Magpie Part 5

High on the mountain, sat a lone shape. Cross-legged, his hands on his knees and eyes closed, Shaman let his thoughts wander, clearing his mind. He had not eaten in several days but he did not need food. Not at this point. He worked on a trick a wise man once taught him. He squinted his eyes for a second and then opened them. Everything that Shaman saw was now different.
The sky was no longer blue, but an iridescent black that glowed white at the edges of the horizon. The sun looked burnt out and a cold rusted brown. The land around the mountain was dotted with pits and craters where blood and other bodily fluids boiled up like lava and fumed like brimstone. The mountain too felt different, like it was made of skin and flesh and bone. As if it were some giant creature sleeping and dreaming, something that Shaman dared not to wake. The sky was filled with terrible winged creatures, forever screeching in torment for somewhere to land but finding no safety.

It was with this terrible vision that Shaman could see how things were connected. Lines glowing with phosphorescence came to and from him and lay their way across the world. He saw the Colonel’s getting fainter. His time was nearly up. He saw another line, glowing bright. Cassandra. Shaman wondered what might happen to his daughter when he was gone. He remembered the joy and brilliance of her birth. Then he felt the cold hard earth of the mountain beneath him. His lungs where filling with blood. A shadow passed over him. He was scared, because he didn’t know if he had the strength now. Because he didn’t know what she might do when he was gone. Would he be gone?

Shaman’s mind shifted back. Time meant little in this place. His future seemed to be present.

Wait, he thought to himself, concentrate. Do not get lost.

These were the words of his master.

Shaman was on this mountain decades ago, before his body was scarred from ink and battle. There he had sought something that no one else would. And his master lived on that mountain. This mountain.

His master was dark-skinned with long black hair, matted with beads and feathers. Just stood there laughing. Laughing at a half-starved Shaman.

- You foolish white man! You’ve killed yourself coming out here. What makes you think I will teach you what the World has forgotten?

Shaman drank from his master skull that night before the valley. When nothing that crossed him lived. The sky then was filled fire that rose so high it would burn the sun and roast the moon. In that moment the world had become like Shaman’s vision, an eternity of terror, lost souls trapped forever, cut and shot and split open, screaming, wanting only to go home.

After that day, everyone had seen what Shaman was capable of. Paris had seen it all in the mountain above, with those special eyes of his. Ichi, Jackson, Clarke and Clara knew what he had done on his own. They all feared him, especially Paris. He took his leave, because he knew it would be his last battle. Though he still provided information over glasses over whiskey from a bottle that survived such destruction that the fire and Shaman brought.

Coming back to the present, he could see that the Colonel’s glowing line was now gone. Cassandra’s nearby still glowed strong. Then Shaman saw something new. Dark and pulsing with power, iridescent like the sky. Shaman knew who this was. There was no separating that line from him. He felt cold, cold as the mountain, a shadow was passing over him. The dark line was drawing closer to Cassandra’s line. He was no longer on the mountain, he was in town, shocked onlookers were all around him. Cassandra felt cold in his arms. A shadow moved step by step to the horizon. No. Shaman was too late. The black steel gun is still smoking in Cassandra’s hands. A pale boy lies dead in bed, red splattered against the walls like some macabre halo. Shaman tries to look at his daughter, but a shadow has passed over her like a mourning veil. The shadow has become her. The ground feels as cold as Shaman’s body…

No. None of this has come to be yet. There is still time. Shaman blinked three times and world of endless horrors had transformed back to a mountain of stone and earth surrounded by what seemed to be an endless wasteland. Getting to his feet, he moved from the summit down to where a cave lay hidden behind a massive boulder. To him the boulder was light as a feather. And with both hands, Shaman shifted it with ease.

A glow came from within the cave, though no fires were lit. Shaman walked inside. The passage spiralled down deeper into the mountain. The narrow passage was warm, and moist, as though Shaman was slowly stepping down the gullet of a giant beast. It smelled faintly of a swamp. A sound of quiet breathing, of slumber could be heard. Shaman made no sound as he slowly descended down, deep into the earth..

Soon enough the passage opened up into a chamber hewn from rock. Into the walls shelves and niches were carved. On each of these was a skull. The light in here was spectral as it moved between a smoky yellow to phosphorate green to an alien indigo. Shaman stood in the centre of the chamber surrounded by the bones of dead men, former wise men and men like Shaman.

- Foolish White Man! You have gotten yourself killed…

It was the voice of his master. Shaman knew where the skull was. He had placed it there. He had killed his master. It was required. It was the final test. Single combat. To prove who was the stronger in will and form. It was a battle that felt like it raged for days, but could only have been moments. And until the very end, his master never submitted, never backed down. Even when Shaman had his hands around his throat and squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter.

- It is not too late to sever the threads. To save yourself. To save all of us.

Another voice, older than that of Shaman’s master.

- You want me to cut and run? Like a coward? And for how long? And to where? To the ends of the earth? The sky? The oceans?

Shaman turned to face the skull that barked out at him.

- Then who will teach what the World has Forgotten and Lost?

Then another spoke, it sounded the oldest of all. A patient voice that barely hid the tone of bitterness towards the potential futures that lay before them.

- How do you think you can defeat him?

To this Shaman did not answer. But every spirit in the chamber knew his plan. And soon they all began to scream and yell at him, calling him obscenities. Shaman turned to leave. His destiny was manifest, only so to ensure others were not. As he began to ascend up the narrow passage again, he remembered what he had said to his master on top of that mountain all those years ago. When his master asked him whether he should teach him his secrets.

A young Shaman looked around the barren wasteland, void of anything spare two men and a mountain. Shaman looked back at the master and said:

- Well I don’t see anyone else here.

It was this that made his master laugh. And he then went on to teach him every beautiful and terrible thing that he knew.

Stepping out of the passage and into fresh air, Shaman stared across the endless desert, focusing on saving his daughter.

And destroying his adversary.

Preceded by Part 4

Continued in Part 6

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Magpie Part 4

The Colonel had placed posters around the town, the ink still glistening, fresh from the local newspaper’s press. The posters read:

Wanted: A Group of Skilled Individuals for Protection and Capture of Dangerous Person. All Fees Paid in Hard Currency. Enquire within Southpaw Saloon.

All day the Colonel sat at the back of the Southpaw, his back against the wall and facing the entry. He could see the entire establishment from his corner. Feet clunked across wooden floors boards that were loose in places.
So far everyone that had enquired about the job Colonel had rejected. He received all manner of people who could (or thought they could) handle a gun, or as one gentleman put it - sling shooting irons. If it wasn’t their boasting, the first thing that would escape their lips was:

- So how much does this pay?

The Colonel knew how much they were after, but always gave the lowest price to send them away with sour, disappointed faces. However, the Colonel knew he was running out of time. The stranger had killed his compatriots, people he trained and supported across this frontier. There was only he and Shaman left. Part of his mind would cling to the hope that the killer might seek Shaman first. And maybe, there would be a chance that Shaman would be the one to finally despatch this adversary. But it was last conversation with Shaman chilled him. He had seen Shaman do many things. He had seen him at the end of that terrible day in the valley. Covered in the ink of old tattoos and the blood of his enemies. Of his victims. He had seen for the moment an inhuman look in Shaman, which in a blink was gone. Paris avoided him after that day. The Colonel kept his promise and allowed Shaman to walk away and never enter another battle again.

The whiskey bottle was empty, and so it seemed that the Colonel’s time was up. But the Colonel wouldn’t go without bringing one final war.

The train of thought was ended when a newcomer entered the saloon. Dressed in a dark coat, covered in the dust from the desert wind. A mottled black hat with a wide brim hid his features. The Colonel could feel the cold steel of the derringer in the palm of his hand. The killer always got very close to his kills. The man came up to the table without a word, heavy boot thudded across the floor. And then stopped opposite to the Colonel.

- Excuse me, sir.

His voice was gravely and low

The Colonel narrowed his eyes, his finger felt for the trigger.

- Are you the one who has put up those posters around town? The same which claims you are looking for – skilled individuals?

Exhaling, the Colonel eased his grip on the derringer in his hand.

- Yes.

The tall man removed his hat from the crown of his head in respect.
His face seemed worn like the cliffs in a desert wind.

- Well I was wondering, in regards to the certain dangerous person you needed protecting from, how dangerous is he?

The Colonel smiled.

- You know something, you are the first person to ask me that all day. Please take a seat.

- Much obliged.

The man took out a chair and sat down, placing his hat on the table.

- And what is your name?

The Colonel eyed the man, which the man returned in kind.

- Most of all people call me Eli, so I guess that’s what I go by now. But you still haven’t answered my question.

The Colonel sat back, his smile eroded.

- Very dangerous. He has killed a number of my friends and a few others. All very skilled people. Such as I imagine you would be.

Eli nodded, rubbing his with his index finger.

- Oh I’ve been in a situation or two. And I’m around still to say how it got resolved. Do you know what he looks like?

- I’ve had reports that it’s just some pale kid in a coat that just too big for him. He guns down anybody that stands in his way, but he’s always hunting someone in particular. Heard that he walks the entire way too. Doesn’t have a horse, can’t ride or won’t. Thing is that he takes the weapon they’ve used and something else they’ve had on their person. Never takes any currency. Whatever he takes of value isn’t for selling, but for some kind of memento. And now I believe he’s coming after me.

- Your adversary sounds mighty interesting. Any reason why he might be coming after you?

- And that is the damnedest thing. I have no idea why. I figured it might be a job we did a number of years ago, figured it was a family member out for a spot of revenge. But I heard the boy barely speaks, or he some kind of mute. I’ve seen plenty of people on a vendetta. They all have a story and they are all proud to tell it to anyone. This boy, well, he just doesn’t have a story. He just kills. And he kills very well.

Eli sat silently taking this in. The Colonel leaned in slightly.

- And you’re still interested in the job?

Eli nodded contemplatively.

- Yeah. Yeah, why not. And I’ll help you find others, considering the turnout I’ve heard you had today.

A smile slithered across the Colonel’s face. He signalled over to the barkeeper

- Excellent. Let’s have a drink.

One of the bar staff brought over a fresh bottle of hard liquor and two glasses. A young woman poured out the amber liquid with soft hands. The Colonel watched her intently, rubbing his index finger against his bottom lip. Eli watched them both. The girl seemed to ignore the Colonel body language, as a woman working in such a place, with men filled with drink and certain ideas might. Eli knew the Colonel was no better than anyone he worked for. But a job was a job. And Eli knew this might turn out to be the strangest yet.

The Colonel raised his glass to toast the newfound deal. Eli raised his.

- Salud.

Chrystal clinked together and both Eli and the Colonel found each other sipping at their whiskey. They both smiled.

Preceded by: Part 3
Continued in Part 5 (Coming Soon)

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Magpie - Part 3

A lone oak stood on the steep hill, providing the only shade for seemingly miles around. From this point, an entire horizon of countryside could be seen. Rolling green meadows and grazing fields, rising hills, sparse woods and rows of orchards made this vista. Beneath the tree, Paris sat back dozing on a chair, his hat lowered over his face. Nearby sat an easel and on it, a canvas. Below was a toolbox of paints in tubes, brushes, palette knives and rags.

Above Paris a couple of birds chirped sweetly before fluttering out of the foliage and into the sky. Behind him a voice spoke out.

- You’ll never finish it if you keep sleeping.

Paris, not moving from his spot, spoke in return.

- Just resting the eyes. Need to pick out the detail, you know.

- So you keep saying.

The voice was closer. Like the birds it was sweet and song. Paris felt as if a shadow had crossed over him. Slowly lifting the brim of his hat, Paris already knew who it was. Heather. His love had long golden hair that came alive in the wind and faded freckles on her skin from a childhood in the sun. She wore a dress the colour of leaves in autumn, that kind of sweet dry brown. She held a covered basket, her arm looped through the handle.

- I brought something in case you were hungry.

Paris smiled.

- And this is why I love you.

Heather rested the basket near the chair and moved over to the painting resting on the easel.

- So I want to see this painting that you seem so satisfied with that you sleep away the day.

Paris lifted himself from his seat, adjusting his hat so that it staying atop of his head.

- It’s not quite finished yet.

Heather smiled at his modesty.

- Oh you always say that. With nothing finished, it’s no surprise that you never sell any of your paintings.

- Well I’ll be sure that I finish this one.

Heather always marvelled at the intricate detail of each of her lover’s works. Every one was so well painted, it seemed like he took the scenery itself and stretched into a canvas. Most of the time she had to peer around the canvas just to see if there wasn’t a hole that Paris had cut from the world.

Heather looked around the painting and easel to see the landscape still there. But there was something else. A dark figure strode across the emerald meadows. Its pace was fast, like the speed someone gets when it’s near the end of a long journey. The figure didn’t follow the road that curled its way around the mountain. It climbed over the fences that separated the pastures. The person was making a direct line for Paris and Heather.

Heather turned to look at Paris. He seemed more focused on his painting, as if there was something missing. In the back of her head she knew that something terrible was going to happen. But Paris didn’t seem concerned.

- You know what I think? I think I need some Parisian Blue. But I left it in the workshop. Would you mind getting me some?

Heather understood the meaning of this. She understood that her love had made many enemies. And that one day one of those enemies might come around. She nodded nervously and then began to move up over the back of the hill, back to the home they shared.

Paris had seen the shadow making its way across the landscape for sometime. On a clear day like this and at this elevation, he could see all the way to the horizon. He always thought a day like this might come and ran through it countless times over. When the figure reached the bottom of the hill, Paris lent over and reached into the box at the bottom of the easel. He felt the cool steel, the warm wooden grip. He pulled his SAA from the box, feeling from its weight that it was loaded. He let his arm relax, letting the heavy sidearm take his hand down to his hip.

The figure began to take form. It was a young man dressed in long black coat and underneath, sour white clothes. He was staring directly at Paris. He moved up the steep hill with ease, as if the terrain were merely an illusion.

Paris was ready, but the man had not drawn any weapon. It seemed unreasonable to Paris to fire. As the man in black reached the top of the hill, Paris stepped back to give him some room. The man had stopped. Paris observed this man. He seemed barely out of boyhood. Hair was as black as coal and skin as white as driven snow. His eyes were grey with dark rings, as if he had never slept. He seemed slightly hunched over, as though he had been driven like a beast across this landscape. His coat was overly long, his hands disappeared into the sleeves. A moment of silence passed until Paris realised that nothing had been said. He expected this man to say something, his name, Paris’ name, to call out every grievance and misery that Paris somehow caused since those days. But there was nothing. The man was silent.

- Why are you here?

The man seemed to have difficultly speaking. He bared his teeth and shifted his lips trying to shape the words. Finally, he spoke:

- You.

The word seemed to smoke its way out of his mouth.

Paris’ forearm tensed, ready for the first sign of trouble. So Paris asked again:

- Then what have I done to you?

The young man paused at this, as if trying to understand the question.

- Nothing.

Paris could feel his heart beat in his chest. He couldn’t read this man. Here he was travelling miles on foot, dressed clothes that didn’t fit, to walk in a straight line directly for him. Why? If not for revenge, then what?

- Then what the hell do you want?

When Paris spoke the fear cracked in his voice. Fear he hadn’t felt since when he stared down the eye piece of his rifle and saw a man covered in blood and tattoos in that burning valley. Staring back at Paris with possessed eyes. Paris pulled the hammer back on his gun with his thumb.

Again, the young man in black had trouble finding the words, as if the entire concept was foreign.

- You.

Then his hand began to snake out of the sleeve and into his coat. Paris felt he should react, but could not shake himself from the stranger’s dark eyes. The hand pulled the coat open slowly, to reveal a pistol that was silver with a black handle.

Paris blinked, snapping out of his trance. His arm raised, his finger squeezed the trigger. The SAA spoke loudly. At the same time, the young man darted to the side, his other hand darting out of the sleeve into the coat like a sidewinder on the attack. In a fluid motion, the young man drew and fired.

Paris let out a hot smoky breath, stumbled back and fell to the ground. It was noon, the sun beamed down him from high above. Then a shadow eclipsed everything. The young man drank deep of Paris’ final breath. Standing up, the young man stretched out, exhaling slowly. He lent over again to pick up Paris’ gun. He held it like a curiosity, between thumb and forefinger, staring at it like a child might with a spider or frog, studying its form. Standing up again, the dark man tucked the gun into his belt and turned to leave. The painting seemed to catch his eye. Something felt unfinished about it, though the man never touched pigment to canvas before. He titled his head to one side, and thought it might be a blue. Though he couldn’t be sure which. Then without further thought, the young man went down the hill. In a new direction.

Later Heather returned, with a rifle in one hand and a tube of paint in another. As she reached the top of the hill, she couldn’t see either Paris or the stranger. Fearing the worst she ran to the tree, only to find the easel and her love lying on the ground. In her grief, Heather couldn’t feel the tears run down her face, nor the Parisian Blue running over her clenched fingers.

Preceded by: Part 2
Continued in Part 4

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Magpie - Part 2

Elsewhere. A homestead lies in ruin. The fences fallen apart and toppled over. Not that they were keeping in anything. The cattle were sold long ago, and they were barely worth anything. The ground was near barren, brown and rocky. What little grass remained was the same clay-brown as the earth that bore it. The building itself was slowly separating, even now the boards that made the shell, were loose and would rattle in wind. The house looked like a skull, decayed on the deserted ground. But none of this bothered the occupant. He was living on borrowed time.

A young woman approached the homestead. She looked back at the wagon that brought her here. The driver, turned elsewhere, so that his attention did not seem transfixed on her. She returned her attentions the house and moved up old stairs and onto a porch. Both groan and wheezed as though she stepped on the near dead.

She crossed the threshold into that house. Dust and dirt had come in through every available open and settled here. Everything was clay-coloured. The walls rooms were bare, only vast plains of boards could be seen. There was no furniture. A crate of food, salted meats and tinned sundries lay in the corner. The woman turned to a closed door. Pushed gently, it creaked loudly, protesting. Inside the room was a man kneeling as if in pray, but not quite so. He his hands were not clasped together and held under his chin, but instead lay relaxed on his lap. He did not seem bothered by her entrance, all announced by the house. Around in this room lay the bare few items: a simple mattress and worn blanket, a blackened chamber pot lay in the corner. Some books lay piled in the corner. Against the wall sat a large leather case, worn, dusty and locked.

- Cassandra, he said, what brings you out all this way?

She turned her head, to look around the house.

- I heard you sold all of your things. At least that’s what the people in town said. And that you were selling it all for pennies.

- That’s true. Some felt strange for taking it for free. They wanted to pay something.

-But –

-I didn’t need those things. They weren’t important. No one seems to make sense of that.

He smiled, trying to reassure her with this. But it did not. She was certain that her father had begun to lose his mind. A lifetime of guilt and regret had finally corrupted him.

- What if you come back to town with me? Set you up in the hotel -

She pleaded but was cut off again.

- No. Why don’t you understand what I want is right here? Those things, all of those things, were a burden. The table, I never ate at it. The chair, I spent too much time sitting on hardscrabble under the stars to get used to it. And the bed…

He paused, hiding his true feelings.

- The bed was too comfortable.

Cassandra knew the truth. All of these things were his wife’s, her mother. Every piece of furniture reminded him of her, and his failure. He had fought and survived and won so many battles that he lost the home front. She read it in him plain like an open book, just as he did for her. He made these excuses as if to pretend for her sake. As if everything were normal. Despite the mistakes of the past, he pretended to move on. But this house felt like it was dying. She wondered if her father reflected this house. She wondered if she would have to bury another parent. That’s why she came out here. She dreamt a shadow fell over this place. Something that strode across the desert. It moved slow and steady, but nothing would stop it. Not heat, or dust, or starvation, not storms and not fire. It was inexorable. And it would claim him. She wondered if her father was just waiting for Death to come knocking.

Her father turned his head towards the grimy window. Something was coming. Her father always felt it before she did. Before either of them heard it, or even the other senses registered. Then the thudding of hooves and grinding of cartwheel against the hard ground came. The wagon outside came to a stop. The horses whinnied restlessly. Cassandra felt the shadow of a man as it drew itself across the ground from the lazy afternoon sun. She felt darkness, but not the darkness in her dream.

- I think I better be going, Cassandra said.

Her father nodded in agreement. She quickly stepped outside. As she opened the door she recognised the man connected to the shadow. He was middle-aged, hair turned grey and silver. The body had become slightly rounder, but was once fit and strong. The clothes were expensive, too expensive for anywhere nearby or any honest career. He had one foot on the first step. It didn’t groan for him.

- Hello Colonel.

Cassandra spoke with feigning dignity.

The Colonel tipped his hat.

- Afternoon, my dear Cassandra. My you are looking lovely as ever.

Fake platitudes for fake platitudes. The Colonel continued:

- I take it your father is inside.

- Yes he is.

- Well, I wonder what brings such a lovely creature like yourself out to a depressing place like this? The Colonel gestured with his hand to the house and the empty, dead farm.

- Just visiting my father. Nothing more.

And wanting to say nothing more, Cassandra headed for her wagon. The Colonel wore a sidewinder smile.

- You be careful there. Dangerous days for a beautiful young woman like you.

Cassandra told the driver to go and the horses drew the wagon around in a slow circle and made their way back to town.

The Colonel watched them for a moment, before turning his attention to the house. He moved up the steps without a sound. And old trick he had kept in practice. It allowed him to sneak from unwanted guests that his wife had brought. It let him to move around the house at Christmas as a proxy for Saint Nick for his children. With this skill, he killed men in their own encampment, their throats cut like a second smile.

Despite his silent steps, he knew the man inside was expecting him. He entered the house and then stood at the bedroom door. He looked around the house as if admiring the place for its ability to continue standing.

- I like what you have done to the place, Shaman. The Colonel noted. – Nice décor.

Shaman still looked out the window towards the horizon that Cassandra disappeared on.

- Do you want a drink, Colonel?

- Sure.

Shaman moved out the bedroom, past his old comrade, towards the kitchen. He reached up into a cupboard with both hands and pulled out two small glasses and a clear glass bottle. There was a small amount of amber and gold liquid in the bottle. Shaman set these things on the stove.

Shaman immediately read the Colonel's intentions

- So you want insight?

- Yeah.

The Colonel replying as he looked around for somewhere to sit, but realising that there was none.

– Came here for advice. And to bring news.

- News?

Shaman looked up at the Colonel. He rarely asked questions.

- Yes. You hadn’t heard? Clara’s dead. Gunned down outside her own home. In front of her kids. Terrible thing for children to see. But this is the problem. We think the same fellow killed Ichi, and Clarke and Jackson. Hell, he’s even got to a card shark down the Mississippi and a few others.

Shaman uncorked the bottle slowly, the cork making a lengthy squeaking sound.

- What I want to know, the Colonel continued, is that if this guy is hunting us. And what I need to do to stop him.

Shaman poured the amber whiskey out into one of the small glasses.

- I can see a man dressed in the same colour of his shadow. He goes everywhere by foot, as no animal will carry him. He is moved by something that robs him of sleep and stays his need for food and drink and safety.

Shaman poured the other glass that perfectly emptied the bottle and at the same time, perfectly filled the glass.

- He is a hunter. Like you and more than you.

Shaman handed the Colonel the glass. The Colonel nodded his head.

-Salud.

They both drank.

Swallowing the last remnants of the burning whiskey, Shaman reminisced, picking up the empty bottle.

- Do you remember when I got this bottle?

The Colonel smiled, the memory coming back.

- Yeah. I remember, we picked it up after the whole valley thing. Your whole strategy about setting those fires paid off.

Shaman was holding up the bottle looking through the crystal clear glass

- Do you remember what I said when I got this bottle?

The Colonel shook his head slightly.

– No…

Shaman looked directly at the Colonel, as if looking down upon him.

- I said that the last time we would meet would be when this bottle was empty. It would be when I would give my last piece of advice to you.

- And that is?

Shaman looked back at the bottle, as if it were a prism that could separate the light.

- One day, we all find ourselves hunted. This man, who has killed our friends is a force of nature. He cannot be bought with coin or a lover’s warmth or a safe place. You will not be able to outrun him or hide from him. You will need to stand and fight.

The Colonel wiped his mouth. There was a bitter aftertaste in the face of this advice. His smile had gone. Taking this in, the Colonel nodded. Shaman had always told the truth. And it always came true.

- Well. Best of luck then. See you later.

Shaman did not draw his attention away from the bottle.

- There is no later. Goodbye Colonel.

The Colonel left. Shaman could hear the wagon pull away, the sound of the horses and wheels disappear into the dusk.

Shaman place the bottle on stove, returned to his room and sat down on the floor cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The sun had sunk lower and lower. Everything had become dark. Except behind Shaman’s eyelids. There was a light that only he could see. It was strange the way it rose, like sun setting in reverse, clouds traced across the sky like fingers. Shaman’s sight raced across the land, a wide barren desert of rock, stone and mesa. An empty wilderness that tested everyone who dared to cross it and claimed most. His vision raced across the landscape at an incredible speed. Shaman knew the thing that he was looking for. Suddenly from the edges of the horizons sprang a great mountain. Alone in the desert it was a behemoth standing over everything. This mountain was old as the sun it now blocked. Let shadow meet shadow, said words in Shaman’s voice, but not his. This would be his battleground. This would be the place to test who was the hunter and who was quarry.

Shaman opened his eyes. The sun had long left the day. Even in the darkness, Shaman moved over to the leather case and opened it. He knew where everything was. He picked up his guns, put in his coat, rolled his blanket, and picked some food out of the crate. Then he was out the door into the darkness. Speeding towards his final stand.

Preceded by: Part 1
Continued in Part 3

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Magpie - Part 1

The house stood on the hill overlooking the dry, golden fields of grain. A light wind had them swaying. In the right light, a late summer afternoon, dry and cooling, these fields would look like a shimmering sea of gold with waves rippling in the setting sun. The other side of the house was shielded from the weather and prying eyes by a small copse. It was made of trees that seemed hundreds of years old, tall and strong, unyielding to the elements. They stayed green for most of the year.

Two girls played on the porch. Dressed in pastel colours, long dresses and small black boots. One, with darker hair, read quietly on the long chair made of pine. She was the older sister, but still not big enough for her feet to reach the solid wooden floor of the porch. The younger girl, clinging to a doll made of soft cloth and filled with stuffing, skipped across the porch. Skipped and bounced to a tune that ran in her head and had no words.

Annoyed, the older sister closed her book. Mimicking maturity, she barked at her sister
- Will you stop that?
The younger seemed perplexed at the order.
- I’m just playing.
The older one sighed.
- You’re such a child.

There was movement in the copse below, a shape slipped between the shade of the trees. There was no sound to be heard, no even the rustling of leaves or the short, snapping sound of branches. Well-placed feet made their way through the copse.

A figure emerged, a young man, lean and tall. He walked with a strange gait. Oddly paced, yet deliberate steps. Moving towards the porch, where the girls stood. They froze, unsure what to make of this man. The older sister saw that the legs of his black trousers were too short, nearly rising up half his shins. In contrast, his jacket was too big, with the sleeves coming down over his hands. Both jacket and trouser were black. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt that had become stained will dirt and grime. His skin was pale and off-white, and dark rings surrounded his eyes and hair equally black, shortly cropped on his head and styled in no particular fashion. The older sister could also see three guns strapped to his waist. And something else, like a knife that sat in an ornate sheath decorated in what looked like flowers.

He stepped up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the girls.
The older sister stepped forward, in front of her younger, as if to protect her.
- Hi girls.
His voice seemed to sing a little, though he also seemed out of breath, like he walked halfway across the world to see this place.
- Is your mother at home?

The older sister backed towards the door of the house, while grabbing her sisters hand in reflex.
- Mom!

Inside, Clara looked out the window, the moment she heard her girls stop talking, even before they called out for her. She watched the man glide to the front porch. She stood there at the window the whole time and until her child had called for her, she was transfixed with a fear that this man had finally come to her door. When her eldest daughter, Helen, called out, she snapped out of it. She dashed out the front door and moved to the tops of the stairs, so that she was between this man and her girls.

She stared at him with a transfixed gaze. Half was in fear and the other half, like the evil eye.
- Helen, Kate. Go inside.
The girls followed their mother’s words without hesitation. Clara did not take her eyes away from the young man. The moment she heard the front door close, she spoke again:
- Why are you here?

The young man leaned in close, smiling gently.
- Oh…you know why. You have something that I want.

Clara had heard of him. She received the news from the wire and letters from an old acquaintance. Clara had known the people that this man had killed.

Already she had recognised the man’s clothes and his weapons. They belonged to her comrades – former comrades – from a time that was thought forgotten. Vicious times and brutal days, unforgivable things were done those years past. Now that she had daughters, she found a peace and left her violent ways. But there always was the dread that her past might come back to haunt her.

Originally she thought that it was someone out for vengeance. She had this notion when she heard the potter and poet were dead. They made a bad name for themselves and many enemies in those days. Further letters revealed that this same man tracked a conman on the Mississippi. And some ex-army fellow turned preacher. Two people who had no connection to Clara, her acquaintance or her former comrades.

This was not revenge.

The man spoke again
- So do you want to do this now? I can wait a while. Some like to say goodbye to others first.

- You’re not taking my daughters.

The young man seemed offended by this, as if she mistook his agenda.

- No…You…What I want is inside you. No harm will come their way.
He paused, as he looked at her. It didn’t seem that she believed him
- I promise. Nothing will happen

He seemed to speak the truth on this. He was only after her. Something within her, insubstantial to her, but worth enough for him to travel so far on foot to find her.

Clara went back inside, the young man didn’t move from his leaning on the stair post. She raced through the house into her room, got down on her knees and reached under her bed. Her hands felt something old, oily and leathery. They grabbed frantically at this and wrenched it out into the light. An old trunk made of dark brown hide, worn from years of use and neglect. This was Clara’s past. She opened the case and there lay the shooter, a revolver made of steel and iron. It had a handle fashioned from wood that came from the copse outside. Beneath it was the holster and belt that she had worn at her waist before it gave way to motherhood. It fit around her again. For the briefest of moments, she felt the reckless and dangerous joys of her youth. Somehow she wanted to return to those days, where there was death and beauty. She couldn’t. Her fate stood waiting outside in mismatched clothes. She slid the gun into its rightful place. Striding from her room, about leave out the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of her youngest sobbing. She turned to her family, her husband and father of her two daughters, whose tears were streaming down their small faces.

Her husband knew of the life that she led, though he took no grievance of it. Until now. She took some steps towards them, but then abruptly stopped.

- Go. Leave this place. If I walk from this, I’ll find you.

She wanted to hold her daughters and dry their tears. She wanted to kiss her husband and make love to him. She wanted to run, away with them. But that would only seal their fate. She knew this dark man outside. This demon also took the lives of any who stood in his way. Men, women, even animals and children, he killed without remorse.

- Can I help? I can get the rifle…

Clara shook her head, her eyes told her husband everything, You are no match for him.

Clara turned and walked out the front door.

The man was still there, casually scratching the back of his neck. The afternoon was turning to sunset, and the insects were coming out. As she came down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his dark gaze, he spoke, almost warbling.
- Where do you want to do this? I imagine that around back has a fine view-

Clara had cut him off there.
- Here. Right here. Right now.

The man nodded, complying with her wish, while scratching the back of his head.

They both walked out onto the green grass into the cool shadow of the house, with the trees risen up on the other side. Between them was a distance of about twelve yards. The dark man had removed his coat as he got into his position. Clara saw all his weapons. The dark smoky wood of Jackson the poet’s six-shooter. The eagle embossing on Paris’ SAA. The cherry –blossom pattern on the tanto of Ichi the potter. She suddenly noticed the charms of bracelets, the rings of silver and gold and rosaries that adorned this man. He was the cause of death to many.

- Whenever you’re ready.

His voice was smooth, his dark eyes transfixed on her. Her eyes matched his.

An uncounted moment passed. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees and rushed through the grain. The peep and cry of birds could be heard in the distance. Then everything went quiet, the calm before the storm.

Clara’s hand, quick as lightning, whipped the revolver from her waist and at shoulder-level, delivered her final shot. The dark man was not as fast to draw, but instead dodged, falling, rolling to the ground, and drawing in the tumble. A second shot rang through the trees. Startled birds scattered from their perches.

Clara had her gun fixed on her target that crouched in the soft ground. But though she beared on it, she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Her body was frozen and numb. The gun suddenly became so heavy that her arm fell. The weapon dropped from her hand. There was a burning sensation in her chest, like a coal had lodged itself in her chest and she was choking on it. She coughed and tasted the iron-tang of her blood. She felt the fabric of her dress become warm and wet. Clara fell to her knees, her gaze still as fixed as her adversary. Falling back, her head hit the soft ground. Clara could no longer move. She stared with abandon at the clear blue sky, with wisps of cloud slowly drifted across.

As she lay there dying, Clara heard steps approach her. A shadow fell over the dying woman. She choked back the blood that she was drowning her. Dark eyes met hers. He kneeled down so he could be closer to her.

- That courage. That’s what I was after.

The man’s face was only inches from hers.

- Is there one last thing that you want to say?

He like a holy man taking last rites.

All she could get out in a raspy, painful gurgle was:

- Your name - ?

- Name?
He paused.

- I don’t have one…but some call me a Magpie…

Clara heaved as she drew and exhaled her last breath and then she was gone. The man stared across his newly fallen quarry. He saw something shining at her wrist. A simple band of silver. He took it off and then put it on his own. Returning to his feet he stepped over to where Clara’s gun had fallen and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.

Magpie then looked up at the porch. He saw the oldest daughter and he knew the name now. Not just from when he had heard it earlier. It was now in his heart, as if he had reared that child for the last eight years. Helen. Her name was Helen and her favourite colour was blue because of the sky.

She was just staring at him. The tears that trailed down her cheeks were drying and her eyes were filled with a confused mixture of grief and anger.

Magpie, feeling no guilt or remorse, turned and walked back into the copse. Back the way he came.

Continued in Part 2

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Everyday is Exactly the Same

The elevator I take feels haunted, it makes its actions slowly, to close the doors, to rise or descend. Sometimes it gets stuck. Its as if it is doing this deliberately to build tension inside of me. Like at any given moment, it will drop into freefall, giving me an all-expenses-paid trip to hell.But it never does. It descends gently with the least amount of g-force compared to its brothers that service this building. The doors open on the ground floor and as I leave I can hear the elevator shaft sing, like some muted ghostly children are trapped inside. Out in the street the acid of the rain has long since passed, but the streets are still empty. Corrosive pools still remain collecting in the smoothed stone of pavement. The bus, black ironclad of the streets, thunders towards. The only thing that stops it is a fare. I hop on board, feed my ticket into the machine, which acknowledges that I am worthy enough not to get stomped by the driver. The lights inside are a bright blue. This stops the riders from finding a vein if they are in for a long ride. Too many have been crashing and burning when they finally hit the terminal. The bus company doesn’t like lawsuits I guess. The twilight at the end of the day is setting in. The storm clouds are breaking up and moving to the tidal winds of the sky, like sick, black jellyfish. There is so much forest around, you hardly think there was a war on.

I press the button to queue the next stop. I step out onto soil made toxic from the rain. And I make every effort to not slip over. You can always tell the people who have good balance and excellent skills for telling when it’s going to rain. They don’t have scars on their faces. They’re probably pretty good in a fight too. When the war started, they picked out all the kids that thought they had some self-diagnosed mental illness. That’s exactly how they recruited them. You be surprised how many people seem to cure themselves of their problem when faced with the possibility of death or dismemberment. In the end, they either: fly-right and become a human being, they snap and go on a spree or they get shipped back in a box after a short career in the first wave.

I walk through the empty park in the dying light. It’s nine and the sun is just going down. It’s still light enough to see the possibly psychotic addict amble down the path in front of you. Or the girl taking her slamhound out for a walk. That Frankenstein of a dog is twice as big as her. It’s got a jaw like a steel bear trap and probably kills to the slightest command syllable. I pass by all these people like ships in the night. No words, just wary glances are exchanged. Glances that just say, “So is it you? Are you the one that kills me? Come on, I’m ready”

I’m not worried. In my pocket, I can feel the only weapon I ever need. Fear-In-A-Can™. One spray sends the most crazed individual into a rampant assortment of their worst terrors, paralysing faster than UltraMace. I don’t carry a gun, too much noise and normally pulling stuff like that causes all kinds of Mexican Standoffs and often end up in a purchase order for a dozen body bags. Has our world become more violent? I don’t think so.

Sure there was that artificial intelligence that kicked off another world war. Some entire countries look more like a prison than a place to live. Panopticons dominate entire landscapes. Some places are just toxic wastelands. But things still find a way to live there.

I pass by a downed spacecraft. Its fresh - I can still feel the warmth of their mysterious engines. The entire crew is dead. A handful look like they survived the impact, but took their own lives, the neon insides of their skulls are splashed against the mangled hull of their ship and smeared on the ground. Crows, black as death, are already on the scene to pick at the remains. They caw at me as I get close, warning me that this is their meal. H.G. Wells was a prophet. Our world, so isolated in its own arm of the galaxy, has become a breeding ground of some of the most dangerous things in existence. Well, at least to life not of this world. Our bacteria, animals, plant life, pollution, music and entertainment are poison to extraterrestrial life. Most of it is lethal, and it’s not quick, nor is it comfortable. That is why the crew is dead, they’d rather face their own weapons, rather than the bowel-churning, nerve-twisting, skin boiling agony that awaited them just by touching terra firma.

I don’t think the aliens see us with envious eyes. I can only imagine it’s fear. The human race encounters violence on a daily basis. And not just survival-violence. Thrill kills, murders, riots, mass graves, and chemical weapons programs. Every person on this planet has witnessed such things at least once within their lifetime. Since day dot, we have carried this violence in our genes and culture. The human race really hasn’t changed, just the way we break each others skulls open just to see what’s inside.

And it’s this that the aliens fear. All of humanity has the clue that there are other worlds out there. They just have no means of arriving on these distant and strange vistas. Yet. The aliens fear that a single boot-tread mark their sacred planets will mean the apocalypse. Because soon after that boot-tread, is a Zoo Burger franchise, or a billboard sporting an ad for Afghan Opium Cigarettes, or one of those video zeppelins, spouting the latest viral media. In the end, the downed spacecraft and dead spacemen tell one good thing: the batteries of the defense network is doing it’s job.

I arrive home, unlock the deadlocks and step through the threshold. I find my place a mess. My housemate, after several days in a self-induced coma, has returned to life and turned over anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor. He’s sitting on the floor, his hand hovering over an old coin. He’s swearing and cursing at it. I can’t help but notice the tourniquet around his arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“I got a good deal on some positron,” he says, totally fixated on the coin, “I was moving all kinds of shit with my mind. I think it’s run out now.”

“Well great, clean up this mess, you retard.”

The guy gives me a baleful stare, as if he would be thinking that there was enough of whatever he poisoned his body with, to explode my head. I raise my hand and threaten to smack him with the back of it. He gets into gear and starts turning over the couch and righting the television back into its hutch. I open the fridge and reach inside. I withdraw a beer, then reach for a pack of Afghans on the counter. I open the back door and step out onto the patio. I slump on an old bison-hide couch, crack open the beer and light my cigarette. Soon I exhale the malt-scented stream of cloud that wafts in the even breeze like a Chinois dragon. I look up at the few stars emerging in the clearing dusk sky.

Someday, I will step onto foreign soil and see things no other human has seen. I will visit strange and unique and ancient places. I will see dawns made by the rising of alien suns and then watch them drop beneath the horizon. I will be greeted by, talk to and kill many people that are not like me at all. But until then, everyday will be exactly the same.

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Excerpt - Speed Limit

We were told, when we were kids, that Heaven were nothing more than a vast, endless meadow of lush white fairy-floss. Of course, when you are old, you just have to smoke, swallow, toke, inhale, inject, imbed, squirt, snort, crush, imbibe, grind, chew and rub the right thing into your body in order to come close to visiting this Paradise.

There is a great difference between children and adults in this World that We Live in. As a child, you have nothing but escape at your fingertips. No responsibilities, no consequences, no worries, no problems. As adults, even as teenagers, something is robbed from us when the hormones kick in and then it’s gone for good. We try to fill this void with something else, booze, pills, ploughed rows of white power, homegrown crystals or plantlife. For those with less interesting lives, we shovel in hours of worthless television, pointless hobbies, meaningless choirs and boring sex. There are only two fates on this sad world. You can live fast, die young and leave a lot of wreckage behind, or survive, grow old until the cynicism, vitriol and fast food condense into a tumour and choke the life from you in a very undignified way.

They say the universe has a speed limit and that is the Speed of Light. Human Beings also possess such a limit. But it’s only four days. Because when you go beyond that you will crash and leave a very interesting photo opportunity.

Right now, the closest I’m getting to heaven is Rich’s lush carpet. Pure cocaine white, cottony-soft and full, like cumulus. Nested everywhere in the ripples and folds of this cloudy pile are pills, of all shapes and colours, flavours and effects. And at this very moment, I am learning, that like people, not all pills go well with each other.

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Excerpt - Racers of the Apocalypse

Dawn. The abandoned gas station. This well has run dry. Tyson watches as Joel’s car rolls into view down the highway. The sound is engine darkly purrs, dopplered as it approaches Tyson. The Red Beast comes to a stop, right near Tyson’s White Archangel. Joel steps out of the beast, his eyes on Tyson. There is only silence, except the hollow sound of the wind. A storm is on its way. Its ozone smell is in the air.

-So your tank is full? Joel asks.
-Yeah. Are you ready for this? Tyson counters. Knowing between them, all they had left to gamble were their cars and their reputation.
-Man. I was born with a knife between my teeth. Joel grins like the Devil.

Some where in the distance, there is a low rumble. And then the Flash. Duck and Cover. A new star is born on the earth. It has begun. This well has run dry and they will fight over another. Joel and Tyson cover their eyes from the flash. In front of them they see the silhouette of the city as the glow of the new and brief star dimmed. Time has slowed, and the rivals watch the shadow of the city shatter like black glass. The shockwave will be felt soon. The wind picks up. There is no Tomorrow. Only the few moments of Today remains.

Joel and Tyson look at each other. Quietly absorbing what has happened to the world around them and between them. They race to their car. Slamming doors. Starting engines to a roar. A lane to each of them, no one is leaving the city anyway. A cloud of storming debris is absorbing its ruined shape. Engines gunning in neutral, Tyson and Joel give each other one last eye. The world has become too small for the both of them now. Better dead than alone together. Kick it into Gear. Pedal to the Metal. Punch it. Tyres screech and scream, Rubber burns and tarmac flies. En-Too-Oh burns bright blue. Engines roar to life. The Archangel and Beast buck and kick and speed down the road. Faster and faster, Tyson and Joel head towards the shockwave. Gears are upped as both Beast and Archangel are pushed their limits they were engineered for. It is crystal clear to them now. They raced for the money. They raced for the glory. They raced for the same woman. Now they race towards their own annihilation. First one to the Apocalypse wins.

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Echoes - Epilogue

A gold-tipped cigarette sat in an old black Bakelite ashtray. The trail of smoke gentle rose to the ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. The room had no windows, with cinder block walls painted a dull military grey. A man, dressed in black sat at the table at the centre of the room, with his seat facing the door opposite the table. Across the table were reports of various natures. Test results from the lab. Supply stock takes. Reconnaissance updates. Without looking away from the reports, he reached across to the ashtray, picking the cigarette with his gloved hand and placed it between his lips.

There was a light knock at the door. “Enter,“ the man said blandly, his concentration remaining at the current report, the health and status of a particular prisoner. He exhaled, coming out on a thin cloud. A man in military dress entered the room and stood near the table.

“You know, I thought all soldiers saluted their superiors, Colonel,” the man in black said without looking from the page.

The Colonel, squinted his eye, resisting to fully speaking his mind, “You’re not military.”

“Ah, but I have been given authority over this operation. Carte Blanche was the term that was used, I believe.” The man in black smirked, eyeing the Colonel. Then his attention returned to the report. “I take it you have come to air a grievance or some such.”

It’s him again, the soldier we found. He’s hospitalised another two. Looked as if he didn’t try. I have another sixteen going through psychiatric evaluation. The prisoners can do things to them. At this rate, I doubt there will be enough men to adequately guard this facility. Even with the measures we have taken. One of them,” the Colonel paused, not sure how much information he should relay to the man in black, “knew things about me. Things I have told no one.”

“Really?” The man in black looked up at the Colonel, “Well that is interesting. Add that man to the list.” The man in black put down his report, and then steeped his fingers, “Now any news from the city?

“We managed to round up another two dozen. Sweeps throughout the city show evidence of heavy fighting. Explosives were planted beneath the most important structures. While it appears two groups of citizenry were involved in the fighting, all of the survivors belong to neither of those groups. Once we establish a more permanent presence in the city, we will begin cataloguing the dead and disposing the bodies. However, we believe that some managed to slip through the containment line that we established around the city. It cannot be many, but we don’t have the numbers yet.”

“We’ll have to expand the net then. To a 300 km radius. I will call in for additional forces along with a rotation for the deployment here. Including your replacement.”

The Colonel nodded and left solemnly, closing the door behind him. The man in black drew on the cigarette again and returned to the reports. He opened a file that just came from telemetry and imaging. Opening the folder, he flipped over the cover sheet and looked at the first photo. The shot was made early in the morning shortly after the interference over the city began to dissipate. The first photo is an open field near a forest there is a figure in the middle. The next photo is an enhancement, showing a man running from the city.

Yes, we’ll get them, the man in black thought, we’ll get them all.

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Moloch

The storm had finally stopped when I left the tunnels. The black clouds remained overhead and all around me. The water below, all of it was oily and slick. I sat in the small boat as the looming dark shape of the Incinerator towered over me. The entire place was once used to power the city, and help eliminate waste. Now it is a relic, still used to burn refuse. I trace its outline with my eye, following the lines of pipes and supports, up to a great tall series of smoke stacks. Each of the stacks billows great plumes of black smoke into the sky. The smoke leaves slowly, twisting, warping and coiling to form into the dark clouds that enshroud the entire city. The clouds look sicklier every time I look at them. The feeling in the back of my head tells me my time is running out and that all of my answers are here. Cover from the canals has run out. I pull the boat to the edge of the river among some long grass and move to find something to hide behind.

The rain has stained everything. I can smell it in the air. The ground is slick like ice. I take cover behind some trees and notice it looks sprayed in sludge. It’s still dark, and it’s difficult to see, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here. Odd.

In the distance, there is the pop and bang of an explosion. I can see flames erupt on the far edge of the city. I need to move. Advancing on the building, I spot an old doorway. Metal and rusted, but I can see the padlock is brand new, almost glittering against the aged door. Pressed for time, I need to sacrifice my cover. Pulling out the gun, I take a few steps back and fire. The lock shatters from the bullet. I kick the door open. The whole place appears empty. There are no alarms, no inquisitive guard. For a moment there is silence. Suddenly, there are sounds of pressurised gases, steam and smoke.

I work my way towards the centre. Drawing closer towards the sound that goes every two minutes or so and then silence, except for the sounds made by myself, walking across pressed metal floors and opening rusted doors. Some doors are unusable, locked, jammed or welded shut. I find myself climbing stairs that creak with age. I wonder why this site is empty and my thoughts are interrupted by a popping sound of another distant explosion. Then comes the sound of the incinerator. The closers I get the more detailed the sound becomes, the clanking of ancient machinery, the hydraulics pressurising, and the gas like hissing and the roar of the fire and then the clanking of machinery again.

I finally reach a door that gives, but still makes its protests known, creaking so loudly, the noises fills the cavernous room beyond. Ahead of me I see a narrow gangway. This gangway runs above the main incinerator, on top is a large metal dome, made of blackened metal, the same colour as the sky. To my right are the twisted and burnt out pipes that lead to the smoke stack. Walking out onto the gangway I look down below. There are six or so conveyor belts all leading to a centre trap-door that look like the jaws of a great monster made of steel and fire. Smoke rises from between the teeth of the twin doors. I survey the conveyors. They are filled with what I first make out as refuse, and then realise there are patches of red amongst them. Red books. Hundreds, possibly thousands of them piled onto the conveyor belts. Everything is fed into the incinerator. I step back and look over the other side of the gangway. In amongst the red books are other items, photo albums, photos, jewellery, furniture, entire music collections, paperback novels, portraits, the flotsam and jetsam of human existence, prized possessions and heirlooms. I soon begin to see the odd hand, foot or face surface among the refuse. Everything we have held dear has been cast into the fire and this becomes the smoke that blankets our city. It is the black rain that has poisoned our water and choked the life from everything it falls upon. Has the virus done all of this? Our method of control had only caused the situation to become much worse. How did I not see this? How long has it been between the days, when I saw the suicides and the murders to when I was here? Time has lost meaning here. I hear the clanking of machinery, the conveyors begin to shunt, their cargo quivers and shudders into motion. The hissing and pumping sounds of the hydraulics begin and then the Maw parts it’s black steel teeth, revealing a great mouth of fire. Tongues of flame lick the sides of the maw and the conveyors feed it once again. The pictures, keepsakes, treasures, prizes, books and bodies cascade in, melting into the white-hot centre of the mouth. The heat is unbearable, even from my height. I cover my face with my arm, my eyes searching into the very white hot whirlpool, as if I am poised on falling into it myself. Soon the clanking of the steel jaws shields the maw once again. Silence.

Stepping back, I felt my hand reach across my chest to my heart, but only feeling the hard lump that the madman Emmersen had given me. I reach inside my coat and pull out the parcel. Wrapped in dirty brown paper, I feel the square shape of the “weapon” Emmersen had given, apart from the pistol. I tear the paper away. It’s a black book. Roughly the same shape or size, but it appears as if it was handmade. The pages are uneven and made of different qualities. I flip through the book, reading what there is

Day 14
Containment has been breached. While we have isolated ourselves in the western quarter of the hospital, time is running out for all of us. With half of us already gone, we are not hoping for an outcome that is favourable. Emmersen seems to be coping well, despite what he has done to himself. Julian has been working around the clock towards find someway to contain the virus before it plagues the rest of the city, though I don’t trust his methods. I remember there was a time when performing experiments of his nature was illegal. Van Beck and his team have not woken since yesterday, no matter what we try. Even adrenaline doesn’t work. I sent Kramar to look for Dean, but he hasn’t returned -

I skip the rest and flick through the pages to another entry:

This city has taken everything I have loved. My daughter. My wife. I have nothing. I have heard of people that have lived beneath the city. With everyone around practically infected, I figure why not. I have nothing else to life for.

Flicking the pages by it lands on two pages. In huge black letters is scrawled:

YOU.

I turn the page

WILL

And turn the page

NOT

And turn the page

HAVE

And turn the page

US

I close the book. Emmersen was right. Everything had become clear. I knew exactly what to do.

I look over the side, judging where I could get the book to land. I know in the back of my mind, I should get it on a conveyor belt. It might give me enough time to get away. Just as I prepare to drop the book, I hear a voice from behind me.

“I thought I would find you here.” It’s Ina. She is wearing dark shades that are covering her eyes.

I draw the book close to me, and at the same time, reach slowly around for the pistol tucked into my belt.

“I need to stop this, Ina,” I say, “I can do this and we can leave together.”

“You were always a terrible liar. I never thanked you for saving my life, but I guess I always knew I wouldn’t be leaving this place”.

I slowly draw the gun, pulling it to my side, feeling for the safety catch.

“You see I didn’t have a choice. They have –“ she seems to fumble for a word, “They have a machine. It is the only way I can describe it. It takes everything from you. Makes you empty. You become with it.”

“With what?” I ask.

“With It. The Echo.” She nods her head upwards to the sky. She reaches up for her glasses and removes them and then she looks at me. I find myself staring at her. At her eyes, or where her eyes used to be, now replaced by obsidian orbs that feel they stare in all directions, unblinking and unflinching. Eyes are as dark as the depths of space, inescapable.

“Ina don’t” I try to reason with what’s left of her and my arms tenses, ready to fire.

“I don’t have a choice. You will meet the machine and join the echo. Or. You will burn with the rest of them and join the echo.” She stiffens upon saying this.

There is a moment of stillness, like the calm before the storm. And then Ina charges. I raise my pistol and fire, but in haste, only grazing her shoulder. Ignoring the wound, she crashed into me at full speed. I fall on the metal floor of the gangway. The gun and book both slide out of reach. Ina is clawing at my face. Hands manage to catch them both, using everything I have, I push her off of me, hard enough she lands heavily against metal floor. I manage to get up in time, as Ina is quickly on her feet charging back into me. I have some hesitation about hitting her, but the feeling in the back of my head, tells me she is no longer the woman I knew. I block her hands with one forearm and let fly with a fist. It hits home, forcing her back. I take one step back, closer to the gun and book. She comes in again, I anticipate her charge, and counter her, forcing her back even further. The clanking of the conveyors has begun again. She is on the floor again and as she gets up I make for my weapons. Snatching up the book and the gun, I turn as she slams into me again. I can hear the hissing pressure of the hydraulics. The gun discharges into her chest. Metal scrapes on metal as maw begin to open. Ina with the last of her strength grabs for the book, I try to pull her away, but she has it. I push and she goes over the rail, tearing the book from my hands. I look over the edge into the light of the flames below and for seconds she her descend into the white. The maw closes.

Realising what has happened, I begin to run. I barely make it to the end of the gangway when the incinerator begins to rumble like thunder. There is no explosion, but instead, it feels like an implosion. Everything feels torn towards the collapsing incinerator. The floor quakes. Metal is bent and twisted so fast and fiercely it screams. I hit a metal staircase and fall down it, as the floor gives way and the world turns sideways

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The River Lethe

The tunnels are still filled with black and ichorous water that churns constantly. Using the torch strapped to the shotgun for light, I move through the maze of tunnels trying to find the marks I painted on the wall to help me find my way out of this place. Was it left or right? The last time I was down here, I was being chased by – something – and I only by chance managed to find an escape route. I can’t afford to stop either. Considering the amount of force used to take down the Doctor, I can only imagine what is happening on the surface.

I feel a progrom is underway. I choose left. That feeling in the back of my head tells me something isn’t right. I slow my movements, trying to match the sound of the sloshing waters. I can hear a hissing sound. I turn the corner and find a teenager. He wearing a hooded jumper, spraying paint on the wall, over the orientation mark I made earlier. I immediately recognise that the bag he is carrying belongs to me. He stops spraying, and is still for a second, almost contemplative and then he turns.

His eyes have been removed. There are scars as if his hands have clawed them out. He glares at me with empty sockets. Then suddenly he throws the spray can and snarls. His hands direct towards the water and a wave of darkness rises up in front of me. The wave hits me hard causing me to stagger and fall back. The teen readies another wave. I ready myself for the blow, but instead it suddenly dissipates. The empty-eyed teenager is just as surprised as me. “Shit,” he says before running down the tunnel. I scramble back to my feet and chase him down the tunnel. Despite the fact that I am bigger than him, I find it hard to match his speed in this water. I notice that he doesn’t seem to be running. His movements are fluid, like he’s skating.

Completely focused on my quarry, I fail to pay attention to my surroundings. Something hits my legs while I’m running at full speed. I fly through the air and land in ankle deep sludge. The teen disappears into the darkness. I turn to see what had tripped me. A large man steps into the available light. He isn’t tall, but heavy with muscle. He looks kind of square. As he approaches me, I notice the empty sockets and familiar scars of the teenager I was chasing. I scramble to my feet and level the shotgun at him. He moves in fast, very fast. I barely dodge a right-hook that he throws. I feel it graze my chin. It would have shattered my jaw. I try to counter, using the butt of the shotgun, but his left hand comes up catching it inches away from his face. He’s strong, his arm pushes me back, causing me to stumble. He throws a gesture with his hands and some unseen force throws me against the tunnel wall like a toy. I’m out of my league. I grab at my shotgun, get to my feet and run down the tunnel. As I make a corner, the light of my torch picks up the shapes of more people down here, a dozen maybe more.

“Shit,” I utter as I turn to run. But I don’t get very far, before they are on top of me. Grabbing at my arms and legs, they pull me down into the water, pinning me there. I look at all of their faces. None of them have eyes, only empty, unblinking sockets stare back at me. The large square man has caught up. He approaches slowly towards me, something glints in his hand.

“Let’s make this quick,” he says in a flat voice. The glint of the blade inches slowly towards my neck. Regardless how much I protest, or struggle, the blade is inexorable. As the point of the knife touches my skin, I hear another voice

“Wait!”

All of the eyeless people look down the tunnel where the protest came from. A middle-aged man approaches the group holding me. His voice calmer, “Come on. Let him go. Are you blind? Can’t you see he’s not one of them.”

The people release me. The large man picks me up to my feet. “What the hell is going on here?”

The old man smirks, “My name is Emmersen, I lead the people down here.”
The group of eyeless people part as he leads me down the tunnel. Despite being completely blinded each of these people seemed to know their way around in the tunnels. The group followed us quietly while Emmersen continued to talk. “This city has undergone a radical change. I never thought a city could be a creature. Not until the Echo. That was a terrible day, you see. We thought we could bring order, bring control, bring peace.”

He paused and looked at me for a moment with empty sockets, “Imagine a city where there was no crime. No murder, no theft, no torment. That everyone had empathy for his or her fellow citizen. That was the dream.”

“Now you’ve seen that nightmare unfold up there. But now things are much more complex. Than any of us originally expected. Aurelius didn’t seem affected all. Infact, he thrived. Niebling died beating his head against a wall. And Dean. She was an engineer, she was working on something else… I don’t know what happened to her…

“What are you talking about?” I had to ask, before I lost him

Emmersen’s tone dropped. “They were my friends. We were trying to build a better future. The Echo broke containment. It made us all mad. Insane. And some. Better. Faster. And Stronger.”

He then pointed to where his eyes had once been. “I did this to myself in the first fifteen minutes of the containment breach. Niebling was already dead. And despite what I had done, I could still see Aurelius and his smile, but he could see into me…”

That brought back the last of what I saw of the Doctor taken down by at least a dozen armed men. I wondered if he survived and shuddered for thinking if he did.

“You should fear him,” Emmersen said at me as if looking directly into my eyes, and then suddenly he turned away, “Look. We are here. Welcome to Hades.”
But there was nothing in front of me, just a vast dark void. As the other men fearlessly step into it, I stare at disbelief at Emmersen. “You don’t expect me to walk in there. I can barely see in here.”

Emmersen smiled, “Yes! I forgot. Here.” He reaches up with both hands and lightly touches my temples. Then suddenly everything changes, the darkness is burnt away as everything around me glows with a strange, electric phosphorous. I can see every ripple in the thick oil-water that flows beneath me. I see every inch of the tunnel covered in paint, strange sigils and markings that look organic and old. I looked at a smiling Emmersen, who now possess spectral eyes that burnt with a glowing blue flame. I turn and gaze upon their Hades. The massive underground structure was remodelled as a base of operations and home to possibly hundreds. The painted sigils touched everything. The entire place glowed with an ethereal beauty.

“Colour in Darkness,” Emmersen whispered behind me, as if living in my experience.

“I can hear something, like – my mother – singing to me”

“Yes,” Emmersen replies sounding less and less mad, “That is the sound of the city. The Sound of Minerva.”

I listen for a moment attempting to take in the impossible tune.

“Come on,” he said as he moved by me, “We don’t have much time. And you have a mission.”

“Mission?”

He moves down towards the shantytown as the others begin to gather around him. Emmersen climbs on top of one of the makeshift structures. With this luminescent sight, each of their eyes are aflame, staring up at their leader. Each of them are dressed in clothes that they seemed to have found. They have lived in desperation fighting an invisible battle that I had not seen before. As Emmersen prepared to speak, weapons are passed around. Handguns, rifles, shotguns, some weapons I recognise as of the former police.

“Our time has come,” Emmersen suddenly bellows, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. All of the burning eyes were upon him. “Our judgement has come. The Enemy has begun to move, against the people of this city. Against this city itself. They will not stop until there are no survivors. Only our enemy will remain. We must prevent this at all costs. Take your positions now. Fight well!”

As the people began to disband, Emmersen climbed down from the shanty and he approaches me. “Now it is time for your task, come with me.” Emmersen, a few others and myself walk down a tunnel away from the shanty town, which now lays deserted.

I need – we need you do something very important for us. There is a place we cannot go. It is the Incinerator. It is this place you must destroy and we will give you the means. If you do this you will save more than the city”

There was an undeniable truth in his voice. “Why can’t you do it?” I ask, “You seem to have the men.”

His words became bitter. “It is because we have been – touched – after a fashion. We cannot go to that place with out turning, without falling to the machine.”

I felt a shared memory among Emmersen’s men. Something they attempted some time ago…I felt sick from it.

He reached into his coat and produced an item in wrappings and a handgun. “This will be your weapons. You will know what to do when you reach the Incinerator. It will all become clear. Now take off your jacket.

“I’m sorry?”

“The enemy has seen you and will recognise you from the way you dressed.” Emmersen pointed to one of his aides, “You give him your coat.”

We swapped coats. The teen I saw earlier gave the aide my backpack and shotgun and he took them up with both hands.

“Go,” Emmersen said to his aide, “Delay them as much as you can.” The aide ran off down the tunnel to his destiny.

We continued down the tunnel until we entered a convergence of storm water system with canals. In front of us was a small landing and a tiny boat tied next to it.

“This is where we must leave you. This canal was once the great Minerva, all you need to do is follow it and it will take you directly to the Incinerator.” Emmersen said as the darkness grew in the tunnel. My luminescent vision began to leave me. The fire in their eyes dimmed, returning to empty sockets. The vibrant wall returned to a dull grey. Emmersen and his people moved back into the tunnel that we came, disappearing.

I hopped in the boat, started the engine and journeyed down the Canal.

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The Good Doctor - Part 2

The door that connected this room to the hall outside, sealed as the security system recovered from the lightning strike. I hit the door but it wouldn’t budge.

“Wait,” Doctor Aurelius said in a warning tone, “There are some guards coming.”

We both moved to positions where we could find some cover, but the room was fairly Spartan. On the other side I could hear the security key card swipe make an accepting beep. Two guards burst in through the door, they seemed to immediately notice the cell door open.

“He’s escaped,” one of them said in a dull monotone. Suddenly, from his hiding spot, Doctor Aurelius lunged at one guard like a wild animal. Taking advantage of the surprise, I attempt to club the other guard in the back of the head with the shotgun. But he knows I was behind him and spins, grabbing me and throwing me across the room. I hit the wall hard and land on the floor. I only just open my eyes to see the guard heading straight for me hissing. The shotgun snaps back into my hand, and in an instant I squeeze the trigger. The shotgun roars, it’s payload slamming into the guard and spraying out his back. He lands with a heavy thud. I pump the empty shell out of the gun and pick myself off the floor. I walk over to Doctor Aurelius, who has finished dispatching the other guard. He is covered in the guards black blood, holding a baton.

“Good, I see you’ve finished the other one,” He says, “lets get out of here.”

We leave the room and head down the hall. The other patients are oddly quiet. “I need to know about the virus,” I say as a follow the Doctor, he moves fast, “I need to know how to stop it.”

“That’s going to be hard,” he replied, “The virus has not only mutated, but it’s also brought about other side-effects.”

“Side-effect?” We turned a corner and continued down another hall. There were two more guards there in white nurse uniforms. They were charging us. I prepare myself, but the Doctor waves his hand dismissively, “Don’t trouble yourself. These are mine.”

Doctor Aurelius threw himself at the first guard’s neck. Choking the guard fell to the ground. The second guard was upon him, swinging his baton hard, but the Doctor shifted to the side and dodged by inches. The Doctor simply grabbed and twisted his arm, held it for a moment, as if testing his strength and then snapped it. The baton released from the guards hand and fell, but seemed to drop straight into the Doctor’s free hand, like a strange magnetism. Even though his back was turned to me I could tell he was smiling as he buried the baton in the guard’s face, breaking it open. Blood splattered everywhere. Doctor Aurelius turned to me and pointed to the fallen guards with his dripping baton. “These are one of the side-effects I mentioned.”

“What do you mean?”

The Doctor turned and started moving to the hall, “Come on, do you want to get of this place? We don’t have time to chat.”

I hurried to catch up with him. “What do you mean?” I asked again, but the Doctor looked at me as if I was a petulant child.

“It had to do with weapons,” He said as a grimace spreads across his face, “Real Twenty-First Century weapons.”

We reached an intersection. The Doctor paused and looked around. “I now have a question for you. How did you get in here?”

“I came in through the sewers…” He turned and looked at me, his eyes burned. “You didn’t make a deal with them, did you? With the men that live down there?”

“No. I didn’t see anything down there,” I lied, as he stared into me. The Doctor looked at me oddly, as if he couldn’t see something, his eyes swayed as if he was trying to read a passage again and again. He gave up after a short moment, “Come on.”

Soon we were nearing the front entrance. St Anthony’s was an old hospital, built by monks who were the first to settle here. This used to be their residence. This part of the hospital is part of the original structure mostly made from sandstone with large vaulted ceilings. Here a chessboard pattern makes up the floor and there’s the occasional stained glass window. I remember that one of the Van Schaafes was a patient here. The Doctor headed towards the main front entrance. I wondered why there weren’t more guards.

The sound of the alarm suddenly stopped and the Doctor paused in front of the massive doors that were between him and freedom. “Oh Damn.”

The doors burst open and the sound of the explosion rushed into the hospital, followed by debris and clouds of smoke.

I can barely hear the words of the Doctor, but I know they are “Run!” I pick myself off the ground and chase after the Doctor. We turn back down the hall that we came through. I look back and men dressed in total black, their faces buried in skull-like gasmasks. I fire a round from the shotgun, but it only seems to stun one of them. And they are still baring down upon us. I turn to find the Doctor at the end of the hall, urging me to move faster. I pick up speed to make it through the door. The Doctor slams the door. The bolts on the door slide into place on as if under their own power.

I looked at the Doctor, “How did you do that?”

The Doctor began moving down the corridor, “I was exposed to the first generation of the virus, it expanded my horizons. And if you survive this crucible, it will expand yours as well.” He looked at me and smiled sinisterly. The man was difficult to read, like walking white noise, I wasn’t sure if he was insane or enlightened.

“Now we need to find a way out of here. Our friends on the outside have us surrounded,” The Doctor continued.

“The sewers,” I said. I knew the Doctor wanted to avoid this, but I was right. The sewers are maze-like, and the authorities would not have completely found the passage yet. There would be a chance of escape.

Doctor Aurelius looked at me sourly. There was something in that place that seemed to spook him.

“Look it’s our only way out at this point,” I said. Down the corridor behind us there was an explosion. The authorities tire of their obstacle and now we could hear them charging.

“Come on,” I say as we rush down the halls and corridors towards the entrance to the sewers. However, even at our speed, every step we take they seem to take two. We twist and turn through the complex , returning to the manhole grate that I entered through. As we enter the room, the door slams, and there is there sound of metal warping and bending, jamming the door shut.

I lift up the grate, ready to go down. I look up at Doctor Aurelius. There is a look of hesitation on his face. There is something down in those sewers. I almost encountered it, but the Doctor knows what it is…

There is a heavy sound at the door. Our hunters have caught up with us. They are battering the door, hammering so loud the room echoes like a bell. With every hit the door gives a little more.

“Come on,” I say, “we need to stop this.”

“No, you go ahead” the Doctor replies, his all-knowing smile returns across his face, “Be seeing you.”

At that moment, the door bursts open and several masked men spill into the room. They move in an insect-like fashion, stilted, yet quick. The Doctor is quicker, his fist flying straight into the mask of one of the pursuers. The blow causes the mask to curve inwards, turning the goggles into splintered glass. His second blow lands just a quick, knocking another aside. More still come. As I drop into the manhole, the last I see the Doctor one last time as he is tackled by several assailants. I land in the dark water with a heavy splash. Picking up my shotgun, I run as fast as I can into the black tunnels.

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The Good Doctor - Part 1

Time was running out. My evening with a dead man provided something useful. Searching various medical records, I found that a Dr Julian Aurelius treated the man’s wife. I also learned that Dr Aurelius was part of some kind of research program, though I couldn’t find any leads as to what. The virus perhaps? I am not sure. However, during his tenure at the St Anthony Hospital, Dr Aurelius was treating several patients who became the subjects of unauthorised experiments, mostly about behavioural alteration. There is some footage that was used in the court case. Dr Aurelius was incarcerated in his own hospital as criminally insane. That was three days before Valentine’s Day. After the massacre, the hospital has become an asylum for those taken by the virus and too dangerous to live amongst the general populace.

My investigation is no longer official. I have been away from work for days. I am not living at my apartment any more but instead in the floor above. I have heard them searching for me. I know Mandlebrot would be particularly interested in where I have been. My problem is that I know they are connected with what has been happening to this city. All of the ones that are wearing shades. I see more of them everyday. I know they will outnumber us at some point, so I need to know how to stop this plague and escape from this terrible place.

Sneaking out at night, I have been making a new map of a safe path through the city. There are more cameras now, forcing me to use more canals and water drains. I avoid as many of these tunnels as I can, because of the denizens they live in there. I’ve heard things about them, all kinds of urban legends, and it would be best just to steer clear of them. Despite this, there are a series of sewers and drainage tunnels beneath the hospital that should allow me to access the lower levels with minimal detection. I managed to get plans to the hospital before disappearing from work. I have made maps of everything. My memory is going and I’m losing important details. I’m not sure about my own name anymore.

I look outside the peep hole of my current hideout and see the street lights come on. There are still enough lights in the city, that you can see the clouds clearly. Tonight they look like cancerous. They have become like bloated and misshapen organs with this dark veins running through them. It looks like a storm is coming.

I pick up a backpack and begin to head down the stairs. Inside the pack are my carefully folded maps, three torches, two bottles of water, three cans of fluorescent spraypaint, my shotgun and a box of shells.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and go out the back door. From the shadows of the alley, I can see a patrol car making a steady predatory prowl through the empty streets. There has been a curfew in the city for sometime now. People caught at the time, are arrested immediately. I don’t know what happens to them after that. I wait for the car to pass, listening for the engine to fade in the distance before making my move out into the street. I’m only out there for seconds and into the darkness of a nearby park. There is a flood mitigation canal and a bridge, where I can check my map. Under the bridge, I lean against the wall, take a map out of my bag and begin to unfold part of it. Learning where I have to go next. I put the map in my jacket, the pack on my back and continued down the canal.

Following the canal, I go unnoticed through several blocks and under a dozen or so streets. I stop in one tunnel and check the map again. This is where it going to get confusing. I reach into the pack and pull out a can of spray paint and make a mark to determine the place I started, in case I have to trace my way back. Then making my way through the city, occasionally only stopping to make another mark in paint. I proceed through sparsely lit parks into the backyards and blocks of townhouses and down dank alleys, attempting to keep clear of the streets all the way. Most of this city’s living areas are dark inside now. I’m not sure whether people are occupying them, or they lie empty. Sometimes I think I can hushed talk, whispers or quiet lonely sobbing.

I cannot pause. I look down at a grate that leads into the storm water drains and ahead of me I can see the lights of the hospital. This is the halfway point. I leave a mark on the wall and descend into the canal that leads into the Overlund. The grate is old, rusted and covered in grime, but there is a gate of sorts that opens with some noise. I step into the grate, kneel down and pull the shotgun from my bag, keeping my eyes from the what might be ahead in the tunnel. I proceed into the pitch-black darkness. Despite the absence of rain, there is still water collecting in pools down here. All I can smell is the musty dank and dampness of the rotting matter down here. My steps are slow and deliberate. I make the least amount of noise as I can. The less attention I attract the better. I pause briefly lighting my torch only for short moments, either to check the map or make another mark.

I’m near the hospital, almost right beneath it. Water is knee deep here, and rising... Could it be raining? I’m too far underground to hear. I move further under the hospital. Suddenly, there is a sloshing sound behind me, like someone moving through the water. I spring around, flicking on the torch taped beneath my shotgun. Nothing but empty tunnels and rising, swirling water. Something in the back of my head tells me to run. I make no attempt at stealth, moving as fast as I can through the dark waters. I can hear it clearly now. This is no echo - something is behind me. The torch on the shotgun is still on and ahead is a ladder. I push to move faster, but the thing behind me is gaining speed. I can feel it right on my heels. It grabs for my bag, almost pulling me over, but I twist my body free of it, and continue sprinting down the tunnel I sling the shotgun over my shoulder, once I’m in arms length of the ladder. Grabbing onto the rusting rungs, I scramble to the surface punching open the grate and leaping free of the sewers. Grabbing the shotgun back into my hands I point it down into the hole in the floor, down below is nothing but dark churning waters. The feeling in the back of my head is back.

I look around, it’s dark, but my eyes have adjusted enough to see. I must be in a basement or some kind of maintenance area. Large machines are all around me, sitting silent and still like ominous relics. The main area of the hospital is above me. I need to get out of this place. Despite the maze like structure of this place, I find myself headed upwards into the main body of the hospital. The old raw stone walls, concrete stairs and rusted iron, give way to smoother stone, tiles and wood. This section of the hospital has looked abandoned for decades. I need to memorise places, I can’t afford to get lost here if I am noticed. I see the flash of lightning outside in the window, followed shortly by the crack of thunder. The storm outside is in full swing. I stare at the window for a short while, mesmerised. I do not know when the last storm past through this town. I feel relieved almost, as if things may return to normal. Then I look at the clouds. There they hang, dark and bulbous, covering the sky, almost throbbing with a pulse. I turn away down the hall and continue my search for the Doctor.

I near the end of the hall and I begin to hear the wails and moans of the patients of the asylum. I sling the shotgun, back on my shoulder. I can’t use it right now, it’ll make too much noise. I open the heavy door just a crack, hoping it doesn’t make too much protest. Looking through the crack I can see a hall of the asylum wing. There are cameras scanning every inch of the hallway. There’s no way I can make it through th…

Suddenly, there is the sound of an explosion, everything is bright and then instantly everything is drowned in darkness. Even the cries of agony of the patients’ stop for a moment leaving stunned silence. I duck behind the door for a short moment. The lightning has taken out the power. I look through the crack in the door. The red lights on the cameras are dead. This is my chance. I open the door as quietly as I can and then quickly move into the hallway. It’s dark now, the only available light coming from the emergency lights. I begin to move down the hall. However, the patients sense my presence, somehow and one by one, they begin howling their litanies of agony. I make it to the end of the hall and hide behind the door just as it opens. Two hospital staff stroll in, obviously brought by the noise of the patients. As they walk some way down the hall, they pause, like strange sentinels, trying to sense the cause of the patients’ howls. I don’t stick around. While the pair have their backs to me I sneak through the doors they entered through.

I sneak down a corridor and follow the signs to the high security wing. This is where he will be. I turn to the door and peek through the small window. There are two guards standing with their backs to the walls. They are wearing dark shades. Just like Mandelbrot… I need something to distract them. Reaching into my pocket, I find a sizeable coin. Freshly minted, I take it in my hand, open the door slightly and then flick it, so that it rolls down the corridor.

The coin made a loud, dense sound against the tiled floor, as it rolled across the silent hall. The two guards looked down in strange fascination as it flawlessly rolled past their feet. They don't see me burst through the door until the last moment. The first one went down quickly, as the butt of the shotgun slams into the side of his face, making a heavy cracking sound. The second guard is ready for action, but he steps too far with his baton out too wide. Taking a step in, I swing the shotgun around like a club, connecting near the temple, smashing the shades off his face.

I run down the hall to the door at the end, normally you would need a pass key, but the lightning must have shorted out most of the security system, like the cameras. I enter through the heavy doors. The room is dark almost pitch black. From the available light I can see a cell, instead of bars there are panels of thick glass. It seems empty, but then there is a voice.

“Ah, there you are.” A man steps forward to the glass where I can see him. He has a lean and wiry build covered in hospital whites. His thin face shows the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Brown hair has receded giving him a more pronounced widow’s peak. This is Doctor Aurelius.
For a moment I look at him, trying to gauge him. It’s like looking into a black mirror. Why would they put him in a cell like this? Is he really that dangerous?

“Don’t just stand there, my boy,” the Doctor coolly says, “We need to get out of here.”

“Not until I get some answers,”

“You cannot make demands with me,” the Doctor sneers, “You don’t have the time. If you get me out of this cell, I will give you anything, provided our time together permits.”

He looked at me with a knowing coldness, like he could see my trek through the tunnels, through the hospital up to this point. He seems to know everything around him, even if he hasn’t see it with his own eyes. He needed out and I needed answers. The virus had to be stopped. I tightened my grip on the shotgun. A terrible mistake is about to be made.

“How do I get you out?” I say with great reluctance.

“There is a lever to release this door,” the Doctor points, his finger nearly touching the glass, “Unfortunately the lightning strike shorted out the system that controls the hydraulics to the doors. The lever is an emergency release, but I could not reach it from here.”

What did he mean by that? I move over to the panel on the wall, open it and turn the lever down. There is the sound of liquid gushing. I turn to see the Doctor's cell door shift open, under it’s open power. The Doctor stands there smiling.

“Good,” he says, “Now time to get out of here.”

Doctor Aurelius takes two steps and then he pauses, “Damn”

The all of the lights come on, and an alarm begins to sound.

Doctor Aurelius looks at me and smiles, “Looks like our time together just got shorter”

To be Continued...Here

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