NEWS UPDATE

Heyya, Guys/Gals/Betwixt...

It's been a few weeks since the release date for my first solo anthology, "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre". In that time, lots of awesome stuff has happened. I have my first book signing set up for 11 July, I have my first Convention appearance set up for June 2013, etc. Things are groovy.

But THIS.

This blog, Fiction Is Stranger Than Truth, is a bit of a mystery to me. See, when I first started writing, I created it as a way for people to see my stories. Then, upon having my stories published by Schlock! Webzine, I just linked to them there and then put them up on here the next week (after the stories were archived at Schlock!). But now that the book is out containing updated and revised versions of the stories featured on here (plus many more), I'm at a bit of a crossroads regarding this... thing... you are now reading. Do I keep it up? Do I pull the plug? Well, I think I have the answer.

Work has begun on my first full-length novel, "The Slicer Chronicles: No Way Home" (tentative title). So I plan on using this monstrosity of a blogsite and post behind-the-scenes material as it comes available. First up will be character interviews, allowing my fans and readers to get to know my characters from the Slicer Chronicles better than before, and it will all be kicked off by my brand-new lead character: Tasha Jade Williams. Expect her interview to be up later today, and the rest (David Hadley, Hector Diaz, and Kyra Marston) to follow upon completion.


This is Fiction Is Stranger Than Truth 2.0, peoples. Dig it.


Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley


P.S.: You can get copies of my anthology "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre" at http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Morbidly-Macabre-Priest-Brumley/dp/1477634924/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_t_1

One Night In Hell, A Short Story

A bit of a note before you read this story:

On 27 May 2012, this blog hit 1,000 pageviews. I was (and still am) absolutely flabbergasted that that many people would view my stories, even if it is a cumulative number across the entirety of my offerings. So, in appreciation of that mark being hit, I did a drawing on my official Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/cpriestbrumley), with the winner receiving a custom-written story starring themselves, in the genre of their choice.

Well, it didn't quite work out that way.

The chosen winner, Chris Reid, opted instead for me to write a post-apocalyptic war story centered upon a few of his popular characters from the site "Last Days Journal", Richard Faust and Cpt. Alan Dryfter. So, in the spirit of the contest, I reimagined the characters, trying my best to remain true to their core, all the while incorporating new life in to the Zombie mythos surrounding them.

I hope you all enjoy.

Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley, 31 May 2012

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

"These earplugs aren't working for shit, Faust."

"Nor mine, mate."

The sound of a thousand human voices hung in the air, an orchestra of pain and mortal danger in an unstopped crescendo surrounding the two men. The first to talk hefted his gun, an un-modified AK-47, on to his lap and threw his head back in frustration.

"Jesus H, if I have to hear this non-stop moaning bull all night, I'm gonna lose my cool!"

"Same, I'm afraid."


Clink. Clink.

"Well, you can take solace in knowing that I'll stop you and burn you before you can turn."

"You'd really do that, Alan? Shoot me, I mean."

A tired sigh floated through the dark air between the two men, unheard. "No, I wouldn't. Just trying to cheer you up some."

"Good soddin' luck. My nerves are on edge here, mate."

"Hard to argue right now. Still no word from H-Q?"

The second man's voice sounded strained, his accent thickening from stress. "None yet. I've tried fixing the receiver best I can, but the most I'm still getting is white noise and the occasional snip from a football replay. Apparently, Man-U's up on Galaxy three to one."

Clink. Clink.

Alan looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise. "They're still playing football?"

"Replay, mate. From what I can get, this one's three years on."

Another tired sigh. Alan shifted in his spot to relieve the numb feeling caused by the rubble they were perched on. "Damn. I was hoping they still had a spot safe enough, too."

"Same here, I tell you."

Clink. Clink.

"What the hell are you doing over there?"

Faust smiled for the first time that evening. "Counting."

"Counting what?"

"Bullets."

"Oh."

"According to my estimate, you have about sixty-seven left."

Alan broke out in a wide grin. "I like the sound of those words!"

"You're not going to like the next ones, then. I'm skint, mate."

Alan cursed under his breath, a sound lost under the continual stream of moans that issued from beneath them. He ran his hand through his coarse, short hair as a gesture of contemplation, then looked up, an idea gleaming in his eye.

"How are we on fourties?"

"Haven't got there yet, but I know we have six or seven loaded clips in your bag. Speaking on, chuck it at us, will you?" Alan slid the pack off with one smooth motion and threw it, one-handed, to Faust. "The faster I count, the faster we can institute a cunning plan of escape."

The desk, set on end in the corner of the room to block the stairwell, gave a shake, a fresh stream of moans pouring in through the gaps.

"Guess the first and second floors didn't take, eh?" The false chipper note on Faust's tongue did not go unnoticed.

"Guess so." Alan patted his chest, followed by his pockets, then cursed again. "Hey, while you're in there, see if you can find a pack? I can't find mine." A half-used pack of cigarettes flew through the air between the men, and was caught just before impact by Alan's quick hand. "Thanks. Where were they?"

"Front pocket. Hang on--" The red glow of the lighter flared as Faust started one for himself, then threw the lighter on the same trajectory as the pack before it. "--There you are."

The same glow illuminated Alan's face for a moment, grizzled features thrown in relief by the dancing light. He pulled a deep drag, letting the nicotine run its course, then turned his mind to the pressing issue.

"So. You're out, but I'm good on both of mine. Brilliant."

"Technically speaking, yes, but even with you being 'good', I think we can only count on half for kill shots. So I'm thinking we can hold off the horde out the door, but we're right screwed after, mate."

"Damn it. We need something, Faust. At this point, I'll take anything."

Faust shifted on his pile of rubble and returned to sifting through the rucksack set between his boots, flicking the dead ashes from the end of his cigarette on occasion. Alan, for his part, stayed silent, finishing his cigarette well before Faust and flicking it out of the open hole in the wall to fall to the hording mass below. After a few more minutes of sorting, Faust straightened out, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"Talk to me."

"My dearest Captain, we are saved."

"How saved are you talking, Faust? Napalming the 'Cong saved or 'Shot heard 'round the world' saved?"

Faust gave a soft laugh, barely audible in the cacophony. "How dramatic do you like your victories, Alan?"

"Yes!" Alan stood up, punching the air in excitement, the AK-47 laying across his lap falling to the ground with a metallic clatter. "You found one?"

"Just the one. If you can clear out the surrounding horde a mo, I can eyeball the bastard and call this one a win, eh?"

Alan scooped down and grabbed the strap of the AK-47, hefting it on to his shoulder. "Cut 'em or kill 'em?"

"Kill. If I miss the runt, we're dead off. We need as many down for good as we can get."

Faust straightened up, tossing the backpack to Alan with one hand while he unshouldered his sniper rifle with the other. Alan caught the bag, shouldered his gun, and started to root for clips. "Can do. Where do you think he's at?"

"My guess is the slight break in the mass, right--" Faust stood and walked to the gaping hole, scanning the gathered horde below until he spotted what he was looking for. "--Right there." He pointed at a small gap in the midst of a tight-packed group, barely visible in the light of the full moon shining overhead.

Alan strode the few steps to stand by Faust, pocketing the loaded clips in his hand, and scoped the area below, picking out the opening almost at once. "Right there. You loaded?"

Faust slipped the length of dark metal off of his shoulder, opened the chamber, and loaded the sole round in the span of a single second. "Done. You?"

"Ready when you are."

"Then give me an opening, Cap--"

CRASH.

The oaken desk that had been blocking the stairway in the corner gave way, spilling the oncoming horde in to the war-ravaged room. Alan and Faust both spun at the same time, Faust grabbing the semi-automatic pistol strapped to Alan's side as it passed and dropping the sniper rifle in a single movement.

"Kill shots only!" Alan's voice rang out over the moans of the horde as he and Faust levelled their weapons at the creatures' heads, gunshots ringing in rapid succession dropping the horde as they approached en mass, bodies crawling over bodies crawling over more bodies, blood painting the brick surfaces around them in a grisly shade of putrefied black as the stench of the reanimated dead still approached, a hundred corpses moving toward the only fresh food in a hundred miles, the wall of bodies growing taller...

"I'm out!" Alan's voice rang out a minute later, barely heard over the ringing in their ears from the utter din of the weapons and assailants. The wall of bodies had grown too tall for the horde to climb over, but the movements behind the wall were growing in intensity as the horde continued to push, unabated, knowing that nothing is entirely unmoveable.

"We have to off that controller, Alan!"

"And how do you propose we do that? Want me to pull a Nathan Lane, dress in drag, and do the hula?"

"What?"

"It's a joke, for Christ sake!"

"Now is not the time for a sodding joke! Take this!" Faust flipped the handgun through the air at Alan, who caught it by the hot muzzle and flipped it to grip the handle, dropped the clip, and slammed in a new one brought up by his other hand from his pocket. "I need space to get to the controller, mate. Make it happen!"

Alan brought the sight up to his eye, took aim, and fired, again, and again, the protective cluster around the controller being reduced one by one. On the fourteenth shot, Alan turned to Faust, intending on cracking wise.

He opted for silence instead.

The long, dark sniper rifle was set up and being aimed directly at the exposed controller: a child, no more than four feet in height, the result of evolution's sickening attempt at protecting the ruling caste of these mindless creatures. Faust had done this before, dozens of times, but it was a mark of his humanity that it unsettled him each and every... and now was not the exception. Fighting the rising bile in his throat, he squeezed the trigger, loosing the sole round they had left for the gun.

His aim was true, and the head of the child exploded outward, crumpling the controller's body as Faust lost the fight against the combined force of his conscience and stomach.

The effects were immediate. The horde that had gathered around the building dropped, one at a time at first, then by twos and threes, then more, a ripple of reanimated corpses falling dead again from the loss of their reanimator, originating from the center point of the controller and working out from there.

The wall of bodies stopped shifting as the remaining horde beyond it fell down. Alan holstered his gun and clicked the strap over the back end, then scooped to grab the AK-47 from its resting place below on the ground and reshouldered it next to his rucksack. Faust spat out the remnants of the vomit in his mouth to the rubble pile, trying to ignore the sharp stench wafting up to his nostrils, and reshouldered his rifle. Both men met at the center of the room, watching the sky lighten through the gaping bombshell hole in the wall.

"Did it again?"

"I think I'll be worried when I don't, Alan."

"And that's why I keep you around, man. Best shot in the world and you're still more humane than anyone back at camp."

"Speaking on, let's start moving this pile, mate. Haven't eaten since we left to scout."

"I heard that, brother."

The sun broke out over the horizon in the distance.

Reminiscences Of My Childhood, An Autobiographical Essay

You want to know why I am who I am today?

First and foremost, I blame my parents. They did this to me, you see.

My parents were a weird sort. Not weird like, "Granola and TinFoil hats" weird. Their particular flavour of weird was closer to "Let's strap on hand-made armour and/or hand-made period clothing and re-enact the middle ages using modern conveniences such as bathrooms, running water, electricity, etc."

(For those of you who just guessed I was an S.C.A. Brat, you get bonus points. For those of you who said Renn Fair Brat, close this blog, go outside, close your eyes, and play in traffic. Or deep-throat a cactus, take your pick.)

The S.C.A. was, at the time, the greatest thing that could ever happen to my life. Once a month, I was allowed to get dressed up in costume and run around huge campgrounds and recreation areas, meeting new people constantly, learning about everything from sword fighting to calligraphy and back again. I learned how to cook, to barter, play the djimba and didgeridoo, and so much more before I even hit puberty. I learned of a myriad of alternate lifestyles and religions, all of which seemed awesome and exciting to a child my age. Hell, my S.C.A. name, Kveld Ulfr Des Fjords (Old Norse for "Evening Wolf of the Waters"), was so synonymous with who I was that (at times) I answered more readily to Kveld than Chris!

It was a great time of my life. But the weird influences did not even begin there, and they certainly did not end as we packed up from events.

While I was in the womb, my mother would put earphones on her baby bump and play Queen, Jethro Tull, and Alice Cooper. Immediately out of the womb, my father's influence was added, with Pink Floyd, Heart, Huey Lewis and the News, and more joining my previous affiliations. To this day, I maintain that these are the reasons music has been such a big factor in my life, and the foundation given to me in those formative days has only led my natural progression to current tastes, such as Dommin, Megadeth, and Iced Earth.

As well, through the interactions of my parents and their assorted friends, I was exposed to Elvira, early Doctor Who (we used to man the phones during Doctor Who marathons for LPB), and Mystery Science Theater 3000 (colloquially known as MST3K), as well as other cult features such as Army Of Darkness and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My father, upon seeing my enthusiasm for these features, proceeded to feed them to me on a regular basis, which included all-night viewings of TNT's "Monstervision" where I viewed some of the greatest (and worst) horror movies ever made weekly, further shaping my tastes for decades to come.

And there's more. My parents and their friends also gave to me what I now consider my greatest assets: my "geek cred", as it were. I watched, intrigued, as men I had known my entire life played the original Beta release of Magic: The Gathering on our kitchen table, learning the rules for the first time. I listened to and watched games of D&D unfold before my eyes. I marveled at my father's dedication to playing and beating (with my mother as his "navigator") Final Fantasy, Dragon Warrior 1-3, and more. Star Wars was omnipresent alongside Excalibur and Labyrinth and The Princess Bride. Comics were ingrained in my DNA.

This is all not to say I was not interested in typical things in my youth; on the contrary, I was a fan of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Masters Of The Universe, Voltron, G.I. Joe, and Transformers, same as every child in those days. I played Nintendo, had (and still maintain) a massive Lego collection, and used my father's flashlights as lightsabers. My childhood just had a few extra... perks.

After leaving the S.C.A. in my teen years (long story, but let's just say my personal involvement ended with my cursing out an entire e-mail list full of adults with language that would make a sailor blush), I found myself the odd man out. No one else I knew was interested in Norse mythology, or sword fighting, or cheap Sci-Fi. They were far more interested in professional wrestling, and cars, and heavy metal. So I tried to fit in, coming to appreciate wrestling (at the time). But the fundamentals instilled in me during those formative years in the S.C.A. never disappeared.

I still believe in chivalry.

I still believe that every man should learn how to handle a sword properly.

I still believe that cooking a feast and eating a meal together with dozens of your closest friends and family is tantamount to what others would call "Heaven".

I still believe in friends being family.

I still believe in faded "Highlander" shirts and B.Y.O.E. (Bring Your Own Everything) parties and multi-day games of Uno and proudly displaying that sword you found that goes great with your persona.

I still believe in my childhood.


Cheers!
-C. Priest Brumley

The Radfield Conspiracy, Part 3

Where am I, and what the hell is this, now?

The swaying, bumpy ride awoke Commander Radfield. His senses returned one-by-one, vision and sound dampened to anything outside of the blackout bag placed over his head but still there, as far as Christian could ascertain. With it on, he could only gather few details from his situation:

A) He was being held in a transport of some kind. The jostling of the vehicle had made him wonder, albeit briefly, just how he could have slept at all with the jarring motion.

B) He had been kidnapped, drugged, and handcuffed against his will, that in itself being a federal crime when committed against an undecorated civilian. Committed against an authority figure, it was grounds for automatic sanctioning.

A large bump in the road knocked Christian from his seat and his thoughts, landing him hard on the floor. The blackout bag, made of a vibration-absorbent soundproofing fabric, slipped off his head as he went face-down, allowing Commander Radfield to see his surroundings in part for the first time since the kidnapping. The first thing he noticed was the grey-black plastic along the bottom of the bench seat he had been perched upon. He admired the sterility of it, the cleanliness that was so imperative of--

I know who have me. Damn it! Why didn't I see this before?

Without preamble, he called out, "Who's the senior officer here?"

"No senior here, boy," came a rough voice nearby. Christian was unable to locate the direction; between the remnants of the blackout bag near his head and the vibro-proof armor plating that coated the interior of the transport, determining the location of a sound was next to impossible.

"What do you mean, 'no senior', guy? This is an A-Class Federal Transport Van, utilized only on the authority of the Sanction Corps, am I correct?" Christian sat through the barrage of stammers and jabbering before he decided to press on. "Let me tell ya something asshole, what you're doing is illegal! See this here? This is grounds for sanctioning, man! You could get kill..."

He never saw the boot coming for his face. But he did feel the impact. Lucky for Christian, the pain didn't last long before unconsciousness took over.

* * * * * *

He awoke again some time later, the throbbing on his left temple having reached a fever pitch. His sight was the first to return this time, as his head lacked the blackout bag, but he still saw nothing at first but murky shadows that alternated between grays and reds. His vision was improving by the minute; vague shadows grew more defined in their outlines, and he was sure that, given time, it would restore to functionable. He put that fear to rest and began to check his other facilities. He was handcuffed and shackled, kneeling on a rough floor of unknown substance, but couldn't tell if he was chained in place or not.

He could hear the sounds of civilization nearby, of people walking to and fro, and even make out snippets of conversation when they passed close to where he was. Screaming could be heard faint in the background, piercing sounds crying out in the darkness around Commander Radfield and filling the air of the area with hopelessness.

He needed to leave. Now.

The metal hand cuffs and leg cuffs that held him in place rattled as he tried to stand up, echoes reverberating throughout the confined space until the sound was overwhelming. Christian stopped, fear of alerting any sentries on duty guiding his caution, and the rattle of the chains died away at once. All was still and quiet while Christian planned his next move. He could try for a forced escape, using what charge he had left in his ElektriShok implants to break the chains and attempt a blind run while his eyes came to. Or, alternatively, he could scream for a guard to come see him, his voice joining the chorus of those seeking retribution for the crime they felt was committed against them. Time to weigh options.

The former was too dicey; if he tried running blind, he could inflict harm on an unwitting bystander, or, should the presumably rogue officer be nearby, he could walk right in to his arms and invite death quite by accident. The latter would be tantamount to giving up, the situation rife with the potential for being at the mercy of his captor (Captor or Captors? I don't even know how many there are, Christian noted with a sigh). Instead, he opted to wait it out and see what would happen, hoping for an opportunity to present itself.

What seemed to be hours passed while Commander Radfield waited for his chance. He whiled away the time meditating on his predicament, on the sequence of events that led him to this point, and, after dozing once or twice, trying to remember his favorite films in as much clarity as was possible.

The tell-tale tapping of Federal issue boots pulled Christian from his memories, bringing him to the here and now. His muscles began to tense when the tapping stopped close to his cell. Christian turned his head to face the noise, vision still not returned in full, and waited for whatever was to come. Three clicks, followed by a scraping noise as the door swung open to admit the intruders.

"Christian T. Radfield, Commander: Nuevos Refugios Peace Department. Given prisoner number C-L-P-one-one-three-eight. Can you confirm your identity?” The voice was as sterile as the air he emitted.

“Yes,” Christian croaked. His voice was scratched and raw from disuse. How long have I been captive? “Confirm everything except the prisoner number. Didn't know that beforehand. Hell, I didn't even know I was being taken legally!” He felt his voice grow stronger the more he used it. Bolstered by the sound of his voice returning to its normal tenor, he started shouting in the perceived direction of the officer. “What kind of freakin' gestapo tactics are Sanctions using now-days? Kidnapping? Christ Jesus, man!”

“Commander Radfield, we advise you to please lower both your tone and the harshness of the language used, as all conversations are currently being recorded.” Typical bureaucratic pipesmoke, Christian thought in the direction of the voice. “To answer your accusations, you were taken in a legal and binding manner; having been on the run from Sanctions units for the past three days-” Three days? How long have I been out of it, now? And on the run from Sanctions? What kind of icejob is this? “-bounty tactics were granted for your capture and reclaimation in this instance. However, instant Sanction rights were repealed on direct order from the Senate.” The orator stopped his bureaucratic cadence, evidently waiting for a response.

“What the hell are you saying?” Christian raised his head to the voice. "I was apprehended by Lieutenant Hetlich of MY department in response to my assassination of a Zuqqamogg gang leader, not by Sanctions! What the hell hallucinogen are you on, man?"

The tapping of the shoes was near nonexistent as the faceless bureaucrat flew forward and pressed his face near Christian's, close enough that Radfield could start to make out the encroacher's features through his still hazy vision. His breathe was a reflection of the inner putresence the bureaucrat held, gagging Christian with a scent that could draw flies.

"Commander, once more I do advise you to shut the hell up. We have no record of an assassination in your area of command. This is misdirection and lies. As your adviser on affairs, I suggest you stick to the real facts and not a daydream, understood?" His breath held, allowing Christian a moment of respite from the maelstrom of halitosis. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the clear air.

"I am sticking to the facts, you pompous dick!" Voice growing stronger still, eyesight growing sharper. The Adviser took an involuntary step back from Commander Radfield as he sprung forward, veins bulging in rage. "This is bullshit! This is a freakin' icejob and you know it!"

"I am sticking to the facts as they are presented to me, Commander. I--" A new set of footfalls sounded in the enclosed space, the sound radiating upwards as they approached the Advisor. Christian could make out a short exchange of whispers and a brief grunt of approval. The muddled form of the Other walked away then, with the sound of footfalls fading at a rapid pace.

"It seems you have a visitor, Commander." Radfield could practically hear the smug smirk on the Adviser's face. "The Zuqqamogg Ambassador has heard your admittance of assassination and has requested to meet with you in person. As your Adviser, I will remain present to assist in any matter what might be brought up. Agreed?"

"Do I really have an option?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Well then, bring on the king bug. Maybe he'llactually believe what the hell I'm saying."

"That's warning number three, Commander. A fourth will result in immediate expungency of your trial, an automatic 'guilty' verdict, and automatic sanctioning, are we clear?"

"No, we are not!" The new voice entered the room in a flash like lightning, his voice the bass of thunder, audibly rattling the chains holding Christian down. The thunder reverberated, pressure in everyone's skulls reaching a tempest pitch until the final vibrations cleared moments later. The voice must have sensed the damage being done, Christian thought, for he lowered his pitch for the next words spoken. "He is not to be sanctioned. I have him under my protection from this point forward, including the authorization to release him from this wretched facility."

"Now wait just one blasted minute!" Christian smiled at the Adviser's rage. "He is a Federal prisoner! I have him under orders--"

"--That have just been rescinded on grounds of political sanctuary. He is now a member of the Zuqqamogg peoples until such time as we release him from sanctuary at his request or our discretion. Stand down, human."

"This is preposterous."

"Be that as it may, he is mine now. Release him or join in his sentence."

The Advisor stepped forward, the jingling of keys now added to the staccato footfalls. In a moment the heavy cuffs were released from his wrists and ankles, a burden he hadn't realized was weighing him until they were gone. He unfolded himself gingerly from his kneeling position, the screaming in his knees plaguing his every microsecond of movement until the painful stiffness eased away. The urge to stretch seized him on a whim and he obliged, joints popping with the slow movements.

Christian looked around, hoping to see the visage of his savior; instead he found his vision still obscured long after it should have returned from a basic head injury. Wiping at his eyes to try and kick-start the return of his vision, instead he pulled away a mass of air-light gel, weightless and transparent, obviously designed to keep the vision of the victim to a minimum. He shook it off of his hand on to the floor and pulled off more gel, less than before, and noticed his vision becoming more defined. Three more wipes removed the rest of the gel, returning his entire sense of sight to normal, and allowing him to gaze upon his accuser and his savior for the first time.

The Adviser was a slight man of later years and reminded him forcibly of the old Nazi scientists he read about in his Criminology courses, with a well-cared for combover and a ruled moustache, all gray and wispy. His well-tailored suit was crisp at the seams and still retained its original color, an amazing feat given what Commander Radfield knew of Federal budgets for its lower-level employees. He turned to the newer voice and took an involuntary step back, impressed by the awesome size of the creature before him. It appeared much like the gang leader he had destroyed earlier, but simply bigger, impossibly larger in scale, topping 3 meters tall easily. Where the fifth arm was in the center of the chest of a normal Bug, he had 2 arms instead, both radiating from the central joint and covered at the base in thorn-like spikes. The second set of pincers under its “chin” were also covered in the thorns, giving him the dangerous look of an unevolved giant ready to tear apart all in its path. The Ambassador started to vibrate with deep laughter, its center arms clasping together in amusement at Christian's awe.

“Commander,” it choked out between chuckles, “Do not be afraid. I am not here to harm you in any way.”

“But... but... You're not angry about the assassination?” Christian took another step back, feeling the involuntary tensing of his calf muscles start as he prepared to run from the behemoth before him.

“Did you not hear what I said before? Come!” His voice reverberated once more as he placed a claw on Christian's shoulder. “We have much to talk about, you and I.”

ANNOUNCEMENT: THE SLICER CHRONICLES Debuts!!!

Good Evening, Guys/Gals/(Insert Choice Here)!

This is a joyous occassion indeed. Today, a project debuted that I am extremely proud of. It has taken much of my time and energy as of late, pulling me away from my attempts at completing my first solo anthology (tentatively titled, "Tales Of The Morbidly Macabre"). It is being released in Schlock! Webzine (http://www.schlock.co.uk), where it will reside for the foreseeable future. And here it is:

C. Priest Brumley's THE SLICER CHRONICLES!

It is a Shared Universe Project, wherein a set of rigid rules are set down in regards to how the universe and its people work, then everyone's free to write a story within its boundaries! The stories are submitted to either me or Schlock! editor Gavin Chappell, where we will review them and decide on whether or not they follow the rules and are good enough to publish, then publish them one by one in weekly editions of the Webzine.

For universe details, the project Manifesto, rules, guidelines, and the introductory story ("The Road Everyone Travels", written by Yours Truly), please refer to the homepage of Schlock! Webzine, http://www.schlock.co.uk and enjoy!

Looking forward to seeing your contributions!

Yours in Departing,
-C. Priest Brumley

The Boy Who Cried "Science!", A Poem

There was a young boy who cried "Science!"
His mother thought it would be swell.
But when came the real test,
His subject of int'rest
The body he'd found in the well.

The next day, the boy who cried "Science!"
Took over the kitchen in whole.
His mother, she threatened
But then, the truth set in
He's trying to reverse Death's toll.

"We breathe through the power of Science!"
The boy did exclaim in his glee.
"And now I do wonder,
"When life's torn asunder
"How benevolent must 'God' be?"

And then the strange boy who cried "Science!"
An experiment he did start.
He whipped out battery,
Attached cables deftly,
Jumpstarted that poor corpse's heart.

"The corpse came alive, thanks to science!"
The little boy crowed to his mom.
He led her to see it,
But she had a right fit,
When got there, the body was gone.

"What happened?" said Boy who cried "Science!"
"I know not," said mother through tears.
"He can't really go far,
"He'd move like trapped in tar
"Muscles atrophied for years."

"We'll find him with Forensic Science!"
The boy started gathering tools.
Then they heard a low moan,
A click and a ring tone,
And scraping of the kitchen stool.

"My dear, I'm alive thanks to science!
"What do you mean where have I been?
"I walked on the Hike Trail
"I tripped on a low rail
"The small light above's last I've seen!"

"But then came this boy who loved science,
"He lifted me out of the well.
"Laid me on a table,
"Applied jumper cable,
"And that's all the story I'll tell!"

"I need to stop him using science,"
The little boy whispered in shame.
"I brought him back to life,
"Now it's causing you strife,
"So I need to clear my good name."

So he made a plan using science,
To reseparate corpse from life.
He snuck up behind it,
Then took his dad's drill bit
And stopped its short talk with its wife.

The corpse cried, "Dear boy who loves science,
"I seem in such an aweful state.
"My wife, Kate, remarried,
"Relationship buried,
"Give back my original fate!"

Complied tried the boy who loved science
With a tear clinging to his eye.
He steadied his weak nerves,
His hold on the cord sure,
Then aimed the drill bit true and high.

"I can't," cried the boy who loved science,
"For don't you see what I'd become?
"My conscience holds its sway,
"They would lock me away,
"The better for it I'd be none."

"I know that you do love your science,"
The boy's mother sobbed through her hands,
"But you better do this,
"Or so help me Purvis,
"I will tell your Dad of your plans!"

Purvis (the young boy who loved science)
Gathered all his strength for the blow.
He brought bit down with force,
Was true on lethal course,
And laid the poor man back down low.

"This is why you don't play with science,"
His mother proclaimed in a shout,
"You caused him naught but pain,
"Now you're done with this game.
"Make sure to get that corpse back out!"

So now, the boy no more loved science.
His mother had the final word:
"You tried for Frankenstein,
"You succeeded big time,
"This won't be the last of it heard..."

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.