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