring this, he continued on at a faster pace despite not wanting to leave the warm sunshine. The groaning began to follow him, a steady roar now, rushing from behind like a wall of water about to crash down on him and drown the house.
He turned and saw no path behind him, but the walls on either side of him closing together with more trees. He turned and ran, panting from the forest, sprinting as fast as he could. His shoes beat on the earth with every quaking step as the forest tried to swallow him, its great maw opening behind him with more roars as the trees uprooted themselves to close the path.
Lucas didn’t remember it taking this long to get back and began to panic. His legs began to ache and his head felt light. He was sure he would pass out and be engulfed by the trees. But he continued, automatically it seemed, something within him keeping the ravenous wild at bay and holding back his body’s ailments. He didn’t know what but he knew to trust it.
He began to follow the feeling, something lighter than air and more powerful than fear. A warm glow in his chest as his heart swelled with the tingling sensation. This fire began to consume him and propelled him forward faster and faster until all he could hear was his own ragged breathing and the ecstatic thumping of his heart.
He stopped and waited, listening intently over his own noise for any sign of the trees’ next move.
How are they doing this? Trees don’t move. They just don’t, it’s impossible! Trees-don’t-move.
Or do they?
He had never asked this question before. It went against all logic, something that couldn’t, can’t and shouldn’t be; yet here it was before him, as plain as the nose on his face. How could he continue to deny it when it was chasing him? Was it fear or something else? Something he had known all along and would never admit?
BOOM!
An explosion of movement shook the earth beneath him as he leaped out of the way of a fallen tree, scratching his knees and palms and ripping the hems of his pants. He kicked at the ground as he struggled to his feet and reached inward for the feeling to give him the courage to run.
But it did not come.
Nothing, no matter how hard he tried, would it return. It had abandoned him and deemed him unworthy to guide. He kept running but it was so close now.
His heart began to beat faster.
Bump-bump, bump-bump.
He could hear the sounds of the trees giving chase as clearly as his own thoughts.
Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.
He could feel the tips of the branches against his back as they reached out for him. They were so close, too close, he couldn’t get past them.
Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump!
He could see the door to the house, the red window casting a crimson glow against the emerald of the leaves, he was so close, just a little further!
I’m almost there! I’m almost home! My..my..
The trees grabbed onto his shirt with their gnarled branches and lifted him off his feet, wrapping him up in their vines. He kicked and screamed, struggling against them as they enveloped him in darkness. His heart was a flutter now, pounding against his chest like it was about to leap from him and run for cover. He wanted to go with it, to be away from these things that wanted him, but there was no way to escape, he was trapped.
He curled his arms around himself to protect his face and struck at the insides of the leaves that surrounded him like a cocoon. He was within their many hands and fingers, held like a baby in their arms, so weak and fragile, something to be cared for and held tightly but not too tightly. They gave him room, enough to pull up his arms, he held them flat against the leaves and felt the feeling from before give his heart strength, the spirit to escape.
He screamed the first word that sprang to his head and collapsed as the leaves around him exploded and writhed in agony, instantly giving him a wide girth on the trail. He stood as fast as he could, covered in great trembles and shuddering breaths. He felt ice cold and numb, a dream-like state that spread from his head and down his neck then spine until it had stretched around his body like a second skin.
He could feel it.
His eyes opened as if he had never seen before. Colors so bright and vibrant, there were several he was sure he had never seen before. Great myriads of crisp, pure pigment filling his vision and embellishing this great new world he had yet to experience. A new life to live laid out before him. He accepted it and stood slowly, watching the trees around him back away as he neared them, several covered in small singes and blackened leaves.
He approached the door and grasped the handle in a firm grip and wrenched it open.
My..sanctuary.
The first time he had ever really appreciated the house for what it was had him taking it all in like a visitor about to buy it. He inspected every inch of it as he walked down the portrait-laden hall and into the grand plaza. He stared in awe at the new definition within the room, at the paintings of his ancestors and places he had never been. Their definition was astounding.
The smell of smoldering cherrywood logs and leather filled his lungs as he gulped down the cool air. It felt good after all that running. The stinging on his hands and knees subsided and was all but gone by the time he reached his room. He changed his clothes and washed away the sweat from his brow. Even then, he was not as refreshed as his first time truly seeing. He was sure there were several pictures and small ornaments he had never noticed before. His small, heavily lived-in room felt spacious and cozy, like a warm, feather bed with too many blankets.
He smiled inwardly and stepped over to record these feelings in his journal. He stopped over to where he knew it had fallen and picked up his pen and instead of his small leather bound book, a single small strip of parchment, bearing the words:
We need to talk.
His mood remained undiminished, despite the steadily growing fear he was in trouble, and guided him up to the second floor to where Maynard would be quickly. Even as he made sure to investigate every object he passed with renewed vigor he made it to Maynard’s quarters in short time. He knocked lightly.
The door opened slowly and revealed a small office. It was unnaturally tidy and spaced out. A small bed, with corners so sharp and lines so smooth it looked like a coffin and a desk in the opposite corner with neatly stacked books with their titles facing out in gold embroidering. A large vanity mirror sat upon the desk and reflected the nearest wall, revealing a small closet and chest beside it. The walls were plain white and had not a single color upon them.
“How may I serve you?” He said obviously annoyed by Lucas’ wandering eyes. “Or are you here to snoop about my private quarters?” He sneered.
Lucas wondered why he was so spiteful but was not offended.
“You said we needed to talk.”
“I did no such thing. What are you talking about?”
Lucas was confused now and beginning to grow in suspicion.
“I found this note where my journal used to be, saying: ‘We need to talk’.”
“Well, it was not I who left it.”
“Who else could it have been?” Lucas countered.
“Perhaps your father?”
Lucas left Maynard standing in the doorway who called after him angrily. But Lucas was somewhere else now. His mind was traveling through the house to trace another’s steps.
Why would he be in my room? Was he looking for me? Maybe that’s why he left a note. But then again, I was already with him; if he wanted to talk he would have said more and not left.
He argued with himself all the way up the stairs and to the crimson doors guarded by gargoyles. Even in his blissful state, the ancient red doors filled him with dread. The room beyond was his father’s study for his eyes only. Lucas’ presence had never been felt within that room.
He reached out and grasped the heavy lion shaped knocker and released it a few inches from the door. In its’ own weight, it swung against the door with a knock like a gunshot and reverberated down the halls. Lucas recoiled from it and covered his ringing ears. A low creak was barely audible through his cupped hands. He looked up as the door opened and into his father’s smiling face.
“Congratulations, son, you’ve made it.”

Lucas Black of Down the Lane Chapter 3

Chapter Three: A Meeting Worthwhile

Lucas stared at it slowly, eyes wide as saucers, mouth agape. A hungry feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. He had known deep down it must have existed but his mind had convinced him otherwise. Seeing it now before him was a slap in the face to his reality and shook him. A groping sense began to spread into his arms and he found himself walking toward the mysterious door before he realized he was standing again.
Where the hell did this door come from?
The doors were disappearing slowly on either side.
I know it wasn’t there before. I would have noticed something like this.
He was nearing the end of the hall now, only a single door to his left and the crimson one before him.
It can’t have just appeared out of nowhere. Where does it go..?
His hand reached for the glistening knob and it turned. The handle felt smooth and ice cold despite the new heating of the floor. He thought for a fleeting second it was made of ice then laughed the thought away in his mind as that would be absurd.
Besides, it’s golden and not white. If it had been clear like crystal however.. No. Nobody in their right mind would make a doorknob out of ice.
The door opened very slowly with a creak then suddenly swung on its hinges as if an immense gale of wind was behind it. A flat plane of white greeted him; a large palette of nothingness to not truly watch or see. The non-existence of the doorway’s holdings grew higher as the light dimmed and the white turned a gloomy shade of gray and melded into the wall once again, the red door gone.
Lucas’ hand was still stretched out before him like he had been burnt and had gone stock still. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what he had just seen. Or had he seen it? Such a thing couldn’t possibly be real in his world, not a boring existence of work and dreary gray walls. His life was much too boring, too normal for such a thing to occur. Yet..
“Master Lucas!”
Lucas leapt from where he stood and ran into the parlor room, away from the winding hall to the wall he thought was a doorway.
“There you are,” Maynard said pointedly and not looking at him, “Latin, downstairs, now.”
Lucas could hear the distaste of Maynard having to speak to him in the butler’s droning voice, perhaps the first time it had inspired any sort of emotion. Lucas nodded and passed him, approaching the staircase.
“Wait just a moment!” The bass called from behind.
“What is it now?”
Maynard inspected the room then onto the halls.
“How did you light these?”
Lucas wrinkled his nose and turned his head to the side.
“Light what?”
“The lanterns, you fool. They are lit, why I thought they had long since burnt out of fuel?” Maynard leaned in close and sniffed the one nearest him. “No smell of butane?” He unscrewed the small canister hanging from the lantern’s base and rattled it in his gloved hands.
“Nothing. Just as I thought.”
“Oh.” Was all Lucas could say. He was just as dumbfounded as Maynard. In fact, he was now watching all the lanterns burn out almost instantly and at once with the utmost expression of confusion. Maynard seemed to have noticed too for he turned in a complete circle with his mouth open as the darkness refilled the room with an almost tangible whoosh and the cold crept back in, pressing in on them most uncomfortably from all sides like being underwater.
Lucas’ insides shivered at what had transpired up here. This was the single most interesting day he had ever had in his life. A disappearing door, a way to nowhere, and torches that burn unhindered by a lack of fuel. Was this perhaps why the third floor was off limits to touching?
“What’s up here?” Lucas asked suddenly, surprised at the intensity of his own voice. It seemed strained, anxious for something to really be happening around him. Something worth trying to find.
“Nothing other than old antiques and the like; nothing you should worry yourself about.” Maynard replied not looking at him but instead around the room. He too appeared lost in thought for his voice was uncharacteristically high and wondering as if he had no real answer. But he was faster to hide it than Lucas and shook his head with a small pop of his neck.
“Don’t you have classes to attend to?” He asked in a falsely bored voice. Lucas could see the squinting of his eyes which always meant he was lying. Maynard sniffed again at his mustache and cleared his throat.
Lucas’ frowned up at him and crossed his arms. He was not about to go without something to contemplate.
I’ve got to have something to think about in Latin.
“Come on, Maynard, please?”
The sound of his name seemed to have brought Maynard back from his mood with an obvious reproach. Lucas instantly felt the mood of the room lighten, even with it back to its shadowed old self.
“Er, well, it’s nothing really. Just maybe some old belongings of your family’s,” Maynard rattled off as if he had been trying to find a way to explain without lying. “You know, old clothes and boxes of knickknacks and baby clothes you used to wear, books and your grandparents’ furniture. Your mother was quite the packrat..”
Maynard froze instantly and blushed a deep scarlet then swept out of the room. Lucas stood rooted to that spot and blinked. It was the first and only time he could remember anyone ever mentioning his mother around him. He knew so very little about her and had once believed Maynard when he was told at a young age he had been grown out in the back garden.
So these are my mother’s things. This is where she used to walk about and speak. She had once eaten and slept up here, actually been something. Lived...existed…
A large lump had risen in Lucas’ throat and he found it hard to swallow. He left his mother’s floor quickly and drifted into the kitchen where he found Maynard busily and with rapt attention scrubbing a large silver platter that Lucas knew had just been washed that morning.
He saw a man sitting at the table, not Mr. Fletcher but a new man he had never seen before. His hair was pure white and stuck out everywhere like he had been shocked, and he did indeed smell like something burning. His eyes were the palest gray as well, nearly silver and sat wide around the droopy eyelids that hung from them with age. His face was wrinkled and he bore an expression of being addled. Lucas couldn’t help but notice that he too wore strange clothing; something like a suit crossed with a cloak, covered in black stripes and white polka dots.
The old man looked up as Lucas approached him, apparently not noticing him or pretending he hadn’t to be polite.
“Ah, Lucas Black, I presume?” His whispery voice cooed like the wind down an empty street. Lucas jerked involuntarily and pretended the hairs on his arms weren’t standing as he nodded.
“Good, I’ve been expecting you for a long time, a very long time indeed.” He shook Lucas’ hand with his papery skin and beckoned for him to sit across from him. Lucas made sure to keep his chair scooted away from the table and kept his legs to the side in case he should run.
“Tea?”
Lucas stared blankly at him.
“Sorry, what?”
“Tea, would you like some?”
“Oh, no thank you.” Lucas lied for his mouth was quite parched. He instead chewed the inside of his lip and waited for the man to continue. He watched as the old man slurped his tea then poured another cup and slurped it down as well. Four cups later he seemed content and sighed happily. Lucas continued to stare at him in amazement as every cup was still steaming angrily.
“Now then, I am Mister Hollow Well; most people simply call me Hollow.” He announced with something of a flourish. “I am the—“
“Proprietor of many great things.” Maynard finished for him with a stern eye cast at the man. Hollow looked deflated like his introduction had been cut short for some kind of show. He ruffled his jacket and gave a plain smile.
“Yes, um, anyway, I am Hollow, and I do have many great things, but today is not about what I have, but what you have.”
Lucas’ stomach seemed to drop out from under him. His arm which he had been leaning on slipped and he fell forward from his seat and hit the table with his chin. The candles that had sat burning there fell over and rolled to the floor, extinguishing on the carpet.
Always on cue, Maynard lifted him into his seat and laughed with no enthusiasm.
“Boys will be boys will be boys.” He waved his hand as he spoke and bustled off into the kitchen. Lucas flushed red and stared at his shadow on the tabletop. His sore chin was nothing to the humility that burned in his chest.
“You alright, boy?”
Lucas nodded then sucked in a deep breath.
“Yeah..sir.” He added.
“Good, now, onto why I’m here for I am very, very busy. Have you ever had an affinity for guessing what people were thinking?”
Lucas shrugged and pondered over the question.
What does he mean ‘guessing what people were thinking’? Like reading someone’s mind or something?
“No, I..I don’t think so.” Lucas looked up and saw Hollow writing on a long sheet of parchment wrapped into a scroll he had not seen before. He leaned under the table and saw no bag or suitcase beside the man.
“Now..” Lucas jerked back up to the man before he looked up from his paper. “Have you ever made something happen out of the ordinary, like windows or doors opening?”
Lucas wracked his brain for any hidden meanings behind the question.
“Umm..no, not that either.”
Hollow began scribbling once again.
The questions went on for over an hour, Lucas answering as best he could and Hollow recording them on his sheet. Once or twice Lucas was sure he saw a grin flash across the old man’s face. Lucas assumed it was due to the oddity of each question, which became weirder and weirder until he had gone down to the bottom of the list.
“Have you ever noticed the weather to be what you prefer as soon as you step outside?”
Lucas answered no immediately as he was never allowed out and sat, sour, in his chair. His back was beginning to ache from sitting up to watch the strange man and his curiosity had long since wandered back to the red door above.
Will it reappear if I come up looking for it again? Maybe I have to relight the torches too..
“Last question!” Hollow announced.
Lucas smiled inwardly and thanked God for there being an end.
“Have you ever conjured anything or noticed something was not there until you wanted it to be?”
Lucas sat for a moment and decided at last to answer to what he was sure would bring a quick end to the interview.
“No sir, nothing.”
Hollow seemed to sink lower in his chair before looking up at Lucas again.
“You are Lucas Wayne Black?” He asked seriously.
“Yes?” Lucas asked back, stunned and confused.
“Raymon Black’s son?” He questioned further.
“Yes, yes I am Lucas Black, son of Raymon Black!” Lucas snapped exasperatedly.
Hollow seemed to freeze in his seat, lost in thought as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Lucas stared at him for a minute then made to get up.
“You’re sure you haven’t done any of them? Any?” He almost pleaded. His eyes bulged and his face became pale and flustered.
“No, I haven’t done any of your weird things! I’m just a normal, boring twelve year old with nothing to do and nowhere to go! Happy!?”
The room fell silent, Lucas stood there, chair knocked over behind him, Maynard now in the room looking alarmed, and Hollow sitting in his chair smiling to himself.
“What are you smiling about!?” Lucas cried and wanted so badly to hit him.
“Yes.”
Lucas shook his head not understanding.
“Yes? Yes what?”
“Yes, I am happy,” Hollow grinned.
His long thin fingers pointed to the center of the table where the candles Lucas had knocked over were sitting, burning once again with a bright golden flame. Its’ warm glow cast across Hollow’s gnarled face and gave him the appearance of a leather coat.
“You lied, Lucas Black.”
Lucas’ mouth was even drier than before and his brain seemed to have died. It felt like someone had stuffed cotton down his throat and kicked him in the head.
“You said you had never conjured anything or had it once you wanted it to be there.”
Lucas continued to stare at the small, un-flickering flame.
Hollow rolled the scroll back up and stuffed it into his coat then stood.
“Thank you, Lucas Black, for you time and patience. We will report to you your results in two to five weeks.” He gave a little bow and turned to the front door, leaving Lucas in the room with the flame that had definitely not been there before.

Lucas Black of Down the Lane Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Study

The morning sun rose slowly over the next week, greeting the Black Manor groggily like it resented shining on such a dark and dreary place. The sunlight was wasted on the house as every window remained curtained shut and lit only by lanterns. Fear of prying eyes plagued the residents and made them pale and weary. Very rarely did they leave a window open or allow a single ray to pass through undiminished by shades.
Lucas’ eyes swelled as he watched the sun rise without blinking, enjoying his brief glimpses of the outside world when he could. He enjoyed the warmth on his skin, the growing sensation of light tingling that tickled his neck and face. He smiled as his skin absorbed the radiation and stretched, stifling a yawn with the side of his arm. He sat up in bed and scratched at his ruffled hair then swept it out of his eyes.
With perfect timing as if on cue, the sound of gloved knuckles rapping on his door met his ears.
“Come in if you must,” He breathed, still rubbing sleep from his watering eyes.
“Master Lucas, you are needed in the dining room—“
“I know, I know; for breakfast.” Lucas interrupted and stood, shrugging off his blankets.
Maynard sniffed his large nose and held his head up high, staring at the ceiling.
“Actually, you are needed in the upstairs dining room.” He continued very arrogantly.
Lucas tripped mid-step on his way to the door and stubbed his toe painfully. The pain never took his thought from this new occurrence. The upstairs dining room was where his father ate daily and was off limits to Lucas aside from when he was invited. Lucas’ palms began to sweat and his heartbeat picked up to a quick patter.
“What for?” He asked slowly, mind racing and failing to comprehend the orders he had been commanded. “Is he angry with me? I didn’t touch anything upstairs, I swear..”
Maynard inclined his head and moved aside, sweeping his arms out to the doorway. Lucas stumbled through it, dead on his feet as his mind went blank. His body seemed to know what to do however as his feet walked themselves through the main chamber and up the stairs. His arms hung limp in his pockets and bobbed in tune with his head lolled to the side.
What does he want with me? I haven’t done anything wrong or anything good either. Oh no, please don’t let it be more classes. He pleaded with himself as he stepped blindly through the second hallway to the right and covered the last several rooms of the house in what he wished was much longer. Lucas turned right in the furthest corner and stopped at the doorway to the lobby.
A pair of blood-red doors stood resolute off center in the back wall, faded and adorned in numerous scratches and knicks. A single knocker of brass hung on the left door with a roaring lion forged from it. Two large stone gargoyles guarded the doorway and stood over six feet tall on either side, wings spread and arms outstretched to strike.
Lucas stood planted across from them. His father had never let him within those doors and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was the place his father locked himself away every day and night hard at work in his study. He often heard strange noises and voices from within but knew better than to ever admit to eavesdropping.
He shook his head and returned to reality with a jarring jolt.
“Another time,” Lucas promised himself and continued across the lobby to the small glass door of the dining room.
“At last, he arrives,” Maynard sneered as he laid out the table. “Get lost did you, or just thought you would take the scenic route?”
Lucas ignored him and sat down at the table, pressing his chair in close to allow Maynard to pass behind him. It was a small room with a wall entirely of windows lighting it as the near entirety of the room was taken up by a broad cherrywood table. The ceiling was a light yellow and the walls an ivory meant to reflect the sunlight evenly which only made the small room hot and stifling.
Lucas stared at the streaks in the wood with his head low and gaze averted from the figure across from him.
“How are your studies?” His father asked him suddenly from behind his newspaper. Lucas shifted uncomfortably and searched for his voice.
“Uhh, good. They’re good.” He said sheepishly.
“Still studying your Latin?” He asked, opening to a new page and ruffling his paper for a better view.
“Yes, started the next level a few weeks ago. But I don’t understand why.”
His father’s ruffling ceased behind his cover of The Oracle’s Daily Dose and a silence grew between them.
“Explain.”
Lucas was taken aback by the sudden shift in the mood of the room. It was tense and every movement seemed to be an attempt at hiding a weakness. The very air seemed to shiver with anticipation.
“I..I don’t see why I need to study Latin when I’ll have no need of using it. It’s a dead language isn’t it?” Lucas spoke very quietly and slowly. He had never really known his father and a feeling of dread washed over him every meeting they shared. He was a fierce man or so he was told. It was common to see him wearing a dark suit though it was uncommon to see him at all.
“This is not a time for you to understand, but to listen.” He said in an air of great importance. “It is of the highest necessity you continue your Latin studies. You will know soon enough.”
Maynard appeared in the room again carrying great silver trays of eggs and toast and platters of bacon, sausage and biscuits laden with gravy. He set them on the table gracefully and poured orange juice into Lucas’ signature blue cup and a still steaming coffee was already in his father’s long fingered hand.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before his father stood from the table, having had only a piece of toast and coffee, then turned about abruptly and left the room, leaving Lucas to eat alone. His toast from then on became spongy and tasted like bile. Lucas abandoned his food and left as well, heading downstairs for his lessons.
“Master, Lucas, you are prepared for your Latin examination I take it?” Maynard said from the side of his mouth and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you didn’t forget to study for it.”
Lucas forced a smile and looked up at the aging butler from the table.
“What’s it like having no ambitions other than to have a clean house for someone to return to after achieving theirs?”
Maynard’s sallow face paled and his mustache twitched. Lucas thought for a moment he would hit him then knew at once he had gone too far. Maynard’s lips went thin and his face seemed oddly strained.
“No different than having nowhere to go and no one to see.” He spat and turned an about face on his heel with a squeak.
Lucas sat for a while then decided he was too amped to study. He sat in his room staring out the window past the great iron fence outside to watch the people go by. He watched them pass slowly and couldn’t help but notice it was a common tendency for them to blatantly look away from his house, as if it weren’t there.
But that man before saw it, Lucas argued with himself.
It had been a month since that mysterious figure had watched him stare back from afar. Lucas had nearly succeeded in convincing himself it was a ruse and he hadn’t really been stared at until he saw the slight scorch mark near his lantern. He had thought up numerous reasons and possibilities for how such a thing could have occurred and other things the man must have been watching. In fact, Lucas was so hard-pressed (by none other than himself) to find a solution to his question he had began keeping track of his ideas and theories in an old journal he found across the hall.
He opened it up and found crinkled pages, yellowed and dog-eared with a musty smell of history he relished. He dipped his quill in ink and thought of where to begin.

October 18th,
It has come to my attention that a man may or may have not been watching me from across the street. I have never seen him before, though his face was covered, nor did I recognize his stature, though he did have on a cloak, and his inquiry to me or my home has been the only I’ve ever noticed.
Seemingly invisible, I think the house might actually be unattractive and a bit of an eyesore. He was maybe someone sent to inspect it for the town or a tourist. No proof of him seeing me has arisen or been apparent.
I shall continue to watch the streets for any sign of him or other wandering eyes.
P.S. I think my torch has sprung a leak.

Content, Lucas tossed the journal onto his desk which promptly slumped to the floor, and left his room. Maynard passed him without a word on the stairs and purposely avoided his gaze. Lucas trudged on to the third floor as he had done the last several days off, whistled to himself, and reached into his pocket.
“Glad I remembered this..” He pulled out a small match and struck it on the rough wall with a flash. “Now where’s that lantern?” He turned on the spot and dashed to the small lantern on the wall as the match began to burn his fingers and lit it quickly. He wafted his hand through the air and sucked on the tip of his thumb gingerly.
Lucas watched the lantern flicker brightly on the corner wall near the cobweb laden, overstuffed chairs; casting a seemingly unknown-to-the-room glow that felt alien even to Lucas in such a forgotten place. The warm glow spread out its fingers, encroaching on the dark and lent a fond sense of life to the room. Lucas smiled slightly then turned to the next room.
Instantly the shadows eclipsed his rising sun. The parlor seemed just as abandoned as ever, perhaps even more so now with the light’s remaining in his mind. Lucas’ smile faltered and he found himself wishing for the light. He jumped a little as a brief whisper of sound scraped behind him.
“What the!” He exclaimed and turned about to view the room entirely. The small blackened, wrought-iron torch a few feet away had a small simmering flame like that of his match. Lucas leaned in closer to see it and laughed. “Guess it was here the whole time.” He turned the knob and the flame rose slowly in kind until a warm glow engulfed the small office.
Maybe this will change their mind about me coming up here.
Lucas went room to room then for the next hour, and found to his delight that every torch upon his approaching appeared to have already been lit. Upon lighting every room until the entire third floor was alight he surveyed his work. The chilly October weather Lucas normally enjoyed was nowhere to be seen and the darkness that once stained the entire floor was left trying to invade in the far corners and hidden beneath tables. The shift in mood was instantaneous. He felt alive, like he had done something worthwhile the first time in his life. Something not already decided for him.
Lucas held his arms out wide to allow the rich moment to consume him and stared at the ceiling. A small glint shone in his eye like a passing window in the morning sun. He blinked and looked down the hall at the cause.
There, down the hallway now illuminated in firelight, stood the bright red door emblazoned with its shimmering golden handle.

Post Radio Chapter 1

--Chapter One: The Bridge of Fire

Has anyone ever told you the story of Joshua? He led an immense army against an even greater enemy to aid an old ally. And against all odds, defeated the Israelites in battle, wielding the power of the Sun to blind his enemy..

The sun had set only an hour ago when I stepped across the toll bridge of Dallas. No water here as was usual, but an immense crater had befell the city, a new valley, the ridge constantly aflame from the immense natural gases below. This “moat” kept the city ironically safe from attack and raids, therefore holding one of the largest populations in the country.
I passed the guards, their helmets turning in my direction, boring into my back as I stalked past them across the bridge. A small man standing in the middle of the bridge several feet away held his hand up and signaled for me to stop. I stopped in my tracks and turned.
At the base of the rope bridge from which I had entered stood the two guards, rifles drawn. I looked to my left and noticed a small tower, like that we had at a football game in my old high school, and a man crouched low on it.
Sniper.
The small man held his hands out and walked back and forth in a pace. He smiled a wicked sneer, his mousy face wrinkling around his thin mustache and thin lips. His beady black eyes and thinning, dirty hair the same color.
“You sir, do you see this here line?” He motioned to the ground just behind him, a red line crudely painted. “This here is the boundary line it is. You wanta’ cross? Yeh’ have ter’ pay.”
“Pay what? There is no money or currency.”
The man snickered and snorted, his pointed nose crinkling back.
“Why trade a’ course!” He leaned forward, one eye open, and studied my face. “You some kind a moron or just plain stupid?”
I remained silent, knowing this man held no power but that sniper rifle had enough to blast my head off. He stopped laughing then and shrugged.
“Awright then you know the drill. Drop the rifle an’ present anythin’ you think’s worth tradin’.”
I removed the Old Rifle from my back but held it at my waist.
“Is this for this entrance only or permanent?” I questioned, awaiting a sure answer as the man turned around, facing someone, and then faced me again.
“Uhh, depends.”
“On?”
“Dangit. On. Whatever it is you trade! There.”
I stopped for a moment, considered it, and then placed the Old Rifle on the bridge. Slipping the sack off my back, I plopped it on the ground and rummaged through it. The small man craned his neck forward in hopes to see.
“Okay. I’ve got two bars of scented soap, a pack of napkins, and some matches.” I said finally. Making a point to keep my supplies hidden. The man scratched the scruff on his chin, small fragments splintering off.
“How ‘bout that bottle a’ water you got there?” He said finally, not really a question. I cursed myself for leaving it exposed in the outer right pocket. I debated with myself a moment, the small man’s foot tapping impatiently.
“Or I could just leave ya’ here to face the weather. Wind’s pickin’ up.” The man smiled a grisly grin, yellow teeth glinting even in the dim light from the moat of fire. I couldn’t help but notice the rising winds, the fires roaring with every pass.
“Fine,” I replied at last. “But I’m keeping the matches.”
The small man smiled and laughed, waving me on. I gathered my supplies and slung the Old Rifle over my shoulder. I handed over the water resentfully then the soap and napkins. The small man sneered and leaned close, his rank breath smelling of raw meat and cheese.
“Welcome ta’ Dallas.”

The city was like a mountain had collapsed on itself, imploding the miles of land below it. The dirt was still brown but blackened, little ash remained here in the churned sands of the daily walked. Small buildings like that I had once camped in sat at random all over the sides of Dallas, all down the steady decline. A steep hill beheld the entire city on every side of the circular area, the very middle of the city a small plateau of water. It was no surprise as water was a commodity that a fence was placed around the well with several guards around it in chairs.
The houses and businesses looked the same scrap yard cabins like a child would make in a tree house. Sheet metal and stained and rusted planks of iron from cars, other buildings and trash cans were formed into their walls and roofs. Several doors were nothing but a tarp or blanket nailed onto three four by fours attached to the house by a rope. None had windows but a few businesses had a sign out front, often misspelled or crooked. A sort of diner, shop, and common house were placed to the left, and houses all around. Small chimneys sprouted from the cabins and sputtered smoke, clogging the air of the higher regions of the city.
The air here was putrid and reeked of sulfur. The constant fire from the Barnett Shale kept the city toasty, even in the below freezing nights. The tainted sky seemed just as illuminescent with the moon hidden behind it however and gave little relief to this painstaking reality.
People bustled about with their poor lives, trading supplies and food before returning home for the night. People working random jobs such as guard, hunter, mechanic, technician, cook or whatever was needed departed and made their trip for dinner. I debated with myself what job I would seek. My skills seemed appropriate enough, however they were all bent around surviving, not contributing a trade.
Cook and mechanic are no good and a technician is nowhere near. Maybe a hunter or guard? I’ll have to check tomorrow morning.
A large stone building stood erect near the center of the city. It had great walls of marble and granite, scorch marks across its’ face. As I neared it, further recognition dawned on me as I read the small bronze plaque.
The old Court House. This must be the base of the old building. I didn’t think anything had survived down here. Memories not so fond coursed through my mind of times here, but were still worth remembering compared to this godforsaken hole. But memories are only memories and intangible, so I kept them to myself as I stepped through the doorway of the apparently named Underground Inn. Thankfully no one asked any question when I asked for a room in exchange for a set of blankets.
“Have a safe night, son.” The old bartender said. I nodded curtly and went away without directions. Not much of a people person I guess. A few minutes and dimly lit corridors later, I found room number one seventeen with an X through it and a twenty seven painted below it. They key stuck then turned slowly, the door hinges creaking as the grime on them cracked and split like chapped lips.
The room smelled of smoke, as did the rest of the town, and had a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. A large wooden chair sat in the corner of the room, a musty bed across from it with an OD green sheet.
No blankets, great. Old man takes mine knowing he hasn’t got any. I groaned and kicked off my boots. Just being indoors seemed alien to me. No sky, no matter how foreboding, seemed unnatural. Two and a half years of wandering, traveling the wastes to find somewhere for work and life. Two and a half years of escaping from..
A loud knock at the door echoed in the nearly empty room. I searched the shadows for my boots but gave up as the door shuddered under another impatient knock. I walked cautiously to the door and peered through the eye hole. A tall man with broad shoulders and a square jaw stood just outside, a black trench coat hanging to his feet which were in armored boots. I saw the weight of a rifle on his right shoulder even under his jacket. His eyes were hidden behind tinted sunglasses with wide rims.
A Waster? I thought sorely. Too many encounters with the no good thieves and murderers.
“What do you want?” I said gruffly, not opening the door. I wished I had grabbed the Old Rifle from off my bed. I saw the man smile slightly and crack his knuckles.
“This room has been reserved for the likes of Mr. Wallace, and his associates, of which I am one. I would like to procure this room as of this moment.” The large man said calmly like some kind of protocol, not a hint of alcohol in his voice.
Taken back, I opened the door to investigate the man. The door squealed open and the man stepped forward, blocking any exit.
“Well. You’re definitely not a Waster. But I am curious as to who you are.” I said questioningly yet defensively as I remained stationary, less than six inches from the giant. His chin was level with my eyes, which I had to strain upward to see his face without raising my head.
“My name and rank is Sergeant Roberts the fifth. You may call me Sergeant Roberts. Now, will you be vacating the premises?” He leaned down slightly, staring me hard in the eye even as I couldn’t see his.
“Actually no. I paid for this room and without compensation will not be leaving. Sorry.”
“Compensation.” He scoffed. “You sir, are lucky to have been given the option.”
“Is that right? Well now, I don’t care who you are or how big you might be. But there is always a choice.”
Roberts laughed then, a deep hollow chuckle like a boulder rolling down a mountain.
“I like you sir. Unfortunately, the Military has strict rules on who is allowed in, and you, with your sun-tanned skin and darker hair..” I noticed then his pale skin and blond hair. “You wouldn’t get past the front gate.” The man eyed me then and looked up and down the hall with quick glances.
A sudden right hook caught me then; right on the chin and I must’ve flown twelve feet, as I hit the back wall of my room. I laid there, dazed, unable to move and just watched as Roberts grabbed my supplies and left, yelling something I couldn’t understand. I stood shakily and walked out into the hallway toward the exit, and saw Roberts leave through the front door, a small group of large men around him. I watched him show off my supplies and strut around like he had just succeeded in shooting Hitler as my vision and stability returned.
I stormed through the door after him, chair in hand, and brought it down hard on the back of his head with a loud crack. Roberts collapsed in a heap, my pack falling on top of the Old Rifle. Instantly the men around him turned on me.
I prepared to fight them all but a gunshot broke my focus. We all turned to look at a midsized man, hair hidden under an old Dallas Cowboys cap, wearing dirty jeans and a ripped football jersey. A small revolver was held tightly in his left hand, fingers turning white with the strain. He waved the pistol at the men who reluctantly left when a crowd began to form around us. He looked at me then and laughed a wheezy breath.
“You took one hellova’ beatin’ out there. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“Military.” I stuttered, my chin numb. It had been a long time since I had fought anyone.
“Huh. Then why are they after you?”
“They’re in the Military?”
“Nah,” The man removed his cap and scratched his head. “They are Military. It’s a conglomerate of the Air Force, Marines, Army and Navy, but only those who think they’re better. Racists, disriminists, sexists, they’re all in there. Supposedly to, ‘Rebuild a better, pure, world for all’. But everyone knows to stay outta’ their way. They’ve still got guns and the like. Power too, betcha’ right now those boys are already getting a warm meal from some Colonel.”
I absorbed all this, stunned and ashamed of my ignorance in the world.
How could I have traveled this long and not heard about this?
“How big are they?”
“Who the Military? Huge. Biggest single group of people there is anymore. Probably three thousand members. They’ve been all over, killing anyone they see fit, or unfit really. You should listen to Post Radio some time. They’re always bringin’ em up.”
A radio? An actual working radio broadcast?
“I’ll do that. Where can I pick them up?”
The man shrugged.
“You need yer’ own radio I’m afraid. These brutes won’t let us keep ‘em.” A deep sorrow passed over his face then. “It’s on eighty two point five though.”
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful mister..”
“Henry. Just call me Henry.”
“Mister Henry. You’ve been most kind, thank you.”

I threw my pack down on the bed and followed suit. My head pounded like my hammering heart and my back ached miserably. My arms and legs felt like metal and weighed hundreds of pounds. Even in the dark room I saw bright flashes of light and shimmering mirages.
That right eye must be pretty bad. Least Roberts is worse off, sitting in some hospital.
I decided then to stay the night, but not without precautions. I sat up slowly and strenuously and found my bag in the dark. I felt around for some string and nailed it across the bottom of the doorway, a bell hanging from it. The chair would be my bed for tonight and the queen sized mattress a barricade against the door to the next room over. All locks were checked and a chain fastened across the bed frame to the doorknob.
I pulled the Old Rifle against me and laid back in the chair, and slowly, very slowly, drifted off to sleep.
But for me, sleep was no reprieve. No vacation or escape from the harsh world I had to face every day. A past as war torn as the new Earth plagued my mind like a weed. The seed grew and grew until it seeped life from the happy things I could remember. The things now forgotten.
Dark walls and a lice ridden cot. A tray of maggots and meatloaf paste. These were all I had now. Taunting memories to remind me of what once was and never should have been, and what I will never get back or glimpse.
Is this hell really any better than my old one? Or are they just the same thing in disguise? Maybe I never woke up from that last beating and have been rotting in there these last two and a half years. But what do I care? I’d never know the difference. Pain is pain and death is death. At least I’m not suffering. Or am I? When’s the last time I looked in a mirror?
I woke then. Something inside me telling me to. Nothing at the door, nor the sleeping bell. The bed was still in place and the frame hadn’t moved an inch. No, something else had stirred me from my rest. Had it been my subconscious or something greater? I turned on the lantern with one of my matches and walked to the sink. I looked up into grey eyes.
My grey eyes. So sunken. So shallow. My face was gaunt beyond belief. My cheekbones jutted out from the thin face I called my own with pools of purple below my eye sockets. My once clean skin now stained and sunburned. My teeth were horrid yet better than most with my box of fluoride and pack of floss. My face was so depressed and hung like a noose in the gallows. My long greasy hair hung to my shoulders like a wet mop covered in filth. My lips were chapped and cracked around the sides, small bloody flakes about them like pedals on a flower. I stared in disbelief at my scarred and starved body, ribs showing and muscles rippling beneath empty skin.
How long has it been since I’ve eaten more than a few morsels of anything? I asked my reflection aloud. So hurt and betrayed. How could I have let myself get this way? I’m all I’ve got and I need to keep that in mind. I looked back to those eyes staring back at me like a lifeless fish would, floating slowly in the water, bobbing up and down. My facial hair was tremendous like the Amish I had once seen on television but disgusting.
I slipped the small knife I had found long ago from my belt and held it to my throat.
It’s time.
I slid the knife across my neck and gasped.
A chunk of beard the size of my fist fell to the floor. It sat beside my bare foot like a rat waiting for me to leave, unnoticed. I continued shaving, hair spilling like rain from the clouds until my face was clear and bristly until it had almost seemed like me. Then I returned to those eyes.
Nothing I can do about those. I decided and replaced the knife into my belt. I looked down to the sink and turned the knob. Nothing, as I expected. However a single drop of water plopped into the porcelain below. The first water I had seen clean and unadorned by another’s previous encounter. This was clean, fresh water.
“Tomorrow, I find work and a reason to be here.”

Post Radio Prologue

Post Radio
--Prologue


In waves of fire and rain, the earth succumbed to terror and machine fueled man cast down their brothers and in eternal reign, doomed us all. The bombs fell like tears from the sun and spread plague after plague across the nations. A smoke filled sky staring down on the Deserted.

Shades? Check. Balaclava? Check. Medical supplies and ammunition? Check. Gun?
A groan escaped my lips as I grimaced not having a firearm. Two years of training only to find myself unarmed and ill prepared in the center of an Armageddon’s ghost town. An impenetrable wall of smoke stained clouds and a gray sun stared down at me in a bitter mocking tone.
I glanced down at my watch.
Twelve thirty. Plenty of time to reach Dallas ‘fore nightfall.
I buttoned up my coat to the neck and watched my breath swirl and dance in front of me. “Another cold day to regret another man’s choices.” And with that, I stepped off the edge and plummeted to the ground, landing hard on the cushy ash below. I stood, shook the soft chalky powder off and noted it was even softer than last week.
It was as if the bombing was just the beginning. It seemed the land was in a constant decline to its innermost core. Like something was slowly poisoning it day by day. The degradation of the earth was frightening to the few that noticed. Most of the population, which according to best estimates is around twelve thousand worldwide, is blissfully unaware of the new corruption, as they struggle to survive against the old one.
I delved deeper into my thoughts as I often did while I walked, my only escape. The land all seemed the same. Plain, featureless plateaus of dirt and ash, the landscape dotted with the occasional hill and petrified tree. Rocks and pebbles littered the wasteland among the random detritus and items long lost. Tufts of scrap and tattered remains of clothing blew in the dank wind. Every breeze smelled of death and created a zephyr of dirt that stung the eyes.
I pulled my balaclava over my nose instinctively under my eyes and tightened the bandana on my head. My patched and stained jacket rustled like dead grass in the current.
Wind’s picking up, must be getting late. I checked my watch and cursed. Nearly four thirty. I tore myself from the safe depths of my consciousness and quickened my pace. The day never lasted the same as before with spontaneous sunsets and irregular lunar cycles. Tonight was expected to be the third solar eclipse this month.
Speaking of which, what month is it? I racked my brain as I walked; cursing my memory for not retaining such vital information when I recalled I didn’t know what day it was the week before the bombs fell. A ping of regret shot through me like a sniper round.
I flinched. Just then a loud pop resonated across the barren wastes to my ears.
A gunshot. I stopped where I was and surveyed my surroundings, taking it all in with a practiced eye. All was silent for the passing three minutes. Then, another round. I heard a whistle then voices.
A group? I must be closer than I thought. It wasn’t the longest walk from Burleson to Dallas, but one as dangerous at any. The wildlife had somehow survived much better than the human race, and due to what is assumed to be radiation, have grown up to quadruple their previous sizes. The Texas Remnants as it was now named was renowned for its giant wolves and various predators and luckily I haven’t encountered one.
Yet.
I quickly sped up the non-existent trail I had implanted into my brain and peaked the hill. About forty yards away was a small group of four men and a single woman. The eldest held an old rifle in his hands, propped to fire again, a grey heap several feet away. They approached the heap and prodded it with a baseball bat, then backed away and cheered.
Hmm, must’ve been hunting. But what did he..? Suddenly the grey heap leapt up, and in an astounding bound, descended on the group snarling and roaring between bites. The group scrambled in panic, the men scattered. Trying to get away from the beast, the eldest with the rifle dropped the bullets with trembling hands as he attempted to reload. The woman screamed and fell beneath the nearest man next to her as the beast caught them. The scene was silent in an instant.
The ground was a deep scarlet as the ash absorbed the spilled blood and blew like a mist in the wind. The bodies lay strewn about, the monster abandoning them. It was then that I noted its size. It was an immaculate bear, limbs as large as dinner tables and a head the size of a large television. It stormed off, trash-can-lid sized paws pounding into the dirt in strides capable of overtaking one of the destroyed vehicles scattered about in their prime.
I descended the hill slowly and scanned the area for threats. After a quick evaluation, I decided to inspect the scene. The bodies were still now, no twitching or convulsing. A cold aura seemed to envelope me as I entered the dead’s presence. Their eyes were glazed and pale as they stared through the veil of death, their faces contorted with the stricken fear of oncoming peril.
I rummaged through their pockets and found a few sticks of gum, a box of matches and a half empty bottle of water. I pocketed the matches and gum, placing the water in my bag. It was then I heard a sob. I turned on my heel quickly, alert and ready, only to see nothing. The dead remained and the surrounding devoid of life. I stepped over to the old man who had the gun. I crouched beside him and closed his eyes, reaching into his jacket. A small crinkled picture of a young man and woman stood forever smiling. Their embrace was warm even on paper. I placed it in the old man’s cold hand and continued my search.
Seventeen bullets within his pocket and a single .44 round in addition to the two he dropped came to nineteen in which to arm myself. I pocketed them and looked up into his blue eyes.
Instantly I was frozen.
Hadn’t I just closed his eyes? I leaned in closer to inspect him when he blinked, a single tear sliding down his wrinkled cheek. He began to cry slowly, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. He stared me straight in the eye, remorseful and infinitely fallen. His mouth creased and his lips squared.
“Dead.” He breathed, barely a whisper. “They’re all dead. Because of me. I tried. To feed us. But. It. It.” He trailed off then, a husky trembling in his throat as he shed his last tears. I remained silent; my only respects, and memorized his last words as he gripped my hand.
“Defend them all.” And with that, he slipped into another world, the rifle slumping from his shoulder to my hand in his icy grip. I left his hand upon his chest and lifted the old rifle.
It was heavy and made of solid mahogany, adorned with scratches and knicks. Claw marks and a variety of imperfections covered the firearm from barrel to stock. An eight round magazine ejected from the bottom but was bent and jammed from what appeared to be a bullet striking it.
What has this Old Rifle been through? I was sure it was older than me, I being 24 before the world ended. I loaded four of the .357 rounds and checked the open barrel sights.
Good as far as I can tell. I slung the Old Rifle over my shoulder beside my rucksack and checked my watch. I cursed loudly and kicked the dust, swirling in the elevated breeze. I looked out from the peak of the next hill and saw the first outpost of Dallas about two miles away. I looked back at the exposed corpses behind me and felt my heart slow as darkness engulfed the miles and miles of death and devastation I had traversed these long, last two years.

Charlie One

Tango down. The words echoed in my headset. I nodded solemnly and pulled back the hammer on my Dragunov with a well-oiled click. I slid my mask down to my nose, reached in my mouth and placed my gum on the side of the stock, and fully concealed the rest of my face. I tucked the base into my jacket and tapped the armor on my chest, waiting. I stared straight ahead at the desert.
The pitch black was our only cover out here in the wasteland, our only protection from the hundreds of towel heads around. Numerous hills and gulfs stretched on and on until the night consumed its bounds and engulfed the few trees alive. Shrubbery and cacti littered the sands, swaying in the winds and rustling like paper. The sky held no stars or moon tonight and left everything to chance and our NVG. Luckily my scope had night vision as well without the depth perception loss. I heaved the rifle to my shoulder and crouched.
This is taking much too long. I whirled around as I heard footsteps approaching. A man ran toward me, arms waving wildly. The night was dark and his features hidden, but I knew he was another soldier of mine. I stood as he neared, no more than six or seven yards away, when his head spilled and he collapsed into the night.
I cursed and dropped to the ground as gunfire roared at me. The sands kicked up all around me in plumes of gagging dust. I slid down a small hill face and laid my rifle across the peak. I remained motionless as I peered through my scope. I saw nothing but a dozen flashes of fire and scurrying a hundred yards away. I ducked again and nearly yelled as a bullet veered past me with a zing.
“Bravo, Bravo this is Charlie One, taking heavy fire,” I stopped as the firing continued, “Asking for reinforcements and location!” My headset remained silent and unwilling as no reply came for nearly ten minutes. I repeated the request twice more before deciding I was disbanded.
“Fubar.” I clicked my safety and took aim through my scope at one of the lights. I studied it until I was sure the man was holding it against his shoulder standing, and fired. The recoil shook me as the fifty caliber slug deafened all other gunfire. The light vanished and all was silent. I took aim at the last known location of another light and sat in wait. Several moments passed when I saw a flicker of movement to the right. I fired and heard a scream as it tore into the man.
I dropped behind cover as the bullets once again took flight and waited for reloading to occur. I checked my rifle for any hits and eyed the scope again, glassing the field. I reached into my belt and rolled over on my back, pulling out a bright green flare and red smoke grenade. I pulled the pin first and tossed it toward the enemy. I heard the hiss as it began to dispel the crimson smoke into the night. I waited for it to fill before lighting the flare and throwing it, eyes closed to preserve night vision, into the smoke.
The green glow illuminated the red swirling mass like a lantern and would work as my last hope for assistance.
“Bravo, Bravo this is Charlie One! Requesting air strike or chopper assistance on red smoke! Repeat: air assault on red smoke!” I hollered into the microphone of my headset before returning fire on the now visible opponents.
There were nine of them. Flowing clothes, loose and billowy blew in the wind as they fired their AK’s at me, snarling in the light. Their aim was off as the lights blinded them and were easily picked off one by one. The green and red illuminated blood flew and spattered as the sniper rounds eviscerated them. Heads split and arms were ripped, torsos opened and legs were shattered as my aim took its toll on their forces. The eerie sight grew worse as the bodies fell and crumpled among the smoke.
I lay back as more arrived, presumably from the nearby town to the east, and held my breath. My ammo was low and the night growing thin. It wouldn’t be long before there was enough light to see me taking aim. I tapped my armor and prolonged my next emergence to battle. Just then a long gangly hand gripped my arm and tore me away from my rifle, the other tightening on my throat. Instantly panic shot through me. I struggled against him and tore and kicked, waving madly and turning over in the sand as he fought me for control. I gripped his hands in an attempt to pull him off and swung at his face, several blows catching his exposed eyes and nose.
He released only a little and I took notice, breath filling my lungs with a gasp and vigor into my limbs. I pulled him off and head-butted the bridge of his nose with my forehead, a watery crack emanated from him. The man cried out in pain as blood ran down his neck and mouth and stood, stumbling about blindly as his eyes watered uncontrollably. Only a second later the man’s chest convulsed and a small hole appeared. The man fumbled to his knees and sprawled out in the sand beside me, eyes wide with fear and shock. He stared at me gravely as his lifeblood poured out from a friendly fire wound, recognition in his eyes.
I stared back as his eyes slowly lost focus and his eyelids drooped. I sat still beside him, listening. I heard numerous voices now and in a sickening moment of fear, sprinted away across my small embankment and several yards away behind a bush. I slid into the sand and laid flat on my stomach as the men peaked the hill and took aim about my encampment. They found the body and rolled it over; kicking it upon realizing it was one of their own. One of the men unloaded the remains if his magazine into it with a horrific pounding. I gulped and clenched my jaw.
How long can I hide here before they find me? This is just a useless waste of time in slowing the inevitable. I swallowed my fear and accepting death, stood slowly, hesitantly. I ignored the loud buzzing drone in my head and walked a step forward. The men looked up from the body and faces contorted, ran back to from where they had come from, disappearing into the smoke and flare now beginning to flicker and burn out. They ran and ran from me without cause I thought as I walked to my gun and dropped to one knee.
Then, in a great roar and flash, the drone in my head peaked and the desert in front of me erupted in an immense fireball, engulfing the sky in flames. I staggered back and watched in awe as the explosions continued, another, then another, and yet another ensued. I watched, backing away slowly, and waited for the silence to follow next.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, a voice crackled in my headset.
“Charlie One, this is Delta Six, replying to Bravo’s request through HQ. ETA is four minutes and closing, what is your location for evac?”
I laughed to myself and sat on the edge of the helicopter’s doorway watching the smoke spiral into the night sky around the dancing flames. The desert seemed more alive surrounded by death than it ever had before, this graveyard proof that life had ever once been here. We lifted off and rose slowly then gained speed, leaving the carnage and destruction behind for time to heal its wounds. I leaned back and picked my gum off the stock of my rifle and popped into my mouth.

Lucas Black of Down the Lane Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Third Floor

Loneliness swept through the house like a drafty breeze. It swallowed everything within its walls and submerged them in an endless depression. Every hollow step on the creaky wooden floors unleashed small dusty clouds of forgotten and every opened door unleashed a new wrath of what was. Old tapestries of those long departed and windows so darkened and filthy they were as opaque as the wall they stood in. Long cobwebs stretched in the corners down the length of the wall to the floor and made nests absolutely everywhere. Even the couches and furniture were crawling with them. They made some uneasy and were gotten rid of. But she had loved them.

A layer of dust sat on most everything upstairs on the third floor of the house. Nothing had been touched since. The countless leather bound books high on the shelves, overstuffed chairs with odd depressions, fine china and real silver silverware, candles and goblets and fine jewelry, all covered in a filmy layer of lost. Nothing was to be touched and nothing was to be stirred until it all became nothing once more. For this floor was her floor and would remain her floor as long as he lived.

Silence for anyone but adults, as children are better seen and not heard. On second thought, perhaps not even seen.

Anyone who broke these rules would be forced into the attic with no supper and only the lantern and blankets stationed up there for just the occasion. Anyone who did not confess to having broken these rules would be forced into the basement until the darkness had made them feeble. Anyone who removed anything from her floor would be punished even more severely.

“And by anyone I mean you.”

Such were the rules of the Black House.

Lucas often wandered the halls of the third floor just to look around, he dared not touch anything here ever again, and surveyed as much as he could in the time allowed. He still had school to attend and studies with Maynard, his father’s servant. Not to mention all the extracurricular classes he was forced to take. So here he was, spending much of his free time in the desolate halls of the third floor.

Every step he took creaked and groaned as if the very floor were upset he was there and heightened his fear he would fall through. The walls seemed unnaturally high to the young boy and he felt weak and small beside them. He imagined how old this house must have been as he stared at what he was sure used to be a record player. Lucas had just wandered into the library when he heard his name called as if they were right beside him.

“Lucas, you are needed downstairs immediately for your studies,” A deep bass droned on. It was Maynard, the now elderly man who found nothing better to do than clean and wash then cook and repeat daily. Lucas couldn’t imagine how boring his life would be as a servant.

Lucas turned and looked around. He was still alone.

The voice seemed so clear, like he was right beside me, Lucas thought. He hated how this old house echoed. He shivered involuntarily at all the small things that would bother him about this place if he were never allowed to leave and started for the stairs. He was sure he could remember every time he had left the house and recount them to a tee, they were so few.

It’s like a prison they forgot someone was in, he lamented.

“Ah, Master Lucas, there you are,” Maynard announced to the boy’s teacher, Mr. Fletcher. “Lurking about on the third floor no doubt.” He said quickly, which for Maynard was about normal talking speed if not slower.

Lucas skipped the last step and landed with a stomp.

“I wasn’t lurking, I was exploring.” He clarified. “And I wouldn’t have to sneak up there if he would just allow me to go.”

“Your father has his reasons.” Maynard said curtly.

Lucas shuffled his feet and sighed. “Reasons without cause.”

Maynard sniffed his abnormally large nose and turned about without a word. Lucas watched him go. His plank-straight, dark hair curled around his head like a horseshoe with a large completely bald head atop it. His suit was dark velvet and whistled when he walked as the legs rubbed together. But it was his monochromatic expression and voice that were ironically memorable. His face seemed a constant dreary scowl as if it were a hot, sticky rain outside and his voice like a bass drum which cannot change tone but somehow could not change pace either.

Lucas turned slowly to Mr. Fletcher.

“Ready for your lesson?” His teacher asked politely as he raised his briefcase. “Come on then, that’s the ticket.” He had on a button up shirt with blue trousers beneath a long turquoise coat.

What is it with how all these people dress? He wondered to himself. It’s like they’ve never seen how a person is supposed to look.

He lead Lucas to the dining room where they always worked every day and always had a slice of pie for desert every day and he always left with a small tip of his hat every day. All in all it was quite a dismal experience.

“Which lesson is it this time?” Lucas asked hopelessly and leaned onto the table with his elbows. Mr. Fletcher laid his briefcase down on the tabletop and opened it with a pop, then removed a stack of papers in a folder.

“Latin, it’s very important you learn this,” He announced. “One of my favorites. Now,” He cleared his throat as he opened the folder with his eyes closed before looking back at Lucas. “You are going to want to pay attention to this lesson. Understand?”

Lucas shrugged.

“I’ve had Latin loads of times already, why now?”

“Because this is your new session, a new chance to become good at something! This is..”

Lucas grinned on the inside at the man’s words and receded into himself as he let the man ramble on and on. Lucas had a natural talent for, well, being talented. He could master nearly anything he tried and twice as fast as they could teach it. He was no genius and no athlete, but he was a fast learner.

What else am I gonna’ do? I’m too small to play sports, though it’s not like Father would let me anyway; and school is already terrible enough without wanting even more work.

Lucas Black was a small boy for his age, average height but very skinny with large almond shaped eyes and a thin face. His small frame was quick but his clumsiness rid his mind of any physical practice. His lightly tan skin was resembled his father’s and his dark wavy hair reminiscent of his last name.

“Ready?” The question hung in the air a moment. “Lucas?”

Lucas suddenly became aware he was being referred to. “Hm?”

“Are you ready to begin?” Mr. Fletched repeated with a stern gaze.

“Yes, of course,” Lucas said in the most polite voice he could muster. “Let us begin.”

An hour and a half later, Lucas was back upstairs on the third floor searching around for a clue to what went on here. He found numerous old empty bottles and a small bucket near it in the small spare dining room and a set of quills made of solid gold on a desk. He stared at these longingly and hand outstretched, forced himself to open the drawer instead.

A small locket in the shape of a heart within a circle was inside. He removed it cautiously, looking this way and that, and tried to open it.

“Locked,” He said under his breath and threw it back into the drawer. His watch read seven thirty in the afternoon so his bed time would soon be fast approaching. He took this time to speed his search and find something before the day was wasted.

He stared down the long hallway from the stairs, the beginning he decided, and would check off each door in dust. He counted nine doors and three open doorways, plus the two parlors he had already searched. He searched each and found nothing but more antiques and artifacts he couldn’t understand nor explain.

Within the dark rooms he found only questions no one would answer. Things of brass now oxidized and glass jars filled with muck sat on a large yellow cupboard and a set of tubes and vials were connected by plastic tubing to several beakers and needles filled with what Lucas was sure to be blood. He left the first room in a hurry and continued into the others.

The one thing he found in common of the seemingly randomized bedrooms was the décor. All were dark, musty and smelled like the inside of a book. The walls were painted a flat cream with streaks of dark blue bordering them on top and bottom with the wooden panels in each wall striping them vertically. The ceiling was painted in swirls like seashells and was the same common gray that covered everything else.

The next several went by without anything worthwhile until he had just left the last room. He shut the door and turned away when a large door at the very end of the hallway not to either side but the very back wall seemingly came out of nowhere. He walked straight into the doorknob which hit him hard in the ribs. He stared at the door he had somehow never noticed before and smiled as he clutched his side.

It was painted red and had a golden doorknob that glistened, a miraculous sight to behold in such a place, and seemed out of place; like someone had sat it there temporarily. He reached out for the doorknob very slowly as to not scare it away.

“Lucas!”

Lucas flinched at the sudden noise and realized he wasn’t breathing. He turned to look down the hall at Maynard.

“What is it?” He croaked from fright and hurriedly wiped away the sweat beading on his brow beneath his bangs.

“It is your bed time, sir. Come with me.” He said and held out his hand.

Lucas turned back to see the door had vanished. No red paint, no gleaming doorknob. It was just the plain wall he had always seen.

“It seemed so real..” He whispered to himself. Maynard leaned forward to hear him.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing,” Lucas shook his head and stared down at Maynard’s outstretched hand. “I’m twelve not two, there’s no way I’m holding your hand.” He walked past the servant and down the stairs, knowing he had made a point and didn’t hear anyone following him down for several minutes. He made his way past the second story which consisted of his classrooms and onto the first floor.

It was by far the best kempt and polished of the house. The floor was the same dark mahogany as upstairs but shone in the light cast from the fireplace like topaz. The ceiling here was very high and held up by six great pillars of marble throughout the expansive room. Two leather couches were placed around the stone fireplace and a small table between them sat gilded in gold around the corners. Lucas’ favorite chair sat just beside the chimney with a terrific view of the room while kept out of sight.

Several paintings of past family members were hung across the walls starting from his great, great grandfather near the door. And what a door it was. Standing over nine feet, the hulking door was solid oak and the doorknob crystal. The window in it was so high it could be seen through only from the stairs. Great runes and swirly writing littered the door like decoration and evolved midway into a curly vine with flowers engraved to it.

The several windows that lay on each wall were draped with deep emerald curtains and shone faintly with the moonlight, silvery fog outside in the approaching autumn night.

Lucas passed through the room and turned right into his bedroom hall just before the fireplace. It was the smallest hallway in the house and had no light to see by. Four rooms within it, one his bathroom, the others a closet, his room, and a spare room full of old furniture and Christmas decorations he camped out in when hiding from Maynard.

He opened his door and entered his small bedroom. It was colder in here than most of the house, just like he liked it, and had a large window facing the front, which was covered in bars even though the front yard had a large fence about it. But nonetheless Lucas enjoyed the view. The streets were always busy with people going places, sometimes to work or the market. Sometimes even with children and other kids.

No, I’m not a kid, he decided. I’m twelve and more responsible than loads of people. Who else has to keep to themselves all day and learn manners as a baby? Who else had to face such a daunting house and take on as many classes as me? None, that’s who.

He opened his door as he heard someone pass and yelled, “I’m not a child!” before slamming the door and returning to his bed. He lay there and undressed before crawling under his thick blue blankets. His room was dark and had a small desk covered in papers and ink in the corner, and two dressers for clothing and spare equipment. As long as he could remember his life had been schoolwork. Dull and increasingly difficult, his laborious tasks seemed to stretch on and on indefinitely until he thought his head would burst from the strain of having to learn so much.

“Why can’t I have a normal life? One with friends and a real family, a house I can call home. Maybe a pet, I’d really like to have a dog..”

He sat up in his bed and stared out his window.

A figure across the street from his house stood still watching him, draped in a long cloak or trench coat. The stranger remained a moment longer, the hairs on the back of Lucas’ neck standing on end, then turned abruptly and walked away.

Lucas turned back to his room and shivered as a cold chill ran down his spine and into the pit of his stomach. A clammy feeling like a rock had slid down the back of his throat and stuck spread through his limbs and deadened his mind. His numbed fingers prickled and shook like he had played in the snow for too long.

The lantern across his room set to low suddenly blazed like a torch and emitted a roar, a great orange glow saturating the tiny room. Instantly the cold feeling was washed away and his deadened limbs sprang to life. Lucas sat up immediately and gasped several ragged breaths.

“What happened to me? I was so..so…out of it.” He pondered and wiped the sweat from his neck and face. “And my lantern didn’t it..”

Lucas stared at his lantern, practically simmering on low with barely a flame to be seen, then shook his head and lay down; suddenly exhausted.

“Nah couldn’t have seen me; too dark.” He assured himself as he rolled over and immediately fell into a dreamless night.

Lucas Black of Down the Lane Prologue

A great flash of light lit the small, empty room; casting an eerie green glow on the two boy’s faces; huddled in a dark stone-walled room devoid of any other light. They marveled at the wondrous sight before them. A small ballerina crafted of ice dancing in the shorter boy’s open palm. Its’ smooth crystalline figure twirled and slid across his hand silently among their giggles.

The taller boy smiled at the figurine and held his hand out. The other boy passed it on; the figure didn’t slow at all, and watched as his friend gazed at its surface.

“It’s cold,” He laughed, his young voice chirping. The shorter boy chuckled and stared down at the source of the wonder.

“What do you think it is?” He asked his friend as the ballerina was laid on the stone floor to dance around them in a great, sweeping figure-eight.

The boys leaned closer to the empty barrel that sat alone in the center of the abandoned classroom. Its surface was ordinary wood like any other, stamped with “Tramp’s Trash” on its side; but instead of finding blankets, rugs or quills, it was a small golden ring engraved in swirly writings and shimmery like the noon sun in its bowels. But it was the magnificent stone embedded in its face that caught their eye.

A great gem of the deepest emerald stared up at them, dancing in the light it emanated; not a single flaw or scratch to be found on its perfect surface. The stone was perfectly round and bowed up from the ring like a bubble on water’s surface. The shorter boy bit his lip and tried to grab the ring but couldn’t reach.

“Could you—“He began, but the other boy was already half hidden within the barrel, scrounging for it.

“Got it!” He exclaimed and held the ring close. His eyes grew wide as he surveyed it up close. “It’s surprisingly heavy, Dalton.”

The shorter boy shrugged and smiled, standing on his tip toes to see it better.

“Lemme’ see it, Raymon, come on,” Dalton whined in his nasally voice. He threw his arms out and collapsed to the ground and began stomping his heels against the floor. “I found it.” He added, growing louder with every word.

“Shh!”

Raymon dropped low and leaned against the wall nearest him, listening for footsteps. He peaked through the heavy oak door and into the dark halls. Several tense moments passed in silence aside from the pounding of his heart in his ears. He closed it again and peered up through the window, nose on the windowsill and sighed a breath of relief.

“Here,” He tossed the ring to Dalton and sat back down. “Just be quiet alright? I don’t wanna’ get caught again.”

Dalton nodded and began to study the ring closely. His eyes absorbed the ring’s every detail, raking in its’ curves and illuminescent glow. He held it close to his chest just below his chin to look at it without interference from the outside being in the view. His fingers rubbed around the smooth gold like water and he too noticed the weight behind it.

“Well?” Raymon asked him.

“Well what?” Dalton replied several moments later.

Raymon rolled his eyes and held out his hand. “Give it back.”

Instantly Dalton jumped to his feet and held the ring behind his back. His fingers clutched to it desperately like something he needed to protect.

“No, it’s..it’s special to me!”

“Special? We just found it.” Raymon stood and held his arm out expectantly.

“I won’t give it to you, I won’t.” Dalton refused stubbornly and jutted out his bottom lip. He spread his feet in a defensive posture and made small, fat fists in the air in front of him. Raymon took a step forward and Dalton swung, much too far away, and the ring fell from his sweaty grip.

It rolled across the floor to Raymon who as he bent to pick it up was bowled over by a diving Dalton. They fell in a heap and scrambled about wildly. Dalton used his weight to hold down the lighter boy and struggled to get the ring out from under him. Raymon however didn’t have the ring anymore and saw it sitting just a few feet away beside the barrel.

“Get off me, you brat!” He hissed and squirmed beneath Dalton’s backside.

“Gimme’ the ring first!” Dalton retorted.

“I can’t get to it with you on me,” Raymon whispered, afraid someone would hear them. He gasped as Dalton rolled off him and rubbed the sore spot on his knee where he had fallen. Then in the blink of an eye, he sprang for the ring.

“What’re you—“ Dalton began then caught on and went after him in a flurry of clawing and grasping at his hair.

Raymon was inches from the ring, his fingertips clawed at it like a spider but could reach no further. He held his breath and stretched as far as he could as Dalton wildly attacked him as young children do, and ignored the boy’s pleading. All he wanted was the ring.

The ballerina skated by and in perhaps the most unlucky occurrence in history, hit the ring and tripped, sliding over it and casting the ring several feet away near the barrel. Dalton leaped up and dived once again for the ring and caught it in his pudgy hands, laughing loudly as he collided into the barrel and knocked it over with a loud, reverberating clunk.

“Ooh, now you’ve done it,” Whispered Raymon as he jumped to his feet.

“Whadda’ we do?” Dalton panicked and shrieked, being the younger of the two. His great round eyes like saucers shook as he darted to and fro for somewhere to hide. He tripped over the rolling barrel and sniffled as the door opened, hitting Raymon as he tried to hide behind it.

A tall figure stepped in slowly, great long, flowing robes of cerulean waving without breeze. Two pointed moccasins were inches from Raymon’s face and smelled strongly of licorice. He looked up to see an elderly man with a short-trimmed beard of salt and pepper, graying around the edges mostly, and bright purple eyes. His face was weathered and wrinkled beyond reason and his hair or lack thereof was hidden beneath a cone-shaped sleeping cap lying lazily on his shoulder.

His raspy voice was deep and echoed easily like a river or waterfall, words easily flowing and taking control of the current of the conversation.

“What have we here? One, no two--” He noticed Dalton lying half beneath the barrel with hands covering his eyes. “--students out of bed. Well now, I’m sure there is an explanation?”

Raymon and Dalton cast sidelong glances at each other and gulped in unison.

“We..we were..uhh..” Dalton began but was cut short by Raymon.

“We had to go and thought this was another bathroom.” He said quickly.

The old man smiled a crooked smile.

“Now, what would you give you that idea my dear boy?”

Raymon swallowed hard and looked back to Dalton who was beginning to shake. Raymon shrugged and realizing he was still on the floor stood, the other boy following suit.

“I suppose I shall have to inform your teachers—“

“Oh no!” Dalton interrupted and began to cry.

“—That we should better mark our doors to make them more legible to younger students.” He finished.

The boys stared at him, Dalton’s tears already dried up, and smiled sheepishly.

“Thank you mister..mister..?” Raymon asked shyly.

“Professor Bouregard, of Alchemy,” He grinned. “Now how about you two get off to bed hm? Go on, now, there’s a good lad.”

The boys left immediately and took off as quickly and quietly as they could down the dark halls, turning left then right, then up a staircase past a statue of a griffin and into their bedroom.

They each lay down and breathing fast, gulped down as much air as their lungs could take.

“That was close,” Piped up Raymon from his bed across from Dalton’s. “Hope we don’t have to go through that again. Night.”

But Dalton wasn’t listening; his back was turned to the others beneath his blankets. His mind drifted as he stared solely at the ring in his hand. Its’ green glow muffled by his chest, he slept soundly and dreamed of great wealth and fortune flowing into his kingdom as he shook the skies with great bolts of lightning from his right fist. An emerald glow lit his vision suddenly and a great burning past through him, shaking from his sleep.

He sat up to find the sun just beginning to rise through his window, the room full of snoring and even breaths. Dalton shook his head and laid his head back down on his pillow atop his hands and froze.

“I don’t remember..” He said as he stared down at the ring upon his right ring finger. But the morning was young and he soon drifted back to sleep, not noticing the ice ballerina skate to his bedside then melt as he closed his fist beneath his pillow.

* * *

Professor Bouregard lifted the barrel right ways up and turned to leave when a thought struck him. He spun on his heel and stared down into the barrel.

“It couldn’t have been.” He mouthed silently, horror struck. He gasped for words but found none. None worthy of the insurmountable fear that gripped his heart.

“The ring..no no no..my ring. It’s…gone.” He clutched at his chest and fell sideways to the wall to support himself which gave way beneath his weight. His arms passed through the wall like sand and began to pull him deeper into the stone. He cried out frantic, and waved his other arm sporadically and pulled against it as his head passed into the rock. He struggled down to his last finger extruding from the wall but was fully consumed, no sign or evidence he had ever been there nor the wall’s actions.

Lucas Black of Down the Lane