The Radfield Conspiracy, Part 2

The interrogation room in the Peace Corps Detention Center, a small cubicle painted in nursery colours and images, sat in the far back, away from the majority of the livestream cameras and most prying eyes. Commander Radfield sat on a black beanbag cushion, hands held in front by a pair of rubberized Smith & Wesson handcuffs. He knew the place on an intimate level, having interrogated dozens of troublemakers before now in this very room. The black one was his usual chair, and his fellow Peace Corps officers afforded him that one luxury while awaiting proceedings.

Radfield looked around the room, recognizing the two pinholes where the livestream cameras were located at once due to his prior familiarity with the place. A smile played on his lips as he raised his bound hands, waved, and looked forward, trying to not play up to the camera like so many lawbreakers before him. Instead, he took to singing songs he knew the words to, clapping his hands along to the beat and looking all the more like an overgrown child in a Peace Department uniform. Eventually, he grew bored of it and stopped, letting his eyes wander around the room and take in details he had never noticed before; places were the paint was peeling, indents and divots, even the two small charred holes in the wall where Tamerlane had missed with his uTaze when that dreg attacked him after learning he was scheduled for sanctioning a few months back.

Aww shit. Couldn't handle that one guy alone, could you, Frank? Nevermind that you had half a meter and at least fifty kilos on the damn guy... Had to come in and properly subdue him for you... And ain't that a damn shame? You'd been on the force almost ten years and couldn't even operate a child-proof uTaze properly? Aww jeez. Don't worry, brother. I'll make a man outta you yet...

He sighed. The memory of Frank in one of his goofier moments caught him off guard, something he hadn't been prepared for at all. Now that the floodgate had been opened, he tried to repress the memories from earlier that night, but it was of no use. They washed over him, leaving him drowning and adrift in a flood of recollections...

* * * * * *

The night had just begun in Nuevos Refugio, leaving everything damp and chilled in its wake. As the sun set, the winds picked up, blowing air from the ice caps skirting the edge of the continent inward and freezing to death those unlucky enough to be caught outside without the proper protection. Lucky for Frank and Christian, they were already prepared.

The PatrolBike was parked outside of the warehouse at Central and Franklin. Commander Radfield and Captain Tamerlane were standing aside it, back hatch having slid down automatically so they could retrieve their containment gear set just inside. Of course, Department regulations forbade the pre-deployment of gear of any kind, but it was in Radfield's experience that not having any gear on you ostensibly made you a sleeping duck. He'd been there before, vowed never again, and had to  impress on Tamerlane the importance of gearing up pre-strike on more than one occassion.

They had already hitched on their gear belts and were adjusting pouch positions when the first signs of trouble emerged.

The sound started slowly, like rushing water but amplified a million times over, a cacophony pouring out of the open doorway to the warehouse. Frank and Christian jerked their heads towards the door in unison, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"What. The. HELL?" Frank turned to Christian with his fearful stare, hoping, like always, that Christian would have the answers to everything. He was mistaken; Christian shook his head slowly, uncertainty and caution tainting his every micro-second of movment.

"Frank, buddy, I got just as much of an idea on this as you do," he said under his breath. Franks eyes grew wider.

Christian noticed from the corner of his eye Frank's hand trembling as he went to heft his uTaze unit and turn it on. Christian shook his head again; why in the hell was he prepping that already? It's one thing to merely be armed, it's another altogether to be drawn and ready to fire at the slightest twitch of uncertainty. That's the whole reason for the regulations, Christian thought, So we won't abuse our powers like our forebearers...

The second sign came in a flash of an instant.

From amongst the rushing sound, they heard a scream, horrendous and soul-wrenching in it's sheer terror. Frank and Christian didn't hesitate now; they both pulled their uTaze units and switched them on, the prospect of having to make an active detention steadying their nerves and steeling their resolves. Christian approached the building first with Frank behind him, as proper order dictated, and slowly poked his head around the corner of the open door. He blanched at what he saw and pulled his head out to indicate retreat to Frank.

"We need to leave. Now. Let Sanctions deal with this one, man," Christian gushed as he slumped to the ground, back pressed to the wall.

"What the hell did you see in there, Christian?"

"They were..." Christian started, unable to bring himself to the words for it. "They were... Killing aliens. Their own kind. Young ones, all tied up. Being shot with... Whatever the hell that damn thing is!" He found his voice growing stronger as he continued his rant. "Those children are screaming and being murdered! Screw this! If they can kill kids they can kill US! We need Sanction Corps here NOW!"

As he shouted the last line he pressed down on the com implant in his jawline, opening a direct line to Peace Department Dispatch. He waited with baited breath for Dispatch confirmation to come, but after a minute that felt an aeon with hearing nothing, Christian tried again.

Pressing down on the implant, he said, "Dispatch, this is Commander Radfield, Nuevos Refugio Peace Department. Con-firm November Foxtrot Two, copy?"

Nothing.

Radfield cursed under his breath and ran his wide hand through the thick black mop he maintained for hair. He spared a side glance at Tamerlane to see what he thought of the situation or, at the very least, have him try his com.

Frank wasn't there. Christian spit out another curse, heaving himself to his feet and re-arming his uTaze in the process. He poked his head around the corner of the door, hoping to not see Frank, hoping that the idiot son-of-a-whore would have had the good sense to not try and play the hero again.

Frank stood just a meter away from him inside the building, having attracted the attentions of some of the aliens dispersed in the wide open space. He was saying something in a loud voice, but with the screaming and the sound of the weapons still being fired towards the rear Christian couldn't make out a single word being said. Instead he watched, praying Frank wouldn't continue the hero act and sensibly step away, but it was not to be. He continued to attempt to talk to them, and judging by his nervous shakes, it wasn't going very well.

Using Frank's distraction to his advantage, Christian took a better look around him. The wall to his left was lined with the younglings, all of them hanging from their bound limbs. They were so young, Christian noted, that their fifth arms hadn't even come in yet, a grim sign. To his right was a row of adults, each armed with what appeared to be bright silver cylinders on top of their hands being held by a handle of some sort. He knew what guns were from the historical dramas on the television, of course, and had even held one during the prerequisite Criminology course he was put through prior to he and Frank's signing on with the Peace Department... and these weren't they.

A movement at the far end of the room caught his attention. One of the aliens stepped out from the darkness in the back and was headed straight for Frank. He thought of warning his partner, but the thing was moving so fast there simply wasn't enough time. Instead, Christian spat on the ground and stood up in the doorway behind Frank, reaching over Franks shoulder with his uTaze aimed squarely at the attacker's head. He waited a second longer, and when the attacker was two meters away, he fired.

Christian never misses. Now is not the exception.

The sting at the end of the uTaze line buried itself deep under the organic plating that made up the alien's skin directly in the center of its forehead. Christian grinned and pulled the trigger the second time, loosing one hundred thousand volts of pure electrical stopping power into the alien in a matter of mere moments. The alien dropped instantly, attracting the attention of everyone in the room, period. Those that were firing on and around the younglings had stopped, heads turned to the front in some mockery of a unison, until all eyes were square on Christian and Frank.

Frank, too, was spooked, until he turned around and saw Christian's form looming over him. He breathed a sigh, relief etched into every line on his prematurely aging face, and turned back to face the inquisitorially minded mob forming before him. The aliens in the room walked forward, some still holding the weapons in their hands, until one got close enough to the dropped fellow to be able to touch him. He bent at the thorax, sadness evident, and touched his fellows face, nudging his head with a finger. Hoping against hope, it seemed, that he would wake up.

They filed forward, each touching the body, each mourning the falling of one of their own. Even the bound and tortured younglings hanging from the west wall drooped their heads, some out of relief and some from genuine sorrow at the passing of the adult. Christian stepped back, tears welling in his eyes at the outpouring of emotion and support of one of their own, forgetting for the time being about the torture and suffering he and Frank had halted.

Christian tapped Frank's shoulder, intending to tell him that they should quietly withdraw, only to find Frank pulling away from his touch.

“What the hell, man?” was all Christian could sputter out of surprise.

Frank turned to his partner, red at the eyes.

“Commander Radfield? Commander Radfield?”

Rough hands shoved Christian's shoulder, waking him up from the intense daydream that had gripped him whole. He shook his head, feeling the tears left over from the previous situation still welling up, brought about by the intense flashback and knowing what was coming next. He didn't want to relive that scene, never wanted to think of it again, didn't even want to acknowledge that it had happened if need be.

To keep from thinking of it, he focused on his situation at hand. He was just awoken forcefully... By who? Christian spun his head around to acquire the answer to the question.

His world went black. The thick bag covering his head cut off all sight and sound, leaving him deprived of everything but touch. He struggled at first, whipping his handcuffed arms about in an effort toat least feel his attacker, but came up with nothing. The bag was drawn tight around his neck, cutting off the oxygen supply inside. Christian's frantic breathing and overexertion finished the job that the bag started.

Christian passed out within one minute. He didn't feel the needle enter his arm, didn't feel the Sombisol as it was being injected, didn't even feel the van ride... taking him to his next destination on the hellish rollercoaster his life had recently become.

The Radfield Conspiracy, Part 1

Commander Radfield held high the intricate weapon in his hand. He didn't know how it worked, nor did he know anything of its manufacture. All he knew was that this... Thing... before him had used it to destroy his trusted partner, Captain Tamerlane. And now, Radfield thought with a malicious bent, it's time to return the favour... for ever and eternity.

"What are you gunna do," asked the creature on the ground in perfect English, "Kill me? You know you can't. You'd lose your commission in a heartbeat!" Radfield tightened his grip in response. The alien raised its chin in a defiant manner, displaying the second set of pincers under its jawline. "You wouldn't dare, Commander. You define yourself by... this," it added after, sweeping one of its arms at Radfield's uniform.

Radfield hesitated pulling the trigger. He knew what the villain said to be true, but... Was it really? Did he indeed define himself by his service? His tan and sculpted arm trembled from the strain of holding the weighty object up single handedly, sending ripples through the long sleeve of his Officer's uniform. Small rivulets of perspiration formed on his brow. Do it, he told himself, trying to gather the confidence to end this villain's life. Do it and show Frank, wherever he is, what he meant to you!

The face of Frank Tamerlane, Radfield's partner in the Peace Department of ten years and best friend for twice that, swam in to view ahead of the sights at the end of the weapon. Radfield imagined his expression sorrowful; his dark hair was styled back like it would be, his face pained and sad. Cold hatred boiled through Radfield's veins as he saw the face change to its current mockery of life still sitting at the ship terminal downtown. Hair splayed everywhere, chunks missing from laser splatter...

In an instant his mind was made up, and Radfield pulled the trigger in one quick jerk of his finger. The weapon erupted forth an enormous beam of light, as wide as a man and at least as tall, roaring like the sound of a thousand waterfalls, all aimed straight at the villain's proud head. The alien screamed then, a chittering sound meant to convey hostility that was now reduced to expressing mortal fear. In the last millisecond before impact, it threw all five of its arms up in a defensive position, the screaming having reached a fever pitch yet still nothing against the sound of the beam coming for him.

The impact was glorious.

The beam from the weapon erupted into a million disparate colours, all named shades of the rainbow and everything in-between striking at once and incinerating every molecule upon impact. The villain cried out as the very fiber of its being was shredded and disintegrated, a piercing sound more agonizing than any Radfield had ever heard. His heart fit to burst with both the glee and remorse coursing through his veins, and it took everything in his power not to break down in tears as he lowered the weapon and let the disintegration take its course.

Within seconds it was over. Where the villain had been half-seated on the ground, now laid a pair of insect-like legs and the beginnings of a torso... And nothing more. Even the wall beyond the alien's carcass was damaged in the attack, splatter patterns from the laser peppered in a wide dispersement. Radfield threw the gun at the alien's remains, more out of anger at himself than anything else. He knew the instant after he pulled the trigger that he had made the worst mistake of his life, and now, judging by the chatter coming through his scanner implant, he was going to pay dearly for his moment of vengeful weakness... and soon.

The Peace Department were already alerted to the altercation, and were trying to lock down EPS coordinates on any intelligent beings in the vicinity. Radfield listened to the PD chatter with keen
interest, trying to ascertain the current location of the squad assigned to the disturbance. He couldn't tell through the four dispatchers working simultaneously, and after a full minute had passed, decided to make a run for it. He pulled the hood of his Officer's Jacket over his head and turned to leave the alley he was in... Only to find his way blocked.

Three more aliens stood in his way, all wearing what Radfield knew of their race to be shocked expressions. One carried another gun like the first, and the other two held MIDs pulled from the bandoliers across their thorax. He shuddered at the prospect of having to kill again; his orders as a Peace Officer included never taking an intelligible creature's life. He had already broken his vows once tonight, and he wasn't sure he had the nerve to do it again, in the same night at that. The perspiration on his brow escalated to a full nervous sweat.

Then, the alien with the gun spoke.

"Ch-Christ-t-t-tian Radf-f-field," it started, unable to get over his species' predeliction for stuttering when attempting English, "Wha' has you d-d-done? You k-k-kill friend-d-d!"

In the back of his mind, Radfield wondered where the damn thing had learned his name. Like most private citizens, his given name and any other private details were barred from public records, and the knowing of a given was tantamount to close friendship. And somehow, this thing knew it... Which meant...

"Where's your reader, dreg?" Radfield asked in a polite tone. His stance was still fight-or-flight, facing the three creatures blocking his way. While he waited on a response, he assessed his escape options. There was an old fire escape just ahead and above him to the left, but by the time he reached it, he would either be disintegrated or blown up (depending on which dreg decided to attack first). He could attempt to scale the wall to his right, which was mercifully clear of obstacles, but he'd have the same problem if they're any type of decent with their weapons. Or, he could...

"You d-d-don't need-d-d to know that-t-t, Command-d-der," it sneered. "How could-d-d you d-do thisss t-t-to usss? We are ssso few!" it added, outrage building in its stance and tone. Radfield knew his time was growing shorter; the alien advanced on him by a step. Radfield stood his ground against the encroachment.

One of the aliens behind the leader said something out loud in its native language, a weird string of chirps and clicks that Radfield could never hope to decipher. The leader nodded once and turned to the other in the group.

Now!

He charged the lead alien in a flat-out run, reaching it before it could turn and see what the commotion was. Radfield lashed out with his fists, connecting with the side of the leaders' head, then used the momentum to swing to the left and kick one of the others in the chest above its fifth arm. Both screamed from pain and indignance when hit and crumpled, leaving the only ones standing being Radfield and the last of the group, whom raised the MID in his hand high.

"Don't," was all Radfield needed to say. The alien, looking scared to death against the treat of imminent violence, carefully tucked the explosive back in to his bandolier and stepped aside. Radfield nodded at the alien, then walked past him slowly, making sure the thing didn't do anything stupid such as try to use a tracer or attack when his back was turned. It didn't; when Radfield looked back it was tending to the wounds of its fellows.

Christian Radfield let out a momentary sigh of relief, tuned in his scanner implant once more, and began to run. He made it less than a city block before the flashing lights of a PD PatrolBike became visible. Radfield paused, unsure of his next move, and looked around.

The Nuevos Refugio Peace Department, ranked tenth in the nation for effectiveness of apprehension, drew closer as time passed. Radfield was certain he was being tracked by now; so much time had passed that he would be flabbergasted if they hadn't caught a whiff on his EPS signal and started a tracking program. He bobbed his upper body from impatience and indecision, debating the merits of each pathway.

Left or Right? Left or Right?

He glanced left, the direction the PatrolBike was approaching from, and saw an open space between buildings. To the right was a dead end.

Radfield swore under his breath, then swung his body right and made a dash for the dead end. He jumped at the last second, ElektriShok implants in his quads boosting the height of the jump to double that of a normal human.

"You there! Enhanced Human! You have ten seconds to disengage all bioelectric machinery and surrender in an unenhanced state! Failure to comply will result in Sanction Corps intervention, do you understand?"

Damn.

Reminiscences Of A Condition, An Autobiographical Essay

Hello. My name is Christopher Brumley. My friends know me as Priest. Readers know me as C. Priest Brumley. And I have Clinical Depression.

I know the majority of those that would read this are instantly going to say "duh" or an equivalent. To some of you this might come as a shock. Either way, it's something I feel I need to get off of my chest. I am a clinical depressive. Not proud, mind you, but open.

I was diag-nonsensed (Thank You, Angelina Jolie!) when I was in High School. Before that, counselors thought I had an "anger problem" coupled with an "eating disorder"... Idiots. By the time High School came about, my parents sent me to a Psychologist, who properly diagnosed me and improperly medicated me. On the meds I felt like a walking somnambulist, and stopped taking them of my own accord. To this day I refuse to take anydepression medication, for fear of reprising that feeling.

I've denied having it as bad as I do for so long, and I've become a master at playing happy in public. I even managed to convince myself that I could "control it" for a while. But, like all truths, it outed itself eventually. And now, currently in the throes of a fairly large-sized depressive fit, I feel I need to write about it, at least so I can understand it and maybe help others in the process.

Truth be told, it sucks. Imagine yourself constantly stressed, ready to blow up at anyone around you at any given second, feeling two seconds from attempting suicide, and (if you smoke, like I do) damn near giving yourself permanent laryngitis from the sheer amount of smoke you inhale and you're about halfway there. I'll touch upon all those topics at some point, but you get the idea. It is hell on Earth... Inside your own head.

The stress is the part that gets me the most. I'm a stressing person by nature. Any tiny thing that one would normally worry about for two seconds before forgetting becomes something I fret over for hours. The way I present myself to others, money, car troubles, the ongoing problem with my left eye, etc. But when my depression hits, I become almost a monster.

For example, here's a situation that happened to me recently: Our television died about a week back. Most people would shrug and either shop around for a new one, borrow a spare from a friend or family member until they can buy one, or get theirs fixed. I freaked out, rejected the generous offer of my parents to borrow a spare they had, rejected the prospects of both buying a new one andfixing our old one, and blew up on both my wife and neighbour for trying to help me find reasonably priced replacements online.

Get where I'm coming from?

The post-blowup guilt is hell as well. Normal people would apologize after raising their voice. I get sullen, non-responsive, terse, and withdraw in to my own head for hours after a situation such as above. And this is how I live.

Some parts are easier to deal with than others. The suicidal tendancies are one of them. I tried to attempt suicide once or twice when I was younger, but they were half-assed attempts at best. One even landed me in River Oaks Psychiatric Facility for eight days. Good news is, they have stopped being anywhere near as bad as they used to be, although they're still there.

Every now and then, I'll get an errant thought along the lines of, "What if I just walked in to traffic right now? Would anyone miss me?" The logical part of my brain says "Yes, dozens of people would miss me and mourn my passing." On the other hand, the depressive side says, "Do it." But, like I said, the urge isn't strong, and I firmly believe suicide is pure, unadulterated cowardice. And, despite whatever fault you may find with me, I am not a damn coward.

This is what life is like for me on a semi-regular basis. The depression can strike at random, be it a slow, oncoming thing or a sudden bout brought on by something as stupid as the cats knocking over their water bowl. It can last an hour or it can last a week.

But you'll never know. My smile's always there... On the outside.

Sitting Room Citings, A Flash Fiction

I am being watched.

I'm not quite sure how this happened (nor do I really care at this point), but all I know is somehow this... Thing.... Popped up out of nowhere and decided to camp out in my sitting room. And I don't even know what the friggin' hell it is. It almost looks... What's the word? Daemonic, I'd say.

And it's staring at me. Why? Maybe I should talk to it?

"...... Hi."

"Hello, sir."

"Can I... Help you with something?"

The thing's demeanor changed in the blink of an eye.

"No, sir, but maybe I can help you! I see here," and with a flash of curiously blue fire, a rather thick dossier appeared in his right hand and a pair of old-fashioned bifocals appeared in the other. "You are a former Marine Corps veteran? Served in the first Gulf War?"

"Yes..." I said tentatively.

"And," he continued, propping the bifocals on his face in a grotesque mockery of intellectualism, "You received the Purple Heart award from President Bush himself for your troubles?"

I puffed my chest out, my pride about receiving that particular award having grown over the years, and said, "Yes sir! Got to shake the man's hand and everything! Proudest day of my life!"

"Of course it was, sir! Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but," and at this he opened the dossier and rifled through its contents until he found a particular page, and proceeded to read aloud, "it says here that you, and I quote, 'sold your soul for the chance to live long enough to see your grandchildren after being mortally wounded by a hidden sniper'?" Finished, he lowered his bifocals and stared interestedly at me.

My face blanched in an instant.

A thin smile formed on the Daemon's lips.

"I understand your trepidation, sir, but please allow me to finish. Your exact request, that you 'live to see your grandchildren' has been fulfilled as of yesterday morning at Ten Twenty-One AM, has it not?" Again, the Daemon glowered at me expectantly.

I didn't think it was possible for any more blood to drain from my face. I was very, very wrong.

"But... But... I..." I stammered foolishly. I looked around, hoping to find something, anything to help me in this situation. I came up blank.

"Sir, with all due respect, nobody will be able to help you. Your wife is not due home for quite some time, having gone to visit the new child, has she not?"

I felt a cold sweat start to work it's way down my graying temples.

"I thought as much. Well sir, as you may have guessed by now, I am indeed here to collect on your debt. My name is Masach, pleased to make your acquaintance!" The Daemon held out his hand, obviously hoping for a handshake. I settled on an incredulous look.

The Daemon returned my look after a moment, and I knew, in that instant, that I had indelibly sealed my own fate.

"Well, good sir, since you seem to want to skip the formalities, I would think it's time to get right to business," the Daemon said. He slowly removed the glasses and placed them on top of the dossier, then set both on the coffee table before him.

I gulped and gripped the armrests of my chair with white-knuckled intensity.

“Now we have three ways in which we can proceed. Would you like me to outline them for you, sir?"

“Is there anythingI can do to get out of this?” I blurted out unexpectedly.

The Daemon stroked his chin thoughtfully, then looked up brilliantly.

“Actually, sir, there is! Would you be willing to trade someone else's soul for yours, par chance?”

“Yes, I would!” I half-screamed, almost leaving my chair in the process, “Anything! Just spare my life, please!”

“Excellent! I'll be back for your granddaughter soon.”

Then, along with his dossier and bifocals, he vanished. And I wept.

On The Subject Of Funerals, Part 4: End Game.

I mentally braced myself through the drive back to the graveyard for whatever lie ahead. I didn’t care what I faced, I didn’t care if Mrs. Carol had moved on to another location, I didn’t even care if I survived this mess... I just needed to know that the others got out alright. After that, well.... We’ll see what the night holds, I told myself grimly.

The ride seemed like it was taking no time at all, even though when I looked at the tiny clock on Jim’s outdated radio a full half of an hour had gone by. A glint of light reflected off of the gun next to me caught my attention for a moment. I reached out and fondly stroked the revolver sitting on the seat next to me as I drove, feeling the cold steel and simple strength course through it to my hand. It almost seemed like it was imbueing me with power... The power to move on, the power to end Mrs. Carol. The power to end it all.

I looked up from the gun just in time to slam on the brakes.

The old lady had wandered in to the middle of the highway, seemingly lost and unperturbed by the near accident. I waited for her to pass by in front of me, impatiently drumming my hand on the steering wheel as she slowly shambled by. After waiting for a full minute, I started to get an uneasy feeling in my gut, and my reptilian brain shouted at me (in no uncertain terms) to run her the fuck over and keep moving.

When she got closer to the driver’s side of the truck, I got a closer look. Her hair seemed to be sticking out in multiple directions, her shawl was disheveled and trailing from her like a cape, and perhaps most alarming of all, she seemed to have no indication whatsoever of her surroundings. The uneasiness in my gut rising, I honked my horn at her, hoping to alert her to the fact that she was in the middle of the highway, with... wait, where are the other cars? The highway was too quiet, and now that I thought of it, no cars had passed me by or even been on the other side of the road that I can recall. 

“This can’t be good,” I said out loud to no one in particular. The stress of everything, of losing Lilly and Jim, and now my growing unease with this unfortunate looking woman was making my stomache tie itself in knots at this point. Thinking it might help ease my tension a bit, I pulled a cigarette from my pack on the dashboard and lit it. The nicotine took hold once more, easing the headache I previously didn’t realize I had and gladly restoring the numbness to my hands.

I only got three drags off of the cigarette before I noticed the seemingly drunken old lady had dissappeared. I looked left and right, hoping to catch a glimpse of her on one side of the street or the other, to no avail. She was simply... gone. I added another knot to the collection my stomache was trying to accrue and took another drag. I was afraid of driving forward; what if she had fallen? Only one way to find out, I told myself calmly.

The truck reversed slowly, afraid as I was to hit or possibly injure the lady. I scanned the area around the front of the truck as I went, hoping to catch a glimpse of her dressing gown or shawl or anything relevant, but saw nothing. After backing up twenty or thirty feet (I never was good at distances), I took one last look around and, still seeing nothing, put the truck in drive and sped forward.

BANG.

The sound came from the bed of the truck as before. And this time, I didn’t question it. Pitching the cigarette, I reached for the gun sitting next to me. Bravado, that dumb sunuvabitch that’s led too many people to their graves, dictated my actions from this point. I pointed the gun over my shoulder, slammed on the brakes yet again, and double-tapped the trigger.

BLAM! BLAM!

The sound was deafening, and for a moment I thought I had permanently lost my hearing. I dropped the gun immediately, clapped my left hand to my hurt ear and howled in pain as the truck sat idling in the middle of the deserted highway. The pain lasted what seemed to be a near infinite amount of time, the thought of the old lady completely lost at the moment.

After a minute or two, I managed to pull my hand free of my ear, and I was startled to find my palm covered in bright red blood. Great, I thought, I’ve gone and blown out my fucking eardrum. Then a rattling sound from the trunk pulled me from my thoughts and brought me entirely back to reality. I hastily wiped my bloodied hand on the back of the seat next to me and undid my seatbelt, grabbed my (Jim’s, I thought briefly) gun, and jumped out of the truck.

It was the old lady, like I thought, sprawled out in the bed of the truck and writhing in agony. Her entire head was matted with a dark, viscous fluid that I guessed passed for blood. Perhaps it congealed, I wondered to myself while looking her over for any other damage. Then I saw it: Two large bullet holes, one on top of the other, going directly through her left eyebrow. And she was still fucking moving.

I backed off from the truck slowly, all thoughts of bravado and action movie heroism gone from my head. I turned to puke again, but accomplished nothing but dry heaves. It was then that I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, and what little there was in my stomache had been left artfully plastered on the lawn in the cemetary. My stomache and nerves didn’t know or even seem to care, though. They kept doing what they wanted, consequences be damned.

The dry heaves lasted longer than expected, notbeing helped at all by the miserable moaning recently added to the writhing sounds coming from the truck bed. After a few more minutes I (finally) stopped, gasping for breath and slowly pulling myself to my feet. The gun was still on the ground where I left it when I fell to my knees; I decided to leave it there for the time being and concentrate on one thing at a time. Then the noise died away all at once.

I peeked back over the side of the truck bed and had to do a double-take.

She was gone. In her place was a dress and a shawl, filled with a roughly-old-lady-sized pile of ash-like granules. The granules intrigued and repulsed me, and almost instinctively I reached out my right hand and stroked the top of the nearest pile. It felt almost like engorged sand with an airier quality, and had the delightful aroma of ten week old meat left in the Louisiana sun. If I hadn’t just been sick, this would’ve been the kicker. 

Another thing caught my attention, too, when I looked over the pile again: Bits of flesh were left. It was not much, and certainly nothing large enough to even be considered “parts”, but they were there. Perhaps they were contributing to the aroma too? I pushed the thought out of my head before it took hold and forced another set of dry heaves on me. Too much today, come back tomorrow when the holding tank’s full again, I thought satirically.

After looking over the piles again, I found myself with a limitless amount of unanswered questions going around my head until it seemed fit to burst. I decided to put them off and simply go forward, and hopefully the questions will answer themselves with time. I was almost always the one with the patience. The questions can wait.

To busy myself from the thoughts in my head I laboriously lowered the tailgate. I didn’t have a broom on hand, but hopefully jetting forward with an open tailgate on an open highway would do a decent enough job in lieu. As I turned around to head back to the cab, my foot brushed the revolver on the ground, reminding me to pick it up. I set it delicately back on the seat next to me as I climbed in to the driver’s seat. One crank of the engine later and I was back on my way.

The rest of the trip went by relatively fast compared to the first half. My head was still occupied by questions, and with no one else on the road, I was free to put my driving on autopilot and do some much needed contemplation on the matter at hand. I started with making a mental checklist of questions surrounding the situation:

A, Is Mrs. Carol dead or alive? And if dead, why is she moving and killing people?

B, Who was that old lady, why did she suddenly go “Buffy” on me when I shot her, and was she already dead too?

And most importantly, C: Where the holy fuck is everyone else? I don’t even see police cars out and about, which is fairly scary on it’s own.

And as I thought of those questions, I realized with a fatally re-emerging sense of dread that I had been sitting in the cemetary’s parking lot for a few minutes now, with my headlights on and the engine running. So much for the element of surprise.

Damned autopilot.

I steadied myself against the steering wheel as I turned off the engine, taking deep breaths and trying like all hell to stop the shakes before their inevitable return. The wheel provided no comfort, and in near desperation I found myself reliving Jim’s words to me hours ago: Just calm down, baby. That seemed to work, and though I still felt two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack again, I felt my hands ease up from their white-knuckled grip on the molded foam. I slowly clenched and unclenched my hands in front of me, easing the tension and using the time to build myself up for what lies ahead.

After what seemed like another century, I ran my hand to the revolver next to me and found the grip, picking it up and feeling the reassuring weight once again. Strength and Power, I told myself over and over, mingling in with Jim’s words of comfort in my mind. I pushed the gun slowly in to my pants pocket, careful not to catch the trigger in the process, and swung open the truck’s door to enter the humid night. A rattling in the bottom of the door brought a stroke of revelation, and I hurriedly grabbed the Mag-Lite from his small holding area down there, not knowing if I’d need it but knowing it wouldn’t hurt.

Now I’m ready, I told myself Now I’m ready for the end game.

I strode forward, relying on my memory to guide me to the semi-secluded spot where Mrs. Carol was supposed to lay forever, checking the ground as I went for any signs of blood or a struggle or something. Instead, I found absolutely nothing. No bent grass, no blood pools, not even a dismembered finger to guide my path or provide hints of what happened in my absence. Nothing whatsoever. Which, naturally, only seemed to deepen the ever-growing sense of dread taking over my entire being.

I eventually reached Mrs. Carol’s grave site, still set up for her graveside service, with the chairs for the immediate family still arranged in a neat row and the Minister’s well-worn Bible sitting on top of the seat closest to where the struggle had taken place. I didn’t see the minister anywhere, though, and in my mind’s eye I saw the minister set the bible down as he walked to the group of people surrounding Jim and I when I first saw Mrs. Carol’s return. He probably ran for it when he saw the mayhem, I rationalized to myself. I shrugged internally, decided it made sense, then moved on.

I hadn’t taken more than two steps when I saw, just beyond the horridly bright green felt laid down on the ground, what I had been looking for. Mrs. Carol. Or, rather, her purple dress and the few assorted “parts” that hadn’t managed to disintegrate yet.

 They seemed a jumble of ash-like granules and slime-ridden bits that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but those who knew of their true origins, all strewn on the ground before me with small condolence to any rhyme or reason, unlike the old lady earlier. I pulled the gun out of my pocket and bent down to inspect the remains, prodding piles of ash with my foot and pushing bits with the gun, until I found the biggest part of her I think I was going to find at that point: her eye. Prodding from the gun separated it from the pile of ash rather quickly. 

Once separated, I looked down at it, and rather quickly noticed the back of the eye slowly starting to crumble into more of the ashy granules. I crouched down and watched it dissolve, from the back at first, then crab walked around and looked at it from the front. I looked deep, not expecting anything but secretly hoping in the last seconds I had left to find something. Answers, mostly. An answer to the madness, an answer to the litany of questions resurfacing in my head, an answer for everything that has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours.

I found it.

I wasn’t ready for it.

Idontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantit

idontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantit

idontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantitidontwantit

I felt tears begin to well up suddenly at the magnitude of what I saw. Before I knew what I was doing, I felt my hand grip the gun tighter and work the muzzle up slowly to the soft underside of my jaw. The barrel felt warm on my sk

-Fin.

Reflections From a Quiet Room, A Poem

As the quiet surrounds me
In this small room,
My Inner Serenity
Begins to bloom.

My thoughts turn inward
To while 'way the night
Many hours ahead
Even after the light.

But there is another
Side to this tale
That of a man
Feeling fated to fail.

What makes me afraid,
So precious and pure,
Is the thought of losing
My feral allure.

I once was a man
Too hated by few
And as the years passed,
My handsomeness grew.

But now I feel old
and though I still know
My years are yet few
I take it as blow

To see those who flocked
And frollicked with me
In years soon passed
Have forgotten of me

The friends who called
For me to return
Now see set to fit
My image'theirs burn

And I love my new life
And all those I know
From my gorgeous true wife
To my friends now in tow

But still I feel that
Those I once knew
Will forget me more
With memories new

To the point where I,
A faded old man
of a jaded Twenty-Eight
Am not part of the plan.

And those I've impressed
And those I've appalled
And those I've distressed
Will forget me, all.

Is there a way back?
I've yet to find one,
But I know this one fact,
I'm pretty much done.

My wife brings me strength
And to her I'll stay true
And a life lived without
I shall never rue.

I've had my fun,
I've had my thrills,
I've loved many people,
In suits and frills.

My family true,
Both blood and without,
Will be in my heart,
 'Till the days run out.

I shall never forget thee,
My friends of old,
But it's time to move on,
(If I may be so bold).

So as I mourn
The days long passed,
One thing left to say:
With you, I've felt blessed.

Childhood Memories, A Poem

Hatred courses through me
Like the California Wildfires.
The taint of reading
About the children's suicide
And the Pain they've endured
Flashes me back
To the days of my own
Suffering and humiliation.

The times were less then,
The days seemed shorter
And the hatred infinite.
The children drew their power
From my naivete
And turned it all back on me,
Whisper campaigns
In the old child's way
Following me like flies,
Constantly buzzing
And tearing my attention
Away from those
Who deserved it most.

These harsh words,
About my size
And about my preference,
Were wolves of grammar,
Gnawing at my
Pride and self-esteem,
Until nothing else
Was left in my place
But an insecure child
Frightened to be outside
Or communicate with others.

My friends were my toys,
Bits of plastic
Imbued with thoughts
And feelings and souls,
Entire communities of them
Existing purely
On the power of
My imagination.
I was a superhero,
A god manipulating
The good guys
Into confrontations
Where the bad guys
Always suffered as I had,
And the heroes
Always saved the day.

On particularly bad days
The villains would die,
Limbs rent from
The injection molding
And sent flying,
Old toys meeting their end
And making way
For a new input group.
The life cycle was short
And replacements
Were a beg away.

But when I would leave
The pain would return,
And a turn of the corner
Would bring my happiness
Crashing down.
The neighbourhood kids,
Intimidated by intelligence
And frustrated
By unimaginative lives
Would torment me
And humiliate me
And turn my life
Back in to
The hellish world
I frequently knew.

I see a new generation
Coming up as I had
And feeling the pain
As I have felt.
I want to reach out to them
And guide them
As I wished to be guided
Or give them
The tools that helped me
Endure the pain.
But I can't.
This type of pain,
As I know from experience,
Is a personal matter,
And learning to live
With what they've done
Is a part
Of growing up strong.

Some people can not.
Some people have seen
And felt too much
And in their eyes
Life is pain
And death is the excess
They've been longing for
So they indulge.
I can not nor will not
Hate or judge them.
The people who drove them
To their untimely graves
Need to suffer
As we have suffered.

And once more
I am reminded of
The ineffectual concept
Of Karma
And how "What goes around
Comes around"
And realize
These bullies and their ilk
Get what they want
One-hundred percent
Of the time.
And I weep for the future
Of not just America
But the world.
For in seeing what I know
Is coming of age
I know of our
Downward Destiny.

On The Subject Of Funerals, Part 3: Going Down.

It took a minute or two for my breathing to slow down enough to talk. By that time, we were already on the highway, doing 70 miles per hour in a 45 zone. In retrospect, I'm amazed we weren't pulled over.

I thought of the situation back at the graveyard. Was everyone okay? I know Lilly and Vincent were dead, but did anyone else survive the onslaught? I felt immeasurably sick to my stomach, and I think this time it had nothing to do with being concussed. My guilty conscience at running away from the massacre was tugging at me, telling me in no uncertain terms...

"We have to go back..." I started, but Jim cut me off before I could start to explain.

"Like hell. Did you see that? She tore Vincent's fucking head off!"

"And it's still in the bed of the truck, yes I know!" I contested hotly, "But the fact of the matter is we need to stop that... that... whatever that's doing it! We need to make sure everyone else is okay! And we need to get a policeman or a SWAT team or something!"

"And why exactly would we have to go back there for that?" He countered. He was already on his third cigarette since leaving the cemetary. I couldn't smoke, my hands were shaking too badly.

"I don't know, I just... I just know it. We have to go back, baby," I added calmly. The shaking had spread from my hands to the rest of my body by the time I had finished talking, and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing up again out of fear. Still, I have a pretty good sense of right and wrong, and I knew, in this instance, that I was right.

Jim was quiet for a minute, concentrating on maintaining his hellish speed, until he finally slowed down and pulled off to the side of the highway right in front of a grocery store.

"Are you sure, baby?" He asked in an ominous tone, staring at me with a face that registered both fear and anxiety. “I want you to think really hard about this, and tell me it’s the right thing to do.”

Lilly and Vincent dead. Mrs. Carol back from the dead, killing en masse. A whole funeral’s worth of possible casualties. Run away. For fuck’s sake, tell him to step on it and never turn back around again. Tell him to grab his stuff and we’ll move to Samoa or Fiji or somewhere! Just don’t say...

"Yes," I replied with certainty.

Idiot.

"Then we'll need supplies. You mind if we make a stop by my place?" he asked.

"Ummm... What?"

"I am not going anywhere near that thing without packing something, and I'd feel a lot better if you were packing too, baby. I've got a few guns my dad left me in his will with the ammo for 'em and a machete in the garage. Which one you want?" he added quickly with a glance in my direction.

I paused, the prospect of using a weapon turning over in my mind. I’ve never fired a gun before, but I was pretty sure I could at least point it in the right direction if needed. But a machete? I knew how to handle a big knife well (being raised by a professional chef will do that to you), and even though I was scared shitless about having to use it, I preferred the devil I know.

I turned to Jim, still shaking so much I was practically vibrating with fear, and said, “Machete.”

He nodded curtly, pulled back into the travel lane, and floored it to his house. Ten minutes later we got there.

He took the shortcut in, squealing around corners and barely missing the cars parked along the side of the road. He even gave his elderly neighbour down the street quite a turn, almost running her over and causing her to curse at us in a choked voice as we sped past. The last I saw of her was a middle finger in the rear-view mirror.

Jim was already unbuckled by the time we got in his driveway, and he dashed off without saying a single word to me. I hastily hit his garage door opener a split-second later, and waited patiently for the archaic machine to spring to life and let me inside. In the meantime, I looked around Jim’s yard; he had spent an awful lot of time out here, planting shrubs and meticulously edging and trimming his yard. The man lived for working outside, and it certainly showed.

At last the garage door went up enough for me to enter, and I did so rapidly, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the afore-mentioned machete. I spied books (many of which were so peeled and faded from years outdoors that you couldn’t tell what they were from the cover), old issues of home improvement magazines, tools and machines, and at last, a tactical machete sitting on a shelf above the washer. It was high up, but one of the boxes of faded books proved to be all the stepladder I needed to fetch it down. 

As I felt the cool plastic handle in my hand, I heard an extremely loud noise that sounded like two pieces of wood being slapped together. And at that exact moment, what little colour I had left in my face drained. I know that sound. Oh please dear God don’t let it be what I think it is. My feet started to move me without my consent, running through the door in the back of the garage into the living room.

Nothing there.

I tried the living room (“Jim?”), the kitchen (“Baby, where are you?”), the dining room (“BABY?!”), the guest bedroom (“JIM?!”), and the hall bathroom (“ANSWER ME, GOD DAMN IT!”), and found nothing out of sorts. 

It was when I took my first step in to the master bedroom that I knew what happened. The master bathroom light was on. He never left the lights on, and was meticulous about that fact. A sense of cold dread swept over me as I stole in to his bedroom, creeping past the bed that we shared, past the dresser I picked out, and past the closet full of the clothes that still smelled like him. Creeping to the door to the bathroom. I peeked my head around the corner and almost collapsed on the spot.

Jim was in the bathtub with the clear curtain liner drawn. You could still see the fragments of his skull sliding down the tile behind it.

I fled from the room as fast as I could, blindly running in to things along the way, until I managed to make it to the living room. I finally collapsed on to the couch and drew myself up in to a ball as the tears started.

******      ******      ******      ******      ******      ******

Day faded to night as I lay there on the couch. In my head I was recounting the times Jim and I had jostled with each other for the mirror in the bathroom, the times we would make dinner for one another (I did most of the cooking, but the man was a genius when it came to grilling and steaks), even the times we were making love. And that’s what it all boiled down to: I loved him. I had been vehemently opposed to telling him before, but I did. And now I couldn’t.

I don’t know how much later it was that I got myself off of the couch. I slowly approached the master bedroom again, taking care to look for anything out of place. Nothing was wrong in the room itself, aside from an open shoebox on his bed still housing one of the guns and two boxes of ammunition. I turned away from it and went to the closet. And as I closed it, I felt my guts wrench even more. Too painful, too soon. 

Also, too necessary.

I moved on to the bathroom and braced myself.

The bathtub was the same as I left it, with Jim’s corpse huddled in the corner opposite the tap and surrounded by the curtain liner (presumably so as not to have left a mess behind himself). I looked around the bathroom for any sign, anything he might have left me to tell me why. I needed closure, almost craved it at this point. As I turned around, I found what I was looking for: a hastily scribbled note sitting on the counter by the sink. I picked it up and read:

“Thomas,

I didn’t do this to hurt you, baby. I did this because I can’t deal with this shit. I can’t deal with dead people walking, and I can’t bring myself to kill someone. Take the guns and run away, baby. Go. Save yourself. I’m saving me.

I love you. Have since the moment I met you, and will forever in heaven.

-Jim Hollister”

I set the tear-stained note back down where I found it and slid to the floor, my back braced against the sink cabinet. I hated myself right now, more than I ever have or thought I ever would. I killed Jim, I thought. I pushed him in to going back to the graveyard, and he couldn’t cope. Jim was my life, he was everything I’ve lived for since the divorce and the coming out to my parents, and this is how I repay him? I’m not worthy of his love.

Despondant, pissed off, confused, and miserable, I lifted myself from the floor. Misery and fury coursed through my veins, and (at least in my mind’s eye) I heard the most peculiar sound...

Snap.

I strode to the shower, threw open the curtain, and picked up the gun from the bottom where it had fallen out of Jim’s hand. After wiping the gun off with a hand towel, I closed the curtain for the last time, grabbed the box off the bed, and made my way back through the house, closing doors and turning off lights as I went. By the time I got to the garage door (shoving the machete in my pants as I got there), It was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

The truck turned over obligingly as I cranked it. I pulled out the driveway, put the truck in drive, and sped off to meet my death.